#WHY would they go to weisshaupt to tell the wardens what happened? can they not send letters anymore? the fuck

[bhalspawn]

cole says the inquisitor is "too bright, like counting birds against the sun" so is that more attractive to demons or less? the anchor lets them physically walk through the fade, but how else does it affect them? are they more or less prone to attract demons? if it's the former, especially if they aren't a mage, it must be such a huge adjustment

i just feel like inquisition missed so many opportunities for character development. it's like they way over corrected after how pre-made hawke was (while at the same time taking over the rest of hawkes story, forever bitter about that) by making the inquisitor so shallow and not giving you any actual interactions w people they knew before, with a very few exceptions. i've said it before but the inquisition is more of a character than the actual inquisitor

#idk how a merrill romancing hawke acts in inq but i imagine it's the same and like. the whole pretending to be disgusted by blood magic #is a fun headcanon but oh my god its frustrating #hawke should not have been there! inq makes them such a small and insignificant character and i absolutely hate it #WHY would they go to weisshaupt to tell the wardens what happened? can they not send letters anymore? the fuck #NONE of my hawkes would go. lee goes back to anders rian goes back to fenris #and there's no way anders is going to weisshaupt right. like no way lol #hawke says they hate leaving anders but had to bc of corypheus so why would they voluntarily go so far for no good reason? #also honestly why would hawke be looking into red lyrium with the wardens. the only one i can think of they would trust would be their sib #if theyre a warden. so. #ANYWAY. I HAVE THOUGHTS!!!!! #wytxt #dragon age #inquisition #talk 2 me!!!!!

[morganaseren]

WIP Meme (Warden Inquisitor Niamh/Warden Bethany)

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Many thanks!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @jellydishes, @w-h-4-t  As usual, I suck at telling who has or hasn’t been tagged yet.

So this WIP is from prompt #3 I made off this list. It doesn’t tie into the other Warden Niamh/Warden Bethany AU I’ve already written; this is something wholly separate. No knowledge of it is needed to read this.

Granted, this is a much rougher draft than what I’d normally post here, but given I’m already more than a month behind on updating OtSttCA, I thought you guys would appreciate the treat. :)

Things you might want to know:

As with any AU where Niamh is a Warden, she’s the one who undertakes the Dark Ritual with Morrigan in order to spare anyone from being sacrificed once the Archdemon is slain. Through magic, Kieran is born as a result of their union. While both women carry a great deal of respect for one another, they aren’t and were never in a romantic relationship although there’s gonna be a whole separate AU for that once I get around to writing it.

Niamh is the Warden-Constable for Ferelden while her sister Saoirse is the Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. Saoirse and Leliana are married sometime after the end of the Blight.

As a result of going on the Deep Roads expedition with her sister, Bethany contracts the taint and has to undergo the Joining in order to save her life. She is transferred to the Fereldan branch of the Grey Wardens by Stroud not long afterward.

Niamh and Bethany are in an established relationship by the time the events of Inquisition begins.

While Niamh would normally be off searching for the cure by then, I'm just going to headcanon that she and Morrigan weren’t able to find a suitable lead in their research until much later—enough that they start hearing about the mass disappearances of Wardens across Ferelden and Orlais.

Out of concern, Niamh and Saoirse convince the remainder of their comrades (except for Bethany obviously) to head toward Weisshaupt for help, but Niamh senses that's enough wrong about the situation that she also tells them to journey there in secret. Vigil’s Keep is pretty much closed down at this point until they can figure out what’s going on.

Niamh and Bethany head out toward the Hinterlands to follow up on reports of some Warden sightings in the area. It's when they're stopped in the Crossroads area (where you meet Mother Giselle) that Niamh has Bethany to ask the villagers for any leads while she heads up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to follow up on a tip there. The usual stuff happens, and she ends up waking up in Haven's dungeons, where she gets interrogated by Cassandra.

Honestly, this follows pretty closely to how OtSttCA unfolds as far as the major decisions being made within it goes. However, because she wasn’t in self-exile for a decade, Niamh’s a lot more laidback and confident in her ability to lead, especially with Bethany by her side.

Along that same vein, Bethany is also more self-assured in her abilities as a mage now that she no longer has to fear hiding from Templars. As such, she’s much quicker to speak about what’s on her mind rather than bottle them up as she used to in the past. She confronts Cassandra like an absolute badass several times during the beginning of the story in defense of her lover, which you can check out below the cut with the rest of the content. ;)

Like in her canon world state, Niamh isn't treated well when she’s imprisoned. The guards merely know that she's a mage, so they're operating under the assumption that she caused the explosion at the Conclave. It doesn't help that Niamh's been essentially undercover to search for the missing Wardens, so she's not wearing her usual uniform to signify her status. Cassandra does her whole intimidating interrogation as per usual when Bethany—in all her Warden regalia—bursts in with Leliana.

---

"She leaves with me," she leveled at the Seeker coldly before turning to Leliana with a deep frown. “Why did you not put a stop to this?”

“I arrived here at the same time as you. I didn’t know she was here until she was already imprisoned.”

Niamh couldn't help but chuckle under her breath, utter relief filling her. “I think you may invited utter ruination upon your heads with those two."

Cassandra frowned. "What? Why?"

“What do you mean why?” she parroted with a roll of her eyes, unimpressed with what she had seen of the woman and her colleagues thus far. "Leliana’s my sister-in-law, and the Warden next to her is my fiancée, whom—might I add—you've actually succeeded in making angry.” The corners of her lips turned up into a languid smile. “Not an easy feat, and not a fate I would normally wish upon anyone.”

“Hush,” Bethany muttered as she brushed past Cassandra—all but shoving her aside with a pointed shoulder—as she knelt at Niamh’s side to begin healing the wounds she’d received from her captors. All the soldiers began backing away uneasily, especially as Leliana walked alongside her. “I’m already upset that you sent me down to the Crossroads while you went up to the Conclave alone.”

“It was the easiest way of scoping out the area," Niamh defended even as she sheepishly shrank back beneath her lover’s glare. "If the individuals we were searching for were still down in the village, you would have seen them, and if they were up at the Temple…Well, I suppose that’s a moot point now, given what our new acquaintances have just revealed to me.”

“Do you remember seeing anything at all?” Leliana asked then in concern.

“I can’t recall much of anything before the explosion.” Niamh admitted with a frown. “I thought I remembered someone screaming, but then there’s just... nothing.”

“And...” Leliana gestured toward her hand. “That mark?”

She shrugged as much as she was able to, especially given her heavy shackles. “It certainly wasn’t there when I went to the Temple.”

“What is going on here?” Cassandra demanded then, perhaps confused as to why their supposed prisoner had proven so much more forthcoming with Leliana than anyone else thus far. 

“You’ve met my wife before, yes? This is her younger sister Niamh Cousland. She is also the Constable of the Grey here in Ferelden, Cassandra,” Leliana stated gravely. “While the Wardens may not regularly involve themselves in politics, Niamh’s high enough up their chain of command that this country’s branch would fight to the death to get her back, and that’s not even involving what Saoirse herself will do once she finds out her sister's been hurt.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. “Not to mention the Teyrn of Highever…”

---

After the demons upon the frozen lake had been defeated, Niamh felt the brush of a warm hand in the crook of her elbow gently pulling her back before all she could see was Bethany’s back as her lover marched right up toward Cassandra, heedless of the obvious height difference between them.

"Point your sword at her again, Seeker! Kindly test my patience right now, and see what happens!"

Niamh was mildly amused when Cassandra actually appeared to be a bit startled and had to move back a step so as to not accidentally stab the woman. The Seeker’s dark brows furrowed in confusion. "Are... Are you threatening me?"

"Only because you’ve threatened her repeatedly!” Bethany scowled. “Niamh's very life is in danger so long as that portal in the sky exists; she has no reason to put yours in harm's way. She’s made it more than abundantly clear she’s willing to cooperate even after the mistreatment she received from you and your colleagues." Amber eyes narrowed, and despite their bright depths, there was little mistaking the ice within them. "I haven’t, however, and I’ve no reason to if you’re going to blatantly ignore your own words to the contrary simply because she’s a mage."

Cassandra sheepishly sheathed her weapon. "I’m—"

"If you ever think of drawing a sword on her again, your friendship with Leliana or no, I swear it will be the last time you ever draw breath," Bethany spat, tilting her chin up defiantly. "I’ve lost enough. I will not lose her too." She turned then to hold out her hand for Niamh, allowing the first bit of tenderness to enter her expression as she called out to her. "My love..."

Niamh chuckled quietly even as she weaved her fingers through Bethany’s. “Still so quick to defend me?”

Her lover smiled. “Always.”

Afterward, Cassandra was left to follow behind the two women, who proceeded to lead the rest of the way up the mountain.

"I did tell you not to make her angry," Niamh quipped to Cassandra later upon reaching the first outpost, grinning when she earned a soft sound of disgruntlement.

---

Nothing had really prepared Bethany for the sight that greeted them upon reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There were so many bodies scattered across the immense crater, expressions twisted in permanent states of terror as they tried to guard themselves against a danger beyond all earthly imagining. Horrified with such evidence of the Breach’s power, it was then that she realized that if Niamh hadn’t somehow received the Mark, she likely would have—

"Bethany?"

She jerked in place, turning to see her lover’s concerned eyes watching her.

"It's nothing,” she mustered up with a weak smile. “I'm right behind you." 

Bethany saw, however, that Niamh couldn’t be convinced, as was evident in the tender way the other woman had taken hold of her hand. Niamh said nothing else, as was always her way. She never pressed her to offer anything more than she was ready for. She sighed.

"I should have been there with you," Bethany murmured at last, looking at the strange mark still glowing upon her lover’s palm. It was nothing that even with all her healing magic can hope to fix, but Niamh merely shook her head.

"No.” She brought Bethany’s hand up to her lips to press a kiss reverently across her knuckles. “Were you there with me, I fear you would have died with everyone else," she admitted solemnly. "My heart would not have survived such devastation."

---

Bethany was beside herself with worry when Niamh fell unconscious upon the first, unsuccessful attempt to seal the Breach. Niamh was brought back to Haven to recover, but Bethany refused to leave her side despite Leliana's attempts to get her to take care of herself as well.

"Bethany—"

"You know as well as I do that your colleagues would have killed her down in the dungeons if we hadn’t arrived when we did," Bethany said flatly from where she sat by Niamh’s bedside. "Everyone in the village knows she’s a mage now, and I don’t need to remind you of how well-liked we are on a regular basis..."

"I’ll have my agents watching her. What nearly happened outside the chantry will never happen again."

Bethany bristled instantly at the memory.

---

She’d still been inside the building to relay some information regarding Saoirse to Leliana when they heard the first outraged cries beyond the doors. As the uproar grew louder in volume—all demanding the death of the one who had supposedly killed the Divine—Bethany had rushed outside immediately just in time to see civilians and more than a few soldiers attempting to stone Niamh.

Infuriated by the blatant injustice, Bethany reached over her shoulder for her staff and immediately slammed its point into the ground. At the moment of impact, a wave of force magic traveled violently across the ground, taking the mob entirely off their feet. She had been mindful to curve the energy away from Niamh—and inadvertently Cassandra, who had sidled up to aid the other mage, just as she unleashed her magic—so her lover had remained unharmed and even grateful for her arrival if her relieved smile was any indication.

Still, Bethany steeled her features to utter impassivity as she coolly strode through the crowd. Those within it seemed to be in various states of bewilderment as they tried to regain their bearings, but she took note of the many widened eyes that recognized the blues and silvers of her Warden regalia.

“You will show Ferelden’s Constable of the Grey the proper respect she is due,” Bethany said lowly as she placed herself alongside her lover, her gaze searching for any signs of rebellion to her words. “Anyone who would dare accost her in spite of her title will sorely live to regret it...”

---

"Can you really make such promises?" Bethany asked dryly.

"I can certainly try. Niamh’s family. Saoirse would never forgive me if something happened to her, especially if she knew there was anything I could have done to prevent it." She sighed. "Nor would I be able to forgive myself for that matter. Niamh’s a kind woman, and much like you—and any mage—she’s so undeserving of the treatment she often receives from others.”

---

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE mages; thus, it should come as no surprise that I always go to get the mages at Redcliffe as allies.

It should also go without saying that Bethany also would have gone with Niamh to deal with Alexius and the Venatori. Per the events of In Hushed Whispers, it's canon that the companions who went with you there become prisoners in the twisted, future version of Redcliffe.

While Warden mages are more susceptible to Corypheus' influence, I headcanon that Bethany was so furious with the loss of Niamh to Alexius that she fought against the mind control even to the point of torture like Leliana. When Niamh sees her in the future, Bethany's so pained, broken, and exhausted but so very thankful to see her lover again.

There's hope again—no matter how small—and Bethany's determined to help her set the world right again.

What little happiness they have at their reunion obviously doesn't last long, especially with Alexius’ death. With the Elder One beckoning at their door, Bethany goes off with the other companions to stall the demons and Venatori outside to give Dorian time to cast his spell.

I’ve always headcanoned that mages have auras unique to the type of magic they specialize in and that they’d be able to subtly influence the world around them based on their emotions. You see evidence of that a lot in OtSttCA, especially in those moments where Niamh’s angry or upset.

In any case, per my headcanon, mages would be able to sense one another although the distance at which they could detect such magic would be dependent on the senser’s overall power or their relationship with the other mage. As close as both women are, Niamh absolutely feels the moment Bethany dies... :(

---

She felt the absence of Bethany’s magic like a dagger to the heart.

It had been there, burning as bright as the sun, and then it had stuttered—dark clouds eclipsing its light—until it simply settled inside her like a dead weight. Left bereft of that familiar, constant presence that had been her very reason for breathing for so long, it was as if water had pooled into her lungs, threatening to drown her. The sensation immediately brought her to her knees, leaving her gasping for breath.

"No..." Niamh whispered out brokenly, anguish and horror overtaking her even as Leliana tried in vain to urge her back up to her feet again. She couldn't hear the other woman's concern past the shattering of her own heart. In its place was simply an aching emptiness that slowly began to consume her whole...

---

Let’s just say that Niamh’s not happy with Alexius when she and Dorian manage to return to the present...

---

The fighting between the Inquisition and rebel mages against Alexius and his Venatori was brought to an abrupt halt by the presence of the Fade rift that appeared overhead. The force with which it easily tore space and reality asunder was enough to take everyone within the audience chamber off their feet, especially as stifling heat and wind spilled from the portal along with two figures.

“Give her back..."

Bethany blearily looked up when she heard Niamh’s familiar voice, and relief filled her when she saw that she was standing beneath the now sealed rift. Even with its disappearance, however, she realized all too soon that it had done nothing to quell the storm that had now taken residence within the room, sending banners and tapestries flying with whipping gusts of wind. At its center was her lover, who was standing so still amidst the chaos around her, regarding Alexius with such apathy in her expression.

“What?" the old magister uttered in confusion, shakily rising to his feet only to have his progress nearly undone as lightning struck the ground next to him with a deafening peal of thunder.

Bethany saw how his throat undulated as he swallowed in nervous regard of the mage slowly making her way toward him. His fingers trembled with the effort to form flames between them.

"...Who gave you the right?” Niamh asked, voice as low as the rumbling thunder, as she strode toward the dais.

The pressure within the room escalated once more as an aura of absolute fire surrounded her. Like vines, they rose from the floor up in spiraling patterns before enveloping her entirely with almost playful licks of flame. Nothing in Niamh’s expression indicated the display of power was in any way exhausting to maintain whereas Alexius was already weakened from his initial spell to destroy her along with his efforts to keep the Inquisition at bay.

But it was not a woman who sought to meet him.

It was death.

As if aware of the sudden danger he was in, Alexius threw forth several barrages of fire at Niamh, but her smooth, relentless advance couldn’t be stopped. She made no attempt to even bat away the bursts of magic. If anything, the flames just seemed to absorb themselves into her. Her aura flared higher, burning more brightly beneath each attack, and as Alexius tried to back away, he inadvertently tripped himself into the throne behind him. He flinched as another peal of thunder made itself known, and as he reflexively turned his gaze to the dark storm clouds coalescing above them, he didn't see Niamh Fade-stepping forward to close the distance between them until he was choking from the fingers around his neck. With her enhanced Warden strength, Niamh was able to lift the magister off his feet entirely, leaving him to dangle helplessly.

“Who gave you the damned right to take her from me?!” she demanded.

With her cry, the fires along the sconces and the hearth behind the throne went out entirely, gone with the sudden gale of wind. As such, the only light to be seen came from the flashes of lightning above them and the fiery aura surrounding her. In the sporadic moments the room illuminated itself, there was little mistaking the utter hatred in Niamh’s eyes.

She was going to kill Alexius.

It would have been well within her right, given the magister had attacked her first within their meeting, but Bethany’s eyes widened when she saw how the staff on Niamh’s back began to rattle violently. Against the sheer heat emanating from her body, the silverite wolf head adorning the top of the staff began to melt entirely onto the floor in thick dregs of liquid while the shaft bowed and arched until it creakily bent in the middle, angling itself with the sharpness of an arrow.

Oh, no... With dread, Bethany scrambled to her feet and darted over toward Niamh. Without her staff to act as a catalyst, if Niamh burnt too much of her magic away, she could cause irreparable damage to herself and those around her.

Upon reaching her lover’s side, she placed her hands on Niamh’s face, desperately trying to draw her attention from Alexius. For a moment, nothing could sway her from trying to squeeze the life out of the magister, and she winced when she felt Niamh’s magic already begin to fluctuate erratically against her own.

"No, no, no! Look at me!” She jerked her lover’s head toward her. “Look at me, Niamh! Please!"

And as Niamh did, she watched in confusion as the woman’s expression froze. The lips that had been pulled back in a sneer of bared teeth slowly went lax, forming an ‘o’ of awe and disbelief, as recognition began to dawn in her lover’s gaze. With it, Alexius gradually slid from her grasp to collapse at her feet with desperate gulps of air, but Bethany paid him little mind. With relief, she saw Niamh’s fiery aura dissipate along with the glow of her eyes until they returned to the pale grey she adored.

"That’s it. Come back to me,” she encouraged. “Just breathe." Bethany took one of her lover’s hands in hers, placing it over her own chest, allowing Niamh to feel her breathing. “Slow and steady. Just like that.”

As each breath fell into sync with her own, Niamh's expression gradually softened into something so reverent and sweet that it almost hurt to see—as if salvation had finally blessed her—but Bethany smiled when she saw the battle rage finally leave her.

“There we are."

Niamh used her other hand to gently cradle the side of Bethany's face. “You’re still here…” she breathed, utter relief in her voice.

“Yes.” Bethany frowned in concern at her reaction. “Always."

---

When they returned to Haven, where Niamh gave her official report to her War Council, Bethany was horrified to learn all that her lover had endured from Alexius’ spell.

Afterward, Niamh suggested they spend the evening in their cabin together rather than explore the trails out the village as per usual, and Bethany didn’t object. She understood her lover’s need to reassure herself that she was still there with her—that she wasn’t simply caught in a dream that she could never wake from.

“Is... Is this okay?” Niamh asked quietly, wanting permission to seek such comfort.

Niamh was always thoughtful in everything she did for her—in bed or otherwise—and while she never treated her like glass, Bethany could count on one hand the number of times she saw her magic unfettered like in Redcliffe. She had felt subtle traces of it occasionally with their intimacy although it was usually with purposeful design—heat, ice, and tickling traces of lightning—that were meant to tease.

But rarely was it ever so close to the surface like this—a conduit of power coiled so tightly within mortal form—waiting to burst beneath Niamh’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Bethany said, gently lacing the fingers of Niamh’s marked hand in hers.

The other woman had been reluctant to let her touch it although it hadn’t shown any notable effects toward anyone—or anything thus far—save for its ability to close rifts. Still, Niamh had been skittish all the same, fearing that it might harm her.

...Or perhaps she believed it was a damning mark of shame—of guilt—much like it had been when the people of Haven had attempted to stone her to death.

---

“There’s no denying that this mark is tied to the Breach. You saw the wreckage at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You saw how many people died, and I still can’t even remember what happened before or after that moment beyond waking up in the dungeons. What if I did do something to cause that explosion?”

“If you had, it would not have been intentional,” Bethany insisted with a frown. “The mark is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, yes, but that you bear it all does not mean you were the one who created it.”

But Niamh couldn’t be swayed as she paced back and forth before the hearth of their cabin. “How can you be so certain?” she murmured.

“Because I’ve known you for years, Niamh. You would never purposely hurt anyone without provocation. Trust in me if you can’t yet trust in yourself.”

---

With permission given, Bethany found herself gently laid out against their bed as Niamh sought to touch and bring her pleasure all throughout the night.

Over the years, she’d become remarkably acclimated to Niamh’s magic that felt so much like a forest caught beneath a winter storm of ice and lightning. It was normally as calm as it was now—crisp as the first intake of breath beneath a cool dawn—but there were times where it could be provoked. The incident in the audience chamber was proof enough of that, where it had settled over them all like the tolling bells of judgment—an inevitability inviting the nascent danger of death.

Bethany had been beyond concerned when she had seen the first bits of viridian energy springing across her lover’s eyes then. There had been an almost disturbing beauty to them—a ring of vines gathering just at the outside perimeter of silvery irises—but that they had pulsed in time with the mark upon Niamh’s hand...

Bethany had feared for her, especially when it seemed to flare all the brighter with the fury that had overtaken her.

She was glad to see no evidence of that now as Niamh laid contentedly next to her. Even though Niamh was sated at last—the burning, restless energy within the other mage having finally simmered down to faint embers—she seemed reluctant to drift off into sleep. Winter-grey eyes continued to lazily rove across her face and form, as if cataloguing every detail less she forget later.

In response, Bethany reached out to tangle her fingers through the dark mane of tousled hair, letting her nails gently rake across her lover’s scalp. Pale eyes had widened imperceptibly at the sensation, but like always, they soon became half-lidded with the soothing nature of it. She heard the quiet hum of disgruntlement, as if protesting the notion of Bethany’s attempts to lull her to sleep against her silent vigil, but she merely shushed her.

“Shh… Rest, my love. I’ll still be here in the morning when you wake.”

---

And that’s basically it.

Again, since this is still in its rough draft phase, it’s not as polished as I’d like it to be, but I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, leave me a like, comment, or send some love to my inbox! Until next time, dear readers!

#Dragon Age: Inquisition #bethany hawke #female warden/bethany hawke #fanfic #My writing #OTP: In Search of Silver Linings #lee's au ideas #female cousland/bethany hawke

[felassan]

After The Blight

A timeline of the Hero of Ferelden’s movements and notes about their activities after the end of the Fifth Blight

I just wanted to collect it together somewhere. Obviously it does not apply if the Hero performed the Ultimate Sacrifice, although sections of it will apply to Orlesian Warden-Commanders. This is a mixture of canon information, suppositions and headcanons (so it’s a mix of a reference post and personal notes about my own HoF). The latter two things are clearly marked as such. This post has been updated. (Tevinter Nights spoilers under cut)

9:30 Dragon - Fifth Blight begins.

9:31 - Fifth Blight ends, events of DAO end. The Fereldan reign or service to the crown of Queen, Prince-Consort and Chancellor HoFs begins. The HoF studies the Blight. There is an investigation effort into the darkspawns’ remaining secrets.

supposition: shortly after the coronation of Ferelden’s new monarch[s], the HoF answers the First Warden’s summons to Weisshaupt and travels there to report about the Blight. if the Dark Ritual was performed, they avoid mentioning it, despite the pertinent questions they are asked about why no Warden died killing the Archdemon. suspicions in the order abound 

supposition: if Avernus continued his research in some form, the HoF begins working with him around this time

personal headcanon: Dog never left HoF’s side after the Blight, because why would he? I know what it says about replenishing in the kennels, but that could easily be done during HoF’s many trips to Denerim

9:31, 4 months post Blight - Zevran has now begun his quest to dismantle the Crows, so romanced Zevran has most likely left HoF’s company by this point.

