#alistair is reasonably tall but still has a whole head over her

[bumblewarden]

playing around with this height comparison site

my main three wardens and favorite origin companions. might do more of these in the future playing around with other characters and orders

#radka brosca #novhen tabris #pavle amell #zevran arainai #morrigan #alistair theirin #sten of the beresaad #i just enjoy the progression of ok the first three are all from races shorter than humans checks out #then you've got morrigan who is pretty close to average heighted but dwarfed as much as brosca by what is to come #alistair is reasonably tall but still has a whole head over her #amell is an entire two meters which is frankly irresponsible of whoever fed him so many veggies #and sten is on the shorter end for a giant but towers over everyone else here

[mydrug-is-dragonage]

Veda Adaar, Life after Bull

Victory. Triumph. Glory. Pride. What we usually feel when we win a battle. The quiet grief of cutting down lives, regardless of how worthy they are of death, but the warm joy, knowing we saved someone or something or everyone or everything from a grand or small evil.

Victory.  We stood on the balcony, crowded together, together again for the first time in years. Thom and Sera, Divine Victoria’s watchful eyes, Cassandra and Varric’s constant disdainful flirting, Cole and Maryden’s quiet affection, Dorian and Vivienne both wine drunk trading insults, the quiet acknowledgement of a friendship that grew against both of their wills. Josephine and Cullen arguing, treating the terrace like battlements, more performative as they both know the end is closer than the beginning. Solas, our own personal god, long-gone into the eluvian. We’re all here, we’re all together. All of us, but Bull.

Triumph. The weeks have passed, a quick and effective rebuke from the Arishok, King Alistair and Empress Celene accept it quietly, no time for war with another battle floating above us in the air. Back at Skyhold, a skeleton crew, these days just Harding and me spend our time in the battle room, staring at maps; Leliana’s other protégés are always off on missions. Sera pops by every now and then to see Dagna with bees and trinkets and little things to remind me that she’s never really gone. The best day, or the worst depending on the audience, Sera and Dagna came up to my room, giggling, presented me with a crossbow for where my arm ought to be. “Widdle’s a wizard, yeah! You’ll be on rooftops sticking it to people too big for their breeches in no time!” I thanked them, and sent them away. This is love, at least for Sera. Her love is violence and showy maneuvers, dancing with both hands and feet shaking about.

Glory. Josephine writes me letters, telling me to eat, to ask Cullen to write back. After a few months, she finally pens, “I know I am no longer your formal ambassador, but as your informal friend I find it painful to admit what has been sung in the inns and halls. Bards have taken your loss and turned it into song. Unlike what Maryden had composed, these are unfortunately mocking in nature. People have taken the final act and written it as the whole narrative, my lady. A play premiered in Val Royeux putting you at the center of the conflict, as the one who allowed it to happen. If you desire, I can put an end to this. Divine Victoria recommended assassins, but I’ve temporarily dispelled her more primal desires. Likewise, Mr. Arainai also reached out, grateful for the assistance you had given him evading the Crows. I similarly told him no. Above all, regardless of what action we take, I want you to know I am sorry. You’ve lost much, suffered more than so many of us. I’m sorry, Veda. I love you.”  It wasn’t unexpected, bards sing, playwrights write. They tell the tales people want to hear. Immortalizing betrayal has always turned them into legends.

Pride. A cold morning, one with little to be done, Charter and Rector off in Nevarra, the crows neither coming or going, Lace came into my room, “Sorry to bother you, V, we’ve got a vistor.”

“Avoidable?” I ask.

“What an impossibly rude question, darling.” I looked up from my desk and saw her horns pointing from the stairway.

“Oh, Vivienne, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I don’t stop the smile on my face. For all our differences, we’d become like sisters. On her best days, she’d fawn over me like a mother.

“That’s Grand Enchanter now, My Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lace said, excusing herself. I waited to hear the door close, then the other. Vivienne stood, graceful and stoic as ever. A few more moments of silence, then she broke into a smile. She took off her hat, placed it on the sofa, and walked towards me, arms splayed.

“Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you!” I stood up, robes draping and hiding me.

I leaned into her hug, resting my head on hers. “Grand Enchanter, really Viv?”

“One must keep appearances, darling. Besides, imagine if Bull heard you call me…” She heard it as it left her mouth. “Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. While we should have anticipated his betrayal, I know the loss must weigh on you heavily.” She nestled further into my chest. I breathed out, for a moment just Veda, not the Inquisitor, not the betrayed lover, not the important person forced upon me. I was mortal, Vashoth, tall and strong and being hugged by someone who loved me enough to allow me to be small and weak. We settled onto the couch. I pulled my legs in front of me

“You know better than anyone. I remember, I was there when you lost Bastien.”

“And I was there when you lost the Iron Bull,” she sighed. “We are sisters in grief, as well as sisters in victory. We’re sisters in success, although your’s has had its struggles as of late. I assume the Divine told you of the bards?”

“Josephine.”

“The Nightingale sending a gentler songbird. Wise.”

“I assumed it would happen. Charter brought back the lyrics and playbook from what she considered the more consumable tales,” I said.

“They’re vile, darling. I offered the services of the Circle. The Divine declined. I assumed she had sent assassins.”

“No, I turned down the offers.”

“You’re losing political capital, my dear. If you want to return to the world, recruit who you need to defeat Solas, you’ll need allies. New allies, old allies. It will require quite the force and connections. You know you have the Circle, as much as we can politically sacrifice in this turbulent time,” she said.

“It isn’t the first thing on my mind, at the moment,” I said.

“And why not darling? If you choose to remain in obscurity at some point it will no longer be a choice.”

 It’s spring, it is the last night at Skyhold before we leave for the Exalted Council. Cullen and Josephine have been up bickering most the evening, finally put to rest. I settle into my room, sitting at my desk, twiddling my pen. My bag is packed, the horses are ready. The door creaks open. I don’t look up, I can smell him from here. Even after a bath he smells like home, smoky and warm. “Hey, Kadan.”

“Hey,” I say, “they finished?”

“Well, Cullen is now arguing with Cabot which gave me enough time to get the serving girls to feed Josephine. She wanted to get back to bickering, but I asked her if the itinerary had been checked. So I think they’re fine for now.”

“They’re just worried about tomorrow, the coming weeks. It’s normal,” I say,

“You’re the one who grew up with humans. They worry too much, but it makes them easy to work with. Like clay.” I smile and look back down at my papers. “Enough work, Kadan. You can’t do anything more today.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you going to make me?” I smirk.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” I laugh. “I thought you knew it all, everything I needed, Ben-Hassrath training, remember?” He smiles and walks towards me, I slide back in my seat and he scoops me up.

In bed, his heart pumps slow and heavy in his chest. I trace his body with my hands, his arm around me. Our horns rub against each other, small grooves from the years of lying here together. “Better?” He asks.

“What do you think?”

“I know. I just want to know if you know.” I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes, better.” He smells better when he’s sweaty. Something about those early days, seeing him tear through crowds, watching his arms lift and push those heavy swords and axes. Long before, when the Chargers still existed, when he wasn’t just my man, but their man.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, you know,” I say. For a moment, he’s silent, sitting in the grief.

“You made the right choice. You made the only choice. You led like a Qunari.”

“It shouldn’t have been my choice. I should have let you decide,” I say.

“No,” He says, clipped. “You are the Inquisitor. It was your decision, to keep the alliance or lose it. You made history. You stopped a batshit insane darkspawn from destroying the world.”

“I could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

“We don’t know that. The Tamassrans used to say, ‘When there are no right choices, the right decision is the one you make and the one you live with.’” I nestle into his chest.

“I’m happy the Qunari have kept you here.”

“Me too, Kadan.”

“I love you, Bull.” He pulls me closer into him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s crying.

 “I don’t want you to be angry, Viv,” I said.

"Oh what now darling? First you go into solitude like a hermit, what’s next?” I put my legs down and pulled my robes back. “What’s this?” She looked, at first with curiosity, then her eyes widened. “Veda, oh Veda, are you?”

My eyes well, “Yeah, Viv. I am.”

She covers her mouth, the first time I’ve seen her truly shocked. “And is it…?” With that question, the tears fall. The heavy sobs wrack my chest and Vivienne crawls towards me, arms draped around my shoulders and I cry into her chest. “Oh darling, of course you’ve been distracted.” She rubs the back of my head, stroking my neck as I calm down. “Should I ask Harding for some tea? Juice? No wine, of course.” I shake my head. “Oh dear. Who all knows?”

I swallow and trap my tears in my chest. “So far you, Leliana, Thom, and Cassandra. Lace knows, and she’s kept questions from Charter and Rector to a minimum.”

“You haven’t told Josephine?”

“How could I? What could I possibly say, ‘Oh yes, enjoy your new career in Antiva! By the way, I’m carrying the betrayer’s child! Send my love to Yves and Yvette!’”

“I don’t think keeping it secret is much wiser, my dear. People will know, especially once the child is here. Do the Qunari know?” She asked.

“As far as Leliana’s sources know, no. Bull was loyal to the end, they had no reason to think he’d do this, especially when it hadn’t happened in the years before.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before we left for the Exalted Council,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I know,” I said. “He must have known. I can’t decide if this was kindness or cruelty.”

“What’s that line he always said, darling? ‘When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.’”

The tears well again. My hands slide to swollen belly. “It isn’t what I wanted. I had never even considered it. He was Qunari enough that I knew we’d never have a family.”

She reached a hand towards my belly, “May I?” I sniffed and nodded. She placed her hands on my stomach, on top of my own hands. “If this isn’t what you wanted, then it must have been what he thought you needed.”

  “He couldn’t have known we’d win. He fought like he meant it. He struck me with his blade. He wasn’t fighting to lose.” The anger and grief mixed in my throat.

“He wasn’t, he never did, darling. But he knew you. He knew us. He knew you’d bring me and Cassandra. He knew what the Qunari could and couldn’t do. He believed in you, at the end. Just as he had at the beginning, my dear.” I took a hand from my belly and moved it to the outside of my horn, the groove still there from the years spent lying together.

“I’m not planning on bringing  my child into the public life. We’ll have a few years, at least, presuming we aren’t all destroyed by Solas,” I said.

“Shh, no reason to worry about that right now, darling. We have today’s troubles and tomorrow’s troubles.” She sat back and blinked away her own tears. “I’ve never been an aunt before. I’ll of course send over a suite of clothes and supplies from Val Royeux.”

 I wipe my eyes and smile, “Are you going to be an aunt or a Grandma’am?”

"Oh you miserable louse, how dare you?” She said, the tears finally pouring from her eyes.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #adaar x bull #iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor x bull #da #dai #fanfic #dragon age adaar #bull x adaar #dragon age vivienne #madam de fer

[kauriart]

Sunshine in the Dark Chapter 4: Savor

A NSFW Dragon Age fic  |  Alistair x Bethany  | Read it on AO3

It is three weeks to the day when the darkspawn attack.

Bethany wakes in the dead of the night with a lighting bolt of awareness clanging in her brain. The sharp, discordant shapes of dangerous things moving across her mind.

Alistair is already awake, rolled up onto his hands and feet, expression stiff and hard-mouthed, confirming what she already knows — how does she know?

“Darkspawn,” he hisses.

Alistair moves with a swiftness rarely found in men of his size, and is armored and armed before she finishes fumbling with her boots. He whistles, the sound low and quiet, and the closest Wardens look up at once. He gestures hastily and they scurry off in separate directions, beginning some sort of battle formation. Then he turns back towards Bethany, snags her neatly around the collar, and starts to haul her to her feet.

He fumbles around in the pack round his waist, and comes up with a handful of something that he promptly claps over her mouth.

Whatever it is sticks unpleasantly to the roof of her mouth as she chews, but she manages to swallow, and begins to shove herself into her armor. But she’s stiff fingered with dread, and fumbles her breastplate. It drops to the stone floor like a jangled, broken bell.

Discordant.

Disastrous.

She can feel the dangerous shapes of the darkspawn that lurk in the back of her mind, rush forward towards the sudden sound, jittering with excitement. Whatever is happening, she’s just made it worse.

Alistair hisses through his teeth, fingers working at the fastenings of her armor. Strapping her in with a sort of desperate efficiency. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Bethany couldn’t agree more.

He squeezes her hand once, tight through the leather and greaves, and snags the shield still on the ground. He looks to the other Wardens, forming in three tight knots, and then back to her. Anguish and fear shivers across his face for a moment before his expression solidifies. “Stay close to me.”

“Alistair, if I die and you haven’t kissed me, I’m going to be very cross with you,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

He blinks at her, startled, then snags her round the waist with his sword arm, tugging her suddenly close, and presses his mouth to hers.

It is a little thing, as kisses go. Brief, and warm, and soft as the sunrise. And she thinks her heart might burst with happiness.

“There,” he says a little breathlessly, “but don't think you can die on me now, Bethany Hawke.”

“I love you,” she sighs, because she does.

The confession slips out easy as breathing. And it's probably a terrible thing to say when they are three heartbeats away from being beset by a darkspawn horde, and it makes Alistair look a bit like she's just gutted him.

But, well… it’s true.

And she can't be sorry about it.

About any of it.

And the magic is right against her skin, light as a soap bubble. And easy. And good. The way magic ought to  feel, like a living extension of her own body. She casts a barrier around Alistair. The air around him glitters with magic, gold-speckled motes clinging to his hair.

Alistair blinks, expression still staggered. “What?” He croaks. “You— Beth, I—”

But the rest of what he says is swallowed by the sudden rush of armored footsteps and the hiss-snarl of darkspawn voices, as a wave of the creatures comes rolling into the open space at the end of the tunnel.

What she knows of darkspawn she learned from her family's terrible, tragic flight from Kirkwall. From her brother's death. From Wesley’s death. From watching peasants and soldiers flee the advancing horde. It's what you do when the darkspawn approach — you run, or you die. And Bethany has seen people trample each other to escape the darkspawn, but she has never seen this.

The darkspawn break against the first knot of Wardens; the team under Stroud's command. She can hear the impacts of bodies as they slam against the Warden Commander's enormous shield, the rake of claws on metal and the shriek-scream of darkspawn meeting swift and vicious ends. In this the Warden's work in perfect synchronization. Hacking away with an emotionless focus that speaks only of routine. There is no fear. No triumph. Only the simple task of death-dealing. Only Wardens at their duty.

Bethany has no such experience. Panic, rage, and elation bounce around inside her — for no matter her fear, she feels a savage joy at each darkspawn the Wardens fell.

One less darkspawn. One less terror stalking the night. One less. One less. One less.

With each darkspawn that falls, perhaps there is a sister somewhere who gets to keep her brother.

And then the darkspawn flood the clearing, and there is no time for distraction. Each cluster of Wardens is drawn into battle. Bethany’s group loops her into the center of their formation, keeping her from direct conflict with the darkspawn.

She focuses on defensive spellwork — maintaining this many barriers across an ever-shifting battlefield is difficult enough, and to her the darkspawn seem like and endless writhing mass.

The battle ebbs and flows as the Wardens gain, and lose ground in turns. They’re holding overall, Bethany thinks, slowly pushing the darkspawn to the edge of the clearing. Slowing tearing their way through the mass of them. But it is brutal, wearying work.

In front of her, Alistair slips a bit and swears breathlessly as he regains his footing. The ground beneath them is becoming precarious. Slick and uneven, littered with the remains of fallen darkspawn, and pieces of rotting armor and weaponry.

Stroud is like a beacon for his Wardens, bellowing clipped orders across the battlefield, the formations shift and reform at his command. They press forward in a brutal attack that leaves a trail of dead darkspawn behind them.

Then all around the clearing the Wardens sort of freeze up all at once. A half-second hesitation that rolls across them all like a wave, like a stutter in time. And then Bethany feels it — huge and hulkling and more menacing than anything she's ever felt. As if dread was given physical from, and set loose upon the world, and—

Oh god oh god—

—it comes barreling out of the darkness, scything through the Warden formations, sending everyone scattering.

Bethany freezes, horrified.

An Ogre.

Just like the one that killed Carver. Tall as a building, and hulkling with muscle and a huge rack of twisted horns. It has something rotting caught in the crest of its armor, and it smells like horror and death and behind it Lothering burns, and people are screaming in the distance, and her mother's cries are shrill and terrified, and she has her fingers in her fucking hair doesn’t she? — didn't she?

And Carver steps between her and certain death.

Only it’s— The man before her has nearly three inches on her brother, hair sparking copper in the dim torchlight. Broad-shouldered. Stalwart. Shield in hand.

Alistair.

And she will be damned if she stands by while someone she loves is taken from her again.

All at once her magic rises up inside her, against the flimsy dam of her control, and bursts out in a flare of blue-violet light.

The ogre's head swivels in their direction.

Alistair turns, eyes bright with fear. “Bethany! Don’t—!”

But she has her brothers’ frenzied courage after all, and for the first time in the whole of her life, she need not worry about restraint.

She charges the creature, the light from her staff flaring with blue-fingers of electricity. Waves of magic buffet off of her, pushing Alistair out of the way as though caught up in her current.

A boom-flash of energy lights up the space, casting terrifying, distorted shadows against the walls. The full force of the spell catches the ogre square in the middle, but the creature hardly even breaks stride.

