#moments before Oghren died

[awesomechipz]

Oghren:

[stuffeddrawer]

Love is Stored in the Magic Ring

Rating: Mature TW: Character Death, alcohol Fandom: Dragon Age Word Count: 1844 AN: I swear I was in a daze and a fever at the same time writing this, but it felt so good to get this angst out of my system

MDNI

⁽ᵖᵒˢᵗ ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ⁻ ᵃˢᵐᵒᵈᵉᵘˢ⁻ᵖˢᵈ⁾

Gaius knew when he was only twenty-one years old that he was going to die young.

Gaius knew the first Calling was false, but it didn’t stop his panic any. He was angry that they’d all been fooled, angry that the Wardens were led to believe that their death was just around the corner. He believed himself to be safe when Corypheus died. He grew fat and complacent, aiding new Grey Wardens, training them, teaching them as best as he could.

He didn’t say at Amaranthine. He didn’t go back to Weisshaupt like he was called to do so. Because he’d ended the Blight, with just two Wardens, and no deaths, he requested he remained in Southern Thedas, at Adamant, ensuring history didn’t repeat itself. He was aware of the internal conflict going on with the Wardens in the Anderfels, but he’d already done his service – he’d already saved the world - twice. He didn’t dare get involved in a third war. Gaius felt he was too old for another one.

He still remembered all Morrigan told him, still felt her touch, still felt her gaze on his. Even though she was gone from here, that she’d disappeared again with his son, Gaius knew she was still keeping tabs on him. The magic the ring she’d given him years ago (it feels like a lifetime ago, now) was still potent and active, still told Morrigan where he was, and he didn’t dare take it off.

It was a comfort, something he twisted between his fingers when the Calling started again. He focused on it, on the magic inside, on Morrigan’s magic. He took it off the necklace, wearing it properly like he had so long ago.

Morrigan’s ring was a balm, something he rubbed between his fingers when the Calling was screaming in his mind, when all he could think about was that damn song, when he felt like tearing his ears off just wasn’t enough. He felt ghoulish on a good day, and downright monstrous on a bad one. Every joint ached and hurt, but the Calling – oh, the Calling. It was like a thousand voices whispering in his ears, telling him to go left, right, jump, turn around, swing, dodge, roll, go left, over and over again. He felt like he was going mad – did Duncan feel like this, right before the end?

He took quill to paper, one last time, writing two letters, one to Morrigan, wherever she was, if she found his corpse or if he saw her on his way to the Deep Roads, and the other to Fergus, explaining his demise. He thought of Shale and Wynne, wondering if he’d see them again, wondering if he’d be able to have a final conversation with Wynne or if he’d be able to gift Shale another pet rock. He sighed happily at the thought of Zevran and Leliana and Oghren, the times they shared so long ago, the times he and Zevran had gotten drunk enough after the Blight had ended that they were still drunk the next morning, the times Leliana had him laughing so hard he fell and couldn’t stop snorting, the times Gaius walked away with more bruises than before when he trained against Oghren. Finally, he remembered every single fond time and moment with Alistair and Morrigan, cherishing each and every single word, every single stolen glance and kiss with Morrigan, every single breathless sigh. He cherished every single deep conversation he and Alistair had, remembering how they helped each other heal from the trauma they were forced to endure. He missed them all. He knew Alistair had perished during his time with the Inquisition, knew Wynne had died well before, and likely Shale with her. Leliana was the Divine, and in his opinion, doing a damn good job at doing it, Ohgren was on borrowed time like himself.

Gaius decided to write a letter to Zevran, knowing exactly where the old crow was, and explained that by the time he’d gotten his letter, Gaius had died, but he didn’t go without fond memories. Gaius and Zevran were closer than two peas in a pod during the Blight, the both of them looking at each other after it all and realising that they’d made it, that they actually lived.

The letters to Fergus and Zevran were sent, and the one to Morrigan was on his chest, next to his ring. The letter was still on his chest, even as darkspawn ravaged his corpse, taking the shiny things, even the ring she’d given him years ago, its magic as potent as ever and letting her know that not only had Gaius died, but that someone had stolen the ring from his corpse.

Morrigan was in the Deep Roads not long after, anguish tearing at her heart in a way she didn’t understand. She knew people died, they all died, everyone died, in the end. Even her own mother. Not a single one did she shed a tear, but for Gaius? She would have torn the world asunder for him, if she had the power. Instead, she’d give him the sendoff a hero like him deserved.

Morrigan, Hi, lovie. I’m sorry you had to find me this way. I would have tried to find you earlier, but you’re damn near impossible to find if you want to remain hidden. That or I’m blind in my old age. The Calling – the real Calling – it’s terrifying. I felt like I went mad, hearing voices that were both there and not. Call me a fool like you always did, but that ring you gave me ages ago was the only thing keeping me sane. Or held on to whatever was left – never really was sane after all the shit we’ve been through. I know we fought a lot, over tiny things, over Kieran, over letting you go. But I hope you know that I never once stopped loving you. My heart had always belonged to you. I would have given everything up to see you again, to remind you just how much I love you and Kieran. I wish I made a different choice, to follow you into that eluvian ages ago, rather than follow my stupid sense of duty. I wish I helped you raise Kieran, helped you remain safe and hidden. I wish I did a lot of things differently, but… It's weird to say that I’m… I’m happy with the way things have turned out. In the end, I gave my heart to you and that, my love, my heart, my everything, is the one thing I never once regretted. I love you more than there are stars in the sky. Gaius.

Morrigan raged when she saw that a darkspawn stole the ring from his corpse, that another was using the sword he always used. Its glow was dim and the power faded, but it was still sharp as the day it was forged. The ring was covered in darkspawn spume, guts, and gore, but it was back on Gaius’ finger, his sword back in his hand.

Morrigan hated how her vision was so cloudy and blurry with tears, hated how it felt like such a large piece of her was missing. Seeing his lifeless body, glazed eyes and hollow cheeks was a shock. His hands were stiff and cold, not nimble and warm like they used to be. Oh, she’d give anything to have him back.

She brought his corpse back to the surface, not giving a damn about the old and ruined Grey Warden armour littering the place. She knew this was where most of the Grey Wardens died when they heard the Calling. She knew this was where Gaius was going to go.

Morrigan knew the perfect place to bring him, to let this dog-scented country know that its saviour was dead, and died protecting it. She wouldn’t let his body rot with the others down there, damn tradition. This man was her heart, and she wouldn’t let him rot.

The pyre was grand, bright, brighter than the lighthouses at Castle Cousland. As the fire burned brighter, more and more lights in the castle lit up, curious as to why a lone fire was so big and bright, wondering why tonight, of all nights, there was something so big. No one was attacking, no one was fighting, yet Teyrn Fergus Cousland wept as he clutched the letter Gaius sent him.

His cries were soft, but heart wrenching. He should have died before Gaius – if he’d have just fought harder, in the Korcari Wilds, if he’d have just done something different, listened to Gaius when he said that leaving seemed like a bad idea.

All Fergus could do was cry as he watched the pyre from afar, knowing that his baby brother had died.

Time had passed, and the funeral pyre had long since gone out, the timber ash, but Zevran made his return to Ferelden, his hair white with age, body aching and sore and tired from years and years of running and fighting, but he was far too stubborn to stop.

When he’d received Gaius’ letter back then, he broke into tears. The friends he’d made, the family he found for himself – most of them had died, if not all of them. Zevran felt as though he, Leliana, and Morrigan were the only ones left alive, at least until he saw Morrigan’s telltale jewellery on her body, leaning against the same pyre, letting herself go the moment she’d laid Gaius to rest. The world was cruel, taking bright lights like Alistair and Gaius and Morrigan from him, the Maker was cruel for making them His punching bag.

He stood in front of the old funeral pyre, wondering if this was where Gaius had been given a proper sendoff, when his thoughts were silenced the moment he saw the ring Gaius always wore – the same ring Morrigan gave him forever ago.

Like an actual crow, Zevran was drawn to shiny things, but this shiny thing, this one particular shiny thing, Zevran refused to take. This was Gaius’.

“I’m sorry it’s been such a long time, old friend.” Zevran spoke, his voice raspy and shaky, but still Zevran. He saw the bare edges of Gaius’ sword in the rubble, its glow gone and edges dull, power vacant, but it was still a gorgeous sword. He took it from the rubble, thrusting it into the soft earth at the base of the pyre and next to Morrigan. Fereldans would know that this was where their hero was laid to rest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see you off.”

He sighed, leaning against the old, burnt wood, letting his aching limbs rest for a moment or two, sitting on the other side of the sword.

“But I am glad I was part of the journey that brought you this freedom.” Zevran whispered, closing his eyes and relaxing, finally relaxing, letting his worries and stress and anger slip away.

“Rest easy, Gaius Cousland, hero of Ferelden.”

[rzvera]

i assume that behind the scenes nathaniel would ask the warden about his father's death like he asks oghren and explain his need to know it in similar manner, like, he was my father and i want to know if he suffered before he died, which is also insane considering what warden cousland might have heard from rendon howe about bryce cousland's final moments

[trans-ruffboi]

Defend Me

Just wrote a bit of a scene for my "canon" vampire au and felt like sharing.

He really should have known this was bait.

“No,” Surana was saying, near snarling at the templar. “You can’t have him. Anders stays with us.” Awfully defensive, the Warden-Commander. Nathaniel and Oghren were already tensing for a fight as Rylock replied, contempt clear.

“Hardly surprising, from yet another mage.” Addressing him, she went on, “I do not know how you inspire such loyalty, Anders, but it will avail you naught. Now you come with us.”

He felt the bracing, liquid presence of Surana’s magic at his back when Rylock cast her Silence, revitalizing him and draining the templar even as he choked on her abilities.

“Stay behind me!” the Warden commanded, lashing out with bitter cold, attempting to freeze the templar in her armor. ‘How is he so unaffected?’ Anders thought as he shot a weak arcane bolt. He and Renlin were alone against this enemy; Nate and Oghren occupied with her comrades.

Rylock advanced against the cold, swiping at Surana while the elven mage tried to Rejuvenate Anders. Ren leapt back, teeth bared, and were Surana’s teeth that sharp before, jabbing Spellfury towards the templar’s face. Rylock batted his attack aside with her shield, taking only a shallow cut for the effort. She responded less casually to the wicked lightning bolt Surana called next, jolting against the magic.

She slashed at Renlin, blood blossoming from his arm as he tried to block with his staff, which clattered to the ground. She battered him with her shield, pushing him aside to reach for Anders, who was trying to Drain Life from the templar. Knocked down by her Smite, he saw the sword at his chest, thinking ‘at least I’ll die free’.

And Surana shouted ‘No!’, a horrible, broken sound as Anders felt his lung be punctured and deflate.

Terrible perk to being a Spirit Healer, being intimately aware of every awful thing that happened to his body. Bitch missed my heart, couldn't even end it clean. At least he'd get a few moments to see the others mourn as he died.

But then, looking over at Surana, who had landed in a crouch after being batted aside, he saw something inhuman. More than the inhumanity of being an elf, obviously, his stupid, cheeky little brain couldn’t help but add. The Commander had bared his -too sharp- teeth and flexed his- claws?

Rylock looked over, shouting, "Maleficar!" ripping out her sword and leaving him for dead as she lunged at the Commander, and Anders supposed she could be right, judging by the red mist swirling around the elf. But his parents had been from the Anderfels, raising him on tales of every terror that could haunt the night, and as Surana hissed at the templar, he only saw a nachzehrer, ein Vampir.

And then Surana pounced.

Meeting Rylock at a speed she couldn't match, the creature grabbed for the wrist of her sword arm, and Anders heard a sickening crunch and tear before her blade hit the ground, detached hand still around the hilt. And Surana didn't stop at that, pulling the screaming templar down to his level -and Maker wasn't it ridiculous that this monster of the night was so bloody short- and ripping into her. That was the only way to describe it, lengthened nails dug into her face and shoulder as he tore her throat out with his teeth, blood spraying in a fountain across the room.

Not finished, Surana ripped her head from the remaining tendons holding it to her body and tossed it aside before turning to Anders. He could feel himself fading already from the sword wound, but that didn't stop him from sluggishly trying to move away from the blood-soaked creature.

But Surana was just wide-eyed and shaking, muttering "No, fuck, shit, no you can't- you won't die, not here, no." as he knelt beside Anders, and he couldn't reconcile this little healer he knew from the Hold with the beast he had just seen eviscerate a woman. As the commander flashed with light, calling on the spirit of Compassion he drew from to knit Anders' lung tissue back together at the wound's seams, he thought it ridiculous that even covered in gore, Surana seemed so gentle.

Gentle as he may seem, there was little he could do to ease the strange sensation of a major wound closing, and as Anders gasped and jerked, Surana said, "It's okay, it's all going to be okay, you'll be alright," trying to be soothing, but the effect was stymied by speaking around his still lengthened canines, mouth covered in blood. He was almost completely healed when -and when had the others gotten here?- when Nate said it.

"What are you, Commander?" Nathaniel's tone was firm, if still deferential. His hand was gripped tightly around the handle of his knife. “An abomination? A blood mage?”

Surana looked up at the archer, eyes still round and black, “I mean, I don’t really know-”

The tense atmosphere was broken by Oghren clapping Surana on the back, the mage jolting forward into Anders. Thankfully he was all put back together, or the healing would’ve been disrupted.

"He’s a badass that’s what he is!” Grinning, the dwarf continued, “Great show, Commander! Haven't seen you go teeth down since the Archdemon! Thought you were just holding out on us, but I guess it figures you'd only do it for the skirts." the dwarf laughed heartily again, wriggling an eyebrow at Anders.

"What, I never-"

Anders interrupted the commander, sitting up with a groan. “He’s a vampire, obviously. They aren’t supposed to be real, but you know, neither are talking darkspawn. I mean, he could be an abomination sure, but the lack of murdering you as soon as you brought out your knife puts a damper on that theory. And blood magic doesn’t heal. Thank you, by the way, I rather enjoy having intact lungs.”

Renlin softened at the thanks, his eyes slowly returning to their normal dilation. “Is that a word for it? Vampire? Zevran called it, um, la guaja, I think, and Leliana told a lot of tales but never named it.” He looked off into the middle distance for a moment, lips tight around his receding teeth, before continuing, voice tight. “I think she just didn’t want to make me feel like I wasn’t a person anymore.”

Nathaniel looked a little chastened at both the mages’ words, but he still spoke. “So this,” he gestured vaguely at Surana with his hands, “situation, happened during the Blight then?”

Ren stood up before he answered, offering a hand out to Anders, who rejected it and got up on his own. “Yes. This was before I met Oghren, but while we were in the Brecilian Forest, there was this campsite, haunted by a powerful shade and visited by a creature, and I was the only one able to resist its sleep spell.” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing. “There was a fight, between me and the two, and while I was killing the shade, the, um, vampire, it pounced and bit into me.” His face tightened, and he pulled back his collar to reveal the messy scar at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “And even after I killed it, I’m just, I don’t know, like this now.”

Oghren cut the silence with a belch. “Does it matter? The Commander’s on a liquid diet, sure, but he doesn’t hurt anybody that’s not an arsehole, and he’s a lot better close up than most mage types are.”

Nathaniel looked bewildered by the dwarf’s lack of care. “Does it matter? He just ripped a woman’s head off! Of course it matters!”

“Yeah, but she was an arsehole!”

“That’s not the-”

While the other two discussed it, Renlin helped him to his feet. “Are you- are you alright, Anders?” He was rubbing at his arm, looking sheepish.

“What, with you being a creature out of my childhood nightmares?” Ren flinched, and maybe he shouldn’t have led with that. He continued in a lower voice, nudging him with his elbow. “It’s fine, Commander. It’ll take more than a bit of sporting templar evisceration to scare me off. Besides, as Oghren said, she was an arsehole.”

The Warden laughed, and yeah, maybe it would be fine.

[bearsizedant]

These tales are for other heroes

In my canon playthrough, everyone lived, and Jada and Alistair stayed in Ferelden to rebuild the Wardens. This is the aftermath if Jada couldn’t bring herself to ask Alistair to complete Morrigan’s ritual.

~650 words

His thumb ran over the coin, smooth now, desperately longing for the comfort it might’ve brought him just a few days earlier. He could feel Wynne’s hand on his shoulder, hear Oghren’s heavy breaths as he wiped the tears from his cheeks.  Even Sten gave him a look that could’ve been apologetic. Giving up on the coin, he reached for the amulet around his neck. He could feel the raised edges of pieces glued carefully together, and it was all he could do not to remember the night it had returned to him. He took a shaky breath as a slow tear fell to his cheek.

Of course she died. Of course he had outlived her, too. How completely typical it was that someone else take the fall. That of all the Grey Wardens in Thedas, she had fallen to the archdemon. And here he was. Forced to live in a world without her. 

Rica took the stage and spoke. They were returning her body to Orzammar, to the stone. She was to be venerated as a Paragon. Alistair could almost hear Jada’s protestations. Why would they think I’d want to be buried there? She’d say. If they’d asked me first, I’d rather be topside. The people up here are better than ancestors, anyhow. 

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky today. A gentle breeze blew in from the lake and carried with it the smell of pine and of smoke, from the near countless candles surrounding the Chantry courtyard. The petals of a small white flower tucked behind Leliana’s ear fluttered for a moment. Her mother didn’t speak. Alistair had declined his own opportunity before the service began. What would he even say? What could he even say? His words were already caught in his throat, and he hadn’t opened his mouth. 

I don’t see why you’re all so hung up on me right now, anyway. He could imagine Jada getting to her feet and wiping the tears from her sister’s eyes. Don’t you have reconstruction to get to? I can wait. Help the survivors! They need your attention more than I do. She’d tie her braids up and out of her face and roll up her sleeves, ready to rebuild Redcliffe by herself. 