9:31, 6 months post Blight - Queen HoF marries Alistair in lavish ceremony. If Alistair was romanced, they then tour Ferelden. Prince-Consort HoF marries Anora in lavish ceremony.

note - The timings of the events in the expansion, DLCs and DA2 Act 1 are a bit squashed and inconsistent, which is why things in the upcoming segment get a bit janky

17th of Ferventis, 9:31, 6 months post Blight, post royal wedding - The Darkspawn Civil War/Amaranthine Conflict and the events of Awakening begin. The HoF had been promoted to Commander of the Grey, Ferelden’s Warden-Commander. They travel to Vigil’s Keep having been tasked by the order with rebuilding the Wardens’ presence in Ferelden and dealing with the remaining darkspawn plaguing the nation. Romanced Warden Alistair could not join them as he had been assigned to the Warden parties in charge of the Thaw Hunt (a hunt for remnant darkspawn pockets). Romanced Zevran could not join them as he was away hunting and being hunted by the Crows. Romanced Leliana could not join as she was summoned for an audience by the Grand Cleric.

supposition: HoF’s promotion was given to them during their time at Weisshaupt. it’s both a reward for their service during the Blight and a maneuver by the First Warden to capitalize on the HoF’s reputation and the post-Blight state of Ferelden (which was weakened and freshly appreciative of Wardens). the goal was to leverage the Wardens back into prominence and power in Ferelden

9:31, 12 months post Blight - This basically brings things into ~9:32. The Darkspawn Civil War/Amaranthine Conflict and events of Awakening end. If the Architect was spared, other Wardens in other nations are appalled, but the Wardens think the ensuing conflict between groups of darkspawn might make the Deep Roads safer. If the Architect was spared, HoF begins work of some kind with the intelligent darkspawn and has interactions with them in the coming years (in 9:37, Warden Nathaniel calls these darkspawn “The Warden’s allies” and mentions information these allies provided the Wardens with). Soon after what happened with the Architect, if Avernus continued his research in some form, HoF sends him information about the Architect.

personal headcanon: HoF names Nathaniel Howe their second-in-command. Nathaniel becomes Constable of the Grey, Warden-Constable of Ferelden

favored headcanon: HoF names romanced or befriended Warden Alistair their second-in-command. Alistair becomes Constable of the Grey, Warden-Constable of Ferelden

9:31 - If Avernus continued his research in some form, Hawke finds a very important set of Warden letters and documents from the HoF intended for the First Warden, on a dead body on the Wounded Coast in the Free Marches. HoF dispatched the messenger from Ferelden via Amaranthine to go to Weisshaupt by way of Kirkwall, possibly with the aid of an agent in Kirkwall. The courier was most likely dispatched from Vigil’s Keep. Something had happened that the HoF is concerned about and wanted to inform the First Warden of ASAP. Enclosed was a message from Avernus to the HoF. This message indicates that the HoF has been working and corresponding with Avernus to aid his research, including sending him shipments of supplies. Avernus’ research has made progress but also revealed some alarming implications, and he urged the HoF to inform the FW at once. 

supposition: “supplies” includes live subjects, as in sentient beings (Ghilan’nain would be proud)

supposition: due to everything with Avernus if he continued his research, it’s around now that seeds begin to be sown in HoF’s mind of finding a way to escape the Calling 

personal headcanon: the agent in Kirkwall is Varric Tethras, or one of his people. after all, he is an information broker, spymaster and someone who knows everyone

~9:31 - The events of The Golems of Amgarrak take place. HoF investigates Amgarrak Thaig after being invited to Orzammar by Jerrik Dace, on a search mission to find a lost expedition. Most likely takes place after Awakening because Jerrik sent a letter requesting aid to Vigil’s Keep.

personal headcanon: the HoF has contact here with House Tethras, who canonically funded Jerrik’s search mission

9:32, nearly 1 year after the Archdemon’s death - The events of Witch Hunt take place. HoF searches for Morrigan through the Korcari Wilds, Cadash Thaig, Kinloch Hold and the Dragonbone Wastes. If HoF romanced Morrigan, they may vanish with her through the eluvian. In some universes Kieran has now been born. For some HoFs, they now meet their son for the first time.

supposition: it’s now that Morrigan tells some HoFs about the leads she found that point to the western lands as a place where a cure for the Calling might be found. if HoF didn’t leave through the mirror, some HoFs may now find that the “gift” Morrigan left them along with the stolen Dalish book is information about these leads. do note that some HoFs are implied to have come into the knowledge without Morrigan’s involvement

supposition: 9:32, post Witch Hunt - It’s now that HoFs who romanced Zevan travel to Antiva to reunite with him for a time, their expansion and DLC-business being concluded. they do what they can to help him in his Crow quest

9:32 on, for a time - HoFs who romanced Morrigan, fathered Kieran and left through the mirror help Morrigan raise Kieran for a while. This goes on for a long enough time that the roughly ~10 year old Kieran clearly remembers his father in 9:41.

supposition: much of this family life took place in hidden, secret places, some of which are in Thedas ‘proper’ itself and some of which are in the Crossroads and places reached via the Crossroads

supposition [?]: 9:32 on, til leaving / ‘mysteriously vanishing’ in ~9:40 - HoF most likely based out of Denerim Royal Palace and/or Vigil’s Keep, being largely occupied in this period with the duties involved in being Queen, Prince-Consort, Chancellor and/or Warden-Commander of Ferelden. The former would involve such things as advising, often being seen at court, helping to rebuild Ferelden in the wake of the Blight, and resisting the influence/incursions Orlais attempt around this time. The latter would involve such things as recruitment, training, establishing bases, sending annual reports to Weisshaupt, scouting, clearing remnant darkspawn activity, rebuilding Vigil’s Keep and/or Amaranthine, overseeing the arling etc. It’s also likely that Warden business would take them to other parts of Thedas at times. Romanced Zevran and romanced Leliana both assist when they can with rebuilding the Wardens, without officially joining. Depending on HoF’s actions during the Darkspawn Civil War/Amaranthine Conflict, potential events such as a riot of common folk at Vigil’s Keep can occur here. HoF continuing to actively serve in the Wardens during this time probably isn’t just supposition due to how they and Warden Alistair can refer to their duties in 9:41. Still, there’s lots of space and flexibility in this period for headcanon, for example to include things from the ‘rumors’ and such listed at the end of this post.

supposition: HoFs who romanced Zevan are involved on and off as they are able in this time period with his Crow quest, helping when they can. “on and off” refers to their involvement in his quest, not their relationship. canonically around this period Zevran is known for high profile kills of Guildmasters and having some of the others in his pocket. by 9:34 he has 2 out of 7 Guildmasters in his pocket and has killed at least one other along with Eoman, 2 Grandmasters, and 4 other members of House Arainai

personal headcanon: HoF establishes Soldier’s Peak as a secondary and proper functioning Warden base in Ferelden, and it comes to rival Vigil’s Keep

personal headcanon: HoF grows increasingly dissatisfied with the actions and attitudes of the Wardens (primarily the First Warden and other leadership in the Anderfels) during this period, and in the later years begins to consider making a play for power and seizing the First Warden’s seat

~9:33, 1 year after Darkspawn Civil War/Amaranthine Conflict ends - If HoF saved the city of Amaranthine, it is finished being rebuilt. Relevant because it is part of the arling goings-on, which is currently in HoF’s hands.

personal headcanon: 9:34 - HoF visits their clan near Kirkwall, having sent word ahead to Merrill. HoF is able to see Merrill and Marethari again prior to Marethari’s death in Act 3. this ties in handily with the timeframe when Warden Stroud/Alistair passes through Kirkwall on a mysterious important Warden mission. HoF, in the company of this Warden party (which includes Warden Carver), meets Hawke and is reunited with Anders/Justice and Isabela. HoF meets their contact Varric in person for the first time

~9:36, 5 years after Darkspawn Civil War/Amaranthine Conflict ends - If HoF saved the city of Amaranthine, Vigil’s Keep is finally finished being rebuilt.

supposition: ~9:37 (dependent on when Hawke did MoTA) - Not long after Hawke kills Corpheus, HoF begins digging for information about him much like the DAI Warden contact. HoF is investigating rumors they had heard and found about him, being concerned that he would be able to jump host bodies on death like an Archdemon. This happens in romanced Warden Alistair worlds in tandem with Alistair, and I don’t see why it would be exclusive to those. This can technically occur anytime between 31 and 37, but 37 makes the most sense for this to happen, as I can’t see HoF sitting on Corypheus knowledge for almost a decade before he rose

9:37 - Queen HoF is at home in the Royal Palace in Denerim when King Alistair meets Hawke in Act 3.

supposition: Prince-Consort HoFs, Chancellor HoFs, HoFs who remained King Alistair’s paramour, HoFs who were friends with King Alistair and potentially some others are also at court in Denerim at this time, either visiting or in a less temporary manner, depending

9:37 - Hawke meets Warden Nathaniel and possibly their Warden sibling in the Deep Roads. The First Warden had ordered an investigation along Hawke’s Deep Road expedition route, as Hawke went further into the Roads than anyone believed possible and the Wardens are interested in the primeval thaig. The Wardens obtained directions from Bartrand and were prepared to do extensive excavations around the thaig using explosives.

supposition: HoF had some involvement in the above, for example overseeing, organizing and decision-making on a level more local than the First Warden’s initial order

personal headcanon: Hawke’s Warden sibling has been under HoF’s command in recent years

personal headcanon: 9:38 - HoF accompanies Alistair during the events of The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak, and Until We Sleep. these events canonically take longer than 3 weeks, probably ~2 months. their travels take them to Antiva City, the Tellari Swamps, Ventus, Seheron and the Fade. HoF is reunited with Sten and Isabela, and meets Maevaris

~9:40, before Cassandra interrogates Varric - HoF departs on their long-ass quest to the west to find a cure for the Calling. Romanced Zevran accompanies them. Their journey takes them far out of the areas where Corypheus is operating, to lands untouched by Blight. Cassandra initially seeks HoF now, but cannot find them, most likely because they’ve left. Romanced Leliana couldn’t go because Justinia called on her for help. Romanced Warden Alistair stays behind to investigate the mounting concerns in the Wardens with corruption in the ranks, Corypheus, Wardens disappearing and the false Calling.

supposition [?]: Awakening Warden companions that we’ve not heard from again - so Velanna, Sigrun and Oghren - accompany HoF on their quest, explaining why they haven’t resurfaced

personal headcanon: in the months prior, HoF began to grow concerned about stirrings of strange behavior in Warden ranks, much like the DAI Warden contact

9:41 - A letter arrives to Weisshaupt from the new Warden-Commander of Vigil’s Keep. Around this time Clarel is noted to have stopped writing to Weisshaupt.

supposition: there is a new Warden-Commander because HoF has now departed on their quest. the new one could be temporary in the interim or a permanent replacement. the new one is possibly whoever HoF promoted to Constable of the Grey / Warden-Constable of Ferelden, as Wardens of this rank are second-in-commands who step in when the Warden-Commander is away. [headcanon note here: if HoF had elevated Alistair to the position, it’s possibly now occupied by someone else given Warden Alistair soon goes into hiding after becoming concerned]

9:41, mid-Inquisition - It proves difficult, but Morrigan, Alistair or Leliana facilitate Inquisition contact with the HoF and an exchange of letters between HoF and the Inquisitor. HoF signs their letter “Warden-Commander”.

supposition: given how they sign the letter, it doesn’t seem that they have officially stepped down from the role yet. alternatively, a Warden can continue to use the title after stepping down, or this is an inconsistency. I think it’s most likely the new Warden-Commander in the Weisshaupt letter above is acting-WC at this time point

~9:44, post-Trespasser - HoF has returned from their quest to find a cure. If they romanced Leliana, they rejoin her. If Leliana is Divine, HoF is often seen at her side. If not, their respective responsibilities often keep them apart, but whenever they can they spend time together at a villa on the Waking Sea.

supposition: HoF didn’t come back until now, as they are not mentioned in the base game epilogue. their quest really took years

supposition: All HoFs return now, because why would only Lelimancers make it back?

supposition: HoF found a cure, given the fairly light tone in the romanced Leliana epilogues. if so, they probably step down from being a Warden, as Fiona was not allowed to remain in the Wardens after being cured

supposition: If HoF romanced Morrigan or Alistair or married Anora, they instead rejoin their respective LI, or LI and child in the case of Morrigan sometimes. Leliana, Morrigan and Warden Alistair as LIs in DAI all express the same sentiment of what amounts to “this time, when we rejoin one another, we intend to stay together”. romanced Zevran here was already with them, having gone on the quest

supposition: At this time point HoF clearly still has some continuing responsibilities of some form. work with the Wardens in an advisory capacity? ongoing service to the Fereldan crown? there’s lots of space and flexibility now for headcanon, for example to include things from the ‘rumors’ and such listed at the end of this post

supposition: It appears Leliana tells romanced HoF of the troubles to come (’for both saw the troubles that were to come’). presumably this is a reference to the Dread Wolf and related threats. I assume she would tell this to any HoF that she was good friends with

personal headcanon: the cure for the Calling is distributed to Anders and Carver. whether it’s distributed to all Wardens or made common knowledge to all Wardens is debatable

personal headcanon: HoF ‘takes care of’ some of befriended Divine Leliana’s enemies. I especially favor this headcanon with romanced Leliana

~9:44, post-Trespasser, probably into 9:45 - ‘The Bard’ reports a sighting of an unspecified Warden-Commander in an auctionhouse in Llomerryn, talking to disguised Divine Victoria. This Warden-Commander’s identity is left unstated, and this story of the Bard’s, or this part of the story, seems like it was made up.

supposition: this was made up and never happened, given the context. I do love the allusion to the apparent contact and scheming between HoF and romanced or befriended Divine Leliana, though

----------

There are also lots of things that the HoF was rumored or can be suggested to do post-game in the DAO and expansion epilogues. If desired, these could easily be woven into headcanons and stories to help fill the periods where there are large timegaps. You could also headcanon in HoF appearing with romanced Zevran and romanced Leliana at various timepoints when they resurface in the narrative, for example.

continue to have unspecified adventures and travels

travel with Sten to Par Vollen

travel with Wynne and Shale

dwarves: return to Orzammar, potentially Paragon duties

Mahariel: return to their clan

Tabris: potentially Bann of the Alienage duties

Cousland: return to Highever, help Fergus rebuild

and so forth

#dragon age #bioware #a 'personal' hc is one which applies to my Thedas #a 'favored' hc is one I enjoy a lot #this timeline and these details aren't perfect as some of the canon info #is janky or inconsistent but hey #so we gotta do what we can lol #pls note this post is not prescriptive so if you have hcs that don't match canon #or don't match my guesses or hcs that's totally fine!! #glynn mahariel #mj meta #Logan Hawke #Gryff Lavellan #ref stuff #morrigan #solas #alistair theirin #cassandra pentaghast #tevinter nights spoilers #tevinter nights spoiler #tevinter nights #video games #queen of my heart #fav warden #my lady paladin #spoilers #spoiler #oh and a supposition is like a fair assumption guess or sth we might reasonably infer

[theharellan]

Solas Fan Banter

Here’s a compilation of the fan banter I’ve written over the years between Solas and other canon Dragon Age characters, posted for Dragon Age Day 2020. There are references to a canon divergent Solas/nb!Lavellan companion romance. I’ve regretfully not written any Iron Bull banter that I’m proud enough of to feature here, but if anyone has any suggestions for topics I’d be glad to hear them.

Featured characters: Solas, Cassandra, Varric, Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, Dorian, Cole, Morrigan, Cullen, Leliana, Valta, Renn, and Arcane Advisor Merrill!

Solas & Cassandra

(after receiving the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Cassandra: And he was not even a mage. Shameful. Solas: Would have it been justified if he was? Cassandra: The Templars have sanction to punish apostates. It would not have been beyond their authority. Solas: I would not call that justified, merely legal. Cassandra: The Templars should be better. Solas: The Chantry armed them and gave them an enemy. That might fuel an army, but will only serve to poison their minds against innocent people, apostates or no.

Solas & Varric

(after killing the Templars during the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Varric: I thought at least away from Kirkwall I could get away from crazy Templars. Solas: You believe they were mad? The men I saw were no different from those who confronted us in Val Royeaux.

(after delivering the ring)

Solas: She seems to be holding up well, considering. Varric: Yeah, but I know a front when I see one. Solas: You believe she was suffering more than she let on? Varric: Oh, I know it, Chuckles. That ring might comfort her when the country gets too quiet, but it won’t dry her tears or– shit, do much else, really. Solas: Some wounds only time heal. Varric: And they always seem to leave ugly scars.

(after beginning Here Lies the Abyss)

Solas: You found Hawke after all. Varric: Oh, you know. All those heroics jogged my memory. Solas: Naturally. Varric: What, you going to lay into me, too? Solas: No, no. I understand why you hesitated. (if Hawke is a mage) Solas: To involve her in a Chantry organisation would not have been wise, at least before it had a chance to prove itself. (otherwise) Solas: Given her involvement in this war, I can only imagine there are those on both sides who would blame her for their present predicament. Varric: You mind telling all that to Cassandra? Solas: I would prefer not to.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke is left behind)

Solas: I have read your book, you know. The Tale of the Champion. Varric: I don’t know if now’s the best time. Solas: I understand. I only wanted to say that in reading it, I felt your affection for Hawke in every word. I am... sorry, for what happened. Varric: Thanks, Chuckles. Solas: Of course.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke survives)

Solas: You said your farewells to Hawke? Varric: Sure did. Sent letters home, debated sending letters to Weisshaupt. The Wardens will need to know the storm coming their way. Solas: You believe Hawke will pose a problem? Varric: Well, maybe not on purpose.

(in the Hissing Wastes, while exploring dwarven ruins)

Varric: I’m surprised you’re not hounding me about how all this makes me feel, Chuckles. Solas: I had thought we established your disinterest. Varric: Yeah, well. I’m thinking about it, anyway. Solas: If you insist. How does this make you feel, Varric? Varric: There’s a tiny part of me that’s really satisfied, you know? Seeing a Paragon of all people living on the Surface, then the rest of me just doesn’t give a shit. Solas: Tradition is a difficult thing to shake, to be conflicted is expected. Do you think our discovery here ought to be shared with Orzammar? Varric: I don’t know about Orzammar, but I can think of a few Surface dwarves who’d be interested in this.

Solas & Sera

Solas: I could not help but notice what you were drawing at breakfast. Sera: What? I wasn’t drawing anything.

(if Sera is romanced)

Solas: You captured our Inquisitor’s likeness well. Sera: Better than you could.

(otherwise)

Solas: There was no mistaking Dagna’s likeness. What were you carrying? Sera: A bowblade. It’s not a thing yet, but if anyone can make one, Widdle can.

Solas: Have you ever given thought to collaborating together on a piece? Sera: Collaber-what? Piece of what? Solas: A painting, or a drawing if you prefer, what medium you decide upon makes little difference to me. Sera: You really think the two of us could work together on anything? Solas: I was under the impression we had been. Sera: That’s different. The Inquisition’s not an ‘us’ thing, or it is, but not us us.

Sera: Say if I wanted to make something with you, what’d we even make? Solas: You ask the question as if there are limitations. Sera: A dragon, then! No, wait, a butt! (beat) Sera: Nothing? Not even a nose wrinkle? Solas: I am not unopposed to the idea. Sera: Ugh, how can you even make butts boring?

Sera: (handing him a drawing) Here, made you something. Solas: What is this? Are those—shoes? Sera: That’s right. One for each toe. You’re welcome.

(After Solas initiates a relationship with Ian)

Sera: So, you and Freckles, huh? Interesting. Solas: Your interest is not my concern. Sera: I always figured you’d wind with someone who’d make the bumping bits matter. Y’know, drop ‘em and rebuild the empire. Solas: It is not the physical product of our love that matters so much as how he makes me feel when I’m with him. Sera: Eugh.

(If Ian is in the party)

Ian: (laughingly) Vhenan, I would choose your words more carefully next time. Solas: Oh. (slightly embarrassed) I did not mean it like that. Sera: Ha! I’ve made him blush. Solas: This is why I didn’t wish to discuss it.

Solas & Blackwall

(While near Ferb’s old fishing pier in the Exalted Plains)

Blackwall: Wonder if the fishing’s good. If we had an hour or two… Solas: Do you consider yourself an angler, Blackwall? Blackwall: I wouldn’t go that far, but I do enjoy the sport of it. Solas: I’ve never considered it a sport. Blackwall: Probably because you’ve never gone fishing just for the fun of it. Next time we make camp, I’ll show you.

Inquisitor: So, how’d your fishing expedition go? Blackwall: You should’ve seen the size of the gar I wrangled. Solas: It was not half as impressive as he believes. Blackwall: He only says that because all’s he caught were minnows. Solas: (scoffs) Inquisitor: So... where is it? Blackwall: We threw it back, of course. Wasn’t like we were going to eat it. Solas: A convenient excuse.

(Along the Storm Coast)

Blackwall: Ever heard of the pale ship that appears on the mists? The Windy Marcher – I think that’s what they called it. Solas: I cannot say I have. Blackwall: An old story, no idea where it started. Must’ve heard it a dozen times in the Free Marches, always a different ending. Solas: As is often the case with legends, the content and moral changes with the teller. Blackwall: One man claimed he’d seen it himself, said the ship was captained by beautiful spirits who’d called him to the sea. Solas: A case of wishful thinking, I assume. Blackwall: He was a bit of a lonely bastard.

(After Revelations)

Solas: You and Cole seem more friendly, of late. Thom: He took some getting used to, but his heart’s in the right place. There’s enough darkness in the world without pushing away the good. Solas: I imagine it was chilling, knowing he could break your cover on a whim. Thom: That did keep me up some nights, yes. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t say anything. Solas: Perhaps he saw in you what the Inquisitor sees. Thom: Well, I’m grateful. On both counts.

Solas & Vivienne

(After the events of Bring Me the Heart of Snow White)

Solas: I heard the news of Duke De Ghislain’s death. As I understand it, the two of you were close. My condolences for your loss. (if the Inquisitor gave Vivienne a regular wyvern’s heart) Vivienne: (coldly) There was a chance at saving him, but he is beyond saving, now. At least, by mortal hands. Solas: Then I am all the sorrier. (otherwise) Vivienne: He was at peace, and we had the chance to meet at least one last chance before he passed. Solas: Be thankful for that closure, it will bring you comfort in the days to come. Vivienne: It already has.

Solas: How do you feel about the moniker ‘Madame de Fer?’ Vivienne: Oh, I think it’s darling. Why do you ask? Solas: Iron is cold, unyielding without the proper tools, some may use it as an insult rather than a mark of respect. Vivienne: Of that I’ve no doubt, but let them. I embraced it wholeheartedly, and from then on no one could ever truly use it against me. Solas: True enough, such a tactic has worked for others before.

Vivienne: You will be wearing shoes to the ball, won’t you? Solas: My comfort is not worth jeopardizing the Inquisition’s image, so yes. Vivienne: Many elven servants in Orlais go barefoot, it would hardly be a scandal. Still, it would be beneficial. We must all present as a unit when the time comes, not a single hair out of place. Solas: That will hardly pose a problem for the two of us. Vivienne: (makes a sound almost like a laugh) Right you are.

Solas: There are rumours that your name be put forward as the next Divine. Vivienne: I wonder who might have started those. Solas: After all that has happened these past few months, you believe it possible they will accept a mage into their fold? (if the Inquisitor completed In Hushed Whispers / is a mage) Vivienne: Whyever not? Magic is what solved the problem, after all. Solas: Magic has solved countless problems over the centuries, and yet it is still reviled. Vivienne: I am not any ordinary mage. If any mage can achieve status of Divine, I am she. Solas: On that, we agree. (if the Inquisitor completed Champions of the Just and is a non-mage) Vivienne: With the Inquisitor’s support there is nothing I cannot accomplish, my dear.

Vivienne: The Inquisitor gave you that hood not half a day ago and it already has a hole in it. Solas: Two, in fact. Vivienne: Are you afraid we’ll forget you’re an elf if we go five minutes without seeing your ears? Solas: My estimation of your abilities is not that low, Enchanter, and I would be careful were I you. Two holes cut in a hood is not nearly as desperate as donning a pair of horns every morning.

(After Ian is made Tranquil during his personal quest)

Vivienne: I hope you know what you are doing, my dear. The Rite of Tranquility is not something easily undone. Solas: As I understand it, the Seekers did it quite regularly. Vivienne: And through a far gentler process. What they did to Ian was barbaric, but undoing it is not necessarily a kindness. One might even call it selfish. Solas: I never made any claim to selflessness. Vivienne: Go through with it, and he will relive what happened to him every morning and night for the rest of his life. Solas: (with restrained anger) Do not pretend as though you suddenly care for his well-being now, you showed little regard for him before. Vivienne: It is a warning, nothing more. Solas: Your warning is heeded, but it changes nothing. I am under no illusion this will be simple, but to give up on him now— I would be no better than the Circle that once wanted this same fate for him.

Solas & Dorian

Dorian: That book you have on your desk, Solas… Solas: There are many. Which are you referring to? Dorian: There’s one that looked to be in Ancient Tevene. Do you speak it, or are you just keeping it around to look clever? Solas: I would not go so far as to say I speak it, but I understand it well enough. Dorian: How did you go about learning it? Solas: Memories of Tevinter’s empire litter the land, there is hardly a place in Thedas where the world does not remember it, and with memories come language. Dorian: So you learned through the Fade? Solas: I did, though my pronunciation leaves something to be desired. An unfortunate consequence of learning any language alone. Dorian: I might be able to help, but only if you give me the satisfaction of hearing you muddle through it out loud beforehand. Also, I’ll be next in line when you’ve finished reading that book of yours. Solas: (snorts) Very well.

Solas & Cole

Cole: So they’re nobody, but somebody. Empty shells, filled with someone else’s memory. Solas: For the most part, it seems. Cole: If they’re heartless, why are they so angry? Solas: Perhaps it was not so much the absence of feeling, but the lack of recognition of said feelings. Cole: Belief makes them real, even if they’ll always be different.

Cole: It remembered. Delight in discovery, always pushing further into the unknown— someone like that does not simply disappear, and yet... it cannot remember his name. Solas: Names are not so as important as the spirit of the person they belong to. Cole: It remembered the person. Sadder, but stronger. If I ever return to the Fade, I would like to meet it. Solas: Nothing would delight it more. Cole: Oh, I know. I think we’d be friends.

(After the banter where Solas helps prevent a panic attack)

Cole: You breathe in— one, two, three, four— then out— one, two, three, four— feel the grass beneath your feet, magic between your fingers, remember what is and what was. How long did it take you to learn? Solas: More time than is ideal. Cole: I’m sorry. Solas: There is some comfort in knowing I’ve learned enough to help others with such struggles. Cole: I’ll count with you, if you need. Solas: Thank you, Cole.

Solas: I’m curious how your efforts are coming along since we last spoke. Cole: Josephine misses how saffron tastes, but she hasn’t asked the chef to purchase any. I wrote it on a list when no one was watching. Cullen doesn’t like my letters. He says they don’t make sense. Solas: I cannot imagine he devoted much time to understanding them. Cole: No. Listening is... difficult, when you’ve been taught not to.

Cole: Eyes fall shut, but they do not drift away. Their feet are tethered, tied to the ground. Solas: Even dwarves who lived and died on the Surface never dreamed. Cole: But they are still remembered. The song drowns out their thoughts, but it does not smother them. If I listen, I can hear. Solas: I have seen fewer glimpses of dwarven history than I would like, but there are always memories preserved by particular attentive spirits. 

(When passing through the kitchen, or lingering nearby. Solas stands over the stove and Cole sits on a nearby counter, hitting his leg against the wood.)

Solas: Would you like to try it, Cole? Cole: Would it not be a waste? I don’t need to eat. Solas: To overindulge, perhaps. A taste will do you nor the world any harm, a good meal is about more than survival. Cole: Then I’d like to try it, please.

Cole: You don’t have to eat, Solas. Solas: Strictly speaking, no. Cole: Sometimes you do anyway. Solas: When the urge takes me, or if refusing would be seen as ill-mannered.

Solas: If I could ask for your opinion, Cole. Cole: It remembers the garden. The sun bakes it red, colour working through it like a blush upon a maiden’s cheeks. Solas: Excellent. And this? Cole: It was lost in weeds for weeks, neglected and forgotten. It tastes like oversteeped tea. Solas: I see. Then we will find another.

