#morrigan asked him how he knew so much about the anchor

[inquisimer]

mer mer mer hi for Zevran and Ariya, perhaps:

But like earth heaped over the heart Is love grown perfect. Like a shell over the beat of life Is love perfect to the last. So let it be the same Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another; Let us know this for leavetaking, That I may not be heavy upon you, That you may blind me no more.

ro ro ro hap friday beloved💜 I looked at this prompt tonight and it suddenly clicked as exactly the right way to explore Alistair's unrequited love for my Tabris, so here we go :3

for @dadrunkwriting

Alistair thought Ostagar would be his Great Reckoning. He thought that nothing could lay him so low as the loss of a family so recently acquired, the knowledge of Duncan’s corpse half-devoured and forgotten on the battlefield, the isolation that sank into his bones outside of the witch hut in the Wilds. All of the Wardens had them and he would need one so that someday, gray and grizzled, he could swig ale and bark laughter at foolish recruits who were eager to bathe their blades in darkspawn blood.

He thought it would be Ostagar.

As they set off, he anchored himself to Ariya. The only two Wardens left facing the Blight. If he was a bit too clingy, she didn’t seem to mind—surely she was as adrift and uncertain as he and he thought perhaps she clung to him in comfort just the same. She was the dagger in the back of his enemy and he was her shield against their swords. They were a perfectly matched pair.

Until the assassin came.

She’d lost her mind, for sure. Helping the elf up from the ground as though he hadn’t just laid a trap to kill them. Was she crazy? Alistair asked her as much and she gave him such a derisive eye roll that he wished he could shrink into his armor like a turtle.

“Half the people in Denerim would have killed me for less than however much gold Loghain offered him,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

And suddenly things were different. Ariya no longer came to finish off his opponents in a fight; she stood back-to-back with this Zevran, her style mimicking his more and more each day. There was no more crouching about the fire with her to cobble together a stew over the coals—at night the pair of elves snuck off together and they took the same watches, leaving a rather disgruntled and increasingly jealous Alistair with Leliana (if he was lucky) or Morrigan (if he wasn’t).

Still, not all hope was lost. Even if the assassin was warming her bed there were things he could never share with her that a fellow Warden could. Alistair was more interested in her  heart, anyhow. He thumbed the faded rose and stared out into the darkness of the woods, thinking of how things had been before Zevran came and wishing things weren’t so desperate, so she would have agreed to leave him behind.

Weeks, months passed. Despite the pitying looks and thinly veiled derision from their companions, Alistair wasn’t oblivious. Ariya and the assassin grew closer, as time was wont to make them, but Alistair knew the truth. Her eyes were warm when he managed to steal a moment of her time and she fit perfectly in his embrace when the nightmares wracked them both. Perhaps she just didn’t realize the extent of his feelings, he thought one night, a great epiphany. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d told her. Likely she was with the assassin because he’d been open with his affection from the start.

In the end the rose stayed in his pocket until Eamon brought them to Denerim. He just couldn’t work up the nerve. But now there was tension between her and the assassin and he knew the inevitable decline of that misadventure must be nigh, so he seized the moment. When they trudged back in from a day’s worth of running errands about the city, he drew her into one of the empty guest rooms and shut the door.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. She was loosening her braid and Alistair’s breath caught. He so rarely saw her with her hair down and the fiery halo the flickering torchlight gave her felt like a sign that the moment was right.

He produced the rose and spun a metaphor of beauty and faith that he’d only half rehearsed in bed at night. When he’d finished, he looked up with a hopeful smile and held the faded flower out for her to take.

“Alistair…” her voice broke on his name, and not in the way he’d imagined a thousand times before. She bit her lip.

“I—you know I’m with Zevran, don’t you?” she gave an uncertain laugh. “I mean…we haven’t exactly been hiding. Literally everyone else has noticed, trust me.”

“Well, yes, but that can hardly be serious.” Alistair gestured aimlessly, confident in his assumption until he saw how her gray eyes went cold and flat at his words. “I mean—we’re the Wardens, Ariya, he can hardly follow—“

“We don’t even know how this is going to end,” she snapped. “Don’t presume to tell me what can and can’t be done.”

Lithe fingers twisted her hair back into a braid and ran an aggrieved hand over the plait. Just like that, the moment broke. Alistair’s hand dropped back to his side and the rose crumbled in his fist.

"You should go, Alistair," she said around a clenched jaw. "Just....go."

