#set like two months after kirkwall

[thedragonagelesbian]

Something something second chances...........

“And you don’t have to worry about threatening to kill me if I hurt him,” Anders added. Where he had been sheepish before, he now spoke with that disconcerting certainty that had scared Varric so much so many times over the last year. “If I hurt him again, I’ll take care of that myself.”

Varric could’ve just let the comment go. He was tired enough as is, and Anders had already given him enough grief for a lifetime. It was probably well within his rights to let the self-loathing slip by.

Instead, he sighed and said, “Blondie, you’ve got to stop saying shit like that.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do. That’s why you have to stop. As a storyteller, I get the appeal of the whole tragic self-sacrificing lovers thing. It makes for one hell of a dark romance novel. But as your…” Varric’s tongue stumbled into it before his mind did. For a moment, he actually paused to try to think if he knew a word for the recently acquired partner of his partner who was also once his dearest friend until being directly responsible for ruining their lives. For all his years of wordsmithing, nothing came to mind, and he tried to cover up his faltering with a cough. “Point is, this is real life, not a novel, and in real life, sometimes you hurt people you care about. You have to be okay with that without immediately jumping to this ‘he should want me dead’ shit.”

“After what I did in Kirkwall—”

“We’re not in Kirkwall anymore!” Varric didn’t mean to snap with quite as much vehemence as he did, but there was a hole in his heart where his home used to be, and all the self-flagellation in the world from Anders wasn't going to fill it again. It just reminded him of how much his chest ached. “Cyrus made his choice. He wants you to live. Start wanting it for yourself too.”

Anders had been looking like a kicked puppy ever since he had slunk into the Gallows with his tail between his legs. He had the self-hating pout down to a damn art form, and still he managed to outdo himself then. Head ducked, shoulders hunched, spine buckled underneath the weight of what Cyrus and Varric had asked of him. He'd only look more pathetic if he was sopping wet, and damn it if Varric didn't feel his heart stirring with pity.

“Look,” he tried again. “Cyrus and I have talked about why the two of you separated the first time around. You freaked out because he did his 'please let me die for you' shtick, right? Remember how scary that was to listen to? That doesn't become a fun, cool, normal thing just because you're the one doing it.”

“I…” Anders' voice cracked. “I suppose I see your point…”

“I sure fucking hope you do, because I already have one dead-set would-be martyr in my life. I don't want another.” He paused, shook his head, and let out a rough chuckle. “Fuck, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe the two of you deserve each other.”

“He deserves you,” Anders insisted quietly. “You don't know… It's so difficult to stop thinking like this. It's hard enough for me to imagine starting down that path, let alone making the progress Cyrus has… had, until I… But even then, you were there to stop him from spiraling further. You've helped him so much.”

Varric folded his arms and sighed again. “If you stick around, I'll help you too, Blondie.”

For the first time, Anders turned away from the fire to stare at Varric, his eyes wide and trembling. “Do you really mean that?”

Varric responded with a shrug, as if this was a simple, off-hand matter. As if he wasn't still boiling with anger over all the mage had cost him, had cost Cyrus. Maybe it was. Maybe he wasn't, or at least wouldn't be forever.

“What can I say? I'm a fixer.” He glanced past the fire to the elf curled up on their shared bedroll, sleeping as soundly as he ever did, escaping from all the horror and loss and tragedy, if only for a few hours each day. “We both are.”

[mightymizora]

I saw a tentative request for Dragon Age, so I am here requesting The Sun + Samson? If this doesn't tickle the muse, though, I'd love to send another. 🖤

the sun: joy, friendship, prosperity; “I’m so happy.” possible AUs/settings/ideas: friends to lovers, love realization, coffee shop

He was given shining plate and a fine sword and shield, and two silver a month with an extra silver for valour, if he earned it. He was sworn in on All Soul's Day with a procession through Kirkwall; some of the other recruits had family watching, and he remembered feeling sad to not have anyone weep for him, but perhaps it was for the best.

By All Soul's Day the following year he had pawned his fine sword for one made of a poor metal; a trader in Lowtown made them special for Templars. "I know you need it," she said with a strange sort of kindness, one that he thought of for many years after. "Just make sure you keep it well oiled, it rusts faster than the finery."

The money he got for it was gone within the month. When he pawned his shield and came back to barracks without it, he was docked twice coin than he got for it.

At first he thought he was cursed. That it was something wrong inside him. He thought maybe it was a hex from a mage he'd wronged, but he had always tried to treat them kindly. He thought maybe he'd been born wrong, wasn't keeping his thoughts pure enough. Why did he need more, when the other recruits seemed fine with their allotment? What was it in him that was so greedy, so full of need and want? He checked for signs of a demon daily, for it was surely the only explaination. It was only when Knight-Lieutenant Lledas, a hardy, well tempered man not quite forty, passed in his sleep from the sweating that he started to think that maybe, maybe, it wasn't him at all.

Rutherford arrived on the anniversary of his death, a whimpering, scared boy with rumours that chased him like shades. When he had looked on him, that first day at the docks, what pity he had in him hardened, and he was sorry for it. He thought of how kind Lledas had been, how he had shown him the best way to polish his armour, and how he had slipped him some of his Lyrium two days before he had passed when he heard him wail in the night from the pain of the absence of it.

He wished he could be as good a man.

*

He has been given a cot to sleep in, a bed away from the biting cold of the prison cell. His shirt sticks to his skin now, the red is weeping through his sorry pale hide, but one of the mages from the gardens snuck him a nosegay that takes the worst of the stench from his breath.

In the days he works on the outer walls. This castle, though formidable, still has broken stone to mend, and what life he has left is best used to serve. That's what he was made for, wasn't it? Serve one master, serve another.

Cullen -- Commander of the Inquisition -- looks down upon him with a firm brow. He watches all of them, granted, but he knows why his gaze is set to him before all the others. It is not out of suspicion, or out of some kind of unfortunate nostalgia. No, he can smell the Lyrium on him, in him, and now he does not partake it sings to him.

A woman brings them lunch when they break, and he can see her speak to Cullen from a distance before she approaches. When she stops before him, he tries his best to smile.

"Just don't touch me and you'll be fine."

She blinks. "Pardon?"

"The Lyrium. It won't get you if you keep a bit of distance. Just put it down and I'll get it."

"Right."

She does not move, her thumbs gripping the edges of the parcel in her hands, stroking the muslin as her brow knots.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"Not a problem I. I just don't know what to say."

"Don't have to say nothing. Just drop the food. I know what I am to folks here."

"Do you?"

She drops to her knees as she pushes the parcel to him. He looks to Cullen, whose lips are pursed in a tight anger that he knows from experience will not be tempered.

"Do you remember a girl," she says, unwrapping the cloth with a haste that tells him that she, too, knows the limit of the Commander's patience. "In Kirkwall. A mage. Long black hair, curly. Green eyes. A scar on her lip from her Harrowing. She was called-"

"Lina," he says without even thinking. Lina, of course he remembers. He was there when she split that lip; he held her as she convulsed and spread the poultice with his gloved hand.

"Lina. And you remember."

"I failed her."

Lina did not make it out of Kirkwall. She was caught trying to escape with her lover who left her behind to save herself, she was told she would be made tranquil, and she made the choice many made, in her position.

"You tried. You tried. She wrote to us. She told us that you..."

He had forgotten that part, but it comes to him now. Him thrusting the note in her robe, pretending with the other men that he was taking her away for other things that made them laugh and leave them to privacy. He had told her she should have come to him in the first place, but that she could find a way to appeal, to seek clemency, and she had shaken her head, already defeated.

"Thank you for trying," the woman tells him, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. She wipes it hard, sniffs, and stands.

"Thank you," he says, surprised at how choked his voice sounds. He is not sad, he realises. He is not guilty. She is right. He tried. He tried, and he made mistakes, so many mistakes, but at least he tried. For just a moment his body does not feel heavy, the sweat does not make him shiver. For a moment he feels like he felt the first day that he held his sword.

"Thank you for. For the food."

[dalishious]

Started a new game of DA:I replaying with my Trevelyan, and been thinking about his timeline a lot. So I put it into something concrete.

Pre-Birth –Royce Trevelyan has an affair with an elven servant of his estate, named Thea. Thea becomes pregnant, but when she tells Royce that the child is his, he refuses to believe her.

Age 0 – Thea gives birth to Alec in the summer of 9:16.

Age 3 – Alec at this point begins to show undeniable resemblance to Royce—most notably the iconized Trevelyan grey eyes—and rumours begin spreading through the estate. The rumours make their way to Estella, Royce’s wife, who demands the truth from her husband. Royce admits to the affair, but despite Estella’s attempts to convince him, still refuses to accept the child into the household.

Age 5 – The Hundred Days Cough has a minor break-out and spreads like wildfire through Ostwick’s lower class. Thea becomes deathly ill and brings her son to the Trevelyan estate, where she passionately begs the lord and lady to take care of her son. Royce is still resistant to the idea, but Estella goes against her husband’s wishes and promises to do so, forcing Royce to finally acknowledge his child as a Trevelyan. Alec’s elder siblings, Edwin and Valeria, are quick to love him.

Age 7 – Stricken with fatigue, dizzy spells, increasingly pale skin and notable delayed growth, Alec’s parents call upon Chantry healers to assess him. Alec is diagnosed with weak blood, (in modern terms, anemia,) and is put on a strict died of rich foods to try and counter his genetic inability to properly absorb iron, and ordered to spend more time under sunlight.

Age 10 – Alec’s magic manifests itself for the first time, when he sets a tree in the courtyard on fire. Royce is disgusted, calling Alec a sin against the Maker, but Estella’s reaction is even worse; she believes there must be a way to “fix” him. Estella subjects Alec to every superstitious “cure” for magic she can find, including submerging him in water until he almost drowns several times. After two months, Royce finally calls the templars to take Alec away to the Ostwick Circle. Alec is just relieved to be done with his family’s torture.

Age 13 – It doesn’t take long for Alec to realize the Ostwick Circle has its own forms of cruelty. Its reputation as a “sedate” Circle is achieved through authoritarian control by the templars, scaring mages into obedience. Alec excels at his magical studies though, and is favoured by all his mentors because of this. Everyone believes it is enough to keep him out of trouble. At this point though, Alec’s weak blood has worsened without the expensive diet and sun he was prescribed.

Age 15 – Alec receives a letter from Estella notifying him that his elder brother Edwin has died in a skirmish with Tal-Vashoth, while travelling home from his visit to Kirkwall. When the Circle refuses to grant him permission to return home for the funeral, Alec successfully escapes. Edwin’s funeral is interrupted by a swarm of templars who arrest Alec. They escort him back to the Circle, where to make an example for the others, beat him in front of the other apprentices. Alec’s fury against the Circles of Magi is born.

Age 18 – Alec undergoes his Harrowing, where he is confronted by a rage demon that makes promises to grant the power to burn Ostwick’s Circle to the ground. Alec is very familiar with fighting off rage demons at this point though, and is able to draw the willpower necessary to deny it. He passes the test, becoming a full-fledged mage of the Circle.

Age 20 – Alec becomes involved in Circle politics, fed up with the lack of Libertarian representation at Ostwick. He vocalizes his advocacy for a Circle free of the Templar Order. On one hand, this frequently earns him punishment, but on the other, encourages other mages to come out of their terrified shells as well. Thanks to Alec, the number of Libertarians at Ostwick grows into a validated voice.

Age 24 – When the Mage-Templar conflict breaks out, Alec attempts to pressure the Ostwick Circle out of its official stance of neutrality. However, most mages are still too afraid to stand against the Templar Order, who have basically turned to holding them hostage to prevent more mages from joining the fight—they see this as a mercy, as opposed to just killing them all. Tensions run high, and Alec is put in solitary confinement for two weeks simply for being late to get back to his quarters after curfew.

Age 25 –Divine Justinia calls for a conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Ferelden, to try and put an end to the Mage-Templar conflict. As local leader of the former Libertarians, Alec is among a small group of mages from Ostwick to attend. The events of Dragon Age: Inquisition begin.

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #91: Modern Girl in Thedas, but make it DA2

In honor of DA:V coming out next month I've been replaying DA:I. This is something of a trial because, having just finished a Hogwarts Legacy replay, it's easy to tell that this game is 10 years old - that, and I loved how focused and intimate DA2 feels. Yes, it has world-spanning implications, but it's really all about this guy trying to do his best by his friends and his family. I love it, and DA:I never inspired the same kind of feels.