The ogre is quicker than it looks. It grabs her, fist clenched tight around her middle, fingers thick as belt buckles, and lifts her bodily off her feet.

Just. Like. Carver.

And something inside Bethany cracks wide open.

There was a reason the Gallows still whispered of Malcolm Hawke. It wasn’t because he escaped. It wasn’t because he turned a Templar from the Order. It wasn’t because he married the Amell heir. It was because he was terrifying.

Some bloodlines run too close to the fade.

Magic has always been at the bottom of every breath Bethany has ever taken. It’s why she always had to fight so hard not to let it show.

Flame and frost are easy enough. So is lightning. But it's force that comes most naturally to her. Raw power that wastes no effort on elemental vanity. Just will and fury and nothing more.

The ogre raises her to its mouth, teeth like blunted axes strung with black saliva, and below, Alistair is just unhinged, screaming, hacking away at one of the ogre's legs. She can feel the small spawn ricocheting into him, through the barrier she cast. He shrugs them away with his shield, panic lending him a terrible sort of strength. And for a moment the world just stills, going slow and strange and quiet, and she can see it all — the desperate tears on Alistair's cheeks, and the way Stroud has shouted himself hoarse, how Runsk is down to a single axe, and Briggs is on one knee in a puddle of red — and the ogre's massive teeth part in slow motion to bite her in two, breath gusting against her, hot and foul and furious.

The ribbon in her hair breaks, dark curls fluttering away from her face.

And then she shoves — all the promise of her bloodline, all her terror, and rage, and grief, and guilt, and a lifetime of swallowed spells — she shoves it all, as hard as she can into the soft palate of the creature's mouth.

Fist of the fucking Maker.

And the ogre’s head explodes.

And just — Ew.

(Later, she will remember to thank Andraste that she’d had her mouth closed when it happened.)

The sound is worse than anything, like a burst melon, half-hollow, half-squish. It’s spine shudderingly awful enough that it cuts through most of the rage still thundering through her. Especially when the beast begins to collapse in slow motion, still clutching her. She ought to have thought this through a bit better, because now she’s probably going to be crushed to death by its headless corpse, which is just… really unfair.

But she still has a barrier around herself, weak, shaky thing, so she doesn't snap her spine when she hits the ground, but her elbow still bends in a direction it definitely wasn’t meant to go. The pain of it is so lancing that her lungs seize up and she hardly makes a sound. Just a soft little ah, as agony bursts into her like a lightning bolt.

She can feel the startled panic that spreads through the horde, fast as fire. Robbed of their leader the rest of the darkspawn scatter like fish in a pond. One bolts directly towards her, but before she can even think to wrench herself out of the way, a sword punches clean through its chest. Alistair is behind the creature, eyes still bright with a berserk fury. He splits the thing in two, sword wrenching horribly from its sternum up through the top of its head.

“Nnh! Beh—” For a few heartbeats Alastair can barely speak, jaw clenched as tight as a fist. He is trembling. Black blood all down one side of his face. Then he drops his shield with a clang and pulls her against him, hanging on as though his legs can barely support him. “Beth… Maker… I thought—” He presses his forehead against hers. “You were screaming the whole time. Screaming. Screaming. I thought… I t-thought— ” His voice breaks on a sob.

Her arm goes up around him, fingers on the side of his neck where she can feel his sweat and his skin, and his heart tripping over itself with terrified relief.

“Alistair…”

“Don’t ever do that again Beth, please? I—” His voice is suddenly muffled as he presses his face against the curve of her neck. “Just don't. Don't.”

“Oh,” she breathes, as her magic rises up with a sigh, covering him, touching him everywhere her fingers can't. And though she’ll never be even half the healer Anders is, she can feel her magic spilling out of her, buoyed by Alistair's love — Love. How extraordinary —  and she knows he loves her, as certain as his freckles and his kind smile. It isn't possible to have secrets when his skin is all lit up with her magic, and she can feel every beat of his heart, every breath, every shifting emotion.

And she thinks he's loved her all along, from their first hello, and has been trying so hard not to let it show.

And all she can feel is the joy of it.

The pain in her elbow and her ribs dissolves in a warm green rush.

She can feel the other Wardens at the edges of her consciousness, prickly in all they places they've been hurt. But her magic flows like water across the clearing, touching them. Mending where she can, easing where she cannot.

But Alistair doesn’t even notice, he holds her face in his hands, brushing sweat and blood and damp black curls away from her eyes. “Are you alright, Beth? Truly?”

She nods.

He leans against her with a sigh of relief so profound for a moment she thinks she'll buckle under the weight of him. But he tucks an arm beneath her to keep them both upright, and holds her against him.

She drops her head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted.

The rest of the Wardens look as tired as Bethany feels. Even Stroud seems unsteady. He has a solid streak of blood from his eyebrows to his collarbones.

“Well Hawke.” Stroud says, and wipes at himself with the back of his hand. “From where I'm standing, it looks like that brother of yours rather undersold your abilities." He takes in the ogre's corpse impassively, and the rest of his Wardens, battered and bruised, but whole. "Warden mages," he mutters to himself, "rare as dragon bone, and twice as valuable.”  

***

They leave the battlefield as quickly as they can and walk for a while. Alistair keeps his arm at her waist and she leans against him a bit, until they’ve staggered far enough away that Stroud signals for them to rest. Alistair starts shoveling food into her almost as soon as she sits down. She isn’t hungry, but she manages to eat a little, though she thinks she keeps falling asleep between bites.

Stroud moves through the battered group of Wardens pressing a hand to each one, ensuring for himself that everyone is safe and whole. Alistair lingers at her side, uncharacteristically quiet.

The thing about being so low on mana, Bethany finds, is that it cuts through some of the worst effects of the joining. Presumably she can still sense Darkspawn — and annoy Orlesians — but for the first time in weeks she isn't ravenously hungry, or crawling out of her own skin with lust. And it's… nice, she finds, just being her. She never wanted to be her, not really, not entirely. A her without magic, yes, all normal and neat and of no danger to her family.

But now the magic feels settled onto her bones in a way it never did before, and she’s just…

... content.

It feels easy now, and it never did. And she wonders what it is that shifted inside her.

“You need to eat more,” Alistair mumbles to Bethany, but he doesn’t move, sitting close, long legs neatly tucked against her.

“I’m all right,” she assures him, voice quiet. “I promise.”

Alistair closes his eyes.

They don’t stop for long. Stroud calls for them to march, pressing deeper into a city that winds on and on and on. They pass by an orchard, filled with rows of squat trees, branches heavy with fruit. Alistair props them up against one of the trunks, before he turns towards her, head against her shoulder, and falls promptly asleep.

The eyelashes resting against his cheek are dark and surprisingly long. She doesn't know how she hadn't noticed before.

Alistair isn't the only Warden to succumb to exhaustion. Most of them are piled in companionable heaps throughout the orchard, dozing. Lip is snoring loudly enough that he nearly drowns out Briggs and Runsk bickering about how much of a finger Briggs had to lose before he can rightfully claim it was bitten off by a darkspawn.

"More than that," Runsk insists. "You've still got most of the nail. I once saw a Warden lose an entire hand. That's a nibble, that is. That's an insult. You must taste like proper shite, my friend."

And Bethany laughs. Feeling lightheaded and lighthearted. Giddy with victory, and suddenly brimful of affection for them all, this little blue-coated family.

Halfway across the orchard, Stroud meets her eyes, taking in Alistair slumbering at her side, and the way his fingers are tangled with hers — Alistair has barely broken contact with her since the battle ended.

Stroud gives her a thoughtful look, and an approving nod. The droop of his mustache makes it hard to see if he's smiling; but she thinks he is.

***

When they stop for a third time, they are miles away from the battlefield, and tuck themselves into a low-ceilinged cavern a little ways away from the road. There's a spring there, with a series of little pools, the water, deep and dark and steaming.

Alistair steers Bethany towards one of the pools in the back, with a group of squat, sparse bushes that offer little in the way of privacy. But she finds she doesn't mind. The effects of the joining are dampened — the hunger nearly gone, and the desire is there, mellow and warm, but not demanding — but her connection to the other Wardens remains sharp as ever. Little bursts of bright awareness in the dark, like stars strung all over the night sky.

Bethany runs a hand up the side of her breastplate, where the ogre's claws raked shallow lines into the silverite. "I suppose I'm a proper Warden now,” she muses.

Alistair eyes the marks with a clenched jaw, and doesn’t reply. But he helps her with the buckles of her armor, setting each piece carefully beside the water’s edge, though his own he simply chucks into a pile at his feet.

He pulls off her gloves, one by one, skimming his fingertips up the inside of her exposed wrist. “I can’t stop shaking,” he says, finally, and starts to fumble with the row of clasps at the front of his blue surcoat.

Her hands are shaking too, from mana depletion, as much as the aftermath of adrenaline, and when she tries to work open the fastenings on her own coat, she can’t manage them. A tiny line appears between Alistair's brows when he reaches to help her.

Her coat is heavily stained, more black now than blue. Alistair's hands tremble as he works each of the buttons on her coat open, before helping her out of it. She’s still entirely decent, clad in tunic and breeches and boots, but Alistair seems unsteadier, breath all frayed at the edges. His thumb drags across the length of her collarbone.

“You don’t mind anymore... touching me?”

“Mind?” He stares at her for a moment, expression tender. “Maker’s breath, love.” A crease appears between his brows, and for a moment she’s afraid he’ll pull back, but he reaches up to cup her cheek, thumb just beside her mouth. “I don’t think I can bear not to anymore.”

She tucks her head, and kisses his palm, brief and chaste and Alistair shivers. Then she reaches, and very deliberately untucks his tunic from his breeches.

Alistair takes a ragged breath.

She slides her fingers beneath the hem, finding warm skin that breaks out in goosebumps at her touch. Her fingers twist, catching at the fabric, tugging it off him as he raises his arms up, bending down a little so she can pull his shirt off entirely. She drops it at their feet.

The style of her tunic is a little different. There’s a tie along the neckline, done up into a long-eared bow. His hands shake a little as he reaches, pulling carefully until the knot comes undone. The front of her tunic gapes a little.

“Your ears are very red,” Bethany observes.

“Yes,” he agrees unselfconsciously, and tugs her tunic out of her breeches and over her head in one easy motion.

The air is cool against her bare skin.

Alistair tips his forehead against Bethany's and lets his breath out in a tiny sigh.

She has an enormous bruise across her middle, where the Ogre had gripped her. Magic can heal the hurts, but it can’t always erase all the damage once it’s made; not from a healer of her caliber anyway. Alistair bears his own marks from the battle; a set of bruises on his shield arm, and another on his shoulder, nearly star shaped, earned in the last minutes of fighting.

But they are gentle with each other. And slow. As if this is something to be savored. As if they have all the time in the world as they undress one another — barely touching each other with the tips of their fingers. Undoing belts, and buckles with a careful reverence.

There is no graceful way to help each other out of their breeches and boots, but they manage well enough. Though the blush creeps steadily down the side of Alistair's neck and halfway across his chest. The hard length of his cock stands out from his body.

“The quiet doesn’t keep,” Bethany says. The corner of her mouth crooks up.

“I know," he gives her a wry smile and one last, heated look, and leads her into the pool.

The water is blissfully warm. Bethany makes a sound of deep gratification that definitely makes Alistair’s ears go pinker. He dunks himself entirely, and comes up again with a gasp of breath, shaking the water from his eyes.

He helps her wash her hair first thing. Fingers combing gently through the strands. Even wet it still retains a loose and lanky wave.

"You've the loveliest hair," he husks, winding a damp curl around his finger. His voice is low and reverent, with a hushed sort of devotion. “The loveliest everything, really."

She tucks her cheek against his palm.

"I… Beth,” Alistair looks at her through the fringe of his wet bangs.

And he's no mage but he just makes time stop—

Oh Maker, he’s so beautiful.

— the world going still and quiet beneath his soft brown gaze. And maybe they stand there forever, lost in each other and the beauty of the pools. She wouldn’t mind at all, spending her life just looking at him. His hair wet and dark against his neck, rivulets of water running down the wide span of his shoulders. The way the muscles of his chest move as each breath grows more and more ragged.

“Oh bugger,” he mutters, and reaches for her.

His hand finds her hip beneath the water, and tugs her closer. Close enough that her breasts brush against his chest. She can hear the tiny catch of his breath and her mind all but blanks, overwhelmed by his sudden nearness as much as his nakedness.

“Alistair...”

He tilts her chin gently upwards, voice all husk. “Bethany…”

She raises up on her toes, and he bends his head, and they meet in the middle with a kiss that is more like a promise kept than one broken.

“What about the rules?” She whispers against his mouth.

He kisses her for another solid minute before pulling back with a groan. “I can't— Maker take the rules, Beth, I want—” The rest of what he says is muffled against her lips as he leans in to kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

His knee slides between her thighs, pulling her against him until there is not even an inch of space between them. Not a hairsbreadth.

“If you don't— I won't— Beth... Beth tell me— If— I'll stop, I'll never— Please…” He pauses kissing her only long enough to drag his mouth alongside her neck, pleading breathlessly against her skin.

She grabs his head, angling his mouth back to hers. But there was a question in there, desperate and inarticulate and a little panicky, and the last thing she wants is for him to regret this tomorrow.

Or ever.

“I don’t want you to stop," she breathes.

He makes a groan that fractures in two, and reaches a hand down between them. For a moment she expects to feel the familiar touch of his fingers, but instead it’s the hot, blunt tip of his cock that he presses up against her.

“You— you’re sure?” He asks. The plea in his voice is obvious, and the tears stand out brightly in his eyes.

“Yes,” she wraps her arms around him, nodding, trying to shift herself against him, trying to make him understand. “Yes Alistair, please.”

He shudders, and presses forward.

But she’s near weightless in the water, and all he ends up doing is pushing her away from him in slow-motion.

Alistair swears, and gives an awkward sort of chuckle, and Bethany feels a fizz of laughter rise through her, because everything about her life is ridiculous.

And wonderful.

For the first time, it’s wonderful.

Bethany kisses him again, delighted.

He hooks his hand beneath her knees, and lifts her, wrapping her legs carefully around his waist. He carries her to the back of the pond, where the rock rises dark and slippery with bioluminescent algae. She can feel the hard stone at her back, and Alistair’s heat pressed all along her front — hard there too where his cock juts against her belly.

Alistair breaks the kiss, and grins. "Shall we try that again?"

“I love you,” she breathes.

“You— what?” He’s looking at her exactly as he did the first time she'd said those words to him, shocked, and startled, his heart cracked wide open with longing. “I… I thought I'd just imagined… Beth, I—” He shakes his head, dropping suddenly speechless.

“I love you,” she says again, watching as the world roll over him with that same tremulous, tender joy. A man who has been given something he desperately wants, but doesn’t believe could ever belong to him.

 “I can’t — Beth, I’m not supposed to — but Maker you must know by now… how I feel.” He brushes a damp curl behind her ear. “Even if… if you…” He shakes his head, not able to say it.

But Bethany slips her hands around the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I can’t feel it now. The joining. I haven’t felt it since the battle. None of this is going away, Alistair. Not for me. Not ever.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just presses his mouth against hers, edged with a sweet sort of desperation.

She can feel his hand between their bodies as he notches them together, and the sudden surge of his hips. A stretch. A slide. And he's inside her.

Alistair makes a broken sound, half rasp and half husk. And she makes one to match.

He's perfectly still for a moment, trembling, breathing harder than he had at the end of the battle. Dragging air into his lungs as though he'll drown if he doesn't.

She presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, and he makes another noise like she's gutted him.

They're still for long moments. Touching. Tasting — though Bethany still can’t taste. Content to be connected. Wrapped up in each other, and the quiet intensity of it all.

Then Alistair buries his hands in her hair and slides himself out, slowly, slowly, slowly, before pressing back in. Presses his mouth against her, and she can’t tell if the wet on his cheeks is water, or tears, or sweat, or a little of all three.

She tries to tell him she loves him again, but the words tangle into sighs, into broken bits of sound with no clear meaning. So she hangs on, riding him. Ruined by him. The brutal tenderness overwhelming everything.

Her breath catches on a sob.

Alistair's hips surge through the water, steady and certain. And for all the nights she's spent wrapped up in her own desire, imagining this very encounter, this — now — is a hundred, thousand times better. She can feel him under her hands, shivering, shaking; hear the catch of his breath, and the whispered praise that tumbles from his lips.

She hangs onto him. Soaring. Drowning.

Alive.

And while the desire isn't rending her apart as it had the first time he'd touched her, it still floods her senses. A solid coil of heat in her belly that makes her skin feel tight and hot. And maybe it's the warmth of the water making her dizzy and overwrought and—

“Maker, Beth,” Alistair husks.

Her eyes flutter open, and she swallows back the low keening sound she'd been making.

Maker, if she looks at Alistair now….

He tips her chin up. “Look at me, Beth.” He husks, panting. “I want to see your face when you come. I’ve never seen… Please, love, please.”

She does.

He keeps his eyes on her as she falls apart. Greedy for the sight of her. Her orgasm is different than before, low and fierce as thunder. His, is only a heartbeat behind.