Cole: And it remembers the ocean? Solas: It knows the mountain streams and rocky coasts as well as any well-seasoned traveller, though the paths it takes are laid with smoother stones. Cole: Rough edges wicked away by river waters. Soft enough to stand on without any shoes. Solas: Though one must still take care not to fall. (optional) Inquisitor: Speaking from personal experience, Solas? Solas: I suppose one might say that. Cole: Feet forget the ground, flying out from beneath him, but the rest of him doesn’t follow. Solas: (tinged with embarrassment) As I said. Inquisitor: (chuckles) (otherwise) Cole: But you always get up again.

Solas & Cullen

Cullen: I’m curious how you’ve avoided Templars all these years. Solas: I would prefer not to say. Cullen: I’m no longer a Templar, you know. Solas: Then why do you still wear their heraldry? Or am I mistaken? Cullen: I… Solas: Templar or no, your support for its cause endures. I would not endanger fellow apostates by revealing our methods.

Solas: Master Tethras tells me you served in Kirkwall. Cullen: Varric has no shortage of stories, that one just so happens to be true. Why do you bring it up? Solas: My travels have taken me there, on occasion. Cullen: I admit, I’m curious what your impression was. Solas: All the world is steeped in tragedy, but in Kirkwall the Fade overflows with it. Spells flow from the fingertips with such ease you may forget the Veil altogether. Cullen: That doesn’t surprise me, the amount of abominations I saw during my years there… Solas: They were but a symptom. Kirkwall’s sickness ran deeper than what any one spirit could cure.

Solas & Leliana

Solas: I have heard the Inquisition call you many titles. Sister, Nightingale, Spymaster. Leliana: I have worn many masks, some I’ve liked more than others. Why do you mention it? Solas: Which do I refer to you by? Leliana: (laughs) Whichever you prefer. You may use Leliana, if you wish. Solas: Then I shall see which suits you best.

Solas & Josephine

Josephine: It took several tries, but we managed to remove the wine stain from your sweater. I apologise again for Lady Vérène’s indiscretion. Solas: The fault is hardly yours. It is a pity she is not more open to an apostate’s perspective, but the loss is hers. Extend my sincere gratitude to whoever expunged the mark. I have only a few shirts to my name. Josephine: You know, Solas, now that the Inquisition finds itself in more favourable circumstances, we can afford to purchase you a new wardrobe. Solas: With respect, Ambassador, I value comfort over style. I’m uncertain the Summer Bazaar will be able to accommodate me. Josephine: It would be a most... unusual request, but I believe I know the tailor for the job.

Josephine: Have you found the library to your liking? Solas: I have. I cannot imagine any other circumstance where someone like me could have such unmitigated access to the written word. Most human libraries are not so liberal with their guests. Josephine: I confess, I have never been without books. Ever since I was a child they were always within reach. Solas: Then you must have recommendations. Josephine: One or two come to mind. If I can secure faithful translations, you will have them.

Solas & Morrigan

Solas: You seem well-versed in courtly manners for a woman raised in the wilderness. Morrigan: What are you implying? Solas: That you have a talent for winding nobles around your finger, or that the infamous ‘game’ is not so deadly as they like to believe. Vivienne: Or that more talented souls paved the wave for her. Solas: Another possibility. Morrigan: ‘Tis true that Orlesians overestimate the challenge of this ‘Game’ of theirs. Empress Celene had her desires, and ‘twas a simple matter to keep her satisfied. Vivienne: Which is why you’re with us. Morrigan: With you at my side, I could not help but notice. Vivienne: Believe me, dear. Court enchanter is a trifle compared to where my sights have set.

Solas: I found your son atop the rotunda’s scaffolding today. Morrigan: He has long been fond of climbing, and Skyhold’s trees are too new to bear his weight. Solas: It was no harm. My only regret is I did not have an answer to every question he asked. He is a curious boy. Morrigan: (laughs) That he is.

(During What Pride Had Wrought, upon finding the mosaic of June)

Morrigan: Ah, clever June. The most elusive of the elven gods, insofar as legends are concerned. Solas: Their silence is deafening. Morrigan: I take it you have insight? Solas: Merely that he does not deserve what little credit he is given. Time has forgotten the name of whosoever built the first aravel.

Solas: Rumour spread that Kieran went missing. I trust your presence here means you have found him? Morrigan: I… yes. Solas: He is unharmed? Morrigan: Yes. Solas: Then I am glad. And… you? Morrigan: I have much to think upon, but my son is safe. Everything else can come after.

Solas & Renn

Solas: Tell me, Lieutenant, why did you remain with the Legion? Renn: Having trouble seeing why it’s your business. Why d’you ask? Solas: Escaping would be a simple matter of finding the right battle to slip away from. Freedom would only be a few day’s journey from where we stand. Renn: I couldn’t abandon my men... or my city. Solas: You show great loyalty to Orzammar, considering you will never see it again. Renn: Yeah, well. You never forget your home. Solas: No. I suppose you don’t.

Solas & Valta

Solas: “But the truth is the truth— no matter how political it may be.” Valta: Do you disagree? Solas: Just the opposite. The truth does not change with our ability to stomach it. I am glad a historian such as yourself agrees. Valta: A shame the rest of the Shaperate doesn’t agree with us. Solas: True, but if they had you would not be here, on the brink of uncovering secrets buried centuries ago. In their attempt to keep you out of the way, they unknowingly set you upon the path to even greater knowledge. Valta: Orzammar will know the truth. If I don’t make it, then the Inquisitor— Solas: You are not yet dead, Shaper Valta. Do not count yourself apart from the living so soon.

Solas & Merrill

Merrill: You snort when you laugh. Solas: I’m well-aware. If you are about to ask me to stop, I’m afraid I’ve tried before. Merrill: Oh, it’s not a bad thing. It might be the most charming thing about you. Solas: Damned by faint praise. Merrill: It is a very charming laugh.

Solas: Why did you leave your clan? I read Varric’s Tale of the Champion, but I suspect most of it was a lie. (if present) Varric: Hey! I’m right here. Solas: You did well to lie. To name her as a Dalish mage would be to paint a target upon her back. (otherwise) Merill: I left… I— it wasn’t exactly my choice. There was a mirror, tainted by the Blight. I thought we should fix it, even if it meant turning to blood magic. My Keeper disagreed. Solas: You cleansed the Blight from an eluvian? That is remarkable. Merrill: I used to wonder if it was worth it. I sacrificed so much to get it working, years of my life, my— I’m just glad we’re getting use out of it, now.

Merrill: You’re wrong about my people, Solas. The Dalish aren’t as lost as you think. Solas: They cast you to the streets of Kirkwall, exiled you for the crime of pursuing the duty they tasked you with. Merrill: Some of them said such awful things, they looked at me like I was already a demon, but… that doesn’t mean there isn’t good, too. Sometimes I wonder, had my Keeper not been so against me, if things might have been different. Merrill: I don’t know what they said to you, but I know what their scorn feels like. It hurts, but… there’s so much to admire. Solas: You still feel for them. Merrill: They’re my people, they always will be. No matter how much they might hate me, I’ll always love them. Solas: Put like that, I suppose I understand the sentiment. Merrill: It’s a lonely feeling, isn’t it? Solas: It never ebbs, no. Merrill: Then just— remember them, when you think unkind thoughts about the Dalish. The people you miss, the people you don’t, and what you’d sacrifice for them both.

(in the Exalted Plains, outside the boundaries of Hawen’s camp)

Merrill: (giggles) Datishan was asking about you before we left. Solas: Datishan… Hawen’s little hunter? Merrill: Who else? She wanted to know when you’d be back. Solas: What did you tell her? Merrill: I told her you needed time, that good stories don’t grow on trees. You will go back, won’t you? Solas: It seems I shall have to, or else suffer the wrath of her arrows. Merrill: You joke, but she almost poked out my eye last night. Solas: (chuckles)

#dragonageday #solas #dragon age #dragon4geday #unofficialdragonageday #dragon age inquisition #fan banter #dare to be in the company of those stronger than you ( banter ) #( my writing ) #[ i'll be reposting the couple new things i wrote for this later ] #[ scheduled post ]

[planesofduality]

Topics covered in Bioware’s latest trailer for Dragon Age 4

From the concept art we got:

- Maybe Weisshaupt and definitely Grey Wardens

- Hints on next companions or supporting characters, including: a white haired qunari lady everyone wants to to wife up, Lace Harding, Dorian (maybe), raven lady, mr. skeltal companion, mage chick (Maevaris plz)

- Creepy enemies: spiders, dragons, red lyrium-infused creatures (with bonus red-lyrium ax), sea monsters

- Red lyrium everywhere. Like EVERYWHERE. It’s in the trees, it’s in the ocean, it’s straight up pollution 

- Hints of water-focused areas: the port city images (Minrathous? Rivain?), the underwater images of people swimming, red lyrium, and a ripped sailor

Soundbites from Bioware employees working on the game:

I grouped them based on topic.

Character-focused stories: Different perspectives

“In the next Dragon Age we get an opportunity to see new things, new places, and interact with people who lived and grew up in these spaces as well.” - Mark Darrah, Executive Producer

“The things that you can expect in the next installment are going to be stories that focus on the people around you and the friends and family you made.” - John Epler;  Narrative Director

“We want characters to either be loved or hated. One of the best examples of that is Solas: Half the community wants to kill him, another half want to marry him, and a part of people want to do both.” - Jon Renish, Technical Director

Player choice and consequences

“Choice is a big part of what Dragon Age is as a franchise. The decisions you make can affect change in the world.” - Andre Garcia; Gameplay Director

“Decision making can mean that a party member lives or a party member dies. And it means owning your outcome and reactivity to the choices that you do make.” - Katrina Barkwell; RPG Programmer

I  think the two above topics are things fans really care about when it comes to why they like Dragon Age. It’s certainly part of the reason why I personally like Dragon Age. It is also something we have worried about when they talk about adding an live component to the game. They didn’t mention how that would factor in, if at all, in this trailer. I have some thoughts already on how this could be achieved, based on literally nothing but my neurons firing in a certain way and the idea popping into my head, but I’ll make that post separate. In the end, it’s a relief to hear them talk about the dynamics that make Dragon Age Dragon Age. 

Thematic elements: 

“The world of Dragon Age really has got it all: It’s got frontier stories, it’s got mystery, it’s got hardboiled detective stories. And of course it’s all kind of wrapped up in a fantasy setting.” - Matthew Goldman; Creative Director

“For the game we’re working on now, we want to tell a story of what happens when you don’t have power? What happens when the people in charge aren’t willing to address the issues?” - Patrick Weekes, Lead Writer

One thing I found particularly interesting is the mentioning of “hardboiled detective stories” because I actually don’t think this is something we have seen in Dragon Age recently (maybe DA2 - someone remind me). The term “hardboiled detective” is the name of a common trope. I wonder if some of the original plans or ideas for DA4′s Morrison, such as their spy quests, made it into this iteration. 

Weekes somehow knows what to say to get people interested. There’s a lot of power differentials in the world of Dragon Age that this could be referring to - mages/non-mages, elves/humans, slaves/master... It could also reference what kind of character we might be playing. It would be interesting to go from the Inquisitor who has had the most power out of any Dragon Age protagonist yet, to a character who has the least amount power. And I honestly think anything else would be less than satisfying. 

I’ve been stalking DA4 tags all evening, but curious to hear people’s thoughts!

#dragon age #dragon age 4 #DA4 speculation #da4 spoilers #da4 predictions #gamescomm #bioware #solas #the dread wolf rises

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Paint

Chapter 26 of The Love That Grows From Violence (post-Trespasser Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up!

In which Felassan reveals yet another hobby. 😂 Featuring gorgeous art this week by @elbenherzart​!!

~8100 words; read on AO3 instead.

The following days were a buzz of activity for Tamaris and Felassan. Gone was the lazy flow of leisurely-executed activities that had previously characterized their time; now, it almost felt to Tamaris like there weren’t enough hours in the day to do everything they wanted to do. 

Their morning sparring sessions were becoming longer and more strenuous as Felassan’s grasp of his magic grew. He switching between types of magic now in his attacks, transitioning from fire to lighting to ice to raw Fade strikes while using barriers to repel Tamaris’s blows, and by the time they finished their sparring these days, they were often too fatigued to fuck right afterwards like they’d been doing when his magical control was more modest.

Outside of their sparring sessions, Felassan kept working on his magic by himself. He tinkered with Dorian’s crystals and pored through the few tomes on magic that he’d found in the mansion’s library, as well as a few tomes that Varric had given him from the stock that was salvaged from the Gallows during the Kirkwall Uprising. Dorian was sending a selection of more complex books from Tevinter, and until they arrived, Felassan cheerfully made fun of the Chantry-based books he did have access to, even as he read them. 

While Felassan was working on his magic, Tamaris worked on getting herself back up to speed about current events happening in Thedas and what the other branches of the wolf hunt were doing. They sat together in the study, Felassan working at the desk while Tamaris spread her papers and reports across the couch and floor, and they frequently made snarky comments to each other about what they were reading. Although it wasn’t pleasant to be so busy again, Tamaris had to admit that it was nice to have a constant companion who was working just as hard as she. 

One day, Tamaris looked up from one of Leliana’s coded letters to find Felassan leaning back against the desk with his arms folded and a pensive frown on his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He met her eye. “That piece of ironwood I gave you. Can I have it?”

Her eyes widened. He’d given her his piece of ironwood so long ago now that she’d been half-wondering if he’d forgotten about it. “Of course,” she said, and she stood from the couch. “What are you — are you going to make a staff with it?”

“I’m going to try,” he said.

“That’s great!” she exclaimed. “That’s – I’ll go get it right now.” She ran upstairs to her bedroom and pulled the short length of ironwood out of her dresser. 

It was wrapped in a fine silk scarf Josephine had given her. She carefully unwrapped it, then ran back downstairs and held it out to Felassan.

He smiled faintly as he took it. “Why do I get the impression that you’re more excited about this than I am?”

“It is exciting,” she insisted. “You’re going to… I mean, I don’t really know what you’re going to do, but you’re going to try and make this into a staff! That means you feel pretty confident that you can do it, right?”

“I’m reasonably confident that I won’t blow up the house while trying,” he said wryly.

She frowned. “Come on, Felassan, don’t be so down on yourself. You’ve got so much more control than you did a month ago.” Just this morning, they’d been discussing the possibility that he shouldn’t spar with her anymore out of concern that he might harm her, since his attacks were surpassing the bounds of her barriers to repel him.

“True,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I am close to what I used to be.” He twirled the ironwood in his fingers and gave her a knowing look. “Using magic in this time truly is a matter of control and skill, you know. The feeling of magic being like a second seamless heartbeat really was an artifact of my time. Waking up in this time was like… like having to learn to speak again. Conscious manipulation of a skill I once took for granted.” He gestured at himself. “This relearning is like doing that all over again, but even more difficult since I can’t do what I intend to do.”

“You couldn’t before,” she said emphatically. “Now you can.”

He shrugged. “I can sometimes.”

She frowned more deeply. “Most of the time. You do what you mean to do three-quarters of the time now.”

He smirked. “Have you been keeping a ledger of my progress that I don’t know about?”

“I’m proud of you, okay?” she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows, and she hunched her shoulders defensively. “I’m just… You thought you might not recover anything when you first got here. You’ve come a long way.”

His expression softened with fondness. “I haven’t tried to do anything particularly complex. Certainly nothing as complex as making a staff.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “Just try, and if you can’t do it right away, keep trying. You’ll get it.”

His smile widened. “Look at you, being all optimistic. If not for your scowl, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

She scoffed and gently shoved his chest. “Go make your staff, you brat. I’ve got reports to read.” She started back toward the couch, but Felassan grabbed her hand before she could get very far.

He pulled her close and stroked the metal joint of her left wrist. “Ise inor vhenan. Do you know what this means?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “‘Heart of fire’?” she said hesitantly.

“‘Fire in the heart,’ yes,” he said. “It’s an Elvhen term for someone who refuses to give up, even when the odds are stacked against them.” He smiled faintly. “Determination to the point of stubbornness.”

“Uh-huh,” she said flatly. “You’re calling me the stubborn one here, I guess?”

His smile widened. “I’m saying you are the fire in my heart, Tamaris. And I appreciate your stubborn reminders that I am, in fact, getting better.”

Her belly burst into giddy butterflies. The fire in my heart... 

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop a stupid grin from spreading across her face. She gave him a chiding look instead. “Now who’s trying to seduce whom?”

His smile curled with mischief, and he tipped her chin up with a gentle finger. “Not when you have so many fascinating reports to read,” he murmured. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips, and for a blissful moment, she melted helplessly into his kiss.

He leaned away from her with a smile, and Tamaris grinned goofily at him before tottering back to her spot on the couch. Felassan chuckled and returned to his desk, and it was with a light and happy heart that Tamaris returned to her pile of reports.

Their evenings were spent with Varric and Dorian discussing the ways they could use Felassan’s information to benefit the wolf hunt. Tamaris felt that getting in touch with the Grey Wardens’s commanders should be a top priority. “We should be telling them not to kill the last two archdemons, right?” she said one night as they gathered at the dining table with Dorian’s crystal. “They should know the archdemons might be guarding against the Blight, so if anything, the Wardens should be protecting the archdemons from being found by the darkspawn.” Based on the information that Felassan had outlined, they had come to the conclusion that events like the Fifth Blight happened when the darkspawn infected the archdemons, and not that the archdemons were galvanizing the darkspawn into action like everyone seemed to think.

Felassan shrugged. “It probably would be ideal for them to stop attacking the archdemons, yes.”

“But you don’t think they’ll stop,” Varric said.

Felassan smiled faintly. “I think they have several centuries’ worth of evidence that killing archdemons coincides with the end of a Blight event, and no reason to accept the hypothesis of a random elf.”

“Well, we still have to try,” Tamaris retorted.

“I am not saying not to try,” Felassan said. “But I also think it might be worth launching our own independent ventures to find the archdemons.”

Varric grimaced. “That’s a pretty ambitious undertaking, Jester.”

“True,” Felassan said casually. “You could also speak to individual lower-ranking Wardens rather than approaching their commanders.”

Dorian’s voice floated up from the crystal. “Why shouldn’t we try and approach the Warden-Commanders?”

“People in charge are usually disinclined to listen to strange ideas,” Felassan said. “They’re considerably more skeptical than the average person. The more experience they have, the more convinced in their rightness — and the more closed-off — they tend to be.”

Varric chuckled. “Not a fan of authority figures, are you?”

Felassan widened his eyes. “I respect authority figures deeply. That doesn’t mean I listen to them or follow what they say.”

Tamaris snorted with amusement. Felassan smiled at her, then casually waved his hand. “Anyway, we should start looking for stray lower-ranking Wardens. Not only might they be more open-minded, but they could lead us to Weisshaupt, if that’s still where you think the Wardens are gathering.”

Varric scribbled a memo in his notebook. “All right. More efforts to find the Wardens. Any other thoughts?”

 Dorian spoke up. “I was thinking about the fact that Solas has so much knowledge at his disposal now, with those two other souls piggybacking on his body. It certainly puts us at a disadvantage, but he’s not the only person we know whose head is stuffed with ancient knowledge.”

Tamaris nodded ruefully; she’d been thinking the same thing. “You mean Morrigan.”

 “Yes,” Dorian said. “We should try and get her assistance. There must be information from the Well of Sorrows that can benefit us.”

She ran her hand slowly through her hair. When Dorian spoke again, his voice was gentle, as though he could see her reluctance. “I know you wanted to let her raise Kieran in peace, but if Solas drops the Veil, there will be nowhere safe left for them to live. Or any of us, for that matter.”

“No, I know. You’re right.” Tamaris sighed and lowered her hand. “How should we even go about trying to find her? She doesn’t care about keeping in touch with anyone.”

Varric tapped his quill idly on his notebook. “The Hero of Ferelden would be a good bet. Nightingale said she and Morrigan were close back in the day.”

Tamaris frowned. “That was over ten years ago. And isn’t Mahariel already going off to spy on the qunari?”

“She’d have time to send a letter,” Varric said reasonably. 

“I guess,” Tamaris said, somewhat reluctantly. She still felt guilty about the Hero of Ferelden doing so many tasks for the wolf hunt after everything she’d already done for Ferelden, but no one seemed to have any choice about getting pulled into all of this. 

“Okay,” Varric said as he took another note. “Get the hero to write to the swamp witch.” He looked up at Felassan and Tamaris. “Any other ideas?”

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about, actually,” Tamaris said. She gave Felassan a critical look. “The Well of Sorrows. The fact that it even existed and that Mythal had warriors who were bound to her will. Don’t you think that’s fucked up?”

He pulled a little face. “It’s not a fate I would ever choose, that’s for certain.”

“So why did she make anyone choose it?” Tamaris demanded. “Why make anyone be bound to her will?”

“Remember that the Sentinel order arose around the time that the Evanuris were all starting to war with each other,” Felassan said. “In retrospect, I wonder if the rising of the Sentinels might have been the first sign that Mythal was worried she would be betrayed. An order of warriors who are bound to your will means they can’t betray you, not even if you die. Allegedly die, that is,” he added.

Tamaris folded her arms. In her opinion, that was no excuse. “What did Solas think of the Sentinels when Mythal started recruiting them?” she asked.

Felassan grimaced again. “He was… conflicted,” he said slowly. “On the one hand, Abelas and the others were willingly giving themselves into Mythal’s will, so technically they were submitting to her by choice. But by submitting to her, they were effectively making themselves her slaves.” Felassan twisted his lips ruefully. “It certainly kept him up at night, even if he didn’t speak against her outright.”

Tamaris relaxed slightly at this. “It didn’t seem to sit right with him when we were there, either.” 

Felassan nodded and gave her an appraising look. “You never considered drinking from the Well, did you?”

“I mean, sure, I considered it for a second,” she said. “Until Solas refused point-blank to drink from it. If he was saying no, then I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do it.”

Felassan snorted a laugh. “Wise of you to follow his example. It would be a very different Tamaris sitting before us now if you had drunk from the Vir’Abelasan.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps you wouldn’t be sitting here at all, if Solas really is hosting Mythal.”

Tamaris frowned, but Dorian filled in his unspoken thoughts. “Fasta vass. You think he would have taken control of Tamaris via Mythal?”

Tamaris’s guts went cold at the thought, and Felassan’s answer only discomfited her more. “It’s possible,” he said.

“So that means Morrigan could be in trouble now, then,” Tamaris said tensely. “And Kieran too.”

“Also possible,” Felassan said.

“Shit. Fuck.” She ran her hands through her hair, then gestured at Varric’s notebook. “Write that down. Trying to find her should be a priority.”

“Fen’Harel won’t kill them, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Felassan said. 

Varric gave him a skeptical look. “If he’s willing to bring the Veil down on us, he’s probably not too concerned about killing one woman and her kid.”

“It’s not like that,” Tamaris said. “Solas doesn’t want to kill more people than he has to.” 

Varric looked at her in surprise, and Dorian sounded surprised as well when he replied. “That almost sounded like you’re defending him.”

“She’s not defending him,” Felassan said. “She’s just explaining him.”

She looked up to find Felassan smiling at her. But instead of smiling back, she frowned. “Can you explain something to me? Why did he trust her?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Who, Morrigan?”

She gave him a chiding look. “No. Mythal. She was so fucking shady. The dwarf stuff, the Well of Sorrows stuff, hiding her dragon without telling him so he thought she was dead, not to mention how smug and bitchy she was when I met her, and all the shitty things Morrigan said about being raised by her. How could Solas have trusted her?”

His smile began to melt into that look of anachronistic melancholy that made Tamaris’s heart twist. “I don’t know if it is possible to explain the strength of the ties that exist between them,” he said quietly. “Can any of us even imagine the depth of love that could develop between two beings who have known each other for several thousand years? Solas knew Mythal since he was barely more than a wisp. She was one of the main sources of pride that fed and fostered him before he became an elf. She shaped him in ways that none of us can fully understand. Even if he later realized that some of her proudest achievements were terrible mistakes, the depth of his devotion to her would have made him incapable of seeing her as truly flawed.”

Dorian hummed an acknowledgement. “Love is blind, hm?”

Varric grunted. “It’s a literary cliché for a reason.”

“It really is,” Felassan said. His tone was jocular, but his smile was wry and sad.

Tamaris reached over and squeezed his thigh. Then Varric snapped his fingers. “Hey, that reminds me. I was thinking about the whole Mythal-hiding-her-dragon thing the other day, and I thought, uh… well, what if Mythal’s dragon really is dead?”

Felassan straightened in his chair. “Interesting. Then how do you propose that she survived?”

Varric put his quill down. “Well, Hawke had this amulet that Flemeth told her to take to the Dalish. She took it to our friend Merrill’s clan, and Merrill did some kind of ritual, and Flemeth popped out of the amulet like… like, uh…”

“Like magic?” Dorian suggested wryly.

Varric laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Obviously.”

Dorian chuckled, but to Tamaris’s surprise, Felassan just stared at Varric without laughing.

“Felassan, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He continued to stare at Varric. “Why didn’t you mention this the other day when I was talking about the dragons?”

Varric shrugged. “I didn’t think of it then.”

“I wish you had,” Felassan said. “That changes everything. If Mythal’s dragon truly was killed, but she had another piece of her life essence stored in an amulet…” He trailed off, then snorted a sudden little laugh. “Amulets are far easier to hide than dragons, you know.”

Varric shrugged and picked up his quill. “I mean, I could be wrong. You can read The Tale of the Champion yourself and see what you think.”

“You should read it, actually,” Tamaris piped in. “There’s more detail in there about Merrill and her eluvian, too.” She turned to Varric. “It’s the same eluvian that gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what Daisy said,” Varric replied.

Felassan looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, an eluvian gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight?” he said sharply.

Varric tilted his head in an equivocal gesture. “Well, maybe it didn’t directly give Mahariel the blight, especially if only living stuff can have the blight. But it was definitely involved, from what Daisy told us.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, eluvians aren’t alive, are they?”

“No, they’re… they’re not alive,” Felassan said numbly. He kept staring at Varric in a stunned sort of way that made Tamaris nervous.

She tapped his thigh. “Felassan, are you–?”

He suddenly burst out laughing — a distinctly hysterical-sounding laugh. Tamaris shifted closer to him and held out her hand, and he grabbed it as he dragged in a breath. 

She squeezed his fingers. “Just breathe,” she said soothingly.

He nodded, then burst out another uncontrolled laugh. “Just when I think I have a grasp on this time, I realize something enormously significant that I missed,” he wheezed.

“What do you think you missed?” Dorian asked.

