#the reason Merrill always wears a scarf

[themoralsupport]

“Apostate in the streets, Necromancer in the sheets.“

Featuring my beloved blood mages, Hera Hawke and Merrill 💕

[crqstalite]

crossroad.

a majority of this was done during a writing sprint (edit, half of it was) but i couldn’t just let it fade away! so instead, because i’m still upset about anders [and i miss bethany + fem!hawke], here’s a post!da2 work for you and me.

word count: 6,083.

-

“are you afraid? of what lays after all of...this?” bethany’s voice. reyna tries not to jump, but inevitably, she does. her sister is no longer in her circle robes, instead dressed down with her hair tied back, “the gallows are gone, the circle is gone, meredith is dead, orsinio is dead...”

“please, bethany. for the love of andraste do not panic.” reyna tries not to snap at her, but she does it anyway, picking through what things she can fit in her pack. the red scarf she’s donned around her neck comes undone, and she pulls it away roughly before shoving another shirt away, “donnic and aveline are staying here, and you’re staying with them. you’ll be perfectly safe, there’s no reason to be afraid.”

“i-” bethany hesitates, then resigns to sitting on the bed, picking at her sleeve, “i asked if you were afraid, not what i was going to do after all of this.”

“you know what i intend to do,” reyna yanks the suitcase out from under the bed roughly, the latches clicking open as she flicks a bandaged hand over one.

“running away from kirkwall into the night isn’t a plan, rey.” bethany responds in a nagging tone tinged with genuine concern, folding her legs on the bed, “it’s an escape route.”

“and that’s exactly what i need, whether you like it or not,” reyna responds, folding a shirt away into the bag at her side. she’s avoiding bethany’s deep brown eyes, the same ones that she knows will be crying out to keep her from leaving, or to force her to leave sooner. but reyna has made her decision, she can’t come back from this, “the templars will sniff me out soon enough. and because they can’t use me as some example of a mage gone rogue with the chantry’s brand, they’ll kill me for this.”

bethany doesn’t answer after that, and they sit in silence.  she feels bad about talking to her like that, but she has to. bethany is twenty five now, she isn’t a child like when they first arrived in kirkwall. she can handle herself, should anyone give her trouble and aveline isn’t around to protect her. 

it wasn’t an option she liked, but she trusted aveline with her life -- no matter how much they squabbled before over morals and reyna’s own questionable actions towards the templars as of recently. bethany would be safer here under the protection of the guard captain than with her on the road.

“you’ve been here for two days, and you said you’d leave earlier this week.” bethany’s voice is quiet when she speaks up again, the jangle of keys in her hand when she gives them to her, “what are you waiting for?”

reyna bitterly chuckles, “are you trying to get rid of me too, dear sister?” she asks, remembering how aveline had advised the same thing to her. kirkwall was still reeling after she’d hidden out with the vallens for a bit to let it blow over long enough to trek home without suspicion. the others...they’d be safe. they couldn’t go after fenris, they wouldn’t know of his involvement and merrill and isabela would be out of town within the month on isabela’s ship. and varric?

varric always had a way out. she didn’t know how this time, everyone knew he was involved with her, but he assured her he’d find a way.

she still sat up, waiting for the cellar door to open those two nights she spent in her own home since then. and yet...it doesn’t. it remains closed, and locked.

did he wear it that night?

“no! no of course not, reyna if i could go with you--” bethany cuts herself off, a frown on her face when reyna rises from her knees, pushing the half empty case back under the bed, “you know that i would. i just...don’t want you caught. everything is so...crazy right now. why are you staying so long?”

“it doesn’t matter. i’m leaving tonight, less templars out and the guards will be able to get me out of the city before knight-captain rutherford even knows i was back in hightown.” reyna shrugs, retying the scarf around her neck. the sun was due to go down in just a bit, the sky still playing with colors of a deep pink and the black encroaching upon it. the guards would switch into their night shift soon.

“that’s...not it.” bethany follows after her as reyna throws the pack on over her shoulder, “you know that’s not what it is.”

“why are you so desperate to know?” reyna quips back, biting her lip to keep from yelling. she knows why, she knows exactly why she’s still here and not heading for the hanged man to sail with isabela. and yet..it’s still stupid to admit out loud. it’s beyond foolish, and the same thing that got her mother in trouble before she was born, “surely you don’t intend to gossip with isabela.”

“reyna...” bethany gives her a look that’s reminiscent of leandra’s, and she cringes back from it. she knows bethany is only concerned from her safety, concerned about her, but she’s more concerned about her’s. and that hurts. reyna was the reason they even had to be careful, the reason bethany had to change her name and cut her hair. and yet, here she was, still caring about her foolish older sister after it all.

it infuriated and wounded her at the exact same time. bethany’s hand brushes her shoulder as she pauses at the door frame, and reyna tenses at the touch against her bicep. why why why had she done all of this? she could’ve just let meredith go on her tirade, turned a blind eye. they had such a nice cushy house here in hightown, and now the amell estate would surely be passed over to some other templar allied noble once everything was in order. they would’ve won and lost their mother’s childhood home within a decade. 

but no. she’d let her own interests blind her to the real goal. she couldn’t stay incognito long enough to let herself even enjoy it.

“reyna, please. just tell me, that way i can help. that way i can find whatever it is you’re looking for.” another beat of silence, “i know you don’t like talking about what bothers you, or makes you angry for my sake and everyone elses’ sake but sometimes people genuinely want to help you. i want to help you.”

“like how meredith helped the mages?” she asks coldly, and bethany’s eyes are startled and hurt but the words keep pouring out of her mouth, “like how orsinio  helped the mages? like how i -- how i helped anders? you can’t help me, bethany.”

her sister freezes, a grimace on her young face as reyna tries not to look over her shoulder before turning on her, “like how i put everything aside to stand behind him when he needed me? and i cost kirkwall their circle, their knight enchanter and their knight-commander? like how i helped kirkwall?”

“you did help!” bethany argues, reaching out to take her hand. reyna snaps it back, “you helped so many people while you were here!”

“at what cost! at what cost did i help everyone back in ‘34, and then lose mother to a blood mage? at what cost did i help by keeping you out of the deep roads, and then losing you to the gallows? at what cost did i help anders, and then lose the chantry because i was so goddamn blind?!”

“you weren’t blind! you wanted to help us, and you did. you can’t apologize for that reyna-”

“i’m not apologizing! i’ll never sodding apologize for what i believe in, but riddle me this bethany -- do you think the chantry would be a smoking crater if i had said no? if i’d denied the idea that i could split anders and justice? do you think we’d have to leave if i didn’t want to help the mages so goddamn bad that i costed us our place in kirkwall?”

“that’s not your fault. you stood up for what you believed in, you stood up for me!” bethany cries, “that’s not your fault. none of it is. it’s-it’s...”

“it’s anders’. that’s what everyone says, right?” reyna runs a hand through her hair, feeling her hands begin to shake the way they do when she doesn’t feel okay, when she doesn’t feel right. her mother had always been able to calm her down but now she can barely speak.

“no. no it isn’t.” bethany avoids her gaze, “you said you believed in him. believed in what he said. believed in what was right.”

reyna throws out her hands around them, “is this what is right, bethany? templars hunting me down, everyone forced to leave because of me and him? was it right that i let what made me happy blind me to what was the truth?”

