theluckywizard

[theluckywizard]

Leliana 🦊

3/4

[theluckywizard]

WIP Wednesday!

I was tagged by @briannasroger, thank you!

Here is a partially edited snippet from the fourth chapter of my Cullevelyan fic!

-

Lyria tries to focus on her breathing, steady and level to keep herself from falling apart, but there are so many people, all of them too close, with ears and eyes and-

“Did you find the privy alright?” Maura asks and Lyria forces herself to focus on Alim squeezing through the crowd to rejoin them. He nods with a scowl.

“Oh yes, and a mannerless mercenary. ‘Oi, knife-ear! Get me a drink!’” he mimics and Maura gasps in outrage.

“Did you set him on fire?” she demands and Alim snorts.

“I did think about it, but didn’t seem like it’d be all that conducive to the peace process.”

It’s a joke of course, but also…it isn’t. They’ve no choice but to swallow any outrage, accept any insult if they want to have a hope of peace. They are already at a disadvantage; any reaction other than placid docility will be used against them. It isn’t fair, but what about being a mage ever was?

“Right,” Maura says sourly, only for her eyes to light up. “Oh!You know that potion that nobles are always ordering to fix their itchy bits, but if you don’t have itchy bits, it gives you itchy bits? I say Lyria whips us up some tonight and tomorrow we make sure that mercenary gets a nice, big drink,” she says, grin wicked and face alight with glee. She slings an arm over Alim’s shoulders, her eyebrows waggling. Alim laughs and Lyria wants to too (and honestly, with that attitude, that mercenary deserves far worse than itchy bits), but she’s not sure she can open her mouth without screaming.

“And after,” Maura says, voice growing hard, “Lyria can explain to us how she survived when we didn’t.”

Dust choking her–blood on her clothes, on her hands–light blinding her, green and burning, and it is everywhere, everything–

Lyria wakes with a scream in her chest and terror on her tongue. 

Heart beating itself bloody against her ribs but she doesn’t make a sound, even as the nightmare presses down on all her limbs. It’s hand stays around her throat but she can’t wake the others, won’t, can’t, will not. This is her horror to carry, her memory even if the ending’s been twisted into something cruel. 

I’m sorry. Alim, Maura, I’m so sorry.

Lyria presses her face into her bedroll to muffle her tears.

-

I am tagging @celestialteapot @bibutterflies and @theluckywizard

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 88: A Stuttering Breath

Cullen x Trevelyan | Hawke x Treveyan | E | 478k WIP | DA:I | Epic | Multiship | Slow burn | Fast burn | Complications While Saving the World

Chapter Summary:

While Garrett and Blackwall make for Val Foret to negotiate for siege, Rose and Cullen brace themselves for Adamant.

Fic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan is in over her head. Her attendance at the Conclave was only meant to distract her from her failures as a daughter. And then it blew a hole in the world. Marked by an unknown magic, armed with only a few relevant skills, Rose fumbles and fights her way across Thedas with a band of shockingly deadly oddballs dedicated to stopping— well, all of it. As apocalyptic forces conspire to break and remake her, Rose is snared between the tentative devotion of the Inquisition’s stalwart commander and the fierce love of legendary warrior Garrett Hawke, two vastly different men both haunted by hindsight.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Sweeping back toward the command post from an inspection of the growing Inquisition camp on the flats outside the fortress with Rylen, Cullen sees her watching him— brazen hands braiding black satin hair over her shoulder as those cold coffee eyes look him up and down. Dread makes an appearance as a quickening in his chest. He jolts awkwardly left so a column blocks her vantage point.

“Did you just— hide?” asks Rylen. Cullen stiffens.

“What? No. There was a— wasp.”

“That Warden gave you the Antivan Once-Over and you darted into the colonnade. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Cullen wilts underneath Rylen’s wry look. His shoulders sag.

He’s felt nothing but regret since that foolish moment— failing to temper his own miserable desperation, failing to be available during a Maker-damned prison break, letting it go on and on until her hands blazed a scorching trail beneath his shirt, until they’d been interrupted by a Scout before he could stop her himself.

“You’ve needed a bloody distraction.”

“I need to stay focused.”

“Aw, you know what I mean. From you-know-who.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Knight-Captain.”

They continue walking toward the command post.

Rylen makes an ill-advised decision to speak again. “She was—” He cocks his head with wide eyes and lifts his brow, nodding. Cullen grumbles.

“She is a conflict of interest.”