Felassan giggled before dragging in another calming breath. “An eluvian that’s steeped somehow in the blight makes me think there is a specific place that it was keyed to access. A place that was so catastrophically affected by the blight that the eluvians connected to it might be growing red lyrium.”

Tamaris’s eyes widened. “Arlathan?” she breathed.

Felassan nodded and chuckled, and Tamaris sighed. “Fuck. So we should try and get Merrill somewhere safe too, then.”

Varric sighed. “I hate to tell you this, but I haven’t heard from Daisy in a while.”

Tamaris’s stomach went cold once more. “You think she’s working with Solas?”

Varric twisted his lips sadly. “She’d have good reason to, if he sweet-talked her with stories about the ancient elves.”

Felassan sighed. “That’s good.”

Tamaris frowned at him, affronted. “It’s good? What do you mean, it’s good? One more ally for Solas means one less for us!”

Felassan gave her a chiding look. “It would also mean that an eluvian leading straight to the Black City is under Solas’s control and not, for example, Tevinter’s. Neither is… ideal, but having that eluvian in Tevinter hands is probably worse.” He cocked his head. “Probably.”

“That hurts my feelings slightly,” Dorian said.

Felassan chuckled, then sighed and rubbed his forehead, and Tamaris studied him with a pang of sympathy. He looked so tired. 

She squeezed his hand once more. He gave her a little smile, then squeezed her hand in turn before kicking his feet up on the table. “In any case, I know what’s next on my reading list.” He shot Varric a smirk. “Maybe you should just give me an annotated bibliography of your work so I can catch up on everything I need to know about the last twenty years.”

Varric huffed in amusement. “I guess I could get you a copy of all my works. I am just a humble servant to my loyal readers, after all.”

Felassan smiled at him. “A sweet sentiment. That reminds me, how is your most loyal reader?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Cassandra’s fine. Yes, I wrote her a smut scene. And no, you can’t read it.”

Dorian burst out laughing while Felassan complained playfully about not being allowed to read Varric’s smut, and Tamaris listened to the three of them faux-bickering with a bittersweet feeling in her chest. 

Later that evening, long after Dorian ended the call and Varric had gone home, Tamaris trudged gloomily back to the study to read some more reports. A minute later, Felassan sidled into the study as well.

He pushed some of her papers aside to sit down beside her, and Tamaris poked him in the arm. “Hey, don’t touch my mess. I have a system.”

He draped his arm over the back of the couch. “You’re not really going to continue working now, are you?”

She scratched her ear. “Well, I — there was one last report I was in the middle of reading, so I just want to finish it.”

“Finish it tomorrow,” he said. 

She gave him a chiding look. “You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re working far too hard for someone who doesn’t actually have anything to do.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do you have to rub it in? I feel guilty enough already.”

He tilted his head. “You feel guilty staying in this house with me while my magic is too uncontrolled to travel?”

Her eyes widened in dismay. “Wha– no, that’s not what I mean at all!”

“Then why bother feeling guilty?” he asked.

She gazed at him in exasperation. “It’s — I can’t just turn it off, okay? Everyone else is working hard, including you. I need to do something.”

He shrugged. “You can help me with making my staff.”

Her irritation melted into surprise. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “You have full control of your magic. It will form a stabilizing influence to help me channel mine into the ironwood.”

She smiled at the thought of helping Felassan with something magical, then wilted slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want Dorian’s help instead? His mana reserves are way stronger than mine.”

Felassan smirked. “Jealous, are you?”

“No, for once,” she said snarkily. “Just being practical.”

His smile widened. “So you admit that you are jealous of my friendship with Dorian.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her half-read report. “Fuck off and let me read my report, will you?”

He chuckled and plucked the papers from her hand. “To answer your question, no. I don’t want his help. Even if he could help via the sending crystal, which he can’t, I would still be asking for your help instead.”

“And why’s that?” she grumbled.

“Because I’ll enjoy feeling the hum of your magic in my fingers when I use the staff,” he replied.

She looked at him with fresh curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll leave a magical signature in the wood if you help me make my staff,” he explained. “It will be an enjoyable feeling when I’m blowing apart our enemies.” 

“Oh,” she said dumbly. His tone was casual, but she couldn’t help but feel oddly flattered that he would want to feel her magical signature during a fight. 

She shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, um. Sure, I’d be happy to help.”

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll let you know when I need your hands.”

She blinked in confusion. “Oh, you – you don’t want to do this now?”

“Oh, no,” he said casually. “My experimentation today proved that I need more time to practice the spells for imbuing our signatures into the wood, not to mention tailoring it to the size-modulating spell I’ll be putting on the staff.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Besides, we’re not working anymore tonight.” 

“We’re not, huh?” she said wryly.

“No,” Felassan said. “We’re going to do something fun.”

His tone and the curl of his lips were mischievous, and Tamaris smirked. “Like what?” she said drolly.

His answer surprised her, though. “Like painting the walls.” 

She wilted. “You want to start painting the walls? Now?” She eyed the plain washed walls of the study with some resignation.

“Not those walls, and not that kind of paint,” he said. “Come.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Tamaris sighed and allowed him to pull her up from the couch. He led her to the foyer and jerked his thumb at the east-facing wall of the foyer, which they’d painted a deep peacock blue. “This bores me,” he said. “I think we should paint a mural.”

She balked slightly. “A mural?” Her mind instantly went to the murals Solas had painted on the walls of the rotunda: those huge, floor-to-ceiling works that he’d painted during the year he’d spent by her side — beautiful masterpieces that she’d once considered as tributes to his love for her, but which had later been too painful for her to look at, leading her to avoid the rotunda altogether. 

Felassan, as usual, picked up on her thoughts. He gave her a knowing look. “Not a mural like Fen’Harel’s. Something much simpler and much less planned.” 

Tamaris gave him a cautious look. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing in particular, really,” he said. He looked at the wall and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “I usually just start painting and see where my hands take me.”

She gazed at him with growing confusion. “W-wait. You… do you know how to paint?”

He shrugged. “I have been known to paint sometimes.”

She gaped at him. “Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t want to be made fun of for having yet another hobby.”

She gently punched his arm. “Don’t be stupid! I would never make fun of you for being an artist! Would I have seen anything you painted? In the Vir Dirthara or any ancient temples or anything?” Her eyes widened. “Or — or even at Skyhold?”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “You flatter me by suggesting anything I paint would be worthy of such illustrious locations.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That's not an answer.”

He chuckled. “You’re right. And you might have seen some of my work, though it would be hard to tell it apart from the work of others.”

“What do you mean?”

He let out a little huff of laughter and rubbed his mouth, as though he was thinking of a private joke. “Did you ever see quick, messy paintings of elven warriors going to battle on halla?”

“Yes, in many places,” she said. She paused, then double-taked at him. “Wait, those were by you?”

“Not just me,” Felassan said. “Fen’Harel’s rebels had a tendency to leave our mark in the places where we foiled our foes.”

Tamaris stared at him, then smiled. “You vandalized the Evanuris’s property while you were freeing their slaves?”

Felassan grinned. “I like to think we improved their decor, much like you and I are doing in this house. Now let’s see how we can improve this wall, why don’t we?” He started opening the pails of paint, then glanced up at Tamaris. “Can you bring some bowls so we can mix the colours?”

“Sure,” she said. She hurried to the kitchen and came back a minute later to find that Felassan had already laid some dropcloths on the floor along the base of the wall.

He gestured to the floor. “Set them here. You don’t mind ruining those bowls with paint, do you?”

“I don’t give a single fuck about these bowls,” she said.

He snickered. “I figured as much.” He poured together some red and yellow paint to make a deep orange shade, then looked up at her as he stirred the paint. “What colours are you in the mood for?”

She blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said drolly. “What colours do you want to start with?”

She recoiled. “What? No. I’m not — I’ll just watch.”

He paused in his stirring. “That won’t do. You have to paint.”

She laughed at his bossy tone. “No I don’t. I’ll just watch.” She sat on the carpet and wrapped her arms around her knees, perfectly willing to watch Felassan the way she used to watch Solas during the long nights when he painted his murals.

Felassan gave her a chiding look, then gestured for her to come closer. “Come, avise. Paint with me. You’ll like it.”

She stubbornly shook her head. “I don’t know how to paint.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think I knew how to paint before I started vandalizing the Evanuris’s walls?”

“I thought you were ‘improving their decor’, not vandalizing,” Tamaris retorted.

He grinned. “Silly me. Of course that’s what we were doing. Now come, I need your help to improve this wall. What colours do you want to add?”

She gave him a knowing look. “If I touch that wall, I’m going to fuck it up.”

“Anything you do will be an improvement over the wallpaper that was here before,” he said.

She snorted a laugh. “You know what, that’s true.”

He raised his eyebrows hopefully, and Tamaris finally gave in with a sigh. “Fine. How about…” She paused and gazed idly into his expectant violet eyes.

“Purple,” she said. “Mix me up some purple paint.” 

“Purple it is,” he said. He mixed together some red and blue paint and added some white to lighten the shade, then held out the bowl.

She stood up and took the bowl. “I need a brush.”

“Use your fingers,” he said.

She recoiled slightly. This would make an enormous mess if she painted with her hands. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about vandalism,” he said. “I take it very seriously.”

He was grinning. His eyes were dancing with mischief and he looked so carefree and young, and Tamaris couldn’t help but smile in response to his joy. 

She blew out a breath. “All right, but if it looks really bad, we’re painting over it.” She dipped her fingers in the thick paint, then smeared some of it on the wall. 

She immediately regretted what she’d done. The paint began to run in slow drips, and Tamaris was forced to catch it with her fingers and smear it even more. Exasperated, she started rubbing the paint haphazardly onto the wall until it was a blobby patch of purple.

She threw Felassan an I-told-you-so look. “See? It looks like shit.”

He shook his head. “Keep going,” he said. He was still smiling, and Tamaris gazed at him with rising annoyance.

“Keep going with what?” she demanded. “It’s an ugly smudge.”

“You had something in mind when you started painting,” he said. “Keep going with it.” He picked up the bowl of orange paint, then padded over to the other end of the wall and began dashing the paint onto the wall in quick practiced strokes that clearly told her he’d done this a thousand times.

She sighed, then dipped her fingers in the paint again and kept slapping it haphazardly onto the wall in a series of vaguely rounded irregularly-sized blobs. A few minutes later, she set the bowl down and wiped her hand on the dropcloth before looking over at what Felassan was doing. 

Her eyebrows jumped up. Felassan was painting a series of what looked like stylized orange teardrops that varied in size and shape, but the shifting shades of orange and red and yellow were clearly meant to signify fire. 

She narrowed her eyes. The shifting colours in his painted flamedrops represented such a subtle blend. How was he managing to make the colours meld so seamlessly? He was holding the bowl of orange paint, but the buckets of yellow and red were sitting on the floor a good two metres away from him. 

She stepped away from the wall, and Felassan looked over at her. His gaze darted to the wall, and he smiled. “Clouds,” he said.

She grunted and rolled her eyes. “Really original, I know.”

He gave her a chiding look. “A wise woman once said you shouldn’t be so down on yourself.” He approached her end of the wall and examined her purple smudgy clouds for a second, then dipped his fingers into his bowl of orange paint and added a dash of orange to the underside of each cloud.

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. The orange underline gave the impression that each blobby cloud was lit from below by the setting sun. It was exactly what she’d been thinking of when she started to paint: sitting on the roof with Felassan while the fading light of day lit the clouds aglow from beneath.

She looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Better? Worse?” He smiled faintly. “Did I ruin your artistic vision?” 

She swallowed hard, feeling oddly emotional by his addition. She shook her head. “You un-ruined it,” she said gruffly. 

His smile widened. “Oh good. I’d always dearly hoped to un-ruin something during the course of my life.” 

She scoffed, then nodded her chin at his drops of flame. “What are you doing over there?”

“Sketching,” he said. “Working out an idea.” He nodded at her clouds. “Keep going. Or paint something else.”

She nodded, but as Felassan returned to his side of the wall with his bowl of orange paint, she couldn’t help but watch him instead. He continued painting drops of flame on the wall, then eventually put the orange paint aside and picked up the bucket of green paint instead. He set the bucket on the floor by his feet and started scrawling green shapes on the wall that looked like stylized leaves, and Tamaris was once again awed — and bemused — by how seamlessly he seemed to be blending the orange of the flames into the green of the leaves. 

She watched him with unabashed interest, her own painting endeavours forgotten in favour of watching Felassan instead. He eventually paused and smiled at her. “If you’re going to stare, this really is your chance to paint a picture. The paints are open and everything.” 

She smiled at his cheeky remark. “I’d honestly rather watch,” she said. “I want to see what you come up with.”

He gave her a reproving look, and she waved dismissively. “I mean it. I’ll have more fun watching you than I will with actually painting.”

He frowned at her for a moment longer, then finally shrugged. “All right, but you’re going to start off the next mural. I insist on it.”

She wilted slightly. “The next one?”

He nodded. “We need to cover every wall of this house with filthy knife-ear art.”

Tamaris burst out a laugh. “That would be pretty good revenge for how aggressively Orlesian this house was before we got here.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” he said complacently. “I have always enjoyed exacting petty revenge through the use of paint.”

She beamed at him. “You really are a vandal, you know that?”

He bowed politely to her. “Thank you, Tamaris. That warms my heart.”

She chuckled and settled on the carpet once more. She hadn’t been self-deprecating when she’d told Felassan she wanted to watch him instead of doing the painting. She’d always enjoyed watching artists working on their craft — and one of the artists she’d most enjoyed watching, unfortunately, was Solas.

She’d never seen an artist who worked the way Solas did. Watching him transform the rotunda walls from raw rock to smooth plaster to charcoal sketches and finally to fully-rendered murals had been, in her eyes, its own form of magic. Solas’s careful stepwise method had also been something to marvel at; he always started with a lovingly-crafted small-scale sketch of each design before translating the sketch to the walls in perfect proportion, and the actual painting of the mural was an all-night process that exemplified his focus and methodical devotion to the art. During those all-night painting sessions, Solas was intent and focused and almost completely silent, and Tamaris couldn’t remember a single time when he’d faltered or made a mistake in the execution of his spectacular works.

Watching Felassan paint, on the other hand... truly, it was nothing like watching Solas. Felassan hadn’t planned a thing, opting instead to experiment directly on the walls with his fingers instead of the sorts of fine brushes that Solas used to use. His movements were loose and relaxed and lacking in precision, and he kept jumping between the different elements of the scene he was creating: adding a bunch of those green leaf shapes, then adding some more flames, then swiping a streak of gold in a bold vertical arch through the cluster of flames before starting to add some violet clouds to his end of the mural. He hummed to himself as he worked and made little playful comments to her over his shoulder, and when the occasional drop of paint rolled slowly down the wall from his quick and messy application, he simply blended it back into the wall or painted over it with a new leaf or flame. 

She stared shamelessly at Felassan’s emerging work. His application method appeared slapdash and careless, but the effect was anything but; his work was striking and bold, and to Tamaris’s eye, very appealing. The lines varied from dark saturated lines to graceful faded streaks, giving his mural a dynamic and energetic feel that was more emotion than story, and Tamaris felt energized in turn as she watched him moving from one end of the wall to the other and back. 

The longer he worked, the less he spoke and the more focused he seemed to become, even as his movements remained loose and flowing. He looked incredibly graceful as he moved across the wall, and he was using both hands now to paint, and–

Wait. Both hands? she thought. And with a jolt, she realized that Felassan was no longer holding a bowl of paint in his hand. Even so, the colours continued to flow from his fingers as though he had dipped his fingers into the paint. But how…? 

She narrowed her eyes and watched him more carefully. And eventually, with a rising of wonder, she realized what he was doing. He kept gesturing in the direction of the paints and twisting his wrists as though he was dipping his hands into the paints, and the amount of paint in the buckets and the bowls was actually decreasing in accordance with the movements of his hands. 

It’s magic, she thought in amazement. He’s using magic to pull the paint to his hands and to blend the colours. Her heart was pounding now with excitement at his exquisitely controlled magical feat, but she continued to watch him in silence, unwilling to disturb his flow by commenting on what he was doing. 

He flicked his wrist at the bucket of gold paint, then dragged his fingers in a long horizontal line from the center of the vertical arch and back toward Tamaris’s end of the wall, and Tamaris finally recognized the shape that dominated most of the mural: a stylized bow and arrow, with a background of flames toward the front of the bow that blended into leaves toward the end. Enthralled by his design and by the magical way he was executing it, she wrapped her arms loosely around her knees and continued to watch as he added a silvery-white bowstring, then a purple-silvery arrowhead and purple-and-red fletching to the arrow. 

He stood back briefly to study the design before going over the golden bow and arrow again with a smattering of brown, making the bow and arrow look like a combination of wood and gold. 

He paused again and idly scratched the back of his neck, and Tamaris watched with a swelling of affection as he smeared some paint on his neck. 

He turned to face her then. “Look at me?” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his face, and her breath stalled in her chest; his beautiful amethyst eyes were bright with focus. He studied her face intently for a long second, then nodded and turned back to the wall. He flicked his wrist at the paints, then started painting over the leaves again with a slightly lighter shade of green that blended into a darker green at the edges. 

When he finished re-painting the leaves, he stood back once more and folded his arms as he surveyed his work, and Tamaris stared shamelessly at his handsome profile as he studied the wall. He carelessly flicked his wrist at the paint buckets, then flicked his fingers at the wall, and Tamaris watched as a fine blend of white and bright blue droplets appeared in misty-looking streaks near the upper edge of the bow — a fine blend that would have required painstaking care to paint by hand, but which Felassan’s magic had rendered quick and doable. His magic, which he was clearly gaining better control over with every passing day… 

Her heart throbbed again with an undeniable surge of pride. Felassan continued to flick streaks and curls of fine blue-and-white droplets across the mural, and Tamaris eventually realized that the streaks and curls looked like smoke, which made sense given the omnipresent stylized fire that dominated much of the right-hand side of the mural. 

He stepped away from the wall one more time to examine his work, then finally nodded in satisfaction. He turned to face her with a smile. “So? What do you think?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful,” she said. Then she immediately regretted her inane compliment. It sounded so paltry compared to the way her heart was pounding in her chest, as though it wanted to escape the confines of her ribcage and leap into his open hands.

He sat beside her with a satisfied sigh. “I’m glad you like it. It’s us, after all.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

He gestured at the wall. “It’s us. A slow arrow dancing with flames. And a little bit of deep mushroom smoke, of course.” He smirked, then gently lifted her chin and studied her face. “I’m not convinced that I captured the shade of your eyes right, though.”

“My eyes?” she said stupidly.

“Yes, your eyes,” he said vaguely. He was still carefully examining her face. “Those green shapes on the left half of the wall.”

Those are my eyes? she thought. The green shapes he’d painted, then painstakingly repainted a second time to adjust their shade: those were meant to represent her eyes? 

He chuckled and lowered his hand. “Tell me the truth. You thought they were leaves, didn’t you?”

She stared wordlessly at him, overwhelmed by the perfection of this moment — the perfection of him. Her body was still buzzing with energy from watching him paint, and her heart was humming besottedly from the careful way he’d inspected the verdancy of her eyes. The memory of his loose and joyful movements danced across her mind as surely as his paint-slathered hands had danced across the wall, and gods, the laughter in his voice and in his smile… 

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was shocked he couldn’t hear it. She swallowed hard and gazed at the mural once more — this mural that was them, that was her and Felassan together: a slow arrow dancing in flames, splashed boldly across the wall of this house for everyone to see. As Tamaris studied the bold jewel tones of the freshly-painted wall, it dawned on her that she had never seen any mural more beautiful than the one Felassan had just rendered with his magic and his own two hands. 

Tamaris tore her gaze away from the mural and met his bright violet eyes. “I love you,” she said.

A slow and brilliant smile lit his entire face, like a bursting of joy that rendered him even more painfully handsome than he already was. Tamaris stared gormlessly at him, her throat thickening with emotion as she took in the tenderness in his face. 

He cradled her neck in his palm. “I know, Tamaris,” he murmured.

Her heart squeezed with nerves. She swallowed hard, then smacked his chest. “You know? What do you mean, you know?”

His smile grew wider and softer at once. “I know you love me. I don’t need to hear you say it.”

Feeling slightly stung, she scoffed and tried to push him away. “You’re so fucking smug.”

He pulled her easily into his lap. “I don’t need to hear you say it, but I have been waiting for you to say it first.”

“Why?” she complained. “Why did I have to say it first?”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to say it back if I said it first,” he replied.

She darted him a cautious look. If he said it first? So that meant — did that mean…?

She cleared her throat and rubbed at the dent on her metal arm. “So… say it back, meaning…?”

He chuckled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It means that I love you too, felasil’ain. But I think you already knew that.” 

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she gazed silently into his glittering amethyst eyes. As usual, Felassan was right. He’d been right when he said that empty words couldn’t wipe her bitterness away. And now, in this moment, he was right when he said that mere words of love weren’t necessary. Just because he’d never said he loved her didn’t mean she didn’t know — and if she dug beneath the surface of her own stubborn insecurity, she could openly admit that she’d known all along.

She knew Felassan loved her; of course she knew, because it was infused into his every act. He made foods that he knew she would like and concocted herbal remedies for her withdrawal and her pain. He offered her massages and pulled her out of her terrible moods with his terrible jokes. He kissed her like there was nothing else he would rather do, and he fucked her like he was trying to wring every last shiver of pleasure from her body, and he was patient — almost unfathomably patient. He listened while she talked about Solas, and he’d tolerated the torture of their heated trysts until she was ready to have sex again, and he’d waited quietly while she held back the words of love that seemed to consume her more with every passing day.

No longer would she be consumed by those words. No longer would she be held hostage by them — especially not when his feelings for her were so patently obvious. 

She straddled him and cradled his paint-stained neck in her palms. “I love you,” she said huskily. “I — you’re right, okay? I wanted to say it for weeks but I felt — I don’t know, shy or something. I was being stupid.”

He squeezed her waist soothingly. “You were not being stupid. And there’s no need to explain. I told you, I don’t need you to say it.”

“Well, I need to say it,” she retorted. “And you deserve to hear it, okay? I fucking love you.”

He grinned at her, then broke into laughter. “How is it possible for someone to be affectionate and rude at once?”

She tsked and smacked his chest. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, and she kissed him. 

He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her tongue with his, and Tamaris happily capitulated to the heat of his kiss. When he broke away from her lips to laugh, she was helpless to do anything but laugh in turn.

They sat twined together on the floor, kissing and laughing and making fun of each other in husky murmured voices, and Tamaris basked shamelessly in the ample evidence of Felassan’s love. His lips pulled gently at hers and his hands moved carefully over her body, and there on the wall, looming benevolently over them in bright and brilliant strokes of colour, was the most visible sign of his love: a mural rendered by Felassan’s bare hands — a mural showing his slow arrow dancing fearlessly and boldly through the fire of her heart.

#felassan #save felassan #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #pikapeppa writes #elbenherzart

[queen-scribbles]

Of Bad Dreams

Happy Birthday, Alex! I love ya and I’m eternally grateful we’re friends. <3 

----

Trinne woke up screaming.

She woke up screaming and Two days was the first thought to cross Harvey’s mind as he lay, listening to see what she’d do. 

Second was a darkly humored wondering which ones had done it this time. There were options now, after all, and thus no guarantee of her nightmares’ content or severity. He’d gotten better than he wished was necessary at telling which ones she would want to process alone and which company would be preferable. 

The ragged cries faded quickly, but he heard the quiet creak of her door opening just as quickly after, followed by a murmur he’d guess was her telling Dane to stay.

Damn. Not again. Harvey groaned as he rolled over and sat up, mostly out of regret this was happening again, though he did cast a brief, longing glance at his pillow as he groped for clothes.

Frida lifted her head with a whine, watching him tug on shirt and trousers in the dimly-filtered moonlight.

“Stay,” Harvey hissed in a whisper when the mabari pushed to her feet.

She listened about as well as she usually did, and padded after him almost silently when he left the room. Harvey let her come, unsurprised when she sniffed the air a couple times and trotted toward the nearest access to the ramparts. He let the hound lead, even though he knew where she was likely going. 

At least it’s a nice night, he thought  trying to stifle a yawn and scratching the back of his head, The stars were out, and it was warm without being muggy. There was even a breeze.

Trinne wasn’t far down the wall, elbows braced against the battlements as she stared out toward the Coastlands, the breeze tousling her hair and tugging at the too-big shirt she’d been sleeping in. Frida lightly headbutted her knee, and Trinne mustered an attempt at a smile as she reached down to scratch between the mabari’s ears. Her gaze flicked to Harvey, wan smile briefly widening before she looked back out over Castle Cousland’s surroundings.

“Darkspawn again,” she said before he could ask.

That was a relief in some ways, but at the same time... “It’s only been a couple nights since the last one,” Harvey murmured as he leaned back against the wall next to her.

Trinne nodded, dragging one hand through her hair and briefly massaging the back of her neck before letting it drop. “Yeah, they’re getting closer together again...” She sighed and huffed a wry laugh. “And you didn’t get anything? Not so much as a grumpy genlock?”

He almost wished he could say otherwise, just to give her some solidarity, but, “No.”

Trinne sighed again and bumped her shoulder against his. “Lucky,” she muttered humorlessly as she turned and slid down to sit on the rampart, folding her legs crisscross in front of her.

Frida immediately flopped down and rested her head in Trinne’s lap. Harvey joined them more slowly, watching the smile that played at the corners of Trinne’s mouth as she obliged Frida’s obvious desire for more ear scratches.

He couldn’t help a smile of his own when his dog let out a happy groan and leaned more into Trinne’s hand. “You’ll spoil her.”

Trinne snorted and rolled her eyes at the comment. “Like you haven’t done that already, Cousland,” she retorted, smile widening for a moment, then fading as she leaned her head back against the wall. Silence settled between them for a minute before she spoke again. “If the... dreams are getting worse again, guess that means it’s a smart move on the Wardens’ part; sendin’ us to Amaranthine...”

“Probably,” Harvey muttered in quasi-agreement. He was really trying not to think about it until he had to--which was getting more difficult as they got closer to leaving--but that would explain why she’d been staring off in that general direction.

Trinne arched a brow at him, having caught the noncommittal tone. “You gonna be alright? Considering...?”