All of which is a long way of saying: I got to thinking about that most famous of tropes, Modern Girl in Thedas, and I thought about how would I handle it?

Or: What if the MGiT were to appear in Kirkwall shortly before the Fifth Blight?

Just imagine it:

Rather than a true self-insert, I see this more as modern woman meets Thedas, with a middle-aged fan of the Dragon Age series waking up in the body of an unnamed background character in a Hightown estate sometime in early 9:30 following a severe illness. The keyword here is fan - the SI has played the games, read the fic, and glanced at the wiki, but couldn't write out a clear timeline or recall most codex entries.

The SI eventually learns that she's woken up in the body of Sofia Vidal, the 15-year-old daughter of the richest merchant in Kirkwall. Their family has a virtual monopoly on cloth trade on the northern cost of the Waking Sea and has distant ties to Orlesian Nobility as well as the Amells. Their Hightown estate abuts the future Hawke Estate, and if the term robber baron existed in Thedas it would probably apply to here them.

Now, going from the body of a middle-aged engineer from the modern world into the body of a teenager in a Medieval fantasy world is difficult... but luckily no one seems to notice, because it seems doubtful that anyone has ever noticed Sofia Vidal in her life, her family included. She was mousy and shy and easily startled and apparently an endless disappointment to the family for being more fond of books than hunting or fighting.

Because, as Sofia soon discovers, the Vidal family has aspirations. They can read the writing on the wall with regards to the current Viscount and are willing to go to any end to have their family be named the viscountcy.

To which end: Sofia is the youngest of seven children. Three died in the cradle or soon after. Her oldest brother - Gaspare, her senior by nearly twenty years - spends most of his time in Orlais with his titled wife, running the family business interests there. Their other two living siblings are mages, with Amalia sent to the Kirkwall Circle while her twin Agnese went to the Circle at Dairsmuid. It had been their father's hope that, should they not be able to secure the viscountcy themselves, one of his children could marry into the line... but Sofia is so unlikely to catch anyone's eye that her father despairs of her ever marrying at all.

All of which brings us back to the events of DA2.

Sofia may not know much, but she knows that the Blight is coming. She also knows that the conditions in Darktown are horrendous and only about to get worse as refugees flood the cities, so she buys a book on healing, collects some herbs, and sets up shop on the opposite side of Darktown from where Anders had his clinic. It's better than sitting around the estate all day and makes her feel like her transmigration has a purpose.

The events of canon proceed apace...

...which is something of a surprise, because for a long while it's quite easy for Sofia to forget that she's in a video game world at all. That is, until Anders appears at her door looking to swap healing recipes, trade potions, and - eventually - share a drink at the end of the day.

It's through Anders that she meets Garrett Hawke - a cheerfully sarcastic force mage of breathtaking power. He's the sort of powerful it would be easy to fear if he wasn't so affable and in control of his gifts. The idea that he could probably take over Kirkwall through sheer power of his magic and personality alone never seems to occur to him - which is good, because he could probably be DA's answer to Alexander the Great if he cared to try.

Sofia doesn't join the Kirkwall crew, however. She does her healing, gleefully watches their antics from the sidelines, and occasionally joins them for a drink at the Hanged Man.

Though she is the first to welcome the Hawkes to Hightown at the end of Act I, becoming quite close with Leandra. (For many years Leandra will harbor the hope that Sofia and her son will marry and give her many grandchildren to dote over, but neither are inclined that way. Especially after it's revealed they're third cousins.)

Sofia turns 19 in 9:34, the year Hawke becomes Champion.

It's also the year Sofia is introduced to Sebastian Vael, being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to attend the prince, who is bleeding out in the foyer of Hawke's home following the events of Repentance. It's not the first time this has happened - Sofia's bedroom is infinitely closer than Ander's clinic - but it is perhaps the most embarrassing.

Embarrassing, because she prefers not to be introduced to royalty in her nightclothes. Sofia has standards - not many, mind, but she has them.

Luckily for her, Sebastian is far too out of it to recall what she was wearing. But he can't help but develop a crush on the kind healer who so diligently tended his wounds - one who also ministers to the poor and downtrodden, though she could easily choose to live a life of luxury.

What follows falls somewhere between the canon friend and rival romances. We get a Sebastian who wants to regain Starkhaven because Sofia deserves no less than a Prince but who has the calm and pro-mage sympathies of the friendship route.

But that of course takes time, because Sofia's not convinced at first that Sebastian's crush has nothing to do with seeing her in her nightclothes. (Nor, for that matter, does she particularly care for the idea of a chaste marriage or an aggressively anti-mage spouse. She'd not been a particular fan of Sebastian in the game, but hadn't hated him either.)

Canon proceeds apace. Hawke becomes Champion, Kirkwall is left without a viscount, and Sofia's father tries to marry her off to however looks most likely to succeed Dumar this week.

As the chaos mounts, the soft, slow romance between Sofia and Sebastian is a breath of fresh air. On Sebastian's part, it grows from a seed of fondness - and, yes, lust - to genuine affection as he gets to know Sofia. For her part, by the time Sofia realizes she cares for Sebastian she's already in deep. Its friendship turned to love, which is the best and strongest.

They wed in a small ceremony in 9:36, only telling Sofia's father after the fact. As Sebastian has to leave the Chantry to do so, they're forced to camp out at Hawke's estate for several weeks before finding a small place of their own. This is awkward - mostly because the Vidal estate right next door and Sofia's father is a pompous ass on the best of days.

As the calendar turns to 9:37, matters reach their tipping point. Anders blows up the Kirkwall Chantry and Hawke is forced to kill him in hopes of restoring order. This fails and events of the endgame play out with Hawke siding with the mages.

Hawke goes on the run, helping mages across the Free Marches get to safety.

Sebastian makes good on his promise of taking back Starkhaven for Sofia, making her a princess in truth. The city becomes a sanctuary district for many of the mages in northern Thedas, much as Redcliffe was for the mages in the south. This doesn't prevent the events of DA:I, but halves the numbers of conscripts available for Alexius to conscript later. They send forces to help Kirkwall rebuild... but the city is still lawless and in turmoil when the Conclave occurs in 9:40.

Per Sofia's urging, Sebastian helps the Inquisition in its early days... though she does make it clear that she thinks the Inquisition's only aim should be to close the Breach.

But for the most part Sebastian and Sofia end up living fairly happily in Starkhaven. They have a larger family than Sofia ever imagined herself wanting - 5 kids, but magical epidurals are a wonderful thing. It's not a utopia, but it's the best that can be expected given the politics of the time. Their eldest succeeds their father as Prince of Starkhaven while their next oldest, not to be outdone, eventually gets themselves named Viscount of Kirkwall - just as the Vidal family had always dreamed.

Bonuses include:

Sofia becoming deeply, deeply over-invested in the relationship between Hawke and Fenris. So much so that for a while Sebastian thinks she's interested in one or the other or both and resolves to let her pursue her happiness without any interference from him, only to have it knocked into his head by a third-party that Sofia doesn't want be with them, she wants them to be with each other. This should be played for maximum humor and confusion.

An exceptionally complicated relationship with the Chantry. Sebastian is very much a committed Andrastian, whereas Sofia was agnostic at best in the modern world. Are demons and magic and the Breech proof that the Maker exists? Should she follow the rituals of the religion for Sebastian's sake or be honest about her beliefs? Can she open her mind enough to give Andrastianism an honest try? &c.

Sofia coming to view Leandra as second mother. Though she tries her best to prevent the events of All That Remains, she's not a fighter. All she's able to do is injure Quentin and alert Hawke to the problem sooner; Leandra still dies, but it's before Quentin is able to reanimate his perfect bride.

An engineer being forced to come to terms with magic. It makes the transition to a world at Middle Ages level of scientific advancement easier than it otherwise would be (magically running water!) but still makes Sofia's basic knowledge of germ theory a great leap forward in her Darktown clinic; and

Sofia gaining a reputation for being a great storyteller by blatantly stealing stories from the modern world to entertain children at her clinic. Varric eventually "borrows" some of these ideas and ends up writing the DA version of Harry Potter set in a fictional Circle in the years leading up to the mage rebellion.

And that is surprisingly more than I had. To be frank, the Sebastian romance snuck up on me because it's not one I usually go for, but the muse wants what it wants. As always, feel free to adopt this bun - just link back if you do anything with it.

More DA Ideas | More SI Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

[sky-fire-forever]

For Anders/Hawke, how about ❛  i miss the way you always made me smile.  ❜ Happy writing!

Thank you so much for the prompt! I feel like this is very similar to other stuff I've written, but I still like it.

My Hawke for this one is Mal, who uses he/him pronouns.

Mal watches Anders from across their makeshift camp. The mage gathers kindling and wood for a fire in preparation for when the sun goes down while Mal sets up their tents — two of them now instead of one to share. 

It's been almost half a year since the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry and this is the routine they fall into nowadays: with Anders gathering firewood and Mal setting up camp. Often, Mal will hunt while Anders gathers anything edible from whatever forest they've tucked themselves away in. Anders claims to know how to identify the safe from the toxic and Mal's inclined to believe him, even if he trusts him with little else. He’s kept them alive so far. 

They hardly interact anymore. They don't play card games or offer each other shared smiles or even talk, really. They just do their duties while acknowledging each other as little as possible. 

It's only fair, really. After what Anders did — his betrayal — Mal can't be expected to want to just kiss and make up. He can never see Anders the way he once did. He'll never be able to forget the smell of smoke in the air or the horror of the people around them or the red tinge to the sky. It's all seared into his brain like it happened just yesterday rather than months ago. 

Still, Mal misses Anders. 

He misses the way the mage would seek out his warmth even in sleep, always the tactile one even before they officially discussed what they were to each other. He misses the jokes, the heated conversations, the ferocity in Anders’ heart. 

He misses the way Anders always made him smile. How just one joke from him could break through Mal's outer shell like nothing else. 

There's not a lot of smiling anymore. No laughter at all. There's just a lot of silence, a lot of mumbled questions and responses, nothing joyful and boisterous like their days spent in the Hanged Man what feels like a lifetime ago now. 

As the fire roars to life with a flick of Anders’ wrist, Mal realizes that he's gotten so caught up in his own head that he's stopped what he's doing to watch. He quickly turns his head, but not fast enough. 

“Hawke?” There's a glimmer of hope in Anders’ voice and it makes Mal want to run to him and wrap his arms around him, to hold him close and never let go. 

Instead, Mal keeps his head down as he hammers stakes into the dirt. 

Anders sighs. “I miss you,” he says, longing in his voice. “Can we… I don't know. Talk?”

“What is there to say, Anders?” Mal looks up. 

“Something. Anything.” Anders stares into his eyes like if he so much as blinks, Mal will go back to ignoring him. “Yell at me for what I did. Tell me you should have killed me. Anything.”

“Don't,” Mal snaps. “Don't say– just don't.”

He doesn't wish he'd killed Anders when he'd had the chance. He doesn't think he'd have been able to live with himself if he'd slipped that knife between Anders’ ribs and he doesn't like thinking about if he'd done it. It's better to push it all out if his head and move on, it's not like he can change what his choice was anyway. 

“Why didn't you do it?” Anders asks. “Why am I still breathing?”

“I said don't!” Mal growls, rising to his feet and standing over Anders. 

Anders flinches and Mal immediately regrets his aggression. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, trying to put his words in order.

“I could never kill you, Anders,” he says. “No matter what you've done, I can't– I still–” He groans in frustration at his inability to voice his thoughts. 

Anders peers up at him and the firelight catches his amber eyes and fuck, he's beautiful. He's a monster and a terrorist and he's beautiful. 

“Do you still love me, Hawke?” Anders asks in a quiet voice. 

Mal freezes. “What kind of a question is that?”

“One I'd like to know the answer to. So, please.”

Mal doesn't know how to begin answering such a loaded question. “Yes,” the words tumble from his lips before he can think too hard about how true it is. “Yes, I still love you, but I wish I didn't.”

As soon as the words are out, he knows they're true. He does love Anders; desperately loves him more than he can possibly put into words. But he wishes he didn't. He wishes he could be strong enough to put Anders behind him, to push him away instead of traveling with him and hiding him along the way. He wishes he didn't still feel such a need to be close to him. 