They didn't talk much after that. She left him to stew in Eamon's study, taking Leliana or Sten in his stead. One day they came back covered in blood as usual, but her smile was just a bit brighter, her shoulders lighter than they had been in weeks.

(He wished he could stop noticing such little things about her).

When she finished her report to Eamon and turned to go, Alistair caught sight of the little gold loop glinting in her ear and he slumped so low that the arl snapped at him to stand up straight.

He thought it would be Ostagar. Instead, it was the Landsmeet.

Whatever their personal drama, Alistair had no doubt of Ariya’s capability. Denerim was her home and she was in her element here, so it hardly surprised him to see her standing over that traitor as he knelt and gave himself over to her mercy. Alistair held his breath; justice, he thought. Duncan was about to have his justice.

Except—

“He’s right.” Ariya dropped her blades at Riordan’s objection and stepped away. “Put him to the Joining.”

“What?” In his white-hot rage, Alistair didn’t even realize it was him speaking. But all the Landsmeet turned to stare at him and for once the attention didn’t stagger him. He stared directly at Ariya and she stared back for the first time since that awkward, heart-wrenching moment at the estate.

“Alistair and Anora will marry and rule together,” the elf said. Her eyes never wavered from his, even as her voice carried around the chamber. “For his crimes, Loghain will be given to the Wardens, his fate left up to the Joining.”

For a moment, he was absolutely frozen. King? Marry Anora? Why hadn’t he heard of this plan before? Eamon had been talking about putting him on the throne all along, of course, but he’d thought that when it came down to it he’d had some say in it. Or Ariya would and she would ask him, at the least.

But they hadn’t been talking. And that was his stupid fault, but in the moment he couldn’t accept that. He felt nothing besides blinding anger.

“Absolutely not—“ Alistair stormed forward, close enough that only Ariya and the few closest to her could hear his hushed anger. “What are you doing? This man betrayed our entire Order and blamed us for the crime! He’s the reason Duncan is dead! And you would welcome him to our ranks?”

“We are not judges,” Riordan interjected. “Wardens have historically been thieves, beggars, murderers, criminals of all kinds. The Blight does not discriminate and so neither do we.”

“He’s right, Alistair—“

“No.” He cut her off, heartbroken and angry and desperately wishing he could truly blame either of those things on her. “If you do this, I walk. You all may force the crown upon me, but I’ll sever all ties with the Wardens and they’ll have no claim on me, if this is your decision.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “This is my decision, Alistair. If that’s yours well…you’ve made it, at least.”

And he had.

A week later at the coronation he stared out at the crowd. Even amongst all the nobles, she was infuriatingly easy to spot. Ashy white hair in her usual braid, griffon-stamped leathers freshly oiled and looking like they hadn’t been recently spattered in darkspawn blood.

And hanging off the assassin’s arm, of course.

He scowled at his boots.

“Chin up, Alistair,” said Anora without looking at him. He turned his scowl on her instead.

“It is good that you’ve been disillusioned,” she continued, unphased. “It was hardly going to work out between you two. Besides the political implications, just use your eyes for a moment and look at her. Really look.”

Alistair stared out across the crowd, watched how the assassin looped an arm around Ariya’s waist and pulled her flush against his side. She canted her head to let him whisper in her ear and a smile spread across her face, warm and adoring and just a hint scandalized. He couldn’t see it from here, but he could imagine how the tips of her ears were gone pink as she pressed a kiss to the corner of Zevran’s mouth.

“You see?” Anora said crisply, directly contrasting the warm smile and wave she was giving the crowd. “She is in love.”

Alistair frowned. Of course she was; that was the problem, wasn’t it?

She was in love.

And so was he.

#my writing #dadwc #alistair theirin #alistair & tabris #zevran x tabris #zevwarden #oc: ariya tabris #ariya x zevran #dao #dragon age fic #dragon age

[shift-shaping]

i’m having so much fun writing the absurd dynamic of eirwen, solas, and morrigan. it’s fantastic how much solas and morrigan annoy each other and eirwen just loves them both so much but absolutely wants to hurl both of them into a fucking river for bickering all the time.