He nearly shouts her name as he comes. And staggers, nearly tipping them both into the water. Bethany hangs on through the aftermath, Alistair’s breath harsh against her cheek and little bursts of starlight behind her eyelids. He braces both hands against the stone behind them.

"That—" Alistair gasps, “that—”

Bethany smiles against his skin. “Maker be praised,” she suggests.

“Oh, absolutely,” he chuckles breathlessly, and kisses her.

*

4/5 …… Read it from the beginning

#Dragon Age #alistair theirin #bethany hawke #alistair x bethany hawke #bethistair #my fic #endless eyebrow waggles #This is now officially a five chapter fic #just fyi

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 86

Hey everyone! Hope you’re all keeping safe and healthy, as much as you can.

This week, I decided to let everyone see how exactly Sophia and Arthur interact.  You know, since they are theoretically friends from Before and all that (they really, really are friends, I swear).  Thank you to @baelpenrose for helping me with this chapter, which you did immensely.

After a decadently scathing review of an ancient fairy tale and some quick thinking to keep Nixe from lighting the book on fire out of principle, I found myself actually regretting that I needed to return to work. This time escorted by Alistair, who was ostensibly returning anyway from a meeting with the current Head Archivist, we set a brisk pace while quietly discussing my schedule for the next week.  By the time we arrived back at our shared office, my head was spinning with the thought of all the Council meetings I had in my future.

Having worked up an appetite and refusing to make important decisions on an empty stomach, I queued up two bowls of etouffee, along with a heaping plate of cornbread and butter. While my assistant provided more and more details around each of my peers’ agendas in regards to testing various ecological building methods - how could there be agendas behind something like that - the door hissed open and a familiar brunette man strolled to my rescue.

Before I could even greet him, Arthur sat down and snagged my yet-untouched meal. "I gave Charly a treat. No reason. But she seemed very enamored of the glittery pens." Unfazed by my attempts to recover my food, he took a bite before giving the bowl a critical look. “This is really good, Sophie. You should try some.”

Scowling, I stepped back over to the food console. “Why did you give her a treat?”

He paused to swallow another mouthful of my lunch. "Phenomenal self control in the face of rage"

"You heard?" I winced before returning to the table with my second attempt to eat.

"Who didn’t? And I'm not saying I condone violence, but her aim was superb, I must say."

"Arthur, she bit him." 

"Very clever use of weapons at hand, I agree." Still nonchalant, he slathered butter on a slice of cornbread.

“That’s real butter - “ I tried to warn.

He just waved me off with a spoon. “No whey, I already tested it. Besides, Miys was able to do something about that, just to make my life easier.”

Shaking my head, I finally got to try some of my food. "You gave her caffeine, didn't you?" I asked hesitantly, returning to the topic of Charly.

"I will neither confirm nor deny" 

"That's a yes." 

"You can't prove that."

"Is it... is it on the pens? Is that a thing?" 

"Pffft,” he scoffed. “How lazy.”  I stared at him intently until he rolled his eyes and groaned. “The ink in the pens disappears after an hour, glitter and all. She'll love them."

I couldn’t really argue with that, so instead I shifted topics slightly. “So. The guys mentioned asking you to be part of my escort detail?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t make it today, but I moved some stuff around.  Should be good to go.”

Something fell into place in my mind. “Wait. Did you send Nixe?”

“Is that her name? The mermaid?” I nodded, so he continued. “I mean, yeah.”

I sputtered, fortunate I didn’t have food in my mouth. “You don’t even know her name and you sent her to fill in?”

“Well, I know it now.” When I didn’t let the glare stop, he set his ill-gotten spoon down firmly. “Sophia. Sophie. That woman is almost as tall as one of your boyfriends, taller than the other, and has endurance enough to probably win a fight while holding her breath.  She has an enormous soft-spot for kind people - which you are - and every inch of her screams don’t fuck with me.”

“Because people think she’s crazy,” I scowled in accusation.  “She’s actually really sweet.”

“Well, that too. She’s also strong as fuck, and truly believes she is an exiled queen of a race of warriors to boot.  I’m willing to bet, if she punched that wannabe warlord? She’d put her fist through him.” He picked up his spoon and smiled. “So, yeah.  I asked her to walk you to the archive. She wanted to head down anyway, so….” He shrugged before finishing off the etouffee. “Besides, she was also the person I figured was least likely to need to resort to violence.”

That got a smirk out of me. "Since when don't you condone violence, oh peaceful reformed warlord?"

"Stop putting your words in my mouth, Sophie. I absolutely condone justified violence."

"Excuse me? Weren't you just praising Charly for -"

"I also said justified violence, to be fair."

Before I could have an aneurysm, Alistair stepped in. "Mr. Farro, sir, Councillor Kalloe asked me to pass on this declination of access to your personal sword?"

“You asked for your sword back? Arthur…”

He scowled at my assistant, shaking his head before muttering. “You absolutely did that on purpose, you traitorous, limey dick.”

“Arthur!”

“You should not have been such a cad to have stolen Miss Sophia’s lunch,” Alistair sniffed, unimpressed.

All I could do was rub my temples and focus on deep breaths. They don’t actually hate each other, I reminded myself firmly. “Arthur. Sword. Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t have to explain the anatomy behind why it’s a lot harder to intimidate someone when you’re… oh, about a head shorter?”

“Arthur….” I was feeling like a broken record, especially when he smirked at me and I realized he was probably counting how many different inflections I could use on that.

“Besides, it’s time someone showed that Game of Thrones, Mad Max reject what a real warlord can do,” he added airily, staring at the ceiling.

I choked on my last bite of cornbread, pounding the table and gasping for air before I could respond. “Wait, you mean to tell me your professionalism is offended? Are you serious!?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” He didn’t even bother looking down at me. “I earned the title, protecting my students, and he’s just some bullying, conspiracy-peddling amateur who wouldn’t even rate a decent Fallout villain.” Finally, he glanced back at me. “Besides, if he’s the guy he thinks he is, he’ll understand that threatening another leader’s people is met with violence.”

“Oh, another leader now?” I asked skeptically.

“Oh hell no. Not me.” He shook his head violently before gesturing with his spoon again. “You. Xiomara. Grey. Your people.”

“You know I don’t believe violence is the answer,” I said softly.

“I know. But right now, it’s the question. The answer may end up being yes, no matter how much you don’t want it to be.” He gave me a meaningful look before his expression hardened. “If it comes to that, and I think you, or Charly, or anyone else I care about is in danger? That Viking-wannabe is going to find himself on the wrong side of the airlock.  You won’t have to make the hard decision, fight all that empathy you have floating around in there.” He tapped his temple. “I’ll make the call, me and Xiomara.” Like a switch flipping, his features relaxed again. “I just need her to give me back my damned sword.”

Alistair cleared his throat politely, arching an eyebrow at the man across from me. “Dare I even ask why you have a sword?”

Arthur pointed at himself and enunciated slowly. “War. Lord.”

Nonplussed, my assistant waved the response away. “Yes, yes, I understand all that. You’ve certainly said it frequently enough. How did you come by it, I mean? You are both from the Colonies, after all.”

I snickered at the back-handed insult, waiting for Arthur to clarify.  To be honest, I was mildly curious about it, myself, but was certain enough that I didn’t want to know the answer that I had never asked.

Arthur straightened himself, and in the worst faux-Italian accent, explained “My sword has been serving the warrior sons of the Farro family since the days of the Medici.” Dropping the accent, he clarified. “I was a history teacher, Before. I used to show the sword to some of my classes, and even took a few lessons in the style the sword was used in.  Then, when the End happened… it saw battle again.” He paused for a moment before scowling. “Which is why it better not be rusted when I get it back. It’s a five-hundred year old weapon.”

“Is that how the two of you know each other?” Alistair continued, pretending to be entirely unimpressed by the provenance of an antique sword - I wasn’t fooled, he was an archivist.

Arthur, however, looked completely baffled. “The sword? No? What in the -”

“Teaching….” Alistair clarified wearily.

I snorted hard enough that my sinuses burned. “Oh gods no. I don’t think we ever even lived in the same state. And I only taught for…. Two years? A year and a half? Not counting the whole - “ I waved a hand around my head vaguely “-Interpersonal communication fiasco. And he was still in high school at the time, I think.” I glanced over, but Arthur just shrugged.  “Anyway, we actually met in an online group, almost a decade after I quit teaching, one dedicated to writing.” Pausing, I glanced around at my office. “I don’t think we ever imagined anything like this, though.”

“When did you first meet in person?” Alistair asked, still curious.

I felt my face flush scarlet, while Arthur just tipped his head back and roared with laughter. After several minutes, he managed to get himself under control enough to point an accusing finger at me. “We met, face to face, the day she marched her self-righteous ass into my office and railed at me over Charly Harper’s grades.  I’ve been chewed out by every form of indignant parent ever, but that was a new one on me. She was about to pick a fight with me on behalf of every student ever taught by anyone.  And Xiomara was standing there, just letting her!”

“I’m not sure she knew who she was supposed to restrain,” I clarified.  “Even once we calmed down, it probably took a good fifteen minutes to realize who we were looking at.”

“Wait, so you met in person on the Ark?” Alistair sputtered in disbelief. “Mr. Farro, I have heard you, on more than one occasion, refer to Miss Sophia as being like a sister to you, yet you only met less than a year ago?”

It was my turn to scoff. “In person, maybe. But we met over twenty years ago, and two lifetimes away.”

Arthur nodded. “Italian families work differently than British ones. Even those who moved to ‘the colonies’,” he deadpanned. “And I’m sure everyone on the Ark and probably on Earth is aware of her annoying ass tendency to adopt strays.”

“Yeah, hokay, stray number one,” I mocked gently.

He just made a ticking gesture at me. “Thus, our initial clash. There was a miscommunication that affected a member of her ‘family’, and she was shooting to verbally kill at a hundred paces.” Clucking at me, he admonished, “Tyche was much more threatening, just for reference.”

“Carrying seven knives will do that.”

“Ten, actually, six for throwing.”

I shrugged nonchalantly as Alistair’s eyes tried valiantly to escape his head. “She’s not going to give up a ranged advantage.”

“Tell me the truth, is she actually any good with those?” Arthur asked, leaning in.

“They were actually for me.”

“They’re kind of an impractical weapon, but I wouldn’t put it past the Reid sisters to get good with them.”

Alistair, on the other hand, was still sputtering. “Miss Reid,” he scolded. “You mean to tell me you can throw knives?!”

“I can also kill a squirrel at thirty feet with a sling and a stone,” I shrugged. “Girl’s gotta eat.”

My assistant looked queasy, Arthur just looked mildly impressed. “Why was Tyche carrying them, if they were for you?”

“Because I was angry enough to do something stupid,” I admitted. “It was more so I wouldn’t use them.”

“So… on the off chance I need to know what your phenomenal sister will use in the event she is the angry one, what should I be watching for?” He leaned forward on his folded hands like an eager student.

All I could do was scrunch my face in confusion. “Pain? Blood? Think what Charly did to Jokull, plus rabies, no sense of self preservation, and absolutely no concept of ‘fair’. I mean, she can throw, for sure, but she isn’t above just becoming full-on possessed if she feels the need to attack.”

“Did she really almost beat herself unconscious on a bulkhead?”

“Yep.” I popped the ‘p’. “Although, that person almost killed me, so it’s probably better they got the sentence they did than ten minutes with my sister.”

Arthur nodded in understanding. “Probably more merciful, yeah.”

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#the miys #found family #humans are weird #food #backstory #aliens #scifi #original scifi #original fiction #my writing

[pikapeppa]

Sten/f!Mahariel: Fall Into The Tide, Chapter 2

In which Yara Mahariel is like “CREATORS I’M ON A BOAT” and Sten has all the chill. 

~4300 words; read on AO3 instead.

*******************

Yara hovered in the doorway of the guest cabin. It was a small cabin, just barely tall enough for Sten to stand up straight. The furnishings were sparse: a cedar chest for storage and a plain wooden stool, an equally plain tiny wooden table, and a bed. 

Just the one solitary bed. 

Yara eyed the bed with a nervous sort of writhing in her belly. It was a double bed: a reasonable enough size for a qunari of Sten’s breadth and height, though it probably wouldn’t be comfortable to share. 

Not that we’ll be sharing it, she thought hastily. There was no reason to share the bed, after all; it occupied most of the space in the cabin, but there was enough room on the floor to lay out a bedroll. 

“It is small, but we’ll make do,” Sten said from behind her.

She tore her eyes away from the bed and shifted aside so he could enter the cabin. “Of course,” she said. “It’s, um. At least it’s dry. Having a roof overhead will make for a nice change.” 

He nodded. He was critically inspecting the bed. “We will take turns sleeping in the bed,” he said. “I will sleep on the floor every other night.”

“What?” Yara said in surprise. “No, that’s not – you paid for the cabin, you should sleep in the bed! I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

He shook his head and continued to inspect the mattress. “We will take turns,” he repeated.

Yara tilted her head chidingly, but she didn’t bother arguing with him further. His offer wasn’t motivated by chivalry, she knew, but rather by his sense of what was equal and fair, and trying to argue with him would probably just turn into a discussion of the societal detriment of money as a means of exchanging goods and services. And as much as Yara would usually be game to engage Sten in such a discussion, she was feeling too nervous about their imminent departure to push it.

She shrugged and smiled. “All right, if you insist. I’ll sleep in the bed half the time. I’m not going to argue with you if it’s to my benefit.” 

“It may not be to your benefit if the mattress has bedbugs,” Sten said.

Yara took an involuntary step back. “Does it?” 

He glanced at her, and she relaxed and smiled. “Very funny, Sten.” 

His expression softened, and he turned away from the bed and nodded at the door. “Come. It’s best to start the journey above deck.” 

She followed him out of the cabin. The ship was a smaller craft, manned by about forty women and men from Rivain, and the deck was a bustle of activity as the barefoot sailors pulled on ropes and loosened the sails and prepared themselves to set out. Sten led her toward the left-hand side of the boat – or the port side, as she’d heard one sailor say – and they gazed quietly at the Denerim dockside as the sailors prepared to cast off. 

The docks were still bustling: merchants hawking wares and children playing and residents helping to tidy the debris. Yara watched it all for a moment, then looked up at Sten. “Have you been on many journeys on the sea?”

“Yes,” he said. “Primarily short journeys from Seheron to Par Vollen and back, but also to Tevinter. The journey to this country was the longest I have taken.” 

She nodded, then paused as she realized something. “That reminds me,” she said. “I forgot to ask how long this trip is.”

He gave her an odd look before replying. “It is a three-week journey with swift winds. Maybe longer if the weather is foul.”

She nodded, then raised an eyebrow at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You are unprepared for this journey,” he said.

She let out a little laugh and idly ruffled her hair. “I… yes, you’re right. I really didn’t think about this much.”

His frown deepened. “It is unlike you to act with so little preparation.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “I know, I know, you thought I was overpreparing to meet the Archdemon. But it turned out for the best in the end, right? The dwarves in particular really came in handy against those ogres.”

Sten grunted noncommittally. “You should be prepared for what is to come. This is a small vessel. You will likely become seasick.” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a small sachet that smelled of mint, then handed it to her. “Chew on this if you feel ill, and stand at the bow.” He pointed toward the front of the boat. “Keep an eye on the horizon. It will help your mind and body align, easing the illness that you will feel.”

She smiled up at him. “Are these qunari tips and tricks you’re sharing?”

He gave her a flat look. “This is common knowledge, kadan. It is in your interest to heed it.” 

She chuckled and carefully tucked the mint into her vest pocket. “I hear you loud and clear. Anything else you think I should know before we set out?”

Sten showed her the basic common areas of the ship, and Yara politely introduced herself to the captain and his officers. Upon discovering that she was not only a Grey Warden, but the Grey Warden who had landed the killing blow on the Archdemon, the sailors immediately began peppering her with questions about the Blight and being a Warden and what it was like to face the ancient tainted dragon. Yara tried to hide her weariness as she answered their questions – as much as she could answer their questions, at least, considering that all she knew of the Wardens was what little Alistair, Duncan, and Riordan had been able to tell her. She eventually managed to deflect the sailors’ questions by asking them questions in turn about their jobs, probing them about the places they had travelled and their lives on the sea, and when the topic of conversation turned away from her, she began to feel more at ease. 

Eventually the captain barked at the crew to take their positions and weigh anchor. As they drifted away from her to resume their posts, Yara let out a breath and looked up at Sten, who had been standing silently at her back throughout the conversation. 

He raised his eyebrows, and she smiled and gestured at the port taffrail. He nodded in return, and they drifted over to watch the Denerim docks as the ship began to move. 

The movement was slow and gradual at first as the ship slid out of its narrow berth. They swiftly picked up speed as they left the port, however, and by the time Yara realized how quickly this was all happening – how quickly she was being carried away from dry land, away from the only country she had ever known – Denerim was disappearing into the distance, disappearing with greater speed until she could no longer make out the individual people on the dock. 

She released a slow breath, then inhaled deeply and ran her slightly trembling hands through her hair. The wind smelled fresh and salty, and the ship was sliding smoothly through the deep turquoise depths of the Amaranthine Ocean, and…

Creators, she was on the ocean. She, Yara Mahariel, a Dalish elf who’d been conscripted to become a Grey Warden, was sailing across the Amaranthine Ocean to Par Vollen with her qunari friend. If she hadn’t lived through all the crazy events of this past year, it would seem utterly and entirely mad. 

