#maybe she gets to decide what it means to be a tabris | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

5lazarus · 3 years

Text

The Domestics

Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.” Read on Archive of Our Own here.

It’s snowing at Skyhold, which delays Alistair’s plans by a day. Anora cuts him loose, locking herself in the ambassador’s heated room with her furs, and he wishes he could change into less fine clothes and join the children in their snowball fight, or wander into the kitchens and see if he can sweet-talk the cook into giving him something hot and sweet to drink. He’s king, so he could ask for all the chocolate in Seheron, and doubtless the Inquisition would try to give it to him.

He walks the battlements so less people will see him and watches the battle in the courtyard below. The Inquisitor’s children seem to have made common cause with the servants’ kids against the visiting nobility; honestly it’s just a relief to see that it isn’t human against elf. Alistair, a tad self-conscious, touches his right ear. An older elf is watching them, smiling. Alistair wonders if she’s the mother of one of them below.

“Which one’s yours?” Alistair asks.

The woman says, “I’m only watching them for the Inquisitor. I’m their guard.” She’s got short black hair, threaded with silver, but her eyes are lively enough. She’s wearing green robes with a bit of Dalish-looking embroidery at the ends of her sleeves. She’s got an Orlesian accent, too. He didn’t know the Inquisition was working with elves from Orlais, didn’t Anora tell him to keep an eye out for Ambassador Briala’s livery?

“Oh.” He shouldn’t feel awkward, but he blushes anyway. He stares at the woman’s feet, toes poking out of those foot wraps, and wonders how on earth she’s not freezing. Alistair’s got a coat of heavy wool, trimmed in fur.

The woman notices he’s staring and says, matter-of-fact, “My circulatory system is different than yours. We conserve heat more efficiently than your people. Besides, I’m a mage. It’s easy to keep warm.”

That has him a bit miffed. Of course he knows elves are biologically different than humans; they can still breed, though. He’s evidence of that. He doesn’t feel the cold as intensely as the others at court, and he knows why. The servants at the palace can tell, even if he passes, for the most part. Eamon and Tegan talk all the time about how much he looks like his father, how much he looks like Cailan, but he’s seen enough portraits of them both to know how he differs.

Alistair says, again, “Oh. Cool. I’m half, you know.” It’s not that he’s discouraged from talking about it, but it’s never been something to advertise. Those with eyes to see it don’t need to be told, but right Alistair feels like he needs to justify himself, with the way she’s looking at him. Skyhold has had him wrong-footed; Leliana has been distant and he is finding it harder and harder to slip away from the King. Anora tells him that’s part of adulthood. He’s not so sure.

The woman says, “I know.”

Alistair folds his arms. “Really? Because I didn’t. What’s your name, by the way?”

The elf smiles sadly. “Fiona. I used to travel with the Grey Wardens, when I was young.”

Alistair says, “Really? The Grey Wardens don’t really let people leave. Unless, you know, you point out that yet another civil war is going to break out if they don’t let you put your ass back on the throne. What was your excuse?”

Fiona says, “I had a baby. It’s hard to keep a nursery going in the Deep Roads. The darkspawn get jealous.”

“Oh. Can’t be having that, they’re crabby enough as it is. Though I heard of a Warden who brought his cat into the Deep Roads too, scratched out the eyes of a hurlock apparently. You’re lucky, most of us can’t have kids. I can’t. Probably.” He thinks about his own natural daughter with Tabris and blushes at the lie, rubbing at the back of his head. It’s for her own good and the good of the realm he hasn’t brought her to court. It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason, and Morrigan has the spare heir anyway, if Anora can’t figure something out.

Fiona says, “I suppose it’s luck. The Circle took him away from me, and gave him back to his father.” She sounds wistful. “But under the Inquisition, the mages keep their children. It’s a different world now. There’s no going back.”

He thinks to himself, I’m not so sure—the disastrous plans for the Hinterlands, the riots in Denerim, the failure of the embassy in the Brecilian forest. He thought after the Blight, with this new alliance between elves, dwarves, and men, there would be no going back. Anora tells him it’s a struggle for the future and that reform doesn’t come in a day, perhaps not even their lifetime: sometimes they need to settle for establishing the groundwork for the next person to rule, like Maric did for them. But of course, Anora’s never had her cousin kidnapped and brutalized, or her father sold into slavery. That sort of perspective changes things.

Alistair says, “Really?” He scratches his head. “I look at things in Ferelden and wonder how things can stay so stagnant, and then you look at Orlais and how they’re eating themselves alive. And Orzammar, of course, which is basically a living fossil. People don’t like change. They’d prefer for things to stay the same, or even go back to how they were a generation ago.” He is surprised at the bitterness in his voice.

Fiona cocks her head and looks at him curiously. She says, “You’re too young to be talking like that. You must understand it comes in seasons—we flourish in spring and reap our harvest in summer, and then prepare for and suffer through the conservative reaction in winter. Sometimes it’s a harsh winter, and many do not survive. But then there is always the spring. You lived in Ferelden, you should know—from the Night Elves who freed your people from the Orlesian occupation to Clan Alerion securing the boundaries of the Hinterlands now, things have changed. You just need to…riot every so often, to make sure no one gets complacent.” She grins.

It’s nice to talk politics with someone who doesn’t know who he is, who thinks he’s just another wealthy Ferelden currying favor with the Inquisition, not a king staring down the religious cult that just carved itself a city-state at the border of his realm. Below the children are yelling. A couple of them are using magic to freeze the snowballs, and they’re having a fierce debate, interspersed with throwing said ice balls, on whether that’s fair.

Alistair says, “Then I hope you’re right. I hope the mages and the Inquisition’s made enough of a, er, spring, to shake things up. It’s good for these kids to stay with their families, I hated what the Circle did. I didn’t know my mother, growing up. Would’ve avoided a lot of angst if I’d gotten to meet her.” He thinks about Morrigan and her awful mom, and then Goldanna flashes through his mind. Ashamed, he pushes the thought away. “Or maybe it would’ve made it worse! Hard to say, I certainly don’t know!” He smiles at the woman brightly.

Fiona says, “It might have made it worse, since she was an elf. Your life would’ve looked very different, even in Ferelden.”

His heart stops. Surely she doesn’t know who he is. That could be awkward, considering what he’s been saying. Anora will be furious that he’s gone off and talked politics with another random person again. He can’t help it, he gets bored easily, and the courtiers and advisors only tell him what they think he should want to hear.

“How do you know I’m Ferelden?” Alistair asks suspiciously.

“You’re wearing the badge on your fur coat. And, of course, your accent. Unless I am mistaken?”

“No, no,” Alistair says. “But yeah. Sorry. I don’t know much about her. Don’t know if she’s still alive. Just that she was an elf. Always assumed she was a serving woman or something, if my father was anything like C-Caleb.”

Fiona says, “Sometimes it’s better not to think about it, how we came into the world. I never met my parents either.” She leans against the balustrade and shakes her head at the kids fighting in the courtyard below. They’ve devolved into outright brawling, but that weird Warden the Inquisitor keeps around her has waded into the fray, bellowing orders. “It’s good to see them playing again. They never had enough time to play.”

“When were you a Warden?” Alistair asks. “You know, my dad travelled with the Wardens too. But they didn’t make him join up—guess that’s why I’m here, ha-ha.” He wants to ask her if she ever met him, because they might have overlapped. It’s hard to tell with elves sometimes though, they age more slowly, but she looks like she’s in her late forties, a bit careworn. Then he decides he really doesn’t want the conversation to get weird, because he is a king and his father was a king, and it’s rare that someone speaks to him normally now—treats him like the lovable idiot he knows he is, not the history-breaking king.

Fiona says, “Oh, give or take thirty years or so. I try not to count the years, at my age. My people live a long time if left unmolested, but I have a knack for running into trouble.”

Alistair laughs. “Oh, me too! I don’t even mean to do it, I’ve just never learned to keep my mouth shut.” To Teagan and Anora’s chagrin, he thinks ruefully. “I was given to the Templars as a boy, before I managed to get the Wardens to take me, and Maker! The Mother despaired of me. Called me most the accidental heretic she’d ever known. Really the Wardens taking me saved my life, Maker knows what they would’ve done to me if I kept poking at them like I was.”

Fiona pauses, trying to suppress a laugh, and then says, “At least you’ve never started a war.”

Alistair laughs heartily at that. Then he realizes what she’s said. “Wait, what? You started a war?”

Fiona says, “You…you didn’t know?”

Alistair says, “Is there something I should know?”

Fiona steps away, smoothing her expression away. “Many things.” Anxiously she peers down into the courtyard, smoothing her sleeves over her hands. The two factions of Skyhold children have joined forces and are attacking Blackwall with snow, but another one of the Inquisitor’s companions has joined the fray—a cackling elvhen girl, and then Alistair sees that from the balcony of the inn there’s a mustachioed mage swatting snowballs away from his friend.

Alistair says, “You never asked me my name.”

Fiona glances at him and then turns away. “I didn’t need to. You look very much like your father. Though I suppose you must know that.”

Alistair opens his mouth and then closes it. He says, voice hoarse, “Did you ever—“ He stumbles over his words, and clears his throat. “Did you ever find out what happened to your baby? When the Circle took him away.”

Fiona hesitates. The silence between them is filled with the children laughing below, the mage grandiosely chanting what are clearly made-up words, and the old Warden dramatically pretending to be overwhelmed by the volley of snow. The elven girl is swearing revenge, right now. It looks the children are trying to steal the “body” and make a pyre out of snow.

Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

Fiona covers her face with her hands.

Alistair continues, “Then, yeah, being apostates suck. Believe me. I met a girl who lived in a swamp. But I think we could’ve made it work. Like since I pass, and I’m not magic—at least I don’t think so, but I think I’d know by now? I’m like, thirty-five. Or something. I could’ve gone to the villages and traded for food. And I would’ve known more about who I am. Than just Maric’s bastard. Who’s just a story, anyway. That’s how kings like that end up. Just stories.”

His mother is weeping now.

He says, “I have no idea how you started that war you said you did. But I think I know what I’m supposed to know.” He takes a step closer, and she doesn’t move. He says, helplessly now, “I think I have your eyes.”

Fiona leans against the balustrade, back to the courtyard below. She’s not crying now, but she’s not making any sound. Alistair is afraid to go closer. Her hands press into her face like a mask, restraining a scream. He thinks if he touches her, all that tension will explode. He gets overwhelmed like that too. Can you inherit that sort of thing? He has to wonder, does the way one expresses pain get passed down in the blood?

He waits for her to speak. A door behind them creaks open, footsteps scuffle to a stop, then retreat. The door shuts. The mage has come down into the courtyard now and is chanting what appears to be Nevarran over the pile of snow that is Blackwall’s pyre. The elven girl is leading the children in mourning—but then the mage flourishes, and the snow glows purple, then scarlet, then green as he sparks. Blackwall throws the snow off and roars. The children cheer.

Fiona breathes heavily, drawing herself out of wherever she retreated. She swipes at her face with her sleeves. She says, “Forgive me. It was better that you didn’t know. You couldn’t have become—you deserved—Maric needed—what are you going to do, I told the Divine to go fuck herself, you can’t have a mother who told the Divine—“

Alistair says, impressed, “You told the Divine to go fuck herself? I am your son, I knew it had to come from somewhere! This is your fault!” He gestures at himself, and Fiona manages a laugh.

“An exaggeration,” she says. “I merely said the Divine should fuck herself, right before we voted to dissolve the Circles and separate from the Chantry. I’d hoped to tell her that at the Conclave, which is why they sent Orsino rather than myself.” Her mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Perhaps the only time running off my mouth and losing my temper has saved my life.”

Alistair says, “Well, the Divine was kind of an ass. Somebody had to say it.” He laughs. “Oh, this is wonderful. My mother, the rebel mage.” He’s genuinely delighted, this is much cooler than anything he came up with as a boy. “This is so cool. Anora’s going to be so annoyed when I tell her. Not like she can complain, her dad betrayed the realm and got all the Wardens killed, so really on the scale of shitty in-laws, I win.” He pauses: he isn’t sure he conveyed what he wanted to by that. Fiona is just staring at him. “But seriously, I don’t know who you are. Besides, obviously, my mother.”

Fiona says, disbelief in her voice, “I’m the Grand Enchanter."

Alistair says, “Oh Maker, I should’ve recognized the belt, shouldn’t I?”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #da fanfic #dragon age fic #fiona #king alistair #alistair finally gets reunited with fiona #alistair #alistair theirin #fiona & alistair #I have typed this man's name so often it ceases to look real #fluff #family fluff #family reunion #happy ending

44 notes · View notes

zevzevarainai · 3 years

Note

do you have ocs? i'd love to hear about them!!

i have so many ocs i cant hold them all

currently the ones i am fixated on (because the pandemic made me regress) are literally revamped versions of my ocs when i was like, 9, based on toys i had... but that's information you gotta beg me for

The more Relatable ocs I have include the ones from video games with character creation. Some of them have tags on my blog. I will focus on the big ones and leave the others in the dust. just like my sketchbook.

Dragon Age: (if youve never played da i apologize)

my hero of ferelden Opal Tabris who i have had since early high school and if you couldn't tell from my url, she loves zevran. seems cold on the outside but is super caring and kind on the inside

my blue hawke Jade Hawke she loves fenris... i dont have any da2 gifs of her bc i dont have in on pc

and then I have multiple inquisitors i actually care about my most fleshed out is Bade Lavellan who was originally created for Dorian back in 2014 but has then evolved into being in love with my friend's da oc, Mahonan, an angry and traumatized dalish elf. I like their dynamic better because in summary, Bade is kind to everyone and puts others before himself even though the world is constantly dragging him through the dirt. They balance each other out. He also doesnt think hes fit to be a leader but tries because he thinks he has to. I also REALLY care about his best friendship with Sera they both help each other be better people

Next up is Athera Lavellan, aka necromancer barbie. She's a Dalish mage who cares about her people before all else and feels like she's betraying her clan by being inquisitor, but she knows she can do good in the inquisition. She LOVES Blackwall they are very codependent on each other and like grossly in love

I also have Amber Trevelyan which i usually dont like playing humans if I have another choice but I decided to make a backstory for her to make her more interesting. Her noble family disowned her when her magic was discovered so she found family in the circle (but shes not necessarily pro-circle. she hates templars and her eye scar is from a templar). Vivienne is her new mom and she's in love with Sera

Mass Effect: I only have one and it’s Evangeline Shepard she’s a paragon because i cant be mean she loves Thane and hates Earth because of her Tragic Backstory

Stardew Valley:

This is Jude i love him he’s nice and gay and could probably be a lumberjack if he put on plaid. he likes nerdy junk and is stoked when he learns magic is real. he quickly becomes close with sebastian and wants to experience the magic with him :’’’) (im not very good at art but the only other picture i have is his little in-game pixels)

I also have another farmer named Lorna. I dont have a good picture of her but she’s a goofball and has a big ol’ crush on Penny

Fallout:

I like your courier so I’ll put mine here too! Her name is Rapunzel. Why? I don’t know. That’s just what I put in the character creator all those years ago. Maybe after getting shot in the head since she had memory loss she forgot her name but remembered liking the fairy tale? your guess is as good as mine. Bisexual disaster. Would be dead if it wasn’t for boone&arcade and her high speech skill. She acts bubbly and sarcastic which she is but its partly bc shes using it to hide the fact that she doesnt think of herself as anything more than a “deadbeat mailman” and thinks she has no place having such influence over new vegas and the mojave. She has a big school girl crush on Boone which may or may not be unrequited but she’s like his best friend and instead she sees herself as clingy and annoying and an inconvenience.