#morrigan asked him how he knew so much about the anchor #and he was like 'stop talking to me like you deserve to know anything about me oh my god' #goth vs nerd #and poor eir and adaar are just :/ #the lioness and the wolf #i'm the only one who dares to write about the fascinating dynamic between a man #and his goth sister in law who hates him #the only one DARING enough #jk

[ragingbookdragon]

Christmas Punch & Kisses

A Haytham Kenway x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 2,320 Warnings: Explicit Language, Minor Mentions Of Violence

Author’s Note: DAY 3 OF CHRISTMAS FICS. HERE. WE. GO. ENJOY! -Thorne

With the yearly Christmas party in full swing, half of the Templars were drunk off their rockers and the other half were stuffing their faces with food—well on their way to becoming drunker than skunks. (Y/N) sat between Haytham and Shay, an amused expression on her face as she listened to Shay’s rather embellished tale of the sea battle between the Morrigan and the Storm Fortress.

           The Irishman curled an arm around her neck, ignoring how she grunted when his tug caused her to spill the rum. “—And the lass jumped up, grabbed the wheel and yelled for the crew to drop the port side anchor.” The group stared in at her like she had three heads, but it didn’t stop Shay. “We hit hard at port, the Morrigan spun and showed starboard and she just screamed, ‘Fire!’” He beamed with pride. “And we blew half the Storm Fortress to kingdom come.”

           (Y/N) shrugged off his arm and set her drink down on the table. “Well, someone had to take charge and sink the ship.” The Templars around her let out ‘ooo’s’ and she grinned. “You were too busy passing out.”

           Shay pressed a hand to his chest. “My own best friend wounding my pride like this. How could she?”

           She snorted and elbowed him in the side. “Hey, I saved our asses and sunk one of the fiercest ships on the seven seas.” (Y/N) curled an arm around his neck and gave him a noogie. “I think I’m allowed to wound some Captain’s pride.” The group laughed at the two, and Haytham, who’d been watching them with mild amusement set his wine glass down.

           “I wasn’t aware you could sail, (Y/N). How’d a young woman become skilled enough to take down a Man O’War?” he inquired, catching her eye.

           She nodded. “Shay’s dad used to dress me up as a boy in order to take me on the ship with them as a kid. I caught on quick.” Sharing a look with Shay, she remarked, “He’s also been lenient enough with the wheel to let me sail around the North Atlantic a few times.”

           “Lenient?” Shay scoffed. “You kicked me in the gonads and took the wheel from me.” (Y/N) tipped her head back and cackled.

           When she calmed, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I asked politely, and you declined. What was I supposed to do?”

           “Not kick me in the crotch! That’s what!”

           (Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Little bitch.”

           “Harlot!” he retorted and the two glowered at each other, much to the delight of the group.

           Haytham chuckled. “Given their bravery and skill, I think one of them should get the Christmas bonus this year.” That caught their attention and they stared at him.

           “The Christmas what?” she repeated.

           Shay nodded excitedly. “Aye, what’s that?”

           The Grandmaster regarded the two of them, dark brows furrowed as he asked, “Gist didn’t mention it to either of you?”

           With that they looked at the frontiersman who grinned sheepishly. “I believe it slipped my mind.”

           Their glower made him sink his neck into his shoulders and Haytham huffed. “Then I shall explain.” He said. “The Christmas bonus is a minor increase in pay that one special member gets at the end of the year for their work in the Order.”

           “How much is ‘minor’?” she questioned.

           “Fifteen hundred pounds.”

           Their jaws dropped and (Y/N) shoved her hand against the side of Shay’s face, blurting out, “I sunk the Storm Fortress!”

           He spluttered, yanking her hand down. “I took over New York!”

           She spun on him and glared. “I helped!”

           “Oh please! You didn’t do a damn thing!”

           “Excuse you! I was the one who conquered the headquarters in Waterfront and East Village while you were nursing a head cold!”

           The templars snorted and Shay flushed. “I was running a high fever! It was strategic to retreat and get better!”

           “How the hell did your ass even manage to make it this far in life to make strategic retreats?!”

           “Probably the way your ass managed to make it this far by brown-nosing!”

           (Y/N) recoiled, dramatically gasping. “How. Dare. You.” She pointed at him. “Take that back.”

           Shay glared and grabbed her rum. He chugged the entire thing and slammed the tankard down. “Over. My. Dead. Body.”

           “That can be arranged.” She hissed.

           But before she could even jump his way, they heard, “Enough.” It was humored, but it was firm, and they reacted like unruly children, sulking in their seats. Their gazes snapped to Haytham. “You two argue like siblings.”

           They shared a look, then smiles grew on their faces, and she said, “Hell, we’ve been conjoined at the hip since we were kids.”

           Shay nodded. “Couldn’t imagine life without you, lass.”

