#firjii's fanfic

[firjii]

DAI fanfic: “Brittle Eyes, Brittle Dreams” - part 1

SFW, minor brief language

Ace Solavellan

Words: 2,458

I originally wanted to wait until this was finished because it's not meant to be a book-length thing, but IMO it’s getting too long to be a one-shot item at this point. Any future portions I post beyond this will actually be part of the same extended scene (my writing style just doesn’t have fast pacing).

Angsty/gritty. Set after JoH but before the Temple of Mythal. A mage Lavellan in a state of shock returns to Skyhold after a tough mission. She is straining under crippling self-doubt and a colorful past.

She didn’t waver as Skyhold’s gates opened. Her chin was staunch and stalwart. Her eyes shone, but so did every other soldier’s against the stiff winds. Her hands were quiet fists in bulky gloves, clenched to conserve their warmth as much as to keep them from shaking. One huddled mass looked much the same as another to a tower guard. It was nothing noteworthy. It was nothing strange.

Her shoulders were hunched, as ever, but anyone glancing at her wouldn’t have seen the convulsions. They were disguised too well. She had borrowed another soldier’s armor that very morning, knowing that Inquisition scouts were so prodigious at clearing the mountain paths that she wouldn’t need the best of armor for the final leg of the journey. The set she’d chosen was two sizes too large and made of thick plate, nothing at all like the delicate scales of her favored equipment. The extra metal set a chill in her core, but it almost completely concealed her shaking – and, despite its extra weight, it was stiff enough to keep her standing upright, a proposal which would have otherwise proven challenging.

In the main courtyard, sentries coming and going from watches or missions observed the usual courtesies as she passed by, but she hardly acknowledged them. No matter. Every able body who had managed to return with her was in the same general state of dumbfounded weariness. As she shuffled through the great hall, the lingering smells of a hearty supper only served to turn her stomach further. Each crackle of each inviting hearth and torch only made her twitch and flinch on this night. The vibrant hues cast by the flames did little to brighten her ashen face. Her heavy plate boots – also borrowed, though for the purely practical reason of support for a sprained ankle – imposed a grim, echoing patter through the hall.

She abandoned the idea of scaling her private stairwell in armor when her foot buckled after just three steps. She tugged her gloves off with her teeth, which only made her gums ache when she accidentally bit down on metal instead of leather. Her fingers shakily plucked at straps on the boots, which she heaved against the wall with a clatter when she was finally free of them. The process to remove the remainder of the armor was similarly lengthy. Her face was flushed by the time she completed the ritual. Her nose reddened. She sat in silence, momentarily satisfied that she had at least found a solitary corner to retreat to.

She stayed fixed in place for an hour. Finally craving her quarters and a more hospitable material than ancient stones to lean her head against, she managed to scale an entire flight of stairs before pausing again. She struggled on as far as the forgotten Red Templar banner, the one whose presence utterly baffled everyone in Skyhold, including her. She watched it flutter slightly in an invisible draft, transfixed by the color otherwise absent in the passageway.

Her ankle actively throbbed. She sat again and sobbed, but it gave way to something else when her throat was raw enough.

She slept.

                                               * * *

“There must be easier ways to bring discomfort on yourself.”

She jerked awake and reflexively gasped at the sound of a voice – any voice. She drew a few chaotically rapid breaths before she fully processed the face before her. “Who told you where I was?” she rumbled.

Solas kept a neutral look, though the light in his eyes seemed to shift to something still and careful. “No willing person would choose such a place for sleep without a reason.”

She blinked, slow to realize both the apparent passage of time and her place within it. “And what about you? It’s an ungodly hour for anyone but a bandit.”

He moved his gaze down to his feet as he plucked his way up the steps. “My experiences have shown me that sleep and rest are two very different things.” He carefully sat down opposite her. “No warrior easily finds either after a skirmish, short of complete exhaustion.”

His bright eyes were a mismatch to his serene face. His relaxed sitting posture contradicted his perfectly-squared shoulders, ever assertive. She observed the unlikely combination for a moment. “Even exhaustion can keep you awake if you’re tired enough.”

He watched her stiffly shift against the wall. “You were wounded.”

“Everyone was.” She gestured weakly to her face, to dozens of glancing nicks along her jawbone and a mild burn on an ear. “It’s not bad. Most saw worse.”

“And your ankle?”

She glanced down, slightly sheepish. She shook her head. “I was stupid. I tripped and fell. I wasn’t used to the new stave. The weighting’s wrong.”

“Staying in a cold corner like this one will only worsen an injury.”

She drew a heavy breath. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse. They already did what they could.”

He watched her amicably for a moment. “With your permission – I could do more.”

“No. It’s alright.” She cringed away. “Don’t.”

His eyes flashed. “Do you enjoy letting something blind your judgment?”

She shrugged. “It’s easy to endure pains you can prove.”

“I doubt that the poor in Kirkwall or slaves in Tevinter would say the same.”

She ran a distracted hand through her sweat-dulled hair. “We’re all slaves to something.”

His forehead constricted a fraction, though she didn’t see it. “I know. Let me break those chains.”

“It’s not about my damned foot,” she huffed. Her voice held a strangled quality.

“Then let me remedy it so you might focus on your true problems.”

She held her head as she propped her elbows on her knees. “Alright,” she finally muttered. She straightened. “Fine.”

He removed both layers of her third-hand socks and brushed off the dirt and grime that had somehow snuck into the impenetrable-looking plate boots. He peered at the swelling at length, analyzing each vein and tendon. She cast her gaze away determinedly. “You’re not as hurried as the field surgeons. Were you ever a healer?”

He ignored her at first, too intent to speak. “One who has been out alone in the world must know a little of everything.”

She winced when he checked a bruise on her heel, but his tone drew her eyes onto him. “And what do you know?”

He stopped his work. “We will not stop Corypheus tonight or even tomorrow. You should not try to tell yourself otherwise, especially when you only have one sound foot to stand on.”

In her dazed, pained state – though his quiet magic was correcting the swelling even as he spoke – it took her a protracted interval to realize that the advice was, perhaps, partially a joke. She tried to smile but managed little more than a grimace.

He returned his attention to her ankle. “No wonder. You dislocated it as well as sprained it.”

“I know. They set it back into place.”

“Yes, and then they very likely redoubled the problem by making you walk several miles through slippery mountain passes,” he lilted. His chipper scorn barely aimed past her.

“Mountain fortresses aren’t meant to be found.”

He made the smallest noise of neutral, distracted agreement. A glow slowly formed around his hands, green like the Anchor’s light but somehow less – unnatural. He murmured spell words, though so quietly that he scarcely made more noise than a few random consonants. His eyes narrowed a fraction, peering at her as if unable to see her correctly. His face quietly lit up. “You dislike the damp inside Skyhold.”

“Anyone would. It gets into your bones if you’re not careful.”

“Of course. You are unused to great buildings.”

She snorted. “I’m unused to trekking miles up stairs just to get to my own bed.”

“I have no doubt that any soldier or scout in Skyhold would have lent you–”

“It wouldn’t be any good,” she snapped with a jabbing wag of her head. She closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s as you said. I won’t sleep properly tonight. I only want the quiet. I can’t get that with dozens of people nattering on a few yards away.”

“Adamant upset you.”

She focused her tired face back onto his and frowned. “What’s that to do with it?”

“Everything, I suspect.” He hooked one eyebrow up a fraction as a ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, but both gestures soon evaporated. “Since then, you stay outside as much as possible. I sometimes think that you want to be sure that we escaped the Fade by checking if the sky is the correct color.”

Her eyes darkened. “You never say what you mean. Speak your damned mind for once.”

“Would you like to check it again – now?”

“Check what?”

He smiled in earnest and dipped his chin down. “The sky, vhenan.”

Vhenan. The tiny word softened her face, as if it made her remember something equally elusive and reviving. “It’s nighttime.”

“Then it should be all the easier to see if anything is amiss. The raw Fade is vivid and strange no matter the time of day.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Was that not what you planned to do?”

She rubbed her eyes and huffed, but she considered the offer soberly. “Help me up.” Even without armor, she stood heavily as he braced her lame side. He ably harmonized his sound steps with her timid ones as they ascended the final stairs, even when she abruptly paused several times for breath.

“Are you still in pain?”

“It’s just the memory of falling. It knocked the wind out of me.” She chuckled weakly. “I always remember the way I earned a bruise better than the pain from one.”

They mastered the final stone steps. He spied a multicolored stole on a table – one of many tokens from the Avvar for thwarting Hakkon – and snatched it up as the two tottered past. He opened a balcony door for her, but she suddenly removed her arm from his shoulder and stubbornly limped the few remaining steps to go outside. She clumsily eased herself down against a pillar. He draped the stole around her, taking an unusual length of time for the task. She nodded blandly and tugged the stole tighter. He sat next to her but noted her irregular shaking – which had persisted since she had woken – and thought the better of embracing her.

“The snow has its own glow at night,” she muttered. “I forgot about that.” She chuckled soundlessly and tightly. “Isn’t that silly? We spend half our time in Skyhold, but I still don’t remember everything about the place.”

“We often ignore what is nearest to our faces.”

“Does that make us foolish or stupid?”

“Neither. It only means that we constantly adjust to circumstances.”

She sighed. After a long moment, she leaned against his side – barely. “Everything always circles around on itself, doesn’t it?” she muttered. “Sooner or later, we always find the same paths and the same markers as everyone who came before us. The paths might look a little different, but you can’t avoid them – not really. They’re the only choice.”

A muffled but musical whir of mountain gusts echoed out for a long moment while they both stared at the snow, made all the more brilliant that night by the full moon.

She ground her jaw. “I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Solas crinkled his face at the remark and glanced at her only to find her tired stare fixed firmly on mountain peaks. “None of us can.”

She sneered. “You don’t even know what I mean.”

“I know your frustration. What else is there to understand?”

She shivered and leaned a little harder into his side. “I don’t mind being something different than what I began as. I just don’t want that to be less.”

“You –” He swallowed his words and shook his head gently. “That will never happen.”

“You were there. You heard what Ameridan said.”

“The Avvar siege was the most difficult since Haven. You took his words too harshly in the heat of battle fatigue–”

“He couldn’t even stand,” she cut over him. “You saw him. That’s all that was left. He was alone for centuries. Who knows what he thought while he was there? No one should have to sacrifice so much and be remembered for so little. The world almost lost him.”

“Do you expect to be forgotten after all this?”

Her head lowered abruptly, as if a drug had overwhelmed her waking senses. Her shoulders rounded forward, just as they had done upon returning to Skyhold. “He knew. Things weren’t the same for him, but –” Her jaw clenched. “Everything’s been a blur since this started. Either I don’t know what to do and I need to defer to others or I know exactly what to do but can’t. When I saw him, I saw myself.”

“Is that such an evil thing? He was an honorable man.”

“We’ve recruited dozens of agents and thousands of soldiers. None of them ever made me think about it. When you’re all thrown together because the world’s gone to hell, it’s easy to stop seeing yourself. But Ameridan –” Her lip curled. “He made me look. He made me see it.”

Solas finally stared at her.

Her face was slick. Her chin jittered. Her eyes were cavernous. She didn’t look at him – not even a glance.

His far hand clenched and unclenched. It moved several inches above the ground, but his elbow was an immobilizing splint. He let his hand rest back on the stone slabs again.

A single sniffle escaped her. “It doesn’t matter about being chosen. It matters because everyone will suffer if I can’t get this sorted. And if I can’t, it won’t matter. We won’t matter.” Her face crimped, but her sobs were silent and dragging, like the breath inside her was insufficient for the act.

His far hand conducted the same argument with itself a second time. He looked away and frowned before his head bobbed back in her direction. As if in care of an ancient scroll, he took the closer of her hands in his. His other hand soon joined it. She scarcely reacted. “I doubt that Ameridan’s words drove you here.”

“Why?” Her single word held the stretched singsong of barely-restrained collapse.

“You let the most important ones drift away.”

She set a keen glare on him, but it wavered when he met it with quietude.

