#shout out especially to gisele and that curse she put on him i love you ma’am i’m free tuesday any tuesday pick a tuesday

[marisatomay]

tom brady is so funny because he could have retired last season at a nice height while everyone in sports was out there sucking his dick calling him the GOAT but nooooooooooo he had to throw a fit and renege on his retirement to play one more season because some sports journalist on twitter broke that he was retiring before he could say it himself and now look at him. his hot supermodel wife left him, he had a losing record, lost the wildcard game, choked so badly in his final game in front of tom cruise that cruise left early, everyone knows he’s a little bitch, his team hates him, gronk already retired, and he’s stuck announcing his retirement via a front facing direct to camera video on twitter. the eagles are back in the super bowl. couldn’t have scripted it better myself. mwah.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 6: Memory of A Dream

Trying to restore order in a world gone mad is never easy. An archdemon appearing out of nowhere and kicking you in the head can make things a bit more complicated. But nothing beats being appointed the official leader of an upstart rebellious organisation with vague religious undertones, and having people swearing fealty to you left and right. Thankfully, Dorian is there to provide some much needed company. 

Read here or on AO3 !

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The sound of howling wind echoed as if from a distance when Tristan opened his eyes. Blinding, throbbing pain was the only thing his senses could perceive for what felt like hours before he managed to push himself on his feet.

His hand touched smooth stone. He was in a cave. All was dark except for a small, imperceptible light in the distance. With effort, he forced himself to move towards it, supporting himself on the cave walls.

Every step made him more and more aware of the pitiful condition his body was in. His arm socket and wrist were pulsing painfully where that… creature had grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, shaking him about like a puppet. A quick pat down his sides made it clear that he had broken at least two ribs during his fall. His feet were numb. He didn't even know what time it was, or if it was day or night. And to add pain to injury, his stomach growled like a disgruntled bear. Just bloody perfect.

Groaning and mumbling curses while staggering on in the dark, he soon found himself at the cave opening. The snow was falling so thickly, he could barely see a few feet ahead. Squinting, he searched for a landmark, anything familiar that might help him recognise where he was. It didn't take long to bitterly admit to himself that it was useless. He sat down at the mouth of cave to catch his breath, and the hopelessness of his situation crushed him like a boulder.

He was alone. He was completely alone, and he had no idea which way to go. Even if he died there, no one would ever find him.

His everite ring glinted in the half dark, and he gently brushed his thumb over it. The familiar movement jolted some sort of sullen determination within him. I can’t die here, he thought. Not like this. He hauled himself up, took one step out of the cave, and immediately sank up to his knees in the snow. Pulling it out was so painful, it almost knocked the air out of his lungs. He glanced at the upward slope ahead of him and shivered. It would be a long, excruciating night.

Silently, he cursed himself as he wobbled awkwardly ahead. What on earth had possessed him, going out there and facing that beast? The scene in the Chantry building was playing over and over in his head, with the people watching him and that stupid, righteous anger overtaking him. Everyone, even those that had openly opposed him, had turned to him as if he were a saviour. And he had willingly stepped in to play the part.

He couldn’t help a mirth. The disgraced son of the Trevelyan family, that had once been the primary source of gossip for Ostwick nobility, was now regarded as the only person capable of delivering the people from madness and destruction. And wasn’t he, in a way? With that blasted mark on his hand, he had managed to seal the scar in the heavens and banish demons. Why not beat archdemons and self-proclaimed Gods while he was at it?

Worst of all was that he had agreed, once again, to do it. Blight, he had even suggested it. He had placed his life on the line to save others. People that he liked, and people that he loathed, some that he had exchanged a couple words with, and many that he didn’t know at all. Even those damned Chantrics, that seemed to exist only to irritate him, like annoying, buzzing flies. He had stepped forward, and wagered his hide just so they could have a chance to escape. Was he going mad?

But then again, hadn’t he always been a little mad?

