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valentina-lauricella · 1 year

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Lettera infinita a Leopardi

[Scriverò di seguito ogni pensiero trascrivibile in parole rivolto a lui.]

Stamattina mi sono accorta che mi hai fatto trovare ordinatamente piegati i miei panni di pensieri sporchi e disordinati della sera prima, e lo stai facendo da molte mattine, ogni giorno. Sei un grande psicologo. "Sono il tuo servo," mi dicesti, con uno sguardo che non esprimeva umiltà, ma grande potere di scompaginarmi dentro. Ma il tuo scompaginare è pulire e mettere ordine. Credo che non ti ricambiero` mai abbastanza, per questo ho paura che tu mi abbandoni. Sento che mi dici che potrei superarti e andare senza di te, ma non voglio.

Ho questa costante paura di essere abbandonata, perché i miei genitori andavano via, dopo che mi ero addormentata.

"Voglio toccarti attraverso le cose del mondo" è una bella frase che mi rassicura.

Leggendo una biografia di Leopardi focalizzata sui suoi processi mentali, ovviamente insondabili, ma che si colgono in alcuni aspetti grazie al minuzioso registro di auto-analisi rappresentato dai suoi scritti, ed in cui sono presentati anche gli aspetti più crudi dei suoi mali fisici, reputo doveroso dire che egli è un santo per come la sua energia ha brillato nonostante le eccezionali condizioni avverse. La sua vita è stata una sorta di passione simile a quella di Cristo. La sua croce lo avvicina a noi con un irresistibile potere attrattivo.

Io voglio stare ai piedi della croce tutta umana e laica di Leopardi.

Averti riscoperto come soggetto con sindrome di Asperger, mi ha fatto vedere gli aspetti da me conosciuti della tua vita e delle tue opere in un'ottica che sento finalmente giusta, che ha riacceso il mio entusiasmo e insieme mi ha placato.

Tu sei il centro esatto del mio interesse, il modello stesso del mio atteggiamento d'interesse verso qualsiasi cosa. Qualunque altra cosa m'interessi, lo fa sempre meno di te, e come in tuo ricordo o preannunciazione.

Tu sei la fonte prima di ogni gioia, e non intendo per me sola, ma per tutti. O almeno così immagino e vorrei che tutti comprendessero. Ora vedo i tuoi scritti come il raffinatissimo prodotto del mestiere di un intelletto iperfunzionale più che come espressione di sentimento; entro in contatto con la tua energia di tipo freddo, come l'ho sentita di là nel tuo mondo, replicando la gioia di quel contatto con il solo pensiero, in assenza delle visioni che mi hai regalato.

La tua mente che pensava tutto e il suo contrario contemporaneamente, massima espressione della libertà umana che si traduce in esplorazione ed espansione potenzialmente illimitate, mi riempie di gioia. È gioia non poter esprimere la tua grandezza e complessità con le parole. È gioia ammirare, in un silenzio traboccante di tutto ciò che non ha nome.

Non dovrei parlare di te al passato. Non tollero la tua morte. Non la volevi né la aspettavi. Adesso, da sola, o forse in tua compagnia, io la combatto, anche per te.

Per tutte le signore che non ti hanno risposto. Per tutte le signore che non ti hanno scritto quanto e come avresti voluto. Ci sono io, in loro vece. Con il mio fare ingenuamente protettivo e comodamente sentimentale. Spero, in qualche modo, di andarti bene.

Ciao, caro Leopardi. Capisco bene come, avendo ricevuto delusioni dalle donne e trovandosi nell'impossibilità fisica di amarle, avendo comunque bisogno di amare ed essere amato, ci si possa rivolgere sentimentalmente agli uomini. Mi ha decisamente destabilizzato immaginarti, come suggerito da Carducci, rivolgere quei deliranti soliloqui amorosi di cui parla Ranieri, ad un congiunto, mascherato con uno scialle da donna, di Fanny Targioni Tozzetti. Chi vuole portarti dalla parte degli omosessuali, però, trascura di considerare la tua lunga corrispondenza con Fanny. Perché tanta devozione ad una donna che, secondo loro, non avresti amato?

Io sono più propensa a credere che la tua mente ospitasse e producesse letteralmente tutto, anche in campo affettivo. Una scelta non esclude l'altra, considerata opposta o diversa. Nella tua mente onnicomprensiva, credo che tutto, ogni estremo del pensabile, si unisse.

Soffro molto di non poter conoscere la tua vita fisica e psicologica così come si è veramente svolta. Soffro che tu sia, come tutto il resto, sostanzialmente inconoscibile. Che noi osservatori possiamo avere solo impressioni ed opinioni. Alla fine, ha più valore la verità o i racconti che se ne possono trarre? Non credo avrò mai pace.

Spero che anche le mie immaginazioni, come le tue, abbiano un valore, narrativo ed anche di costruzione della realtà, in modo che verità oggettiva e visione soggettiva, realtà data e realtà immaginata siano in collaborazione.

"Ho detto troppo, non ho detto abbastanza," potrebbe dire il tuo amico del suo Sodalizio. E quali le sue intenzioni? È tutto così complicato che solo tu puoi capirlo.

Prendimi presto con te. Come tu immaginavi donne che non ti avrebbero mai soddisfatto, io sto immaginando te. Com'è strana la vita! Divertente! Come tutto si capovolge e spazia da un estremo all'altro in un fenomeno elettromagnetico che manifesta luce.

Resta con me se puoi con quell'entusiasmo che da bambino ti faceva carezzare anche oggetti inanimati, pieno di amore per tutto ciò che cadeva sotto i tuoi sensi e si sottoponeva al tuo pensiero.

Non voglio nemmeno un momento di solitudine. Per quanto io non possa interamente accedere, voglio percorrere continuamente quei gradini in salita, in vista dell'ingresso.

Carissimo conte Leopardi, fonte di ogni felicità per tutti (è un complimento di quelli che mi piace fare), grazie per avermi segnalato la "farsa" (mi suona irrispettoso, di una cosa che ti riguarda, ma questo è) 'O Ranavuottolo, con la quale ho sorriso (e continuerò a farlo, perché voglio gustarmene lettura e rilettura), e grazie alla quale ho trovato, almeno momentaneamente, e parzialmente, risposta al mio lacerante quesito sul valore della verità e della narrazione e del loro reciproco rapporto. Grazie per questa chiave di lettura, quest'ombra di soluzione, questo momento di tregua. Innescare il piacere psico-fisico di una risata è come fare una carezza di puro amore.

"I vostri panni turchini" dell'articolo trovato precedentemente alla "farsa" e che idealmente l'ha introdotta, mi ossessioneranno con il loro potere simbolico-evocativo, ti avverto. Ma tu trovi soluzioni armoniose a tutto. Risistemi tutto a costo di stancarti (immagino). Per favore, non stancarti per me.

Caro signor conte, Giulio Manfredi scrisse nel 2006 quest'opera teatrale che sto leggendo senza potermi trattenere dal ridere. In alcuni tratti, l'umorismo è un po' troppo dissacrante della tua figura e del tuo pensiero, ma era proprio ciò che mi serviva per ridere, tanto pesante era la cappa che mi schiacciava. Quindi grazie di avermi consentito di ridere insieme a coloro che hanno ritenuto accettabile ridere di te, o meglio, con te. Grazie a quest'opera, mi sto liberando di ogni gelosia e ansia di sapere come sono andate veramente le cose. Sto entrando in una dimensione in cui realtà e immaginazione collaborano per costruire un'altra realtà non meno legittima di quella data. E se prima capivo solo con l'intelletto il valore della finzione (teatrale o letteraria), adesso lo sento ed esso riesce a placare la mia ansia dovuta all'iperemotivita`. Inoltre, è molto bello sentire che tu leggi con me, validando lo stato d'animo che la lettura suscita in me. Non ti farò mai abbastanza complimenti. Anche i più apparentemente esagerati, non si avvicineranno nemmeno a descrivere ciò che sei. Non sei Dio, non sei un angelo, ma sei un'entità potentissima che ha scelto di essere buona. In particolare con me.

Caro Leopardi, la seconda parte era proprio da buttare via. Raffazzonata e mal conclusa. Apprezzo l'intento dell'autore di fare ridere. Avevo bisogno di ridere e con la prima parte lui è riuscito con me nell'intento, ma la seconda parte e la conclusione, troppo insistite sul cliché della gobba, erano veramente grevi, quasi da schifarmi. E la scommessa con Antonio era pretestuosa. Del tutto ho apprezzato la prima parte con Fanny, con Congiunto, e il complessivo scomporti dell'autore attraverso i pareri di Antonio e di Congiunto per farti poi ricomporre nell'ultima frase, rivolta al pubblico, che fa sentire come tu sia tutto, e possa esser voce di tutti. Nessuno può prendere le distanze da te o darti torto. Tu ci porti, davvero, tutti sul cuore.

Ho riso, va bene. Mi sono anche sentita un po' presa in giro. Non volevi solo fare il pagliaccio, ma anche indurmi a ridere di me stessa. Per dirmi che non vuoi che ti ami in modo triste, compassato, reverenziale.

Ebbene sì, sono impaziente. Sono pronta a lasciare immediatamente tutto pur di stare con te. Sai cosa immagino? Che arrivata nell'aldilà, troverò soltanto ombra. Sarò sola. Camminero` per incontrare qualcuno e chiedere di te.

- Buongiorno, scusi, sono qui da poco e vorrei chiedere un'informazione. - Prego, mi dica. - Conoscete Giacomo Leopardi? Sono qui per incontrarlo. - Qui c'è tanta gente, impossibile conoscere tutti. Mi spiace, non so darle nessuna informazione. - Ah, va bene, grazie lo stesso. - Buona ricerca!

- Buongiorno, ecc. - Chiii? Quello che si studia a scuola? Ma come ti viene in mente, cerca piuttosto un parente, magari tua nonna. E qui forse davvero incontrerei mia nonna, che mi porterebbe in un negozio di vestiti, per consolarmi.

Ma siccome avrei la testa sempre rivolta a te, continuerei a chiedere a tutti, ricevendo una vasta gamma di risposte. Alcune potrebbero essere: "È uno dei più alti Spiriti: impossibile, da questo livello, connettersi con lui". "Non sappiamo dove sia, è una specie di leggenda, sta con Dante e Torquato Tasso, supponiamo, ma nessuno di noi l'ha visto". "Punti in alto, eh? Vedi di studiare bene, prima di poter anche solo pensare di incontrarlo". "Perché vorresti incontrarlo? Vuoi confutarlo, vuoi litigare con lui?" "Lui non c'è, qui non è mai arrivato, forse non è mai esistito". "Faresti meglio a togliertelo dalla testa". Immagino, praticamente, una piatta continuazione della vita, con i suoi ostacoli e delusioni, con quel senso continuo di assurdo. Non credo possa esserci un sensibile, improvviso cambiamento.