“i-”

“no! it wasn’t! i can’t defend my actions, i can’t defend his. i can’t defend how i hunted templars down and then pretended to figuratively wash my hands of the blood that was spilled when the chantry came down!” she’s breathing hard, her chest tight, “i can’t defend anyone’s actions -- there was no compromise, but was any of it worth it just so i could have one more day with him!?”

she doesn’t know where her words have gone. but they’re not there anymore. none to pull on. nothing else to say lest she reveal why she’s still here, nothing left to say that she hasn’t already said twenty times over, nor anything she can say that won’t sound like she’s complaining about the mess she got herself into. 

bethany’s eyes glimmer with sad understanding, once she is no longer taken aback by her outburst, “you’re waiting for him. you still think he’ll come back.”

reyna is silent. she knows if she denies it, bethany will pick her apart until she falls apart.

her sister shouldn’t have to listen to her like this. shouldn’t have to pay for her mistakes.

“you believed in him at some point, you cared about him and you were happy, i know you were. and you didn’t want to stay in kirkwall even before all of this. i think the words you used were even ‘these four walls can’t hold me anymore’ the last time you visited.” bethany’s demeanor is soft compared to her own, gently pulling her gloves on, “you...i’ll stay here with you if i have to. reyna if you still love-”

“no! i don’t!” a fire burns inside her as her hands tighten into fists at her side, anger climbing up her throat to choke the words out of her, “i don’t! do you really think that-”

“would you still be here if you didn’t?”

that gives reyna pause long enough to keep from punching the wall next to her. there are holes in her room from earlier, days before bethany had managed to make it out of the shithole of the gallows through varric’s assistance. scars are still just barely healing on her knuckles, and they’re splitting open again from just how hard she’s folded her hands into balls at her side.

“no. you wouldn’t, because you care. you would’ve skipped town already if you didn’t.”

“he used me, bethany. he knew what he was doing and he still did it! would someone who loved someone else really do something like that, without their conscience betraying them?” reyna walks further away from her sister, making to descend down the stairs, “would he still give me all that goddamn praise for what i was doing for the mages in the circle if he really loved me?”

“reyna, you’re not even thinking anymore. of course he loved you-”

“how would you know!” at the bottom of the stairs, reyna whirls on her sister, a fearful look in her matching pair of dark eyes before she even registers it, “how would you know bethany? nobody knew, absolutely no one knew not even me! i’m supposed to be the bloody champion of kirkwall and instead i kept an apostate in my home for upwards of three years, and assisted with destroying the chantry at the same time! all because i thought he cared about me, and i just ignored all the warning signs! i should’ve known, i should’ve said something -- said anything and yet i didn’t because i couldn’t! i was weak and i’m paying the price for it now!”

her eyes sting with unshed tears, frustration taking precedent and building up in her tightening throat, “if he really cared about me, he would’ve told me! that’s what we did, that’s what we always did! i was willing to risk my neck for karl, i was willing to help get a group of apostates out for him, ‘oh hawke is always ready to help’, sodding irresponsibly stupid old me, right?”

“you’re not stupid, you’re not stupid reyna.” bethany bypasses the near shove she gives her sister and instead wraps her arms around her waist, holding tight, “you loved him. you did. i know what losing carver and losing mother did to you. and i know i couldn’t be here for you. i wish i could’ve been. to help you through all of it but i couldn’t. i trusted anders to stay with you, i trusted him to keep you grounded. you weren’t weak. you were stronger than any of us.”

reyna is shaking, her hands stuck at her sides as bethany buries her head in her shoulder. she’s hurt, she’s very hurt by all of this, feeling like she’s been stabbed twenty times over with her own blades when anders had admitted to the crime with a resigned tone of voice, sitting hunched over away from her. expecting death, surprised she did not grant it even at the cost of fenris’ trust. she was aware nothing would change if they didn’t do anything drastic, she’s not wounded by that. she’s destroyed on the inside because he didn’t tell her. 

she trusted him with every part of her. told him things that no one would ever hear come from her lips. things she hadn’t even told herself before. they had each other’s backs for years, and that was where the line of trust snapped.

where did she go wrong? 

was this her fault? because she’d come off as too much? would he have told her if she pressed him for why his demeanor had changed instead of dealing with everyone else’s problems?

she thought she’d meant everything to him. neither of them had anyone left but each other. he’d been there when her mother died, had consoled her to the best of his ability when bethany had been taken. 

and yet?

and yet that still wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough to trust her. it wasn’t enough to let her say ‘i trust you, and i’m with you’.

love is a strong word for someone who immediately lost all claim on it regarding her. 

but?

she would lie if she said there was nothing left for him to possibly reclaim someday. a long time from now, maybe a lifetime.

but not never.

“he did one shitty job of it.” she chuckles darkly, resigning to put her arms around her sister. knowing that this will be one of the few times she even gets the chance in the next few days, weeks, months and maybe even years, carefully as she chokes out her name, “bethany.”

“yes, sister?” 

“i don’t...i don’t think he’s coming home.” that breaks a part of her inside, blinking a few times up at the dark ceiling to keep herself from falling apart completely -- why was her sister even still here? she had bigger things to worry about than her washed up older sister, the ex-champion of kirkwall, “as much as i might wish it, i don’t think he will be.” 

“he told you he loved him in the gallows, right before orsinio went mad, you know. he was terrified, he was focused exclusively on keeping you alive when we fought meredith. i don’t think i ever caught him with his eyes off of you.” bethany says, gently untangling herself, “maybe it’s not worth atonement in your eyes. i’m not sure. but...” her eyes dart to where the hall ends and the cellar begins a turn later, “maybe he will come back to you.”

does he deserve her forgiveness for that? at all? just because he still loved her before then? because he’d looked her in the eyes, the corners of them crinkling with a look of adoration, of sadness, and had promised her a world where it wouldn’t matter if they were together? how undeniably warm his hands had felt in her’s when their fingers curled together shortly before the ensuing fight against the templars?

she doesn’t know.

she’s so angry that she genuinely wants to hit something. wants to yell at someone, anything. sit someone down and explain why there is a wildfire burning her soul from the inside out, why she so desperately just wants this all to end. wake up from the nightmare that has plagued her for days. will most likely haunt her for the rest of her life.

but she’s also hurt. so makerdamned hurt. where did the trust even go, did it run off or was it never there to begin with? was it worth destroying herself again, on the run with surely thedas’ most wanted mage only because she thought he cared for her?

is that what she wants? or was that decision already made for her?

was it foolish? was it foolish to wait and wait and wait even though she knows the chances of him coming back are slim?

she’d understood -- had said that she knew they’d never be like any normal couple. that she’d have to run, because apostates would never be free. and yet, she’d taken the plunge. had accepted her fate.

all reyna can say is, “i don’t know.”

bethany nods, playing with the deep black curls their mother had given her, before stepping past her, “it’s dark out now. i can’t stay here any longer, sister. donnic will get worried and come out looking for me.”

“i-i know.” reyna responds, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking out the limp curls in her hair from the braid she’d worn earlier, bethany padding closer to the door and pulling her heavy cloak off of the hook, “bethany--be careful.”