He snorted as he tipped his head back to look at the stars, already fading into the first faint hints of sunrise off behind the trees. Trust her to know him well enough, to worry about that, even rattled by nightmares from the depths of the Void itself. He couldn’t say he was thrilled about the recent orders from Weisshaupt, but... 

“I’ll survive,” he said with a shrug. Somehow. I don’t really have a choice. And a Cousland always does their duty.

Her arched brow went higher. “M sure you will.  I mean, if assassins,demons, Fereldan and dwarven politics, werewolves, and three bloody ogres--”

“Four,” he muttered sardonically.

“Right, four bloody ogres couldn’t do you in, I think you’ll be okay.” She shuffled sideways until their shoulders were just barely touching. “And you’ll have me along to distract you if it gets, y’know, overwhelming or anything,” she said with at least partially forced cheeriness, snaking her free hand over to take his.

“Speaking of distractions...” Harvey murmured with an arched brow of his own as their palms settled together.

Trinne snorted. “What, you wanna talk about darkspawn and bad dreams and a general sense of impending doom at this hour?” She let her head lean back against the wall again, her eyes drifting half closed and other hand still absently scratching Frida’s ears as the dog left an ever-growing drool stain on her leggings. “I sure don’t.” She hesitated, bit her lip, teeth scraping over chapped skin.  “Harvey, does... does it make me a bad person I’m almost glad it was these and not... the other ones?”

He squeezed her hand. “No.”

Her wan smile made another brief appearance at how emphatically he said it. She squeezed his hand back but let the silence return for several long moments while both of them sat and stared at the stars as they faded into the slowly encroaching dawn.

“They’re probably gonna get worse,” she finally said, still staring at the sky. “The dreams. If there really are darkspawn in Amaranthine, there’s gonna be a lot of rough nights in my future. ‘Specially if there’s a lot of darkspawn; might get as bad as it was at... at the beginning.”

Harvey grimaced in tandem with her at the thought, remembering the nights--sometimes too many chained together--of nightmares and screaming. Nights they all knew, even without the circles under her eyes and snappish edge to her voice, she hadn’t gotten more than a couple hours’ sleep. “I hope not.”

Trinne huffed a wry laugh, her thumb rubbing whisper-light arcs against the heel of his hand. “Oh, me, too, Cousland. But worst case scenario, promise you’ll keep me from bitin’ off any heads I shouldn’t?”

He chuckled. “Promise.”

“Thanks. Hopefully I won’t even need it, but you never know...”

He nodded. Considering lack of sleep had put her in a bad enough mood to nearly bite Alistair’s head off last time they’d gotten severe, the precaution was a wise one to have in place.

A few more seconds of silence followed before she spoke again. “Y’know, you don’t hafta do this.” Her shoulder pressed more firmly against his. “Track me down every time I have a bad dream and keep me company.”

“I know.” He shifted, their arms still pressed close. “I don’t mind.”

She flashed him a smile--warm if still slightly shaky--at the unspoken but not terribly subtle implication it was more than that.

They lapsed back into silence then, sitting on the wall with occasional breezes ruffling hair and clothes, Frida dozing with her head in Trinne’s lap, and their attention mostly on the stars above them. Every so often Trinne’s grip on his hand would slack or shift or tighten, and Harvey could almost follow the process of her thoughts from the changes, they’d done this so many times. This one was fading faster than usual. One small mercy, if they truly were about to get as bad as she feared.

Just as the stone was starting to put a knot in his spine, Trinne sighed and gave his hand a last grateful squeeze before letting go.

“Should prob’ly go back to bed,” she said reluctantly, stretching and rolling her shoulders. “Try to get a little more sleep.”

“There’s not much of anything happening tom-” Harvey glanced at the sky and corrected himself. “Today. You can sleep in as late as you want.”

“I might take you up on that,” Trinne mumbled around a yawn. “I j’st finally was back to sleeping normal hours, and I’d hate to mess that up...”

Harvey fought back a yawn of his own as he stood, then helped Trinne nudge Frida out of her lap so she could get to her feet as well. Frida whimpered at the deprivation, then stretched and shook herself fully awake to follow wherever they were going.

That lasted until the bottom of the stairs, when she figured out their destination and bulled between them to run ahead, almost knocking Trinne over in the process.

Harvey hissed a reprimand after the dog, but Trinne just laughed and steadied herself, fingers digging into his arm for balance. “No harm done,” she stage-whispered, then her nose wrinkled and she loosened her grip, hand still lightly  curved around the inside of his elbow. “At least, not by her. Sorry.”

Harvey shrugged. It wasn’t even likely to bruise. “No harm done,” he returned.

It got him a smile, a real one, even if she did roll her eyes. “That’s a relief,” she said drolly, then raised her other hand to rub her eyes as they walked. 

They reached the family quarters just behind Frida, who had plunked herself down in the middle of the hall to wait for them.

“Hope you sleep better this time,” Harvey said quietly, resting a hand on Frida’s head to give an idle scratch.

“Heh, you and me both,” Trinne mumbled, raking her free hand through her hair. She hesitated a moment, then her grip on his rm tightened fractionally as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly as she stepped back and let go of his arm.

“You’re welcome.” The words escaped almost too quietly to be heard, but from the way her smile widened, she’d caught them.

“G’night, Harv,” she murmured, before yawning so wide her jaw popped..

“Night, Trinne.” Get some sleep. He waited until she’d closed her door behind her to turn back toward his room. He should take his own (unspoken) advice.

Frida licked his hand enthusiastically as it left her head and Harvey sighed, shooing her ahead of him.

“Don’t worry, I still like your kisses, too,” he informed her in an undertone, despite wiping the slobber off on his shirt.

Frida wuffed in satisfaction and sprawled across the rug as she’d been earlier. Harvey shook his head in fond exasperation and slipped off his now-damp shirt before flopping back into bed with only slightly more grace than his dog.

He was asleep almost before he had pulled the covers back up, and if the silence of the next several hours was anything to go by, Trinne’s sleep was just as dreamless as his.

---------

These two, I love them, and I hope I got your boy right bc that paranoia’s never going away. <3

#queens fic #harvey cousland #trinne amell #otp: shadows & sparks #i have almost as many Feelings about that origins-awakening interim as i do about the period during the game #where they're friends but there's no or minimal attraction there yet

[inquisitoracorn]

Tevinter Nights reading squealing - Part the Third

Thedas is a lovely place full of things that want to eat you. 

Feelings about the subject below!

SPOILERS for Luck in the Gardens and Hunger

I’ve been waiting for this....

Part the First, Part the Second, Part the Fourth

Luck in the gardens

- It had better be fluff after I was emotionally wrecked in the last one

- Oh first person, that's a change

- Minrathous huh? Sign me the heck up!!!

- One paragraph of Minrathous and I wanna go there so badddddddd :(((((((((

- Oh a master of disguise yes please tell me more

- Dressed like paid servants, hmmmm?? HMMMM

- Why would a game of Wicked Grace have to be kept secret?

- Wow to set up this conversation like a hidden interrogation heck that's smart

- WOOP Venatori got mentioned here we go

- Oh a FORMER Venatori helloooooo gosh this book is so entertaining

- "We all know you didn't go south with the cult to fight the Inquisition. You wouldn't be here if you had" listen this whole world and set-up belongs to the amazing writers at Bioware, so how does it end up stroking my ego??

- Caves under Minrathous once again mentioned I'm telling you this will be important!!!!

- Hehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehheheh

- MAE!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHE'S HERE TOO

- No I'm not smiling like an idiot while reading this bit why do you ask

- How much do Tevinter mages know about Dorian's involvement with the Inquisition I wonder, if the company can admit to having Venatori contacts

- Dawwww remember when Dorian was barred from the Inquisition wine stores by Josephine?? This is so goddamn sweet

- I love Dorian I missed him so much

- "Someone I met in the south changed my mind on the matter" I love him, your honour

- This whole dynamic is fascinating

- “Drawed” dawwwww

- “Softly rotten” oh god please tell me it's not another of the abominations like we've seen already PLEASE

- “Things are rising” hahh hm hngh fuck

- Minrathous is so bloody beautiful it just makes me more and more fearful that something bad will soon happen to it

- The Chekorax took a liking to them, I see.

- Wow the run through Minrathous feels like running through a city in Assassin's Creed after getting spotted

- MIZZY to the rescue!!!

- The map case being what gave them away Dorian what were you thinking :)))

- Hehehe I spotted a typo

- "I'll keep it even if you end up dying" Oh what reassurance Mizzy is so sweet 

- Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww

- Huh not a typo, this story spells Qunari as Quanari and I want to know the reason

- Also nooooooo the pretty garden!! But small price to pay I think possibly :))))

- Wait a second where the hell did they get GAATLOK?????

- Oh that was one HELL of a story for a map case how insanely fun

- Mizzy was the real MVP

- This is my first encounter with Mae outside those two or three letters in Inquisition war table missions I have been WAITING and I was not disappointed

- I swear I could read books upon books of Mae and Dorian doing awesome things in Tevinter

Hunger

- What a cryptic beginning I aim to write like that some day

- More Grey Warden suffering golly I really wonder what will happen to them....

- "Are we late?" late for what??

- Ooohhh they're all going to Weisshaupt ofc! Not that there's many left..

- "that grinning lunatic" heh I already like him :))))

- Tempest? Artificer? Both?

- Oh a Grey Warden sunshine!!! Andraste watch over him 

- My god the Anderfels is a waste land, I wonder what it looked like before the blights

- I imagine a lot like Ferelden

- Tevinter Nights: Things That Aren't Darkspawn are Also Trying to Kill You in Case You Forgot

- Bandits held a whole village hostage until they realised no one cared oh my gosh is all the Anderfels this cheery??

- These two are the ultra positive hero trope in every anime but in the most cynical place in the world the contrast is quite astounding

- It's a large bear

- Oh no please let nothing happen to Antoine

- “Suitably heroic” YES that's the right word it's like a child's hero fairy tale against the cold dead reality

- Big possessed talking bear that doesn't eat its prey - hunger demon maybe?

- Underground again

- ........werewolves?? Are werewolves back?

- They are!

- Antoine is defeating this village with his pure implacable cheer

- Oh it's the noble - starving in the woods, bad way to go

- Ohhhh please tell me he wasn't bittennnn

- Daww Evka being a Grey(t) Warden mentor

- Yassssss a trap!!

- OH NO

- A SWEET ROLL??? I CAN'T BREATH-

- Listen it is very clear to me that the weapon was a cinnamon roll JUST LIKE ANTOINE

- NNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

- “There's that done” ARE YOU KIDDING ME

- Oh the curse is gone is Antoine off the hook then???

- Oooffff demon still on the loose

- These two were so damn sweet it was surprisingly feel-good for how creepy it was

#dragon age #dragon age literature #tevinter nights spoilers #tevinter nights keysmashing #acorn ramblings #I was expecting this book to be entertaining and oh boy it is delivering

[bigfan-fanfic]

3. For all of your wardens. Tell us the tea.

Ooh, I’ve never told anyone the tea before!

Four mini-stories below involving each Warden

3. [I] trusted [you]

Falo

She was the only one who could ever sneak up on him. “Creators, Morrigan!”

Her arms cross, and she fixes him with the familiar glare. “So... ‘tis admirable you lasted this long with a son.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “Absconding under cover of darkness, leaving your child and his mother behind, all your belongings thrown over your shoulder... you aren’t as simple as you look; why don’t you tell me?”

Falo sighs. “I... I left a letter...”

“I trusted you to stay at my side.” Morrigan says darkly. “I could just as easily have gone through the eluvian on my own, but you begged me to let you accompany, you swore to love our son -”

“Don’t you dare suggest I don’t love him!”

Morrigan laughs her old scornful laugh, something Falo hadn’t heard in years. “Ah, I quite forgot, abandonment is the greatest sign of love, yes?”

“For the love of all that’s holy, woman, I’m doing this for you, for him!”

Morrigan’s expression clearly says she doesn’t believe him.

“The Blight... sooner or later, it’s coming for me. Whatever the cure is, I must find it. I will not have this take me from my son, my wife.”

Morrigan seems unimpressed. “And you thought I would slow you down, then?”

Falo doesn’t approach. He knows her too well to attempt affection yet. “The search will lead into the Deep Roads, Morrigan. I would not bring Kieran there. I knew you would want to follow, so I sought to remove the choice from you. Didn’t you once do the same to me?”

Morrigan chuckles softly. “Don’t act as though you’ve forgotten; you remind me of it whenever you can.”

Falo smiles. “Besides, it isn’t as though we won’t speak.” He holds out his left hand to Morrigan, the ring glinting in the moonlight. After a time, Morrigan grasps his, her hand bearing the ring’s twin.

“You will return to us.” Morrigan commands, slowly entering the embrace Falo wraps her in.

“Of course, my lady.”

Mella 

Mella hated writing letters. If someone had something to say to her, it should be face to face, so she could punch if it got too offensive. But no, the Warden-Commander was required to write letters every single day, apparently. Letters from Orlesian nobles and the Orlesian Wardens complaining of her overstepping bounds, reports to Weisshaupt, Ferelden nobles who still hated them even after ending the Blight for them... it was endless. A chuckle reached her unbidden at the thought of the only letters she really looked forward to. From friends.

“Alistair, 

You know, I trusted you when you said this would be a cushy job after the Blight. 

You bastard.

Mella”

“Mella, 

You know, I trusted you when you said I wouldn’t have to be king after the Blight.

Now we’re even

Alistair”

Aster 

Alistair watched his opponent carefully, a warrior locked in battle with a mighty beast... he lunged with his sword... and his opponent flew up into the air, somehow winglessly riding the air to escape the battle-

“That’s not fair!” the King of Ferelden whined, dropping the Grey Warden figuring to the floor.

The Chancellor tilted his head, looking at the small stuffed bear clutched in his hands. “Why not?”

“Because everyone knows bears can’t fly!”

Aster smirked. “This one can. Ser Beartholomew can fly because of his magic.”

“Bears can’t be mag- This is why we play with figurines.” Alistair huffed. “Once you get your hands on anything else, you go crazy.”

Aster sighed. “Need I remind you that you broke Odin last time we played?”

“That was an accident!”

Aster dramatically tumbled to the floor in mourning for the little Circle mage an older apprentice had carved for him. “I had him since I arrived in the Circle! I trusted you with him for one hour and you decapitated him!”

Alistair flopped onto the ground beside his beloved, pressing his nose into the crook of Aster’s neck. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Aster squirmed at the feeling of air on his neck and was soon tangled in Alistair’s arms. He hummed. “Alright.”

“Would you like to continue the battle of the brave Grey Warden and the the mage Ser Beartholomew?”

“...Alright.”

And that was how Eamon found the two most powerful men in Ferelden that day.

Leon 

Leon grunts heavily again as Aedan gives a loud whine and flops over his back. The hound had not gotten any lighter over the years.

“Zev...” Leon whines, remarkably like the hound. “Just give it to him!”

The assassin only shakes the bone he holds again, and Aedan scrabbles around, stepping on Leon as much as possible.

“He’s not going to give it to, Aed.” Leon implored. “Just leave it.”

The dog gives a few barks, not taking his eyes off of Zevran.

“You wound me, Leo. Of course I intend to throw the bone... eventually. Aedan simply fell for my charms... again.”

“Why does that sound familiar?” Leon chuckled, returning to his book, lying on the rug in front of the fire.

And then the mabari came tumbling on top of him again. “Alright, that’s it! He trusted you, Zev! Give me the thing!”

Zevran had already tucked the bone behind his back and was grinning at Leon while he stood. “Well, that depends, ser, on what I shall get in return.”

Leon grabbed Zevran around the waist and hoisted him up into a deep kiss.

Which Zevran broke once he realized what had happened. He stared in shock as the dog chewed happily on the bone and Leon returned to his book.

“You’ll just have to wait, Zev. Don’t worry, I intend to give you what you want... eventually.”

#dragon age #asks #OCs

[gremlinquisitor]

Sending out some love in the form of prompts this afternoon! How about 38: "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will watch the watchers themselves?" for your Warden Cousland?

for @dadrunkwriting and @lyrium-lovesong, a bit late as I started it in the middle of the night on my phone and wanted to reread it to make sure I didn’t completely disregard the lore. Thank you so much for the prompt!

I see lots of art and things for the companions when Hawke stays in the Fade, but I haven’t seen a lot for the Warden.

~1300 words, Eorryn Cousland/Alistair, no warnings other than Alistair stays in the Fade

Read it here on AO3

ko-fi

“Warden-Commander Cousland.”

It’s a title that doesn’t carry as much weight this far west. Eorryn hasn’t been making use of it, so when someone calls out from behind her, that alone is enough to give her pause.

She turns back to see a red-haired dwarf materialize out of the crisp edge of a shadow, and she has to bring a hand up to shield her eyes from the sunshine that bounces off the scout’s armor.

“Yes,” she replies.

The scout steps forward, slips a fat envelope out of her pocket. “A letter for you. From… Sister Leliana, she said to say.”

Eorryn takes the envelope and turns it over in her hands. There are two wax seals - The Inquisition’s, as well as Leliana’s own. This is not the same agent who sought her earlier.

“What does it say?”

The scout take a step away as if startled, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I haven’t read it.”

“But you know what it will tell me. I heard it in your voice.” She moves to the side, angling them both away from the sun, and it’s there on the scout’s face as well. She has kind eyes, this one, and she knows it, too, Eorryn thinks, watching as the scout looks away.

“It’s not my place, ma’am. But… I am sorry.” She pauses, takes half a step forward and gestures towards the letter. “I grew up outside Redcliffe. I… I remember you. I know what you did, what you all did. Lots of people don’t, but…” She nods a little, almost to herself. “I should go. But I just wanted to say thank you, too.”

Her smile fits her face poorly these days, with too few opportunities to use it, but she tries, giving a little nod. The farther she is from Ferelden, the less important people consider her to be. Out here, it’s as if every one of them thinks they could slay an Archdemon. There’s comfort in it, in a way, but it’s left her ill-equipped for these moments, when they arise.

She lifts a hand in thanks and farewell to the scout, who turns to slip back into the shadows.

“Wait.” Eorryn moves forward to catch her, but the scout stops, looking over her shoulder. “How long?”

“Three weeks. You’re a hard woman to find when you don’t want to be found, Warden-Commander. I… wish I’d found you sooner. Goodbye.”

She watches until she’s sure the scout has gone, then turns on her heel and hurries up the street, returning to the library she’d left moments ago. Had it only been moments? The encounter had been brief, but already she feels her world slowing, tilting on its axis, her equilibrium lost.

The letter will not contain good news.

The librarian lifts his eyes from his scroll to regard her, not even bothering to nod as she rushes past him to the room she’s more or less commandeered. Her title doesn’t hold the power here that it would elsewhere, but there are few who are interested in his collections, so there had been space enough for her to set up a temporary base, with a cot in one corner and a desk covered in books and parchment and beads of candle wax.

She closes the door and leans against it, fighting against the fear that rises in her throat. So often they’ve had setbacks, not least this recent turn that sent Alistair underground. Of course he wouldn’t use his own seal on a letter that could be intercepted. How clever, then, of Leliana, to use her own instead.

She slices through the seals with her knife and unfolds the papers. There are fewer than she expected, but the pages are sturdy, meant to withstand time and weather, though now they tremble like leaves in her hands.

Warden-Commander Cousland,

Eorryn, my dearest friend. I am so sorry--

There is a smudge in the word, making the last letters almost unreadable, and somehow it is this, knowing that Leliana cried, that breaks her. She slides down the door, her legs unwilling to keep holding up the weight of her sorrow as she reads on.

She curses Alistair, even as she weeps for him, proud and unsurprised and furious at his sacrifice. Never did he learn that he loved the Wardens more than they would ever love him. This, too, will be forgotten in time, just as their deeds at Ostagar and Fort Drakon have been consigned to history. More will always be demanded of them.

She knows the name Hawke from other letters, the death of Anders and destruction of a city in the Free Marches, an ancient magister locked away by blood magic. Why should this Champion deserve to live, over the man who helped her stop the Blight? Eorryn’s hand held the sword, but he too was a part of it, with a ritual that ensured that she would be here today, that they could have a life together. Again, a sacrifice, this one never spoken of, wrapped in darkness and carried away as soon as the Archdemon was defeated.

Some part of Alistair lives on, then, in Morrigan’s son. The thought is pale and weak, and she doubts she’ll ever see the boy again, but it offers her something to cling to as waves of grief wash over her. It is enough to calm her so that she can return to the letter where it’s crumpled in her hand.

The Grey Wardens will be in ruins after what happened at Adamant, that much is clear from the letter, though Leliana offers few details beyond the Inquisitor’s choice to have them aid their cause. She had not known Warden-Commander Clarel well, politics and geography keeping them separated, and it seems that it was just as well, given all that has transpired. But now they are leaderless, unlikely to listen to what they will see as foreign intervention from Weisshaupt.

The realization settles in her, a bone-deep ache that stills her nerves and offers a grim sort of resolve. She must go back.

“I don’t want to.” She whispers it into the empty room like a petulant child as she curls in on herself, resting her forehead on her knees. She hadn’t wanted to leave her father either, hadn’t wanted to go into the Wilds, hadn’t wanted to fight an Archdemon.

Damn him for leaving her to do this alone! Didn’t he know that the only thing that made her a leader was that he was always right behind her?

The sunlight through the high window of the room darkens, turns golden and fades as she grieves, by turns sobbing until her throat aches and staring numbly into the middle distance, memories replaying in her mind. She holds the letter close to her heart, rereads it, curses the Maker for His vile sense of humor only to beg His forgiveness, to please, please bring him back.

Her body aches when she hauls herself up from the floor, using the edge of the desk as support. The map she’d set out earlier mocks her now, Grey Warden outposts marked in red ink. She sighs, giving the letter one last read before folding it carefully and tucking it into the satchel alongside all the others - love notes, correspondence from Leliana and Zevran, missives from Weisshaupt. She’s never thrown any of them away.

Eorryn hates that she knows she can do this on her own. Alistair had always believed in her, even when she didn’t, and that sustains her still. She will fix what is broken in them, for his sake, for this myth that he so loved. She will save them from themselves, and from the Calling, and perhaps that will be enough to buy her some peace.

#dadrunkwriting #lyrium-lovesong #my fic #my writing #eorryn cousland #alistair theirin #lace harding #because I wanted it to be her

[loghainmactir]

satinalia;

hey demons its me ya boy anyway everyone’s doing christmas fics so i wanted to do one with padril and loghain bc of course i did. this is the first time i’ve written them with their kids, too!

as per usual, super unedited and super unplanned, lmao. sorry 🤷‍♀️ (this will also be on AO3 soon!)

—

Snow crunches softly under his boots as he moves, and the cold winter air bites at his cheeks, turns them rose-red.

Loghain loves the cold. It’s a part of Ferelden he will never, ever tire of; he could be anywhere in Thedas, really, and it— and the rain— would remind him of home. Of days spent farming while rainwater pools in his boots, of nights where it did nothing but snow.

Home. He’s skirting the perimeter of their small home, now, actually, following the sounds of shouts and giggles; the home itself is wood and stone, only an hour or two from Denerim, but tucked away from the road so they’d be free of distractions. It was quiet and secluded enough that even Anora could visit them, and she did— often.

It’s funny— he wasn’t sure they’d ever settle down again. Not after the Warden Rebellion, not after the… well, whatever it was Inquisitor Cadash had dealt with. And yet here they were; only a week out from Satinalia, five years from when they first settled here.

He had thought he wouldn’t come home to his family at all.

Loghain watches Valarie sprint with wild abandon at her brother, her roar loud enough he’s sure Denerim can hear it.

She wears a thick, wolf-fur coat, her boots a tad too big for her little legs. In her hands, a wooden sword and shield; she reminds him too much of Anora, all orders and demands. When she was seven, Valarie had become enamoured with Ser Cauthrien; she’d seen her wallop Loghain while sparring, and it was if the child had never seen anything more hilarious, and she’d immediately asked to spend more time with Anora and her knight.

Her black hair has been cut short— at her own request, of course, just below her jaw. Her skin is darker, like her father’s, and she had his nose— but her eyes are big and blue, without a trace of Loghain’s sternness.

Cassian, on the other hand, looks terrified.

He clutches a similar set of sword and shield in his hands. Loghain can’t tell whether it’s because he’s chilly, or if it’s because he’s never been terribly fond of any kind of confrontation and his sister charging at him is like something out of his nightmares, but Cassian is shivering.

He’s a sweet boy; quiet, much more interested in reading than play-fighting his sister. Loghain doubted there was even a slightly rude bone in his body, and his heart ached for him. He can’t help but dread to think of how the world might treat him.

Like his sister, Cassian’s short hair and skin are dark; he had brown eyes, however, like Padril. His mouth is pierced and his nose is arched; he scowls in frustration sometimes, and Loghain swears to the Maker he sees himself. Both of them are tall for their age, but Cas is almost lanky no matter how much they feed him.

They collide with a thunderous crash of wood-on-wood. They collapse in the snow, and Cassian wails as Valarie pummels his shield. “Ah-hah! Die, darkspawn—!”

“Why do I have to be the darkspawn?! I’m always the darkspawn! You be the monster today!”

A smirk cracks onto his face as he watches them; they struggle and roll about, kicking and squealing. They abandon their wooden weapons to hurl half-formed, desperate snowballs at each-other, and Valarie shrieks as her brother dumps handfuls of snow down the back of her shirt. She thumps him in turn, and Loghain’s smirk disappears as their play starts to get rough.

“Now, now,” He calls, and soon enough he’s strolling closer them. They’ve caught each-other in a headlock, struggling and grunting at each-other. It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally they’ll get on one another’s nerves. “How about we all play nicely, yes? We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Chipped tooth. Bruised forehead. Crying for hours because someone, originally, had pushed the other straight into a tree.

They seem to consider this for a moment, and eventually they both let go.

“Sorry, father.” A brief pause, and the next words are almost muttered; Loghain is only a few feet away, now. “Cassian started it.”

“No, I didn’t!” He complains.

Loghain feels himself restraining a sigh of relief. At least he doesn’t have to wrestle them off each other. “I know who started it, Valarie Mac Tir, and if you don’t discontinue, I’ll be sure to end it.” They both straighten up at this; he’s getting older, now, but he can certainly wrangle them both into submission.

