#please tell me you have to kiss rings in ferelden

[vigilskeep]

very fun to have tristan in mind as i go through anora’s dialogue file actually, because it’s necessary to the narrative i have in mind that he bears a grudge against the mac tirs as a whole but wow he really would hate her in specific. which almost makes me more committed to putting her on the throne alone this run because i love the weight it gives that choice

[ghostwise]

not a homecoming, but something like it

There are two men arguing in front of her home.

This is a nuisance, but not an uncommon one. Her neighbors are colorful and loud, so she’s used to people being in her way. Gente estorbosa. Normally she would’ve simply pushed past them to get to her gate. However, these are no neighbors of hers, and that makes her hesitate.

The two men are not speaking Antivan, but she knows enough languages to follow along, even with the street’s lively background chatter.

“This is a mistake,” one of them says.

“At least it’ll be in character, then,” the other replies.

Adelmar shifts the grocery basket on her hip, waiting. They’ll move on their own soon enough, she suspects. Or perhaps they’ll notice her and confront her for eavesdropping. Oh! Then they’d get an earful.

“I am being serious. Why would she remember me, hm?”

“You remember her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything—”

“I think it means more than you expected it to. I think that’s why you’re trying to back out at the last minute.”

Adelmar is not sure what the men are arguing about. She’d assumed their relationship to be contentious but now the shorter of the two steps close to his companion, looping an arm around his waist in an unmistakably supportive and affectionate gesture.

“If you really think this is a mistake, then let’s go, vhenan.”

Neither of them moves.

Adelmar clears her throat. Fascinating as the conversation is, she doesn’t have all day. She has dinner to get started, and her basket is getting heavy.

They turn to look at her, and she drops everything.

Tinned coffee and spices, parcels of lamb, and oranges, which roll out across the cobbled street.

“¿Zevran?” Adelmar’s voice is uncertain. She never expected to speak that name again, but those eyes and that hair…

“Zevran… Chivito. No puedo creerlo.”

The man Zevran is with has begun to pick up her groceries, although somewhat haphazardly, dropping one orange for every three he grabs. “You see?” he calls out, darting after a can and swiping it before it gets rolled over by a cart. “I knew she’d recognize you!”

And Zevran, the little boy she’d read stories to in the brothel, the same brown eyes, just taller, smiles at her like she’s singing a song and he’s in her lap again.

The scene, with all its noise and shouting in the background, and fruit rolling this way and that, feels briefly absurd. Is she imagining this? She has to make sure. She needs to just look at him. Stepping across a gap of decades (but it’s really only a few feet), she reaches for Zevran. She touches his face. Notices his tattoo. Frowns.

“Ay,” she murmurs, removing her hand. It is him.

He bursts out laughing.

“Qué gusto me da verte.”

Close by and with the biggest smile, Hamal Mahariel watches, holding the basket with all the groceries Adelmar has dropped.

It had come up in conversation, casually, a few days earlier. They had been investigating a mark, and Zevran, in the midst of planning and preparing, mentioned, “You know, I grew up near here.”

Hamal blinked. Sometimes he suspected that growing up meant something different for Zevran than it did for him. Did he mean he’d become a Crow here, just thirteen when he’d first killed?

When asked to clarify Zevran gestured at the map before them. He pointed a finger just a few centimeters from their present location.

“Rialto. I lived there before the Crows… acquired me.”

“Mm,” Hamal said, mulling it over. It was always a careful balance on his part to gauge whether it was alright to press for information, or better to let Zevran share at his own pace. But he was curious. Zevran seldom spoke of his early years.

“I’d love to see it, if you’re up to visiting,” he said finally.

“Perhaps. If we have time.” Zevran smiled warmly at him. “But really, amor, the place means very little to me. I have no childhood home, unless you count the brothel my mother worked at. I had no family. No friends. None that would remember me, anyway.”

Then why bring it up? Hamal wondered.

“Consider it a sentimental request from your husband,” he said.

Zevran rolled up the map quietly. He planted a quick kiss on Hamal’s cheek.

“That, I can do.”

  Adelmar’s home is small and welcoming, with a tiny patio separating the living area from the kitchen and washroom. Her husband is away for a few days. Her children, grown and gone. She has all the time in the world. She wants to hear everything.

“How did you find me?” she asks, looking at Zevran with wonder. A part of her still can’t believe he’s here.

“We happened to be in Rialto. I… asked around.”

“You went to El milagro,” Adelmar guesses.

Zevran gestures noncommittally.

“I haven’t been there for years and years. It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m surprised anyone remembered, or knew enough to send you my way,” she said. “I’m surprised you looked for me at all…”

Adelmar takes a deep breath. She’s stirring up memories—old thoughts and feelings, few of them pleasant, otherwise she would find it nostalgic.

Quickly, she catches herself and shakes off the gloom. She sets a hand on Zevran’s shoulder.

“But I’m glad you did. I really am so happy to see you. Look at how you’ve grown.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” Zevran admits. “My husband convinced me. He’s nosy. It is why I keep him around.”

He chances a glance at Hamal, who is staying well out of the way. His Antivan still being rather rusty, he’s left Zevran and Adelmar to their conversation, and is currently helping chop vegetables for a stew.

“Well I’m glad for that,” Adelmar says, looking between the two men and beaming. Little Zevran—at her kitchen table and married no less!

“I never forgot you, Zevran,” she tells him. “If I had moved a little faster, saved a little more money, I would have left and brought you with me. You were so smart. You were always moving, running around, playing. In the end, it seems we both escaped to better circumstances,” she says finally, closing her eyes and sighing.

“Thank the Maker,” Zevran adds solemnly. Adelmar smiles, pleased at his manners.

“I’m so glad you’re doing well. So tell me,” she scoots closer and looks at him eagerly, “What sort of life did you have, after you were adopted?”

“Adopted?”

By the kitchen counter, Hamal catches the subtle edge in Zevran’s tone. He pauses, holding the knife in his hand as a lull falls over the kitchen table, but he doesn’t know enough Antivan to guess what’s happened.

What’s happened is this: Zevran and Adelmar came from the same place, and know enough about that life to instantly understand that a lie has been told.

“Oh,” Adelmar breathes after a moment. “You… you weren’t adopted.”

Zevran lets out a laugh. It’s his ‘stalling’ laugh, and now Hamal is looking over, arms crossed, searching his face for clues.

“I was not adopted,” he says. “But do not trouble yourself over that.” Then, smoothly redirecting, he gets up and locks eyes with Hamal.

“Shall I boil some water?” he asks, switching out of Antivan.

The tense moment is gone. Hamal nods, glancing at Adelmar. “I’ll start the fire.”

  There’s a reason why the kitchen is kept apart from the rest of the house. While the soup simmers, they bring their visit to the adjacent patio, where a cool breeze offers relief. Tree branches from the outside—from a tamarind tree growing in the street—have stretched out over the wall and blessed Adelmar’s patio with shade and fruit.

Hamal makes a face when he tastes it. Glancing at Zevran, he holds his gaze and waits just long enough to make it clear he’s less than partial to the flavor.

“So delicious, vhenan.”

Zevran laughs. “Wait until you try it in drink form.”

“If you make it, I am sure I will enjoy it.”

Adelmar, knowing she’s touched upon a shared hurt between her and Zevran, makes up for it by talking about anything else. She is particularly interested in their wedding, and is scandalized when she hears they’ve only been married a few weeks.

“I missed it!” she exclaims.

“It was quite sudden, my friend,” Zevran says, as if there’d been a chance of her attending. “Spontaneous. Just the two of us. Very romantic.”

Hamal taps the handcrafted silver band around his ring finger. He gestures at Zevran. “Él lo hizo,” he says in the most accented Antivan ever. “Muy, muy… bello.”

Dinner is delicious. Despite some language barriers, their conversation is easy and effortless. It’s also, intentionally, vague. Adelmar learns that they met in Ferelden, that they’re on an important journey, and that the journey is a dangerous one.

Most importantly, she also learns that Zevran’s heart has survived its rocky passage into adulthood, whole, if not unscathed. The core of the little boy she’d known in the brothel is there, even if he himself does not realize it. It brings her immense comfort.

The visit ends all too quickly, and though she asks them to stay the night, she isn’t surprised when they decline.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Hamal tells Zevran, who relays the message to Adelmar.

“You and Hamal are welcome, always,” Adelmar assures him. “Will you visit again?”

“If it is less dangerous,” Zevran says. “We were not followed here. But repeated visits might be difficult. Risky.”

“I understand. Not right away, then. When you can. We still have so much to talk about.”

“I would like that,” Zevran agrees.

They share one last hug, the three of them, and Adelmar watches them slip into the night.

  “I need to brush up on my Antivan,” Hamal says. “But I enjoyed meeting her.”

“She liked you a lot,” Zevran says, smiling. Hamal laughs.

“You talked about me?”

“Of course. I had to show you off.” He winks at him. Then, with a soft intake of breath, Zevran looks away with his brow furrowed, the lines of his tattoo tense.

“… They told her I’d been adopted. All these years, and she had no idea. I’m almost sorry she had to find out otherwise.”

They’ve traveled for hours, leaving the city behind. Bright points of light shine overhead. The night sky of Antiva smells of jasmine and the distant sea.

“That’s awful,” Hamal says, looking at him.

“What a farce,” Zevran says bitterly. “Just like everything the Crows do. Operating in the open, but hidden from view. Buying children and lives while people look the other way.” Earnestly, his brown eyes black in the dark, he shakes his head. “It must end. It must.”

Hamal touches the lines of his tattoo, calloused fingers grounding him.

“Ma nuvenin, Zevran Arainai. It will.”

~

A short piece to introduce my OC, Adelmar Provencio. If you ever read my WIP For Suffering is Such a Part, you’ve met her through flashbacks already. While I love the idea of Zevran taking down the Crows alone, please consider, Zevran taking down the Crows with the support of a community, strengthened by the bonds he’s made in his life...

Adelmar plays a further role in the story, so hopefully I can write more for her!

[anderfels]

*sits down*

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WARDEN AND ZEV PLS

*puts down projector and pulls down screen* INDEED.

Julien is 2 inches taller than Zevran. He enjoys that little fact very much (to him, he may as well be a foot taller). On a completely unrelated note, he is the big spoon most of the time*. *He only ever allows himself to be the little spoon if Zevran pesters him endlessly about it.

Julien redos the braids in Zevran's hair whenever they become undone for whatever reasons. He fumbled with it the first few times--maybe one side was a tiny bit higher than the other or maybe he didn't pull tight enough--but he's comfortable enough now that he can basically do it in a blink of an eye. Basically. He makes no promises if Zevran asks him to do it right after he wakes up.

Spices do exist in Ferelden despite popular belief, but growing up as an alienage elf meant that Julien and his family didn't exactly have the monetary means to get anything other than salt, ground pepper, and maybe some bay leaves. Any of the more expensive imported things? Nope. It's the last thing they should be worrying about, honestly, but Zevran manages to get his hands on a few small jars of Antivan spices. Something about how, if Julien were to die tomorrow, it would be a shame if his last meal was whatever that bland mess bubbling over the fire was. (Alistair tried his best, please.) He is apprehensive at first to try whatever it is that Zevran made. It's... new... and what if he doesn't like it? He can't force himself to enjoy it. That would be unfair to both himself and Zevran. He is, however, assured that if he doesn't like it, Zevran himself will finish it with no hard feelings. So, he tries it. And he comes to the conclusion that it is one of the best things he's ever tasted. Zevran looks insufferably smug about it all.

Sometimes they end up on watch together. The others make jokes about how they shouldn't "fool around," but honestly most of the time is spent regaling each other about absurdities that happened in their past. Julien tells Zevran about how he once accidentally spiked Valendrian's soup with a laxative. Zevran tells Julien about a job that involved a turkey, an Orlesian silk scarf, and some Tevinter ring that numbed the extremities. Julien still doesn't know if that story was bullshit or not. They don't get ~*serious*~ with their stories until after their encounter with Taliesen wherein their relationship is confirmed.

Julien doesn't laugh much. He'll smile in response to a joke, sure, but he doesn't laugh. Zevran is the only one who can make him laugh consistently, even if it is just a quick burst. They share similar styles of humor.

When Zevran first offered his earring, Julien declined. It wasn't because he knew what was going on in Zevran's head and wanted him to come to terms with his feelings or whatnot, it was the entire "you could sell it" comment that rubbed him the wrong way. His entire thought process was, "Well, Zevran doesn't seem to care what happens to this earring, so why should I accept it? Does it even mean anything to him?" sort of like if you offered your S/O a crumpled up Twinkie wrapper as a gift, lol. He was kind of offended, honestly. Julien didn't understand that Zevran was having trouble trying to voice his emotions about their relationship. He wasn't trying to slight Julien or anything. On the next day, after they've both cooled down, Zevran explained everything. He wasn't raised in a place where he was told that he'd be able to find a romance that would sweep him off his feet and carry him into the sunset, and, well... after what happened with Rinna... yeah. It's easy to see why he would be... reluctant. Hesitant. To explain how he was feeling and the intended meaning being the earring. Julien apologized and accepted the earring afterwards. He does what he can to assure Zevran that they'll be fine. He wears the earring as a necklace. If anyone asks about it, he says it's a good luck charm.

Julien isn't too fond of PDA--outside of the camp, at least. When they're in camp, he doesn't care much. He'll let Zevran rest a hand on his knee. He'll wrap an arm around Zevran's shoulders. He'll kiss Zevran while he's making dinner. When they're elsewhere, though, he won't do anything. He's... shy. The others in camp are his friends, but the people outside? They are most definitely not. He isn't... comfortable doing that kind of stuff in front of people he doesn't know. Zevran understands and he doesn't push him, but he does like teasing him when no one is paying attention. They're fleeting touches that are never enough to make Julien upset, but they are enough to make him blush which is both funny and cute. Mostly funny. A while later, while discussing prices with Gorim, Julien takes Zevran's hand in his own and Zevran is like, "A-ha. You finally broke, did you?" And Julien responds, "Just let me hold your hand >:░("

They both steal the blankets. It's a coin toss between who's keeping warm that night and who's going to be freezing in the Frostback Mountains. Zevran, however, allows Julien to take all the pillows he desires.

Julien Very Much Enjoys it when Zevran lies down and has his head in his lap (he likes playing with Zevran's hair, so what?). Zevran enjoys the more conventional sit-down-so-close-next-to-each-other-on-this-log-near-the-campfire-that-we've-basically-fused-into-one-person way of sitting.

