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tired-truffle · 9 days

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Yet Broken Still You Breathe

An AlistairxOC Fic

Chapter Word Count: 5.9k

Part 5/40

“But when she was scared, she was a child again, and she was more afraid of being a child than anything else in her life.” - Tamsyn Muir

Trigger Warning: Mentions of child ab*se

Masterlist

“I still don’t understand why the assassin had to come with us,” Alistair grumbled as he stirred the beginnings of stew over the smouldering fire, flames licking up the grease-stained sides of the blackened pot. Gwen, who had been assigned chopping duty - much to her chagrin - was sitting across from Alistair. She let out a deep sigh, she couldn't help but think that it was glaringly obvious, despite not being an expert on human or elf relations.

Instead of bothering to find the words to explain to the silently fuming Grey Warden why his question had a simple answer, she reached over to where he sat, her long, bony fingers grasping his goateed chin, the sharp tips of her nails resting against his surprisingly soft cheeks, having recently been shaven of stubble. Alistair’s eyes widened at her touch - causal like it came naturally to her - and he froze in the middle of his stirring, the wooden spoon frozen in his grasp. Gwen hadn’t really thought about it when she’d first gone to touch him. Before Alistair could open his mouth to offer what would most likely be some sort of joking question that Gwen wouldn’t know how to answer, she turned his face away from her and towards where they stood, Darcy and Zevran - the latest addition to their team; an elf, and up until recently a crow assassin. They had crossed paths when he tried to ambush and eliminate them on behalf of Loghain's contract with the crows. Her touch was like lightning, electric and fleeting, and she released him as if he were made of flames that threatened to consume her. She pointed to the two elvhen men, Zevran’s back was to them, but from the taller elf’s flirtatious smile and half-lidded eyes, it wasn’t difficult to guess what they were talking about, and what they may be getting up to later that night.

Gwen pulled back and refocused on chopping the potatoes. She wasn’t the type of person who gave others casual and friendly physical contact, what on Thedas had she been thinking? She would concede that she hadn't actually been thinking at all, she’d let herself get too comfortable with his disarming presence once again and let go of all her boundaries in favour of being close to him. Just yesterday she had adamantly told herself she couldn’t let this happen, she’d pulled away and hastily rebuilt the walls around herself. Yet there she was, having thrown away all her values, the boundaries she’d erected to keep herself safe for years, all because one kind man had smiled at her and attempted to talk to her like she was a regular person. She frowned to herself, she had to do better, this was not the purpose of her mission. She needed to focus.

“So we picked up a former Crow assassin - who tried to kill us, in case you’d forgotten - for his good looks and charm?” Alistair looked back towards her, exasperation written across his features.

Gwen, who had busied herself with chopping the potatoes into perfectly sized cubes said plainly and without thinking, “You didn’t pick me up for my good looks and charm?”

Alistair blinked owlishly at her and Gwen pursed her lips under her bandana as she continued chopping like nothing was amiss. She’d meant for that to come out as a joke, but given that she’d spoken with the same tone as a Chantry mother lecturing about the importance of memorizing the Chant, it hadn’t come across as intended. She ducked her head, her hair falling in her face and obscuring her from view. She hoped he’d just leave it and chalk it up with the other strange things she had a habit of saying. Let him think she was delusional, maybe then he’d start to leave her alone more often. After all, that is what she kept telling herself that she wanted.

To his credit, Alistair recovered quickly and a wide grin spread across his face, “Did our resident grouchy rogue just make a joke, Maker tell me it isn’t so?” His overdramatization and the hand he’d clutched to his chest as though his heart would stop from shock were enough to pull a snorted laugh from her.

She froze, she hadn’t meant to let that sound slip. She peered at him through her thick, unruly hair, and felt her heart flutter as she saw how his eyes shined with excitement and his chest inflated as his ego swelled to fill it.

“A joke and a laugh?” Alistair leaned towards her, his grin becoming lopsided and making her want to reach back out to hold his face. She was thankful for the small margin of self-restraint that had allowed her to ignore that particular impulse. “Gwen, you are treating me today, whatever has put you in such a good mood?”

Gwen flicked her hair out of the way so he could see the full effect of her scowl, well, the way it crinkled her forehead and furrowed her brow at least, “Keep going if you’d like that mood to take a turn for the worse,” she threatened, her tone lacking any sort of bite.

Alistair raised his hands in mock surrender, “As the lady requests. I’m nothing if not the truest depiction of a Fereldan gentleman.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and continued chopping, moving on to the carrots, “I was not aware that such a thing existed.”

Alistair’s laugh sent butterflies soaring through her stomach. No! She was not some blushing teen talking to the boy she fancied, she was a grown, hardened adult woman who had eaten butterflies at the ripe old age of twelve when she’d been desperate and half feral with hunger. It seemed those butterflies had been bidding their time to take their revenge on her.

“We are unfortunately a rare breed, but rest assured that there are some out there.” Alistair reached over before she realized what he was doing, and took her free hand in his, his calluses brushing lightly against her dry skin, and her heart started to race. It made her feel like the blushing teenager she never had the luxury to be. Adulthood and all its responsibilities had been safer. He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a light kiss against her fingers. It burned against her cool skin and she felt like her lungs were about to burst from holding her breath. She should have ripped her hand away, should have put some distance between them, but that selfish side of her had reared its ugly head and given in to the mesmerizing temptation of his smile. His lips lingered on her skin for a moment longer than was likely proper, but Gwen had never been familiar with the terms of propriety and found herself more preoccupied with keeping her heart tucked firmly in her chest. Finally, after what felt like an eternity under his amber gaze, he released her.

Gwen looked away bashfully, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement and she hated every minute of it. She couldn’t let him see her weakness. She didn’t dignify it with a response and presumed that the conversation was over - hoping that he hadn’t seen the red that had crept up her pale cheeks - but after spending the better part of five days with the man, she should have known better.

“You could eat supper with us tonight, you know? You don’t have to squirrel it away into your tent. I’ll give you my word I will protect your plate from any would-be thieves if that’s what you're worried about.” Alistair said with a goofy grin. He’d posed it like an innocent ask, but to Gwen, it sounded more like an invitation and a nosey question all wrapped into one.

“I’d rather not.”

Alistair shifted awkwardly, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh as he searched for the perfect words to say. Knowing him, there were likely a whole host of comebacks on the tip of his tongue that he was eager to let spill, but not so eager to earn her ire now that he’d finally gotten her to have a normal conversation with him. Meanwhile, Gwen had run out of things to chop and instead stabbed at a blade of grass that had the misfortune of growing beside her. “It’s my stench that’s driving you away, isn’t it? I know I need to bathe but I didn’t think I smelled that terrible.” He made a show of smelling his armpits and Gwen had to suppress another laugh. Maker Damn him.

“We all smell terrible,” Gwen said instead of a real answer.

“All the more weapons to wield against the Darkspawn. We can add ‘stench so horrid that it could knock out the undead’ to the list.” Alistair laughed at his own joke and those damned butterflies returned with a vengeance.

“Perhaps the Arlessa will thank us with a nice warm bath when we return and ease us of the burden.” Gwen conceded.

Alistair snorted in derision, “You’ll have to request it specifically, I don’t think Isolde has any idea what the meaning of the word ‘warm’ is.”

Gwen raised her eyebrow, this hadn’t been brought up in their previous argument. What exactly had the Arlessa done that made Alistair think of her like that and still feel the need to risk life and limb to help her? Whatever it was, it must have been spectacular to incite that kind of loyalty. There had to have been something, people were keen on being indebted to those who had treated them poorly.

Alistair waved her off, “Let's just say she’s not the mothering type.” Gwen’s curiosity begged her to pry, but she wasn’t about to push him on this when she was trying to avoid certain personal topics herself. That and she was doing her best to keep him at arm's length, and learning about his past was a surefire way to close that gap, she couldn’t risk him getting the wrong idea.

“Look,” Alistair shifted his tone to his seldom heard serious side, “I just wanted to say that you don’t have to hide your face, we all have our fair share of scars, I can assure you it isn’t worse than anything I’ve seen, you tend to see a lot as a Grey Warden.”

He spoke to her like she was a cornered animal, snarling and biting at the hands trying to calm it down. In a way she was, she’d always felt a bit feral, like a wild beast running on instinct, prowling the edges of its damp cave and scaring away anyone who dared to come near. The tightening in her chest as he treated her so delicately despite the monster she knew herself to be had her mind flooding with memories she’d unleashed yesterday and was still struggling to reign in; a child’s hand filled with nuts reaching through cold metal bars, the sound of a girl’s gleeful laughter as she played, a warm smile directed at her - even when she didn’t deserve it. Gwen looked away again, squeezing her eyes shut tight to block out the onslaught of emotions she was not ready for and would much rather leave in the dark recesses of her mind where they belonged.

"I mean," Alistair said with a laugh, trying valiantly to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, "I've fought hordes of Darkspawn, nothing could be more repulsive than that."

If someone had told Gwen that her organs had been ripped out of her chest and scattered across the ground, she would have believed them. Hollow was the only way to describe what she felt as his words rang in her ears. Like a dark void had opened up in the chasm that once was her lungs and sucked up all the little bits of joy she had managed to steal away for herself over the past few days. After so long of not having anything, she had been desperate for it, no matter how much she had tried to fight it. But with one simple sentence, she was suddenly reminded of why she’d lived such a miserable existence.

Monsters did not deserve happiness.

Gwen did not deserve happiness.

If they knew what she was, they would kill her, she could not fall for his trap, whether intentional or not, it would only end in someone getting hurt and Maker was she tired of hurting. She’d been stupid enough to open herself up to it, she deserved to suffer the consequences.

She stood up abruptly, jostling her makeshift cutting board, some small pieces of carrots rolling off and into the dirt. Alistair startled and stared up at her with a slack jaw, confusion swimming across his face, “Gwen?” He said her name with such concern that it made her want to empty the contents of her stomach.

Gwen clenched her fists at her sides, “I’m done with my task, I need to clean my armour.”

Not giving him a chance to protest or persuade her otherwise, she strode off to her tent with purpose. The flaps of the canvas door fluttered behind her as she quickly ducked inside, the familiar scent of dust and leather filling her senses. She plopped herself down on her bedroll, the coarse fabric rough against her skin, and ripped off the bandana that threatened to suffocate her as she tried to control her erratic breathing. She took deep, ragged breaths, feeling like she was drowning in her panic. Gritting her teeth, she could feel the sharp edges fitting together perfectly, the seam in her cheeks splitting with the effort as she clenched her jaw tight. In frustration, she balled her fists into her hair and pulled tightly, welcoming the sharp pricks of pain along her scalp though it did little to help other than stop her from biting into her bottom lip and bleeding all over herself.

“‘Tis no marvel that you have little fortune with women, Alistair. Perhaps it would be prudent to provide better company so they are not driven away by your lack of wit and charm.” Morrigan gloated, her voice carrying through the thin fabric of Gwen’s tent.

“Do you want dinner or not?” Alistair snapped, irritation running through his words.

“You are truly adept at the art of treating a lady,” Morrigan’s sarcasm rolled off her tongue with practiced ease.

“You are no lady.”

“Not the one you want, no.”

Gwen tuned out the rest of the banter, it was of no interest to her. They were not her friends, they were a means to an end, a way to find the answers she needed, a way to find some peace in the awful hand the world had dealt her.

Gwen ran her fingers over her inner wrist, her dark veins prominent against her papery, blue-tinged skin, the scar left all those years ago still discoloured. She felt the urge to dig her fingers into herself, to rip and rip at her soft flesh until she found her Maker-forsaken blood underneath, to feel the thick, darker-than-natural, liquid pour over her. If she let it all out, would she finally be free of it?

No, that would not solve her problem, it wasn’t that simple. Darkspawn blood could not be separated from a being once they had been infected. For most, they would die soon after, but Gwen had not, she’d been unfortunate enough to have all the stars align to leave her in this state, half-Darkspawn, half-human, a freak of nature. Outcast from the world and unwilling to succumb to the Calling that sang like an old and rusted music box only she could hear.

A monster concealing herself among heroes. There was only one way that story ended, and Gwen was desperate to avoid the Calling that pounded in her brain, but would it be enough to avoid the tragedy she knew awaited her?

She still hadn’t figured out the connection the Grey Wardens had to the Darkspawn, how they were able to sense them, how they could fight them like no others. She was reluctant to ask outright for fear they would become suspicious of her and then all this would have been for naught.

Did she deserve to have peace after everything she’d done? After the people she’d hurt?

A child’s laughter echoed in her head. She would have said yes, that Gwen did deserve peace, but she was dead, and it was all Gwen’s fault. She had suffered for it, but nothing Gwen did would ever be enough, not after the pain she’d caused. And yet she was a selfish thing, and she couldn’t help but pursue the reasons as to why she existed, why she was a monster so despicable that the Chantry had deemed her irredeemable by the Maker.

Her hand tingled where Alistair had touched her, like she’d sapped the warmth from his skin, leaving her body craving more. Such a gentle touch for a horrid creature, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her like that. She did not deserve such softness, monsters were not supposed to want these things.

But then why did she crave it more than she craved the air in her lungs? She lay her pale fingers over the skin that he had touched, the chill of her skin nothing like the comfort that he had provided. She dropped her hand, she was being foolish, she could never hope to recreate his touch, and she was sure he would be disgusted if he knew that she had tried.

As she lay down to sleep that night, having forgone dinner altogether as she rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to soothe the grief and longing that threatened to overwhelm her, she shoved all thoughts of her past back into its box in her mind. Or at least she tried, but now that they were out, there was no containing them as they coated her thoughts like sticky sap, pulling her into a time that she would much rather leave where it belonged; in the past.

***

The cold, stone floor beneath its threadbare sheets pressed into its bony backside as it curled up, knobby knees clutched to its chest, every rib visible beneath the fabric of its clothes. It had longed - selfishly - to eat like the other residents of the Chantry orphanage, but it knew that that was not its place. It wasn’t like the other children, it wasn’t a child at all. It was a monster, a creature that had been forsaken by the Maker and given to the Sisters as a means to prove that they were worthy of His love, that they would not succumb to its darkness.

They had locked it away in the basement, only allowed out to complete tasks that the Sisters found too distasteful. It cleaned the outhouse, swept the chimney, and was lowered down into the old well when Sister Georgia lost her favourite locket. Yet it was never without its chains, the constant clanking and scratching of metal as its shackles moved with its body was a sound it had learned to tune out long ago. The shackles were securely fashioned around its neck, wrists, and ankles, and had long ago discoloured and scarred the skin underneath with the constant rubbing and tugging. It was safest this way, Mother Freya would say, it was to ensure that the beast did not lash out and harm the other Chantry residents, as was its nature.

It did not mind these tasks, nor the beatings that came when it did not complete the task to their satisfaction. It was better than being left for days on end in the cold darkness of the cellar, starving and wondering if they had finally forgotten about it this time. It did not enjoy eating the mice and bugs that had the misfortune of scurrying into its cell, but when it got hungry enough, it could not control itself. Sometimes, if it was really lucky, it would pass out from the beatings and require someone to lift it back to its room. It could vaguely remember the soft feel of the Sister’s hand on its arm as it was dragged back to the dark where it belonged. It coveted that feeling, selfishly longing for more.

It occasionally caught glimpses of the children - orphans, much like it - but was quickly hurried away, lest it scare them. It heard whispers sometimes, from children brave enough to venture near the entrance to the cellar where rumour had it that a monster lived.

Yes, it wanted to say, a monster does live here, but would you come to visit, I promise I do not bite, I only want to play.

It was finally granted some freedom from the restrictive bridle, a metal contraption that clamped tightly over its face, forcing its mouth to remain closed. This small mercy was only given within the confines of its cell, where it could eat without struggling against the tight restraints. Here, in the safety of its own space, it could briefly taste a sense of liberation but would have gladly traded that privilege to be allowed to come close to the other orphans.

The day the cellar doors swung open with a creak, the gentle sound of rain against the wooden surface muffled the noise that would normally signal a breach to any Sister, the creature could not have guessed how its life was about to change.

Its rotten heart pounded in its chest, did the Sisters have a new task for it to complete? Or perhaps it had gotten lucky and they would bring a bowl of cold soup for it to eat, the mice had stopped coming, having grown wary of the creature.

The small, musty cell was tucked away at the back of the cellar. It was a secret hideaway, hidden behind rows of rickety wooden shelves lined with jars of colourful, preserved vegetables from the garden. The air was thick with the pungent smell of garlic and herbs, making the mouth water in anticipation. A few strips of dried meat hung from the ceiling like tempting baubles that made the creature’s mouth water and its stomach rumble.

The cellar door creaked quietly closed and the muted light of day was replaced by the flicker of a candle dancing against the darkness that filled the cellar like the never-ending sense of loneliness.