Ma questo è niente. Non incontrarti sarebbe niente in confronto ad essere confusa dall'incontro con vari tuoi simulacri, uno per ogni persona che ti ha immaginato. Anche se incontrassi il simulacro creato dalle mie stesse immaginazioni, sarei disperata di non poter incontrare il vero te. Io voglio arrivare a te così come sono, nella mia autentica identità, e vorrei che anche tu di fronte a me fossi l'unico, l'autentico te stesso. Questa è la più importante delle preghiere che ti rivolgo: di mostrarti davvero a me, di non essere un'illusione, di essere reale, anche una realtà che mi faccia male. Non sopporterei realtà costruite da me o per me. Voglio la realtà data, con la quale interagire, ma che esista di per sé. Voglio la vera conoscenza.

#pensieri #lettera infinita

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archivioiconograficodistato · 4 years

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Alessandro Orlando

«Sono ancora giovane, io andrò via di qui. Non mi brucio a 40 anni. E avrò una tv tutta mia» A. Orlando

«Non esistono piccole parti, ma solo piccoli attori.» K. Stanislavskij dopo la visione de “La leggenda del Royal King Keyshon imperiale del Sultano Fershid”

[…] Il 1959 fu l’anno del cambiamento: Calzoleria Orlando lasciò definitivamente spazio a Galleria Orlando. Ma passò ancora molto prima che l’odore del cuoio svanisse dal locale. I visitatori ora passeggiavano tra le opere, circondati dalle stesse pareti che fino a poco tempo prima avvolgevano le rumorose macchine per la lucidatura

La galleria diventò luogo di frequentazione stabile dei collezionisti fiorentini, il successo permise dopo soli 10 anni l’apertura della prestigiosa sede estiva di Forte dei Marmi, la Galleria Cavour Orlando. Collezionisti di tutta Italia ogni estate non mancavano all’inaugurazione della nuova stagione, nella quale venivano offerte opere straordinarie e di altissimo livello raccolte durante l’intero inverno. La sera, dopo le 21… la magia dell’asta: fino a notte fonda collezionisti e semplici curiosi affollavano la galleria, seduti su comode poltrone, fuori, in piedi, tutti ascoltando le parole del fascinoso banditore di turno.

Sono cresciuto respirando queste serate e ascoltando i banditori, mio padre, il grande pubblico. Durante il giorno, talvolta, Mino Maccari, Ernesto Treccani, Giuseppe Migneco o Remo Brindisi venivano a trovare papa’ e io ero lì, con loro. Nel 1975 alla grande Galleria Cavour Orlando si affiancò la piccola ma prestigiosa Galleria Orlando di via Carducci a Forte Dei Marmi direttamente gestita ancor oggi da Susanna Orlando, la mia grande sorella.

Affascinato dal mondo delle aste, cominciai inconsapevolmente ad innamorarmene, fin quando una sera d’estate di ventisette anni fa, il banditore impiegato da mio padre non si presentò al lavoro. L’occasione per farmi valere, papa’ mi mise il microfono in mano e disse:

“Vai Ale! Adesso sta a te’”

Fù un trionfo, il panico iniziale lasciò presto spazio alla grande convinzione che fin da piccolo mi caratterizzava. Partii come un treno ottenendo un risultato incredibile per quei tempi. Naturalmente da quel giorno diventai il banditore ufficiale della galleria. [OrlandoArte.it]

«Nel dicembre 1996 ricevetti una telefonata dal dirigente di Telemarket, rete televisiva nazionale. Mi chiese se fossi disponibile ad un provino, perchè no? Il 7 gennaio 1997 si accesero le telecamere e per ben 15 anni sono rimasto sul palcoscenico.» A. Orlando

[...] ll gran maestro di queste operazioni fu senza dubbio il toscano Alessandro Orlando, impiegato nelle più disparate liquidazioni: quadri, sculture, argenterie, tappeti, mobili antichi. Egli, molto più aggressivo dei colleghi, impazziva letteralmente, avvicinando il volto butterato alla telecamera ben più del consentito. Una comunicazione certamente studiata, in grado di alternare enigmatici silenzi, soliloqui meditabondi dinnanzi alla scarsità di chiamate al centralino, ad un crescendo gesticolante di pathos fino alle reprimende più folleggianti dirette al distratto pubblico. Cazziatoni dispensati anche dall’esotico principe Bijan, venditore di tappeti iraniano, nostalgico dello scià di Persia; buffo personaggio da mille e una notte, in rapporto simbiotico con quelle montagne di stuoie, egli accarezzava i vari Tabriz, Isfahan, Herat e Bukhara, con la speranza spesso frustrata di generare empatia e di propiziare l’atteso annuncio di là dal vetro: “confermato”. [Barbadillo.it, Maggio 2016]

«Quest'uomo poteva fare il doppiatore ed essere tra i migliori in assoluto, ma ha deciso di fare televendita ed è entrato nella leggenda.» Anonimo

Della fine di Telemarket si era già scritto, ormai qualche anno fa: da allora ne sono successe di cose. La notizia di queste ore, invece, è che il suo storico patron, l'imprenditore Giorgio Corbelli, è stato trasferito in carcere. La Cassazione di Milano ha infatti emesso sentenza definitiva sul fallimento di Finarte, la società di cui Corbelli fino al 2011 era presidente del Consiglio d'amministrazione. [Bresciatoday.it, Gennaio 2020]

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daniinreallife · 4 years

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Crescita Personale

Sono molto indecisa se scrivere in italiano o in inglese. Quest’ultimo renderebbe i miei post accessibili e comprensibili da più persone, ma l’italiano è la mia lingua madre e le cose che ho intenzione di scrivere qui saranno piuttosto personali. Non scrivo su una piattaforma che non sia il mio diario o la mia agenda da anni. E anche lì tendo a scrivere in inglese, quindi questa cosa dell’esprimermi in italiano mi sta venendo un po’ strana. Questo post sta già andando in una direzione diversa da quella che volevo e ho appena iniziato, ma va bene così. Farò un punto della situazione generale per fini di contestualizzazione.

Da qualche settimana sto cercando di migliorare la mia vita. La quarantena e la situazione generale causata dal COVID-19 mi ha permesso di dedicare del tempo a me stessa, la persona con cui paradossalmente ho passato meno tempo da quando ci siamo affacciati al nuovo decennio. Con “dedicare tempo a me stessa” intendo che ho passato le prime tre/quattro settimane di quarantena a marzo guardando film, serie tv, mangiando il mondo e studicchiando. La cosa più sana che facevo per la mia persona era una doccia ogni tanto. E mi pesava anche. Non ero depressa, non lo sono (credo), sono solo estremamente pigra. Il non dover soddisfare nessuna aspettativa sociale mi aveva dato una libertà di cui ho abusato. Non dover organizzare gli impegni in base ai lavaggi di capelli, non doversi truccare o fare la ceretta, non dover far parte di situazioni mondane di scarsa importanza mi aveva reso una persona serena e libera. Libera di fare schifo. In quelle prime settimane devo essere ingrassata di almeno 4 chili, devo aver cresciuto metri e metri di peli e devo aver bruciato centinaia di neuroni appresso a film che ho già visto 5 o 6 volte.

Mi sono anche data allo shopping online che, sempre paradossalmente, è stato ciò che mi ha destato dall’ingiustificato ma prevedibilissimo letargo. Anzichè ordinare vestiti o superflui accessori da casa (nonostante la tentazione fosse forte), ho ordinato libri. Tenendo conto che non leggo forse dalle scuole medie, ho pensato bene di acquistare 8 libri al primo colpo, in preda ad un irrefrenabile impulso di migliorare la mia vita. Sette di questi sono libri di self-help, di crescita personale (l’ottavo è Profumo di Suskind, un romanzo che ho sempre voluto leggere). Sarà per il loro vivace tono, per i loro concetti motivazionali o la loro organizzazione step by step, ma dal 4 maggio ho letto 3 dei suddetti libri, e ci ho pure preso appunti. Non deve essere un grande numero per i lettori accaniti là fuori, ma per una ventunenne estremamente fuori forma è stato un bel traguardo.

E’ raro che io mi guardi allo specchio e mi faccia schifo, sono generalmente soddisfatta della mia persona attuale, ma in quei giorni non importa quante frasi motivazionali leggessi, mi facevo comunque pena. Vedevo i chili in più, le occhiaie da orologio biologico completamente sballato, i capelli spenti e senza forma; la quarantena era riuscita a scalfire anche il mio spirito e la mia abilità di tirarmi su il morale, caratteristiche di cui vado molto fiera.

Insomma, dal 4 maggio ho deciso che avrei cambiato vita. Dalla camera del mio appartamento a Roma ho iniziato ad usare la scheda di allenamento settimanale che il mio amico culturista ha fatto per me (il 23 marzo...), ho dato i miei esami universitari, ho iniziato a leggere e ad implementare nuove, sane abitudini, cercando di abbandonarne altre meno sane. Nonostante la mia passione per le soddisfazioni immediate, il non vedere risultati dopo due giorni non mi ha fermato. Mi ritrovo oggi, nella casa della mia città natale, ancora a sfruttare ogni minuto per migliorarmi fisicamente o mentalmente. Da tre settimane seguo gli allenamenti senza eccezioni, continuo a leggere, a studiare per me stessa, ad implementare nuove abitudini. Sto bevendo più di 2 litri d’acqua al giorno! Non lo credevo possibile. Passo tre quarti delle mie giornate a fare pipì, ma dato che sono ancora in quarantena mentre il resto d’Italia è autorizzato ad uscire, la cosa non mi pesa molto.

Sì, spostandomi dal Lazio alla mia regione di residenza sono dovuta restare chiusa in casa per due settimane, che scadranno questo mercoledì. Sono contenta, sto iniziando ad avvertire il peso di un lockdown durato più di quello delle altre persone, ma allo stesso tempo sono contenta di come ho sfruttato il tempo passato in casa. Ho fatto le mie cazzate, ho bruciato due mesi (marzo e aprile) che avrebbero potuto fare la differenza nel mio percorso di miglioramento personale. Ma quel che è fatto è fatto; ho iniziato in ritardo, questo vuol dire che dovrò lavorare di più per ottenere i miei risultati, ma la cosa non mi pesa. Mi sento mossa da una motivazione che ho avuto poche volte nella vita, ma che spero duri il più a lungo possibile.

La questione ora è: perchè sto scrivendo tutta questa roba in un post su Tumblr? Prima di tutto, la scelta di piattaforma non è casuale, ma è stata alquanto necessaria: conosco e uso Tumblr da anni e so come funziona. Inoltre, creare un blog su Wordpress mi avrebbe tolto troppo tempo perchè sono una perfezionista che vuole avere la grafica e il layout perfetti prima di poter pubblicare cose. Non so perchè, ma se uso Tumblr non è così.