I do not have a good picture of her I apologize but shes basically just like blonde with green eyes

#text #ask #miss-shydeer #thank you...... i love talking about them..........#i only briefly touched on them so let me know if you want more info #oc stuff

8 notes · View notes

high-dragon-bait · 2 years

Note

✏ & 🧠 for the ask game

Fic writer ask game!

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

My friend and I's "Extended Canon" for sure!

We have spent the past five years combining our worldstates into one massive worldstate. Our Wardens met in Ostagar with theirs being a Tabris and mine being a Cousland both learning about the vast differences of their lives until they collided there together. My Warden gets to slay the archdemon but their Warden gets to be Warden Commander from there on out while mine is busy being queen.

Our Hawkes are twins. Joined at the hip. There was nothing they didn't tell each other- well, almost nothing. My Hawke gets to be Champion, but their Hawke was significantly closer to Varric. So that makes it weird, that the "Tale of the Champion" still only mentions her, with no mention that she had a twin brother when he was so important to her, and so important to Varric. She certainly thinks so anyway. He doesn't as much.

It's a little bit of "Don't worry Hawke, I left out the part about us," and little be it of "I would never write stories about my own mistakes."

My Hawke doesn't survive the Fade. Their Hawke now has to face the world alone. What happens to him?

Our Inquisitors are where it gets REALLY complicated. There's three this time! Just because! They're adoptive siblings, all Lavellans, with their Inquisitor being the Herald of Andraste (canon Inquisitor.) He leaves to go investigate the conclave and never comes back, and not long after, their clan is destroyed. My Inquisitor, a mage, training her whole life to be keeper, and their little sister, another hunter like him, go find him. They find him as Inquisitor, their sister is ecstatic, but she... is hesitant. They go through a conflict there of him finally having something that he can build to be whatever HE wants and her feeling as though leadership is OWED to her. They make it through that but it takes some time.

And then... she falls in love with Solas, and removes her Vallaslin, and everything goes downhill from there.

We want to do something with it, we do, but we just have no idea where to start. As you can see it's just so HUGE, and we don't see how we could get the whole thing down without it taking up five encyclopedia sized volumes. But maybe we'll get there!! We've written little like. Dialogue scenes and such. But never a full FIC set in it, at least not yet.

(Also since my characters got to be the Hero of Ferelden and Champion, and their character got to be Inquisitor, we've already decided that for DA:4 their character is going to be whatever the canon hero's title is, and my character will be the one with the new role so it evens out)

✏️ Do you write every day?

I mean... define "write"

Do I type words on a document ever day for some sort of creative project I'm working on? Yeah more or less. But it's not like COMPLICATED. It's sometimes just dialogue, or me outlining a scene with notes that literally just say "And then this happens which makes this happen and that's important because of this" but it's something!

I don't write like... heavy prose every day. But I do write something more or less every day. So... I guess the answer is yes? It just doesn't feel like I'm doing REAL writing every day if that makes sense??

#Dragon Age #My Dragon Age #Ask Game #Thank you!!

2 notes · View notes

heniareth · 3 years

Text

I was tagged by @scribbledquillz for this ao3/fanfic author meme. Thanks so much for tagging me! Now, there’s only one thing (I’ll explain as soon as I answer the first question). But first, tags. I’m gonna tag @yukichouji and @the-iron-lion because I know you write and post, but I also know you’re busy, so please, only do it if you want to and have time ^^ Apart from that, if anybody who sees this wants to give it a go, consider yourself tagged! I’d love to read your answers, so feel free to tag me back

How many works do you have on AO3?

So, here’s the thing: I’ve never posted anything I have written XD One day, I will, but until then, I’ll answer the questions I can answer to the best of my ability ^^ I’ll modify some questions and keep the original ones for anybody who wants to answer those.

What’s your total AO3 fanfic words count?

123.211 words total (not counting one absolutely massive collaborative fanfic that I’m not gonna count rn)

More under the cut!

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Funny thing: thanks to this question I’ve rediscovered like ten folders with the beginnings of different fanfics I’d not opened in years. Thank you, @scribbledquillz for making me find my old writings! My main work rn is a Dragon Age Origins retelling (featuring Astala Tabris of course, though I have decided that the other origins--Surana, Amell, Brosca, Mahariel, the whole gang--also survive because yes.) I also have two separate unfinished pieces on Caduceus and Caleb of the Mighty Nein (Critical Role) respectively. Equally unfinished are one fanfic with Loki and his Jotunn heritage, and another about the extermination of mutants in the X-Men universe prior to X-Men: Days of Future Past. Both projects were ambitious, but exist mainly as ideas now. The longest (and oldest) fanfic I’ve ever written is a collaborative super self-indulgent self-insert fix-it fic for The Hobbit. I am quite proud of my younger self for pulling through with this one and sticking to it over such a long time. It is, sadly, also unfinished.

Do you Would you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I would definitely respond to comments. It’s polite. I’d also want to mirror back the joy a comment has inspired in me.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

The X-Men fanfic ends with the events of X-Men: Days of Future Past, which (spoiler?) means all the characters were going to die. But it’s okay because the movie fixes that ^^ But generally speaking, I’m not big on angsty endings. Angst is fine anywhere else.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I think it has to be either the The Hobbit fanfic or the Dragon Age Origins retelling. Characters I strongly identify with tend to get the happiest endings. Oh do I ever wonder why that is so

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve ever written?

I’ve never written a crossover, but I’ve read some really cool ones. There was one featuring the Mighty Nein in the Undeadwood setting (both by Critical Role) that I wished had gone on longer bc it was so cool.

Have you ever recieved hate on a fic?

One of the good things about not posting anything: you don’t subject it to judgement ;D

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I have... never finished writing a smutty scene.

One day. One day. Zevran might be the push I need, who knows

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Another one of the good things about not posting anything.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I started translating several of them myself! :D

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Oh yes! It’s an amazing experience. The creativity is squared. It is important though that all collaborators are on the same page about where the story goes, how the characters will be portrayed, etc. Especially if you give somebody your own OC or self-insert to write about.

What’s your all-time favourite ship?

There are a few that have a special place in my heart. Shadogast comes to mind, or Percy/Vex (from Critical Role). I love the Zevwarden ship because it’s a story about allowing feelings and romance and being stronger because of them (at least in my mind). I’m scared of what Fenris/Hawke might do to me when I get around to play DA2 XD

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Definitely the The Hobbit fanfic. It is a glorious mess, and from time to time I go through the documents again... but it’s just a really big project and my collaborators are busy

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue! Banter! I love it. I absolutely adore it. I make it way too long but it’s so much fun. I’m very much character driven I think, which is also why fanfic is so appealing to me. Actions speak louder than words, but characters shout through a megaphone. I also like pairing dialogue with very day-to-day, down-to-earth actions (like folding laundry). I feel like it allows me to convey so much more about the caracters than only through the words they say and the dialogue tags of “he said, she whispered”. Another thing I consider myself strong at is worldbuilding and generally keeping the practical things in mind. If it’s autumn, it’s probably gonna rain, the ground will be wet, they’ll sleep poorly and that’ll be reflected in heightened tempers and therefore more drama in the next scene. The fact that in canon a town has a harbor will have impacted this character who was born there. I like the details and puzzling the pieces together to make a world really come to life XD And, last, I have also recently learned that I write best non-chronologically, and to just write it all out and edit later. It does wonders to advance a project

What are your writing weaknesses?

Descriptions. I hardly write any at first. I normally see scenes very clearly in my head, but I... don’t communicate it XD I’m so character-driven that I kinda forget about the rest. I also tend to get too bogged down by the mundane? The fact that I like to play around with details of the worldbuilding and have it all make sense means I’ll write that scene where they break up camp even though it... doesn’t really add anything to the story apart from the fact that it happens and they indeed do break up camp. Things that I should tell, I show. It reflects in my wordcount.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I like it! I find it really interesting. I might even listen to the spoken dialogue via Google trnaslate XD The only reason it might bother me is that there’s just no elegant way to integrate the translation into the text on AO3. In a normal book, I’d go for a footnote, but in AO3 and with my chapter length, I won’t make anybody scroll down, read the translation, and scroll up again.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

My first ever fanfic before I knew what fanfic was were things I wrote age 11 with a friend about the cowboy stories this German late 19th century writer Karl May wrote. We were obsessed with those novels

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

I gotta say the Hobbit fanfic. It was melodramatic, it was self-indulgent, it had everything. I remember staying up with my friends way into the wee hours of the morning discussing how we’d save Thorin and his nephews from certain death and why Kili was so obsessed with Tauriel after talking to her once XD

And here we go! Thank you so much again for tagging me, this was a lot of fun (and it makes me want to post something. Maybe the Dragon Age Origins retelling will make the cut? I do hope I finish it in the next months)

#me #writing #astala tabris #for fun

9 notes · View notes

evilponds · 4 years

Text

ok ok alright i caved and wrote some warden-as-inquisitor shit. sorry if i mischaracterized blackwall i mean he doesnt talk much in this im realizing now but if i did mischaracterize him no i didnt. also i literally dont remember what happens in inquisition. sorry about that as well. in my defense i dont care

Blackwall's blood doesn't sing to her.

Tabris doesn't think anything of it, at first. People's blood doesn't usually sing. And it’s been a while since the last time she was near a Warden, so for a moment she forgets what it feels like - the pull of your soul to theirs, a feeling like part of you has known them before you even knew yourself. But she’s halfway through asking him why he’s here alone when all the other Wardens have suddenly disappeared, when the wrongness settles over her so quickly she nearly loses her train of thought altogether. And he catches on and looks at her like she can see right through him, and she can’t, is the thing, because she knows he’s lying but she can’t figure out why. All she knows is that Blackwall was a Warden, she’s heard the name before -- in passing, from Alistair, or maybe Duncan -- so whoever’s standing in front of her, wearing Warden armor and sounding for all the world like someone who actually believes in their worth, isn’t him.

She gives him a week. Partially because she isn’t sure how to approach this, partially because she wants to know more about him, or who the fuck he’s pretending to be, and partially because she already kind of likes him and she hopes he’ll tell her himself. He doesn’t, though -- he skirts around a lot of the questions people ask him, or he makes shit up outright and doesn't notice when Tabris narrows her eyes at him (Bull notices, of course, but Bull notices everything. Damned annoying, that). She understands why he wouldn't — why should he trust her, after all, a near stranger? A stranger with a name like “Veriel Tabris, Hero of Ferelden, one-time Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, former Arlessa of Amaranthine, current Herald of Fucking Andraste,” no less. But Tabris can't stand being lied to, so she has to do something about it.

So a week finds her waiting in the smithy for him, in the dark, sitting on a counter and struggling to stay awake because he goes to bed far later than she’d expected this time around. But eventually the door opens, and Tabris watches him step into the doorway and wearily sigh.

“Did you kill him?”

Blackwall’s hand goes straight to his sword with the readiness of someone who never relaxes, not even alone; but she’s far away enough from the door that in the time it takes for him to cross the room, he recognizes her voice and scrambles back mid-step instead. Tabris watches his eyes as he struggles to track where she is so he can look away.

“Beg your pardon?” he asks, his voice half gone like he hasn’t spoken in days.

Tabris lights the lamp by her side and watches the match burn down. “Gordon Blackwall.”

“Your Worship, I’m -”

“Do not treat me like an idiot,” Tabris snaps, ears twitching once. “That’s a sport for Mother Giselle.” She smiles when she says it; the man before her doesn’t return the favor. “Thing is, if you were a Warden, I’d have felt it. The Joining connects us the same way it connects us to the Darkspawn. Kind of like getting matching tattoos, only it goes a lot deeper than skin. So whoever the fuck you are, you’re not him, but you’re walking around saying you are, wearing what I can only assume is his armor. So again, I ask: Did you kill Warden Blackwall.”

Seconds tick on. His gaze meets hers and when it does he can’t look away, can only watch her prepare to decide whether he lives or dies. Because he must know those are the stakes - he must know what a long fucking shot it was, lying to an actual Warden, and what the answer is to the murder of another. But she believes him when finally, he says, “No.”

Tabris feels some of the tension leave her, and she nods slowly. She’s surprised by how badly she’d wanted not to have to kill him, and at how easily she believes his answer. But she’s always been a pretty good judge of people - Maker knows that’s one good thing Denerim gave her - and that one word rings true.

After another moment, he - whoever he is - moves to say something else, but Tabris cuts him off. “I don’t need to know why you’re doing it,” she says. “Not just now. Hell, I can keep calling you Blackwall if you’d rather, because something tells me your real name might bring trouble. You want to wear a dead man’s name, that’s between you and your god. I just - I had to know. ‘Cos if you had-”

“I know.” Blackwall pulls out a chair from the table and settles in it, insofar as he seems to be able to settle anywhere. Tabris feels some pity for him, just a bit; she can’t imagine having to put on an entirely new life like this. She decides she’ll worry about the why of it later. He readily offered his help when he could easily have kept on with his charade, and that has to count for something. Saved her life a couple times already, too. And she remembers the way he’d spoken, back in the Hinterlands. “Save the fucking world, if pressed,” like he really believed it, like he was willing to. That had been entirely real.

“Yeah,” she says softly, “you know. Good. So. Anyone out there who could identify you? Anyone who could cause trouble for me? As I’m sure you’re aware, my position is… precarious. Plenty of people already don’t like me, and I’d prefer not to give them more ammunition than ‘potential murderer of the Divine.’”

Blackwall sighs. “I… can’t rightly say. Could be they’ve given up on me, but even if they hadn’t, I don’t think they’d recognize me. I’ve played my part well enough.” When Tabris arches one eyebrow, he actually laughs. “Well enough for most, then.”

“I’ll take it.” She hops off the counter, pretends to brush dust off the front of her pants just for the sake of having something to do. “So. You’ll stay Blackwall to the rest of them, and you’ll learn more about the Wardens so you’re not bullshitting about the organization I’m actually pretty proud to have led once upon a time, and I’ll worry about whether or not this is going to end up biting me in the ass.”

“I… Are you quite certain?”

“That I don’t want to tell everyone that I knowingly took in a liar, bringing scandal upon my already tenuous reputation as the sole witness to a world-altering murder and potentially losing the trust of what few friends I’ve managed to make so far?” Tabris asks. “Pretty certain, yeah. Pretty certain I trust you, too, this whole thing notwithstanding. Listen, the fact that you’re here, risking your life on a daily basis rather than using your whole Warden disguise to, I don’t know, get laid or whatever - that means something. Might mean that you’re an idiot, but it could also mean that you’re a good man, and I need those in my corner right now.”