“i will. i promise.” bethany says, “as long as you do as well. they will not be friendly to you on the road. anders may not have a phylactery but-”

“they know what he looks like. i know that. that’s to say he even comes by later, though,” reyna takes a breath, trying not to antagonize her sister, “but i will.”

bethany waves, a sad smile on her face before the large door closes, the sound reverberating through the foyer. her calming presence is gone, and reyna feels the cold beginning to seep in her. now that bethany has left, she doesn’t have to pretend she’s okay to keep her sister from worrying more than she already has done. she sadly chuckles, bethany had gotten that from their mother -- a worried hen for all her chicks.

that was supposed to be reyna, watching over her sister. keeping her safe from the templars, keeping her alive. bethany wasn’t supposed to have to come to the estate just to check on her. but she’d been so busy trying to change something that had weathered the pattern of time that she’d neglected everything else. her friends, her family.

herself.

the fire warms her bones to the best of it’s meager ability, her hands regaining feeling. it was a cold night out, she’d have to wear one of her thicker cloaks when she finally left.

this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. and yet here she was, spending the last night in her family home. she says an apology to her mother under her breath, an apology to gamlen even, an apology to her grandparents, an apology to bethany, to carver, to her father. 

she’d failed every single one of them.

reyna doesn’t break down. she knows if she does, she won’t ever leave. she’ll just stay here and be sad and cry about the things she can’t control. and she doesn’t have time for that.

she’s supposed to be the strong one. she can’t be that if she’s bawling like a baby.

inevitably, she spends another two hours in the estate, bordering three and eyes barely open while she stokes the fire every few go arounds. she’s ready to leave, bag over her shoulders and conscience weighing down on her like a brick. but she wanders the house instead, listlessly and without a true purpose.

admiring everything they’d earned after so many years. brushing a hand against her mother’s portrait when she stops in the main hall just outside the room that has been locked since her death. the same brown eyes they all shared staring back at her, a small smile that reyna wants to see again. there’s a smaller one of carver she’d had commissioned years ago with her first allowance from the expedition, and it sits next to her’s. she was supposed to have bethany, father and herself done at some point. a family of portraits once they’d properly settled into the estate.

and then she’d gotten busy, and never finished the task.

she hates to say that she used to wonder if she’d get anders done as well, if they ever solidified what they used to have. she pulls her eyes away from the younger leandra, descending the steps again and making sure all the doors are locked. donnic and aveline are the only two with keys to the estate besides anders and bethany. she would not let the templars have her home if she still had any say about it.

she’s near the front door, cloak donned dutifully around her shoulders and gloves donned, daggers hidden in sheathes on her thighs when she hears the distant sound of a door open and close. her whole body freezes, fearful that it’s an intruder. a templar maybe, they’d found the secret entrance to the cellar under the house. it wouldn’t be the first time, and she should’ve known it wouldn’t be the last. of course it would be the day that she intends to leave.

seizing, she pulls her daggers out, gripping the handles with shaky hands before pushing herself up against the wall leading down the hall. she’d left the door open, what a foolish mistake.

boots. the sound of boots against the carpet. quiet, soft. they aren’t trying to announce their presence, but she doesn’t want to take the risk to look over her shoulder into the inky darkness. she recognizes everyone’s footfalls. she had to, that was part of her training while she lived in lothering and it had saved her life more than a few times since she’d moved to kirkwall.

and terrifyingly-

-she recognizes these. the ones that accompany a long night in the clinic, ones that accompany a proper hunt in the city for mages to help escape.

a quiet voice.

a tired voice.

a resigned voice, calling out for her in a way that shatters her before he steps into the light of the fire, “hawke?”

after a moment, she falls apart. tears bubbling up in her eyes as she turns the corner from where she’d pressed herself up against the wall in preparation.

a staff that isn’t quite regulation, and the black robes she was sure were still stained with blood from a week prior.

the amber eyes she couldn’t say no to, hands that had been tangled with her’s only weeks ago.

“anders.”

he doesn’t look well. not at all. exhausted, eye bags looking darker than they had since he’d moved in with her. hair tied back hurriedly, his own robes barely tied properly.

but, there’s a cloak around his shoulders, straps from a pack as well. dark black to surely hide himself from the templars that are swarming darktown like flies on fruit. she doesn’t ignore that it’s the same one she’d given him two years ago in the dead of winter, worn, but she still recognizes the hawke crest over his heart. clear as day, and worn proudly.

or it had been, when it had been given when he’d first moved in and leandra had suggested the gift, as they and bethany both owned one. her mother had even bothered her to get his name stitched in beneath the crest, though she didn’t. 

she’s glad, she’s not sure if she could take that. not now.

“you’re here,” she responds, biting her tongue not to launch into something she’ll regret, “then you still have the key.”

“you gave me it. i would not simply lose something so important,” that grits against her nerves in a way she can’t explain, though he hesitates to step forward towards her, “you are free to have it back, as i suppose you’re leaving the city according to varric.”

“is this not also your home?” she asks bitterly, forgoing the fact she’d said not to tell anders when she was leaving, “or did you forget somehow in the last few months?”

reyna feels childish when she notes he doesn’t even seem angered by the accusation, just...sad. not the sort of sad where he’s begging for forgiveness at her feet and trying to guilt trip him, but the kind of sad one can only have when they’ve reached rock bottom.

“what do you want me to say, re-hawke?” and yet again, there is no anger behind the words. no deep seated frustration. reyna doesn’t know how to respond to someone who isn’t yelling at her for some reason or the other. she can deal with anger, she can yell at anger rightfully. apologetic...she doesn’t know what to do with apologetic, “if you wish for me to go, then i will. i won’t force myself where i am not wanted.”

she can’t bite them back fast enough, “you betrayed my trust, anders. you took away my right to choose when you lied to me for why you needed all of those ingredients.”

“i know.” is all he offers.

“i know?” she parrots back to him, “if you knew, if you bloody well knew then why even bother? why even accept that sodding key, why stay here? you can’t hide behind the excuse that you knew you would hurt me in the end. there must have been a part of you that knew this wouldn’t end well for you, for us.

“was there ever an us, anders?”

“yes!” something in him snaps before he pulls himself back together, “there always was, reyna. there always was, and that was never in question.”

the question is on the tip of her tongue, but she knows she will never get a proper answer. not one she doesn’t already know, “you thought i wouldn’t support you in this, so you didn’t even take the chance.”

“admit it, you wouldn’t have. no one we know would’ve. and i do not blame you.” anders nearly chastises her, “i could not take that chance to drag you into this. it would be my burden to bear.”

“i am not a child, anders.”

“i know.”

“then you would’ve known that i would at least hear you out. that i would’ve listened. that you didn’t have to play this game of secrecy with me,” she will not beg for an answer if that isn’t what he intends to give her. she is not pathetic.

“you would’ve stopped me. this was something i had to do.”

“would i have? i supported you everywhere else. nearly got myself killed for you. was that not enough to solidify that i was yours, that i would always be with you no matter what?”

when she can not find anymore words, pointedly looking at him instead, he slips the twine that the key hung on from around his neck. worn, but obviously well taken care of. it’s not even scratched upon further inspection. he holds it out her, in a similar fashion that she had given it to him earlier this year. twinkling in the dying light of the fire, spinning gently in a circle, “tell me to go, reyna.”

she hates the way he says it. as if he has already accepted that she will kick him out properly this time. how her name doesn’t sound like sugar on one’s tongue, it instead sounds like the salty tears that had poured down her cheeks for days after the chantry incident. thinly veiled frustration, barely veiled sadness.

she could tell him to go now. there’s nothing keeping her from doing so. it would be significantly easier if she did, in fact. travelling lighter, and she didn’t have to watch for templars nearly as often because an apostate wouldn’t be with her. she could support herself. she was not helpless.

it’d be that easy. just a few words, and she’d be free to leave this cursed city.

then go, anders. i don’t want you here anymore. you’ve destroyed what we had in favor of forwarding your own political agenda. you used me! you used my trust to do all of this, and now you have the audacity to come back and give me my own key back like you actually care what i think of you? you used my love for you. you twisted and tore us apart to something unfathomable. you have no right to be here. this is not your home any longer.

a fire roaring. intoxicated with adrenaline, wandering hands. happy looks, the roll of one’s eyes at another’s antics. the feeling of being a pair, the emotions she could never replicate with another.

