#Made Marian | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wonder-worker · 27 days

Text

Margaret of Anjou’s visit to Coventry [in 1456], which was part of her dower and that of her son, Edward of Lancaster, was much more elaborate. It essentially reasserted Lancastrian power. The presence of Henry and the infant Edward was recognised in the pageantry. The ceremonial route between the Bablake gate and the commercial centre was short, skirting the area controlled by the cathedral priory, but it made up for its brevity with no fewer than fourteen pageants. Since Coventry had an established cycle of mystery plays, there were presumably enough local resources and experience to mount an impressive display; but one John Wetherby was summoned from Leicester to compose verses and stage the scenes. As at Margaret’s coronation the iconography was elaborate, though it built upon earlier developments.

Starting at Bablake gate, next to the Trinity Guild church of St. Michael, Bablake, the party was welcomed with a Tree of Jesse, set up on the gate itself, with the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah explaining the symbolism. Outside St. Michael’s church the party was greeted by Edward the Confessor and St. John the Evangelist; and proceeding to Smithford Street, they found on the conduit the four Cardinal Virtues—Righteousness (Justice?), Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude. In Cross Cheaping wine flowed freely, as in London, and angels stood on the cross, censing Margaret as she passed. Beyond the cross was pitched a series of pageants, each displaying one of the Nine Worthies, who offered to serve Margaret. Finally, the queen was shown a pageant of her patron saint, Margaret, slaying the dragon [which 'turned out to be strictly an intercessor on the queen's behalf', as Helen Maurer points out].

The meanings here are complex and have been variously interpreted. An initial reading of the programme found a message of messianic kingship: the Jesse tree equating royal genealogy with that of Christ had been used at the welcome for Henry VI on his return from Paris in 1432. A more recent, feminist view is that the symbolism is essentially Marian, and to be associated with Margaret both as queen and mother of the heir rather than Henry himself. The theme is shared sovereignty, with Margaret equal to her husband and son. Ideal kingship was symbolised by the presence of Edward the Confessor, but Margaret was the person to whom the speeches were specifically addressed and she, not Henry, was seen as the saviour of the house of Lancaster. This reading tips the balance too far the other way: the tableau of Edward the Confessor and St. John was a direct reference to the legend of the Ring and the Pilgrim, one of Henry III’s favourite stories, which was illustrated in Westminster Abbey, several of his houses, and in manuscript. It symbolised royal largesse, and its message at Coventry would certainly have encompassed the reigning king. Again, the presence of allegorical figures, first used for Henry, seems to acknowledge his presence. Yet, while the message of the Coventry pageants was directed at contemporary events it emphasised Margaret’s motherhood and duties as queen; and it was expressed as a traditional spiritual journey from the Old Testament, via the incarnation represented by the cross, to the final triumph over evil, with the help of the Virgin, allegory, and the Worthies. The only true thematic innovation was the commentary by the prophets.

[...] The messages of the pageants firmly reminded the royal women of their place as mothers and mediators, honoured but subordinate. Yet, if passive, these young women were not without significance. It is clear from the pageantry of 1392 and 1426 in London and 1456 in Coventry that when a crisis needed to be resolved, the queen (or regent’s wife) was accorded extra recognition. Her duty as mediator—or the good aspect of a misdirected man—suddenly became more than a pious wish. At Coventry, Margaret of Anjou was even presented as the rock upon which the monarchy rested. [However,] a crisis had to be sensed in order to provoke such emphasis [...]."

-Nicola Coldstream, "Roles of Women in Late Medieval Civic Pageantry," "Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'Makers' of Medieval Art and Culture"

#historicwomendaily #margaret of anjou #my post #henry vi #yeah I don't necessarily agree with Laynesmith's interpretation (that it was essentially Marian with an emphasis on shared sovereignty)#which she herself says is 'admittedly very speculative'#as this book points out that interpretation tips the balance too far on the other side and has a somewhat selective reading #It's also important to remember that this interpretation was not really reflected across wider Lancastrian propaganda at the time #which isn't really talked about - let alone emphasized - as much by historians but remained focused on the King #For example: look at the pro-Lancastrian poem 'The Ship of State' which hails Henry VI as a 'noble shyp made of good tree'#and emphasizes how he was widely supported and defended by many great Lancastrian lords and the crown prince #but not Margaret who was entirely absent #also look at the book 'Knyghthode and Bataile' (presented to Henry) and Fortescue's various pro-Lancastrian texts in the 1460s #even the recording of that Yorkist trial which was iirc reported in the 1459 attainder #all of these were entirely conventional and highlighted the presence and importance of the King. Margaret was not emphasized.#so either the Lancastrians were impossibly inconsistent about what message they actually wanted to convey about the role of their own queen #or the Coventry pageants were not actually meant to emphasize Margaret in the lieu of Laynesmith's interpretation #and would not have been viewed in such a manner by contemporaries #I think we should also keep in mind that we don't really know what Henry VI's condition was like at the time of MoA's entry to Coventry #we know he had been injured in St. Albans and had only just recovered from his second illness #this is especially important to consider since we know he had also arrived at Coventry before Margaret but much more discreetly #and was not welcomed by any pageants that we know of. This is VERY unusual and can be best explained if we consider the fact that he #may have simply not been in the right state (be it physical or state of mind) for it at the time #in which case the pageants for Margaret should be viewed as more of a improvisation/cover-up/temporary measure to bolster prestige #or Henry may have deliberately taken a more discreet role to emphasize the position of his heir - especially important after the long wait #imo I think Kipling's interpretation (ie: that they addressed Margaret but really referenced the prince & heir) makes a lot more sense:#'Coventry [...] regarded Margaret's entry as a kind of triumph-by-proxy: the Queen entered the city but Coventry received its Prince'#though I think he tends to view Margaret as more of a cipher (and has a very questionable view of Henry VI) which I also don't agree with.#The pageants very much DID focus on and reference her but they most prominently emphasized her 'motherhood and duties as queen'#ie: I think Kipling and Laynesmith tip too far on opposite sides and I think this interpretation takes the most realistic middle ground

10 notes · View notes

yurozo · 2 months

Text

a study in silence (fenhawke)

(e) fenris is selfish for loving hawke the way he does, but can't help but forever remain in her orbit. circling in her presence, but never getting close enough to taste it. he's simply accepted that hawke is something that will always remain out of his reach, until she reaches for him first. fem!hawke and fenris romance, in the moments between.