Alistair had been avoiding the stone altar where her body lay, refusing to look and confirm what he already knew to be true. That she was really and truly gone. But as Rica concluded her speech, and as the townsfolk came forward to pay their respects, he finally took his eyes from the ground. 

You know that I love you, right? 

The townsfolk had all cleared out, and now their party in the back slowly made their way to the altar. Zevran was first, hesitating for a moment before looking at his hands. Removing a single glove, he placed it on the altar.

I’m not going to risk you getting hurt.

Next was Leliana, who said her goodbyes as she placed the small white flower next to Zevran’s glove. Wynne stepped up after Leliana was finished, with Oghren not far behind. Both said their goodbyes before stepping down to rejoin the group. When Sten approached, he bowed once, wordlessly. 

I love you, Alistair.

The weight of every stone in Orzammar would have been an easier burden to bear than the weight of Alistair’s heart in his chest. As he watched Shale give their goodbyes, he was the last to approach the altar. He produced a single red rose, very carefully stored in his pack, and placed it beneath Jada’s folded hands. It would’ve been easy to imagine a scowl on Jada’s face, reprimanding them all for still being here to fuss over her. The thought was almost enough to make him smile. Gently pushing her hair to the side, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. 

“And I love you. Always.”

[felassanis]

Characters that I think will make a return in Dragon Age 4

Okay, So lets get the first two out of the way and the reasons why I think they are bound to return.

Dorian Pavus: Pretty much a given, he’s already in Tevinter. He’s got big plans for the city and he’s a fan favourite. it would be a crime if he didnt come back.

Fenris: Will the Blue Wraith release I can’t help but wonder if that’s setting up Fenris’s arc and how it’ll pertain to DA4. How this wonderful character will tie into the shitstorm that’s about to occur in the next installment. When you hear Tevinter, chances are a couple of things will come to mind. Mages, blood-magic, Dorian, Slavery and Fenris. His whole character is linked to this setting. Hes a character who's got the biggest reasons to be there so he better be there. either as the leader of a slave rebellion or possibly an agent of Fen’harel. Also, given how vocal the fandom has been about him coming back, I think Bioware will deliver. I just hope he’s intertwined witht the plot like Varric was, and not given a crappy cameo like Zevran was in dragon age 2. And even if you did (You fucking monster) Give him back to Danarius, then he’ll be in Tevinter too. Or if you killed him like a fucking moron, well Bioware have brought back characters from the dead before. Leliana I'm looking at you

And ngl, I really want a FenHawke moment

Now, these next ones are the “Realistic” few who I think will make a return based on theories and evidence but I’m also making a section of characters who I want to see come back even if it’s not likely:

Sten: I find it very likely we will see this guy again. There conflict between Tevinter and Seheron should be one of the focuses in dragon age 4 and given that our actions in dragon age 2 he becomes the Arishok and if memory serves; he’s in Seheron. More Sten? More likely than you think if I’m right.

Talis: Another one who should make an appearance given her allegiance to the Qunari. Talis was a really good character and criminally underused in Mark of the Assasins and dragon age 2 as a whole. I think she’ll make a cameo, doing her thing as a skilled assassin for the Qunari.

Krem: It would be interesting for this character to make a return, perhaps he could not stand to see what is happening in his home country and makes a return. Given how important Krem is for representation, him being from Tevinter and how popular he was, I think he will also be making a return.

Verania: A small cameo. But I think if you stopped Fenris from killing her, then his sister Verania will be making a return. Which could offer an interesting scene if Fenris also makes a return. She does return to Tevinter, and given that her master was killed (Hopefully) it would be a curious thing to see how she ended up.

Varric: The reason why I think Varric will come back is because of the Red Idol. Varric has history with that thing, it was him and his brother who made the expedition to recover it from the Deep Roads and given how obvious it is that the Red Idol will play a major role in DA4 I think Varric will feel compelled to try and get it back or destroy it. He hates red lyrium and he hates that idol and he knows exactly what it is capable of, so the thought of it ending up in the wrong hands must unsettle him. He felt at fault for the red lyrium and Corypheus, hence why he stayed with the Inquisition to try and sort it all out. I think it will be the same for the red idol, he feels a responsibility to stop it because he thinks it’s his fault it’s out there in the first place.

Scout Harding: A potential LI maybe??? I think she’ll play a vital role whether or not the inquisition was kept or discarded in Tresspasser. I hope she gets a more important role than a simple quest giver.

Isabela: With the recent concept art I am seeing A LOT of Pirates and I couldn’t help but think of Isabela. And that one concept art seems to confirm Isabela is coming back and I'm so excited.

Leliana & Cassandra: It sounds to me like Leliana and Cassandra will come back as advisors of sorts, I’m not sure what role they’ll play exactly in the grand scheme of things in the next game but I do think they will both come back in some capacity, because of their words and cameo in the ending to Tresspasser.

Abelas: maybe only a cameo if you killed him, but Solas essentially recruits Abelas and if hes alive I think Abelas could make a return. 

Unrealistically, but why I think they should:

Zevran: He’s has somehow been mentioned or appeared in every game since origins and I don’t want that streak to be ruined. I think there’s definitely a role for him given how much he adventures and explores, his wit and his tendencies to get into trouble, and how he is a fan favourite.

Oghren: Honestly? Just because we haven’t heard from him a long time.

Cullen: I highly doubt he will come back. Why? Because I feel like the option to romance him in Inquisition on top of his sort of redemption arc in that game is his...end. Like, he got closure, he got the focus he needed regarding all the shit he went through in the past two games and I honestly do believe that is where Cullen’s story ends. But...I could be wrong, they might want to keep the pattern of him appearing in every game and maybe they have something else planned for him since they strangely liked this character because he went from this minor dude in Origins to Meredith’s lackey in dragon age 2 to a fully fledged main cast member in dragon age 3.

Meredith: Speaking of Meredith, I think it would be so neat for her to make a return as a boss fight. Because fighting her in dragon age 2 was so much fun and I think with the return of the Red Lyrium Idol, having her come back somehow would be appropriate. Maybe the statue she turns into merely keeps her in hibernation? So under whatever the hell material the red lyrium used to ‘kill’ her, it actually didn’t snuff out her life but rather preserved it. She’s still alive and fiddling with the Idol brings her back. Edit: turns out shes super dead but I'm leaving it here in case I can somehow rationalise how this scary lady could come back

Orsino: I can totally imagine the theory that Varric lied about Orsino’s death in order to protect him so Cassandra and the Templars wouldn’t go after him. Even the devs said his death was a mistake, so this could be a great way to rectify how shitty a card he was dealt in DA2 and give him a better storyline and role in the next game. Orsino is just a really good character who would do well with more time and focus spent on him. 

Bodahn & Sandal: because I need answers about what the fuck Sandal is and I miss Bodahn. And given Sandal's massive fucking foreshadowing to Solas and the magic of the elves I think HE HAS TO COME BACK but also...idk what they would really do with him, if hed really play a role other than what he did in the first and second game. An enigmatic dwarf for comedic effect and also creepiness.

Anders: if hes alive, and if you didnt romance him. I want a cameo, since he was originally supposed to appear in Inquisition as a hermit in a cave. I'd like that concept to return in the area near Tevinter/Antiva. Because I think it would be tragic, if hes borderline insane and a wandering nomad hiding his identity. Maybe Justice has taken over, maybe we have to free him of Justice to recruit Anders. Maybe we need him to enter the Fade somehow? Maybe when the veil is broken Justice takes over completely that way? I just want an Anders cameo, see a tragic ending to a tragic character with the potential of redemption? Potential chance at happiness through helping the player fight Solas? And maybe, if Isabela or Varric come back...theyd have something to say? They might beg the player to help him? Mourn their friend or fret over him? Varric and Anders hug?

Spirit of Wynne: my girl Wynee gets no fucking love or mention from what I've seen and I will not stand for it. I'm sure she died, even by DAII's timeline. But if the veil is torn? Maybe her spirit will pay us a visit, give us words of encourage or wise lessons??? I miss Wynne so much.

Morrigan: I do think something is being set up with her character and Kieran. And with her being so woven with the whole Mythal thing, I wouldn't be shocked if Morrigan wanted to get involved, since Mythal wanted to live on through Morrigan. Maybe Morrigan has a bone to pick, maybe shes mad that Solas killed her mother.

[felassan]

The Hero’s Journey to the West

This post is a mix of meta, speculation/conjecture and headcanon.

I don’t think the Hero of Ferelden is ever coming back as a PC or NPC beyond mentions/rumors and Codex entries/letters, but their quest to find a cure for the Calling fascinates me. It always makes me think about the Chinese novel by Wu Cheng’en. 

We know that they came back from their trip. We don’t know if they succeeded or not, but since the romanced Leliana epilogues are fairly happy in tone, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to headcanon that they did - at least, in terms of ridding themselves of the Taint. I feel like whether they succeeded in finding a way to allow all Wardens to escape the Calling would be something up in the air, like, kept-back at the moment by the devs; because surely such a revelation would rocket through the Warden order and in a future title might be heard about or alluded to in-game, crop up in a Codex somewhere, color our future interactions with Warden characters on the Wardens’ end, or potentially influence future storybeats relating to the Wardens. (It would be a rather major thing.) In dialogue Morrigan says that if the HoF is successful, it will mean a long life for him/her/them, and perhaps even a long life for all Wardens.

On the ‘when’: Although the Hero was gone by the time Divine Justinia died (per romanced Leliana dialogue), they didn’t leave straightaway after the events of Awakening and Witch Hunt (Heroes who fathered Kieran had not yet met their son at the time of WH), since in DA2 Hawke meets King Alistair and Queen Warden was home at court, and in DAI romanced Morrigan says her partner helped raise Kieran for a time before events transpired to take him elsewhere (which is a reference to his journey).

On the ‘who’: In the ancient novel Journey to the West, the monk Tang Sanzang has powerful disciples who help and protect him on his journey: Sha Wujing, Zhu Bajie and Sun Wukong. In my head there’s a fun parallel here to DA’s four-man parties, and how the HoF is accompanied by - for example - Ariane, Finn and Dog during the episodic DLCs like Witch Hunt. This is purely headcanon, but I always liked to think that some of the Awakening companions that we never heard from again (so not Anders, Justice or Nate) and who in some epilogues mysteriously disappear, accompanied them on the quest for the cure; Velanna, Sigrun, possibly Oghren. (And Dog, of course - Dog in my head never left the Hero’s side after DAO, the notion presented in the games that he sometimes did is odd to me. Why would he, lol?) These characters could easily have a vested interest in wanting to rid themselves of the Taint. And obviously Zevran went with them, if romanced.

There’s plenty of material on which to base speculation about how a cure for the Calling might come about or be obtained, what the cure might involve. You have the case of Fiona, there’s Avernus’ research, there are instances where the Taint was drawn out of living things as with Isseya’s clutch of griffon eggs, the Architect doesn’t appear to be subject to the Call of the old gods and freed some darkspawn from it too, etc. I’m more interested atm in where the HoF went.

Leliana tells us the Warden went "far to the west, to lands that have never known the Blight”. Their search took them out of the area in which Corypheus was operating, and thus beyond the reach of the false Calling that affected other Wardens. During the timespan of base-game DAI, they were still in geographical regions which were reachable in such a way as to allow messages from Leliana’s agents to get to them after Leliana/Morrigan/etc gives the Inquisitor the means to contact them, and for letters from the Hero to be sent back in return. (That could be something essentially handwaved on the part of the devs in order to allow for the mechanic of hearing from the HoF in DAI, though.) Here I’m always reminded of the men of the Night’s Watch taking caged ravens with them in their expeditions beyond the Wall, so that the birds can carry messages back to the manned outposts. I look at the map of Thedas and wonder. Where might they have gone? Where was the western-most outpost of the Inquisition?

West of Ferelden takes you into Orlais, where the effects of Corypheus’ operations were felt. The Hero might naturally have taken the Imperial Highway and passed through settlements like Halamshiral, Lydes, Verchiel, Montsimmard and Val Firmin en-route. Such a route makes logical sense both in terms of convenient travels and the fact that in a war table mission, Leliana’s agents report “scattered references of [the Hero] passing through the area” (said area is not specified, but it makes sense that the Hero would have at times passed through inhabited places, since at times they were sighted). It should be noted however that when this war table mission is undertaken, the card ends up ‘played’ on the western shores of Lake Calenhad. Still, unless you took ship through the Waking Sea, most likely any journey west from Ferelden would have passed through or near that part of the country anyways, due to the sheer size of the lake, the highway following its banks and the fact that Gherlen’s Pass is the only safe route through which to cross the Frostback Mountains, at least in terms of year-round travel.

Anyway, in the western reaches of Orlais is the Western Approach. The Approach was the site of a major battle during the Second Blight - its desolate sands and barren badlands are definitely not lands which “have never known Blight”. And we know from a war table mission that the mines and tunnels of the Gamordan Peaks are infested with darkspawn, that the large darkspawn host that appeared at Val Gamord came from the mountains. Here is where it gets interesting. Were the environs of the Sulfur Lakes, Malcellin Geysers and the Sea of Ash always this way, as in this is the naturally-occurring geological/geothermal profile of the area (volcanic), or are they so wretched because like the nearby Western Approach, the land was corrupted beyond recovery during a Blight? I imagine that the Hero would have largely avoided these areas and the Approach due to this (inhospitable travelling terrain + Blight-touched/probably Blight-touched), and instead at this point struck out more north-westerly for a time.

Doing so would bring someone through or around the Nahashin Marshes. Above we can see the location of Serault in relation to the Approach and the Marshes. There is a crossing point in the Nahashin Marshes used by a merchant in The Last Court, who travelled from Val Chevin through Montfort and Ghislain, before going across the Marshes to get to Serault. Given this and the fact that they’d likely be steering away from the Approach, I can see the Hero following the Highway all the way to Ghislain and then crossing the Marshes on their way to Serault, obviously without going to Val Chevin, which would amount to backtracking.

What then of Serault, the mysterious marquisate located in the far west of Orlais? It’s Orlais’ western-most holding, and per a Codex entry as far west as one can still call civilized. I certainly headcanon that the Hero passed through here before forging further into wilds and lands unknown - here Serault Town has a Tolkienesque “The Last Homely House” feel to it, perched on the edge of it all:

This is the edge of the world. Beyond Serault Town is the Last River, and beyond the river, villages, charcoal-burners, the wilderness.

Per war table missions, Inquisition agents also travel to Serault during the time-frame of base-game DAI - here we have what is likely to be one of or the last place[s] where the Hero could have picked up messages from the Inquisition before ‘jumping off’ into the unknown. Laysh is another possibility, route-dependent (see below).

Serault is a strange place, where “unlikely” things happen. Perchance, was there useful knowledge to be found here? Morrigan herself dwelt here for a time, researching at the Glassworks and working to repair an eluvian. It’s implied she does this regardless of whether the Marquis allows her to or not. Notably, it is Morrigan “who found the lead[s] the Hero now follows in the western lands”. This was probably the “gift” Morrigan gives the Hero in Witch Hunt. She leaves them the stolen Dalish book Ariane was seeking to get back, and "something [else that the Hero] will find of great interest”. (She doesn’t give the something-else gift if he goes with her, but if he goes with her she’d just tell him in-person about what she’d found, so it stacks regardless). That said, when it’s a romanced Warden Alistair worldstate it sounds like he and the Hero found the lead on their own. I enjoy the leads being Morrigan’s gift though as an idea, and as a way of filling in what the heck the gift was.

Courtier’s children in Serault play at “Wardens and Darkspawn”, implying that Serault has either once been touched by Blight or else that tales of Blight and darkspawn and Warden heroics have reached the settlement. “Roads under the earth” (how very Deep Road-esque) are implied to stretch from Seraultine lands to an emergence somewhere in the Vimmark Mountains, there’s a bereskarn in the nearby woods and at one point the Marquis imagines the “tang of Blights” when a bitter wind blows from the north. I therefore find it unlikely that Seraultine surrounds have never been touched by Blight. Suspect the Hero ventured farther still, through the Applewoods - both the tamer Greenwood and the sinister Deepwoods, into the depths of the Tirashan. I’m obsessed with the Tirashan and its enigmatic denizens. What things they must know... mysterious, forgotten things. Are these elves ancient elves? To whom are they calling? These elves seem to guard their lands very fiercely, so it’s not a crazy idea that if the Hero entered the Tirashan they encountered some. Would an elven Hero have had a smoother initial interaction with them? It’s also not a crazy idea that the Tirashan elves might have knowledge that would have proven useful in the Hero’s quest, given the hints that they call to powers we possibly haven’t yet encountered. Their red vallaslin and apparent propensity for sacrificing people make me think of blood magic, and blood magic has practical uses in combatting Taint (Isseya’s spell on the griffon eggs, Avernus the blood mage, the Dark Ritual which was blood magic-based and ultimately caused the removal of Taint from Urthemiel’s soul, etc).

Say the Hero journeyed farther still. Over/through or under the southern Hunterhorn mountains to the forest or continuing forest on the other side (see the map of Thedas with expanded edges given to us in TN), which is inhabited by who knows what. Here the “Beyond Thedas” sections in WoT are of interest:

For many ages, the world that lies beyond Thedas has been largely unknown to us. Rumors and legends exist, tales of hardy sea captains crossing the ocean in search of treasure or ill-fated forays into the wilds, but they have always been buried under hearsay. Any serious attempts at exploration have been foiled by either the devastation of the Blights or the discouragement of waters plagued by both pirates and Qunari dreadnoughts.

The Hero surely would have researched such scattered references to the ill-fated forays, and sifted through hearsay, as 'homework’ before setting off on their trip. Going deep into the wild western wood is tantalizing in a frontier kind of way, but we can’t ignore the following entry in WoT, which I think was included in this manner for a reason.