he used me!

the warmest look in amber eyes as their lips fit together, tasting of lyrium and metallic blood.

her hand is shaking just out of the corner of her eye, she can grasp it now. it’s warm as she takes it from his hand. carefully. slowly. the twine has nearly frayed in so many places, yet knotted together again and again with dexterous hands she could only credit to him.

she knows what she has to do. the fire inside blazes and she opens her mouth to speak, setting her face. this isn’t something she should just back down from.

yet...

the words don’t come. 

they fail her. 

instead of anything else, even managing a curse or two, she moves her other hand to take his, pressing the key firmly back into his palm, curling his fingers back over it. inhaling, she wonders if she’s making the right decision. is this worth it? should she even begin to take the chance? the chance she could never have another life, never rebuild what she once had?

is it worth it to try and rebuild the shattered pieces in front of her, the scars reopening and bleeding from when it had first broken?

she remembers a vase she and her siblings had broken as children -- her mother’s in fact. blue, glittering in the dying sunlight of the evening when it had broken.

chipped. but not beyond recognition. the bigger pieces were still intact. it was glued back together with the help of their father before their mother was any the wiser.

it will hurt to put the glass back together if she chooses to pick them back up.

exhaling, she finally looks up at him. thinly veiled shock, surprise greets her instead in his expression, “don’t.” is all she can say, lest she actually let her emotions get the better of her.

reyna knows the wish that she could be alone on the road was real, was tangible. but she can’t. not after losing her father, losing carver, losing bethany, losing her mother, slowly losing the people around her to her own mind. not now. not when she knows that she still cares about him. not when there is one person left in the world like hum.

“reyna, i don’t deserve this. you know that much better than i do.” he tries to give it back to her, but she only clutches his hand tighter.

“keep it.” she nearly orders before softening her tone, “please.”

he considers his words, “if..you wish.”

reyna is quiet again. then she is really doing this, a wave of sadness passing over her. she is leaving, with the one person that caused the need to. but the person that she still has fractured trust from, the person that was her first, and if she let’s this progress, her last.

“i will not try to explain it again. you know my reasoning, reyna. and i am truly sorry for the pain i have caused you,” he admits quietly, “i can say a million things, but you would still find faults. and i can never truly apologize for what happened.”

“you can’t,” she agrees, wrapping her cloak around her lithe figure tighter, “you’re right on that front.”

he’s not phased by her response, “i am not asking to be taken back. i know i have foolishly thrown away what we had.”

“again, you are correct,” she rubs the fabric in between her gloved fingers. she hesitates again, knowing what she says now will make or break whatever this is, “but. why are you here then? if you know?”

“i...was not going to ask to travel with you, but to say goodbye. i was unsure if you wanted to see me, or if you were even still here to be entirely honest, but i wished to try,” he pauses, “i will always care for you, reyna. even if it is no longer reciprocated.”

and that is it. it sounds terribly final, as if he is ready to leave right that very moment. he has not made another advance towards her, but his eyes crinkle into a sad smile. one that is all too reminiscent of the same received that fateful day she’d first met him.

a rush of anxiety takes her heart hostage before she speaks again, turning over her shoulder to walk towards the door. she can’t face him when she’s on the brink of a breakdown, “you always did assume so much, anders.” reyna muses.

she doesn’t watch his reaction, but she can hear him walking ever closer, the sound of his staff dragging along the ground doing nothing to hide his presence from her, “will i see you again?” he asks hurriedly.

another blink. another halt of her thought process.

she can’t do this. she was supposed to be strong. but she isn’t. he’s too much to her, he’s been too much to her. how much he gave her, material and emotionally. she’s not ready to rip that away.

it wouldn’t be the same.

everything is still much too raw. too painful to touch. but no one said she had to touch an open would right then, in that very moment. another time, when it was easier to treat. allowed time to heal.

“it would be a crime if you did not,” she puts a hand on the knob, cold through her gloves. it’s nearly entirely dark, now that the fire is gone and the moonlight is shining through the window to illuminate the room, glinting off the steel of hids staff, “tell me, anders.”

“anything.” he answers, careful, calculating. gauging her reaction.

“can--” she turns over her shoulder, tears building in her eyes as she awaits his response, “can you still give me a world like the one you described in the gallows?”

he’s rendered speechless for once. then, recognition flashes through his eyes, as if he is remembering exactly what she is talking about. then, a nod, “i can surely try, if you allow me the pleasure.”

reyna pulls her hood up over head. considering, overthinking at this point, before taking his hand with her free one. this would not be perfect, far from it. she still has anger boiling just underneath the surface. they will both be hunted, unless they should leave the free marches. she is signing away any chance at a normal life.

she squeezes his fingers in her’s tentatively, “then let us find it, yes?”

[jellydishes]

so i saw this post recently about what sort of gods characters from critical role would be, and i couldn’t resist turning that around for dragon age two

Hawke’s worshippers have schismed again and again and again, to the point that no one can even agree on their diety’s gender, let alone temperament. when you strip away the disagreements and the endless discord, however, you get to the heart of this polarizing deity: hawke is a deity for the lost, in all their forms. those who have lost homes and lovers and parents and siblings, as much as for those who have lost their way. those who are afraid and uncertain and don’t want to -can’t be- strong all the time. hawke is rarely depicted as a person, far more often with symbols - an interwoven, stark heraldry. a length of cloth, tattered and red as blood. a messy smear of blood, replicated by their worshippers across the nose. hawke is strength and protection when you have no one else. hawke is a hand, offered when you can’t stand up on your own. how many times can one person do this? “at least once more,” says a whisper in your ear

Bethany is a goddess that is hard for many to understand. those people only hear her hymns devoted to hope and kindness and think she is but one more goddess of the hearth and home, easily dismissed. they would be wrong. bethany is worshipped by warriors just as often as she is the abused and forgotten. because beneath the smiles and open hands she is often depicted with, is a core built of heat and determination and a relentless desire to protect what is yours. one does not cancel out the other. bethany’s worshippers know that she is not asking them to forgive and forget, she is asking them to keep going when all you want to do is to give up. put one foot in front of the other and nurture that last bit of hope you have for one more day

Carver is, like his twin, a difficult god for many to parse, easily dismissed as a war god, a god worshipped by those who refuse to follow society’s rules. and they would be missing the truth of him. carver is a god those who want -need- to pave their own path. he is worshipped by transgender people, by those who have no family by choice or by fate and who create their own future. by those who refuse to be defined by someone else. the angry, but also the joyful. offerings to carver are a coin from your first wages at a job no one trusted you to get, let alone keep. a moment from your gender euphoria. a messy drawing by the child you never expected to have. carver is trust in yourself, when no one else has it for you

Aveline is primarily a goddess worshipped by guards and soldiers, but a not insignificant amount of prayers are offered to her by orphans and widows. it is Known that aveline lost and lost and lost in the days before her ascension. she can be a distant god, hard to understand or even love, but she is a constant. when the world was forged, aveline was there, and so shall she remain. aveline is strength and self-reliance and memories held close to your chest because it is no one’s to take before you are ready. images of aveline are often left clasped between the hands of the dead, so that they would always have someone’s hand in theirs

Varric’s stories often depict him as smiling and confident, a twinkle in his eyes and a crossbow bolt between his fingers. he is a god of artists and storytellers, but more than that, varric is a god of memory. it is Known that in life, varric committed his loves into words so that they would last, would live even when he knew they wouldn’t. he is also turned to when loved ones struggle with pain and addiction and alcoholism or any one of a number of coping mechanisms that once helped but now only hurt and hurt and hurt them and others - he does not judge them or you, and instead is a steady, comforting presence when you feel most alone in a cold world which seems to have left you behind. varric is a god for those who turn their pain on its head, who transform it into light and color and laughter. varric is smiles, and the spaces between them