“‘Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.’” He squeezed her hand.

She went a long moment without blinking as her mouth curled into a grimace. “It already did.” She limply removed her hand from his.

#sfw solavellan fanfic #firjii writes #dragon age inquisition fanfic #firjii's fanfic #yeahhh well firjii does grit and personal hangups #not romance #angsty solavellan fanfic #ace solavellan fanfic

[firjii]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Teen And Up Audiences [just to be on the cautious side] Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Lavellan x Solas (implied) Characters: Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus Additional Tags: brotp, coming out, friend fiction, asexual character, female lavellan, implied female lavellan/solas, supportive dorian, dorian pavus, light angst, implied trauma, Implied abuse, swearing

Summary: Unsettled by Halward Pavus's past actions and haunted by his confrontation with Dorian, Inquisitor Lavellan reflects on something she's been avoiding thinking about for a very long time. No longer able to banish some crippling feelings but barely able to articulate what she's known for years, she hesitantly entrusts a secret to Dorian. Dorian responds with some unexpected advice.

(Plain text version under the cut.)

Dorian’s finger grazed the edge of a thick, pulpy page in a tome a little too quickly.

His surprised hiss echoed surprisingly far throughout the library, the paper’s stiffness quite altogether deceptive and its bite stronger than some poor-quality wines. He glanced up as he licked the cut. In the past, the Inquisitor had gotten wide-eyed over far smaller disturbances.

But her stare out the window was steady and unbroken, as it had been for most of the day – several days, actually. He cleared his throat a little louder than was necessary. She still didn’t react. He watched her a moment longer. Her shoulders weren’t as tense as they had been at other times, but her elbows were rigid and crossed in front of her. Her hands didn’t clench and unclench as they were so often in the habit of doing, but their constant erratic twitches betrayed busy thinking.

“Something on your mind?” he lilted.

Her hands went on twitching.

“It’s just that you’ve been hounding me for weeks to learn more about runes, and truth be told, we’ve barely started yet.”

Only the drone of crows’ and ravens’ wing flaps answered him.

He closed the books on the table – but quietly. Magical study was pointless and even dangerous if the mage in question couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand.

“I never took you for a daydreamer.”

She sighed, barely.

“I know it might sound cheeky to ask, but is something wrong?”

She shifted her weight, barely.

“In my experience, quiet people are normally the most worried. It’s not that they don’t want to talk about it, they – just don’t know where to start.”

“What do they worry about?”

His brow relaxed: speech. It was a timid little rumble, but the thought was certain. She wasn’t as bad off as she could be, then. “Mm. With ordinary people, it might be anything. But with leaders, I’ve found that it’s either death or a lover’s quarrel.”

“I’m used to death.”

“Ha! I know. We all are. Saving the world is a damned bloody business.”

She didn’t react.

He stood after a long moment. “I’ve heard the chatter, you know. It’s – a little difficult to avoid, even in Skyhold. I’m seen as the worldliest fellow here apart from the Orlesian set. It’s not entirely wrong. I’m rather pleased that they came to the right conclusion about something. Did you know, some southerners consider Tevinter to be a feeble little desert with quaint little ways.” His head bobbed along with his words. He cast his eyes downward. “But I’m sorry to dash your hopes.” He shrugged. “I’m not much use with affairs of the heart.”

“You’re still more use than me.”

“I very much doubt that. I-”

She turned around. Her face was immovable and stoic, but her eyes shimmered by the candlelight and lanterns.

He paled. “What happened?”

“I shouldn’t ask. I’ve seen of the others – they come for advice. You always find something to say to shut them up even though you’re bluffing. I know you are. I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

Her voice had decayed a little more with each sentence. He gathered his breath very carefully. “What choice?”

“I can’t get your father out of my head.”

“Oh? That’s a common affliction among those who meet him.”

Her jaw tightened around a tense swallow. “Are there –” She flicked her eyes about. “I-I don’t know how to say it well. Are there a lot of people like you in Tevinter?”

“Ha! Depends who you ask, really.”

“But you’re not the only one. You can’t be.”

He made himself still. “No. I’m not. Of course I’m not.”

“Women too?”

“Certainly.”

She closed her eyes and frowned tightly for an instant. “No, what I meant was – I –”

He waited. The tension was hers, not his. He could at least see that much. So he waited. He watched the words swim and dance in the mind that made her seem equally baffling and brilliant to strangers.

She took a deep breath, but the resolve that was probably meant to brace her crumbled before she finished exhaling. “Do you think it’s possible for someone to – to want and not want? In that way, I mean.”

His thoughts simultaneously accelerated and slowed. Was she saying what it sounded like she was saying? “You-”

She shook her head in quick little jerks. “I’m not a – it’s not that I don’t know what happens. I do. But that was different. That was –” Her face contorted. Dorian waited for a sob but no noise came. She recovered herself, barely. She glanced at everything and everywhere but Dorian. “That was so different. And my clan acted strangely after that – more so than before, I mean. But I think it happened because I didn’t – I don’t know, I didn’t care about that. Even before it happened, I didn’t care. And the others must’ve seen that, and-”

He raised a hand gently to silence her. “I understand.” He shook for an instant, but he stifled it. Outrage wouldn’t help her just now. “And in that case, Inquisitor, I have a favor to ask.”

She quieted her frame and waited.

“Beyond this sentence, don’t take any advice on this matter – from anyone, even me.”

Her eyes glazed a fraction. “Isn’t it worth some worry?”

“Only if you go on trying to be something that you don’t feel you are.”

Her shoulders bounced twice and she hugged herself a little tighter.

Dorian struggled to hide his cringe at seeing such angular movements. Had she been skipping meals again?

“It’s silly, I know. The world’s still in danger and there’s still so much left undone. This is the last thing I should think about. I’ll find someone eventually anyway.”

“You might. You might not. That’s all anyone can know for certain, really. ”

“Are you angry?”

“Why would I be?”

She looked away and moved for the railing. She leaned her elbows on it and tented her fingers. “I’ve met people who don’t mind which path someone takes as long as it means sharing the path with someone else.”

“Then they were wrong.”

“How can they be wrong?”

“You didn’t decide to be the way you are any more than you decided to be a mage.”

“That’s not enough for some people.”

“Well it damn well should be.” He copied her pose and stared out at nothing in particular. “Here we are again,” he grinned. Despite her somberness, a smirk tugged at the very edges of the Inquisitor’s mouth, just as he knew it always did when he said it. “Here we are, some of the brightest scholars and strongest warriors in the world, trying to save this damned shithole that’s tried to kill us Maker knows how many times. If we succeed, it shouldn’t matter who or what we are. The rest is just gossip. Remember that, Inquisitor.”

She frowned again and paled. “Ameridan almost said something like that.”

“There you are, then: two votes of confidence.”

A lull settled over them, the birds still the only company on this particular afternoon.

“But if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t think you need to worry about finding someone.”

“Why?”

Dorian casually pointed down at the empty rotunda. “I’ve seen how you are with Solas. I’ve seen how he is with you.”

She turned around suddenly and folded her arms up again. “I know. It’s not fair.” She leaned her waist against the railing. “I can’t go on thinking what I’m thinking and draw closer to someone.”

“Why not?”

A dozen sharp lines and shadows crossed her face. “But it’s not – that’s not-”

“Why…not?” He drew the words out as he smiled in earnest.

“He would never agree to something like that. No one would.”

He slowly clasped his hands together. “The one thing I’ve learned from all that I’ve seen in the world is that no two situations are alike. They might end in the same way, but they don’t always start the same. No two people are entirely alike. No two pairings are entirely alike.”

She blinked hard several times and stared over her shoulder down below. “Do you think he and I could be a – pairing?”

“That’s not for me to say. I only see what I see.”

“But you see something between us?”

He rested a palm on her hand. “You’re right. There’s not a lot I can say. There’s not a lot I can do to help.”

She swiped a rogue tear away as if jabbing a gnat off of her face. She nodded and lowered her head.

“There’s not a lot I can say because it’s none of my business. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to consider – and it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try looking if that’s what you want.”

“I wish someone would tell me what I wanted.”

“There’s a certain old piece of Tevinter wisdom. It’s been twisted to mean many things, but that doesn’t make it any less true than whatever lucky soul put it into words in the first place.”

“And what’s that?”

“‘Above all else, know thyself.’”

“I don’t think that’s something I could ever follow.”

“Knowing that you don’t know is still knowledge. It’s still more than the average damned fool in the street can understand.” He snorted. “It’s still more than I know sometimes.”

The Inquisitor shot him a frown.

“Yes, even I’m surprised that I said that,” he lilted.

They both let out patchy, quiet chuckles, the Inquisitor’s a fraction more uncertain than Dorian’s but no less sincere.

#friendfic #asexual inquisitor #dragon age fanfic #f!lavellan and dorian (brotp) #light angst #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #ace positivity #asexual character #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #sfw fanfic

[firjii]

Writing masterpost

I’m trying to only use the “x” for ship fics or fics in which that pairing is obvious and/or is in a relationship context. If it doesn’t have the “x” between char names, assume friendfic or other. For the sake of conciseness, I’m not including tags here. PLEASE remember that a G rating doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a sweet/fluffy story - only that I felt there weren’t strong enough elements to warrant bumping the rating up. Check each fic’s tag list first because some do have triggers or implied triggers. I try to be thorough with tags.

The Hands That Heal - Zevran x f!Tabris, the slightest touch of angst but mostly just some comfort fluff, rating G / no archive warnings

Not a Compromise - Fenris x f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings 

A Different Sort of Plotting - Alistair and Barkspawn, other, rating G / no archive warnings

Unwritten In Plain Sight - Fenris x implied f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Cautious Entanglement - Fenris x f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings    

Know Thyself - f!Lavellan and Dorian, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings      

A Compendium of Documents Regarding Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, As Found Some Years After Her Formal Disbanding of the Inquisition - invented codex entries, various perspectives, mostly angst, rating G / no archive warnings

Echoed Fates - Krem, angst (I guess?) with a happy ending, rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for certain referenced/strongly implied elements

Brittle Eyes, Brittle Dreams - Solas x f!Lavellan and Telana x Ameridan, STRONG ANGST ALL THE WAY BABYYYY,  rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for certain referenced/strongly implied elements

Warp and Weft - f!Lavellan and implied Alistair, humor, rating G / no archive warnings

Tokens - Solas x f!Lavellan, fluff/early relationship and mild angst with a happy ending, rating G / no archive warnings 

 Call and Response - Solas x f!Lavellan, fluff, rating G / no archive warnings

All Games are the Same - Dorian and Vivienne, mild angst with a happy ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Tel'abelas - f!Lavellan and a Dorian appearance, post-Trespasser Solavellan angst, rating G / no archive warnings

Forsaken - Miraak, angst, rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for mentions of battle injuries and impending death

[Original fic] The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter - low fantasy, MATURE, was initially updated weekly but I’ve been struggling to keep up with that kind of schedule since my chapters are rarely under 2k (will probably drop off to twice a month or something)

#firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #firjii on wattpad #dragon age fanfic #original fic #fantasy fic #low fantasy

[firjii]

(So uhhhh I’m slowly going to crosspost my fanfic over on Wattpad but most are one-shots and I’m not sure what to do with them yet, so here’s my solitary longfic if any of y’all use that platform or haven’t seen this story yet)

#firjii writes #firjii on wattpad #dragon age fanfic #solavellan #angst

[firjii]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris Characters: Zevran Arainai, The Warden Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Early Relationship, Tending Wounds, sfw, Light Angst, Comfort Fic Words: 752

Summary: Zevran helps the Warden with injuries that she’s been trying to hide.

As promised, a wee bit of veryyyyyy self-indulgent wholesome Zev. :=) but oops, for an SFW fic, I really do mention hands a lot in this one XD Plain text under the cut.

He slowly peered over his shoulder and smiled, a small but bright sort of movement. “You needn’t look so nervous. I meant exactly what I said and no more. You’d be surprised what one might learn growing up as I did. It wasn’t always – well, sometimes people were surprising. And some assassins learn a great deal about poisons and herbs. I have some useful balms that you might not have seen in a place like Denerim. You never know when a callus will get in your way, eh?”