He chuckled softy to himself as he wobbled through waist-deep snow. If Tilly was watching him from somewhere, he would bet all his gold, and his fancy daggers too, that she was having the laugh of a lifetime.

He didn’t know how long he had been trudging through the storm before his knees finally gave way. Ice and snow on his face was the last thing he felt as darkness took him.

~

A pink and golden sun slowly dipped below the horizon. The grass was soft where Tristan lay. The light from the setting sun felt warm against his skin, and the wind blowing through the apple trees made the leaves stir.

Tilly was picking flowers a little way ahead. Her hands were full of lilies, and she was wearing that yellow dress that she loved. It billowed in the wind, its fabric rippling as she moved.

She turned to look at him and smiled. Her hair fell around her face like a halo, so pale blonde it almost looked white.

“Get up, sleepy head” she laughed. “We have to go back to town. We’ll miss the fireworks.”

Tristan had forgotten all about the Summer day celebrations. The town square must have been full of people already. He groaned as he sat up.

“We can see the fireworks from here.”

“Not as clearly” she said, hopping to his side. “Come, let’s go.” The everite ring that he had gifted her glistened on her finger when she extended her hand to him.

“Let’s stay a little bit longer” he pleaded.

She frowned, placing her hands on her hips. “We’re late already. Mother will be expecting us.”

With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet. The last thing he wanted was to go back to Ostwick, but he hated to see her frown.

“Come on, it will be fun!” The mischievous glint that he knew so well flickered in her eyes when she looked at him. “I’ll race you to the horses.”

Her hair bounced as she ran, and her bubbly laugh echoed strangely in his ears. Don’t go, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. His heart tightened as he watched her draw further away.

Please, stay with me.

~

The dream dissipated like smoke in the wind as Tristan landed slowly in a cold and painful wakefulness. For a long moment, while reality took form around him, he thought he was still gazing at a pair of blue eyes, so dark they looked like deep, whirling pools. A mirror of his own.

“What would you have me tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do!”

“We cannot simply ignore this. We must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing!”

The loud, bickering voices grated at his nerves. His body was heavy and stiff, and his head felt like it would split in two. He blinked a stray tear away as he tried to make sense of what was going on around him.

He was in a tent. There were several thick blankets on top of him, but he still felt frozen and numb. The voices outside… they sounded familiar. A man, and two women. He tried to push himself up to get a better look, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Shhh. You need rest” a soft voice told him.

A woman wearing a chantry bonnet, her robes red and white, was sitting next to him. Her face was dark and wrinkled, and her eyes regarded him kindly as she helped him back down on his pillow.

“Mother Giselle” he croaked, and was immediately taken over by a coughing fit that brought stabbing pains to his injured side.

The woman pressed a cup of water to his lips, and he drank thirstily, not paying mind to the liquid dripping down his cheeks. “Where am I?” he grunted after resting back on his pillow.

“You are safe” she replied. “You were found lying in the snow not two miles away from our camp. Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra had been leading search parties all night to no avail, until one of their scouts spotted you. Most did not believe you had survived the avalanche, but they persisted. And then, you appeared. As if by a miracle.” The sister was smiling at him warmly, patting his forehead with her handkerchief.

Tristan closed his eyes and breathed as shallowly as he could, every inhale only increasing his agony. His arm was bandaged, and the sweet and slightly astringent scent of elfroot ointment lingered on his clothes and blankets.

“You were terribly injured” Mother Giselle continued, seeing him wince. “You were all but frozen when they found you, and had a terrible fever. It hasn’t broken yet, but it’s getting better. You’re getting better.”

He was only half listening to her. The pain and whatever it was the healers had given him were making him hazy, hardly capable of coherent thought. He almost drifted back into a light sleep, when he cracked his eyes open and stared at Mother Giselle.

“What about the others?” he asked breathlessly. “Did they make it back to the Chantry? Cassandra, Varric… Dorian?”

The woman’s mouth twisted imperceptibly at the sound of Dorian’s name, but her voice was soothing when she spoke. “They are all well. They made it out safely.”

