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5lazarus · 3 years

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Labyrinth

Chapter Two: Kirkwall Read on AO3 here. Read Chapter One: The Circle here. Summary: Anders tries to enjoy a life roving without a care, but destiny--and justice, and letters from Karl--draw him to the City of Chains. A better world is possible, and though Kirkwall's a shithole, Anders is convinced that once he breaks Karl out of there, they can do anything. If you want the full story of how Justice and Anders take on a despair demon that's clogging people's lungs in the Foundry, check out my story Phosphorescence! (and read on, to find out why that's referenced!)

Anders wakes up in a dirty bed in the Gnawed Noble to Isabela tying a kerchief to keep back her hair. He watches her a moment, enjoying the suppleness of her back. She is lovely, nude but for the blue in her hair.

She glances over her shoulder carelessly. “Oh. You’re still here. I liked that thing you did with the lightning.” She picks up a letter, bound with a lyrium sigil pressed into the wax seal. “This came for you.”

“From who?” he asks, rolling out of bed. He stretches, enjoying taking up space with his nudity. He loves the lankiness of his body, he loves letting it feel good, the magic running through his veins, the pleasure this all brings to him and to others, the woman who took him to bed.

“Some mage in a silly hat,” Isabela says. “I don’t ask questions. Are you going to leave, or what?”

He snorts and gathers his clothes. Dressed now, Anders grabs his satchel and ambles down to the inn. The innkeeper places a fryup in front of him, generous because he fixed her back and hand tremor. Ferelden has never cared that much about mages, either locking them up or letting them go, and Denerim everyone always looks the other way. Anders eats until he’s full, luxuriating in the looseness of his body, and contemplates the letter in front of him. Who would reach out to him at this point?

Justice says, You left a lot of people behind. Karl? Mahariel let you go but she wasn’t happy about it.

I don’t want to think about that.

He slips the letter into his pocket, downs his ale, and leaves with a clatter of dishes. He should leave Ferelden soon, but cutting through Orlais seems a nightmare. There’s only so much amnesty the Wardens provide.

Anders finds himself at the city gates, slightly befuddled, and blinks. He draws in breath suddenly and coughs on the sweetly rotting smell of gutter garbage. Justice says, You should read that letter. I bet you it’s important. Taste that lyrium. It’s familiar, isn’t it?

“Shut up,” he murmurs.

The guards eye him warily. He hitches his satchel on his shoulder and passes through the gate without incident. The roads are busy now that spring is here and the slushy mud has dried again. Anders passes families returning to Denerim and merchants heading up the King’s road. At a crossroads he sits under the old wooden signs and pulls out his satchel. He’s got some hardtack left, and he nibbles at the corner of a piece while he contemplates what to do next. There is always the Anderfels. The Mages’ Collective needs more messengers, too, if he wants to be useful.

Justice says, You need to read that letter. You owe it to whomever wrote it.

Anders snorts. What are you now, my conscience?

If you need it. Justice is unplaceable. If it is right.

Sighing, Anders pulls out the letter. He presses his thumbnail onto the wax seal and surges a quick snap of lightning. Faintly, the lyrium sigil glows. The wax releases the paper. He opens the letter and begins to read. To his surprise, it’s not written in Common, but in Anders instead--clunky, constructed like it were Common, but understandable nonetheless.

“They’ve sent me to Kirkwall and I don’t even know why. Every few months someone goes missing and I can hear the Gallows screaming, no one knows where they’re going but it’s clear they’re trying to kill us. There are no old mages in the Gallows. The First Enchanter is the oldest and every day he is looking more pinched, more worn, he talks to himself or something, I don’t want to know. That’s how this place gets you. There is so much I don’t want to know but every night the dead rise teeming in my dreams, and they tell me this city was built on blood.

“I’ve heard rumors the Divine sent the Seekers to investigate and no one knows whether it’s to annul us or reconsider the Chantry’s puppet, Meredith. She killed the last Viscount and sent the new one his bloodied ring, as a reminder. This is where they send the liberati to die, if Uldred couldn’t ground them down first. Every month there’s a new disappearance and I do not know if it’s despair--you know me, I have never had patience for despair--but I wonder, when will I be next?

“Do not let me be next. Let the Mages’ Collective know--Kirkwall cannot be forgotten. We need help. Orsino is trying his best but the nobility is terrified of the Knight-Commander and clearly the Divine finds her useful. Get me out of here. Get us out of here. Or there will not be a Circle left.”

He heads back to Denerim and convinces Isabela to take him as far as Highever. He could get himself a bunk at the castle if he felt like it, Teyrn Cousland is generous to stray wardens since his sibling ran off with the Crows, but he wants to say unnoticed. He finds the Collective’s safehouse. A mage, fled from the White Spire, is sheltering there. When he tells her he’s heading to Kirkwall, she laughs.

“I promise I’ll get a drink for you, when I see your name of the missing list of the collective newsletter,” she says. “Me, I’m heading towards Denerim. I heard the Wardens are taking anyone, nowadays.”

“The Deep Roads suck,” Anders says flatly. “And they wouldn’t let me take my cat.”

“Why the fuck would you take a cat to the Deep Roads?” she says. “What sort of darkspawn cruelty is that?”

Needless to say, he does not make a new friend.

He leaves a letter at the Collective, for them to forward faster than he can get there: “I’m coming. I love you. Stay strong.”

It takes him another two weeks to get across the Waking Sea and into Kirkwall proper. Though it’s summer, the seas roil. The Wardens say that all the seasons fall out of joint after a Blight. It snows in Seheron, it rains upon the Hissing Wastes. He doesn’t get seasick; Justice keeps him strong, helping him ease into the gravity of the waves.

Sometimes you gotta lean into it, he says. Sometimes you gotta be swept away.

Rainsplattered and queasy the ship drags itself into the City of Chains. The bronze of the statues of screaming slaves shines dully in the low morning light. Anders feels suddenly the great despair of acceptance the millions who have passed through these gates grasp at his heart and tug lightly. Above the Gallows Hightown shines, clad in marble, on the literal backs of these statues. Karl had never sailed before. Stumbling down the plank, pushed by the eager crowd at his back, did he contemplate falling into the waters instead? Did he know how to swim? He had never been in a body of water larger than a bath.

Anders draws his hood over his face and disembarks, shaking. Justice says, steady, steady. This is where you’re meant to be. There’s work to be done yet.

“I need to get him out of here,” Anders murmurs. “All of them.”

Some nobleman’s Tevinter wife bribes the guards to let him through unquestioned. He gets a piece of paper that certifies he is sent by the Wardens to provide holy aid for the lost souls of Darktown, after the Blight. That isn’t forged, Mahariel sent it ahead of time; she keeps tabs on him, to remind him whose, exactly, he is. Karl’s, the Circle’s, the Anderfels’, Kirkwall’s--he is beaten and robbed on his way to meet the messenger from the Mage Underground. They take his shoes. Kirkwall’s cobbles are hard under his feet, and positively grotesque in the rain. He drags himself there regardless.

Justice says, Karl. The mages. There’s rot here, can you feel it? Millions dead. I came here too late. Or soon enough. There’s a grimness to his thoughts. Get yourself some clothes. Beg. Fuck. There are things in motion and we must be part of it.

Eventually he finds the right tenement and someone washes the grime off of him and gives himself to drink and ill-fitting boots, bought with Tevinter money. Sure, magic is made to serve man and not to rule over him, but the First Enchanter sends all records of the money the Formari bring in to the Chantry, so they take what hidden cache that can be ever-so-conveniently found. Someone explains to him that Tevinter has interests in the city.

“No shit,” Anders says. “I saw the statues. Got anything stronger to drink?”

He jots down a note in Anders, drunk and tired, as the rain floods the streets below: “I’m here. Where/when can we meet? I love you.” He tucks the note into a hollow gold coin. The next morning, as the neighbors bail out the basement apartments, Anders slops through the gutters to the Gallows. He heads to the Formari stand and slips it to the buyer. Then he hurries back to Darktown and makes himself useful. He patches houses and welds leaky pipes shut. He fights a Despair demon that mired itself in the muck of the Foundry. He develops the classic Kirkwall cough, and learns how to heal it.