Secondo di tutto, l’unica delle nuove buone abitudini che non ho ancora messo in pratica è quella di scrivere il più possibile. E non scrivere ciò che mi sta succedendo o cosa ho mangiato ieri sera, ma scrivere i miei pensieri, le mie riflessioni, i miei sentimenti. Scrivere è stata una delle mie più grandi passioni da quando ho memoria. Ricordo che a stento andavo alle elementari, e già giocavo sul vecchio catorcio che chiamavamo computer inventando e scrivendo storie su Word. Raccontavo le avventure di una bambina come me (la chiamavo sempre Stellina, un nome da incubo a ripensarci), che andava in vacanza con la famiglia e scopriva mondi incantati. Le mie storie non duravano mai più di una pagina, ma io smanettavo con le cornici, con il font e il colore del testo e chiedevo a mio padre di stamparle. Poi le leggevo alla mia famiglia e chiedevo di conservarle. Era il mio passatempo preferito insieme alle Barbie. Anche quelle simboleggiavano un insito bisogno di creare storie, mondi nuovi e fantastici in cui immergermi. Con gli anni la magia è andata svanendo, ai temi d’italiano delle medie davo il meglio di me, portavo a casa innumerevoli 10 e pensavo di essere destinata a fare la scrittrice. Poi è arrivato il liceo, che ha infranto tutti i miei sogni e mi ha fatto smettere di leggere, di scrivere, di voler creare. Ai temi di italiano vedevo raramente un 7. La mia professoressa era un demonio, la incolpo parzialmente per aver rovinato le mie passioni. Il resto della colpa è mia; mi sono lasciata andare alla pigrizia, ho trascurato tante cose e ho coltivato solo più pigrizia, che poi mi ha portato a tante tante esperienze che sarebbero potute andare meglio. Forse un giorno scriverò di esse.

Per adesso, voglio solo scrivere quello che mi capita, ciò che sento il bisogno di buttare giù, le lezioni che imparo vivendo. E nonostante questo post sia ciò che di più lontano esiste dalla mia idea originaria, ho imparato che la chiave per fare cose che sembrano impegnative, che sia allenarsi, imparare a cucinare, a parlare una lingua, o a scrivere romanzi, è semplicemente di iniziare. Iniziare senza troppi fronzoli o pretese. Quando il 4 maggio ho capito che dovevo iniziare ad allenarmi, ho iniziando mettendomi un paio di leggings e un reggiseno sportivo. Poi ho messo le scarpe, e lì non c’era molto altro che potessi fare. Una volta vestita ho iniziato, ed è stata dura. Davvero dura e uno spettacolo pietoso. Non ho neanche finito il circuito di esercizi perchè sentivo di stare per andare in arresto cardiaco. Ad oggi, tre settimane dopo, a fine allenamento contemplo la possibilità di fare un set in più rispetto ai quattro previsti. Il mio corpo si sta adattando alla nuova abitudine di allenarsi assiduamente. Ora devo solo abituare le mie dita a scrivere di nuovo, e la mia mente a riversarsi su questa pagina bianca. Per questo tengo questo post, lo pubblico e ci aggiungo pure qualche hashtag. Avevo tante cose su cui volevo scrivere, tante lezioni che ho imparato e che voglio diffondere, o semplicemente scrivere per tenerle a mente. E lo farò. C’è tanto che mi frulla in testa ultimamente, e sento già le mie mani muoversi da sole sulla tastiera. Riuscirà la nostra eroina ad implementare un’altra nuova, buona abitudine nel suo processo di crescita personale?

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Oh, un’ultima cosa, se qualcuno sta davvero leggendo i miei soliloqui: la pandemia che stiamo vivendo tutti nel mondo è stata dura (e lo è ancora) sulla maggior parte delle persone, ma molto più dura su alcune di esse. Qualcuno è stato costretto a restare chiuso in casa con una famiglia tossica, con qualcuno di non desiderabile o violento per settimane e settimane. Qualcuno con disturbi quali ansia e depressione, che già di per sè portano ad un’alienazione dalla sfera sociale, non è potuto uscire o vedere persone neanche le poche volte in cui ne ha avuto voglia. La mancanza di interazioni, di luce del sole, di vento sulle guance è stata deleterea su questi individui e molti altri in condizioni simili o peggiori. Io sono stata fortunata abbastanza da avere la voglia e la possibilità di provare a migliorare la mia vita, ma non tutti possono o ci riescono.

La morale di questa postilla è che va bene se hai passato questa quarantena nel letto, a guardare film e serie tv, a mangiare popcorn per cena e a sentirti perso e triste. Non sentirti in colpa se è così. Nessuno ti obbliga a passare il tempo in più che sei stato obbligato ad avere facendo cose produttive. Il nostro cervello è meraviglioso, ma a volte anche lui ha delle difficoltà. Non devi soddisfare le aspettative di nessuno, non devi cercare di essere come l’influencer photoshoppata che passa la quarantena ad allenare il suo bel culo nella sua bella palestra personale. Nessuno ha scelto la quarantena, nessuno ha scelto la pandemia e nessuno ha scelto la propria condizione mentale. Quindi, nessuno può scegliere cosa è giusto che tu faccia. Trova i tuoi tempi, i tuoi ritmi, muoviti quando e se lo decidi tu. Sii paziente con te stesso, sii buono e perdònati. Passerà anche questa.

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pikapeppa · 5 years

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Elfy

Chapter 37 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! Read on AO3 instead.

In which @schoute‘s wonderful Piper Lavellan makes a cheeky appearance! Also, conversations galore with Solas and Sera.

*************************

Hawke dragged her feet dramatically as she and Fenris made their way along the battlements to Cullen’s office.

“I told you, you don’t need to come,” Fenris reminded her. “Go to bed. I will fill you in tomorrow.” Cullen and a small group of soldiers had just returned from Samson’s headquarters yesterday morning, and Cullen had personally tracked Fenris down requesting a meeting tonight to discuss what they had found. Since Fenris, Hawke and their companions had only just returned from the Storm Coast this afternoon, Fenris knew the matter must be urgent. Hence why he’d agreed to come to Cullen’s office so late.

Naturally – and perhaps against Fenris’s better judgment – Hawke had volunteered to tag along.

She sighed. “No no, I’ll come,” she said. “I won’t let you suffer Cullen’s report alone.”

“So I will suffer your complaints instead?” he drawled.

She gave him a wounded look. “I’m not complaining!”

He shot a pointed look at her noisily shuffling feet, and a cheeky grin crept over her face. “Well,” she said slowly, “if you don’t like the way I walk, then you can always–”

“I am not carrying you,” he said flatly.

She laughed brightly, then skipped around in front of him and draped her arms around his neck. “Spoilsport,” she purred.

He smirked at her, then kissed her lightly on the lips before disentangling himself from her arms and ushering her along the battlements. “I am surprised you’re tired. It’s barely an hour past midnight.”

She tutted. “Being tired isn’t the point. If I’m doing anything other than lying in my bed at this hour, I want it to be something fun. Drinking or darts or gambling or gossip, take your pick. But not working.” She wrinkled her nose disdainfully at the word working. “What sort of madman enjoys working this late?”

Fenris shot her a knowing look. “This is Cullen we’re speaking of. It is hardly a matter of enjoyment. You know that.”

She sighed. “I know, I know. I’m just being cranky. But this report had better be good,” she added threateningly. “In fact, it had better be the most exciting report I’ve ever heard. If it’s not delivered as an epic three-part soliloquy, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

Fenris chuckled and pinched her waist. “You are an idiot.”

She squeaked and twisted away from him. “Only for you, Fenris,” she giggled. “Only for you.” She hurried over to Cullen’s office door and gestured at it in an exaggeratedly chivalrous manner.

Fenris rolled his eyes. “You should spend less time with Dorian. His flair for the dramatic is rubbing off on you.” He knocked on Cullen’s door.

“Enter,” Cullen called out.

Fenris pushed open the door and allowed Hawke to pass before stepping inside. Based on Cullen’s manner when he’d spoken to Fenris earlier today, Fenris was fairly sure the news was good.

Even so, he didn’t expect to find Cullen smiling when he opened the door.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. He’d never seen Cullen looking this pleased before. The news from Samson’s headquarters must be truly excellent.

Hawke sauntered over to Cullen’s desk. “Ooh, someone’s in a lovely mood,” she crooned. She sat on the corner of his desk as she usually did. “You must really have struck gold in the information department at Samson’s headquarters.”

“He sure did,” a woman’s voice replied.

A voice that was emanating from Cullen’s bedroom in the attic.

Fenris and Hawke stared at the attic, then whipped around to look at Cullen. His face was flaming red.

Fenris blinked, and Hawke’s jaw dropped. “Oh Maker,” she said in delight. “Is that who I think it is?”

“It certainly is!” the owner of the voice said. She slid jauntily down the ladder and shoved back her cloud of silver hair before giving Hawke a mocking bow. “Piper Lavellan at your service, m’lady.”

Hawke burst out laughing, and Piper joined her. Fenris, meanwhile, turned to Cullen in genuine surprise. “You and Piper are together?” he asked. He knew Piper had accompanied Cullen on the foray to track Samson down, but he hadn’t known they were romantically involved.

Cullen rubbed the back of his tomato-red neck. “Er, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive our, um, informality. With the lateness of the hour, I didn’t think…”

“He didn’t think to eject me from his bedroom,” Piper cheerfully put in. She took a seat on the other corner of Cullen’s desk, then reached out and tugged Cullen’s mantle affectionately. “Go on, Cullen, give your report.”

“Yes, please do,” Hawke said. “This report just became far more interesting.”

She was grinning wickedly at Cullen. Fenris sidled over to her and squeezed her arm warningly. “What did you find?” he said to Cullen.

Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly, then rested his palms on the desk in a businesslike manner. “Samson was not at his headquarters, unfortunately. Maddox killed himself to facilitate Samson’s escape.”

Hawke’s grin melted into a look of sympathy. “Damn,” she lamented. “I was hoping we could have saved him. Minaeve would have made him feel right at home.”

Cullen bowed his head to her. “We brought his body back to be laid to rest. If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less.” He looked at Fenris once more. “The Shrine of Dumat was destroyed by fire, but not completely. We salvaged a few significant items, which Dagna is working with as we speak.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “What sort of items?”

“Strange equipment stained with traces of red lyrium,” Cullen said. “Likely of Maddox’s own design. If Maddox used the equipment to make Samson’s armour, then Dagna should be able to use the equipment to un-make it.”

“We found a note from Samson, too,” Piper said. “Right, Cullen?”

He nodded. “Yes. It was all nonsense, however.” He picked up a singed piece of parchment from his desk and regarded it with distaste. “‘Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry lied to us. You’re fighting the wrong battle. Corypheus chose me as his general and his vessel of power’...” He shook his head in disgust and dropped the parchment back to his desk. “Does he think I’ll understand this nonsense? What does he know?”

His tone was snide. Piper reached out and ran a soothing hand over his forearm, and Fenris noted the immediate softening of Cullen’s expression.

Cullen took a deep breath and looked at Fenris and Hawke once more. “In any case, the mission was a success. The red lyrium deposits at the shrine are being destroyed, and we’ve cut the red Templars down to the core. This leaves Samson with a severely curtailed army and enchanted armour he can’t maintain.”

Fenris nodded. “Excellent work. Both of you,” he added to Piper.