Fenris was initially worshipped as a god of war, but over time that shifted so that now he is known as a god of death and rebirth. the death he represents is often not a physical one, so much as a moment of growth. of deliberately choosing to release the grip your past has upon your present. even if it is hard, and you cannot let it go without leaving claw marks where you wish to hold and remember and understand. because by lingering in a place where discomfort has become comfortable, you cannot grow. your past will remain a part of you, as scars do, but you can turn your eyes to look ahead to the rebirth awaiting you. a spiritual rebirth, of a private meaning. his followers are as much the abused and the enslaved and the survivors as they are the grieving, and all are welcome

Anders is infamously known as a polarizing god, one most well known for the wars his followers seem to end up embroiled in, in one way or another. but that is a very simplistic view of him and those who follow him, and a narrow-minded one. anders was initially worshipped as a nurturing god devoted to healing and sacrifice, but over time the sacrificial part of his domain expanded to be that most focused on. this sacrifice is often interpreted by those who misunderstand him by pointing to deaths and discord caused in his name and cite him as a reason to bear down on his worshippers - those who worship him, however, almost to a person, cite that sacrifice as a personal one. of giving up personal comfort and safety and happiness for the greater good. of painting yourself as the monster so that those you wish to protect from harm will be spared. those who remain from his earliest days of worship still remember his symbols of a scarf and a cat and small, patched pillow, symbols of warmth given and warmth treasured in dark times

Merrill is, first and foremost, a goddess for those who refuse to give in to the darkness of time and assimilation. worshipped primarily by those from cultures who have been attacked from all sides in all the ways a culture can while still surviving. merrill is a proud goddess, an angry goddess, but neither of those are negatives. she is also a joyful one, rejoicing with her worshippers when they rediscover a piece of their culture, or simply celebrating in it. when you wear jewelry or clothing from your culture or take pride in your lineage or make your foodstuffs, you are singing with her. merrill is a refusal to turn away from the hard task of keeping what is yours when beset on all sides, she is keeping your head high and eyes bright, your soul shining because doing otherwise is no alternative at all

Isabela began her life as a goddess as one devoted purely to the sea, but as many of her fellows did, her domain shifted to that of a protector of women. transgender woman and neurodivergent women and disabled women and women of color and abused women all raise their hands to her, and she gives hers back. isabela is cold fury at those who dare bring harm to or degrade her sisters just as she is a warm pair of arms to hold you up when you are alone in a cold world. she understands what it is to have your choices taken from you, and what it is to hide the vulnerability in your heart when that is the only means available to you to protect yourself. isabela is the soft, warm voice beside you whispering to allow yourself to trust when it can be the most terrifying thing in the world. isabela is the hand guiding your fist to the sky when you see your sisters trodden upon. “not today,” comes isabela's rising call. “not anymore.”

Sebastian is a god with two faces. in one of his forms, he is a god of love and pleasure, of taking joy in the present because the future is not certain and certainly not a promise, a god for those who are afraid and find comfort in the warmth of others. this side of sebastian does not judge those who take pleasure in the flesh or in modifying their bodies or in turning away from the roles expected of you, because he knows what it is to refuse a call. sebastian in this face is independence and planting your feet upon the ground. “this is me,” sebastian tells the world before you. “the words i choose define me, not yours.”

Sebastian's other face is a god of change. he often has feasts devoted to him at the turning of the seasons (especially autumn), but he is just as easily found in choosing to live by a self-ordained set of rules when your old way of life no longer satisfies. a god who, when faced with loss, redefined what loss means as well as what remains. when faced with restrictions and pain imposed by others, his worshippers find meaning in what remains. asexuals and the chase also turn to him, knowing the choices he himself made in his mortal life, and he welcomes them. sebastian is a god of dichotomies, but those stark differences do not mean that either side of him does not have meaning - on the contrary, both sides are made that much more meaningful by the contrast and how they inform the other. this side of sebastian is also about defining yourself. “you make take my home and my family and everything i thought was true about myself,” sebastian tells all those arrayed before you, “but you cannot take away the heart of me. that determination that drives me forward. i was here before you, and i will be here after you are gone.”

Tallis is a goddess of extremes, just as known for laughter with a smile that is all teeth as she is wandering hands that reach for your belt or your throat instead of your hip. she is all anger and stubbornness and a refusal to give into the dark. a goddess for those who look upon the sand presented to them by the world and score, not a line, but a canyon deep within it. cross this line at your peril, tallis tells your enemies. you may have come for people that are not mine, who may not ever know my name or even be grateful, but that doesn't matter. “not one step more,” she roars into the wind, her hand beside yours, just waiting for you to clasp it. she is the hard choice made because it must be, because no one else will

[jawsandbones]

Threnodies for Leto, Songs for Fenris - Part 1/3

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

He learns to say no. He whispers it to himself in the dead of night, up at faintly blinking stars. He practices. He takes pleasure in it – the sound of it on his tongue, the way it feels in his mouth. The ability to speak his mind. To have choice. No. At first he fears the use of it. He has been taught how to bite his tongue too well. Fenris knows what comes with hesitation, denial. It begins with the dark frown, the biting word and ends in the lash, in punishment. Hawke asks if he would like to come with them on a day he had planned for other things. “No, I – I would rather not,” he says as he braces himself. Stiffens the line of his back, the square of his shoulders, prepares for the reprimand. She only smiles, leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms.

“That’s alright. I’ll bring you back something,” she tells him. He still feels it even after she leaves. Leaning against his closed door, hands in fists against the wood. The heavy beating of a nervous heart, the faint rush of adrenalin that pumps through every vein. He smiles, laughs to himself, presses a hand against his forehead. It is that first ‘no’ which gives him the allowance of more. He tells Varric that no, he does not want to try the Hanged Man’s mystery soup. The dwarf shrugs, chews on some unidentifiable grey meat. Merrill asks him to pick mushrooms with her and he tells her no, and she goes to ask Anders. He steps back when Isabela holds out a fish for him to hold, a very flat no, and she throws it at the back of Hawke’s head.

He learns acceptance. The right of rage, permission of grief. Fenris mourns the life he never knew, bitter to the one he has left behind, learns to take joy in the one he is creating. Hawke is a welcome figure on his doorstep, and he finds he likes the sound of her voice. They speak of anything that comes to mind, Hawke an attentive listener to anything he has to say. Some nights it is no more than comfortable silence, shared space, and a few times Hawke falls asleep in the chair. They find which bakery he likes best, learns that apple pastries are his favorite. She brings him a bottle of Ferelden ale. They drink it together, and it’s Hawke who smashes this bottle against the wall.

Isabela teaches him how to skip stones. She laughs as he growls frustration at the third one that simply sinks. She cheers when the sixth finally goes, three pathetic hops, but more than good enough. Anders and Varric double over in laughter together as he wakes to find Merrill has braided daisies into his hair. He spars with Aveline, helps her bridge the opening she leaves on her right. She gives him a small bag of cookies in thanks and a “please don’t tell Isabela I bake.” Times spent at the Hanged Man with everyone else, and they shout over the table, slap down coin and card. He watches them argue and laugh, smiles to himself.