He watches a lot of people die--starved refugees from the Blight, miners possessed by those who were sacrificed to the quarries centuries before their time, too many babies who seem to have been born listless, without the will to survive. Lirene calls it the Kirkwall disease.

“Mages don’t do well here,” she says, late one night in her shop, eating the last scraps of stew after a long beggars’ line. “You should try your luck elsewhere.”

Anders says, “Where? Tevinter? I’m not a slaver. No. This is where I have to be. You know.”

Lirene frowns over her bowl. “Yes,” she says. 1. Her spoon clinks as she places it down. “You know, while you wait for your boyfriend to contact you, you might as well make yourself useful. We can scrape together the bribes for the templars, if you want to do more than mix poultices.” Anders does not immediately answer. He does not want to return to the Circle, to die another slow death, humbling his temper and mastering desire, accepting that he must be watched. But you gotta, Justice says. Aren’t you sick of watching children die? Anders says, “Don’t worry about the bribes. I’ll talk to--” He stops. Lirene smiles at him. “I have a lover,” she says frankly. “He’s a templar. Oh, don’t give me that look. He’s a good one.” Anders scoffs. “Yes, yes, I know--the only good templar is a dead templar, or ones like Samson, who make themselves useful. He’ll pay the bribes, and he’ll deliver your letters too. If you make yourself useful.” “I want the right to fuck around,” Anders says, leaning back in his chair. The chair creaks warningly. “I’ll help out, sure. If your good templar can cover for me, then yeah. I’m sick of seeing babies die of depression. This city’s fucking miserable. I’m down to clean it up.” Lirene says, “Good. How good are you at fighting? There’s a set of rooms in Darktown the Seven Sisters have been using, but with my people and your mage connections, I’m certain we can talk them on.” Anders writes Karl: “L.’s helped me set up a clinic. I know, you remember how I’d always complain during those anatomy lessons. But it’s paid off, literally. I don’t make my patients pay, of course, but other people are happy to see me taking care of the detritus of Darktown. The shipworkers’ guild and the dockworkers’ guild pay me to treat their workers well. Which you know is getting me drawn into labor disputes which is fascinating but not really the point. What I want to say is that there’s a life outside the Gallows and even though it’s all literally underground, in a quarry where you can still see the clawmarks left by elves falling to their deaths, you can hear the screams at night and in the Fade, and the moss glows phosphorescence, even after Justice and Purpose and I took on that demon in the Foundry--I can feel something building. Something growing in this dank. Something’s gotta give, and it won’t be me. If that makes sense. I love you. Reply soon. Tell me, how are we going to meet?” Karl writes, “I would suck Ser Alrik’s dick for the chance to see phosphorescent moss. Well. Perhaps not Ser Alrik. He leaves me well alone. A mercy. Others aren’t so lucky. Our friend’s wife says the Seekers were last seen sniffing around the Viscount’s office, which is a good sign. Dumar’s M.’s puppet, and behind her is Elth and behind her is of course our great DVine. But I think it’s a good sign that she’s conducting an independent investigation of what makes Kirkwall hell. The entire apprentice class failed their Harrowing this week. It is so hard to keep the Tranquil safe, my love. We cannot risk leaving them alone but they stare and they stare and these ones, they’re barely more than children. Kinloch Hold was a slow death but this, I sometimes wonder how Jowan is doing in the Aeonar. Because I think it’s better than here. I’ve volunteered to watch the Tranquil in the market next week. We’ll be under heavy guard, we won’t be able to talk. But maybe you and L. can walk by. Even stand on the stairs. A glimpse, that’s all I need, to get through this. I love you.” Anders writes, “Your hair’s gone gray and you’ve let your beard eat your face. That’s how I know you’re suffering, my love. And you’ve lost weight. I don’t know how you can stand to be surrounded by Tranquil. They enrage me, they drive me past any control, and I don’t know if it’s Justice or grief or this fucking city, but I can’t stand seeing them, it makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. And there’ll be Anders-gore plastered all around the fucking Gallows courtyard, like when Kirkwall had its first of many uprisings. Well, it’ll happen

eventually. My tribute to the sacrificed of the city. Except we’ll win, too. Every day I’m more and more convinced that not only a better world is possible, but it’s happening. So much that I can’t write here but the M.U. and the collective has eyes and ears everywhere and you’re right that it’s a good sign, what you told me. There’s more sympathy in high places than I thought, and all of the low. In my clinic I’ve met all sorts of people. Too many Fereldens, and they all think I’m Ferelden. Lots of elvhen nationalists. That’s how they spell it in Common, with the extra-H. Makes me wish I paid more attention to how Leorah used to write. There’s a Dalish clan nearby but they’re not from the area, they’re from the Korcari Wilds, and they don’t deal with the alienage. But I’ve been hearing a lot from the elves who work down on the docks, that’s not what they’re all like, and they’re so different about magic. They take it for granted, almost. None of the shame we get fucked with. They’re proud when little Ellana or Mahanon starts shooting sparks from their fingertips, and they’ll move their kids from alienage to alienage and clan to clan to keep them safe. I met a woman who’s been running a long time, to keep her son safe. He has bad nightmares, Kirkwall makes it worse, but she doesn’t have the money to move on. I gave her more than I can spare. If you could leave where would you want to go? I’m sorry. It’ll take longer but I swear I’ll get you out of there.” Karl writes, “My love, don’t worry. We can wait. We have time. You did the right thing. Maybe she can talk to the Dalish? Orsino’s complained about how Clan Sabrae has made dealing with M. more difficult. Huon was recently captured, he’d been living quietly in Kirkwall for years. He’s not taking the Circle well, but do any of us? I thought I could survive Kinloch Hold but now I see what you mean. I will kill to feel the grass under my ass. I mean it, Anders. I will. So, I suppose I want somewhere with grass. Do you remember the high grass on the steppes, how the frost would linger on the wheat? I remember my last harvest. It was beautiful, even if it meant that some of us were going to die. It came as a relief that the templars came. One less mouth to feed that hard winter. I wonder if any of my family survived. My mother was never good at rationing. I’d like to check. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a child but perhaps we could steal horses and ride hard across across the Imperial Highway, through the wastelands of the Blight to the Wandering Hills. Do you remember crossing the Hunterhorn Mountains, when they dragged you to Ferelden? I want to see the sun rise on the mountaintop, above the frozen wastes, and tuck my hands under your tunic to keep them warm. I want to fuck you slowly as the bird wake up in the valley, in some forgotten corner of the mountains where no one will ever see us, and it will take centuries for anyone to stumble across our campsite. Promise me that. That you’ll keep me warm.” Then Anders does not hear from him for weeks.

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #kanders #karl thekla #anders #anders/karl #karl/anders #kirkwall #labyrinth #da2 #lirene #justice #dao #awakening

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knifeshoeoreofight · 5 years

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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Mr. Heinze shakes his head as he pours Sidney a glass of brandy. “His other lordship was difficult to persuade, my lord. It did take some managing to get him to admit a single sartorial preference.” He looks off into the middle distance, as close to perturbed as Sidney has ever seen him. “He has alarming taste in waistcoats, my lord.”

Sidney accepts the glass from him and laughs. Mr. Heinze had accompanied Evgeni to the tailor’s and had apparently had a trying afternoon. “Let him get the most eye-searing waistcoat in the whole of Britain. I don’t care.”

“You may eventually care,” Mr. Heinze warns, and Sidney laughs again. He’s happy. Evgeni came to see him for a reading lesson and it had been a pleasant, if torturous hour of bending close and guiding Evgeni’s hand as he formed the letters. He’s very intelligent, and is picking written English up exceedingly quickly. Forming the letters himself is still proving difficult, however, hence the need for Sidney’s help.

It fascinates him, the glimpses he gets of Evgeni’s brilliant mind, sweeping emotions, and big, expansive heart. He wishes, more than almost anything, that he understood Russian. But Evgeni is surprisingly cagey about teaching him and Sidney has only been able to wrest the barest bits and pieces of vocabulary from him. Half of which are completely unsuitable for polite company. But nothing makes Evgeni snigger and grin his wide scoundrel’s grin like Sidney butchering Russian sailing profanity. And so he indulges him.

He would indulge almost anything that would make Evgeni happy, and it’s an almost frightening thing to learn about himself.