Fen’ain romped up to her and barked, and she smiled and scratched the big mabari behind his ears. Then Sten spoke to her. “You look pale. Chew the mint if you are nauseated.” 

She glanced at him in surprise, then shook her head. “No, I – I feel fine. I actually… I was just thinking that the air smells good out here. Different.”

He nodded. “The smell of the sea. It is a comfort. Or it would be, if other smells weren’t so pungent.” He shot Fen’ain a pointed look.

Fen’ain cocked his head, and Yara smiled more widely. “You can give him a bath anytime, Sten,” she said playfully. 

“Perhaps I should,” Sten said.

Fen’ain tucked his tail between his legs and whined, and Sten frowned at him. “Cowardice does not suit you,” he said sternly. “Fortunately for you, water is a precious resource on a ship. We will have to suffer your stench for some time longer.”

Fen’ain wagged his tail. Sten shook his head in disappointment before walking away, and Yara watched in amusement as he disappeared into the crew and guest quarters. He emerged shortly after with a book in hand and went up to the forecastle deck, then settled himself on a bench with his book. 

Yara smiled to herself, then turned back to the ocean and inhaled the strange and foreign scent of the ocean. Denerim was already a fuzzy blur on the horizon, notable more thanks to its proximity to the lush verdancy of the Brecilian Forest, and when even the Forest became nothing more than a fuzzy and indistinct blur of green, she sighed.

She felt… odd. Melancholy but light at the same time. Her whole body felt looser than it had in ages, and the near-constant tension headache she’d been having for the past few months was blessedly gone, at least for now. And yet, she couldn’t really say that she was happy. Happier than she was before the Archdemon was dead, certainly, but not actually happy. 

She shouldn’t be expecting to suddenly be happy, though. It wasn’t like everything she’d been through over the past year had gone away. She was still a girl who’d been torn away from her clan against her will. She was still a girl whose best friend had been turned into darkspawn, and whom she’d been forced to kill. She was still a girl who’d been raised up from the comfortable obscurity of the forest into the so-called Hero of Ferelden, whether she wanted to be called a hero or not. 

She took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the cloudless sky. At least here on this ship, she was free from that unwanted title. The Rivaini sailors might find her fascinating, but she’d deflected their attention once already, and she could do it again. And Sten certainly wouldn’t be hero-worshipping her anytime soon, which was an enormous relief. 

She gazed silently at the seemingly endless ocean. The longer she stood there just gazing vacantly at the water, the more oddly tense she started to feel, and she wasn’t quite sure why. 

She sighed and looked over at the bench where Sten was sitting with his book. Then she and Fen’ain wandered up to the forecastle to join him. 

She took a seat on the bench and glanced at the open book in his lap, then double-taked. “Sten, what are you reading?” she demanded.

“A book that the healer mage gave to me,” he said. “It is called The Rose of Orlais.”

Yara gaped at him. “That’s – but that’s a romance novel! You’re reading a romance novel?”

“I am studying it,” he corrected. “The more I learn of your customs, the more complete my report to the Arishok will be. So far, what I have learned is that human customs of mating are inefficient and illogical.” He shot her a frank look. “But the customs of elves are also inefficient, if the assassin’s behaviour toward you was representative.”

Yara laughed.

He raised his eyebrows. “What amuses you?”

“You,” she said warmly. “Sten of the beresaad, studying an Orlesian romance novel.”

He scowled at her. “Do not call me a softie.”

She laughed again. “I wasn’t going to. I was just… wondering, I suppose. Are all qunari like you?”

“We all know our roles in the world and fulfill them for the benefit of all, if that’s what you mean,” he said dryly.

“I don’t really mean that,” she said. “I mean… well, for example, would your brothers in the beresaad study romance novels?”

Sten frowned. “They… did not have the capacity to do so,” he said slowly.

Yara raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“They could not read the common tongue,” he said. “They spoke it passably, but they could not read it.”

“Really?” Yara said in surprise. “You were the only one in your group who could read?”

“The only one who could read your language,” Sten said. “All imekari are equally taught to read in our language.”

“That’s… really nice, actually,” Yara admitted. She’d been shocked and dismayed to learn how many elves in the Denerim alienage didn’t know how to read.

Sten shot her a sideways look. “And that is another sign of the flaws in your society. How can you learn to think if you are not taught to read? If the tools of gaining wisdom are kept from you?”

She grimaced. “I suppose you have a point.”

He nodded, then returned his attention to the book, and Yara watched him fondly for a moment. Sten could rationalize his reading material all he wanted, but she somehow didn’t believe that his only motive was to study.

She shifted a little closer to him on the bench. “Will you read it to me?” she said, half-jokingly.

He shot her a suspicious look. “For what purpose?”

She shrugged. “Why not? I’m not doing anything else right now.”

He looked at her more fully, and her belly did a funny little jolt: he was studying her again in that penetrating way of his. 

“This bothers you,” he said.

She blinked. “What does?”

“Your inactivity,” he said. “Your lack of goal. This is bothersome to you.”

She faltered, thrown off by his change of topic. “I… I don’t know if I’d call it bothersome,” she hedged. “It’s a little strange, maybe. It’s been a while since I was able to just do nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is this not a goal in itself among your people? To be able to do nothing?”

She stared at him with growing bemusement. “Why would you think that?”

“Humans gather coin and use that coin to make others do their work for them,” he said. “They pay people in order to have more time to do nothing.”

Yara burst out a laugh. “You know what, that’s true. I guess you’re right. But it’s not like that among my people,” she said. “The Dalish don’t have servants. We all pitch in to benefit the clan. We’re like the qunari in that way.”

“And yet you chose your role,” he pointed out. “You chose to be a hunter, for example, and not a wrangler of those… those creatures with the elaborate horns.”

“The halla,” she said with a smile.

Sten nodded an acknowledgement. “You chose to become a hunter.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “But my clan needed hunters. I was doing something that was needed.”

“But it was a role that you chose,” he said. 

Ah, she thought. Now she knew what his problem was: that she had chosen her own role, and not some supposedly better-informed group of people in authority. 

She tilted her head curiously. “Do you really think it was bad that I was a hunter just because I chose to be one instead of someone else choosing it for me?”

“It’s not a matter of good or bad,” Sten said. “It’s a matter of what is. You cannot choose what you are. The only choice is whether to comply with the nature of the world and your place in it. You understand who you are, or you defy your own nature. That is the only true choice.”

Yara gazed at him with a combination of fondness and exasperation. “But Sten, the Dalish don’t have tamassrans who tell us what to do.”

He leaned away and gave her an approving look. “You do understand the problem, then.”

Utterly nonplussed, Yara stared at him. Then she shook her head and chuckled. “Look, if you didn’t want to read to me, you could have just said so.”

Sten grunted. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t read to you. If you really wish to be treated like a particularly slow imekari, then I will treat you as one.”

She laughed. “You know what, I’ll bear that insult if it means you’ll read to me.”

He inspected her carefully. “Is this another attempt at flirting?”

She snorted another laugh, even as she could feel her cheeks going warm. “Maybe you should keep reading your romance novel and find out.”

Sten scowled. “I am not reading. I am studying.” He smoothed his palm over the page, and to Yara’s great delight, he began to read out loud. “Garren lifted his sculpted chin. ‘It is not a matter of if you will fall for me, my dear, but when. You will have only yourself to blame for the fall.’”

Yara smirked and crossed her legs comfortably on the bench, and for a peaceful time, she listened to Sten’s reading and scratched a very happy Fen’ain behind the ears. 

The afternoon wore on into the evening, and Yara accepted the captain’s invitation to join the crew during the evening meal. She played cards with some of the crew after dinner, and she quietly enjoyed the raucous banter of the sailors as they cursed and laughed at each other over their exchange of coin. But her attention kept drifting to Sten, who had taken his meal alone on the forecastle deck and remained there alone with only Fen’ain for company. 

Later that evening, she returned to sit with him once more while he was sharpening and polishing his sword. He glanced up and nodded when she approached but he didn’t speak, so Yara nodded silently in turn before sitting on the bench and crossing her legs. 

She gazed idly at the gradually darkening sky and breathed in the fresh and salty ocean air. Then, to her mild surprise, Sten broke the silence. “I did not think to ask before. Why did you decide to join me?”

Yara smiled wryly. Everyone else had asked her this, and she supposed it was only fair that the man she was following across the Amaranthine Ocean wanted to know why exactly she was doing it. But her answer for Sten was the same as the one she’d given to Alistair, Oghren and Zevran.

“I don’t know,” she said.

He studied her intently for a moment, then went back to polishing his blade. “This is unheard of, kadan. Qunari always know their purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m not qunari.”

“That is true,” he said.  He fell silent, and Yara waited for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she shifted a little closer to him.

“I’m surprised you don���t have more to say about it,” she said.

He glanced at her. “What more is there to say?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something about my purpose being to kill the archdemon, maybe?”

He frowned slightly. “That was not your purpose. That was your mission. You fulfilled your mission, but that is not the same as fulfilling your purpose.”

Yara tilted her head curiously. “What do you mean?” 

He lowered his blade to look at her. “I am the eyes and ears of the antaam,” he said. “That is my purpose. At this moment, I am carrying intelligence back to the Arishok, and that is my mission. What little intelligence that I was able to find, at least.”

Yara snorted. “That was needlessly rude.”

“And yet you laugh,” he said.

She grinned at him. “I didn’t say it wasn’t funny.”

“Hm,” he said, and Yara grinned at him more widely: there was a hint of a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. 

But his next words took the smile from her face. “You lack purpose, kadan. This does not surprise me. You are a Grey Warden, yet you know little of your own order. You do not know yourself, or what you are for. It was cruel of your people to leave you this way.”

She blinked at him, a little taken aback by the bluntness of his statement. “I don’t – I wouldn’t say it was cruel,” she said. “Duncan would definitely have told us more about the Wardens if he had survived the massacre at Ostagar.”

“Yet you entered into your order not knowing that it was a death sentence,” Sten said. “Not knowing that it would bring you restless dreams, or that it would render you sterile.”

Yara stopped breathing for a second. Sten didn’t mean to be cruel, she knew, but the truths he was reminding her of… those were cruel, and she didn’t want to think about it.

She dropped his gaze. “I… no, I guess not.” She shifted on the bench and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Apparently oblivious to her dismay, Sten was still talking. “The tamassrans see that all qunari know themselves,” he said. “I became a soldier of the antaam knowing that I would perish in battle someday. The fact that I have not yet means only that I have more years to devote to my purpose.”

“And you’re just… fine with that?” she said weakly.

“It is to be,” Sten said. “It is the way of things. It is not a matter of being ‘fine with it’. It simply is.”

Yara sighed heavily and rested her chin on her knees. “It must be nice to have all the answers,” she said softly.

“I don’t have all the answers,” he replied. “Only those that I need to fulfill my purpose.”

Yara nodded and swallowed the growing lump in her throat. Sten’s reminders about the most bitter parts of being a Warden were too close to home – too close to the bundle of pain she’d been pushing down since all of this had begun.

“I have upset you,” Sten said.

She looked up to find him still gazing carefully at her. She shook her head slightly. “No,” she said tentatively. “Not… not on purpose, at least. I…” She trailed off and pushed her fingers through her hair as she tried to collect her thoughts. “I just needed to… to think,” she said finally. “And to get away from being the Hero of Ferelden. I guess I was just… hoping to figure out what to do next. And you always know what you’re doing next, so I thought…” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what I thought.”

He nodded. “I understand,” he said. “You are seeking your purpose. I respect this. It is simply pitiable that you must figure this out for yourself.”

She recoiled from him, feeling stung by his words. “You think I’m pitiable?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said calmly. “All bas are pitiable, because they do not know the Qun. They are not enlightened, and they do not know themselves. One day my people will return, and they will not longer be pitiable.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Yara said in a hard tone. “And it matters to me what you think. Do you think I’m pitiable?”

He paused and gazed at her for a long moment: long enough that her irritation began to fade. “I do not think you are pitiable, kadan,” he said finally. “It would be easy to think you are running away. But I can see that you are seeking something to run toward.”

She let out a long sigh. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded and continued polishing his blade, and Yara watched him a little bit sadly. A minute later, he rose from the bench and sheathed the blade. “I will return in a moment,” he said, and he walked away. 

Yara idly petted Fen’ain as she waited for Sten to return. When he came back, he was carrying the cake she’d given him.

He sat on the bench and set the cake between them, then carefully unwrapped it and cut two pieces from it – one considerably smaller than the other. He pushed the smaller piece toward her, and she smiled at him. 

“You’re sharing after all?” she said.

He nodded. “I told you that I might.”

She chuckled and picked up her piece of cake. “You gave me the smaller piece, I see.”

“You are a smaller person,” he replied. “It is only fair.”

She chuckled, then took a bite of cake and chewed it experimentally. It was dense and moist from the applesauce, with just a hint of sour from the dried cranberries studded throughout, and Yara’s throat tightened at the familiar taste of home. 

“It is very good,” Sten said. “Thank you again, kadan.”

His stern face was relaxed. When Yara met his eye, the corner of his mouth turned up in the faintest smile. 

She smiled, then shyly dropped his gaze and tucked her hair over her ear. “Anytime, Sten.”

They sat together on the bow eating their cake and ignoring Fen’ain’s pleading stare. As the colourful canvas of sunset blended slowly into the dark and star-studded nighttime sky, Yara sat quietly next to Sten and listened to the hush of the ocean sluicing past the sides of the ship. 

She sighed and closed her eyes. Despite the constant movement of the ship and the gentle fingers of wind pulling at her hair, she felt very still.

With Sten’s steady presence at her side, Yara felt so very still.

#sten #sten dragon age #sten/warden #sten x warden #sten/mahariel #sten x mahariel #fall into the tide #pikapeppa writes

[a-gay-bloodmage]

—Waiting—

Pairing: Leliana x Female Tabris

Pairing Type: F/F

Words: 2,013

Warnings: Outsider POV, Faelyn is Still Her Adorable Self Even Ten Years After the Blight, This Was Written Quick Okay

"Psst!" Varric turned around, trying to figure out where the quiet little hiss came from. Someone was obviously trying to get his attention. "Mister dwarf! Over here!" He turned to his left, and noticed a mass of messy blonde hair and lightly tanned skin, wide green-blue eyes and big floppy elven ears. "Yes! I've been trying to get your attention for ages!" She giggled, her smile showing off large, slightly gap-toothed buck teeth. "Well, maybe thirty seconds, but that's still forever, isn't it?"

Varric hummed in amused agreement. "Of course," he said, walking over to the elf, who was still poorly hidden among the bushes. He had the feeling he knew who she was, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "And what are you doing out here?" He asked, looking into her big, sparkling eyes. "Haven't seen you around Skyhold before."

"No, I just got here," she said, going back to whispering, sounding excited, like she was telling him some big secret. He doubted she was some spy. As sparkling as her eyes were, he didn't think that they sparkled with intelligence. She looked like an elf in her mid or early twenties, but not only did elves age slowly, her simple speech made it hard to tell her actual age. "Do you think you could help me?" She asked, leaning forward from behind the bush and well into Varric's personal space. "I'm looking for a... special someone and I don't know where she is," she said, smiling like she knew he would say yes.

Hopefully Cassandra wouldn't go back to breathing down his neck if this elf turned out to be some incredibly talented spy of sorts. "Why not?" He chuckled. "I'm Varric, by the way," he said, holding out his hand for a shake.

She enthusiastically gripped it with both of her dainty little hands, shaking it up and down. He felt calluses from either labor or blades on her palms. "Oh, you're so sweet, Mister Varric!" She beamed, her whole body moving like an excited mabari's. "Now, you have to be very, very quiet about all this," she said, face suddenly taking on a serious look. She gazed around the courtyard, which wasn't yet full in the early hours of the morning. "One false word and we're burnt bread." Her lisp undercut the seriousness of her words.

"Okay, but I have three, no, four questions before I lead you wherever you want to go," he said, looking over at the elf that was still holding his hand. She nodded, her messy blonde hair and floppy, oversized ears bouncing with the motion. "Okay, question one. What's your name?"

"How did I forget?" She gasped, looking in awe of her own mistake. "Oh, you dumb little rabbit!" She shook herself, and looked to Varric. "I'm Faelyn, but people call me Bunny, too."

"Alright, Faelyn, question two. Are you at all a spy? Qunari, Corypheus, et cetera?"

"Nope! Or, I don't think so, at least..." Definitely not.

"Good. Question three. How did you even get in here?" He knew for sure guards were positioned everywhere and that the gates were not easily opened.

"Oh, I snuck in," she said, buck teeth on proud display as she grinned.

"You snuck into Skyhold?" He asked, almost in awe. No, forget that—he was for sure in awe. Even Isabela would have to at least bribe her way in. Either this Faelyn was incredibly talented, of just incredibly, confidently stupid. "How?"

"I'm good at sneaking," she said, her smile never faltering. "And I fit a lot of places humans don't!"

"Alright, fair," Varric said, shrugging. His hand was really warm at this point. "Okay, last question. Who is it you're looking for?" He asked, looking the slight distance up at the elf. "I don't know all the staff yet, but I'm pretty good."