Say instead the Hero travelled through the Hunterhorns and the Anderfels, maybe with a detour to nearby Weisshaupt to report in, confer with the First Warden and check the archives in its extensive library in case anything in there could prove useful in their quest, much like the recruit Valya did during her own investigation. The Anderfels are super Blight-blasted, so they would not have stopped there. In terms of travels in this area, I think it’s likely they would have joined a caravan being led by the Green Men order through the Wandering Hills to the distant port of Laysh.

The Voshai are yet another mysterious, unknown culture, and have materials and items that are completely unknown in Thedas proper among their wares. They come from a far-flung place and seem to Know Things. The status of dwarves in their society and their interest in lyrium is interesting, given the link both dwarves and lyrium have to underground places and the Blight. Can the reports of the recent return of the Voshai vessels to Thedas be a coincidence? I don’t think so, in the context of things discussed in this post. What powers and potentials are to be found among the wares of the Voshai that these Tevinter merchants were so keen to mount several expeditions into the wild unknown in search of them, even after several voyages never returned? I think the Hero probably took ship at Laysh (either they managed to secure passage on a docked Voshai ship, or there was an expedition vessel the Hero chartered), and went across the Volca Sea to the lands of the Voshai. Here they could have found a cure, and then a Voshai ship to then take them back to the known Thedosian continent.

A final few notes: You have to wonder, the lands which are untouched by Blight, why is that? Is it environmental - natural barriers or environmental conditions inhospitable to darkspawn? Is it magical protection? Are there limits to the darkspawn/Blight’s realm of influence, and if so, why, and how do these limits work? Does the fabled cataclysm in the lands of the Voshai have anything to do with a Blight (you could definitely describe a Blight as a cataclysm, for one thing)? And why on the new map with expanded edges from TN, along all the borders/expanded space, despite the fact that in WoT the “Beyond Thedas” stuff discusses all directions - why on the TN map is there only one place at the edges with an arrow pointing off into the unknown realms? Granted, it’s not the west Tirashan nor is it the north-westerly Volca Sea, but it is notable and worth mentioning. What lies south-west in the Sundered Sea, and why is it marked like this?

[aarongoldenwrites]

Warden Elissa “Sparrow” Cousland, Chapter 2: Arrival at Ostagar

Sparrow did not handle the trip to Ostagar well; her entire family (excepting her brother probably) was dead, her brother was missing – the safety she had found after her kidnapping was shattered beyond repair amd she was furious. She spent the entire journey focusing on other problems to keep herself distracted: the elves she'd managed to smuggle out and getting them somewhere safe, supplies, the occasional bandit. Most of these issues could have been dealt with by Duncan, but the elder Warden recognized that she needed something to do and handed off logistics to her while teaching her how to read maps and track their journey. She proved good at both, and by the time they got to Ostagar she was the one plotting their course.

(“trees and roads are easier to make sense of than the rat warrens of Denerim,” she's supposed to have said. The line comes from an interview with Alistair, who said Duncan mentioned it to him before the battle. He also confirmed that she mentioned something similar in Denerim, while plotting courses of attack later in the war against the Blight, and again while dealing with the werewolves. Anyone who had been to Denerim before the Blight ended would agree, and it's only gotten worse since.)

Meeting King Cailan Theirin was difficult for her: he knew her kind of, didn't seem to take what had happened to her seriously, and seemed focused on fighting the darkspawn. She, meanwhile, had lived under his rulership during her years as a thief in Denerim, and was not kindly disposed towards him. Later, she'd come to terms with the fact that he was only a few years older than she was and that the darkspawn were the greater threat, but it infuriated her in the moment. He promised to bring Howe to justice after the battle, and that was enough to mollify her at the time.

When Duncan pulled her aside and let her wander, it was supposed to give her a chance to calm down and gather her thoughts. She was grateful for this. She was not grateful to him for taking her dog.

Crossing the bridge at Ostagar, she looked out over the world and felt very small.  

The first people she met in camp were the mages and the templars guarding them. It's important to note that Elissa's only personal experience with mages was them healing her, and that Sparrow's experiences with the Templars at Red Cliffe and in Denerim were not good. Wanting to talk to mages to see if she knew anyone and being told no by the templars was off-putting, and then she bumped into Wynne.

Wynne is a gentle, motherly soul. Sparrow had just lost her mother. Their meeting should have been a good one, but Sparrow found Wynne to be an overbearing and condescending presence, and famously walked off on the older mage while she was in mid-sentence. Immediately following that, Sparrow met and was horrified by her first Tranquil, then returned to Wynne and discovered that Tranquility was an accepted practice among the Templars when it came to “troublesome” mages. The two had a heated argument before Sparrow stalked off. The few survivors of Ostagar remember seeing a woman matching Sparrow's description following a few Templars, but its not known if any Templars went missing before the battle.

Witnesses do confirm that she headed over to the kennels where she met her fellow recruit, Daveth. The two of them had never met in Denerim, but they both knew enough street slang and hand signs that they were able to recognize one another’s street credentials and became fast friends, sharing stories about surviving the city and fleeing the soldiers and Templars. According to Alistair, Sparrow never told him that she was a noble, and Daveth died believing that she was a street person like him.

The two of them spoke with the kennel master and checked in on the mabari, doing what they could to help the dogs while talking with one another. They learned that the dogs were sick and had become so while fighting darkspawn; both of them had a way with animals and were able to soothe the poor beasts. Sparrow was much calmer by the time they parted ways, and the two of them were well on their way to becoming friends.

(later, when Sparrow took control of Vigil's Keep, she's supposed to have recruited heavily from the youth dungeons – her argument for doing so was that the children and teens there were more hungry and desperate than bad, and that giving them a chance to use their skills for something productive might change their lives. This portion of her forces was called Daveth's Brigade, and they were among the bravest soldiers to fight during the siege.)  

It was in that frame of mind that Sparrow bumped into a hungry prisoner. She spoke with him and found his honesty refreshing – gallows insight being what it was, and she in a much better mood following her conversation with Daveth. Her quiet voice intimidated the guard enough that she was able to take his food but she didn't want the key, figuring that she'd be able to pick the lock herself. She was wrong, and wouldn't have a chance to get the key until much later.  

It's known she spoke with the healers and some of the sick, learning what she could about what was going on in the woods while looking for information on her brother. She was walking by a chantry service when she was recognized by the other Warden recruit, Ser Jory, who called out to her. Jory's father had been a blacksmith in Redcliffe and had moved to Highever to marry his wife, who was a native there. He'd left for Ostagar before Highever fell, and he recognized Elissa from his time serving her family.

The two did not get on, which is to say that she did not like him and he was too dense to notice. He insulted her with his casual misogyny, apparently believing that women (a) couldn't fight and (b) couldn't be Wardens. To her credit, she didn't stab him on the spot (do you mean pierce with an arrow? She was not supposed to be good at sword or knife fighting until much later - ed). To his credit, he didn't take it badly when she proved him wrong – Jory's worldview was reportedly simple but pragmatic, much like the man himself. When she proved a capable fighter he adjusted his world view and moved on, though he never apologized. There are some who believe that, given time, the two might have become friends (given Sparrow's relationship with Oghren, this seems unlikely).

Sparrow wandered the rest of the grounds, learning what she could of the darkspawn, talking with some of the other (lesser) landed nobles, hanging around the elves, and sneaking about to see if there were any locked boxes she could open. Eventually, she got bored and actually went looking for Alistair.

[lunchador]

I am trying to be normal levels of excited right now bc I had no idea you were so far in DA:O (i forget tumblr exists oops) so now I'm just!!! 8)))))) so thrilled you liked it I wanna know everything & I'm definitely gonna finish scrolling through what you already posted but!!! i wanna ask about your ending i Do Not See It anywhere and I'm curious wrt loghain & hazel (please tell me she survived 😭😭)

Bro, some shit happened.

While I’m pretty sure no one is like “Wow Raspa really had  spiraled down into DA, I’m now interested in playing”, spoilers I guess??

SO MANY CHOICES AT THE END OF THE GAME

SO

Let me tell you, I had a plan.

The second I learned of Alistair being bastard son of a King and had the potential to be the next one, I knew in my heart, we had to break up for PLOT reasons. I knew he’d be a genuine one, and while my characters backstory was she was eager to be in a position of leadership back when she was daughter of an Arl, she realized she liked being a soldier on the road helping people so she definitely would not want to be Queen, she’s never been elegant and did not want the attention.

So we get to the awkward moment I knew was coming. I convinced Anora to enter a political marriage with my boyfriend. Awkward. I talk Alistair into it, he breaks up with me. Ouch.

LOGHAIN. Man, I said FUCK THAT GUY. He ain’t my homie. I’ve grown very proud to be a grey warden and fuck him for trying to taint them. So, I beheaded him. In retrospect, pretty shitty for your future husband/kings current girlfriend to kill your dad after she just asked you to go into this political tie to keep your royal status idk. Maybe it would have been more just to make Loghain be someone who serves for the greater good after everything he pulled.

Riordan drops the bomb that a grey warden has to kill the Archdemon and that grey warden has to die. GREAT. I decide, He offers himself to do it after I state i will sacrifice myself and I go ok I guess he has a point he’s much older and doesn’t have much longer.

Morrigan puts her offer on the table. She needs Alistair to dump a creampie in her. Awkward cuz I didn’t work on her relationship enough (idk she hated me) so I’m like, ah, you want me to ask my boyfriend who you hate and who hates you to fuck you? I tell myself I can’t do it, not because I’m jealous and the only girl for him, but because I just bullied him into a marriage and now I’m gonna push him to have sex with a woman he despises on my behalf? Literally what the fuck from his perspective. My friends chewed me out for this, said I should have let Alistair “give her that soup can dick”. Alistair’s soupcan dick is now a reoccuring joke.

Riordan dies. Just fuckin dropped by the Archdemon. Did I fuck up or does that happen regardless?

So there goes plan A. And I’m thinking, fuck it, I had a good run. We are going to pull some Fallout 3 ending bullshit. I will die to save everyone

E X C E P T

Alistair, who JUST dumped me  mind you, tells me he’s not going to let me sacrifice myself, not while he has the opportunity to stop it, cuz the stupid bitch loves me.

SO

I watch in fucking horror as my video game boyfriend, the only person Hazel has ever had feelings for, leaps up and sacrifices himself, mostly on my behalf, because this fucker who wanted nothing more in his life was to have a family who loves him, and he said he wasn’t ready to be king, so instead he’s throwing it all away to protect the one person he’s loved.

So, true to me as a person and my usual experience in video games, I royally fucked up.

So yeah, Hazel survives. But, it sucks.

The canon ending I got: Alistair died on my behalf, Hazel continues on with the grey wardens with Zevran and Oghren on her side. The canon ending I wanted: Alistair Marries Anora and every meeting between future King Alistair and little ol’ Hazel are painful as hell full of yearning and full of what ifs til the end of their days. The ending I heavily considered: Alistair becoming king and Hazel being his consensual side piece. But Anora mentioned yet another husband who had other women behind her back and i felt guilty.

The ways I fucked up: Didn’t ‘harden’ Alistair, whatever the fuck that means. I should have recruited Loghain and used him as the sacrifice. Got Riordan killed? Again, not sure if that’s automatic or me. I guess I could have let Alistair do cummies inside Morrigan but GOD would he be fine knowing he has a bastard son whos a fucking hellspawn, literally?????? oh my god.

I am very pleased with the overall lore and writing of this game and how decisions genuinely feel like they’ve got weight. I do wish I took more time with the game (i didn’t get to do several companion quests and i wanna know more lore).

Also I didn’t save I guess?? At the end of the game? Idk, it only showed me my save from before the archdemon battle and wouldn’t let me load my Origins file onto 2. So HAHA BITCH, ALISTAIR LIVES. My friends are ripping on me to go with Alistair being dead because the fun of all 3 games is having your decisions cross over but FUCK THAT.

[crqstalite]

Character Name: Svenja Tabris

Full Name: Svenja Yiska Tabris-Theirin

Nick Names: Sven, Yiska (Cyrion)

Gender: Female

Age: 19 (9:30 Dragon), 33 (9:44 Dragon)

Birthday/year: Sometime during Justininan in 9:11 Dragon. Records not found.

Sexuality: Biromantic + Greysexual

Marital Status: Single (DAO), Married (Post-game)

Spouse: Married to Alistair Theirin in 9:34 Dragon.

Hair: Kept short during the Fifth Blight, though she grows it out to her shoulders after that. Black, somewhat curly.

Eyes: Hazel-green

Origin: Born in the Denerim Alienage.

Language: Svenja is fluent in common, though is hopeless with much else. She learns some elvish to get in touch with her Dalish roots though.

Blood Type: A? She doesn’t know, nor does she care.

Height: Svenja is 5″3.5

Weight/Body Structure/Physical Faults: Svenja has a lithe form from swinging around a sword for most of her younger life, and weighs somewhere around 119 pounds. She doesn’t have too many physical faults, and could probably carry a proper shield and longsword around for any period of time without much trouble. Heavy on her feet, she can take quite a few hits before she goes down proper during a fight. However the years are beginning to catch up with her, and the Calling only marks her as such with it’s marking of her skin. Enough broken bones and concussions, well, one can only take so much before it’s toll comes.

Race/Species: Elf

Parents/Elders/Guardians: Her mother was a Dalish descendant of Clan Sabrae named Adaia, and her father Cyrion.

Siblings: None by blood, but she considers Morrigan a sister.

Beliefs/Religion: Svenja doesn’t have an opinion -- though she’s curious about the Dalish.

Career/Past Careers: Before her Warden-Commander position, she didn’t have a job beyond being one hell of a swordsmith after her mother died. Then, of course, she did receive the title and was given the position of Arlessa of Amaranthine. She acts as a minor advisor to Queen Anora at times, but after that she is usually left alone.

Hobbies: Svenja’s favorite thing to do is to work on weapons. Her mother left her with the skill half trained, and there was plenty of trial and error that Cyrion really couldn’t afford when she was a budding weaponsmith. It’s her love language as well, because once she became skilled enough, she started honing the ability and the last thing she has from Adaia was a Dalish dagger. She gifts some weapons to Alistair sometimes, though she can’t make heads or tails of a mage’s staff.

Likes: Svenja likes that moment just after a battle -- cortisol still flooding one’s veins but you’ve won, you’ve done it. Sven likes it when she wins, when she and her party are still standing after an onslaught. She also likes it when she can tell rich nobles off. That’s always fun too, but she’s happiest with a shield in her hand and darkspawn blood on her armor.

Loves: Svenja absolutely adores sitting by the fire in camp and being able to lay down for just a moment. She won’t admit it, of course, but she loves it when she can get her entire party to enjoy the evening together. She unapologetically loves Alistair as well, and has been known to thread to the rose through her hair before.

Dislikes: Svenja doesn’t like the cold. She’s Fereldan through and through, but she’s pretty damn sure Andraste or the Maker is looking down upon her and causing all this suffering during the Blight. She’s never gotten sick from it, but damn can she be bitter about it.

Loathes: She hates humans -- or at least most of them. Her mother was killed by one for Andraste’s sake, and they’ve done nothing but ruin her life since she came into the world.  She hates entitled people who call her knife ear, and she hates people who can’t see past said ears. Being treated as less than a person  is what really gets under her skin.

Fears: Svenja does genuinely fear death. Her life expectancy was never extremely long, but knowing that the Calling lies just under her skin, darkspawn blood flowing just alongside her own is what terrifies her. That the Taint waits and waits until she is worn down and old, and then she will go mad and die. She doesn’t want to die, she can’t. Not yet.

Strengths: Svenja is very blunt. She gets the job done with little questions asked and doesn’t take much shit from people. She’s strong and capable all on her own, so it’s not as much of a concern if Wynne has to fall back or she has to take the brunt of the damage. She’s not indecisive either, she sees something and then goes for it, and is not afraid of the reprisal.

Weakness: Svenja is very blunt. She’s terrible at social functions, especially ones in Denerim that Anora occasionally invites her to. She’s very educated, and doesn’t hesitate to snap back at people who assume that she isn’t, which usually leads to some sort of heated argument because she can’t keep her temper under control. Self-sacrificing is one word for her need to protect her party and those that care about her.

Supernatural Powers & Abilities: She has none.

Temperament: Svenja is not afraid of the arguments she gets from shems when she speaks to them. If they want to be angry with her, then so be it. She’ll have to remind them who ended the Fifth Blight and clonked their heads together to get the job done nearly singlehandedly some other day. She comes off as cold to those that don’t know her, but she has a sense of humor that’s often seen by people who do, and an even stronger sense of familial connection to those who are very close. Her morals are extremely well formed, and Svenja will abide by them no matter the situation, even if an underhanded deal might get her closer to victory in the end.

Party Relationships:

alistair theirin ➝ friend (9:30), lover (9:30-9:34 Dragon), husband (9:34 Dragon-) morrigan  ➝ best friend (9:30 Dragon-) leliana  ➝ best friend (9:30 Dragon-) sten  ➝ friend (9:30 Dragon-) zevran arainai ➝ ...friend (9:30 Dragon-) oghren  ➝ acquaintance (9:30 Dragon-) adaia tabris  ➝ mother (died 9:18 Dragon) cyrion tabris  ➝ father shianni  ➝ cousin marzeyna rutherford  ➝ (conditional -- au through clan mahariel)

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 21/32 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

All around Yvanne the enormous cypress thrummed with life. If there was a world beyond the belly of the hollow tree, she didn’t quite believe it.  

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Of course you don’t understand,” her great grandmother said kindly. Distant bells seemed to ring with every one of her words. All of a sudden Yvanne wasn’t sure if the old woman’s lips were actually moving when she spoke to her. “Who could possibly expect you to?”