Sometimes Julien chooses to leave Zevran at camp instead of bringing him along to wherever he has to go that day. Before he leaves, he always tells Zevran to behave himself to which Zevran replies that he'll do his best, lol. Zevran'll also admit to becoming a bit anxious if the party has been away for more than a week, especially when Julien told him that they were about to venture further into the Deep Roads than most people have ever been. When the party comes back with a few new scars--and a brand new addition to their party--Zevran doesn't ask, but he does let Julien hold him a bit tighter when they're sleeping.

Zevran taught Julien how to pick locks and for some Maker-damned reason, Julien became better than him at it. But, hey, Zevran has one up on him in the way that he's actually good at stealth.

[amarabliss]

Oaths and Hearts - 19 (Ignis Scientia/Reader)

You fell through a rift into the fade fighting the demons you swore to protect your world from. When you popped out you were no longer in the lands of Ferelden instead trapped in Insomnia. The gracious king allowed you to say recognizing power when he saw it. One thing led to another and now you were part of the procession of the prince to his wedding years later. Before the final battle, after years of fighting, losses, and love…your friend…your king…Noctis has asked you to change it all…

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11  Part 12  Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16  Part 17  Part 18

Ignis ran a hand through his hair as he adjusted his tie as he walked through the busy halls of the Citadel. He had just ended a meeting with the agricultural committee and it looked like the next year’s budget was going to be spent well.

He pulled out his phone unlocking it easily with one hand and smiled seeing a picture you had sent him or Ulric smiling up at the camera. He was almost a year old now. He stopped in the hallway looking out the window at the city.

The streets were busy with life. The decimation of the city was still evident, but it did not stop the progression. Noctis had done so well in restoring order and opening up relations with Altissa and Tenebrae. Most of the populace had returned when the other countries began sending in their aid and soon everything began falling into place.

“One year…” He let out a sigh as he went back to the text sending a reply.

I – I’m not sure when I’ll be home tonight. Noct has asked for a meeting this afternoon.

Y/N – Take your time, we’ll be here when you get home.

He smiled as he read it before he sent – How lucky am I to have such a patient wife.

Y/N – Love you too <3

You had been so wonderful. Helping where you could, raising Ulric, and all while doing it with a smile. Everyone told him how lucky he was, and he was inclined to tell them that he knew full well. He adjusted the finely braided bracelet around his wrist before he stepped into the royal throne room.

He looked up the great steps seeing Gladio, Prompto, and Cor standing before the king and queen. They all looked back at him as he entered, worried expressions planted on their faces. He slowed down as Noct stood up, “What has happened?”

Noct took Luna’s hand and they both descended down the steps, “Ignis…we have some…”

“Some what?” He took his place in between Gladio and Prompto. The very air was electrified with tension and felt as if it could ignite at any given moment.

Luna reached over touching Noct’s arm giving him a sad smile, “Ignis it has come to our attention…that I cannot have children…”

Ignis felt his heart sinking knowing how much Noct wanted kids, “What?”

“The Starscourge…” Noct licked his lips looking at Luna with an immense amount out pain, “while Luna has been gifted the ability to save people from it…being around it has…it has had toll…”

“…I…I’m so sorry…” Ignis took a step forward looking at them.

“That’s not why we’re here…” Noct looked back to him a serious expression coming to his eyes, “Without being able to produce an heir…then line of Lucis would end with me. But it has been brought to my attention that this is not true…”

Ignis felt the men around him shift, “I’m not following…”

Noct stepped down the stairs walking up to him, “There’s another who can take the throne and already has an heir.”

Ignis stared at him for a long time before he began shaking his head, “Noct…that’s not possible…”

As Noct looked over to Cor he began to speak, “Ignis…it’s the truth. Regis was your biological father.”

Ignis looked at him, “No…”

“Yes…” Cor held out a folder to him, “Aulea…she wasn’t conceiving…so a tradition was called upon…”

Ignis took the folder can began scanning through it. Everything was there. Everything matched up. He felt his throat tighten as he tried to speak, “…w-why…it doesn’t matter. Noctis is king…”

“Yes, for a time…” Cor stepped toward him, “but we need a king who will remain…”

“And he will!” Ignis raised his voice before looking at Noctis, “There are other ways, you don’t need to abandon the throne!”

“Ignis…” Noct shook his head, “I’m not abandoning the throne…I’m ensuring it.”

“…I don’t want it.” Ignis took a step back from him, “I am not a king…I was not…raised…”

“Iggy…” He looked at Gladio who seemed disturbed by this news as well, “you’ve been doing everything for Noct even before we left…you know how to do the job.”

“That doesn’t make me worthy of the throne. Noctis is the Chosen King…” Ignis growled back at him.

“But he fulfilled his duty…” Prompto spoke quietly, “He delivered the land from the darkness…he took the ring and stopped Niflheim from destroying the land…”

“Ignis…” Noctis stepped forward grabbing him by the shoulders. His eyes watered before he smiled a little, “brother…”

Ignis stared at him as this kindling of kinship burned inside of him before he whispered, “…I don’t have the king’s power…”

“We’ll figure that out…” Noct looked at him with the smallest glimmer of happiness showing in his sad eyes.

“We will need to address this…soon…” Cor spoke up looking at them all, “We’ll need to handle it carefully, but honestly.”

“Honest…” Ignis looked at him with a sharpness that could cut, “You speak of honesty now…”

“Iggy…” Gladio frowned watching his friend turn practically running from the hall. The shield conflicted on where to be…began to follow him…

“Gladio…” He stopped looking at Noct, “let him go…”

Ignis ran. Like he’d never ran before…He startled people on the streets as he dove through the crowds. His lungs burned as heavy thoughts began pushing deep into the recesses of his mind.

He’d been lied to his whole life. Called a Scientia…but really a Lucis…

Suddenly all the talks with King Regis became different. Especially the last time he spoke with him…

“Your majesty…” He bowed before Regis in the royal gardens, “You wished to speak with me.”

“Yes…please….” Regis waved his hand to the seat across from him, “How are you doing? I hope Noctis isn’t keeping you too busy.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Ignis smiled at him as he reached for the tea pot, pouring out two cups, “Sugar?”

“You have made my tea hundreds of times…” Regis smiled at him, “You know I like it just as you like yours…”

“I do, yes.” Ignis smiled at him, “Though I suppose how we prepare our tea is not what you wished to speak to me about, is it?”

“No…” Regis sighed a little before he spoke again, “In all the years that I have taken council with you about my son…I want you to know how much I’ve cherished the time. You are a bright individual…”

“Thank you, your majesty. It is an honor to serve the royal family.” Ignis raised his cup up taking a sip.

“Ignis…” Regis looked at him his mouth opening slightly as he searched for words, “I…I hope you know that I wish the best happiness for you. I hope you find everything you want in life…”

Ignis titled his head a little as his eyes brightened with a smile looking past the king, “I believe I am on the right path to achieve everything I desire.”

Regis followed his gaze where it landed on Y/N walking beside a Glaive. You smiled when you saw them both raising a hand waving. Regis smiled nodding toward you before looking back to Ignis, “She is a fine prize.”

“I would never think that I could win her.” Ignis returned his attention to the king, “She isn’t something to achieve…she’s…”

“Someone to share it with.” Regis smile grew as Ignis nodded, “I’m glad to see you are wise…most men my age never figure that part of relationships out.”

The whole time Regis knew…he knew he was his son and he said nothing…yet he was always there offering him advice. Guiding him on the path to here…Noct was supposed to be a final sacrifice…and that meant…

He burst through the door to their home. His chest heaving up and down he strode into the large apartment stopping when he saw you standing near the window holding Ulric as you pointed at a bird on the balcony railing. He felt a peace wash over him as he watched you…

You must have caught his reflection in the window because you turned looking at him with concern, “Ignis…what’s wrong?”

He walked over chest still rising and falling rapidly. He took Ulric from your kissing his head before he pulled you in tightly. He didn’t speak he just held onto the both of you letting the calmness of his family wash over him.

“Ignis…did you run here?” You finally asked him looking at his face with concern before you reached up touching his cheek, “Your face is on fire…”

“I ran…yes…” He spoke softly leaning into your cool touch.

“What happened?” You frowned eyes pooling with protectiveness.

“In a moment…” He kissed your forehead, “Please…just give me this moment…”

You fell back into his embrace before he felt you wrap your arms around him. He didn’t know what was going to happen…but he knew that these moments…these rare few moments were what was going to get him through it.

[lvllns]

5 questions for writers!

i was tagged by @goblin-deity​!! thank you so much owen!!!

i’ll tag: @allisondraste​ @serbarris​ @arlathen​ @trvelyans​ @lavellane​ and i am probably missing a few writers so if you wanna do this, consider yourself tagged!!

some of this is under a cut bc it got long since i am incapable of picking “short” things that i like oops

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why? Oh Isseya for sure. A lot of it is because I have her so fucking fleshed out after writing so much of her. I know her like the back of my hands and she is so damn easy to slip into and write. I did really enjoy writing Solas as well, that was a whole experience.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write? Friends to lovers is so good and is my absolute favorite. Tending wounds is another good one. FOUND FAMILY, give me that good good slow burn friends to lovers with a side of found family actually.

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written? from rare is this love.

This is what they are. Protectors that are forgotten about until they’re needed to stop the world ending and even then, when they fall nobody notices unless they take an archdemon with them. Nobody will remember Riordan. Nobody will talk of how he flung himself at a fucking archdemon and wounded it enough to ground it so the two of them could have a chance. Isseya knows, she knows, she will spend the rest of her life talking about him but it will not matter because only the name of one of the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden will be spoken in taverns after the sun has gone down.

also this from ritl:

Isseya moves, stands on the handles of her daggers and leaps. Comes straight down with her longsword and uses her momentum to bury it deep into the skull of the archdemon. It sinks in cleanly, but slowly, so slowly. Her arms shake.

There’s a blast of heat and light. Bright and hot. She closes her eyes, looks to the side and holds steady pressure. Forces the blade to stay deep in the beast. The leather of her gloves starts to smoke a little, her hands begin to ache and it’s too much. It’s too much and her arms hurt, her eyes hurt even though they’re closed. Her right foot slips off the pommel of the dagger that she’s using as a foothold, and she swears.

The archdemon is thrashing around, screaming and bellowing and twitching. Its massive body rolls around, knocks soldiers and dwarves and mages and elves around. Sends them flying and Isseya knows death throes when she sees them but she hurts all over. Her body slams against its neck as her other foot slips off the dagger and she clings to the longsword, desperate to end this.

And right when she thinks she is going to have to let go if she wants to keep her hands, the dragon falls to the ground with a deafening thud.

Everything goes silent and dark and the heat recedes. Isseya lets go and falls to the ground. Lands in a heap and curls into a ball. Her head knocks against the stone and isn’t that just great. Every single part of her aches and has a heartbeat. She flexes her hands, winces when the leather gloves crack and she tries to pull them off but she is shaking so bad she can’t get a good grip so she gives up.

The sounds of battle still ring out around her. No doubt the last few darkspawn getting their heads removed. She reaches to her belt and pulls a thick, red elfroot potion free. Pops it open and swallows it down without even a grimace. It won’t heal her, not even close, but it numbs everything enough that she can climb to her feet. She braces herself on the shoulder of the archdemon. Dips her head low and takes a few deep breaths before she steps away.

Her knees knock together, legs shaking from sheer exhaustion, but she takes another step. And another. Gets herself to where she can see the fighting. Where she can see the darkspawn retreating and soldiers cheering and there is so much blood everywhere.

Isseya looks around and finds herself locking eyes with Alistair. He’s a mess. His gauntlets are gone, his shield is dented and his hair is stuck to his head. Blood and ash and sweat streak his face, deep cuts that will scar mar his skin but —

But he’s alive.

And so is she.

Isseya laughs, high and strained and pushes herself into an unsteady, limping run. Thinks that when this is all done, she is never running again.

Alistair drops his sword and catches her when she leaps at him. She throws her arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and laughs into his hair. Laughs and cries and kisses the top of his head. The metal of his armor is uncomfortable where it pushes against her but she does not care.

They’re alive.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written? This is from salt.

“Solas?”

He startles. Jumps and sends an apple flying through the air. She catches it easily and her brows turn down as she looks at him.

“I am —”

“You went somewhere and it didn’t look very nice,” a small smile as she hands the fruit back to him. Her fingers brush his and he barely keeps his body from blowing apart.

He shakes his head violently.

“Memories,” his smile is more teeth than anything. It only makes her look more concerned. “They return in pieces. Sometimes I find myself swept away,” his fingers drum against the table to the beat of an old song that he has not heard since a party at Dirthamen’s many years ago.

She hums before setting to work peeling the orange. “My name’s Abigail, by the way.”

He thinks he has never been so off in his entire life. “Ah, please pardon my inability to remember how one handles a conversation.”

Abigail snorts. “‘Handles a conversation?’ It’s just talking Solas,” she waves an orange segment around as she speaks. “Handling implies that it’s uncomfortable,” a blink as she leans across the table. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I — No?”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

He takes a bite of the apple and leans back in his chair. Wills his heart to stop trying to beat right out his throat. Is this really all it takes, to catch him so flat-footed? A nice conversation? Pretty eyes? He rolls his shoulders and flops his arm over his face.

“Yeah, you look like you’re having a blast over there.”

and this bit from rare is this love:

“Zevran” her voice is barely above a whisper and holds his gaze until he looks at the door. “This seems...like it is very important to you.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea about it,” there he goes. Walls and bricks and stones to hide behind. “You killed Taliesen. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I’m free, at least for now,” his body is tense, like a trap ready to spring and she is reaching right for the trigger. “Feel free to sell it, or wear it...or whatever you’d like. It’s really the least I could give you in return.”

Something odd nudges in her chest. At the spot where that plant took root so many months ago.

She turns the earring over in her hand.

“So...not a token of affection, then?” She tries to keep her voice light but immediately he freezes. Amber eyes wide like a spooked halla.

Somewhere in the back of her skull, glass shatters.

“I...look, just...just take it,” he stands now, runs a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s meant a lot to me, but so have...so has what you’ve done. Please, take it.”

He’s pleading with her to take this earring and ah, that’s it. There’s fear laced throughout. Fear and nerves and he is looking at her like she is on the verge of tearing his heart from his chest.