She bowed playfully to him from her seat on the desk, and Cullen gave him a more serious half-bow. “Thank you, but my work is not done yet. We’re getting new recruits by the hour, and there are more than a few ex-Templars among them. They will need to be oriented to Skyhold and to commence training with the mages, and–”

“–and all of that can wait until tomorrow, after you get some sleep,” Piper said gently.

He ducked his head bashfully and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, of course.”

Hawke shot Fenris a private little smile and slid off of Cullen’s desk. “Well, that’s fantastic. So I guess we’re just waiting for–”

The eastern door to Cullen’s office banged open, and Dagna rushed inside. “Commander, I finished– Inquisitor!” she exclaimed. Her excited smile widened further as she caught sight of Fenris.

She thrust a rune at him. “Here, have this.”

He stared at the rune apprehensively. It glowed a livid, untrustworthy red. And yet, if Dagna was holding it in her bare hand…

He gingerly took the rune, and Hawke sidled over to him and peered at it. “Ooh, now this is a shiny trinket.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Dagna said happily. “I made it with red lyrium and what’s left of poor Maddox’s tools. The rune acts on the median fissures of lyrium to…” She trailed off at Cullen’s frown, then perked up again. “It will destroy Samson’s armour. He’ll be powerless.”

Hawke looked at Dagna with interest. “Wait, what were you saying about median fissures of lyrium? What does that mean?”

Dagna lit up. “Oh! Well, you see, lyrium and other minerals are mined from what we call veins, right? I’ve been thinking about it, and–”

“Thank you, Dagna, Hawke,” Cullen said. “Perhaps you can continue this discussion another time?”

Hawke pouted playfully at Cullen. “Oh, Commander. Too tired to listen, are you? Is someone lacking his beauty sleep? Your hair does look more dishevelled than usual.” She shot Piper a grin.

Piper grinned wickedly in turn, then turned to Cullen. “She’s right, you know. I think someone could stand to catch up on his sleep.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Hawke snickered, and Cullen’s cheeks and ears turned pink. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he muttered, and he abruptly turned to Fenris. “Maddox’s ploy effectively covered Samson’s retreat, but we will likely find him in the Arbour Wilds.” He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “Your army stands ready, Fenris. For Samson, for Corypheus, for whatever you command.”

A jolt of apprehension tugged at Fenris’s belly. When he’d met with Leliana and Josephine this afternoon, Leliana had reported increasing movement of the enemy forces toward the edges of the Emerald Graves. It seemed that Corypheus and his army were on the move to the Arbour Wilds, exactly as Morrigan had predicted.

He looked down at the rune in his hands. All the pieces were falling into place for an organized assault on the Arbour Wilds. Corypheus’s army had lost their sources of red lyrium, Samson had lost his loyal Tranquil, and this rune would destroy his precious armour. The Inquisition’s army were refreshed and restored, having spent the last couple of months training and recuperating since the attack on Adamant Fortress.

There were no reasons that they shouldn’t assemble their forces for the next battle.

Fenris took a fortifying breath, then looked at Cullen once more. “We should prepare to march on the Arbour Wilds, then,” he said.

Piper and Hawke sobered, and Cullen’s face creased into a stern frown. “I agree,” he said. “Let’s meet at the war table in the morning. I will advise Leliana and Josephine.”

“And Morrigan,” Hawke put in. “She’s the one who knows all about this eluvian that Corypheus is chasing.”

“Thank you, Hawke, that’s true,” Cullen said with a nod. He stepped away from his desk. “Well, I suppose anything else can wait until the morning, then.”

“Yes,” Fenris agreed. He met Hawke’s eyes and tilted his head at the door.

She nodded, then smiled at Dagna. “Can we pick this up tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Of course,” Dagna chirped. “You know where to find me.” She waved a cheerful goodnight to everyone else, then hurried away.

Hawke pecked Piper on the cheek. “We need to catch up, too,” she said. “Drinks tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Piper said in a meaningful tone. The two women snickered dirtily, prompting Cullen’s cheeks to redden once more.

Hawke smiled at Cullen. “Goodnight, Cullen. And congratulations, by the way. On your impeccable desk, I mean,” she added with a cheeky smile. “It’s tidy for once!”

Cullen’s face and neck turned beetroot-red, and Piper’s smile grew more cheeky than ever. Fenris took Hawke’s hand and pulled her toward him. “Goodnight,” he said to Cullen and Piper.

“Er, yes. Goodnight,” Cullen stammered, and Piper gave him a jaunty salute.

Fenris led Hawke back out onto the battlements. Once Piper had closed the office door behind them, Hawke let out a bright laugh. “Maker’s balls, I’m so proud of her,” she crowed. “She absolutely had sex with Cullen on that desk.”

Fenris gave her a distracted smile, and her grin faded. She squeezed his hand. “Hey, you. What’s the matter?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Another grand battle,” he said ruefully. “It feels as though the last was not so long ago.”

Hawke smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of killing people. It’s practically our number-one responsibility.”

He looked at her frankly. “I am tired of the constant danger,” he said. But this wasn’t the entire truth. What truly wore him down was the constant danger to Hawke. One would think that ten years’ worth of scraps and skirmishes would render him immune to seeing her in harm’s way. But his fear for her safety had only seemed to heighten with time, and particularly since joining the Inquisition.

He didn’t say this, though. Hawke already knew it, and he knew she felt the same way about him, to his dismay. It wouldn’t help either of them to remind her of the fragility of their lives.

“It’s different this time,” Hawke assured him. “Corytits is on the defensive, not us. He doesn’t have a big fancy fortress this time. We took away his poor Wardens and his Templars and his red lyrium.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Honestly, Fenris, it’s going to be a cakewalk when we get to the Arbour Wilds.”

But something unexpected could happen, he thought. With his and Hawke’s luck, it was almost a certainty that some problem they’d not accounted for would arise. And the last time something unexpected had happened, Hawke had lost her brother.

He was silent as they walked along the battlements. Then Hawke stepped in front of him.

She rested her palms on his chest. “Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening in that gorgeous head of yours.”

He shook his head slightly. “It is nothing you haven’t heard before.”

“Then tell me again,” she said. “I never get tired of hearing that lovely growly voice of yours.”

He smiled faintly at her, then leaned his elbows on the parapet. “It’s just… the planning and strategizing. It makes it feel all the more like walking into a mortal trap.”

She grimaced. “Well, at least we’re doing it together.”

“I would rather we were not doing it at all,” he said. Then he pressed his lips together and looked away. Truly, she didn’t need to hear these complaints again; he should be trying to reassure her, not bring her down into his anxious morass.

He stared blankly down at Skyhold’s garden. Then Hawke’s arms slid around him from behind.

She pressed her cheek to his spine. “Hey. It’s going to be all right,” she murmured.

He took a deep breath. Did she really believe that, after what had happened to Carver at Adamant Fortress? Even with all the Inquisition’s advantages and all the planning and strategizing and strength, a single bad decision could set everything awry. One single poor choice could have disastrous consequences, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Her arms tightened around his waist, and he loosened his clenched jaw. “You’re right,” he finally said. “There’s no point worrying. Not for some time, at least.”

“Exactly,” she said softly. “Na via lerno victoria.”

Only the living know victory. He huffed in amusement, then turned in her embrace and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “And so we will,” he murmured, and he pressed his lips to her chestnut hair.

But that night as they lay in bed, Fenris couldn’t quite get to sleep.

And from the shallow cadence of Hawke’s breathing, he didn’t think she could, either.

********************

Two days later, Fenris and Hawke set out to the Emerald Graves with their companions in tow. It would take two weeks for the full strength of the Inquisition’s army and allies to make it to the Arbour Wilds; in the meantime, Fenris and the others were joining Leliana’s scouts and spies in the task of slowing Corypheus’s army down and clearing the way for the Inquisition’s forces.

They split into groups on arriving, with Solas and Sera joining Fenris and Hawke as they headed for the nearest rift. Within hours of their arrival, the ethereal and oddly haunted-feeling forest provided more than enough distractions to drive Fenris’s mortality-related ruminations out of his mind.

Sera shuddered as they stepped out of Chateau d’Onterre, then spun on Fenris and poked him in the chest. “Never. Again,” she said threateningly. “Don’t like spooks, all right? It’s too weird. All that stuff’s just wrong.”

Hawke slung an arm around her shoulders. “Oh come on, Sera, you don’t enjoy a good haunted house to liven things up?”

“No!” Sera exclaimed. “I like my dead things dead, all right? When you put someone down, they should stay down.”

Fenris huffed as he led them through the ornate courtyard and back to the forest. “That is a fair point.”

“I know it is. I’ve got lots of them,” Sera said. She marched alongside Fenris and started counting on her fingers. “Dead things stay dead. No magic weird stuff–”

“Ouch. My feelings,” Hawke said in a mock-hurt tone.

“–aside from your pretty bird,” she added with a quick grin at Hawke. “And no demons. Seems simple, right? Wrong.” She turned around and scowled at Solas, who was walking alongside Hawke. “We come here, with all these stupid trees and all the stupid leaves, and suddenly it’s ‘demons! Magic! Ghosts in your face!’”

“May I ask why you feel the peculiar qualities of this location are my responsibility?” Solas said in a long-suffering tone.

Sera glared at him. “Elfy, that’s what.”

Solas sighed. “Much as you may wish to deny it, you and I are not so far apart as you think.”

Sera blew a raspberry. “Pthhb. Tell it to spiky here.” She elbowed Fenris and gave him a knowing look. “You know. Don’t need that old ancient elfy stuff from a thousand years ago. Here’s what we’ve got, yeh?” She looked around at the surrounding trees in disdain. “Well, maybe not here. But this, now. Right?” She widened her eyes at him expectantly.

Fenris shrugged. “I’ve never placed much value in the tales of ancient elves, no. They have little bearing on how poorly our people are treated now, either in Tevinter or here in the south.”

Sera wilted. “Ah, now you’re going on about ‘our people’? Look, people are just people. Pointy ears don’t matter in it. Right, Hawke?”

Hawke grimaced. “You know, as the only human in this lovely little group, I don’t feel like I can really, er, participate in this discussion.”

Solas gave her a chiding look. “And yet you are the only one among our company who has been asking about the elvhen legends that are rooted here.”

Fenris frowned at Solas’s implication. Just because he hadn’t been asking the questions didn’t mean he wasn’t listening to the answers. Information was still information, even if it wasn’t particularly relevant.

Hawke chuckled and linked her arm with Solas’s. “Oh, Solas. You know how much I love hearing a good story from you.”

Sera snorted loudly. “Stories. Wind out your ass, more like.”

Solas pursed his lips, then raised his eyes to the lush treeline. “The passing of time twists history into story and story into myth. Under such circumstances, it can be difficult to discern tales from the truth.” He looked at Sera once more. “It makes all stories worth hearing, whether or not some wish to listen.”

Sera shrugged, then hopped onto a nearby fallen log and tiptoed gracefully along its length. “Or maybe, what about this: we find some baddies, kick their butts, and have something to eat. You know, living stuff,” she said pointedly to Solas. “Stuff people do. Not like your dreamy-walking thing.” She hopped off the log and directly into a nearby mudpuddle.