Last time he did, though, he pulled a muscle in his back. Padril had laughed at him.

Hmph.

“Are either of you going to apologize?” Loghain prompts, and the children glance at eachother; it’s almost like they’re daring each-other to poke the bear.

They cave. The idea of being tickled until tears are pouring down their cheeks and their lungs and ribs are sore from laughter doesn’t seem to appeal when it’s freezing cold. They shoot eachother a quick ‘sorry’.

“That’s more like it.” Loghain begins to continue his patrol of the house, arms folded. “Have either of you seen your father around? I haven’t seen him since this morning—”

There’s a brief moment where Loghain is aware something is flying towards him. The kids shriek, and soon after, there’s a thwap, and a hard, cold sting blooms across his cheek as he struggles to maintain balance.

When he catches himself, he whips around to narrow his eyes at the culprit.

He’s standing there in his old, blue Warden’s cloak. His greying hair is in a thick braid over his shoulder, and there’s slight creases by his brown eyes, now. A scar hooks over his bottom lip and stops at his chin— a relic from their time in Weisshaupt.

Snow has collected on his shoulders and in his hair, and there’s a grin on his face that he’s seen one too many times and it always means trouble. He’s almost picturesque, though; Loghain can do nothing but blink stupidly at him. That’s the love of his life, isn’t it?

Padril notices him staring and sticks his tongue out at him, his nose crinkling as he smiles into it.

Maker, he’s gorgeous.

He manages to straighten up. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Thought I’d test your reflexes. You’re getting slow, old man!” Padril shoots back, and he’s already dipping down to pack more snow together.

Loghain blinks once more. He looks to his kids— they look on in shock, as if their other father has commited a grevious, unforgivable crime, and they weren’t sure how to respond to it.

His gaze snaps back to Padril; he barely manages to duck under another snowball. It hits the side of their house and shatters, and Padril looks terribly pleased with himself, hands on his hips.

“Maybe you’re not as slow as I thought. Still old, though.” He grins at him, pointed canines showing and all. “Positively ancient, really!”

Loghain glowers playfully at him, and he turns on his heel to start moving towards him, slow and deliberate. “Oh, you’re in for it now, Mahariel.”

He’s awful— Padril dips into a low bow, arms stretched behind him, grin still plastered on his face. “Come ‘n get it, Mac Tir.” He dares, and he shoots him a wink.

That’s all he needs.

He breaks out into a sprint, and Padril spins and bolts as soon as it happens— the kids are behind him, shrieking and hollering as they try to keep up.

“Come on!” Loghain calls, glancing back at the half-elves hot on his trail. “Let’s destroy him!”

#loghain mac tir #loghain #dragon age #loghain x warden #OC: Padril #long post #ok to reblog #my writing #this was so fun to write. it might be one of my favourite things #tho i’ll have to go back and rewrite it to make it ‘’better’’ i still love the image of pad n loghain bein old and so stupidly in love #and being cheeky to one another still gjskfksk #(also u KNOW ‘come and get it’ has a double meaning i hate padril 🔪)

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

From the Outside

Rating: T, no warnings except angst.

Summary: When Naeva Surana made Alistair King of Ferelden, she didn't expect that to mean what they had between them would end. Or never thought of it, perhaps. And she makes it nearly ten years trying to think of it as little as possible, until every Warden in Vigil's Keep begins to hear the Calling and she can't ignore the possibility that the King of Ferelden might be, too.

Alistair, on the other hand, has always been one to wallow in his mistakes, and sending away the love of his life is certainly no exception. When he begins to hear the Calling nearly a decade before he expected to, he assumes it's his penance for what he's done to Naeva and the dark ritual that spared their lives. But before he goes to the Deep Roads, there's one last apology he has to make.

AKA my version of why King Alistair isn't even remotely worried about the darkspawn magister singing in his head in Inquisition.

Read it on AO3 here!

I must have sat down and tried to write to him a thousand times.

Normally, I’m good enough with words. I managed to marshal an army to end the Blight, after all; I can’t be too awful at speaking. But every time I tried to write, the quill hovered over the paper and dripped ink blots until I crumpled it up and threw it into the campfire, defeated.

Apparently saving the world just isn’t in the same league as telling the man you fell in love with that even after you made him king and he said you couldn’t be together anymore, you still love the bastard.

After a while, I gave up on trying to write. I almost visited a few times, thinking perhaps my brand of eloquence only worked in person. I made it all the way to Denerim once before I found my courage lacking and turned in to see the smith that had made us dragonscale armor instead. He was disappointed I had no more dragon scales. I was just disappointed in myself.

Maybe I hid my struggle from the Grey Wardens I led, but I can’t say for sure. Certainly, none of them ever called me on it. I missed nights in camp with Leliana and Zevran, who had always had such talents for reading me and saying precisely the right thing—or in Zevran’s case, just the wrong thing phrased so that it would make me laugh instead of cry. I refused to admit it wasn’t really Leliana or Zevran I wanted to talk to about everything.

I tried simply putting Alistair Theirin out of my mind. Sometimes it almost worked, when no one happened to be discussing the king. Much more often, it did not. In one particularly dark fit of drunken anger, I had even spent a night with Zevran before he left for Antiva. I think he knew why I’d done it; afterward, he stroked my hair softly while I cried, but was gone by the time I awoke.

It was over a year after the Archdemon fell before I finally saw Alistair again. My new comrades and I had put an end to the machinations of the Mother and the Architect alike, and the king was attending a ceremony to officially dedicate the arling of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens. For a while, I avoided his gaze. When I finally looked at him, I met his eyes and had never before seen regret so thick in them.

The anger I had so carefully fought down flared again, and I made a snide and rather loud comment to Anders. It gave me a savage sort of pleasure when Alistair’s neck and ears turned bright red.

My fury lasted until I found an empty room at the new Warden headquarters, slammed the door, and collapsed against it, sobbing.

I wished I had died slaying the Archdemon.

But I couldn’t—duty that cannot be forsworn, I reminded myself, the words ringing bitterly in my mind in a voice I could never hope to forget. And there was a long list of duties. A keep and a city to reinforce and defend. Missives and visitors from Weisshaupt to evade. Fereldan and Orlesian nobles to placate. An entire fortress of Grey Wardens to convince an elven mage really could lead them. And the exhausting task of coordinating it all, every day, for years.

On the worst days, I missed the Blight—roaming the country with friends instead of subordinates, before the Landsmeet and the choices that had changed the world forever. On the best, I lost myself in the routine and forgot I had ever existed outside of the Wardens.

I was almost relieved when I began to hear the song. It seemed years too early, from what I had been told after my Joining, but had I not already cheated a Warden’s death once? Perhaps death was simply tired of waiting for me. Then I summoned my constables to deliver the news and realized the entire order was hearing it, too. I nearly broke down when a frightened mage who had only taken her Joining the month before asked me if she was just too weak to be a Warden after all.

And yet for some damned reason, even before letters to Weisshaupt went unanswered and we realized we were alone, I thought of Alistair Theirin. In the palace in Denerim, was he hearing the Calling too? Was he getting his affairs in order, deciding who to support in the Landsmeet as the next king, preparing a trek into the Deep Roads, not knowing?

Andraste’s flaming ass, I would have to finally, actually write him.

It was no easier than it had been any of the previous attempts, but I did it because I had to. Not because I still cared about him. Not that, at all. Only because I couldn’t remember how to talk to the bastard without a lot of emotions in that air that I didn’t have time to waste dealing with. Somehow they crept in at the end anyway, but with dawn and my departure looming, I gave it to the runner as it was and tried not to imagine how it might sound read aloud.

I chose one of the senior Wardens, Stroud, to defend the keep and the Grey in my absence. If word arrived from Weisshaupt while I was gone, I told him, defer to the message. If not, keep the men calm and the city unaware, and I would return with a cure or I would not return.

I didn’t expect the royal messenger waiting for me at the city gates, but I accepted the missive with shaking hands. My title and name were written on the outside, clear and without room for misinterpretation, but still I hesitated before breaking the seal. There hadn’t been time yet for him to have received my letter, never mind to have responded; if this was a letter saying he was leaving for his Calling, it would mean mine was too late.

Naeva,  

Ignore the official messenger; this isn’t a letter from the King of Ferelden to the Commander of the Grey. It’s a letter from me to you, and long since overdue. I began hearing something a couple of weeks ago, a humming so quiet I thought it was just some song stuck in my head, but it’s only grown louder the harder I try to ignore it. I know it should be too soon for my Calling, but I know that’s what it is as surely as I know a hurlock from a genlock at ninety yards. It’s no less than I deserve, and after all the rules we broke during the Blight, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised the horde takes offense that I haven’t bothered trying to murder them for so long.

I’ve only spoken with Eamon so far, but we’ll work something out shortly. Once we have a plan, we’ll tell the people, but I didn’t want you to find out from some generic announcement. That just felt wrong. But I’m sure everyone else will hear soon, and Anora can feel all smug in her tower, knowing she was right and there was no point having me on the throne at all. I guess that’s just another thing we got wrong.  

But the only thing I regret is how I left things between us. Naeva, I’m so sorry for what I said to you. I’m sorry I panicked and called it off in front of everyone just when you needed me as much as I needed you. I’m sorry I listened to Eamon and was too afraid to fight for you. I’m sorry I didn’t just tell the nobles to stow it, that I loved you and will always love you, and that they would be lucky to have an elven mage for a queen if that woman was you. Most of all, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long and my own death looming over my head to make me stop being such an idiot. You are and always will be the only woman I’ve ever loved, but here I am, only brave enough to say it when I have nothing left to lose.  

I know it’s far too late to say any of this, and I know you’ll probably never forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me either. But if I’m only going to have one more chance to say it, I wanted to tell you again what a rare and beautiful thing you are amidst the darkness, and that when the time comes, my last thoughts will be of you.  

—Alistair  

My eyes and heart burned as I read, but I folded it again carefully and tucked it away out of sight. On the voyage across the Waking Sea, I lost count of the number of times I opened it to read it again, trying to number and quantify all of the things it made me feel.

And now, staring up at the mountains of the Anderfels spreading out snowy and foreboding before me, it’s still the first thought in my mind. I pat the pouch under my breastplate, checking that the letter bearing the royal seal is still there. It’s like a warmth against my chest from the biting cold, the only thing keeping the song in my head from driving me mad.

Perhaps, when this is over and my mission is complete and the Wardens are saved, I will finally return to Denerim to deliver the cure to the king of Ferelden in person. But only that.

Perhaps.

I must have written her a thousand letters.

At first, I was convinced I would find the right combination of words to say what I needed to tell her, so I kept trying. The stack of finished but unsendable missives grew but I kept them, copying parts from this version or that into a fresh message, so sure that eventually I would stumble on the right combination of words to apologize.

Apparently I have more talent now in dealing with whining lords than writing to the woman I spent hours talking and laughing with every night.

Eventually, I admitted to myself I would never send any of these letters and they turned into something more akin to a journal. I would write to her, carefully script her name at the top of the page, and then recount a particularly frustrating day or go over exactly when I first knew I loved her. I told myself it helped a little. It really, really didn’t.

The papers began to pile up, but like a child, I continued to hide them from the maids and Eamon. I stashed them under the drawers of my desk, beneath loose floorboards, one even inside a crack in the oaken headboard of my bed. I wished I had one she had written me to place there instead.

I tried to just not think of Naeva Surana, I really did. Eamon and Teagan avoided mentioning the new Warden Commander, and even went so far as trying to tempt my heart away with various pretty, empty-headed noble ladies. I tried to make small talk for their benefit, but found I failed even at that. After one girl was stupid enough to lunge in and kiss me and it took Eamon a solid hour to talk me down, they gave up on that particular line of attack.

It had been a year before I finally saw Naeva again. She had worked another miracle, defending Amaranthine from some kind of darkspawn conflict, this time without me by her side. She had let her hair grow again, and I remembered with a flash the ogre that had picked her up by the long white mane she had worn loose since the Circle, the flash of black blood as I drove my sword through its heart for daring to touch her, and how she had cut her hair to short braids in camp that night. It was loose and down to her shoulders again; I despaired that perhaps she had come to trust someone else to keep her safe from ogre attacks.

She caught me staring and made a pointed aside to the blond mage standing by her about the untrustworthiness of templars. He snorted and she smirked and I left rather quickly after that.

I retreated to my chambers in the castle and ripped all the letters I had written from their hiding places in a rage, but then found myself just staring at them when I went to hurl them into the fire.

I smoothed them back out carefully and wished I had died with the Archdemon.

But that would have been too easy—a slow death by paperwork and an even slower descent into madness from dealing with bureaucracy was, after all, a much more fitting end for someone that had betrayed every oath he ever made. The vows to the Chantry that I never took, the ones to the Wardens that I threw away, and the ones to Naeva that I cast aside in a moment of stupidity I could never correct because kings cannot be selfish, Alistair, mocked Eamon’s voice from the shadows of my mind every time I thought of her.

On my best days, I could completely lose myself in the mundane…ity of it all, becoming that boring shell of good king Alistair that everyone—or at least Eamon—so wanted me to be. On my worst, I couldn’t tear my mind from the Blight and friends and love and freedom and all the other things I would never have again, and no amount of clever puns or witty one-liners could disguise it.

Then one day, I woke with a song in my ears that I had thought not to hear for another decade. It was the price for the ritual, I thought immediately, for whatever dark magic that had saved Naeva from the archdemon’s soul. I found a strange peace in the idea. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, that the Calling might have come for me early, if that was the price for her life. I certainly owed it to her a dozen times over.

And even through the task of meeting with Eamon, of explaining to him that he was going to have to find a new king because the old one had to go die in the Deep Roads, Naeva was really all I thought of. The years I’d gone without speaking to her, of writing to her like a diary to keep me sane but never actually giving her the apology she deserved for how childish and thoughtless I was—even when she still found a way to save us both—it was all much too heavy a weight to carry into that last fight with the darkspawn.

So while Eamon panicked and tried to work out what to do for Ferelden, I finally wrote a letter I intended to send.

It was so much easier this time. Maybe it was the years of practice, making it feel like I still knew how to talk to her, or maybe it was just knowing that I had literally nothing left to lose. I hoped she would understand when she read it that it wasn’t some pathetic attempt to redeem myself. I hoped she would know she deserved an apology long ago, and I was just too afraid of how much it would hurt me to give it to her.

I wrote that I loved her, wrote it for her to actually read, for the first time in ten years. I knew she wouldn’t feel the same, but it didn’t matter. I simply wanted her to know how special she was, and how much of a coward and a fool I was for sending her away. Dying men are allowed to be sentimental.

Imagine my surprise when, the very next day after I sent a messenger to Vigil’s Keep, a runner with a letter bearing griffon heraldry appeared in my study. My runner would certainly have had time to make it to Amaranthine, but definitely not back, and this was a very different man. Did Naeva know, somehow? Was there a way for the Commander of the Grey to tell which Wardens were nearing their Callings? When I ripped open the letter, I was met with my full and glaringly ostentatious title, and only became more confused as I read.

His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin—  

This letter is to inform you that, if you are currently experiencing any adverse effects from your association with the Grey Wardens, to immediately disregard it for the time being. Consider this a direct order from the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, if you must.  

This is not your Calling, and you are not the only one hearing it. I thought the same when I woke with the song in my mind, but every Warden save the very newest recruits have begun to hear it at once. It is unnatural, perhaps a deliberate play by the horde hive mind to trick us. And if it isn’t, it’s likely in response to something that happened during the Blight. In either case, there will be a way to reverse it, and that is what I plan to do.

I say “plan,” as if I have one, but those for me have always been the loosest of things, as I’m sure you remember. All word from Weisshaupt has come to a halt, and if the brass will not save us, I will find a way. The work Avernus did on extracting power from the taint, the Wilds flower that kennelmaster at Ostagar used to save Firion, whatever it was that removed the taint from the Orlesian First Enchanter Fiona—the ingredients for a cure are out there, just as the way to survive slaying an Archdemon was, and I will not rest until I find them. For all of our sakes. And if this is my fault for a poor decision made trying to save Ferelden, well, I will accept the consequences of that, but I will do whatever I can to keep you the rest of the Wardens from paying that price.

I did not mean to imply that my reasoning for this has to do with you specifically, though of course, curing this affliction would benefit Ferelden if it no longer has to fear losing its king. That is why I’ve written, after all, to ensure you don’t do anything rash while I find a solution. There is no personal reason, as you made abundantly clear many years ago. I only wish to see to your safety as my former comrade at arms and as my the king.

It is far too late to make amends, but if I don’t return from this task, know that I never meant what I said that day in Amaranthine. I felt angry and betrayed when the entire situation was of my own making, and in most things, I would still trust you above all others. That is, in the end, why I made you king and created this mess. I am sorry, and should have told you ten years ago, for making that decision for you. Perhaps if there is a cure to be found, I will yet find a way to make it up to you.

Until then, 

Warden-Commander Naeva Surana

To say that the letter worried me would be an understatement. It left me terrified for her, for the Wardens, for what this could mean if and when another archdemon arose. It made my heart ache in a fresh way, to read between the lines and know that my ill thought out words all those years ago still hurt her, and it made me hope my letter had reached her before she left, because if she was going to risk her life for a hopeless cause again, she deserved to do it knowing none of what she was trying to blame herself for was her own fault.

I watch the Amaranthine ocean every morning now, praying for a ship with a griffon on its sails. Praying for Naeva, wherever she is, to be safe and whole and dealing better with this song in her head than I am. Sometimes it’s almost enough to drive me mad, and when it nearly does, I pull the letter with her signature from the crack in the headboard of my bed and read it over again.

It reminds me she’s alive, and she’s searching, and even though it’s an impossible task, she’s worked the impossible before. I don’t have faith in much anymore, but I have to believe she can do the impossible again.

And maybe when she’s done, she’ll even find a way to forgive me.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age inquisition #alistair #alistair theirin #surana #naeva surana #alistair x surana #fanfic #my fanfic #writing #my writing #ao3

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Voices of the Fade

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary:  After the events of the Fifth Blight, Alistair struggles with reality. There is still much to be done in Thedas. But he is unsure he is able to do so without his companion.

Read more on Ao3: click here.

Chapter One: The Banks of Redcliffe

“A little to the left,” Murdock called.

Many hands shifted their grip upon the wooden frame. They relished in the smell of freshly stained wood. It was the fragrance of something new and it gave them even more motivation to use their strength to push the end of the log into the notch. A single man with acrobatic talents, though small, used hand signals atop the dock stall to guide the mayor as he shouted directions to his remaining militia. He appeared proud despite the destruction around him. There had been little to no time to repair the village. And Redcliffe had given all it could to the fight against the Blight during the past year. However, the repairs of the recently damaged dock were deemed a priority in order to resume trade throughout the northwestern part of Ferelden. The Arl declared the matter precedent in accordance to the newly appointed crown. With the rest of the country in disarray, he wanted to be first to maintain order. And with the aid of a certain Warden, he knew such a task would not prove difficult at all.  

“Beautifully done, men,” the mayor nodded as the men grunted at their final push. “Let’s take a break.”

The dock was presented as a sort of monument for Redcliffe. A place where those within the village could set up shop for travelers. A place for folk across the waters to trade. A place for locals to gather information. The goal was to allow Redcliffe to prosper as much as possible and to obtain a head start at the end of the war that left so many in ruin. So those who stood knee deep in the shallows of lake could take a bit of pride within themselves when the market place first opened their arms to those in need. Their hands were prune and their feet soggy, though they would never admit how truly tired they were. The water gave them a bit of assistance, but it did not aid them enough to prevent aching arms. They flexed their fingers, hands, and arms, some even retreating to the tavern for further assistance. But some remained on shore, simply wishing to stretch the remaining muscle they had used.  

“Alistair!” Murdock called as he observed his men.

The young Grey Warden obliged, jogging steadily in the still water.

“Murdock,” he greeted with his usual grin. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing more, I’m afraid,” Murdock clasped him by the shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been some news for you,” he stated. “I cannot say much more. It comes from the castle. Eamon requests your presence as soon as you’re able.”

Alistair glanced behind him, witnessing his brethren spread upon the beach in relief. It was the first moment of peace he had experience since the Blight. And it was the first moment he had felt at ease. The village had kept him busy with repairs, much to his liking. And he was not eager to bid the calling of a higher command. An overwhelming tension fell upon his chest.  

“And what if I am only able once the village is secure again?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Murdock shook his head. “But I believe this goes beyond even the Arl...”

The one thing Alistair admired about Redcliffe was that he did not have to listen to the echo of his own armor clanking through the hall before he reached his destination. It was actually a rather short walk. And for that, he was forever grateful. Beyond that point, however, was within the hands of his summoner. Arl Eamon stood with hands folded awaiting his summoned guest. Alistair was used to being an overlooked companion and was not used to the polite gestures given. He awkwardly nodded and bowed upon his arrival, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

“Alistair, how good to see you!” Eamon exclaimed from the hearth of the fire. “I do hope you’ve found comfort in your stay.”

“I have,” he stated as he approached the step. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about. I want nothing more than to help rebuild Ferelden.”

“Truly spoken,” Eamon stepped toward him. “I am pleased to say I have further instructions for you regarding just that.”

“I’ll do whatever ask, Eamon,” he shrugged. “I feel I've been put to good use with the repairs of-”

“Alistair,” he stopped him. “I mean that there are others who need you.”

“If Anora-”

“More than  that .”

Alistair paused. There was not a large percentage of him that wanted to admit there was more than just Ferelden. It was his home. It was what he had been fighting for and protecting for the last year. And even with the Blight, it was hard for him to want to fight for more. There was more than just his heritage that kept him from wanting to go further. But he knew that eventually he would be called to do other things. It was his duty, after all. And he had made a promise.

“What is it, then?” he said sternly.

“A messenger brought this to me.”

Eamon held out a broad yellow envelope with a seal brandishing two griffins. It was easy to recognize. He took it gently into his hands, remembering the times he had witnessed Duncan ripping into the very same paper. The parchment was still fresh. And his eyes scanned quickly upon the words as he unfolded it.

“I have been asked to travel to Amaranthine,” he said quietly.  

“I know,” Eamon nodded. “The messenger from Weisshaupt informed me.”

Alistair quietly folded the letter. “Why didn’t they just tell me?”

“Perhaps they knew their instructions would be a little more... real if they came from me.”

“As if I would resist?”

“Would you?” Arl Eamon questioned.

There was a bit of truth in his words. Then again, with recent events, Alistair also admitted that he would argue his efforts were needed elsewhere. His mind battled day and night of what his true intentions were. If his heart lay with the Wardens. Or if it remained in Ferelden. There were very few that understood that. And those few were long gone. It was a surprise to him that there were others who knew his troubles. Then again, his reports could very well have raised other questions.

“Would I?” Alistair jested with a shrug. “It’s hard to say with such good food to be had. I can’t say I’m that fond of fish, but I can’t say I’ve had the likes of Amaranthine.”

His jokes would be the death of him, he was sure. It didn’t matter if it was his lack of seriousness in a decisive situation or a witty one liner in the heat of battle, it would eventually get to him. This moment, however, did not strike him as important. And he left the meeting to retreat to his room in Redcliffe castle. His room was a small one, which was no surprise. The guest rooms on the upper floor were taken. Alistair suspected it was by merchants or other nobles who wished to help Redcliffe. And he also assumed it was to the suggestions of Lady Isolde, just as they had been before. His help to end the Blight was no matter to her because of his heritage and because of his bastard name. But that did not bother him the most.

“Hey,” her voice was smooth as her hands grazed over his shoulders the moment he entered the room. “You’ve been away all day.”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” she kissed his temple. “The repairs are coming along nicely.”  

Her lightened tune on the subjected made him perk up a bit as he took in the warmth of the room. It had a bed, a nightstand, and a chest. Which, to be honest, was more than enough for him. His armor rested within the chest, in which he kept locked until he needed it. The rest of his belongings remained in his pack resting next to the bed on his side.

“It’s a shame I won’t see them through,” he sighed as he rested on the bed. “I really wanted to do some good here.”

Her hands folded neatly over her torso. “I don’t know what you mean. You’ve done plenty for Redcliffe.”

“And that has come to an end.”

“So, they’ve finally called you,” she stepped back to sit upon the nightstand.

“We knew this was going to happen.”

“And you’re prepared?”

He looked up with a reassuring smile. She was not wearing the blue and grey armor. He hair was not pinned back. Her face was not sunken. No... she was wearing a white tunic. It was tucked into cloth pants held up by a fastened leather belt. She did wear the same boots as before, though. Except they were clean this time. Her hands were also clean. And her face was not so pale. It was like he had first remembered her at Ostagar with cheeks and lips as pink as a winter sunset.  

“I have to be,” he said to her.

His focus was dismissed by a loud knock at the door. Alistair rose quickly to greet his guest before responding.  

“I do not mean to intrude,” Teagan said as he entered.

“Bann Teagan,” Alistair stated with surprise. “What interest could I possibly have to you at this time of night?”

“My boy,” he said in the most calming voice, “I ask nothing of you this evening.”

Teagan always had a way of wording things. It was more than just that. It was his tone. There was comfort and sincerity to it. And it was always easy to speak to him. It was that way even when Alistair was a boy. And it remained just as it was now.

“I came simply to ask if there was something I could do for you.”

“For me?” Alistair was a bit taken back. It had been a very long time since he had confided in Teagan. It was not difficult to do so. Even still, the time and the distance between them made him question just how much trust could be put onto the table. Even after the battles they had through in recent times. “You all have been very accommodating with my stay here, Teagan.”

“I’m glad we could house you here as you awaited further instructions from Weishaupt.”

“So, you’ve heard.”

“It wasn’t hard to guess,” Teagan shrugged. “There are many places that were unfortunate enough to be touched by the Blight, Alistair. Ferelden took the worst of it. But truly you understand you cannot stay here. Not after-”

“I do not need comfort or sympathy.”

The room became frigid and cold. A chill ran down Alistair’s spine as many hands reached out to him. They brushed over his shoulders. Down his chest. Traced his spine. They clutched his forearms. Gripped his waste. Held his feet.  

“I... I didn’t mean to offend,” Teagan took a step backward toward the door.

Alistair sighed and suddenly the room felt warm again. “I do not mean to seem bitter,” he shook his head. “Of course, we are grateful for what you have done.”

Teagan frowned, matching that of his brow. “Of course.”