1. Fenris lingers in the Hawke mansion for far longer than usual, lounging near the fireplace in relative silence. Marian and him were never ones for rushing through a good bottle of wine; it was always an unspoken rule between them, even when they could rarely agree on anything. He nurses the wine glass with an uncharacteristic languidness while he pretends not to notice the way Hawke is watching him out of the corner of her eye. He watches her just as sneakily in turn, at how her legs stretch out on the couch opposite him and how her arm flexes when she lifts her glass.

He feels a sort of shaky relief that he’s performing in the act of indulging something after all the years of having nothing. They have that in common, he supposes. Hawke tries to break the silence, chattering on about some recent adventure of theirs that Fenris had definitely been on. Regardless, Fenris lets her go on, watching her with a keen eye and a curled lip that looks suspiciously fond. Despite the fact he’s a man usually prone to quiet, his demeanor always stone and sly, Fenris finds a particular calmness in her endless discussions of whatever comes to her head. Ultimately, Fenris is a weak man only for her, in the way she provides a form of relief for him– Fenris can simply sit and enjoy her endless meandering and take sips out of her glass when she pretends she’s not looking.

“Are you staying the night?” Hawke breaks the lull in her story, looking over at him with an expression Fenris can’t decipher.

“I suppose.” Fenris answers, still staring down at his glass. “The walk is far too long to make at this time of night.”

Hawke snorts at that. “Ah, yes. Walking to the other end of the street too much of a labor?”

“Exactly.” There’s a bit of a sly grin on his face. “Not after this much wine.”

Fenris doesn’t want to think about how much of a habit he’s made of staying the night at her place, sleeping stiffly in her armchair and trying desperately not to think about what she looks like in her bed. That every single time he will lie and tell her that sleeping there was comfortable, and the smile that she gives him will ultimately ease the ache in his muscles. The knowledge of Hawke in clothes other than her armor is enough to keep him out of the bedroom, because Fenris knows deep down he does not have enough self-control to be a gentleman about it. And knowing Hawke, she’s most likely sprawled out under her sheets, her dog curled up at her feet. The thought makes him smile anyways.

“You can sleep up in my room if you like.” Hawke’s voice lowers, and she looks away from him to stare down at her hands. “I do hate to see you sleeping on the chair like that.”

There’s a long silence that stretches between them, one that feels different than the others. It’s like a thick fog that settles on Fenris’ shoulders, clouding his better judgment. It’s a line that they’ve never dared to cross, despite their budding friendship over the years. Sure, Fenris has dragged her back home after a particularly tough venture outside of the city, or more often than not back from The Hanged Man. Despite this, he had never dared to cross the threshold into her bedroom. It felt private, like a barrier that always kept their friendship from developing into something more.

But then again, Fenris is a weak, weak man.

“Alright.” He answers, taking another sip of his wine. “I don’t believe the dog will fit on the bed with us.”

Hawke laughs. “He can survive sleeping on the ground for one night.”

They head up to the bedroom minutes later, once the bottle of wine has been thoroughly indulged. Fenris follows at her heels like a puppy, his fingertips lightly tapping against his thigh. Hawke pays no mind to it, opening the door for the both of them and gesturing to him to walk in first. Fenris takes a deep breath, and passes the threshold.

The first thing he notices is that the room is more sparse than he expected. There’s very little personal belongings in her room, save for a journal and scattered pieces of armor. Hawke had never been one for keeping things for herself, often being annoyingly generous with her gift-giving. He had been at the receiving end of it far too many times for him to count.

He lets Hawke climb into bed first while he takes off the remaining pieces of his armor. Fenris takes his time carefully placing it into the corner of the room, waiting for Hawke to change her mind. She doesn’t, and instead watches him undress with a sly grin on her face. He gives her a slightly scolding look, and she dramatically turns her head with a smile.

“Enjoying the view?” He climbs into bed, rolling his eyes playfully.

“Just admiring the Maker-given gifts.” She smiles back, settling under the covers.

Fenris lets out a light scoff, turning to face her. “I didn’t take you for an Andrastian.”

“I’m not.” Hawke answers simply, facing him as well. “But some sights almost make you believe.”

Fenris knows that part is true, at least. The sight of her once again, of Hawke lounging in her bed in something other than the armor he normally sees her in is enough to make even the most sadistic man believe in something more. Something pure and unbidden that Fenris is just self-hating enough to believe he will never deserve. Hawke had always been something that felt just outside of his grasp– humble enough to humor him with their friendship, but always too good for him to have. He’s thought about running away, about leaving Kirkwall and Hawke behind for good, but Fenris is selfish. There is no better fitting punishment for a man like him; to want something so badly, to hold it and feel it in his arms, and know that he is never going to be worthy of it. It’s a constant push and pull, a tease of something more without ever crossing the boundary.

There’s that silence again. That forgiving, comfortable silence between them that Fenris is too familiar with.

Hawke reaches over, unthinking, and presses a soft fingertip to Fenris’ face. He doesn’t move, too frightened to move, as her hand slowly cups the edge of his jaw. Another moment passes, his gaze crooked, before he wraps his hand around her wrist. His movements are slow– careful, like approaching an animal you wouldn’t want to scare away. Fenris is many things, cold and cruel and heartless; but here, in this moment, he’s vulnerable. He’s gentle.