Blackwall shrugs and looks guilty, which Tabris realizes seems to be his default expression. “Could be,” he says, and if it weren’t so quiet and so close to midnight she might not even have heard him. Tabris is about to leave when suddenly he speaks again. “I was meant to be a Warden, you know. Before… Well. Before the real Blackwall died. He’s the one who conscripted me.”

“Suppose that explains how you knew him." Tabris considers her next words carefully. "You still could be, you know, if you wanted. A Warden. 'Course, I mean only once this is all over. There’s a whole process you might not survive, and if we’re going to take that chance I’d rather it be after we deal with that thing in the sky. But, you know. Offer stands.”

“Might take you up on that,” Blackwall says. “If we live.”

“If we live.” Tabris smiles grimly. “I’m, er, glad we talked. And glad I didn’t have to kill you. And tired as hell, and my arse is asleep from sitting up on that counter for twenty years waiting up for you like you’re a kid late for curfew, so I’m going to get out of your hair, yeah? But, just.” She taps her fingers against the doorframe as she’s about to leave for real, glances back at him once more.

“Listen. I’m told the real Blackwall was a good man - some people I respect spoke real well of him. So you do his name good, alright? If you do nothing else, make sure he stays a good man.”

“He will,” he promises, and he’s earnest again the way he was when she met him in the Hinterlands, almost reverent. Not of her, but of Blackwall himself. She wonders if he actually looked much like the man sitting at the table right now.

Tabris can't keep looking at him for some reason. She feels embarrassed, almost, though she couldn't say why. The way he talks about the Wardens, she wonders if he believes in them even more than she ever did. She wonders what that says about her. "Yeah, okay. Good enough. Goodnight, Blackwall."

She hears him move behind her, probably to wave, but she's already out in the cold again, wondering. The nights are far too long out here.

#da #fic #blackwall #tabris #JFLKSJFKLDS im realizing how little he actually talks in this.#oh well tabris has a tendency to talk too much anyway and here she is doing it again #if the ending seems like its rushed no it doesnt <3 #but it was.

21 notes · View notes

buirbaby · 3 years

Text

The Wardens: The Far East

Rating: M + Mature content, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

"We need to do something about your accent and name," Benjen remarked amidst the preparations. His comrade didn't say much as to where she was from and he hadn't pushed the envelope. They were anomalies, people who shouldn't exist, and whatever past life Tabitha had experienced, she was wary of sharing it. He wondered if she had been a mercenary or a thief, maybe a harlot? No, none of those quite fit. Her mannerisms, while gruff, bespoke the regiment of a soldier--more finely tuned than the majority of his own men and subordinates on the Wall. She had been a soldier, he did not doubt this, and she had the skill in hand to hand combat to prove it, utilizing a grappling technique he'd never seen before. Foreign was the only thing he thought when put the pieces of Flores together.

"What, there's no one in Essos who sounds like me?" Tabitha groused, rolling her attire in a compact and methodical manner--yet another militaristic trait. She placed the garments into her saddle bags and gave him a wry, but tempered look.

"Perhaps," Benjen relinquished, he was not exceptionally well traveled. The idea of going to Pentos made him nervous. A queer, brilliantly colored tropical paradise. The polar opposite of the home he'd grown up in. Tabitha's features would be much less noticeable than his own, but her accent and name would draw questions once they managed to gain an audience with the Targaryens. "But do you have any idea of where that would be?"

Tabitha sucked her teeth. "Fine. What do you think would fit? I don't look like a northerner," she pointed out.

"You could be Dornish or Rhoynish," Benjen proposed. "What languages do you speak?"

"Probably none that are useful. The True Tongue--what Fang speaks, a little High Valyrian, and un idioma que nunca has escuchado , " (a language you have never heard) she spoke in the last eloquently, the slipping of the language foreign and lofty, but he'd heard it from sailors.

"You speak Rhoynish," he realized.

Tabitha blinked. "Wha-Oh, well... I suppose then it's been decided for me. I could be a Dornish bastard, my mother is from Rhoynar. Which means I'll need a new name, Tabitha isn't exactly common," she paused her work to contemplate a name, but drew a blank. "Tabris? Taliya?"

"It's the name you're going to have to go by," Benjen chuckled.

"Oh, you're laughing now as if you're going to go by Benjen Stark," Tabitha snorted, reminding him that the Targaryens most definitely would not look favorably upon his name. "Fortunately for you, you've got fire eyes now, but you still look a bit too Stark."

Scowling, he inquired, "What do you mean?"

"Grow your beard out and cut your hair shorter. You can't go by Benjen Stark. Daenerys is young and impressionable, we can win her over. Viserys on the other hand is a malicious brat who will spew poison into her ears. We cannot reveal your true name until we're established and Viserys is gone."

"Hm, I was assuming we were going to ride in on our griffins and give the girl wedding presents. That isn't the plan?" Benjen quipped, eliciting a frown from the woman.

"Never reveal your full hand," Tabitha sniffed. "We are going to be stopping in Braavos first. Hopefully, I can pick up the language a bit more before we get to Pentos. It's a bastardized version of High Valyrian, but it'll be useful either way. Dothraki more so if I could..." Pausing she narrowed her eyes at him again. "Stop evading the subject, Stark. You need to pick a name too. How well do you know Jorah Mormont?"

Sucking in air between his teeth, he obliged. "I know him enough. Saw him in Winterfell a few times when I was young, but not much since I joined the Watch. I know he was exiled for slave trade. He probably will not recognize me-"

"Unless you make it obvious," Tabitha interjected, jerking a finger in his direction. "I know how you Starks are and you better not glare openly at this man. As much as you distrust him, you can't be obvious about it."

Benjen suppressed a sigh, but knew that she was right. Jorah Mormont could get them killed if he discovered who he was. The flaming irises--more gold than orange--would make him unlike a Stark, but all it took was some well placed knowledge and a snarky jab to begin unraveling the aliases they were building. Tact had never been necessary in his line of work. He dealt in truths, honor, and by the posting he had. Now, he had none of that and if Tabitha was going by a bastard name, it was wise that he did as well. He might've been the better warrior, but Tabitha knew more about politics-a cursed game he'd never wanted to play.

"I'll think of a name," he grimaced, continuing to store his supplies. "What is your plan for gaining an audience with Magister Illyrio?"

"I'll send ravens in Braavos," Tabitha told him. "We'll spend a fortnight there so I can establish my contact in King's Landing. There's a good friend of Magister Illyrio who'd like more eyes and I think I have the right information to convince him to place a bet on us. The relics we're taking with us will sell for a high amount of coin, we'll be able to afford the necessary supplies and a gift for Daenerys after we depart for Pentos."

Thank the Old Gods that she had a plan, because his only one really had been arriving on griffin back and Torrhen wasn't large enough yet. "Who is this contact?"

Tabitha paused, lips curling in that same, wicked manner that sent a chill down his spine. The female looked exceptionally roguish and dangerous, the fire in her eyes dancing brightly. "Varys."

The Spider: a name he'd wished had not fallen from her lips or that he'd not asked at all. He had to trust Tabitha to be clever enough to fool the eunuch, but the rumors surrounding the man were abysmal. He was the keeper of secrets for a reason and the fact that the Spider had interest in the Targaryens to begin with spelled ill for the Starks. He was walking into a dragon's den without as much of a piece or armor or weapon to defend himself. Everything in his body rejected this idea, wishing for nothing more but to return to the simplicity of being First Ranger. But he could not. This second life came with a price and he had to play the game of thrones in order to save his family.

"Don't look so pale," Tabitha scolded, diverting her attention to the bags she'd finished packing. "I'll do my best to find a way to save your family. We have to start by changing Daenerys' perception on them... but your brother is a kinder man than King Robert. He is the one who speaks against assassinating her."

Those words were meant to be comforting, but Benjen was still anxious.

"I wish the king never asked Ned to go south," he muttered.

"Me too, but what we can do is earn a friend. Petyr Baelish is behind the fall of House Stark and his most staunch enemy is Varys."

"Why is that?"

"Baelish wants power. Varys wants what is best for the kingdom, regardless of who rules, as long as the common folk are treated justly. Anything we can feed Varys will help make him more powerful before Baelish's plans come to fruition will help the Starks. Varys likes the Starks," Tabitha explained, but sighed deeply afterward. "Unfortunately, your elder brother is naive and surrounded by enemies. He's also distrustful of Varys and more inclined toward Baelish, which is his first mistake. I'll make certain that mistake isn't repeated."

"How? We can't speak or write about the future."

"No, but I can write cryptically enough that all Varys will have to do is unwravel the riddles. He's clever."

"If Robert sits the throne now, why would he be looking toward the next monarch?"

"Because Robert is fat and a drunk. His health is failing. Joffrey and the Lannisters will inherit, which will begin the demise of Westeros. Having other options available is precedent, especially given the Crown's surmounting debt, circling lions, and the thin line they're riding with the favor of the commonfolk. That can all turn on a dime and Joffrey does not make a good king," Tabitha explained.

"Given what I saw at Winterfell, I'm not surprised."

"You have no idea what a tyrant he'll become. He's sick in the head," she tapped her brow. "Hopefully, we can avoid some of his wrath, but I doubt we'll be able to stop King Robert from dying."

"If we can save Ned and the girls-"

"I'll try," Tabitha insisted firmly. "But this all starts in Braavos. We need to do our part beside Daenerys to gain her favor."

Trying was all he could ask, considering he knew the true fate that awaited them all. For all that they knew, their own fate was not written in any visions or words that they'd witnessed. He did not fear for his own life, but for those he knew were going to be cut short if he failed. But to save some, wouldn't that come at the cost of others?

Benjen had never been to Braavos, but he had heard of the legendary Free City. Balerion had coasted far above the famed Titan of Braavos, bringing them out to a rural location miles outside the city to land unnoticed. The pair of griffins would remain out in the countryside until summoned. The larger seemed thankful not to be saddled with two adults, allowing for their supplies to be retrieved before he huffed and took off into the sky with a much lighter burden. No where he'd been had ever been as sprawling as Braavos. So choked full of buildings that trees were nonexistent, unless purposely planted in the more prestigious areas of the grey city. A plethora of languages were spoken between the canals, many of which he could not identify. Tabitha, now Taliya Sand, a traveling sellsword and linguist, picked out between the Braavosi and found a Rhonyish sailor to garner directions from.

The weather was not too hot, which he savored now, fully aware in Pentos it'd grow warmer and the Dothraki Sea would be unbearable. Wary eyes traced the streets, noticing the flamboyant colors that many bravos wore, proclaiming their profession lest any other swordsman wish to challenge them. Otherwise, most other locals dressed in muted tones of grey, purple, and dark blues. Songs floated like gondolas through the canals. Art and courtesanship prized greatly within every part of the city that they roamed. To him, it was florid, but not unbearably so. He'd trust a Braavosi before any southerner.

Within the Purple Harbor, the stretching market boasted magnificent goods ranging from Lyseni lace, desert gemstones, to Arbor Wine. There were few foreigners selling goods in this area, as only Braavosi ships were able to dock in this part of the harbor. However, Taliya made due, haggling over the rare treasures that had been preserved in the Roost. Shadowskins, golden chalices encrusted with garnets, antique daggers, fine armor that hadn't suited either of them. It had all been dead weight, things they could not carry forever, and the armor seemed to garner the most attention aside from the shadowskins. Benjen had no idea what they were saying, but the merchant before them was raving, tracing the finely hewn details and glancing up, trying to contain his delight as not to overpay for the work of art.

No sooner were their pockets heavy with Braavosi coin, did Taliya insist that they turn in for the night before darkness fell and they became open invitations for duels as they had swords buckled to their belts. They had passed a few fine establishments, but she took him aback by leaving the Purple Harbor and approaching the religious sector of the city. A large bridge led to another island, a temple of red stone looming before them. Upon the great square tower was an iron brazier as wide as the roof, containing a great fire.

To him, it was still difficult to acknowledge that his 'gods' had not saved him and that he was now in the service of the Lord of Light. A god he was not very familiar with and probably would have never cared for if not for the new life breathed within him. Part of him wished he'd died, resigning the simplicity and lack of responsibility as peace, but knew he'd not be able to save his kin had he not been given this chance.

The temple was grand, embellished with scones, braziers, and fire to emphasize the importance within the religion. It was not as decadent as any of the Septs, but was purposeful in its design. Red was an overarching theme, the priests and priestesses milling around dressed in crimson robes. Burning hearts were depicted on banners hanging from the walls, the sigil of the red god. A female paused, drinking them in, before a crisp smile broke across the plane of her features.

"Greetings," she knew they were not local, as evident by their faces.

"We seek lodgings while we are staying within the city," Taliya started, reaching toward the gloves that obscured her hands.

Benjen expected that the priestess might chuckle and direct them toward an inn. What temple would host strangers? Yet, the priestess paused, glancing between them, before watching as Taliya removed her glove and turned her palm over to reveal the Mark of the Warden. A burn emblazoned upon her left hand, just as Benjen had on his.

The priestess did not falter, but her smile broadened. "Yes, there are quarters we can afford to spare for such esteemed guests. The Lord of Light shines upon both of your faces, Wardens."

He was shocked, but why? The Lord of Light had brought them back as champions for his cause, why wouldn't those who served him know of the secret order? Returning her glove, Taliya gave a stout nod and followed closely behind the priestess.

"I must admit, I am surprised to see holy warriors. My name is Oresha and I am in your service for as long as you intend on staying," the priestess introduced, folding her hands into her sleeves as she led them through the halls and deeper into the enormous building as more braziers were lit for the evening fires.

"Then you will know that we cannot speak of our holy mission," Taliya rebuffed, not unkindly.

"As is the way," Oresha acknowledged, unbothered by this proclamation. "We know our duty to the swords of the Lord."

The main chamber led deeper into a monastery where the priests and priestesses dwelled, including those that were still in training. Night was an active period of time for the Red Temple, as prayers would be said as the shadows snuck in, whispering of the terrors that hid within them. Oresha turned a hall and entered an area with many doors, a few crimson garbed figures going in and out of rooms as they passed by. At the end of the hallway, Oresha unlocked a door, revealing a simple room with a set of dual beds. There was nothing ornate or remarkable about it. A fireplace, a brazier, a chest at the foot of each bed, and desks. It appeared to be intended for those living in the monastery and a roommate, but sufficed perfectly for the pair.

"Is there anything I can have sent to you while you settle in?" Oresha inquired.

"Books on Dothraki and High Valyrian," Taliya asserted immediately, putting her things down on the desk. "Parchment, ink... Do you have a rookery here?"

"Yes, of course."

"Very well, I'll require any ravens that fly to King's Landing and trusted contacts in the city that can deliver the letters."

"I shall send the requested materials with a meal to this room," Oresha complied. "I shall always need to send word to Volantis and the High Priest."

Taliya pursed her lips, but gave a nod. "Very well, as long as we are not made outside the walls of the temple."

"We are aware that the Wardens must work under discreet circumstances. You are the secret flames that weave the Lord's will, not heralds," Oresha retorted.

"Thank you, that will be all," Taliya closed the conversation and Oresha took her dismissal.

"How did you know that they'd take us in?" Benjen inquired after the door had shut and a few moments had passed from Oresha's departure.