The door shut, leaving only the sound of the flames burning by candlelight. Redcliffe was always this dark and dim. It was always humid. And the sounds were always muffled. Flashbacks of look out toward the lake came back to him. Of longing for adventure and purpose. It was ironic that now he only longed to stay.

“He means well,” she said in his ear.

“And you couldn’t have helped the situation at all?” he snapped.

“You know I can’t,” her voice was weak.

“No. You can’t, can you?” his wavered. “It’s not as if I need you. RIght now. Or at all.”

Her head tilted as her eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t fair. He was telling her to go without saying anything at all. He looked at the wall, focusing on the bricks. Focusing on what needed to be done. What was real. He could feel her presence grow stronger for just a moment as she drew closer. Then disappear as she began to fade.

“What are you going to tell them?” she whispered.

“The truth, Rae,” he closed his eyes. “The truth.”

#dragonswithjetpacks #alistair x surana #dragon age origins #alistair x warden #alistair loses it #it is sad #dragonswithjetpacksao3 #rael surana #rael writing tag #dwjp writing tag #voices of the fade

[theharellan]

solas & varric

(after beginning Here Lies the Abyss)

Solas: You found Hawke after all. Varric: Oh, you know. All those heroics jogged my memory. Solas: Naturally. Varric: What, you going to lay into me, too? Solas: No, no. I understand why you hesitated. (if Hawke is a mage) Solas: To involve her in a Chantry organisation would not have been wise, at least before it had a chance to prove itself. (otherwise) Solas: Given her involvement in this war, I can only imagine there are those on both sides who would blame her for their present predicament. Varric: You mind telling all that to Cassandra? Solas: I would prefer not to.

(in the Hissing Wastes, while exploring dwarven ruins)

Varric: I’m surprised you’re not hounding me about how all this makes me feel, Chuckles. Solas: I had thought we established your disinterest. Varric: Yeah, well. I’m thinking about it, anyway. Solas: If you insist. How does this make you feel, Varric? Varric: There’s a tiny part of me that’s really satisfied, you know? Seeing a Paragon of all people living on the Surface, then the rest of me just doesn’t give a shit. Solas: Tradition is a difficult thing to shake, to be conflicted is expected. Do you think our discovery here ought to be shared with Orzammar? Varric: I don’t know about Orzammar, but I can think of a few Surface dwarves who’d be interested in this.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke is left behind)

Solas: I have read your book, you know. The Tale of the Champion. Varric: I don’t know if now’s the best time. Solas: I understand. I only wanted to say that in reading it, I felt your affection for Hawke in every word. I am... sorry, for what happened. Varric: Thanks, Chuckles. Solas: Of course.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke survives)

Solas: You said your farewells to Hawke? Varric: Sure did. Sent letters home, debated sending letters to Weisshaupt. The Wardens will need to know the storm coming their way. Solas: You believe Hawke will pose a problem? Varric: Well, maybe not on purpose.

#bring them peace with worlds between pages ( varric ) #voice ringing with fullness from both worlds ( solas ) #dare to be in the company of those stronger than you ( banter ) #[ all i can do this week is write banter ] #here lies the abyss ( quests )

[elevanetheirin]

A Bitter Pill

Characters: Merra Surana, Alistair Theirin, Teagan Guerrin, Varric Tethras, Fiona Introduction of Merra Surana  SFW

 “The Inquisition still needs mages, you’ll be coming with us!”

“What are the terms of this agreement?” Fiona had asked.

“Better than what Alexius offered, yes?” Dorian chimed in behind her.

“You will be joining the Inquisition as allies.”

“Regardless of where you go, you will be leaving my Kingdom today.” Alistair’s eyes burned with anger.

Merra looked at him sadly, her heart aching, the years had been kind to Alistair and she still loved him, always would she presumed at least to some degree. Alistair glanced in her direction, his eyes softening for just a moment.

As Merra left the Chantry Teagan grabbed her arm, guiding her to a nearby corner.

“Stay Merra, he needs you.”

“Teagan, we’ve discussed this, several times in fact. You know as well as I that Ferelden would never allow me to be his Queen and I will not be the block that prevents him from marrying.”

“But Ashlya, she’s his heir!”

“She is an elf Teagan, that is all Ferelden will see. You saw how Eamon behaved when he saw her ears. He’d kill her before he let the country know their King was part elf. I cannot allow that to happen.” Merra’s eyes darted towards Alistair, “I love him Teagan, I do, but that’s why I can’t stay. Ashlya will know who her father is, and that he loves her but she can never be what you or he, “she glanced up at Alistair again, “want her to be.”

Merra quietly left the Chantry tears threatening to escape her eyes. She honestly did hope he found love. It was far past time the two of them moved on with their lives.

Once they were back in Haven Varric came into her cabin, for once not all smiles, “So, tell me the truth Sparrow,” that had been his nickname for her since they’d met. He’d said she reminded him of a tiny bird, small and easily missed but sharp and aware of everything, “Ashlyia is a Theirin isn’t she?”

Merra should have known Varric wouldn’t have missed the looks she and Alistair had traded, or the quick quiet conversation she’d had with Teagan at Redcliffe.  She thanked, the Maker, or the Creators or whomever that he hadn’t known about the meeting with Alistair she’d had in her tavern room the night before they’d left the village. She would definitely give Alistair credit there, over the years he’d become quite adept at sneaking about as someone else.

Her silence was Varric’s answer, “Well, Shit. I was honestly hoping I was wrong.”

“I’ll tell you Varric, because after all these years I have to tell someone, but I swear if I read my story in a book I will hunt you down, and you know I can do it.”

Merra began to tell her story.

Merra Surana grew up in the Circle, she’d always been told her parents were elves who lived in an Alienage but over the years she learned her parents were mages. She kept her ears open and her mouth shut so it was easy to be forgotten, easy to hear things she wasn’t supposed to. This was also how she’d managed to fool Greagoir and Irving when she’d helped Jowan, it wasn’t the first time she’d helped a mage escape the tower. While Merra was maybe not exactly happy in the tower she was at least satisfied with her life, she didn’t have to worry about where her food was coming from and the roof over her head, and it had been all she’d ever known.

If Anders and Jowan wanted to deal with those problems it wasn’t her place nor the Chantry’s to tell them they couldn’t. She was however more than a little angry that Jowan had lied to her. Not that she believed him a practicing blood mage but he knew of blood magic, how else had he resorted to it when they were cornered. Or later when they’d needed to free Conner from a demon.

And that is how she became a Grey Warden. Duncan liked to call it saving her, Merra saw it as just another form of punishment which she hadn’t deserved. All the years of doing what was expected of her and helping a friend got her a death sentence. If she were honest, it hadn’t been all bad. Over the year she’d spent trying to stop the Blight and unite Ferelden she’d found Alistair.

They’d sworn to be together forever, no matter what, but no matter what came in the form of his bloodline. She always regretted waking Eamon up. That had been the beginning of the end. When she’d realized Anora cared little for Ferelden when compared to how much she cared for her status and Merra had learned that her beloved Alistair was probably the best person for the Throne. Wynne had talked about sacrificing those you love for the good of all and Merra had always assumed Wynne had meant to the Blight. That was until she’d realized at the Landsmeet that it meant giving up love for the good of a country and it had made her that much more bitter.

After giving the throne to Alistair and saving him and by association herself from a death by Archdemon, Merra had decided she would do what she needed to do to reverse the curse Duncan had bestowed upon her.  Merra had gone to Weisshaupt to see what the Wardens knew.

#Merra Surana #Alistair Theirin #Ficlet #Introduction #Dragon Age #Alistair x Surana

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Good Intentions

Chapter 31 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

The crew heads to frosty Emprise du Lion this week, and I asked my darling @lethendralis-paints do a BEAUTIFUL little painting of FenRynne staying warm, so I simply had to post the art and the chapter together!

Read on AO3 instead; ~9000 words.

Hawke shivered and rubbed her arms. “You know, I think I’ve been spoiled by Skyhold. It’s all lovely and warm there with the elven magic and all. It’s made me go soft.”

Fenris glanced at her as they picked their way through the destroyed village on the way to Suledin Keep. She did look exceptionally cold. 

“Would you care for my cloak?” he said.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “So chivalrous, you are,” she purred. “But no. I’ll just keep complaining. This way I’ll distract everyone else from how cold they are.” 

Varric chuckled. “Thanks, Hawke. That’s really helpful.”

“That’s me,” she chirped. “Always being as useful as possible.” She elbowed Dorian, who was trudging through the snow beside her. “How are you holding up, northern boy? Maybe you need Fenris’s cloak.”

“I would, if his cloak wasn’t such a marvelously mundane shade of murky green,” Dorian said. He shot Fenris a mocking pout. “What happened to your black one? It suited you far better. It would have suited me far better.”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “This one is warmer. I prefer to choose my clothes for—” 

 “— function over form and so on, I know. More’s the pity.” Dorian shot him a sly look. “You know, if you had something tailored, it could be both attractive and functional…”

Fenris shot him a flat look. “Dorian. I don’t need tailoring. In fact, nobody needs tailoring.” 

Dorian laughed. “Tell that to Josephine the next time you have to go to an Orlesian function.”

Fenris gave Hawke a long-suffering look. “I thought this conversation about clothing and tailors would end with the wedding.”

“Apparently not,” she said cheerfully. “For what it’s worth, I think you look handsome in everything.”

Her smile was wide and wicked, and Fenris shot her a forbidding look. He knew exactly what she was about to say next. “Don’t,” he warned.

Heedless of his warning, she sidled up to him leaned in close to his ear. “I also think you look even more handsome in nothing at all,” she murmured.

He huffed and shook his head. “You are shameless.” 

“Of course I am,” she said. She twined her fingers with his. “Lucky for me that skin-to-skin contact is the best way to stay warm.”

Fenris shot her a chiding look. Her voice was quiet, but to her left, Dorian was smirking. “Later, Hawke,” he muttered.  

She chuckled. “I hope that’s a promise,” she whispered. She released him and strolled over to Blackwall instead. “Blackwall, are you all right? You’ve been terribly quiet since we raided the quarry.” 

He gave her a small smile. “I’m just fine.”

She looped her hand through his elbow. “Come now, I don’t buy that. You look like someone stole your favourite puppy.” 

He sighed. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking—”

“You? Thinking?” Dorian said archly. “Quick, someone send a raven to Skyhold so Maryden can write a ballad in honour of the occasion.”

Blackwall shot Dorian a venomous look, and Fenris and Varric exchanged a quick glance. Blackwall and Dorian had been sniping at each other on and off the whole time they’d been in Emprise du Lion. Fenris was growing rather weary of it, but he was biting his tongue, especially after Varric had pointed out — to Fenris’s chagrin — that he and Anders had carried on far worse during their seven years in Kirkwall. 

Hawke, on the other hand, had spent the trip trying to smooth things over with flirting and jokes. She seemed to have reached the end of her rope today, however. “All right, all right, you’re both manly men with giant weapons and beautiful facial hair,” she snapped. “Now please shut up.” She turned pointedly to Blackwall again. “Thinking about what?”  

“About the Templars, I suppose,” he said. “And the Grey Wardens. They were all just trying to do the right thing, and Corypheus used their morals against them.”

She grimaced. “I know. It’s a rather shit deal, isn’t it?” She patted his arm comfortingly. “We’ll stop Coryfish, though. He’ll get his comeuppance sooner than later.”

He shook his head sadly. “You make it sound easy. But how many more people will die before Corypheus does? How many more good people will be corrupted before we stop him?” He sighed. “It’s not right. To want to do good, to be good, and have that turned against you.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Then Varric chuckled. “Damn, hero. You’ve been having a real existential crisis over there, haven’t you?”

Hawke shot him a quick grin, then turned back to Blackwall. “You’re right. It sucks to try and do the right thing and have it blow up in your face. But what else can you do?” She shrugged. “You’ve got to trust your gut, right? Keep on moving forward. What other choice is there?”

“But how do you know you can trust your gut?” Blackwall asked. “Warden-Commander Clarel’s intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great it led her astray. How do you know if your intentions are guiding you down the right path?” He looked askance at Fenris. “You’ve brought us this far. Everything you’ve done has led us to victory. How did you know that everything would go well?”

Fenris wearily rubbed his hair through his hood. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him that people thought he actually had a plan for taking Corypheus down, or that he was always in control of everything that happened. This was the way of so-called ‘heroes’, after all; most people never saw the uncertainty and the terrible choices and the sheer dumb fortune — or lack thereof — that conspired to result in any given outcome. It had been the same with Hawke back in Kirkwall; she won one duel with the Arishok, a terrible duel in which she’d almost died, and suddenly she had the reputation of being the only person who could keep the entire city safe.

A reputation that had nearly gotten her killed.

He looked at Blackwall. “I didn’t know that everything would go well,” he said bluntly. In his opinion, everything hadn’t gone well since the Inquisition had begun; they’d lost people at Haven, and they had lost many soldiers at Adamant, and he had left Carver behind in the Fade. “No one can know for certain that their course of action is right. It is as Hawke said; you must trust your instincts. And the instincts of the people you trust,” he added, with a glance at Hawke. “And you must move forward.” 

A memory of Carver’s determined face flashed across his mind. He breathed through the guilt, then looked at Blackwall again. “There is no point sitting stagnant in the regrets of what might have been if you’d made another choice. There is only forward,” he said. 

Blackwall’s expression was attentive but melancholy, and Fenris felt another little writhing of guilt in his gut. He’d ultimately told Stroud and the Wardens to remain at Weisshaupt until Corypheus was eliminated, and he knew Blackwall wasn’t pleased about the decision. Fenris had initially considered telling only the Warden mages to remain at Weisshaupt, but Hawke had immediately argued the idea, saying it was barely a step away from imprisoning them in a Circle and that it would send a terrible message about mages in general to the rest of Thedas. So Fenris had reluctantly agreed to isolate all the Wardens to Weisshaupt until further notice. 

It was a decision that Fenris was still not entirely comfortable with, particularly given the darkspawn presence that Harding had reported in the Storm Coast. But Fenris didn’t feel informed enough about the Warden’s secretive ways to be entirely comfortable with their joining the Inquisition, so this seemed the more prudent option for now. 

Hawke squeezed Blackwall’s arm. “Come on, Blackwall, you don’t need to worry. You’re one of the good ones. If you weren’t, Fenris would kick you out of Skyhold in a heartbeat.”

Blackwall heaved a heavy sigh, then nodded. “I hope so, my lady.” He winced and pulled a copper out his pocket, then handed it to her. “Sorry, Hawke.”

She smiled and pocketed the coin. “No harm done.”

Fenris looked at them in surprise. “What was that for?”

“Blackwall is giving me a copper every time he calls me ‘my lady’,” she said.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Dare I ask why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m not a fucking lady, obviously.” She smiled cheekily at Blackwall. “We’re breaking a bad habit one copper at a time.”

“I dunno, Hawke,” Varric said. “You did get the Amell name restored, so I think technically—” 

She groaned. “That was in Kirkwall. We’re not in Kirkwall anymore.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “That’s true.”

She shot him a guilty look, then slung an arm around his neck. “Don’t you get mopey on me now. When Corytits is dead, maybe we can all go back to Kirkwall for a bit.”

He looked at her and Fenris in surprise. “You’d come back to Kirkwall? Seriously?”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a nonplussed look. They’d somehow never discussed settling in Kirkwall when this war was over. In truth, Fenris had a hard time imagining them returning to a life in Kirkwall after everything that had happened there. 

“I… don’t know. Maybe?” Hawke said. She pulled a face at Fenris. 

He shrugged. “Perhaps. For a visit, at least.” 

“Mm. Yeah, a visit would be nice,” Varric said. He rubbed his nose. 

Hawke’s face crumpled, and she hugged Varric more tightly around the neck. “Oh, Varric, stop it,” she begged. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He cleared his throat and patted her arm. “Ah, come on, Hawke, don’t do that. Your tears will freeze on your face.”

She gave a shaky little laugh and kissed the top of his head, and Fenris watched them with an ache behind his sternum. He felt rather stupid now for not realizing that Varric had probably missed them — especially Hawke — during their two years in hiding. Hawke wasn’t the only one who considered their Kirkwall group to be family, after all. 

Varric looked up and met his eye, and Fenris grimaced and shrugged helplessly, uncertain what to say. They continued their trek toward Suledin Keep in an increasingly awkward silence. 

Thankfully — or perhaps not so thankfully — Dorian broke the silence. “I’m sorry, but is no one going to protest the fact that Hawke is essentially robbing Blackwall of his coin?” 

Blackwall raised his eyebrows. “Since when do you care about me getting robbed?”

“Since it means you have less coin for personal hygiene products, of course,” Dorian said disdainfully. He shot Hawke a pleading look. “At least use some of that coin to buy him some soap. Consider this a heartfelt plea.”

Blackwall grunted. “You know, some of us have better things to do than spend hours preening in front of the mirror like pompous prats.”

“That’s true,” Dorian said. “Like rolling around in the stables with the other hairy beasts. That is what you’ve been doing, yes? That’s certainly what it smells like.”

Blackwall scowled, but Hawke turned to Dorian before Blackwall could reply. “I didn’t hear you complaining about bodily smells when you were talking to Bull the other day.”

For a split second, Dorian’s eyes went wide — tellingly wide. Then he flicked some snow from his collar. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Hawke cackled and skipped over to him. “You know exactly what I mean. And if you didn’t want anyone to know about you and Bull, maybe you shouldn’t have been talking about it so loudly right in the middle of the courtyard.” 

“Wait,” Blackwall said. He stared at Dorian. “You and Bull are canoodling?”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Canoodling? Oh, my. I didn’t realize you were a prissy octogenarian. Shall we buy you a cane during the next trip to Val Royeaux?” 

Blackwall grunted, but Varric grinned. “I don’t hear a denial there, Sparkler.”  

Hawke snickered and elbowed Dorian. “Me neither.”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian muttered. He shot them a resentful look. “For such a large castle, there’s certainly no privacy to be had at Skyhold.”

Hawke tutted and linked her arm with Dorian’s. “Oh come now, Dorian, we gossip about everyone. Why should you be exempt?”

“My dear Hawke, we gossip in private,” Dorian retorted. “If we’re talking publicly about everyone’s sex lives, let’s talk about yours and Fenris’s.”

“No,” Fenris said loudly. 

Hawke tutted again. “Fine, fine. You’ll dish in private, then? Later?” She gazed imploringly at Dorian. 

He rolled his eyes. “You really are an intractable pervert. I don’t know how Fenris copes with you.” He gave her a mocking look. “Should I draw diagrams for you? Would that be sufficiently entertaining?”

“Ooh, yes,” she said with relish. “I’ve been looking for some good reading material. I’ve run out of Randy Dowagers to read.”

“If you’re looking for something smutty, you can always ask Cassandra,” Varric said. “Maybe she’ll lend you the chapters I wrote her if you ask her really nicely.”

Hawke whipped around to look at him with wide eyes. “You wrote smut? Already? Aren’t you only about three chapters in?”

“Five, actually,” Varric said. “I found some time before we left Skyhold.” 

Hawke whistled and released Dorian’s arm. “Good on you. All right, you’ve got my attention. Tell me more.”

Varric and Hawke sank into a discussion of Varric’s writing, and Dorian breathed a soft sigh of relief. He and Fenris walked side-by-side in silence for some time.

“Is it serious?” Fenris said quietly.

Dorian groaned. “Oh, not you too. You’re as bad as your wife.”

Fenris shrugged. “Fair enough.” He said nothing more.

A minute later, Dorian spoke again, very quietly. “I don’t know what it is. It’s only happened twice.” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “All right, fine, three times.”

Fenris nodded an acknowledgment. “Are you happy when you’re together?”

Dorian shot Fenris an odd look, almost as though Fenris was trying to trick him. Then he scoffed. “I can just imagine the stories everyone will tell. The evil Vint magister and the big boorish qunari taking over Thedas one sordid sexcapade at a time. The rumours will be worse than the ones they were making up about you and me.”

It didn’t escape Fenris’s notice that Dorian hadn’t answered his question. “They don’t know you. Ignorant tongues speak nothing of value,” he told Dorian. “You know that.” He thought of Hawke and the way she’d always defiantly faced down anyone who disdained her for mating with a knife-ear. 

“Ah, Fenris. So innocent about the weight of a good rumour,” Dorian said playfully. “Or a bad rumour, I should say. I do enjoy your naiveté in this, it’s one of your most endearing traits.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Do not mistake my words for naiveté. I know whose opinion matters and whose doesn’t. Do you?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, then looked away. They walked in silence for another minute. Then Dorian shrugged and smirked. “Maybe I am happy. Or maybe I’m entirely mad. Happiness and madness can be so difficult to distinguish, can’t they? They’re both accompanied by such a lovely little state of euphoria.”

He was deflecting, exactly as Hawke did when she was disturbed by something. Fenris glanced at him, then reluctantly switched to Tevene. “It is difficult,” he said. “Liking someone that you thought you should hate on principle.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows at the language change, then chuckled. “Charming though these overtures may be, you don’t have to butter me up. We’re already friends.”

Fenris gave him a serious look. Finally, at long last, Dorian’s shit-eating smile slowly faded. 

“You don’t think this is just a foolish lark, then?” he said. “Dorian Pavus going off and pulling another shameless act of debauchery?”

Fenris gazed at him in exasperation. “When have I ever accused you of debauchery? Arrogance, perhaps. Being smug, perhaps. Having overly coiffed hair—”

“I knew you liked something about me,” Dorian quipped.

Fenris ignored him. “Do you think it’s a foolish lark?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian snapped. He took a deep breath and started twisting one of his gold rings around his finger. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a lark. I haven’t… been with anyone since leaving home.”

Fenris shrugged. “For that reason alone, perhaps it is a good thing. A way to break from the chains that Tevinter society placed on you.”

They walked quietly for another minute. Then Fenris spoke again, this time in the common tongue. “I hope you can trust him. He is still a qunari spy.”

“Fasta vass. I knew you didn’t approve,” Dorian complained. 

Fenris frowned. “That is not what I said. And why do you care if I approve?”

Dorian stared at him in exasperation. “Do you even listen to a word out of your own perfectly pouty mouth?” He put on a mocking baritone voice. “‘Rely on the instincts of the people you trust. Know whose opinion matters.’ And then you go and ask why I care what you think.” He snorted and continued to fight his way through the knee-deep snow.

Fenris doggedly strode through the snow beside him. “You want my opinion.”

“And finally the Inquisitor catches on,” Dorian said waspishly. 

Fenris bit back his irritation. “My opinion is this. You should trust your own instincts. I am not your father,” he said severely. “I am not going to place judgement on whom you lie with. Just be careful.” 

Dorian pressed his lips together and didn’t speak. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed. “Thank you. I… I appreciate your concern. Truly.”

Fenris shrugged and didn’t look at him. “Thank me by not drawing diagrams for Hawke. I do not want to see them tacked on the wall of our bedroom.”

Dorian grinned at him. “And why would she tack them on the wall of your bedroom, pray tell? Inspiration, perhaps?” He gasped playfully. “Are we about to gossip about your sex life after all?”

Fenris snorted in disgust. “I regret saying anything.” He turned on his heel and started to return to Hawke and Varric. 

“We’ll pick up this discussion later, then!” Dorian called after him. “Perhaps over tea and those little frilly cakes that Solas is so partial to.” 

Fenris ignored him. A moment later, however, the distinctive sounds of clashing swords reached his ears, followed by the distinctive roar of a rage demon. 

He whipped around to look. Suledin Keep was less than a hundred paces away, and a lone blond figure was valiantly fighting two red Templars and a handful of demons. 

 “Shit,” Hawke said. 

“That’s the chevalier guy,” Varric said. “Michel.”

“Let’s move,” Fenris snapped, and they bolted toward the entry to the Keep. 

A few minutes later, the red Templars were dead and the demons were scattered to the wind, and Fenris and their party were catching their breath along with the lone chevalier. 

“Herald,” he said. He bowed quickly to Fenris. “Your efforts at the quarry have not gone unnoticed. The demon Imshael sent a pack of shades to Sahrnia. I must go back and defend the villagers. Please, destroy Imshael before he escapes.” Without waiting for a response, Michel sheathed his sword and bolted away – but not before doing a quizzical double-take at Blackwall. 

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Michel’s departing back, then turned to Blackwall. “That was odd. Do you know him?” 

“No,” Blackwall said brusquely. He nodded toward the Keep. “Let’s stop this demon.” 

Fenris nodded agreement, and they began to make their way carefully through Suledin Keep. The fortress was enormous and the potential threat of enemy numbers was great, so they moved as silently as they could through the snow and stuck to corners and shadows to retain the element of surprise.  

The steady trickle of Templars they encountered were easy enough to ambush. But when they reached the cages containing the red lyrium-infested corpses of giants, they all took pause. 

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke breathed. She peered into the cage. “Poor bastards.”

“Poor them?” Dorian said archly. “Poor us, I say, if these mad Templars managed to tweak their red lyrium recipe properly.” He grimaced as he studied the grisly corpses.

Varric, meanwhile, was standing some distance away from the cages. “Careful, Hawke,” he said tensely. “Don’t get too close to that stuff.”

“It’s all right, Varric,” she said soothingly. “We all have our charms from Dagna. We’re safe.” 

“Not entirely safe,” Fenris reminded her. “It is still as toxic as regular lyrium.” He walked over to her and gently took her arm. “Come. Varric is right. We should move on.” 

They moved away from the cages and through another snow-encrusted arch, and Dorian wilted in dismay. “Kaffas. Of course.” 

Thirty paces away, a giant was stomping around and blocking the path ahead. Red crystals were sprouting from its shoulders and back, and there were three red Templars standing guard around it. 

They crowded back against the wall out of sight. “Fuck,” Hawke muttered. “How did they tame it? I thought giants were really wild.” 

“It’s a good question,” Dorian whispered. “You would think the red lyrium would render it wilder than usual.” 

Fenris shook his head. “Red lyrium sickens them. That’s what all the notes we found have said. Sicken them slightly to make them more compliant, while also making them stronger…”

Blackwall furrowed his brow. “That makes no sense.”

“Since when does any of this shit make sense?” Varric muttered. 

Fenris huffed in agreement. He could only hope the Inquisition’s mages would have more information on lyrium when they next returned to Skyhold. “In any case, we must move on.” He looked around at their little group. “We all know what to do.” 