It should stop being a surprise at this point, Fenris thinks, that she can so easily convince anyone to bend to her whims.

It still doesn’t prevent how his heartbeats trips and doubles over itself as she shuffles closer to him, the warmth of her thigh sinking into his skin. Ordinarily, he would move away. He’s too familiar with affection being used as a form of control, too familiar with the cold sting of a lash against his back. But this feels different, her hands are soft and warm and everything that Fenris is not.

There are certain things in the catch of a breath, in the flex of a muscle that had always entranced him. An unspoken language, one that says so much with so little sound. For all the talking Hawke does, she can appreciate Fenris’ silence in a way few can. In the moments before, Hawke looks down at Fenris’ wrist and studies the skin there– tanned and thin, his lilac veins too close to the surface. Nothing about Fenris had ever seemed fragile until now, when he’s peering at her with too large eyes and a strange sort of vulnerability.

Hawke leans forward and presses her lips to his. There’s no spark, no fireworks, no final piece fitting into the puzzle. It’s peaceful, and it’s gentle, and it’s silent. There’s no sound in the room except for the light puff of air that escapes Fenris’ nostrils, and the soft sigh that leaves Hawke’s mouth.

Perhaps the silence isn’t so bad.

In a moment, it changes. What was once gentle turns into something more. Flurried hands pull at his chest, greedy and wanting. Because her every whim is his purpose, and because his purpose is somewhat clouded and inhibited– Fenris complies. Under the endless staccato refrain of you should not be doing this and Hawke deserves better, Fenris' heart feels like it’s alive for the first time. Everything about this feels good, and he is selfish to the core.

“Curse you, Hawke.” He finally grumbles, their lips just inches from each other. She looks at him curiously, but the glimmer in her eyes gives her intentions away.

“That’s not the common reaction I get from people after kissing them.” Hawke laughs; bright and cheerful and happy. “What brought that on?”

“You made me need you.” He whispers, looking into her eyes with that look of vulnerability again. Hawke’s hand wanders to the back of his neck, and she pulls him in for another kiss.

“The feeling is mutual.” She smiles against his lips, and this time it’s Fenris that moves in first.

When he walks out the door that night, he leaves his heart behind the threshold, and tries not to cry at his first unselfish deed.

2. The silence is different after that. It’s stilted and awkward, and everyone else has begun to notice. Even Hawke is uncharacteristically silent, in a way that only Fenris can hear. They’re walking through Darktown, trying to find another damned sewer to crawl through when Varric finally says something.

“So, are you going to spill the details?” He asks, looking up at Fenris with a wry smile. Fenris only looks back at him with what can only be described as an expression of scathing anger, and Varric holds his hands up in surrender. “Just need some details for the novel, you know how much my readers love the tragic romance.”

“There is no romance to speak of.” He answers quickly, perhaps a little too quickly for his liking. Varric glances over at Hawke, then at Fenris, and his expression turns thoughtful. Fenris scowls. “Whatever you are writing in your head, stop it.”

Varric simply laughs, and re-adjusts his crossbow. “Alright, broody. I’ll drop it. But I care about Hawke. Try not to let her suffer for too much longer, yeah?”

Fenris looks ahead, and pretends he didn’t hear him.

3. He can tell Hawke is suffering. He can see it in the tears building in her eyes, her sluggish movements. The walk back from Foundry is silent again, and none of the other party members have the courage to speak. Fenris watches Hawke walk into her mansion with a conflicted look on her face, before Varric pats him firmly on the back.

“Go talk to her.” Varric’s voice is firmer than usual. “It’s best if it’s you.”

Fenris nods at Varric in thanks, and opens the front door. The moment it shuts, the first thing he notices is the lack of silence. He can hear Hawke crashing about her room, dropping her armor on the floor with a loud clang.

He heaves a deep sigh, and walks up the stairs. The banging stops.

Fenris is starting to have second thoughts once he reaches her bedroom. Thoughts that he shouldn’t entertain when he sees her sitting at the foot of the bed, the very same bed that they had shared one night months ago. These thoughts were dangerous and impossible, and Fenris tries to suppress the feelings lingering in his chest. It’s not what Hawke needs, and above all, Hawke is what matters. Especially now, when she needs someone so desperately.

He lingers by the doorway. “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

Hawke continues to look down at her hands, at the blood that still stains her fingertips. She hasn’t bothered to wash it off, and Fenris has the sinking feeling that she’s not going to for a while yet.

“It was all my fault. If I had been faster-” Fenris cuts her off before she can continue.

“You are looking for a forgiveness that I cannot give to you.” He sits down next to her, just close enough that their thighs brush against each others. Any more contact would cause Fenris to crumble, so he limits it to only what he can handle. Only to what Hawke needs, and nothing more. A line in the sand, drawn by Fenris in a desperate attempt to keep himself from giving into his selfish desire once more.

“There is no forgiveness for people like me.” She answers sadly, and Hawke’s face carries that same vulnerability that Fenris once showed her. People like us, Fenris wants to say, before he stops himself. If anyone deserves forgiveness, it’s her. The people’s champion, pushing the same boulder up the same hill countless times and hoping for a different result. Once again, they’re the same in that regard.

“There is nothing you could have done.” While his answer is blunt, both of them know it's true. This is the way Kirkwall works, circling the same tragedy and suffering like water entering a drain. The city lets it sink into itself, before spitting it back out with more tremendous amounts of force. It’s unfair that it has to be her, the person who has given everything to this terrible city, only to receive nothing but tragedy in return. The city does not pick and choose which ones are worthy of something better, no matter how much Fenris wishes it could be so.