"Fang," Taliya informed him. "He hinted that the Red Temples would be our greatest resource. Seems he was right. We can trust them. They're fanatics, incredibly devoted to the prophecy of Azor Ahai. With the amount of coin we were carrying too, even the nicest establishment in Braavos would have posed risk. We already drew a few eyes today."

"We could utilize the Iron Bank," Benjen suggested.

"Trust me, considering how much things were in the market, it'll be easy to spend a good portion on a wedding gift," Taliya snorted.

"And you're going to learn Dothraki and High Valyrian in a fortnight?" Benjen inquired, finally setting his belongings down, mildly amused by the woman's ambition.

"I'm going to learn as much as I can, unless you'd like to take that burden, Ben," she emphasized his name, shaking her head at his choice. "How many languages do you know?"

He'd chosen Ben River. It was a common first name and with his shorter hair, beard growing in, and golden eyes--he doubted even Jorah Mormont would connect the dots given the years since either had seen one another. He'd been little more than a boy playing at being a man when he'd seen Mormont. "Hm, you're rather clever with languages. I wouldn't wish to encroach upon your expertise."

"Oh no, you're going to learn," Taliya insisted haughtily. "Maybe not Rhoynish, but you're a stick in the mud if you don't at least understand the dialect of Valyrian most of Essos uses and Dothraki."

He chuckled at her decisiveness, but knew she was right. He didn't understand anyone and that made him anxious. Relying only on common was a severe disability, especially if they had to be clever. Better that people thought him a stupid Westerosi bastard and it turned out he spoke enough of the other languages to follow along. "Enlighten me, wise maester."

Taliya rolled her eyes, jerked out the chair to the desk, and sat down. Just as he was her mentor in swordsplay, she had subjects to school him on. Despite her typical lack of decorum (with him, at least), she was rather perceptive and cunning. Perhaps her harsh, serpentine personality hinted at this, but he originally thought the woman lacked poise. Obviously, he'd been wrong. She only lacked it when there was no need for a facade and between him, a fellow warden, she did not guard herself. He was thankful for that, uncertain how he would have handled his Wardenship is not for a companion who was polar in nature to him. The Lord of Light had intentionally paired them, each stronger in different fields, and somehow aware that they wouldn't be at one another's throats. Perhaps the fact that Taliya was a woman had a hand in his relaxed nature around her or her courage when facing down the Other.

Despite how much the woman could bark, she was true, a trait rarely witnessed in this world. People were fickle, oathbreakers, and more willing to protect their own hide than to buckle down and remain steadfast to a cause.

While a learned man, languages were complex. Over the simple dinner they had been provided, his mind spun as she tried to impress Dothraki on him first as she learned herself. Her own ramblings, she seemed to make sense of it, but he was stuck on the harsh annunciations. Valyrian, he'd heard a few words of before, and found that it was a bit easier to follow. Still, it would be a long time before he was fluent in either. He turned in relatively early, aching from their journey, while Taliya bowed over the desk and began writing letters.

Come morning, he was astonished to find her asleep at the desk, face pressed to the parchment and candle nothing but a stump of wax with no light. Throwing his leg over his bed, he crept up to see that she'd written numerous drafts and that her handwriting was quite atrocious. However, as he pulled out a sheet, his eyes coasted over the content that flowed like rivers of prose. Ambiguous and had nothing at all to do with their plight. How would Varys be able to understand them?

"Not the hibiscus-" Taliya muttered, jolting up, a piece of parchment sticking to her face as she moved. "Oh. Is it morning already?"

"You spent all night writing this?" Ben waved the work, unimpressed.

"Takes a while to create a code and cipher," Taliya groaned, rubbing her neck, peeling off the parchment from her face to reveal a mess of equations and a more deliberately spaced version of the letter he now held. "Look, this is the key which will be sent a few days after the first letter-" she turned the page over and showed him an alphanumeric mess, launching into an explanation on how certain letters within different words corresponded to others and could be utilized to spell out entirely different sentences. The process by which she broke it down was complex, but without the cipher, the letter would just appear to be a gilded exchange about traveling through Essos from a friend.

"And you think he'll be able to crack this without a full explanation from you?" Ben inquired thoughtfully, enthralled with her diligence to get this done immediately. He hadn't considered the letter being intercepted or read by another, but perhaps that was his own naivity of King's Landing and the inner workings of politics. Until they secured a better mode of communication with Varys, it was best to adhere to a code to draw no attention from anyone who might spy the letter before the master of whispers.

"We'll find out. If not, we're going to have a fun time trying to get into the wedding," she chuckled, standing up from her seat. "Shit, I really need to lay down though. Go out into the city if you'd like, but I need a couple of hours."

He wasn't really keen on the idea of going out into Braavos without a translator, but also knew there were few moments where either of them really got to be alone. Securing a small portion of Braavosi coins, he departed from the dormitory. Where the temple had been aflame with activity overnight, it had simmered down to a quiet lull as he passed a few priests and priestesses who gave curt bows of their head, but spoke no greetings. Word had spread like wildfire and yet, as requested, they were discreet.

Sunrise on the city illuminated the grey stone with a warm, amber haze, refracting off the water in the canals and basking the people. There was still a lot to take in, bustle, and queerly speaking people, but Ben tried to relax. Courtesans milled around openly, smiling at passing men, including himself. Some rode on ornate pleasure barges and unlike those in Westeros, were treated like nobility and with care. His eyes did not linger long, but Ben puzzled about the fact that he was no longer bound to his oaths as a man of the Night's Watch.

He had warned Jon Snow of speaking away his freedoms, including enjoying a woman, at such a young age. Ben knew what he had missed, especially after he'd learned of men going down into the Gift to purchase time with harlots to sate their thirst. There had been a time, before the Night's Watch, where he had known women and what he was giving away. But as a Stark, he'd known his place in protecting the kingdom and supporting his brother from the Wall. It was easier for Ned if Ben had no claim, nor had he ever yearned for the title as Warden of the North.

Whatever oaths he had to uphold with the Lord of Light, he suspected given the fact he did not recall them meant that there were no such clauses as refraining from giving in to carnal desires. Yet, as he espied the comely faces of the women dressed in vibrant silks, he felt nothing. Perhaps because he did not know them, lacking rapport or trust, a rather bad taste situating in the back of his throat at the idea of paying for services. But this was Braavos and while he had a disliking for it, the city revelled in their differences from his home.

Ben followed his nose, finding himself breakfast amongst the stands, freshly baked sweet bread and a hot tea to enjoy by the canals. The city still sprawled before him, beckoning to be explored. Despite his wariness for the urban setting, he curiousity got the better of him. He was a ranger, an explorer in his own right. Be this a foreign city, his legs took him through the bridged paths, between the islands, and amongst the shifting colors and faces. Few paid him heed aside from a few smiling escorts, but he'd simply continued onwards, careful to evade shady alleys and remained on the main roads.

A couple of hours turned into the better part of the afternoon, as he'd managed to get himself turned around, searching for the path back to the Red Temple. After finding someone who was willing to give him directions in common, he returned to find that Taliya was awake, the desk was void of the scattered parchment, and she was pawing through the language books. Her dedication was admirable, but he wondered how she could remain holed up in the stuffy room when there was so much to explore.

"Think the priests will mind if we use their courtyard for sparring?" Ben proposed wolfishly.

"We're Wardens, they'll let us do anything short of murdering them all if it's the Lord of Light's will," Taliya smirked.

They kept to the strict schedule of a fortnight in Braavos. As Taliya had jested, there was substance to the claim that the Red Priests would do anything for them. Part of Taliya's plan for Daenerys' wedding went hand in hand with R'hllor and claiming to be religious ambassadors and warriors entering into servitude on the blessed wedding-as was the will of their God. The temple parted with crimson garments for them, burnishing their armor, making certain they had plenty of coin and food for the journey to Pentos. He had not thought that he would have missed the little griffin during their separation, but as they left behind the watery city and trekked back out into the countryside where they'd started in Essos, he found his heart brimming with joy as the griffins touched down and reunited with them.

While Torrhen had grown a bit over the weeks, it was still not enough to ride him. Balerion groused, but in good nature, butting playfully into Taliya as she tried to secure the saddle bags to him, tail swishing around like a cat ready to play. Each passing moment brought them closer to the beginning of their first mission and to say that Ben was anxious was an understatement. What if Jorah recognized him? What if their invitation to the wedding was not solidified and they failed? His doubts and worries did not seem to affect his partner in the same manner. She was difficult to read and aloof, her pensive expression the only inkling that she might be worried about what Pentos had in store for them.

He had to trust in their mission, but his Dothraki was poor and his Valyrian rough. For all he knew, he'd be the fool on the Pentoshi promenade. Even the skills of his companion would not save him from his own ignorance. Gods, the north was so much less complex, even with the Others lurking north of the Wall.

They arrived in the city with a few days to spare before the wedding, allotting them time to get gifts and top of their supplies. Where Braavos had been grey, mild, and riddled with more canals than streets, Pentos was warm, made of many bricked buildings and walled estates akin to miniature castles, and filled with brightly hued residents. Westeros seemed bleak by comparison and Ben was sweltering in his thin doublet, armor, and trousers. While a warm, salty breeze often blew up from the port, the high walls of the golden city often denied them of the luxury of feeling its reprieve.

While the colors of the Wardens had been dark blue and grey, they traded the typical hues of their regal to that of the Lord of Light. Before dawn on the day of the wedding, Ben had settled his wardrobe and his attire. He'd spent the better part of the night polishing his cuirass, emblazoned with the heraldry of the Warden griffin on silvered steel. He did not possess a full suit, only the breastplate, thankful that it was light. The doublet beneath was provided by the temple in Braavos, a deep, garnet red that looked almost black, threads glistening in the sunlight.

His trousers were of a loose fit, as not to make him sweat excessively on the desert plains, though he knew there would be no avoiding it. He had not been crafted to be in Essos. He was a Stark, ice and iron, not heat and fire. The shiny black boots were finer than he would have typically chosen, accustomed to the sublime and mundane as a man of the Watch. What he wore now was a little 'much' for him. Taliya assured him that it was simple, but it still felt rather decadent.

He need only remind himself of the gem hues across the city to feel less excessive. After all, there were men who dyed their beards strange colors and forked them with oils.

Taliya was much more at home in the city than he was. Over the weeks her complexion had warmed to a rich olive, which complimented the tones she wore. That morning, the woman wore a pair of slitted harem pants in a deep, vibrant crimson. An ensemble of gold and cred sashes by her waist secured Fate to her hip, before a thick leather cuirass was fitted carefully over her torso, wrapped beneath sashes that matched the trousers, encompassing her collar and neck and fluttering behind her in scarves. While he knew she had gloves to meet the tight sleeves at her elbows, she had foregone them for the wedding, revealing intricate scrawlings of black and colored ink on her left arm.

Ben had never seen tattoos so ornate or detailed, leaving yet another layer of curiosities surrounded the woman. But as he gazed at her, he had no doubt that she was Dornish, wearing the sunset as she sat astride the dappled gelding that she'd purchased for their journey. Until the dragons were born, they could not introduce the griffins and had to have their own horses to accompany the Dothraki with. Each shuffle of the horse revealed the warm skin of her smooth legs and Ben felt himself watching a little longer than was polite. It was the first time he'd really seen more of the discreet Warden since the beginning of their partnership.

Both of their horses wore blankets with the flaming hearts of R'hllor, pressed to the flanks so that people knew they were embassies of the red god. The wedding was to be held outside of the city, the khalasar so enormous that the city was wary of what the festivities might do inside the walls, given their lack of military protection. Thus, it was to be conducted outside the golden walls and within a field where the Dothraki had made a temporary camp. Running through the lines of Dothraki he did remember, he prayed to any god that would listen that he wouldn't make a fool of himself.

Their trip out of the city and toward the allotted field paused when they noticed an elaborate poliquin gilded with so much golden paint that Benjen was quite certain it could've fed the entire north for a year during winter. Taliya spared him a glance, giving him a quick nod, before nudging her gelding forward to approach the throng of plump Unsullied that were carrying it. With a click, the shutter slipped open and within they could see the greasy face of a very fat man. The man from the visions: Illyrio Mopatis.

"Ah, you must be the swords of R'hllor," he greeted in a honey sweet voice, stroking his yellowed beard that was greasy enough to paint pictures on canvas.

"May the Lord of Light smile on you, Magister," Taliya replied courteously, a staunch difference from the woman he was acquainted with. Still this was not groveling, she spoke as a soldier might to an officer, cordial and polite. "I believe a mutual friend of ours told of our coming from Braavos."

"Yes, yes he did. I am quite surprised that the R'hllor would be so interested in this union," Illyrio simpered.

"The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. We do not question his will," Ben broke in, earning a careful, but impressed glance from Taliya.

"Hm, indeed. There are not many Westerosi who follow the Lord of Light. Given your accent, my lady, you must be from Dorne."

"I am," she conceded simply, but her voice fell flat as she did not smile or lean into the flattering tone which the man spoke with. "And there are not many Westerosi on this side of the Narrow Sea, yet here we are. The paths in which we led to get here were but the will of the Lord... It seems as if it'll be a fine morning for a wedding."

"Tell me, my lady, have you ever been to a Dothraki wedding?" Illyrio inquired lightly.

" Vo, vosma anha shillolat anha tikh allayafi me ," (No, but I believe I will enjoy it) Taliya retorted, the magister's brows shooting up. "Sorry, my Dothraki is still a bit rough, but I believe it'll get better."

"Our friend said you were clever, but I was not aware you were a linguist," Illyrio remarked.

"I'm a bit more gifted in scholarly pursuits than my companion, but he could best me with a sword any day. Perhaps the Lord of Light was aware of this when he made his partners," Taliya concluded before drawing her horse a few paces away. "We shall reconvene with you at the wedding. The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Farewell," Illyrio watched as they departed, skirting past his poliquin and down the beaten path that led to the sprawling plains where a city's worth of Dothraki were dwelling.

"Shit, I need something to sniff, that man smelled awful-" Taliya complained, rubbing her nose as they broke into a small pocket of solitude. "Could you smell it? Even the perfume didn't hide his reek-"

"No, I wasn't close enough," Ben admitted thankfully. "Who knew you could be so well-mannered."

Her infamous temper flared, eyes narrowing at him, as she opened her mouth to lash at him like a viper, "A side of me you'll never have the luxury of knowing."

He barked a laugh. "If you were being polite to me, I'd suspect death was near and the Lord of Light tasked you with killing me."

"Is it that uncharacteristic? I can be nice when I choose to," Taliya grumbled, drawing in a shimmering gold scarf.

"No one here knows you, so to them, they'd be none the wiser," he pointed out.

"But you know," she gave him a sideways glance, a devilish light playing in her fiery eyes.

"I know," he agreed, tucking away a smirk. Months of being beside her, with only her company aside from the griffins (not to include Fang's sporadic appearances), he thought he knew Taliya well enough. Still, despite all that he knew, he knew little of her history or who she was.

Abruptly, the woman reigned in her horse and dropped from the saddle in a puff of dust. Bending down, she retrieved a dagger and began hacking up a shrub of multicolored flowers, assembling a bouquet with a throng of tall grass to tie it together.