“Ah yes, dreamwalking,” Solas said calmly. “Would you care to learn the craft?”

Sera whipped around and stared at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugged easily. “It would give you the chance to explore the Fade. I could introduce you to spirits.”

Sera’s face twisted in disgust. “Spirits like Creepy? You're messing with me on purpose!”

“Why would I do that?” Solas said. “It is not as though I know who filled my bedroll with lizards.”

Sera’s horrified face instantly transformed into a grin, and she broke out laughing. “Never gonna forget that one, are you? That was pretty good!”

Hawke coughed out a laugh, then shrugged when Solas gave her an arch look. “What?” she said innocently. “The look on your face was rather priceless. It’s a prank I would definitely have pulled when I was clever and young.”

Fenris glanced at her reprovingly. “You are not old, Hawke.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You’re sweet. But my imagination for pranks is getting old. That’s why I need Sera on my side.” She gestured for Sera to come near, then released Solas’s arm to link up with the gamine archer instead. “Now listen, while it’s just the four of us, I think you and I need to come up with something really clever…”

She and Sera pulled ahead while whispering together in a suspicious manner. Fenris wryly shook his head, and he and Solas walked side-by-side quietly for some time.

Eventually Solas spoke quietly into the leaf-scented air. “In all my travels, I have never met an elf quite like Sera before.”

“I wasn’t aware there were so many elves meandering through the Fade,” Fenris said blithely.

Solas shot him a frank look. “You jest, but yes. There are. Memories of countless elvhen lives are impressed upon the world that you walk – that we walk. They melt through the Veil every night, laid bare for the discovery of those who seek them.”

Fenris pursed his lips and looked away. He wasn’t particularly keen to hear how wonderful the Fade was, not after what had happened there at Adamant Fortress.

Thankfully – or perhaps not – Solas changed the subject. “Fenris, you too were raised in a city, and in circumstances even more disempowering than the alienages of the south.”

Fenris grunted. “And your point is?”

“Do you ever wish you were anything other than you are?”

Fenris glanced at Sera, then at Solas. “You mean, do I wish I were a human and not an elf.”

Solas tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Unless you wished you were something else entirely.”

Fenris raised one quizzical eyebrow. That was an odd thing to say. Then he shrugged and returned his gaze to the path ahead, and to Hawke’s slender back. “No,” he said. “I never wanted to be human. I am who I am.”

“You never wished that you were different from what you are?” Solas asked.

Fenris frowned at him. “If you’re asking if I wish to be like the ancient elves of old, then no,” he said bluntly. “That is an empty wish. A wish premised on no proof. There is no point seeking to recreate times long past. Especially since we can’t confirm what those times were like.”

“That is not what precisely what I meant,” Solas said. “But it is informative all the same.”

Informative? Fenris thought. What he’d said was hardly informative. It was just his opinion. But if Solas really wanted his opinion, he supposed he could share it. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do at the moment.

“I am satisfied with being a ‘city elf’, as they call it,” he said. “I don’t wish to be other than what I am. There is something… hardening about being the underdog.”

Solas looked at him. “Do you mean ‘heartening’?”

“That as well,” Fenris said.

The corners of Solas’s mouth curved in a small smile. Fenris shrugged. ”When I first escaped Danarius, I didn’t wish I was different. I wished everything else was different.”

Solas’s smile broadened slightly and he nodded in understanding, but Fenris frowned in thought. Now that Solas had him thinking about this, it was strange to compare his thoughts in the past to the way he felt about this topic now.

“Despite that, I… I am different than I was before,” he said slowly. “When I was first freed, I was… enraged. The change I desired was little more than a Tevinter landscape rendered in blood.”

Solas’s expression grew somber. “You can hardly be blamed. No great change has ever been wrought without the spilling of blood.”

“I am well aware,” Fenris said flatly. “But…” He paused pensively before speaking again. “I no longer thirst for the blood of my enemies. The snuffing of lives is a necessary cost, but… it’s one I no longer relish.” He glanced at Solas. “That was not always the case.”

Solas bowed his head briefly. “You are wise beyond your years, then.”

Fenris raised a wry eyebrow. “And you are not?”

Solas smiled. “Ah. No. You should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight.”

Without quite meaning to, Fenris let out a small laugh. “I cannot imagine.”

Solas’s smile grew. “I would ask you not to try. It was a very different time.”

Fenris smirked at him, and they both chuckled. They walked together in an unusually comfortable silence for a time before Fenris spoke again. “And you?” he asked. “You have the bearing of a man who knows himself. Have you ever wished you were someone else?”

Solas smiled, but it was one of his oddly melancholy smiles, like he wore the weary sadness of a much older man on his face. He sighed and gazed up at the sun-speckled canopy. “Sometimes you find you are forced to change. To become other than what you were, whether or not you wish to.”

Fenris frowned. “You were forced to be someone else?” he asked.

“I was thinking of my spirit friend,” Solas explained. “The one you and Hawke took mercy on. There must be a strangeness to that: to being forced to act against your very nature…” He trailed off, and his gaze fell to Fenris’s tattooed and flickering left palm.

His expression softened. “I apologize, Fenris. That was thoughtless of me. This is not a pain that is foreign to you.”

Fenris closed his fist and looked away. Solas was right about that. In many ways, Fenris’s life was a sequence of changes forced upon him against his will. First he was a mage forced to become a lyrium-lined and mindless weapon. Then he was a weapon forced to turn against those who healed and sheltered him. Now he was an introverted man who wanted to be left in peace, forced to become the famous – or infamous, depending on your perspective – leader of an enormous semi-political and paramilitary force.

He shrugged and tried to pretend he wasn’t bitter. “Such changes are rarely chosen so much as forced,” he said. “And yet…” His eyes fell once more on Hawke’s jauntily swaying hips, and he remembered the conversation they’d had on the Storm Coast: the conversation where he’d told her, truthfully, that he wouldn’t trade an unmarked past if it meant never having met her.

He looked frankly at Solas. “I would not undo what I’ve suffered. Without those fickle twists of fate, I would not have the things I cherish now.”

“Yes,” Solas said softly. “You have said that before.”

Fenris nodded, then rubbed fruitlessly at the glimmering mark on his palm. “I can only hope this cursed anchor will turn out to be similarly serendipitous in the end.”

Solas bowed his head once more. “I hope that for you, as well.”

Fenris nodded his thanks, and they continued their walk in a rather friendly silence.

Later that night, after closing four rifts of varying sizes and almost being squashed by an angry giant, their little group made camp in the shelter of a rocky overhang by the river’s edge. Solas taught Hawke the basics of ancient elvhen glyphs while Fenris supervised the roasting of a leg of ram and Sera played some sort of complex hand game with a piece of string.

Fenris watched Sera as he turned the meat on the spit. Her fingers moved swiftly through a series of complex patterns with the string, and her tongue was poking out of her mouth in concentration.

He jerked his chin at her hands. “What do you call that?”

She shot him a brief incredulous look. “String,” she said.

Fenris gazed at her chidingly. “I mean what you are doing with it. The… patterns.”

Her eyes widened. “You daft? Cat’s cradle, of course!”

Fenris shrugged cluelessly, and Sera’s eyes grew even wider. “You don’t know cat’s cradle? Shite. Let’s learn you up. Come on then.” She waved her string-bound hands at him.

He raised one eyebrow at her. She sighed loudly, then rose to her feet and plopped down cross-legged on the ground in front of him.

She unravelled the string from her hands. “Come on, Ser Lordybloomers. I’ll teach you.” She held her hands up so they were about a foot apart. “Like this, yeah? Put ‘em up.”

Nonplussed, Fenris lifted his hands, and Sera draped the string around his fingers. Then she pointed at his middle fingers and at the string. “Talking fingers through there, and pull… Nice,” she said in satisfaction as he followed her instructions.

She leaned forward and pinched the X’s of string, then pulled them under another loop of string around his little fingers. A second later, the pattern of string was on Sera’s hands instead of Fenris’s, and the pattern was different than before.

“Right,” she said officiously. “Now pinch here and here and go under there.” She gestured at the string with her chin as she spoke, and Fenris had no idea what she meant.

He stared at the string on her hands in growing puzzlement. “...What? I don’t–”

She sighed impatiently. “All right, look, I’ll do it with my toes. But don’t go thinking I’ll start prancing around all no-shoes like you two elfy nutters.” She kicked off her flats and started playing cat’s cradle using her own hands and feet.

Fenris watched her apprehensively. “What is the goal of this game?”

“Keeps the fingers nimble,” Sera replied. “You know, for… things.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

And here we go, Fenris thought wryly. He gave her a mockingly innocent look. “Things such as shooting arrows, you mean.”

Sera wilted slightly. “Well, yeah, them too. And also, you know, things?” She widened her eyes comically.

“Fletching arrows?” Fenris said in the same innocent tone.

Sera stared at him, and he stared blithely back at her. Then she burst into raucous cackling. “Right, you’re having me on,” she crowed. “Cheek and salt, that’s you.”

Fenris smirked and turned the meat once more, and Sera chuckled to herself as she twisted and plucked the string into a series of complex patterns with her fingers and toes.

A minute later, Sera nodded her head at the ram leg. “When’s that gonna be ready then? Ribs are sticking to my spine over here.”

“Soon,” Fenris said. “And yes, you can have the fattiest piece.”

She smiled at him. “You’ve been hungry too, eh? Proper in-your-bones hungry.”

“I have, yes,” he said. He reached into his travel pack and pulled out a waxcloth of dried apricots, then handed them to her.

She eagerly opened the waxcloth and stuffed five apricots in her mouth, then smiled at Fenris again. “You’re all right, you know,” she mumbled through her full mouth.

Fenris shot her another smirk. “And now I know how to lure you into a trap. Food.”

She swallowed the apricots and elbowed him. “I mean it. At first I thought, ‘he’ll be no fun. Elfy sort, no smiling, so serious’. And that scary fist-y thing you do…” She shuddered. “Well, that’s just wrong. But still. You’re a little wrong, but mostly right.”

He huffed in amusement. “I shall continue to try and meet your high standards.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then popped another two apricots into her mouth. “Good on you, Inquisything. Oh, and I like your pretty bird, too.”

Fenris glanced across the fire at Hawke. She was lounging on her belly on a bedroll beside a cross-legged Solas, and they were animatedly discussing some charcoal rubbings that they’d taken from a crumbling bridge that afternoon.

She caught Fenris’s eye and winked without interrupting her conversation with Solas. Fenris smiled to himself, then turned the meat again. “I am fond of her, as well.”

Sera elbowed him again. “Then you should really play this cat’s cradle with me. So you can get proper good at, you know. Things–”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “All right, enough,” he admonished, and Sera cackled.

A few minutes later, the ram meat was cooked and shared out, with the fattiest piece going to Sera as promised. By the time Hawke had pulled some oatmeal biscuits from her bag and handed them around, Sera had already devoured her meat.