“I - Zev, vhenan,” he flinches and she holds the earring out toward him. “Please believe me when I say I want to take it but...I can’t,” shaky hands pluck the gold earring from her fingers and she watches as he chases every emotion from his face and oh how it hurts to be closed off from him so suddenly after all this time. “I think...I think it means something more to you and I won’t take it until you can be honest about what it means first.”

“You are a very frustrating woman to deal with, do you know that?” The words are sharp and he takes another step away. “We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this,” he opens his mouth. Shuts it. Shakes his head. “You don’t want the earring? You don’t get the earring. Very simple.”

“You’re being childish,” gold eyes narrow and he snorts. “You are! Zev, we have to communicate, to talk about things,” her voice softens. “This doesn’t, Creators guide me, I care about you Zevran. I love you and whatever you need to work through, I’m here for you but you need to let me know what's going on. I'm not, fuck, I know there are things that will take time, on both our ends, but I can’t accept this when it is clearly more than just the pretty earring you’re trying to pass it off as.”

He says nothing. Hands scrub over his face before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I - Give me a few days, please,” twists the leather around his wrist, eyes flicking to her own and he looks terrified.

She takes a step closer, just enough so she can touch his arm briefly.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?” Her head tilts as she wraps her arms around herself. “This won’t...what we have, it will not work if we don't communicate with each other.”

“I know. And I promise I will tell you, I just…” a heavy sigh, a hand through his messy hair. “A few days Isseya. Please.”

“Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

She watches his face crumble, a hand covering his eyes for a moment before he dips his head and quickly leaves the room.

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?: SO MANY. I have a ridiculously large modern au plotted out and I want to write Isseya/Zev meeting there so badly. Also really want to write Penelope/Fen in that au bc oh BOY that’s good stuff. I also have an Alistair/Hawke thing that’s been rattling around my skull and I so desperately want to write them meeting up at Skyhold after everything that’s happened since the Blight.

[brycecousland]

did you say bored? GIVE ME 3 HEADCANONS ABOUT BRYCE'S WEDDING TO HIS WIFEY

AH YES CANON ASKS! I LOVE! 💕💕💕

Eleanor and Bryce wanted a small wedding, but Maric wouldn’t have it! A) Bryce already stole his spotlight with possibly the first extra dramatic proposal of Thedas’ history. B) He saw them as close friends and C) It was great for morale. I mean canon already said Eleanor and Bryce’s romance is a popular Seashanty. So probably other Bards learned of it too. It’s that big true love found in the darkest places story. And making it big and sparkly like a fairy tale will give Ferelden a happy ending. A good story, something to talk about. So the wedding was sparkly and big with popular bards all around. The noble houses arriving, flowers decorating Highever, just “go big or go home”. (I really think The Soldier & The Seawolf would be known all over Ferelden.)

Bryce’s advisors asked, begged him to please just have a normal ceremony and not do anything extra. But he never gave the promise. So they held their breath the whole ceremony. And he did nothing weird, there was no ringbear(er), no dogs in costumes, just a normal ceremony… Eleanor and he kissed carefully and exchanged rings. But as they turned towards the crowd, Bryce pulled Elanor close, tipped her over like in a romance movie and they kissed deeply and very extra. Making the Advisors facepalm and adults covering the eyes of children. (Just a kiss really, but medieval times can be prude)

The after-party went until morning hours, but at one point, very quietly Eleanor and Bryce disappeared. Not making a big deal of them going to their bedroom. And many already so drunk few could really tell when exactly they sneaked away. Both not wanting to turn their first night as husband and wife into some talking point and really not wanting any dirty cheers.

[patricianandclerk]

Bold & Prideful

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

It wasn’t often that one saw the Nightingale in the Herald’s Rest. She didn’t tend to allow herself to relax at all, seeing such things as a distraction from her work, and while Solas respected it, he did wonder… She had used to be much lighter once upon a time, he was informed, much freer, much happier and easier of smile.

Watching her now, Solas could believe it.

She was seated toward the corner of the room, her hood for once drawn back, and she was speaking over glasses of Antivan wine with an elf Solas had never seen before. He wore Dalish clothes, a green tunic and leggings, halla hide boots with silver embroidery, but the rings on his fingers were golden, as was the ring through his ear, and the tattoos on his face were not at all like vallaslin. He had long hair that reminded Solas, inescapably, of a home long-past: it was shaved on one side, a braid curling along the shaved half, and on the other side it was loose and soft.

He was laughing, his handsome head thrown back.

“You can’t speak to him like that!” Leliana was saying, giggling like a woman much younger, her cheeks red. “He’s the Arishok now!”

“We are friends!” the elf replied. “And if he was offended, he would tell me so. I know the Arishok would not hold back his tongue if he wanted to whip me with it, and I asked him many times to—”

Leliana laughed, burying her face in her hands, and Solas made to move past, but the elf turned his gaze, and it landed on Solas. There was a sadness in his eyes that Solas did not expect: it seemed to all but shine from their glinting depths even as he smiled, showing white teeth. It was subtle, a deep-buried melancholy. Solas perhaps only recognised it because he saw it often in the looking glass Dorian had placed in the library.

“Who is this?” the elf asked, leaning forward. He had a thick Antivan accent, but no discomfort with the tongue that Solas could make out. “So many elves in Skyhold, and so many of them Dalish.”

“I am not Dalish,” Solas said.

“But you are no city elf,” he insisted, getting to his feet.

“This is Solas,” Leliana said, and the elf let out a delighted noise, putting out a hand.

“Pride! What a name for a handsome man.” The proclamation came with a salacious growl, and never, not for a moment, did Solas tear his gaze away from his eyes, still so sad. “What is it you are proud of?”

Solas couldn’t help the surprise on his face at the boldness of the other man, his lips parting, even as he took his hand and shook it. He had a warm hand, strong, and it was marked all over with small burns and acid marks – the mark of a long-time rogue. “Were you to ask any of those who call themselves my friends, they might tell you I’m proud of everything.”

“Who call themselves your friends, hm,” the elf repeated, his head tilting. “You have a funny way of phrasing things.”

“Solas, this is Zevran Arainai,” Leliana said, hiding her smile. She did not usually trust Solas any more than most, but it seemed that she was relaxed tonight, for she looked at him with warmth enough in her features. “Like me, he fought at the side of the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Ah, I have heard of the Grey Warden Mahariel,” Solas murmured, politely. “What was she like?”

“Lyna?” Zevran asked, and looking at his eyes Solas understood everything: they gleamed with brightness, and although the grief seemed to radiate from Zevran in heavy swathes, it seemed it was only Solas noticed it. His tone was still light, his body language still free and easy, and he laughed softly. “She was everything.”

--

“I am told,” Zevran said, sliding into the seat beside Solas when Leliana had left, making Solas glance up from the book he was reading, “that you do not often visit this tavern.”

“I am required by a lost wager to attend for two hours per week,” Solas said pleasantly, and Zevran laughed, tapping his fingers upon the table. “You and Master Tethras are acquainted, I take it.”

“He and his friend Hawke helped me from an encounter some years back,” Zevran said, nodding his head. “We had a mutual friend.”

“It seems you have friends from far and wide,” Solas said, closing his book. “There are not many outsiders that the Dalish will accept so freely, and yet the Inquisitor tells me he met you previously, at the last Arlathvhen.”

The meeting of the Dalish clans, Solas was informed, happened every ten years or so – a time when mages might be swapped to more suitable clans for their training, when what little useless and cobbled-together lore might be scribbled down in what amounted to Dalish records. Such was their purpose: accumulating old knowledge from half-destroyed ruins and dead men’s bones, and achieving naught at all. The bitterness of the thought stung Solas’ throat.

“Lyna asked me to,” Zevran said quietly. “We learned much, when we travelled Ferelden, before the time came to face the Archdemon. And then, I… I was aimless. I travelled with her clan for a time, and decided to devote myself to collecting records from those ruins that the Dalish could not safely reach.”

“Why such loyalty to the Dalish?” Solas asked.

“You dislike the Dalish,” Zevran purred, smiling as if there was some hidden joke in the sentence. “And you dislike taverns! You, Solas, are a funny man.”

“Am I indeed?” Solas asked, raising his eyebrows. “Bold statements to make of a man you’ve met but hours before.”

“I am bold, my friend,” Zevran said. “If I was as you, my name would be Bold! You think it’s a good name, yes? Trom!”

Solas laughed, strangely charmed by the other man’s ease, his brightness in conversation, and yet… It had been nearly a decade since the Blight had ended with Mahariel’s sacrifice at the hands of the Archdemon, Grey Wardens doing as they could with forces they did not and could not understand. And still, the sadness…

“What is it that brings you here, Trom?”

“Well, Solas,” Zevran said, beaming, “I had a message to deliver to the Nightingale. This is all. I will move on, then.”

“To where?”

“I do not know,” Zevran said, shrugging his shoulders. “Leliana, she asks if I would join you here, but I know how you would make use of me. I would be an assassin for the Inquisition, and this…” He trailed off. “I can do this. It is not hard. But it is not the life I wish for. Your Inquisitor, he asks me to go to his clan, so this is what I shall do.”

“He worries for his clan,” Solas murmured. “It is only natural.”

“From what clan do you come?”

“I come from no clan. As I told you, I am no Dalish.”

“What, did you fall out of the Rift?” Zevran asked, arching his eyebrows. “No clan, but not from a city either… Who made you, my friend? Who raised you? Where is it you call home?”

“You ask a great many questions.”

“And when I get no answers, I make my own,” Zevran said, winking.

“How bold of you,” Solas murmured, standing. “But alas, my two prescribed hours of crowded contact are at an end.”

“Please,” Zevran said, “allow me to walk you safely to your door.”

“Will you stop at the stoop, if I let you?”

“If you tell me to.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will not.” Zevran’s fingers touched the back of Solas’ hand where it clasped around the book, and for a moment it seemed as though the tavern faded away from about them. Zevran looked up at him, his gaze intent and so full of that desperate melancholy, so all-encompassing in one so young. It was the sadness of a man who had lost his one great love.

The way that he was looking up at Solas, Solas could only imagine what he thought he saw in Solas’ own eyes, and yet, was he not right? Was there not a shared thread between them, however thin and flimsy?

“You are sure Trom would be your name?” Solas asked softly. “And not Hella?”

“Noble, me?” Zevran asked, and he gasped, ostentatious, theatrical. “Do not say such things. My reputation as a rogue will be ruined.”

“Walk with me,” Solas murmured, and Zevran came with graceful step.

--

“I was told once, by a Keeper in Antiva, that all elves are tied together by a sense of tragedy. Even before Arlathan fell, she said, elves have felt so deeply that tragedy becomes them as easily as shoots become trees, as corpses become bones. It is the natural way of things. Is this true, when you walk the Fade?”

Solas watched Zevran, sprawled as he was in the bed, a light sheen of sweat still gleaming on his chest, his hair a loose mess about his head. His eyes were half-lidded, as though he would soon sleep, and Solas wondered what that would be like, to have someone sleep beside him, to listen to their breathing, in his own bed.

“A wise woman,” Solas said softly, leaning closer, his hands either side of Zevran’s waist, and doing as he could to ignore the ache in his chest. “Alas, I fear she was right.”

“You are too handsome to be so sad,” Zevran said in an equally soft voice, sliding his fingers over Solas’ throat, his knuckles brushing the base of his chin. “But how I can chide you, when I am so much more handsome, and just as sad?”

Solas laughed, despite himself, and Zevran smiled.

“No one sees sadness when they look at me,” Solas murmured. “Only you. Perhaps you are projecting.”

“They see it,” Zevran replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Your friends. They do not comment on it, for they are your friends. This is the way of things, hm?”

Solas drew his fingers into Zevran’s hair, and he pulled the other man to kiss him. Zevran surged up to do so, and they tumbled onto their sides together. It was not as it was, before everything. But there was something in it, a warmth in the intimacy – there was something safe in a widower’s touch, knowing he would not feel things that he oughtn’t for Solas, knowing that there was no danger of some malformed love connection.

“You do not seem so prideful,” Zevran mumbled against his chest, later on, when they were tangled together, their breathing even, preparing for sleep. There were still so many hours before the dawn.

“Solas is not my only name,” Solas replied, for reasons he could not explain, perhaps because he is lonely and exhausted and half-mad from bad choices; perhaps because he doubts Zevran will ever bother to share this conversation with anyone of note.

“Really? You seem like a man with many names,” the other elf said, drifting. “Like one of those animals that many clans name differently, because it lives so long, but walks alone, half-legendary. You know, a bear, or a halla…”

“A wolf?” Solas suggested, and Zevran laughed softly, his head lolling.

“Yes,” he murmured, smiling, as if at a memory. “Like an old, old wolf.”

Solas curled his fingers in Zevran’s hair, and he let the Fade take him.

[laurelsofhighever]

Kiss prompt: ‘when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves’ Indulge my need for fluff! XD

C’mon, that prompt is flangst at best!

Introducing my non-Warden Rosslyn AU. She survived the sack of Highever and spent the Blight leading the rebellion against Loghain, before coming to court as King Alistair’s chancellor (for various reasons). Hope you enjoy!

Alistairbarely recognised the great hall under the swathes of Wintersend decorations. From his vantage pointon the throne, greeting his guests as they were presented to him, he could seejust about every noble in Ferelden. Every one showed themselves in their finery, richsamite and velvet in family colours, and his newly trained observationalskills picked out rhythms to the melee, groups forming and flowing as oldallegiances were reaffirmed. There was an alarming number of young, unattached women among them. 

I wonderwhat they’re here for. 

He kept his sarcasm tohimself, however, if only so Eamon wouldn’t fuss. His sort-of uncle stood onthe right side of the throne, immaculate as ever in his usual dour shades, with hishand resting on the gilded back in a way that wouldn’t have been permitted ifnot for his age. The nobles might see an advisor concerned tosupport the king, but Alistair knew it was just more of the same scrutiny hehad faced all those years ago when Maric visited Redcliffe. 

“Bann Ferrenly and Lady Raina ofLakehead!” 