Anders slowly rises to his feet and reaches out. Mal doesn't stop him like he has so many times in the past few months. When Anders’ hand finds his cheek, Mal nuzzles into it like a dog starved of affection and care, like a child yearning for the attention of someone safe. He closes his eyes when he realizes that there are tears threatening to spill over. 

“I'm sorry,” Anders says, his words choked. “I'm so sorry.”

Mal shuts him up by wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a crushing hug. He grips him tighter than he ever has before, burying his face in his neck and breathing him in. 

“I love you,” Mal chokes out. “I love you.”

Anders clings back to him just as fiercely and they stay like that for a long, long time.

[shivunin]

Maybe 13. group hugs for Maria and whoever fits? c:

Yay, thank you, Laya! This got away from me a bit, but here it is c:

(Hug Prompts)

Low Tide

(Maria Hawke/Fenris & friends | 1,637 Words | No warnings)

Hawke and Fenris rode with Isabela for months after the destruction in Kirkwall. 

Not everybody stayed that long. Carver disembarked almost at once at the closest little fishing village with a harbor deep enough for Bela’s ship to dock at—there being some trouble with the ship’s rowboat which Hawke did not fully understand. 

The two of them walked down the gangplank together and stopped just past it. They embraced on the stretch of the docks just past the gangplank. When he leaned down to hug her, Hawke abruptly realized how tall her brother had gotten and the knowledge wedged itself tightly in her throat.

“Don’t do anything stupid, M,” he said gruffly. His grip loosened around her back, but Hawke wasn’t ready to let go yet. 

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” she told him, her voice equally strained. “Surely you know that by now.”

Carver huffed and grasped her shoulders, setting her a few inches away. He studied her face, eyes narrowed, for several minutes. Maria allowed this inspection, for she knew she’d looked better. Sleepless nights and grief had worn away at her, leaving her with chapped lips, a reddened nose, and deep circles under her eyes. She was certain that it would be some days yet before she cared more about how she looked than what she’d done.

“Alright,” Carver said at last. “Go ahead and do something stupid. Pointy over there will pull you out of the fire, just like always. Yeah?” 

Maria glanced over her shoulder at Fenris, who stood at the handrail on the deck with arms crossed. He was watching them, his forehead creased, and he nodded to her when she met his eyes. The others had made themselves scarce.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, turning back to Carver. “If I have your permission…”

Carver snorted, then laughed, wrapping her in a too-tight hug again. His Warden armor was sturdy, cool with the sea breeze, and Hawke pressed her cheek against it unless her cheekbone protested the treatment. 

“I’ll write,” she told him when he finally let go. Carver grimaced. 

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Hawke was still laughing when he disappeared around the corner. 

She waited until she was in the cabin alone again to cry over it, hands pressed to her eyes and mouth to keep all the sound in. Fenris found her anyway (he always found her), slipping in on near-silent feet and shutting the door behind him. 

“He will be fine.”

Fenris sat beside her on the wooden floor, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him. Maria leaned against him, letting his touch soothe her until the words came more easily. 

“I know,” she said at last. “But…”

Fenris waited patiently, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. After a moment, he pressed a kiss there and dipped his head, looking at her. 

“He came back before,” Fenris said. 

Hawke turned her head and kissed him. It was, as many kisses had been these past days, salty and damp. Fenris did not complain. He squeezed her more tightly and rested his forehead against hers instead. 

“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” she asked him at last, reaching up to clear the tears from her cheeks. 

“No.” 

Hawke huffed and sat up, pulling her shirt from her trousers when her hand proved an ineffective instrument at drying tears. 

“I am not like this,” she said firmly. “I’m…I’ll be back to normal soon.”

For a moment, Fenris said nothing. His arm was warm over her shoulders. Thankfully, he’d left his gauntlets off these past days, so when he touched her hair it did not snag in the metal. 

“If you are not,” he said at last, “I will still be here.” 

“Oh,” Maria said, and started crying again. 

The door swung open quietly, but Hawke knew who’d stepped inside at once. Only two of her friends walked around shoeless, after all, and one of them was already holding her. 

“Oh, dear,” Merrill said, settling onto the floor at her other side. “It is very hard, isn’t it? Saying goodbye, I mean.”

Fenris stiffened slightly, but Hawke ignored this and reached for Merrill anyway. Merrill tucked herself obligingly against Hawke’s side and sighed. 

“It does seem like it’s all changing, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Things won’t go back to the way they were, will they, Hawke?” 

“No,” Hawke said after a moment, sniffling. “No, I can’t imagine they will.”

They rested like that for a moment, Fenris with an arm around her shoulder, Merrill with her cheek pressed to Hawke’s shoulder, their elbows linked together. 

“Ah, there you are,” Sebastian said at the door. 

Hawke lifted her cheek from Merrill’s head and looked at him. Her eyes were still blurry with tears, but she could see the concern on his face easily enough. She drew her legs up and crossed them to give him room, for the cabin was not exceptionally big, and Sebastian knelt just inside the doorway and offered an arm. She had only to lean forward and he embraced her, too, patting her back gently. For a time, all three of them held her and everything felt…well. Not better—things were bad enough that simple comfort could not fix it all—but certainly more manageable. As if their hands had lifted some of the weight from her shoulders, if only for a time.

“What can I do?” Sebastian asked. Hawke half-laughed, drawing back, and smiled at him. 

“You know, I’ve no idea,” she told him. “I wish that I knew. I feel rather ridiculous sitting on the floor like this.”

“Maybe you should stand, then,” he said. Fenris snorted beside her, but Merrill squeezed her arm. 

“Would that help?” she wondered aloud. “It does seem a bit close down here.” 

“Here,” Sebastian stood and offered her his hand. Hawke took it and let him pull until her feet were under her. 

When she stood, she could at least pretend she was dusting herself off while she gathered her resolve. 

“Did you need me for something?” she asked, but Sebastian shook his head. 

“No,” he said, “I knew it would be hard to say goodbye. I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.”

“It is,” she agreed, but her throat didn’t feel quite as choked now. She turned and offered a hand to Merrill, who barely pulled on it when she unfolded her legs and stood. Fenris, who was already standing, set a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. 

“Isabela says that we’ll be eating on the deck once they weigh anchor,” Merrill said, “she wanted me to tell you. A feast, she said, but I think it’s just the same as yesterday.”

“Oh!” Maria said. She squeezed Merrill’s hand and smiled at Sebastian. “I will see you both there, then. I need to wash my face, I fear, or they’ll think I’ve gone and dunked myself in the briny depths.”

Merrill smiled, but rested her free hand on Hawke’s cheek before she went. Sebastian nodded to her and left, too, his boots louder on the wood than Merrill’s feet. She knew she’d fooled neither of them; both of them were too canny to think she’d recovered so quickly. That was alright. They were her friends because they knew her and knew when she needed space. 

And Fenris was hers because he knew better than to leave. 

“What do you need?” he asked when the door closed behind them. “Really?” 

Hawke sighed and gazed up into his eyes, her lower lip trembling. Fenris arched a brow, but he let her take his hand when she reached for it.

“I’m holding it right now,” she said. 

Fenris sighed. 

“Hawke,” he said. 

“Hawke,” she echoed, deepening her voice. When he rolled his eyes, she laughed and leaned up to kiss his cheek. 

“I have good friends. You still allow me to make horrible jokes. As long as I can tease you, I suppose I can make do.” 

Fenris caught her waist when she would have stepped back. She tipped her chin up and let him look at her. 

“Tease me, then,” he said, letting go of her. “I have borne it for this long. So long as you are not trying to suffer in silence.”

“Fenris,” Hawke said, stepping away to pour water in the washbasin. “When have I ever suffered in silence?” 

Fenris leaned a hip against the wall by the door and looked at her pointedly. 

“Well—alright,” she allowed, and leaned down to splash her face. “Fair enough. That is exactly what I was doing when you came in. My point stands.”

“As does mine.”  

Hawke dried her face, feeling marginally better, and stopped before him. 

These past days had taken a toll on all of them, but Fenris had weathered it best. She supposed he had been through a catastrophic life change like this before—and at least their flight from Kirkwall was not attended by hunters baying for his flesh and blood now. When she had asked last night, he’d simply told her to go to sleep. 

“Are you alright?” she asked. Fenris took her hand and drew her closer, holding her more tightly than he’d been able to manage on the floor. 

“I have seen worse,” he told her, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “I have left very little behind. You are here. Your hound is here. Our…friends are here as well.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” he paused, and his sigh ruffled his hair a moment before he pressed a kiss to her head again. “I am well enough. I will…tell you if there is more.”

“And I will do the same,” she said, and closed her eyes. 

They stood like that, wrapped around each other, until someone finally rang the bell for dinner.

[theluckywizard]

WIP WHENEVER

I've been working on this pun battle for an upcoming chapter of my longfic In the Shattering of Things the last few days (after it sat stewing in my brain for a solid month). I researched by watching pun championships and got some help from fellow DAFF writers, @kiastirling, @bluewren, @nirikeehan and @warpedlegacy and finally it is DONE.

WC: 916

Rating and CW: Gen, puns and utter torment

Rose Trevelyan POV

Scene is they are on the road to Crestwood and trying to keep Rose entertained for *reasons*.

It's truly cringe, so proceed with caution below.

Excerpt:

On the second day I find myself sandwiched between Varric and Hawke who busily share tales of their exploits in and around Kirkwall, keeping my attention captive and forcibly restraining it from chasing misery for an hour or so. Hawke is eager to set the record straight for me, although Varric points out that his version invariably has significantly more panache.

“If Sebastian hadn’t had his bow trained perfectly on the Wyvern’s eye, Hawke wouldn’t have made it,” sighs Varric, the memory a twinkle in his eye.

"I remember it was an arrow escape!” says Hawke, a grin of pure triumph breaking across his face. As I drop my head back in amused torment, Varric’s head jerks side to side with sudden vehemence.

“Oh no. Oh no no no,” says Varric, a weak look drifting over to his best friend.

“Yes.”

“I… can’t.”

“You will,” says Hawke with certainty. “Topic: weapons. Go!” A sudden effervescence bubbles up inside me as my mind immediately grasps for the next play. I glance apologetically at Varric and then at Hawke and unleash my worst.

“This sounds like a sword spot between you two,” I remark, my smile twitching well into my cheek for the first time since we left. Hawke’s brows pop up and he grabs a fistful of his hair in shock and delight. 

“If you don’t fight back, Varric, she’ll pommel us both!” he counters, leaning around me to regard the dwarf. The energy shifts around the three of us, craning to put eyes on the brewing chicanery, muttering to themselves about how terrible it all is.

“Fine, fine. I’ll take a stab at it,” grumbles Varric, rapidly losing his grip on his smirk.

“And I shall saber the experience,” grins Hawke. I hear Cassandra’s rumble of agony somewhere behind me.

“Spear us your groans, Seeker!” Varric calls.

“Like the dregs of the worst theater company in Val Royeaux,” scoffs Vivienne into her horse’s mane. “Wordplay is the lowest form of comedy.”

“Cleave us alone already, will you? We love edgy humor!” gripes Hawke, hamming it up for the audience around him.

“Cutlass some slack, Iron Lady,” says Varric.

“Come Madame Vivienne, surely you enjoy wincing until your face hurts like the rest of us?” says Dorian. Vivienne merely lifts her chin, thinly veiling her disdain for it all with a distance gaze ahead. 

“Shield get used to it. Eventually,” says Hawke with a shake of his head, directing his obvious glee at me again.

“Oh, wipe that dirk off your face,” I swipe. He clutches at his chest dramatically.

“You stagger me, Lady Violet. You axe too much of me!”

“Amateurs. You’re making a mace of things,” calls Bull, glancing over his shoulder with a wide grin as he falls back to ride closer to the chaos.

“Terribull,” Hawke strikes back. “Truly Terribull.”

“Like I haven’t heard that one a thousand times before, Champignon. Weak jab.”

“True, but I still think I prefer Prose. Your punnery impales in comparison,” says Hawke.

“Thrust me, we’re all well aware of your preference,” says Bull with a laugh. Laughing, Hawke steals a pointed look at me that prompts a momentary surge of heat to my cheeks.

“It would be a greaves mistake to underestimate me, Bull,” I call ahead to him.