“Perhaps.” She replies, so soft that it hurts. Fenris sighs, and like he’s done it a hundred times before, covers her hand with his. Her touch is warm, just as she is, and Fenris pointedly does not comment on the tears that splatter on his hand.

It’s Hawke that turns her palm up, lacing their fingers together. When Fenris casts a sidelong glance at her, she’s staring ahead at the wall like nothing is happening. Before he can do something incredibly stupid and out of character for him, he squeezes her hand once and lets go. He stumbles towards the door, ignoring the way he can feel her eyes on him.

“I’m here if you need me, Hawke.” He says, right before he closes the door. “I always am.”

When he finally shuts himself away, Fenris stands in the hallway for a moment too long and tries to force air into his lungs. Hawke’s expression is branded into his mind, the way that she cried and crumpled before him. In all the years that he’s known her, he’s never seen her so weak.

Everything ever written, all the books that Fenris forced himself to read after Hawke’s appalled shock at his lack of education cannot describe this feeling in words. Fenris was not someone made to love, he was made to hurt and follow orders, and this type of tenderness is entirely unbecoming to someone like him. But Hawke is someone made of love– it pours over her every word, laced in every tender affection she so freely gives.

He wants to give that to her, help fill the chalice that Hawke empties so easily.

But that was before– before Hawke had crawled her way into his heart in that fussy and incongruent way of hers that Fenris loathes so much. Before he kissed her, before he broke her heart, and before he left his heart in that damned bedroom.

4. Isabela is staring at him again. An unsettling and calculating gaze that’s sending shivers up his back. He can tell Hawke is pretending not to notice, keeping her gaze forward and towards their destination.

“What are you staring at?” He finally says, glaring at Isabela with all the

“Trying to see something.” She smiles, and Fenris can just barely see the glimmer of amusement in her eye. Isabela’s up to something, and after years of knowing her, he knows when she’s about to stir up trouble for nothing other than her own amusement. “Anders and her have been getting close, don’t you think?”

Fenris says nothing, but the slight twitch in his eyebrow gives him away. Isabela chuckles to herself, and turns her gaze forward. When he finally responds, his voice is tinged with the slightest hint of jealousy. “What Hawke does is none of our business.”

Isabela largely ignores him, continuing her train of thoughts much to his chagrin. “I see him lurking out of her house at all hours of the night. Always with that sly look on his face.”

His eyes flicker over to Anders in pure unadulterated anger, and Isabela nearly doubles over in laughter at the cross look on his face. Over the years, Fenris had become increasingly obvious with his affections, and Varric had made it a regular habit to mention the ‘puppy dog eyes’ that always breaks through his stoic exterior at the mere mention of her name. He can feel the energy humming through his veins at the thought of Hawke with anyone else but him, because Fenris is selfish and terrible and wicked.

Out of the corner of his eye, breaking his unrelenting scowl in Ander’s direction, he can see Hawke look back at him with a concerned look on her face. He softens at that, and his markings fade to a dull hum. It only makes Isabela smile wider, at the way Fenris becomes so uncharacteristically weak from only a glance in her direction. The very thought of her with Anders, of him touching her the way he once did, is enough to bellow the pit of jealousy flaming in his stomach. This spirited pursuit of inactivity ends here, he decides, and follows Hawke a bit closer.

5. Driven by a morbid curiosity, and perhaps the lingering feeling of jealousy seeded and nurtured by Isabela’s comments, Fenris begins to drop hints. Increasingly expensive bottles of wine that happen to show up on Hawke’s kitchen table with no warning, lingering touches on her back after an arduous battle. He rubs a droplet of blood of her cheek with his thumb, his expression filled with an aching tenderness reserved only for her. He lets their legs press together in the cramped seats of The Hanged Man, shallowly excused to his friends by having a glass too many of whatever swill he drank this time.

Hawke had also drank too much this time, it seems, by the way she leans her shoulder into him with a casualness that Fenris envies. Every move, every dance of affection was always carefully calculated by him, and yet Hawke touches him like they had known each other for millenia. They eventually get shooed out of the bar, with Hawke hanging off his shoulder and reeking of still blood and ale.

She rambles on once again about something Fenris is only half-listening to, his mind preoccupied by thoughts that are once again impossible and dangerous. The curve of her lips, the arch of her back. The white-hot contact of her arm around his shoulder that sears into his skin like a brand.

“My point is-” Hawke speaks a little too loudly for his taste, especially considering that her lips are right next to his ear. “My point is– they obviously love each other. I don’t understand why they don’t just buck up and say it.”

“It is seldom ever that easy.” He answers simply, holding her waist a little tighter. Love had never been Fenris’ particular forte, no matter the amount of terribly cheesy novels Varric makes him read now. It is something that will remain locked inside of his chest, dampened by his terrible and unselfish desire to see her happy. Happier than anything a broken former slave could ever give her. “And Isabela’s not particularly the sentimental type.”

Hawke rolls her eyes, and sighs deeply. “I know. I know, and yet I want them to be happy. Love is so… stupidly complicated.”

Fenris can understand that, at least. The ardent and unrelenting desire to see someone they care for truly content. “Love often ruins people. She is right to be cautious.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to love someone.” Hawke answers, her voice softer, less slurred. “Like that, I mean. I never thought I would be one of those sappy romantics, and yet-”

Fenris looks at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the way his heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. Hawke’s silent for a long moment as they stumble through the streets of Hightown at a leisurely pace.

Hawke looks at him, hiccups once, and smiles crookedly. “I like the new sword. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” He shakes his head, fighting the grin rising to his face.

They make it to her front door, and the moment between them vanishes into the night air. He leads her into her house, where they play cards and he lets Hawke believe she won fairly. All he can do is try to shove down the image of her smiling at him so openly to the back of his mind.

6. Fenris is pacing around her mansion, muttering half-impassioned Tevene curses into the open air. Hawke simply watches him stalk around the room, sitting in the armchair with a half-empty bottle of wine.