"For the princess?" he puzzled, aware that they'd already purchased excellent gifts for the girl. What good would flowers do?

"Mhm," she got back on the saddle. "Would you believe me if I told you I was a gardener in my past life?"

Benjen chuckled, but then realized she was utterly serious. A gardener?

#game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #a song of ice and fire fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #reincarnation insert #added lore #freeform #the ability to change the future but with a twist #BAMF female OC #benjen stark #buirbaby writes #the wardens

4 notes · View notes

shivunin · 11 months

Text

A Good Fight

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,440 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Mild sexual references/sexual tension)

Summary: Things that annoy Tabris: frivolous conversation and being the butt of a joke. Why, then, can she not get the insufferable Crow out of her mind?

“May I rest my head on your bosom?” the Crow asked somewhere behind Tabris. “I might cry.”

Tabris grimaced, casting a look at Alistair. He echoed her glance, nose wrinkled. It galled her to agree with him, but plainly they were in accord when it came to this.

“You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain,” the mage said severely.

“Reconsidering keeping him around yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, bending closer.

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill.

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.”

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again.

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line.

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again.

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality.

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered.

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on.

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?”

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list.

“Let’s not,” she said.

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her.

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking.

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him.

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions.

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her.

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.”

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect:

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore.

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage.

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence.

Not for him. Obviously not.

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice.

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief.

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked.

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew.

She couldn’t say she liked it.

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.”

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked.

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other.

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked.

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes.

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself.

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut.

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response.

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care.

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside.

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed.

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone.

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back.

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this?

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted.

“I caught you,” he said.

“Not that. You—”

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives.

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think.

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind.

“Or was that it?” she asked.

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it.

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying?

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears.

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured.

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest.

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?”

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him.

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them.

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day.

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent.

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her.

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now?

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight.

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone.

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo.

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?”

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin.

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away.

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 6: Favorite Things and Pet Peeves. Thanks again @zevraholics!)

#zevran arainai #arianwen tabris #zevwarden #zevran x f!warden #zevran x tabris #zevwarden week 2023 #shivunin scrivening #zevwen #you know someday i gotta write him digging her out of the wreckage after she kills the archdemon #or just that whole sequence from his POV #bc she didn't tell him what was going on but he for sure knew *something* was happening

38 notes · View notes

adverb-slut · 4 years

Text

Breakpoint (Fanfiction) Part 2/6 | Beelzebub

Sorry for posting this late, guys! As you all know, this is a six-part story (only parts one through three are written so far) and focuses on each of the brothers (Satan being the exception since he was never an angel) breaking point in when they decided to rebel against their Father when they were angels up in the Celestial Realm.

This specific chapter features Beelzebub and Lilith!

As always, you can read this story here on AO3.

Title:

Breakpoint

Summary:

These are the tales of when Belphegor, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Leviathan, Mammon, and Lucifer each decided to actively rebel against their Father and together incite the Great Celestial War.

Genre:

Backstory/Lore

Rating:

Word Count:

3424

Additional Note:

This chapter chronicles the breaking point of Beelzebub!

Previous Chapter:

Read Chapter 1 | Belphegor here!

“Beel! ” Belphie’s eyes were steeped with betrayal. “You said you’d come for me. Where are you?”

Beelzebub watched as his twin’s form disintegrated before his very eyes and reached toward him. “I did, Belphie —I just couldn’t—”

“I’ve been waiting two years, Beel!" Belphie cried, more and more of his body disappearing into nothingness. “ Two years! We agreed to three weeks! Are you even going to come for me at all? ”

“I’m coming, Belphie!” Beelzebub screamed, bolting out of bed and reaching forward as if to grab his missing brother’s hand. His fingertips grasped nothing but air. He shivered, realizing it was just a dream—a dream that he’d had every day for the past two years.

Two years. That’s how long it had been since Beelzebub had seen his younger brother. Two years since he’d left him on Earth, promising to come back at sunset three weeks later. Two years since he’d gone to look for his brother after the three weeks were up, only to realize that Belphegor had moved around so much on Earth and was no longer in the same village that he’d left him. Two years during which Beelzebub had spent every single waking moment of his eternal life when he wasn’t guarding Eden to look for his only brother in every human-inhabited region of Earth, forgoing most of his meals and sleep and taking only a few moments every night after searching to rest.

He stared at the space next to him on his king-size bed where two years ago, Belphie would have slept and sighed. He rubbed his eyes groggily—getting only ten minutes of sleep every night caused him to be perpetually tired—and looked at the golden clock that rested on his bedside table. It read that it was dawn; the Guardians of Eden on the night shift would be almost done standing sentinel over the Garden by now. That meant it was almost time for him to get to work.

Beelzebub’s stomach growled in protest as he changed out of his sleeping tunic and into the pearly white robes and green sash that were his standard uniform. His meal times had varied greatly in the two years that he had spent scouting the Earth for his brother. He could only afford to waste a few precious seconds on eating quick meals, none of which sustained him for very long.

And today, since it was already so close to the time for his shift to start, he didn’t want to waste even a moment by grabbing something to eat.

He raced toward the precipice of the Celestial Realm and launched himself off. As soon as his feet left the cloud cover that made up the ground, he flapped his wings downward and began his descent toward the surface of Earth.

This trip always chilled Beelzebub to his very bones. He could almost feel his hands curl underneath his brother’s arms as the two made their way to Earth—him to go guard Eden, and Belphie to go observe and interact with humans.

He flew downward for a few moments before his feet touched the ground. He walked north for several feet before he saw the silhouette of tall, imposing fruit trees and the other plants that made of the flora of the Garden of Eden.

“Beelzebub!” Adoniel greeted from the Garden’s entrance. “You’re right on time.”

Chasan, the other angel on duty, saluted him. “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Beelzebub replied. “You guys can go; I’ll take it from here.”

As the two nighttime Guardians of Eden began to take their leave, Beelzebub glanced at the sky, searching for Tabris, the angel with whom he had shared the morning shift with for as long as the Garden of Eden had needed guarding. Usually, Tabris arrived earlier than him, but today, he was nowhere to be seen.

Figuring the other angel had overslept, Beelzebub walked over to the entrance and stood erect, scanning the area in front of him for any intruders, as he always did.

Several minutes passed by, and there was still no sight of Tabris. Beelzebub began to worry; if his Father found out about his partner’s tardiness, there would be no doubt that he would be punished severely. His Father wasn’t known for physically abusing His children for minor infractions like lateness, but the incensed lectures He gave were even worse than even the most abrasive whippings.

As Beelzebub decided that today he would just have to do the work of two guards, he heard the sound of wings flapping. He glanced at the sky, expecting to see Tabris, but instead, saw the figure of a female angel.

This angel was exceedingly beautiful, with long hair that cascaded down her back and features so fine that he had to wonder exactly how long his Father had spent fashioning her. One thing, he noticed in particular, was her wings: they were massive and feathered, covered in jewels and various precious gemstones. They were far too heavy to be of any practical use. He figured that they were just ornamental. He deduced that she must not be an angel that was usually sent down to Earth, else she would have been given functional wings, or none at all.

The woman angel caught him staring and blushed, tucking her wings behind her. “Yeah, I wasn’t created to leave the Celestial Realm, much.” She fingered the gaudy feathers that adorned her back. “They’re just supposed to look pretty.”

He then realized that she appeared familiar. “Wait—you’re one of the Seraphim, aren’t you?” No wonder she didn’t venture out of the Celestial Realm. The seraphim were the most powerful angels—even more so than most Archangels—with beautiful voices. They sat directly at the Throne of the Almighty, singing his praises day after day.

“Yes, my name is Lilith.” She reached out her hand, and he shook it. “I’ve been assigned to be your fellow Guardian of Eden today.”

Beelzebub did a double-take. Why in the world would God assign a mighty Seraph to do a menial guard job? “What do you mean?” He looked around. “What about Tabris?” When he saw the confused look on Lilith’s face, he elaborated, “He and I have been the morning guards of Eden for as long as I can remember.”

“You didn’t hear? Tabris broke one of his wings yesterday. He’s on bed rest for the next few days,” replied Lilith.

Huh. Beelzebub hadn’t heard anything about his partner’s injury, but then again, he had been on full Belphie-searching mode, so he hadn’t had much time to pay attention to anything else. He felt a twinge of guilt creep up but tried to focus on the matter at hand. “Ah, okay, but why you as his replacement? You’re a Seraph—surely your worship is more important than this.”

Lilith blushed and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, I’m currently suspended.”

“What? Why?” he asked, his eyes widening. Seraphim were wildly devoted to their Father. He couldn’t imagine one doing something to upset their Father so much that he would suspend them.

She took a deep breath and her blush deepened. “Well, yesterday, my sisters and I were worshipping at the Throne, as usual, when I realized that one of the rhythms to the hymns that we were singing was written really off. I first thought that maybe it was our fault and we were singing it wrong, but I checked and it was just written strangely. So, I went to go take the music earlier today to Leviathan—you know, the Angel of Worship.”

Beelzebub could see where this story was going. The Angel of Worship’s antics when it came to critiques of his praise songs were well-known. “And he got angry with your comments, then went directly to Father, made it sound worse than it was, and got you in trouble,” he finished for her. “Leviathan will do anything to make an excuse to go see Father directly.”

“He’s such a kiss-up, sometimes.” Lilith shook her head and pulled out two spiced manna cakes from her orange sash.

He couldn’t help but watch her unpeel the wrapper from the two cinnamon-and-clove flavored biscuits, his stomach growling loudly. He blushed.

Lilith smiled and reached out her hand, offering him a cake. “Want one?”

Beelzebub grabbed it, smiling and deciding that he definitely liked this angel. The cakes were incredibly dry and were meant to be eaten soaked in milk and honey, but he was so hungry that he couldn’t care less and took a bite of the crumbly biscuit.

“Sorry,” he apologized, his mouth filled with manna. “I don’t get many chances to eat.”

She put a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “I heard about your brother—everyone has. I mean, he’s the Angel of the Sabbath. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find him soon.”

Beelzebub sighed, suddenly not so hungry, but swallowing the rest of the cake, anyway. “I hope so.”

Lilith noticed the change in his demeanor and poked him in the chest. “You’re Beelzebub, right? You’re supposed to be one of the best guardians ever—teach me your ways!”

A hint of a smile curled on his face. He could see that she was just trying to take his mind off of Belphie. “Being a Guardian of Eden isn’t so hard. Our goal is to keep humans away from the Garden, but even more so, away from the Tree of Life in the middle.” He pointed east from where they were standing, in the direction of the Tree. “The fruit from that Tree has the power to heal any kind of ailment—including the effects of old age.”

“I thought it was supposed to make humans immortal and to heal angels’ diseases.”

“The angel part is true but not the human one—that’s just a rumor we spread to deter them from trying to find it, considering some humans are content and relieved with their mortality. The real power is that every time a human or angel consumes one, it cures them of whatever sickness they’re currently suffering from, even if it’s just the aches and pains that come with being old.”

“I got you. Well, that sounds easy enough, Beel.”

Beelzebub swallowed at the nickname; it was something only Belphie had called him, but he was surprised that it sounded right coming from her lips, too. “It is.”

They stood side by side, guarding Eden for several hours. It was almost sunset, and Beel wanted to get a head start on searching for Belphie. But, before he could say anything to Lilith, he noticed a figure coming up over the horizon, hunched over and carrying what appeared to be a person.

“Who’s that?” Lilith asked.

Beelzebub readjusted his stance and frowned. “An intruder.”

And he was right. Ambling up to them was an emaciated man, his tattered loincloth dirty and covered in what looked like dried bloodstains. In his arms was a young girl, her unwashed hair plaited, looking just as worse for wear as the man carrying her.

“Please,” the man pleaded, walking up to Beel, who looked on ahead of him stoically. “My daughter—she’s very ill.”

A pang of guilt shot through Beel’s heart, but he had seen cases like this all the time. And as usual, he knew he had to turn them away. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“Oh, my goodness,” Lilith cried, rushing to the man’s side, taking the young girl out of his hands and cradling her herself. Her eyes widened and filled with pity. “What happened?”

“Our camp was raided by another’s several weeks ago, and we have no food. Yesterday, our chief’s wife found some herbs to eat, but when my daughter consumed them, she grew very sick, and she hasn’t woken up since, even though she is still breathing,” the man explained, his eyes filling with tears. “Several moons ago, an angel visited us and told us that my daughter would be the savior of our camp, but if she does not survive, I fear that we will be left defenseless.”

Beel’s heart skipped a beat when the man mentioned another angel. “What did the angel look like? Did he have black and white hair? With eyes like mine? No wings?”

“No, no,” the man said, pausing to analyze Beel’s eyes. “He had tan skin, with white hair and dark blue eyes, tinted with gold. He also definitely had wings.”

Beel could feel his heart drop. He didn’t know who that Messenger Angel was. “Well, either way,” he sighed. “Sir, we can’t help you. You need to leave.”

Lilith glared at him as the man protested, “But sir, we need to get to the Tree of Life. The shaman of our camp has tried everything to heal her, but nothing has worked. We know the fruit from the Tree can heal any kind of sickness.”

Beel didn’t have time to dwell on the fact that the man somehow knew the true nature of the Tree of Life and stamped his foot. “No. No one is allowed in the Garden of Eden.”

“We can make an exception for you, though,” Lilith amended, stepping aside to let the man pass.

This time it was Beel who glared at her. “No, we can’t. Lilith, that’s what we’re here for: we have to make sure no one can get inside the Garden.”

“Beel! This man is desperate. We can’t let that little girl die—we can’t! What kind of angels would we be if we did?”

He massaged his forehead. “Lilith, we have our orders. We can’t just go making exceptions for people based on how desperate they are.”

“Look at her,” Lilith argued, gesturing toward the man’s daughter. “I don’t care what our orders are; we can’t just let this girl die on our watch. I don’t think Father will be angry if what we’re doing saves a life.”

For someone who was supposedly so close to his Father, Lilith didn’t seem to understand that His orders were absolute and that there was no loophole that could be exploited which wouldn’t lead to severe punishment.

Since Lilith had decided to be so adamant, Beelzebub tried a different tactic. “Lilith, this man was told by one of our Messenger Angels that this girl would save her camp someday. Just trust that God will heal her—you know that He doesn’t lie.”

He thought that that point would get her to calm down, but it was to no avail. “She’s suffering now, Beel. I can’t allow that.” She gestured toward the man and motioned for him to enter the Garden.

Beel shook his head in frustration. “There’s no point in letting him in, anyway. The Tree of Life is guarded by flaming swords. He can’t get to it.”

The man’s face crumbled, but Lilith was quick to remedy the situation. “I’ll do it. I’ll fly above the swords, and I’ll pick a fruit from the Tree and give it to him.”

Beel blanched. “No. No, you won’t.”

“Yes. I. Will.” And with that, Lilith raced into the Garden of Eden.

Three hours.

That’s how long it had taken for all four Guardians of Eden—and one temporary one—to be summoned to his Father’s Throne Room after the young girl had taken a bite from the fruit of the Tree of Life and had been revived.