Her eyes darted all around the tent.

He produced several tiny tins from a pouch and opened one. “Here, smell this.”

She leaned forward a fraction and sniffed. She closed her eyes and considered the concoction for a moment.

He gestured to her hands. “You’ve worn gloves for a week. That would be wise for most warriors, but your shooting has suffered for it.”

She stared down at her hands, the twitchy veins of her fists barely visible beneath the lumpy leather.

“In fact, no one has seen your hands at all in a week.”

Her gaze shot up to him.

“I conferred with our comrades. Either you enjoy those gloves a great deal or something is very wrong beneath them.”

Her shoulders compressed. Her chin trembled.

“You hide it well, but there is no shame in tending to wounds.” He outstretched a hand, palm up, neither impatient nor wavering. “An archer’s hands are worth all the gold in Tevinter and Orlais combined. They can save lives as easily as they can take them.”

She took a cavernous breath, and then another. She nodded, though it was little more than an especially visible shudder. She unclenched her fists and reached towards him.

He took them, though he did little more than hold them in place. “You’re shaking.”

She nodded in a hurry.

“Why? I already understand how you feel about flirting.” His face hardened a fraction. “I assure you on my honor, I had no intention of doing so tonight.”

Her face paled and her eyes dashed about the tent again.  

“But I would also hazard a guess that you’ve thought about it.”

She glared at him, though without contempt.

“I apologize if I offended you, but you are hardly the sort of person to forget such things in a hurry – especially when they were spoken sincerely.”  

Her mouth weakened. She looked away and gnashed her lip. Her head fell.

He released her hands and slowly pried her chin back up with a single finger until it was level with his again. “And I was sincere.” His brow danced deliberately on each syllable.

She closed her eyes for a moment, though by the time she opened them again, her tears had mostly receded before they’d been shed – mostly.

He raised a hand on each side of her face but hesitated. She leaned into them. He slowly brushed a tear away from both cheeks.

She let out a ragged breath, neither a sigh nor a sob but scarcely more than an inch away from either.

He smiled, the same small but warm movement. “May I see your hands?”

Her arms rose.

He pulled on the gloves but frowned when she winced. “What–”

The gloves had caught on something.

He pulled harder.

She cried out.

He unburdened her of the gloves, but they had taken fragments of skin with them. Nearly every corner of her hands was a raw pink – burns without scars, cuts without blood, and angry rash everywhere else, the skin perhaps too confused to know what to repair first. His gaze cycled between a dozen different thoughts, but a deep quietness settled on him above all of that. He searched for her eyes but only found two dull circles in her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She still hadn’t spoken. There was no need for words. There was no need to explain. He had seen such wounds before.

He guided her down to a cushion, a whim of a thing he’d bought only a day earlier. She folded her legs awkwardly into herself, still shaking.

He tended the skin slowly with the balm, touching it without touching it. “I’m sorry,” he uttered several more times – not always only for making her flinch. Gradually, the color returned to her face, neither ashen nor bloomed ruddy with grief.

They sat there for many moments, perhaps hours, all for the sake of healing her most precious commodity.

Well, he thought to himself, not the most precious.

#zevran arainai #zevran x f!warden #zevran x f!tabris #sfw fanfic #dragon age origins fanfic #dragon age origins #dao #comfort fic #early relationship fic #pre-relationship fic #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

[firjii]

OK you know what, fuck it.

My original longfic pen name will be Kathryn Green-Waldsmith because that sounds like someone who could annihilate you without lifting a finger and I need some actual authority in my bloodstream if I’m gonna do this.

It’s kind of extra™️ but, like, some people sort of expect that with fantasy author names??

#my other choice was alexis green but i see that one popping up in some fanfic stories and that's cool but i don't want to be a ripoff #firjii shitposts #not da

[firjii]

Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: F!Lavellan Additional Tags: invented codex entries, background development, Inquisitor Backstory, Mild Language

Summary [this chapter only]: Unsure how to say goodbye if Corypheus defeated her, the Inquisitor evidently wrote her thoughts down to her companions and advisors, to be read after her death if and when the need arose.

This is the last installment of my epistolary experiment since my stupid turtle brain didn’t otherwise let me write about Bae for some inexplicable reason XD XD.

Plain text version under the cut

Codex: A Letter in an Unusually Formal Hand

We can’t know what will happen tonight, tomorrow, or next week. We don’t know what Corypheus will try to do to end the Inquisition – or the world. I understand that a will isn’t worth much without any possessions to distribute, but I’m told that some people use them as an opportunity to give last messages to family and loved ones. Many of you know what I think of you, but in case you don’t, I’ll take this one chance I have left to say the unsaid.

Leliana – you frighten me. You really do. But we’ve trusted our lives to you so many times and you haven’t led us astray yet. I don’t see how that will ever change. Some think that your fierceness is unseemly. I think it’s marvelous. You’re the only person who might really have the will to change the Chantry. I wish you the best of luck.

Josephine – thank you for tolerating my whims about food. I know I have expensive and strange tastes (even by the wealthy’s standards), but you can’t imagine how much it’s helped for me to eat something agreeable when I’m too upset to stomach other fare. It’s a greater kindness than you’ll ever realize.

Cullen – I won’t waste time reassuring you about the future. It would sound hollow. You already know what you need to do. Remember what I said. Don’t give up on something just because it’s difficult. You’ve made it this far. I don’t doubt that you’ll make even more strides.    

Cassandra – Thank you for not hiding your battle scars. I know that won’t sound like much, but seeing them every day made me realize that admitting to my own isn’t as dreadful as I’d been told before now. I’m not sure what else I should tell someone who has been as determined as you are. You say that your faith is your strength as much as your weakness, but I don’t think it’s either. If it guides you to question as much as it pushes you to action, it’s worth protecting.

Dorian – you made me realize something that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about before now. I hadn’t thought it possible, especially given…well, you know what. We hardly have the same story, but we were both forced to be what we weren’t. You’ve shown me that my nature and my desires don’t have to contradict each other. You were the first to notice when I spent more time than was needed with Solas. Your reaction was nothing short of graceful. For that, you will always have my thanks.

Bull – I can’t believe you tricked me into killing a high dragon. Ten times, in fact. I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten the Sandy Howler, but you saw how it was. At least Hakkon is gone. Thank you for your courage in the face of great and small struggles. Some people might have called you insane. Damned right you are, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cole – I needn’t dedicate any space on the page since you already know my thoughts, but allow me a moment to indulge myself anyway. The others don’t understand you, but you should never let that discourage you. What you do and who you are is important. You’re doing exactly as you should. I never doubted your motives. We’re kindreds, you and I, and that’s sterner stuff than any words we might speak.

Sera – life always needs more arrows. I can’t pretend we’ve always gotten along, but your energy always reminded me to keep trying, striving, daring. Those are all things I’d forgotten how to do before the Conclave. Always question – but also always remember that there’s usually more than one way to solve a problem.

Vivienne – I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more to help your dear Bastien. You showed so much concern for me and I couldn’t even find the wyvern heart in time to save him. Friendships don’t always get the rewards they are owing, and I’m sorry that ours is one of those.

Blackwall – I hope you’ll forgive yourself someday soon. What you did doesn’t matter half as much as what you’re doing. By your deeds as much as my decree, you’re not that man anymore. Learn from your mistakes. Remember them if you must. But never use them as an excuse to hide. Only the truly wicked should hide. Only those who embrace their wrongs deserve to look over their shoulders more often than they watch their feet on the path ahead of them. 

Varric – you’re one of the only people in the Inquisition who didn’t make me grind my teeth every ten minutes. You knew when to persist and when to leave me be. You noticed things far sooner than most of the others. I don’t need to tell you what to do. Don’t let them weep for me. Whether good or bad, don’t let them say I was something I wasn’t. Just tell Maryden to play my favorite song. She’ll know which one.

Solas – banal nadas. Ar lath ma.

 -from an envelope covered with illustrations of various heraldry evidently drawn by the Inquisitor herself

#epistolary #dragon age inquisition fanfic #bae lavellan #invented codex #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

[firjii]

Me before I realized how many people torment their original characters:

Me now, especially if someone says “how dare” when I mention an angsty idea:

#lmfao don't get me wrong...i have an unnatural addiction to writing angst and making frigging miserable characters #and i really *should* figure out how to lighten up #but i really was pretty oblivious before i got into fanfic...and really did think i was a bad person or something #and then i come up in here and find out that it's not only normal but sometimes kind of expected #i do sort of still feel shitty about how i treat chars in my original fic but at least i don't worry about it for fanfic #and i guess that's *some* sort of progress #writing woes #fanfic woes #firjii banters about writing #not da

[firjii]

Very tempted to make a fic about arm wrestling at some point, either Iron Bull x Radi or Drack x f!Ryder. But daaaamn I have enough unfinished stuff staring me down already. XD

#also i don't know wtf to do with m.e. fic since it would be my first one #firjii babbles about writing #fanfic woes

[firjii]

Words: 1810

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: fenris x f!hawke Additional Tags: writing a love letter, nervous Fenris, literacy struggles, mild angst, happy ending, early relationship Summary: Still struggling to articulate his feelings for Hawke in the midst of his newfound literacy, a perfectionist Fenris labors over writing her an affectionate letter as indirect thanks for her tireless efforts to teach him.

[Probably not technically a very accurate depiction, so sue me xD. This is bearing in mind that Fenris already has some literacy at the time of this story and that his problems stem more from articulating his feelings than actual language mechanics/literacy problems. Since he’s usually very formal when communicating with anyone and also strikes me as a perfectionist, I can imagine what trouble he would have when it came to anything resembling a love letter. I just wanted to see what the dorky, G-rated version of this might look like.]

Plain text version under the cut.

His eyes glimmer in the candlelight. His chin twitches twice. He swallows. No. This will not get the better of him. He has endured torture. He has endured torment. He has endured the unspeakable. He will not let this outwit him. He owes her this much, at least.

Even so, he peers down at the parchment again. His fingers, stained dark with ink, toy the blank margin, now a little buckled and ripply with sweat from his hands. Foolishness. He’d assumed that he could achieve his goal on the first attempt.

He squints at the paper, his eyes bleary from both the late hour and his efforts:

It would seem that I am less fettered now. My past remains and I can never wish it away, but you have shown me that –

He stops before reading the rest. There isn’t much more on the page, after all. The problem isn’t the words. They are both legible and free of errors. But their meanings are empty. They are worthless – because what has she shown him? How can he summarize it? He has learned to read so many words now, but all of them fail him for this task.

He hesitates. The last four attempts weren’t half as eloquent, yet – 

No. It won’t do. He crumples the paper up tightly. He tosses it long and far. It lands with a tiny patter amid other scraps and crumpled pages. 

It’s his twelfth attempt, and he’s scarcely any closer to completing the task. He sighs. His elbows reach far over the table as he quietly places his head in his hands. Perhaps it simply cannot be done in one sitting, or even one night. Perhaps it needs more thought in any case. From what he’s gleaned from Varric, few letters such as this one are created quickly or easily.

It must be perfect. She hasn’t seen much of his writing yet. He’s been careful to follow her direction as closely as possible, but he hasn’t idly written his thoughts down – not in her presence, anyway. Speech can be parsed out, even nuanced. Written words are more decisive. They must be the right ones. He will not accept any less, and neither should she. She has tried so hard to show him what freedom can mean. He must show her that he understands that.

But he barely understands the meaning behind the few precious words that he wishes to say. There are only three of them, but they somehow seem to mean more than entire books – and even though he knows how to write them, he hesitates to declare them for the world to see. Perhaps he isn’t ready. Perhaps he misunderstands the meaning behind them, even if he does know how to spell them. Perhaps it isn’t his place to mention them at all.

She doesn’t know. Of course not. How could she? They’ve come so far, and yet she still knows so little. But it isn’t her fault. That’s how he intended it. That choice is his to bear, not hers. He won’t make her decide. It would be above and beyond what even she would be willing to do – and yet there is very little he’s seen her be unwilling to do for a friend. And he – he is so much more than a friend to her now, just as she is to him.