“Festei bei uno canavarum.” He mutters angrily, the markings tainting his skin casting the room in an eerie glow.

“No need to go overboard with the thanks.” She teases half-heartedly, tilting her head curiously at him. Fenris was particularly known for these random bouts of anger, but this was different. He was mourning, broken by a life lost. Fenris only looks at her scoldingly, but says nothing in return.

“Hadriana is dead. I should be free.” He finally says, his tone still laced with anger. The energy thrumming through his veins is running too hot to dampen, and Fenris lets that anger simmer off him in waves. Hawke doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by this, sipping at her wine while he storms about the room. Suddenly he stops, his gaze fixed on the fireplace with a withering expression. “I should be happy.”

“You still can be. This is not the end of everything.” Hawke answers, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “Danarius is not all that you are.”

Fenris still doesn’t move, his eyes still lingering on the ashes flickering out of the fireplace. “It feels like it.”

“I know. But this is a chance for you to start over.” She stands up, walking over to him to lean against the wall. He only looks at her briefly before the flames feel like they’re licking up his ankles, and he forces his gaze back to the dying fire. “To have a new life.”

The phrase ‘You could leave this all behind’ is left noticeably unsaid. Fenris doesn’t want to leave Kirkwall, the thought only ever crosses his mind for brief moments before being quickly stamped by his aching fondness for this place. Particularly for one person within it.

“I don’t want a new life.” I don’t want to leave you, is what he doesn’t say. She understands it anyway. “I thought I would be free.”

“You are free, Fenris.” He also notices the way she doesn’t use his old name, the one whispered to him in Hadriana’s dying breath. Hawke is looking at him with that expression that he once again cannot describe. “You always have been.”

Fenris watches as the flames flicker out, leaving behind only flaring embers. “This freedom tastes like ashes.”

“I know.” Hawke answers, reaching her hand out to gently interlace her fingers with his. “But this time it’s going to be different.”

7. It’s another night that he’s lingering about in her presence, nursing another expensive bottle of wine that he not-so-secretly dropped at her place. He had been ecstatic at her invitation to drink it together, using the wine as an excuse to ensure Anders will not be making any more night-time visits to her mansion. Hawke is tittering about the kitchen, complaining once again that he doesn’t eat properly, that his mansion is a mess, that he really ought to stay with her while they at least clean the corpses off the floor.

Fenris watches her with a keen interest, fingers tapping on the wine bottle in an uneven rhythm. “I think it adds character.”

“Character.” She scoffs, turning to face him. “The smell alone– I truly have no idea how you can even bear to step foot within it..”

“Because it’s mine.” He answers, his brows slightly raised. There’s a slight pride in taking something from his former master, in desecrating it to the point of abandonment. A property of Danarius’ that Fenris can completely destroy with very little consequences.

“At least clean it a little.” Hawke sighs, leaning back against the counter. “Just the entrance, so I don’t have to smell rotting corpses when I need to come get you.”

“For you, I will.” He grins slightly, taking another sip of wine. For her, he would clean the whole damn place. Get on his knees and scrub every inch if it makes her happy. But he doesn’t say that, just looks up at her with that slight grin he knows she loves to see so much.

“Good. Maybe one day I’ll actually be able to spend the night there.” This time, her tone is lighter, more teasing. The comment gives him pause, his fingers resuming that endless tapping on the wine bottle. The silence grows heavy between them.

“We never did talk about it.”

“About what?” She takes a step forward and seats herself across from him. Their knees slightly touch against each other under the table, but Fenris doesn’t move away this time.

“That night.” He finally says, looking up at her. Her expression crumbles, and he can see the exact moment that she recalls the heartbreak he caused her. The very same expression she wore the night he left, the night he took what he needed from her and left her broken under the covers. The silence closes his mouth and twists at his heart. He loves her in such a vain and terrible way, an ember desperately trying to keep the fire burning no matter how much he tries to be altruistic.

“You never wanted to talk about it.” Hawke looks down at the table, one finger carefully caressing the edge of the wood. She follows the grains delicately, and Fenris tries not to remember the way she had touched him like that once, like something fragile. But he does, and it kills him. “And I never wanted to push.”

“I thought it would be better if you hated me. If I could forget about everything that happened between us, if I could forget-” Fenris pauses, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I ask for it anyway.”

Hawke is still staring down at the table, her brows furrowed. “Remembering isn’t all so bad.”

He knows. Maker, he knows. Despite everything that’s happened, not only between him and Hawke, but with Varania and Danarius and everything else. Memory has brought him a terrible sense of tranquility that makes him uneasy. It’s painful, feels like being burned alive from the inside out, but the pain makes it real. Makes the memory real. “The worst thing is that I remember it.”

“I know.” She answers, finally looking up at him. Fenris looks at her eyes, at the way the light glimmers in them, and feels a part of him come to life. She remembers too, he knows in the way her eyes gaze through him.

“I cannot give you what you deserve. You deserve a lot better than me.” Fenris feels like he’s pleading, coming back to that line in the sand with a damned fortress, armed with cannons and soldiers. “A lot better than this.”

“I love you anyways.” She smiles at him. Stupid, caring, giving Hawke, emptying out what’s left of her just to see him smile. Her hand, once again, reaches out to lay on top of his. “But I need to know why.”

“I thought about what I would say to you. About the answer I would give.” Fenris can’t say the reason why he was so painfully and pathetically in love with someone who showed him a tender kindness when he was never deserving of it. That after seeing the past that made him, molded him into a lyrium-infused cold-blooded killer, he knew letting Hawke go would be the only chance he ever got to warrant her. That he made a stupid decision to try and be a better man, and it hurts her anyways.“I am a coward. The memories it brought up– I am not a man that could show you the love you deserved.”