“Ha! Knife one.”

“Sad how you flail about for such low hanging fruit. You don’t haft to say them maul, for Maker’s sake,” Hawke says, his triumph provoking hollers and aching moans from the lot of us. He takes a slight bow over his horse’s ashen mane. “Shank you very much.” My laughter slips out at last, breaking free from the ache that hasn’t left my ribs since that awful morning.

“They’re words but they’re the wrong words,” mutters Cole, suddenly appearing at a jog alongside Varric.

“But they’re almost the right words and that’s why it’s funny, kid,” explains Varric.

“Hawke uses a lot of wrong words,” observes Cole. 

“A true rapier wit,” says Dorian, testing the waters, earning a cheeky grin of approval from Hawke and another exasperated sigh from Cassandra.

“Maker, don’t encourage them,” says Vivienne, believing that she and Dorian are a sort of team above it all. 

“Ah, you think you’ll cuirass of our affliction?” Hawke continues over his shoulder, his eyes practically glowing with delight.

“I’m not engaging with you,” she answers, fixing her eyes firmly on the road ahead.

“Don’t be bashful, Vivienne, it’s just a friendly gauntlet of sorts,” I say and my snort pops out so suddenly that I fail to clamp it under my hand, a joyful tear collecting the corner of my eye. Maker, I’ve needed this. 

Vivienne’s eyes flutter and roll.

“Ouch. A parry of puns no less,” says Hawke and my pained look is clearly the reward he seeks.

“Maybe we should claymore gently around her,” says Varric. Cassandra cries out in indignation.

“I agree. Perhaps we should break for lunge?” I inquire. And then we see it. The barest little twitch of the corner of Vivienne’s lips. We all trade sudden looks of astonishment.

“Let it be known that the Iron Lady smiles!” declares Varric. “At lowly wordplay no less!”

“An insect alighted on my cheek, nothing more,” she says, her smirk sneaking away from her again and the roar of approval is immediate. 

“Admit it, we’re pretty stunny,” says Hawke.

“Knife one!” shouts Sera, having listened to all of this and waited for her moment.

“Sera— just— no,” says Varric. “You never steal someone else’s pun.”

Tagging others for WIPs, even on this, the last day of the weekend!

@skyeventide, @effelants, @about2dance, @melisusthewee, @monocytogenes, @rowanisawriter, @smutnug, @breninarthur AND YOU

[musicismymoirail]

Ohhh fellow dragon age player???

Tell me more about your protags 👀👀👀

Oh, yes! :D It feels like I've been playing it forever at this point. But, okay! I do have sideblog for my da bullshit here but I haven't chatted about my protags in ages, so let's go! Apologies for the length ahead of time. ^^;;;

The Wardens: Left to Right.

Suibhne Tabris, the pragmatic & polite rogue whose always up to teach folks the old alienage proverb of 'no child of Adaia Tabris makes empty threats'. Push him if you dare. He's my technically canon warden and the leader of Origins ragtag group. Mainly because he's very stoic and chill. Mhm. He was left at the Chantry as an infant before the Tabris family adopted him. He loves his family dearly, and took Adaia's death very hard. Like he didn't speak for years after and people feel like he ended up as very muted version of his chaotic child self. But grief can change you, and that's okay. He romances Zevran (utterly smitten~), Morrigan is basically his sister, is the one that does the Dark Ritual, and he'd love to meet his son but respects Morrigan's wishes to keep away. He's just a chill sweetheart who will murder a whole castle of nobles to save his loved ones~. I love him. c: <3

Nari Aeducan, the iconoclastic & favored former princess of House Aeducan. Oh, Bhelen. You can keep the throne but you will never feel safe within the walls of Orzammar again. <3 Nari is... my newest Warden, and not super fleshed yet. She lost her eye in her childhood during a training match, and asked Daddy Dearest to get her a lyrium prosthetic eye. Because it neat. In my canon, she misses out on meeting Duncan and gets to roam around the Deep Roads until the Origins group finally stumbles over her like two months later? She's a survivor~~~ She also enjoys sweetly terrorizing her baby back-stabbing brother. <3 No idea who she'd romance, honestly? Probably no one. Her mind is just set on causing chaos in Orzammar. Bless her.

Raniel Surana, the tempestuous and diligent mage that lasted like four days outside of the circle before she turned to blood magic. To be fair, she was dying at the time & Mouse is cool. Raniel was my very first Warden~~~ Sooo. Her and Tabris both met Duncan before going to Ostagar, and she's both enthralled and terrified and so bitter at Jowan, so she's just bouncing in every direction. During the first fight, the orge atop the Tower bites off her arm and Rani, not wanting to die with her new friends, asks Mouse for help. She's Super Bitter and Pissed for most of the story, as losing your home and arm will do to someone. No one really questions the weird white mouse that travels on her shoulder. But Leliana and the others sloooooooowly bring back her old romantic self. Stories and stars do the soul so much good. She ends up as the Teryna of Gwaren, is a happy little blood mage and since Leliana is my canon Divine, is basically married to the highest religious figure in Southern Thedas. Go Raniel~~~~

I never got as attached to my Hawke as my Wardens or Inquisitor (weird as DA2 is my favorite game so far), buuuuuuut this is my current one.

Revelry Hawke, the stepford-smiling put-upon third parent of the Highly Dysfunctional Hawke family. All they wanted in life was to keep their family together and safe, and they Failed! Constantly! Carver died in Lothering! Bethany died in the Deep Roads! Leandra died in Kirkwall! And Revelry blames themself fully. :'D They're technically a rouge, but personal headcanon is they have magic too but just for Entropy spells and this goes unnoticed by all until the Arishok stabs them in Act Two. Losing one's family does have a way of letting you let go of a lot of things, does it~~? Forever sides with the mages, I do imagine they got offered the Viscountship post-game (because it's dumb that's Templar-locked) but Revelry stepped down after like five days. They're known as the Five-Day Viscount now. And they, idk, probably ended up in a polycule with everyone accidently. That seems like a very Revelry thing to do. o:

Do I have a favorite protag of the lot? Yes, it's Mir. :D

Mir'uvenan Ruoho Lavellan, aka Mir, aka Miracles, my beloved and endlessly chaotic Inquisitor. Left his clan because of his toxic and deeply codependent relationship with his twin brother, Mir is basically a shattered mosaic of trauma, impulse and passion. He doesn't know why he's here, he wants to burn the Chantry to the ground and steal its foundation to boot, and people are! Praising him?!? Him? Why! Whhhhhhhy!?! He's not a leader! TToTT!! Except, that's all the gaslighting talking. Mir is stupidly clever and intelligent, endlessly caring and absolutely has no issues telling off Ancient Tevinter Gods and their Fake Archdemons. He lost all his fucks when he got the Anchor, so fuck it. He'll do his best because he's kinda stuck here anyways. TT____TT

(And Bull's like 'this is why you're the Inquisitor, Kadan~~')

Mir's an absolute little nerd who adores mixing his own alchemical concoctions because smashing highly volatile flasks against his skin is just Heaven~~~ He ends up losing his hearing Quite A Bit because of all the explosions, but whatcha gonna do~? Dagna and Rocky teached him Dwarven Sign Language to help. He likes hanging around Dagna to learn magic in the non-magic way too because It's Fascinating! o: <333

Mhm. Romances Bull but it's pretty open. Sera is his BFF, and Dorian a close second. Never gets comfortable being the Herald or the Inquisitor, doubly so after the Jaws of Hakkon, triply so after Trespasser. He disbands it, and is happier for it just being a Red Jenny with Sera and just finally enjoying life at long last with a good support system of friends and connections. I always play the game as Mir slowly working through his miserable self-worth and healing through all the trauma his brother put him through, so I like him ending the game having more neutral-positive outlook. He is actually Not The Worst, and ain't that nice? c:

(He's still gonna punch Solas in the face if they meet again tho. Because friends don't let friends destroy worlds, and he already proved people are just as worthwhile now as long ago.)

And if anyone actually read through all of that, thank you and bless you for reading about my silly little protags I've put Far Too Much Thought into over the years! ;;v;; <3

Also, enjoy a silly comic of Mir buying 57 hand puppets. <3

[videogame-ocs]

Post game headcanons about my canon protagonists and their LIs p1-

Alistair Theirin & Amelia Cousland:

Firstly this isn’t exactly about the post game but it also is because it’s what leads to her future post game- Amelia doesn’t trust Eamon or particularly like by the time she’s making the decision at the Landsmeet but she went along with the plan to put Alistair (with herself) on the throne because she can’t trust Anora with Ferelden’s crown. Nothing personal just that Anora was manipulated and blindsided by her own father so how was she supposed to trust Anora would she fare against other potential manipulation. So Alistair was the best call even if it’s not what he wanted.

The reason why she put herself on the throne was mostly so that Alistair got his happy ending somewhat, but also to make him less susceptible to manipulation. She did not trust Eamon to use Alistair as a puppet king for his own doing.

Okay onto the actual post game headcanons (sorry for the long post, I just have so many headcanons)

Amelia, whilst being a noble, so is more experienced than Alistair in matters of nobility, was not expected to be queen growing up, so she had to learn a whole set of skills and it took some getting used to her situation for her.

Amelia was Alistair’s most influential and impactful teacher on noble life. He struggled with almost everyone else except Amelia who treated him with the patience he needed.

Amelia had her crown fitting the day before the wedding and she freaked out. Fergus found her and calmed her down.

Most kings have a wine cellar. Alistair however has a cheese and wine cellar in Denerim Palace instead. Mostly cheese though.

Alistair’s coronation took place two months after the blight and was more rushed and smaller usual. Whilst he was required to become king before his marriage, he wanted to focus on rebuilding so refused for a grand ceremony and Ferelden needed a ruler.

Amelia and Alistair were married three months after the Blight ended. Amelia’s coronation took place on their wedding day. That’s when they had the huge celebration where everyone was able to celebrate the two coronations and the wedding. Nobody, noble or commoner was left out of the celebration. Both king and queen made sure of that.

Alistair gifted his mother’s amulet to Amelia on their wedding day. Amelia always wears it when she’s away from Alistair for lengthy periods of time.

They became Ferelden’s power couple. Everyone loved them.

Whilst Alistair is viewed as the primary ruler, Amelia and Alistair agreed that power is equal between them.

As a result there is now a new role. Advisor to the Queen, taken by Fergus.

They also create a new role ‘Chief magical advisor’ which they recruit a surviving mage from Kinloch Hold, Livia Amell, in the role.

The two of them visited to Orlais at some point in the six years before Amelia leaves on her quest.

Alistair was more interested in the cheese than the Orlesian company but women were fawning over him regardless of his marriage or not.

Amelia somehow managed to amuse and impress Empress Celine immensely. She’s also 99% certain Duke Gaspard has a crush on her so she used that to her advantage to make him rethink plotting to invade Ferelden at least for a bit. She didn’t do anything terrible or string him along or anything but it still made Alistair jealous.

Amelia stayed at Vigils keep for two months after the Awakening DLC.

Alistair and her sent letters to each other whilst she was away.

Their first proper argument they had was when Amelia suggested freeing Anora after she returned from Vigils Keep. Alistair was reluctant to agree but, eventually he relented, with conditions.

Amelia and Alistair began their search for a cure for the Calling and the taint almost immediately after the Witch Hunt DLC but progress was slow.

Amelia joins Alistair in Kirkwall during Alistair’s visit to the city, Eamon is regent of Ferelden whilst they are but Amelia has Fergus also keep an eye on Eamon because as I have mentioned she doesn’t entirely trust Eamon.

Alistair is actually low-key a little bit scared of Amelia, however he plays it off more jokingly and he knows she will never actually hurt him.

Not being able to conceive an heir was emotionally exhausting for Amelia, she had to deal with gossip in court and from nobles. And it was always her fault. Not Alistair’s. Hers. Which definitely got to her quite a bit, especially with one of her fathers last words being about how she would continue the Cousland line.

Thankfully the ordinary people of Ferelden were not so callous and cruel. They were all seeing Amelia as human and ordinary, with every day issues, not some baby making machine.

That being said there were a few nobles who did not blame her on the struggle to have children. Alistair (obviously) knew it wasn’t his or hers fault and supported her relentlessly. Fergus, didn’t know why she was struggling to conceive but didn’t blame her, their parents after all, took years to have her after him. And surprisingly, Teagan, who has feelings for Amelia but would never admit it, wasn’t the one to blame her or Alistair even if he didn’t know why either.