“I was going to say ‘stacked like the Divine’s balcony’, but whatever feeds your dog.”

“Did you leave your shame back at Skyhold with Lara?” asks Cullen, smiling despite himself.

“Touchy aren’t we?” chuckles Rylen. “I’ll ease off. Give me the bloody update.”

The map buckles when a breeze snatches at it, sending figurines toppling. Cullen curses at the inconvenience as the two men throw more stones on top.

“I’ve had ravens from the battalions en route. Celene’s support has made progress swift, we should have the first, third, and fifth battalions here by the end of the week. We’ll set up encampments closer to Lost Wash Creek and march them in to for the siege once the fruits of Hawke’s negotiations come through.”

“Are you confident in those?”

Cullen taps a knuckle against his lips. “Reasonably so. The empress is aware of the plan and has forwarded her wishes to the Doucy. Maker knows he doesn’t need the siege. And the Inquisition has promised to reimburse him for engines lost.”

“Bring the fortress to its knees, send in the Inquisitor to negotiate.”

“Exactly so.” The worry that’s been souring his gut since— well, since Haven, sharpens once more. She’s no negotiator and yet, she’s done it time and again. She’s no warrior and yet she’s survived over and over.

“I’ll be escorting her in myself.”

“Do you think that’s best?” asks Rylen, brow pinched.

“Without her, what’s left?” says Cullen. He rubs at the ache cracking open behind his eyes, hoping Rylen doesn’t examine that statement too closely. “You’ll assume command in my stead.”

“Shouldn’t she be here?”

“She’s training with Solas.”

“I didn’t think she was a mage.”

Maker, he wishes that were all.

“It’s worse. She’s a dreamer.”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

Tag List (ping me if you'd like to be added for updates!)

@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur

@ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb

@oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe

@agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @plisuu @hekaerges

@queenaeducan-writes

[theluckywizard]

Sanguine

is a loosely canonical chronicle of the events of Dragon Age: Origins with an F!Amell/Alistair pairing featuring a canon-bending Warden, which results in some familiar situations resolved in unfamiliar ways.

Sanguine is fully illustrated by the exceptional @vjatoch and is being published in a serial format, with weekly updates every Wednesday.

CHAPTER 35

in which our crew brave the trials of the Anvil of the Void to find a resolution to the political stalemate facing Orzammar.

Read chapter 35 on AO3!

Start from the beginning!

Sign up for the tag list by commenting below to get tagged on weekly update posts on tumblr! Alternatively, you can follow the tag #ssfp sanguine!

Tag List:

❀ @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @bluewren @breninarthur

❀ @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb

❀ @theluckywizard @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe

❀ @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @plisuu @hekaerges

❀ @queenaeducan-writes @volkoss

❀ @skinwalkingxana @raflesia65 @gflscer

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 88: A Stuttering Breath

Cullen x Trevelyan | Hawke x Treveyan | E | 478k WIP | DA:I | Epic | Multiship | Slow burn | Fast burn | Complications While Saving the World

Chapter Summary:

While Garrett and Blackwall make for Val Foret to negotiate for siege, Rose and Cullen brace themselves for Adamant.

Fic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan is in over her head. Her attendance at the Conclave was only meant to distract her from her failures as a daughter. And then it blew a hole in the world. Marked by an unknown magic, armed with only a few relevant skills, Rose fumbles and fights her way across Thedas with a band of shockingly deadly oddballs dedicated to stopping— well, all of it. As apocalyptic forces conspire to break and remake her, Rose is snared between the tentative devotion of the Inquisition’s stalwart commander and the fierce love of legendary warrior Garrett Hawke, two vastly different men both haunted by hindsight.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Sweeping back toward the command post from an inspection of the growing Inquisition camp on the flats outside the fortress with Rylen, Cullen sees her watching him— brazen hands braiding black satin hair over her shoulder as those cold coffee eyes look him up and down. Dread makes an appearance as a quickening in his chest. He jolts awkwardly left so a column blocks her vantage point.

“Did you just— hide?” asks Rylen. Cullen stiffens.

“What? No. There was a— wasp.”

“That Warden gave you the Antivan Once-Over and you darted into the colonnade. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Cullen wilts underneath Rylen’s wry look. His shoulders sag.

He’s felt nothing but regret since that foolish moment— failing to temper his own miserable desperation, failing to be available during a Maker-damned prison break, letting it go on and on until her hands blazed a scorching trail beneath his shirt, until they’d been interrupted by a Scout before he could stop her himself.