At least Rosslyn, onhis other side, would appreciate his trepidation. Making her his chancellor had been hisbest decision so far, a feeling that always reasserted itself whenever hefelt out of his depth. Observant as she was, no doubt she had noticed theslowly circling horde of parents with their even bigger horde of eligibledaughters, and he could imagine the amusement curling atthe corner of her mouth with every new flutter of eyelashes. He had toimagine it, because if he actually looked at her, he doubted he’d be ableto look away. There were plenty of others in the room whoseemed to be having the same issue. It irked him. 

 “HisLordship Teyrn Cousland of Highever!” the herald announced. 

“Fergus!”

With a sweep ofmidnight silk, Rosslyn broke from the decorum of the king’s dais and caught her brother in a crushing hug before he had even a chance to makehis bow. He smiled ashe returned the gesture, eyes squeezed shut to hold her closer, and the rest ofthe room faded out of importance. Alistair, drawn in by the show of affection, rosefrom the throne and followed at a distance, unable to hide his own grin, andunwilling to hear Eamon’s hissed entreaty to sit back down. 

“What’s this,Scrub?” Fergus asked when they finallypulled apart. “No riding leathers?” 

Sheshrugged. “They needed laundering.” 

“Well, it’s not acomplete loss,” he teased as he looked at her. “You’re theenvy of everyone in the room.” 

“someone’sbeen practicing their flattery.” 

“Ha! Andwhat about you? Has she been behaving herself, Your Majesty?” he asked of Alistair. 

The heavymantle of State Brantis had forced him into seemed totighten under the combined scrutiny of both Couslands at once. 

“She’s been invaluable,”he answered truthfully, his gaze softening as he glanced to Rosslyn. “But I canspare her for a few moments. You two should catch up. Uh – maybeon one condition…”  

Rosslyn paused. “Your Majesty?” 

His mouth went dry.The crowd of nobles, which had seemed so distant a momentbefore, turnedits gaze on his silence, eager to watch the dramaunfolding before him. He straightened, hung a smirk on his rapidlyheating cheeks, and winked with a confidence he hoped was lessbrittle than it felt. 

“When thedancing starts,” he declared, “I get to dance with you first.” 

“I –” Her turn toblush, though she’d had years longer to practice composure,and recovered quickly. She dipped him a graceful curtsey. “Of course.As Your Majesty wishes.” 

The thoughtof dancing with Rosslyn buoyed Alistair through meeting therest of his guests, and the social mingling that followed - not even Eamon’sdisapproval for his breach of protocol had its usual effect. He toldhimself it was relief at not being made to dance with someone he didn’tknow and whose feet he might tread on, but even though he wascareful to wander and pay attention to everyone who spoke tohim, his eye kept flicking back to track her movement among the throng. That, hetold himself, was coincidence. She just happened to keepstanding where he looked.

When theherald finally smashed his staff against the stone andannounced that the centre of the hall should clear, he smiledand bowed over the hand of a young woman who might have been charming if heweren’t so distracted, and tried not to seem too eager to leave. Hiseyes searched for Rosslyn across the room and found her on her brother’s arm,cutting a regal path through the crush of lesser gentry. 

“Here sheis,” Fergus announced. “I thought it best in case she tried to run away.” 

“I wouldnever do such a thing,” she replied loftily, then ruined the effect by elbowing her brother inthe ribs. 

“Friends,honoured guests, please take your places for the remigold!” 

“Shall We,my lady?” Alistair asked, holding out his hand. 

“We shall,Your Majesty.”  

Placing herpalm over his knuckles, she let herself be led towards where other coupleswere assembling in place. He was glad of that, at least, because his palms weresweating. 

“You couldhave asked anyone to dance, you know,” she told him in an undertone asthey made it to the head of the room.  

“True,” hereplied. “You’re just the only one I trust to tell me if I canactually dance.” 

Shesmirked. “I’m sure Eamon would oblige you with an honest opinion.”  

“I’m notdancing with Eamon.” 

“Then Isuppose I’ll have to try extra hard to be cross with you.” 

They stoodface to face. Rosslyn raised her right palm and he mirrored her as the firstchord of music hummed through the room. Her hand was warm, slender, smaller than his, but with thesame rough calluses from years of swordwork. Everyone notdancing had formed a ring around those who were, quiet for the most part, butin the focussed way that revealed more than just idle scrutiny.  

“Just lookat me,” she murmured. “They don’t matter.” 

Heswallowed. The steps had been drilled into his memory by the dance master andhis muscles moved on their own – the bow, the turn, the circling steps like the first meeting in conversation with astranger. But his mind wandered, seeking escape. 

“What’sfunny?” she asked, when a giggle escaped him. 

Theyturned, met with the other palm as the tempo increased. 

“I was justthinking – remembering, actually. I once told Duncan I wouldn’t dance the remigold in a dress.” 

“What –?” 

“It was in Ostagar, before the battle, and...” Othermemories crowded in, what happened after, and he faltered. “You had to havebeen there, I guess.” 

She flicked hereyes down to his feet and back. “You might look good in a dress.” 

“You lookbeautiful in that one.” 

She froze.Only for an instant, but he caught how her eyes widened as shestepped into the reach of his arms for the spin, how her cheeks stained pink as his handbrushed across her waist. Her hair, worn loose just for tonight, featheredover his shoulder as she whirled away again and followed the steps intothe cariole with the other fourdancers in the line. All too briefly, he caught her scent, sweetgrass andsomething floral and the hint of sweat beneath. 

I neverwant to dance with anyone else. I want... 

The remigold carried them both along theline, swirling together then away, and Alistair remembered none of it. Theworld narrowed to the regard of bright grey eyes and his mounting panic that when the dancewas over she would expect him to say something, to behave like nothing was wrong.  

“Are youflagging already?” she teased when they came back together for the last time,and he found himself wishing for darkspawn. 

“Uh, no. Iwanted to say...” 

“Yes?” 

They turnedagain, palm to palm, the final steps. Rosslyn’sbreath fanned across his cheek, heavy with exertion, her skintinged pink and sweat gleaming at her hairline, and hisstomach dropped. 

“I...” 

She glancedat his mouth. Her own lips were parted slightly, bowed in a slight smile that fadedas he leaned forward, drawn closer like a flower turning towards the sun. But hecouldn’t do that to her – not here, surrounded by so manypeople who would try to turn the action to their own advantage. And he stillremembered that first proper meeting, all those months ago, when she had toldhim She wasn’t interested in him. 

He droppedher hand. “I hope I didn’t step on your feet too much.” 

“YourMajesty did very well,” she said graciously, though hervoice wobbled. “You can be let loose on the restof your guests with impunity. May I be excused? I – it’srather warm in here.” 

He alwaysruined everything. “Of course. I – you are released from any obligation tonight.” 

“Thank you,Your Majesty.” 

He didn’treach for her as she turned and disappeared into thecrowd, didn’t follow her progress towards the terrace door. He was theking, with guests waiting on his word, and he had to play his part. 

[himluv]

"Lie to me then" for Zev and Cerine.

Sorry this took so long, but then again, you gave me a mountain of prompts ;)This one was the one that piqued my interest most, but gave me quite a bit of trouble. I had no idea how it was going to come together, but I am really pleased with how it did. I hope you like it too!

Something was wrong. Cerine was often taciturn, speaking only when necessary, and gracing him with small smiles when she thought no one else was looking. But, ever since they’d entered the Dalish camp, his Warden had closed off from them all.

Her back was rigid, bringing her to her full height, which was still shorter than Zevran. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her pink lips pressed thin as she struggled not to scowl at every elf they passed.

Admittedly, he felt no kinship for these elves. Their lives were as foreign to him as a Nevarran mortalitasi’s, but Cerine’s mother had been Dalish. Surely she would feel some connection with the clan? But the only emotion displayed on her tan face was barely restrained hostility.

She spoke with the Keeper, Zathrian, and when he respectfully refused to honor the treaty with the Wardens, Cerine very nearly snapped.

“What do you want?” She growled.

The bald elf blinked at her. “I am sorry, Warden, but my people are spread thin enough. I will not send them to their deaths on your behalf. Assuming we survive these attacks.”

Cerine’s fists balled into fists, but Leliana stepped in before the Warden could do something she might regret.

“Perhaps we can help?” The Orlesian said. Her voice sweet and pleasing, impossible to lash out against.

Morrigan scoffed behind them and Zevran shot her a glare. He was used to the mage’s coldness and understood the usefulness of her façade, but right now Cerine needed a reminder of kindness and warmth.

Zathrian looked between them, doubt plain on his tattooed face. “Perhaps you can. In the depths of the forest is a wolf with white fur, Witherfang. Bring me its heart, and these werewolf attacks will cease.”

“Werewolf?” Morrigan asked, her interest piqued.

The Keeper prattled on about the history of the forest and the origins of the werewolves, but Zevran paid little attention. His every sense was devoted to analyzing his Warden’s sour mood. She was often perceived as callous, but Zevran knew there was much warmth buried deep beneath her frigid demeanor. She always helped those who asked, and doled out justice where she saw fit.

So why did she regard these elves with such disdain?

He didn’t get the opportunity to ask until their second night in the Brecillian forest. They had found Danayla earlier in the afternoon, and the creature’s pleas for mercy did not fall on deaf ears. He did not miss Cerine’s murmured, “Dareth shiral” as her blade found the werewolf’s heart.

The Warden said nothing more until she announced they would make camp in the small meadow set to the side of their path. Zevran traded glances with Leliana and Morrigan, all of them worried.

“I will fetch kindling for the fire,” Leliana volunteered. “Help me, Morrigan?”

The mage rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, but her worried glance at Cerine’s back and then to Zevran told him they all agreed. Something was not right with their dear Warden.

After the pair left the camp, Zevran approached Cerine and helped her set up their tent. “The Dalish surprise me,” he said.

She grunted. “How so?”

“They are renowned in Antiva City as great craftsmen and graceful hunters, but these elves bear little resemblance to such tales.”

Cerine shook her head. “Maybe Ferelden elves are lacking.”

He smirked at her, letting the warmth he felt for her pool in his eyes. “I highly doubt that.”

She rolled her eyes, but he was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles as she continued pitching their tent. They worked in silence, until the tent stood on its own, furs and blankets laid out inside.

She made to move on to the next task, but he stopped her with a hand on hers. “You dislike these Dalish,” he said.

She shrugged. “Not anymore than I do anyone else,” she said, but would not meet his eyes.

He released her hand and moved to clear a spot for their campfire. “Fine, lie to me, then.” From the corner of his eye he saw her head whip around to look at him. He rarely spoke her with such bluntness, she was used to honeyed words that danced around their subject of conversation. But he was running out of time, and his Warden was in pain.

Soft words could wait.

She sighed from where she stood by their tent. “All right,” she said. “I deserved that.” She pulled a log over to ring what would be their fire, and sat upon it. “My mother was Dalish.”

He nodded. “So you have said.” He would have thought the connection would have warmed her to the clan, not the opposite.

“She left our home when I was very young,” she continued. “To help her clan, even though they’d banished her for falling in love with a flat-ear.” She spat the slur into the dirt with such venom that Zevran flinched.

He knew that she loved her father very much, and any who would describe him as such would forever earn her wrath. But he sensed there was more to her dislike than mere prejudice.

Cerine fiddled with a lace on her leathers, a rare show of anxiety. “She left, and she died. She died to help them, when they didn’t even want her anymore.”

And there it was. The truth. She carried her mother’s abandonment deep in her heart, in a place he was so rarely granted insight. He didn’t think this was a hurt he could heal; how could he tell his lover that her mother had been an adult that had made a choice? A choice to leave one family behind for the sake of another?

Twice.

Cerine shuddered and wiped at her face. “It’s stupid,” she said. “It was years ago, a lifetime ago. These people need my help. I shouldn’t treat them any differently just because…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

He watched her a moment, before joining her to sit on the log. “I imagine you are not alone in your feelings,” he said. “Fear and anger can lead us to do things we may regret.” He looked at her carefully before he said his next words. “Like banishing a daughter for who she loved.”

Cerine smiled at him, though it trembled on her lips. “And hating an entire people because of one clan?”

Zevran returned her smile, and was surprised when she leaned in to kiss him.

“Goodness,” Morrigan called from the edge of the camp. “Shall we gather more wood?” She shot them a wicked grin. “Or have you found some of your own?”

“Morrigan,” Leliana chided, her pale face blushing as Zevran wagged his eyebrows.

“The search does not require solitude,” he teased. “By all means, Morrigan, watch.”

Cerine slapped his chest, and they all burst into laughter and the tension of their travels in the Brecillian forest melted away. As the fire flickered into life with a wave of the mage’s hand, Cerine smiled at him. One of those soft, secret smiles he loved so much, but this one was all the brighter for gracing him in sight of their companions.