           The group awwed and Haytham said, “Since it’s clear the two of you are willing to go to war over the bonus,” he paused, taking in their grins. “How about one of you gets the bonus and the other can take a request.”

           (Y/N) cocked a brow. “A request? Like a request to move, or?”

           Haytham shrugged. “A request for anything you’d like. Whatever’s been on your mind or in your wildest dreams.” She opened her mouth and he added, “Within reason, of course. No asking for the Royal Throne.”

           The Irishman snorted. “Looks like your plans are gone, (Y/N).”

           She let out a ‘pfft’ and nodded. “Shay can have the bonus. I’ll take the request.”

           “But what if I have a req—”

           He started to complain, but she turned and grabbed the front of his shirt, bunching it in her fist. (Y/N) pulled them nose to nose and hissed, “Take the goddamn pay raise or I swear to God I’ll flay you alive.”

           His coffee eyes went wide, and he nodded rapidly, looking to Haytham. “(Y/N) can have the request. I’ll take the pay raise, sir.”

           Haytham snorted and turned his attention to her as she was releasing her friend. “So, (Y/N), what request are you so adamantly wanting?”

           She narrowed her gaze and queried, “I can ask for anything so long as it’s within reason?”

           He nodded. “Absolutely. If I can grant it, I will.”

           Suspicions entered her tone. “You’re not lying to me? You won’t back out if I ask for something peculiar? I won’t get punished if I ask for perhaps,” her eyes drifted to Charles. “to knee him in the groin?”

           Sighing heavily, he nodded. “On my honor, I won’t back out nor punish you.” Charles squealed in shock.

           (Y/N) slapped the table. “Done.” She stood and pointed at Haytham. “I want to punch you in the face.”

           The entire table went silent, evidently not expecting that, save for Shay who buried his face in his hands, laughing hysterically. “Dear god, (Y/N).” he guffawed.

           She ignored him and stared straight at the Grandmaster.

           He blinked at her, repeating, “You…want to punch…me?”

           She nodded. “You’re damn right I want to punch you. Right now. One good time. In the jaw. As hard as I possibly can.”

           With his face pinching in confusion, Haytham’s mouth opened and closed until all he could ask was, “Why?”

           (Y/N) crossed her arms over her chest. “Because I have suffered three years of the antagonism and arrogance and,” she took a deep breath, “nothing would make me happier than taking out all of my pent up, infernal, ungodly rage in the form of punching you.”

           She nodded at him. “So get up, because it’s happening right now.”

           “But—”

           Pointing at him, she said, “Nuh-uh. You said on your honor you won’t back out.” Cracking her knuckles, she quipped, “Grow a backbone and take my request like a man, Grandmaster.”

           He narrowed his eyes at her and (Y/N) could see fury swimming in them, but she simply grinned and stared back. Finally, Haytham let out a sigh and removed his tricorn, placing it on the table.

           “Let’s get this over with then.”

           An unnatural smile spread across her face and she shifted until they stood a couple feet apart.

           Haytham gazed at her. “I can’t believe this is the request you wanted.”

           (Y/N) shrugged, testing out the angle of her swing. “I’ve spent the last three years listening to your Holier-Than-Thou-I-Have-My-Head-Shoved-Up-My-Ass-Because-I-Believe-I’m-Superior-To-Everyone-Attitude.” She motioned to him. “Don’t get me wrong, you are superior in skill, but you’re annoying as hell about it and I have dreamed about this moment like Shay dreams about getting laid.”

           “HEY!” Shay shouted, but she disregarded him.

           “And now, my dream gets to come true and I’m not gonna get punished for it?” She flashed a pearly white smile. “What better request could I ask for?”

           Haytham didn’t respond, but the set of his jaw made her giggle. “Good on you for locking your jaw.” She clenched her fist. “‘Cause this is gonna hurt.”

           (Y/N) cocked her arm back and swung as hard as she could possibly manage and when she connected with Haytham’s jaw, she knew it was going to leave a mark. The blow sent Haytham staggering backwards and he dropped to a knee, reaching up to grab his face.

           His head tilted upwards and though she kept it hidden, mild surprise bled through her when she saw the split in his lip.

           She threw her hands in the air in victory. “YES! YES! YES!” (Y/N) pointed at Shay. “KISS MY ASS, YOU IRISH BASTARD!”

           Shay recoiled. “Why are you badgering me?!”

           (Y/N) grabbed his beer tankard and downed it before slamming it on the table. “Alright! I’m out of here!”

           “Where are you going?!” Shay yelled.