“You’ve needed a bloody distraction.”

“I need to stay focused.”

“Aw, you know what I mean. From you-know-who.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Knight-Captain.”

They continue walking toward the command post.

Rylen makes an ill-advised decision to speak again. “She was—” He cocks his head with wide eyes and lifts his brow, nodding. Cullen grumbles.

“She is a conflict of interest.”

“I was going to say ‘stacked like the Divine’s balcony’, but whatever feeds your dog.”

“Did you leave your shame back at Skyhold with Lara?” asks Cullen, smiling despite himself.

“Touchy aren’t we?” chuckles Rylen. “I’ll ease off. Give me the bloody update.”

The map buckles when a breeze snatches at it, sending figurines toppling. Cullen curses at the inconvenience as the two men throw more stones on top.

“I’ve had ravens from the battalions en route. Celene’s support has made progress swift, we should have the first, third, and fifth battalions here by the end of the week. We’ll set up encampments closer to Lost Wash Creek and march them in to for the siege once the fruits of Hawke’s negotiations come through.”

“Are you confident in those?”

Cullen taps a knuckle against his lips. “Reasonably so. The empress is aware of the plan and has forwarded her wishes to the Doucy. Maker knows he doesn’t need the siege. And the Inquisition has promised to reimburse him for engines lost.”

“Bring the fortress to its knees, send in the Inquisitor to negotiate.”

“Exactly so.” The worry that’s been souring his gut since— well, since Haven, sharpens once more. She’s no negotiator and yet, she’s done it time and again. She’s no warrior and yet she’s survived over and over.

“I’ll be escorting her in myself.”

“Do you think that’s best?” asks Rylen, brow pinched.

“Without her, what’s left?” says Cullen. He rubs at the ache cracking open behind his eyes, hoping Rylen doesn’t examine that statement too closely. “You’ll assume command in my stead.”

“Shouldn’t she be here?”

“She’s training with Solas.”

“I didn’t think she was a mage.”

Maker, he wishes that were all.

“It’s worse. She’s a dreamer.”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

Tag List (ping me if you'd like to be added for updates!)

@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur

@ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb

@oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe

@agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @plisuu @hekaerges

@queenaeducan-writes

[theluckywizard]

"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."

(commissions open!)

[theluckywizard]

This is the end result of anti-trans propaganda: more harassment of girls and women, more policing of gender roles, more gender McCarthyism.

[theluckywizard]

It’s so crazy that suicide prevention is just people going awwww don’t!! Awwww come on noooooooooo stopppppp

[theluckywizard]

Doing a Jowan and Surana of 'Dragon Age Origins circle mage'-fame retrospective in 2025, yep.

[theluckywizard]

Its a cool idea but don't think Vivienne would care enough about the Inquisitor or Dorian to do that. She has no reason to stick around after the game ends

that post was actually specifically based on this dialogue from the trespasser dlc, where we see vivienne clearly showing concern for the inquisitor and at the very least a willingness to work together with dorian to help them! and i'd have to very firmly disagree on the idea that vivienne doesn't care about dorian or the inquisitor. like. very firmly, lol.

[theluckywizard]

Chapters: 43/43 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: The Iron Bull (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Female Inquisitor/The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor & Solas (Dragon Age) Characters: Mira Foret, Leliana (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan (Dragon Age), Cassandra Pentaghast, Varric Tethras, Solas (Dragon Age), Cremisius “Krem” Aclassi, The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Original Characters, Vivienne (Dragon Age), Sera (Dragon Age), Josephine Montilyet, Dorian Pavus, Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Merrill (Dragon Age), Loghain Mac Tir, Cole (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford, Kieran (Dragon Age), Morrigan (Dragon Age), Flemeth (Dragon Age), Corypheus (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Modern Girl in Thedas, Established Relationship, Open Relationships, Aromantic spectrum, Mira Is a Charger and a Healer, Mira Has Some Knowledge of Events, Explicit Sexual Content, Size Difference, Service Top Bull, soft domming, Aftercare, Just Because Bull is a Masochist Doesn’t Mean He’s a Sadist, Eye Trauma, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Found Family, Childbirth, Background Relationships, Platonic love is important too, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note Series: Part 2 of Driftwood Summary:

Mira Foret has left behind her life with the Chargers. But that was only the beginning of her tale. The Inquisition awaits.

NSFW will be marked with**. Beta’d by Iron_Angel.

Updates on Mondays. Now complete!