[gold3nberry]

Dorian - Two Years Later

During the Exalted Council, if the Inquisitor speaks to Dorian, he sits in front of a chessboard. So, I headcanon that this happened (chess’ headcanons from here):

“I saw Demetra's hand, Cullen.” The silence felt heavy between the two of them.  They had met a couple of hours before, when the new Tevinter ambassador had smugly shooed away his colleagues that were chatting around the Commander. They both needed to speak and they both knew they gave their best if some chess game was involved. So, they played. Dorian spoke quietly again, tapping one finger on the luxurious chess board “Well, I admit I forced her to show me her hand. When you wrote me the first time I thought you were a bit paranoid. Now, I regret you didn't write me earlier.” The mage moved his pawn “Do not think I'm blaming you, of course. I'm furious with the stupid me.” The Commander opened his mouth, his eyes gentle, but Dorian shook one hand vehemently “Please, don't. I'm a Mage. And a very good one. I should have known that an ancient magic such as that damned Anchor is couldn't just stay quietly carved on her flesh forever. Visante kaffas, I have been so stupid!” “Nobody could foresee this, Dorian. Nobody. I'm sure Demetra told you the same.” “Actually she told me to stop being silly and give her another cup of tea.” Both the men forced a smile. “How is she doing, Cullen?” “She...” he stopped, staring at the chessboard. He couldn't say aloud again what she had said him not later than six weeks ago – six weeks and five days ago, most precisely. He couldn't. Dorian had the right to know, though. “She is fighting the Anchor, but she's not sure who will win.” Dorian sighed heavily, pinching his nose in a poor attempt to hide his reddened eyes “We'll save her, Cullen, even if I had to invent a spell myself bargaining with all the spirits in the Fade.” Cullen looked at him, his throat painfully clenched. “Thank you.” It was all he managed to say and it was insufficient to express his gratitude towards Dorian. Towards his friend. Dorian understood and nodded anyway. “I told her she shouldn't be here, wasting her time with this useless, ungrateful bunch of people.” the Mage hissed “She should take care of herself better.” “I told her the same” the Commander captured Dorian's Hero of Ferelden “But Demetra helped Thedas' people while they suspected her of destroying the Conclave, calling her an abomination. She's not going to act any different now that she carries the Inquisitor title.” “I bet she also doesn't want to put Leliana in a more precarious position.” “That, too.” “I warned her that nobody was going to thank her,” Dorian sighed conquering a position near Cullen's Divine “And I fucking hate being right. But this? An Exalted Council against the only person who stood up between Corypheus and the world? This is beyond ingratitude. It's monstrous.” A silent nod was all that Cullen could add. Cassandra had said something along that line, in a more colorful way. Varric, the same. Sera had already menaced to kill at least thirty nobles and twenty diplomats. The Iron Bull and Thom Ranier hadn't spoken very much, but they escorted their Inquisitor silently daring people to say something wrong, as Demetra greeted people here and there. Vivienne had been kind enough to keep away from the Inquisitor the most problematic guests, while Josephine took care of being the first to talk with the ones who would like very much spat their venom in the Inquisitor's face. Cole had asked Maryden to sing Demetra's favorite song and Leliana, though bounded to her role, had sent in her bedroom fresh flowers, trustworthy servants, useful information about the ones who still sided with the Inquisition and a giant box of the finest Orlesian chocolate. Demetra had wept in Cullen's arms “I'm so lucky to have all of you. As long as you still trust me, I'm alright.” Dorian cleared his throat “Speaking about messy things, I heard there was quite a problem with the bedrooms when the Inquisition arrived.” The Commander couldn't stop the blush, but Dorian's grin was full of pride “Well done, Cullen!” “So everybody knows about my change of quarters?” “Are you kidding me? The Commander of the Inquisition army that takes his luggage, ignores the outraged Chamberlain and marches in the Inquisitor's quarters declaring that he will stay there, messing with thousands of years of protocol? My friend, you are a legend.” Cullen shrugged “Demetra agreed and I'm not going to leave her alone just because a useless etiquette told me so.” “Of course! I can already hear the minstrels singing about the Lion of the Inquisition who marched in his beloved Inquisitor room and took her in his strapping arms before kissing...” “Yes, thank you, Dorian, I get the concept.” Cullen shivered, making him laugh. A sincere one. “And I didn't kiss her in front of everybody! I just told them to go to bother someone else.” “So no kisses? Not even a little one?” Dorian pouted. Cullen tried to not grin “I didn't say that.” Dorian winked at him “Your admirers will be heartbroken to have the ultimate confirmation that you're not available.” Cullen smiled “Finally! Maybe they'll stop to send crows asking me to marry this countess or that noble.” Dorian tipped his head on the side “Since we're speaking about this, let me ask you a thing: are you going to ask her to marry you?” “Yes.” No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just fierce firm belief. “Good. Soon?” “Yes.” “Do you have a plan?” “Not anymore. I had one, but now I suppose I need another one.” “Do you have a ring?” “I was going in Denerim to buy one when all of this happened.” Dorian nodded again, stopping their match, and fishing something out of his pocket. Cullen took the delicate box from his hands with a perplexed frown. When he opened it, he couldn't hold back a surprised sound: laying against soft velvet, a couple of golden rings glittered under the afternoon sun. Inside the biggest one, it was carved “Demetra & Cullen”. In the other one, he read “Cullen & Demetra”. A line of minuscule arabesques in the external part made them two little masterpieces of gold-working. Before he could speak, Dorian smiled, quiet and sincere “In my Country, it's the best friend of a bride or a groom that buys the wedding bands. Now, since you don't have a lot of friends that can  be better than me and I'm quite sure Demetra loves me as much as I love her, allow me to follow one of the few traditions that I'm still proud to.” Cullen's thanks were too full of emotion to be as much eloquent as he wished, but they were sincere in every bit. And Dorian winked at him “One last thing: I won't tell you to take care of her. I have no doubt you will because she's lovely and you don't want that an angry Magister sets your ass on fire.” Cullen smiled, but he knew Dorian was deadly serious. His friend continued “What I want you to promise me is that the two of you will do the impossible to be happy together. That you will treasure what you two have and you will fight to keep it alive. Life can be hard even for people who love each other as you two do, but you have something precious. Treasure it.” “I will. We will, I promise on my life.” “Good. And now, let's finish this game. I want to take back some Tevinter pride and kick that awesome Fereldan ass of your.” Cullen chuckled, putting the precious box with the rings safely in his pocket “Good luck with that. And... thank you, Dorian.”

Every reblog, comment and tag are deeply treasured and yes, I read them all!!!!! 

[alleiradayne]

Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 82

Catch up on the previous part - part 81 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

Alistair receives a phone call from Cullen at an unholy hour.

Tension seized the muscles across his shoulders, neck tight and fingers numb after too many hours at his desk. Alistair stretched, hands high above his head as he groaned and head tilting from shoulder to shoulder, hoping for release. When none came, he shoved back from his desk and stood to pace about his office.

The clock on the wall ticked past the hour, another night slipping through his fingers as pre-dawn haze colored the sky beyond his windows. Maker, but he would not miss this. While altruistic and selfless, enacting policy benefiting all of Ferelden exacted a toll; working into the small hours of the night, cutting through political red tape, charming lobbyists, and all the ass-kissing to last a lifetime.

It was worth it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

There, alone in his office and sleep long overdue, Alistair paced. His pen tapped a clenched notepad, each idea jotted in a scribble of thoughts as they arrived. And yet, not one brought him any closer to his goal. Too many distractions weaseled their way to the forefront of his mind; Amodisia, the investigation, Cullen, and Amallia. So lost in thought, his steps slowed, dragging until he stood still in the center of the room.

A terrified yelp cut off as Alistair clamped his hand over his mouth, his desk phone ringing loud enough to wake the dead. He snatched the handset from its base and brought to his ear with a tentative, shaking hand and his voice shook as he spoke.

“Governor Theirin.”

“Alistair?”

The smooth baritone of Cullen's voice speaking his name warmed him like a cozy campfire. His heart slowed, returning to normal, and his shaking hand steadied, his grip easing on the receiver. With a deep breath, Alistair sighed.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked.

“I am now.” An absent hand ran through his hair. “Just on edge, that’s all. Keep talking though, that’ll help.”

The lack of an immediate response from Cullen unnerved him. Papers shuffled around on the other end of the line, as though he searched for something. “I was going to leave a message. I can let you go—”

A flash of fear fueled his words. “No, please,” he begged. “Something’s on your mind. Talk to me.”

Alistair pictured the roll of his amber eyes as he heard Cullen’s irritated scoff. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” he toyed.

“That,” Cullen insisted with a soft laugh.

Maker, but he loved that sound. “I’m not doing anything,” he chided. “You called me.”

“I…” Cullen started but paused, papers shifting around once more. “I did,” he finished, somber, defeated even.

The fine hairs on the backs of Alistair’s arms stood on end, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin. “What’s wrong?”

Cullen snorted again, though it was through a laugh rather than out of irritation. “Nothing. I wanted to update you.”

His heart thumped a furious beat against his ribs, returning to its gallop. “You’ve found something?”

“Serah Hawke and I interviewed the detectives yesterday,” Cullen stated.

Cold and numb, warmth drained from his fingers and toes. “And?!”

“Is this line—”

“I don’t give a shit if this line is tapped!” Alistair barked. “Tell me everything!”

An irritated scoff started his reply. “Alright. We’ve got written confessions from Detectives Rook and Vreeland that Loghain Mac Tir ordered them to botch the investigation. In return, he padded their retirements.”

Loghain.

Summoned like a long-lost memory, Alistair relived his last conversation with the man. Dark eyes stared back as he sipped coffee from a cup, his bandaged wrist exposed by the cuff of his suit.

The phone slipped from his hand as he dove for the waste bin beside his door. His hand plunged, grasping and flinging aside the useless rubbish. “Where is it?!” Pieces of paper, notes and messages alike, buried what he sought at the bottom. Rage overpowered his impatience as he upended the bin, its contents fluttering like snowflakes to the ground. All but one.

A coffee cup plunked to the floor and rolled away as Alistair threw the bin aside. With a delicate hand, he cradled the cup as though it were a fragile relic, handling it with great care. Sunlight of the rising sun filtered through frosted glass, bathing the cup in a golden ray as he held aloft like a holy chalice. A long moment passed before the shout of Cullen’s voice registered, dragging him back to reality.

“Alistair! Pick up the phone you clodpole!”

With a slow shuffle, Alistair neared the desk and pawed for the phone, still staring at the cup. Grasping it, he brought the phone to his ear. “Don’t do anything with those statements, yet. I have to go, I’ll call you back,” he blurted, slamming the phone on the base, and in a daze, stumbled from his office, time running from his fingers as he grasped what might be their most important piece of evidence yet.

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 65 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Fear and Courage

Rory woke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest, sweat slick on her skin. Her eyes snapped open, shock pouring through her system as the baby kicked within her womb.

But there was nothing to see. No threat, no danger. Just the gentle rock of the berth beneath her, the reassuring creak of the ship under sail, the reassurance of friendly voices outside the door, the resounding snores of the Qunari sleeping above her. She let her head fall back to the pillow, only to jolt up once more. No Cullen. Her hand searched the narrow berth beside her for her husband. No sign of him. The sheets were cool, though the indent of his head on the pillow remained. She pushed herself to sit up, careful not to hit her head on the bunk that lay above this one, slithering to the edge of the bunk to let her booted feet find the solid planks of the deck.

It was still dark, but there was the suggestion of light through the porthole. I slept all night, then, she noted, guessing that dawn must not be far away. That, in itself, was something to be pleased with. In the four days since she had been rescued from the hands of the red templars, she had not slept more than three hours without waking from nightmares crowded with red lyrium and clawing terrors. Yes, a nightmare had woken her this time, too, but not before she had slept enough that her body could handle the fear without panicking. Waking up without Cullen there, though ... that was worrying. He'd been right there these past three nights, holding her close, ready to reassure her despite his own nightmares, despite the lingering pains that had flared up thanks to his proximity to the Blighted lyrium. Had she slept through a nightmare of his? Gods ... did he even come to bed? No, the imprint is on the pillow. He was there, at least long enough for his head to leave an impression.

She scowled to herself, bending awkwardly to fish the chamberpot out from under the bunk and avail herself of the limited facilities. A little more comfortable, she unhooked her cloak from the wall and quietly opened the door, stepping over the lip and into the common area below-decks, where several men and women were in the process of waking up or settling down. Cassandra caught her eye as she looked around.

"He is on deck," the Seeker told her, jerking her chin toward the steep steps up to the open deck above. She eyed Rory worriedly. "Are you well, Rory? You seem pale."

Rory shook her head, forcing a smile. "A nightmare, that's all," she assured her friend. "How long before we make land?"

Cassandra sighed gustily - she did not like sailing. "I believe we are expected to land in Ferelden at some point today," she offered. "It is a good plan, though I do not relish the necessary separation before you and the commander are back in Skyhold."

Rory felt her smile deepen without having to force it. "You want to go with Kaaras," she translated softly, touched that Cassandra was so concerned about giving the persistent Qunari into the capable hands of another warrior.

The Seeker flushed, glancing away. "I ... I would be happier to be at his side," she confessed, moving with the healer as they stepped away from the gathered group. "It is not easy for me to say this. I, I care for him. Very much. Though I understand why he has chosen to take Blackwall this time, I do not feel easy with the decision."

"You can't protect him from miles away," Rory murmured in understanding. "Cass ... have you actually told Kaaras how you feel about him? He adores you."

The scandalized look that crossed Cassandra's face was worth the vague nausea of being on a rocking vessel. "I cannot do that!" the Nevarran woman exclaimed, forcing her voice to remain low despite her protest. "He is the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste -"

"He's a man who loves you," Rory interrupted her firmly. "A man who is jumping through so many hoops to prove to you just how much he loves you." She sighed softly, seeing the conflict on Cassandra's face, and relented. "Just ... promise me something, all right? Promise me that when he does tell you how he feels, you won't just reject him out of hand. At least think about telling him the truth."

"I ..." Cassandra hesitated, glancing down at her hand on her sword for a brief moment. "I will think about it," she promised eventually. "Come, you wished to go above."

A little nonplussed by the fact that Cassandra was escorting her to the upper deck of a ship where everyone was friendly, Rory conceded without a fight, needing hands and feet to get up the steep companionway and out into the brisk chill of the dawn breeze that swept the deck. Around her, the crew bustled about their work. She couldn't pretend to even guess what went into keeping a sailing ship on course and in one piece, but she appreciated that they did. Hugging her cloak tighter about herself, she shivered briefly. Spring was here, certainly, but out on the estuary river, in the face of the wind, the darkness before dawn was a cold place to be awake. Her gaze swept the deck, searching for Cullen. Cassandra touched her arm, pointing to the forecastle deck, where a tall figure stood alone, watching the Frostback Mountains glide past in the pre-dawn dusk.

"I will leave you here," the Seeker said quietly, confirming the suspicion that Rory had been put under close guard. "Rory ... he is struggling. If you can ..."

She nodded to Cassandra. "I'll try."

Taking a firm grip on the damp steps, she clambered up them without much grace, rising to her usual height when she was certain her feet were not going to slip. The first mate nodded to her as she passed, but offered no other acknowledgement that he was not alone on the forecastle. Evidently the commander was not in to visitors.

Cullen stood in the lee of the figurehead, just at the bow, gloved hands resting on the wide rail that ran the span of the ship. He was pale in the twilight of the dawn, his expression anguished. Rory could see his fingers trembling against the wood, and her heart went out to him. He'd tried so hard these past days to keep her from seeing how the proximity of the red lyrium clusters had torn at his control, awakening fears he had thought put to rest. She knew him well enough to know that he must have hoped she would wake up later than she had, so he could pretend not to have been struggling alone in the last hour of the night. But he'd helped her as she struggled; he should know by now that she would always help him.