“Why did you bring me here? That spirit I saw—was that you?”

“In a way,” the old woman allowed. “But I did not bring you here. You brought yourself.”

“But you called me. You told me to come home.”

“Is that what you heard?” She smiled. “Oh, my daughter.”

That stung. “Stop it,” Yvanne growled. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not as well as I’d like. But we have met, in the world beneath the world.”

“You’ve been spying on me,” Yvanne realized. “Through the Fade. Just what gave you the right?”

The old woman’s bright eyes flashed. “Precisely the same thing that gives you to look in on those you wish to see.”

“That’s—that’s not the same,” Yvanne faltered. “I didn’t want to look. I tried not to look. I couldn’t control it.”

“But you’d like to. And so you are here.”

“No, I’m here because you called me. I’m here because I had just settled into a perfectly contented life when all of a sudden I became tormented by these voices—your voice.”

Yvanne could load quite a lot of furious accusation into a short phrase spoken softly, but the old woman remained unmoved. “Believe me, my daughter, I do not have the power to bring about what you experienced. If you heard my voice, it was as a trickle in a torrent. You have begun to awaken as a spirit mage.” 

“And just what in the void does that mean?”

In tones of infinite patience: “For years you have hobbled yourself; now you are beginning to walk freely for the first time. Of course you were overwhelmed. Anyone would be. Nobody here in Dairsmuid awakens in their third decade of life, without the benefit of any guidance whatsoever.” In tones of bottomless sorrow: “You have been done a great disservice.”

Yvanne stood for a while, feeling all the hot air leak out of her.

“So can you help me?” she said, defeated. “Or not?”

“Of course I can. And I will. If you choose it. But how far you walk along the path is always up to you.”

Something sat uncomfortably in Yvanne’s stomach. “Alright, fine. Can you at least answer me this?” she said wearily. “Where is my mother?”

The old woman cast her eyes down. “That I do not know. She never came here.���

An unspoken hope died in her chest. “My father, then? My sisters?”

“Three of your sisters live,” the old woman said. “In one way or another. But of all who I called, only you returned.”

All she did not say fell upon Yvanne like a mountain. She dropped her head. “I see.”

“Oh, my daughter. I am sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. 

More questions sprung to her lips. When did my father die? And how? Which of her four sisters lived? And how? But as soon as they occurred to her, she thought better of them. She didn’t want to know. Of course she didn’t. If she’d wanted to know, she would have seen it in the Fade. It was a cruel thing to know about herself. 

“Why me, then?”

“You are the one who answered.”

“No. Why call at all? My father never spoke of his home. We have nothing to do with each other, blood relatives or not. What do you want with me?”

“Is it so wrong for an old woman to wish to see her lost daughter?” The old woman’s eyes closed. She said no more for many long moments. “I apologize. I am tired now. I must walk in the Fade for a time.”

“What? But I’ve only just arrived!”

“We will speak again. For now you will go with Itai; he will be your companion today.”

“Now hold on, I—” Yvanne began to protest, but the old woman was already asleep, having slipped into dreams in the space of a few breaths. She was alone. But she did not feel alone. If anything she felt like an intruder. The tree keeping her great-grandmother alive thrummed steadily, like a heartbeat.

“Yvanne?”

She turned to face a young man with wide cheekbones and a halo of black curls. “How did you know my name? Or that I was here?”

He gave her a polite, puzzled smile. “Buya called me, of course. I’ve finished my training for today, so I can show you around.” He was younger than her. Was he even twenty? “I’m Itai—I think we might be cousins.”  He crossed his right arm over his chest and tilted his chin down in greeting.

She stiffened. “Well, maybe we’re cousins, but you don’t know me, and I’m only staying here for as long as it takes me to get this—this problem under control, so don’t get too comfortable. There’s no need for all this…this…”

Itai shrugged. “Well, you’re going to have to wait at least a few hours anyway before she wakes up, so you might as well see the city, right?” 

—

On her way to the great cypress, Yvanne had paid no attention to her surroundings at all. A compulsion to reach the tree where her ancestor dwelled had consumed her, and only now had it loosened its hold on her. Now she was finally seeing the city with clear eyes.

Dairsmuid was a city built upon the water. Wooden planks, shiny and smooth from the thousands of feet that walked upon them, were its streets, but so was the water; everywhere were gondoliers carrying goods by canoe, chatting with each other as they passed. Some of the buildings were built in the trees themselves, and what trees they were; they flared at their twisted, knotty bases. Some grew fused together, making masses large enough to support homes. Circling steps were bolted to many of them, and cables ran between the boughs, sending packages and messages zipping overhead.

Itai introduced Yvanne to more distant cousins and uncles and aunts than she could possibly keep track of, men and women of all ages. Each one greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a quick embrace, too swiftly and with too much assurance for her to protest.

And not a single one of them batted an eye at all the magic.

Magic didn’t seem to exactly be common in Dairsmuid, but every once in a while she would spot a shopkeeper levitating his wares, or a gondolier lighting a lantern with a snap of his fingers. Everywhere she saw spirits, mostly formless wisps, but larger, more distinct spirits, too. Children chased them like chickens, earning scoldings from their parents when they were caught. She watched, rapt, one group of mage children play a game of spark-shooting with each other. As she watched something cracked open deep inside her, and suddenly she wanted to cry.

“Alright, there?” said Itai. She snapped out of it, drawing her eyes away from a scene where one child chased a wisp right over the edge and into the water, where he was fished out by an irritated gondolier. She just barely managed to nod.

Itai kept rambling as he took her around, away from the center of the city—”Dairsmuid’s mostly on the water now, but old timers will tell you how the sea used to be much further out“—past rows of fishermen hauling in oysters and crayfish—”They’re best with lemon sauce,”—inland towards residential areas that were raised over mud and peat rather than standing water. They went past shrines to Andraste laid with offerings of fire-lilies—”What? Of course we worship Andraste! What a strange question,”—past spirit-lanterns nestled in the branches of the cypresses—”They’re always lit, so nobody falls off the platform. And if someone does, the spirits signal the night watchman to come over and fish them out…it’s usually just the drunks, though.”

Yvanne found herself liking Itai quite a lot. Until—

“And my Templar training isn’t so bad, usually, but master has us getting up so early, and usually at night I find myself thinking of so many things and unable to sleep—”

She stopped in her tracks. It took him a few seconds to notice, and he turned, puzzled.

“Your what training?”

“Templar training,” he repeated. “Are you alright? You look like you ate something curdled.”

“I didn’t realize Dairsmuid had Templars.” She did not try to keep the hiss out of her voice. Including my own family.

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Sorry, I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

How in Thedas was she to respond to that? “So was that why they picked you to give me the tour? Were you supposed to keep an eye on me and cut me down in case I turned out to be dangerous after all? I knew I was right to be suspicious—”

“Hold on!” Itai was laughing. Actually laughing! “I think you’re confused. In Dairsmuid, Templar is a ceremonial role. We don’t take lyrium or anything like the westerners. I’m not even being taught to fight with this thing—” He tapped the ornate weapon belted to his hip. “It’s all just rituals and basic forms.” 

“Then—” She stumbled. “Then what’s the point?”

He shrugged. “Tradition? Got to be a Circle at Dairsmuid, with Templars. So we have them. We’re supposed to keep the Seers safe, but the Seers don’t really need protection, so it’s pretty boring. Once I finish training, I’m probably going to be a fisherman like my da. Look, the sword’s ceremonial—it’s not even sharp.”

She must have still been staring. He smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I don’t really know much about western Circles.”

Maker, but this place was weird.

“I can’t believe the Chantry lets this place exist,” Yvanne said just as the silence was growing awkward..

“Well, Rivain’s pretty far from Orlais.” He shrugged. “We do things our own way. Really, the Qunari up north are a much bigger problem, but Dairsmuid’s not anywhere near Kont-Arr. Anyway, the Seers wouldn’t let anything happen.”

“Just what is a Seer? Exactly?”

Itai looked at her like she’d just asked the color of the sky. “Huh? But you’re a Seer. Aren’t you?”

She shook her head.

“You know—a woman who communes with the spirits. You call them mages out west, right?”

“But plenty of men are mages,” said Yvanne. “What do you do with the boys who are born with magic?”

Itai snorted, laughing.“Nobody’s born with magic. Spirits pick who they want to talk to. And sure, boys can talk to spirits, but they can’t be Seers.”

“Why not?”

“They just can’t.” He scratched his head. “Look, I don’t really know. Why don’t you ask Maita? She’s not a Seer yet, but she will be. Come on, you’ll like her. I have to get home and help da clean today’s catch, anyway, so I’ll leave you with her, if that’s alright.”

Three girls sat laughing and weaving reed baskets as Itai and Yvanne approached. One of them stood in anticipation, her eyes widening in delight. All three girls wore bright brass jewelry, but one—the Seer?—wore the most; bangles on her wrists and ankles, and a headdress of overlapping discs that glittered and clinked with her tiniest movement. 

“Is this her?” she demanded of Itai, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, it is! Oh, welcome! We are also so glad you have come.” She jangled as she wrapped Yvanne in a tight, loud embrace. “Ambuya told us you had come.”

“But how—”

“Oh, but your hair!” Maita gasped. Never had Yvanne heard anyone sound so heartbroken over hair. She glanced over her shoulder to plead wordlessly with Itai, but he was already grinning, waving goodbye, and backing away, the traitor. “You poor thing, you must have been through so much.” 

Yvanne suddenly became aware of her body, sharply and unpleasantly. She hadn’t looked at herself in so long that she had forgotten that others could still see her. Maker, she didn’t even want to think about how she probably smelled She self-consciously tucked a piece of it behind her ear. Unending months of neglect and salt had caused it to dread up into unsalvageable masses.

“You must let me fix it for you. Oh, I love to do braids, but–may I?” She reached out to touch Yvanne’s hair. She struggled not to flinch. “No, I don’t think there’s enough left to do braids. How about knots? Or twists? I do the best twists; ask anyone.” She turned to her two friends, clinking, for confirmation. Both nodded earnestly.

Nobody had done Yvanne’s hair since she was nine years old. Loriel had been useless at it and nobody else had come close to earning the right. “I—Okay.”

“Yes! Wonderful! Please, do come in. You must have some of my beads. I’m getting married soon, so I won’t get to wear them, and I don’t even have any sisters to give them to. Only brothers–it makes me so sad!”. Then an expression came over her face. “Wait! You aren’t married, are you? I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have assumed…”

Yvanne felt the absence of the ring upon her finger, and answered, truthfully, “No, I’m not married.”

Maita’s animated expression returned. “Oh, good! Then you can have the beads. Come, come!”

She tugged her inside, enticing her friends to come join her in solving Yvanne’s hair problem. She was altogether reminded of Leliana. Yvanne slipped out of her grasp. “Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but—we’ve only just met.”

Maita gave her a confused smile. “But of course we’ve met. In the world beneath the world.”

Again that phrase.

“Maita, you’re shaming her,” one of the others said, rolling her eyes. “She has no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh,” Maita said, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, no, you really don’t, do you?”

If Yvanne had not spent the past years being humbled over and over again, she might have taken offense. As it was, she only shrugged.

Maita covered her face in shame. “I’m so sorry—I assumed, since you were training with Ambuya—we were all so jealous when we heard…”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m afraid I only look Rivaini. I’m not a part of any of this. I’m certainly not a Seer.”

“But you are a Seer,” Maita said encouragingly. “Or you will be.”

She crossed her arms, doubtful. “She said I was only beginning to learn. That I was already late.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn. You’re her blood, after all.”

“Isn’t half of Dairsmuid her blood? I’ve lost track of how many cousins I’ve met today.”

Maita laughed. She had a musical laugh. “Perhaps not so much as half! Our Buya had many sons, but even those who are not her blood are still her family; she is buya to all of us.”

Yvanne, who had been assuming that ‘Buya’ was the old woman’s name, made a small adjustment.

Dairsmuid had a public bathhouse, and she was in luck—today was the women’s day to use it. The next several hours went to matters of hair and beads and other things so trivial that Yvanne had nearly forgotten they existed. Was there really still a world of moisturizing hair cream and scents and jewelry? She had liked such things, once, because in the Circle they had been—if not forbidden, then strictly discouraged, and difficult to get a hold of. The habit had stayed with her as the Vigil’s keeper, and she had yet to be cured of it. It was so ridiculous. It was so nice.

Somewhere in this process she told the story of her travels. She hadn’t meant to—she’d thought it far too painful—but somehow it all came out. She started with hiding in Highever—she left out that she had ever been a Grey Warden—and by the time she got to the part with the pirates her hair was done. It had been long all her life, and was twisted close to her head and bound with bells and beads. She looked both like and unlike Isabela, like and unlike her old self. She had never felt so light; she couldn’t stop tilting her head back and forth and feeling the absence of the weight. It was strange, but not—bad. No, not bad at all.

By then it was time for the evening meal was upon them, and Maita’s mother—a stout woman who had clearly never taken no for an answer in her life—was insisting. Yvanne ate with Maita and her mother and her younger brothers who stared at her with curious eyes the size of dinner plates. Maita’s mother, it turned out, was not from Dairsmuid, but from a village on the eastern coast. 

“—I came here to be with my girl, of course. She wanted to learn here in the capital, and I was not about to let her go alone,” she said proudly.

Yvanne slept there on a palette by the smouldering hearth, sick with imagining what it would be like to have a mother like that.

As the days passed and her great-grandmother did not summon her, she was folded into Maita’s family almost without noticing. Maita had three younger brothers who Yvanne somehow fell into the watching of—boys of six, ten, and twelve, who begged her to show them how to make lightning. She helped with the chores, kept the boys busy. She even learned a few words of the local Rivaini dialect. On the last day of the week, she helped decorate the household shrine to Andraste with marsh-lillies and necklaces of carved wooden beads. The prayers spoken over the shrine were not entirely unlike the Chant, but not entirely like it, either.

Finally came market day, so Yvanne saw the Dairsmuid market. Maita tugged her along as she did her family’s shopping, informing her of what fruits were in season and asking frequent questions about what things were like in Ferelden. 

“Oh, I used to love the star-reader,” Maita sighed, pointing out a woman’s nondescript stall. “Of course, it is not Seeing, but that’s what made it special. My friends and I used to giggle for hours over the fates the stars had in store for us. The men we would marry, how many children we would have…” She trailed off, then finished cheerfully, “But I’ll be getting married soon.”

Yvanne could not help but notice that no husband-to-be was in evidence.

Maita clinked loudly as she laughed. “I haven’t met him yet, of course! He lives in a village far away from here, one that needs a Seer. Once I have passed the ritual, I’ll be ready to serve. I’m told he’s very kind. Is it bad that I hope he’s handsome, too?” She giggled behind her hand. “But you aren’t married! Do you want to consult the star-reader? Don’t you ever wonder what your husband will be like?

“Hm,” said Yvanne. “No, thank you.”

Soon after Maita encountered a friend of hers, and fell inextricably into an animated conversation that Yvanne couldn’t follow at all. Slighted, and resentful that she felt so, she wandered away. She could hear in the middle distance bell-like music. The source of it turned out to be a Vashoth woman sitting cross-legged, producing the tune from an instrument Yvanne had no name for, a wooden box lined with metal rods that produced unearthly music under the Vashoth’s careful fingers. Too soon, the song ended, and she lifted her hornless head to smile in thanks at the crowd. 

Only then did Yvanne notice the scars around her lips.

“Did you mean to buy something?” the Vashoth asked suddenly. Yvanne forced herself not to stare.

“I have no money,” she stammered, then added, “Sorry.”

The saarebaas sized her up, and smiled. As she did, her scars instantly became the most noticeable thing about her. “Oh, I see. You’re new; one of Buya’s girls, aren’t you? I am called Amarna.”

“So I’m told,” Yvanne said stiffly

“You’re a bit old to start training.”

“I’ve had training.”

The saarebas laughed shrugging. “Mm. Well, it was probably better than the training I got.”

Yvanne’s eyes flicked to the woman’s scars again. 

Amarna snorted good-naturedly. “Admiring these?” she said, touching her lips.

“I wasn’t—”

The former saarebas laughed. “Go ahead and look, I’m not ashamed.”

Yvanne wanted to apologize, but now she worried that it would only make it worse. Luckily the awkwardness was broken by a little Vashoth girl in pigtails, no more than eight years old, and already as high as Yvanne’s shoulder.

“Look what my friend showed me how to do!” the little girl said breathlessly to—presumably—her mother, ignoring Yvanne entirely. She extended her pudgy, little-girl hands palms up. Fireballs bloomed there, first, red, then yellow, then green and blue. Yvanne startled backwards and nearly knocked over a rack of fishing spears. “Are you proud of me?”

“Very good!” her mother beamed as Yvanne desperately tried to stabilize the rack of spears. “Indeed I am proud of you. But do you remember the rules?”

The girl let the fireballs dissipate. “No fire without my tutors watching,” she said ruefully, rolling her eyes. 

“That’s right. Now go play.”

Only then did the little girl notice Yvanne and mutter a shy ‘hello’ before running off again.

“Sorry for her,” said the saarebas. “She’s always trying things she’s not quite ready for yet.”

“That…must be difficult.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times she’s hurt herself!” She shook her head. “But if she makes no mistakes, she’ll never learn.” 

Yvanne had been that age when she’d first discover her magic. She never would have dreamed of showing her father. She’d hidden it. Had prayed for the Maker to take it away. “I’m surprised you don’t worry.”

“Of course I worry! What mother doesn’t? But she has good teachers here. I’ll never be much of a mage, but the Seers take care of her. And if she’ll receive some scars for her own foolishness, she will never have scars like mine.” She said it in well-rehearsed tones, like this was a speech she had been obliged to recite too many times.

Yvanne remembered Cheddar, and what had happened to her sarebaaset. But no, she daren’t ask. Instead she said, “What kind of instrument is that?”