Tristan slumped back down on his pillow, relief washing over him. Cullen, Leliana and Cassandra were arguing amongst themselves outside the tent. Josephine chimed in occasionally, perhaps in an attempt to quieten their spirits, but was often met with backlash and more shouting. “It sounds like they have been at it for hours.”

“They have that luxury, thanks to you. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten us as much as this Corypheus.”

Corypheus… In his feverish haze, he had forgotten to ask about the most important thing. “What happened after the avalanche? Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?”

“We… are not sure where we are” she said thoughtfully. “Which may be why, despite the numbers he commands, there is still no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead.”

So Corypheus was still out there, looking for him. “If they’re arguing about what we do next, I need to be there” Tristan said with determination.

“Another heated voice won’t help, even yours. Perhaps especially yours.” She paused to look outside the tent, where Cullen was pacing up and down, and Cassandra was shouting, gesturing wildly. “Our leaders struggle because of what we have witnessed. We saw our Defender stand, and fall. And now we have seen him return. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained. That is difficult to accept, no? What we have been called to endure? What, perhaps, we must come to believe?”

Tristan groaned, half in pain, half in frustration. Could a Chantric ever go five minutes without talking about faith, or belief, or whatever other nonsense they fill their heads with in the Chantry? “I escaped the avalanche, perhaps barely. But I did not die. Anyone who thinks that is either denser than an oak trunk, or has listened to too many tales and songs for their own good” he spat, possibly with a bit more vehemence than was deserved.

The old woman listened to his outburst calmly, her expression never changing. “Of course” she said after he had finished. “The dead cannot return from beyond the veil. But the people know what they saw, or perhaps what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

“So, the people think that I have been sent straight from the Maker. Does believing something make it true?” Tristan said, grimacing with pain and annoyance. “What about Corypheus, then? He believes he has a claim to the heavens. Perhaps if he wishes it strongly enough, it will become true as well.”

Mother Giselle regarding him calmly for a moment, as if she had not picked up on his sarcasm. “If even a shred of what Corypheus says is true, all the more reason Andraste would choose someone to rise against him.”

Her sombre tone made him feel like an indignant child, lashing out at everyone around him for want of better judgement. Still, agreeing to the existence of a godly plan with him in the centre was more than he could concede to at that moment. “Mother Giselle” he started, putting on his most serious scowl, “I just don’t see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a living, breathing threat. We can’t match that with faith alone.”

The woman looked away, beyond the opening of the tent. She did not try to refute his words, or argue with him, and that made him feel even more petulant. It was infuriating.

The argument from outside had quieted down. Perhaps they had finally reached a consensus, or simply agreed to disagree. In any case, he had to force himself out there despite his injuries. Steeling himself against the pain, he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. Hot, blinding agony filled him as the stitches at his side tore open, and once again he was fading in blackness.

Tristan examined the blade of his dagger, glimmering in the morning sun. Running his finger on its sharp edge, he was surprised to see it draw a tiny bit of blood, even though he only applied the pressure of a feather on it. Perhaps he had worked it too much on the whetstone the previous day. He sucked on the line of blood forming on the tip of his index finger, and placed the dagger back on his belt.

Languidly, he leaned back on his elbows on the large feather bed, and inspected his new quarters. The desk in the corner was dark mahogany, with a plush leather chair and a golden fountain pen. The library behind it was stocked full of books, all leather bound and most of them rare editions, he assumed. The chest of drawers next to his bed had been equipped with several different outfits, both casual and formal, in case of a noble arriving to visit. It was evident that Lady Josephine had spared no expense this time. He was the Inquisitor now, after all.

He rose from the bed and walked over to shut the ornate glass doors leading to the balcony. As fetching as the view of the Frostback Mountains was, he felt like he had had his fill of them for the day. Snow and rock was all that one could see in that place.