She stepped to his side without a word, laying her bare hand over his as she looked up at the sweeping mountains passing by, giving no sign that she noticed the way he drew in his breath sharply; the way his shoulders stiffened and relaxed. His gloved hand turned beneath her own, stroking fingertips over her bare palm for a brief moment before releasing her fingers, stepping closer to wrap that arm about her back and claim the abandoned hand with the other. He raised her fingers to his lips, his breath still staggered as he kissed her chilled skin, finding something soothing in just her presence. She tilted her head, her cheek finding the spray-touched fur of his mantle as they stood together in silence, letting him have the time he needed to let the words come. The time seemed right.

But the words, those broken words stifling his thoughts, haunting his mind ... did not come. All right, love, Rory thought to herself, drawing in a slow, deep breath. I'm sorry, but you have to talk about this.

"What was her name?" she asked softly.

Cullen's reaction was almost electric. She felt him jerk in surprise, his entire body going rigid against hers, fingers almost threatening to crush her own before he caught himself. She didn't need to look to know he had gone white as a sheet, keeping her eyes on the passing scenery, letting him have a little space even as she nudged her way through the cracks in the wall that kept his darkest days hidden.

"I ..." His breath warmed her brow as his arm tightened gently about her, holding her close as a shield against the memories she was asking him to share. "Iselan," he said quietly. "Her name was Iselan."

Holy fucking hell ... It took everything Rory had not to react to that name. That's my Warden. My first Warden. But ... I didn't make Garrett Hawke, not the Hawke I've met here. So how is Iselan a part of Cullen's memories?

"She grew up in the Ferelden Circle," Cullen was saying, oblivious to her carefully concealed shock. "I was very young when I was stationed there; older than her, but still young. And she was ... everything I dreamed about but knew I could never have. So I promised myself that, no matter what happened, I would protect her. And ... and I failed."

Her fingers turned in his grasp, linking between his own as he faltered. She knew what had happened, or could guess the worst of it, but she couldn't tell him so. He needed to give it voice, somehow. If he was ready to tell her, then perhaps it would help to combat the nightmares that plagued him so badly. Daring a glance up at him, she found his pained eyes fixed on her fingers ... on his mother's ring, nestled where it belonged against her knuckle. Proof that he had come through that horror.

"The Circle fell," he told her, drawing his thumb over the engraved band that told the world she was his. Fell. What a charming euphemism for "was torn apart from the inside by maleficar and demons". Cullen shook his head, raising his eyes to the mountains at the shore. "I saw my friends, my brothers, slaughtered. The mages who fought back against the maleficar, ripped into pieces, forcibly turned into abominations. Even the children ... novices no more than ten years old, destroyed because of the magic they bore."

Rory frowned, biting her tongue. She wanted to argue, to point out that it hadn't been magic that broke the Ferelden Circle, but the ambition for freedom and power at any cost. But even she knew that he would not take that well, forcing herself to keep still as he steeled himself to go on.

"They didn't kill me," he breathed, and now she could hear the pain in his heart. Survivor's guilt, on top of everything else. "I don't know why. They ... they let the demons torment me, torture me. Demons with her face, reaching into my head, stealing my memories ... They used her to break me. They tried to steal my mind, my memories from me. They killed her, because of me. Because I was infatuated with what I could not have, she died in anguish, not knowing why. Because I could not set aside my thoughts of her, they ... they -"

Rory twisted in his grasp, turning to reach up, gently laying her fingers against his lips to still the words that did not want to be aired. Even if she hadn't suspected what the desire demons had done to him in the tower, she would have been able to guess from what little he had said.

"Don't force yourself to say it," she told him, her voice thick with compassionate pain as she gazed into his eyes, awed by the intensity of the conflicting emotions that battled for dominance in him. "You survived."

"I didn't," he countered, shaking his head. "A part of me died in that tower, and for so long, I wished that my life had ended with it. I was ... changed. Angry. I became a templar to protect, and I failed the first test that came to me. Not merely in the loss of my brothers and sisters, in the carnage sown by Uldred and his ilk, but in my mind. They came so close ... I hated them for it. All mages, everyone touched by magic, I hated them for what had been done to me, to her. I-I tried to force my Knight-Commander's hand, to demand the Rite of Annulment." A bitter laugh left his lips. "The Hero of Ferelden called me a crazed coward. A child playing at being a man. Maker, I despised that dwarf."

He lowered his forehead to hers, his hands finding their place at her back to stroke and knead with anxious fingers as he leaned into her, needing the reassurance that she was still there. Rory tucked her fingers into the edges of his breastplate, holding him as close as she could. I'm here. Talk to me. Tell me what you need to say aloud. I won't ever say it to another being as long as I live.

"That was the first time I experienced life without lyrium since becoming a templar," he murmured, closing his eyes as her hands rose, stroking her fingertips over his cheeks, his jaw, to his temple, needing him to know she was still there, still listening. That she wasn't repulsed by what he was saying. "The pain was ... It frightened me. I was angry at mages, at magic; I twisted everything I saw to conform to my blinkered view, but ... but I was frightened. Of demons, of magic ... of experiencing that pain again. In Kirkwall, I obeyed my Knight-Commander, I trusted her ... I followed her rule despite seeing that it was wrong because ... because I was afraid she would throw me from the Order as she had done so many others."

Her breath caught in her throat. That was why? It had never occurred to her that, on top of his trauma, his pain, his anger, he had feared the loss of lyrium. Yet it made so much sense, now she heard him say it. At the most basic level, a human will do anything to survive, and templars were taught that to live without lyrium was to sentence themselves to a long, lingering death; to lose their minds and forget everything, everyone, they had never loved. For a man who had already experienced that kind of loss, who had seen brothers and sisters slaughtered at the hands of just a few of those they were meant to guard, the thought of losing his mind as well must have been horrifying. At some level, his obedience to Meredith had been about protecting himself.

"Everything I did, everything I allowed ... it was fear." His jaw set, whiskey-bright eyes opening to burn into hers with an intense flame that stole any thought of speech from her mind. "I do not want to live in fear any longer, but ... it is always with me. I can't escape it."

Unbidden, a direct quote from a movie she'd always loved back on Earth rose onto her tongue and made itself know. "Courage is not the absence of fear," she heard herself say. "But rather the judgment that something is more important than fear." She felt a gentle smile touch her lips, watching as those words sank into him. "The brave may not live forever, Cullen, but the cautious do not live at all."

A softly huffed expression of something that might almost have been a relieved laugh left his lips. "Am I living now?"

"What do you think?" she asked in turn, her hand falling to catch his from her back and draw his palm to the press of her belly between them - their child, his future in flesh and blood and bone.

His gaze lowered to where her hand pressed his to that smooth curve ... and the baby inside moved. For the first time, that movement was discernible to the father, who met her eyes with sudden tears shining in his own.

"Is that ...?"

She nodded, delighted that the baby had chosen this moment to make its presence felt to Cullen, just when he needed something more concrete than her love to hold onto. Cullen's eyes lit up in amazement, dropping once more as the tiny suggestion of pressure from within her womb made itself known against the flat of his palm. He let out a sob, a sound caught between laughter and tears, dropping to one knee to press his face against the rounded curve of her belly, wrapping his arms about her waist as he murmured to the child resting within. Her fingers curled into his hair as she felt him weep against her, feeling tears of her own well up in her eyes. At last, he had started to let go of some of those fears. Because the future, their future, needed him to. He would always be afraid, but she was certain that fear would not rule him again. Not unless he lost everything he held dear. And she was determined that would never happen again.

[october-rosehip]

Randomly Found Quiz!

So I was trying to put tens of thousands of words in some kind of order. My WIP is kind of a disaster, right now, and I found this quiz that I did for the fun of it before I joined this site. I believe it was posted on my behalf at the time, but darn if I can find the post to RB it, now.

This circulated on Tumblr and amused me immensely. Here is a quiz, as Macsen Surana would answer it, the day the Circle Mage origin story wraps up.

If you want to read the fic in question, don’t mind parades of OCs, or kids in fic, the series is called Strange Luck on AO3 and I go by Rosehip, over there.

What is your name?

Macsen Surana

No, seriously, what is your real name?

I'm not sure what else you're looking for, here. I don't have a nickname, anymore.

Do you know why you were called that?

Already arched eyebrows arch higher. My clan name is Surana. Presumably, my family liked the sound or the meaning of “Macsen.” I haven't seen any of them in years, though, so I can't tell you more than that. I guess “no” would have sufficed.

Are you single or taken?

Takenish? I've got something going on, but I don't think we can maintain it since I'm going to war and he's not.

Do you have any abilities or powers?

You're probably asking about my magic. I specialize in lightning and entropy. I'm interested in healing, but I'm not very good at it.

I'm better at working with my hands than you'd expect, as well. Whenever Gregoir gets sick of my crap, or, excuse me, (sits up very straight and deepens voice) “Feel you need to suppress your rebellious and prideful inclinations, young man,” he sets me to work repairing things or cleaning.

Stop being a Gary Stu.

Are we back to the name thing, again? Do you know something about my past? I'd love to hear it.

What is your eye color?

Blue.

How about your hair color?

A friend insisted on calling it “brunette”, which I'm pretty sure is Orlesian for brown.

Have you any family members?

I- I hope so.

I see... What about pets?

We're not supposed to have those. I had a toad for a while. I wanted to keep a hare, but I knew it wouldn't go well. Can Grey Wardens have pets? If they can, I would like that.

Tell me about something you don't like.

Fidgets and glances at nearby fully armed and armored templar. Nothing comes to mind, really.

Do you have any hobbies or activities that you enjoy doing?

I probably shouldn't admit this, but I'm out of here today, so what's anyone going to do about it? I love working on repairs in the workshop. There's something about the weight of the tools in your hands and the knowledge that one small thing in the world is less broken and you did it.

Ever hurt anyone before?

Not without pretty serious provocation, but yes.

Ever... killed anyone before?

I'm not sure how to answer that. No, really! Not, directly, I guess? Do sentinels count?

What kind of animal are you?

Lunges to feet. How DARE you? You want me to say “rabbit”, don't you? Well, fuck you and your stupid, round ears. I'm as much a person as you are.

Storms off.

Comes back ten minutes later.

A friend convinced me you probably didn't mean it like that. But, look, you should watch how you talk to people of other races, all right?

Anyway, I'd love it if I could turn into an animal, like a sparrow so I could fly around without anyone noticing. Or... a halla so I could run very fast across the land and carry my friends to safer places. That would be awesome.

Name one of your worst habits.

Hand me that weird writing utensil, the one with the button on the back. Clicks the retractable pen four thousand times. Oh, man, where has this thing been all my life? If fidgeting and tapping things is a habit, then there you have it. It's definitely the one that annoys other people the most.

Do you look up to anyone at all?

Yes. You might not understand this if all you know of him is what you've seen of him the last day or two, but I look up to Jowan. He just doesn't handle the threat of personal destruction well, all right? He's kind and loves easily, despite the fact that his family abandoned him. Do you know how rare that is? And once you have his love, he'll do anything for you. He'll always try to do the right thing. Maybe that's not the cool answer, but I don't know what I'd have ever done without him.

Sexual orientation?

I'm a little puzzled how we got from talking about my brother-in-all-but-blood to sex? I prefer men, yes. I do not look at Jowan in that way.

Do you go to school?

Sighs heavily. Every moment of every day for the last thirteen years. School, prison. Potayto potahto.

Do you want to marry and have kids one day?

That's a very complicated question, do you know that? The short answer is that I would love to have a family of my own, but don't think it is all that likely.

I mean, leaving aside for a minute the fact that I kissed a girl once and it went about how you think, I'm literal property. If I do manage to father a child, the Chantry owns it. Unless being a Grey Warden complicates that? Can Grey Wardens keep their own children? Or, would there be a custody dispute between the Grey Wardens and the Chantry?

Also, I'm going to war.

Anyway, yes, someday I would like to gather around me a variety of people whom I love, and I would like to not have to worry about who has the rights to any of us.

Like I said, not super likely.

What are you most afraid of?

Rubs forehead, glances at templar, again. Not much, really.

What do you usually wear?

Chantry-approved robes. What do you think? Hey, do Grey Wardens get to wear what they want? That'd be great. Because if I get a choice, I'd rather wear something more practical, like leathers, or, well, anything that doesn't drag on the ground.

Do you love someone?

Yes, I think so. At least, I do if it's still love when you feel as strongly as you ever did for them, but you know you can't make this work.

What class are you? (Lower, middle, upper?)

You probably think this one is easy, too, don't you? According to which culture? The Dalish are all family so we don't really have classes. On the other hand, some claim rank over other elves. (I don't, it's just a different culture, yet again.) Mages are not free, but we're educated beyond most people. In Ferelden society overall, as an elf, I'm inherently lower class, no matter what my personal values are or how much money I ever earn. I... yeah, I honestly don't know.

How many friends do you have?

Living or dead?

Anyone you still consider a friend, regardless of their current state.

One dead, two tranquil, two living, and two living to the best of my knowledge, but elsewhere.

Thoughts on pie?

Again, how did we get from my ill-fated friend circle to PIE? I've had pie so rarely, anyway, that I'm not sure I can do the question justice. I remember it being a little too sweet.

Favorite drink?

Strong tea, with lemon if I can get it.

What's your favorite place?

What part of “until today I was the prisoner of a religious institution” am I failing to get across? The roof, I guess? Ask me again when I've been more places.

Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean?

I will have to get back to you on that one, also.

Are you interested in anyone?

I thought we covered this?

What's your dick size?

Blushes. It's in proportion with the rest of me.

Well, what's your type?

Are we still talking about my dick? Use your imagination. Uh... actually please stop using your imagination. It's creeping me out a little.

What attracts you?

I love a good smile. No, really! I also notice if someone smells good. Look, everyone I know is covered from neck to feet most of the time. I only have so much information to go on, at first.

Any fetishes?

<.<  I am not certain what you mean by that.

Seme or uke? Top or bottom? Dominant or submissive?

Are you TRYING to get me in trouble? Pulls sleeves down lower over barely-discernible bruises ringing his wrists.

Camping inside or outside?

OUTSIDE! Oh, my gods, I get to go outside! And we're going to be camping! Outside forever!

Are you wanting this quiz to end?

Oh, are we done? Can I go outside now, then?

[amarabliss]

Oath and Hearts... - 3 (Ignis Scientia/Reader)

So this is a crossover between FFXV and Dragon Age Inquisition.