"Okay, I'm looking for a very, very pretty girl," she said, bending over to whisper close to his face. "She's got pretty red hair and pretty pale skin. With some freckles," she said. Her voice made it abundantly clear that she had a crush on this girl at least. "She's tall and strong and so good at archery." Varric was trying to think of a member of the Inquisition, or perhaps even the staff, but his mind was coming up a little blank. Unless... "She's super good at telling stories, and she can cook really good, and she has this loopy handwriting that's a little hard to read sometimes but just so pretty to look at," she said, giggling. "She has the prettiest smile, too..."

"A name would be useful," he said, raising an eyebrow in amusement. Damn, was this girl good at rambling.

"Oh!" A light blush coloured her lightly tanned cheeks. "Leliana."

"The Spymaster?" He wasn't sure he was hearing her right. Last he checked, the Spymaster didn't cook or tell stories or smile.

"Oh, do you call her that?" Her blonde eyebrows pushed together. "I call her Birdie."

"I'm just not sure we're thinking of the same person," he said. "Unless by Birdie you mean murderous ravens."

"Ravens are very pretty birds," she said, nodding seriously, like that was the answer to his question. "Leliana said she has friends named Josie and sort of Cullen, and she knew some pretty qunari named Adaar. Or Inquisitor. I'm not sure what her name is, really."

"Somehow, we're talking about the same person," he said, mostly to himself. "Will she be happy to see you?" He really didn't want to bring Faelyn to see the Spymaster only to earn her annoyance.

"Would she... not want to see me?" Faelyn asked, her floppy ears dropping and eyes becoming a little watery.

"No, no!" He said, shaking his head and smiling the most reassuringly he could. "I'm sure she'll be super happy to see you!" He really didn't want to see such a kicked-puppy look on the elf again. "I'll take you to her."

"Thank you!" She was immediately back to her perky self, ears pointing straight out. "Now, do you know how to get to her without being... seen?" She asked, looking around the barely populated courtyard. The only reason Varric was up just before the sun was because it was the best time of day to clear his head and jot down plot ideas or scenes without interruptions. Except for today, it seemed.

"Don't worry, I'm pretty good at sneaking," he said, leading her to a door in the wall. There were a mass of lesser known passages in Skyhold, and he was quickly learning them.

"Sneaking is such a useful talent, isn't it?" She giggled, letting go of his hand with one of hers, but still holding on with her other. It was then that he noticed she was wearing two rings—one appearing to be an iron wedding band, and another seeming to be an Orlesian promise ring.

If that terrifying Spymaster was married to such a bubbly little elf, he would really have to ask Bull for some help in character assessment. Because he was terrible at, apparently.

"You have a very nice castle here," she said, looking at the dark, slightly damp walls of the passageways. Only the occasional lamp lit the otherwise pitch black hallway.

"I think your standards are a little low there, kiddo," he chuckled, looking up at her.

"No, I'm thirty-two," she said casually.

He nearly stopped dead in his tracks. He just shook his head and kept moving.

"Birdie's probably upset I didn't send her much in my last letter," she said, chatting away and very much so proving that she was only good at sneaking into places where the guards didn't have ears. "I told her that I hope I see you soon, but oh, little does she know!" She giggled, obviously delighted by her adorable little deception.

"You and our ol' Spymaster go back, huh?" He asked, trying not to sound invasive. He was genuinely curious about the mysterious redhead, and was always desiring to know more about her backstory.

Faelyn hummed a yes. "My Birdie and I go back a while," she smiled. "I met her in Lothering. During the Blight."

During... the Blight? Varric both didn't want to believe it and really wanted to believe what he was thinking.

"She was the prettiest human ever," she sighed in fondness, obviously still lovestruck after all these years. "Of course, I didn't know girls could like girls back then!" She laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, that was so silly of me!"

There is no way she killed an Archdemon. No fucking way. Anders had mentioned The Warden in passing sometimes, but he had failed to mention her sweet idiocy, cheerfulness, and buck-tooth-induced lisp.

"Anyway, she and I are just waiting for the day we can get married!" She said cheerfully.

That meant the wedding band wasn't from the Spymaster. It was... something else. He wouldn't ask. "Well, isn't Leliana the Left Hand of the Divine?" He asked. "I'm sure you two could officially tie the knot with enough words on her part," he said.

"She's mentioned it," Faelyn said, blushing lightly. "I don't mind waiting a little longer if it means the, the..." She stopped walking for a second. "Oh! Interracial ban is lifted," she said, walking on once she found her word. "It wouldn't be very nice if we were selfish and only let it be for us, right?"

Varric nodded. "That's awfully nice of you," he said, unable to stop thinking of Hawke and Fenris. He was sure the two would be happy if such a union was legal under the Chantry law. He had better be invited to the wedding. "A lot of people are a lot more selfish."

"I don't think being selfish is a good thing at all," she said, shrugging. "Except I think I'm being a little selfish right now," she giggled shyly. "Visiting my Birdie when I have so much to do back at my work." She giggled to herself. "Maker, is Alistair going to be mad!"

Alistair. That royal bastard that nearly became king. Yep, she's the damn Warden. "And how could someone get mad at you?" He asked, laughing.

"I forget a lot of important things," she laughed. "That usually does it." She took a deep breath, smiling. "This is a very long tunnel!" She said, jokingly groaning. "Mister Varric, I've been away from my Birdie for so long, this is torture!"

"Almost there," he chuckled, turning another corner. He could the faint noise of ravens waking in the distance.

"Birds!" Her face lit up, and she tugged on Varric's hand for him to hurry up. Thankfully, she wasn't much taller than him and he could keep up, as she had an incredibly tight grip on his hand. "Oh, I've waited to see her for so long!" She said, beaming. She pushed open a door to the ramparts, quickly darting across the stone, up some stairs, and into the rookery. Her bright aquamarine eyes darted around for a second before finding the door to the Spymaster's small bedroom. She quickly turned, got down on her knees, slipped her hand out of Varric's, grabbed the sides of his face, and kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you, Mister Varric," she grinned, kissing him again before running up to the Spymaster's door.

She knocked three times, bouncing on the toes of her boots in excitement. A sleepy-eyed redhead that hardly looked like the Leliana Varric knew opened the door, only able to get the w in what out before she was all but tackled by Faelyn. Her face lit up like he never thought it could, returning the embrace tenfold. She spun the elf around in a circle, much to Faelyn's delight. She was giggling and kissing Leliana on the cheeks, the lips, the ears, the forehead—anywhere she possibly could. With one final glance, Varric turned away to leave them to themselves. He wouldn't intrude. It was obvious they'd been waiting for this a while.

#femslashfeb2019 #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da warden #faelyn tabris #da leliana #leliana x warden #varric tethras #wrote this shit in literally like 2 hours #yikes #still cute tho? #fae is SUCH a cutie #anders how dare you not introduce her to your kirkwall squad #this actually goes along with an older fic of mine! ((''A Presumably Empty Courtyard'' (NSFW))) #i love these bisexual babs

[boysdontcryblood]

Chapter Three

[warnings for reform school setting, authority figures abusing their power, non-corporal punishment; this chapter has quite a lot of verbal abuse]

. + . + . + . + . + . + .

Ben paused halfway through writing I will not trespass. for probably the hundredth time. Would they even notice if he wrote something just a bit different? He drew a tiny frowny face in the place of the O and went on with writing more repetitions of the line. The little rebellion almost made him smile, but the reality of the pointless punishment was impossible to ignore.

As if writing this shit down was supposed to force them to follow the rules.

Ben sighed and looked up at the front of the room, where Mrs. Graves was staring straight at him with her eyes narrowed.

“Sit up straight, Benjamin,” she snapped.

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered and adjusted his posture. Slightly. The seat was uncomfortable no matter what he did. Like hell was he going to sit with his back straight in it. He went back to writing.

The room was quiet save for the scratching of their pencils on paper and the ticking of the clock on the wall. Awsten and Otto weren’t there; probably in another room dealing with Old Bastard Steele. Or making Steele deal with them.

Time crawled on. Ben hid a couple more little faces in the lines. His hand was aching and he wanted to stop, but one glance at Patty in his peripheral vision made him keep going.

Better to get this over with.

There was a rustling noise behind him, where Ali was sitting. Without thinking, Ben started to turn his head to look.

“Face the front!” Mrs. Graves snapped.

Ben slumped back into his original position in the stiff-backed chair. Whatever.

“Alistair, you aren’t done yet,” Mrs. Graves said, walking down the aisle between the rows of empty desks. Ben noticed Patty tensing up as she passed between them. Her heels clicked on the floor with each step she took, forceful and harsh. “Resume your task immediately.”

“Sorry,” Ali said in a low voice behind Ben. The rustling noise resumed for a second. “It’s cold.”

“Deal with it.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“And sit up straight, Benjamin,” she added as the sound of her heels came back towards Ben. “Unless you’d like to write out more lines?”

Ben didn’t reply, but he reluctantly sat up again. He was already looking forward to getting back to his and Patty’s dorm room later so he could lie down on his mattress, however shitty it was. He made a tiny face with little Xs for eyes in the next repetition of the stupid sentence he wrote.

Once they were done, Mrs. Graves took the papers from them. Ben silently dared her to look more closely at his to find the plethora of tiny faces sticking their tongues out. But she was only looking at the top one: Ali’s.

“Report to Sergeant Steele in Room 129,” she said, dropping the papers on the desk behind her. “He’ll handle the rest of your remedial study.”

Fuck. Ben couldn’t hold back the grimace at that. And unfortunately Mrs. Graves was only a few feet away from him.

“Not looking forward to it, are we, Benjamin?” she said, her lips curling in a rather cruel smirk.

“No. Ma’am.”

“Then I suggest you not go slinking around areas of the school that are off limits to students,” she said. “Obey the rules, and your time here will be more pleasant. That goes for all three of you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patty said.

Ben left the room before he could do anything else to piss off the evil old bat. Once he, Patty, and Ali were a safe enough distance away, he groaned loudly.

“That wasn’t great,” he said. “I’m sorry, we should have left that room sooner—”

“It’s not your fault,” Patty said. “You had no way of knowing. And I was the one who screamed.”

“You had good reason for that,” Ali muttered.

Ben opened his mouth to argue— whatever, the room was spooky inside, but literally every room in this fucked up school was creepy— but he shut his mouth, remembering the genuine panic on Patty’s face. Seeing that had been enough to freak Ben out back in the room, even if he had no idea what could have caused such a reaction.

Maybe one of the rat skeletons?

They arrived at Room 129 and Ben’s stomach lurched with dread. Yeah, it was better to get this over with, but… god, it was going to suck. Whatever the old ex-military bastard was going to make them do today. The not knowing made it even worse.

“It’ll be alright,” Patty said in a soft whisper.

Ben turned to look at him. Patty was smiling, and he reached out to grasp both Ben and Ali’s hands, squeezing them for a moment. Ben felt the fear and tension in his chest ease up.

It would be alright. They’d be together at least.

Patty let go of their hands and strode forwards to open the door. Ben wanted to chase after the lost touch, but before he could move, the door was open.

“You again,” Sergeant Steele said.

He was standing at the far end of the room in front of the huge blackboard with his intimidating message of the day on it.

PAIN IS THE GREATEST TEACHER.

Otto, Awsten, and three other boys were all standing in a lineup in the middle of the room. There were no desks or chairs anywhere. The walls were decorated with pictures of muscled soldiers in uniform, more quotes about masculinity and discipline, and thinly veiled military propaganda. Ben could barely hide his disgust at it all.

He hated this room. He hated Sergeant Steele. He hated the school that allowed— and encouraged— this shit to happen. All in the name of “fixing troubled boys” like him. Yeah right.

Ben dragged himself into place in the line. Steele walked down the line, pausing to glare and taunt each one of them in turn. Starting with the boys Ben wasn’t familiar with and working his way down to Ben, Patty, and Ali’s end.

“You think something’s funny, Otto? We’ll see if you’re still smiling like that in two hours.”

Fuck. Two hours?? Ben tried not to look too nervous as Steele drew closer.

“Excited about spending more time with your partner in crime here?” he said, eyeing Awsten. “Guess again. Otto, move to the end of the line.”

Otto moved, but he did so in an obnoxiously slow manner. Probably to piss Steele off.

“Still won’t cut your damn hair, Ben?” he said when he stopped in front of Ben. “Jesus, you look like a fucking girl.”

Ben forced himself to remain quiet, like everyone else had. The second time he ended up here with Awsten, the other boy had made the mistake of talking back to Steele. It was about something completely pointless, about how Awsten didn’t like the all-black uniform.

It had not ended well for them that day. Three hours of mowing and raking and pulling thorny weeds and hauling old rotting logs at the edge of the school property.

Steele shook his head in disgust. “No, you’re too ugly to be a girl.” He moved on to Patty next.

“What, you gonna cry, Patrick?”

Ben’s hands clenched into fists. To his right, Awsten very obviously turned his head towards Steele’s back. He stuck out his tongue at Steele and waved his middle finger at him. Idiot.

“Boys don’t cry. Guess I got it wrong, you’re the biggest girl here, not Goldilocks over there.”

Ben’s fists shook. It was getting difficult to remind himself why he shouldn’t get out of line to punch Steele. But one look at the man did the job: the guy would crush him. And he’d be delighted at the opportunity to do so in front of the rest of the boys.

Ben tried to force his anger down. He tried to just let things happen around him. This would all be over soon. They’d get through this in two hours— hopefully less— and they’d all gather in his and Patty’s dorm after this to… recover. Yeah.

Steele moved on to Ali.

Steele went to the front of the room to deliver a harsh speech about the necessity of discipline. Ben didn’t listen to a word of it.

Finally, Steele revealed that the punishing task that day would be cleaning the school’s tall narrow windows. He took them all to a closet with supplies and made sure that Awsten and Otto were as far as possible from each other the whole time. They moved from room to room, hallway to hallway in relative silence, apart from Steele barking his instructions and criticisms of their work.

Ben tried to stick close to Patty, but he didn’t get a chance to say a word with Steele hovering around.

After two hours, Ben’s knuckles were painfully red and on the verge of cracking and bleeding. Ali and Patty were in the same shape. They returned to the dorm hallways without a word between the three of them.

It was miserable. And the miserable feeling persisted when Ali and Patty both sat down on Patty’s bed.

But when Ben pulled out a jar of healing hand cream, both Ali and Patty’s faces broke into matching smiles, and Ben felt the warm spark of hope burning in his chest again.

#stigmata au #boys don't cry blood #chapters #mani's turn

[jonogueira]

Moon Hair & Fire Eyes.

Chapter 5.

AO3.

Summary:

Falcon Hold receives guests that will change their future. Cullen's past puts him in a delicate situation, and he has to choose carefully the path he will take. Will he fight for revenge or to keep her safe?

Notes:

** = Avvar language. “” = Common tongue.

TW: blood.

Wildfire.

In her new life, every day was a new day to learn. And her first lesson on the hold was: she wasn’t a morning person.

Moira was living there for over a month, and every morning she was awakened by the same old lady, whose name she never got to know, and led outside to start her day. Cullen was, as far as she noticed, the opposite. He would be up and minding his own business long before she opened her eyes.

She had to learn many things during the day, and by night she was so exhausted, she drifted to sleep a couple of minutes after laying her head on the pillow.

Cullen didn’t speak with her after the night he had the nightmare, but he was always close. Looking, watching, and waiting.

In the first part of the mornings, she learned their language with Bran. The second, which she hated, with Leliana, learning how to skin animals and cook. After lunch, she spent her time learning how to sew or tend the animals, and after that, their culture.

Language was and would be a big problem, but not as much as how people treated her. With her clumsiness, people started becoming wary, and she noticed that the parents didn’t allow their kids to be around her anymore.

She asked Bran what she had done, but he explained that the Avvars were a superstitious people, and her pale skin as her grey hair made them start to think she was a bad omen.

Moira thought about it for quite some time, and every time she neared a child to play, and they ran away, she withdrew to her own world a little more.

At dinners, Bran invited her to sit with him, but she refused politely and sat by herself in the surroundings of the big fire, away from the tales and laughs, all by herself. Lost in her own tortuous thoughts.

As much as she tried to remember anything from her previous life, she couldn’t, and the feeling of loneliness overwhelmed her like the day did the night.

Her dinner was left untouched near the rock she was sitting on. She walked to the edge of the misty forest and stared into the darkness. Her mind was cold and distant, preventing her from listening to the steps behind her.

She sighed and tried to take a deep breath, but a sob escaped her mouth. She wanted to run into the night and disappear among the trees. Who would miss her? No one had come looking for her. Had she no family nor friends? No husband nor kids? She was old enough to be married… Was she so despicable no one wanted her?

Why did she have to stay? They treated her well enough, gave her food and shelter, but what did they want from her? If she ran, he would be sent to find her again, but why?

He despised her; that was evident. His posture and the way he looked at her were all she needed to know they would never be friends. She killed his father. Could she blame him for hating her?

Having to stay but not being welcome was starting to take its toll. She ran her fingers through her long hair and started to undo the braid. She was forced to live with them, but she would never be one of them.