Sometimes he reminisced fondly of his own room back in his family home in Ostwick. The Trevelyan mansion was situated on the hill within the inner wall of the city, overlooking the Waking Sea. His own balcony had a lovely view of the mansion’s flower garden. That time of the year, the rare hundred-leafed embrium flowers would be in full bloom, and the apple trees would be heavy with fruit. He used to love nothing more than to walk the mansion grounds with Tilly on those quiet, lazy afternoons, admiring the flowers and the tall bushes, pruned by the gardeners to resemble all sorts of different animals and objects. Afterwards, they would sit underneath the cool shade of the gazebo, talking and laughing for hours, sipping on berry tea and nibbling on ginger biscuits.

Better times, those were. Comfortable. Safe. Tristan could not recall a time in his life since then that he had felt as safe. Or comfortable, for that matter.

He sighed heavily as he moved over to his desk. A stack of reports was waiting for him. Several reviews of the armoury and Skyhold’s defences in Cullen’s neat and stark handwriting, information from Leliana’s spies on possible locations of Corypheus’ army, as well as numerous invitations to nobles and letters of thanks in Josephine’s elegant penmanship. A new stick of crimson wax had been left next to his fountain pen, along with his personal signet. The Inquisitor’s signet.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan…” he mouthed silently as he signed the first paper. There were times he forgot his new title and signed with Herald of Andraste, or Lord Tristan of House Trevelyan -he did have so many fancy titles, after all-, and had to chuck the page away and start anew. Admittedly, his new title had a much better ring to it than his previous one.

Along with the new title, he still hadn’t gotten used to his new treatment. Several days after his appointment and he still found it difficult to walk around the castle grounds, amongst the people. The days of him wandering the streets of a city unnoticed were long gone, that he knew, but this was something else entirely. Back in Haven, folk would greet and nod at him when he passed, or whisper behind his back when he was out of earshot. Now, they all but fell on hands and knees upon catching sight of him, or asked him for his blessing with trembling voices.

Mother Giselle had been right about one thing, he ruefully admitted to himself. After the battle of Haven, he was no longer just a man with a strange mark on his hand and a refutable link to Andraste. He had become something of a demi-god.

It was odd. In fact, it was more than odd. He felt completely out of his depth. Like a mabari dressed in human clothes, that had somehow managed to fool everyone. Eventually, someone would find out that he was indeed a mabari, and he would be driven away, humiliated and disgraced. And this charade would just be another epic failure on the list of epic failures that was his life.

He stood abruptly, placing his pen down. Pondering on the past, and lamenting about his present situation would not help. He had to do something, anything, to take his mind away, otherwise he would soon drive himself mad. His gaze fell on a couple of thick and dusty tomes of Tevinter history he had asked from Hellisma in the library. Normally he would ask a servant to return them, but he was in desperate need of some fresh air.

Snuggling the books under his arm, he exited his quarters, taking a deep breath for good measure. He walked down the throne room hastily, nodding and forcing himself to smile at the visiting nobles and the Chantry sisters that greeted him, and made a left towards the stairs that led to the east tower. Hopping the steps two at a time, he reached the library door, and pushed it open gingerly, careful not to attract too much attention. The few scholars that were there were too engrossed in their own research to pay him any mind. With a sigh of relief, he followed the circular railing all the way to the other side, from where he had taken the books.

A warm scent of sandalwood and oakmoss greeted him as he turned the corner.

“Dorian.”

The dark-haired mage was placing a book about Dwarven artefacts on the shelf, when he turned abruptly, hand on his chest. “Inquisitor! You startled me” he said, his soft laughter reverberating across the circular tower.

“Forgive me” Tristan replied. “I only wanted to return some books.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed inquisitively over the book covers. “Let’s see, what do we have here? Tevinter history? How curious! If you’re interested, I can recommend a few editions that are much more engaging. Or” he said, his lips curling in a half smile, “you can ask me. I am a walking, talking encyclopaedia on the matter.”

“I might take you up on that offer one day” Tristan said as he placed the books on the shelf.

“I’ll hold you to that” Dorian joked. He leaned back on the library, arms crossed in front of his chest and one ankle on top of the other. “Word around here is that you’ve become something of a hermit. I have to admit that I almost forgot what you looked like.”