She happily took the biscuit that Hawke offered her and crammed it in her mouth, then held out her hand for another. “I’ll take Solas’s seconds. Getting a little big for his breeches, he is.”

Solas tutted. “That is unnecessarily rude, whether you meant it metaphorically or literally.”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Meta-whatsit? You’re making no sense. Or less sense than the usual no-sense.”

“You mean nonsense?” Hawke asked.

Sera gave Hawke a look like she was mad. “No, I mean things. He doesn’t. Look, can I have another biscuit or not?”

Hawke chuckled, then offered her the entire packet. “Of course you can. Go nuts.”

Sera grabbed the biscuits with a grin. “No nuts in these, but thanks!” She darted over to the other side of the fire and sat on a boulder, then promptly started gobbling the biscuits.

Solas pursed his lips in disdain, then turned back to Hawke. “As I was saying, the universal nature of the ancient glyphs is that they transcend the spoken tongue,” he said. “Ancient elves across Thedas would have spoken a multitude of dialects. But written Elvhen was common across the land. It tied them together in a way that spoken language could not.”

Hawke thoughtfully nibbled her biscuit. “So technically the Dalish could learn to read ancient Elvhen without needing to speak it.”

“They could, yes,” Solas said slowly. “Whether they would is another matter.”

Hawke gave him a chiding look. “Solas, I just can’t believe that not a single Dalish person would listen to what you have to say about your wandering in the Fade. Seriously, if you ever met Merrill…” She shook her head and smiled. “You would be her new best friend. She would never stop asking you questions.”

Solas smiled faintly – another of those sad little smiles. “Perhaps I will meet her someday,” he said.

“I hope you do,” Hawke said brightly. “It would be a match made by destiny.” She smiled at Fenris, then awkwardly dropped her gaze.

As usual, Fenris felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Merrill. But for the first time in years, he didn’t remain silent.

“You’re right,” he said to Hawke. “Merrill would enjoy Solas’s company.”

Hawke looked up at him in surprise, and Fenris gave her a small rueful smile.

She beamed at him in return, then turned back to Solas. “All right, explain this to me again. A single glyph can mean an entire word, or it can be a sound?”

“A syllable, not a sound,” Solas corrected. “But yes; those are the basic principles of this orthography, from what I’ve gleaned in my studies.” He brushed the crumbs from his hands and pointed at the charcoal rubbing, which was laid out on the bedroll in front of himself and Hawke. “I am not… entirely fluent in the ancient glyphs, but I believe–”

“You’re not?” Hawke said. She gave him a mock-disappointed look. “Solas. How dare you be less than fluent? I rely on you to be my lovely shaven-headed resource for all things elven.”

“Ptthb,” Sera interjected. “Head’s bald, not shaved. Big difference.”

Solas completely ignored Sera and gave Hawke an arch look. “I cannot decide if that’s meant to be insulting or flattering. Shall I go on?”

Hawke chuckled and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Please do. You know I could listen to you getting academic all night.”

Fenris pointedly cleared his throat, and Hawke beamed at him. “Unless, of course, a more dreamy baritone wants my attention instead.”

Fenris rose from his spot by the fire, then came to sit beside her instead. “Your flattery comes too late, Hawke.”

“Oh Fenris, don’t kid yourself,” she simpered. “It’s never too late to flatter you.”

He pinched her waist, and she squeaked and slapped his hand away. Solas subtly cleared his throat and gestured at the charcoal rubbings. “If I may…?”

Hawke nodded. “Please, please! Go on, Solas.” She shot Fenris a mock-reproving look, and he shrugged unapologetically.

Solas pointed at the parchment. “This symbol here: it is meant to represent a bow. Likely a mark of the goddess Andruil – the goddess of the hunt. Or of sacrifice, according to some.” He pointed to another. “And this here is a wolf. Likely to represent–”

“Fen’Harel,” Fenris said. “The Dread Wolf.”

Solas lifted his eyes to Fenris’s face. “You do know some of the elvhen tales, then.”

“Merrill told us,” Hawke said. “She called him the trickster god. Apparently he tricked both the Creators and the, er… not the Old Gods…” She looked askance at Fenris.

“The Forgotten Ones,” he supplied. He shrugged dismissively. “Whoever they were.”

Hawke snapped her fingers. “Yes! That’s it. Fen’Harel tricked the Creators and the Forgotten Ones into locking themselves away in their respective realms so he could walk in this world all by himself.”

Solas looked down at the parchment again. “That is the story, yes.”

Hawke stretched her legs out and idly scratched her chin. “It always seemed like an odd story to me.”

Solas looked up at her. “How so?”

“It seems lonely,” Hawke said. “If I was a fancy immortal god, I wouldn’t want to be alone forever.”

Fenris shrugged and stretched his legs out as well. “Perhaps being alone was a preferable alternative to suffering the eternal company of fools.”

Solas and Hawke both looked at him in surprise. “Why would you think the rest of the elves’ gods were fools?” Hawke asked.

“They permitted themselves to get locked away,” Fenris said. “That hardly strikes me as godly wisdom.” He waved his bare toes idly at the fire.

Hawke grinned and playfully punched his shoulder. “Now you’re just being heretical on purpose.”

He shrugged again. “You cannot be heretical if you don’t practice the religion in question.”

On the other side of the fire, Sera scoffed loudly. “You know what I think?” she said to Solas. “Your stupid stories are just that: stupid stories.” She hopped to her feet. “Enough tosh. I’m going to catch lightning bugs.” Then she cackled. “I’m going to bugger off! Ha! How d’you like that, then?” She ran off without waiting for a response.

Hawke snickered, but Solas curled his lip. “Fenedhis lasa,” he muttered.

Hawke whipped around and grinned at him. “Ooh, I love foreign swearing. What does that mean?”

“It means…” Solas trailed off, then sighed and rubbed his bare scalp. “It means something rude that indicates I have sunk to Sera’s level.” He gazed at the parchment for a moment more, then looked at Hawke with a wry smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will turn in for the night.”

“All right,” Hawke said affably. “Goodnight, Solas. And thank you for the lovely lesson. It was titillating as always.” She winked at him.

He gave her a tiny smile and bowed his head. “You are welcome, Hawke.” He met Fenris’s eye and nodded, then rose to his feet and slipped into his tent.

Hawke smiled at Fenris, then sidled closer to him on the bedroll until she was tucked into his shoulder. “And then there were two,” she murmured.

He smiled back at her. “And so there were.”

She gently butted his chin with her forehead. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

He raised his eyebrows and glanced around. “Now?” he asked. It was full dark by now, and they’d been in the Emerald Graves for long enough to know it was crawling with dangerous creatures, many of which were even more active during the night than during the day.

“Yes, now,” Hawke said. She gave him a teasing grin. “Why, are you afraid of monsters in the night?”

Fenris arched one eyebrow. “Frankly, yes. You might be able to heal with magic, but I doubt you can replace an entire rib cage that’s been trampled by a bronto.”

Hawke pouted. “Are you doubting my healing skills?”

“No,” Fenris said. “Simply your ill-timed sense of adventure.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” she said cheerfully. She rose to her feet and pulled on Fenris’s hand, then looked over at Sera, who was sitting on a boulder about thirty paces away and staring at an empty jar with an unusual degree of stillness.

“Hey Sera,” she called. “We’re going for a walk. We’ll be back soon.”

“Have fun doing things,” Sera called back, and she let out a mad giggle.

Hawke raised an eyebrow as she took Fenris’s hand. “What’s she on about?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he assured her.

They meandered hand-in-hand along the riverbank chatting quietly. But as they strolled beneath the speckled darkness of the starlight-sprinkled leaves, he couldn’t help but think about the history of the Emerald Graves: this territory that had been guarded against humans by the legendary Emerald Knights, and the human-owned mansions that now occupied the lushest parts of it. Proof that once again, humans had taken something that wasn’t theirs.

Fenris would steadfastly maintain that the myths of the elvhen gods had no bearing on him. The bloody history of the Dales, on the other hand, was concretely true.

As he and Hawke wandered along, the faint rushing of the river grew louder until they reached its source: a silvery fall of water set into a tree-and-moss covered ridge.

“Perfect,” Hawke said. “Let’s go see if there really is some treasure hidden behind that waterfall.” She released Fenris’s hand and pulled her staff from her back, and with a wave of her hand, a faint green light rose in a wide circle around their general vicinity.

Fenris studied the glow with appreciation. “Wards. A wise idea.”

“Thank Solas for the idea,” she said. “To keep off the giant spiders, you know.” She chuckled and placed her staff on the ground, then started pulling off her boots.

He watched her with fond exasperation. “Just because Sera thought the waterfall would be a good place to hide treasure doesn’t mean there is any.”

Hawke grinned at him. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” She stepped into the river so the water was licking at her toes, then looked back at Fenris in surprise. “It’s quite warm, actually. I might be tempted to go for a swim. Wash off any remaining demon ichor, or whatever you call that metaphysical goo they make when they die.” She shucked her long leather vest, then shot Fenris a challenging little look and started unbuckling her belt.

He smirked. “No, Hawke.”

“Oh come on,” she wheedled. “Come swim naked with me.” She unbuttoned her trousers and started untucking her linen shirt, then paused and gave Fenris a stricken look. “Unless you think it would be rude for a human to swim naked in the Emerald Graves?”

“Why are you asking me?” Fenris retorted. Then he bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so confrontational.

Hawke’s expression grew slightly cautious. “Well, I don’t see anyone else around to ask, do you?” Then her eyes went wide and round. “Oh Maker, please tell me you don’t see anyone else around. If I have to deal with one more restless spirit today…”

He managed a faint smile. “No, it’s not, um…” He ran a hand through his hair. “You should go ahead and swim.”

She watched him for a moment, then stepped away from the water and stroked his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He nibbled the inside of his cheek for a moment, then gave her a frank look. “Do you think I am more like Solas or Sera?”

Her eyebrows jumped up on her forehead. “I think you’re different from both of them,” she said. Then she smiled. “If this is a contest for who’s the finest and most dreamy companion, then you know where my vote lies.”

He snorted and looked away from her. “I should know better than to ask such a biased opinion.”

She chuckled softly. Then she reached up and gently turned his chin so he was facing her once more. “Really, Fenris. Why would you ask that?” She tilted her head playfully. “You’re not having an identity crisis, are you?”

He gave her a resigned look. “It’s not a laughing matter, Hawke. Not truly.”

She sobered, then sat on the grass and pulled him down beside her. “Tell me what you’re thinking, then,” she urged.

He rested his arms loosely on his knees and idly watched the flowing water while he gathered his thoughts. “Every other elf we’ve travelled with: they fit… something,” he said with difficulty. “Sera is the epitome of a city elf. Merrill is a prime example of a Dalish elf. Solas is…” He trailed off. What was Solas’s defining trait, exactly?

“Odd,” Hawke supplied.

Fenris snorted. “You’re not wrong.” He thought for another moment. “Solas is an elven apostate,” he said finally. He studied the river for a moment longer before speaking again. “They are… exemplary representations of elves. And I… I am not sure what I represent.”