And like so Maita found her some minutes later, profusely apologizing for leaving her alone, exchanging pleasantries with Amarna, and finally dragged her away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” she said in hushed tones. “I forget that most people outside Rivain aren’t used to the freed saarebas. Quite a lot of them live here.”

That night Yvanne could not get to sleep beneath the unfamiliar ceiling. She thought of Amarna’s little daughter whose magic would only ever earn her a gentle admonition, and envy rose in her gorge like poison. What she would have given to have grown up here in Dairsmuid. What might she have become if her father had brought her here instead of to Ferelden? Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he loved her enough to bring her here? All those years in Kinloch, the wretched thing that place made her—

She thought of Amarna’s scars, and thought—yes, it could have been worse. But it could have been better, too.

Yes, she was here now, but what good did that do her? It didn’t make up for it. Nothing ever would. Dairsmuid was not her home. If she had ever had one, it had been Vigil’s Keep.

That home was lost to her. Perhaps did not exist at all. Just like her mother and her father and her sisters. Everything was lost, lost—all that remained was here. A wave of nauseous longing rolled over her like the evening tide, and she went to sleep no less conflicted and confused.

—

She dreamt again of Loriel, buried deep within her tower of stone.  Her hair was longer now than it had ever been, neatly parted in the center. Somehow in their time apart it had stopped frizzing, and fell to her back in elegant feathers. Were there new lines on her face? How old was she now?

She was writing busily in a blank parchment manuscript, occasionally consulting a tome at her elbow. She scribbled for hours, only occasionally pausing to sip water or stand up to stretch. All these little gestures, so familiar, so utterly strange.

Who was she? Who was she?

“I never even knew you, did I?” Yvanne said to her, knowing she wouldn’t be heard. “Not that you were any better. You never knew me either, did you? I don’t think I ever felt more alone than when I was with you.”

And Loriel kept scratching away, oblivious. It was starting to make her angry.

“You know,” she said, “If it hadn’t been for all that fucking blood magic, maybe you could have heard me say all these things. Maybe you could have heard me at all. I was too much a coward to say what I meant to your face, and now you’ll never know how I really felt. You selfish fucking bitch.”

And then—

—Loriel looked up.

Her forehead wrinkled in that burningly familiar way. Her mouth began to form the shape of the word, who—?

The dream collapsed.

—

Yvaanne woke in the middle of the night, knowing that she was summoned to Dairsmuid’s great tree. She received no message; only a conviction that she was wanted, and an intuitive understanding of where to go. She walked there, barefoot, the ancient half-drowned forest singing all around her.

Buya was exactly where she had been, awake and bright eyed. “I am sorry to have woken you. Did I interrupt your dreaming?”

She shook her head. “I did not want that dream.”

“I see.” The old woman’s lips still did not move when she spoke. “Have you decided, then, if you will stay and learn from me?” 

“I…”

A heaviness lay on her heart. After a week in Dairsmuid, she had never missed the Vigil more. She missed her high grey walls, her fluttering banners, the smell of smelting iron in the air. She missed the training, the drinking games, the knowledge that everyone around her knew her name, that people would care if she was gone.

But here in Dairsmuid, everyone somehow knew her name. They would care if she was gone. So they didn’t know her, so what? Nobody had ever known her. 

Dairsmuid was here. Dairsmuid was now. And was love not born of base familiarity? Was love anything besides mere exposure, mere proximity? 

“Great-grandmother, I want to stay,” she said. “But…”

Ambuya waited, patient.

“But there’s someone I still love. Far from here.”

“Ah,” the old woman said. “I see. I will not pretend I am not disappointed, but it was good to lay my mortal eyes on you, my daughter.”

Yvanne shook her head, and knelt. Then she looked up, her eyes streaming. “And I never want to see or think about her, ever again. Please, grandmother—I am yours. Please, teach me.”

Ambuya smiled, reached out, and placed a hand on Yvanne’s bowed head. She was resolved; she would become a part of this. She would be one of many, and she would make this life a good one if it killed her.

[saltlordofold]

Tumblr ate the ask  because of course it did but a good while ago @ma-suranas prompted me with number 50 from this great list of cliché tropes and prompts by @bucky-plums-barnes : “ I’m scared but won’t admit it so you take my hand,” for Alistair and Aedan.

I went a bit all over the place with this but it’s been so long since I posted any writing, i thought this was a good time to get it out at last XD Thank you for the prompt!!! 

Characters: mainly Alistair and Aedan Cousland (oc), rest of party briefly featured (Wynne, Zevran, Leliana, Morrigan, Shale, Sten, Oghren)

Pairing: (Unresolved pining) Alistair/Aedan

Raiting: G

Warnings: Pining, Unresolved emotional tension, claustrophobia, scotophobia

Words: 2007

>Read on Ao3

Alistair had no clue what it was that caused the carved vault to collapse. It could have been anything, really: a shift of the terrain, a sudden whim the many miles of rock and dirt above their heads, a trap laid by the Spawn, or even simply, for all he knew, the sound of their footsteps, heavy with armour and supplies, echoing too loudly against the stone corridors of a dwarven thaig left so silent and still for so long. Not that the why mattered much: all that Alistair had needed to know was how, with just a dusting of warning pebbles and a long, worrisome groan of stone, a whole section of the ceiling had come down in one swift, murderous go, and it was all Aedan and him could do but to pull each other out of the way of the deadly weight plummeting down.

Gravel drummed and trickled down the back of Alistair's armour. The air was full of a fine-grained dust that left a trail of fire down his throat at every inhale, forcing him into a painful coughing fit. Under him, Aedan seemed to be in no better condition, because his voice sounded more a rasp when he grabbed Alistair's shoulder and asked, between two hacks of his own:

“Are you hurt?”

Alistair wanted to say something like “what do you think?” and “you're asking me?”but after counting, he was pretty sure he could feel all his limbs, which was enough to warrant a mumbled “'think so” instead. Alarm rung loud in his ears, a dangerous buzz, and in an effort to not give in to it, Alistair forced himself to push up, which he managed more than precariously. Still, Aedan didn't turn down his offered hand to help him do the same, and as soon as he was standing, the Warden was already stumbling to the wall of rock that now closed off the corridor they'd just been walking.

“Zevran?” Aedan called, with as much breath as he could manage, “Wynne?”

The second that followed felt as frozen to Alistair as the sweat pooled down his back. In the trembling flame of their weakened torch, half-buried under rocks on the ground, he could see the worry on Aedan's dirt-plastered face, and there was no doubt in his mind that he wore the exact same expression on his own.

But the crease between Aedan's brows soothed down at once when friendly voices mercifully started answering from behind the wall of rubble.  

“We're all fine, here,” Wynne's voice carried first, “Are you boys?”

Aedan dipped his head in relief, hand resting against one of the largest rocks. Somewhere behind it, Dog was barking, distant and muffled.

“Yes!” Aedan replied, while Alistair closed his eyes for a second, letting relief wash over him too,  “Yes, we're alright, both of us. Maker be thanked.”

The corner of Aedan's mouth tugged upwards at the sound of Zevran's voice.

“So much for fine dwarven stonework,” the elf jabbed, from behind what felt like meters of rock.

Oghren's answer soon followed, short of both breath and patience, to deliver the curt yet eloquent response of:

“Sod off, elf.”

Ever the good sport, Zevran did not seem to take too badly to the blunt answer.

“Would that I could, my friend,” he simply said, “but sadly it seems my way to do so has become quite impracticable, has it not?”

“Would you both shut it?” Morrigan sneered, “Just for once? My head is hurting enough as it is without you jabbering in my ear.”

“Maker,” Leliana said, very purposefully cutting the bickering off before it could spread, “What a mess. It'll take a while to move all this rubble...”

Sten's voice sounded as stern and level as always, as if pounds over pounds of deadly rock hadn't just come close to sealing them all into an unmarked tomb.

“Not if the Golem puts her back to it.”

“The Golem has a name,” Shale drily reminded, “not that it cares much for it.”

Oh, they were all alive and well alright. Alistair would have managed in a quip of his own, but Aedan urgently cut him off.

“Don't!” he shouted, “Don't try to dig through. We don't know how sound the tunnel is, displacing the rubble could bring it all down again.”

A sullen silence followed that realization, and Aedan wiped a hand down his face, grimacing and blinking away the dust best he could.

“Walk back to the crossroads and wait for us there,” he instructed, “We'll find a way around.”

“Are you sure?” Wynne asked, “You might get lost.”

Aedan glanced Alistair's way, who returned an uncertain wince. He remembered the way, sort of? They were leaving a Thaig, and he was pretty certain there had been more than one tunnel connecting it to the main Deep Road. If they managed to find one such way, they could meet with the rest of their party there. Granted they found it too, of course. And made it there safely. Given where they were, and in what sort of company, that was everything but guaranteed.

Overall, not much of a sound bet, but the only bet they had, nonetheless.

“We'll be fine.” Aedan said, managing to sound sure of it, somehow, “Hurry back, now, and stick together. It's dangerous to linger here.”

“Very well,” Zevran said, “But don't be too long.”

He had to keep his voice raised to be heard through the collapse, but Alistair still heard it soften as he added:

“Or I'll have to come look for you.”

The light was growing too dim for Alistair to discern the exact expression on Aedan's face from where he stood, but the hint of a smile was easy to hear in his reply.

“Understood.”

Slowly, the rustle of footsteps and Dog's worried barks subdued, leaving behind only silence, and Alistair knelt down to recover their torch. Ever so carefully, he picked it up, making sure to hold it angled just so it would keep burning best it could. Which wasn't well, but still a lot better than not at all.

“I don't like them alone,” Aedan said, quieter now that they were the only two left, and without a mount of rock to shout over, “They can't sense them coming.”

Aedan often confessed things to him as such, Alistair had noticed. Low, when it was just the two of them, out of reach of the others' ears. Granted, it was rarely under such extreme circumstances, but it had happened more than once. Worries. Questions. Doubts he wouldn't share with the others.  

For the life of him, Alistair couldn't understand why Aedan would want to do that with him, who so rarely had a smart answer to supply.

“Even if they don't, there's more than enough of them to hold against Spawn, should any show,” Alistair still tried, doing his best to sound reassuring, “They'll be fine. They can handle themselves.”

After a moment, Aedan sighed.

“You're right,” he said, a sentence that Alistair only wished he could say as well about himself, and with as much conviction, at least once in his life.

The torch finally recovered some health, making it safer for Alistair to hold it straight. Without the flame of the others' beacons, though, and the eerie glow of Shale's crystals and Morrigan's and Wynne's staves, the light didn't reach to much more than a few arms around them.

After it, there was pitch black, total darkness. Alistair tore his gaze from it to focus it on Aedan instead, who had come closer. Much closer, actually. The bubble of light was faint and tight enough around them that if they wanted to see clearly, they had no choice but to practically brush shoulders under it. Alistair could count the specks of dust caught in Aedan's lashes, as the man rustled beside him, still blinking out dirt as he tightened a loosened fastenings on his belt.

“Bloody Void,” Aedan muttered under-breath, “I hate this place.”

Despite the circumstances, and having to refrain the urge to brush away the small rocks he could see stuck in Aedan's curls, Alistair couldn't help but scoff.

“You steal the words right out of my mouth,” he said.

Mouth which was still full of dust, he realised, and grimaced at the unpleasant taste and crunch of dirt under his teeth. Luckily they had some water with them, and Alistair reached for it. They would be wise to save it, just in case, but a sip to wash the taste away couldn't hurt.

“Good thinking,” Aedan said, grateful for the offered flask.

They sipped in silence. Slowly but steadily, the weight of the situation was starting to fall on Alistair's mind, an uncomfortable blanket, clinging to his shoulder like a wet cloak: Maker, but this could have been it. They could have died, right there and then, crushed by the mountain in less then the blink of an eye. It was a miracle they hadn't, really.

“It could have ended like that,” Aedan said, as if reading his mind.

His look was to the distance, his voice quiet.

“The lot of us, under rubble.”

Alistair swallowed hard. His ears still rang from the noise of the collapse, he realized. In the silence, the high-pitched whistle felt painfully loud. Despite the torch, the darkness around them seemed to inch closer.

That would have been the last thing they saw, wouldn't it? Darkness, and then nothing but more of it. And then nothing at all, eventually.

“Yes,” was all he found in him to say, “It could have.”

Shaking himself, Aedan breathed in deep, and landed a hard pat on Alistair's back. He even managed to throw him a hint of his usual grin, which gleamed fleetingly in the flickering light of the torch.

“But it hasn't,” he said firmly, “So let's keep at it.”

Adjusting the shield on his back and the sword to his side, he started in the direction they had come from.

“Come on, let's hurry around,” he said, walking off at his brisk pace, “We're not much safer here ourselves.”

Walking off. Into darkness. Just a few steps away from Alistair, and the wall of shadow had already started to swallow Aedan away, licking past his shoulder like the surface of deep, dangerous waters.

“Don't!”

Alistair had moved before even realizing it, and his voice had rung far too loud in the enclosed space of the corridor. He winced, embarrassed.

“Stay close,” he said, quieter.

His hand had grabbed Aedan's forearm, without him meaning for it to do so, but rather than letting go like he should have, Alistair tightened his hold instead.

“I can barely feel you on most days,” he whispered, “so with this all Corruption around us...If you wander off, or if this torch goes out, I might not be able to find you anymore.”

And that terrifies me, he thought, but did not say aloud. All at once the idea of that dense, cold shadow engulfing Aedan and leaving the both of them wandering, alone and lost, in those cursed tunnels, had sent shivers down Alistair's back that even shame wouldn't let him hold back.

“Right,” Aedan said, “Of course.”

Alistair fully expected him to step back, but instead, he raised his armored hand, and firmly landed it on Alistair's.

“Let's stick together,” he agreed, “It's safer this way.”

Alistair could only nod back.

Soon the small, dark tunnel would give in to a larger corridor. The faint gleam of deep mushrooms, exposed lyrium veins, as well as a a few surface rays, expertly-guided to the Thaig's hall by the Dwarves' engineering, would allow them to see clear enough to let go of each other and walk normally side by side.

But as they did, and even, much later on, as they finally joined back with the rest of their party, Alistair could not shake from his head - just like he couldn't shake the ringing from his ears - the firm touch of Aedan's hand holding his back.

[chaotic-good-hawke]

Failure

What if the warden died, even though Morrigan’s ritual was performed? 

Warning: Angst, 617 words. 

It was done. The archdemon was defeated.

The dust was settling around them, soldiers coughing and calling out to each other. Zevran stumbled to his feet beside her, wiping blood and sweat from his brow.

He turned to her and laughed. “I knew we could do it! Ha!” His stupid, confident grin slightly less annoying than usual.

Morrigan just harrumphed in response and stood herself, brushing off her robes. Everything had gone to plan, of course. The warden was no fool.

She should leave, before the warden found her, before they tried to convince her to stay.

She wouldn’t admit this, but if they asked, she would stay, against all her better judgement.

Leliana ran up to them, her quiver empty, covered in bits of debris. “Thank the Maker you made it!”

“I promise you he had nothing to do with it.” Morrigan quipped reflexively.

“Be that as it may, I am glad to see you survived.” Leliana said.

Behind her followed the others left to guard the gates. Sten, with his sword blooded. Oghren, his axe still barred. Wynne, leaning heavy on her staff. Shale, her crystals shining through the muck. Even the dog was there, barking in greeting.

“And you all still live! How incredibly unlikely! We really are amazing!” Zevran exclaimed, slapping Leliana on the back and chuckling.  

“We faced the enemy and beat them. As the warden trusted us to.” Sten said.

“Indeed. The darkspawn were quite squishy.” Shale commented.

“We need to drink to celebrate! First rounds on me!” Oghren yelled.

“I would not say no to a drink. But perhaps we should gather the wardens first.” Wynne suggested.

Yes, where were they?

Together they moved closer to where the archdemon fell, stumbling through rubble and by bodies, some alive, some dead, darkspawn and human alike. The fight was not without cost, of course.

Where were the wardens?

**

They found him on his knees. Not moving. Holding something in his arms.

No, not something…someone.

He didn’t move as they approached, just kept deadly still. His sword and shield thrown aside.  

“You said they would live!” Alistair whispered. The words cut Morrigan. Passionless. Defeated. Gone was the childish man. Grief choked him, consumed him. Tears streamed down his face.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She followed the ritual.

The warden-her friend was supposed to survive.

But the glassy eyes stared at her, bore into her soul and accused her.

Liar. Deceiver.

There, in Alistair’s arms, was the warden.

Dead.

Morrigan couldn’t move. She refused to accept this was reality. It was impossible.

Leliana sobbed, falling beside Alistair, grasping the hand of their friend. Their leader. Too young, too hopeful.

Dead.

Wynne joined her, her hands glowing as she cast her spells.

Yes. Of course. Wynne, she would heal them and all would be right.

But, after a moment, Wynne lowered her hands and head, shaking. “They’re gone.”

No.  

The others gathered around. Stony faced. Silent.

Except for the dog, who whined and nudged at his master’s face. Sensing that their master was gone, he let out a mournful howl, leaning back on his haunches.

The sound propelled Morrigan to move. Turning away, she slipped into the shadows. Heart pounding. Away from them all. Away from the damned archdemon. Away from the one who made her care.

Away from her failure.

Because of course it was her failure. It was the only explanation. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong and her friend had paid the price.  

As she fled, she felt hot tears flowing unbidden down her own cheeks.

She had failed.

Failed the only one who had truly cared about her.

She was truly alone again.

A failure.

[ravenqueen89]

running into light

Here be a Patreon offering for @effelants, who requested dwarf warden/zevran fluff. I might have not gone Full Fluff because I am a terror, but hopefully this is a good read!