The braid was undone, and she rested her hands on her sides. Her fingers brushed the leather on her clothes, and she looked down at them. A loud laugh found its way up her chest and out of her mouth; it echoed between the wide tree trunks.

She was a lie, a cheap imitation of what she was supposed to become. She hated it, them, her.

A freezing wind blew her hair and brought the sounds of the night with it. A shiver ran down her spine when she heard the call of an owl, and she saw the mist stir. At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, but lightning illuminated the area, and she saw the shadow of a large animal.

The roar of the thunder that came next shook her body, and she froze. Two small glowing eyes studied her from the darkness of the forest. She took one, two, three steps back because more eyes stared intensely at her. Slowly, she started to turn, but then she heard the growls and jaws’ snaps coming from the darkness and stopped midway. With the next lightning, she saw the figures of men among the tree trunks.

-----

Cullen had been watching her. Did she intend to run away during the night? A frustrated sigh reminded him that if it were the case, he would have to be the one to chase her down… again.

The thought made him rub the back of his neck. Winter was coming, only a couple of months before the snow buried the hold, and besides his duties as a hunter and warrior, he had to watch her. He cleaned the tiredness of his face with both of his hands.

She was standing still by the limits of the forest, staring at it. She wasn’t going to run, so his mind wandered.

Both his sisters were taken to Hound Hold and were living safely under thane Alistair’s watch. His hold and Cullen’s have coexisted peacefully for ages and often traded and celebrated together. His brother and sister-in-law had died during the war, and his nephew was sent to live with his sister Mia.

Cullen glanced at Moira and remembered his father’s death. Why did he make him promise to look after her as his final wish? What was so special about her that they couldn’t just take her back to her kin? He was too tired to think about questions without answers.

He could have saved his father, but he failed him just as he had failed his brother. He should have trained more, fought harder.

His fingers caressed the scar on his lip, and it reminded him how one mistake cost his brother’s life. It would forever be his shame, a reminder of how weak he was.

He revisited the fight. He thought of how many ways he could have subdued Áed, but in the end, all he saw was him laughing over Branson’s body… Áed’s dagger in his heart.

And thinking about his brother’s death, Cullen saw Moira’s body tensioning, and he started approaching her.

She turned and bumped into him with a yelp and almost fell, but Cullen held her by the waist and brought her close to him. He didn’t have time to worry about anything else. Men and wolves were coming from the forest.

-----

The intruders walked past them and entered the hold, Cullen followed them, and she stayed close behind.

Whatever was happening, Moira knew it was terrible. Cullen was so focused on the men and wolves that when she fell, she was left behind, and one of the strangers helped her up. His smile was as friendly as the beast beside him. She ran to reach Cullen’s safe side again.

They weren’t far from where they were having dinner and were soon noticed by the rest of the hold. The children ran to their huts, the warriors and hunters stood up in alarm, and shock could be seen on their faces. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an attack. Those men were too few to fight the whole hold.

-----

Cullen followed close and joined his kin. He glanced back and saw Moira near. He searched among the newcomers, and as sure as there were day and night, Áed was among them.

*My friends,* Moira saw the tall, muscular man, with two long daggers on his back raise his arms and smile at the hold, *we come from far. We are tired and hungry.* He unsheathed the daggers, and Cullen’s body tensioned, his muscles evident under his clothes. *Won’t you invite us to dinner?* He threw his daggers on the ground, where they penetrated deep into the earth.

For the first time, Moira saw Conn raise as the thane of Falcon Hold and not as the lovely father figure she got used to seeing.

*Sit and dine with us. We didn’t know you were coming, so we have little left*

*It won’t be a problem, thane.* He took a step forward, and his men moved to find a seat among the people. *I come with good news.*

If Cullen narrowed his eyes one more centimeter, he would close them. Moira saw his face contorted in anger, and his hands closed into tight fists. He was making her more nervous than the man in front of her.

*That is good to hear Áed; our holds have held peace for more than ten years now. There is no reason to break it.* He smiled honestly.

*That’s the reason why I’m here.* He accepted the bowl Leliana gave him with a big smile. *It is time to remember that.* He ate some of its content. *Wolf Jaw Hold wants to mix its blood with Falcon Hold.* Loud gasps were heard, and Áed displayed a big wicked smile on his face.

Conn narrowed his eyes for a split second and took a deep breath.

*This is a rather sudden wish. Your hold has never shown any sign of desire to do so.*

*Things change, old man.* The way he looked at Conn sent shivers down Moira’s spine. *Do you not wish to strengthen the peace between our clans?*

*We fought hard for peaceful times… Of course, I want to keep it that way.* His tone was normal, but Moira saw the twitch in his jaw’s muscle.

*It is settled then. My marriage is nearly at its end. I will gladly wed one of your beautiful women when winter comes.*

Moira saw his sly grin and felt her body freeze from her head to her toes. Although she didn’t understand one thing they were saying, the feeling that something terrible was about to happen never left her. She hid behind Cullen’s frame and prayed they would leave at once.

*You are welcome to try, as is any of your men.* Conn opened his arms. *The traditions state that the woman you successfully take must move to your hold and leave behind any connection and loyalty to us. That is... if you succeed.* It was Conn who had a wicked smile on his face.

Áed narrowed his eyes and looked around the camp but stopped when he saw Cullen.

*Hello, Cullen. I hope the scar healed well.* He chuckled.

-----

Cullen’s blood was boiling, and he took a step forward, but he felt fingers on his arm, and Moira stood in front of him. The panic in her eyes and the tears forming made him freeze in place.

He saw her blink, and a single thick tear found its way down her pale face. He didn’t know why he did it, but he cleaned it with his thumb and tucked some of her hair behind her ear, resting his hand on her shoulder. His eyes never left hers.

His touch seemed to calm her down, and he saw a smile growing on her lips.

-----

*I don’t remember you.* Moira saw Cullen look at Áed behind her, and his hand tightened the grip on her shoulder. *Which hold are you from?*

*She is from Falcon Hold. She is one of us.* Moira understood the words ‘Falcon Hold’, and she knew they were talking about her by the tone of Cullen’s voice.

The silence stretched between them, and Moira turned to see what was happening. Her eyes met Áed’s, and she saw a grin that sent a shiver down her spine and made her body shake.

*She is single then…* Moira could count every tooth on his mouth.

Cullen held her arm and pulled her behind him, but before he could say anything, Áed addressed the thane once again.

*As I said, we are tired. Would you mind if we spent the night here? We leave in the first hours of the morning.*

*You are welcome to stay. Just mind the hold’s rules.* He waved at Bran. *Bran, show them the guests’ hut, please.*

The men stood up and followed Bran. Áed gave Moira one more smile before walking away.

Cullen held her arm and led her, in hurried steps, to their hut. He shut the door close behind him and leaned on it.

Moira sat on her bed and hugged herself. She waited for him to say anything, but when he crossed the place and examined his sword, her heart stopped, and she stood up.

“What are you doing?” She approached him from behind and touched his arm.

-----

Cullen looked at her and tightened the grip on the sword’s hilt. She looked distressed and on the edge of panic, so he sighed and placed the sword in its place.

*Moira. I need you to stay inside the hut and not leave. Can you do that?* He searched her eyes.

“I don’t understand you.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. *I no understand you,* she said in the end, pointing at him.

Cullen took her to her bed, sat her down, and kneeled in front of her.

*You stay hut.* He knew she knew these words. After she nodded, he smiled at her and touched her cheek with the back of his hands.

-----

Moira saw his smile when he touched her and felt her body relaxing again. Cullen left the hut, but before closing the door behind him, he gave her one more reassuring smile.

Moira woke on her own. She waited for Cullen to come back, but she was so tired she fell asleep wearing the clothes she wore all day. She stood up, stretched, and washed her face.

The hold was not in its usual mood. Where there should be laughter and talk, there was only silence and the noise of work.

Moira adjusted her clothes and left the hut. People were coming and going, doing their daily chores, but their faces told other stories. They were nervous, scared even.

Moira looked for Bran but didn’t find him. Leliana was nowhere to be found either. She decided to tend the animals and headed to the barn.

She fed the chickens and pigs; the horses came next, so she fetched their water. She was near the barn’s entrance when she saw Áed coming her way.

She tried to look busy, but he started a conversation with her.

“Good morning.” He said in a thick accent. “How are you feeling today?”

Moira turned surprised, and looked him up and down.

“I thought you were supposed to be far away by now.” She grabbed the buckets full of water and turned to leave.

“We will leave in a moment.” He studied her. “Let me help you with that.” He tried to take the bucket from her, and his cold fingers brushed hers.

“I don’t remember asking for your help. I can do it by myself.” She continued walking, but he followed her.

“Feisty. I like that.” He chuckled by her side.

Moira huffed and filled the horses’ bucket with fresh water.

“What’s your name, lowlander?” He kept walking beside her.

Moira left the barn behind and shielded her eyes from the morning sun. She looked around and didn’t answer his question.

He laughed when she tripped on a rock and fell on her knees. He tried to help her, but she ignored his raised hand.

“Don’t try to fool me with your friendly manners, Áed. We are not friends, and we will never be.” She turned to walk away and saw Cullen leaving the augur’s hut. His face went from concerned to angry in a split second.

Áed grabbed her arm and turned her flush against his chest. He held her chin and made her look at him.

“Oh, lowlander! That’s where you are mistaken. We will be friends; we will be more than friends.” Moira could feel his breath on her face.

When he gave her that wicked smile, and she saw the devilish desire in his eyes, Moira took his hand from her face in one quick movement and saw surprise in his face.

She took some steps back, and they stared at each other for a few seconds before she addressed him.

“Don’t you ever dare touch me again, or I will cut your hand off.”

He smiled at her words.

“You have eyes the color of fire, and they burn like it as well.” Cullen arrived and placed himself between them.

*Back off, Áed. You should be on your way.* Moira had no idea what he said, but the tone of his voice… it sure was an order, and she liked it.

Áed started walking but stopped some meters away from them.

“Do you know what my name means, lowlander?” He turned and looked at her. “It means fire, like your eyes. Maybe we are destined to burn this place to the ground together.” He smiled a cold smile. *And you Cullen… I’ll make sure to say hello when I come back for my prize.” He smiled at the end of his words and walked away.

-----

Cullen didn’t notice, his hand sought his sword, but his fingers found hers. She turned him to her, and her eyes were like wildfire.

*Are you okay?* ­He asked, concerned.

*Yes,* she said with half a smile.

They studied each other’s eyes, but his face went from worried to angry once again.

*I told you to stay inside the hut.* The way he looked at her made her shake*What are you doing here?* His voice was hoarse, and his hands shook.

----

Moira didn’t understand and tried to calm him down, but she didn’t know how to say the words in Avvar, and the conversation started taking the opposite direction. They started talking over each other.

“I don’t know what is going on. No one told me anything.”

*You are not a child. Can’t you do one simple thing that I ask?*

They were waving their hands.

“Everybody seems so on edge. Don’t you understand that the fact that I can’t understand any of you just makes me more nervous?”

*I don’t have time for this. You can’t even take two steps without falling. How much more until you break a leg?*

Cullen pointed at her, and she pointed at him.

*By the gods. What am I supposed to do with you?*

“I never asked to be here in the first place. Just let me go.”

Cullen rested his hands on his hips, and Moira crossed her arms over her chest.

“And you? Can’t you give me room to breathe? Every time I look, you are there!”

*I’m tired of being around. I wish I could go hunting or be anywhere away from you!*

They were yelling at each other, and the hold watched amused.

“You know what. I’m out of here! And don’t you dare come after me! Did you hear me?”

*I’m going to talk to someone who understands me. Can you please stay here and not kill yourself?*

They turned their backs at the same time and started walking in opposite directions.

-----

Cullen heard a loud noise and rolled his eyes. Moira tried to vault over the fence, but her foot got stuck, and she knocked the buckets on her when she fell.

He turned in time to see a soaked Moira on the ground. The buckets were all over the place, and she had her hand on her forehead.

Vaulting over the fence, he kneeled in front of her. She was pouting and averting his gaze, but he held her chin and turned her face to him.

The first thing Cullen saw was the blood on her right temple, and his heart froze with worry. The second was the tears running down her face, and he had to stop the urge to embrace her.

He carefully took her hand from her head and examined the cut. It wasn’t deep, but he didn’t like the blood oozing from it. He searched for a piece of cloth, and when he found it, he pressed it against the cut.

*I’m sorry.* He heard her saying and sighed.

*No. I am sorry.*  He folded the cloth again. *Are you okay?*

Moira nodded, and he cleaned the tears with his thumb. He took her hand and put the fabric in it. He stood up and raised his hand, which she grabbed, and he pulled her up.

He helped her vault the fence with a hand on her arm and the other around her waist.

*You go hut and stay, okay?* He asked, smiling.

*Okay.* She smiled back, and he saw the small gap, but she covered her mouth as usual.

Cullen watched her going to their hut. She managed to knock some brooms, which were leaning against the wall, and when she bent to pick them up, one of them hit her head, and she sighed frustrated before organizing them again.

He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. She was more trouble than he had ever asked for, but he got used to having her around, well, he secretly liked having her around despite everything she represented.

The thought reminded him of Áed, and with a frown, he headed to Conn’s hut, only stopping to ask a healer to take a look at Moira.

I hope you liked.

Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

Next chapter

#cullen rutherford #avvar au #avvar cullen #moon hair & fire eyes #chapter 5 #wildfire #tw blood

[theangelicstoryteller]

Hey, I saw the commission from paragonraptors, what's going on there, why is Cousland about to deck Hawke?

For anyone that’s wondering, this is the commission in question that I gotfrom @paragonraptors

The short answer is that they don’t get along. Hawke is verygood at getting people to want to punch them, Cousland isn’t nearly as poisedas she would think, and Hawke is really good at provoking people. Beyond that, Hawke has a thing against most Wardens andeveryone’s always mad at Hawke.

Here’s the long answer:

A small note – all my Thedosian heroes are named Faylyn,because of idiotic reasons.

---

Faylyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, currently going by justLady Hawke at this fancy Orlesian shindig, clicked her tongue in annoyance asshe watched yet another Faylyn from across the crowd. This one had the fanciesttitle of the three she knew, herself included, being a queen and all. Thoughthe herald, which Faylyn glanced at over as she swirled hertasty-but-weak-as-piss whiskey in her glass, had a fancy title too. She didn’tknow what it was about Faylyns saving the world, but they seemed to be prettygood at it.

Faylyn lazily watched Queen Cousland as she took a long pulloff her whiskey. When the Inquisitor had invited her to this fancy party, shewas hoping, since it was in Orlais, that the pretty queen would stay inFerelden. No such luck, of course. Though Varric had told Faylyn that the crown had very good relations with theInquisition and had no real reason to turn it down, she had still hoped.

Now she had to socialize.

Though the problem, Faylyn knew, as she watched the queenpretending to drink her wine, wasn’t that she was a queen. People were peopleand having fancy headgear didn’t change that. Maker, her best friend wasVicount of her city and she still got blackout drunk with him. No, the factthat this Faylyn had a crown wasn’t the problem. The real problem was that shewas Gray Warden.

Though Faylyn knew the order made its redemption fightingwith the Inquisition, helping take down Corypheus and blah blah blah, but whatthey did at Adamant still hurt. Andraste’s flaming ass, but what they did at Kirkwall all those years ago still hurt.The only Wardens she ever met and that she actually liked was Stroud and herbrother. And Stroud nobly sacrificed himself for his order and the jury was outhalf the time with Carver. She specifically excluded Anders in that count.

Also with what happened at Weisshaupt. Faylyn didn’t like tothink about it much, but it just helped fuel her dislike, maybe even hatred, ofthe Wardens. Though Carver swore by them and they did look as if they were tryingto make amends with the world, the past couldn’t be forgotten. If anyone knewthat, it was her. And now two Wardens were playing royals on in her old home.

And then there was her, carrying the noble name of Faylyn,sharing it with two people who shook the world and were still doing so. TheHerald seemed fine when Faylyn met her at Skyhold (poor taste in men though.Cullen? Really?), she still reshaped the Chantry, helped chose a new Divine, anda whole lot of stuff. And the queen over there stopped a Blight before it leftone country, in under a year, while said country was in a civil war, and livedto tell the story of slaying an Archdemon. Thentook the thrown with a man she loved. And this Faylyn, the bird one, justwanted to get drunk and listen to one of Varric’s many bullshit stories. Tomost people, sharing a name and a similar role to these world shakers wouldintimidate or embarrass them. To this Faylyn, it annoyed her.

She glanced over as Lady Trevelyan (or was it LadyRutherford? Had those two tied the knot yet? Would she even take Cullen’sname?) made her way to her, the herald’s usual smile in place. Her mechanicalarm moved just like her real arm, swinging by her side as the Inquisitor easilymade her way through the masked nobles. Faylyn sighed slightly as she downedthe rest of her whiskey, yet again wishing it was stronger. Time to do thatsocializing.

Queen Faylyn Cousland of Ferelden hated Orlesians, but atleast she was good at politics. Alistair, Maker bless him, did not have a headfor diplomacy, though he hadn’t started any wars while she was away. He haddone an admirable job of opening negotiations with Orlais while she was gone,but she was glad he hadn’t agreed to anything. These second talks they were atwould give Faylyn a chance to test the waters on what Leliana had taught her ofThe Game and see if Empress Celine was serious about mending bridges withFerelden.