Eamon, however was the most vocal about the heir issue, something Alistair and him butted heads on frequently, especially when it was implied it was Amelia’s fault or he suggested Alistair find someone else to bed for an heir.

Alistair and Amelia are happy together, but the absence of children and their impending doom do play on their minds a lot as the years pass.

They both suffer nightmares still from their experiences even without the Blight.

In 9:38, Amelia leaves for her quest for the Calling’s cure. Three months later, Alistair approaches Isabella and Varric about finding out what happened to King Maric

Alistair and Amelia’s goodbye was devastating to both, as they didn’t know when they’d see each other again.

I have a headcanon that the pair of them only just miss each other in Tevinter during their respective quests.

Amelia actually suspects Fiona is Alistair’s mother when she meets her personally in Orlais to ask her how the hell she’s not a grey warden or with the taint anymore. She knows she knew Maric and Duncan, and something about Fiona was odd during the meeting but she’s not certain.

Sad headcanon (well it’s more canon): Amelia does not know what happened to Wynne. Alistair does. And he knows he’s going to have to inform her.

Alistair is canonically missing Amelia terribly during Inquisition but, I think he actually becomes somewhat borderline depressed the longer she’s absent.

Alistair hears the (false) Calling constantly which is awful but he tries to stay grounded for Amelia even though he thinks missing his wife makes it worse. He worries he will do something stupid so he asks Fergus and Teagan to ensure he doesn’t do anything stupid like go to the Deep Roads before Amelia returns.

Amelia does not hear the Calling as she is out of Corypheus’ reach. But she is aware of The Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste from gossip in the west about Ferelden.

The assassination attempt on Alistair foiled by the inquisition actually involved poisoning his cheese. He begged Leliana not to reveal this point out of embarrassment.

Amelia is in Tevinter or nearby Tevinter when she receives the request for help from Anya, The Inquisitor. She sends two letters back, one for The Inquisitor, and one for Leliana to send directly to the king of Ferelden.

That is the only letter Alistair receives from her, it doesn’t say where she was or where she was headed beyond being ‘to the west’ but that was enough for him to know she’s alive. Amelia implores with him in the letter to trust the Inquisition to help keep Ferelden safe, to keep him safe, that they do not intend to impede on his rule. Also obviously details how much she misses him and that she loves him dearly.

Alistair is not personally against the Inquisition during the Exalted Council. He is going with the majority of noble opinion and what they think is the best course of action.

He personally is not opposed to Leliana potentially and effectively having her own army as Divine or them helping but with the Inquisition getting too large, he personally thinks they need rules, as a precaution so they don’t step out of line, not necessarily dismantling but as a ruler he understands the threat and is forced to support the majority of the nobles in Ferelden who believe that the Inquisition needs disbanding before they get too powerful, especially when they’re not necessarily needed. And is trusting and supporting Teagan to make the right decision. 

Bonus Headcanons

Oh and Amelia and Alistair breed Mabari. Specifically, from Amelia’s Mabari, Barkspawn, and it’s lineage. This is two reasons; one, there’s a practical reason, those war dogs are a good resource to have in a fight and are traditional in a Ferelden Army, two, for sentimental reasoning, Amelia knows that she will (potentially) outlive her canine friend and Alistair despite having a love hate relationship with the creature, suggests the they breed the dog so Amelia will always have a part of Barkspawn there and so will future generations.

They also adopt Ser Pounce-A-Lot after Anders is denied being able to keep the cat. Alistair prefers Ser Pounce to Barkspawn but he doesn’t tell the dog or his wife that.

[houseaeducan]

quick lil trev siblings scene below the cut. super early game in lyra's worldstate

Lyra is only up for a few minutes before Lysander arrives in her room, a satchel of some kind in one hand and two mugs of ale in the other. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks, not waiting for a response before settling himself into the room’s only chair. “I come bearing breakfast.” 

Lyra sits up in bed, smoothing her hair self-consciously before settling on the edge of the bed. She still isn’t sure how to talk to her brother, and the impromptu nature of this visit is doing her no favors. Wordlessly, she accepts the food as Lysander hands it to her, some bread and cheese, some preserved fruit, and one of the mugs, which she considers before tasting. 

“Courtesy of Flissa,” Lysander says. “She told me to say she’s glad you’re doing better by the way.”

She wonders if Lysander is sleeping with Flissa. She has only met her briefly, but she likes her enough that she considers warning her off – she doubts her brother would do his duty by a barmaid should something happen. She tries the ale again, grimacing at the bitter taste. 

Lysander frowns, then looks delighted. “Is this your first time?” he asks. 

“Hardly,” Lyra replies, which is close enough to true. She had had a glass or two of wine at plenty of dinners with the senior enchanters, especially in the days leading to the Conclave. And she had a few sips of ale back in her apprentice days, supplied by one of the girls in her dormitory, a fiery redhead who was sleeping with one of the templars. He would sneak in all sorts of contraband for her from the outside, and all the other girls would jealously pour over treats and fine jewelry and books that had no place in the Circle’s library. 

Lyra had thought it was a bad idea at the time, and her distaste for rulebreaking was validated a few months later when the affair ended badly and the girl was quickly transferred away to the Kirkwall Circle. 

She had almost certainly been killed in the Annulment, she realizes. It’s a grim thought to have about someone she hasn’t spoken to in years.

She takes another gulp of the ale, trying her hardest to mask her distaste, and sets the mug down primly. 

“When will you be heading back?” she asks. Back to where, she isn’t certain. Her understanding from Mother and Father’s letters is that Lysander has spent the past decade or so living at the whims of different wealthy, noble friends, staying at their estates until his host finally tires of weeks or months of her brother’s revelries and he moves on to the next. 

There were vocations between that, some meaningless role in the Ostwick militia, sporadic semesters at the University of Orlais studying Maker knew what, each of which her parents grew less and less hopeful about each time. 

The matter of Lysander’s eventual inheritance has been an unspoken conflict for as long as Lyra can remember, and as much as her parents seem to have finally given up the prospect of him growing into a worthy heir for House Trevelyan, no plans to instate one of her cousins instead seem to have been made. Her mother only acknowledged it once in Lyra’s memory, in one of her rare permitted visits to the Circle. Lysander had done something – skipped out on an opportunity her parents had arranged for him or disgraced himself in some manner that required their parents' intervention – and as she complained about it, Lyra’s mother had taken Lyra by the hand and said, “If only you hadn’t been a mage. If only we could have had you instead.” 

She stopped herself immediately after, looking a bit ashamed. “This is all a part of Andraste’s plan, of course,” she corrected. “I only wish She’d show me what it is.”

Lysander shrugs at her question. “Who knows,” he says. “I thought I might stay around for a bit, keep an eye on my dear sister. Interesting things are happening here.”

Not interesting to men like her brother. Haven’s encampment is made of rough cabins and tents and a single tavern. Most of the women here are Chantry sisters. But Lyra doesn’t believe in his brotherly affection either. “A bit late to start keeping an eye on me now.” 

“Better late than never,” he replies affably. “I have news, by the by. Letters from our esteemed parents.” He produces two envelopes from the satchel. Lyra understands now. Staying here, keeping an eye on her, evaluating the risk and reward of House Trevelyan’s role in the fledgling Inquisition, is doubtlessly his latest assignment from their parents, the same way attending the Conclave was in the first place, before he slept drunkenly past it. She has no doubt this will turn out just as poorly. She gives it a fortnight before he leaves for more exciting company. 

She fingers over the letters, one from Mother, one from Father, before putting them in her bedside drawer. She’ll read them later, in private. 

Lysander watches this with surprisingly apt attention before he snatches up a piece of Lyra’s breakfast and takes a bite. 

“Did you know we had family at the Conclave?” he asks. “Present company aside, obviously. You remember Mother’s cousin and those two horrible twins of his, the templars? Did you know them?”

Lyra shakes her head. “They wouldn’t have stationed a templar at a Circle where they had family,” she says. What if a mage became possessed? A moment of sentimental hesitation could be the difference between life and death. 

She does remember the twins, though. The two girls – named Hippolyta and Hester or something equally horrible and alliterative – were younger daughters of a more minor branch of the family. Other families as far back in the line of succession as her aunt and uncle might have seized the chance to arrange strategic marriages, but Uncle Leontes, more pious than even Mother, was more interested in earning the Chantry’s approval, so the girls had been sent to be trained as templars as soon as they could walk. 

Lyra had only met them once, at their older sister’s wedding. She was freshly Harrowed at only 18, and her parents had seized upon her new status as a full Enchanter to request she be allowed a reprieve from the Circle to demonstrate her magic at the wedding. It was the kind of assignment usually granted as a reward for more senior Enchanters, but Lyra’s sterling reputation and two well-timed donations – one to the Circle library, one to the templar armory – had earned her approval for the excursion. 

If anything, it had been a chance for Mother and Father to play at another life for the three of them – Lyra had truly attended not as a representative of the Circle, but as the only daughter of Lady and Lord Trevelyan, clad in fine dresses rather than stiff Enchanter’s robes, introducing herself to family members that in another world she might have had full lives with, and even allowing herself dances with third and fourth sons of guests from the groom’s side.  

The twins both wore the crimson regalia of off-duty templars, a notable step down from some of the evening’s finery. They had the same tan skin and grey-blue eyes as the rest of Lyra’s family, but both borrowed twin shocks of dark blonde curls from their mother. The girls were clearly identical, both with flat cheekbones and pointed noses, but the resemblance stopped beneath their chins. One of them was big – not much taller than Lyra and no taller than her sister, but simply big – stocky and muscular in a way that was impressive even among templars. She had smiled at Lyra when they were briefly introduced, muttering a greeting that she didn’t quite make out. The other was smaller, with an archer’s broad arms and willowy legs. She had looked Lyra up and down with a practiced, incisive ease. Lyra wasn’t sure what to do, so she had curtsied and was taken aback when the other girl responded with a small, stiff bow. 

“Enchanter,” her cousin said finally. 

“Ser,” Lyra had replied, and spent the rest of the night trying to ignore the templar’s continued gaze. 

“Well,” Lysander says. “They’re dead.” He shrugs, and for once, Lyra isn’t sure she believes in his flippancy. That could have been him, after all, if he had been a bit less lazy and a bit less of a drunk. 

Lyra had hardly seen Lysander that night – the only time they had been together since she had been taken to the Circle nearly a decade earlier. He hadn’t been at her parent’s estate when she arrived. “Out with his friends,” her mother had said with a roll of her eyes – a euphemism for more colorful complaints of her son that she would make later that night, once she had had a bit to drink. 

At the wedding, their only interaction had been when Lysander, already tipsy, had grabbed her arm and pulled her to the middle of a conversation she hadn’t been a part of. “– and this,” he had said, “is my dear sister, already graduated in the Ostwick Circle.”

“Harrowed,” Lyra had corrected. 

“Indeed. And young for it too. How old are mages usually when they hallow? 20? 21? I couldn’t lace my own breeches at 18.” She didn’t know how he had known that. The inner workings of the Circle were little known on the outside, and while she had told all of this to her mother and father in their letters, she and Lysander had never written. 

Whoever he was speaking to had laughed, and with that, her part in the conversation was over. She didn’t see him for the rest of the night, he having no doubt faded into some back room to gamble with other guests or flirt with the servants or partake in some other debauchery Lyra had no knowledge of. 

But Lyra rarely thought of that night. In her mind, her brother was still the nineteen-year-old watching her from the other side of the hall when the templars came, still the boy with the too-easy smile who had turned his gaze when she looked to him. The man from the wedding and this drunken fool sitting before her were still strangers. 

Lyra sighs. “Well,” she says. “Maker rest their souls.” 

“Weightier words from the Herald of Andraste.” 

Lyra nods. She doesn’t want to talk about this, not with Lysander. 

For once, her brother is quiet, his gaze lingering on her, waiting for her to speak. With a shock, she recognizes something sincere in it – he is waiting for her to tell him if she is or isn’t. If she says she is, he might even believe her. 

She feels embarrassed, not excited and certain like she had when she had first heard the title. “The Maker has a path for us all,” she says vaguely. “I’m just trying to follow mine the best I can.” 