“Hello?” A young girl’s voice called out, all high-pitched and innocent in her youth. It shuffled to the back of its cell, the shackles that dug ever deeper into its skin as though it would become one with it dragging across the ground, the sound of metal on stone slithering through the small space. It longed desperately to see her, but a thought suddenly struck it; what if it hurt her like Mother Freya always said it would? It didn’t want to hurt her, it didn’t want to hurt anyone. It didn’t want to be the monster it was.

“It’s okay,” the girl said, “I’m not going to hurt you. You can come out.”

It kept quiet, ducking its head against its knees where they curled up against its chest. Maybe if the girl didn’t see its face she wouldn’t know how horrible it truly was and would get bored and leave. It had never seen anyone with the same sickly pallor of skin as it which peeked out beneath the rips and tears of its clothes, or the whiteness of its hair, unnatural for a creature of its age according to the Sisters. Or worse yet, the sharpness of its nails that had been left to grow in the absence of the Sisters’ ripping them off once they had gotten too long. It had been a while since anyone had come to see it, other than to occasionally toss scraps of food and stale water at it.

Soft footsteps approached as the candlelight became bright the closer the girl got, “Hello?” She called again, and the creature did not answer.

The footsteps stopped and it realized with a sinking feeling in its chest that she had spotted it. It clutched its arms around its legs as the girl walked slowly forward, the shift of her dress against the ground alerting it that she had sat down just outside of her room, the thick metal bars the only thing blocking her from coming any closer.

Silence prickled at its skin and it bit hard against the flesh of its lips until it tasted blood.

“Are you hungry?” The girl asked, her voice quieter than it had been when she’d first spoken, as though she was trying not to scare it. She was the one who should be scared of it, not the other way around.

Its stomach answered for it with a loud growling noise. It was starving, but that was okay, it was not deserving of food like the others, it had messed up its last task and this was its punishment. Its back still ached from the scabs that had formed after the beating, but that was okay too, if it did not want to be punished it shouldn’t make mistakes.

“Here,” the sound of the girl’s sleeves brushing against the bars of the cell let it know that she had reached through, “I brought this for you.”

The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread cut through the smell of mildew that grew on the walls and it could not help but raise its head just a bit to peek through its curtain of tangled hair to where the girl waited. Its mouth watered as it watched the bread with rapture, drool falling out of its mouth like a dog who’d smelled a fine cut of steak.

The girl waved the bread to pull its attention back to her, and as she spoke, it wrenched its eyes away from the food and towards the girl.

“Do you want me to throw it to you?” She said, her pink lips pulled into a soft gap-toothed smile, her tan skin crinkled around her eyes with a kindness that it had never before witnessed directed towards it. Her skin was splattered with freckles that matched the rich brown colour of her hair which had been pulled back into a thick braid. Her eyes were a warm amber, like honey that had been left to crystallize in the sun.

Her dress was worn, patched in places, and her hands bore no signs of hard labour. She was the opposite of the creature, and it could not help but feel blessed that this girl had taken the time to grace it with her presence. Even if she never came back, it would cherish this memory forever.

Taking its lack of an answer as confirmation, the girl threw the bread to it. Its hand snatched the bread out of the air before it could hit the ground and become sullied in the dirt, something as wonderful as this did not deserve such treatment.

It shoved the bread into its grotesque mouth, its head still bent to hide its face from the girl lest she become afraid and leave. It was so hungry that it did not have time to allow itself to lavish in the sweet taste of the freshly baked bread and cursed itself for its barbarism. It was a beast, and could only do as beasts did.

“I take it you liked that?” The girl said, a proud smile brightening her face as it watched in awe of her, “I’ll bring more food when I come next time.”

Next time… No, it couldn’t let her come back, she would get in trouble with the Sisters and then she would be hurt like it was. It was a monster, it deserved pain, but she… she was the most gracious being to ever exist, to entertain the idea that a thing like it was worthy of her time and kindness. It had to scare her off, as much as it hated to do so, it couldn’t allow her to come to harm.

It raised its head, its eyelids drooping and its lips curling back to reveal its sharp teeth underneath. Its slit nostrils flared and it growled from deep in its chest, the warning of a beast before it struck, its cheeks splitting as it stared her down. It was an affront to the Maker and the girl needed to understand that she was not safe with it.

The girl gasped, blinking in surprise as her gaze took in every detail of its monstrous face with more curiosity than fear. Instead of running away like it had intended, she leaned forward as though she wanted to see more of it. It didn’t understand, why was she not more afraid. It had to try harder.

It lunged towards the girl, growling and snapping its sharp teeth in warning, the shackles catching on its weak limbs as it strained against them, its face mere inches from the metal bars that separated them.

Leave! How do you not see that I am bad?

The girl jumped in shock, and a sick, hollow, sense of relief spread through it like the sting of poison running through its veins. Good, this was what it had wanted. Now the girl would leave and she wouldn’t have to face punishment from the Sisters. It wouldn’t be its fault that she was hurt.

But to its eternal surprise, the girl did not flee, screaming in terror about the feral creature in the cellar, instead, she leaned forward, her hand reaching out tentatively towards it.

What did she not understand? Was she truly that daft to not know danger when she saw it?

“You’re bleeding,” the girl said, barely above a whisper, a tremor in her voice, her shaky hand closing the distance between them as her thumb brushed against its curled lip, wiping away the dark blood that had broken to the surface when it had bit itself moments earlier.

It froze, so stunned by her concern that it couldn’t do anything but stare at this girl in astoundment. What was she thinking, it could have bitten her hand clean off her wrist and she was concerned about a wound it had inflicted on itself. The creature was beginning to think it was hallucinating, it had happened before, when it had gotten so thirsty that it had thought it was going to die.

The girl pulled back her hand as if surprised by her own actions, but wasted no time in tearing a small strip of fabric off the hem of her underskirt, “Here,” she held out the piece of fabric, “to stop the bleeding.”

It continued to stare at her, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap, waiting for its end. This had to be a dream, surely this girl could not be real. When it didn’t move, its jaw slack, the growling having ceased in its shock, the girl sighed heavily and reached out again, gently pressing the fabric to its bottom lip.

It flinched away from her touch, finally able to move, but the fabric had stuck itself to its lip and came with it, the girl's hand left hovering in the now open air between them, her fingertips stained with its blood.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the girl said, it almost scoffed, that wasn’t what it was afraid of, “I just… I heard that there was a monster living down here that the Sisters sometimes bring out to do the work that no one else wants to, but I saw you the other day when you were mucking the horse's stables and I thought that you couldn’t be the monster everyone was talking about, you're just a girl, like me.” A girl like her… it was anything but that, Mother Freya had been firm when telling the creature this. “I think we might even be around the same age, I’m seven, how old are you?”

It stared blankly at her, hesitating under the curiosity that swam in her warm eyes, “I…” it croaked, its voice hoarse from disuse, its tongue heavy as it tried to form the words. It was not usually allowed to speak, but sometimes it practiced on its own when no one else was around, “…don’t know.”

The girl shrugged, “That’s okay, I can tell you’re a kid like me. What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t be stuck down in this gross cellar, it’s not fair.”

The passion with which she spoke had the creature frowning, “I am not ‘a kid’, I am dangerous and you should leave.” The creature did not fully understand the words that it said, but it had heard them enough times to know that they were true.

“You don’t seem that dangerous to me,” the girl said and the creature felt like it was arguing with a brick wall, she was more stubborn than she looked, “besides, I think it must be pretty lonely down here. Maybe you’d growl less at people if you had a friend and some more food. I’m always happier when I eat.”

“A… friend?” The words spilled out of its mouth before it could swallow them down, the feel of them foreign on her tongue. It did not deserve such things, what had this girl seen that made her think otherwise?

The girl nodded enthusiastically, “I’m Lucy and I’ll be your friend.” She placed her hand over her heart in a solemn promise.

It felt a lump form in its throat, unsure how to clear it, it bent its head, its hair hanging limply, “I do not want you,” it lied.

Lucy laughed and it failed to see where it had made a joke, “Maybe not yet, but you’ll warm up to me soon, I can already tell.”

Its head jerked up, a scowl on its face and dismissal on its tongue, but Lucy had already moved past the topic, “I’ll bring more food next time, then you can be less angry and we can play together.” Lucy stood up and it choked back the need to beg her to stay, “Oh, and before I forget, what’s your name? It’s only polite since I already offered you mine.”

It had been called many things; mutt, freak, beast, but it felt like those were not what Lucy was referring to.

“No name,” it said, unsure if that was a bad thing or not. It hadn’t really thought about it until Lucy had brought it up.

“Hmm,” Lucy tapped her chin with a slender finger, “I’ll have to think of one for you then, everyone deserves a name.”

It did not deserve one, but it was reticent to not give Lucy what she wanted. After everything that she had given to it already - her time, her kindness, her food - was it too much to ask for this one thing? It seemed only fair.

“I’ll need some time to think of a good one, is that okay?”

It nodded, it could wait, it was in no rush to have a name. All it was looking forward to was when Lucy would come back next. It hadn’t been able to scare her off, and it still feared for her safety, but with the way the girl smiled at it, it couldn’t help but selfishly wish for more of the warmth that radiated toward it.

It would ruin this, as it ruined everything it touched, but it was too young to understand the consequences of its greed. It should have listened to its first instinct, tried harder, and done more to get her to leave. But it was never good enough, and Lucy had suffered dearly for it.

Nothing Gwen did would ever make up for that.

Next Chapter

A/N: I’m curious, is anyone reading this?

The art at the beginning of the chapter was done by me and can be found on my art Tumblr @truffle-draws

#angst with a happy ending #slow burn #fluff #eventual smut #falling in love #humour #alistair dao #alistair dragon age #alistair theirin #alistair x original character

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thedizzydinosaur · 2 months

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@tdpprism2024

March 17: chains (imprisonment/connections)

Runaan would never forget the way he first met the elf that he would one day marry.

It had all started the day that the master assassin he was training under had strode into an earthblood mining camp, with his apprentice trotting obediently behind him.

"Stay close." Mtius hissed to the Runaan, who immediately fell into step beside him, "I don't trust anyone here."

The camp was clustered at the base of a smoking mountain, and from his vantage, Runaan could see that there were earthblood elves everywhere, looking like ants up on the slopes as they moved between the mine tunnels and open quarries.

Mtius lead the way into the heart of the camp, passed dusty buildings, and right up to a smoking forge.

The earthblood elf running the forge glaced up as they approached, scowling.

"What do you want." She grumbled, squinting at the assassin, completely ignoring the lanky preteen at his side.

"I think you already know." Mtius replied in a cool, neutral tone. "My order is over a month late."

Runaan glanced past the grouchy earthblood as she started to argue and argue loudly that the delay was justified, scanning the racks of blades and mining tools for any sign of the missing order.

A bunch of cast metal training weapons should be easy to spot between the more rugged gear on display, but...

"Ach, damnit, you great shrike you." Without warning, she spun on her heels and bellowed into the back of the forge."OI, KID! GET OUT HERE!."

There was a clattering, and a short, white haired boy shot out from behind a curtain.

"Yes ma'am?" He squeaked.

"Order 125, go get it out the back"

"Yes ma'am."

The boy disappeared as quickly as he appeared, ducking back undec the curtain that separated what was probably the storage room from the rest of the forge.

But the short look the boy got at the other moonelf, no older then himself, was enough to make his stomach churn.

Around his neck was clamped a heavy iron collar.

Runaan knew that slavery existed outside of the small village he'd grown up in, but.... to see a child, one he could have easily gone to school with..

He felt sick.

- -

They did not get too far before the owner of this dusty mountain side caught up to them, insisting that he had a job for the Mtius. No killing, no no, but you see, there were these rabble rousers that were starting to kick off over at the inn.....

So Runaan was left alone, tucked away in one of head honcho's guest rooms.

Not that he stayed there long.

The smell of whatever was being used to keep the bugs out was making his skin itch, and not even opening the window was making the sensation go away and... well..

The air outside wasn't exactly fresh, with all the dust and Ash, but it was better then being inside.

His feet took him back towards the forge, completely by accident.

The other boy was outside, trying to sweep the endless dust away from the window and door. He looked a lot like he had been crying.

"Oh... hello." The boy whispered softly when he realised that he was not alone out in the street. "Can I help you? The forge master has gone to bed already."

He sounded so.. fragile.

And Runaan’s mouth moved before his mind could

"That looks heavy." Runaan blurted out, almost immediately cringing.

"The broom?"

"No the... uh.." Runaan motioned to the dented ring of metal locked around the boys neck. Up close, it looked way too big for him, like it was for an adult.

"Oh... yeh.. it is." Was the meek reply.

The duo stood in the twilight, awkwardly trying to figure out what to say next.

"Uh... I'm Ethari. Or.. that's what my mum named me." The boy broke the silence. "My... boss... calls me something else, but.."

"Ethari’s a nice name."

"Thank you." Ethari blushed a little "what's yours?"

Runaan opened his house to reply, but before he could, a sudden shout from behind him made him (and Ethari) jump out of their skins.

"RUNAAN! What did I tell-" Mtius appeared from the shadows, a look of thunder on his face, before all anger vanished from his voice once he clocked that Runaanwas not alone. "Oh. Hello, young one. I hope my apprentice is not bothering you."

Ethari muttered out a soft 'its ok', and stepped backwards into the doorway, head bowed.

"Come on, we need to get a move on" Mtius started to hurry Runaan along, eyes flicking behind them. "I believe we have overstayed our welcome l."

There was shouting coming from somewhere back towards where the inn was, getting closer.

"I'd go inside if I was you young man." He told Ethari other his shoulder, and then they were gone.

Ethari stayed in Runaan’s mind over the next week.

He sat quietly amongst the other trainees in the middle of camp, thinking about those sad amber eyes and chafed skin, as they collectively watched the march of the full moon across the midnight sky.

Every now and then, there would be the faint sound of violence coming from somewhere beyond the trees, from where dark smoke stained the night sky.

Sunfire led raids on illegal mining settlements were usually violent things and not places for apprentices to be.

Just before dawn, they were summoned to the edge of the forest.

There were a lot of cuffed and shackled elves being loaded into the back of prison wagons- notably including the forge master.

She shot Mtius a truly evil look before she was loaded up.

"what's going to happen to him?" Runaan asked, watching as Ethari, looking so small and delicate amongst the other enslaved elves sitting off to the side.

"I'm not sure." Mtius admitted sadly. "Likely he'll be kept by the sunfire elves until the court case is over, after that, well..."

He shrugged.

" That's up to the courts to decide,"

Ethari would tell him, years later, that the foster home he landed in was not that bad, to be honest. Or at least, his foster parents were better than his former owner.

Not tones better, due to the number of children in the home, but..

"They fed me at least." He'd muse one night as they watched the stars shimmering above them. "But let me tell you, I was very happy the day I moved out."

Runaan pressed his face into Ethari’s neck, eyes glancing over the healed over, hardly visible scaring hidden from the world under Ethari’s scarf.

"How far we've come, huh?" Ethari hummed into Runaan’s hair. "How far we've come."

#tdpprism2024 #the dragon prince #tdp ethari #tdp runaan

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syrupwit · 2 years

Note

one of your poetry prompts reminded me of Beowulf, which I love, so I will prompt you with that for a Warden of your choice?

Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low, or a sudden fire or a surge of water or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellent age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away.

Hi Rosella, thank you so much -- this is a really great prompt! I went some places with my Neria on this, meandering as usual.

Under the cut, please find ~534 words of f!Surana for @dadrunkwriting. CW: character death of various types.

Mouse’s voice in her mind is quiet, almost tender. “You made the wrong choice, little mage.”

Neria chokes on a breath that isn’t hers. Her hands come up in front of her face, and she sees blue corruption spreading to her fingertips, veins warping and bulging. She feels her robes tear as her shoulder blades erupt from her back.

“You tricked me,” she says with the last of her will, low and distorted, and then the watchers are on her.

When Jowan makes the Templars fall, he sends her falling with them.

He had always been jealous of her.

Knight-Commander Greagoir’s voice is shrill with satisfaction. “She may be one of your pets, Irving, but she aided a maleficar. You know the punishment for that. You can’t shield them every time.”

The First Enchanter looks at him, not her, when he says, “Neria, I only wish you’d told me.”

“You made the wrong choice, little mage.”

“I meant to.” She laughs, and feels Mouse freeze her muscles in a grin. A death-mask. “Make them pay for me.”

The Warden recruits get their vials of darkspawn blood, but one of them is struck down. It’s the elf, of course. They all knew she was the weakest.

“For the greater good,” Duncan says, his face solemn and streaked with Jory’s blood. His voice doesn’t sound near as kind now. She knows he means to be.

Neria drinks. As she collapses, before the pain takes her mind, she thinks: at least I’ll be remembered.