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins

Pairing: Natia Brosca/Zevran Arainai

Title: Running into light

Rating: PG-13

Content warning: slight mentions of child abuse and racism.

Summary: Natia’s name means light.

Featuring: biracial and bisexual main character, extremely chaotic tenses, much pondering, the damn Deep Roads, mention of past Natia/Nadezda. I took some liberty with the dwarf commoner origin with Natia having a different father than Rica.

Word Count: 847

Natia’s name means light, and she’s always believed it was her mother’s first punishment, ever since she first found out. Growing up, the brand on her face was only slightly darker than her skin, and she’s still not sure which of the two set her apart more. She just knows how it felt, being so obviously different, being singled out, being unable to hide what everyone else said was wrong with her. She remembers the dust, and the stench of stale alcohol and misery. She remembers her mother’s words, the ones that hurt more than the beatings. She remembers not even fitting in there, in the hovel, in her home, different even from her own family, so unlike her mother, so unlike Rica, with her beauty and her fair skin.

It still feels like she’s been running her whole life, running from the taunts and the hurt and the fury and the hunger and all the pain. That day when she stood in front of the entire Proving with her bare face, she hadn’t felt brave. She’d felt so very tired of running.

She has been running on the surface too, but towards danger rather than away from it, and she doesn’t know what she’s trying to prove anymore. All she knows is that she has to do her best, even though no one will accept her for what she is, even though no one will look at her and see who she truly is.

When they emerge into the bright light of the mountains after crowning Orzammar’s new king, even she feels like she can’t get enough air into her lungs. Her companions have been as silent as her since the Deep Roads, and all Natia can think is that she missed the sky. The image of her sister in her palace chambers is chasing after her, but Natia can’t focus on that. She still needs to make sure that her family is safe, and that doesn’t just include Rica anymore.

Zevran watches her as they make their way out of the mountains, seeking the most direct path back to Redcliffe Castle. Natia can feel his gaze linger, but she’s not quite sure what to say, not now.

The worst night of the Deep Roads had happened when they were on their way back to Orzammar with Caridin’s crown, when the severity of all they’d been through fully made its impact known. They’d made camp in a section that completely lacked light, and the fire had died out quickly in their joint silence. There were lines and shadows on all their faces that Natia had never seen before, and she’d known the sickness she felt was shared by Wynne, and Zevran, and especially Oghren. She’d wondered how she would explain it all to those left in Orzammar, and she’d found herself unable to catch her breath. She’d gone for an aimless walk, to prevent from being seen, and accidentally found a crack in the ceiling that allowed for a barely-there ray of light to make its way into the darkness.

Zevran had found her there, sitting on the ground, her hand the only part of her in the light, and he’d sat next to her, his silence almost unnatural. When he’d finally spoken, his speech lacked its usual patterns, and his direct earnestness had surprised her.

‘That charming lady in Dust Town…she meant something to you.’

It hadn’t been a question, and it certainly hadn’t been what Natia had expected, but the words spilled out of her in the shadows, consumed by the light.

‘She was a light in the dust,’ Natia had said, ‘she made me feel like I was worth something, for just a moment. It was as shortly-lived as anything else down there, of course, and now I have to save the world and Nadezda was punished for knowing me. I wonder what the Stone has to say about that.’

Zevran had been quiet for a long while afterwards, and Natia’s heart fluttered with all the impossible possibilities filling the space between her hand and his. She’d never quite allowed herself to feel, never quite allowed herself to acknowledge whatever this was between him and her, but in that moment she did.

‘You are aware of your worth now, yes?’ he’d asked, and she’d shivered, and kissed him so he would say nothing else.

Now, in the light of day, under the vastness of the sky, Natia looks at him, and doesn’t know what to say. She does know what he meant, though, does know that he sensed the change in her before she did. She’s still running, but not from herself, and in the dark she’s found him, and now they stand together in the light, everything exposed, everything vulnerable

When Natia takes Zevran’s hand, his face is open and trusting, and she thinks about everything they have been through, everything they still have ahead, but she knows that she belongs here. As she lifts her face up towards the winter sun, she thinks maybe her mother hasn’t misnamed her, after all.

[trvelyans-archive]

aaaaaaaand on my fic-posting roll for the night, here’s my part of an art trade for the lovely and darling @free-the-mages who has been FAR too kind considering it’s taken me almost a month and a half to write this for her, but kaitlyn! i hope you like it nevertheless. you’re the absolute best and i hope i did alistair and lark good for you <3

---

“Ah. I see, now – our trick to wiping out all the darkspawn is baiting the archdemon to attack us in the middle of nowhere! Very tempting. Though, I might add, not a very good idea when you really think about it.”

Lark looks over her shoulder. Alistair is leaning against a tree, a curious and almost concerned expression on his face, clothed in nothing more than a cotton tunic and linen pants. His sleepwear. She doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there. The bowl of soup he’s holding must be growing cold.

He holds it almost like an offering, and she forces herself not to take it.

Then, she holds herself back from telling him to fuck off, since that would do no good for either of them, and looks away from him instead. “Thanks,” she grumbles, “but that’s not what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing, then?”

There’s an awkward pause before she gives a heavy sigh. “Just thinking,” she answers, thumbing the peeling label of her bottle. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Alistair tells her, finally giving in and trudging through the mud in the clearing towards her. “You can take care of yourself, even against a horde of Darkspawn. I know that for a fact. I was just going to tell you it looks like it’s going to storm tonight, so you might want to… Not sit there.”

She looks down at the boulder she’s sitting on. Her legs dangle over the edge and skim the surface of the river beneath, and she blinks at him. “Why not?”

“Just… doesn’t seem like a very good idea.” But he doesn’t make any move to turn back to camp. After a moment of hesitation, in fact, he motions for her to move over and make room for him.

She tucks her feet under her bum and follows his wordless instructions, crossing an arm over her chest and clutching her bottle close to her chest with the other.

Lark isn’t particularly drunk, but she’s not particularly sober, either. She knows because she feels his knee bump up against hers and it’s like an electric shock. She’s not annoyed like she might’ve been if it had happened earlier; she doesn’t ask him to move or get off the boulder entirely. Instead she grits her teeth and tells herself to calm down. It’s just a knee, for Andraste’s sake.

But that’s not the point.

Their relationship has been rocky since Lothering, and yet she likes him anyway. Despite their bickering, despite their differences, she likes him. And she hates it. She doesn’t want to like him! He’s taller than she is, he’s a human, and…

And he’s funny. He makes her laugh even though his jokes are stupid. And, even though they aren’t on the best of terms, he came to see her anyway, even though he had to walk through ankle-deep mud just to join her on her stinking rock.

Maker. If Shianni could see Lark now, she’d be the laughingstock of the family.

“So.” Alistair’s looking at her. “What’re you thinking so hard about?”

She’s glad she’s not more drunk or else she’d probably tell him. “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just… the… Blight. And stuff.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s… a lot to think about.”

“Yeah, it is.”

They fall silent. An awkward amount of time passes, and it’s not until the third poke that she realizes that he’s trying to get her attention again.

“Are you… sure there’s nothing else?” he asks. “Just because… Well, normally you’d be telling me to leave you alone, or you’d be making fun of my hair – though I did work especially hard on it this morning so, in any case, thank you for not doing that – but you’re not doing either of those things, really. You’re just… sitting there.”

She nods. “Yeah, I am,” she replies. 

His nose scrunches up in annoyance.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not!”

“Really?” He plucks the bottle of wine out of her hand and holds it away from her, pretending to examine it with great interest. “You know, Oghren drinks this stuff. Are you sure you can handle it? You’re a lot smaller than he is.”

“Alistair –“

“So… I really don’t think you should be –“

“Alistair, give it back.”

He squints at her for a few moments, deciding what to do next, and then he thrusts the bowl of soup into her arms and offers her a smile. “Drink this, instead,” he tells her. “Or eat it, I suppose. Whatever.”

He’s worried about her. Or something. She doesn’t know why. He’s never given her this much attention before. She grits her teeth and takes the metal spoon begrudgingly in between her thumb and her forefinger, stirring slowly, agonizingly slowly, just to appease him. Alistair is still watching her.

What does he want?

In the distance, thunder rumbles. It sounds like a warning. She swallows a spoonful of soup – it’s lukewarm and lumpy - and forces herself not to spit it out.

“What do you want?” she asks after the wipes her mouth clean on the back of her hand and puts her spoon in the bowl again. “You can’t just be worried about me.”

Alistair’s eyebrows gather together. “That’s not – Y-yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”  

At that, he looks almost angry. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t be worried about,” he tells her, “and I’m worried about –“

“The Blight.” She jumps down from the rock and walks over to where he leaned the bottle up against the boulder, picking it up and tossing it between her hands. “That’s what this is about, right? You think I’m slacking off?”

Alistair stammers for a moment before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say it like that…”

“This hasn’t been a very good experience for me either, you know!” She takes a drink, beginning to pace back and forth dangerously close to the bank of the river. “I mean… I didn’t want to get married, but then the elf who was going to be my husband got murdered by some fucking shems, and then I wind up in Ostagar, where the Grey Wardens are all wiped out, and Duncan dies, and I’m sacked with taking care of you –“

She catches herself before she continues, but Alistair’s already rolling his eyes. “Oh, well, I’m sorry it’s been so hard on you. Would things be easier if I started feeding you your dinner and washing your clothes for you? Maybe I can carry you around the country on my back, too?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Her bottle is empty, but she drinks – or pretend to drinks from it – anyway. “What I meant is that it’d be nice if you didn’t question everything I do! It’s hard to be in charge, Alistair! Do you wanna do it, instead?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he rises, arms falling from where they were crossed over his chest to swing by his sides, gaze averted elsewhere.

“That’s what I thought,” Lark murmured. “Now, you can take your soup and your… well-wishing, or curiosity, or whatever you want to call it and go back to camp, okay?”

It almost works. He almost leaves.

But, before he takes that first step, he doesn’t.

Alistair is too kind. It’s the kind of kindness that feels like a punch in the gut. He’d never leave if he knew she was hurting. He’d never leave if he thought she was drunk. (She isn’t. Tipsy, maybe, but not drunk.)

Or, maybe... he’d just never leave at all.

“I’m not doing that,” he says evenly. “I’m going to stay here, a-and make sure you’re alright, and there’s you can do to stop me. Except… well, a few things, I suppose. I guess if you wanted to twist my arm -”

“Go back to camp,” Lark insists. “Alistair, go.”

She puts a hand on his chest and tries to push him away from her. He just places both of his hands over top of hers, staring at her in defiance.

A groan of protest rises in her throat. “Alistair…”

“You may want me to go, but I’m not going to,” he tells her. “I’m going to stay here until you come back with me.”

“Why?”

“Because!” It comes out as more of a bark than he intended, and he immediately shrinks away. “Because, I…” He blinks rapidly, stammering as he searches for the right words, holding tightly onto her hand. “Because…” And then, after a long stretch of silence, he gives a sigh of defeat, dropping his arms to his sides. “Because… look, Lark, you’re the only person I have left, alright? And I don’t want to… I can’t lose you. I can’t do this without you, okay?”

He’s breathing heavily. He’s on the verge of panting. She is, too, and she hasn’t spoken for a few long, awkward seconds.

“What does that mean?” she asks breathlessly.

And, to her horror, he laughs. He doesn’t yell at her or scold her or stalk away. He just laughs, and stammers, and then gives a lackluster shrug. “I don’t know, if I’m being completely honest,” he says. “It’s just that… sometimes you get on my nerves, and sometimes I can’t be around you… but sometimes you’re the only person.”

She stares at him, her face blank.

“And…” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I like you.”

“You what?”

Her tone sounds more disgusted than she meant for it to and she hurries to continue before he even has time to react. “I mean… I just… you hate me, Alistair.”

He balks at her. “Do you honestly believe that?”

“Well…”

She never wanted him to hate her, but she thought he did, and she thought that was what she had wanted this entire time because it made her feelings for him easier to deal with and easier to ignore since she thought nothing would come of them. But now… he likes her. Just like that.

And she likes that, too.

“I’ve never hated you, Lark,” Alistair almost reassures her, reaching out to grab her shoulder before stopping himself and giving her a quizzical look that makes her heart leap into her throat. “Do you… erm… do you hate me?”

The fact that he readies himself for her to say ‘no’ makes her sad. And angry at herself for making him feel that way.

But she doesn’t answer right away, anyway, because she should just say ‘yes’. It’d hurt him, but it’d make things easier for both of them in the long run – he must know that as well as she does. If he didn’t, he’d have confessed his feelings for her sooner. After all, things between them would never be easy – they’d bicker as much as they do now and then they’d have to crawl back to each other at the end of the day to apologize instead of getting a good night’s sleep, which they need when they’re trying to save Ferelden from the archdemon. And yet…

“No,” she says, her voice crackling. “No, I don’t hate you, Alistair. I like you, too.”

“Really?” he squeaks before clearing his throat and crossing his arms over his chest protectively. “I mean… really? It’s not just the a-alcohol talking or something?”

Lark gives him a shake of her head. “No,” she says. “It’s not.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

And that’s all he says.

The clearing falls into an awkward silence. Lark shifts back and forth on her feet, waiting for one of them – even herself, if that’s what it comes to – to make a move.

And Alistair does. Kind of. And then he stops.

“You’re sure you’re not –“

“Alistair!”

“Ijustwanttomakesure!” he exclaims. “I’m not going to kiss you while you’re drunk, Lark! What kind of man do you take me for?”

The corners of her mouth quirk upwards into a smirk. “You were gonna kiss me?” she asks.

His cheeks turn red instantly. “I… Yes, I was, but if you don’t want to, then that’s –“

She kisses him before he can finish.

He doesn’t react, at first. She opens her eyes just to see what he’s doing and his look like they’re pointing in two different directions in shock. And then, finally, he seems to relax – his eyes flutter shut and his arms snake around her waist, his grip on her strong and unwavering, unflinching, and she smiles against his mouth, pushing him backwards until he’s sitting on the edge of the rock.

She’s just climbed into his lap when Alistair pulls away, blushing furiously.

“That was, um… really nice,” he says, pulling a hand away to rub the back of his neck. “But we probably shouldn’t –“

She cuts him off again, delighting in the way he kisses her back without question. It takes knocking the bowl of now-cold soup over and sending it spilling down the side of the rock for either of them to consider stopping their romantic engagement.

Alistair’s lying flat on his back with his legs dangling over the edge of the boulder, and when he tries to sit up, Lark just holds him down with a playful smirk.

“We should get back to camp,” he whispers, looking up at her with rounded eyes.

“We should,” she agrees, then adds, “doesn’t mean we have to, though.”

And then he rolls his eyes, moving his hands from around her waist to her wrists, trying to wriggle free of her hold on him as she tilts her face upwards to nip at his earlobe. “You must be even drunker than I thought,” he comments as her hand comes up to flatten against the other side of his face. “You know, you could do with a little bit of self control, or I’m going to start thinking that you don’t have any standards.”

But he’s smiling, and he’s gorgeous, and Lark can’t find it in herself to wring out what little self-control she has.

“Lark, I’m serious,” he says with a laugh. “We should… get back to…”

She’s relentless in her attack of the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and relentless also in the way she grinds herself against him in minute little strokes. He sighs, gliding a hand up her arm to cup the back of her neck. “You’re… very good at that,” he murmurs.

“At what?” she asks, feigning stupidity as she draws away and smiling as he sucks in a sharp breath at the loss of contact.

“At… at…”

“At using my mouth?”

Something dark glimmers in his eye before he clears his throat and glances away, cheeks burning.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she tells him, cocking her eyebrows playfully. “Do you want me to walk you through it?”

She’s biting her lip so hard she think she might make herself bleed and then feels the blood drain from her face when he shakes himself to attention and meets her eyes. “No, no,” he says matter-of-factly, making her heart sink deep into her stomach. “I’ve liked this, Lark, I have – I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t. but… I want this to be special. Don’t you? Not on some… rock in the middle of the woods.”

It’s a fair point, but her first instinct is to disagree before she shakes the thought from her head. “You’re right, I guess,” she says eventually, untangling herself from on top of him and climbing down from the rock, kicking a smaller one nestled against it and sending it skittering through the grass until it lands in the stream with a startling plunk. “And I guess we should return to camp, too.”

“Ah, yes.” Alistair hops down from the rock after her, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Wouldn’t want Wynne to worry about us or anything, or suspect what nefarious things we were getting up to.”

“Nefarious. Is that what you’d call kissing?” Lark brushes past him to grab her bowl and frowns as she feels the gritty liquid smear over her thumb, not even thinking about it as she licks it off and meets his eyes. “I wonder what you’d call sex.”

Alistair isn’t drinking anything, and he still chokes, coughing and coughing until he’s even redder in the face than he was before. “Can we not talk about that, please?” he asks then at her alarmed glance, eyes trained on the ground and hands shoved deep in his pockets. “It’s… I’m a very weak man, Lark, and I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.”

Lark stops in her tracks, then, thinking.

Regret is a strong word. She has never felt like she’s regretted very many things. She believes in herself – she’s always had to – and she believes in what she believes. She’s never really had room for regret.

But she might regret this.

Alistair is funny, and gentle, and he has a heart of gold that could fetch a ridiculous amount of sovereigns in an Orlesian market. Sometimes he snorts when he laughs, and one time he even snorted whilst in the middle of choking down some of Wynne’s stew – it was really funny, actually, the thought bringing a smile to Lark’s lips. He brings a smile to her lips. He has for a while now.

And he can’t.

She’s not like him. She’s loud and drinks too much and has too many throwing knives. She curses Andraste under her breath and acts out against the Chantry in ways that border on heresy. And she really, really, really likes him.

And… she can’t. She’ll ruin him. She’s already ruined so many things.