           She waved a hand. “I doubt I’m overly welcome right now so I’m going to find some cheap beer to drink and find some Christmas carolers to egg!” (Y/N) turned and made finger guns at them before exiting into the hallway.

***

           She lay on her back at the edge of the docks, eyes directed to the stars above. They twinkled like millions of little candles and it made her smile, thinking about the stories Shay’s dad used to tell the two of them when they were kids. Her fingers curled around the bottle of rum, but she forwent drinking from it anymore, simply letting herself enjoy the mild haze clouding her mind.

           The sound of boots against the dock caught her attention and she tipped her head back, catching sight of Haytham coming her way. She grinned. “Come to punish me in secret?”

           He scoffed and took a seat beside her. “That really hurt.”

           Even by the moonlight she could see the dark crimson bruise spreading across his lower jaw and chin. The worst of it was at the left corner of his lip where she’d split it. He’d successfully stopped the bleeding but if it didn’t scar, it’d certainly take a while to heal.

           “Good,” she said. “I meant for it to.”

           His steel eyes dropped down to her and she grunted as she heaved herself up and maneuvered until her head was resting on his thigh.

           “I don’t remember giving you permission to use me as a pillow, (Y/N).”

           She cocked an eyebrow, countering, “Well if having a woman on your lap is so perturbing to you, feel free to move me.”

           Haytham huffed, but conceded, choosing instead to rest his arm across her chest, his fingers twirling the ring on the necklace she wore.

           “This is a unique design,” he commented. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”

           (Y/N) tipped her chin down to look at it, her lips brushing the tips of his fingers. “It’s called a Witch’s Heart.” She stared at the rubies set in the gold, ten around a bigger one in the middle, positioned slightly pointing to the right. “Belonged to my great-great aunt.”

           “Was she a witch?” Haytham inquired.

           “That’s not what the ring symbolizes, but to answer anyway, she might’ve been, might’ve not been. I’ll never know though.” (Y/N) murmured.

           “Salem witch trials?” he guessed.

           “She was a widow who owned a great deal of land.” Her eyes hardened. “There wasn’t anyone to defend on her behalf and they hung her in a make-believe trial.”

           “Father or mother’s side?”

           “Father’s.”

           He was quiet a moment, then asked, “May I ask you a question, (Y/N)?”

           “Other than that one?” she quipped, but his narrowed gaze had her rolling her eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

           “Do you hate me?”

           Haytham’s question was quiet, as if he were unsure of himself and she met his eyes.

           “Why would you think—oh, that, right.” She directed her gaze sideways, looking to where the sea met the sky. “Nah, you just irritate the piss out of me sometimes. If I really hated you, I wouldn’t ever come into contact with you and let Shay do it for me.” (Y/N) hummed. “Why do you ask?”

           “Curiosity.”

           “Fuck off.”

           “Excuse me?”

           She winced, giggling as she said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” (Y/N) cleared her throat. “What I meant was, ‘you’re lying’.”

           “Not many have ever accused me of lying.”

           “I guess that means I’m the rarity.”

           Haytham smiled. “You are.”

           (Y/N) peered at his face. “So, what’s the real reason you’re asking? Are you afraid of being subject to my hate?”

           His eyes searched hers and he admitted, “I am.” Her eyes widened. “You are one of the few I wouldn’t want to be hated by.”

           She didn’t say anything for a few moments, then she murmured, “Can I ask for another request?”

           “You’re not punching me again.” He said firmly.

           “Not what I want, Haytham.”

           He sighed. “If you must.”

           (Y/N) reached up and gently prodded his lower lip, smiling when he hissed slightly. “I request a Christmas kiss…think you’re up for it?”

           Haytham’s free hand grabbed hers and he pressed a kiss to her fingertips before bending down. “I think I can work something out.”

#haytham kenway x reader #haytham kenway x reader imagine #haytham kenway x reader imagines #haytham kenway imagine #haytham kenway imagines #haytham kenway #ac rogue #ac rogue imagine #ac rogue imagines #assassins creed rogue #assassins creed rogue imagine #assassins creed rogue imagines #ac imagines #ac imagine #assassins creed imagine #assassins creed imagines #shay cormac #christopher gist

[wisteriawritings]

To Start Anew

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

Ship: F!Aeducan x Gorim

Warnings: None

Genre: Angst

WC: 1933

Blurb: After the ultimate betrayal, Terra Aeducan has been exiled to the deep roads. Through extraordinary circumstances, she fights her way to the surface and becomes Thedas’s last hope against the coming blight. However, during her journey she must deal with painful truths about her family, her life back in Orzammar, and what her future may be.