“Did you now?” He certainly hadn’t forgotten how Dorian looked. “I’ve been tending to my duties. Josephine and Leliana have been keeping me quite busy.”

“Ah, yes. Now that you’re the Inquisitor and all that. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never really pegged you for the dutiful type.”

“Neither did I” Tristan replied thoughtfully. His glanced at his ring as he twisted it on his finger. “After the attack on Haven, there have been infinitely more things to do. Corypheus has made the Inquisition’s tasks a lot more complicated, as you can imagine.” He intended the last one as a mild jest, yet couldn’t keep a sombre tone from creeping in.

“What happened was a great shock to everyone involved” Dorian said quietly. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

Tristan lifted his gaze to Dorian’s face. The affection and warmth in his sterling grey eyes startled him. He didn’t remember Dorian ever looking at him so fondly. For a long moment, they simply gazed at each other, neither of them daring to break the silence that stretched between them.

Tristan coughed softly to clear the lump that had lodged itself in his throat and looked away. He could only hope that his cheeks didn’t look as flushed as they felt. “It has been… challenging. To say the least.”

Dorian settled back on the library with a soft sigh. “Tell me about it” he said, shaking his head. “One moment you’re trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle. Then, out of nowhere, an archdemon appears and kicks you in the head! Not to mention that “Elder One” riding on its back as if it were a pony.”

Tristan couldn’t help the barking laugh that bubbled from his lips. “It took me by surprise as well. I couldn’t decide who was uglier, the archdemon or Corypheus? Gives me headaches still.”

“Oh, yes. That Corypheus fellow was downright frightful to look at. And you were so close to him, poor thing! I would have nightmares also” Dorian said with a soft, throaty chuckle. “I have been thinking about him quite a lot, you know” he continued, his smile soon fading to be replaced by a sombre expression. “I always assumed this “Elder One” behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… This is something else entirely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry tales of magisters starting the blight are just that: tales. Yet here we are. One of those magisters. A darkspawn.”

“We only know what Corypheus claims to be.”

“True. He might be a convincing liar. Or delusional. Or insane. But how many delusional maniacs could have the knowledge of breaking open the Fade? If Tevinter and those magisters are behind the Blights, then that means that what I’ve been taught all my life has been a lie. It was us all along. Tevinter destroyed the world.”

Dorian’s voice was low. He was still leaning casually against the library, but there was nothing relaxed in his demeanour now. He seemed… crushed.

His tone made Tristan’s heart tighten in his chest. He took a step closer, lowering his voice as he held his gaze levelly. “You didn’t do anything, Dorian. Those men did. A thousand years ago.”

Dorian shook his head glumly. “True, except that one of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention my idiot countrymen that would happily follow him.” He fixed his grey eyes on Tristan. There was steely determination there, but something else as well. An awareness of defeat hung over him, like a dark and heavy cloud. It seemed like it had been there for a very long time. “No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you either. You know that, yes?”

Tristan crossed his arms in front of his chest, sniffing in annoyance. He never cared about people’s approval, and he wasn’t going to start now. “I couldn’t care less if they thank me. That’s not why I do what I do.”

Dorian regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, a knowing smile spread on his lips. “I knew there was something clever about you.”

Well, there might be one person whose approval he cared about.

“Now” Dorian exclaimed, standing straight, “I think we’ve talked enough about evil magisters and darkspawn for a day. How about you join me for some brandy, Inquisitor? What with all those nobles you’ve been meeting lately, I’d be shocked and disappointed if you hadn’t come across any decent gossip. Come” he said with a wicked smile, extending his arm in front of him to let Tristan lead the way. “You must tell me all about it.”

A wide smile spread on Tristan’s face as he followed Dorian to the tavern. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t really mind that people were staring as he walked through Skyhold’s corridors. This time, at least, the mark on his hand shared the spotlight with something far more interesting; Dorian and his impossibly flashy outfit.