“And yet?” She questions, her eyes peering up at him curiously. He loathes those eyes, the way it sees through every crack in his barrier so carefully put together by tattooed hands. “There must be a reason you’re bringing this up.”

“And yet I love you anyways.” He answers. “Because I need you in ways that I shouldn’t.”

Fenris lets himself be selfish, for this one long painful moment that sits between them. Love really is a complicated, all-encompassing thing. Fenris hates it, but cherishes the feeling anyways. He swallows the apprehension clawing its way up his stomach, and continues. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

“Perhaps -” Hawks smiles, her expression going soft. Her fingers lightly curl over his wrist, the same way Fenris had once held her. “Perhaps I’ll hold this over you a little while longer.”

He lightly chuckles at that, and pulls her closer. “Don’t you dare.”

8. They’re laying in bed hours later, his arms wrapped around her waist. This time, he has no thoughts about leaving, no doubts about his place here. It feels right, and Fenris can comfortably sit in the silence with her.

“Do you remember what you said to me? About needing me?” Hawke is the first to speak, as she usually is. Her finger traces light patterns into his chest, nails pressing right at the edges of his markings. They hum lightly at her contact, a pleasant dull sound that reverberates in his chest. It doesn’t hurt this time, nor will it hurt anytime after.

Fenris remembers. He lets the silence speak for him.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” She continues on, trailing down towards his abdomen. “I think we’ve always needed each other.”

He thinks about it, about the ways that they had always sought the other’s presence in their darkest moments. How Hawke held his hand after Leandra, how Fenris paced about her mansion after Varania. Two stars forever in orbit, refusing to keep the distance between them. A blurred line in the sand, washed away and moved inch-by-inch until there was no longer anything standing between them.

“You’re not selfish, Fenris.” Hawke turns to him. “There is nothing about you that my heart won’t accept. I will love you to any end, against all the pain.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Fenris laughs., kissing her once more.

#i adore pathetic pining fenris #also available on ao3 please leave me comments they make me so happy #fenhawke #fenris x hawke #fenris da2 #dragon age 2 #dragon age ii #hawke #marian hawke #sorry i made it kinda depressing i hope it makes up for it #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #yuru's writings

19 notes · View notes

krookodyke · 1 month

Text

i’m stuff

#img #drive-away dolls #drive away dolls #jamie dobbs #marian pallavi #sukie shinkleman #this is my contribution sorry for spelling marian’s name wrong i made it weeks ago when i first saw it

8 notes · View notes

anamelessfool · 2 months

Text

IRL Copia/Marian moment: C calls Marians's phone while she's reading fic in bed.

C: Hello? Your office door is closed? I'm knocking... Are you okay in there? Are....are you mad at me?

M: Copia, I'm not in the office I'm upstairs jacking off

#definitely i made this up completely #not inspired by an actual real life conversation last night #copia my beloved #copia x marian

7 notes · View notes

forgottenamira · 2 months

Text

Amira, Witch-Queen of Kolchis

headcanon time!! ok so this has the chance to get loooong so imma spare us aLL and bulletpoint this one, but everyone and esp @forgottenedmund as both admin and the other person currently playing a calainon, lmk what you think bc this might just be ~too insane and idk what you have planned etc alskdjflkjsdfjkdf

KOLCHIS & INTRO

house calainon does not exist or, it perhaps once did, but if it ever truly did, the ages have turned its true history to legend and myth

nonetheless, amira and her brothers make claim to that descent through one tenuous proof: witchcraft

while, given her husband's acute hatred of all seers, this might seem a great shock, this is also the truth, and it is (part of) why amira so tenaciously clings to the memory of her grandmother's gift

so real talk, im using kolchis as the place-holder name for the place amira's from (yes i ~did lift that from greek myth and just partially changed the spelling and no i will ~not apologize ;D), but im picturing an ancient athens meets mythological colchis meets constantinople/the byzantine empire w/ just a dash of ptolemaic alexandria sdlkafjskljdfjkdsf gotta grab all my greek-rooted mega cultures ig laksdjfkjlsdf (and yeah im sure the soldiers there def dip into sparta shhhh) so yeahhhh when you picture amira growing up, its that

CALAINON

in ages past, it is written, there once lived a young and ambitious warlord, called calainon, who is said to have conquered the known world (think alexander the great meets achilles meets hercules meets oedipus meets pelops meets atreus etc etc)

many legends speak of this ambitious fellow, holding often that he was the son of a god and a mortal woman, that he was possessed of superhuman strength and skill and daring, and that no mere mortal could stand before him

while there is no certainty, in truth, that this person ever did exist, it is said that he was the founder of the great city of kolchis, which he made the center of his great empire and that he built the still unfinished, storm-struck tower which was, for many eons, the highest building in all the world and called the stair of calainon (as according to legend he had built it as an attempt to reach the heavens and tear the gods from their holy temples in the skies)

there are two versions of the tales of calainon -- one in which he is cast as a tragic hero, and another in which he apears as a twisted villain

known to history both as calainon the deathless (for it is said that he groans still, buried deep in the bowels of the earth, half unable to die as his father was a god and half unable to live as his mother was a mortal) or, more popularly, cursed calainon the balsphemer

it will probs not surprise you to learn that calainon has always been a great hero of roderick's and thus that, tying his own burgeoning legend to the great calainon's, was a very appealing prospect to roderick

many hero-kings, horrific monsters, celebrated seers, cruel despots, and tragic martyrs of myth and legend are said to have descended from the house of calainon, and it is said that the line of calainon will endure until the end of all time for, cursed though they may be, half-gods they once were also

yet, if any of them ever did exist, it is ages past since any of them were known, save one source: local legend of kolchis speaks of the high priestesses of kolchis...