“At least teach me that thing you always call me lately,” Sidney had complained, and Evgeni had barrelled on as if he hadn’t heard, teaching Sidney instead how to thoroughly question the legitimacy or even humanity of someone’s parentage.

Now, he takes another sip of brandy and contemplates the fire, unable to keep the corners of his lips from curving upwards at Mr. Heinze’s long suffering tone.

“I had to manage him a little, my lord. Tell him you would be disappointed in my service if I did not extract his true wants in regards to his evening attire, and provide him with as much of it as was fitting for someone of his rank. He has a loyal heart. He would not hear of either disappointing you or allowing myself to fall in your bad graces.”

Sidney smiles, feeling wistful. “Yes, he is a good man.”

“With questionable taste in clothing.”

“Even so.”

***

Sidney eventually settles on attending a ball held by the Barrie-Landeskogs. He’s not close to them, but his friend Sir Nathan Mackinnon is and he supposes they’re tolerable enough. The Viscount and his husband typically put on a raucous but well-appointed event. They employ a talented kitchen staff, at any rate.

Two weeks before the ball, Sidney is in Truro on business when he pulls Cole up short outside the window of a jewelers, struck by a sudden whim.

Not all men or women are fond of jewels, but he has a feeling his husband might be, given the opportunity. He spends rather more than he is used to in one sitting, at least when not purchasing fine horses or the like. The thrilled jeweler cannot seem to bow deeply enough on Sidney’s way out.

***

When the day itself arrives, Sidney nervously slides the velvet case containing his gift across the table to Evgeni at breakfast.

Evgeni sets down his tea and blinks. “What’s this?”

Sidney clears his throat. “Something to wear for the ball tonight, if you wish.”

Evgeni’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open when he sees the cravat pin. It’s an ostentatious thing- the Crosby family crest worked in bright enamel, inlaid with jet and citrine and bordered with glittering diamonds.

Evgeni’s eyes go to where the family crest is also carved into the marble mantlepiece. “This…”

“The family crest,” Sidney says, suddenly terribly nervous that he’s made the wrong decision here. “Gold inescutcheon on a white field.”

“Who’s him?” Evgeni asks, a smile beginning to bloom. He’s reverently cradling the pin as if he expects it to break, and Sidney breathes a sigh of relief.

“It’s a Great Auk,” Sidney explains. “A seabird. You rarely see them now but they used to live all along the coast here. The estate is named after them. Ydhyn Dhu means ‘black bird’ in Cornish.” It’s an unusual animal for a coat of arms, but his family has always been a little different.

“They can’t fly, but they can swim like fish,” Sidney continues. “Do you like it?”

“I’m love,” Evgeni says softly. “This is yours?”

“Oh, no, I had it made especially for you,” Sidney hastens to explain. “Consider it a late wedding present.”

Evgeni’s head is bowed, and he doesn’t look at Sidney, but he traces the auk with his thumb so gently that it makes Sidney want to saddle Cole this instant and go purchase every last bauble the jeweler has.

When Evgeni speaks again his voice is rough. “I’m also get you present. Not so fancy like this, but maybe, think you like simple?”

Sidney is not a child, the prospect of a gift has no business making him this giddy. “Oh! You didn’t have to-- yes, I do prefer fairly simple attire.”

“Should still have something nice for party,” Evgeni says, head still ducked shyly. “Maybe you already have. But I see and I think, maybe you like.”

He pulls from the pocket of his coat a box not dissimilar to the one Sidney had given him. Sidney accepts it from him with eager hands. Inside, on a bed of tissue paper, lies a delicate gold chain. It has a pendant on it, also gold, in the shape of a ship under sail.

“I see you have many ship things, in your study. Painting, compass, sextant. Think maybe you like.”

Sidney flushes, both from Evgeni noticing his alarming weakness for nautical objets d'art and from pleasure in being understood so well.

“It’s absolutely perfect,” Sidney says fervently. “I love it.”

“I know is mostly ladies wear necklace,” Evgeni goes on, looking pleased but still rambling a little nervously. “But I see some ladies wear cravat, some gentlemen wear necklace.”

Sidney unhooks the necklace clasp and drapes it around his neck. The pendant rests where a cravat pin typically would, and it looks very well. “As I said, perfect.” He fumbles with the delicate closure for a moment, and Evgeni stands, and goes behind him to do it for him.

Sidney closes his eyes at the brush of Evgeni’s hands on the nape of his neck. Evgeni fusses with it for a moment, running a finger along the chain to make it lie smooth and perfect. Sidney wants to lean back into the touch, but does not.

“Thank you,” he tells his husband.

“Thank you too,” Evgeni returns.

***

In the carriage, Evgeni cannot stop jouncing his leg up and down from nerves, and Sidney cannot stop noticing how fine a figure Evgeni cuts in evening dress. The coat of arms pin twinkles expensively from Evgeni’s cravat, and Sidney is a little ashamed of how much he likes seeing his crest worn on Evgeni’s person. Not to say that Evgeni belongs to him, but rather that Evgeni belongs with him.

He touches the ship necklace where it lies over his own cravat, and Evgeni’s eyes follow the movement. He smiles.

“Look so good, Sid,” Evgeni says, low, and it makes heat pool in Sid’s belly.

“It was a lovely gift,” he says, and Evgeni shakes his head and gestures vaguely at Sid’s entire body.

“Everything looks good,” he says, and Sid wills his face not to flush scarlet. He smooths a hand self-consciously down his waistcoat. He’d come to the conclusion that if he dressed as plainly as he was wont to do on his own, Evgeni in his resplendently embroidered waistcoat and fine lace cuffs might stand out a little too much. So he’d enlisted the help of Letang, who exhibited an ungentlemanly amount of glee in finally being allowed control of Sidney’s wardrobe.

He’d insisted on a russet velvet coat and a gold silk waistcoat. Sidney was intensely skeptical but Letang had only said some nonsense about his eyes and had insisted. At least he would approach Evgeni in spendor somewhat, this way. And it did go well with the necklace.

“You as well,” Sidney said, after perhaps too great a pause. “I mean, you look very well, also.”

Evgeni lifts his arm and turns his wrist to admire the gold embroidery on the wine-red velvet of his sleeves. “I’m like,” he says, pleased. “And Mr. Heinze say is fine to choose.”

“I’m glad you chose something you liked,” Sidney tells him, and Evgeni looks over at him. He has this way of looking sometimes, like his eyes are smiling even more than his mouth is. He’s looking at Sidney that way now. Sidney wishes--

Well. There is much Sidney wishes for.

He’s suddenly reminded, so clearly that he practically hear his voice, of his father gruffly intoning that “wishes have no practical use, son. What are you going to do to make them come about, instead?”

What indeed. Sidney has been assuming this entire time that, in effect, romancing his own husband would be an egregious abuse of power. But, would it? Under the thrall of Evgeni’s warm, dark-eyed gaze, Sidney begins to wonder.

***

The Barrie-Landeskog estate is ablaze with light when they arrive. Torches line the drive and gleaming carriages wait to disgorge thier dazzlingly dressed occupants. When their own carriage draws up before the wide marble front steps, Sidney meets his husband’s eyes.

“Ready?” he asks.

Evgeni looks a little green but Sidney watches him swallow, close his eyes, and open them with an expression of fierce resolve.

“Yes,” he says firmly.

Sidney steps out first, and turns to extend a hand to Evgeni and help him down. It’s a rather useless gesture, given how long Evgeni’s legs are and how little he needs the help. But Sidney is determined to let society observe him awarding his husband every courtesy.

Evgeni slides his hand into the crook of Sidney’s elbow, as smoothly as if he’d been escorted into ballrooms all his life.

He grins at Sidney. “I’m practice with Mr. Heinze. What you think?”

“Very elegant,” Sidney replies, helpless to do anything but grin back.

They ascend the steps, and are bowed inside by the footmen. It is a riot of color and sound: chandeliers glowing with hundred of candles that glint off gilt scrollwork amid a ceiling of painted cherubs and divinities. The guests below gleam in a rainbow of velvet and silk, jewels flashing, ostrich plumes fluttering from hair ornaments and fans. Strains of music rise above the murmur of voices.

Sidney glances at his husband to see him gazing about himself with an expression of dazzled wonder. He smiles at Sidney, joyous as a child.