You fell through a rift into the fade fighting the demons you swore to protect your world from. When you popped out you were no longer in the lands of Ferelden instead trapped in Insomnia. The gracious king allowed you to say recognizing power when he saw it. One thing led to another and now you were part of the procession of the prince to his wedding years later. Before the final battle, after years of fighting, losses, and love…your friend…your king…Noctis has asked you to change it all…

Part 1 Part 2

“I can’t do this again.” You spoke quietly as you stared up at the ceiling. You pulled the sheet up around yourself as you heard rustling next to you.

Nyx hoisted himself on his elbow and looked down to you, “Does this mean you have accepted an invitation to a date with someone you actually find yourself attracted to?”

“I have.” You smiled at him brushing your hand through your hair.

“Oh…do I know this gentleman and or lady?” You laughed as he wiggled his eyebrows smiling at you.

“You do.” You weren’t going to make this easy for him and he knew it.

“Is it a Glaive?” You shook your head and saw a bit of relief fill him, “Hmm…is it… oh! It’s Laval, isn’t it? He’s always fancied you since I brought you to his food truck all those years ago.”

You laughed sitting up pulling your knees to your chest, “No, this gentleman works in the Citadel.”

“Is he a paper pusher?” Nyx sat next to you rubbing his chin.

You thought about it for a moment, “He can be, but that’s not what he does.”

“Is he a guard guard or Crowns Guard?” He prodded more.

“The latter…” You could feel your anxiety beginning to build. Nyx was really your only friend who stood by you this entire time and you knew how he felt about this specific gentleman.

“Gladio!” He snapped his fingers at you smirking.

Rolling your eyes, you stood up looking for your clothes, “No…”

“Come on! He’s a nice guy, good name behind him too.” He defended, “Gladiolus Amicitia, it has a very nice ring to it.”

“Yes, but…” You found your trousers and began pulling them on “isn’t he a bit…boorish?”

“Boorish!…Shiva you your ladyship is showing again, and I for one would not call him boorish…a flirt maybe…” He smirked at you as you swept up your hair, “Well if it’s not Gladio, who you deem boorish…is it the young stallion named Prompto?”

“Heavens no!” You watched him laugh a little, “Are you done guessing?”

“Maybe Cor? If you like them a bit older…” This was too far. You grabbed a discarded pillow and threw it at him, “You’re no fun…fine, who is this gentleman caller?”

You froze and swallowed as you began to turn from him, “Ignis…”

“Scientia?” The pitch in his voice rose.

“Well I don’t know any other Ignis.” You mumbled picking up your shirt.

“Really? That cold bastard asked you out?” Nyx stood up from the bed a look of disdain plastered on his face.

“Dinner, yes.” You pulled your shirt over your head.

“And you like him?” Nyx cocked his jaw a little.

“I do. We have good conversation…” You explained as you sat down on your bed, “He’s not that bad…”

“He is that bad…” Nyx sat down frowning a little, “He practically oozes disgust when he sees us…”

‘Us’ meaning anyone from Galahd. You sighed looking at him, “You give him very little credit. He is more in your corner then you think. He doesn’t hate your people.”

“So, you’ve talked about this?” Nyx looked at you seriously.

“Yes…Nyx you’re my best friend and the only one besides the King who trusted me without a doubt when I landed here.” You took his hand in yours squeezing it tightly, “I wouldn’t want anyone in my life who didn’t accept you.”

He smiled a lot before it transformed into smirk, “So…when is this encounter happening?”

“This weekend.” You took in a deep breath staring at him, “I was actually really surprised he asked.”

“You shouldn’t be, you’re an amazing catch.” Nyx ended up pulling you in close for a hug. He  ran a hand through your hair a kissed your forehead, “And if he does anything to insult your ladyship’s honor, just tell me and I’ll set him straight post haste.”

You smiled letting your eyes trace over Ignis’ sleeping form. It had been a very long time since you thought of your good friend Nyx. When you had found out about the Insomnia attack you had tried for days to get in touch with him…you never did.

God you missed him…

But when you saw Ignis relaxed next you, you could hear Nyx in the back of your mind picking fun at you for your happiness. It made you both sad and glad.

Your relationship with Nyx wasn’t a complicated one. You both didn’t belong in Insomnia and everyone reminded you of it. You both were good at what you did, protect others at any cost, and you found companionship because of it. So…when you fell into each other arms one night after drinking an entire fifth of bootleg Galahd whiskey, it wasn’t too surprising. It became a thing you two had with one another, and you both had agreed it would stop if you had interest in someone.

You hummed a little as moved closer to the man in your bed placing your hands on his chest as you leaned in kissing his neck. You were greeted with pleased noises before his warm hands found your sides.

You paused looking up seeing his green eyes peering down to you as he spoke, “Don’t stop on my account.”

You giggled before laying your head against his chest listening to his heartbeat. It pulsed through you reverberating through every vein, “We’re going to be late if we don’t get up soon.”

He took a deep breath in letting his chest rise and fall, “You’re quite right…”

You waited for him to release you, but it never came. You felt a knot tighten in your throat suddenly overwhelmed in his presence. You tried desperately to get yourself under control.

“Are you alright? You’re absolutely shivering.” He reached down pulling the blanket up around the both of you.

“Yes…I’m alright. I’m right where I need to be.” You replied as you began tracing circles on his chest.

“You say that as if you should in fact be somewhere else…” His hand fell over yours getting you to stop, “Is there something on your mind?”

You sat up looking down at him, “What makes you think that?”

Ignis let his eyes look you over calculating his response, “You’ve been rather distant lately…as if something is weighing you down. I’ve noticed it since we’ve left Lestallum, since you fell ill.”

“I assure you I am fine.” You smiled at him, “But I get the sense that you’re not going to let this go…is there some way I can ease your mind?”

“Hmm…” He reached up touching your cheek gently stroking it with his thumb, “Let us forego out dinner plans with the group and instead spend in evening alone in Altissia.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” You quirked an eyebrow.

“I know we agreed to keep things more business like on this trip…but…with our little liaison…” He began.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call anything little about our liaison…” You smirked seeing a blush come to his cheeks.

He cleared his throat continuing, “…while that may be… it seems silly to let our presence in such a lovely city go to waste. We never had much time to go out again. It seems so very long ago…”

It was, so long ago…You had to think really hard about it. It had nearly been six months since he’d last taken you out. You remembered it slowly, but it came back to you.

“You took me to that awful opera.” You smirked at him.

“In my defense, it said nothing about being in the archaic language of Tenebrae…nor did it mention being three hours long before intermission.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well I do recall enjoying the aftermath…finding that little Galahd café where we had the best spice tea I’ve had in ages…” You grabbed onto his hand that hand absently kept stroking your cheek.

“I remember how your face lit up.” You listened to him intently as he described the event, “I had never seen your smile so bright before when you took that first sip. You said it tasted like home. You stared into that cup for a long time before your smile faded again. You tried so hard to keep your spirits up after that, and you did well.”

“But I could see how much you missed home. So from that night on I vowed to do everything I could to make you see home here again.” He smiled at you bringing your hand to his lips kissing your fingers, “Through cooking, since it’s the one thing I can do well…”

You didn’t know that. He never told you. Suddenly so many encounters made since. The stop in Lestallum, his insistence that he needed your help purchasing supplies, and the constant pester of smelling herbs and spices. This man…this wonderful, intelligent being, did everything in his power to make you feel comfortable when he didn’t need to.

“You sell yourself short.” You smiled leaning down kissing him, “You have many qualities that you do well. Shall I name them?”

“I wish wouldn’t.” He sat up resting his forehead against yours, “It will waste precious daylight if you list them all.”

You laughed as he boasted. You loved this side of him. He would put up this very large protective wall when out in the world, but with you he became relaxed and foolish at times, “Oh…I love you.”

You felt your chest tighten after the words past your lips. It wasn’t a lie… he would be able to tell…but you knew it would change everything.

His head tilted slightly as his eyes met yours. You were afraid. You knew eventually, years from now, that he would tell you the same…but…it was so different from now. There was no light…he couldn’t see you…yet you laid next him letting him trace your face with his fingers…

It startled when he reached up tracing your lips with his thumb. It burned and sent everything inside you on fire. You expected some sort of answer from him, but instead he kissed you. Over and over again until he pushed you back into the bed.

Finally he pulled away nuzzling your face as he spoke, “I’ve longed to hear you say those words…and they are sweeter then I could have imagined.”

Your breath caught in your throat when he bit your earlobe continuing in a whisper, “I love you.”

Every kiss after he whispered the three words burning them into every inch of your skin. All plans of leaving the hotel vanished as you melted in his grasp. Not even the constant vibration of your phones didn’t coax  you out.

You could practically hear Nyx dripping with sarcasm, “So, highborn Amicitia isn’t your type, bad boy immigrants aren’t your type…you go for beanpole librarians? You’re definitely from a different world…you and Scientia are perfect for each other…”

[calamity-writes]

In Glory & Gore - 6.1

Fenlin found herself bound, hands to ankles behind her. the collar back on with a golden leash that Polonius held in his fist. Fenlin's hands where probing the shackles that hooked through an iron link set into the villa's floor. Around her a gold circle was inlaid in the rock floor, with groves cut into the stone in a pattern she wasn't quite able to figure out in the sickly green light of veilfire candelabras.

"You think this is funny?" Polonius asked, pacing back and forth in front of the circle's edge. He yanked on the leash to punctuate his words. Fenlin watched him, wordless as always. "Knife eared bitch, you show up, like some gift from the maker himself, and then everything starts to go wrong. You know the Champion, you know him well enough to fuck him, to get him not to fight," he snarled, yanking on the collar again. Fenlin winced, but made no other move to explain. She couldn't, and even if she could, what would the point be?

"You drive me to distraction, and I could put up with the Ferelden, I could put up with the Champion if it was short lived, but- now you do this." He hissed, leaning down at her to glare at her hair. "But don't worry, we'll fix this. But first you need to learn how to behave. How to listen when I tell you what to do."

Polinius pulled back from her, and whistled. The door to the stone room opened, light flooding in from the Villa's courtyard. Guards marched in, headed by Favus whose lips twitsted as he looked at her. Three slaves were brought in, two that Fenlin didn't know, and one who might as well have been her cousin. Hanin. Spotting her, Hanin froze, and Favus shoved him further into the room.

"But to get you to properly behave, my dear," Polonius said. "We're going to need the help of a few friends." He motioned for Favus to pull the first slave closer. A battered elf, still dirty and with hair long enough for the Templar to grab. He did, yanking the elf's head back to bare his throat to Polonious, and to Fenlin who was far too close to the elf. Polonius's hand slashed out and red heat spurted out onto Fenlin and the ground below. Turning her head away and squeezing her eyes shut, Fenlin felt sick as the blood covered her.

The notches in the floor, she realised. They were for blood...

"Next," Polonius said, tossing aside the spent body aside. "If you won't behave, I'll make you behave." He turned, stepping up to the second slave. This one, a human, injured in the ring during the last fight. Still the woman was squirming, trying to get free. The woman's foot lashed out in her struggle, slipping on the bloody floor and connecting hard with Fenlin's knee.

The slice was messier this time, a spurt of blood got inter her mouth, filling Fenlin's mouth with copper heat. She spat it out, or tried to.

"Next-"

NO! Fen tried to throw herself into the way, to stop Polonius from getting to Hanin. Tied as she was, the small elf could only flop sideways, looking up at Polonius with begging eyes.

"No?" he said, kindly. He crouched, bloody hands running over Fenlin's cheek. "Will you be good?" he asked. "So I don't need to kill your friend?" She nodded urgently, mouthing the word please.

"Take him back to the others," Polonius said to Favus. "Leave me with the little huntress. I'll send for you when she's ready to return to training." Fenlin watched as Polonius looked over at a grim Hanin and smiled. "It might be a while, we have so much to discuss about her recent behaviour." Fenlin felt his hand slid over her cheek to rest on her throat.

Fenlin closed her eyes, listening as Favus and the other guards dragged Hanin from the room. When it locked, she heard a bolt slide into place on the other side of the door.

"Now," Polonius said gently. "We're all alone, no scary Favus, no Champion, Ferelden or other elves to listen in." He cupped her jaw, lifting her chin up. Fenlin opened her eyes, the blood sticky on her skin, making everything in her crawl as she felt magic being drawn around them.

"You are mine, huntress," Polonius said, the power from the blood around and on them filling the air like static, waiting for that final nudge to discharge. "You are my pet, my slave, my little gladiator. You will do as I say, when I say. You will wait on my praise and crave it. Do you understand?"

Fenlin wanted to shake her head, to fight off the magic, but it was strong. Abyss's pull, it was so strong that she felt her head nodding even as tears began to cut paths through the blood on her cheeks.

"Good girl," Polonius cooed. "I have plans for you, but I need you to be good, not to ruin them, will you do that for me?" Fenlin nodded again, hating the surge of emotion in her chest. The need to appease, the swell of guilt that she could ever have thought that she might act against Polonius's wishes.

"Now," Polonius said, crouching down in front of her, his face almost level with hers. "Don't you look beautiful like this," he murmured. "I'm going to call in a friend of mine, to watch over you while the spell settles, alright?"

Fenlin nodded again, anxiety rising. Where was he going? Why was he leaving?

Leaning in, Polonius pressed a chaste kiss to Fenlin's forehead, and stepped back. Lifting his arms, he slammed his staff into the rock floor. Around her, the bloody rivulets that followed the channels cut into stone began to glow. Fenlin felt dizzy, the spell and glut of power that surrounded her caused pinpricks of light to burst in her vision.

"You callled?" purple smoke curled around Fenlin, solidifying into a demon that ran a long nail up along Fenlin's chin. "Masster," Desire purred, looking up at Polonius eagerly. "You've brought me a new mageling to play with."

Polonius stopped, and Fenlin was sure her heart had stopped just watching him. Fear filled her, poisoned by the need to please him, the need for his approval. The Demon- it-

"You did not know?" the Demon asked, running it's hand's over Fenlin's scalp. "A little sneaky mageling, with a heart only just starting to crumble to darkness." It smiled and Fenlin shuddered.

"I did not," Polonius said, looking at Fenlin with a renewed interest. "Keep her pliable, here. I will return. I have some arrangements to make before the next event. And now, more still. Perhaps we will have our little huntress play a larger role than I first thought."

He smiled, and Fenlin melted, sagging into the Demon's arms that gently wrapped around her. Like a lover's.

**

Hanin was furious. He was still splattered with blood of the other slaves, and as Favus shoved him out into the practice yard, it took all the restraint Hanin had left not to turn around and throw flame at the bastard. Collar be damned.