Offering twice to stop for a meal, offering to carry his share of the spoils when he’s injured, offering to stay with him in his home when he’s unhappy about something but never once demanding that he explain himself – she freely gives so much, but never as a debting game. Among her friends, she never hides a trick within a favor. Aid is aid and justice is justice.

He always knew what a reprieve was – barely. It often only loomed in the distance. It was always a dream over too quickly after too short a night of sleep, or else simply a reward denied because of a misstep: too slow of a kill, too brief of an intimidating stare, too halfhearted an attempt to please or obey.

But Hawke shows him other things, and none of them are as petty as a reprieve. Perhaps it’s only because of their reading lessons together, so brief each time yet so effective. Perhaps he’s only more aware of the world because now he can see just how many words exist, even in mere city records or hasty notes passed between bandit merchants.

He hasn’t told her. Of course not. How could he? She might laugh, although it’s hardly a secret. The very first words he memorized – the first ones he was able to write down in his shaky but ruthlessly determined hand – were, of course, free, yes, and no. But soon after that, always alone, he labored to learn her name. The letters often danced out onto the parchment in the wrong order, their sounds seemingly tricksters in written form who were specially crafted with the sole purpose of taunting him. Their meaning is as difficult to find for him as magnanimity in a magister. He can learn them but rarely remembers them.

Despite his progress, rapid by all accounts – especially for someone whose first language wasn’t Common – her name has eluded him somehow. He’s a quicker reader than writer, but Varric and Hawke have both assured him that the skills will eventually balance each other out.

Given enough time, he can already copy down dictation – he knows the meanings and intent of the words, after all. He’d made sure of that. He’d kept himself awake countless nights on the long journey to Kirkwall. He’d forced himself to listen to others’ drunken ramblings, merchants’ dull trade discussions, soldiers’ guttermouthed slang, anything at all to speed his comprehension along. He can imitate three accents, though the words feel clothy in his mouth sometimes when he tries.

But speech is different. Barring blood magic or other cheating, thoughts are private. They can be stifled, or even forgotten. Speech can be rephrased if misunderstood or denied if it offends someone. Words on a page – they are undeniable so long as they’re kept away from embers. They needed to be measured, calculated, judged. Moreover, they needed to be fitting. The words need to be suitable and the quality of the lettering needs to match them. A hurried missive or an insult can be scrawled – in fact, he takes unexpected and distinct pleasure in doing so. But this is different. It needs elegance.

It has been peculiar to him so far. He’d always known what a book was, what secrets written instructions could hold, what explosively damaging potential each word could have on the page – and yet to understand what was actually there is still another matter.

To be able to read them is hardly like teaching communication to a toddler. He is already far more articulate than most people he’s ever met, and surely more so than all but a handful in Kirkwall. Verbally, he can sound as educated and high-born as he wishes. He knows more words than some Chantry scholars seem to, and in more than one tongue. But the idea that thoughts can be forever frozen from a certain moment, a certain motivation – it is still sometimes as unfathomable as the idea of Hawke only using her magic for good.

He can write his own name (though Hawke almost constantly chides him thus far for forgetting to capitalize it, a practice which uniquely baffles him when referring to himself). He can usually even guess at others’ names by their sounds, even if they’re unfamiliar names. But whenever he’s tried to write Hawke’s name, it’s as if his mind develops a stutter. 

He’s told himself time and again that her name is like a bird, only slightly different. But Hawke isn’t like a hawk at all. She’s too fierce and too graceful. She’s a wolf, silent but for the moments when she must speak. She only moves to action when she must. She only takes life when she must – and even then, she seldom finds pleasure in it.

He blinks. His face, bleary and a little pink from a few renegade tears, suddenly emerges from his hands. An idea: just a flicker, but perhaps enough. His hand shakily clutches the charcoal as his wrist awkwardly curls around on the last scrap of parchment on the desk:

We came to Kirkwall for different reasons, but monsters and magisters both carry death with them wherever their shadows touch the earth. Death itself is just, even if the reasons for it are not. But we both chose life, and we have run long enough. Life is not always a chase. There are moments of rest. There can even be moments of ease. You have shown me their importance. I did not think to look for them before now. I did not think that the world had enough room for them.  

He stops. There it is. There are only a few steps left to take on this long path, and now his feet are tired.

His shoulders slump wearily even as he clenches his fists. He puts the charcoal down. He glances at the parchment. It has fairly few smudges. It will do, but he must switch tactics all the same. These next words must stand firm and tall, like a weapon forged with the same lyrium forced into his flesh. Above all else, these words must matter. They must be unflinching, even if their meaning is also kind.

He reaches for the last quill on the desk and dabs it carefully into the inkpot, but his hand cramps uncertainly and hovers several inches above the page.

No, he cannot say it. She doesn’t deserve his idle fumbling any more than he deserves her. For an instant, his chin constricts more tightly than his fingers.

The candle flickers and winks, the wax scarcely more than a hot pool of ignited liquid now. The flame soon disappears. He sits in the dim moonlight, unfazed. After a moment, the pale glow from the sky calms him, focuses him, reassures him. It reminds him of her. It reminds him that –

He smiles, a small and slight gesture but no less sincere than a wide grin. It rises from him, irrepressible and tenacious. Yes, that will do: still three words, but one of the only kind phrases he can remember from Tevinter – one of the only phrases he will always hope to remember. Scores of slaves utter it every day as a sign of desperate submission, but he has found another meaning in it. She helped him find it.

His quill finally touches the parchment:

I am yours, Hawke.

He rests the quill down and stares at the paper in the dim light. His eyes close.

“I am yours,” he whispers.

#fenhawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris writes a letter to hawke but gets frustrated af because he still doesn't think he's good enough for her #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age 2 fanfic #dragon age ii fic #sfw dragon age fanfic

[firjii]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age II Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke

Words: 3286

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Early Relationship, Nervous Fenris, Touch-Starved, Touch Phobia, Hands, Lyrium Tattoos, Kirkwall, The Hanged Man

Summary: Confused but encouraged by Hawke’s friendship and desperate to re-learn the habits stolen from him years earlier, Fenris realizes that he craves a surprisingly simple - yet for him, infinitely risky - gesture. Set sometime after when Fenris first acknowledges his feelings for Hawke but long before their first night together.

Woot woot, my first fanfic of 2018 which I’m posting a 1AM because I have terrible impulse control. :D Plain text version is under the cut.

It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

With so many damned scuffles and thieves and criminals, there’s really no point in taking the armor off, even in Hightown. Those who don’t dare to fight him or haven’t seen him in combat notice the armor and respect him all the more. It’s never an entirely bad thing. Most Kirkwallers’ assumptions are both fitting and honorable: he’s a hired bodyguard, a soldier from a faraway regiment no one in the city is familiar with – or maybe just an elite mercenary on assignment. No one questions it. It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

But as he steps out the door on this blurry, clammy morning – as his breath floats above himself too soon on each exhale and his throat struggles to stave off a strange, wordless noise – he senses change in earnest, or at least the tiny shift in the world that grants room for change. It plagues him, and he must be rid of it now. It’s such a little thing, after all – or it should be.

He wants to remember. He’s only surprised that he wants to remember this. He shouldn’t want to. Its true meaning deserted him long ago. At best, he sees it as a mockery. At worst –

No, there’s no point in admitting that. He left it behind. He left them behind. Kirkwall is far from free, but it’s enough for him. He’s been happy with “enough.”

Until Hawke.

She said things that – things that made him think instead of blame. His thoughts eventually turned into ideas, questions, challenges. A new one – more than a thought, better than an idea, but whose challenge? – drives him to leave the mansion earlier than usual for the day. She’ll be there this time of day. She always is. Varric began the tradition, joking that the middle of the week needed an occasion to bridge the divide between calm dreariness and frantic fighting. She’ll be there. She always is.

Between the armor and the sweltering, salty air, the skin on his hands labors to breathe on this morning. If it’s this warm an hour after sunrise, midday will be excruciating. Yes. Today is a good day to test it. He has a fine, practical excuse in case – just in case she laughs.

His perfect stride alternates between hesitation and hurry as he makes the long march. His steps have a proud bounce through Hightown. He even returns a merchant dwarf’s gruff greeting with a curt nod and grunt. But his feet quiet themselves a little as he descends through the city. His knees stiffen as waves of – embarrassment? – prod him into turning around, or perhaps collapsing like a silly girl or an invalid.

No. He will not go back. The notion has pestered him for two weeks. Hawke’s wit may be ill-timed on occasion, but at least she has a decisive way in most matters. He thought he already had it, too, but there have been too many – irregularities to ignore.

His striding slows to an amble, then a saunter, then a series of pauses punctuated by occasional forward movements. Hawke lies to protect those who have found true love. She loathes slavers. She bankrupts herself giving money to orphans and poor mothers. Granted, she openly defends most mages, but – but she doesn’t act like a mage.

She doesn’t act like a lot of things. She defies his understanding of the world without speaking a word against him. She destroys his doubt with a single smile – and then renews it by assuming that he knows all that she does. But that isn’t her fault. He refuses to blame her for that.

No, she won’t laugh at him.

He walks on, resolve mustered.

It’s a strange little request, really. So many of Hawke’s actions and habits are better suited to great deeds, or at least equal ones – decisions that will reward her in some way, even though she has sometimes refused a reward if the person she aided was deserving. What reward is there in this?

But Hawke is the only one he can ask this of. She is the only one who might –

He wants to remember this one gesture, and not just the meaning behind it. He can wield a sword thrice bigger than any Templar’s. He can crush a bone with his combat maneuvers, the deadly dance he taught himself more from need than desire. He can rip an organ from someone’s very chest without any help from a weapon.

But – but sometimes, his fingers weary of that. He supposes that anyone would eventually. Some men fight because they long to smell the blood. But he never did. There are so many other things in the world. He wants to remember them now.

He finally reaches the shabby tavern’s shabby door. His breath catches one last time, partly from the rank smells within – but partly not.

When Hawke sees him, she grins broadly, warmly, and Fenris almost loses his mettle – but only for an instant. She promptly waves him over to her table with her customary flourish. He clears his throat to hide his cavernous swallow, glad that she is out of earshot to hear the awkward noise that accompanies it.

“The esteemed warrior,” she chirps as he sits down across from her.

“Hawke,” he grunts promptly.

“Varric was just telling me about the –”

Fenris blinks, caught off balance by the dazzling string of alliterations that follow from her mouth, his superb fluency in Common suddenly faltering. “Excuse me?”

She repeats it flawlessly.

“Ah.” He nods. Good, he notes: if she can manage verbal acrobatics like those twice in such short order, the drink hasn’t taken effect on her yet, or else she chose to abstain from it today.

Hawke and Varric gently bicker for a few moments, but their subject eludes Fenris. They both adore sarcasm so much that his reflex is to block out their conversation. He flicks his eyes about. The tavern’s mood is quiet, even for this time of day. Isabela is absent, possibly still sleeping. Anders is rarely here before lunch, if at all. Aveline, of course, is nowhere to be found since this is a tavern and she daren’t risk dereliction of duty so early in the morning. Merrill is poised on a bench on the far side of the room, eager to watch an old lush hone his rodent-killing technique.

Yes. This will do.

He waits for the talk to subside, but Varric is especially long-winded today. Fenris nods several times as the dwarf’s story unfolds. He even smirks once, feeble pretending that he has come here for the talk rather than the company. But finally, something in his face shifts - just a twitch, really, more of an attempt to suppress a sneeze than a reaction to the conversation.

Hawke notices. “And what do you think about it?” she asks him, not snidely but in the bright and eager tone she had so blithely used when they’d first met – her fearless one, since she had used it mere moments after witnessing Fenris unburden someone of a vital organ.