Chapter 43 -  Look Ahead, Not Behind**

Mira woke suddenly in the dark one night, the silence in her head more shocking than the constant susurrus of the Well had been.  She left Bull in their bed and went out to the balcony, wrapped in her dressing gown against the night air.  Somewhere, distant and hidden, Solas had taken the life force of Flemeth.  She knew it down to her bones.

She stared out into the Frostbacks, shivering slightly even though it was not as cold as it would have been without the magical protection of Skyhold around her.  The tide had turned.  But whether or not that was in her favor was unknown.

The Dread Wolf had risen.  The end was just another beginning.

Keep reading

[theluckywizard]

I love you Sebago, I would die for you Sebago

[theluckywizard]

fenhawke brainrot hit out of nowhere so. yeah

(tip jar! // comms status)

[theluckywizard]

a Morrigan piece from last year~

I kinda wanna repaint this piece honestly.. but I still genuinely love it..

[theluckywizard]

BOB HICOK

[theluckywizard]

For CULLEN AND LUCANIS 👀👀👀 "Show me how great is your will to survive." (Epic prompts) AND Respects survival of the fittest (solar system prompts)

Thank you for the prompt; I really wanted to shove these two into a scene and see what happened lol.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1457

---

The Crow had skill, but lacked discipline.

Cullen felt a headache coming on every time he ran practice drills and saw the name Dellamorte on the recruit roster. There was a reason the Inquisition had never dealt with the infamous Antivan Crows. They had too much pride, and were too accustomed to acting with impunity. In Cullen’s mind, they were little better than mercenaries. Those who sold their blades to the highest bidder were all the same, whether they had fancy titles or not.

Worse, add one to a standing army and disaster was all but assured. Cullen did the arounds around their new training grounds, in a copse of woods outside Val Royeaux. Captain Rylen was in tow, taking notes on the Aviary soldiers who had qualified for the springtime war games. As usual, when they reached the battalion containing Lucanis Dellamorte, the black-clad Crow stood apart with lethal smugness, examining a dagger while the rest scowled in his general direction.

“What’s going on here?” Cullen asked, although he already had an inkling.

“The Crow broke formation,” complained one of the soldiers, the son of a man Cullen had known since Kirkwall. “We had a plan, and he deviated.”

“I had to improvise,” Lucanis shot back. “We would have never captured the flag if someone didn’t act.”

“You were supposed to be protecting the flank. We were sitting ducks on that hill. If you hadn’t climbed that tree—”

“The other team would have won,” Lucanis insisted.

“Enough,” Cullen cut in. Rylen stood beside him, taking copious notes on his clipboard and parchment. Their section on Lucanis was already ten pages long. “Dellamorte, see me inside my tent.”

Lucanis gave Cullen an exacting glare and didn’t move.

Cullen narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t a suggestion, agent.”

He turned, nodding to Rylen, who knew to continue the inspection alone. Cullen strode toward his tent on the edge of the meadow. He heard a muttering in Antivan as Lucanis followed. “You’re lucky I don’t understand what names you’re calling me,” Cullen added, “though I don’t think it’ll save you from a reprimand.”

After that, the younger man fell silent.

The general’s tent reminded Cullen of the old days in Haven, something that filled him with both nostalgia and trepidation. The failures of the early Inquisition still haunted him, though he reminded himself that this time they had much better backing in the form of the Divine. Leliana herself had negotiated this space for the Aviary’s army, now that they were on good terms with Empress Celene. The reason for this followed Cullen through the tent flap like a cold, black wind.

Cullen sat down heavily at his desk, scattered with maps, missives, and requisition reports. His faithful mabari, Garlic, lie on the rug in front of the wood stove. Lucanis’s stoic demeanor flickered slightly when he noticed the dog. That was right; Thalia had told Cullen — after the inner council meeting when they’d argued about letting the Crow enlist in the first place, she had found Lucanis in one of the Grand Cathedral’s many courtyards, making fast friends with Garlic. This had, for some bizarre reason, given her sufficient reason to accept the Crow into their ranks. Cullen had not been swayed, but knew when both Leliana and Thalia were against him, there was little he could do. And now he was dealing with the consequences.

Garlic lifted his head, looking eagerly at Lucanis while his butt began to wiggle. Cullen shook his head and said sharply, “Hey.” Whining, Garlic lowered his head again, looking up at Cullen with sad eyes. Cullen stifled a sigh; he wasn’t going to let a mabari undercut his own authority to one of his soldiers.