They have to get to the tower to light the beacon. The bridge shakes, it won’t hold, and it’s so high up. Neria runs blindly, ducking past arrows and imagined arrows, her robes soaked with sweat. There’s a hand grabbing at the fabric, tugging her back from the cracked, crumbling edge—

“Careful,” Alistair shouts.

She jerks from his grip. Spits at him.

“Don’t touch me. I can do this by myself if I have to.”

Later, at the top of the tower, when the ogre has thrown him aside and is bearing down on her, her mana as diffuse and ungatherable as the smoke from a snuffed-out candle: I can’t do this by myself.

(Alistair, in Flemeth’s hut, wakes up on his own. She’d be surprised to learn that he mourns her.)

Wolves outside Lothering; a bereskarn in the hills; bandits on the road; assassins on a mountain path. Demons and abominations and furious things wearing the skin of her former classmates. Poison meant for a dwarven politician. An unlucky wind, an infected wound. A misfired spell, a misplaced step, a sudden current in the river.

Golems in the Fade. A long-dead creature in a crumbling temple. Sten, on the road to Haven. Ser Cauthrien, Anora’s face flashing in her sword and shield. Zevran Arainai in a back alley in Denerim, though he’s usually courteous enough to apologize first.

Darkspawn in the forest, in the Deep Roads, in Neria’s dreams. Blood and fire, bloated flesh, laughter that raises goose-pimples and curdles her stomach. Not all of it is cruel; they know her, they want her. Their voices mingle together with the Archdemon’s, singing and calling to her, our sister, little sister—

Sometimes it’s just spoiled food that takes her out.

#rosella-writes #dadwc #dadwc fill

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postsfromthedark · 2 years

Text

Theory for s4

So, we see that rayla left to find viren- she did this two years ago now. We also know she struggles with self doubt, feelings of not being good enough. She's holding out hope that runaan is still alive that she can right what she vies as her wrongs. All thos combined leaves a rather reckless, highly trained teenage assassin

But maybe she found claudia. She didn't do anything for a whole but follow her around a bit, see where she went, what she did. Seeing if viren was with her. Maybe, on this path, she leaves... traces. Slips her name to someone running a stall, leaves a piece of her clothing/gear/weapons on an alley when she ducked in to avoid being spotted. Maybe callum sees someone with it -recognizes it. He asks the earthblood elf, a stranger, where he found it. He tells him and thus starts callums search for rayla (she would never leave something behind unless there were no other options, trained and practical as she is).

Maybe the elf lied.

#tdp #tdp callum #tdp fandom #the dragon prince spoilers #tdp season 4 #tdp spoilers #callum #rayla #tdp rayla #the dragon prince #tdp terry #Not sure where I was going with this #But yall get the idea #Terry and/or Claudia found rayla or her stuff #And are using it to trick callum #Per aaravos' demands

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aaravos-answers · 3 years

Note

May I have an Aarapod? They seem like nice companions

Sparkling-half-elf

Purple, green, or purple, starling?

You may have one if you will care for it properly. This includes feeding it mainly leafy greens, and souls only rarely.

#aaravos answers #anonymous ask #sparkling-half-elf #aarapod #oh-- starling first i must ask you to sign a contract #you see you are on anon so i do not know if you are one of my regular starlings #or even if you are in my flock at all #and i must ensure you will not deliver the aarapod to the assassin #i believe he intends to dissect it #or use it to find me #cannot have that can we now #so #blood contract stating you are not in any way affiliated with runaan leader of the moonshadow assassins #and that you have no intention of harming the aarapod you wish me to give you #in any manner #necessary precautions starling i'm sure you understand #five questions challenge: next five questions aaravos isn't allowed to duck out of #question 5

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moonlighttinkered · 3 years

Text

Targeted Mistake

This was the day.

Athux had been spending weeks planning this after learning about the existance of a moonshadow that connected to the star primal, first learning more about this “Ethari” character then finding the town the moonshadow was living in currently. Athux didn’t understand why an elf would want to live in the human kingdoms, even Athux’s old community in Xadia was infinitely better than any human town but it made no sense to think about now as he finished the trap he was working on. Star magic was the rarest form of magic in Xadia, therefore it was unpredictable in what it could do, before, during, or after capture. Especially in the hands of a moonshadow elf. Athux had been running prototype after prototype of this trap for three weeks because of this, and finally he was convinced it would work.

Now to do the capture...

Despite the moonshadow having connected to star magic and apparently helping stop a dark mage from conquering Xadia among the midst of the sudden rise in deaths last year, there was no visual evidence of this moonshadow. And of course there were two moonshadows in this town. That also took time to figure out, but Athux finally decided the one with long hair was the star connected one. He seemed too aware of his surroundings, seemed to see exactly what was going on. That had to be him.

And so... Here Athux was, sitting in a bush waiting for the long haired moonshadow to come out of the building he was in. Some human school. The trap was entirely automatic, all Athux had to do was knock out the moonshadow...

-----

School had gone well today, despite it being most of the student’s most hated part of the year where pacing tests and cardio were required. Runaan liked it about as much as his students did, but did decide to join in on their suffering by running the pacer test alongside them. To show he understood if anything. Him and Caden, the fastest runner in class, ended up going head to head for who could go the longest while the rest of the students watched. Despite having shorter legs, Caden actually ended up beating Runaan and surprising everyone. Of course, the trained assassin was getting older but the Caden’s endurance was a pleasant surprise. He would have to give a good reward to the boy next class...

Unfortunately, his thoughts on what reward were cut short as he stepped outside, only to instantly duck out of the way of an arrow in alarm. The arrow deployed a net however, with another arrow following close behind and deploying another net. An enchanted string followed that other arrow, wrapping both nets together. Runaan struggled, looking around for the attacker while pulling his hands away from the magic rope that tried to bind them to the net. Finding only a machine a distance away that was firing arrows and had another one ready. What-

He hissed when the rope suddenly wrapped around his neck tightly and squeezing until Runaan couldn’t breath. He pushed through that to continue struggling, but the rope moved to catch his hands again. His wrists were tied next despite his attempts, stuck to the net unable to move.

The lack of air was getting to him now, but he pushed on, trying to break the rope. Another arrow. This struck his feet. A blue goo surrounded his feet, and when he tried to move he realized with horror that the goo hardened instantly and he couldn’t move.

With the rope still working to keep him still, the goo somehow working its way up his legs, and the lack of air, Runaan fell. Struggling as sight was lost to him. Footsteps sounded. He looked up sharply, finding a tidebound holding a cloth in one hand approaching. A smirk on the blue face. Runaan couldn’t breathe, much less talk, but the tidebound began acting as if Runaan was speaking. Or making any noise.

“Shhh, shhh,” The tidebound practically whispered, taking Runaan by the only full horn the former assassin had left, then pressing the cloth to Runaan’s mouth. The rope loosened around the assassin’s neck, but the first true breath sucked in was through the cloth. The air tasted sweet somehow. Sickly sweet. Runaan’s eyes widened as he felt the effects of a daze coming onto him. He tried to retreat in alarm despite being immobilized, but the cloth was held tighter to his mouth. He was forced to breathe it even when he cut off his own breathing to stop. By that point, however, it was too late. His consciousness flickered out with every breath, until he fell limp, the tidebound being the only thing that saved Runaan from the ground beneath him.

-----

He actually got him.

Athux grinned, giving a laugh. That actually worked!

He whistled, calling a horse he had painstakingly bought because of her understanding of commands, to come here. Not long after a brilliant white horse pulling a small carriage turned a corner. Stopping right in front of Athux. Athux used a simple rune to clear the ocean glue, then deposited the unconscious moonshadow into the carriage, using chains he had installed himself to ensure the moonshadow was completely unable to move if he woke up. Then, satisied, Athux removed all the evidence of capture, and took off.

-----

Ethari was anxiously watching the door for Runaan to come home. Having a new horn decoration he wanted to give the former assassin after the last horn cap Runaan had was dented from breaking up a fight between two students. He had closed the shop early even to make sure he could surprise Runaan with this gift as soon as Runaan was home. But it had been an hour. Runaan hadn’t come through the front door. He was probably in a meeting, he supplied himself. But why did something feel off?

@asking-the-danger-star

#closed starter #targeted mistake

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samstree · 3 years

Text

splash of the waves, and the sand castle crumbles (1/?)

Geraskier, Prince!Jaskier, fairy tale elements but with a twist, fluff and angst, 6.9k, rated T

Read on AO3

Geralt finds himself drawn to the prince despite himself. As he and Jaskier grow closer, war also looms on the horizon. It's the stuff of fairy tales, but can a witcher find his happily ever after in the time of heartbreaks and deaths?

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened next?”

“The farm girl became a princess and married the prince. They lived happily ever after,” she smiled, her eyes so warm in the candlelight.

“But what next?”

“Happily ever after, sweetie. It means there will only be happiness for the rest of their lives.”

She places a kiss on the top of his head and blows out the candle. Her hands are soft and gentle when she tucks him in.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Will we live happily ever after?”

She pauses in the darkness.

“Of course, my darling. Now you need to close your eyes—”

“Like the prince and the girl?”

“Even better.”

“But she married the prince. How can it be better?”

She sighs. The warmth of her palm brushes across his forehead, making his eyelids droop heavily.

“Your future holds much more, my sweet boy. You will find out tomorrow when you wake up.”

Sleep overcomes him. Indeed, he dreams of fairy tales and royal balls, magic spells and grand weddings.

The next morning, he wakes up believing in those happy ever afters.

Sometimes, when stones are thrown and pitchforks raised, Geralt regrets ever doing so.

The crown prince of Aedirn is a beautiful thing.

His pale blue doublet shines under the bright morning sun, the silvery embroidery sparkling in the light. A big smile —that ever-so-friendly smile that Prince Julian is known for— spreads across his face as a man with blond hair riding next to him speaks. Windswept brown hair brushes over his eyes, obscuring his youthful features.

Everything about him screams royalty. Privilege.

Even his horse is the most nicely-groomed white stallion Geralt has ever laid eyes on.

Prince Charming needs the whole get-up. The witcher snorts behind the bush, observing the royal convoy. It’s too small and moving way too slowly. They must have let down their guard because of the proximity to the castle. If Geralt were to assassinate a royal, he would choose to do it here as well.

It doesn’t take long for the first one to approach from the side of the road, hiding behind the shrub just like Geralt. The man in black works silently and quickly, but not as quickly as a witcher.

Geralt strangles him from behind, gripping tightly until the man passes out. A crossbow falls to the ground. The convoy travels ahead, unaware of the witcher disposing of a deadly threat to their prince’s life.

The swoosh of an arrow pierces the air.

“Protect the prince!”

Two dozen assassins in the same black suit appear out of thin air, charging into the royal guards’ formation. In an instant, the heap of pale-blue is tackled to the ground. Swords clash as more men start yelling.

“Fuck.”

Dodging a stray arrow, the witcher rushes into the chaos. The small convoy being overwhelmed by the incoming force, they hardly notice one of the assassins circling around the battle and moving directly to the prince. With a few long strides, Geralt stops the man with a clean strike.

“What—” the prince scrambles back at the sight of blood, looking at the witcher’s towering form with disbelief.

“You need to come with me,” Geralt says, before hauling him up by the collar of his doublet.

He half drags the prince to the hide-out. It’s only a cave where he left Roach earlier, but it should be enough. The young man slumps down against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Why are you—”

“Shh.” The witcher quickly crouches on the ground and presses his palm over the prince’s mouth. Distant footsteps disappear in another direction, before he slowly lets go. “We should be safe for now.”

In the quiet of the cave, he can hear the prince’s pounding heart, his eyes blown wide like a startled deer. Specks of blood smear across his cheeks, making him appear even younger.

“My men?”

“These are hired assassins. They will disperse once you are gone.” Geralt is surprised at how gentle his voice comes out. “Are you all right?”

“I—” the prince swallows, and looks down to his bicep where the flesh is grazed by an arrow. The wound is shallow and slowly seeping blood into the torn fabric. Geralt reckons that it should be fine left alone. “I’m fine. I—I’m…fine, yes. I’m alive.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, both in shock and relief. The prince tries to appear unaffected but the overwhelming panic in his scent betrays his seemingly neutral expression.

“You are lucky it didn’t go through your heart.” The witcher leaves him to check on Roach. Sensing the danger in the air, the mare has stayed quiet this whole time. He pats her mane in thanks. “Didn’t think the prince of Aedirn was this careless.”

“I didn’t think witchers got themselves involved in political squabbles either.” Cornflower blues meet Geralt piercingly, despite his shakiness. “I know who you are,” he chuckles tightly. “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt grunts.

“I didn’t get involved.”

The prince only gestures to himself, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve saved your ass. Now you can return to your castle and pretend we’ve never met, your highness.”

“Please, call me Jaskier.” The prince stands, patting the blue silk to get off the dirt and wincing when the movement tugs at his arm. “Aren’t you curious as to how I learned about you? Your fame precedes you, witcher.”

The young man meets his gaze assuredly. There’s no trace of fear in his scent.

People usually learn about Geralt one way—his moniker is not something to be escaped. But the prince doesn’t act like everyone else who meets the Butcher. Or at least, he hides it well.

“Are you not scared for your life, prince?”

“It’s Jaskier. And no, I’m not scared by the Butcher, if that’s what you mean.” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “I know you from a… mutual acquaintance, let’s say.”

“Oh?”

“Filavandrel mentioned you.”

“The elf king who hides in the mountains?” Geralt frowns. “I never really knew him. Not for more than a day.”

“No? He spoke of a white-haired witcher who was paid to hunt his people. Only that witcher left his own coin purse to them upon finding out about their circumstances. It showed compassion that no human had ever shown them, witcher. From his description, I thought the elven king and you shared a moment that day, or rather, an understanding.”

“Only of men.” He pauses. “Haven’t you come to the same understanding? Or why else would the prince of Aedirn make a target of himself by providing shelter to elven refugees?”

Geralt remembers his encounter with the elf king vividly, his anger and despair. The path took him back to Lower Posada years after that day. His curiosity drove him back to Dol Blathanna, only to find a much larger settlement and an exploding population of elves and other non-humans. Not only that, everyone there spoke of the kindness of the prince, who gave equal status to all sentient creatures on Aedirn soil.

“I see someone did homework on me.”

“People here sing your praises on the street day and night. It seems half the country has fallen in love with you,” Great admits begrudgingly.

“And the other half dislikes that I’m giving land away. Land that could have been providing for humans. The other half of my country believes I’m crazy just like all the other kings and queens in the north.”

The prince steps into Geralt’s space.

“You see, Geralt of Rivia, I cannot change the war that others deem just. I cannot stop the Lioness of Cintra from slaughtering elves and non-humans alike on the other side of the Yaruga. All I have is a piece of land in the Blue Mountains and, perhaps, I can provide them the means to rebuild. Those settlements are only a start.”

“It sounds like a noble cause, prince, but I’m not sure how much you can achieve.”

“Sometimes,” the prince’s attention shifts to Roach. “I wonder the same thing. The continent won’t change overnight just because one kingdom decides to show them a little bit of decency. The same decency that we humans are treated with all along.”

The young prince falls silent, his hand reaching out to touch Roach’s mane but retreats when she snorts anxiously. Geralt shushes the mare with a carrot from the pack.

“And I think, my friend,” the young prince continues. “Despite your claim of neutrality, you are on my side.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No? But I wish to become yours. After all, you just saved my life so selflessly and gallantly,” he proclaims dramatically. “You should have seen yourself, Geralt. So brave with a sword, like a knight from the stories! If we were in a fairy tale, this is where I offer myself to you in eternal gratitude.”

“Are all princes this cheeky?”

“I don’t know. Are all witchers this heroic and beautiful?” Blue eyes roam up and down the witcher’s body, before meeting his gaze with clear interest.

Geralt grunts, ducking away from direct eye contact with the prince. Suddenly the air in the cave feels too warm. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Are you being shy, Geralt the witcher?”

The teasing comes so naturally for the prince. Gods, is that why all the maidens out there are so enamored with him? With those easy smiles and dreamy blue eyes, as soon as he throws in some flirtatious words, any inexperienced country girl would swoon upon meeting with him.

What fools they all are.

“We are not in a fairy tale,” Geralt says, palming his face. “Don’t expect a happy ending from this, my prince.”

“Jaskier,” the prince repeats insistently. “Although I do like the way you call me ‘my prince’. I’d certainly like it more if we were in a… different situation.”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively, and Geralt wonders if he can un-save this ridiculous man’s life.

“Fine then. Jaskier.”

The prince, who insists his name is a flower, smiles smugly for having gotten his way.

“But why?” he then faces Geralt head-on, his voice steady. “Why help me? If you don’t seek the favor of a prince, and the conflict never concerns you?”