Hawke was quiet. A moment later, Fenris glanced askance at her.

She was smiling at him – one of those soft, understanding, adoring smiles that instinctively made his heart flip. He ducked his head shyly and rubbed his hair. “You humans needn’t represent any particular aspect of… human-ness. Humanity, that is,” he mumbled. “You don’t need to be any particular type of human. You just are, and no one questions whether you are human enough.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Did Solas or Sera question whether you’re elfy enough?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s not that.”

Her expression cleared, and she shuffled a little closer to him and rested her shoulder against his. “Fenris, I don’t think you need to represent any specific elf qualities in particular. You are an elf. You fight back when people mistreat you for being an elf. You talk back when people say shitty things about elves in general. That’s good enough for any elf.”

“Is it?” he said. Was it good enough that he defended himself? Should he not be doing more for… for elves in general?

Hawke, however, frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He eyed her solemnly for a moment. Her copper eyes were clear and earnest, and he loved her so very dearly.

And she was so very human sometimes.

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her rounded ear. “When this is all over… Perhaps I will ask Leliana to reach out to Briala. Perhaps the Inquisition can help her achieve her goals.”

Hawke smiled. “Briala really made an impression on you at the Winter Palace, didn’t she?”

He nodded slowly. Then he took a deep, bracing breath before saying his next words. “Perhaps we… perhaps you might try to contact Merrill again. To see if she would care to assist Briala as well.”

He watched as Hawke’s expression shifted from shock to unadulterated joy. “Really?” she asked.

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. A moment later, Hawke was hugging him tightly.

She kissed his cheekbone, then pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you more than any fucking thing in this world.”

His heart did another happy little flip, and he turned his head to face her. She pressed her forehead to his and stroked his cheek. “And as far as elves go – as far as anyone goes, really…” She smiled. “Well, I think you’re perfect exactly the way you are.”

He huffed in amusement. “No one is perfect, Hawke.”

She pulled away slightly and batted her eyelashes. “Not even me?”

He smirked, then cradled her slender neck in his tattooed palm. “Not even you,” he murmured. “You are, however, the perfect woman for me.”

She beamed at him, then shifted close and pressed her lips to his ear again. “You smooth talker, you.”

Her heated breath sent a pleasant little shiver down his spine. She pressed one more kiss to his cheek, then rose to her feet. “Now come on. Come skinny-dipping with me. Let’s scandalize some of the spirits that are pressing through the Veil here.” She grinned cheekily at him, and without waiting for his response, she pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it beside him on the grass.

He watched with a swelling of fondness – and a delicious swelling between his legs – as Hawke divested herself of the rest of her clothing. Once she was nude, she sashayed over to the edge of the river and stepped into the water.

She smiled coquettishly over her tattooed shoulder. “Come on, handsome. Are you joining me?”

He smiled. He’d meant what he said before; nobody was perfect, not even Hawke. But in this moment, with her bare golden body that he knew as well as his own and the heated affection in her smile – not to mention the years of squabbles and support and arguments and understanding that bound them together…

In this moment, lit with moonlight and the faint glow of her magic on the ground, Hawke was perfect. And Fenris loved her more than any damned thing in this world.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenquisition #fenris the inquisitor #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes #solas #sera dragon age #elvhen glory #LOL

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vickyvicarious · 4 years

Text

DA:I musical episode

Varric: Narrator of the open/closing numbers, kind of tells the story of how we got here. Also has a song about how he's seen it all before; both serious fear/guilt over the red lyrium and Corypheus, and humorous comparisons to adventures with Hawke in a 'well, it can't be worse than the time...' kinda way. Funny and irreverent.

Dorian: Badass Venatori-killing song, with lots of pyrotechnics action. Softer, wistful heartbreaking part about the Tevinter he loves, the one it could be but isn't - then lots of corpses/spirits play backup to the furious determination to make his people better, starting right here killing these Venatori.

Iron Bull/the Chargers: Fun and straightforward drinking song about the company, mostly led by Krem. Everyone chimes in with how they joined or what they like about it, the chorus the one from that one cutscene. Bull keeps trying to tell about killing a dragon but they never let him finish.

Cassandra/Cullen: A training montage song, very inspiring. They sing about how their respective orders have gone wrong [mage ally playthrough] and how they will become better than before. Training recruits/building the Inquisition all the while. Interrupted before the grand finale by Iron Bull who takes over the final verse about being able to handle the fight together, rid the world of at least this ev-DRAGONS, Bull bursts in, did you hear I killed a dragon?! There was something sexual in the power of its roar... and he finally finishes that story at last.

Leliana/Josephine: Also an Inquisition-building song but more focused on connections, knowledge. High ground/low ground. Open/secret. Josephine sings about working the nobles a little coin here, a party there, you wouldn't want the world to know of your mistress / a knife in the dark, a spy in your house, no one will ever miss you on Leliana's end. Probably called something like 'Send A Raven.'

Vivienne: A precise enumeration of the issues she sees in the Inquisition, dear. I support the cause of course but see some areas ready for improvement. She's not happy with the mages being free allies, there's rubble everywhere, do you know how much you slouch in your judgement chair? Put velvet on the cushions, impressions make such a difference, darling. Manners, take care, be controlled-

Blackwall: He's woodworking, humming, muttering about shaving off the bad bits to make something new. Turns into a whole song that is clearly a poorly-veiled metaphor for himself, for Gray Wardens, and eventually the metaphor collapses as he waxes eloquent about making yourself anew... Horsemaster Dennet walks by as he holds a triumphant note, casually says, "you missed a bit there" as he points out a flaw in the work. Blackwall sinks into his chair, laughs a little, one more quiet line back in the woodworking metaphor as he goes back to work on it.

Solas: [context note: in this playthrough we have a running joke that hobo-looking apostate Solas hid who he was from Cullen and pretends to be just a farmer around him. As we are almost at Winter Palace and have never seen them interact we are milking this crack for great amusement.] An eloquent soliloquy about the Fade. Spirits he has met, the joys of learning, histories and mysteries and so much that has been lost. Magic as knowledge, walking in dreams... Back in the days when the elves were - and then Cullen walks through looking for Leliana, and Solas quickly shifts gears to some awkward line about farming in a terrible accent. The music goes all twangy till the Commander is gone (this happens several times).

Cole: A short, soft, wistful number about wanting to help and to find a place. Uncertainty about himself and wishing just to ease others' pain - cut off by a much louder number (probably Sera's). He will wander through the background of other songs helping, for example a one line cameo in the training montage to help a scared soldier feel better.

Sera: A quirky, fun song about pranks she is pulling, both against friends and for Red Jenny. Mostly weird and silly stuff, very funny and lighthearted, until at the end she learns something truly awful a noble has done to some innocents and gets furious, ending the song with a quickly sung rant as she fires many many many arrows into his chest. Panting in the sudden silence.

Inquisitor: Elven reaver seems to hate singing. Actively avoids joining in with the advisors though they try to appeal to her love of firm physical solutions (Cullen/Cassandra) or the importance of being a symbol for the world (Leliana/Josephine). But out wandering in the wilderness, she perks up when the search bings with a resource. Begins singing with great joy, much to her companions' surprise, about collecting rocks, hunting wildlife and gathering herbs. Yes, I know I have a duty to try and save the worl - ooh! Is that nugskin Fade-touched? Look here I see some elfroot, I think that shape's a stone. Hey Varric get me in here I can sense more booooooze~!

#da #dragon age #dai #so this is purely for my own amusement #and a lot of in jokes #and nothing too spoilery as this is from a discussion with my sister about our playthrough (her first of dai)#and we are not quite at the winter palace #but all that said i had a ton of fun with this even if tumblr did freak and make me write it all out TWICE

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a-shakespearean-in-paris · 6 years

Text

The Inquisition Players

A piece in which Cullen attends a theatrical performance. He’s surprised by what he sees.

A commission for @bitterlemonshine. Thank you for commissioning me and being so patient :)

Even before they arrived at the Exalted Council, Cullen considered how he would do it.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t have many opportunities to do so, it was almost all day they spent together in the days leading up to their arrival at the Winter Palace. How easily he could have said it then, or how easily he could have asked during the night, as they lay in each other’s arms. Yet his Inquisitor was such a passionate woman, with a flair for the dramatic. Ingrained within his mind was the idea to appeal to her inherent passion. He thought perhaps, he could appeal to her love of the theatre.

Inquisitor, he say, perhaps taking her to a performance somewhere, and after the show, taking her hand and getting down on one knee. He would ask her to marry him, and ask her if they could start the best performance of our lives. He thought it was charming enough, perhaps even clever. Then he sat, and he really thought of it. Performance. How could it be a performance when loving her was the most natural thing of his life?

He couldn’t ask it that way, he realized, and like the thousand other ways he thought of asking the question, that one also became discarded. It had to be special, idiosyncratic. She was idiosyncratic, a collection of puzzle pieces and threads woven together to create the full and beautiful her. One day, a new thread of her was woven in, and miraculously enough, it was her love for him.He knew that love was true, no matter what. But Maker’s breath, he wanted the honor of being her husband. He had to ask. He had to find a way.

He didn’t want it to happen at the Winter Palace of all places, and during the Exalted Council to boot, but he had done himself the favor of drawing it out till he hardly had any choice left. It had to be then. Yet they hardly ever had a moment alone. In those moments he had without her, he thought he would at least figure out how to ask her, but then there was a dog. He couldn’t just abandon the other Ferelden trapped at the Winter Palace. Cullen had an inkling his new friend would be able to give him some advice, but unfortunately, his advice wasn’t helpful. The way to his heart was a hambone.

As Cullen knelt before his new friend, who he started to call “Dane,” he rubbed his belly, wondering what else his advice would be.

“How?” Cullen muttered to himself. “How…?”

“How what?”

He had been so deep in thought he didn’t hear her approach. Startled, he rose from the grass to meet his lady, taking her hands in his. She smiled. It was like the first time she smiled at him. It was always like that first time.

“How what?” she asked again.

“How…beautiful you are,” Cullen stammered. “I—I…”

“You tell me so often,” she pointed out. “Cullen, darling…”

“But you are!”

She laughed as he continued to insist, mesmerized by her sparkling eyes, her hair in the sun, and her warmth. “And there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he said, feeling it blossom. The love, the everything she was. “I—”

“I have something I want to tell you too.”

His eyes narrowed. “What? I—”

“Follow me!”

Bewildered, the Inquisitor strung Cullen along the Winter Palace, a blush creeping against Cullen’s cheeks that grew brighter with the slight exertion of their jogging. Cullen was concerned about Dane, but that concern disappeared, if only slightly as Evelyn tossed him a bone. He began chewing at it happily, his tail wagging.