He swallows. His stomach churns and he is immensely grateful that he scarcely ate this morning. His hands, so carefully situated on the table, slowly clench and the spikes of his gauntlets scrape the battered wood – and then he breathes again. “I –” he croaks. “I –” On his second failure, his brow turns to self-scorn as his head jabs downward at an unnatural angle. “I must speak to you,” he blurts.

Hawke’s eyes change sooner than the snap of fingers. Fenris tries to look at her – tries – but is too busy checking for Varric’s reaction. Hawke’s eyes train on Fenris steadily, quietly, searchingly, but without a trace of a demand, not like – not like anyone else in the world.

Varric only smiles and softly squeaks his chair back across the floor as he stands. “I feel like another bowl of the mystery swill. You two go talk about – things.”

For the first time in a very long time, Hawke hesitates. “Varric, I don’t think this is a quick matter.”

Varric raises a jovial hand. “Don’t worry yourselves about that,” he lilts knowingly. “Use my room.”

Fenris pitches a fierce glare and half a sneer in Varric’s direction, but Varric has already made for the barkeep.

They saunter through the main hallway and down the long corridor to Varric’s suite, narrowly avoiding bumping several hung-over residents on the way. Once they reach it, the door scarcely closes correctly.

He moves away from her. There isn’t a reason to – her stance is neutral, her shoulders neither rounded nor squared – but the air in the room seems hardest to breathe in her vicinity.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, neither forcefully nor flippantly.

“I –” He strains for an excuse. He has already forgotten. His eyes scan the floor rapid-fire. “I may have injured my hand when we cleared those spiders from the last cave. I was hoping that you could help me – assess if I need tending from a healer.”

She pauses. Her face is neutral but utterly unfathomable.

He swallows.

She starts to bridge the distance between them.

His shoulders arch back a fraction, but his feet remain staunchly in place.

She stops, noticing it – or perhaps content to stay where she is. “You could just ask Anders.”

“I know.”

“He’s never refused someone in need.”

“But I –” He stops himself. His head droops and he growls into his chest. He paces.

He feels her watching him. He always does – but her watching is simple, honest, not a threat. He can abide it.  

“Your markings,” she murmurs after a moment.

He stops short. “I – yes,” he sighs shortly.

“I’m –”

But he knows the words before she can finish. He glares at her – and then regrets it. He flicks his eyes away and makes for the door. “I apologize. It was a foolish thought.”

She hurries to block him from leaving – her scrawny, underdeveloped, half-starving mage frame blocks him. Him.

He blinks and tries – tries – to look at her.

She frowns. “You’re not a fool.” The words pour from her effortlessly, like water, like the coin she gives away so freely to the poor or the blood she spills to punish injustice and tyranny. Those words are the permission that he sought – and the request. She touches a bare section of his arm – only slightly, only fleetingly, only enough to guide him to a chair at the table.

He settles himself, his knees bent rigidly and his feet curled under the chair – but only to stave the incessant tapping of his toes.

She sits down, across from him rather than next to him, but still close – the closest he has ever been to her in a moment not occupied by combat. “Can you –” She stops uncertainly, points at the gauntlets instead of finishing the question. “Should I –”

“Please,” he blurts with a nod, but then he swallows. Has he spoken too quickly? “I –” he begins. “Yes.” He sighs to himself, barely blunting the edge of the teeming storm collecting in his brow.

She unbuckles the gauntlet, somehow never bumping the armor against his skin or pulling anything too tightly. But when she moves to take it off, it slides across the top of his hand.

He winces, but only in one arm, and only from his forearm down. All else remains still. In Tevinter, too much of his life depended on being able to defer, direct, channel, translate a pain reflex. But still, he winces.

Hawke notices but doesn’t waver. “You never quite explained how you came by armor like this.”

“No,” he mumbles. “I didn’t.” He stares at a lacy snatch of cobweb on the wall, a rug on the floor, anything but her. It happened too quickly, and now he must adjust his plan.

Hawke’s eyes dull half a fraction, but her gaze remains fixed on him, intent, interested, curious. He can feel it. He always does. “There’s nothing wrong with your hand, Fenris.”

His mouth twitches. His eyes flick faster. “No.”

He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember.

“You could have asked me sooner.”

He blinks, his thoughts already lapsed into a blur despite the short span of time. His pulse twists twice. What did he miss? What did he do? What will –  

He looks at her – he tries. “What?” His voice jigs, both accusation and defense, an unusually high tone that he has forgotten he is capable of and ashamed – an instant too late – that he has displayed.

She chuckles voicelessly, but not – no, not ridicule, not a dare. Something else, but one of the things he forgot. Only a benign exhale ribbons the air.

He waits for the prickling fear to come, but – but she isn’t like that. She only punishes the guilty. She only scorns the deserving.

But still, his eyes dance to the corners of the room.

“I only haven’t said anything before now because I know you don’t like to be asked,” she murmured. “It’s not so easy – refusing. That’s why I don’t ask.”

He rips his hand away from the table. He leans back in his chair. His gloved hand fusses with the bare one, just barely. “Is it so obvious?”

She folds her hands on the table. “When you come, it’s by choice. When you stay, it’s by choice.” She sighs, ragged at the edges, but not – not in anger. “If you want something, tell me. You’ve saved my life more often than I’ve saved yours.”

He stares at the tattoos, unimaginably thin but unimaginably stubborn layers of lyrium spanning most of the length of each finger. He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember. He wants to. He –

He can’t.

But he does it all the same.

He unlocks her fingers and holds one of her hands fast. He waits for her to pull away or glare at him in surprise. She doesn’t.

He looks at her. His eyes don’t flinch away this time. Green – her eyes are green. He’d forgotten. Where has he seen a color like that? A gem? A potion? Another thing he can’t remember.

She sits as still as a statue, but far from lifeless. Her pulse is perhaps a mite faster for a moment, but hand is patient, her fingers quiet. She doesn’t stare down at the hideous markings. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t try to fold his hand within her palms. She only sits there, waiting.

Like a beast slowly stalking prey – but no, it isn’t apt, he scorns himself for thinking it – he lets his fingers move enough that he can line up his hand against hers, palm against palm and finger against finger. It takes a long moment – several, even. And she knows – somehow, she knows – exactly when to raise her forearm when he does his. They each prop their elbows on the table, palms flat against each other – not moving, not twitching. Only resting, the pressure of each arm maintaining the upward angle.

A ghost escapes him – a ghost of a chuckle, more like an exhale of relief, but enough to release the building tension in his shoulders. One corner of his mouth creases upward. Hawke smiles back. The other corner of his mouth raises a fraction. The movement is – unnecessary, strange. But he wants to remember that, too.

His knuckles bend – only a little, but they bend all the same. Slowly, slowly, like an enfeebled old man with rheumatism, his fingers lace with hers. He squeezes her hand – only a little. She returns it. She smiles wider, until her lips part and a slit of her teeth show. She –

He blinks. He frowns. His face is wet. Why? It isn’t fear. It isn’t sorrow. It –

His nerves engage. He remembers, but not what he meant to. He looks down. Three of her fingers are resting squarely on the marks. Three ripples of scalding rise up his wrist. But he has done what he meant to. He came here to face it. He must hold. He must stem it a little longer. One more moment. He must. He must. He can almost see it. He can almost reach it. He almost finds it. The scalding changes to freezing, then scorching, then – sparks? Yes, lightning sparks as strong as the ones in Hawke’s staff when she fights. But also as strong as –

He breaks the contact. He pulls away and stands hastily, his chair issuing a muffled protest against the floor. His gauntlet scrapes the table unmusically as he scoops it up.

“I–I’m sorry,” Hawke falters hurriedly as she stands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to–”

He waves a hand to silence her. Remnants of sharp prickling remain, his untouched hand joining the offended one in sympathy. The marks are angry. They always are if someone touches them. It can be useful in battle – he knows this. It can rouse him to the last fierce blows when his friends are too battered to go on. But it will take hours for it all to quiet down, hours for him to forget the experience sufficiently to be able to think and act rationally again, never mind courteously.

But if he forgets the pain, he might also forget –

He shakes his head – not dismissively, not quickly, but in Hawke’s manner. “No. You did nothing. The blame is mine.”

“That’s not true. You should never say that.”

Her voice is a well of righteous anger. As ever, it overflows from her so much that he can almost see it in the air. She speaks both well and kindly, and he knows it. But he walks away from her. There is nothing more that can be done for now. Even if he does it in stages, he must steel himself against pain again. He must. In time – if Hawke wants more, and he knows that she does, her face is always so plain of motive – even she will be a harbinger of pain. She will bring other things as well – good things, not merely pleasant ones – but it is inevitable. If he wants to be with her – if he expects to ever do more than this –

His eyes shine, partly from pain, but partly something else. “I –”

He swallows. What else can he really say?

“Thank you, Hawke,” he manages. His candor hiccups, but he nods as calmly, smoothly, cordially as ever.

He refuses to look at Varric or Merrill as he leaves the tavern. He refuses to look at anything. He only glides out into the ocean-choked light of day, squinting from the ever-intense humidity. He has lived in Kirkwall for years, and yet he still finds it harder to abide than Tevinter’s heat.

He strains for a moment to catch his breath. He leans against the wall as he adjusts his gauntlet into place. The markings still protest, even against himself. They often do.

But he smiles. Against the enraged, confused nerves in his skin, he smiles. He looks down at the hand that Hawke blessed with a touch. He slowly makes a fist. Yes, he will remember the pain for hours.

He will also remember her for hours.

It is enough. It must be, though it seems like a mild cruelty just now. But – but perhaps it was Hawke’s version of enough –

and that is far, far more than he has ever known.

He makes a quiet fist. He closes his eyes, still warm and wet from the pain – and something else.

A strangled sigh escapes him, the best he can do to hide the one sob he allows himself.

“Thank you,” he whimpers under his breath.

#fenris x f!hawke #dragon age ii #dragon age fanfiction #nervous fenris #hands #touch starved #touch phobic #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #fenris x hawke #dragon age 2 #mild angst but a happy(ish) ending #because fenris deserves a happy ending dammit #fenhawke fanfic

[firjii]

Oh screw it, I’m posting it NOW:

Title: Call and Response

Solas x Lavellan

Words: 920

10,000% SFW (dating fluff)

“No, Knuckles. No,” Ellana chided, a tense edge betraying her quiet voice.

The spotted nug at the end of the padded harness pulled hard on the lead again in the meandering Val Royeaux avenue. For the entire day, it had only ever stopped its haphazard scrambling to pause at flowers and exotic shrubbery in ornate planters dotting either side of the pastel-hued alleys. Each time, the hungry look in its eyes clearly indicated its intent. Each time, Ellana had barely averted a botanical beheading – though more citizens had smiled than frowned at the sight as the sleek animal had gently chirped and whuffled its protests.

Solas grinned, his laughter – soft though it was – echoing out like mild waves of a lake against the high-walled buildings. “Leliana warned you.”

Ellana grunted several times before she could answer. “I know. I don’t care.”

“Clearly.”

She glared at him as she finally reined the animal in a fraction. “They’re stupid creatures, but they don’t mean to be trouble. There’s no point in being cruel with bare leather when he’ll only understand the pain anyway.”

His smile softened. “Once again, your insight outweighs common sense.”

“There’s no insight about being kind to a dumb animal. Take care of them and they might take care of you someday.”

She hefted the chunky creature into her folded arms. It immediately calmed, though its still-twitching limbs proved no easier for her to manage than its scrambling and tugging on the ground.

Solas watched her struggle as they slowly made their way to an upper level of the city. “Perhaps some refreshment,” he lilted crisply. “Your face is more flushed than usual.”

They found sweet ice at an elaborate, filigreed pushcart, though Ellana narrowly avoided dumping the nug onto the artful pile of cold shavings when it apparently began hiccuping. They settled on a vacant bench overlooking the harbor, the nug nestled between them and apparently content to doze on the warm stone slab. Ellana greedily shoveled ice into her mouth, as her sudden whimper of surprise amply attested to. She involuntarily dug a hand into the nug’s back and received a surprised yelp in return. It leapt down from the bench, Ellana narrowly avoiding spilling the last of her ice and holding the lead at the same time.