Geralt blinks.

He’s not sure what drove him to the decision. The only emotion he had upon hearing about a price on the head of the crown prince was unease. The witcher has seen the war and how all the non-humans were killed with little reason, their corpses a feast for ghouls. The prince of Aedirn made himself an enemy to many realms by taking in all the refugees.

It wouldn’t sit right to let him die.

“I was in Cintra a month ago,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier tilts his head.

“So was I. I went to negotiate the relocation of the defeated elves with Queen Calanthe.” Something dawns on him. “You heard something, didn’t you? Was this assassination ordered by her? The negotiation ended up a complete waste of time, but never have I thought she could resort to such a dishonorable way of killing. No matter how much she must want to get rid of me permanently… Oh, I—I never thought…”

The prince—Jaskier trails off, his face drained of blood.

“I only learned about the bounty on your head,” Geralt explains, confused by the prince’s sudden show of weakness. “Hired swords get quite loose-lipped after a few drinks. As to where the order came from—"

“Wait, I…"

A pained grunt escapes the prince’s throat. He sways on his feet ever so slightly, but steadies himself with a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. They both look down to where the wound is still trickling slowly, soaking his sleeve with a patch of dark crimson.

“Wait, I thought…” Geralt reaches out to hold Jaskier’s arm. His palm comes away covered in blood. “Shit, it shouldn’t be bleeding this much.”

“You followed all the way from Cintra, just to stop them from killing m—" Jaskier breaks off for air as Geralt rummages through his pack for bandages. The prince clenches the fabric over his chest, as if something is hurting him from within. “So much for… n—not getting involved.”

“Shut up, prince.” Geralt’s fingers reach the bandage. “Or Jaskier, or whatever flower you prefer.”

A strained smile contorts into a grimace on the prince’s face, his knees buckling.

“Shit.” The witcher barely manages to catch his limp body before his head hits the ground. Blue eyes become unfocused as his head sags against Geralt’s shoulder. “Jaskier? Prince? Can you hear me?”

Geralt inspects the wound on his arm closely for the first time, and that’s when his witcher senses pick up on the faint trail of bitterness.

“It’s poison,” he mutters and curses under his breath.

Jaskier whimpers weakly upon hearing the words, his eyes filled with full-blown panic. For the first time that day, the witcher senses potent fear in the prince’s scent.

Or is it his own?

Geralt can’t tell.

Roach is almost at her limits. The weight of two grown men puts a lot of tires her way too quickly, but Geralt doesn’t dare to slow down, not until he can see the castle walls.

“Don’t die now,” the witcher murmurs into the prince’s ear, who is slumped against his chest, half-delirious and slurring nonsense. The make-shift tourniquet on his arm is soaked through with specks of blood.

The poison is attacking his heart, Geralt notices. It’s also speeding it up, disrupting its rhythm. It’s the vicious kind, one that is designed to make the victim suffer before they die.

Jaskier’s face is white as a sheet, and his lips are turning a sickening purple. The trembling comes and goes, making it harder to keep him in place. His blue eyes roll back, and for a moment, Geralt thinks he’s lost him.

“We are here, prince. Do you hear me?” The gate opens when the guards realize that their prince is brought back injured. A lot of people are shouting but it’s all a blur when Geralt carries the prince down from the mare’s back. “Just hang on, Jaskier.”

Jaskier clings, his heartbeat fluttering dangerously.

They take Jaskier away with force, his limp hand slipping from Geralt’s grip. Someone kicks the witcher behind the knees, sending him to the ground. Weapons suddenly appear at his throat, stopping him from going any further.

“G’ralt…” Jaskier protests, his hands grabbing blindly.

“He needs a healer!” he shouts at those guards who only seem to be interested in restraining him.

Cornflower blues are fixed on golden yellow. The prince’s skin is covered in sweat, his lips quivering, struggling to form words. It takes a second for the witcher to realize that he’s talking to the guards.

“He saved my life. Don’t… He saved…me,” Jaskier chokes out a breath, and Geralt feels those guards release him.

The witcher is left kneeling as more men surround the prince and rush him inside. They’re either fussing over Jaskier or calling for help. His faint heartbeat gets lost in the commotion.

“Wait, is he going to—"

The gate shuts in his face. The last thing he sees is Jaskier collapsing in someone’s arms.

No word about the prince comes out for months. Not about the assassination. Not about his poisoning.

Rumor says that he was gravely injured during the attack, and that he has been bed-ridden since returning from Cintra. Some even suspect that he’s already dead.

“…I opened the envelope and it was an invitation from the prince!”

“It was magical, wasn’t it? He doesn’t show up for ages and suddenly we are all invited to a ball! In his castle! A royal ball where anyone can attend, no less! I heard he will choose one to marry tonight.”

“Although I heard he’s sick for quite some time…”

Geralt ducks his head while listening in on the two women’s conversation. They are each dressed in a luxurious ball gown, their faces powered and lips painted. Like everyone else in the room, they are trying to impress the prince at his first outing in months.

But that is not why he is here.

Geralt has been lingering in Aedirn since that day, when he sent Jaskier back to the castle with poison coursing through his veins, not knowing what would become of him. Months of dead silence only make his stomach sink further.

A chance presented itself when news came out that the prince will hold a ball to the public.

It only makes sense that he should go and check, just to make sure Jaskier is all right. After all, he doesn’t want to put in all the effort to save someone only to never know if he will end up fine.

He will see for himself that Jaskier is well, and then he will leave.

He will not get involved.

Of course not.

Geralt takes another sip of the wine, surprised at the buzz it gives to his temporarily human body. When the mage sold him the potion that could hide all visible witcher traits, she did not mention it would also slow his metabolism to an ordinary human’s.

“The disguise will expire at midnight, when the bell strikes twelve.” Luckily she didn’t forget about this.

What a cliché.

It seems that no mage can resist a touch of dramatics.

For now, he looks like another random lord with dark hair and brown eyes. She also threw in a spell to turn his clothes into a silky ensemble in a muted black color.

“His royal highness, Prince Julian!” someone announces.

The crowd turns their eyes to the top of the stairs, where the heavy wooden doors open in everyone’s anticipation. One of the two women lets out an audible gasp as the prince steps out.

And there he is, Jaskier.

Those blue eyes are bright as the sky, those cheeks rosy-pink. He’s a picture of health compared to the last time Geralt held him in his arms. The witcher lets out a relieved sigh he never knew he was holding.

A smile spreads across the prince’s face. Suddenly the wine isn’t the only thing making Geralt all warm and fuzzy inside.

The prince descends the stairs with such elegance, his doublet a pristine ivory color under the chandelier’s sparkling light. The clothes sit perfectly on his frame, but with a heavy heart, Geralt realizes that he’s also lost weight.

It’s minuscule, and the puffy sleeves hide it well, but it’s there. Bed-ridden for a long time, they say. The witcher swallows the lump in his throat.

The crowd parts for the prince, retreating to the edge of the dance floor. No one dares to breathe as they await his invitation to the first dance. Once the dancing starts, the music will be too loud and the people too busy, giving the witcher a window to easily disappear into the night. But Jaskier continues to search through the crowd as if he has a specific someone to look for.

Before Geralt can even react, blue eyes have locked with his. The piercing blue makes him instinctively want to hide, but the witcher is frozen to the spot. The prince walks directly towards him, the grin spreading even wider if that is possible.

“May I have the first dance?” Jaskier reaches out, his palm facing up.

Countless eyes fall on Geralt, making his skin prickle, but he pays no mind. All he can focus on is the prince’s expectant look. Even now, without his witcher hearing to know Jaskier’s heartbeat, he can see the tentative hope in the way Jaskier seems to hold his breath.

Geralt takes his hand.

The royal garden is quiet under the night sky. The cool breeze is nice on Geralt’s skin, the faint hum of cicadas a soothing balm to his ear after hours of music and dance.

“Apologies. I was getting a little… uncomfortable in there.” The prince leads the witcher to a bench. His hand rubs at his heart like it’s bothering him.

“Are you well, my prince?” Geralt helps him sit down.

“Please, call me Jaskier.”

Geralt pauses. Does Jaskier tell his preferred name to anyone? Even a stranger he just met at a ball?

“Why Jaskier?”

“It’s the person I dream to be,” he answers wistfully but adds nothing to explain. Geralt wonders why a prince could possibly dream to be another person.

“I see.” He nods. “Are you feeling alright, Jaskier?”

The prince’s eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a lock of curly brown hair out of Geralt’s face. The movement is so gentle that the witcher can’t help but catch his hand, holding those slender fingers in his palm.

They are way too slender, he thinks. Repressed worry bubbles up in his throat again.

“I’m fine now.” Jaskier squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Although I haven’t been for a few months, as you already know.”

“Uh…yes.” Geralt splutters. This closeness, combined with the touch of skin, seems to be slowing his brain. “There are rumors, from outside the castle. It was an attack, wasn’t it? At least that’s what I heard.”

“It was. They used poison, no less. The healers told me that it weakened my heart, even stopped it for a few seconds.” He chuckles sadly, threading their fingers together and pressing both their hands over his chest. “The pain still comes and goes these days, but I cope.”

The thumping underneath Geralt’s hand is rhythmic. Calming. It feels so fragile, especially now that he knows how little it takes to stop it. To snuff out the light in those cornflower-blue eyes along with it. And yet, this heart keeps beating.

“I’m glad you survived, Jaskier.”

The name comes out reverent, like a prayer.

“So am I, my friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Moonlight frames Jaskier’s fond expression, giving it a soft glow. Long lashes cast a shadow on his faint blush. A grin spreads across the prince’s face when he answers.

“I hope? Or maybe I can hope for more. After all, this ball is held so I can find my future intended in the crowd.”

The implication makes Geralt’s breath hitch. He blinks.

“You don’t even know my name.”

Jaskier’s eyes darken as he leans in. His hand comes up to cradle Geralt’s chin. “Somehow, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

The crisp night air is mixed with the fresh smell of grass, but on top of it is a floral scent that reminds him of spring and hope. Geralt lets his senses be overwhelmed by the prince, by his soft breaths ghosting over his skin and those enchanting lips well within reach.

Not getting involved, the back of his mind screams.

Despite himself, Geralt meets Jaskier halfway, their lips a hair’s breadth away when—

The bell strikes. Once, twice…

The noise is the loudest wake-up call, turning Geralt’s blood to ice. What is he doing? Is it midnight already? Fuck… he needs to get out of here before the magic expires.

“I need to go,” Geralt blurts out. “I have to leave right now. Ah… I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together in confusion. “What is wrong? I thought you—”

“I came here to make sure you are all right, Prince Julian. Nothing more. It was never my intention to let you believe there could be anything else.”

The prince’s face dims at his apology. The dejection on his face tugs at something in Geralt’s chest. It leaves him wanting, but there’s no time. The bell counts down his sentence.

He takes Jaskier’s hand and places a simple kiss there, and turns to leave, only to be halted by the prince’s tightening hold.

“Wait, you don’t have to go."

“You don’t understand,” Geralt’s voice quivers with urgency. “It’s important that I leave.”

Those gentle fingers wrap around Geralt’s steadily, Jaskier’s skin cool against his. The prince continues to ignore his plea. If anything, he steps closer.

“Stay. Please.” Jaskier whispers, and it’s all it takes.

The witcher can break free easily, but for some reason he is unable. For some reason, he feels the weakest he has ever been under the intensity of Jaskier’s pleading gaze.

To his horror, the magic fades. Geralt can feel his hair change and grow longer, his teeth sharpening. The flow of chaos stings his eyes that are certainly turning back to yellow. His face crumbles.

And yet, Jaskier never wavers.

If anything, the adoration in those stormy blues only grows, ever so beautifully, as the swirl of magic circles around Geralt, revealing plain clothes instead of silk.

The bell strikes twelve.

The sound still echoes in the air. Slowly, with the utmost determination, Jaskier’s fingers thread through what is now silver-white hair. Tears glisten in his eyes.

“You told me we were not in a fairy tale, and yet, you try to leave me at midnight. You tried to leave me here under the stars. Alone and heartbroken.” The prince lets out a wet chuckle. “Because you think I wouldn’t recognize the man who saved my life. You think I wouldn’t know the witcher who’s risking everything right now just to see that I am well. I’d know you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s feather-light touch continues to trace the shell of Geralt’s ear, the tiny scar under his eye, and then finally, the corner of his mouth. It’s not often, in his long life, that Geralt gets his breath taken away, least of all by a prince.

“How?”

“I suspected,” Jaskier whispers. “Or rather I hoped when I saw you in the ballroom. I prayed. That it’s you.”

“You danced with me because—”

“Because I wanted to thank you properly. We were kind of in a hurry last time.” The prince teases, his palm tilting Geralt’s chin. “May I?”

He nods.

As if in a dream, soft lips press against his, tasting of salt and moonlight. Geralt lets out a tiny gasp as Jaskier opens him up patiently and draws it out like they have all the time in the world. Like he’s something to be treated with gentleness. Something to be treasured.

He pulls away panting, only to realize that tears are rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks freely, so he catches them with the pad of his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Geralt shushes him, but Jaskier sniffles with a smile.

“I’m not upset. Trust me when I say these are tears of joy.” Red-rimmed eyes sparkle like the stars. “But Geralt…”

“Yes?”

“Will I see you again?”

Geralt blinks. He only sneaked into a royal court with one goal. Now that he has achieved it and more, there’s nothing that should bring him back to Jaskier again. His heart twists painfully at the idea, and words tumble out of his mouth. The last of his sanity screams against it, and yet his heart has made the decision.

“I hope, Jaskier. I can only hope to see you again.”

Jaskier beams as he presses another kiss to Geralt’s wrist.

“That is enough for me.”

“Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…”

Jaskier’s voice echoes hauntingly. In front of him, the elven family sits huddled together, listening intently. The two children are concentrating so hard that they are almost falling off their parents’ laps. Finally, as the soft strumming of the lute comes to an end, they start clapping with passion.

From a distance, Geralt can only see the prince from behind, but somehow he can sense the big smile Jaskier returns to those excited children. The wind in the Blue Mountains ruffles his brown hair. Jaskier continues to take off the strap and carefully hands the lute to the elven woman.

The witcher approaches quietly.

“…thank you so much! It is such a beautiful instrument.” Jaskier’s voice is warm and welcoming. She’s certainly charmed when they keep talking about music and folk songs.

Geralt stands there and lets Jaskier’s presence wash over him. In the end, it’s the other woman who notices him and gestures in his direction.

Jaskier turns his head and beams.

“Geralt! What brings you here?”

With a few long strides, the prince rushes over and slams their bodies into a bear hug. Anyone who’s not a witcher might have been knocked over by the force, but Geralt catches Jaskier steadily.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Jaskier exclaims as he presses a chaste pack to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I haven’t seen you since the manticore hunt.”

“It was still weird that you would want to come with me on hunts.”

“What is life if not to see your favorite witcher in action?” Jaskier waves it off as if a prince getting monster gut all over himself is a common occurrence. He checks Geralt all over. “Anyway, how’s the path treating you, my dear? Any injuries? Exciting stories?”

“The path is fine.” His excitement is too contagious that Geralt feels his lips tug upwards. “And it hasn’t been long. Two months at most.”

“Nonsense. Any amount of time not seeing you feels like ages.”

The parents lead their children away, the girl still humming the song from Jaskier’s private performance.

“I didn’t know the prince could play the lute. Or sing,” he teases.

“Ha! I’m full of surprises, you shall see! Besides, I always thought—” Jaskier cuts himself off, ducks his head before continuing. “I always thought that in another life, I would have been a bard.”

“Would you?”

“Mm-hmm. I would travel the continent, write songs about heroes and adventures. With a lute on my back, I could go to the edge of the world and beyond. Maybe even meet some interesting people, find my muse, or… fall in love.”

He winks at Geralt cheekily when the witcher realizes something.

“So is Jaskier the stage name you picked? For this bard life?”

“Why yes.” Jaskier sounds so surprised. “How do you know? Oh, my dear witcher, you do understand me like no one else! Not even Valdo is a match to you, no matter how well he claims to know me.”

The mention of Valdo Marx’s name sends a pang of bitterness through Geralt, though he has learned long ago that it’s irrational. The prince’s life-long friend, now an important right-hand man, is the most devoted advisor in Jaskier’s council. He’s supported Jaskier in everything throughout his life, having done nothing wrong by the prince, and yet, Geralt can’t bring himself to like the man.

Maybe it’s because of his too-shiny blonde hair. It gives him a headache if he stares at it for too long. Maybe it’s his all-knowing eyes that tend to judge the witcher silently every time they meet. The distrust is too typical for politicians such as him.

Or maybe, it’s because anyone with eyes can see how Valdo is desperately in love with Jaskier, but apparently, it’s not that obvious to the prince himself.