“Sid!” he exclaims.

“You like it?” Sidney asks.

“Most beautiful thing I’m ever see,” Evgeni breathes, mouth dropped open. He glances down at Sidney for a fleeting instant. “Almost.”

“Well. if you like it so much, we should open up the ballroom at Ydhyn Dhu. Maybe hold a ball ourselves.”

“There’s ballroom at Ydhyn Dhu?” Evgeni goggles incredulously at Sid.

“Well. It’s shut up since it’s used so seldomly,” Sid explains.

Evgeni raises his free hand to pat Sidney’s arm, laughter in his eyes. “I know, I know. Sid doesn’t like big noisy party.”

“If you like them, we shall have them,” Sidney insists. He’s not completely stodgy.. He can throw his husband a ball, for god’s sake.

Evgeni’s gaze is fond, and he leans down and brushes a kiss across the back of Sidney’s hand. “Maybe. But now, first?” He cocks his head at where the hosts are greeting all of the new arrivals.

“Lord Crosby!” The Viscount exclaims, when they draw near. Heads all around turn with alarming alacrity at the words. “And your husband—”

“Lord Evgeni,” Sidney supplies. Evgeni takes and bows over the hands of the Viscount and his husband with careful politeness.

“We were all astonishment, I must say, to hear of the wedding. Our congratulations, however,” the Viscount continues, bright-eyed and merry. “Nate had precious little information, for all that you are close friends.”

“There is not much to tell,” Sidney replies, and the Viscount nods sagely.

“I understand, I understand.” He leans closer, with a conspiratorial air. “Tall, handsome, and foreign. An irresistible combination, I know.” He leers at his own husband, who rolls his eyes, but also looks a little smug.

“Well-” Sidney is sure he is blushing. “I daresay-- oh look, it’s Nate, I must say hello. Many thanks again for the invitation.”

He angles for where he caught a glimpse of Nate in the throng but before he gets there they are accosted. Inwardly, Sidney groans, for Sir McGuire is one of the most tedious men he has ever had the misfortune to know. Outwardly, he just smiles blandly at the man’s overly familiar greeting.

“And this, this is the husband? Well, it was certainly a surprise to us all when the news reached us,” Sir McGuire burbles. “Tell me, Lord Evgeni, what was your family name again? I do believe I forgot.”

Sidney’s stomach tightens in sympathy for Evgeni and he prepares to intervene, but Evgeni merely lifts his chin, gracing Sir McGuire with a look of such perfected aristocratic boredom that Sidney has to stifle a laugh.

“My name is Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin-Crosby,” Evgeni proclaims. “Of St. Petersburg and Moscow. But my family spend most of our time on our land in the Ural Mountains.”

Sidney knows for a fact that Evgeni’s family owns no land and that he’s only been to Moscow once in his life. He wants to smirk at the look of confusion on McGuire’s face as he tries to figure out a way to be snide about Evgeni’s origins without knowing the slightest thing about what he’s talking about.

“Ah. And was your family able to visit the royal court in St. Petersburg?” McGuire asks with an oily smile. Sidney wants to roll his eyes.

“Dear Katya would not hear of us staying away,” Evgeni replies, with a condescending smirk Sidney should not be finding attractive. Gratifyingly, Mcguire’s jaw drops.

“By Katya, of course you cannot mean--”

“So nice, English education must be better than I’m think, if you know of the Empress Yekaterina,” Evgeni says patronizingly. “Maybe hope for you all, yet.”

Sidney cannot stifle a snort, and bites his lip to try and keep his smile in check as McGuire takes his leave with gratifying alacrity.

“Rogue!” Sidney hisses delightedly. “You know he is a horrible gossip, the entire ballroom will be hearing about that in a matter of minutes.”

“Good,” Evgeni says contentedly, and Sidney bursts out laughing at the serene expression on his face.

Just then the music issuing from the ballroom changes to a minuet. It would probably be a good idea to start off with a couple’s dance, instead of the more complicated dances involving multiple sets of partners. Sidney inclines his head toward the open ballroom doors inquiringly and Evgeni nods. Sidney takes Evgeni’s from its place on his arm and holds it in his own, as correctly as his dancing master would have insisted upon, and leads Evgeni forth.

***

Sidney had not, perhaps, fully considered the ramifications of dancing with Evgeni. The minuet is slow, and stately, and there is nobody to watch for or pay attention to besides one’s partner.

The ballroom is lit up by more chandeliers and candles, and heady with the scent of hothouse flowers. Evgeni’s hands are enormous and strong in Sid’s, and his eyes never seem to leave Sidney’s face. Every time they meet after a pattern of separate steps, Evgeni seems to pull Sidney a little closer. Almost too close, for propriety’s sake. Sidney chalks it up, perhaps, to a lapse in Mr. Heinze’s deportment lessons.

The turns are a little amusing. Sidney can step easily enough under Evgeni’s arm, but they have to get a little creative when it comes to Evgeni getting under Sid’s. They laugh at themselves a little, and it strikes Sidney that he has never had such a pleasant time on a dance floor before. Dancing had always made him feel stilted and awkward, too busy trying to remember the steps to really enjoy himself.

Now, he has Evgeni, who he can laugh with if either of them make a mistake, smiling at Sid like there’s nowhere else he wants to be in the world. Sidney cannot help it-- every warm brush of his fingers to Sid’s own makes him want.

When the music ends and the ballroom breaks into applause, Sidney blinks as if awakening from a spell.

“That was--” he isn’t sure how he is going to finish that, because they are accosted by Letang and Catherine for a quadrille, and the dancing resumes once more.

***

They take a respite from dancing to refresh themselves with glasses of orgeat and negus. Sidney has the taste of rosewater and almonds on his tongue, and Evgeni near him, leaning close to joke about this dandy’s particularly elaborate cravat or that haughty woman’s peculiar hair arrangement. He cannot remember ever enjoying a ball so much.

They are interrupted by Nate, arriving to clap Sidney on the back and cheerfully complain about his inability to convince any young ladies to dance with him.

“It’s because you tread on their feet and are an unromantic lout,” Sidney says dryly. Nate throws his head back and laughs.

“Hilarious, coming from you. Although, I suppose, you do have the higher ground now that you have managed to convince someone to marry you!” Nate toasts Evgeni with his glass of negus and Evgeni frowns a little.

“Come on, Sid,” Nate continues, wheedling. “Don’t let me be utterly humiliated. Stand up for the next dance with me, just the one? I’m sure Evgeni wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Evgeni looks taken aback, perhaps by Nate’s jovial noisiness, but nods, and carefully takes Sidney’s glass when it is handed to him.

“I’ll be back soon,” Sidney promises, and leaves to line up with Nate and a bevy of others for a country dance.

The liveliness of the particular dance means that it is long minutes before he has a moment to stand still as he waits to take his turn in a series of steps, and look back to where he left Evgeni waiting.

He’s startled by the dark look he sees leveled at him, immediately smoothed out to blank nothingness as soon as Evgeni sees that Sidney is looking back. It shakes Sidney, and he can barely concentrate on the rest of the dance. He treads rather badly on poor Nate’s feet, and he knows he is in for an exceptional amount of ribbing from that quarter later.

“Well,” Nate says breathlessly, as the dance finally draws to a close. “I daresay marriage has only worsened your dancing. I would not have though it possible for you to get worse!”

Ordinarily, Sidney would have liked nothing better than to exchange friendly repartee with Nate- the friendship they have has always included a great deal of good-natured teasing. But he is distracted now. During the very last series of steps, he’d spent much of the time craning his neck to see if Evgeni was still staring at the dancers like a thundercloud, but he seems now to have vanished. He take his leave from Nate, and makes his way through the throng to find out where his husband has gone.

A man of Evgeni’s height is not easily missed, so Sidney need only make a few inquiries to find out he has gone outside,to the wide stone veranda running along the back of the house. Tall windows spill light from inside, and it is easy to make out Evgeni, leaning on the balustrade and staring moodily out onto the Barrie-Landeskogs’ extensive lily pond.

Sid comes up beside him, feeling once again wrong-footed and unsure of what to say. The night air holds the promise of spring. It smells of damp earth and green growing things, and there is a chorus of frogsong loud enough to be heard over the strains of music from inside.