In the future, it would take God another year to summon Belphegor for his tribunal, but it had only taken three hours for Him to call Beel for his.

Beelzebub kept his eyes down, not daring to look at his Father’s blinding, lighted presence. He, Adoniel, Chasan, the broken-winged Tabris, and Lilith had just been instructed to rise after falling prostrate before the Throne of God.

The three angels who had not been involved in the incident gave Beel confused looks, but he couldn’t meet their eyes. He stared at the floor, trying to imagine he was anywhere but here.

His Father’s Throne Room was a place of judgment, and usually, the verdict was nothing but guilty. He tried to take his mind off his probably impending doom—surely his Father would blame him for not stopping Lilith as she flew above the flaming swords guarding the Tree of Life and picking its fruit—by listening to the glorious notes of the piano that Lucifer played from God’s left side.

The Archangel of Music’s eyes were closed, like the world was nothing more than him and his music, as his fingers deliberately played the solemn notes of a melody that he had created. Lucifer never played any song twice, and he used no sheet music. Every song that he performed was an original piece that he made up on the spot, the notes coming so alive in his mind that they leaped out of his fingers into the most rapturous tune.

“Beelzebub, Tabris, Adoniel, Chasan, Lilith,” boomed the Almighty.

“We are here, Father,” they chorused, bowing their heads.

“It has come to My attention that one of My Guardians has allowed a fruit to be picked from the Tree of Life.” The glow of God’s glory receded and then flared back even brighter, signifying a spike in His anger. “Which one of you is responsible for this?”

Beelzebub knew that of course, his Father already knew who took the fruit; He was merely giving the culprit an opportunity to own up for their crime and apologize—not that it would make their punishment any less severe.

From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Lilith. The normally upbeat Seraph had her eyes glued to the ground, a terrified look on her face. He frowned in sympathy; facing her Father’s wrath twice in such a short period of time would be a horrifying experience—once was enough for most angels to ensure they never disobeyed again.

And besides, it wasn’t as if Lilith had—apart from breaking orders—done anything wrong. She had technically saved a life, just as she had mentioned before.

Beel gulped as the silence from the five angels filled the room. It was so suffocating that he didn’t know if Lucifer’s masterful playing was sufficient to overcome it. He stepped forward. “I did it, Father.”

His Father’s furious light subsided in surprise. “You, Beelzebub?”

Of course, God knew that it was not him who took the fruit. But, Beel knew how his Father’s mind worked. If Beel admitted to the crime, his Father would punish him for what he confessed and also punish him for lying, as well. The Almighty still knew that Lilith had committed the crime, but Beel’s sacrifice for her would be enough to sate His anger, and she wouldn’t be punished at all.

His admission elicited shocked gasps from Adoniel, Chasan, and Tabris. Lilith stared at him, her eyebrows downturned in agony. “No—” she began.

Beel interrupted her before she could get very far. “—one expected this of me, right, Lilith? Well, they should have. In fact, Father, I was not only the one who picked the fruit, but I ate it, too.”

“You ate the fruit, Beelzebub?” his Father confirmed, even though He knew otherwise. “You know not even angels are allowed to eat the fruit, as they can suffer ailments that can be healed, as well.”

Beelzebub gulped. “Yes. You know I’ve spent many moons flying around Earth, searching for my twin brother, Belphegor, the Angel of the Sabbath. In doing this, I haven’t gotten much time to eat, so in my desperation, I picked from the Tree and ate.”

“What gluttony you displayed, today, my son! This appetite—so all-consuming that you would desecrate a sacred fruit for the pleasure of excess nourishment—this need for immediate gratification in the form of food, has caused you to disobey My orders and sin.” The Almighty’s anger flared again. “You must be punished.”

“Yes, Father, you should punish me,” Beel replied, wringing the hem of his tunic nervously. And punish me, and me alone, he added silently.

“This is your first offense, my son—I will make your retribution less severe, provided you understand the error of your ways. Answer me, Beelzebub, do you regret what you did?”

Considering he hadn’t even committed any crime, Beel knew he couldn’t answer the question truthfully. He turned his head to look at Lilith, whose eyes were overflowing with grateful tears, her hands over her mouth to drown out her sobs. He knew that he would admit to the offense a hundred times if it meant she didn’t have to suffer for it.

So he answered the question in that context instead.

“No.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #omswd #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #om beel #om beelzebub #omswd beel #omswd beelzebub #obey me lilith #obey me fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #adverbslut_writes

34 notes · View notes

crqstalite · 4 years

Note

"Have you ever been in love?" "Once." "How did it end?" "It hasn't." Whichever pairing you so decide at the moment you get that spark! :) Could be fluff like... horrid flirting or the mega sads. Whichever mood you in!

so i made myself sad with one longer oneshot. what’s better than one sad oneshot? two sad oneshots! f!handers, split between act 2 + inquisition (here lies the abyss spoilers)

“oh darling, have you ever been in love before?” her mother asks, a hand pressed gently to her own chest while skimming what reyna is sure is another letter from her mysterious suitor -- all in that loopy longhand that makes reyna dizzy. and nearly disgusted. not that she’d want to blackmail her own mother, but it’s so boring she’s sure even the Maker would look at it and cringe.

there’s a reason she doesn’t read the letters that come in willy-nilly anymore. if her mother is happy, then that’s enough for her. she doesn’t need to read all the mail anymore.

“considering i exist, i’m sure you have been.” she chuckles. habitually, her thumb finds the mark on her neck, hurriedly going to tie her damp hair up into something manageable, “but why do you ask? you aren’t attempting to marry me off again?”

leandra smiles wearily, though reyna is about halfway sure her mother truly is only taking a jest at her, “i won’t be around forever, reyna. then the estate will be all yours someday -- surely you’ll want an heir to the family home, yes?”

her dark eyes are nothing but hopeful and reyna coughs. as the last living amell (well, non-mage amell. she’s sure captain rutherford would have a fit if she installed bethany as the heir to the estate and family wealth...that wasn’t such a bad idea actually) she supposes she owes her mother that much.

she shudders at the thought though. leandra shakes her head good naturedly, eyes still turned downwards toward the mess of letters on the desk, reyna making to descend down the stairs, careful not to catch the fine linen on the staircase, “sure mother, maybe one day. and to answer your earlier question, yes. i have. just once.”

“and how did it end?” her mother asks, looking up to her once she pauses on the stairs, “i don’t remember you being particularly broken up about anything while we were in lothering.”

reyna hesitates, leaning on the banister with her head in her hands. she’s not ready for the possible disapproval she’d get from her should she admit that anders has been on her mind for ages now -- or that he’d already spent the night,“oh mother. that’s not important. who’s to say it has?”

leandra presses the letters against her chest, sighing dreamily, nearly girl-like, “yes. i suppose you are an adult, your own woman now. i won’t press you for information,” she smiles, patting her daughter on the shoulder lovingly as she passes by, “though i hope you find someone that makes you as happy as your father made me, reyna.”

she tracks her for a moment longer before she hears the door close behind her. reyna grins to herself, if only her mother knew that she’d both found someone that made her beyond happy, but someone who was nearly just like her father?

has she ever been in love?

there’s a letter on the desk scribbled off with her name and address of the estate when she eventually meanders over there, her dog brushing up against her legs while she leans against it. written quickly and methodically, but enough that she definitely thinks so. she’s beyond girlishly happy to read the words, ‘love, anders.’

oh, she has definitely been in love.

this is not how it was supposed to end. this was not at all how her life was supposed to end.

and yet? she knows this is her last stop. even before the inquisitor says anything, even moves, she’s preparing to grasp her daggers. both of her present companions are years upon years younger than she, and this was her burden to bear. she’s the reason corypheus is even here -- none of this would’ve happened if not for her. and she has to pay the heavy price in blood.

and she wouldn’t have their deaths on her conscience. she couldn’t. she couldn’t morally say that she wouldn’t stay behind to save their lives.

it’s still startling when she hears that voice, one of the last voices she hears call out for her. for her to do her duty to thedas. she knew it was coming, but it still sends a shiver down her spine when it does, so small, so scared and yet it only propels her forward, “hawke-”

“i know, lavellan,” she nods, her knuckles turning white on the hilts while she turns her head upwards toward the beast, “go on, get out of here, you scoundrel. you’ve got a world to save.”

lavellan visibly winces, indigo eyes considering before alistair starts, “hawke--”

“don’t. don’t even start with me theirin, i know your wife would throw a fit if i let you die,” she smiles sadly. from the sound of it, warden-commander tabris would destroy her limb by limb if she let her husband die here because she was too selfish to give up her own life for theirs, “just...tell anders that i’m sorry, and that i love him.”

“inquisitor-” alistair seems like he’s about to argue before the nightmare demon takes a swipe at them, a green shield encasing the group. lavellan is thrown backwards from the force of the blow, skidding across the ground in a heap before clambering back to her feet a moment later. hawke sighs a breath of relief, that meant the tiny woman was at least hardy enough to make a dent in corypheus. that means they have a chance to at least save the world.

“i said go, alistair. get lavellan out of here,” when he pauses again, she snaps, “now!”

that snaps him into action fast enough to follow after the elven woman just on her heels. she barely registers what she’s doing by the time the demon eclipses her view of their retreating forms, but she’s fighting with a vigor she can’t compare to anything else.

the fade is a terrifying thought. she’s been within it’s confines twice, but she had a mage (well, spirit) with her last time. someone who could guide her through. someone who could keep her from slipping into the abyss.

there is no one with her now. suddenly her fear tombstone makes a lot more sense.

she’s terrified of being alone.

her last thoughts are of anders when she shoves one of the daggers deep into the fleshy creature, it crying out as she stabs it over and over again before being thrown prone against something.

she thinks of what she’s left behind while trying to stand, her own blood dripping out of her nose and staining her armor. of how surely someone, probably lavellan herself, would end up writing a letter to her love, how she bravely gave up her life for the inquisition to succeed. internally, she smiles sadly, resigned to her fate as she rushes the creature again, a battle cry on her lips.

oh lavellan, she would destroy herself over this.

she remembers lavellan asking her, ever so timid up on the battlements just before they left for adamant, how her relationship with anders had ended. reyna would be a fool not to notice she was fishing for advice under the guise of friendly curiosity, but she indulged her.

reyna is flung backwards again, swiped at hard enough that she’s sure she’s snapped a few bones, if not all of them. she can’t even see where alistair and the inquisitor disappeared to, having been so far behind at the time.

she was confident to say, ‘it hasn’t.’.

3 notes · View notes

allmywardensaresafeandsound · 4 years

Text

@whereismywarden cause it was getting extra long for a simple reply :'D

My non-Mahariel Wardens technically only become wardens at the very end of the game, when Riordan reveals to Mahariel and Alistair what needs to be done to kill the Archdemon. Well, even after that, technically, when Morrigan comes to Mahariel with her offer. She romanced my Tabris, and Mahariel doesn't want to go behind his back, and that makes stakes rise suddenly. The situation quickly travels thru the whole group, and Tabris wants to go through the joining, because well, it's his relationship in game here, and, anyway, he's in Denerim and barely managed to go unscathed by the guards so far because Denerim is a bit in chaos atm, and Mahariel has been sort of shitting her way around pretending Tabris had already gone thru the joining (she would have before, but I suppose Riordan is the first Warden they meet who knows how to prepare the Joining ritual cup). So, yeah, if there's a chance it's not Alistair who has to get Morrigan pregnant Tabris is happy and stubborn enough to take it and face the damn Archdemon eye to eye for it. (Morrigan thinks he is ridiculous and they have a fight, half not wanting to lose each other and knowing they will have to give up things, one way or the other.)

Aeducan, after loosing everything, had longed wanted to feel like she belonged somewhere again, and contributing to her darkspawn-bane duty was her way to fullfil her purpose, so she asked to join too. And if she died, well, she had already been through death once when she had been exiled, it couldn't be worse.

Brosca had nowhere to go back to either, well, maybe she sort of did, but she liked this new chance, this new life, new freedom, this new place. Being able to go back and forth through surface and Orzammar? Proving that being casteless didn't stop her from having a damn cool future? Being Warden sounded like an adventure, and she trusted she had survived worse than a fat, crusty blighed bat-spawn.

Surana wants freedom from the Circle and the threat of Tranquillity, but of the group she is the one being the more appalled by what Mahariel confesses of her Joining and the Wardens' rules. The Blight, running in their veins, the ruthless way to keep the secret. The overall mystery makes her almost sick with it, the religiosity mixing with the idea of sacrifice; the magic, the blood, the Maker, the sheer wrongness. She joins, but it's almost a challenge. She's the one that will later go look for the cure. She cannot accept that someone decided this is how things were going to be and no one challeged it. She already had to go through it in the Circle, she wasn't going to allow her new family to suffer through this again. She wasn't running anymore.

Cousland.. unexpectedly was the one that got close to just.. run. He was the sun-kissed, noble and soft-hearted boy, raised on tales of knights and honor and love, idealist to almost a fault, adoring of the Wardens, who had seen his family die in front of his eyes, suffered from survival's guilt; who had learned how to be a bard, who had music on his fingertips and a smile able to enamour full crowds. Who had fallen for the sharp and beautiful Crow, who was brave and had succeeded almost single-handedly to keep the most ridiculous band of misfits together, simply because he was nice, and positive and believed in people. But suddenly he was so scared, at the idea of losing it all again. Of dying when he was almost truly happy again. It's a fight of will, and in the end the idea of seeing his friends possibly dying in front of him while he cowered takes hold of him and he has to accept the Joining before he goes insane with it.

My Aeducan and Brosca are possibly different in every way they could be, in both character and upbringing, but weirdly enough it's what makes it work.

For what is of the Orzammar situation in particular, well. Aeducan has only one word, her family will be avenged. She can't possibly look Bhelen in the face, she can't forgive him, even if she wanted. It's non-debatable. Aeducan and Brosca are similar in the way they are not really political per se; Aeducan believes in honor and transparency (she's a sort of House Stark archetype, a lot of bad decisions for the purpose of mostly good intentions), Brosca believes in people and freedom, so they generally succeeds in seeing each other for what they are, even tho Aeducan is the one with more preconceptions to dismantle. Luckily Brosca is good at dismantling stuff while keeping her good humour.

It's still not easy, but Brosca understands how Aeducan cannot trust Bhelen on the throne, but hard deals are made with Harrowmont. Simply put, little Endrin is the last Aeducan-blooded heir to the throne, and is to be raised like such, Rica and Harrowmont at his side. The Castless are just as able to fight darkspawn as anyone else, and Aeducan doesn't mince words in saying they need all the people they can spare if the dwarves are to survive this and the next Blights.

It's not ideal, Aeducan sees what is left of her family and sees the shambles for what they are, but, honestly, she can't deal with any of it anymore, even if she wanted. Harrowmont is the only person she trusts to leave it to, and she shares that belief with Brosca. Brosca.. well, she is happy her family is safe, she's allowed that pinch of selfishness. She's worried about other things, but, unlike Aeducan, she is still ready to fight, and she's seen how it can get better, wherever the dwarven ways help you or not (they didn't, in her case, but eh, doesn't mean they are necessarily wrong), she knows there's ways now.