“I can’t believe that, after what happened the last time Celinethrew a party, that she still wantedto throw one to talk to us,” Alistair complained next to her. They both were ata small table, neither drinking their wines, though the bottle, and theinsufferable servant who had given it to them, swore it was of a very fine andexpensive vintage. “Though an assassination attempt would make the party more interesting,” he finished with a smirk.

Faylyn shook her head. “They’re Orlesians, dear,” shereminded him with a smile. “They never learn.”

He turned to smile at her. “You can say that again.” Hesighed dramatically, looking over at the gathered nobles with a frown. “Iswear, it’s like they’re testing me. I nearly walked out of the last onebecause of how long everything took and they’re doing it again. Wait, they’reOrlesians. They probably are testing me.”

Faylyn chuckled, placing her hand over his. “If they’re nottesting you, then me.”

He glanced at her with a smirk, moving his hand up to grabhers. “Well, they have no idea who they’re dealing with.”

“Of course, not, sweetheart,” she said with a smirk, hervoice turning to silk, like Leliana had taught her. “I’m the great Hero ofFerelden.”

With a smile, he gave her hand a squeeze. Though back home,they could be far more open with their affection, this was as much as theydared in the Orlesian court. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye,she looked to another Faylyn in the room, Alistair following her gaze. Thisone, the Inquisitor, was having a short meeting, by the looks of it, with herdiplomatic advisor. The Antivan woman, Josephine Montilyet, Faylyn thoughtthat’s what Alistair called her, was talking quickly to the Inquisitor, who wasmotioning with her hands. One of which a striking piece of machinery, perfectlymimicking her lost hand. And though she saw Alistair move to glance at theChampion, Faylyn instead pretended to sip her wine. Alistair quickly looked toher as he saw her take the wineglass, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s been watching me since I got here,” Faylyn saideasily, putting down her undrunk wine. “I’m not about to let her know I know.”

Alistair shook his head, also grabbing his wine andpretending to drink it. “How Orlesian of you, my dear.”

Faylyn chuckled again as she saw Inquisitor Trevelyan makeher way to the Champion. She smiled at Alistair one more time before abandoninghim and her wine to walk to the balcony Trevelyan had asked her to meet themin. She did not wear a crown this day. That was for the play of it, thedramatics that The Game and Orlais demanded. Today was for business, somethingshe was more accustom to. But she didn’t need a crown to command the crowd asshe walked with the poise only a queen could carry. And the crowded noblesparted for her. Though none would bow to a backwater queen, the power thatseemed to radiate off of Queen Faylyn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, was enough.

Back straight, head high, Faylyn stepped out into thesunshine of the outer balcony. Once there, her back to the crowd, she let out asmall sigh. It was too warm in Orlais. Her thin summer dress was still toothick for the winters of Halamshiral, especially in the warm palace. It wascolder out here, thank the Maker. She didn’t enjoy the chill, however, turningslightly to watch Lady Hawke and Lady Trevelyan out of the corner of her eye.

The Champion moved with a controlled grace that belied herlarge form. She was built like a warrior – tall with a wide frame, The Championwould never be called slender by any stretch of the imagination, other thanperhaps a qunari’s – but moved with a finesse that reminded Faylyn of her own.And the way that Lady Trevelyan walked. Rogues, all three of them, she thought,looking back to the gardens. How interesting. It seems Zevran wouldn’t beneeded to liven things up after all.

Faylyn Trevelyan, Herald, Inquisitor, and all that, easilymade her way through the crowd. Hawke made it easy, since she stood nearly halfa head at least above all the other nobles around her. She didn’t know whatthey fed her in Kirkwall, but the last people she met that were this stout werethe Avaar. And that bulk she was pretty sure was supplemented in furs.

What were the odds that three of the most influential peoplein southern Thedas would all share a name? Faylyn guessed that the Maker justwanted to be easily able to pick out who He wanted to do great things. Even now,Faylyn was hoping that someone in Tevinter would have the name so she could geta good guess on who would help her in the coming fight against Solas.

But those were thoughts for another time. Right now, Faylynwas excited to introduce Queen Cousland and Champion Hawke to one another. Ifnegotiations went well between Orlais and Ferelden, Kirkwall would be animportant port stop between Denerim and Val Royeaux. Faylyn was eager to seethe intermingling of the three cultures, starting with the Ferelden’s muchloved queen and Kirkwall’s most notorious champion.

Said champion looked bored as Faylyn walked through thebalcony doors. Already there, looking over at the winter palace gardens, wasQueen Cousland. She turned when she heard them cross the threshold, smilingaloofly. Behind Faylyn, very quietly, Hawke gave a short huff. She soundedannoyed, which immediately set her on diplomatic edge. Josephine had said thatthese two had never met, except once at the feast celebrating when Hawke becameChampion. Leliana confirmed it and said that the two only had a shortconversation. Nothing indicated that Hawke would dislike Queen Cousland.

Using her best Wicked Grace face, she smiled at theChampion, stepping aside to introduce them. Hawke did look annoyed as she gavea level gaze to the queen. “Lady Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,” she saidcheerfully, holding a hand out to the monarch, “allow me to introduce you QueenCousland of Ferelden. Your Majesty,” she turned back to Queen Cousland, whoonly had a polite smile on her face, giving away nothing. She gave the properFerelden bow, which was a half salute, crossing her arms across her chest whilebowing her head.

Queen Cousland smiled a little deeper, seeming to gestureFaylyn away. “Oh, none of that, Your Worship. There’s no need to be so formal.”She looked up at the larger woman. “A pleasure, Champion,” she said with a dipof her had. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hasn’t everyone?” the Champion asked flippantly. She foldedher hands behind her back, but she still managed to give off an uncaringposture. Her eyes wandered over to the gardens behind Queen Cousland. “I’m sureall of Thedas has read Varric’s book about me by now,” she said in a way thatwasn’t exactly mean, but it was far from friendly.

Faylyn wanted to smack her. She was being rude to a queen.  Queen Cousland was much less formal than Empress Celine, but the Champion wasbordering on disrespectful. Faylyn raised her eyebrows at the Champion, but kepther smile up, hoping her silent reprimand wasn’t lost on Hawke, but unnoticedto the queen. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending, neither of them werelooking at her. Faylyn tried to read the queen as she leaned into Hawke’s lineof sight.

“True, I did read Varric’s infamous book,” she said with asmile. But there was something sharp about it, threatening, in the veryundercurrent of her tone and behind her smile. Almost like she had pulled out aknife rather than a smile. “But I’m far more interested in the truth. I doubtyou’re as much as a myth as Lord Varric would have the world believe.”

Hawke’s gaze lazily looked back to the queen. But there wasa shift in her posture. She wasn’t looking atthe queen so much as using her massive height and build to look down at the queen. Faylyn’s smiledropped as she read the hostility that was suddenly blooming between the women.

Faylyn Hawke’s eyes were more focused than her expressionled on as she moved her hands to her hips. A tiny smirk played at the edge of herlips as she read the smile on the queen’s face. It was downright dagger like.Reminded her of the smiles the bards gave. Funny, that a Ferelden noble wouldknow an Orlesian trick. What else did she know? “Oh, I don’t know; your ownstory seems pretty unbelievable. Do you really think I’m the mythical one, oh great warden that slew an archdemon? Thenleft to go rule a kingdom?”

Her smirk was now half pronounced as she watched one of Cousland’seyebrows raise. Nothing, huh? Well, she was just getting started. She sort ofnoticed a look the Inquisitor gave her, but she ignored her. She was bored andprobably actually a little tipsy, despite the weakness of the whiskey. Well,she did drink an entire bottle and a half.

“True, I suppose,” the queen said with grace, gently foldingher hands in front of her. She seemed undaunted. “I suppose, in light of mystory, yours seems far more probable. Though you did start the Mage-TemplarRebellion.”

No she didn’t. Anders was the idiot who blew up the Chantry.Fiona, even later in the middle of nowhere Orlais, was the one that cast thevote. Anders, another damn crazy Warden. Thinking of him made her frown. Sheshrugged, looking away, up at the building around her, folding her hands behindher back again. “I just happened to be in Kirkwall, really. Not like you,” shesaid lazily again, moving her gaze back to the short queen, her expressionneutral again. “I’d say you had the opposite problem at Ostagar.”

Another Warden failure, as far as Hawke was concerned.Though in Cousland’s defense, Logain did quit the field and took with him mostof the army. But it did the trick that Faylyn was looking for. A humanreaction. She got it out of both the Inquisitor and the queen, as both theirsmiles dropped, something close to anger furrowing Cousland’s brow and makingTrevelyan look at her sharply. But it proved something to Faylyn she alwayswanted to be assured of whenever dealing with Wardens. That they rememberedthat they were mortal.

She was there, at Ostagar. That was the only concussion thatQueen Faylyn could come to. The Champion wasthere, and it sounded dangerously close to an accusation on what happened thatday so, so many years ago. Faylyn felt her posture go stiff, her hands clenchas she looked into Hawke’s eyes. Her face seemed disinterested, but there wassomething there behind her eyes. Faylyn’s anger cooled to icy rage as sheleveled her own gaze at Hawke. Ostagar was always a painful subject, even ifthe mess was both King Cailan and Logain’s fault, at least one person every fewmonths pointed the blame at the Wardens.

Faylyn didn’t suffer it then and she wouldn’t suffer it now.

“At least I was trying to help and not letting a city burnaround me, only helping when it was convenient to me,” she said coolly,watching Hawke carefully. “I’m sure you were just going to the market when thequnari attacked.”

Hawke’s smirk returned, which deepened Faylyn’s rage. Thiswoman was toying with her. Her. TheQueen and Hero of Ferelden. A champion who’s best known accomplishment was failing and running from the city she once protected as its Circle fell. Her coldand sharp smile returned. She felt a shift inside her from queen to Warden; andshe was still a Warden. She didn’t deserve this treatment.

This was bad. Inquisitor Faylyn felt her heart rate spike asshe watched the two exchanging verbal blows. This was really bad. The two justset each other off, in the worst way possible. Of course, Faylyn had heard thatthe Champion was sarcastic and tactless, but she was being somewhat aggressiveto the queen. It wasn’t until Hawke mentioned Ostagar that it hit her. Ofcourse, Queen Cousland was a Warden before she was queen. And Hawke never likedthe Wardens. It had been so long since the queen had done anything for thewardens, Faylyn had hoped that Hawke wouldn’t have cared she was once part ofthe order. Or at least gave them credit for the work they had done for Thedasover the recent years. Apparently, it was too much to hope for.

“Come now, here’s no need for that,” Faylyn said sweetly,gently trying to put herself between the two. Both of their expressions weredangerous; a sharp smirk on the champion, a sharp glare on the queen. Sharplike knives being pulled in a fight. The fact that both were ten years hersenior didn’t mean anything to Faylyn. She was sure that they were both verycapable.

This was the last thing that Faylyn wanted.

Champion Faylyn could see it, written in the cute queen’seyes. She got her. Right there. Crawled right under her skin. Faylyn was goodat that. She practiced with Isabela and Varric all the time. She completelyignored Trevelyan, her smirk deepening as she leaned closer to the queen. Herinsult was weak, overdone, blunt, and wrung out. It was time to show her what apro could do.

“At least I helped when the city started to fall,” she saidsweetly. “Not like you. Not like when your golden boy Stroud came through andcalled qunari murdering people in the streets a political matter.”

She really had liked Stroud, but she had also never gottenover what he said to her all those years ago. The wardens do not interfere with political matters, he had said.Or something close enough. Because people being senselessly slaughtered wasconsidered a political matter. But the blow didn’t do much against the queen.Good thing she wasn’t finished yet.

“Biggest lie I think you’ve ever told, which is sayingsomething, huh? Your Majesty?” Shewas proud of herself for making the honorific sound like an insult. She saw hotanger flash through the queens’ eyes, panic in Trevelyan’s posture. She stillwasn’t done. “But your order has enough secrets to put the whole Orlesian courtto shame, eh? Like saying you’re morally above the world when you kill own tofuel blood soaked demon summoning and killed the griffins in your own twistedrituals. But that’s the right kind ofkilling, right?”

More anger, followed with pain and confusion, shifted in thequeen’s eyes. Oh, so the great Hero of Ferelden didn’t know about the griffins?Well this was the perfect way to tell her. Hawke felt just a little bit ofsatisfaction in that.

“Please, enough,” the Inquisitor said, stepping between themboth, putting her hands out to her sides. She was so short, shorter than eventhe little queen. Not by much, but everyone was short to a Hawke. Her voice wasboth pleading and authoritative. But it fell on two sets of deaf ears.

“And what of you, Champion?”Cousland demanded back. Her voice was cold, not loud, but her posture spokevolumes. She threw the title at her with even more venom that Faylyn had thrownthe honorific. “I’m surprised that you even decided to return to that stain ofcity that crowned you. Seeing as you helped a madman tear it apart and bloodmages escape the city.”

A face, several, ones she didn’t like to think about.

You tore Kirkwallapart and started the rebellion! Stroud, trapped in the Fade, one of thelast things he said to her.

Meredith wants bloodmagic, then I will give it to her! Orsino, desperate to escape, knew of theone who killed her mother.

There is no going back…Anders, lost to Vengeance, the abomination Fenris warned her about. She wantedto believe him…

But it seemed that she had underestimated her foe. The Queenwasn’t done either.

“Then, after destroying it, you left it, abandoning yourpeople to the demons and Templars still left in it.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’msure your mage siblings fared well against their wrath. Or did you abandon themto save your own skin like you did Fenris?”

How dare she?! Shewanted to bring Fenris into this? Fine. Then it was a no-pulled-punches kind offight. Her anger rose in her, blooming like a bloody flower covered in barbs.“You wanna talk about leaving to save your own skin? Where were you when thesky had a hole in it? You left your country, your husband, and your baby children to save yourself, leaving them to the demonsthe sky spit out.”

She saw it. Something snapped inside of the queen. Somethingwas close to snapping in her. Something was bending in Trevelyan. “Please,enough!” She cried out, putting her mechanical hand out to Cousland. Wrongchoice. Hawke could snap both of these little twigs, but the metal of Trevelyan’sarm might have been a challenge.

Cousland came at her, her arm going in for the punch. Faylyncrouched low, hands outstretched, getting ready. “Come on then!” A barroombrawl was exactly what she needed. But the good Inquisitor was getting in theway, her mechanical arm grabbing Cousland.

“Please, stop!” She cried, one hand raised to Faylyn, hermetal grip tightening on Cousland’s arm.

Neither of them paid her any attention.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #post trespasser #warden cousland #queen cousland #inquisitor trevelyan #hawke #femhawke #faylyn cousland #faylyn hawke #faylyn trevelyan #one day I'll write the whole story about these three #one day #theanimangagirl #letters to the angel

[sundogsandrainbows]

Do you have any distinct "headcanons" (your OC, your canon lol) for your Wardens? Like, what makes them distinct? I really love what I know of your Mahariel, and I'm wondering if you have any others that you've developed as much! ^^ -A Gay Bloodmage ♡

Lenya occupies 99% of my creative writing headspace, so there is not really much room for other characters or wardens beside her right now, ahem xD Which has the unfortunate effect that I don’t talk about them as much as I probably should.

I do have a Brosca, who I would call my main Warden aside of Lenya. Or second Warden, for that matter. Saria is pretty much an accidental byproduct of me playing around in the character creator and gosh, how could I not play this cutie then:

HC/random facts: (oh boy, this got long)

Saria is a shield and sword warrior, mainly because she’d looted a shield from a corpse someday and found out how much fun it is to bash people in the head (or, if they are much larger than her, into their dicks/respective squishy bits) with it.

Alistair is fucking terrified every time he sees her fight, because it is such a stark contrast to her otherwise shy and rather insecure persona.

Fighting is cathartic to her, because it means (re)acting rather than having to think, which she does all too much. About everything. She is very self-conscious.

Speaking of which, her insecurity, shyness and questioning of self-worth stems from a life of abuse through her alcoholic mother, who made her feel unwanted whenever possible.  

Rica was the one who gave her the name Saria, since their mother only called her mockingly “duster”and never bothered to name her properly.

Rica is also the one who raised her, showed her love and protected her from their mother’s aggression/frustration whenever possible.

Thus her sister means everything to her. She is also the reason why she joined the carta, despite her struggling with this line of work. Saria hates it, but knows as duster there is little choice other than follow orders and be a carta thug.

Leske makes it easier. At least a bit. They had an one time thing/tumble, but stone it was weird and no, never again. They agreed to stay friends and partner in crime, ofc.

If you threaten Rica you are dead, no matter who or how tall you are. Bye bye. Never threaten her friends either, unless you like being smashed to a pulp. 

She had a few casual flings with women and men. Rarely, but it happened. 

Duncan is the coolest, kindest human she’d ever met. Also the first, but hey, that doesn’t count right? He immediately treated her like a person, with respect. Unlike the rest of Orzammar

She had a total Eowyn “I’m no man” moment in the proving arena.

Saria can’t understand why Duncan wanted to recruit her, but holy nugshit yes yes yes, she agreed before he could change his mind.Though even then she couldn’t leave without making sure that Rica would be okay.