“Hello,” Sidney says softly, and Evgeni turns, and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Where you displeased, that I danced with Nate?” Sidney asks, a little conflicted as to how it makes him feel. Deep down, he fears he might actually...enjoy the idea of Evgeni being desirous of his time and person, at least when it comes to dancing. “Perhaps it was bad of me to leave you alone?” To face the gossips without Sidney at his side. The more he thinks about this the worse he feels. But Evgeni is shaking his head, and his expression has gone rueful and soft.

“No, Sid,” he says. “Is good, to dance with friends. I’m should not--” He doesn’t finish.

“I like it when you’re honest with me,” Sidney says. “Did you mind very much?”

Evgeni doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look at Sid. Instead he asks: “You like him, Nate?”

“Our parents were good friends,” Sidney says, wondering what Evgeni is getting at. “I’ve known him since he was a snot-nosed infant. How he used to squall! He’s a good lad, if hopeless with the ladies. I fear it may be years before he finds a girl with the fortitude to become mistress of MacKinnon Hall.”

Evgeni looks intently at Sid, as though trying to gauge his emotions. So Sid continues. “And I hope you don’t take his teasing seriously; heaven knows I don’t. He’s just lively, is all. He means no harm.”

“He’s only like ladies?”

Sid shrugs. “As far as I know.”

“And you all right?”

Really, Sidney isn’t sure why Evgeni is looking at him with so much concern.

“Why should I care who Nate likes?” Sidney says, frowning. “He’s like a little brother to me, I’d just as rather not think about his romantic inclinations, at all.”

Evgeni’s shoulders slump and he shakes his head, laughing soundlessly, seemingly at himself.

“What is it?” Sidney says, concerned. “Did you think...did you think I had a tendre for Nate?”

Evgeni buries his face in his hands with a groan. “Don’t tease, Sid. I’m just be little bit foolish.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Sidney protests. “I don’t. Have a tendre for anyone, I mean.” A horrible thought strikes him. “Wait, do you?”

Evgeni shakes his head and sighs. “Only person here I’m want be married to, is you.”

“Oh good,” Sidney says, feeling relieved his anxiety was for naught. “Me too.”

Good god, he sounds a right fool. He wonders bitterly if, had the circumstances been different and he’d met Evgeni at a ball like this, he’d been able to get someone as naturally charming to look at him twice.

“Mean that, Sid?” Evgeni is saying, voice hushed. He is suddenly standing very, very close. Sid can smell his sandalwood shaving soap.

Sid has to clear his throat before he can speak. “I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean.”

Evgeni’s lips are softly parted, as if he wants to say something, or even, perhaps, lean forward and press them to Sidney’s.

Sidney’s heart pounds, and he finds himself swaying ever so slightly forward into Evgeni’s space. Please, he wants to beg. Kiss me. Kiss me because you want to.

“Sid,” Evgeni says huskily. He raises a hand and softly touches Sidney under the chin, tilting Sidney’s face up towards his own. Sidney cannot breathe. There is only Evgeni’s heavy lidded gaze, and the warmth of his touch. He slides his other hand down Sid’s side to rest at his waist, and--

There is a crash as one of the sets of French doors from the ballroom violently swings open, expelling a couple obviously in their cups, giggling and loudly shushing each other. Evgeni drops his hands and steps back. Sid wants to curse at the loss.

“Go back inside?” Evgeni inquires, tilting his head towards the lit-up windows. “Dance more?”

Sidney wants to protest, but one of the young ladies who’ve disturbed them sighs out “Oh, Annabelle” in tones that suggest vacating the premises with alacrity to grant the young lovers some privacy might be in order.

“Always a flurry of engagements after a ball,” Sidney mutters as they walk in, still a little miffed.

“Romantic,” Evgeni says indulgently. “Very sweet.”

“Yes, quite,” Sidney says, feeling considerably less charitable.

Inside, the musicians are playing something totally unfamiliar, and there is rather a lot more standing around and tittering going on than usual. Sidney has to crane his neck and practically stand on his toes to see past the crush of people standing around the dance floor. When he sees what the precious few couples dancing are doing, his eyes widen. It is one thing to have a genteel rendez-vous with a spouse or a betrothed on a darkened balcony away from prying eyes, but this?

“Good lord,” a woman says to his right, fluttering her fan vigorously. “How..Continental.”

“Very...daring,” says her companion.

“That’s one way to describe it,” huffs a portly older gentleman.

Sidney glances up to see what Evgeni is making of all of this but he looks completely unperturbed.

“I’m know this one,” he says, pleased. “Waltz. They dance like this in Vienna. I’m have friend on ship who teach me.” He looks down at Sid and holds out his hand. “Dance?”

Had he asked earlier in the evening, Sidney would have most likely said no. The idea of taking such liberties, in full view of society? But he is still flushed and disappointed from the ruined moment outside, and he feels reckless. He wants Evgeni’s arms around him and if a scandalous dance in front of all their acquaintance is the only way to get it, then, well.

“Why not,” Sidney says, with a sangfroid he does not feel. “You will have to teach me, however, I do not know the steps.”

Evgeni lights up. “I’m best teacher, come.”

And then he leads Sidney into the open space on the floor, and tugs him close in front of all the staring eyes around them. He slides one arm close about Sid’s waist, and takes Sid’s hand and lays it on his shoulder. Their free hands he clasps together, not extended a careful distance like in a minuet, but pulled close.

“Watch feet,” he murmurs in Sidney’s ear. “It’s count of three.” Sidney shudders, heat blooming through his whole body. He is certain his face must be scarlet.

Evgeni counts softly under his breath for a moment, to show Sidney how, then begins to move.

Sidney is consumed for a short while with attempting to replicate the movements of Evgeni’s feet, and then Evgeni says “turn now,” and swoops them around to the music so quickly it makes Sidney’s head spin.

It is like no dancing Sidney has ever done. There is nothing stately or decorous about this. There is instead the warmth of Evgeni’s arms around him, pulling him so close that their bodies press together at times. There are twirls and turns that send them flying around the dance floor and turn the ballroom around them into a blur of light and color.

When the music stops, Sidney’s chest is heaving, both from exertion and from having Evgeni so close. He cannot look at Evgeni’s face, he cannot, for surely everything he wants will be clear in his expression, and he does not wish to share with the entire ballroom how desperately he wants to ravish his husband.

“Good?” Evgeni asks, and Sidney can only nod.

“You’re a magnificent dancer,” he says

Evgeni shrugs. “When I’m know dance better, I’m not so bad. You want more drink?”

“Please.” He could drink a gallon or orgeat, he really could.

On their way, they encounter the Letangs. Kris gapes at Sidney.

“Lord Sidney Patrick Crosby,” he exclaims with a smirk. “Did I just see you waltzing? In front of God and this entire assembly?”

Evgeni looks puzzled. “What’s wrong with waltz? It’s nice dance.”

“Ooh, I see now,” Letang drawls. Then smirks. “Godspeed, my lords.”

“Whatever do you mean,” Sidney says flatly, and practically drags his husband the rest of the way to the refreshment table.

***

Sidney stays well past the usual hour when he usually make his excuses and leaves. He’s never seen a ball to its end before, but he is actually enjoying himself immeasurably with Evgeni at his side.

He drinks rather a lot of negus, and the cook must have made it uncommonly strong. The drink and his exhaustion cause him to list sleepily into Evgeni’s side after they step wearily into their carriage for the ride home. Sidney had gone to sit in his previous position opposite his husband, but Evgeni had pouted and tugged him down next to himself, instead. Highly satisfactory arrangement.

The first blush of dawn is pinking the eastern sky and the morning chorus of birdsong serenades them as Sidney gives in to his tipsy weariness and lets his head rest on Evgeni’s shoulder. Evgeni hums and tilts his own head onto Sid’s.

All is peaceful quiet, save the birds, the jingling of the harnesses, and the creak of the wheels for quite some time.

Eventually, though, Evgeni sighs softly and tilts his face so that his nose brushes Sidney’s hair.

“Why you stop call me ‘Zhenya’?” he says, so quietly Sidney wonders if he was meant to hear it at all.

“It seemed...an impertinence,” he says sleepily into Evgeni’s lapel.

“Don’t know what’s mean, ‘impertinence,” Evgeni grumbles.