“Where are you taking me?” Cullen asked, but the question was answered, when with a grand flourish, Evelyn stopped them, and directed Cullen’s attention forward. First, he saw the Inner Circle. Evelyn appeared to want to have a get together with everyone, and Cullen smiled and waved at Cassandra, Varric, Josephine and everyone else. Even Cole was there in the back, sitting and observing, and Cullen wondered what was going on and why everyone was sitting in chairs looking ahead. He wondered until Evelyn tugged at his jacket. With an elegant gesturing of the hand, she brought Cullen’s gaze to a grand and expansive theatre.

“Evelyn, what—”

“Celene has this installed for performances,” she happily announced. “They put on plays here at this little outdoor theatre. But today, we are going to see something special.”

Cullen raised his brows. “Something…?”

“Varric wrote a play,” she said, conspiratorially. “A very special play. And tonight is the premiere!”

Cullen wasn’t sure he heard correctly, not until the dwarf stood and motioned for Cullen to sit down for the show. As he said, it was going to start in five minutes.

“This is ridiculous,” Cassandra quipped next to Varric, crossing her arms.

“I think it’s exciting,” Josephine said, and next to her, Leliana agreed.

“I managed to secure the best performers around,” Vivienne announced, crossing her legs and leaning back against the seat. “This will be worth seeing. I promise you that.”

“Well at least there’s beer,” Bull said behind Cullen. As the tallest one, he was relegated to the back.

“Not that terrible swill you brought,” Dorian replied next to him.

“Hush,” Leliana said, turning around in her chair. “It’s going to begin.”

Buoyantly, Evelyn clapped, sitting down next to Varric, and grabbing Cullen’s hand and leading him to the seat next to her. Cullen though, had a burning question that begged to be answered.

“What kind of play is this?” he asked, still bewildered.

Varric smirked. “You’ll see.”

The memory buried long ago resurfaced. It was buried for a good reason, Cullen didn’t like recalling the time he lost all his clothes to Josephine. Yet that same night, Cullen recalled how Varric promised the Inquisitor, always an ardent lover of the theatre, that he would write a play for her one day. At the time Cullen seriously didn’t think Varric would deliver. He should have known better.

“The play is about to begin!” Evelyn exclaimed. “I think you’ll like it Cullen. Or at least, I hope you do.”

Cullen couldn’t help but smile as she took his hand, squeezing it. By the Maker was she adorable when she was excited. It must have reminded her of when she was young, with her family in Ostwick. She often regaled the story—the story of how when she was around eleven, a troupe of performers mounting a production of The Murder of Queen Madrigal arrived in Ostwick. Cullen still didn’t know how it happened, but to make a long story short, one thing led to the other, and Evelyn, who was taking a tour backstage, ended up setting one of the rabbits used in the production loose. Right in the middle of the most intense scene in the opera, she ran right on stage to catch the bunny, interrupting the passionate scene of romance unfolding. But there, in the audience, a lone soul clapped for her. Ever since then, the theatre was Evelyn’s escape. Certainly, after everything she had done, she deserved an escape. She deserved to grin from ear to ear, deserved to see a performance especially for her. Cullen, realizing that, decided he would support her. He would always support her.

The curtain opened. Evelyn clapped. There was a collective sound of titters in the audience, Sera’s being the loudest. But amongst all this in the audience, next to the woman he loved, there was Cullen, staring at what he saw on stage with his eyes wide open and jaw to the ground. He held no expectations for the show. And with no expectations, he did not ever in a million years dream of seeing a man on stage, with blonde hair like his, wearing his clothes.

“Varric…” Cullen muttered, voice barely a whisper. “Is that man…wearing my clothes?”

“It’s a reproduction,” Vivienne said. “I daresay he wears it almost as good as you.”

“The Commander of the Inquisition,” the man announced, coming to the front of the stage. The laughter in the audience grew tenfold. Even Evelyn was tittering at the man and his poor attempt at a Ferelden accent. Cullen didn’t know what was more insulting, the Orlesian playing him, or the accent.

“The Commander loves with a love so bright and true,” the actor continued, blinking and lovelorn.

At that, the real Commander couldn’t take it anymore, and indignantly he rose from his seat, pointing at the one responsible. “Varric!” Cullen bellowed. “That man can’t be me…I am not Orlesian!”

“Cullen, hush!”

Evelyn grabbed Cullen’s hand and pushed him back down, allowing the actor to continue. Cullen was certain the whole thing was a dream, and any moment he would wake up. This man, this actor…it certainly was not him. He was no man that would moan and spout off long soliloquies or monologues.

“Evelyn—”

“Hush!” she bade again, hitting him on the arm. “It’s theatre, an imitation of life, not the replica. He looks and sounds like you well enough.”

Maybe the actor looked like Cullen in theory, but Cullen’s hair was more golden than wheat, and as the actor turned, he could see that someone had done a poor job mimicking his scar. There was also the matter of the accent. He would never get over the accent.

Somewhere backstage, a harp began to play, gentle against “Cullen’s” words.

“I am the commander,” he spoke again, looking towards the sky. “I love with a love. I fell and how wonderful it is to break to the water’s surface, and breathe.”

Over the harp was Sera’s poorly stifled laughter, coupled with a few of Dorian and Bull’s murmured quips. To Cullen’s side, Josephine, Vivienne and Cassandra were doing their best to remain calm and collected, though each one held a smug grin. Evelyn—she was still so happy, so merry. And he was still so bewildered.

Was this a play…really about the two of them?

Cullen looked back at Varric, glaring “Is this what I think it is?”

“It’s what you want it to be Curly.”

He stared. “You wrote a dramatic depiction of our relationship?”

“Hey,” Varric said, having the nerve to shrug. “You two certainly provided me with inspiration. Maybe if you didn’t want that you could have, you know, found a more private spot to kiss.”

Before anyone could agree, Evelyn shushed them all, allowing “Cullen” to wax on. The real commander repressed the urge to stick his fist in his hand.

“A time of war, a time of change. I found her. I love, I love. But woe is I, who loves, yet doesn’t know.”

“This was a long time ago,” Cullen said through gritted teeth. “I got over it.”

“Cullen,” Evelyn sneered, “watch please.”

He rolled his eyes as on stage, “Cullen” continued, speaking of love and loss, and the Inquisitor. “For in she,” he waxed, “I place my love and my want, for in she, I find strength.”

“The strength is inside you, my love.” Evelyn began giggling as the actress entered. There was a collective sound of awwwww from the Inner Circle as the actress playing “Evelyn” rushed to “Cullen,” grasping his hands. On stage, they kissed melodramatically. It was so unlike their real kisses, full of passion and tenderness. Then again, Cullen wouldn’t expect anyone to replicate their kisses.

“The strength, my love, is inside you,” the actress muttered.

“My Inquisitor—”

“My dear one,” she announced, running her hands through his hair. It made the real Cullen smile. For it was what the real Evelyn always did. “My darling.”

She was pretty, yes, with similar enough features to his love, though Cullen of course found his Evelyn more beautiful. “Light of my life,” she continued, “my sun, and my home.”

“Varric,” Cullen said. “This is nice, but these pet names—”

“I have to agree with him,” Cassandra quipped. “Even Swords and Shields isn’t this hammy.”

“I think they are cute,” Evelyn said proudly. “Can we please be quiet?”

Attentions were turned back to the stage. “Cullen” and “Evelyn” looked longingly into each other’s eyes. “So long it has been, since our love first blossomed,” the actor said. “As each day goes by, I love you more and more. Words I have not spoken to you yet, though they are true as I stand.”

“You need not speak them,” she replied. “For love, I see it in everything you do.”

“I want to make our love true.”

“It is already true. From the moment I told you we were eternal. From the moment you laid me on top of your desk. Sturdy and strong, as you are.”

Cullen wanted to jump into a lake of fire. Laughter, laughter that wasn’t even stifled was everywhere around him, Sera, Dorian, Bull, and most surprisingly, Blackwall, loudest of all.

“I knew it!” Sera exclaimed. “Thom! Ten silvers, you owe! Of course they did it on the desk!”

The laughter was boisterous. Cullen, shaking his head, realized he was going to have to take it.

Evelyn squeezed his hand. “I’m surprised you didn’t blush at that one,” she admitted.

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t everybody expect us to do at least once there?”

She giggled as their counterparts on stage continued to look longingly at each other, and whisper sweet words together.

“You are my greatest adventure,” the one playing Evelyn announced, “the reason everything was worth fighting for. I am bound to you already, by everything we have been through and shared.”

“As I am bound to you.”

“Our bond of togetherness remains eternal. We need no more. But if you want my hand, if you shall take my hand…”

“Evelyn.”

All too abrupt, the actors stopped as Cullen stood. He looked at his friends, the Inner Circle, and he looked at Evelyn. In her eyes, there was a pondering question, a thought.

The play. The reason for it—

He knew it was not Varric who wrote the play.

Wordlessly and with the eyes of the actors and his friends upon him, Cullen took Evelyn’s hand and brought her atop the stage. Perhaps he didn’t need to bring her to the stage, but he did none the less, because his love always had a flair for the dramatic. The play was proof of that. He saw Cassandra, Vivienne, Leliana and Josephine lean in, as Bull and Dorian grasped each other’s hands, while Sera held onto Blackwall. Cole, who had not uttered a word the whole time, smiled.

“He understands,” Cole said. “He’s going to ask.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened as Cullen got down on one knee. He got down on one knee, and he took her hand.

“Evelyn,” he whispered, knowing finally the best time to ask was when they made it the best time. “My sun, my home. I wanted to ask you for so long. But there was never the right moment before.”

“Cullen.”

“I know why you wrote the play,” he said. “You wanted me to ask.”

She squeezed his hand. She knelt before him. “Love,” she said. “I wrote this play not because I wanted you to ask you to marry me. Well—If you want, then I want too. But I wrote this and pretended like it was Varric and then got Vivienne to hire some actors because I wanted to tell you that the journey we had together and the love we already know—that is our bond. We don’t need vows to make it true.”

“I will stay whatever comes,” Cullen promised. “I will. But Evelyn, I had wanted to tell ask you. I was waiting for the right moment, but then there was a dog, and…agh.” He squeezed her hand back. “My love, always with a love of theatre. Will you marry me?”

“Cullen.” She smiled with the happiness of a thousand suns. “I will.”

“She will.”

It was Cassandra that said that. And as the Inner Circle rose and clapped along with “Cullen” and “Evelyn,” Cullen kissed Evelyn. His love, his home. He kissed her everything.

“Now,” she whispered. “Let’s get married now.”

“There is one thing I must ask,” Cullen said. “Why did you turn this into a play? And why did you pretend Varric wrote it? Why didn’t you just ask me?”

She giggled. “Oh. You know me, I’ll never not turn something into theatre,” she said. “Besides I wanted to try my hand at writing. And I really do think there could be a play about us.”

“There just might be one in the works.”

Cullen glared at Varric. Again. He glared at the Inner Circle, who all were so wonderfully amused. But Cullen had to admit, that the play would be a very good one.

However, he knew that there was a much better play beginning. The play of Evelyn, Cullen, and their dog. The play of their life together as husband and wife.

The best part was there was no acting involved.

#cullen rutherford #my fic #shakes does commission #ty for commissioning me #shakescommiss

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