He decided to start off towards the camp in the time that she was thinking, and when he stops and turns around to beckon her closer, his expression hardens into a frown.

“What is it?”

She looks at him and shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Nothing, nothing,” she chirps. “Let’s just get back to camp.”

The urge to hold his hand is probably stronger than the Archdemon is, and she resists it anyway.

That’s good, at least, she tries to convince herself.

---

Their camp is steeped in a haze of mist and gentle rain the next morning, and Lark frowns when she awakes, trying her best to ignore the stray hairs sticking straight up from her scalp. Alistair’s face breaks out into a grin as he sees her, walking quickly towards her, holding a bowl of soup – probably filled with leftovers from the night before and somehow even colder than it was then – in his hands.

“Good morning,” he says in a low, throaty voice, handing the bowl towards her and grinning wider as she takes it. “How did you sleep? Was there a certain Grey Warden in your dreams?”

She looks at him blankly. “I didn’t sleep well,” she comments. “And my head hurts.”

“Oh.” Alistair’s eyebrows gather together. “Well, I mean, you did drink a whole bottle of some Dragon-Heart-Burn-Break-Your-Face thing last night that I think is probably worthy of making Oghren feel ill. Did you… Do you feel sick?”

She swallows the lump growing in her throat. “I don’t even remember that much of last night, honestly,” she says even though it breaks her heart and makes her face burn to see his own fall. “And, anyway,” she continues, holding the bowl back out to him so far that she’s practically pushed it up against his chest, keeping a very obvious distance between them, “we should get a move on and make some headway before, well, this gets worse.”

She knows the sound she makes as she walks away is twigs being crunched beneath her boot, but she feels like, for just one second, that it might be the sound of Alistair’s heart breaking.

[elusetta]

Dedicated to my loving ex-mother @sharky-broshaw and my beloved musketeers.

Read here on ao3.

My Leliana:

Life at Vigil’s Keep has been demanding, and I am loath to deliver to you the news that I cannot yet return home. There are matters here that still require me. If you could, I would beg you to come here, to cut short our separation, but I will understand if you cannot; this place is dreary as the Fade, and the sun never seems to shine. It is hardly the place for you, my love.

But it is not all bad. The rain is one thing; my companions are another. I am happy to report to you that here, I have found companionship I did not think possible outside of those I had known during the Blight. Sigrun, although distrustful of my actions with the Architect, is the most delightful dwarf I have known since Dagna; I think you would get along with her. Velanna- who I am sure you will remember from the letters I sent you during my time in the Wending Wood- has grown on me, and I believe I have grown on her, even if she would never admit it until the day she dies, shem that I am. Anders is quite like Alistair, full of jokes and lively banter. As for Justice, the spirit who possessed a corpse, I do not quite know what I can say of him- of it?- but, regardless, he is part of us. Oghren, of course, you already know.

And then there is Nathaniel Howe. I will admit that I was not prepared to forgive him for the crimes of his family, but he has made it impossible not to. I have grown exceptionally fond of him, despite the dark circumstances that I met him in, and I certainly hope that I will remain friends with him until the Calling takes us both.

The only thing missing from this keep is you, Leliana, and your absence is dearly felt. I cannot expect you to give up whatever it is you’ve been doing these past months, but if you have the chance and the will- if your Grand Cleric business is entirely completed- come be with me. Schmooples can sleep in our room. (And I’m certain that my companions would adore your stories, if you would tell them.) I hope I do not sound too pathetic, but it is still hard to be without you. I fear I rely on you- you and Alistair- too much for my own good. It is undeniable that I have not been at my best, even with all these people who I care for, and it has been… difficult to sleep.

And in case you forget it while I am away: I love you.

With all my heart,

Iseult Cousland.

The last lines of ink dried on the paper, turning from glossy to matte under the insistent warmth of her firelit bedchamber, just as footsteps faded into Iseult’s awareness. She turned, a smile already encroaching at the edges of her lips.

Nathaniel. A presence she’d once been cold around, but as time had worn on, had become a comfort. His blue eyes took in the room with only an archer’s, a ranger’s, alert interest, before landing on her letter. “Am I intruding, Commander?” Her smile grew. She turned in her chair, the movement so much lighter than what she was used to, her body for once bereft of the silverite armor that weighed down every step. “No, I had just finished. And Nathaniel,” she added, meeting his eyes gently, “we’ve been over this. You can just call me Iseult.”

“If you insist.” He walked closer, his height towering over Iseult- already small, and even smaller seated- and glanced at the letter. “Who are you writing to? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Iseult rolled up the letter, sealing it with wax imprinted by the Cousland heraldry. “My wife.” Wife; the word was still pleasantly unwieldy, perhaps not official but full of everything she couldn’t say.

He smiled, a subtle thing that would have seemed insincere to anyone who did not know him. “Will we ever get to meet that woman, I wonder?” Iseult let out a small laugh. “Oh, I do hope so.” Examining him again, something called to her in his stance, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “Did you come to see me? Or is this a patrol?” He’d taken to pacing the keep; whether from habit or as a way to combat his thoughts, she couldn’t tell. This seemed different, but then again, despite her attempts at understanding him… he was not exactly the easiest person to read.

“I meant to ask you something,” he said almost nervously, sitting down on her bed with eyes that darted everywhere.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, Nathaniel. Anything.”

He let out a sharp breath- of relief? Of preparation?- before opening his mouth and letting out a stream of words much too fast for Iseult to understand.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what was that?” “The elf. I can’t tell if she likes me or not. I want her to like me, I think,” he replied, only slightly slower than before. “How do I make her like me?” Iseult’s eyebrow quirked. “Well…” She trailed off for a second, then stifled a giggle. Of course. All the ‘my lady’, the compliments, the way his eyes followed the woman when he thought no one was looking. She’d been right. “In my experience, you’re usually supposed to tell her that you like her.”

He gave her a look that was something like nerve-wracked exasperation. “But what if she doesn’t like me back?”

Iseult pursed her lips. “Then you give her things until she does.”

“That seems immoral,” he protested.

Iseult shrugged. “Velanna’s prickly. Show her you like her, and- wait.” She suddenly stood up, pacing back and forth in front of him, her hands clasped behind her back. “You did mean you like her in the ‘you want to kiss her’ way, right? Not just as friends?”

He nodded, and Iseult echoed the movement. “I see. Maybe you could tell her that. I think most people like to be kissed, even the prickly ones.”

“But I’m a human. Didn’t you hear her talking to Anders the other day? She said she found most humans physically and morally repulsive.”

“That’s true,” Iseult conceded, “but didn’t you hear her apologize to you?”

He made a noise of consideration. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

“Well, we don’t have to be,” Iseult pointed out. “Just go talk to her.”

“Come on, Iseult,” he sighed. “Was I being too forward? When I called her lovely? You have a wife. You should know this.”

Iseult frowned, slowing to a stop. “Nathaniel, Leliana and I met while attempting to stop an archdemon, and we only became closer because I was forced to kill someone who looked exactly like her while in the Fade. We are hardly an example of a normal couple.” Studying his face, she added, “But I do not think you were being too forward. She told you to stop that time, and you did. I would call you the picture of chivalry, but…”

“But what?” “Well, you did try to kill me once.”

He scoffed and looked away, then sighed. “Thank you. I suppose I should try... something.”

“That is, generally, the better option.”

He got up and left the room, and Iseult followed at his heels, letter in hand.

--

My Leliana,

Most likely I will not send this letter; it has been only a day since I sent my last one, but I feel compelled to write down the events that have transpired since then, and I am unsure of how else to do it. Perhaps, if you do come to the keep, I can give you them then, as a primer on the dynamics I have discovered.

Did you know that Nathaniel Howe likes Velanna, in a kissing way? He came and asked me about what he should do. I’m very flattered, since I am eight years his junior, that he would seek me out for advice, and seeing as I am at least a little bit sure that she likes him back, I have decided that it is my duty to make lovers out of them. Is this what you mean, when you say you serve the Maker?

(I’m joking, my love; I know it isn’t.)

I will update you as developments continue.

Yours,

Iseult Cousland.

With a small snort of withheld amusement, Iseult put down her quill and stood up, quickly maneuvering to hide it behind her when someone kicked through her door. Immediately, a violent urge surged through her. Darkspawn? Or worse, a betrayal from inside the keep? Her hand flew to the sword leaning against her bed, but when her visitor appeared- a brightly-colored, flushed Velanna- she relaxed. The look in those eyes was panic, yes, but Velanna didn’t panic when faced with a fight.

So Iseult could only conclude that Nathaniel had acted, as she had advised him to.

“Walk with me, shem,” Velanna demanded.

Iseult smiled wryly, slipping the letter into the drawer of her desk. “Okay, my lady.”

Velanna froze, her eyes wide and her cheeks quickly coloring, and she grasped Iseult by the sleeve, dragging her through Vigil’s Keep to the bemused stares of many of the soldiers. “How-did-you-know-that!” she hissed under her breath the moment they were alone.

Iseult blinked at her innocently. “Know what?” “You shem are so infuriating,” Velanna growled. “I need to speak with you.”

Iseult smiled, trying not to look too pleased with herself, and nodded.

Velanna sighed, producing a squealing chicken from Maker knew where. “What is the meaning of this?” Iseult choked on a laugh. “What?”

“Nathaniel gave it to me yesterday, then started saying something about how chickens were sort of like me, and then he got distracted and left.” Velanna searched Iseult’s eyes. “What does it mean? Is this some sort of shemlen custom?”

“Oh no,” Iseult mumbled to herself. “Oh, Nathaniel.”

“What does that mean?” Velanna was practically shouting with frustration, and the chicken squawked, flapping away from her and back to the ground. “What does any of this mean?”

It would probably be easier to take the metaphorical bull by the horns, but thinking of Velanna, and thinking of Nathaniel, Iseult quickly determined that this was a matter best left to them. During the Blight, Alistair had been the only one who knew her feelings about Leliana before Leliana did, and Iseult knew she would have killed him if he’d told. “Maybe you should ask him.”

“You- you can’t just-”

Iseult was gone before Velanna could finish her sentence, and judging by the chicken that ran out, terrified, after her, she could only assume it was for the best.

--

My Leliana,

It has been almost two weeks since Velanna’s surprise meeting with me, and I still worry about what has happened between her and Nathaniel. They have been especially cold toward each other whenever I have brought them out together. I think that Velanna may have considered his attempt at an advance an insult, and Nathaniel has taken that as a rejection. I am going to have to wait for another opportunity to attempt to put them together, and as it is, my attentions are better focused elsewhere, at least for the moment.

Vigil’s Keep is currently having its first sunny day since I arrived. While not as warm as some places I could mention, it is undeniably pleasant, and I am at last able to write outdoors. I wonder if your suggestion about roses around the Keep would work. We do need some morale to spare. Our soldiers are hard at work repairing the Keep, and we have taken heavy losses; a flower or two might be just the thing to cheer them up.

Yet, even as the sun shines and I spend my days in no danger, extracting help from various nobles and guarding the Keep, I find it bittersweet. The sun reminds me of you.

Suddenly, a voice cut into her concentration, and Iseult dropped the quill, sending splatters of ink across the page. She cursed softly and looked up to see Anders, his ever-faithful Ser Pounce-a-lot draped sleepily over his shoulders. “Commander!”

She set the letter aside and smiled up at him. “Hello, Anders.”

“What are you doing sitting against the wall? Shouldn’t you be out doing Warden-Commander things? Come on, let’s go find the nearest darkspawn and beat them to death with your sword.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, as they always did, and Iseult only gave him a half-smile in response. “You’re awfully quiet today. Something got you down? Is it Nathaniel? I keep telling him, his whole brooding thing is going to put people off.”

“Nothing in particular,” Iseult replied. “Not Nathaniel. Well- not entirely Nathaniel, anyway.”

Anders must have taken the wistful sigh that she released after that in a way she most certainly did not mean him to, because he gasped comically loudly, his hand flying to his mouth fast enough to startle Ser Pounce-a-lot, whose blue eyes flew open. “Warden-Commander, are you in love with him? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s handsome. I know I would go for him, if he weren’t so dark and dismal all the time. But didn’t his family kill yours? That’s a little scandalous, don’t you think? A little bit spicy? Just a tad? Ooh, or maybe the forbidden love drives you to him?” He wiped away a fake tear. “Go to him, Commander. Follow your heart.”

Iseult watched his performance with amusement, and when her silence finally caught up to him, he paused, giving her an opportunity to interject. “Anders, I trust that you know I’m married.”

“You’re what?”

“To a woman,” she finished. “And I do not care for men, not in that way.”

He stared at her, then slowly began to nod. “So what is it, then?”

She shook her head, trying not to let too much melancholy show. “Many things, really. Our soldiers flag, our Keep is still damaged. And, on a more personal note-” she pretended not to notice his eyes lighting up at that- “I miss my wife, and despite my efforts, Nathaniel and Velanna seem destined not to be together.”

“Oh, wait. If you’re married, does that mean we might finally have an explanation for the woman no one’s seen before in the courtyard?” Iseult’s heart leaped into her throat. “I’m afraid I have to leave you, Anders.”

“Oh no! I feel so betrayed,” he called after her as she raced to the middle of the Keep. “Never forget me, Commander! I love you!”

Her heart pounded in her ears as she glanced around the dull stone exterior of the Keep. No red hair; she breathed out.

Then a pair of hands covered her eyes, and she shivered in barely-contained joy, the feeling of those fingers so familiar. “Did you miss me, Issie?” Leliana’s beautiful, beautiful voice murmured into her ear, and Iseult could not reply with any method other than whirling around, cupping Leliana’s face in her hands, and kissing her deeply.

The soldiers around her took notice. Some laughed, others cheered. One particularly unruly recruit yelled “Get it, Commander Cousland!” from the back, but was quickly hushed by her peers.

They separated, and Iseult pulled Leliana into a tight embrace. The recruits collectively aww-ed, but she was only aware of the woman in her arms, the texture of her hair, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body. Iseult exhaled deeply, her breath tangling in her wife’s hair. “Oh, my love, I’m so glad you came.”

“How could I not?” Once again, they drew apart. Many of the personalities around them had lost interest by then, a development that left Iseult some measure of relief. “You were so very convincing in your letter. Can Schmooples really sleep in our room?” “Anything to keep you here,” Iseult replied.

Leliana cocked her head with a devious smile. “Now, I believe you had some companions to introduce me to.”

“Oh, I most certainly do.” Iseult smiled back at her, intertwined their hands, and set off for the keep with a new spirit in her step.

--

Dear Fergus,

Thank you for your letter, dear brother, and I trust that you are doing well. As for me, well, you know that your baby sister has been up to her eyes in work ever since that fateful day that I became a Grey Warden; that has not changed with the end of the Blight, nor with the defeat of the Mother. I am not sure what I hoped for. Heroism, I suppose, is a lifelong profession.

I must confess, though, that I am happier now than I have been since the night Rendon Howe the night all this began. I am surrounded by friends, Leliana is here with me and seems to be enjoying herself immensely, and the Keep is finally beginning to become itself again. Perhaps even stronger than it was.

I hope that Highever is prospering, and I do hope to return to it as soon as I can. Do not worry; soon enough, I am sure that you will wish me once again out of your hair.

Love,

Iseult Cousland.

With a last swell of effort, she heaved the stone into place. Sigrun glanced at her approvingly. “Hey, nice job, Commander.”

Iseult grinned at her. “Iseult, Sigrun. Just Iseult. And thank you.”

“You know, you should do this more often. We might actually get somewhere.” The dwarf’s tone indicated that she was only half-joking.

“You’re a skilled rogue, Sigrun,” Iseult responded, putting her weight behind another stone. “I will admit that I don’t quite understand why you’ve taken such an interest in restoring these walls.”

“Eh. Brings me back to my roots, I guess,” Sigrun answered with a shrug. “Anyway, get that last thing in and I bet we can call it done for the day.”

In response, Iseult shoved with all her might, feeling several protests from her body but still managing to place the stone. She stepped back and shook out her arms, admiring her handiwork. “I’ll be feeling that for three days.”

“Just three?” Sigrun laughed. “Some of these noodle-arms still haven’t recovered from their first day.” She slapped Iseult’s bicep appreciatively. “Good to know not all humans are just weak sacks of blood.”

“And what would you consider yourself, Sigrun?” Iseult tapped her chin in false thought. “I seem to remember that you were the one who fell down a flight of stairs and got approximately a hundred bruises.”

“Hey, no fair! I died and didn’t complain about it,” Sigrun protested.

“You died metaphorically,” Iseult answered, ruffling Sigrun’s hair. Despite their differences in race, Iseult stood only a few inches taller than Sigrun, a fact neither of them let the other forget- Iseult because she was, at last, taller than one of her friends, and Sigrun because Iseult was the smallest human she had ever met.

Sigrun sniffed the air around Iseult and made a face. “You need a bath.” “So do you,” Iseult replied. “This isn’t exactly a leisure activity.”

A soldier bounded up to them, and Iseult quickly straightened back into her Warden-Commander’s posture. “Commander, there’s been a darkspawn sighting to the northeast. You may have to head out and take care of it.”

Iseult nodded. It was bound to happen eventually; what few darkspawn there had been, the patrols had taken care of, but they were ordinary soldiers, and they had their limits. Perhaps this larger party would point her toward wherever they were coming from, too. “I’ll take Velanna, Nathaniel, and Leliana.”

Sigrun caught her eye. “Aww, you’re leaving me behind?”

Iseult smiled apologetically. “We do need someone to defend the keep.” She whistled sharply, catching the attention of Nathaniel, who she waved down. “Get Velanna! We’re going hunting.”

He immediately gave her a look of excruciating pain, but did not argue.

Smiling to herself, Iseult tracked down Leliana, and by the time the party left, the air was fraught with a certain sort of tension she had never quite experienced before.