Cullen folded his hands on the desk’s surface and studied Lucanis. He was of a lither and lankier build than the stock that used to become Templars. He had a narrow face, long hair tied back, and despite sporting a full beard, an adolescent quality to his slouching shoulders and sulking silences.

“Well,” Cullen said sternly, “would you like to explain yourself?”

Experience had taught him to give the soldier the floor, to listen before judging — as hard as it was with this one. They had dealt with Lucanis inconsistently since he’d joined, to everyone’s detriment. At first, the agreement was that the Crow was to be treated the same as any low level recruit, skill level aside. That would, Cullen had hoped, teach him to respect his new institution. But behavioral problems had plagued Lucanis Dellamorte since day one. Instead of disciplining him properly, Leliana had awarded him and that hanger-on cousin of his a special contract to assassinate the exiled Gaspard de Chalons. The success of which had clearly gone to his head.

“You have put children in charge of your war games,” Lucanis said, without a hint of deference. “They could not analyze a tactical map if the Maker himself came to offer guidance.”

Cullen sighed. “Perhaps you’ve failed to grasp the point of a war game, Agent Dellamorte. It’s that so everyone involved can learn something.”

Lucanis stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Ser Caleb is your battalion captain, yes?” Cullen prompted. He was indeed young, barely one-and-twenty, but he had a good head on his shoulders and a proper sense of duty. Of the kind that would have thrived in the Templar Order before its dissolution.

“Yeah,” Lucanis said suspiciously, as if being lured into a trap.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe we gave him the position so that he could practice the skills you’re criticizing him for not having developed yet?”

Lucanis blinked, a confused scowl crossing his face. “That is not a pragmatic move.”

“Why? Because among your kind, the subpar are simply eliminated before they can learn?”

Lucanis opened his mouth and closed it again. Cullen leaned back in his seat, suppressing a satisfied smirk.

“That is not what I meant,” Lucanis said finally.

“Isn’t it?” Cullen crossed his arms over his chest.

Lucanis sniffed and looked at his boots.

“You aren’t dealing with the Crows anymore,” Cullen reminded him. “Here, we are trying to develop soldiers’ potential, not ruthlessly weed out those who don’t measure up. You should be grateful for that; it’s the only reason you’re still here.”

Lucanis looked up sharply, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course I know you can plan infiltrations better than anyone here,” Cullen continued. “Have you stopped for one second to wonder what exactly it was we wanted you to learn in this exercise?”

Lucanis glanced, absurdly, toward Garlic, as if the mabari could provide some insight. When all Garlic did was open his mouth and happily slobber on the carpet, Lucanis returned his gaze to Cullen.

“No,” he admitted, begrudgingly.

“Teamwork, for a start,” Cullen replied. “And how to take orders.”

“I know these things,” Lucanis protested.

Cullen snorted. “Working with your cousin — what’s his name? Illario? That doesn’t count. Two assassins aren’t a team. And if you knew how to take an order, I suspect you wouldn’t be here in the first place. You’d still be in Antiva, serving your grandmother. Or am I wrong?”

Lucanis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He took to pacing the small space between Cullen’s desk and the wood stove, making Garlic watch him with interest, head volleying back and forth.

“You are not wrong,” Lucanis admitted at last.

“Our fight against Solas is just beginning,” Cullen said softly. “If you want to be able to participate in it, you will need to unlearn most of the tactics that make you such a formidable solo fighter. Or at least recognize when to turn them on and off.”

The Crow shot him an incredulous look, but eventually, his eyes softened. “Fine. Fine.” He glanced toward the tent flap. “Am I dismissed?”

“Not yet,” Cullen said, grabbing for a free piece of parchment and a quill. He scribbled quickly once he located his ink pot. “Kitchen and cleanup duty for the next week. And be thankful it’s not longer.”

Lucanis scowled. “Yes.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, General.”

“Better.” Cullen held out the missive. “Give this to the cook when you report for duty.”

Lucanis snatched it and tucked it away in his long black coat.

“Now you’re free to go,” Cullen said.

The Crow didn’t move.

“Anything else?” Cullen prompted him.

“Mm.” Lucanis’s gaze dropped to Garlic. “May I…?” His hand twitched in the air above the mabari.

Cullen snapped, “No.”

“Right. Bye.” The assassin whirled, slipping soundlessly out of the tent.

Garlic fixed Cullen with an imploring stare and whined. Cullen reached down to scratch behind his ears. “You have got to stop making me look bad, boy,” he grumbled.