Solas openly laughed, his veritable outburst drawing the gaze of several befuddled couples in the nearby courtyard so often reserved for silent, furtive lovers.

Ellana jumped at the noise and stared, torn between concentration and additional surprise. “I’ve never heard you do that.”

He clutched his stomach for an instant as the laughter intensified. “Few things in the world are worth the gesture.”

She scooped the nug onto her lap and rubbed a certain place on its head where Leliana had recommended for quieting upset nugs. Once she was certain that it had been placated, she lapped up the last of the ice – scarcely any slower than her original pace.

“You might have told me sooner if you were so thirsty,” he jibed gently.

She shook her head as she wiped her mouth. “It’s the heat. I forgot how warm it was in Val Royeaux. And it’s too humid. It’s damp in the north, but it’s different than this.”

“The afternoon is still young. We needn’t leave until tomorrow.”

She idly considered his offer, enjoying the mere atmosphere for a moment as she stroked the nug’s delicate skin. She watched ships lazily come and go as the sun’s position changed in the sky. “I want to see lobsters.”

The tiniest frown of bemusement spoiled his otherwise smooth countenance. “No fishmonger will sell one as a pet, vhenan. Even if someone did, they would be most unsuitable to take back to Skyhold.”

“I don’t care.” She shrugged, equally chipper and unfazed. “I’ve never seen one.”

Her arms finally too strained to continue arguing with the nug, she entrusted the lead to Solas as they ambled down long flights of stairs. The nug meekly followed alongside Solas, its strides very nearly in perfect time with his own.

Ellana noticed and snorted. “Showoff.”

His smile redoubled, but he remained focused on their destination. Thrice, they’d become almost irrecoverably lost because other sights – or Knuckles – had made them loose sight of their objective.

The fishmonger noted the Inquisition brooch on Ellana’s tunic and scarcely hesitated to hoist a cage out of the water. Four gyrating, mottled umber lobsters jockeyed for position at the top of the wire trap. The burly fisherman made a wordless noise of panic when Ellana opened the trap and thrust a hand within. She pulled one of the creatures out, oblivious to its flapping and clamoring. She held it to within a few inches of her nose, a good mimicry of fecklessness if not for her keen stare. After a moment, she pursed her lips thoughtfully and glanced over her shoulder at Solas. “Remind you of anything?” She didn’t dare take her gaze off of the beast for more than an instant as it still determinedly wriggled in her rigid, angularly-arranged fingers.

“Other than Gaspard, you mean?”

She dropped the lobster back into the cage. Half a second passed before she abruptly whipped her head around and cackled long and loud, her entire torso jigging as she wrapped both hands around herself. The piercing noise haunted Solas’ eyes for a moment. “I have rarely heard you laugh so.”

She slowly gathered her composure as the humor’s strength departed. “Few things in the world are worth the gesture,” she mirrored.

#solavellan fluff fanfic #firjii writes #solas x lavellan #dragon age inquisition fanfiction

[firjii]

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1,311

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke Characters: Fenris, f!hawke Additional Tags: nervous Fenris, touch-starved, touch phobic, supportive Hawke, cuddles (sort of?), hugs, embraces, light angst, happy ending (sort of?) Summary: Secretly hoping for a certain simple yet profound gesture but also too skittish to ask it of Hawke, Fenris is surprised by Hawke's straightforward suggestion - one whose nature and timing both terrify and thrill him.

A 3-hour exercise and also my third Fenris fic in this vein (hmmmm......). Plain text version under the cut.

She grins – not expectantly, not demandingly, but only a grin. Hers, the one that he has never seen the likes of among the thousands of other faces he’s encountered.

She murmurs the question again, but the words blur together in his ears. He heard her the first time. The hearth is some yards away and only has a mild fire set in it, but he sweats as intensely as a stuck pig, even on this far side of the room. He swallows. He tries to speak, but the word sticks in his throat almost before he can begin vocalizing it.

With the same effort it takes to maneuver his sword in combat, he nods. A ghost of a smile almost surfaces for an instant. Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this what he tried to ask dozens of times? Of course. It’s only that it still comes sooner than he thought – too soon.

But he refuses to turn away. He won’t let his fear rule him this time. The moment is now, not then – not the past, and not…not that. He is his own master now – but sometimes, that means taking a risk. This shouldn’t be a risk. He knows that. But still, it is one.

She reaches a hand out – again, an offer, not a demand. He braces himself for the irritated nerve endings that the touch might induce, but he doesn’t hesitate. He laces his fingers between hers, still remembering that moment some weeks past and the two times since then.  

They walk towards the hearth, their steps synchronized. She sits first, leaning against the leg of a musty armchair. He lets go of her hand, the distance to the floor suddenly a year’s march through Tevinter wastelands. She looks up at him and the distance is bridged, the ugly thought no more vivid than breathing. She reaches for a cushion on the chair and places it on the floor next to her with a dull thump. He swallows again. She pats it.

His lanky legs fold neatly under him as he glides down. He leans against the chair. How should he lean back? What should he do with his hands? He blinks. What nonsense. His shoulders nonetheless crumple into tense readiness. This – this is not what he’d prepared himself for. Perhaps he hadn’t prepared at all.

She watches him. She soon cocks her head. He doesn’t need to look at her. He feels her eyes on him. But instead of speaking, she laughs: a gentle rumble of a chuckle from deep within her ribs, the thing he’s heard some Fereldans call a “belly laugh.” The noise surprises him. He’s heard her snicker before now, perhaps even cackle drunkenly now and then, but this is different. This is – contentment?

The sounds that escape her throat draw his eyes onto her. Again, her smile is simply that: a smile. She stills herself to an unusual degree, a most distinctive gesture. This is Hawke, after all. The dull light from the hearth casts a halo around her head and alters her weathered, almost swarthy complexion, simultaneously casting an inviting glow and adding another layer of unfathomable pondering to her expression. Time has not treated her well. She does not yet have thirty years to her name, but there is weariness underneath her spastic humor and energetic diplomacy.

He can change that, if only for a moment. He can change that as much as she can change him, if only for a moment. She knows this as well as he does. Perhaps it’s even the reason why she suggested the idea.

Neither asking nor invading, she leans into his shoulder, just enough to put weight against his rotator cup but not so deeply that she can’t crane her neck upward to look at him. She reaches around him, her arms as short as they are muscular. She barely manages it. He leans into her a little to make the stretch easier. Her free hand joins the first. He soon does the same.

He sighs – but no more or less than a sigh. Perhaps this isn’t as difficult as he presumed. He rests his head on hers and closes his eyes. His smile returns, not only for an instant this time. His face begins to move in earnest. His stilted arms transform into an embrace – not a plea, not an apology, not an appeasement. Only closeness. Hawke has taught him well, even if he cannot always remember such a lesson.

But then it happens. His brow crinkles a fraction – and then much more than a fraction. He stifles a groan enough to turn it into a toneless hum of pensiveness. He wrenches his eyes open, and the interruption is more disruptive than the pain it brings with it.

Waves come over him – not lust, not fear. Something else. At first, he only fights the instinct to flinch away. The reflex is impossible to unlearn, but at least it has become easier to notice – and if he can notice it sooner, he can push himself past it. This ache is different, because he chooses it. It only registers externally as a slight twitch through an arm.

But then the other instinct comes, and that one is harder to fight: the one that drives him to summon the lyrium in his skin. She can’t know. He won’t show her that. It’s wrong. It’s another reflex honed too well from years of necessity and need. It was a logical reaction in another world. He’d even welcomed it at times – the sooner he could bring it forth, the sooner the task was finished. If it had to be done, better that it was done cleanly and quickly. It was useful – for hate, for bloody justice, for killing, maybe even for release of a sort.

But this, here with Hawke, is not something to be taken lightly – and even if the voice in his mind is still only a whisper, it is telling him that he shouldn’t be too eager to rush it. He cannot hope to feel like a free man if he lets himself believe that a hasty gesture here and there will be enough to undo the past. And it wouldn’t be what she wanted, either. No one asks this of someone else if they only seek to rush beyond it to the next moment.

And the moment is long – so long. Too long. Not long enough.

He shakes, and yet he refuses to let her go. He trembles as a child does when alone in the depths of nightfall, and yet he is not alone. He swallows, much more labored than before. The movement is sufficiently noticeable that Hawke picks her head up. She separates her hands and holds his face. She touches her forehead to his. He closes his eyes again, shaking all the while. “It’s alright,” she murmurs smoothly. “It’s alright.”

This time, the words swim in a blur but rise above the water like crisp beams of light. He listens for their clarity. He listens for his guide. She repeats the phrase several more times, each instance gradually more distinct until he hears it as a lone shout against the murky befuddlement he is so accustomed to.

“It’s alright.” Her mutter resonates and echoes through his skull with all the power of a master’s command. But she is not a master, and this is no command. She is a savior, and this is – an unfettering?

His shaking dulls after a time. His hands still tremble and twitch, but his arms are steadfast around her, both protector and protected. “I know,” he whispers. Despite the stinging and burning coursing through the skin on every limb – and despite the steep price of this indulgent whim – he refuses to let go.

He grins, fledgling joy outweighing the jitters of his chin. “I know.”

#fenris x f!hawke #dragon age 2 fanfic #fenhawke fanfic #sfw fanfic #light angst with a happy ending #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age ii fanfic #nervous fenris #touch-starved #touch phobic #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #fenris gets a hug

[firjii]

Chapter: 4/4 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas Additional Tags [amended from earlier chapters since this particular one has pretty mild content]: angst, drama, grit, ace solavellan, exasperated lavellan, concerned solas, minor language, vague references to violence, depression, reluctant blood mage, canonically ambiguous elements, borderline non-canonical ideas, canonically disputable ideas about the Dalish (probably) Summary: After showing her some revelations in a Fade memory, Solas attempts to confront Ellana with the truth in a way meant to bring comfort. He is only partially successful, but the two come to understand that the calm before the final storm - and their showdown with Corypheus - can be a source of hope, not only despair.

IT IS FINISHED!!!!! :D :D :D

Plain text version under the cut, as always.

The clearing blurred, as if driving sleet was trying to blot Ameridan and Telana out of existence entirely. But the air remained calm. Solas’ face fell. “The memory ends here, vhenan.”

Ellana shook her head hurriedly. “No. There must be more.” She stepped forward vaguely. Her hands both reached out into the empty air. “I can’t – I –” Her chin crumpled down hard for an instant. She breathed deeply but raggedly through her nose. “I need to see what happened next.”

“You already know what happened.”

“I need to see it,” she shouted brokenly. She whipped around, her posture no longer at its full height. Her face compressed more and more by the second. Her lips tightened so much that they threatened to disappear entirely. “You can’t start to give someone hope and then take it away.”

Solas bridged the distance between them. The clearing remained. The moon’s glistening and shadows on the grass remained. Only Telana and Ameridan were gone. “You saw as much as you needed to.” His voice was careful and close.

She chewed her lip mercilessly. “It wasn’t enough.”

“It can always be enough if we know how to draw strength from something.”

“What wisdom was there in that?”

“You choose an interesting word.”

She frowned deeply. “What difference does that make? Damn you. Say what you mean. You never say what you mean. You –” Her face suddenly paled. She wheezed.

He rushed forward to brace her as her knees failed. She struggled for an instant, but he was too much of a tether to deny in her hurricane. Her hands clamped around him as she sobbed into his chest. There was nothing for either of them to say in that moment. Even her grief was silent this time. The dewy grass waved all around them as a gentle but prolonged breeze pushed the blades against their ankles. The moon shone on, its unflinching light neither friend nor critic.

“This burdens you too often,” Solas finally murmured. “It robs you of too many hours.” He swallowed. “And that is what you fear the most.”

She didn’t react.

“That is why wisdom weighs so heavily on you. You wonder how Ameridan found the strength to sacrifice himself as he did when it was unwise to do so. You wonder why Telana fought so hard to find him when it was unwise for her to try.” He frowned and cast his eyes downward. “You wonder how two people who bore the same marks as you could be so reckless and brave when you would rather turn your back on all you have seen.”