They murmured assent, and Fenris quickly squeezed Hawke’s hand before leading her quietly toward the giant by skirting the sides of the castle walls. Once they were all in position, Fenris nodded to Hawke and Dorian. 

Two rings of flame erupted around the Templars and the giant, and the frozen air was rent with the sounds of anguished screams and angered roaring. The warm tingle of Hawke’s barrier settled over Fenris’s shoulders, and he bolted toward the Templars while Blackwall ran at the giant with a battle cry. 

The red Templars were dispatched without too much fuss; their combat style was relatively predictable, especially after studying their strategies while decimating their operations in the quarry, and it was a simple enough matter for Fenris and Varric to kill the Templars without further magical help. 

The giant, however, was another matter. After several long, gruelling minutes of combat, its flesh was crackling with burns and wet with blood from Fenris and Blackwall’s strikes, but it was still roaring and flailing its long arms as though it had hardly been harmed. 

“Damn, it’s strong,” Varric panted. He loaded three more bolts into his crossbow and scowled up at the enormous creature. “What are we supposed to do?” 

“Let’s hamstring it,” Blackwall shouted. “Get it on its knees, then bash its sorry head.”

“Try it,” Fenris yelled. It was as good a plan as any; sheer brute force was clearly not working. 

Unfortunately, before they could enact the plan, the giant grabbed an enormous boulder and lifted it overhead, then turned toward Hawke and Blackwall with a roar. 

Fenris’s stomach lurched in horror, and he bolted toward them. But just before the boulder came smashing down, Hawke thrust her hand toward the giant and clenched her fist. 

The giant froze, entrapped in a cage of blazing white light. “Got you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Dorian, hamstring the fucking thing.”

Dorian swung his staff in a lashing motion, and a bladelike projectile of ice slashed through the backs of the giant’s thighs straight to the bone. 

Hawke lowered her hand, breaking the cage of light, and the giant fell to its knees with a shriek of agony. With a roar of battle rage, Fenris slammed his blade into the beast’s skull.

He and Blackwall hacked at the giant’s head and neck until it finally fell facefirst into the snow with a thundering crash. For a moment, they stood in shocked silence catching their breath and staring at the giant’s bleeding body.

Fenris trudged over to Hawke’s side, then unstrapped a bottle of lyrium solution from her belt and removed the cap. He silently handed her the bottle, and she took it with a nod and drank it down. 

She wiped her mouth and placed the empty bottle back on her belt, then smiled at him. “That was fun. Let’s never do that again, shall we?”

He managed a half-smile as he studied her face. Her lips were turning blue and her normally-golden skin was bleached from the cold, but she looked strong enough despite using her most mana-sapping spell. 

He forced himself to breathe normally. “And you said we never go anywhere fun,” he drawled. 

“I believe that was me,” Dorian put in. “And it’s true. You never bring me anywhere fun.” He adopted a mocking voice. “‘Oh, the coldest place in all of Thedas, where red lyrium crystals compete for territory with human-sized pillars of ice. You know who would adore such a place? Dorian.’” He disdainfully rearranged his dishevelled hair.

Fenris cast him an exasperated look as he helped Hawke to step over the giant’s body. “Do you want to come on these trips or not? It would not be difficult to leave you behind.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” Blackwall said acidly.

Dorian shot them an affronted look. “What, and deprive you of my scintillating insights and intelligent badinage? Perish the thought.” 

Varric chuckled weakly and patted Fenris’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get this party moving. This fortress doesn’t seem like it’s gonna clear itself, unfortunately.”

And so it was a weary party that continued the foray through the keep. They moved more cautiously than before, wary of conserving their energy and mana; Fenris was quite sure the showdown with the demon would be a significant trial, based on what Michel had told them back at Sahrnia when they’d first arrived in Emprise du Lion a few days ago. 

Unfortunately, the path through the enormous keep only became more populated with enemies, including one more giant and a number of large demons. By the time they had nearly reached the top of the tower, all of them were bloodied — albeit healed thanks to Hawke — and Hawke was down to her last lyrium potion. 

She blew out an angry breath and glared at the faintly steaming piles of ichor that had been a rage demon just a few minutes ago. “All right, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s kill this fucking Imshael thing already so I can find a hot bath.” 

She was shivering, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or exhaustion. He unclipped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. 

She shook her head and tried to brush him off. “No, I don’t need it—” 

“It hinders my movement,” Fenris said. It was only a small lie; it did hinder him a bit, but that hardly mattered when he was able to skate along the edge of the Fade with his lyrium tattoos. “Keep it for me.” 

She frowned at him, then blew out a sharp breath. “All right. Fine. Let’s go, shall we?”

Fenris quashed a jolt of worry in his gut. If she was giving in so quickly, she must be more tired than she looked. 

They moved toward the door, and Fenris surreptitiously took her hand. “Stay far back,” he murmured to her. “Be cautious, Hawke.” 

“I know, I know,” she said. She squeezed his hand in turn. “No running in headfirst, I promise. I’ve got your back.”

He nodded and bit his tongue to stop himself from nagging her any further. Then Dorian appeared at her other side. 

“My gift to you,” he said, and he offered her a bottle of lyrium.

She frowned and pushed it back at him. “Dorian, come off of it. You need that.”

“You’ve been doing all the healing, if you didn’t notice,” Dorian said. “Take the bottle, please. It’s not very tasty, I know, but I can guarantee the next one I give you will be full of brandy.”

She rolled her eyes and took the small bottle from him. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Fenris met Dorian’s eyes and nodded his thanks, and Dorian smiled faintly at him before stepping forward and pushing open the enormous double doors to the tower. 

The moment they stepped through the doors, a smug, smooth voice addressed them. “Ah, the hero arrives. Wearing the marks of the ancient warriors, no less. But is it hero, or murderer? It’s so hard to tell.”

The speaker was a man: a rather nondescript, middle-aged man wearing a fine black coat and fine black shoes with tidy silver buckles. 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Imshael may have taken the form of a man, but his taunts reminded Fenris all too clearly of the Nightmare. 

“Demon,” he spat.

Imshael’s pleasant smile hardened. “Choice spirit,” he corrected. 

Hawke snorted. “Spirit, demon… either way, you’re a complete asshole.” She pulled her staff from her back. 

Imshael held up a finger. “Wait, wait!” he said. He looked at Fenris. “These are your friends? They’re very violent. It’s worrying.” He folded his hands behind his back. “True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn’t always have to end in blood.”

“Not always, no,” Fenris said. “In this case, yes.” He unsheathed his greatsword.

Imshael’s smile twisted into a snarl. “Fine,” he said. “If you won’t be smart, be afraid.” He suddenly burst into a huge and hideous rage demon. 

Hawke’s barrier fell over Fenris’s shoulders, and it was more comforting than any cloak. Three of Varric’s bolts struck the demon’s face in quick succession, and then Fenris and Blackwall were hacking at the demon’s body with all their strength. 

As promised, Hawke stood back and maintained a steady barrier over all of them while they attacked the demon. Dorian coated the creature with ice, rendering it brittle for their sword and arrow strikes, and the poison from Varric’s arrows withered the demon’s lava-liked flesh. 

Just when Fenris was sure that Imshael was beaten, he let out an unpleasant cackle of a laugh, then transformed into the largest demon of pride that they’d ever seen.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall swore. Then he and Fenris dodged away from the lashing of Imshael’s lightning-laced whips. 

The fight continued for an improbably long time. Imshael continued taunting them and changing forms, and each form he took seemed to lose some portion of the damage they’d inflicted. 

The demon backhanded Blackwall across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then laughed again. “Where’s that Michel, hmm? Afraid of another disastrous blunder, so he sends you to do his dirty work? A clever choice, that. Maybe I underestimated him… hah. I do amuse myself sometimes.” Imshael chuckled unpleasantly, then snarled as Fenris cleaved straight through his left leg.

“Vishante kaffas,” Fenris spat. “I’ll paint these stones with your vile blood, demon.”

“Choice. Spirit,” Imshael hissed. “Allow me offer you another one.” He phased across the ichor-and-ice-spattered ground, then grabbed Hawke by the throat and hauled her off her feet.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted.  

“Release her!” Fenris roared. Hawke was gripping Imshael’s scaly arm for support, and Fenris’s heart was beating a panicked staccato in his ears. 

“Gladly,” Imshael said. “If you give me the anchor on your hand.”

Imshael knew how to remove the mark? For an instant, the shock rendered Fenris breathless.

He took a step toward Hawke, then stopped when Imshael squeezed Hawke’s throat more tightly. “Ah-ah-ah. You have to make a choice. Either you give me the anchor, or she dies.”

Hawke was staring at him with wide eyes. Her face was going red, and her kicking was growing weaker. 

“Fine,” Fenris blurted. “The anchor is yours. It is a curse. I never wanted it.” 

Dorian and Blackwall exclaimed in surprise, and Imshael’s monstrous face twisted into a grin. “And the hero throws aside his purpose!” he crowed. “How disappointing. For your friends there, I mean.” He held out one grotesquely clawed hand. “Now let’s have a look at that pretty palm of yours.”

Fenris approached the demon, his eyes fixed on Hawke’s reddening face. 

“Wait a minute,” Dorian protested. “Imshael, let’s — let’s talk about this. What other options—”

“Too late, Tevinter princeling,” Imshael said. “The grand Inquisitor has made his choice.” 

Fenris ignored them. When he was within reach of the demon, he held out his crackling left hand.

Imshael chuckled — an evil, guttural sound. Just as Imshael was about to touch his hand, Fenris nodded surreptitiously to Hawke. 

She twisted her fist in a wrenching motion. A blazing cage of white light appeared around the demon, making him scream with rage, and Hawke fell to a heap on the ground.

Her right hand was outstretched to maintain the cage. She looked up at Fenris with bloodshot eyes. “Do it,” she rasped. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, Fenris flung his snapping left palm at the cage of light, and an enormous burst of pure rift magic exploded from his palm and bloomed violently inside of the cage, encapsulating the demon completely. 

A horrendous, furious scream of pain and fury emanated from the cage. Fenris gritted his teeth and held the cloud of magic in place until the screaming died away, then clenched his fist shut and released his breath.

The demon was destroyed, nothing more than a breath of ash that was swiftly dissipating into the frigid wind. Fenris fell to his knees beside Hawke, who was hunched on the icy ground. 

Blackwall, Dorian and Varric ran over to join them, but Fenris ignored them. “Hawke,” he said. He rubbed her arms, then cupped her cold cheek in his trembling palm. “Rynne, look at me.” 

She lifted her face and smiled at him. She looked absolutely exhausted. “Hey, handsome. Are you a choice spirit? Because you take my breath away.” She laughed feebly, then broke into a hacking cough. 

Fenris pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her ear. “You are an idiot,” he whispered. 

She took a slow, rasping breath. “Only for you, Fenris,” she said. “Only for you.” 

He swallowed hard and tucked his cloak more securely around her body. Varric patted his shoulder. “That was some fast thinking, you guys. Nice work.”

“You knew they were going to do that?” Blackwall asked Varric in surprise. 

Varric shrugged. “Ah, I saw them staring at each other. They’ve got that sappy married couple’s mind-reading thing going on.” 

Fenris didn’t respond. Varric wasn’t completely wrong; Hawke’s gaze had darted to the snapping magic building in his left hand, so he’d figured out what she was thinking. But in that split second, that terrifying instant when Imshael had tightened his monstrous fingers around her throat…

Fenris would have given Imshael the anchor to free Hawke from his grasp. He would have done it. 

He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled her sandalwood scent. Then Varric patted his shoulder again. “Come on, we should get her somewhere warm. A tent and a few blankets at least.” 

Fenris nodded. “We’ll set up camp here,” he said. He glanced around at the blood-and-ichor-stained paving stones. “Not right here,” he corrected, “but somewhere close by. I don’t want to move her too far.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Hawke said. She tried to push herself out of Fenris’s embrace. “I can walk. We can go back to the nearest Inquisition camp.”

Her voice was hoarse and weak. Fenris tightened his arms around her. “No,” he said. “We remain here until the morning.” He looked at Blackwall, who had a livid bruise swelling across his right cheek. “Find an Inquisition runner; let them know that Suledin Keep is ours. Have them send a healer.”

Hawke tutted. “Come on, Fenris, I don’t need a healer—” 

“Right away,” Blackwall said, and he marched away in the direction of the keep’s entrance. Varric and Dorian, meanwhile, had gone off to find a spot to set up for the night, leaving Fenris and Hawke alone. 

He carefully arranged the fur-lined hood of his cloak over her hair, and she gave him an exasperated look. “You don’t need to coddle me. Just give me some elfroot and I’ll be grand.”

“You are close to being overextended,” Fenris scolded. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know the signs by now. I will not take any chances with your life.” He pulled a bottle of lyrium potion from her pouch belt and handed it to her, then brushed her spiky bangs out of her eyes.

She reached up and took his hand. “Hey,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ve rubbed elbows with death way more closely than this—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t talk like that.”

She raised her eyebrows, then feebly shifted in his arms so she was sitting up in his lap. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

He took two deep, slow breaths before answering her. “I… I was ready to give the mark to the demon,” he admitted. “I was ready to trade the mark for your life.” 

She gazed at him in silence for a moment. Then she stroked his neck with her cold fingers. “You didn’t, though. It didn’t come to that.”

“But I would have,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I — the Inquisition — Hawke, I did not even consider it. It was the last thing on my mind—” 

She cupped his cheek in her palm. “You think I would have done differently?” she said. “Fenris, I… Maker fucking knows I would do the same for you.”

He swallowed hard. “What does that say about us?”

“What do you mean?” she said. Then she grinned. “Wait. Don’t tell me Blackwall’s existential crisis is rubbing off on you.”

He scoffed and rubbed his hair again. “Perhaps. He… they… there is no plan,” he said very quietly. “Even Varric thought that was planned. How we defeated Imshael. That was not planned.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “But it was a little bit awesome, right? I mean, come on. We tricked a really powerful demon. Sorry, ‘choice spirit’.” She snickered mockingly, then shrugged. “Maybe we really can read each other’s minds.” 

Fenris gave her a chiding look. “I am being serious. They think… I am not what they think,” he said. “The Inquisitor should be someone who is committed to the Inquisition. Someone like Cassandra.”

Hawke shrugged. “I disagree,” she said. “It should be someone like you who has a life outside of the Inquisition. Someone who knows what it’s like to not be in the Inquisition and remembers what we’re even doing all this shitty fighting for.” She made a little face. “Can you imagine having no life beyond the Inquisition? It would be pretty fucking sad, I think.”

He idly ran his thumb over her knuckles. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was just trying to find an excuse to shunt this responsibility off on someone else. 

Perhaps he just needed some rest. 

He sighed. “Come on, Hawke, let’s get you into a bedroll.” He carefully scooped her up and rose to his feet. 

She tutted, but draped her arms around his neck nevertheless. “You know, I really can walk, but you’re so dreamy that I’m not going to complain.”

He huffed. “That would make it a first for this trip.” 

She chuckled hoarsely. Then Varric called out to them. “Hey, you guys probably want to come over here.”

Fenris frowned slightly, then carried Hawke over to the most north-facing balcony of the keep where Varric and Dorian were standing over a half-dead red Templar.

Fenris raised his eyebrows and gently set Hawke on her feet. “Why have we not put him out of his misery?” he asked. 

Varric jerked his head at the Templar. “Just listen.”

The red Templar was muttering to himself. “A garden needs a gardener. Nurturing, gentle hands, directing the change,” he said hazily. “Not too fast, not too slow. Just right. Has to be just right.”

Hawke frowned. “He sounds like that note we found in the cellar here.” 

“A red lyrium gardener: how very macabre.” Dorian’s face was serious despite his flippant words. He looked at Fenris with a frown. “It makes sense, however. The red Templars we encountered here were far more cognizant than the first ones we encountered in Haven. Whatever the demon was doing here to slow the mental decay, it was working.” He eyed the dying red Templar with a mixture of pity and distaste. “Fortunate we stopped that Imshael fellow before they refined their technique any further.” 

Varric grunted. “Yeah. Every bit of red lyrium we get rid of is a good thing.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hawke said. She gestured at the red Templar, who was still muttering to himself. “Are we going to end this poor sod’s suffering, then?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. He removed a short knife from his belt, then knelt and quickly slashed the Templar’s throat. A moment later, the man released a sigh of relief as he died. 

They stood silently for a moment. Then Fenris placed a hand at the centre of Hawke’s back. “Come. Let’s rest. We should be set out for Skyhold in the morning.” 

They returned to the spot that Dorian had magically cleared for their tents, and Dorian lit a fire with a wave of his hand while Varric and Fenris set up their tents. Hawke sat by the fire and began unpacking some simple camping rations. 

“So let me get this straight,” she said as she handed Dorian a piece of oat bread. “Dwarves mine regular lyrium from the deep roads, but red lyrium just… grows bloody everywhere on everyone and everything?”

“Red lyrium came from the Deep Roads too, though,” Varric said. “I mean, who knows who made the idol, but we got it from the Deep Roads.” He sighed.

Hawke frowned sympathetically at him. “The idol can’t have been the only piece of red lyrium,” she reasoned. “It’s not where Corypheus got his stock from, because the idol’s still in Kirkwall with creepy statue Meredith, right? He must have gotten his red lyrium from somewhere else. Before he started farming it, at least.” 

Fenris knew why she was saying this to Varric: Varric felt guilty about the role that red lyrium was playing in their current troubles, even though Bartrand had been the one to spearhead their journey to the Deep Roads all those years ago, not to mention who had brought the idol into Kirkwall in the first place.

Varric wryly raised one eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comforting. To think there’s a vein of red lyrium somewhere that Corypheus is mining?”

Dorian stroked his mustache slowly. “Why grow it if they can mine it, though?”

“Growing is way more efficient,” Varric said darkly. “I mean, think about it. Who’d want to go mining in the Deep Roads when you can just harvest it from people’s bodies?”

Hawke and Dorian grimaced. “Such a charming thought,” Dorian said. “I may vomit.” 

Fenris and Varric joined them at the fire, and Fenris handed Hawke a vial of elfroot potion. “It puzzles me that red lyrium can grow in the first place,” he said. “It’s a mineral that must be mined. How is it possible that it grows?”

Hawke sipped her elfroot. “That’s true,” she said slowly. “Minerals crystallize. So maybe it’s just a form of… exaggerated crystallization?” She grimaced doubtfully. 

Varric and Fenris shrugged. Then Dorian spoke up. “Well, we keep saying people are infected with red lyrium. Maybe that’s really what it is: an infection. A parasite.”

“A parasitic mineral?” Hawke said. 

Varric sighed. “As if shit wasn’t weird enough already.” 

Fenris twisted his lips ruefully. He had to agree with Varric. It was hard enough trying to fathom the nature of regular lyrium without the red kind making matters more complicated.

He stared moodily at the white lines on his palm. For years he’d thought himself cursed by the tattoos that twisted and twined around his limbs. He’d become a bit more comfortable with the lyrium marks over the past few years, but with all these disturbing new questions, combined with what Solas had said about his erstwhile magic being held captive in the lyrium lines that marred his skin… 

He glared at the livid white lines on his palm. Then Hawke gently placed a piece of oat bread in his open hand. 

He looked up at her, and she smiled. “Eat,” she said softly. “I’m not the only one who’s tired after all that fighting.” 

He closed his fingers over the bread and nodded. She handed some bread to Varric too, then took a bite of her own bread. “I don’t know about you fellows, but I could eat an entire pot of stew right about now.” 

“Mm,” Varric agreed through a mouthful of bread. “Don’t remind me. I’d even eat the stew they made at the Hanged Man as long as it was hot.” 

Fenris snorted. “You’re fooling no one with that remark. We know you enjoyed the Hanged Man’s mystery stew.” He took a small bite of his bread.

“‘Tolerating until your taste buds go numb’ isn’t the same as ‘enjoying’,” Varric drawled. “Either way, I’d eat it.” 

“I have to agree,” Dorian said. “Anything as long as it was hot. Kaffas, I would even drink mulled wine right now.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like mulled wine? I thought you Tevinters loved your wine.”

“Oh, do we ever,” Dorian said with relish. “Hence why those with discerning tastes—” 

“Privileged tastes,” Fenris put in.

“–don’t drink mulled wine,” Dorian finished while blithely ignoring him. “I can’t quite fathom the logic behind mulled wine. ‘Ah yes, let’s take every bottle of wine in a ten-metre radius and dump it in a pot with a box of random spices. How delicious!’” He shuddered dramatically. “It’s truly one of the most ghastly discoveries I’ve made in the south.”

Fenris scoffed and took another bite of bread. Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t even try and pretend you enjoy mulled wine.”

Fenris swallowed his bread. “No,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean–”

Dorian laughed loudly. “Ah, be careful, my friend. Your true colours are showing.” 

Fenris huffed. “I don’t like it, but I would still drink it.”

“So would I,” Dorian said archly. “That’s the point. Desperate times, desperate drinks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, did none of us bring any alcohol? How terribly remiss.”

Hawke pointed accusingly at him. “You promised me a bottle of brandy. I intend to collect on that promise.” 

“Yes, all right,” Dorian said patiently. “The moment we return to Skyhold, I will positively drown you in brandy.”

Hawke grinned, and Fenris shook his head in dismay. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m tempted to encourage her just to watch her run you ragged,” Dorian teased.

Hawke and Varric chuckled, and Fenris ruefully shook his head, and for a time they sat by the fire simply chatting and eating their bread. Hawke leaned companionably into Fenris’s arm, then eventually rested her cheek against his shoulder. When she fell quiet, listening and laughing instead of making her usual cheeky remarks, Fenris patted her knee. 

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.” 

She nodded, and they bade Varric and Dorian a good night and walked over to their tent. 

Hawke crouched and peered into the tent, then grimaced. “Ugh, it’s so fucking cold. Hang on out here for a moment.” She crawled into the tent and tucked the flap shut. A second later, a dim orange glow filtered through the cracks in the tent flap. 

Fenris waited patiently as she shuffled around in the tent. A few minutes later, she called out in a muffled voice. “All right, come in. Quickly!”

He knelt and crawled into the tent. The inside of the tent was tangibly warmer than outside thanks to a tiny glowing fireball hovering near the top of the tent. Hawke was already bundled in their bedding, tucked in so securely he could barely see her face. 

A burst of fondness filled his chest. He began pulling off his armour. “You’re certain this flame doesn’t draw too much energy?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll put it out once you get in here with me.”

Her tone was playful, and Fenris noted with relief that her voice only sounded mildly raspy now — thanks to the elfroot, no doubt. He stripped down to his fur-lined leggings and thermal shirt, then slipped under the covers. 

Predictably, she was naked aside from her smallclothes, and she pressed herself against his chest the moment he slid beneath the bedding. “Hey,” she complained. “You promised me skin-to-skin.”

“I didn’t, in fact,” he replied. “You were the one–” He broke off and grabbed her hands as she tried to slip them beneath his shirt, then relaxed when he realized he hands weren’t freezing.

She laughed softly and curled her arm around his waist. “I wouldn’t stick my cold hands inside your shirt. I’m not that much of a bitch.”

“You stuck your frozen fingers inside my collar the first day we got here,” he reminded her.

She laughed again. “Shit. I guess I am a bitch then.” She snuggled as close to him as possible and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Please get naked with me. I’m still cold.”

He scoffed as she tucked one knee between his legs. “You never stop, do you?”

She shook her head. “Never,” she said. “There’s no such thing as being too close to you.” 

A thread of tenderness squeezed his heart. Carefully so as not to disturb her too much, he pulled his shirt off, then shuffled his leggings off with some difficulty. 

Hawke helped him with the leggings, then chivvied him into lying on his back and draped herself across his body. “Better,” she whispered. 

He smiled and idly ran his hand along her arm. “Yes, it is.”

She hummed happily in response. Less than a minute later, her breathing evened out into the slow and easy cadence of sleep, and the tiny fireball at the top of the tent winked out of existence.

Fenris let out a long sigh. The inside of the tent was dark aside from the dim glow of the fire where Varric, Dorian, and a returned Blackwall were sitting, and the indistinct murmuring of their voices was oddly soothing. Despite the intensity of their activity today, however, Fenris didn’t really feel tired. 

He ran his palm in a careful path from Hawke’s bare shoulder to her wrist and back, and he thought about Blackwall’s words from earlier today: how the intention to protect had led Clarel astray. It was easy enough to judge Clarel after seeing the horrific blood magic rituals she’d perpetrated, but what Fenris had almost done today… 

To save Hawke’s life, he’d nearly made a deal with a demon. It was something he would never have imagined himself doing, but seeing Hawke so terribly threatened had driven everything else from his mind. 

Being willing to deal with demons in order to save Hawke’s life… what did that say about him? Hawke seemed to think it didn’t matter, since he hadn’t made a deal in the end. But intentions were important. Consequences were important, of course, but intentions were important too. Perhaps this meant he was no better than Merrill, with her pride demon and her cursed eluvian. 

Perhaps this meant he was no better than Anders.

He mentally recoiled from the thought the moment it crossed his mind. It is not the same, he thought. He wasn’t seeking knowledge or power like Merrill or Anders.  

But his motivation — to save one person at the expense of everything else — was still ultimately selfish.

Hawke shifted on his body. “This arm rubbing is nice and all, but you’re keeping me awake,” she mumbled.

“Ah,” he said. He relaxed his fingers. He hadn’t realized he was rubbing her arm quite that firmly. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled away from him slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m well,” he murmured. He forced his hands to stay still on her body.

After a quiet moment, she spoke again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He nibbled the inside of his cheek. “Later, perhaps,” he said. “Get some rest.”

“All right, if you’re sure.” She nestled her cheek against his chest once more, then yawned. “I love you.”

He swallowed hard. Hawke frequently told him she loved him, but tonight it brought a lump to his throat. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

She hummed contentedly, and a minute later she was asleep again. 

Fenris closed his eyes and began to practice the same meditative breathing that he’d reminded Cullen to try. But even as he felt the muscles in his shoulders and his jaw loosening and relaxing, he continued to worry about intentions and consequences, and about himself and Hawke.

He and Hawke refused to be apart, and they had never hidden their willingness to protect each other at all cost. But for the first time, Fenris couldn’t help but worry how high that cost might be.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #hawris #f!hawris #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes #lethendralis draws #blackwall #dorian pavus #varric tethras