“I know because only you will have a tacky name like Buttercup for your professional career.” The words come out more sour than Geralt expected.

Jaskier squawks with rightful indignation, and Geralt can’t help but snort out a laugh. It’s truly too easy to rile him up.

“It’s just hard to picture.” The witcher continues, while taking Jaskier’s hand. “Someone like you, with soft hands like these. It would take a lot of hard work if you want to make it as a musician. I’m not sure if my prince is up for that job.”

Jaskier slaps him on the arm offendedly. “I’ll have you know, Geralt of Rivia! I am perfectly capable of enduring hardship for the right cause! Now that was truly rude of you to assume that I am spoiled just because I’m a prince! Really, it’s very unbecoming of you!”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his head, amused. “And what is a right cause in your book?”

All jokes dissipate after that question.

The prince looks around to the new camps and make-shift houses, everything illuminated by the setting sun. Bonfires are lit where families are gathered after dinner, laughing and dancing together, despite the hardship that brought them here.

“I want everyone on my land to live happily, no matter how they came to Aedirn. I wish they could all see it as a home,” Jaskier says sadly. “That is the most important cause in my life, Geralt. Although I’m not sure if that’s just a fantasy.”

Geralt squeezes the prince’s hands gently. They are exceedingly soft, and cold to the touch. The witcher used to assume that Jaskier just runs a little colder than the average person. But later, to his dismay, he found out that it’s yet another result of the poisoning.

He never wants to see Jaskier’s chest pain flare up again. He never wants to see Jaskier bend over in agony, his hands turning into blocks of ice from the lack of blood flow, his face skin covered in sweat in an instant. Just witnessing it happen almost gives Geralt phantom pain. What’s worse is that there’s nothing he can do but wait it out, holding Jaskier close and rocking him back and forth slowly.

At least he’s now feeling contrite. Teasing Jaskier about not being strong enough was a low blow, when in fact, the young prince is the furthest from deserving such an accusation.

He doesn’t need swords or muscles to be strong.

Jaskier is strong for his stubbornness and his unwavering faith. The elven settlement around them is the best testament. He carried on despite being hated by all other kingdoms, despite the attempt on his life, one that was nearly fatal. One that still hurts him in the quiet of the night.

“Fantasy or not,” Geralt’s insides melt at the way Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I’d like to see it through with you, if you allow me to.”

Blue eyes suddenly sparkle with renewed excitement.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Geralt?” Jaskier asks carefully as if he could spook the witcher. “Are you finally saying yes to my proposal?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’ve been considering it since the first time I asked!”

“You asked on our third ever meeting, Jaskier.” Geralt chuckles in exasperation. “And you’ve been asking every time we see each other.”

“And you’ve been giving me the same response every time.” His pout is too adorable Geralt wants to kiss it away. “One might suggest it’s rude to string a prince along like this.”

Geralt hums while cupping Jaskier’s jaw in his palm, tilting it so their gazes meet.

“One might also suggest that our beloved Prince Julian is too good for a witcher like me.”

Ho only means to joke but the smile on Jaskier’s face falls, hurt immediately replacing the earlier chirpiness.

“Shit, Jask… Forget I said that.” Geralt closes his eyes, regretting having ruined the moment.

“Darling, we talked about this.”

“No, you’re right. Of course…”

Jaskier takes the witcher’s hand and places a kiss in his palm. “I won’t allow terrible things to be said about the man I love, and that includes you, my dear. I’d hate it if you joined those senseless folk who can’t see you for the good man you are.” He bites into his lower lip. “Now, I understand if you have reservations about us. I mean, what I am… or what I do, is a lot. I won’t rush you into a decision anymore. I never meant to pressure you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Jaskier.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are from completely different worlds. Anyone who has eyes will tell you we’re not compatible.”

“Did Valdo say something to you again? Or is that truly what you believe?” Jaskier takes a step back. “Do you wish to end things with me? I—I’ll understand if you want to—"

“No, Jask.”

“—I know how much I’m keeping you in Aedirn, and maybe you wish to be free of court rules and politics and—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interjects, and cornflower blues meet him in earnest. He knows too well how the prince could spiral out of control, dredging up all the terrible scenarios hidden in the dark corner of his mind. Jaskier looks so lost right now and all Geralt wants to do is make it better, so he does it with action, as always.

He kisses Jaskier with a bruising force. It’s too rushed, too clumsy compared to the gentle caress they normally share, but it conveys everything Geralt cannot promise yet. Not out loud. Not right now.

Geralt threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, playing with the soft locks. He lets Jaskier lean against his shoulder when they break off the kiss.

“I’m yours, my prince,” he whispers.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you call me that.”

Geralt hides his amusement in soft brown hair.

“Many times, my prince,” he indulges Jaskier. “And yet I cannot help but worry. I fear that things will not work because of our differences. I am a witcher. I am the Butcher of Blaviken, no matter how noble you believe me to be. I will never become someone else. Not like in fairy tales, where a farm girl can transform into a princess and suddenly become worthy of her prince. I fear you’ll make too many compromises because of who I am, bear too many scrutinies, and you will end up resenting me.”

Jaskier shakes his head at those words, his hair ticking Geralt’s ear.

“You speak of my sacrifices, but what about you?” His hand rests between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “You’ve walked the continent for so long. Will you resent me for caging you in a castle because of who I am?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes the name solemnly. “You promised to never trap me in the drudgery of court life. You promised that no matter what we become, I can always return to my path when my heart desires. I trust you on that.”

“And I trust you in return, that you won’t dishonor me. Not in ways that matter.”

They pull away. The sun is hanging just on the horizon, drawing a golden line around Jaskier’s hair.

“I will ask one thing of you, my prince,” Geralt says. “Allow me more time to be sure. Of myself and of our future.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle at the corners, taking the witcher’s hand and presses it over his heart, where the doublet is left wide open. The warmth of his skin seeps through the thin chemise and into Geralt’s calloused palm.

“Don’t you see, my darling? I’d give you the stars if you asked. What is a little more time?” His chest rises and falls. “Although I need you to promise something as well.”

“What is it?”

The last of the sunlight fades, darkening Jaskier’s eyes like a stormy night.

“Don’t break my heart in the meantime.”

The plea comes out desperate, vulnerable. Under his palm, Geralt feels the soft thumping that he knows to be fragile.

“I won’t,” he breathes the words reverently. “I promise.”

Jaskier’s heart is so full of the world and its sufferings, so full that there’s hardly room left for himself. So full that the witcher should build a shrine for whatever gods out there that it gives him any attention. To think that he has any power over it, that he can hurt it easily, makes his stomach turn.

He’d live out his life fulfilling that promise if allowed.

The witcher walks the path just like he’s done for the past decades. Temeria’s wind is as freezing as ever, and its secrets even more so.

Another dangerous contract is nothing new, and yet, something in him shifts. Somehow, the days ahead are no longer painted with monotonous black and white, but an unpredictable mixture of colors—orange like the setting sun on Jaskier’s long lashes, or rosy-pink like the too-easy blush that dusts over his cheeks when he’s pretending to be unaffected by Geralt’s attention.

More often than not, he sees in his future the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, deep and vast like the sea.

The same blue is what flashes across Geralt’s eyes as the striga’s teeth bury into his neck. With the crypt cold and hard against his back, the witcher would laugh at the irony of it if not for the blood choking in his throat.

Funny how the moment of revelation does not come in a whirlwind of poetry, one that is befitting to Jaskier. The moment Geralt realizes that he is finally ready to take Jaskier’s hand might just be his last moment.

He drifts into bottomless darkness and wakes to cool fingers on his forehead.

And here Jaskier is, sitting by his bedside, his frame so lonely in the Temple of Melitele. A relieved sigh by his lips and tired bruises under his eyes. Gone is his composed regality. Jaskier looks like he hasn’t slept in days, like he just rode all the way here with wind still in the tousled mess of his hair.

“Yes,” Geralt croaks.

The prince rushes forward to fuss over his bandages and splints, cooing with the most distressed frown. “What do you need, my dear?”

“Yes.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, caressing those cool fingers. The stitches in his neck tug uncomfortably.

“Yes, I’ll marry you, my prince.”

---

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @theultimatenerdd

Are the tags working? Anyway feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #prince!jaskier #fairy tale elements #hurt/comfort #i can't believe this became a full story #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #geralt doesn't see himself as a heroic knight #and jaskier is hardly a traditional prince charming #knight and prince dynamic with a twist

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therealvinelle · 3 years

Note

“By contrast, I can think of characters who resemble most other Twilight characters with a relative amount of ease.”

You put this at the end of an ask and was just wondering if you would please elaborate? Have a lovely day

(Anon is referring to this post.) Do you ever look at two characters, realize they have a few things in common, then blink, take a step back, and realize that they really do have an awful lot in common? That they're more or less the same person, only in different circumstances? The same archetype, at the very least.

I'm open to the possibility that you'll say no, @thecarnivorousmuffinmeta and I are strange people who see strange things.

All the same, here are a few examples.

Also, this contains spoilers for the animes Fate/Zero, Puella Magi Madoka Magica, and Revolutionary Girl Utena, as well as the play Vildanden, the book Candide, and the show I, Claudius.

Aro: Kiritsugu Emiya from Fate/Zero.

Kiritsugu is a highly effective assassin whose defining trait, and curse, is his willingness to commit any atrocity in the name of the greater good. His ambition is to save the world. Over the course of the series he sacrifices his father, surrogate mother, best friend, wife, and daughter, and treats everybody else like chess pieces. It will all be worth it when he has saved the world.

He is the opposite of Bella, who would let anything burn for the sake of her loved ones. Kiritsugu loves fiercely, but he will sacrifice that which is most precious to him with a steady hand.

Aro has that same ruthlessness combined with idealism. He sacrifices his sister and is willing to kill his only friend as well, to say nothing of the many other things he has done. He creates child vampires and will kill anyone who stands in his way. This is what he must do to gain and maintain power.

Aro and Kiritsugu will sacrifice anything and anybody if they perceive it to be beneficial to their goal, a goal they happen to share.

Also Aro: Claudius from I, Claudius.

Cladius is the emperor of Rome not because he wishes to be, but because the moment he steps off the throne, Rome will fall to pieces.

Aro did seek out the throne, Claudius very much did not. However, both are in the precarious situation where they can never leave their respective thrones. Rome would fall to pieces without Claudius, and the world would burn without Aro.

Also Aro: Voldemort in an AU where he won.

We're deep in la la AU land now.

But, Aro had to commit atrocities to get to the throne, we only meet him millennia later when his rule is secure. A post-victory Voldemort (and I here mean years and years and years have passed) would be a figure quite similar to Aro. A harsh, uncompromising leader, yet he’s been around for long enough to shape the world into what he wants it to be, people don’t remember that it was once different, and he is regarded as the distant, yet necessary leader.

Bella: Hedda Gabler from Vildanden.

Hedda finds out she's a child born of infidelity, and that her father no longer loves her. Wanting to win back his love she kills herself. Bella, too, has that utter lack of self-love, that willingness to sacrifice herself, and it’s all too easy for her to believe Edward never loved her. Both Hedda and Bella fail to understand there are people who love and would miss them

Also Bella: Homura Akemi from Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

This is not an obvious one.

But they both have that uncompromising drive to do anything and everything for the one they love, and by love I mean the one they fixate everything they are or have ever been upon. Homura, over the course of P3M, goes from wanting to use time travel to save everybody, to being content with saving only Madoka. She will destroy herself for Madoka in a very literal sense, seeing no worth at all in her own survival.

Give Bella a time machine and a timeloop where Edward always dies at the end, and she will go down Homura’s path.

Caius: Every warrior king ever. Ooh and he and Iskandar (again from Fate/Zero) have very similar vibes, although they're far from the same character.

Iskandar believes that kingship and leadership is not about being noble or virtuous or showing a good example to your people, it's about strength, conquest, and glorious victory.

Caius, I imagine, would heartily agree with that.

Carlisle: I love Carlisle, but there are Carlisles everywhere, especially in anime. Utena Tenjou from Revolutionary Girl Utena comes to mind in particular, though.

Utena begins her story as a righteous and brave girl who wants to be a prince. She wants this without quite understanding what it truly means to be noble, nor does she know what it means to save a person.

Her desire to save Anthy is especially this. Anthy is a traditional damsel in distress at the beginning of the story, and Utena is so eager to save her that she never takes what Anthy herself into account. She judges herself harshly for this failure, but comes to understand what it truly means to save Anthy in the end.

Carlisle has that same nobility and willingness to do good, he is the moral compass of those around him, but all the same he is hoodwinked and does not always know where best to thread. His rescue of Rosalie is a good example of this, he saw a young woman who’d been raped to death, and did the only thing he could to help her, only to learn this wasn’t what she wanted.

Also Carlisle: god, so many characters.

Shirou from Now and Then, Here and There. Suffers a ridiculous amount, but never loses his goodness and insists even in the most extreme circumstances upon the inalienable worth of human life.

Duck from Princess Tutu. Never uses violence or even powers to win against her opponents. She talks to them, finds out why they're unhappy, and wins through healing them. They become friends with her after.

Akane Tsunemori from Psycho-Pass. In a world where people’s souls can be calculated mathematically, Akane Tsunemori is objectively a good person, empirically proven to be incorruptible. That’s her defining trait, no matter what she endures she never loses her upstanding morals. The kind of person who wouldn’t succumb to the lure of human blood.

Just gonna drop the fact that Carlisle’s hair and eyes are the same color, Edward with his vampire sight notes that they’re only one shade apart. The guy is a misplaced anime character.

Oh, and Candide from Voltaire’s Candide. This is just a loose association, but “beautiful blond man travels the world, meets people who are over the top cartoonishly miserable (just... multiply Meyer’s backstories with each other and add 10. Victoria’s life + Rosalie’s life + Esme’s life + their mother is pushed off a cliff by dalmatians) but he carries on with a big smile, and eventually settles down with his found family of hilariously wretched people” gives me Carlisle vibes.

Edward: He's so many people and in so many different ways, oh my god.

He's a mommy's boy who cries because I'M A MONSTER - Buster Bluth. Arrested Development.

He thinks too highly of himself - Gilderoy Lockhart from Harry Potter.

He GOBs - George Oscar "GOB" Bluth. Again Arrested Development.

He appears normal to the outside world, yet there's a complete meltdown with incoherent rants, strong opinions about music, and strong disturbing tendencies towards violence he may or may not act on - Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.

He's weird about women, mother figures, himself, and violent. Creepy yet undeniably charming - Norman Bates from Psycho.

The way he regards Bella - strong Humbert Humbert from Lolia vibes. Replace "nymphet" with "singer" and there you go.

Really, though, with Edward, he is like these yet unlike them all. He’s... he’s a lot.

Emmett: Much like how Caius is a warrior king, Emmett is Frat Bro™.

Jasper: Clint Eastwood for reasons outlined in this post.

Marcus: Arwen after Aragorn inevitably dies.

A sad sad elf who's fading away.

Rosalie: Cordelia Chase from Buffy

Speaks her mind, no matter how brutal it is or how little people want to hear it. She does not forgive those who wrong her, she is proud, and most importantly, she is misjudged. Her beautiful appearance and bitchy veneer make her easy to dismiss, but once the going gets tough she is a deeply good person. She’ll make bitchy comments about watching your back, but watch it she does.

I also do this with ships. Aro/Carlisle are a great match for Dorian Gray and Lord Henry, if Lord Henry had failed to corrupt Dorian Gray and been delighted by that fact.

I have other examples, but they go weird places so let’s not.

TL;DR: I'm Miss Marple.

#long post #twilight #twilight meta #twilight renaissance #aro #carlisle cullen #bella swan #edward cullen #caius #jasper hale #emmett cullen #rosalie hale #marcus

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winterhawkwonderland · 3 years

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2020 Exchange Round up!

It’s here!!! An easy to find complete list of works from our 2020 Winterhawk Wonderland Exchange event. It is listed by title of work and author or artist, and includes rating, summary, and word count (if applicable). Our event excluded any of the AO3 Big Four warnings, but please do check tags and warnings on each work before diving in, just in case you find something there that squicks or triggers you!

Once again, thank you all so much for participating and making this a great event! Love the Winterhawk fandom!

If you do not see your work listed, please contact the Mods and we will update the post - all works were pulled from the AO3 Collection, but it’s possible we overlooked something or made a mistake! Additionally - Tumblr (in true Tumblr fashion) would not let us tag some creators - their names are on the list but the hyperlink doesn’t work. We apologize for the technical difficulty, but have no way of fixing broken Tumblr links. Please know that no offense was intended.