She stifled herself and finally lifted her head. She stared blearily at him, but she kept her silence, her eyes asking for his meaning better than words could.

“Telana tried to fight her talents. Desire often outweighs the impossible.”

“I don’t understand. How could she hide it?”

His eyebrows rose. “She did not.” He sighed, almost imperceptibly but for the tiny bob of his shoulders. “But she knew her fate before she even realized what she was. She knew how dangerous being a Dreamer could be. She knew that even if she could make her clan understand, it was kinder to live apart from them–”

She pulled away. He released her. She raised a finger. “Don’t.”

“I only sought to show you facts. You have always accepted the truth.” He glanced down furtively. “I have yet to see you flinch from it.”

“But you would see me crumble?”

He swallowed. “Nothing can be built upon rubble. Some weapons must be forged with new metal instead of melted down from old remnants.”

“I’m a weapon, am I?” She turned away and dug her hands through her hair several times. She paced a haphazard little circle. “I know what you think of them.”

His head bobbed away into an unnatural angle of a stoop. “I have kept my silence.”

“But I’ve seen you. You have trouble looking Dalish in the eyes, but you’re kind to that servant lad from Val Royeaux – the unmarked one.”

“The choice was yours to make.”

“And I chose badly. That’s what you want to say.”

“You never needed these marks to prove your worth. You never needed them to tell others what you value the most.”

She snorted – and he flinched at the noise. She sneered. “I believe in nothing – I don’t feel our gods’ presence and I don’t understand Andraste, even if I’ve tried. I’m the strongest blood mage my clan has seen in years, but I’d rather not have magic at all. I value nothing. Isn’t that obvious by now?”

“And yet you chose the god of wisdom’s mark.”

“What choice? A mage can only do so much for halla herders and bowmakers.”

“You strive for knowledge, not comfort or vengeance. Ameridan and Telana sought the same.”

“And they were fools.”

“Then so are you,” he lilted tightly. “You are either alike or you are not.” His words tumbled out in a curt hurry.

She shook her head. “How can someone who spends half his time in the Fade believe in black and white?”

“I do not.”

“Then why do you make choices sound so simple?”

“Because some are.”

Her arms waved at her sides for a long moment before she could form the words. “You make it sound like I could start over. You make it sound like I could choose a new name and a new face.”

He stared – carefully.

She sighed tightly and made several random steps through the grass. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. No one would notice if I tried to scratch them off. Marks are marks and scars are scars. Maybe I should try to get them off. I’ve betrayed Dirthamen enough already.”

“You did no more or less than another would have done.”

“I was reckless.”

“Is it reckless to stand for freedom?”

Her face fidgeted about as she reached for a reply. “Solas, the men I killed were sick. I saw it. There were other things driving them besides cruelty. They weren’t in control of themselves–”

“And thus you controlled them.”

“They were wronged. It wasn’t justice to fell the wronged.”

His eyes narrowed. “Justice is also the name of a spirit. Or have you already forgotten such a simple detail?” His voice slapped in waves against the damp night air. “Justice cuts both ways, just as wisdom does. And some spirits are never far from corruption. They are too fragile for this world. The Fade is a mercy to them, not a punishment – just as it is to you in this moment.”

“I can’t.” Her hand clamped onto her mouth. When she removed it, the moonlight emphasized the white indentations of her grip from an instant earlier. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on knowing what could have been and what I’ll never have. I can’t pretend that everything will be better when Corypheus is gone. It’s not –” She turned away and peered out at an invisible point in the distance. “It doesn’t feel that simple. It’s wrong. It’s –” She hugged herself tightly as if cold, despite the neutral temperature of the memory. “It feels like something else has a hand in this. It’s been like that since we dealt with Alexius. I understand the threats, but they’re not the only ones, and I just wish –” She wagged her head vaguely, as if shaking away mist. “It’s always just out of sight. I wish I could move my eyes to see it. I couldn’t explain it if I wanted to. I can’t prove it any more than I can ignore it. But nothing’s as simple as everyone wants to believe. I think they’re all fools.”

Solas took the opportunity to clench and then slowly unclench his fists while her back was turned. “Perhaps they are.” His footfall, normally silent, drew long stride lines through the grass and rustled dully. “But what of it?”

She frowned deeply and turned around, half bending away from him and half rigid. “That’s a damned funny thing for someone like you to say.” Her arms tightened even more around her torso. “You blame everyone as easily as others breathe. Where’s your contempt for their folly?”

“Dire times change everything and everyone. If the choice is between despair and a dream, then by all means, let them cling to a dream.”

“A lie to keep them warm at night?”

“I –” he stammered. “Yes, if you must.”  

“Like your idea about removing vallaslin?”

His head dipped away, but not before his face flushed. “I never suggested that.”

One of her eyebrows rose. The light shifted in her eyes. “You suggested the impossible. You suggested false hope.”

“Those are very different situations. I–”

She cut him off by touching a single finger to his lips. They leveled neutral stares at each other for a moment. She bent down and wet her hand in the grass. She stood to her full height and traced several curls and lines on his cheek. “My marks matter as little as nighttime dew. That’s all you mean.”

He analyzed her. “And was I mistaken in saying that?”

She slowly cocked her head away from him and stared off in the distance again, as if listening hard for a noise. “I don’t know.”

She shook again – barely, but it was returning – not the sort from weeping but the kind that now resided in her bones. He saw it. It was inevitable. Even here, it was difficult to muffle it, never mind soothe it. The Fade wouldn’t contain her grief forever. He wouldn’t be able to hold them in that place forever. He took her hands. She was tall, but he towered above her when she was like this. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers – barely. She sighed just short of a sob and closed her eyes.  

He waited. He listened to her breathing. He gauged the stillness in her hands.  

He closed his eyes and sighed, more quietly than any that she had made, but no less deeply – no less haggardly. The slightest whirl of air sounded out around their heads. Sunlight faded back into view. Her quarters became more solid, the room more distinct, a slight and momentary glimmer in shafts of light the only indicator that anything had been amiss.

Her arms, ordinarily lanky, were so heavy from being clenched that they could scarcely encircle him – and yet they did it all the same. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “It’s not finished,” she murmured. “It never is.”

Her weeping was gone, but the tremors returned in earnest, tight little shivers a harmony to the deeper shudders near her bones, the occasional uncertain breath providing a sudden jerk or jump amid the toneless, silent song emanating inside her. Solas glared out at the mountain range as he focused on remaining still, on being her tether. The storm in her mind was far from dissipated. It had only lost its momentum for a time, the winds swirling in too many directions against themselves to do more than bluster aimlessly. Slowly, dexterously, as if adding to the art that he had so carefully enhanced Skyhold’s rotunda with, he removed her arms.

She drew her head away. Her entire jaw quivered, though her face was calm. She studied him. He pressed her hands together and kissed them – only once, but slowly, his eyes closed as if beseeching a goddess. She stared, blank one instant and engaged the next, but always fixedly, unblinkingly.

“It’s not over.” Her voice was small and flat. Her lips had barely moved on the words. She shivered anew.

He pressed her hands together a fraction more firmly. “No.” He only narrowly disguised his worry as he watched her face graying again.

Her eyes narrowed, as if peering through another fog rather than at Solas. “It’s not over.” Her voice cracked, but there were recognizable intonations this time. She looked directly at him – as keenly as she had hours earlier. She shook harder – but still, no tears came.

Solas watched the curious cold sweat begin to form around the edge of her forehead. Neither the room nor she was inherently warm otherwise. He listened to her breathing. He felt her pulse as he held her hands fast. Without breaking gaze, he led her towards the hearth, step by tiny and uncertain step. Each time one of her ankles began to fold, he willed her on with nothing more than a tighter squeeze of her hands.

When he had led her to within several steps of the hearth – burning surprisingly brightly that day – he needed little power of persuasion to encourage her to sit. He guided her down to the thick rug in front of a low table and near the fireplace. She leaned against the table at first, and then into him once he joined her. He slipped his feet into a tidy knot under his legs. She had considerably more trouble with the movement and only managed to lean harder and harder into him until her face was resting on his kneecap. She pulled her legs up tightly into herself and hugged them.

He touched her hair, freshly dulled by strain and fear. He placed thumb and forefinger to the back of her neck and kneaded a noticeable muscle knot at the base of her skull. Gradually, her shudders and shakes lessened as the fire warmed her, though an occasional twitch or jerk persisted.

As if handling a sacred old scroll, he rested his palm on her shoulder. He waited.

Entire hours passed. Each time she stilled for awhile, she forced herself awake again. They said nothing. There was nothing left to say – for now. He waited until she was finally asleep to put a glancing kiss on the crown of her head.

He stared between her and the hearth. His face was as heavy as her head on his knee, but he smiled – barely. As if from another time and place, he murmured the adage once more.

“Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.”

#firjii writes #ace solavellan fanfic #oh bless - it's done #ok look i write to my strengths but i never ever ever ever expected to turn this into a 4-chapter fic #angst solavellan #dragon age inquisition fanfiction #firjii on ao3 #go ahead and ream me about the ending if you must but that's what felt right #no it does not entirely resolve...because damaged people can't change overnight even when they *want* to

[firjii]

Ehhh, anyone want some more angsty WIP Solavellan?

Apparently, I’m in such a reckless mood this weekend that I’ma gonna share even more, still from the WIP I mentioned earlier this week. In fact, this is literally picking up exactly where the first excerpt stopped.

Much angst ahead.

There, I warned you. Anyways.

Behold, the closest I’ve ever attempted to writing a kiss, but first a slow burn lead-up, just because.  oh God, oh God, oh God, *quietly facepalms in the corner*, I’m pretty sure this is called overthinking a scene 

An hour or more passed. Speechless but far from mute, she railed and wracked, as eager to flee herself as she was to seek aid. He held her as if a tangible storm threatened to break all around them. As her grief intensified, her throat increasingly failed, yet the force of what lurked inside her drove her ever onward. When she finally paused from keening, it was only to clutch at her own throat. Solas finally released her to hurry for water. She coughed in the brief interval that followed. He pushed the tumbler into her hand. She downed the contents greedily. He filled it thrice more before her panic subsided and she could swallow or breathe with a semblance of normality.

Her mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish several times. “I–”

“No,” he cut over her. “Not yet. Rest your voice.”

She did, though her eyes hummed with activity in place of her throat. After a few moments, Solas put two fingers on either side of her neck. She tried to remain still as he placed healing magic to quiet her furious lymph glands. She watched him closely this time as he worked.

“You need help, da’len.”

“I know,” she murmured, the shapes of the words barely recognizable.

“The Inquisition needs a focused leader. You cannot be one if the past is chasing you.”

“Like a wolf?”

He winced, though his inspection of her throat partially disguised it. He peered intently at her skin and frowned upon noticing a swollen vein that hadn’t yet receded into its proper place.

“I’ve seen you on missions.”

He swallowed calmly as he continued his work. “Have you?”

“Your magic. Vivienne thinks it’s because you learned outside the Circles. Dorian thinks it’s because you’re more ruthless than you look.”

“Neither is entirely incorrect.”

She waited a moment, her swallowing still strained. “I think you are a wolf.”

“Like the fearsome one of Dalish legends?”

She focused hard on him, unblinking.

He looked away for an instant. “That was unnecessary. I spoke without thinking.”

“It’s not true anyway.”

“The legend or the idea?”

“A legend is a legend. An idea’s an idea.”

“Did you ever say that among your clan? I doubt that they would have tolerated such an opinion.”

Her keenness withdrew as he stepped away to refill her tumbler. She sighed. “Silence is an opinion, too,” she half-croaked.

Still facing away from her, he lowered his head. “Yes.” He returned to her with the water. “I know it is.” He sat down in the same place again and watched her.

She drank somberly, reasonably, methodically. She stared down when she had drained it, fingering the etched glass mercilessly, memorizing the pattern as if her breath depended on it. “It’s not that simple.”