CALAINON THE VILLAIN

often held up as an example of hubris, calainon dared so much that the gods, themselves, stepped in

a great war took place and, it is oft said in kolchis that calainon committed the heresy of not merely daring to lock away the gods -- a heroic act -- but of attempting to steal their power

all of this he attempted w the erstwhile help of the guardian of kolchis known as the kolchian dragon

some myths hold that the great poisonous drake aided him only in sealing away the gods, and he forced the guardian's hand in attempting to steal the power of the gods

but others hold the guardian wished to aid him in both quests

tales disagree as well on how much calainon achieved: did he manage to seize for himself the power of the gods, or did he fail?

all sources agree on one thing however: there was a titanic battle fought amongst the clouds. the earth shook, lightning broke the fortress below, tidal waves sweeping the broken battlements away, and whole islands were drowned in the uproarious fury of the gods

but ultimately, though sealed away, the gods prevailed and cast down the heretic calainon in his hubris, imprisoning him forever beneath the earth

in his defeat, they cursed him, blinded him, and buried him alive, hurled from the heavens into the abyss of the earth (think: fall of lucifer sort of imagery)

in some variants, the gods also cursed his bloodline forever after, but this is another point upon which there are several variants

CALAINON THE HERO & THE HIGH PRIESTESS OF KOLCHIS

one of the many myths of calainon relates to an unending fire and a dragon, and it is in this version of the story (which happens to be roderick's favorite), that calainon appears not as a villain, but as a hero

in this legend, calainon's war with the gods is a fight for freedom, suppressing the deities with the help of kolchis' legendary guardian, known most often as the kolchian dragon

in the tragedy of the great calainon, he fights the gods only to be cast down in their vengeance, but not before sealing them away forever

in this version it is said that his warrior's spirit shall someday be reborn in a new form to lead the world once again (i invite you to guess how roderick might think he could potentially tie into this myth ;DDD)

according to a local legend in the great city of kolchis, before launching his campaign against the gods, calainon as god-king of kolchis appointed his eldest daughter, arsinoe, as high-priestess

she was a great seeress, famed for her wisdom and power, whose responsibility it was to tend the sacred eternal flame at the shrine of the kolchian dragon

hers was a fiery offering to keep the dragon-guardian strong against the fearsome gods, where her female descendants (for in kolchis it is held that a true seer must be a woman) shall forever after continue her great work, tending the eternal flame to assure that it may never go out or the kolchian dragon, the great guardian, will fade to nothing and die and, it is said, upon that day the gods will be unleashed and bring apocalypse upon the mortals who dared give them chains

this flame was a great bonfire at the center of the shrine, so vast that in ancient days, it was said that it could be seen in every part of the old city, a beacon that never went out

according to this legend, it is the divine blood of calainon which gives a seer her powers and, thus, it is believed -- according to this obscure kolchian legend -- that every single kolchian witch may trace her descent back to mighty calainon

A THOUSAND THOUSAND YEARS PASS...

in roderick's day, the most recent high priestess (sometimes called the 'fire-keeper' or 'witch-queen' of kolchis) was none other than the seeress who was amira's grandmother, with amira seemingly destined to be the next high priestess after her

while once the high priestesses of kolchis were revered, regarded almost like oracle of delphi meets melisandre of asshai-type figures, and each was regarded as the chief and best mystical advisor to the so-called god-kings of kolchis (so called bc it was calainon half-god who had established kingship in kolchis)

these priestesses were known as a powerhouses in their own right, the last known vestiages of calainon himself, ruling the hearts of the people of kolchis, and running a powerful temple overflowing with priestesses and acolytes, almost a small religious city within the greater city, itself, leading to them being known to outsiders as the 'witch-queen of kolchis'

yet by the time of amira's birth, the position had centuries since lost any luster, becoming a ruin of its former self

as the old religion faded into only memory anywhere but astaira, the high priestesses came to be despised, an embarrassing reminder of an age of backwater supersticion compared to the cosmopolitan center kolchis had became and wished to be

without the temple economy still running strong, kolchis' stratification intensified, till it was said that in kolchis, the rich fed not on fruits but on the poor

still worse for the temple, itself, nearly a thousand years ago, a war of religion broke out and the temple was sacked, much of it pulled down and the rest -- though marble -- burned (fun fact: marble ~will burn if the fire is hot enough) till all that was left of the erstwhile 'jewel of kolchis' was a crumbling, burned out shell of its former self. still, the high priestesses endured in the slums, and still the eternal flame burned on

the old city, where the ruined temple was located, was now located in the slums and grime of kolchis amongst its most dangerous dark corners

there, only the lost or the most daring would venture: the ruinous temple of the dragon and its keepers were seen as a supersticious and untrustworthy lot who lurked in the shadows, preying upon unsuspecting tourists

pick-pockets, liars, and harlots who played at mysticism and fortune telling to make off with valuables and steal souls, so the supersticion ran, for their dark, twisted magic

THE LIFE & TIMES OF AMIRA CALAINON

it is with this reputation and in this situation that amira and godfrey grew up, doing their utmost to protect little tristan from the sad truth of the world around them

their father had disappeared when tristan was a babe at the breast, likely murdered in the dangerous streets where they lived, while fleeing with what few valuables the family had left

their mother, the high priestess's only child, died of the pox while her children were still quiet small

thus, though blind and decrepit, it fell to their grandmother to raise her grandchildren

not thinking much of men in general, and regarding the sight as the realm of women anyway, as the kolchian culture long had held, the grandmother relied largely upon amira, training her in what arts she could with the expectation that, someday, amira's magic would show itself

a true believer, her grandmother was sure that, as the last female calainon, amira must be a witch or else the line of high priestesses would die with the grandmother, herself, unless amira were to produce a seer for a daughter

not wishing to surrender her only utility to an unborn daughter who may never even arrive, amira did her best to play along as a witch

a thing which exulted her in her grandmother's eyes who, though she loved her grandchildren fiercely, regarded only other seers as her equals

amira learned to read bones and fires and stars for potential futures (or at least to guess at them)

she learned to read people and 'see' in their futures what they wanted

she learned trickery and slight of hand and, perhaps most of all, she learned about poisons

such things were sacred to the kolchian dragon, known for poisonous fangs and breath and fire hot enough to melt the bones even of beings divine and cold as winter

meanwhile, living in extreme poverty, godfrey and amira learned to lie, to steal, to spy, and to cheat simply in order to subsist