He relaxes a bit, taking another sip of his ale. “Hear, hear,” he says. “In another life, you might have had a great career as a Chantry sister.” 

She smiles – she’ll take it as a compliment, even if he means it as a jab. “So I’m told.”

[lilyofjune]

In the Fields of Ferelden - Chapter 1 / ?

After the Inquisition disbanded, Cullen and the Inquisitor retired to a private life together. That is, after a long-overdue visit to Cullen's siblings, who were overjoyed to meet their new sister-in-law.

Set six months after the events of Trespasser with Cullen and Inquisitor Dual POVs as they navigate the family reunion, their own healing, and what lies ahead for them both.

Cross-posting here but you can also find this fic on Ao3!

Thanks for reading!

It had been nearly six months since the Inquisition had been disbanded. Six months of calling in favors, writing letters of note, securing homes and employment for as many people as they could. Six months of goodbyes to faithful servants, friends, and the family of the Inner Circle. Skyhold would remain viable, as a place of pilgrimage, and a necessary fortress for the Divine’s use. But the Inquisition was no more.

Cullen had watched her closely over these months. The Inquisitor, no, his wife now, just Mariel. She reminded him a dozen times over with a strained smile and a wave of her new amputated limb. She healed well. With all of the Divine’s own healers, she hadn’t much of a choice but to recover. Cullen had sworn, not as a Templar to the Divine, but as a friend to Leiliana, that he would report immediately if there were any changes.

But the wounds of the body were far quicker to heal than those of the mind. There wasn’t much space to grieve all that was lost when everything around you was fading away. Mariel was holding herself together with all of her strength, gracious as ever to the needs of those around her before ever addressing her own. But the laymen of the Inquisition didn’t see Mariel’s tears at night when her severed limb ached. Nor did the know how often she lay awake throughout the night, scouring over maps and missives, searching for any sign of her former friend and ally. Mariel needed to get away, separate herself if only for a moment from the remnants of the Inquisition, and the ever present ticking clock that hounded her day and night.

Cullen surprised them both by suggesting it. He wasn’t always the best at knowing when he needed rest. It was a kettle calling the pot black situation at best. Still, he of all people knew exactly what unprocessed grief and trauma did to a person. If he could relieve this burden, even just a little, he would.

He’d prepared quietly. First, he sent a letter to his sister, Mia. It had been years since he’d seen his family. A entire Blight, the rebellion at Kirkwall and the entire lifespan of the Inquisition stretched between the time he’d left home until now. She’d been hounding him with letters and any reply that he managed to find time to write received a half a dozen more. True to form, his sister managed to reply in less than three days.

Of course you may visit! It’s not as if I’ve been asking you to return home for the last two years! I’ll have Branson and his family find a place for you both to stay. Rosalie is already asking what Mariel likes to eat, and your nephew insists that you bring “the really big sword”. I can’t wait to hug you both and meet our new sister-in-law! Honestly Cullen, only you would casually mention your own wedding in a single line of a letter. I look forward to getting more details out of you in person.

Your favorite sister, Mia

P.S. What do you mean you found a Mabari?

“I’m surprised she didn’t hand deliver it,” Mariel joked when he showed her. They had been up in their room in Skyhold, the balcony doors open to let in the evening breeze. Mariel was still at her desk, elbow deep in various letters and entreaties. Her auburn hair lay in a long braid over one shoulder, frazzled after a long day. A cup of tea lay cold sat beside her and a dash of ink had managed its way across one freckled cheek.

Cullen wiped the ink away with a gentle hand. “The messenger looked as if he’d been commanded by a spirit itself.” Mariel laughed, leaning her cheek further into his palm. “I know it’s far,” he continued. “But if anyone deserves some time away, it is you.”

“I must really look like a mess if Commander Cullen is ordering a sabbatical.”

“Not ordering,” he said. “Asking.” Mariel raised a singular brow until he relented. “Fine, insisting.”

Mariel sighed, letting the facade she kept up for appearances finally fall away. Her shoulders slumped and the smile she’d held in place vanished. “Cullen. I don’t…I don’t know how.”

He pulled her away from her chair to hold her tightly in his arms, lending whatever strength he could. “I understand.”

“Just when I thought I might catch my breath, when I thought everything might be all right, it all fell apart.” Mariel said, her forehead pressed between his neck and shoulder. Her breath was soft but trembling on his skin. “It’s as if any second that I look away is another chance for something to break.”

“You’re not carrying this burden alone, Mariel,” he said. “You can’t.”

“Well of course I can’t.” Her words were biting and bitter. “I don’t even have two hands anymore.”

He’d learned long ago that there wasn’t anything he could say to that. He simply held her and when her anger bled into tears, he never let go. He simply kissed her hair and tightened his grip as the wave of grief swept over her. By the next morning, she’d agreed to go.

They left early in the morning, both of them eager to avoid any further delays or difficult goodbyes. It was only the two of them on horseback with Recruit, Cullen’s enthusiastic Mabari following close behind. It was a peaceful ride. They avoided most settlements in the Hinterlands, setting up camp only once or twice before they arrived.

The first day, Mariel asked questions about his family. Cullen answered what he could, but had to admit his own knowledge was spotty from his many years away. As they grew closer to South Reach, Cullen found himself growing nervous.

“Are you afraid that I will embarrass you?” Mariel teased when they were only a few miles away.

“No! No, of course not.” He shook his head furiously. “You could never.”

“Then what’s on your mind?”

Cullen took Mariel in. The time outdoors had given her color back into her cheeks, but dark circles still lay beneath her eyes. She’d grown thin, and despite her earlier mirth, her green eyes were still distant.

“Cullen?”

“I worry for you,” he confessed. “I worry that they’ll be too much. Perhaps it is too soon? Or we could stay somewhere else if that would be more comfortable.”

Mariel reached across the small gap between them, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be all right, Cullen. Besides, we’re here now. There’s no sense in turning back.”

He loathed that she was the one comforting him. Wasn't the entire point of this to help her? He raised her hand to his lips for a kiss, before he caught sight of someone on the horizon.

“I’m glad,” he said, nodding to the quickly approaching figures. “Because it looks as if they’ve found us already.”

[greypetrel]

Hello! The prompt 'I'm just a phone call away' with modern AU Aisling? 👀✨

Heeeeey! 💜

Long time no see, uh? Well, here it is. xD Some shenanigans and a more or less direct sequel to this other piece. Wow it's starting to look like a proper fic, go figure.

Anyway, hope you'll like it, it was a will they won't they prompt list and well. (then it more or less follows canon so no, it's NOT gonna be just a phonecall and it's NOT gonna be all right. Sorry Cullen your canon is shit, but in this storyline you'll get therapy)

Also a note: I don't know if the Dream Theatre shaming was just an Italian thing amongst metalheads… But I couldn't resist. (no harsh judgement, Dream Theatre was the band more or less everyone loved to hate, I'm pretty indifferent to them. I don't love them but eh, there's worse).

Tis the prompt list

Two Birds on a Wire (🎶)

'I'm just a phone call away'

The evening was for celebrating. As much as both siblings were extremely stubborn in saying that it was just a dinner, it wasn’t a party, please dads don’t call it a party or you’ll jinx it, none ever really doubted that their letters would have ended in two admissions. Not for the stories they had to include in their motivational essay -even if they both had one, as much as Solas absolutely loathed the need of the essay-, but for their grades and all letters of recommendations of all their professors. And of course, when they had opened their letters and found that they both had been admitted to the faculty they chose, the “normal, absolutely not peculiar Saturday barbecue” had turned instantly into a party. Solas and Varric had been prepared, after all. And it was worth it, seeing the two not-so-little-anymore former balls of destruction hugging each other tight, tension from months of stressing over grades and the uncertainty of the future melting visibly. Aisling of course had cried -she had always been emotional and by now none in their enlarged family got surprised or overly worried by her tears. The surprising thing was that Dorian too had melted a little, cheerful façade cracking a little to show vulnerability. Aisling had hugged him tight, they all four had hugged together -a rarity, these days, they were “too grown up” for hugs they used to say. And then the music had started, all three families easing into a cheerful celebration for yet another set of kids to spread their wings. Raina -back from Kirkwall for the summer- had taken control of the karaoke program, and lead the evening on, as per her usual naturally occupying the centre of attention and dragging people along with whatever she put her mind to. She looked so much like Malcolm.

The evening was still going strong, laughter and cheer and people singing coming into the kitchen from the backdoor, left open to allow people to come and go as they pleased. But right now, there was just Solas in the kitchen, taking a pause from the noise and confusion. He had to admit he quite liked this life, in spite of everything. But sometimes, hosting all the Hawkes and the Rutherfords in the back garden became a little too much and required some personal space to recharge batteries.

Oh, he knew it was ending, he knew that as more and more of the younger members would have found independence and flown away, they all would have missed the confusion, the lack of privacy or quiet, the chaos during weekends when the children all got together in one big, extremely loud group. Nonetheless, he needed just a moment of quiet to recharge batteries.

So, he just grabbed a bottle of liquor, something special he brewed himself with a recipe as old as he was -and that was currently well hidden under too many spells and glyphs, so that the other two mages in the house wouldn’t have been able to reach it. Hopefully. He gave them another couple of weeks before finding a way. And sipped it on his own, in the relative peace of his kitchen, breathing down.

But of course, the house being what it was, the moment of peace couldn’t last: someone stepped fretfully in, and slammed the door, falling down with a humph. From the noise of the steps and the soft tip-tap of bare feet, he knew exactly who it was.

“Ga’son?” He sighed, greeting her and asking if it was all right. Varric may have won the public-school feud, but he insisted on teaching at least Aisling Elvhen himself. Which resulted in teaching Dorian too, because they seldom did anything separated, and if Dorian took some other interests, Solas still insisted with Aisling to use Elvhen when the pair of them were alone. A matter of heritage, she may have grown up amidst humans and dwarves, but he wanted her to know where she came from.

“Din. G’t’lom.” She answered, saying that no, it wasn’t all right.

As he turned towards her, he found her sitting on her butt beside the door, hugging her thighs and face buried between her thighs, he lost all willingness to scold her for the contraction -he hated contractions. He went to crouch before her, rubbing her shoulders in the way she liked.

“What happened?” He asked, calmly, leaving her time to sob a little.

“He’s leaving.”

“Who?”

“Cullen.” She told him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He frowned, not understanding what was going on. As far as he knew about them, the boy had had a crush over Aisling since years, but never acted on it. He wasn’t worried, hadn’t been for a minute since she never took notice or showed any signs of being interested too, the boy was trustworthy and the unruly one was Aisling. But leaving? This was new.

“Leaving? Where for?”

“Denerim. In September. Got accepted.”

Ah. That was it. He had been, indeed, extremely slippery over the university speech, never answering directly when asked, and being particularly evasive and ill at ease over the subject. A pity that he wasn’t a liar, and the one that hadn’t suspected anything was Aisling. Naïve Aisling who was too mature out of trauma on certain things, and yet still firmly believed people she liked without questioning.

“Oh. Well, that’s good for him. And Denerim’s not that far away. He’ll be back often, and we can visit.” He tried to reason.

“No, he won’t.”

She started with the same oppositive tone she usually had with him in the last period, full in her rebellious phase. He suspected it was to be expected, he had insistend in teaching the both of them to stand up for themselves and not bend their heads to anyone… But it was tiresome. Now, it surely was.

“I don’t understand if you don’t explain, da’len.”

Being more worried and lenient than irritated at the zillionth little act of rebellion wasn’t so difficult if she was crying, at least.

“H-he got accepted in the military, babae. He won’t be back so often.”

That was a blow and something he didn’t expect. As many qualities he recognized Cullen to have… He was soft, and in the military… It wasn’t the time to dwell on that, or to deconstruct the issue, as much as he wanted to. No. Right now he had an 18-y.-o. in tears at the idea of her best friend leaving, and in need of help in front of him, and she never reacted well in analysing problems that had no numbers.

“Do you need me to call it off? Or tell everyone you’re sick?”

“N-no. I’m…” She sobbed. “I promised him I won’t cry. I told him I was going to the bathroom, I’ll just… Cry a little and get back. I’m ok. It’s just Denerim. Just Denerim. Not far.”