His accent is so much thicker when he’s this tired. It’s delicious.

“Do you want me to?” Sidney says, laboriously blinking his eyes open, because this seems important. He squints muzzily up at Evgeni.

“I’m want. It’s close name. Was want… we be like family.”

The soft hurt in his voice makes Sidney sit up to look at his face better. Evgeni’s expression makes Sidney feel like he’s swallowed a stone.

“Darling-- I’m so sorry,” he exclaims, drink and exhaustion wringing full honesty from his lips. “I never meant for you to-- I want that too, Zhenya, I want that too.”

Zhenya stares at him, eye wide and lit up rich wood-brown in the morning light. Sidney reaches up and cups Zhenya’s face in his hand. He tugs lightly, just enough for Evgeni to know what he wants.

Zhenya obliges, leaning down and brushing a kiss to Sidney’s cheek. Sidney makes a dissatisfied noise.

“No?” Oh, Zhenya’s voice just then. A deep caressing purr that Sidney feels in his very bones. “What you want, Sid?”

“More,” Sidney breathes. “You.”

Zhenya groans and leans down, his lips finally against Sidney’s own, warm and desperate. He groans into the kiss as Sidney yields to him, lips parting to let him take.

When Zhenya moves from Sidney’s mouth to his neck, Sidney makes a sound that’s almost a gasping sob. Zhenya stills. He presses a series of chaste, gentling kisses to Sidney’s throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“You drink a lot,” he says. His voice is hoarse, his tone regretful.

“Not-- so very much,” Sidney protests, when he can find his speech again. But Zhenya presses one last kiss to his forehead, and tugs Sidney back down onto his shoulder.

“Rest,” Zhenya insists.

Disappointment floods him, thick and stinging. “If you wish,” Sidney says.

Zhenya, however, makes no answer.

Part 9

#meurgerys #sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #sid/geno #dana writes a thing

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bloodxredxwolf · 7 years

Text

The Fall of The Wolf chapter 2

Thunder rolled as lightning flashed across the sky. Rain fell, gently tapping against the windows of the Viscount’s office. Marian leaned against the side, her arm across her forehead, hand hanging limp before the glass. She stared into the empty streets of Hightown, her eyes red and slightly puffy. “I should have known. I should have sent for Merrill from the start.” “You can’t blame yourself. There was no way to know that she was going to kill her. Justice and I both lost track of her. She is no ordinary mage, Merrill never stood a chance,” Anders replied as he walked behind her and gently hugged her waist. “She didn’t deserve to die, not like that.” She sniffed, fighting back tears. “And those marks in her neck? What could have done that? What kind of monster is she?” Anders turned Marian and held her to his chest. “We will find out what happened. I promise.” Before she could respond, there was a knock on the door and a messenger walked in. “I’ve a letter for you, messere. From Varric.” Marian pulled away from Anders and wiped her face, composing herself as she walked to the courier. “From Varric? How did he know I was back in Kirkwall?” The messenger bowed and backed out of the room, closing the doors with him. Hawke opened the letter and read it in silence. As she finished it, her hands began to tremble. She paused before screaming and punching the wall beside her. Her emotions no longer contained, tears of rage, guilt, and pure helplessness ran down her face.She paused to wipe her eyes before she swung at the stone wall again, shaking her bloodied knuckles afterwards. She glanced at Anders who took her hand in his as a blue aura appeared in his palms. “I am supposed to be the Champion, a hero, and I just keep letting people die.” “What did Varric say?” “I have to go to a place called Skyhold. I failed again, Anders, Corypheus is alive. That bastard is alive, after everything I did to stop him! I have to go, I can’t let anyone else suffer because I wasn’t strong enough.” ************************************* Black heels clicked against the stone path. A thin layer of fog covered the ground, the air above completely still. Ana walked slowly around, looking at her surroundings as she explored the Crossroads. “It has been so long.” she whispered to herself. She saw to her right another Eluvian, black and twisted. She heard echoes of screams “Tamlen! Watch out!” She saw old ruins in the Brecilian Forest, a young elf’s reflection torn and perverted in the broken glass. She continued walking, incoherent whispers echoing all around her. She approached a large Eluvian, what seemed to be in the center, framed in gold and beautifully elaborate. On the other side was a large pool in an ancient ruin. Ana ran her hands along the edges as she circled it. A small voice echoed from the other side. “Hello? Who are you?” Ana turned to see a young boy, tall and thin, hair black but not like hers. He could have been no older than 12 years old but the magic she sensed was powerful. Ana smirked. “My name is Ana. Who might you be?” “My name is Kieran,” the boy replied warmly. “Are you lost? I don’t remember ever seeing you here before.” Surprised at how little he feared both her and the Crossroads, she took a moment to respond. “I wouldn’t say ‘lost’. More...looking for the right door. You see, you can’t use one of these-” “-without a key!” Kieran said excitedly. “My mum taught me all about Eluvians. Although she would be pretty upset with me if she knew I was here.” Ana tilted her head as she took a step toward the boy. “Your mother doesn’t know you’re here? But you can use her Eluvian?” He nodded. “Yes, sometimes I hear whispers in my sleep and they tell me to come here. Mother calls it the ‘Crossroads’, but you’re the first person I have ever met here.” “And where does your mother’s Eluvian lead?” “Oh, the royal court of Orlais!” An intrigued gleam danced in Ana’s eyes as she knelt in front of Kieran. “Well, Kieran, since my Eluvian broke when I came here, I have nowhere to go.” She gently grabbed his hand, “You think you could take me through your mother’s?” Kieran thought for a moment. “Well, you’re not a demon, so I don’t know why Mother would mind. It’s this way.” Ana smiled as the child led her to the Eluvian on the far side the Crossroads. He held his hand up and the glass began to glow and ripple as if it had become liquid. Holding her hand, he stepped through, pulling Ana in with him. As they appeared on the other side, Ana was surprised to emerge in a dimly lit room in what felt like the bowels of the castle. It was dark and somewhat damp, clearly a room not often visited. She looked around as Kieran grabbed a torch. They appeared to be in some sort of small library, books and statues lined the wall. Upon closer inspection the books were all about magic or elven mythology. Before she could investigate further, a voice echoed from the top of the stairs across the room. “Kieran? Are you down there?” Finally getting his torch to light, Kieran turned and answered, “Yes, Mother! We’re down here!” Rushed footsteps echoed down the staircase as a woman appeared in the room. She was dressed in an elegant deep purple gown, her black hair tied up with bangs hanging in her eyes. Her auburn, almost golden eyes pierced the darkness as she glared at Kieran. “We? Have you been entering the Crossroads again?!” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mother. The voices called to me again. It’s a good thing, though, if I hadn’t, Ana would still be trapped there.” “Ana?” the woman whispered as she looked at the empty corner Kieran was pointing to. “Kieran, what have I told you about naming spirits?” Confused, Kieran looked at the bookshelf Ana had been next to before spinning around, looking about the room. “She was right here. She was an elf, not a spirit, Mother. How could she have vanished?” Grabbing his hand, the woman began to drag him upstairs. “I have had enough of your games. Return to your studies immediately and do not leave until I come for you.” The boy hung his head but went up the stairs as he was told. Waiting until the door in the room upstairs opened and closed before speaking, the woman turned to the shadows. “Well, well...what have we here? An elf with powerful magic, it would seem.” Ana stepped from behind the Eluvian, allowing the torch light to illuminate part of her face. “Such a young, trusting lad you have. I admire that he has not been possessed yet, as trusting as he is of strange creatures in even stranger places.” “Who are you? Why have you come?” For the first time, Ana removed her hood and coat. Her hair fell around her bare shoulders,her collar halfway up her neck, clinging tightly to her body as it widened to cover her breasts. Her top stopped just short of her midriff, the vines of Vallaslin accentuating her delicate curves. Her trousers fit snugly, her boots going to halfway up her thighs. Her arms were bare, the intricate red lines the only thing to draw the eye. “You may call me Ana. And don’t worry, I won’t harm your boy. Consider me just passing through.” The woman hesitated, “There is an old magic about you. Her Highness will not like a stranger appearing in her court out of my Eluvian. If you leave quickly, I will remain silent to your presence.” Ana chuckled. “I will be gone before night’s end.” Both women paused as the door in the room above opened, a male voice echoing off the stone walls. “My Lady, Morrigan, Her Majesty requests your presence in the study.” Morrigan bowed her head. “It seems I must take my leave. Do not worry, I get a sense that we shall meet again.” As Morrigan turned to walk up the stairs, a gust of wind blew past her. She turned and Ana was gone. She chuckled to herself. “Old magic indeed.” ****************************************************************************************************** Ana stood on the rooftop of the castle. The sun was setting and there were only minutes of daylight left. She watched as the guards circled the courtyard, the gardens, the stables. She observed the two guards closest to main gate turned and walked away from each other, each patrolling their area of the grounds. She waited for her opportunity before she nimbly swung from the rooftop, to the balcony, to the window, then the ground. She clung to the shadows in the shrubbery as the guard walked past her. Not wasting time, she ran for the stables. As she walked through the door, several of the horses became uneasy in their stalls. One horse, the stallion closest to her, remained calm as his black eyes lay upon her. She met his gaze and placed a hand on his muzzle, “You don’t fear me, do you, boy? You want to go on an adventure?” The horse snorted and threw his head down before stamping his foot. Ana grinned as she opened the stall door and ran her hand along the strong neck of the imperial steed. While the other animals seemed to keep their distance from her, this steed seemed to accept her. He was not afraid or anxious in her presence, he trusted her explicitly. As Ana examined the animal a small door inside the barn opened and a young man stepped out. “Hey! You can’t be in there! Who are you?” Ana shut her eyes and pursed her lips in frustration. She stepped out of the stall, hands in the air as she approached the stable hand. “I was simply admiring these magnificent animals. Was even thinking of borrowing one for my long journey ahead. “Y-you can’t just take Her Majesty’s horses, I’m calling the guards!” Ana lunged, grabbing him by the throat. Her pupils dilated as she looked him in the eyes. “You will remain silent as you saddle that stallion. When you are done, you will return to me.” The young stable hand became dazed as he walked back into the room and emerged with a saddle and bridle in hand. He silently, quickly saddled the stallion and led him out of his stall and to Ana. She smiled as she stroked the boy’s hair. “Good lad. Now, since I don’t know exactly where I’m going, I should probably get a full meal in before I leave.” In the same breath, fangs grew from her mouth as her eyes turned black, Her Vallaslin began to glow red as she sank her teeth into his neck. Blood spattered the wall beside them as the boy gurgled and twitched, the life quickly leaving his eyes. Blood poured from his neck and ran down hers as she gorged herself on her meal. It was only a few moments before she had finished. When she was sated, she stood and sat his body against the stall. She wiped her face with his shirt before patting his chest and mounting her steed. She had no idea where her destination was, but she knew she needed to head east. She nudged her steed forward, the side gate left open from where the stable hand had not yet locked it. Luckily, the barn was outside the main courtyard and only a small servant’s entrance stood between Ana and the open road. With a wave of her hand, the gates opened and she spurred the stallion forward, into the night.