First time she stepped outside was a disaster. She saw the big gaping hole above, clung to the next stone she saw and refused to let go. Duncan needed an hour to convince her that it was save. 

After walking a few steps she became wobbly and queasy, and emptied the content of her stomach into the next brush. Duncan was very patient with her, which she appreciated a lot. Even more that he endured how she clung to his leg for half the journey to Ostagar. 

Water from above? Why? How? This shit is terrifying. Even more so thunderstorms. Snow is awesome, though. Mainly because she can form it into round projectiles and throw at somebody. 

Flowers and herbs are weird. Why are there so many different ones? And why is Morrigan yelling at her not to eat them? What purpose have they then?

Saria can never remember the many names and looks of animals Alistair and Leliana explained to her, and thus calls almost every animal a“nug.” Or if they are bigger “bronto.” She learns it later on, tho.

She managed to convince Shale to give her piggyback rides. The golem has a strict 1 gem=1 ride rule, however. Too bad that Saria seems to stumble over gems EVERYWHERE xD

She is sort of head over heels for Alistair? Like he is so fucking huge, a giant basically, but he is friendly and patient and smiles as she asks all the things about the Wardens?

After Ostagar, they both bond over their shared grief about Duncan.

Her crush on Alistair solidifies as well during that time, but she never acts upon it. He is so pretty and tall and when he tells her that he is a human prince in Redcliffe, because ofc he is, it is obvious that he will never love her.

Leliana’s forehead is constantly reddened from all the facepalming she does, because these two are hunting from one misunderstanding to the next, and are thick as bricks regarding their attraction to each other. While it is obvious to everyone else of course.

After Redcliffe, Alistair and Saria hit a new low, after he yells at her for letting Isolde sacrifice herself. So 10000% certain she butchered any chance with him and pissed and shocked he’d yelled at her like her mother always did, she takes Zevran up on his offer for a “massage”. Ironic twist: She is so tense that Zevran focuses on the massage alone, because brasca my dear warden you needed that.

Vanishing into Zev’s tent naturally made matters only worse between Alistair and Saria. Both are pouting and avoiding each other for days afterwards.

Save Leliana’s forehead Dragon 9:30

Zev is unsure whether to help or make another move, but is amused about their…complete lack of understanding romantic relationships. Not that he is the one to talk, still, it makes long evenings spent at the camp fire much more interesting. 

Morrigan and her never get along well, mainly because she feels defensive/protective of Alistair and dislikes how she is always insulting him. They hit off much later in Orzammar, after Morrigan met Saria’s mother. They basically bond over their abusive parents. Which is not the best, most positive thing to bond over, but hey it works for them.

She is fearful to return to Orzammar, knowing what is waiting for her there. It takes a lot of pep-talk of Leliana and Zevran to go there at all.

Seeing her sister again months later, and her doing so well for herself let her forget about her anxiety quickly. Naturally she is all for supporting Bhelen. 

She is an aunt, gosh. She loves the little boy so much. 

Then Leske happens and everything falls apart again. Seeing how devastated she is after she’d to kill her best friend, Alistair throws aside his stupid grudge/jealousy and consoles her. 

Afterwards, they talk things out, and he confesses his feelings for her and gives her The Rose™.

Naturally Saria does not know what to do with this, but gosh he called her a rare and beautiful thing, when she thought she would never escape dust town, even after becoming a Warden. So she might keep that herb…flower thing instead of eating it. After all, she doesn’t need Morrigan to yell at her again, after they get along now. 

They kiss and spend the rest of the day cuddling. Somewhere in Orzammar, Leliana dances a happy dance. 

She hates the Deep Roads. But then again, everyone does.

Bhelen is crowned king and her sister is his mistress. Wow, cool. And with Alistair being a prince and heir to the throne she could have that too :)

Due to her alcoholic mother Saria never touches any drinks. Also out of fear to become like her then. Naturally her and Oghren don’t get along well. She tries to help him in hiding his stash, which goes over just as well as you imagine it to go. Their relationship is very distanced, tho she appreciates his aid in battles. Beyond that, she lets the others handle him.

Being caught between fearful and fascinated by magic, she nearly recruits the templar in the circle quest, until the passionate plea of Zevran changes her mind and she save the mages in last minute.

Wynne becomes the group mom and is practically/somewhat the mother Saria never had.

Alistair’s and Saria’s first time is after the circle quest, in the inn. Saria had made moves before, quite enthusiastically even, but Alistair asked her to still wait a bit, since he wasn’t ready.

Loving Alistair is terrifying and beautiful alike. Saria had always conflated love with sex, so learning that she is worthy of love and even is loved in such an open, genuine way by him, is a whole different experience than the quick tumbles before. 

They are that gross lovey-dovey doe-eyed couple who can’t get enough of each other and make Morrigan gag while Leliana (and also Zev, bc no hard feelings here) cheers them on xD

Saria never hardens Alistair (well she does, quite often in fact, but just in another way…ahem) since after visiting his sister the last thing she would say is “everyone is out for themselves. You better learn that.” She consoles him and they declare their love for each other…again. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear Morrigan gagging.

She breaks the curse and saves both, the elves and humans turned werewolves. Forests are weird, especially this one. Saria is happy when they are able to leave there again. 

After meeting Arl assho…Eamon awake and seeing how he treats Alistair like a pawn despite him protesting against it, very loudly and often, Saria quickly changes her mind on making Alistair king. He should be free to choose his life and not be bound to the family and blood that never even acknowledged him and treated him like nugshit. (If they weren’t all dead already, Saria would smash them into a pulp for that)

She is not a huuuge fan of Anora, mildly put, simply because she reminds her too much on the dwarven nobles at Orzammar. But, as Alistair puts it, better her than him. 

She hates human politics and is glad when the landsmeet is finally over and Queen Anora gives them the much needed troops for the last push.

Alistair is so happy to NOT be king that he visits Saria in her room afterwards and declares once again his undying devotion to her and thanks her…with sex. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

The Dark Ritual is as always an ugly affair and nearly doesn’t happen. But, like Lenya, she let him choose whether or not to go through with it. And Alistair does, bc, like Lenya, he doesn’t want her to die.

Saria is the one killing the archdemon and ending the Blight. Alistair and her run off to rebuild the Wardens together. After putting up a memorial for Duncan in Highever and having many weeks off from darkspawn slaying, ofc.

Zev and Leliana stay around in Amaranthine, helping to run things. At least until the Crows come knocking again and threaten Saria once more. Then Zev leaves to “clean up their ranks” but always returns to those he calls his “true friends.”  

#daughter of war #saria brosca #brosca #dragon age #alistair theirin #alistair/brosca #my other oc's #I also have a #cousland #evie cousland #to be exact #tho #this got too long #to fit her in here #so if you wanna know more about her #lemme know

[silhouetteofagirl]

Quandary (from a Study in Synonyms)

Just as a general headcanon, I feel like dwarves use both tattoos and piercings as markers. But I'm very much of the opinion that piercings are a very class based thing and that casteless get theirs by taking them from upper castes (that or being a noble hunter and getting them to be alluring. Kinda like their whole golden teeth thing.)

Just as a general content warning: hella body piercings and supposed-to-be-but-not-quite-platonic touching of said piercings. Also pining, lots of pining.

Read on AO3

The dust has mostly settled after the siege, the dead have been buried, and the worst of the rubble has been cleared.  Still, their days are busy between the repairs, her duties as Warden-Commander, and the general mayhem left after the fight.  Her province had rallied behind her, as weird as it was to think she has a province to rally behind her, so there is no shortage of people willing to help out in exchange for a warm meal. But still, it is nice to find a quiet moment on a quiet night to just be Sigyn and not Warden-Commander or Arlessa.  So she is pleased to find the time sit with Sigrun on the roof of a tower on such a clear night.  

She isn’t entirely sure if the path she had found was supposed to be used or was merely a forgotten, cramped hallway leading to nowhere particularly useful, but it had led her to the roof which allowed for privacy.  Between the two of them, they have gotten through most of a bottle of mead that had been left alone by Oghren.  The alcohol sits inside her, but for once it feels warm instead of feeling like a dead weight.

“So, wait, explain this to me again,” Sigrun is saying as she leans close so they have a similar line of sight.  “Those six stars are supposed to represent a sword?”

“Of mercy, I believe.  It’s called Judas.  Jadeux? Something like that,” Sigyn replies, glancing at Sigrun.  The pale moonlight makes Sigrun look much paler than usual, though she is starting to develop a very light tan and, much to Sigyn’s delight, a few freckles.

“But why?” Sigrun asks.

“No idea, just something they give meaning to.” Sigyn shrugs and takes another swing of the mead.  “Why do brands mean what they do? Someone put meaning into our marks.”

“The surface really changed you, didn’t it?” Sigrun’s face looks thoughtful.

“Sunshine, dogs, seasons? How could it not?” Sigrun gestures for the bottle.

She nods her thanks when Sigyn passes it.  “Not that, although I am curious about this winter thing, but being a duster, being casteless, and then coming to the surface.  That changed you.”

“Perhaps, but how could it not?” Sigyn asks. 

“It all puts it in perspective.  My ancestors may have done some wrong, but these marks are meaningless to humans and elves.  And now I’m a warrior caste, even though my mark will always state otherwise.  It makes it hard to believe we are our brands.”

“I suppose that makes sense.  But if there is nothing wrong with being a duster on the surface, why not be proud of our collective heritage?”

Sigyn scoffs, “I have some pride; I keep my trophies.”

Sigrun shakes her head and says before taking a sip, “What? You have trophies?”

“Oh.” Sigyn pauses, “I guess I haven’t been wearing them out.”

“See what I’m saying?” Sigrun gestures as she hands the bottle back to her.  “If you are a duster, why not be proud of it here? Where no one truly knows what they mean?”

“Because all of them would intimidate the tall folk.” Sigyn brings the bottle to her lips.

“Yes!” she says brightly; she’s so bright it almost hurts at times.  “And then when they learn what they mean, let them be really scared.”

“I have a lot.” Sigyn says, leaning forward to rest her head on a fist.

“And I would love to see you wear all of them,” she says softly, leaning into her space.

Sigyn tries to ignore the way her heart flutters at the admittance.  She stands before she can second guess herself and offers a hand to Sigrun to help her to her feet.  “All right, come with me.  But, I did warn you.”

They walk quickly down the tight set of stairs that lead them to the living quarters.  There are a few places where there are holes in the walls from the attack, although most are covered in canvas.  Thankfully the weather is fair enough that the holes offer no real inconvenience to anyone unless they happen to sleep walk.  But it is late enough that the halls are fairly empty; though they come across Anders at one point.  He’s carrying a purring Ser Pounce-A-Lot in his arms and he gives them a knowing look.  They exchange a few pleasantries before Sigrun kisses Ser Pounce-A-Lot and then dramatically kisses Anders’ hand when he pouts comically.  Then they continue on their way.

“Woah, you weren't kidding about the size of this room.” Sigrun says in awe when they enter Sigyn’s chambers.

“Yes.” Sigyn frowns, “I hate it.”

“Why?” Sigrun asks as she spins around slowly, taking in the room.  Half of it is more of an office space, lined with bookshelves with a large desk covered with neat stacks of untouched papers that faces a fireplace that serves as a divider of the two spaces.  In front of each of the hearths are sets of plush chairs and the other side of the room holds a large bed, a few chests, a small mirror.  “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s too big for just me.” She leads Sigrun past the fireplace.

“Is that why you have so many pillows?” she asks in a teasing tone.

“I spent the last year with my mabari for all of it and Alistair for most of it.  Rica and I shared a bed— it feels too big.” She clears her throat and goes to one of the chests.  “Anyway, this wasn't what we were here for.”

“Right! Let me see them!” Sigyn chuckles at her enthusiasm as she pulls out a small pouch from the chest.  Sigrun has perched on the bed and looks excited.  Her back is to the fire, so her tattoos almost look sinister, yet Sigyn finds herself having to swallow to try to push her heart back from where it has tried to leap.  She crosses to the bed and dumps out the contents of the bag onto the bed spread, the amalgamation of jewelry creating a small pile.  Sigrun lets out an impressed breath.  “You must have pissed off a lot of people.”

“You could say that.” She chuckles.  She goes to the wall and unhooks the small mirror before returning to the bed.  She sits across from her and waits as Sigrun looks over each piece of jewelry.

Then Sigrun looks up and smiles, “Well, don’t tease! Put them in!” She holds out a plain gold hoop.

Sigyn frowns, “It’s—” she searches for words but can’t come up with any,

“I want to see how beautiful you are with every victory you have won worn proudly,” Sigrun says earnestly and Sigyn can only nod silently and take the hoop.  She inclines her head to the mirror and Sigrun lets out a quiet ‘oh!’ and holds it up for her.

She opens the ring and slips it over her lip.  It’s one of Alistair’s favorite for a variety of reasons, “Taken from a silent sister, my second time in the proving”.  Sigyn has to cross eyes to see exactly where the ring was supposed to go.  Sigrun chuckles and she grants that she must look a bit silly.  But after a few moments, it slides in and she twists it through.

She picks up a stud and a hoop made of silver that have matching onyx accents.  “Twins, same proving, counted as one opponent, I still took both.”  Sigrun moves the mirror so she can slip the stud in through her ear.  The nose ring takes a bit longer and she has to turn at one point to sneeze because it tickles.

“How did these not close? I’ve never seen you wear them,” Sigrun asks as Sigyn fiddles to close the ring.

“I wear them.  Not all at once and not out often.” There is a soft click and she smiles triumphantly.  The silver bar goes across the shell of her ear, a large bronze hoop goes through the hole in her conch and hugs her helix,  a series of small gold rings go down the helix of her other ear, two small curved bars go under her eyebrow so just the ends stick out, and finally she relaxes her face as she slips a gold bar through her bridge.  With each one, she tells a bit of its history and Sigrun chuckles in delight when she hears about the delicate hanging earring.  “I rarely wear this one, but I actually took it off a human.”

“That must have been a shock to them.” she says and Sigyn just smiles wickedly.  Finally, there is nothing but a long curved silver bar that looks similar to the two bars she has in her eyebrow.  “Where—?” She starts to ask, but the question gets caught in her throat as Sigyn starts to pull her shirt over her head.

“Is this alright? You did say you wanted to— I'm sorry.”

Sigyn lowers her shirt, but Sigrun shakes her head vigorously, “No! I’m okay, please continue.”

Worn shirt and warm chest bindings fall to a pile on the floor next to the bed.  There is a quiet moment that passes as they sit and just look at each other.  Sigyn’s brown skin is laid bare between them in the firelight, a bar through each nipple.  Then Sigyn glances down to pick up the curved rod, removes the gem from one end, and slowly presses into the valley between her breasts.  She winces and has to try a few times, but finally, the length of it sits underneath her skin so only the decorative ends rest above.

“Beautiful.” Sigrun murmurs, eyes traveling over her chest and up to her face.  Sigyn flushes but straightens her back.  Sigrun lifts a hand and pauses, “May I?”

She nods and Sigrun traces over the bar between her breasts, up her neck to run a hand along the shell of her ear, across her forehead, pausing at each eyebrow piercing and tapping her bridge, down the other to finally trace from her bridge, down her nose to rest warm fingers on her lips.  Sigyn shivers despite the warmth of the room as the world stills.  The flickering of the fire casts Sigrun’s face in shadow and she cannot tell what Sigrun is feeling, but Sigyn silently damns her own body as it continues to flush.  The moment hangs between them and her heart skips a beat.

Sigrun removes her hand as if she had been burned and Sigyn shakes her head to clear it.  “I should go,” Sigrun stammers as she scrambles to get off the bed.  Sigyn nods a bit too vigorously.

“It’s late.” She agrees as she slips off the bed to grab her shirt to hastily put it back on.

“Thanks for showing me.” Sigrun stumbles over her words as she makes her way to the door.  Sigyn merely nods, not trusting her words.  “Have a good night, Commander.” While normally her use of this title is a friendly jab, this time it hits Sigyn like a wall.

“You too,” she says, words feeling weak.  The door clicks behind the other dwarf and she is left alone.  Sigyn swallows a few times before she goes to remove her jewelry.  She only manages to remove the dangling earring before she has to stop.  There’s a lump in her throat that won’t go away.  She swallows again.  She wants.

She wants.

Sigyn looks at her too large room, her too large bed, and she wants and she misses.  She wipes away a tear, then two, then three, until she choking on her sobs.

She wants and she misses.  She misses her dog trying to crush her and take over the bed.  She misses Alistair’s soft snores and quiet murmurs in his sleep.  She misses waking up sweating because she’s too warm from being sandwiched between the two.  She wants them back to make her feel less small and make this room feel less suffocating.  She wants them.

But she also wants her.  Wants to trace every line of her tattoos.  Wants to make dwarven curses and blessings fall from her lips.  Wants to make her blush just as badly as she makes her blush.

Sigyn wants and misses and wants and cries.

#brosca #sigrun #sigrun x warden #sigrun x brosca #warden brosca #I am still playing catch up #I've written a good deal recently #also like if you've read the rest of the series brosca is in a committed relationship with alistair #but that isn't the focus of this fic