Solas wondered exactly how much time it would have passed since seeing her crying -or her brother, but Dorian was much more private when it came to feelings- would have stopped feeling like someone was stabbing him. She was grown, almost an adult, taking decisions for herself not caring for what everyone think, and yet, when she cried she got back at being a little child, alone in an orphanage. So, he sat beside here and opened his arm in a silent invitation she was quick to accept, in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that they quarreled fiercely but yesterday. She threw herself at him and hugged him, crying on his shoulder as if nothing happened. He sighed, hugging her back and caressing her hair, letting her spill everything out.

“It’s gonna be ok.”

“I know.”

She didn’t sound convinced, and Solas didn’t push the topic further, just offering support.

Five minutes later, the very object of the current drama opened the back door, peeking in with a distressed expression on his face, calling aloud.

“Ash?”

Solas felt the very same becoming rigid in his hold, her breath catching. Hiding them won’t work, he supposed, and as avoidant she was until she had her thoughts collected… Maybe she wouldn’t have reacted badly in him choosing for her.

“Here. We need five minutes, if you want to talk.” He told Cullen directly, and he nodded, mortified as a cat left under the rain. “Go up, boy, it’s ok.”

He hesitated, trying to say something, but thinking better of it, before slowly padding his way to the living room and the stairs, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Aisling, on her own, didn’t move. She didn’t move in the next minute as he knew she wouldn’t have.

“Go up and talk to him.”

“I don’t want to. Not now. You-”

“Listen to me.” He stopped her, pushing her away enough so he could look at her face. He cupped her cheek, rubbing fat tears away with his thumbs, ignoring the annoyance when he took off some of that horrible blue eye pencil she had used. “You can stay here and cry your heart out and avoid this conversation for this evening, for tomorrow and for the next weeks. That’s fine, if you don’t want to, you can be sad and angry at him, all you like. But if you don’t, da’len… You’ll just waste time you could spend together. Go up, talk to him, tell him you’re sad. Cry now and tomorrow you’ll go all together for a swim in the lake and have a good time. You still have time until he leaves, don’t waste it because you’re afraid of a conversation. You’ll regret not talking to him now, believe me.”

He smiled, waiting for his words to sink in. Telling them the truth had been scary, but Varric was right: it paid off. She knew why and whence these words came from, and knew the truth. Slowly, she melted, blinking away some more tears and sniffing aloud.

“I can’t go to the lake, I’m still grounded.” She complained, whining.

“Well, seen the situation…” He sighed, faking some regret he didn’t really feel. She didn’t need to know how much she had him wrapped on her little finger for real. “…I think you may be un-grounded. If you promise me that you’ll be on your best behaviour and won’t get any more tattoos.”

“Well I’m not getting a Vallas-”

“Any kind of tattoo, ok? Even not-Vallaslin.”

“Ok.” She smiled, shily.

“Deal, then. Best behaviour on my standards.”

He specified, knowing full well that she would have taken that loop to get out of the accord. She giggled waterily and nodded, bending forward and smacking a kiss on his cheek.

“Deal. Thank you babae.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s going to be all right.”

She nodded, not so convinced, and hugged him once more before standing up and, with a deep breath, walking towards the stairs somewhat rigidly. She didn’t bother to turn on the light, and before she disappeared behind the archway that led to the living-room, Solas called her back.

“Aisling.”

“Yes?”

“Door open.”

“BABAE.”

---

Aisling slipped in her room on tiptoes, standing on the threshold and hiding behind the door for a minute, heart beating wishing to just turn back, run away, don’t listen to Solas and hide in the bushes until the lessons started in autumn. She didn’t want to have that conversation, because it wasn’t a conversation she ever planned on having: in her mind, they would all have three have been accepted in Redcliffe and then… She would have had three years to think of a “then”.

And still, the “then” arrived and fell upon her, and the more she thought she didn’t want to cry, she had promised, the more she felt tears pricking on her eyes, as she looked at Cullen’s back, nervously shifting through her cds. The way he always did when he was nervous and needed to find something to occupy himself with.

… The way he always did when they talked of university and she had asked him about what he wanted to do.

Because he knew.

She cleared her throat, and he jumped on the spot, startled. The album he had in his hand fell on the ground, case opening and letting the cd out.

“S-sorry!” He fumbled, and they both crouched down to pick it up.

“It’s nothing…” She looked which cd it was: Dream Theatre. “… It isn’t a good one. Don’t mind it.”

He hummed in affirmation and nodded, waiting for her to put the cd back in the case and closing it. The silence was tense and gloomy, in a way it has never been between them. Not even once, not even when they quarrelled over something. Aisling hated it and she sat on the ground, turning the case around as she tried not to cry, with failing results.

“Shit, I- Ah, I’m sorry, I’ll… I’ll buy it back, I-”

“It’s not for the cd.” She stopped him.

He fell back on his butt as well, back resting on her bookshelf and slouched down forward. So curved, he didn’t seem all that taller than her.

“I-I’m sorry.” She went on, rubbing her eyes angrily with the heels of her hand. “I… I won’t cry starting tomorrow. Leave me this evening and I’ll be fine and smile and laugh, ok? J-just this evening. I’m sorry, I’ll stay up here, you get down and enjoy the party.”

“I am sorry, Ash.”

“Why for. Don’t be.”

“I wanted to tell you, I swear, but…”

She sniffed, still not looking at him, eyes closed as her eyes rubbed away tears, trying to be as quiet in it as possible. Trying to stop didn’t work, so she just let the tears flow as he collected his words.

“… I didn’t want to make you sad.”

She knew the answer and the explanation before he made it. She knew him like the back of her hand, and he her. She nodded and laughed, waterily.

“You’re leaving. Of course, I’m sad. Who’ll protect you from bullies?”

He snorted, at that, pushing on her calf with his foot, delicately in reproach.

“I don’t need you to protect me from bullies anymore.”

“You say that, now. They’ll know of your insane love for Ed Sheeran and you’ll want me there to punch their noses.”

“Will you even reach?”

Her turn to kick his calf playfully, which made him laugh.

“I’ll get a ladder.”

She giggled as well, leaving her foot against the rough texture of his jeans. He let her, and they stay there, looking down at the carpet, without saying anything. From the open window could be heard laughter and merriment from the backyard, the party going on without them, still not enough to fill the heavy silence. It felt final but it wasn’t: they still had weeks since he left, and they had plans even before they knew -now more plans, since she was apparently un-grounded. She shouldn’t feel like it was the ending page of a book, but she did. She wondered if she should tell him something, and what that she hadn’t already. 12 years of friendship and being in close contact almost daily left her without much unsaid that didn’t feel redundant. Still, she felt like she had to tell him something. Something that wasn’t deflecting from what she really felt. It felt too raw, tho, too close for comfort and… And maybe too much. Because honestly she didn’t exactly know how she felt.

“Why military academy?” She asked, instead. “You like history… Why not History?”

He sighed, deeply, sliding his bottom forward and crossing his hands on his belly, looking up at the ceiling, legs long before him, and crossed one ankle over the other. She absent-mindedly turn to lean her legs on his calves, needing the contact even if he furrowed minutely at it and seemed to get more rigid than before.

“I like history, but… With all that’s happening, with the Circles coming back and the situation growing tenser… I don’t know, I want to help.”

“You could help with-”

“I’m not an academic, Ash. I… I like the anecdotes, but I can’t see myself researching forever, my nose stuck in a book. I like the anecdotes, but those alone won’t help many people on their own…”

“… You sound like babae, now.”

 “Well, he’s right.” He snorted.

“You could write. Get into television, speak up.”

“Not my style. Can you see me speaking to a public and riling up a crowd?” He peeked up, with a lopsided smile.

She couldn’t but shake her head, looking down as the realization that no, he would actually be terrible at it, start fumbling after three words and not bring his point across. He hated public speaking. The thought made her want to cry more, since she was running out of reasons to make him stay.

“I want to protect people. Other mages like you and Dorian, not just you when Raleigh calls you freaks.”

“He doesn’t-”

Another eyebrow raised at her, in silence, without the smile tho. She thought about it, and realized that, indeed, Samson hadn’t told them a single word in the last year… Just when Cullen was around. The slurs have been there, but just when they were alone.

“… How long-”

“September.”

“… The black eye wasn’t for football, then?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He didn’t need to say much else. Aisling cried more: she had believed it without asking, and hadn’t questioned further. Hadn’t noticed anything. She felt stupid, and felt her heart clenching at the idea of the next year without him. Yes, Dorian would have been there but…

“I will miss you. A lot.” She sobbed, and she couldn’t stop, this time, covering her face with both hands. She didn’t know how to word it better, and the lack of words and definitions made her cry even more. She wished this was another math problem: math was simple, math was black and white, there was a correct answer for everything, you just had to think about it better. Here, there wasn’t anything right or wrong, no number to calculate to magically stop crying.

It was also true, tho, that math couldn’t bend forward, fumbling even more, and hug you tight, holding you as you cry, and crying as well.

“It’s just Denerim, Lavellan, I’m not going to war.”

“It’s three hours of train away.”

“We have cellphones, I’ll be just a phonecall away...”

“You hate them! You always forget to answer to messages!” She complained against his shoulder, unwinding her arms to hug him back.

“I’ll make an effort, I promise, just… Please, don’t cry.”

“Look who’s talking…”

In spite of everything they laughed, both crying in earnest nonetheless. They stayed there for a while, just unwinding. He promised her he would have called, again, and she believed him. She wanted to believe him, and so she did.

Luckily, no one commented of their absence, when eventually they got back down, eyes red and puffy and not really wanting to party. Dorian hugged Cullen as well, joking about it as they sat down, as per their usual, on a bench, cuddled all three together and just watching the rest of the party pass by. The next day was for stopping moping around and enjoy the summer, and they all would have put extra effort in having the most fun together. A last summer of freedom, some last weeks of being inseparable and have their parents joke about them and call them the three musketeers.

Some last weeks when no one was just a phone call away.

But now, it was for feeling things and crying, and pretending they were all crying because Raina couldn’t, for the love of her, reach the higher notes of Dancing Queen.

[highwayphantoms]

JAY JAY FRIDAY JAY - ❝ sometimes i feel i’m being crushed under the weight of everything i’ll never be. ❞ for Briar Hawke and a character of your choice plsssss and thank!!

TY TY here is some Briar & Varric for you! :D @dadrunkwriting

Words: 1125 Rating: T Warnings: Alcohol consumption

-

She brushed it off at first. In the beginning, it was easy: nobility or not, she wasn’t expected to visit or entertain guests while recovering from significant injuries. If Briar maybe exaggerated the length of her recovery, no one but her handful of household staff and her friends would ever know.

But she couldn’t hide in her home forever. A month and a half after she killed the Arishok in single combat, the polite invitations from her neighbors had started to become much more pointed. Gone were the messages of sympathy for her “grievous injuries” (Anders had been far more concerned than she had, but she wasn’t dead, now was she?). In their place were requests and wheedling and subtext.

She may not have been raised in a noble household, but Briar had not lived in Kirkwall for four years without picking up on some of the subtleties of the upper classes: the hidden daggers and poisoned barbs of language. Nor was she unaware of the… expectations of these invitations. Fine fabrics, knowledge of the current trends in Orlais and the Free Marches, spending hours with Orana to tame her hair into a “more appropriate” style.

Any event that Briar could not show up to in full armor was not an event she had any interest in attending. She felt too exposed in dresses and fine shoes—exposed not to weapons but to attention. And she hated attention.

Which was how she ended up in the Hanged Man nursing the worst ale she’d seen in months. Though the place was busy, it felt deserted; Isabela wasn’t in Kirkwall, Varric was nowhere to be seen, and the only familiar faces were that of the staff. By now, most of the Hanged Man’s regulars knew to leave her alone, but there was always one idiot made brave by alcohol who would try to proposition her or some equally irritating nonsense. Still, it was preferable to what seemed like the equivalent of walking on broken glass in bare feet with a full audience.

She wasn’t so drunk that she didn’t react immediately to someone tapping her on the shoulder. On instinct, she was prepared to grab and potentially break a wrist—but she let her hand drop the moment she turned and realized it was only Varric. “Where have you been?” she said, though she didn’t really need or expect an answer.

The dwarf fixed her with an amused look. “I thought you had plans tonight. Plans of the Hightown variety?”