The lands around Vigil’s Keep bustled with activity. Merchants towed their wares toward the Keep in a variety of methods; hunting parties pursued herds of animals through the wilder parts. Still, there was very little sign of darkspawn. The party plunged into the forests around it, deeper and deeper, fast approaching the mark on the map.

Examining the map again, she turned her horse to face Nathaniel’s. “Nathaniel, you’re a tracker. Do you see any signs of darkspawn around here?” “None,” he answered. There was a tightness in his face, his knuckles white around the reins of his steed. “It’s quiet.”

Iseult went still. The only sounds around her were Leliana’s humming and the whickers of the horses. The trees seemed to hold their breath around her.

This was all wrong.

“Ambush,” she found herself saying. “There has to be an ambush.”

“You’re right,” Velanna responded. “The forest is never this quiet.”

Iseult urged her horse into moving, but before it could, it dropped to its knees under her with a pained noise.

A massive hurlock raged toward her. Iseult reached for her sword, only to find that it was gone. Nathaniel leaped off of his horse, taking aim and firing at the monster, but his arrow glanced off of its thick armor, and he fell back, taking aim again.

Leliana darted toward Iseult’s fallen horse as Iseult herself stood frozen, preparing for the impact of the hurlock, and sure enough, it slammed into her within seconds. If anything less than her silverite armor had stood between them, it would have caved in her chest. Breathless, she looked up at its towering height, her nerves steeling, and with all the power in her body, she kicked it in the groin.

“Hey, that’s one of my tricks!” Leliana beamed, slipping Iseult’s sword into her hand in an instant before rushing for the hurlock.

Still staggering from her attack, it roared. Vines whipped around it, crushing its throat, and it fell to the ground. Iseult nodded appreciatively in Velanna’s general direction.

More hurlocks and genlocks poured from the trees. “Fall back!” she called to Leliana. “Protect the support!”

They retreated to the aid of Nathaniel and Velanna, themselves overrun with darkspawn, and remained in tight formation. Leliana’s flashing knives, Iseult’s flaming sword, Nathaniel’s flying arrows, Velanna’s booming fire. It was a thrill she could never forget.

Claws assaulted her armor. One particularly hardy set carved two messy lines through the breastplate, and Iseult swore under her breath, thinking of the look Wade would surely give her when he saw it. In retaliation, she sent her sword plunging into the offending darkspawn’s chest, and it crumpled to the ground with a hiss.

The tide began to thin. “Come, my brethren,” growled an impossibly low voice. “Kill them all.”

“Creators, I thought we were done with these!” Velanna said in a strangled voice from the back.

In the darkness of the trees, a glimpse of sharp teeth and black eyes far too intelligent for its kind.

Iseult turned to Leliana as the wave of enemies broke for a moment. “Can you handle this alone?” “What? Why?”

Iseult glanced at (presumably) the leader. “Let me cut off the dragon’s head.”

Leliana smiled wildly. “Go get him, Issie.”

Iseult breathed out, and in a rush not unlike the one she’d taken toward the Archdemon a year ago, her feet pounding on the soft dirt of the forest floor, she aimed herself toward the darkspawn-shaped shadow in the foliage. Everything she had, everything she was poured into her veins, lighting her nerves on fire. “Come here, you wretch!” she shouted. It barely turned toward her, but in the seconds it had taken her to speak, she had already run her sword entirely through its body.

It hissed and crumbled, reducing to nothing. The darkspawn surrounding the other three of her party fell back with confused sounds, and from the rear of the party, Nathaniel and Velanna picked them off one by one.

Iseult breathed in and out, and in again. It was over.

And something was wrong with her chest.

She hadn’t been paying enough attention.

The pain made itself known. She scraped at her breastplate, managing to get it off despite her shaking hands. Blood seeped through the fabric of her tunic, rapidly staining it red, and when Iseult lifted it to examine the wound, it was deeper than she could have expected. Stretching from her right collarbone to her left hip curved three slashes, clawed into her by one demon or another. She honestly could not remember which one it could have been.

Either way, as her hands came away from the wound stained with blood, Iseult’s attention was fixed on them. How long had it been since she’d last bled like this? Her legs weakened, and she sat down, feeling more blood drip from them with every movement.

“Issie? Are you-” Leliana’s eyes caught the gouges, caught Iseult’s bloodstained hands, and immediately, the color drained from her face. “Oh, Maker.”

“Not… that bad,” Iseult said, voice straining. “Just need a… poultice.”

Leliana turned around. “Velanna! She needs healing! Please!” The elf walked over slowly enough that Leliana was nearly crying by the time she finally arrived. Iseult sighed, her breath too shallow. “It’s not that bad.”

Nonetheless, Velanna’s hands glowed green with healing magic, and when the light diffused into Iseult’s body, the bleeding stemmed, and the pain went from a lashing knife to a dull ache. “Don’t die on us now, Commander. We still need you to keep those darkspawn at bay,” the elf offered, her words surly but her voice touched by a hint of worry.

“Yes, I love you too, Velanna,” Iseult responded with as much of a voice as she could muster.

Velanna scoffed and walked away.

As soon as Leliana had checked that the wounds were no longer quite so vicious, she leaned down, kissing Iseult almost ferociously for a lingering moment. The warmth of her, the undeniable softness, grounded Iseult, as it always did. “I am not losing you to something like that,” Leliana whispered when they broke apart.

Iseult laughed weakly. “You won’t.”

Leliana helped her to her feet, and with the strength she had left, Iseult made her way to the other two members of their party, the ruined breastplate dangling by its straps from her hand. It was so inconsequential, the simple ability to have someone to literally lean on, but as Leliana continued to cast gentle, worried looks at her, Iseult could not help but let some of the glowing incandescence in her chest form into a smile.

All this luck… she could hardly comprehend it.

A soft rustle in the trees broke her train of thought, and she glanced around the surroundings just as one last hurlock broke through the greenery, heading straight for her. Before she could even open her mouth to sound a warning, a form separated it from her.

The monster’s claws tore open Nathaniel’s arm. Only a second later, it was dead, strangled by a mass of vines thicker than Iseult had ever seen them. Velanna’s teeth were bared, her hand outstretched, the last vestiges of mana still shimmering around her fingertips.

“Nathaniel!” Iseult immediately cried out. “Are you-”

He nodded as if it were just a scratch, even as the blood poured down his arm. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing,” Velanna snapped. Sweat beaded on her face as she dredged up, somehow, enough power for another healing spell, but nonetheless, the flow of his blood thinned.

“Let’s get back to the keep,” Leliana said, helping Iseult onto her horse before mounting her own. As impersonally as she could, Velanna did the same for Nathaniel, and the half-smile he sent her did not go unnoticed by anyone.

Iseult urged her horse into a run and barely felt the pain in her chest.

--

Dear Alistair,

I was injured today, and it made me think of you. Oh, that doesn’t sound right. I mean that it made me think of the time we had together, during the Blight. Despite everything, I must admit that I miss it sometimes.

Do you remember all of our escapades? Wynne sitting us down and giving us a long talk about the dangers of a man and a woman making love, only to realize that us sleeping together was sleeping and nothing more? The time you made me hide bugs in Zevran’s shoes, and my confession of it mere minutes after the fact? The adventures with the dog?

You make it easy for me to miss you, my dearest friend. I know that I am partially to blame for that, what with putting you on the throne, but not a day goes by that I do not wish you were still here with me, with no other complications.

If you can, come and visit Vigil’s Keep. It will do you some good, I’m sure, to see the rebuilding of the Grey Wardens. Really, though, I am only being selfish: I long to see you again. Besides, I am sure that there is a diplomatic, kingly reason to visit the Keep. Or there will be, if you look hard enough. There are a few people I think you would like to meet.

With love,

Iseult Cousland.

The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing along the walls. Iseult smiled softly to herself, folding and sealing the letter before placing it carefully on the desk.

“Come to bed,” Leliana coaxed.

Iseult slipped out of her everyday clothes and obliged, curling into Leliana’s side, her head resting on her shoulder. “It has been a surprising day.”

Leliana hummed in agreement, running her fingers through Iseult’s hair. “I worry for you, Issie.”

“Why?” Iseult replied, a bubble of laughter in her voice. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Yes, of course you can. I just…” She trailed off. “I find myself thinking about the future. Our future. I know we’ve discussed it before, but- what about children? And what about after that? What happens if you get injured, and Maker forbid it, what if you die?” The laughter in Iseult’s voice evaporated, replaced with soft sincerity. “Leliana… we aren’t facing a Blight. Whatever tries to kill me now is almost definitely going to be less dangerous.”

“But swords are swords,” Leliana interjected. “I was a bard. I have seen the nobles and warriors alike killed by simply turning their eyes away at the wrong moment.”

That night ran through Iseult’s head for the hundred thousandth time. Her mother, strong and unyielding. Her father, brave and wise. Both of them dead by a sword in the back. A chill ran down her bones, and she let out a defeated breath. “I know, my love.”

“Just be careful, yes?” Leliana’s voice was softer now. “I don’t want to have to say goodbye. Not ever again.”

Ah, yes. The archdemon fight, when no one knew if they would make it out alive. Iseult’s body tensed just thinking of it. If the Maker had mercy, nothing like that battle would happen again.

But this was here; it was over. She let out a breath and allowed herself to relax. “I promise you won’t have to.”

A moment passed in silence. It was a moment poised elegantly between peace and sleep, covered with the gauze of approaching fatigue, yet still entirely lucid.

Then, Leliana let out a giggle. “So, that boy and his elf friend?” Iseult grinned into her wife’s shoulder. “You noticed?” “He rather reminds me of you, with all those stares.”

“I was never that obvious,” Iseult objected. Or at least, she’d thought so.

Leliana’s smile widened. “Oh, please. You and your poor, pathetic puppy eyes. I swear you turned pink every time I so much as spoke to you. You were anything but subtle.”

Iseult blushed, and ignored how it completely proved Leliana’s point. “And how did you pick up all of that?” “It was part of being a bard, remember?” Leliana pressed a kiss to the top of Iseult’s head, leaving a spreading warmth. “Besides… I loved you too.”

Iseult began to drift, but still caught the “and still do” that Leliana added.

She slept with the warmth of arms defending her from the shadows of the past, and she dreamed of a future full of stars and old friends.

--

Alistair,

I am unsure as to why I am writing this letter at all, because the impetus for my writing it was that I heard you were undertaking a journey here. I will see you soon in person, I am sure, so there is truly no reason for this letter to exist. Still, it calms me to write to you. I can imagine your face, what you would say to me, every time I do.

Leliana likens me to a mabari; she says she can practically see a tail wagging in excitement as I watch for you from the battlements. Nonetheless, I am certain that your journey will take you a while. An insufferably long while, actually. So, in the meantime, I must busy myself with work around the keep, of which there is thankfully more than enough of. Two weeks since my last letter, and every day has been a wait.

Until I see you again,

Iseult Cousland.

The sun shined down upon the keep, catching the silver of Iseult’s armor, stained only slightly with darkspawn blood from the hunting earlier, as she once again stood in front of the ever-challenging Velanna. “All I’m saying is that you two should work something out. If you continue to-”

“Dance around each other,” Leliana interrupted her.

Iseult pushed back a grin. “If you continue to have such heated arguments during our outings, then it does pose a risk of interrupting our dynamic, yes?” “Then perhaps you should not put me in the same company as such an infuriating shem!” Velanna practically bellowed, shooting Leliana, who was still wearing a little teasing smile, with a look that could have cut glass. “If he persists with all of his my lady and his… enraging little compliments I swear on the Creators I’ll-”

“Velanna,” Iseult said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder, “will you at least talk with him? If it truly upsets you so much, I am more than certain that he will back down. He is a good man. He may be just trying to show you respect.”

“It doesn’t upset me! That’s what upsets me about it!” Velanna’s ears immediately turned bright red, and she stormed away without another word.

Leliana tilted her head at Iseult. “That went well, I think.”

“She certainly revealed a few things I think she didn’t mean to,” Iseult agreed.

They nodded at each other. “I say another week,” Iseult added.

“A week? You’re mad. I say it takes them three days.” Leliana’s eyes suddenly drew to the gates. “Oh- Issie! Look who it is!”

Iseult squinted at the gate. A glint of gold, a shimmer of blonde. A thrill immediately pushed itself through her. “Alistair!” As quickly as she could, she began to take off her armor, Leliana’s gaze only growing more amused as her movements became haphazard.

“Do you really have to greet him like that every time you’re apart?” Leliana said, one eyebrow raised.

“Commander, I-” Nathaniel froze upon seeing the scene. “Commander?”

“Yeah, what is she doing?” Anders appeared from behind him.

Leliana smiled enigmatically. “You’ll see.”

“Is he wearing armor?” Iseult asked from the depths of her own.

Leliana took a moment to make it out. “He is. And it’s his fancy King of Ferelden armor, too.”

After one last moment of fumbling with straps and metal, Iseult finally extricated herself from the enormous pile of metal. “Oh, this is going to hurt.”

Three gazes followed her as she took off in a whirlwind sprint across the courtyard: two utterly bewildered, and one extremely amused. “Alistair!” Iseult called to the man across the courtyard.

His head snapped around to see her, and he opened his arms, grinning widely. “Sei!”

With one final sprint and a mighty leap, she jumped into his arms, embracing him tightly. Sure enough, the impact of her body on his massive, superfluous armor- or rather the impact of his armor on her- pushed all of her breath away, and she had to wait a moment to regain it. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you so much!”

“And I you. Why did I let you talk me into becoming king, again?” He returned the embrace with as much vigor, until suddenly his grip loosened. “Ooh, people are staring. Do you think it’s acceptable for a king to-”

“Alistair Theirin,” Iseult said, only partially joking, “I haven’t seen you for far too long. Let them stare.”

“Oh, all right.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose that getting to hug my best friend after an eternity away from her isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

She laughed, then caught the eye of a nobleman who was somehow horrified, disgusted, and confused at the same time. “Although if you don’t put me down soon, those rumors will start up again.”

“Ugh.” Reluctantly, he placed her back on the ground, and they both assumed their authoritative postures once more; hers of a Warden-Commander, his of a king. “Commander Cousland, I believe you owe me a tour of the keep?”

She bit her cheek to stop herself from beaming. “I believe I do, your majesty.”

--

“So this is important business, hmm?” Anders asked, arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow significantly above the other. “I’m not complaining, but…”

“Do kings do nothing but sit around and drink?” Velanna snapped.

Iseult raised a finger to hush them. “This is important business. Raising morale.”

Nathaniel laughed from behind a mug of ale, then covered it up with a cough.

Oghren just burped loudly. “You kids don’t know how to have fun.”

“Oh, I think I know something that’ll raise morale.” Alistair, much less imposing without his golden armor, shot Iseult a dangerously playful look. “Want to hear the story of how your Warden-Commander once climbed into a tree and wouldn’t come back down because she had seen a snake? In her full set of armor, by the way. The tree could barely hold her.”

Anders looked at Iseult in disbelief, a slow smile spreading over his face as he took in the fact that she’d turned bright red. “Now this I have to hear.” He sat at the table, chin resting on his fist. “Please, go on.”

“It wasn’t even a snake,” Alistair continued. “It was a rope that her dog had chewed up.”

Velanna scoffed and sat down too, pretending not to be interested. Iseult buried her head in her hands.

“Aww, you were so stupid,” Sigrun cooed, slapping Iseult on the back with surprising force.

Leliana chimed in from the other side of the table. “Ooh, or the time that a nobleman asked you two how long you’d been married.”

Alistair guffawed, ruffling Iseult’s hair. “She had no idea what was going on.” He remembered something else, perking up again. “Or the time Wynne tried to give us the baby-making talk.”

“Or the time she fell asleep standing up in her armor, and no one noticed until she tipped over,” Leliana added.

“Or the time she-”

“Haven’t you damaged my reputation enough by now?” Iseult groaned, half-serious.

Alistair shoved a drink in front of her, stronger-looking than anything she’d seen in weeks. “Here, this should make you feel better. Leliana, do you remember the time you put a fake spider in the corner of her tent, and she broke a sword trying to kill it?” Iseult removed her head from her hands, picked up the drink, and downed it all.

“Woohoo, Commander!” Oghren shouted. “Look at that, she can drink.”

“Speaking of drinking, did she ever tell you about the time she drank too much and cried because, and I quote, ‘snakes don’t have legs’?”

Iseult poured herself another drink and downed that one too. The fuzz of a tipsy stupor began to rapidly descend on her.

“What about the time she sent the mabari to get a stick, and instead, he came back with Sten’s blade?” Leliana giggled.

Nathaniel patted Iseult on the shoulder. “I’m so glad I didn’t kill you, Iseult.”

“If you were really my friend, you would distract them by telling everyone here about your feelings for Velanna,” Iseult responded.

She realized too late that she had said that at full volume. The table fell silent.

“I’m beginning to regret not killing you, Iseult,” Nathaniel said, his jaw tightening.

“Your what?” Velanna squeaked, her voice going suddenly high.

Sigrun began to laugh hysterically, sliding from her chair to underneath the table.

Leliana broke into a broad smile, getting up from her seat to drag both Nathaniel and Velanna out the door. “It sounds like you two have some talking to do.”

The door slammed behind them. For a moment, the room was completely silent. Anders peered through the window. “Give them a minute… and they’re kissing. Well, that was fast.”

Iseult sighed. “He’s never going to forgive me. Now who am I going to ask to be my surrogate?”

“Your what?” Anders yelped.

“What’s a surrogate?” Sigrun mumbled from under the table.

Alistair let out another loud laugh. “That reminds me of the Morrigan incident. Leliana, did I tell you how she-”

Half of Iseult wanted to sink into the ground and never be seen again. The other half of her was too happy, surrounded by friends and firelight, to even consider it.

All this luck…