“The foolish might say that you either enjoy darkness or are frightened of change. The truth is actually kinder. Few have the tools necessary to improve this kind of situation themselves, so they struggle instead. Outsiders notice the struggle. How can they not? But they seldom act to improve it.”

“Because they don’t care.”

“Because they have no concept of where to begin.”

Deep inside her mouth, she gnawed her cheek, her jaw clicking slightly in determination. “But you do.” Her tone was subdued enough that her question settled low on the air as a statement.

“You already know the Fade. We both survived a physical manifestation there. Every night, we both–”

“I know. But it’s different.”

“Hardly. To those in control, there is little to truly fear. To the strong, threats are simple enough to recognize and avoid. And I –” His voice failed unexpectedly, normal and clear one moment and crippled in the next.

She finally looked up at him.

He swallowed – with effort. “I –”

In spite of her grief-reddened face and bloodshot eyes, a smile crept over her face as slowly as a sunset. She slowly clunked the tumbler on an end table.

“I –” he tried again.

She had barely reached for his necklace when he wrapped his palms around either jawline and pulled her toward him. Her lips were still unusually red and chapped from weeping. Her mouth muscles were slack from overuse, too committed to the freshly-quelled sneers and spasms of fear and rage to move normally for the gesture. Her cheeks were still damp from inexplicable renegade tears.

But the moment was equal between them. A flicker of refuge ricocheted between them three and then four times, too intent on steadiness to trifle with any bold displays. Two more tears snuck down her face as they parted. Then two more journeyed down his. His mouth mutely opened and closed twice while his eyes fought to find his original thought. “I would never lead you into danger if there was a safer road.”

She lowered her head, just as she had done before. But this time, there was no hint of groveling. She closed her eyes. “I know.”

#firjii writes #solavellan wip #solas x lavellan #solavellan angst fanfic #dragon age inquisition fanfic

[firjii]

Originally for @mistressdreadwolf…I can honestly say I don’t completely know what I was doing with this, but here ‘tis.  :D :D :D 

The plain text version is under the cut (hey, how about that, I’m actually trying to get  o r g a n i z e d  XD)  

Rating: General Audiences Words: 2036

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: mild angst, birthday, frilly cake, Haven, music, early/pre-relationship fluff, canonically ambiguous ideas about the Dalish and/or elves

Summary: Still troubled by Alexius’ actions, Ellana forgets an important occasion. Solas offers her several simple but welcome surprises.

Though there had been fairly little time to spare, Solas had planned it quite meticulously, as efficient and practical about this matter as he was about everything else. He had consulted Leliana on the simplest plan of attack, utilized Josephine’s trade contacts, and even overseen the makeshift cooking arrangements in the Haven Chantry to be certain that all involved understood the gravity of the situation and the importance of the occasion. Cullen had protested for a moment when he’d realized that it would mean moving some of their soldiers to the valley on the other side of the frozen lake for the day – and perhaps the night – but the Herald was important. It had only taken an icy glare from Leliana to blunt the edge of his complaints.

Ellana had been exhausted since Redcliffe, perhaps from the Anchor or perhaps simply the events of the dark future. Too pragmatic to openly dwell on it with her advisors – but also too easily affected by chaos and selfishness to completely ignore what she had seen – it had instead been festering quietly inside, scarcely more evident than a distant stare or a weary sigh at times.

But it had persisted and endured, only rarely absent despite her companions’ best efforts and her allies’ straightforward counsel. More than once, she had been seen wandering in the hills on the pretext of hunting yet had returned empty-handed, an impossible outcome considering her skill with a bow. Any truly idle moment she’d had – and there were too few of those – was usually spent in seclusion or on sleep, though Solas had noted that her eyes had been rimmed and puffy for weeks. She hadn’t made any mention of the occasion. Mostly likely, she had genuinely forgotten the day altogether.

Solas waited outside her cabin, not daring to interrupt her rest. He didn’t need to wait long. After a few moments, he heard her pacing dully within. He clapped his elbows crisply behind his back as the door opened. “Good,” he chirped. “The scouts were correct. I was hoping to find you here.”

She rubbed her eyes, barely disguising a drowsy squint. “What’s happened now?” Her voice was phlegmy and flat. Her lips were pale, as if they hadn’t woken up as quickly as the rest of her.

“I only thought that you might appreciate a stout meal. A quiet stomach can lead to a quiet mind.”

“So can a decent night’s sleep.”

“Indeed. They tell me that you often wake with nightmares fresh in your eyes.”

“It’s alright. I’ll forget about it all eventually.”

“Perhaps, but you must be more careful with yourself until then.”

“Careful?” she lilted. “When there’s a hole in the sky that could widen at any moment?” But the offer of food proved too attractive for her to deny.

Solas’ feet pattered softly through the bright snow as Ellana’s soft boots crunched atop it with a comparative din. She glanced down at his bare toes, not for the first time. “Aren’t you worried about all the mud the soldiers track around?”

“I would think that one who has lived among the Dalish would be quite accustomed to dirt.”

She sobered. “‘One who has lived among the Dalish,’” she recited in a deflated tone.

He stopped. “I am sorry. It was a crude way to put it.”

She shook her head and walked on. “But you’re right. It’s true. No one’s made it a secret. I wasn’t born there. I’m not as Dalish as they are.”  

“Does that bother you?”

“Of course not. My mother fled the alienage for a reason.”

“I should not have mentioned it.”

She snorted as she rubbed the last of her sleep from her eyes. “Someone would have. It’s alright. Call it what it is. My father was human. I’m not an elf. I’m something else.”

“You were raised in the ways of the Dalish. They accepted your mother and they accepted you.”

“Only by luck. No one made them take us. It doesn’t happen often.”

“You were given vallaslin when the time came. You have more knowledge of the elvhen language and history than any city elf.”

She nodded. “And I look like a human.”

“Some have found profound freedom in belonging to no world at all.”

“Not if it means bare survival.”

He put two light fingers to her shoulder to make her stop her angular steps. “You are a capable hunter and a marvelous shot. Did you know that Sera sneaks off to watch you practice? I often see her slinking back here with a mouthful of foul remarks regarding your accuracy.”

Ellana frowned. “I didn’t know she cared.”

A quiet beam formed on his face. “Many Inquisition forces are taught rudimentary archery, but few truly excel at it.” One of his eyebrows danced upward as his chin descended. “Even if you were not the Herald, I would imagine that nearly everyone would care.” He ushered her on and opened the tavern door when they reached it.

She crossed the threshold with a sigh, but her shoulders jerked upward when she noticed the quiet in the room. The entire building was empty. “What’s wrong? Where did everyone go?”

Solas smiled as he watched her roam all the way to the far corners of the small tavern, as if expecting to find someone crouched behind a barrel or keg. “I explained that you disliked crowded spaces and needed a chance to be somewhere without fear of jostling.”

She hooked a sharp eyebrow at the same time that a trickle of a warm grin began forming. “And soldiers like Cullen agreed to that?”

“They tolerated it. That is enough for the time being.”

“And what time is that, hmm?” She slowly paced the deserted tavern.

Solas’ feet fidgeted a fraction, but he waited for silence to settle on them before he spoke. “Is today not your birthday?”

“I –” she faltered. She scowled lightly to herself. “I don’t know. My mother barely had time to settle into the clan before she fell ill. She told them a day, but no one was sure if it was my nameday or birthday. They’re not always the same thing in alienages. She didn’t know if she could hide me at first.” She sighed and gazed out the window. “But my father loved her. And she loved him. She must’ve done. She never spoke a cruel word about him. And I remember him – I think.” She tilted her head. “He helped me stay invisible until she could –” She scoffed softly and shrugged as she toed a random piece of straw on the floor. “Maybe that’s why I learned the bow so easily.”

“Indeed,” Solas agreed. He made to say something else, but instead, he gestured to a bench near the hearth. It scarcely looked like a bench now, though. Draped in a generous piece of thick, embroidered Orlesian silk – a dark jade to rival her eyes – the worn and splintered planks resembled a throne, the tired paintings on the wall somehow revitalized by their mere proximity to the finery. Another fine piece of cloth was arranged on the floor next to it, and several cushions – perhaps not Orlesian, but no less surprising in such a setting – were arranged all about.

But perhaps most surprising of all was a nearby platter heaped high – but artfully – with frilly cakes, the sort that the two elves had spent considerable discourse and speculation on but had not been fortunate enough to partake of after the fiasco in Val Royeaux.

Ellana stared at the scene, her mouth torn between confusion and amusement. “What’s this?”

His smile redoubled. “Come now. It would be unseemly not to give you a moment of happiness on a day like this.”

She wavered, but she remained silent. She shivered when a sudden gust assailed her.

He closed the thick door. A last whistle of air protested before it was shut out entirely.

The crackle of flames now had space to echo out in. Ellana gingerly strode to the bench and sat. Solas chose several of the frilly cakes from the platter and arranged them on a bone china saucer – another oddity next to the rest of the tavern. He held the saucer out and waited motionlessly as Ellana chose a two-bite with glimmering lavender icing and a sliver of strawberry perched atop it. She closed her eyes and bit into it greedily and unceremoniously, but her satisfaction soon rippled in generous waves across her face. Her shoulders even nudged up a fraction as she considered the delicate flavors mingling on her tongue.

“Do you like them?”

She took a long moment to interpret the experience. “Josephine tried to explain chocolate to me. I knew what it looked like, but –” She licked a rogue morsel from her lips.

“There are some residents of Val Royeaux who eat such fare at nearly every meal.” He gently arranged the dish on the bench and strode over to the bar counter. He produced the formidable instrument from a hidden corner, the curious object with a long neck and thick, overgrown-looking strings – an item which had never failed to astound its listeners given the unusually delicate, high pitches that regularly issued from it.

She watched him wrap his long fingers around it as he settled by the fire. “What are you doing?” she smirked.

“Our esteemed bard Halewell was kind enough to devise a new song for the occasion.”

“Maryden?”

He smiled at her surprised tone. “You have been spotted wandering outside at night after the forces have settled in for sleep but before the tavern puts out its candles. Some here even claim to have heard you humming a song when you think you are alone.”

“Not this sort of song. Lullabies.”

“And what point do you think I labored to make our woman of songs understand?”

“You can’t play it.”

“Oh? She certainly seems to have entrusted it to me.”

“I meant you don’t know how to use it.”

He became intent on tuning the strings. “One can learn a great deal of the world if one merely travels it with open eyes – and ears.”

He strummed and plucked and bent the notes. He played smooth strands of melody and harmony, chords and transitions. His modulation was so careful that Ellana scarcely noticed it. He kept the tune’s volume loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the hearth but quiet enough to avoid a jarring effect.

At first, Ellana’s face was bright with the possibility of learning the song, of memorizing its runs and leaps and dips, its repetition, its tricks. But soon, she studied Solas’ playing more than the song itself, the careful arcs and dips of his fingers a strangely compelling sight by the fire’s glow. He played with the same ease and fluency as Maryden, and yet it was – different. Her face briefly wavered near tears, but the same music that had almost induced them also chased them away.

The song stretched on for many moments, or perhaps he simply knew a clever way to play it over and over. Ellana’s eyes dulled. Her gaze became unfocused. Several times, she released a flurry of blinks, but her entire face had become slack. She moved down from the bench to the floor, scarcely more than a foot away from Solas now. But he was unfazed.

It had been the entire point of the occasion.

She reached for the cushions as she nestled between Solas and the hearth. The instrument occupied a great deal of his lap, but she leaned the cushion against his hip. She hugged one of the cushions loosely as she sat in stasis for a moment, drifting between sleeping and waking with the same ease that Solas had spoken of when anyone had asked him about the Fade. For a time, she fought off sleep, content to be still and surrounded by the restful notes.

But her eyes finally surrendered as he played the last wandering snatches of the song. She slept.

He deftly and silently shifted the instrument out of his lap. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He brushed her hair aside as his lips glanced her forehead once.

She slept.  

#idk maybe i could've done better with this but fluff is still new to me from a writing perspective #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #solavellan fluff fanfic #solas x lavellan #dragon age inquisition fanfiction