#Fanfic #fanfiction #dragon age #fenris #fenris romance #solas #solas x lavellen #vampire #dragon age inquisition #female hawke #dorian #Zevran

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sleepydrarry · 7 years

Note

"Auror!Harry partnering up with Unspeakable/Ministry worker/consultant etc" ys pls !! :)))) I am interested!!!!! sign me up/count me in etc etc xxxxxx

WITH PLEASURE! This is also for the other people who wanted this i.e. @captaintrashdrarry @not-all-those-who-wonder-r-lost @brightowl @markedplaces @miaunderstress (and whoever I forgot). Here goes!

Auror!Harry partnering with non-Auror!Draco fic recs

• Eternally Consistent by kitsunealyc (44k)Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter assumed they would never be anything but civil enemies, until Potter lands on Malfoy’s doorstep, bleeding, covered in curses, and acting very strangely indeed.(Aaagh this fic is so good I can’t. The romance and love, the wit and sass and flirting. A brilliant Unspeakable!Draco, too. EVERY scene is my favorite!!)

• Settle in my slow-burning heart by Teatrolley (10k)Five years after the war Draco is working a tech developer job in the Auror Office, and it’s all great except this one thing: Harry Potter works there, too. Things only become stranger when Harry starts bringing Draco ugly souvenirs back from his work travels. When Harry then shows up injured in Draco’s flat, Draco considers the possibility that he’s going insane.(The writing style in this one! It kills me every time, I love the characterizations, Harry in particular being adorkable. So passionate, soft, and easy together.)

• The Light More Beautiful by firethesound (81k)Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter’s help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn’t been enough to dim Draco’s obsession with him.(A++ favorite favorite favorite fic, it is hilarious with these amazing details, the pining is excruciating. Harry is an Auror instructor and Draco invents things.)

• When Hearts Are Freed by oldenuf2nb (23k)When Draco Malfoy’s gallery is robbed and a priceless magical artifact is stolen, he finds himself working with Chief Auror Harry Potter to both recover the fabulous necklace, and to prove he didn’t steal it himself.(I’m so happy with this fic, there’s assertive!Harry and romance and mystery and stolen kisses. The Romanov family jewels!! Such good writing too.)

• Nightcall by femmequixotic and noeon (116k)A hideously mauled corpse is found sprawled across the paving stones of Brick Lane in the East End of London. Inspector Harry Potter–widely believed to be the lead candidate for next Deputy Head Auror–is called in to investigate a possible magical crime. To make matters worse, his occasional lover and former school-nemesis, Viscount Draco Malfoy, now billing himself as a consulting criminologist, shows up at the crime scene to aid in the investigation of the suspicious death. Neither man will go away from the case unchanged, but will their combined forces be enough to fight the tide of danger that is sweeping London in the summer of 1910? And if they plumb the depths of the case, what bones of the past will they uncover?(I love this fic, it is the coolest thing, the case freaks me out and the Drarry in it gives me LIFE. Excellent writing, such passion, such an original setting.)

• The Darkness Before the Dawn by Ren (55k)A mysterious creature is loose in London, stalking and killing people. Auror Harry Potter requests the help of a liaison from the Beast Division and gets saddled with Draco Malfoy. Will they be able to stop the creature before it claims more lives?(YESS THIS ONE. They are so sweet together and they argue so much, Draco is all clever with the formulas, and the case is interesting. Very nice.)

• and Hope to Die by olimakiella (24k)Strategically placed pieces of Wizarding artwork are going missing in the United Kingdom. Only, when the dots are connected to a darker plot, Harry learns that there are classified places in the Ministry that only few people get to see. And just what the hell is the Centre of Magical Intelligence anyway?(Holy crap, I love this fic so much and this author is a fave. I’m so fascinated by all of this! Also, clever!Draco is amazing and Harry is a cinnamon roll.)

• the keys to your kingdom by thistle_verse (7.5k)It was nothing so elegant as fucking, the first time they came together. It was teeth just a little too sharp— against a collarbone, on the right-side curve of a jaw, drawing blood from the plushest part of a bottom lip. It was the doorframe digging into the curve his spine was making of its own volition: closer, harder, more. Two hundred pain receptors per square inch in the human body and it was nothing but background noise in the explosion, the revelation, that was Harry Potter’s body against his.(Hit Wizard!Draco and Auror!Harry flirting over corpses, gorgeous writing as can be noted above, and so much passion–what’s not to love?)

• Crossing Lines by Ren (47k)While investigating a ring of smugglers, the Aurors receive a tip saying that the European Express is being used to move contraband across state lines. To solve the case, Harry has to unmask the smugglers and find the hidden contraband before the luxury train reaches Bulgaria. Draco Malfoy is also on board… but that’s just coincidence, isn’t it?(This is such a cute and fun case fic! I enjoy the mystery, all the piniiing, the oblivious!Harry that is all over the place, and Draco’s sassy comments.)

Bonus:

• The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by lettered (54k)Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It’s all right here, folks.(Unspeakable partners!Drarry because I love this fic and this author. The pining in this, the amazing feels, the pure affection. And the action!)