RODERICK

by the time roderick invaded, things were desperate indeed

the star of the cosmopolitan center of kolchis, even, was well into its decline

kolchis had become so corrupt and top heavy that the rich knew little at all of what their ppl suffered -- and cared even less -- living in sublime luxury while everything they sat upon rotted beneath them

still, the god-king was eager to keep what little was left of his so-called empire, now reduced only to a single city

it was soon quite clear that kolchis was roderick's target

the god-king sent many troops to die in vain upon the teeth of roderick's armies, but nothing he did would hold the young would-be conqueror back

at last, with roderick upon him, the god-king ordered the impregnable gates of kolchis closed and laid in wait for a siege

the people in the streets began to starve -- and soon enough amira's own grandmother succumbed

but watching their grandmother slowly die, amira and godfrey had already long since sprung into action, lying and deceiving their way into the palace as servants

there they watched and listened and plotted, aligning themselves with a growing restless movement amongst the poor who meant to tear their god-king down w them

so it was that the common ppl stormed the god-king's castle, killing his guards and his ministers and hanging their bodies from the high walls and trees of of kolchis (yes this is a golden fleece reference)

ultimately, guided by amira and godfrey who knew the freedom fighters of kolchis could not possibly overpower roderick, the god-king's head was delivered to roderick as a gift, and the gates opened to him, inviting him inside as their celebrated and longed-for emperor, with amira as the chief intermediary sent to treat with him given her status as high priestess of kolchis

seeing an opportunity, amira immediately set about seducing the emperor, cleopatra and anne boleyn-style

while also taking full advantage of the local legend she'd heard from her grandmother, and introducing herself as amira calainon, supposedly acknowledged descendant of calainon, the first god-king of kolchis

she was willing to bet, afterall, that roderick probably admired and wished to associated with himself. she wasn't wrong.

so she brought him a head and a crown of laurel leaves and slowly made herself a queen

amira crowned roderick king of kolchis (roderick abolishing all use of the term 'god-king'), herself, in her role as high priestess of kolchis, in the sight of all the kolchians, at the ancient temple of the dragon which roderick had had esp restored for the event

before her marriage, she appointed an acting high priestess to keep the eternal flame burning

which roderick permits as a cultural tradition relating to the cultural hero, calainon, his own relative by marriage

a connection sealed with the birth of their son, edmund

VENGEANCE -- OR FEAR

to be clear, amira is not in love with roderick (they have some weird twisted thing that i could write its own novella on probs but that's for another time), he is the means to an end. for one thing, with one move she had gone from desperately clinging to survival in the slums to one of the richest and most powerful women in the known world, but this was not her only goal in wedding roderick.

amira wants money, she wants power, and she wants revenge. she wants vengeance on roderick, as she blames him (as well as the god-king of kolchis, but she's already wreaked her vengeance upon ~him) for the death of her grandmother, the only person besides godfrey who ever really looked out for amira, and certainly the only one who ever saw smth superior to all others in her.

she also wants revenge against all those -- and even the symbols of those -- who held her head underwater so long so that they, themsleves, could breathe

amira enjoys, endorses, and encourages all of roderick's worst traits bc his zest for conquest is a weapon she wields against the rest of the world. now ~she's the the one holding ~their heads underwater. bitch.

but most of all she wants revenge upon the world for allowing any of it to happen

she means to wait a long time to avenge herself on roderick, himself. when she is ready, he will die, as will all of his children save her own, and edmund will reign at last, and they will finally, finally be untouchable.

in the end, however, even amira's quest for vengeance is rooted in the deep horror she cannot face, the fear that she, too, will be conquered, defeated, helpless, and left to starve to death w the only ppl she truly loves in the fetid streets, just like the only woman who ever loved her.

however, she seeks always to project strength (even to herself!), as it is an armor, her last line of defense, to prevent this from happening, so she will stop at nothing, doing literally whatever it takes, to see her goals met bc then and only then will she be truly safe, or at least as safe as anyone in this world can ever be, with edmund as emperor

as a result, she is always quick to remind herself that it is vengeance and not safety she truly seeks -- but is that really true?

#ooc #about #edmund varmont #godfrey calainon #tristan calainon #roderick varmont #all this also made me think abt an au where she gives into roderick and becomes his official mistress instead of his queen #in that au edmund is his fav kid who he holds over the heads of his other children threatening to legitimize and disinherit them #in that au amira ultimately does poison the empress (so that roderick can marry ~her) but it takes far longer bc she has much less access #so she finally gets her at a big event where as a result dozens of other ppl are always poisoned #to this day roderick still believes ~he was the real target #amira does successfully persuade him to take her as his second wife but then there's strife at court as to whether edmund was legitimized #when they married or if only children born after their marriage can be seen so and ofc roderick won't way in #amira starts poisoning his legit kids as a result only for her to learn that he has now taken marian as his mistress #convinced that marian will kill amira the way amira killed the first empress she poisons her as well #but now her children suspect foul play and factions at court start whispering abt the fate of roderick's first empress #so w all these pressures amira decides to have another child and thus she gives her own son a rival for his future throne #idk where it all goes from there but yeah my brain really went wild on that one huh lakjsdflkjsdjf #ANYWAYYYYY #have her bg ig

5 notes · View notes