Cresca shouted to the fighters to continue, glaring at Athim and Rahlen who hurried over to Hanin up. As though he needed it.

"Why are you covered in blood?" Rahlen asked. "What happened?" Athim hissed at the same time.

"Ferelden, Champion, this is your final warning," Cresca said.

"Blood magic." Hanin hissed, before stalking past them to the bench where wooden swords lay. "To make her behave."

He stewed the entire day, Cresca kept them busy, too tired to talk. As the sun set and the Guards chased them  into the barracks, Hanin kept an eye out for the other white haired elf. But she wasn't in her cell. Nor was she brought in after the other fighters settled in for the night.

"What did you see in there?" Rahlen asked in a whisper. "What were they doing? They didn't hurt you- or her did they?"

Hanin ran his hands over his face, into his hair. He didn't know the answer to that. Sagging back onto his cot, Hanin rested his elbows on his knees.

"Hanin?" Rahlen asked, "Tell me what happened."

"He killed two slaves, just for the blood," Hanin said quietly. "Said if she wasn't going to behave he would make her behave. He was going to kill me too, I think, but she tried to stop him. I don't know if he planned it that way, using me as a breaking point, or if he was really ready to kill me."

Hanin shook his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Flakes of blood drifted down, caught in strands from earlier that day.

"All this over hair?" Rahlen asked, "All this over fucking /hair/?!" His voice rose and one of the guards shouted to keep it down.

"More than that, he mentioned you, and he mentioned Athim. I- I don't understand though," Hanin said. "But I think, whenever she's allowed back out, she might not be trust worthy any more, Rahlen." Hanin looked up, apologetic. Rahlen's face was dark, and he was scowling.

"We're not leaving her," the Prince said quietly.

"If he broke her, blood magic is really-"

"We," Rahlen growled. "Are not. Leaving her.".

[youaremynewdream]

Tranquil: Ch 1

ACK okay so here’s my first multi-chapter Dragon Age fic!

The relationships and such are still evolving, but here’s the first chapter, please enjoy! <3

Summary:

In the Ferelden Circle of Magi, Estella was one of the Tranquil. When chaos thrusts mages into a war with the templars, the only hope for peace seems to be the Divine's Conclave in Haven.

Thrown into the center of the chaos, what happens when Estella finds herself with a magical mark upon her hand, and her connection to the fade restored?

Read on AO3 here

Estella understands the reasoning behind the mage rebellion, though she could not care for it one way or another.  When the chaos first began, she was unsure of where to turn. People so often like to pretend she didn’t exist, and this time was no different. Emotionless as she is, however, she knows she doesn’t want to die. She tries to think through the options of what she can possibly do within her abilities.  If she keeps trying to do her previous work, she will surely be killed. Both mages and templars alike are acting out of character, turning on each other, uncaring of who gets harmed in the chaos.  No, she would have to act.  She quickly analyzes her surroundings: people scurrying to and fro, spells running rampant, noise of terror ringing above it all.  Everyone's faces start to blur together, she knows their names but no one is paying attention to her calm questions.  She can't feel panic, but she can tell that is the right word to describe the current mood surrounding her.  There is no place really to hide, everything from looters to crazed maleficarum are flooding the tower and if she gets in someone's way... it will not end well.

 She must leave the tower. There is no way around it. But where could she go? She likely has family somewhere, but having lived in the tower since she was a child she barely has any memories of her parents.  Straining her mind she can remember templars ripping her from her mother’s arms, screaming and painful cries as she desperately tried to escape.  Being too hazy of a memory with no location, however, it is worthless to her current situation.

There are no senior enchanters in sight, no one with any rank she can currently see to follow.  Some of her fellow tranquil are standing in the corner across the room, but they look just as calculating as she must appear to them. This is troubling.  What else can she do?

Deciding to follow the flow of the mages, she heads down the stairs towards the front door, she figures at least if she makes it outside she might be able to find help elsewhere.

 Luckily, she doesn't have to search too far.  Finally reaching the front entrance, a mage runs headfirst into her, sending both of them toppling to the ground.  Estella lies still for a moment, dazed from the impact. Feeling arms circle around her, she tenses for a moment.

 The arms around her squeeze tightly as if in relief.  Relaxing, Estella realizes the mage had rushed into her not by accident or attack, but was in fact embracing her.

“Oh thank the maker, there you are!" The small blonde woman clung tightly to her shoulders, then releases them to hold her face. Estella looks into her eyes for a moment, blinking rapidly as she realizes who she was, replying calmly, "Cora."

 She is her friend, at least according to Cora.  Estella doesn't really feel much difference in the relationships she has with other people, but she supposes Cora was... comforting.  She remembers being close to her before she was made tranquil, many of her memories included the other mage. And so she remains friends with her, or as close to as 'friends' as one can get when they can't form relationships.  It isn't like most mages to talk to the tranquil, but Cora always makes a point to come visit her. She is very kind.

 Cora picks herself up and offers her hand to Estella to help her stand.  She accepts the gesture as Cora starts speaking, nearly on the verge of tears, "I’ve been searching everywhere for you, I thought they might have... hurt you or something I don't know.  Everything is crazy!  I've had to fling so many defensive spells I'm not even sure what I'm doing anymore.  I swear you can't tell who is on what side.  I saw several of the higher ranking enchanters fighting each other! It's madness! This isn't just us anymore, this is a war... But nevermind me, how are you? Did they get to you? Are you hurt?" Estella shakes her head.  Cora lets out a sigh of relief.

 "Andraste bless us, I was so worried.  I know you can't fight for yourself but you've always been good at going unnoticed so I guess that's a plus.  Anyway, I was running through the tower looking for you and I figured I might find you near the entrance. We always did think alike, thank the maker.  Well anyway, I’m here now, so are you sure that you are alright?” Cora squeezes Estella’s shoulders in a gesture of comfort.  Estella nods to assure her, “I am unharmed.  I am a bit unsure of where to go, however.  Do you have a plan? We will need an alternative place to take shelter seeing as the tower is no longer a place of safety.”

 Cora lightly smiles.  “Of course, Ella. You know I've always got a plan." Pulling Estella further towards the entrance of the tower,

 "We have to leave the tower immediately, the fighting is bound to get worse, and I’m not going to let anyone do so much as even touch you.  You need to stay by me or I cannot guarantee your safety. I have a small group of level headed rebels that know of a place we can go, safehouses hidden by allies.  They know of you and will not abuse you, unless they wish to face the wrath of me." Cora winks at her. Now outside, they slow down.  Dropping her hand for a moment, Cora looks out over the water, and a sadness peaks through her previous determination. She turns around and looks her dead in the eye. Hesitant, she asks, "You will come with me, right?"

 Estella attempts to lift the corners of her mouth up in a learned smile to comfort Cora, nodding as she says, “Of course my friend, wherever you lead me I shall follow.”

Cora squeezes her hand and leads her to a cluster of mages by a hidden boat.  Silently they greet each other and make their way south of the tower. It is the best solution she could think of for the moment, though she is unsure of how this might affect her future.

Life was about to get very peculiar.

***

The war remains relentless.  Cora and Estella try to stay low, researching for a faction of the rebels while they fought the templars. Estella, having always had a knack for puzzles, is particularly good at decoding messages. The other mages in the organization deemed her valuable enough to work for them despite her tranquility.  She's just grateful to have a purpose, and works to accomplish whatever task they give her with the utmost efficiency.

The days fly by.  Estella regularly checks for messenger hawks, being able to attract them easily with her unthreatening nature. Each day seems similar to the next, studying the encryptions from the templars and quickly working out their code.  She always manages to report in a timely manner, consistently working to the organization's satisfaction.  Cora seems pleased that she iss useful, though every once in awhile Estella catches her looking back at her sadly, as if lost in thought.  She wishes she could understand why she looks at her that way, but she knows that asking such questions would only lead to more confusion and hurt on Cora's end. So Estella stays quiet and out of the way.  A task she is quite familiar with.

 One hazy morning, Estella sits alone in her and Cora's small quarters reading up on herbal remedies for the wounded mages when Cora hurries in and rips the book from her hands.

“Estella, pack your things as soon as you can, the end of the war is coming!”  Cora nearly dances about the room as she starts to throw her few belongings into her bag.

 Estella remains still, contemplating. “Are you quite sure? What event took place to cause you to assume this outcome?”

 Cora continues to shove clothes and potions and the like into her bag, still a bit out of breath from dashing into the room. “The Divine called for a conclave, we are meeting with the templars and trying to figure out a way to live peacefully.  We can finally end this chaos! We could get our rights back and…”

 Looking back at Estella for a moment, Cora cannott help but feel pained.  Estella’s blank expression, forever dead eyes masking the girl she used to be... it tortures her.  She softens, stepping closer and gently cups her face, brushing away stray hairs as she rubs her cheek. “Maybe… we can get you back.”

 Back?  What does she mean by 'back'? Estella does not quite understand.  She is sitting right here in the same room as Cora is she not? Or did she mean back to the circle? No that can’t be it, Cora never liked being in there.  She would always use phrases such as being 'penned up like monsters' and how they 'tortured innocent mages'. She could always understand her anger, for she remembers rebelling being a large part of her own life before she was made tranquil.  No, surely Cora wouldn't ever want to return to the tower. Cocking her head, Estella asks, “Back where? I apologize I don't quite understand what you mean by that.”

Cora looks at her closely, trying to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes. She hesitates for a moment, then closes the small distance between them.  Gently Cora places her lips on Estella's, softly kissing her.  Estella remains motionless.  She was familiar with acts such as this, memories of them linger on the edge of her mind, but surely this was inappropriate.  She sits there unsure of what to do.  How does one respond to this?

 Cora pulls away. Biting her lip she avoids Estella's gaze as she lets go of her face.  She runs her hands together anxiously, asking softly, "Did you... do you feel anything? Anything at all?"

 Estella doesn't respond for a moment.  She understands what she means, but surely Cora knows that she is tranquil.  Why is she being so irrational?

 "Cora you know I cannot feel any emotions.  I apologize if that is hurtful to you. I do not wish you any harm..." Estella wishes she could feel something, if only to make her companion content again.

 Cora shakes her head, turns around, and starts packing up Estella's belongings for her.  Estella moves towards her, "There is no need for you to do that, I am perfectly capable of packing myself.  I apologize if I-"

 "Stop apologizing!" Cora throws the bag back on the bed and grabs Estella by the shoulders, revealing the tears streaming down her face. "I should be the one who is sorry... I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have kissed you but I just... Do you not remember anything? Any feelings, anything about us from before?  Don't you ever wish you could go back to the time before they made you tranquil?" She struggles to control her breathing, squeezing Estella's shoulders tightly before letting go.  She backs away slowly and collapses on the bed.

 "You don't remember. Do you.  Not anything connected with feelings.  I know what they did to you. You have nothing to apologize for.  Everything you are... everything you do now. It isn't your fault.  It's those bastards back at the circle... for what they did... what they made you...."

 Estella is silent, making her way to sit down beside Cora, handing her a handkerchief.  Cora sniffles for a moment, wiping her face, then she looks her directly in the eyes whispering, “Estella… what if there’s a way for you to become… you again? A way to take away your tranquility?”

 Estella blinks slowly, stunned. “Take it away?  But… I don’t know if I could, or should be able to handle that, even if it were possible.  I was made tranquil for a reason after all.” At this Cora threw the handkerchief back at her suddenly, flaring up with anger.

 “That is bullshit and you know it.  I know that you have to take all the fodder that they feed you. But Ella you, the real you... The real Estella would never want to be tranquil, never needed to be. You were in control! You loved magic you…” Cora paces around the room.  "You were the most talented out of all of us.  We were stunned when we found out, people heard you scream."  She stops pacing for a moment, looking out the window.  "You fought them Estella.  You didn't deserve this. You aren't supposed to be like this."

 Estella tries to recall these memories, but her mind is blank.  She is unsure of what to trust.  Surely Cora wouldn't lie to her, but would the Circle?  Her memory had too many blank spaces for her to piece together the truth. Too much had been tied up with emotion for her to really know what happened.  So she sits quietly, and tries to think of anything to comfort her friend.

 “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.  I can barely remember having a strong aversion to the rite.  It's only glimpses, too much must have been related to my emotions, and I can't recall anything from that time.  However if it gives you any peace of mind, I don’t feel upset any longer.  I cannot. It may not be ideal, but at least it is better than possibly dying, hurting others, or whatever the templars may have feared for me.”  Estella tries to smile again, hoping to calm down her friend, for she knows that Cora’s emotions often overwhelm her.

 Cora walks back to her, grabbing her face one more time.  She looks deep into Estella’s eyes, searching for something, anything, murmuring, “You're not even her anymore..."

 She walks away without another word.  Estella remains still as Cora returns to packing.  She knew that Cora didn’t mean this in a literal sense, but it wasn’t logical to respond with anything, it was more for herself then to Estella anyway.  So the uncomfortable silence hangs in the air as they both finish up packing their bags and leave the room for the final time.

 They make their way to the stables and climb on a horse together, Cora makes sure that Estella has her arms tucked tightly around her waist.  They ride out with the rest of the pack of mages on horseback, and start making their way west.

 Cora looks behind her at their now empty hideout and sighs, saying "I'm glad we can come out of hiding, but I must say, I'm going to miss the excitement of it all."  

 They ride in silence for a while after that.   As the sky grows darker, Cora eventually apologizes, "Hey, Ella? I'm sorry for how I snapped at you earlier.  It was... you didn't deserve that."

 "Do not worry about it, in truth, I am glad that you care for me.  If you didn't I doubt I would be alive right now."

 Cora puts her arm over Estella's around her waist, squeezing her hands. Turning around to look at Estella, Cora says, “Things are changing, Ella.  Good things. Let us hope for the better.”  Estella lifts the corners of her mouth again into her almost-smile, and Cora happily returns it. Estella may not be able to feel happiness anymore, but if she could, this would surely be the time for such an emotion.

 If a small facial gesture could improve the life of another, then she has done something to better the world.  Hope... she isn't sure quite how to process it, but it equates close enough to her curiosity as to what would come next.

 Heads held high, they set off towards Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to the conclave where the mages and templars will finally meet to discuss the end of a war, of an era.

 All the while hope, and a nervous sense of curiosity, hangs heavy in the air.