#drarry #drarry fic rec #harry potter #draco malfoy #auror!harry #my recs #asks #also for everyone who has requested rec lists #THEY WILL HAPPEN #at some point #still working on it promise

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christinaepilzauthor-blog · 7 years

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Introducing that Amazing Man, William Pitt the Younger ~ Part II

by Jacqui Reiter

Please cast your minds back to 24 November 2013, when I introduced (or re-introduced) you to the Right Honourable William Pitt the Younger and began explaining to you why you should find him worth the trouble of studying. I have already discussed his youth, his intelligence and his humanity. Today I will bring my explanations to a close. He defied expectations Pitt was proverbial for his honesty. This was a time when most politicians were happy to cream off every last financial perk they could, and were indeed half expected to do so. Pitt infused the posts of First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer with a fresh sense of responsibility. One of the first things he did on taking office was to turn down the lucrative sinecure of Clerk of the Pells. He later turned down the Garter as well. He did accept the Lord Wardenship of the Cinque Ports in 1792, but only after the King told him he'd take a refusal as a personal insult.[1] This had a lot to do with Pitt's determination not to be anyone's plaything, even the King's. It's no accident that, when Pitt resigned in March 1801, he did so on an issue (extending the political freedoms of Catholics and other non-Anglicans) with which the King vehemently disagreed.

Pitt was no doctrinaire. He described himself early on as an 'independent Whig'[2] and showed a lifelong reluctance to commit himself to political absolutes (apart, of course, from the admiration for the Glorious Revolution and its religious and political settlement that was sine qua non for any ambitious 18th century politician). He was an admirer of Adam Smith and formed many of his financial policies on a laissez-faire basis, but when things went wrong he was not afraid to depart from Smith's ideas. In 1800, for example, the harvest failed and Britain was on the brink of famine. Pitt outraged many of his more rigid followers by recommending the importation of grain from abroad to relieve the scarcity. Politically he was creative enough. Many of his more famous ideas were lifted from others, but crucially Pitt made them work. You can blame him for the first Income Tax in 1798, which helped raise much-needed funds for the war with France despite being criticised as an unprecedented attack on personal property. The newest thing about it-- and I'm not sure this happened again until 1992-- was that the monarch was also taxed.

The forging of the United Kingdom and its new parliament after the union with Ireland in 1801 involved startling corruption but also significant administrative change. Less obvious was Pitt's review of the way government departments were run. These were made more accountable, stripped of excess staff and slim-lined in a way that laid the foundations for 19th century bureaucracy. And of course Pitt was capable of breaking the rules in a literal sense. During a debate in Parliament in 1798 he accused a member of the opposition, George Tierney, of obstructing the defence of the country. Tierney challenged Pitt to a duel, and Pitt accepted. Thankfully both parties emerged unscathed. but it's just another of those unexpected little details that makes Pitt so interesting.

He is a mystery For someone so famous there is much about Pitt that is simply not known, starting with his own opinions on major matters and working down from there. Like many politicians Pitt was cagey about taking a stand and was rarely categorical on the 'big issues' such as parliamentary reform, abolition of the slave trade, abolition of political restrictions based on religious beliefs, and so on. His political pronouncements were so woolly that, after his death, his heirs could trace arguments for and against all the above issues to him. 19th century Liberals and Conservatives both traced their ancestry to Pitt, and both were in some degree right to do so. Part of the problem is the lack of primary evidence. Some of this is due to Pitt himself. He was a notoriously bad correspondent. His friends despaired of him. 'I called [at Downing Street] in hopes of seeing you, for you are so bad a correspondent that nothing can be made of you by Letter,' one wrote in 1796.[3] Pitt's own mother complained she had to hear about him from mutual friends.[4] But there is more to it than Pitt's laziness. He certainly left a lot more behind him than now exists. One of his executors was his old friend and former Cambridge tutor George Pretyman-Tomline, Bishop of Lincoln, who later also wrote a (dreadful) biography of Pitt.

Pitt was barely cold in the grave before Tomline went through his papers and 'indulged in an orgy of devastation which ensured that nothing of the slightest personal significance ... remained to posterity'.[5] This is Reason Number 1, and there are more, why Tomline's portrait will always be at the centre of my dartboard. Tomline was not alone; several of Pitt's friends, for example Henry Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, destroyed material in their possession as well. Quite why is hard to say as the material obviously no longer exists, but it means that much of Pitt's private life and public opinions have to be guessed at from the little that remains. It's really, really annoying for historians, but a perfect boon for novelists. I am surprised so few novelists have taken up the challenge of filling in the blanks. (No, I'm not the first, and I hope I won't be the last either!) He is relevant A historical character can be interesting, but in my opinion they only become important historically when what they achieved resonates across the centuries. Pitt, I think, definitely qualifies. If you will pardon the cliché, Pitt lived in turbulent times. He entered Parliament at the end of the war with revolutionary America, when only a quarter of a million adult males had the vote and the movement for Parliamentary Reform was in full swing. He was later prime minister when reform returned to the fore of the agenda in the shadow of the French Revolution. Pitt initially supported reform. He introduced three private reform bills in the early 1780s, one as prime minister. All failed. By the time the French Revolution broke out he'd changed his mind and argued that wartime was not the opportunity for reform. He had never been anything but a cautious reformer and clamped down hard on radicalism. For this reason he is mostly remembered as an enemy of the reform movement.

His quashing of popular reform movements in the 1790s in particular earned him a fearsome reputation in some 20th century historiographical circles. Some historians still talk about 'Pitt's Terror', and a book was recently published drawing parallels between Pitt's anti-reform measures and post-9/11 American and British intrusions into personal privacy.[6] This does not make him any the less influential. The fact that his political acts in the 1790s still resonate today suggests the opposite. And in any case Pitt made a more lasting mark in other areas. He was the friend of William Wilberforce, and helped him galvanise the movement for abolishing the slave trade.

Abolition was not achieved until after Pitt's death, and for a variety of reasons he was not able to make it an official government measure. It was he, however, who first suggested Wilberforce take up the cause in Parliament, and it was Pitt himself who first moved it on Wilberforce's behalf. He continued to support it throughout his life. Others of Pitt's measures were of great practical importance. For better or for worse, the Act of Union with Ireland in 1801-- passed by Pitt's government-- changed the political complexion of the British Isles completely. We are still (... just about!) the United Kingdom today, so it's safe to say Pitt's policy-making had a lasting impact. I have no intention of going into the political complexities of the above-mentioned issues here. Reams have been written on the subject. What I want to say is that Pitt was a leading figure in a time of profound change and his actions mattered. He will always be interesting. Like him or not, I trust you will at least concede his importance.

And finally...So there you have it: six reasons why Pitt the Younger is worth your time of day. I hope that my enthusiasm has been catchy, and that any of you who began reading these entries with questions about who Pitt was, or why he is interesting, have now had those questions answered. I hope, too, that I have whetted your appetite for more. Should you choose to expand your knowledge I would advise you to consult any or all of the following: John Derry, William Pitt (B.T. Batsford, 1962) Michael Duffy, Pitt the Younger (Longmans, 2000) John Ehrman, The Younger Pitt, 3 vols (Constable, 1969-96) William Hague, William Pitt, the Younger (Harper Collins, 2004) Robin Reilly, Pitt the Younger (Cassell, 1978) J. H. Rose, William Pitt and National Revival and William Pitt and the Great War Lord Rosebery, Pitt (1891) Earl Stanhope, Life of William Pitt, 4 vols (J. Murray, 1861-2) Michael J. Turner, Pitt the Younger: A Life (Hambledon and London, 2003) References: [1] Stanhope II, Appendix xv-xvi [2] Ehrman I, 58 [3] Lord Mulgrave to Pitt, 14 May 1796, Cambridge University Library Pitt MSS f 1961 [4] Holland Rose, [5] Robin Reilly, Pitt the Younger [6] Kenneth R. Johnson, Unusual Suspects: Pitt's reign of alarm and the lost generation of the 1790s (OUP 2013) An EHFA Editor's Choice, originally published December 11, 2013. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jacqueline Reiter has a PhD in late 18th century political history from the University of Cambridge. A professional librarian, she lives in Cambridge with her husband and two children. She blogs at www.thelatelord.com and you can follow her on Facebook (www.facebook.com/latelordchatham) or Twitter (https://twitter.com/latelordchatham). Her first book, The Late Lord: the Life of John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham, was published by Pen & Sword Books in January 2017.

Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors

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