The 300 Club by @fosterthefuture for @gwhell. Rated T, 10,109 words “Me here?” Bucky asks, a little hysterically. “What do you expect me to do, be the one to haul your frozen body in from the snow bank you inevitably fall into and die in?”Clint chuckles, as though what Bucky’s asked is completely illogical, which it decidedly is not. “Nah, you can suit up if you want to come along to make sure I stay on track, but I’ll make it back just fine. I really just need you to be here to make sure the door stays open, help me get my boots off and into those blankets when I get back.”“Clint,” Bucky asks, eyes now closed. “Please tell me you wouldn’t do this if you were completely alone.”The silence that emanates from the sauna is telling.“Well,” Clint finally says, “I’m trying to not get into the habit of lying to you, Barnes.”

40k misunderstandings by @verdantbogmoth for @flawsinthevoodoo. Not Rated, 3,280 words. “Are they real?” Bucky gasps. “Who keeps bags of real rose petals just lying on hand?”“Tony, for special random events and for us to steal to have fun with,” Clint supplies helpfully. “Where do they go?”“Everywhere,” Bucky decides. “The couch, the table, the fucking tv stand.” Clint pops the bag and they spend several minutes turning Bucky’s living area into a very perfumed, petal draped nightmare. “Oh, my god.” Bucky says gleefully. “It looks like a porno,” Clint claps. “A serial killer porno!” Bucky amends. “This is fantastic. Why aren’t rose petals everywhere, always. Why don’t more people just throw them around for any old event?”

[ART] Christmas fluff by @elynehil for @chekov-in-a-dress. Rated G. Winterhawk Wonderland gift :)

[ART] Cooking By The Book by @not-the-blue for @thegrowingwordsmith. Rated G. Clint attempts a holiday recipe from Bucky's childhood. He... might need a second attempt.

[art] i (heart) hawkeye by @gwhells for @lantaniel. Rated G. Art for lantaniel for the Winterhawk wonderland gift exchange!

[ART] i still feel this way when light catches your face by @quicksillver for @sevdrag. Rated G. Winterhawk Wonderland gift! :)

An Affinity for Elf Culture by @bella-dahlia for @trekchik. Rated T. 8,501 words. When Bucky Barnes was told he would be doing press and community outreach as part of his prosthetic program, no one mentioned to him it would involve dressing up like an Elf from the North Pole.The hella cute blonde elf in head to toe purple hadn't been brought up either.Hiding in his hoodie wasn't going to be an option, was it?

All I Want for the Holidays Is You by @merelypassingtime for @flowerparrish. Rated G. 7,205 words. Clint obligingly took the last name in the hat. Unfolding it he read the name, Bucky. Crap. What was he supposed to do with that? When Clint draws Bucky’s name for the Avengers holiday gift exchange, he struggles to find the perfect gift.

as long as it’s with you by @theproblemwithstardust for @theonlyceeceej. Rated T. 2,651 words. Clint didn’t know when the thing between him and Bucky became an actual thing. At some point the banter had evolved from a fun and engaging way to pass the time into a weirdly competitive game of flirting chicken.

A bad day turned good by @gabrielsammysangel for @misterknife. Rated G. 1,115 words. Clint Barton was having a bad day, one kiss to take it all away. Aka how a full bad day can be wipped away when you have a good boyfriend.

Bandages and Soot by @fanbinbun for @hawkguyandthewinterdude. Rated T. 2,358 words. “Oh, you’re new. Hi! I’m Clint. I come here often.” “I have been warned.” Bucky said with amusement curling his lips. “Got a name, or should I just give in and start calling you ‘hot nurse’?”

Because of Coffee and a Chocolate Doughnut. by @jazzrose343 for @loonyloopylisa. Rated M. 5,257 words. Bucky is an Actor. Clint is stunt actor and coordinator. Shenanigans Happen

Better Than Fine by @vexbatch for @theproblemwithstardust. Rated T. 4,439 words. Clint promised Kate he'd bring a plus one to her engagement party, but now he needs to find one. Maybe Bucky will do him a favor? Maybe Clint's crush on Bucky won't be a problem for said favor?

[ART] The Cat doesn't agree by @misterknife for @Inktastic1711. Rated G. 5 words. Clint was determined to get the best family photo this year. Except now he's pretty sure that fighting alien hoards or doombot armies might actually be easier than wrangling a cat into a sweater.Bucky says that Alpine's sorry.Clint thinks she might kill him in his sleep.

cause it's just what you must do by @sevdrag for yamyamyam. Rated T. 3,399 words. Clint ducks away at Tony's holiday party for a breather. Little does he know this closet is occupied.

Christmas With the Barnes's by @jstabe for @claraxbarton. Rated T. 3,163 words. He knows Clint is nervous. If he’s honest, he is a little too. He and Clint have been dating just shy of two years but with their hectic work schedules, it’s rare for them to have full days off together so Clint isn’t used to large family gatherings.

The Common Room by @trekchik for @nana-evans. Rated E. 1094 words. No one knows they're together. Right?

Communication is key by @averyrogers83writes for @harishe-art. Rated G. 3,434 words. Bucky screws up and pisses Clint off possibly ruining any chance of having more than a working relationship with the archer.

[ART] Cookies For Two by madnerding for @hopelessly-me. Rated G. 29 words. My prompt was for cookie decorating and I hope I delivered. Enjoy!

Coping Mechanisms by @mariana-oconnor for @feathers-and-cigarettes. Rated E. 4,321 words. After the events of Freefall, Clint Barton is exhausted, bruised and on everyone's Most Wanted list. Luckily, or unluckily, it's Bucky Barnes who ends up finding him.

Cover Me by @downwarddnaspiral for @feedmecookiesnow. Rated M. 8,618 words. Clint and Bucky end up off the grid and in close quarters. Featuring the world’s crappiest safehouse, a semi-retired spy, and an assassin with strong opinions about the cold.

Delicate, hand wash only by @mollynoble for @pherryt. Rated E. 6,074 words. “Hey, Buck, what do you need?” Clint moved closer, he wanted to reach out but he resisted the urge, that could be a bad idea right now. “What can I do to help?” He pitched his voice low and soothing. There was a pause, then Bucky's eyes focused on him. “Right now all I want is a bath and then sleep.”

Draw Me Like One of Your Frenchmen by @alchemistdoctor for @thwip. Rated M. 1,410 words. This is written for andthwip in the winterhawk wonderland exchange, who requested sexting during inappropriate times, date night ends in trying a new kink, or getting off in the field. I managed the first two!

Fate or Natasha by bear_shark for @kidd-you-not. Rated G. 1,663 words. How it ended: Bucky watched the rise and fall of Clint’s chest while he slept. Every few minutes, he would snuffle and rub his face against Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s phone pinged, and he carefully checked his texts. Natasha: How did your date with Clint go? Bucky sat up quickly, jostling Clint. “What the hell?”

The Fight Before Christmas by @theonlyceeceej for @jstabe. Rated E. 4,040 words. Now, don’t let it be said that Bucky couldn’t take a joke. He could. Really. But sometimes it was just too much. Clint was just too much. Clint is the epitome of a schoolboy with a crush; Pulling pigtails, calling names, the lot! Ok, maybe it was more than a crush, judging by the many thoughts about being thrown around by the Winter Soldier. He just needed to get his attention... But will it work?

For This by @endof-theline for @elynehil. Rated G. 5,652 words. Bucky and Clint are moving in together and it's not just the boys we have to worry about, because Lucky and Alpine are moving too!

Getaway Car by @feedmecookiesnow for @genderfluid-and-confuzled. Rated G. 4,405 words. The guy regains his balance and starts running again. He slips one more time, slides a little more, and then suddenly he’s right next to the car, fumbling at the handle of the passenger side door. A blast of cold wind comes as he yanks it open, practically falling into the seat in a swirl of snowflakes. “Go, go!” he yells, and Clint goes. He doesn’t even question it, just slams the car into drive and shoots out into the street, skidding a little on the ice.

Guardian Angel by @chrissihr for @spacetimeconundrum. Rated T. 3,469 words. Clint attracts strays like moths to flame. All he wanted to do was bring home a puppy he found in a box marked ‘free’ in crayon. It was just sitting out in the rain under the awning in front of his neighborhood pizza place.He couldn't just leave it there ... right?

Hit Me With Your Best Shots by @thegrowingwordsmith for @fosterthefuture. Rated G. 2,185 words. As a barista, Bucky has witnessed a lot of crazy customers and their creations. He has made drinks with so much syrup that there was barely room for coffee, and gotten orders with so many modifications that it had to print on multiple stickers. None, however, even came close to the strangeness of Too Much Caffeine guy.

[ART] How do you like them apples? by @lantaniel for @vexbatch. Rated G. Because Clint is incapable of 1.doing a calm activity, and 2.not climbing a tree.

Howl by @drgrlfriend for @mariana-oconnor. Rated T. 9,729 words. Excerpt: Bucky gets that uncomfortable feeling again, like he missed something. Lost time maybe. It’s been happening less and less, but it still happens. “I don’t know what you mean.” The man runs a broad hand up the back of his neck, mouth pulling to the side as he seems to consider his words. “Skin feels too tight sometimes? Feels like you gotta keep moving, but no place feels right? Got an ache deep in your bones that you just can’t seem to get rid of?” “What —” Bucky swallows, the rest of the sentence jagged in his throat. He knows there are Avengers who are witches, or telepaths, or whatever, but he’d never heard of Hawkeye being one of them. “How are you — are you in my head? —”

[ART] I got you by @vexedbeverage for @gabrielsammysangel. Rated T. 100 words. I decided I wanted to do some art but then my writing brain told me I couldn't stop there. I've never done a drabble before so I thought I'd give it a try!

I Love How Your Soul is A Mix of Chaos and Art by @flawsinthevoodoo for @merelypassingtime. Rated T. 5,745 words. This is basically a 5+1 where Clint "Borrows" a great many hoodies as a coping mechanism and Bucky decides Clint needs to be a part of his life, not just his laundry.

if these wings could fly by @flowerparrish for @hawksonfire. Rated M. 4,018 words. He waits a few moments, pretty sure he’s going to have to start knocking again, when the door swings open. There’s Bucky, shirtless, disheveled, wings spread out behind him like some kind of tragic painting of an angel. Not that Clint knows much about art, but with the dark colors and dim lights he thinks this could totally have been something one of those old dudes dreamed up.

It Must be Winter in my Heart by @harishe-art for @jazzrose343. Rated G. 3,055 words. It's the holiday season and for some reason Clint and Bucky keep getting mistaken as a couple. They hadn't even planned to meet up most of them time. Why does this keep happening to them?

It was Only a Winter's Tale by @harishe-art for @averyrogers83. Rated G. 1,628 words. Clint and Bucky prepare to celebrate their first winter holiday together when Bucky has a realization during an argument.

it was peace by @loonyloopylisa for @drgrlfriend. Rated G. 1,932 words. “Um, hi, I’m Bucky?” he said, hating himself for the way it came out like a question. “Hi Bucky,” the man answered, a wide smile on his tan face, “I’m Clint. What can I do for you?” Inwardly thankful for this therapist for making him practice he said, “I was wondering if you had any volunteer opportunities?” Clint gave him a considering look, bright blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Bucky was sure he was assessing him and finding him lacking, taking in the missing arm and coming up with a reason Bucky wouldn’t fit in. He was bracing himself for the rejection when Clint said, “sure.”

A Kind of Magic by @sian1359 for bear_shark. Rated G. 7.034 words. Bucky has some help adapting from being Hydra's Winter Soldier to becoming the Avenger's Winter Soldier

Lilac you a lot by @hawkguyandthewinterdude for @harishe-art. Rated T. 6,490 words. It starts with one purple sock and just escalates from there.

Lost Time by @lissadiane for @vexedbeverage. Rated T. 10,029 words. Clint’s always known the universe doesn’t like him all that much. But all he knows now, as his heart beats out a rhythm and there isn’t a heartbeat to harmonize with it, is that he’s found his soulmate -- and he’s been dead for over 70 years. It’s ironic. It burns. It shouldn’t surprise him. Barney won’t be surprised. Barney’s been saying the universe has it out for them for Clint’s whole life. And this is just further proof. In which soulmates exist but Clint's parents are proof that sometimes, they go terribly wrong.

The Maybe To Your Story by @kangofu-cb for @mollynoble. Rated E. 5,162 words. Bucky walked out of the shared bathroom whistling under his breath, happily ignoring Steve’s groan as he whipped off the towel around his waist to half-assedly swipe at the water droplets on his shoulders. “Oh, you’re still here?” he asked blithely, toweling at his hair. “Might want to shake a leg before you get an eyeful of something you want to see even less than my dick.” “I’m going, I’m going,” Steve grumbled. “Fuck. Can’t believe I’m getting sexiled for the third time this week. For Barton.” Or, instead of talking about their feelings, Clint and Bucky decide to fuck about it.

my hands no longer an afterthought by @shatteredhourglass for @quicksillver. Rated T. 2,922 words. Bucky's moving on with his life. Shaking off the Soldier. There's still that one nagging, blond idiot-shaped regret, though.

Nowhere to go but with you by Lacerta for @sian1359. Rated G. 5,905 words. Clint fights the urge to cross his arms, keeping them hanging loosely by his sides instead, and forces himself to relax his shoulders. It’s just a small precaution in case he needs to react fast but, god, he hopes it doesn’t come to that. He doubts any precaution that doesn’t include a loaded weapon would help him last more than a minute. He watches the man sitting across the kitchen table from him, curled in on himself under Clint’s warmest blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and tries to wrap his head around the very unusual, very alarming situation he has gotten himself into.

On The Fifth Day of Christmas, The Winter Soldier Stole For Me..... by @ch3ls3ara3 for @alchemistdoctor. Rated T. 8,178 words. “Are these pears? Why the hell is there a pear tree in my apartment?” he asked Lucky who was now sitting patiently, staring up at the bird with his tongue hanging out and tail wagging. “What is happening?” Clint Barton knew he was a disaster, it never really shocked him anymore when he ended up in strange situations. These twelve days leading up to Christmas, though? Those days he would have never seen coming.

the one where Clint hates christmas horror by @thwip for @bella-dahlia. Rated M. 2,898 words. “We take turns, Clint. This week is Nat’s turn, next week is yours,” Tony quips, sipping from his own mug. “We can watch The Holiday, for the third year in a row, then.” Clint opens his mouth and starts to protest Tony’s eye roll because The Holiday is a cinematic masterpiece and Kate Winslet may give her best performance yet, Tony! Not to mention Cameron Diaz! Singing Mr Brightside! It’s a great film, when the front door opens and Bucky and Steve walk in, laughing about something. Clint's mouth snaps shut and his eyes immediately flicking towards Bucky, admiring the way the navy fabric of his henley clings to the thick biceps that are almost bursting out of it.

Operation Snowbound by RedTeamShark for @heartonfirewrites. Rated G. 4,048 words. The mission is a simple job: tag a convoy as it drives through the pass and then skedaddle back down the mountain. Easy enough that Clint could do it in his sleep. And he doesn’t even have to pull the trigger, that’s what Bucky’s there for. Until an unexpected weather event leaves the two of them stranded on a mountainside in a blizzard, battling the cold, Clint’s taste in coffee, and Bucky’s idea of idle conversation.

Outside the World by @pherryt for @verdantbogmoth. Rated G. 4,767 words. Bucky doesn't really remember who he is, and what little he does remember is impossible. All his therapists have said so. There's no way he can be who he thinks he is - a character from a children's book.And yet, the world around him just doesn't *feel* right - its too dark, too colorless and doesn't match the vibrancy of his dreams. Dreams he tries to capture both on paper and on his walls.Bucky doesn't have any answers he can count on, just the hat he's kept all these years, but that guy that started following him - as vibrant and eye-catching as the pieces of Bucky's dreams -Well, he just might.

The Prince's "Delivery Boy" by allyouneedissleep for @endof-theline. Rated T. 4,917 words. He wouldn’t have any issues at all with the secrecy rules stating that only people in confirmed legal marriages could tell their significant other about their job if he was planning to marry anyone except the Prince who was first in line to take over as King of Brooklyn after his marriage went through. Clint was about to effectively become Queen of Brooklyn and he couldn’t even tell his fiance what he did for a living. As far as Bucky knew, he was a delivery boy. A DELIVERY BOY.

[ART] Snow Way Out! by @inktastic1711 for @fanbinbun. Rated G. 24 words. Prompt: While on a mission, Clint and Bucky end up on an impromptu sledding trip down the snowy hill/mountain to escape the bad guys. Bonus points if the sled isn't actually a sled.

Snowed In by @chekov-in-a-dress for @ch3ls3ara3. Rated T. 4,332 words. Secret Santa Story for CarafeOfColdBrew! Dad Bucky and his daughter Nat are on their way to Bentonsport where Bucky is supposed to check out a possible site to build a resort when they get overwhelmed by a snowstorm. How lucky that they get pointed to a bed and breakfast owned by a certain handsome dork.