He reacquaints himself with loneliness. Kirkwall seems harsher now that Hawke has gone to the Deep Roads, a little quieter, somewhat cold. A sudden realization of what her presence means. Fenris misses her most on the nights alone with himself, mind moving in torturous circles. Speaking with the others is never quite the same, they don’t listen the way she does. Her presence in his mansion has always been welcome, while others feel intrusive, a churning in his gut. She had leaned forward and smiled, put her hand over his. “Go see the others while I’m gone,” she had said, “you can’t stay cooped up in here all the time.” He does his best to honor this promise.

Merrill has found herself managing the clinic in Darktown, fielding questions of where Anders had gone. He brings her the supplies she has in her house, buys more with his own coin when she runs out. Fenris walks the late patrols with Aveline, knowing she takes the more dangerous routes. She tells him he doesn’t have to. She thanks him anyway. She tells him how proud she is of the guards in training, gives glowing admiration of the others. One in particular. He tells himself he must find a way to meet this Donnic. He helps defend Isabela from those who call her a cheat, and from behind the safety of his sword, she proudly admits it. He pulls her arm over his shoulders, walks her to her room, and puts a bucket beside her bed.  

Fenris lies in his own bed, looking through the cracks in his roof. He likes it best when it rains, falling into the buckets he carefully places. The sound of drops against tin, the fluttering moonlight that cascades into the room. He knows that Hawke is sleeping under a different sky, one of rock and stone, in a place she’d rather not be. “I’m frightened of being underground,” she had confessed, “all of that above my head… just makes me uneasy.” He lies awake and wonders if Hawke is wondering about him. Rolling over to bury his face in his pillow, shame in wanting one of his only friends. A desire that had lain dormant, feelings he didn’t know he could have. He dreams of her laughter, of blue eyes and freckles, and brushing hair behind her ear.

Bartrand returns, but she does not. His stomach rolls, knots, churns in worry. He wears a path into already worn floorboards, unable to stop pacing. He resolves to find the dwarf, ask him where Hawke is. Aveline finds him first. Asking to speak with him, sitting in the chair. Long moments spent in silence before she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I spoke to Bartrand,” Aveline says, “They got separated. A cave-in.” Her hands tight together, fingers digging into flesh, knuckles white with the effort. “He doesn’t think they survived.” That pit falls, and Fenris sinks into the opposite chair. Hands grip the armrest, staring pointedly at the fire. Long enough until his eyes burn, blink back pain, shaking his head.

“No,” he rasps. “I will question him myself.”

“Fenris,” she says his name quietly, a warning in the syllables.

He plans to leave Kirkwall. He will book passage on a ship south, leave the Free Marches entirely. Hawke had asked him once, if he might stay. Those early conversations, getting to know one another. “Perhaps you’ll find a reason to stay,” she had said with a smile. He had taken her kindness with a measure of suspicion, hard to trust, unwilling to settle. She had slowly carved a place for herself in him, settling in locked spaces, dusty corners. He’s stayed too long. There’s nothing left keeping him in the city anymore. On the third day of the second week, he packs a bag. He takes all the things Hawke has given him, the only mementos he cares to keep. In his hands, a red scarf, soft against his skin. On the fourth day, there’s a knock at his door.

There are dark circles under her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in days. She is thinner, her hair longer, but her eyes still burn brightly blue. She stretches out her arms, steps through the doorway as she wraps them around him. Burying her face against his chest, holding him tightly. Fenris still hasn’t recovered from the shock of it, slowly lets his hands settle on Hawke’s back. “Bartrand trapped us down there. Carver caught the blight. He’s gone with the Grey Wardens and I,” her hands fist in his tunic, tremble and shake, “I missed you. This. I cried when we saw grass, can you believe it?” He can. He holds her a little tighter.

He learns how to ask. Slipping into old habits, sitting by the fire as she speaks. Listening quietly as her hands move wildly to convey every detail, from sitting hunched to sitting straight, expressions rowdy and vivid as she recounts all that happened while she was gone. They talk for hours until their voices are hoarse and the drinks are emptied, food eaten. Hawke rubs her eyes as she leans back, stifles the yawn. “Would you like to stay?” He asks, playing with the loose thread at the end of his leggings. She smiles, reaches out, touches his knee.

“I don’t want to throw you out of your own bed,” she says. Fenris shakes his head, finds the courage to rest his hand over hers.

“It’s no trouble,” he tells her. They stay there quietly, as his thumb traces over her knuckles. There’s a new scar on the back of her hand, just there, right by her pinky finger. The way she touches has always felt natural. A brush across the shoulders, hand on his arm, at his back. It’s never come easily to him. Even now he feels stiff, awkward, nervous, but still his hand remains. They both look over as a log in the fireplace cracks, breaks, warm light on their cheeks.

“Then I’ll take you up on your offer,” she says, and that smile still remains, so light on her lips. She settles into his bed, lying on her side, watching him as he tucks himself into the chair. “Fenris.” She stretches out her hand towards him. “There’s no reason we can’t share.” He can think of at least ten. Still, he finds himself walking towards her, tips of his fingers brushing against hers. He lies with his back towards her, staring at the wall. The fire burns, dies, and he stiffens when he feels her turning. Her face against his back, an arm slipping around him. Murmuring in dreaming, curling up against him. How warm it is to be held by someone. He indulges himself, lets his hand link with hers. Finger against finger, and palm against palm.

Hawke shows him first. An estate in ruin, a home she means to repair. The others help as well. Merrill worries on the ladder, cleaning the very top of the windows. Aveline is adept at repairing broken walls, cracked bannisters. Those Hawke has hired are also underfoot, but there’s only the cheerful laughter when it’s just the group of them. Isabela paints her name in a flourish before painting in earnest, while Varric buys Hawke a fine desk to sit in the front. A gold tipped quill, expensive ink. Anders has a scarf wrapped around his face as he dusts out the cobwebs, carries the spiders to the garden. There Fenris and their newest addition, Sebastian, work together. Hacking at weeds, planting new flowers.

There are days he gets lost in the labor. Leaning over in the dirt, gloves on his hands and sun beating on his back. Sweat on his brow, dripping at his temples, and he tears at stubborn root, embedded rock. His mind drifts, turns towards a different sun that used to beat upon his back. A labor that wasn’t like this, a work not the same. That was because they told him, this is because she asked and he – bats away the sudden touch, slaps away her hand. Stumbling back into the grass, and he is ready with the apology but Hawke pretends as if it didn’t happen at all.

“Did you want some water?” she asks. His hands clench into fists as his shoulders move with heavy breath, trying to steady himself in the present.

“I – yes. That would be appreciated,” he says. She extends her hands towards him once again, helps him to his feet. He follows her meekly to the kitchen, casts his gaze to the floor. She shifts, tilts, intercepts his vision until he can look naught but at her. When he finally meets her gaze, she smiles, passes him the glass.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, “I should have said something first.” The condensation rolls down the glass, cold against his skin. He watches her as she walks, that easy swing of her arm over Isabela’s shoulders. The women sway and laugh together, and he wants it to be that easy for him. He longs to touch, when he’s shunned all touch before. Unwanted hands under his skin, wrapping around bone and muscle, claiming him for them. Now he wants to reach out, he wants to ask.

In the quiet when all others leave, they sit together in front of Hawke’s fireplace. The Amell sigil sits proudly above it, while the Hawke sigil rests above the door. She sits cross-legged, an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. While she is watching it burn, Fenris is watching her, the way the light flickers on her face. They pass the bottle of wine back and forth, a sort of sharing that comes naturally to them now. “I have an estate,” she says.

“Yes you do,” he says. Hawke smiles proudly, sits a little straighter, brushes hair behind her ear. It reveals the smudge of dirt on her cheek. He’s moving before he even realizes it, his thumb at the mark, brushing it away. Her face turns towards his. The dirt is gone and yet his hand remains, fingers curling at her cheek. All other sounds seem to slip away, and he can only hear the soft sound of her breathing. The way she shifts closer.