Briar groaned. “That was before some noble asswipe started making noise about putting my name up for Viscount.” Then she gestured loosely at the fine dress she still wore under a travel-worn cloak and added, “As you can see, I left fashionably early.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Hawke.” Varric smiled wryly and tipped his head towards the stairs at the back of the room. “Come on, I’ll get them to crack open something better than whatever watered down shit they’re serving down here.”

She got to her feet wavering only slightly, which was definitely the fault of the ankle she’d twisted earlier in the evening and not the ale she’d been drinking for… she wasn’t entirely sure how long. The stairs were a manageable prospect, so long as she kept a hand on the wall to steady herself, but she was glad to sink into one of the chairs at Varric’s table. When he joined her a minute or two later, Varric shut the door behind him. “Here,” he said, and a heavy glass bottle clinked where he set it in front of her. “Antivan whiskey. Not the best you can get in this city, but you wouldn’t be drinking here if you cared, would you?”

Briar snorted. “Nope,” she replied, and snatched the bottle. Whiskey wasn’t her drink of choice—given an option she preferred wine—but she really, truly, did not care. Not tonight.

“So,” Varric said eventually, after settling into a seat of his own, “is this a drinking in mutual silence kind of night?”

She shrugged and swallowed the last of her ale, freeing her mug to be filled with whiskey instead. “It’s absurd. I mean, look at me. I’m Fereldan, for one, and all I’m actually good at is making people dead. Viscount? It would never happen.”

“It might,” Varric countered. “So long as there’s no Viscount in the Keep, the Knight-Commander rules every inch of this city.”

While she refilled her mug, she said, “Right, because I want more opportunities to be reminded of the fact that my sister is locked in the Gallows and there’s nothing I can do to change it.” Briar shook her head with an irritated sound and grumbled, “It’s just… Sometimes I feel like I’m being crushed under the weight of things I’ll never be. Most of Hightown expects me to be just like the rest of them, to want what they want, and that’s igoing to happen.”

“Shouldn’t have saved them from the qunari,” Varric said wryly. “If they were all dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with them.”

She groaned. “What else was I supposed to do, turn my back and let dozens of innocent lives be slaughtered.” Briar paused, then amended, “Allegedly innocent lives. Maker only knows what shit they get up to behind closed doors.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“You would,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know. I almost want to start bringing Merrill with me to these things, give them something to talk about that isn’t me, but I couldn’t do that to her. She deserves better than Orlesians making snippy comments behind her back.”

Varric quirked an eyebrow and said, “Something tells me Fenris would go with you if you asked him.”

“I don’t know,” she replied, desperately reaching for some excuse to cover the fact that the thought of Fenris made her heart ache. “I don’t exactly need a bodyguard,” she said lamely.

“Uh huh.” There was no fooling Varric. She could see it in his face, that he’d just confirmed any suspicions he might have had.

Four and a half months, and she still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was her fault. It wasn’t, Fenris had said so, but knowing and feeling were two very separate things. Briar sighed and took a long drink of whiskey, half hoping the burn down the back of her throat might cancel out the pain in her heart. “I should head home,” she said after a few moments. “Thanks for the drink and the company, Varric.”

“Anytime, Hawke.”

When she staggered out the front door, Briar took three steps in the direction of Hightown before she reconsidered and turned to head for Darktown instead.

[sulky-valkyrie]

*crashes in to fight your brain* tell ME about your ocs. tell me about your origins ocs - tell me about their worldstates! their romances! their specialisations! their besties and their worsties! tell me about your hawke(s)!!! TELL ME UR FAV INQUISITOR, IF YOU HAVE ONE!!!!

Vee, my beloved!  I started working on an answer to this and then my life exploded like 6 different times and it’s been sitting in my drafts and well now it’s 6 months later and ooooooops.

A thousand apologies and a dozen flowers and candies of your choice are winging their way towards you as we speak.

My most most mostest most important OC is my Tabris.  She refuses to use her first name because some shit went down with her mother.  Duelist berserker rogue (hush, canon is only a suggestion).  She is romanced to her surprise by this goofy-eyed shem who tells the dumbest jokes, doesn’t seem to mind how spiky she is, and nicknamed her Ris.  She also falls for Morrigan, so when the ritual comes up, it’s all really fucking awkward or possibly awkward fucking (or is it???).  

Everything goes tits up when all the wrong people die at the battle of Denerim and she’s left broken and alone until she finds Anders in Vigil’s Keep, and he coaxes her out of her shell as much as she coaxes him from behind that happy-go-lucky mask of his.

And of course, THAT doesn’t last either because Morrigan was seen back in the Kocarri Wilds (fuck canon, I write my own timeline) and she’s GOT to go find her, and when she gets back he’s gone and so is Justice and thus begins her adventures in Kirkwall.

My second most important OC is the Madman of Kirkwall.  He really started out as a comedic relief side character in both of my big huge long fics, but accidentally grew a really complex personality.  He will sleep with anything that can consent, regardless of race, species, gender, or which side of the veil its from.  He loves his siblings dearly, is ready to fight god for them, and very well might have to.  Also he gave Cullen that scar after yet another “mages aren’t people” tirade.  He’s met both Ris and Trev (in two different timelines/world states), and is both wary and fond of them.

Trev is the only Inky I’ve developed at all: she’s got a temper the size of a city, was never prepared for any sort of leadership or responsibilities, and is muddling through and handling it badly.  Her poor coping mechanisms include using magic to stay awake, falling for people who are bad for her, and threatening to set people and things on fire.

[nighttimefriend]

I call this “Wanna kill a God? I brought wine -- Some wine. Well it’s your wine. You took too long to get back.” 

In which Ny’Ari randomly appears in Fenris’ safe house post-inquisition, shortly after the events of Blue Wraith, doesn’t find Fenris, and starts drinking his wine when he shows up, wondering why someone he knew from Kirkwall has broken into his house, drank his wine and is not a Hawke, a Pirate or a Dwarf. Anyways, he’s not happy, she’s happy to see him and feeling sassy. And that’s all I got, because I needed to talk to Brian to set up their background relationship.   

I drew this about...6 months ago. Well, I finished is six months ago. I started the original during quarantine, scrapped it, and restarted six months ago.

Basically, I drew it because I got an idea for a plot with Brian after very, very briefly talking about them back in 2019-2020 on Discord. I’m talking max two sentences.

 I, of course, never told Brian about the plot because I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing an idea or inconvenience him (not that he ever made any indication I was bothering him. It’s just that nagging voice in my head that says don’t bother people no one likes you.) I also would like to point out that Brian is literally one of the nicest people ever and would a) tell me if I was crossing a boundary and b) would probably be all for it.  

Thus was the story of the picture for a plot never spoken about. 

[lavender-laudanum]

Lord Inquisitor Geth Trevelyan's Inner Circle: In His Own Words (File 3/12)

*After Geth Trevelyan's death in 9:45 Dragon in Minrathous, the former mighty Lord Inquisitor's journals were found amongst his possessions left behind at his home in Skyhold, deep within the Frostback Mountains. These journals, unedited, were brought into circulation with the help of the Viscount of Kirkwall, Varric Tethras, and by Trevelyan's husband, Dorian Pavus. Along with entries detailing his time leading the Inquisition and much of his life beforehand, which had been shrouded in near-complete secrecy until these documents' release, there were files on each of the members of his so-called "Inner Circle." These dossiers were put together as a standing testimony to Trevelyan's extremely candid personality and radical approach to leadership.*

THE IRON BULL – The Muscle

*Like all the others, the handwriting in this entry is neat, but there are details drawn in a hand obviously not Trevelyan’s - crossing lines out, only to be written over the top just to be crossed out yet again, or so scribbled they couldn’t be read, then an arrow pointing to new, legible text. At the bottom of the page, there’s a large fingerprint made of ink, and Geth’s writing nearby that read: ‘If you’re going to snoop, at least make it look like it wasn’t you, Bull.’ Underneath that is a large, badly-drawn leaking phallus.*

One of the most memorable moments I had with the Inquisition, or even in my entire life, was the day I met The Iron Bull. The Storm Coast was never my favorite place, especially not so newly orientated into my time with the Inquisition. It was cold, rainy, the sea frightened me badly – I had never seen it up close before the Coast. Combined with the multitude of different threats there and still working out the kinks in what would become the Inner Circle, it was tense.

There were two immediate things about the Iron Bull that set him apart from everyone else in the Circle: The first was that he was wholly uninterested in impressing me – he knew what he was worth, and he knew exactly how to show it; that being making sure I saw him in action. The second was that he was totally honest with me from the start, revealing himself to be not only a Qunari spy, but a Qunari spy for the Ben-Hassarath. At first, I wasn’t sure whether or not he was messing with me, or if our meeting had been some bizarre setup – no, on either count. So, after weighing it out, I decided to take him on; after all, it would be better to have a spy amongst us knowing he was a spy, rather than dealing with a spy we didn’t know was amongst us later.

I was honest with The Iron Bull as well, about that. He was understanding, and I think he appreciated it and the approach I employed with him; knowing he was a spy but trusting him still, despite no one else really trusting him in the beginning, but like I told him, “you’re my friend until you show me you’re not my friend.” Bull was also a leader, at least in some smaller capacity with the Chargers, and before with the Qun; he understood how I worked, perhaps more than most, and I think that was the basis of our friendship, at least at the start.

It was The Iron Bull to predict me becoming the Lord Inquisitor, at least eventually; no one else did. I laughed it off at the time, of course – the very notion was absurd to me; no one wanted the heretical, blasphemous Mage, of all people, as the leader of the Inquisition, a very religiously-based organization, in the first place. But he was right in the end, as he ribbed at me later on after we reached Skyhold I think a month and a half later. That was the thing about Bull that often took me aback; how casually he could read people, and not in the way that I did – I could read people simply because of my past history in dealing with people constantly lying or scheming. But Bull had a deep understanding of things I, at the time, and probably even now, don’t understand, the complicated dynamics of power and nature. But of course, right after that, he dressed me in casual clothes and took me to talk with recruits in the Inquisition’s armies, young and old. That was The Iron Bull, throughout the Inquisition days, and I came to trust him not just as a member of the Inner Circle, but as a close friend.

Now comes, I suppose, the hard bits, the bits that, despite Bull not wanting to talk about or acknowledge, must be. One significant event that immediately comes to mind of course, is when I chose to save the Chargers, sacrificing the Inquisition’s alliance with the Qun; effectively forcing The Iron Bull to renounce his place within it and become a true Tal-Vashoth. I didn’t make the decision lightly, of course, but I think it was obvious why I did what I did, and that I would do it again a thousand more times, come what may for it. The Chargers were The Iron Bull’s family, they are his family. I believe that without them, Bull would have eventually chosen the Qun over the Inquisition – but we’ll never know for sure because he didn’t ever have to. I think he is happier now than he ever was in his old life.

Another significant challenge was The Iron Bull’s fear of magic. As a Mage, I know something of that sort of fear, and I know well what happens to Mages within the confines of the Qun. I saw a glimpse of it in The Fade at Adamant Fortress and know that Bull’s “fear of madness” is rooted in his fear of not real magic, but rather the damning influence of Demons that can, at worst, make someone like him lose his mind, therefore himself. This, of course, I more than understand, but making him confront that fear; talk it through instead of immediately running with a blade in hand to slaughter High Dragons – which did, in fact, happen more than once – was difficult. At first, he wouldn’t, but I pressed, and would not hit him when he asked me to. Eventually, I was able to get him to articulate his fear, process it, and though he walked away somewhat annoyed with me, I think he was better for it, in the end.

Of course, he was not without his lighter or more personal moments – such as his playful relationship with Dorian, though I put a stop to the more explicit comments, and he stopped probing that particular wasp’s nest once he learned of my relationship with him; a boundary that he accepted without complaint, without any sort of defiance toward, both refreshing and relieving. We actually had a long conversation after I’d snapped at him once or twice for some of what he'd said to Dorian in particular. What I learned about The Iron Bull then was that he had an incredibly open relationship with sex itself, and it was, in fact, thanks to him, my friend, that I was able to process my own complicated trauma surrounding touch – which I am sure that Dorian would happily attest to, though perhaps only if pressed enough with wine and sworn to secrecy besides.

Like the rest of the Inner Circle, The Iron Bull was a very valuable member of the team. He was also, and is, a close, personal friend. I would trust him with my life, and the lives of those I love, a thousand times over without hesitation, because above all, he is loyal – which isn't bad for someone who introduced himself as a spy!