So much to say (I just can't speak) by @hopelessly-me for Allyouneedissleep. Rated T. 3,260 words. Bucky has never considered himself the jealous type. But when Steve and Clint start hanging out more and more, Bucky starts pulling back to protect his own feelings.

Some Luck by @claraxbarton for @not-the-blue. Rated T. 3,558 words. “Cowboys?” he asked. Judith smiled at him. “I love to give my darlings what they want.”

a storm is comin' in by @heartonfirewrites for @chrissihr. Rated T. 9,686 words. Sasquatches don’t exist. Clint is sure of it. So what’s that fuckin' bigass yeti doing outside Tony’s upstate cabin in the middle of a nor’easter, looming ominously and ruining Clint’s plans for a quiet Christmas alone with Lucky?

Time and Time Again by @pherryt for @shatteredhourglass. Rated E. 6,497 words. The past has a way of catching up to people and Clint knows that better than most. Despite that ingrained life lesson, he still doesn't expect it when a part of Steve's past turns out to also be part of Clint’s. He's... not sure where to go from here.

too cold to feel (but i know you're there) by @hawksonfire for @trashcanakin. Rated T. 1,983 words. Clint’s been cold his whole life. He doesn’t mind, really, has learned to always keep a pair of gloves on him, even in the summer. He gets weird looks for it, but he stopped caring what people thought of him a long time ago. His apartment has always got spare blankets laying around, and his dresser is jam packed with thick pairs of socks.

[ART] A Walk in the Woods by @spacetimeconundrum for @downwarddnaspiral. Rated T. One finds the strangest things in the woods...

What's a Guy Like You Doing in a Place Like This by @sevdrag for @kangofu-cb. Rated T. 8,091 words. A 5+1 fic for Winterhawk Wonderland: Five Times It Wasn't A Date, and One Time It Actually Was.

Word Search by yamyamyam for RedTeamShark. Rated T. 3,858 words. Bucky doesn't understand why he should have to see a doctor about a measly little bullet wound. Steve doesn't understand why that would be optional, Jesus Christ, Buck, we can have nice things now. Clint doesn't understand why he can't visit Bucky in the super-secure lockdown ward. The NYFD doesn't understand why Clint can't get out of a baby swing without the jaws of life. Natasha doesn't understand why she puts up with any of these idiots.

[ART] You Come Here Often? by @trashcanakin for Madnerding. Rated G. winterHawk in the vents.

You had me at Loathing by @kidd-you-not for Lacerta. Rated T. 5,715 words. "What?" he asks absolutely no one, completely baffled. Movement to his left catches his eye and he twists around, still hanging from the balcony railing by his legs, and gapes. There, right there on the adjourning apartment building, is a man. A man clad all in black, with chestnut brown hair falling to his chin and a mask covering the lower part of his face. Holding a sniper rifle in his right hand and giving Clint a mocking little salute with the left. "Motherfucker!" Clint screams. Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier work for competing companies. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they cross paths on more jobs than either of their handlers can endure.

Honorable Mention:

The Opposite of Love by @teeelsie-posts for @loonyloopylisa. Rated E. 10,000 words. You know that social media post where the guy says he’s a felon and he’ll come terrorize your family for Thanksgiving in exchange for a free meal? Yeah, that’s what this is. Except that Clint is Clint, and Bucky is Bucky, and they’re both Avengers, but Clint’s family is a bunch of assholes and Bucky decides to help him out with that. Oh, and it’s Christmas, not Thanksgiving. Mod Note: This fic was begun for last year’s exchange then discarded for another idea, but Teeelsie finished it unexpectedly and asked permission to include it in this year’s collection and we were happy to allow that. Please enjoy!

#winterhawk #winterhawk wonderland exchange 2020 #event round up #masterpost #master post #NOW WITH TAGS

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zuppizup · 2 years

Text

Purgatory - Dark

Summary: Almost three years ago, assassins came for Harrow. Callum was cornered, at her mercy and then… she let him go.The elf. He never even knew her name. She might be long dead, but Callum was determined to do as Harrow suggested. To reject the narrative of strength and instead embrace the narrative of love. To make a better future for all, humans and elves alike. But when he and Ezran stumble upon something hidden in Viren’s secret chambers, Callum realises he might actually be able to make up for the mistakes of the past. To make a real change, right here, right now. To free them both from their haunted past.

Pairing: Rayla/Callum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 Link: Purgatory

The blast of burning hot air behind them and powerful roar was almost enough to knock Callum off his feet. He gasped in shock as they ran full pace away from the rampaging dragon. He wasn’t even sure where they were going, only that they needed to get away.

He ducked behind a pillar, pulling Rayla with him. Desperately trying to catch his breath, he peeked around the rock shielding them from Sol Regem. The Archdragon was stomping around, knocking over rocks and outcrops with his tail and legs. If it wasn’t so terrifying, the tantrum would almost be amusing. Taking a deep breath, he looked back to Rayla, finding her staring straight ahead, somehow paler than usual.

“Are you okay?” He squeezed her hand, successfully getting her attention.

She swallowed and looked over at him. Stiffly she nodded her head. “What now?” She cringed as Sol Regem bellowed.

Read More On AO3 – Purgatory: Dark

#rayllum #rayllum fanfic #rayla #callum #rayla x callum #callum x rayla #the dragon prince #the dragon prince fanfic #tdp #tdp fanfic #zuppi fanfic #fic: purgatory

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

Note

did you have another nightmare? For Zev/Warden (could also be Zev/Alistair!)

Oh man I kind of forgot how much I love writing my OCs, thank you so so much!!!!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Zevwarden

Characters: Zevran Arainai, F!Warden Tabris

Tags: Tabris and Zevran have enough baggage to block the Suez canal, hurt/comfort, angst, nothing explicit, something something intricate rituals

Rating: Mature

“Did you have another nightmare?”

The camp is quiet, tonight. The fire has long since been put out, and a cold wind winds about the tents, not quite strong enough to set them to rattling. Dog and Alistair snore, but they’re all accustomed enough to that to set their tents far enough away to take the edge off the volume, and not so far they won’t be handily equipped to handle any walking corpses.

The forest is still: there are no wolves in this region that have not been handled by poison, traps, or the Grey Warden herself. Earlier, there were owls, but they too have grown silent, flitting on wings soft as snowdust through the echoing chapel of the trees. Overhead, the sky is clear, and the stars wink with distant promises, fickle and unspeaking. Zevran stares at them for a long moment before he answers her.

“Crows don’t have nightmares.” His back aches.

Kallian plays with her knife, rolling the blade between her knuckles so that it flashes like a fish in the dark. She doesn’t say anything. The trees sigh under the moon. Zevran adjusts his jaw, wincing at the click as he attempts to unclench it. The stars glitter. Alistair snores.

“It was nothing.”

Kallian remains silent. Zevran shifts, rolling onto his side under the heavy oilskin of his sleeping bag to stare up at the elvhen woman on the log beside where their fire had been. Her features are impassive in the dark, half hidden by the shadow, like a sculpture not yet finished. What little is revealed by the moonlight suggests a masterpiece. Like this, Zevran cannot see her scar, only the blunt cut of her thick hair as it rests against the nape of her neck, and the elegant arc of her ears, heavy with iron and silver piercings.

“Do you never dream?” He asks, softly. Kallian shrugs, and keeps rolling her blade between her fingers. Zevran resists the urge to get up onto his knees, half struck by the image of praying to some old forgotten god. “Do you not have nightmares? Alistair complains of them. Often.”

The corner of Kallian’s lips that he can see in the moonlight tugs upward, and Zevran grins. She sighs, and tilts her head back, and her dark face is washed with light that rushes to fill the cranny of her scar like liquid silver. Her hair falls back from her head, and she shuts her eyes. She lets out a long, slow deep breath, and around her the sigh of the forest answers. Zevran bites his tongue.

Eventually, Kallian says, “I have nightmares, often.” She opens her eyes then, and looks down at Zevran, and in the dark her gaze is black and endless. “Not as often as you.”

Zevran shrugs, a little stiffly, and breathes a soft laugh. “It is a habit that I have struggled to break. Though many have tried to break it for me.”

Kallian’s impassive expression flickers a little at that, like a candle in a gale, darkening. The knife stops moving in her hand. Zevran hurries on, “not that it was not warranted. I am told that when the Crows first bought me, my screams were louder than all the tomcats in Antiva City. You haven’t been, so you might not realise what an achievement that is in itself, but -”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kallian’s question is as quick and efficient as her blade. Zevran stops, the breath falling out of him. She doesn’t meet his eyes, just looks back down at her lap and the flash of the knife she’s playing with there. Zevran opens his mouth, fingers curling minutely in his bedroll - more of a suggestion of movement than anything easily perceptible to a human eye. Kallian’s gaze shifts, anyway. Zevran moves his hand.

“I - no. Not tonight, my dear warden.”

Kallian nods, once, and then shifts on the log, slipping her blade into her belt in a movement too fast for Zevran to follow, and pats the rough bark beside her. “Join me?”

When Zevran doesn’t move she adds, swallowing, “I could use the company.” Zevran cannot see her mouth in the dark, but the scar on her cheek twists. He stands, and pulls on his smalls, pants and boots. By the time he’s done, Kallian has pulled a flask of what smells like potato vodka from somewhere in her pack.

She passes the leather-bound bottle to him silently, and Zevran takes a long, burning drink of the stuff and wrinkles his nose. “You Fereldans know nothing about decent liquor.”

Kallian giggles, ducking her head as she does so and lifting a hand to her mouth. When she meets Zevran’s eyes, her smile falls a little, and she reaches up to take the bottle back, fingertips trailing over his knuckles. She drinks for a long moment, throat working as she breathes through her nose, eyes squeezed shut against the sting. Then she lowers the bottle, and screws it shut, dropping it back into her pack. She lifts a hand, and gestures up at the clouds of light and dust above them, glancing at Zevran.

“Tell me again about the constellations. What do you call them in Antiva?”

Zevran pulls on a smile like a new pair of shoes. “Well, there’s the Tripping Whore, and of course the Ridiculously Handsome Elf. Not to mention the Lonely Assassin, though that story is not for the faint of heart.”

Kallian laughs, and rests her head gently on his shoulder. Zevran doesn’t move, but when he glances down she is already looking up at him, brown eyes silver in the moonlight. “Start with that one.” From this angle, the scar that rips down the centre of her cheek looks like nothing so much as tear tracks, tattooed into her skin.

Zevran nods, and readjusts his smile. “As you wish.” It takes another heartbeat for him to turn away from her, and look back up at the sky. “Once upon a time, not so very long ago, in the beautiful Antiva city, there lived the son of a whore.”

#dao #zevwarden #zevran arainai #warden tabris #midnightprelude #dadwc #my fic #my fic list

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rosella-writes · 3 years

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WIP Wednesday

Thank you @noire-pandora, @melisusthewee and @kittynomsdeplume for the tag! I'll eventually get up to snuff on this whole thing I swear, lol

I meant to work on Eunoia yesterday and today, but instead I got obsessed with my cute little saarebas OC, Turin (the beginning of her story is here). It's a little long, so I put the rest under the cut.

Tagging @emerald-amidst-gold and @dreadfutures if you'd like!

Saarebas — no, Turin, she reminded herself — picked at the fragrant vegetables on her plate. The elf across the table from her cocked her head and gestured at her food.

“Eat up, da'len,” the elf said, her wrinkled face lifting in an encouraging smile. She had those funny tattoos some of the other elves wore — hers were dark red, faded with time, and twisted all over her face like a tree. Solas had told Turin they were called valla-something.

“Come now,” the woman continued, still smiling. “Or I’ll have to tell him. You know how he worries.”

Turin frowned. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

The woman — Eris, Turin remembered — chuckled. “As do we all! The man is made of worries, even if he lets few of us see them.”

Turin continued to pick at her food, then finally raised the fork to her mouth and winced at the strong, garlicky taste. She wasn’t used to solid food yet. Arvaarad had kept her lips sewn tight, and the bindings only allowed for mushy foods like porridge and broth to pass through them. These leaves and things? She had to chew them.

“There you are,” Eris murmured. “I know, you’re not used to it. But it gets better. Wait until you try the little cakes Lunette makes.”

Turin cocked her head, then jumped slightly when her horn bumped the low chandelier over the table. Her horns had grown in the last few weeks, since she now had access to proper food and they were no longer being trimmed back and capped. She had to remember to move her head carefully in these little rooms the elves built.

“Lunette?” she asked. “That doesn’t sound…”

“Elfy?” Eris said with a sharp laugh. “No, she’s Orlesian. From that horrible little alienage in Halamshiral. She’s got plenty of stories about how terrible that empress and her little assassin-maid are. Not sure how many of them are true, but I don’t care, so long as she keeps making those sweet frilly things now and again.”

Turin took another bite. “Cakes. Frilly things. What are these?”

Eris looked surprised, but she quickly schooled her expression behind a calm, fond smile. She reminded Turin dimly of her tamassran — or, rather, what she could remember, before she got her magic and Arvaarad had taken her away.

“If you finish your dinner,” Eris said sweetly, “then I’ll show you.”

Lunette’s accent was strange. Turin thought it sounded like she had a little bird warbling in her throat when she spoke — and she spoke a lot. She fluttered around the kitchen, directing other elves with imperious distaste, and pointedly did not look at Turin at all. She wondered if she was just standing too still for Lunette to notice her.

“Lunette,” Eris cooed. “Do you have any —”

“Non!” the elf huffed, irritated. “I am saving them! Curse you and your sweet tooth, madame. You and him both rid my kitchen of sugar.”

Eris raised her hands and dropped them plaintively, paired with a dramatic sigh. “But the little one has never had a sweet in her life. Let her try, please?”

Lunette stopped in her tracks. She had a bit of flour streaked on her cheek, and her dark hair fell in her wide eyes as she glanced up — almost fearfully — at the giant in the room. Turin shuffled her feet, trying her best to appear, as Eris put it, small.

The little cook shook her head, cursing in her funny language under her breath, then disappeared into a cupboard. She emerged, sourfaced, with a pair of little white things in her hands, sitting pretty on a napkin. She placed them in Eris’s outstretched palm.

“Take them outside,” Lunette snapped, “before one of the boys sees them and comes hunting for the rest.”

Eris smiled fondly. “Ma serannas, da’len,” she hummed.

Lunette just scoffed, then shooed them out of her bustling kitchen. Turin bumped her horns on the doorframe on her way out — she reminded herself to try ducking in sideways next time.

She hurried after Eris — how was such an old woman so fast? — and finally settled in with her on the battlements of the keep after what felt like miles of hallways and stairs. The air was cold there, and the wind was strong. She smoothed her scarf down before it hit her in the face.

“Here,” Eris said, placing one of the white things in Turin’s hand. “Sit.”

She did, beside Eris on the stone stairs that led down the inside of the great wall. Her height let her peek over the top of the wall, however, out over a vast, green expanse of world. It looked like this keep sat at the center of a great valley, ringed by mountains she’d never seen on any map. She wondered, not for the first time, where Solas had taken her.

“Try it!” Eris reminded her.

Turin regarded the soft little treat in her palm. “You said they were… frilly?”

Eris snorted. “That’s what he calls them. Some joke from an old friend. He never would explain it — and he always looks so sad when I ask — so I left it alone. The moniker stuck, though, and Lunette has given up trying to get people to call them petit fours.”

Turin frowned. “Pettee furs?”

Eris smiled, then took a big bite of her treat. “Don’t bother, da’len,” she mumbled, crumbs falling from her wrinkled lips.

Turin regarded her treat again — a cake, she reminded herself — then took an experimental nibble. Sweetness burst across her tongue, almost too sweet, and she loosed a surprised little grunt.

Eris laughed. “Good, hmm?”

Turin took another bite. Past the sweetness was softness, something that tasted tart and then warm, like fruit or sunlight. It reminded her of juice on a hot day. The sugary coating on the cake was thick on her tongue.

“They’re lemon-flavored,” Eris informed her, finishing off her cake with gusto. “My favorite. Sometimes Lunette gets too creative with her flavors, like putting deep mushroom and chocolate together. Blegh.”

#tag game #wip wednesday #my oc #that fic where solas saves a saarebas #basvaarad

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johaerys-writes · 3 years

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Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 38: Resonance

A training gone wrong and a judgement gone wrong- in short, Tristan is having a very bad day, but at least Dorian is there to help. Because we all need a hug sometimes, amirite

Only part of the chapter here because of length, the rest on AO3! Or read from the beginning

The sharpened edge of his dagger flashed in the grey light of dawn. It hissed as it cut through the air, as Tristan flowed through the practiced motions. Wide arcs, precise stabs, like weaving a needle through light fabric.