“May I kiss you?” Fenris asks it hoarsely, as though he hasn’t spoken in years, or at least never with meaning such as this. Her nod is instant, her answer voiceless. A palm pressing against stone as she leans towards him and he thinks he might count all the freckles, her stars. The brush of her nose against his. The feel of her breath on his lips. The warmth of simply being near her. Taking her face in his hands, eyes closing. She wets her lips just before, and his are maybe a little chapped, but still they fit together. He pulls her closer until she is sitting in his lap, his hands travelling the length of her back. Arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” Sebastian smiles as he takes the box from Fenris, stacking it with the others in the Chantry basement. Fenris grumbles and Sebastian chuckles. “Things are going well with Hawke?” Fenris blinks, startled.

“With Hawke, I –”

“A blind man could see how you feel for her,” Sebastian tells him.

He walks with Aveline on Wednesdays. Down the twisting paths of Lowtowns, in the back alleys she does not want to send her guard. Most of it is spent in silence, some of it with Aveline asking him to train some of her guard. “There are many in this city who look up to you,” she tells him, but he finds it hard to believe. Especially difficult on the nights Fenris twists in his bed, casts the blankets to the floor. Feet hard against stone as he paces, hands pressed against his head. A voice that does not want to leave him, commands that haunt his dreams.

Fenris holds a ladder for Isabela as she climbs up to Merrill’s roof, smashes through cracked tiles with the hammer. They yell at each other, Merrill in concern and worry, Isabela wondering how anyone could live like this. Hawke wanders into the alienage in the afternoon, passes Fenris her half-eaten sandwich as she clambers up after them. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Fenris calls upwards to them. Isabela’s face appears over the edge, hair hanging down.

“Don’t you dare let go of that ladder!” She tells him. Merrill frets beside him, biting at her fingernails, waiting for them to finish. They reappear when the sun begins to set, covered in dirt and web, cuts on their hands, and more hammers than they went up with. They sit at Merrill’s small table, eat whatever she offers. Merrill seems more than happy to have them all there, pleased pink on her cheeks, squished between Isabela and Hawke.

Fenris smiles as he reaches across the table, sweeps up the hard won coin. Anders glowers at his cards before reaching for the rest, shuffling them together in an angry huff. Varric leans back in the chair, accepts graceful defeat. “You are a menace, elf. One of these days I’ll figure out your tell,” he says. Perhaps it the way his ears perk up when he sees Hawke walk into the Hanged Man, or the way he sits up a little straighter when she sits next to him. Anders is dealing the cards neatly, and Fenris keeps his close to his chest, away from Hawke’s prying eyes.

“I think he’s cheating,” Anders says, “he’s been spending too much time with Isabela.” Hawke has her elbows planted on the table, holding her face in her hands.

“Or he’s just better than you at the game,” she says. Anders rolls his eyes, feigns hurt as Varric laughs. While Anders and Varric stay late, Hawke and Fenris walk home together. They detour into Darktown, so that Fenris can fill the clinic’s donation box with the coin he won from Anders and then some. Knuckles brush against knuckles, finger against finger, and Hawke smiles under star and shafts of moonlight that streams through the cracks between buildings.

Sand underneath his feet. Salt on the wind, the hint of the sea. Long grass that sways in the breeze, under cracked cliff and wounded coast. Signs he thought he would be able to forget come rushing back. He knows this trap. Stopping and the others stop too, look over their shoulders at him. “Hunters,” Fenris says.

“You are in possession of stolen property,” says the one who dares step forward. “Back away from the slave!” It isn’t rage. It isn’t denial. All the things he thought he might feel when they finally found him, and it isn’t that. The first is fear. Fenris expects to see Danarius to step forward next. Little wolf. Kill them. He fears he will listen. Master coming to collect and he, and he –

“Fenris is a free man,” Hawke shouts as she steps in front of him, puts her hand on his chest. Aveline raises her shield beside him, and Sebastian has the arrow notched. He’s forgotten something he learned, something he taught himself. He forgot who he was, but just for a moment.

“I am not a slave!” Hawke reaches upward with fist and magic, pulls down their attackers. Fenris sprints forward, ready to face them head on. The steady sounds of Sebastian’s arrows, burying themselves into the soft spots between armor. Hawke’s magic is the warm hand at the back of his nape, a watching presence that’s a comfort and not a prison. Aveline at his side, facing faceless attackers. Cowards hidden behind metal, the flash of a sword and the Tevinter crest.

It builds with each step towards the caves. He has tried to forget it, to leave it aside. Haunting him for far too long, an anger he cannot shake. Bitter to all they robbed him of, fury to what they put inside him. An outrage that has been growing, pulled forward through the years he thought he might be free. Fenris wants to be better. More than what they made him, past all they gave him. Hadriana trembles below him and a different man might have let her go. He kills her in thinking it might kill the despair, only makes it worse. Pushing away her touch and “what has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” He regrets each word, calls himself a coward as he runs.

He did not face Danarius when he could have. Standing side by side with the Fog Warriors who called him friend, the taste of what life could be still fresh on his tongue. He cannot face Hawke when he should have, told her that it is not her magic he fears. That it is Fenris who is the ruin, and that she deserves better. Instead he runs, and she lets him go. Those first days all over again. He paces through the mansion, afraid the hunters are waiting in each dark corner. He cannot stay. Wandering the city until he finds himself on her doorstep.

He can hear her running down the stairs at the sound of his arrival, breathless in clothing casual, tucking hair behind her ears. She opens her mouth to speak, but closing it again as he walks towards her. Looking at the floor, her bare feet against stone, struggles to raise his gaze. “I was… not myself.” Not the man he wants to be. “I’m sorry.” Finally able to look upwards, expects the anger he knows he deserves. He doesn’t find it.

“I had no idea where you went, I was concerned,” she says softly. She crosses her arms, as though stopping herself from reaching out and touching him. He appreciates the gesture. His skin has been fire since he felt Hadriana’s heart in his hands, markings raw and sensitive, and a vulnerability he’s still trying to fix. He struggles with the explanation of it, only knowing that he wants her to know. Hadriana’s claws still at his back, Danarius’s teeth at his neck. Paltry. Lacking. He leaves in frustration, he leaves her in worry.

He decides to tell her. His regret, a shame, one action among many he wishes he could take back. Fenris goes to the wine cellar, takes the last bottle from the shelf. He knows its name, the shape of the label, the style of the cork. He knows it from it being pointed out to him. As he holds the bottle in his hand, his thumb traces over letters he cannot understand. “Today is the anniversary of my escape,” he tells her as he holds it out to her. She takes it instantly, pulls her chair forward. “Would you like to hear the story?”

“I enjoy listening to you talk,” she says. He leans forward, touches his forehead against hers.

“There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman.” Warm with wine, feeling bold, letting himself let go. Speaking the words makes them real, the truth of what he’d done. Killing those who had taken him in, who believed he deserved his freedom. He took too long to believe it as well. Ghost of shackles around his wrists, the collar around his neck. It chokes him on the days he least expects. He feels them even now, tight and cold, but Hawke reaches out, brushes her thumb against his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says softly, “I know it can’t be easy to speak about.” He misses her touch as she pulls her hand back, folding her hands in her lap. She knows and yet she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t rage at him for what he’s done. She lays acceptance at his feet, dares for him to take it. He stands on the precipice but cannot fall. Reaching for the bottle, wine rich on his tongue. A taste he was never allowed, a privilege never given, but he has taken it for himself.