[theluckywizard]

A whumpy prompt from @corvuskiss with aid from @rosella-writes: no holds barred beatdown >:]

Please enjoy Connor beating the everliving daylights out of Michel de Chevin over some The Masked Empire stuff that basically changed the course of Connor's life forever.

tw: graphic(ish) violence, injuries, blood, ptsd

wc: 800 @dadrunkwriting

Connor’s footsteps are measured as he stalks down the halls of Skyhold. Measured, deliberate, and furious. He can feel the anger coursing through his blood, biting with the burn of lyrium alongside it as he walks towards the gardens, his injuries all but forgotten, reduced to a minor annoyance.

He didn’t believe it, at first, when the report crossed his desk. He thought it was delirium, perhaps a misunderstanding—he had hoped it was a mistake, skimming the words as the ink on the page swam in his vision. Dalish names. Clan Virnehn. Briala. Celene. Events that lead up to Halamshiral, to the Civil war in Orlais.

He understood it well enough. Leliana had been thorough in her explanation, but this was a first hand account from Michel de Chevin, who had been recruited in Emprise and now worked with the Inquisition.

Connor read the fine Orlesian script once more in stunned disbelief.

Imshael was free because I made a mistake.

A mistake. A mistake that cost everything, that would remain etched across Connor’s face and on his skin and in his blood, that leaves him in fits of panic and flashbacks as his hands shake and he reached for the vial he now keeps at his desk, next to the little carved face of Andraste he can no longer bear to look at.

A mistake that leaves him barely able to breathe as he stands, rage caught in his tightening throat, and he walks with measured steps to where he knows the disgraced Chevalier loiters in the early mornings. He sweeps his gaze across the courtyard, searching, and he knows there are be others there at this hour—Chantry sisters, Mother Giselle—but they are reduced to faint blurs of motion as he spots Michel and his vision tunnels.

“Inquisitor,” Michel greets him. There is confusion and concern in his expression, despite the politeness of his tone.

“You freed Imshael,” Connor accuses simply, voice low and steady, monotone. The calm before a storm.

Michel shrinks back a half-measure, stepping away, before straightening to meet his stare. A fallen champion, but a champion nevertheless.

“You read the report, then,” he replies with a sigh, a slight gesture to try and break the tension.

Connor does not budge.

“You freed Imshael,” he repeats, stepping closer. Michel takes another step back.

“It was a mistake,” he offers, but Connor is no longer listening. He feels the sharpness of red lyrium—its shrieking song, embedded in his side, bleeding, burning—he sees Imshael—the placid smile plastered across the demon’s face as ribs crack and crunch between boots and ice—and he lunges.

No one but the Chantry sisters are there to witness his moment of weakness. Later, when his rationality returns, he will be thankful for it, but in the moment, he can only see the blonde hair between flashes of blood, blame splattered across stone as Connor’s knuckles split on contact with bone—once, twice, again, again—his shoulder screams with effort, torn muscle so recently healed after bearing the brunt of his weight for days on end, twisted out of place—he feels it slip now, but the pain is dull compared to his rage, dull like the thud of knees hitting the ground, a body beneath them, unable to escape—Imshael is there again, taunting, sneering—the pain ignites, lancing through his jaw as he grits his teeth.

Michel’s defense proves useless against his onslaught, pinned beneath the Inquisitor’s weight, arms raised now only to protect his face but barely succeeding. Connor is bigger than him, stronger than him, even injured there is lyrium and magic and unfettered fury coursing through his veins, seeping through the bandages wrapped around his torso and blooming through his shirt, red on red, Michel’s guilt staining his sleeves.

“A mistake,” Connor repeats back, over and over, with each blow that lands. A mistake. All of this, because of his mistake. The torture, the cold, the red lyrium. Weston. A mistake.

Connor’s chest hurts as he heaves for air, lungs crackling with infection, an ache that spills into dry sobs as he is finally pulled away, strong hands lifting him from Michel’s unmoving form. He is shaking, unsteady as he stands—one of his knees give out and he nearly collapses—there are voices, close but far, as more hands catch him, cool hands on his forehead, more hands, too many—he pulls away blindly and stumbles.

He half-hears Giselle’s apology, the clamor of footsteps fading as he stares blankly at the mess of his hands, unsure how much of the blood is his own as it drips from his fingers to the floor. He lets himself be guided to a bench nearby, hears Cassandra’s sharp tone tone directing others around the area, and Cullen’s voice beneath hers. He closes his eyes and breathes.

A mistake.