Post-DAO Aeducan stays as Warden-Commander at Amaranthine, and Brosca handles sort of unofficial ambassadorial duties between the Legion of the Dead and the Wardens of Ferelden. She travels often underground, accompanying Wardens, scouting the lost Thaigs and trying to find useful stuff, of lost Wardens or dwarven story, and works with Orzammar to evaluate possible expansions or security measures. If she can represent the Casteless doing so, damn good, she's not easy to forget. She is also the one of my Wardens that believes the most into recruiting, and doesn't really hesitate to remind those she believes capable of Joining of a second chance, that there's a life for them on the Surface, somewhere else, if they wish so.

(Either they are both made Paragon or neither, Aeducan was clear on this. It's not about politics to castes, it's about two dwarven women that couldn't have done it without the other, and not turning a blind eye to it. So, yeah, I haven't decided yet what the Assembly will do, since there are more Wardens, and so the merits probably are more dilluted too. But still, I do believe they made dwarven history, in their own way, and it will be remembered one way or another.)

#i do what i want #blabla #whereismywarden #sorry :'D it's probably a mess #i just have FEELINGS #and a very messy multiverse where the rule is #worldstate : multiverse #oc : Ilsramel #oc : Malaad #oc : Mephis #oc : Portia #oc : Korinn #oc : Kamela #mine

5 notes · View notes

cruelangelstheses · 5 years

Text

we might be dead by tomorrow

fandom: dragon age rating: T characters: anders, female warden, justice words: 6k additional tags: canon compliant, pre-da2, fake character death, angst, friendships description: leaving the wardens is the hardest thing anders has ever done. a study of what happens if anders “dies” in awakening. a/n: a fic about the friendship between anders and my warden, kallian tabris, and the idea of anders faking his own death. note there’s a brief scene in here that’s directly from awakening with a couple lines changed. i’m actually pretty proud of this one <3 title is from “we might be dead by tomorrow” by soko

read it on ao3

—

Anything is better than being in the Circle, but if Anders had had a choice in the matter, he probably wouldn’t have become a Warden.

It’s a fairly noble occupation; he’ll give them that—risking death just to become a Warden, dealing with nightmares of the Archdemon, shortening their lifespans just so that they’re able to take down as many darkspawn as they can—it’s a fate reserved for only the truly selfless and those with no other options.

When Anders was recruited, he was the latter.

Granted, he thanks the Maker every day that he’s not in the Circle, but being a Grey Warden is just so depressing. He feels sometimes like he’s constantly surrounded by death and corruption, not to mention the horrible twist in his stomach every time he goes underground. He’s caught the Warden-Commander watching him a few times while in the Deep Roads, an eyebrow raised in concern at his shallow breaths as he reminds himself that this is not the Circle. After the third time, he flashes her a grin to cover his panic and casually says, “Is this a bad time to tell you I’m claustrophobic?”

“Well,” she replies, her steel blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, “the faster we move, the faster we can get out of here.”

Warden-Commander Tabris is a fierce woman. She doesn’t walk; she saunters, her head held high and her jaw firmly set, as if daring the world to underestimate her. Maker only knows how many darkspawn have died on her blade. Some say she’s too cocky, too aggressive, too headstrong, too impulsive—but when she speaks, everyone stops to listen, even if they don’t like what they’re hearing. She just commands that sort of attention.

Anders wasn’t sure he’d like her when he first met her, but she didn’t seem to care about his apostasy, and at the time that was good enough for him to follow her into battle. Now, only a few months later, he can’t deny that he’s fond of her. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, but she recognizes injustice when she sees it, whether it’s against elves or mages or everyday people. She’s angry, but she’s not cruel.

Anders can’t ignore the pang of guilt he feels, then, when he starts to plan his departure.

It’s not the Commander’s fault. In fact, she’s probably the main reason he didn’t leave sooner. But the longer he stays here, the more he sees of Grey Warden life, the less he feels like he belongs. It seems like everyone else is a Warden because they want to be, for one reason or another. Anders is only a Warden because he’s not sure he has anywhere else to go.

It dawns on him at some point, though, that perhaps there are places for him to go. He’s free now, and if he travels out of Ferelden, the templars might have a harder time finding him. Who’s to stop them from deciding that Grey Wardens are no longer untouchable and marching to Vigil’s Keep to capture every mage there?

More than that, however, is something (or, rather, someone) that’s been weighing heavily on his mind since he was recruited: Karl Thekla. When his friend and former lover was transferred to the Kirkwall Circle, Anders swore—to Karl and to himself—that he would follow. It’s been a few years since then, but Karl is almost certainly still there. Even if he isn’t, Kirkwall is an ideal place to go: outside of Ferelden, but close enough that it’s full of Fereldan refugees from the Blight. It wouldn’t be that difficult to blend in with such a large crowd, and there’s no Grey Warden outpost nearby. The city also houses a fairly large population of mages, and with the Kirkwall Circle as strict as he’s heard, there are undoubtedly mages who desire freedom like he did. If helping them means fleeing the Wardens and moving to the Free Marches, then that’s what he’ll do.

Maker, he’s sounding more like Justice every day.

He plans on leaving after they find and defeat “the Mother,” when he hopefully won’t be needed anymore—not as much, at least. He’s sure Sigrun or Oghren would be happy enough to kill a few extra darkspawn in his place. The only person he’s worried about is the Commander.

The next time they return to Vigil’s Keep, Anders finds her standing with her back up against the statue of Andraste in the courtyard. “Anders,” she calls.

Anders starts a little at her voice, having been preoccupied with thoughts of his plan. “Err...yes, Commander?” he says, half-convinced that she somehow knows what he’s thinking.

She rolls her eyes. “I told you, I hate titles. It’s Kallian.” She waves a hand. “Come over here.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, Anders makes his way over to the statue. He’s not sure why he’s always had trouble calling her by her given name. Perhaps it’s because, as close as they are, he still doesn’t truly feel like her equal. “Am I in trouble?” he asks with a smirk, but he’s only half-joking.

Commander Tabris—Kallian, he tells himself, Kallian—laughs and shakes her head. “You? No. Oghren? Maybe.”

Anders mimics her posture, resting his back against the statue and crossing his arms. “What is it, then?”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything; she just stares at the muddy ground, twirling her dark brown hair. Quite a few strands have come loose from the two braids that frame her tattooed face, but she’s long past the point of caring. Finally she says, “You don’t want to come with me when we face the Mother, do you?”

Anders raises an eyebrow. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t quite this. “Well, no, not really,” he admits. Frankly, the idea of going deep underground to the Mother’s lair makes his skin crawl. “But I’ll do it.” That much is true, too. If she wants him there, he’s not going to refuse her.

Kallian shakes her head, looking like she’s already made up her mind. “No. You can stay.”

As much as Anders hates the Deep Roads, he finds himself saying, “If you need me, I’ll be there. You don’t have to—”

Kallian holds a hand up to stop him from talking. “What I need,” she says, “is for you to be at your best. I don’t want to bring you down into the Deep Roads when you don’t fight as well, and you always look like you’re moments away from getting sick, and then I—” She cuts herself off then, biting the inside of her cheek and looking away from him.

Anders narrows his eyes. “And then you…?”

Kallian scowls. The purple swirling tattoos on her cheeks hide her blush somewhat, but not completely. If he’s not mistaken, the great Hero of Ferelden is actually embarrassed. “And then I...get...worried.”

Reflexively, Anders laughs a little. “You, worried?”

“Yes, me,” Kallian snaps. “Is that so strange? Is it so shocking that I care about you and your wellbeing?”

For a moment, Anders just stares at her, dumbfounded. “I...didn’t realize,” he says lamely. “It’s just...it’s been so long since someone considered me a friend.”

“Well, I do,” Kallian says defensively. “I thought I made that clear. I’ve called you a friend before, haven’t I?”

Anders shrugs, thinking back to when she helped him search for his phylactery, when she fought and killed templars to protect him—when she looked him in the eye and said, You’re a friend. Friends stick up for each other.

“I thought you were just saying that,” he tells her, and it’s the truth.

Kallian shakes her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Why do you think I take you with me on every mission? Why do you think I agreed to help you look for your phylactery? Why do you think I killed templars for you without a moment’s hesitation? Why do you think I gave you a damn cat?”

As if on cue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows from inside Anders’s pack. Since it’s relatively safe for him to wander Vigil’s Keep, Anders reaches into the pack and pulls the cat out, setting him on the ground in front of him. This gives him time to collect his thoughts enough to answer Kallian properly. Finally, he confesses, “I’ve considered you to be a friend for some time, but...I was afraid you were just, I don’t know, trying to get into my good graces or something.”

For a moment, Kallian just looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Anders,” she says, her voice sounding soft for perhaps the first time since he’s known her. “I’m...not great with emotions, so I’m only going to say this once. These past few months, you’ve been one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” She brushes a few strands of hair out of her face and glances away briefly. “And I just want you to remember that I’m so happy to have known you.”

Her use of the past tense isn’t lost on Anders. “Comman—Kallian,” he says slowly, “why are you talking like that?”

She shrugs and looks down at Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who is winding himself around her legs and purring softly. “You never know what might happen,” she says. “I don’t want my last thoughts to be about all the things I should’ve said while I still had the chance. I don’t want to die with any more regrets than I already have.”

That’s a new one, too—the idea of the Hero of Ferelden having regrets. Anders nods, trying not to picture it: Kallian Tabris, barely over five feet tall but with daggers that have felled dragons, her fire quelled forever. “Well, now you’re just making me look bad,” he says with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, I haven’t...composed an ode for you or anything.”

Kallian holds her hands up. “Please, don’t,” she replies, that familiar twinkle returning to her eyes. “Just...say whatever you need to say.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says, only half-teasing.

He knows he should tell her about his plan, but something stops him. Perhaps it’s the fear of upsetting her, but that’ll probably happen no matter what, whether he tells her beforehand or leaves without notice. If he’s being completely honest with himself, a part of him fears that if he tells her, she’ll try to stop him. Even if she doesn’t, it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t tell anyone. There’s no way the templars can pry information out of her if she has no information to give, and he doesn’t want an innocent person to be held accountable for his actions.

“I told you,” he says finally, turning to face her. “It’s been years since I thought of anyone as a friend. I just hope you know how grateful I am...for everything.”

For just a split second, Kallian seems stunned, the tips of her pale pointed ears turned red. Then she grins, all weird teeth and eye crinkles, and claps her hand against his back. “Good! Now that that’s over with, wanna come watch me piss off some nobles? I asked the seneschal to assemble them so we could discuss the darkspawn armies. They should be ready by now.”

Despite himself—despite everything—Anders smiles back at her. “Never miss it!”

Side by side, Ser Pounce-a-Lot trailing behind them, they head into the throne room, Anders taking smaller strides so that Kallian doesn’t have to jog to keep up with him. (I completely sympathize with the dwarves, she said once. You humans are too damn tall.) When they step through the threshold, they find themselves nearly surrounded by Fereldan lords, all chattering nervously amongst themselves. Many of Kallian’s other companions have already gathered. Instinctively, Anders picks up Ser Pounce-a-Lot and places him back in his pack so that no one steps on him.

Kallian sighs and takes a few steps toward Seneschal Varel. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Just as she greets Varel and takes her place beside him, one of the nobles makes his way up the red carpet toward them. “We’ve waited enough,” he says. “Those who are late will just have to be filled in.”

“Lord Eddelbrek,” Varel replies coolly, gesturing toward Kallian, “this is the Commander of the Grey’s council, not yours.” From his place on the sidelines, Anders thinks he can see Kallian roll her eyes at the long-winded title.

“I am fearful for the villages on the plains,” Lord Eddelbrek says, turning to Kallian. “There’s a darkspawn army—army—in the field. And with the soldiers returning to the Vigil…” He trails off.

As usual, Kallian holds her head high when she responds. “The enemy is out of hiding. We must find them and strike.”

“This is no—” Eddelbrek starts, but his words are interrupted by another voice.

“Commander,” an unfamiliar elven woman gasps, sprinting through the crowd and skidding to a stop in front of the seneschal. “Commander!”

“What is it, girl?” Varel asks, still calm.

“A darkspawn army is within sight of Amaranthine,” the woman says, fear in her voice.

Anders exchanges a glance with Nathaniel, his heart dropping. This isn’t going to end well.

“Maker protect us,” Eddelbrek says, shaking his head. “They’re attacking the city?”

“Some of the Vigil’s soldiers are still there,” Captain Garevel adds. “She won’t fall easy.”

“Our forces cannot move quickly enough,” Varel adds, his facial expression giving no hint as to his emotions. “But a small band might make it in time.”

Kallian glances over at Anders and makes a face. They all know what that means.

“But that’s...suicide!” Eddelbrek exclaims, and Anders is inclined to agree.

But Garevel is not to be deterred. “We must try.”

Kallian gives the seneschal a wry half-smile. “That would be me, then? It’s never dull here.”

“Unless the Warden recruiter promised you quiet rural contemplation, you knew what you signed up for,” Varel replies. Anders can’t tell whether or not he took the joke.

Halfway across the room, Sigrun says excitedly, “Fighting a horde of darkspawn with almost certain death awaiting? Don’t even think of leaving me here, Captain!” (Anders can’t relate to that sentiment at all, but he’s glad she’s having fun.)

Varel raises an eyebrow at her, before returning his attention to Kallian. “Who do you want to take with you, Commander?”

Kallian flashes Sigrun a toothy grin. “I won’t deny Sigrun’s request. She’s with me.”

Sigrun sounds practically delighted. “I’m already dead—I’ve nothing to lose!”

Varel, all business, ignores her comment. “Who else?”

At that, Kallian scans her companions’ faces. “Nathaniel,” she says, sounding more serious, “this is a chance to redeem your family.”

A smile graces Nathaniel’s lips—something Anders doesn’t see often. “Initially, I thought you were utterly mad to invite me to join your order. But redemption...a man could die for that, and feel good about it.”

It’s poetic, what he says. Poetic...and final.

“Anyone else?” Varel asks.

Kallian nods slowly. “One more person.”

Very briefly, her eyes land on Anders; Maker only knows what’s going through her head. Then she turns away from him and says, “Justice, you’re with me.”

Justice nods, his voice filled with determination. “As it should be. Our foes will pay heavily for their transgressions. This I swear.”

Varel nods affirmingly. “And so it is decided.”

“I’ll make sure the Vigil’s ale supply is safe,” Oghren says to Kallian with a chuckle. “Leave a few darkspawn skulls for me to kick in, right?”

“May the wind be ever at your back, Commander,” Velanna chimes in. For once, there is a softness in her voice—a fondness.

Anders suddenly becomes aware that it’s probably his “turn” to say something, but nothing even remotely adequate comes to mind, so he does what he always does to deflect his emotions: he jokes. “Oh, I miss out on the suicide mission? Life can be so unfair.” It earns him a tiny giggle from Kallian, but it still doesn’t feel sufficient, so he quickly—and somewhat awkwardly—adds, “But...uh...good luck. Chin up, and all that?”