“I… have never allowed anyone too close.” How many times had they been sent to his bed to tempt him? A touch was betrayal, affections were punishment. Difficult to shake such a thing. Setting the bottle on the table, hands in fists on his knees. He’s still getting used to it. The closeness. The permission to find solace in another person. The realization that Hawke is no pawn, no trap set to close around his bones. There is no rope. No chain. Naught for the one he extends to her of his own will.

He seeks her out three days later. “Command me to go and I shall.” Hands on his cheeks, her face so close to his.

“No need.”

[kagetsukai]

kissing day prompt! SURPRISE KISS. one of those "i've always liked you and you look super cute tonight and something AMAZING just happened to my football team and i just gave you the BIGGEST SMOOCH on impulse because i was so excited -- I'M SORRY I JUST LOVE MY FOOTBALL TEAM also oh my god I JUST KISSED YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME, HOLY SHIT" surprise kisses. :D

I’m a turd, so I’m not going to do American football (which I don’t understand) and substitute it with what you know as soccer (which I grew up with). I hope you enjoy this fic - it was a lot of fun to write, even if this isn’t my usual pairing :D I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!

Pairing: Carver Hawke/Merrill

Prompt: Surprise kiss

Title: Playing for the kiss

Read on AO3

It was entirely too late in the season to be attending outdoor games, but for some odd reason the others had insisted they all went. That’s how Carver found himself sitting in the bleachers, dressed in a warm jacket, wrapped in a thick grey-and-blue scarf and sporting a floppy hat. The scarf had been a handmade gift from a certain dark-haired girl he fancied and he would sooner die than admit to how much he liked wearing it.

“Move to the left, Junior!” Varric grumbled from the bench behind. “Your head is so large it obscures the entire field!”

Carver grumbled, rolled his eyes and shifted a little closer to Merrill. Isabela, who sat on the other side of her, seemed to ignore the decrease in space.

“Sorry, the dwarf seems to have trouble with his eyes,” he mumbled to the girl. “Let me know if I’m squishing you, or whatever.”

Her incredibly green eyes zeroed-in on his face and a bright, gentle smile spread on her face.

“It’s fine. I like being squished, it’s warmer that way.”

A blush immediately prickled against his neck and cheeks, so Carver did his best to stick his face into the oversized scarf and hope the color didn’t seep any higher. He turned back to ‘watch the game’ and grunted something unintelligible in reply. It made him sound like an unbearable ass, but he felt it was better than trying to withstand the endlessly inquisitive gaze of the elvhen girl next to him. He was terrified she would see right through him and his ill-conceived feelings.

The Kirkwall Raiders continued playing against Wycome Sylvans as if they were playing against Frostback Nugs and Carver did his best to keep his curse words to himself; before they left home, Garrett told them to draw as little attention to their group as possible. Still, he grumbled under his breath as he watched both teams lumber around the field, clearly pretending to know how to kick a ball.

“Are we losing?” came a quiet question from his left.

Carver took a steadying breath and leaned in closer to Merrill; he reached out towards the field and started pointing out players.

“That guy over there runs around the field like someone put silverite in his shoes, that one can't keep a ball rolling even if his life depended on it and our goalie looks to be asleep,” he recited and huffed. “We haven’t lost yet, but yeah, we’re losing.”

Merrill frowned. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, it’s not your fault,” he replied with a shrug. “This game isn’t exactly a part of the league rankings so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Long silence greeted his comment and looked to the side, curious. He noted that Merrill kept frowning and staring down at the field with concentration he usually associated with her casting magic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She sighed and her face finally smoothed out. “I don’t understand the game”

It was Carver’s turn to frown.

“What? But why did you come, then?”

Merrill smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes and it made her whole expression look sad. “It sounded better than sitting at home, staring at the empty walls,” she quipped.

Damn, Carver felt like a humongous asshole, no matter how he looked at it. He stared at Merrill for several moments and made a quick decision.

“I can explain the rules, if you’d like?”

The smile that bloomed on her face was the biggest one he’d seen all afternoon.

“Yes! Learning new things is a lot of fun!” she exclaimed.

Carver chuffed at her excitement and once more leaned in so he could explain how the sport was played. He kept pointing to different player positions, gesticulating, and detailing various general rules, while Merrill silently followed every move and word, her green eyes staying on his at all times. Perhaps it was his thick clothing, or all the flailing he was engaging in, but the warmth that spread through his chest was delightful and comforting.

“Ugh, will they ever score?” Varric’s voice trailed somewhere behind them.

“Probably never,” Carver grumbled in reply.

No matter how he looked at it, the game had been completely uneventful and even if one of the teams attempted going for a goal, they would probably get intercepted by the other's defense. Thankfully, this wasn’t a qualifying game or they’d be sitting here until another Blight.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement and turned to watch Merrill rub her bare hands together.

“Are you cold?” he asked inanely and tried not to roll his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course she was cold! She was rubbing her hands together and--

“A little,” she admitted and puffed some air into her clasped palms. “I didn’t think it would be this cold or I would have brought gloves.”

Carver frowned in concentration and ran a few solutions in his head. Without much debate, he unfurled the majority if his scarf and draped it around her tiny hands, and gave a few rubs just for a good measure.

“Does that help?” he asked.

For the first time since he could remember, Merrill actually broke eye contact and looked away. As Carver watched, fascinated, her cheeks turned a lovely pink color and her lips plumped with the way she worried them with teeth. She was such a perfect picture of feminine beauty, he forgot for a moment that he was supposed to be warming her up and just stared, flummoxed.

“Merrill, I--” he started, not sure what his mouth would say next.

“Hmmm?”

That’s when the noise erupted around them and they turned their attention to the field. One of the Kirkwall players had managed to intercept the ball and was currently running towards the opposite goal posts. Carver rose to his feet along with everybody else, though he made sure he still held Merrill’s hands in one of his, pulling her up with him.

“C’mon, Johnson!” he screamed towards the field. “Get it done!”

Next to him Merrill bounced in place with enthusiasm and it warmed his heart that while she hadn’t completely grasped the finer points of the game, she was still excited when their home team was doing well. With that thought in mind, he watched as the offensive team finally woke up from their coma and executed a play that was near-perfect and resulted in the first - and only - goal of the game.

“YES!” Carver roared his approval and the crowd around him erupted with cheers.

Next to him, Merrill whooped louder than he had ever heard her be and he turned to watch. It didn’t take long for her to notice, though, and she impulsively jumped towards him, throwing her hands around his neck. He easily caught her in his arms and held her tightly.

“We won!” she squeaked in excitement and smiled a huge smile.

The energy of the crowd must have gone to his head, because he kissed her then; pulled her closer into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. She stilled against him, but only for a breath, and then she was kissing him back, her mouth incredibly soft and pliant underneath his. Carver had a vague sense that people were cheering again, but he could not bring himself to care, he was so lost in her taste and touch.

Once they parted, he quickly became aware that they were the only two people still standing in the bleachers and their friends were unabashedly staring, their grins both satisfied and knowing. He gently set Merrill down on the ground and cast a look around; his brother sat two seats behind and kept grinning like a maniac.

“The game isn’t over. You’re blocking the view,” Garrett said with a smirk.

Carver immediately plopped down to his seat, but before Merrill could do the same, he pulled her into his lap and pressed her close to his chest.

“I’m not interested in watching the game,” he murmured into her neck.

She shuddered visibly and shifted, pressing her forehead against his.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They kept kissing long past the end of the game and endured a multitude of teasing on their way home; Merrill’s sweet expression after every kiss he bestowed upon her lips made it all worth it.