Tristan took in a deep breath when he returned to his starting position, then let it out slowly. There were no other thoughts in his mind, just this: the calm of wielding his weapon, the controlled movements of its blade, the soft, barely audible hiss as it cut through the air. His consciousness shifted, sharpened, focused on that simple, lifeless object.

You are the weapon, Heir had told him the very first time he’d trained with her, and had made sure to drill the notion into him. You are the dagger.

“Again.”

He obeyed, without a word. There was no one else in the small, lower yard at that time, other than him and Heir. She was perched on the edge of the old well like a raven, her dark clothes blending with the shadows. It seemed almost unnatural, how perfectly still she sometimes sat, tricking the eye, going entirely unnoticed. She was watching him carefully as he flowed through the increasingly complex drills. A dodge and a slash for Knife in the Shadows, then a flurry of quick stabs for Hidden Blades. Once, twice, three times- he lost track of time as he practiced the same motions, again and again.

The sun was just rising over the jagged peaks of the Eastern Frostbacks when he finally stopped. Drops of sweat were running slowly down his brow, his back, his neck, but he paid them no mind as he stood before his trainer.

The elf regarded him thoughtfully, the fabric of her hood that fluttered with the wind the only moving things about her. There was no contempt in her gaze, like there usually was. She actually seemed… pleased.

“You have improved,” she said. “I am impressed.”

Tristan inclined his head in respect. “Thank you.”

A blade hissed, and he ducked only a blink of an eye before it darted past his ear. It landed on the wooden beam of the barn behind him with a thud.

“What-” He spun around to face her. “What was that for?” he demanded in surprise.

Heir uncoiled languidly from the edge of the well, landing on soundless feet. “Your body acts before your mind. That is good. Quick reflexes are what will keep you alive. But simply staying alive is not your goal.” She came to stand before him. When she lifted her eyes to his he saw genuine curiosity in them for the first time, as if she had detected something in him that she never had before. “Right now, you are the weapon. A weapon is useful. It can make the difference between life and death. But a weapon lacks intent.” She tilted her head to the side. “As do you.”

Tristan blinked at her, struggling to understand her words. “But you— you told me I was a weapon. That I have to view myself as one. That I have to be the weapon, be the dagger, in order to be an assassin.”

A small, barely perceptible smile curled her lips. “Ah, but do you always do as you are told, Inquisitor?” Before he could answer, she turned around, walking back to her seat. “I am here because you wished to train as an assassin. Yet one does not wish to be an assassin, any more than one wishes to be a sword or a cudgel. You must be your own assassin. Your own weapon. There is a difference.” She sat on the edge of the well, gathered on the smooth stone like a crow awaiting to take flight. “You still have much to learn.”

Tristan glared at her. “Months on end you teach me something, and now you change it, ask me to unlearn it and learn something else? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Adapt.” Her eyes flashed in the morning light. “Improvise. Overcome. That is the way of the assassin.”

“This is ridiculous,” Tristan spat, flinging his dagger on the ground. Heir was watching him calmly, not an inkling of emotion in her gaze. Maker, but she was infuriating. He had had trainers for most of his life, yet none as vexing as she was. She had bid him wake up well before daybreak on the day before he was due to travel, and now all she did was mock and order him about, and throw knives at him. He straightened as he gave her his most icy glare. “I refuse to be treated thus. We need to sit down and have a talk, you and I, about what exactly it is you’ll be teaching me from now on. You have one job, and one job only: to teach me how to wield these blighted daggers as best I can. I suggest you start doing that, instead of—”

Another blade hissed past him, this time grazing the skin of his bare arm. “The way of the assassin,” Heir said with deadly calm, “is the sudden strike that overwhelms.”

Tristan ducked, then rolled out of the way of the next few knives that Heir threw his way. They all landed on the ground behind him, or the wooden beam, always just a hair away from where he was.

“An assassin does not just 'wield' a blade. An assassin does not stomp their feet in exasperation, does not barter with their target.” She sat up proudly, fixing him with a piercing look. “The assassin is the leap from the shadows and back. We hit where and when it hurts the most. In so doing, we send a message. What is the message you wish to send?”

“I’m not here to send any bloody messages!” he snapped at her as he pushed to his feet. He was panting with the exertion, but worse than that was his anger. She was winding him up on purpose, trying to make him lose his composure. “I am here to learn.”

“And learn you will. Once you open your mind.” She balanced a blade on the tip of her finger, her eyes still trained on him. “Perhaps you wish to merely walk in shadow when it suits. To prove yourself, to flaunt your skill. To save life through inflicting death.” She scoffed and shook her head. “Childish notions. The profession of assassin has no time for them.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I am not interested in becoming a professional assassin, but merely learning how to fight like one?” Tristan grumbled, wincing when he touched the razor thin cut that one of the blades had left on his shoulder.

Heir cocked her head to the side as she studied him, like a curious bird. “You are emotional. Emotions do not serve the assassin. To walk this path, you must empty yourself of everything that holds you back."

"I am not 'emotional'," Tristan huffed, rolling his eyes. "I am simply in no mood to talk nonsense. Now, can we please stop philosophising and get back to business?"

Heir only smiled at him, a small smile that never reached her eyes. She had this way of looking at him that made him feel as if he were a spoilt and unruly child. Without a word, she stood up and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“Our training for today is over, Inquisitor,” she told him over her shoulder. “We will resume when you get back from the Dales. I suggest you think about what we talked about today while you’re away.”

Tristan gritted his teeth as he watched Heir’s retreating form. He pushed his damp hair out of his face as he strode to the well, the old and rusted pulley whining softly as he hauled a bucket of water. It was ice cold when he splashed some on his face and neck, making his skin prickle.

His pulse was still thumping in his temples, the annoyance that had sparked within him still sizzling. He couldn’t understand how it was possible for someone to infuriate him so, with nothing but a few words. She was impossible, maddening; she made his blood boil, and he yet again wondered what Leliana had been thinking when he called her to Skyhold. He was starting to think it was all some elaborate ruse to make him start his days always on the wrong foot. Heir had a way of doing that, most days, and by the Maker, she did it well.

“‘Emotional’,” he echoed with disdain, before gulping down several mouthfuls of water. He was not emotional. He was fine— no, he was more than fine. Perfectly composed. Perhaps a little bit more… on edge than usual, snapping at people left and right, but that was to be expected. He was the Inquisitor, he had a lot on his mind, and while most people around him seemed to understand this well and give him some leeway, no one truly grasped the pressure he was under, what he was up against. And after what had happened the other night...

Maker, but he was tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a decent night’s sleep. The previous night he had only been able to close his eyes and doze off for a few moments before the whispers had started, just at the edges of his hearing, and strange images flickered behind his eyelids. He had spent the rest of the night drifting in and out of consciousness, or staring at the ceiling, listening to Dorian’s rhythmic breathing beside him. That, at least, was his only comfort.

Tristan’s mood hadn't improved much by the time he walked back to the keep. It was a good thing, at least, that the throne room was still empty at that hour. No one wanted to be the first to arrive and wait for the others, and the nobles were not known to be early risers anyway. Right at that moment, Tristan envied them something fierce.

He sighed quietly when he finally reached the door to his quarters. Maighdin and Nhudem took their positions at either side of his door, beside the two guards that were constantly stationed outside it. The elf, Mathras, was an archer and skilled with his daggers. The other one, a tall and dark-haired Orlesian —Jean-Claude was his name, if Tristan remembered correctly— seemed to be there more so to gawk at the pretty noble women who batted their eyelashes at him, than to actually guard him. Even though Cullen had assured him they’d been the best in their groups, and thoroughly vetted by Leliana, Tristan still eyed them warily. They were strangers to him, and he did not like strangers. Besides, he still didn’t know what to think about the fact that Cullen seemed bent on increasing his guard every few days, as if Tristan were made of gold and walking through Ostwick's dock market district after sundown.

“Harrit has made some new armour for me,” he turned to Nhudem after he’d greeted them all as formally as was permitted. Him, at least Tristan knew he could trust. He’d known him since Haven, and had saved his life. If anyone was there to truly guard him, it was him. In truth, Tristan was quite fond of him, despite his peculiar insistence on asking for his blessing every so often. This, Tristan could well do without. “One of his apprentices should be stopping by to leave it later, see him up as soon as he arrives.”

“As you wish, Your Worship.” Nhudem inclined his head respectfully, then stood straight once more. The Rivaini had not been his usual cheerful self ever since Tristan had returned from Crestwood. Perhaps it was the fact that Tristan had walked in on his midnight tryst with a washerwoman two nights before that had the man averting his eyes now. Tristan had thought about telling Leliana about it, yet now, as he ascended the stairs to his quarters, he found himself second-guessing that decision. His guards were people, too, regardless of the fact that Tristan little cherished their company. They had a job to do, as did he.

His job and all its complications faded away when he reached the stair landing, and gazed upon his bed, at the figure that lay amidst the rumpled sheets. Dorian had not woken up yet; he was sleeping as soundly as ever Tristan had seen him, clutching Tristan’s pillow close to his chest. The skin of his bare arm was warm, smooth like silk under Tristan’s lips when he placed a light kiss on it, then another, and another, following the curve of his shoulder, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He inhaled deeply, letting Dorian’s scent suffuse him, fill him to the brim: oakmoss, sandalwood, toasted cardamom, him.

“Sweaty,” Dorian hummed as he petted Tristan’s head, still half asleep.

“I was training.”

“With whom?”

“The elf that has apparently made it her life’s purpose to torment me.”

Dorian chuckled warmly, turning to catch Tristan’s lips in a kiss. “Dramatic, as always.” He hummed as he kissed him, stretching his arms languidly over his head. The arms then linked behind Tristan’s neck to pull him close.

Tristan sighed, leaning into that embrace. He had things to do, he had places to be, yet nothing was more important than this. This: being with him, kissing him, gazing upon him when he first opened his eyes each morning. Nothing was better than this. Tristan never thought he’d see the day, but he actually looked forward to leaving Skyhold and his many and varied duties behind. On the road, things were simpler, and there was usually nothing calling him out of bed each morning before Dorian had even awoken. They slept together and woke up together, had their meals together, fought together. That last part he could well do without, but everything had its purpose. At least, that was what he chose to tell himself.

“I should get up, too,” Dorian said softly, pulling back. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, several strands of wavy hair falling across his brow, the lines from the pillow marking his cheek. Tristan was sure he had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Stay,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss him again. “We have time.”

“We do, albeit very little, and I still have to go back to my room to gather the last of my things for our trip before I work on as much of my research as I can.”

“Just toss some clothes in a bag and you’re done. I’ve taken care of the rest.” Tristan’s hand slithered underneath the blankets to smooth down Dorian’s sides, but it was promptly caught and brought back up amidst laughing protests.

“Are you mad? Have you any idea how long it takes to properly fold clothes for traveling? And no, I can’t just ‘toss some clothes in a bag’ and call it a day. The gall.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You might have servants to prepare your bags and your travelling gear, my dear, but I do not. Some of us still need to do those things ourselves, and I will not— I repeat, I will not spend the duration of our trip in wrinkled robes.”

“What if they are? You’ll look dashing, wrinkled robes or no. Come.” Tristan flashed him his most winning smile. “Stay.”

Dorian gazed at him for a moment, evidently contemplating Tristan’s offer, when he shook his head abruptly. “No. No, no. Enough with your distractions.” Dorian swatted him away, rolling out of his embrace. “It’s enough that I have to do the walk of shame from your quarters to my room each day in wrinkled clothes, I won’t be doing it during our mission too. I have a certain reputation to keep, after all.”

Tristan leaned back on his elbows with a sigh, watching Dorian as he gathered his clothes from the floor, his smooth skin prickling in the chill air. Layer after layer was put on; his linen trews, his undershirt, the silk shirt, his soft leather trousers that hugged his form so elegantly, the swaths of cream coloured fabric that he arranged over it all with belts and straps. Each piece more intricate than the last, yet all part of a carefully arranged whole.

“Why don’t you bring them here?” he asked.

“Bring what here?”

“Your things.”

Dorian froze in the act of securing a bright golden pin on his shoulder. “I beg pardon?”

“Your things.” At Dorian’s reticent stare, Tristan continued. “Your clothes, your shoes, your gear… your books. Your scrolls. You know. Things.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly just as a small, curious smile widened his lips. “And why would I do that?”

“If you brought your clothes here, they would be ready to wear in the morning. No wrinkles. No walk of shame to your room. You could just… wear them and go about your business. We would have more time together in the mornings, too. And in the evenings. There wouldn’t be half a keep separating us. We could…” Tristan let his words trail off when he noticed Dorian’s incredulous expression. “What? What did I say?”

“I… I don’t know. What are you saying?” His silver gaze had never left him; it was on him, piercing him to the bone. “Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you... suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity?”

Tristan paused, considering his words for a moment. “I never thought of it like this, but now that you said it, I think so, yes.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, then he shook his head slowly. “Mad,” he said under his breath as he turned to face the mirror once more, fastening the pin on his shoulder. “I had my doubts before, but now I am certain: you are out of your mind.” He gasped when Tristan grabbed his hand and drew him back to the bed.

“That is a serious accusation, serah,” he said teasingly. He pinned him down on the mattress and leaned down until their noses touched. “One that needs to be spoken in one’s face.”

“Very well, then.” Dorian quirked a brow at him, utterly unfazed. “You are insane.”

“How so?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I move in here? With you?”

“Why not? You’re here most of the time.”

“Yes, but I don’t live here, I just sleep here. And wake up here. And have some of my meals here, occasionally. It is not the same as living here. It is not!” he insisted when Tristan laughed.

“So? You’ll be doing those same things, only you’ll be more comfortable doing them. I don’t see the issue.”

“You don’t see the issue? You don’t —” Dorian huffed and fixed him with a pointed look. “What will your advisors say?”

“What’s it to them?” Tristan frowned down at him. “What’s it to anyone?”

“You are a public figure, amatus.” Dorian’s expression was stern, though his voice was softer now. “All eyes in Thedas are on you. What will people say if they see me moving in and out of your quarters this freely, if they see me bringing my belongings here?”

“I don’t care what people say. All I care about is you. If anyone says anything about it, I’ll fight them.” He widened his eyes dramatically. “You know I will. I’ll snap them like twigs. I’m strong, you know, even Heir admitted it.”

Dorian let out a quiet laugh, the rich and mellow sound warming Tristan to his core. His gaze was soft as it glided over his features now. “You mean it?” he asked quietly. “Do you really mean it?”

“I do.” Tristan leaned down to capture his lips in a slow, gentle kiss. “I like it when you’re here,” he whispered. “I want to be with you, Dorian. As much as I can. There’s nothing I want more.”

Dorian sighed into their kiss, his fingers slipping through Tristan’s and twining with them. “I want that, too.” Those silver eyes that Tristan would gladly drown in looked up at him through his long eyelashes. “Alright. I may bring some of my things here… for a start. Just a few, mind you,” he added hastily when a wide grin broke over Tristan’s face. “I certainly won’t be hauling all my belongings here overnight. Just a few changes of clothes. And some pomade. Perhaps some of my books, too. And that’s it! I mean it. That will be all.”

“Anything you like,” Tristan hummed, deepening the kiss. “Anything at all.”

They kissed for a long while; just this, just lips gliding gently against each other, their breaths mingling until he couldn’t tell them apart. A strange sort of warmth had spread over him, one that he had never felt before. Never before had he felt more comfortable, more connected with anyone. It was a strange sort of feeling, one that left him breathless, as much as it tethered him to a part of him that he had thought lost long before. The part of him that trusted unconditionally, that fought for what he wanted, held it close to his heart.

He would hold Dorian as close as he could. For as long as he could. As long as he would let him.

Soon after Dorian had left to gather the last of his clothes and travelling gear, Tristan’s own armour arrived. He had just stepped out of the bath that two servants had drawn for him, water pooling around his feet and his towel wrapped around his hips when Harrit’s apprentice brought it. For a set of armour that Tristan had requested at a day’s notice, it was not only sturdy and well-made, but pleasing to the eye as well, made to measure and form fitting to allow for ease of movement.

He set it carefully on his bed, admiring the elegant stitching and the hidden compartments for blades, daggers and potions he had requested for a brief moment before putting on his regular clothes. A crisp white shirt -thankfully with untangled laces-, his leather breeches, a dark blue coat with fine thread of silver embroidery along the sleeves and the lapels. Simple, clean, understated, yet still imposing. Looking his best was of the essence, especially for what he was about to do.

He had just finished pulling on his tall black boots when he heard Maighdin’s heavy bootsteps ascending the stairs.

“Ready, Your Worship?”

Tristan glanced at himself in the mirror one last time, taking in a deep breath. A light crease of worry was set between his eyebrows; he smoothed it out before turning around. Maighdin gave him a small nod, which was vaguely encouraging.

He was ready.

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