Before he can even think to say anything else, Seneschal Varel turns to Kallian and says, “The rest of us will stay here. Maker protect you and hold you close, Commander.” He and Garevel both hold their arms over their chest, crossed like an X, and bow slightly.

Though no one has actually said it yet, they’re all thinking the same thing: that this is the beginning of the end, that this battle will lead to the final confrontation with the Mother. They’re so close to finding her hideout; she’s probably sending out these armies to draw the Wardens right to her. The thought makes Anders slightly sick—that she’s just waiting for them, that they could be walking right into her trap.

It doesn’t take long for Kallian, Garevel, and their companions to get ready. Anders stands with his back up against the Andraste statue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot lying next to his feet, and watches as Kallian examines her enchanted swords and daggers, as she fills her pack with bombs and poisons. Soon enough, she meets up with the rest of her group and says grimly, “Are we ready to march?”

“Indeed,” Garevel replies. “We must make haste if we have any hope of saving Amaranthine.”

Kallian nods—and then she steals a glance in the direction of the statue. “Er...just one moment,” she says to Garevel, who raises an eyebrow in confusion and mild annoyance as she runs over to Anders.

“What are you—?” Anders starts, but he’s interrupted by the feeling of the great Hero of Ferelden wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a fierce embrace.

It catches him completely off-guard, so it takes him a moment to reciprocate. She’s a full foot shorter than him, so she buries her face into his chest. “Keep the Vigil safe for me,” she says, her voice muffled.

The hug lasts maybe four seconds, maximum, but it’s the most affection Anders has ever seen her express. When she pulls away, she kneels down on the ground and gives Ser Pounce-a-Lot a scratch behind the ears. “Be good for Anders,” she tells him.

As she starts to turn around and head back to the group, Anders finds his voice. “Kallian.”

Kallian stops in her tracks and glances over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Anders clears his throat, forces himself to look her in the eye. “Just...come back alive, will you?”

Kallian smiles at him, that familiar spark in her eyes. “Of course.”

—

For a while, Anders isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’s so used to accompanying Kallian on nearly every mission. He ends up sitting down at the base of the Andraste statue with Ser Pounce-a-Lot in his lap, his little head on Anders’s chest. The cat can probably sense his nervousness.

Deep down, he knows that everything will probably fine—that Kallian will somehow miraculously come out on top, like she always does. He also knows that going on the mission with her wouldn’t have fixed much of anything, because he’d have been just as nervous, but for a different reason. Yet, no matter how much he reasons with himself, he can’t shake the worry.

At some point, Anders decides to start subtly gathering his belongings, though he doesn’t have many. The time to leave the Grey Wardens is rapidly approaching, and he still isn’t quite sure what to do. He almost has enough coin now to buy passage to Kirkwall—Kallian shares the money she earns (or “finds”) with her companions, even if they insist that they don’t want or need it—but something feels...wrong. He’s been through so much with the Wardens, with Kallian. Just up and leaving without telling her feels like it would be a massive betrayal...but at the same time, he already knows that he can’t tell her.

He could leave right now, slip out in the middle of the night and be on his way to the Free Marches by sunrise, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to flee without making sure that Kallian is alive first. The worry and uncertainty will eat him up if he doesn’t see her waltz back into the keep with his own eyes.

For a couple of days, Anders keeps himself busy—practicing spells, playing with Ser Pounce-a-Lot, reading the book Kallian gave him on the history of phylacteries. He almost starts to forget about the current stakes—that is, until a messenger arrives with grave news: they’ve spotted another darkspawn army marching toward the Vigil.

The next day or two are spent preparing. They have no idea if Kallian and Captain Garevel know of this second army, but most of the people at the keep agree that it’s too much to hope for them to return in time, if at all. It’s up to them to protect the Vigil...or die trying.

Anders starts to wonder, in the hours before the first fireball is catapulted into the walls, if he’ll even get the chance to run away, or if he’ll die here, fighting off hordes of darkspawn. Kallian’s voice rings in his ears, her final request before she left: Keep the Vigil safe for me.

If nothing else, that’s the one thing that keeps him from running. If he dies here, then so be it.

—

The battle is long and hard.

Anders runs almost nonstop from one area of the keep to the next—from the front gates to the courtyard, from the courtyard to the ramparts, lighting darkspawn aflame by the dozens and healing other soldiers as quickly as he can so that they can keep fighting. He loses count of the amount of darkspawn he kills; all he knows is that it’s not long before he can’t go anywhere without stepping on a charred or frozen corpse. Sometimes he has to force soldiers to stop fighting for a moment so that he can heal them properly, before they end up killing themselves simply because they didn’t want to stop cutting down darkspawn for even a second. A few of them outright refuse healing—Anders isn’t quite sure if it’s because they’re afraid of magic or because they want to get themselves killed (perhaps a mixture of both).

Even with healing, the casualties on their side begin to pile up. Every time Anders thinks, That has to be the last of them, more darkspawn appear to take the place of the ones he just felled. It feels neverending.

Anders is fighting alone in a dark back corner of the courtyard when the darkspawn stop coming. It’s late at night, and he almost doesn’t believe it. He waits for more to ambush him, for another armored ogre to barrel through the gates, but none appear. In the distance, he thinks he hears someone say, “It’s over.”

Anders sighs in exhaustion and relief, falling to his knees on the ground. His side and arm are stinging, bleeding through his robes, but he doesn’t have the energy at the moment to heal himself. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, the air rattling in his chest and his heart still pounding in his ears. I’m alive. I’m alive.

Inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot mews softly, as if to comfort him. Anders kept him close through the entire battle—it felt much better than leaving him somewhere in the Vigil, where the darkspawn could break in and find him. “We’re alive,” Anders whispers, more to himself than to the cat. “We made it.”

When he opens his eyes, his gaze falls on a body lying about twenty feet away from him, even further away from the center of the keep. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles over. If he’s lucky, he might just have enough mana in him to save one more life.

He’s a few feet away from the person when he realizes that they’re already dead—an arrow right through the neck and gore where a face should be. All Anders can tell is that the man was another mage Warden, made obvious by the robes on his body and the staff lying limply in his hand, and that he was probably fairly young, with blond hair.

As Anders stares in awe at the corpse, an idea—a crazy, horrible, brilliant idea—worms its way into his head.

He barely thinks when he does it. He searches the body for any belongings that might identify the man and finds only a ring, which he shoves into his pack. He glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching him; sure enough, they all seem to be preoccupied with cleaning up the bodies at the front of the keep and taking care of the injured. They have yet to notice the desperate mage faking his own death in a faraway corner, hidden by several walls and shadows.

Anders doesn’t feel the need to change the corpse’s robes at all; they look similar enough to his that most people wouldn’t notice any difference unless he and the man stood right next to each other. Still, if he wants the Wardens to think that he’s dead, he’ll need to leave something of his behind.

It doesn’t take long for him to remember one of his defining accessories. Reluctantly, he reaches up and removes his gold earring, suddenly feeling somewhat naked without it. Luckily, the man’s right ear is already pierced, so Anders slides the piece of jewelry through with a sigh. Then, for added measure, he pulls the silver bracers that Kallian gave him off of his wrists and slips them onto the man’s. She’s sure to recognize them.

When Anders stands up and looks down at the body, something still doesn’t seem quite right. Even with all the gore, it feels like someone could still identify the man. If this plan has any hope of succeeding, the Wardens have to believe that this body is the body of Anders.

As he surveys the area again—still no one has noticed him—he takes note of the charred darkspawn corpses, burned almost beyond recognition by his magic, and there he finds his solution. Turning back to the body, he aims a small blast of fire at it. Sure enough, it starts to burn, the robes and skin partially destroyed within half a minute. Anders shoots another stream of flame at the corpse and watches as it becomes even more grotesque, even less recognizable.

For a moment, Anders stops to apologize in his head to the man whose body he just desecrated and disguised as his own. Then he grabs his staff and makes a run for it.

He was already standing near the edge of the courtyard, so it doesn’t take much to hop over a fence and sneak away—everyone else is focused on things that are much more important than searching the fields (which are mostly filled with dead people and nothing else). Still, Anders keeps running until he’s sure that no one can see him in the nearby forest. Only then does he finally sit down, his back up against a tree, and let Ser Pounce-a-Lot out of his pack.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot twitches his ears and meows inquisitively, as if asking Anders what they’re doing and where they’re going. Anders just sighs. He could ask himself the same thing.

Logically, it’s a good plan. The Grey Wardens won’t hunt him down if they think he’s dead; and if the templars come to the Vigil looking for him, they’ll just be informed of his “death.” Sure, they still have his phylactery, but will they even bother with it if they think he’s dead? Regardless, he’ll still be safer now than he was before. He can start over, really start over, in a way he never dreamed would be possible.

A cold gust of wind suddenly cuts through him, and instinctively, he reaches into his pack to grab the wool scarf that Kallian gave him—he’d put it in there to keep from getting blood on it. As he wraps the soft, patterned fabric around his neck, a memory surfaces, of Kallian shoving the scarf into his arms without looking at him and mumbling, “Here. Take this.”

Anders had looked at the scarf in confusion, then at her, and said, brilliantly, “Uh...what?”

Kallian pretended not to care what he thought. She was pretty convincing, too, back before Anders learned to recognize it. That was only a few weeks after they met. “You looked cold,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. “So...there.”

Anders had tried not to smile, and failed.

Now, though, the memory just aches in his chest. Which is worse—Kallian thinking he’s dead or thinking he betrayed her?

Though he promised himself that he’d stay behind to make sure she comes back alive, Anders knows that he can’t risk being seen. Besides, if she dies, he’ll be sure to hear about it; and if she succeeds and lives, he’ll hear about that, too.

It takes him a long time to push himself to his feet, and even longer to start walking away from the Vigil. From inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows in protest, and Anders tries his best to ignore it. He’s tired in every sense of the word, his shoulders aching from the weight of those he’s leaving behind—Nathaniel, Kallian, Justice. No amount of apologies could make any of it easier, but still he whispers the words into the wind and forces himself not to look back.

—

He merges with Justice a couple weeks later.

It isn’t on purpose, meeting Justice again. Anders is only a day or two away from boarding a ship to Kirkwall when he encounters a small band of Grey Wardens—plus Justice—that had been sent to clear out some leftover darkspawn north of the Vigil. Thankfully, Justice is the only one that notices him, and he must have learned a thing or two about tact, because he waits until he can get Anders alone to harangue him about abandoning the Wardens.

But when Anders describes his reasoning—that he needed to leave the Wardens to help Karl and other mages in Kirkwall—Justice is surprisingly understanding (though he still doesn’t approve of Anders faking his own death, even after Anders explains that he couldn’t have anyone chasing after him). If it’s to fight injustice, if he feels that it’s for the greater good, he’s willing to make a few just sacrifices. The Blight is well and truly over, and the Wardens don’t need Anders anymore—not nearly as much as the mages do.

Once they reach the same page, Justice poses that fateful question, the question that’s been hanging in the air between them.

Have you thought at all about my offer?

Anders has. Extensively. But then the darkspawn attacked Amaranthine, and Justice went with Kallian to face them, and Anders accepted that he’d have to leave before the group came back. Until now, he thought it was no longer possible.

Do you have the courage to accept my aid?

Anders takes a deep breath and thinks, Maker, I hope so.

—

Anders wasn’t present when Kallian learned of his supposed “death.” But Justice was, and through him, Anders remembers.

It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering something for the first time, something that he simultaneously did and did not experience. He doesn’t know why, of all Justice’s memories, his head has decided to make this one the one he sees first, alone in his room at an old inn near the Waking Sea. The City of Chains lies across the water, a constant reminder of what he had to abandon to get this far.

Kallian and her companions had just finished slaying the Mother and were a few days away from the Vigil when she received a letter one evening. As she read it over, Sigrun, ever curious, had asked, “What does it say?” Kallian did not respond.

Sitting on the other side of the campfire, Justice had watched as the Warden-Commander’s face shifted from confusion to shock, then disbelief, then horror. Her lips formed a silent No, and the letter fell from her shaking hands.

Eyes narrowed in concern, Sigrun grabbed the letter and skimmed over it, gasping a few seconds later. Next to her, Nathaniel glanced over her shoulder, and his eyes widened. Under his breath, he whispered, “Oh, no…”

Justice, sitting on Nathaniel’s other side, was the last to know the content of the letter, but it upset and angered him to the core. “Kallian,” he said firmly, “we must avenge Anders. Those who are responsible for his death must pay.”

Kallian didn’t look at him, didn’t even indicate that she’d heard him. Nathaniel turned to him and said quietly, “The darkspawn that killed him are dead, Justice, as is the Mother, who sent them. Justice has already been served.”

He was right, but Justice still wasn’t satisfied. Anders deserved better, so much better. “Surely there must be something else we can do.”

“They’ll take care of his body at the Vigil,” Nathaniel assured him. He seemed so calm, but his unsteady voice betrayed how he truly felt.

Justice returned his attention to Kallian, whose gaze was trained on the campfire. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling and began clenching and unclenching her fists. When she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away furiously. “Fuck,” she mumbled, her voice cracking. Covering her eyes with her hand, she looked down into her lap.

Sigrun put a hand on Kallian’s upper arm. “I’m...I’m sorry, Kallian.”

At that, Kallian let out a rough choking sound. It had been difficult for most of her companions to get used to just calling her by her name, and they still slipped up from time to time. Justice had needed it explained to him—it felt disrespectful not to call her by a title she had earned, a title that indicated honor. But Kallian’s feelings made sense—I don’t want to feel like I’m above everyone else. I want us to be equals, she’d said—and so Justice had made it a point to respect her wishes, and to ensure that others did the same.

Kallian turned away from Justice and rested her forehead on Sigrun’s shoulder. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight, and her cheeks and ears burned bright red, as if she was embarrassed by her own sorrow. Her chest shook with wet sobs, and her lip was curled into an angry snarl, as if to say, How dare they take him from me?

Justice exchanged a glance with Nathaniel. He had known Kallian the longest, but even he seemed bewildered. None of them had ever seen her so broken down. She was the woman who spit in the eyes of the Archdemon, always confident and determined, always fearless, always pushing forward—and here she was, crumpled on the ground with grief so intense it was almost palpable.

Her hair fell into her face, and Sigrun gently brushed the strands away, her brows furrowed and her lips turned down. Kallian’s voice was hoarse. “Why him? Why him?”

When the tears finally slowed down, she didn’t talk; she just stood up from the campfire and fled to the woods. Justice could hear her shoving daggers into trees, taking out her anger on imaginary enemies. None of them stopped her.

At the inn near the sea, Anders lies on his back on the uncomfortable bed, holding the wool scarf to his chest and staring blankly at the ceiling. Nothing he said to Kallian before she left feels like it was enough. He tries to push away Justice’s memories of her in the days after that night—shaken, bitter, somber, her smile much less common and no longer reaching her eyes—but it’s no use. The image seems to have burned itself into his mind, as if to taunt him: You did this. You did this.

He can only pray that it was worth it.

#dragon age #anders #dragon age awakening #dragon age origins awakening #daa #warden #female warden #tabris #female tabris #kallian tabris #my fics

17 notes · View notes