They had only just arrived in Denerim. Terra Aeducan, with Alistair, Morrigan, and an affectionate Mabari in tow, had come in search of Andraste’s ashes. The hunt for allies against the oncoming blight had hardly begun, yet they were all bone tired. It was the exhaustion that led her to believe that she was imagining things. That Gorim’s sweet, warm voice was only in her mind. Even so, the sound pulled her towards the center of town, like a chain wrapped around her middle was dragging her forwards.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, seeing the color had drained from her face.

“I just… I’m going to step away for a bit. I’ll meet you at the inn, yeah?”

Alistair nodded, though reluctantly. Alistair was tooth-rottingly sweet and Terra tried to summon the best smile she could to set him at ease and send him away. He was becoming a quick and dear friend to her, and she didn’t want him to see her in what seemed to be a lapse in sanity.

“Dwarven crafts!”

There it was again. Terra, her spine now stiff as stone, hurried away and through the bustling streets, following the voice. Dwarven crafts? It could be anyone though. Any number of low-born Orzammar men who left for the surface could be in town. It wasn’t uncommon, and neither was the accent. It probably wasn’t him, wouldn’t be him, couldn’t be him. She rounded the corner and in the square she saw him

Terra’s hands tremored. Words like “I missed you,” “I found you,” and “thank the fucking stone,” all caught in her throat. Her hands grasped at it desperately, trying to free them. Because there he was. Just a few yards away stood her best friend and the man she loved: Gorim.

She tried to call out his name, but only pitiful, strangled noises escaped her lips. But he saw her. His face – it was tanner now; it had finally seen the sun – lit up in shock, disbelief, joy. All the things she felt were reflected back to her. Her throat was still sealed shut, but her feet started moving. Suddenly she was running, running faster than she had ever run, straight into arms that opened wide at the sight of her. Solid, strong arms that knew the curve and the shape of her body so well. Arms that slid into their place so easily, it was like slipping on a pair of gloves. For the first time since she left Orzammar, her feet felt firmly planted on the ground. She was finally rooted to the earth the way she used to be, and the sky wasn’t threatening to swallow her whole anymore.

For a few blissful seconds, the Blight was far away, and Bhelen never betrayed her. With tearful eyes, Gorim studied her face with an intensity that felt like he was boring into her soul. He looked as if he were taking inventory of her features, ensuring that each one was accounted for and just as he remembered them. “I knew you would make it out. I never stopped believing,” he said softly. Suddenly his face changed, lighting up as if he were remembering something.

“I have something for you.” He bent down to a chest that lay under the table. After a few moments of rummaging, he produced a letter. “Before I left for the surface, King Endrin sent me with this. We both hoped against hope that I would find you up here.”

Terra’s heart, which was already pounding, somehow beat even harder at these words. “Father? How is he?” The thought of seeing her father again filled her with so much joy and longing she could hardly stand it. She felt like her heart was swelling so large it was pressing against her ribs.

“Oh, my lady…I’m so sorry,” Gorim said, in a voice so sad and soft it sent bolts of fear down Terra’s spine. But she knew what those words meant. The pressure in her chest deepened and sunk to reach down into her stomach too. She felt faint.

“If a man can die of a broken heart… King Endrin did.”

“But what happened to him?” She asked, trying to hold back the tears. Gorim hesitated, but Terra’s hard look of pain and determination gave him the permission he needed to part with the grisly details. “After Trian’s death-…no, murder, Endrin was stricken with too much grief and confusion to see that Bhelan had constructed it all. It didn’t take long for him to find his mind again, but by then it was already too late. You were already locked in the deep roads. That’s why it all happened so quickly. That bastard Bhelen knew he had to dispose of you before the shock of it all wore off.” Gorim looked at his feet and took a long, shaky breath before continuing. “It was like he just… wasted away. He couldn’t go on living, like he was a ghost.”

Terra squeezed his hand. She focused on that feeling; homed in on the way he callouses rubbed against the palm of her hand. It was the only tangible thing keeping her anchored to reality. Gorim looked at her for a reassurance that she wanted him to continue. She nodded grimly. She was sick to her stomach, but she had to know the whole story. It was her duty as a daughter and as an Aeducan.

“When he called me to him, just before I left… the room stank of decay. It was as if he had already been long dead. He was already a corpse, just waiting for his time to return to the stone. All he could talk about was you.” His other hand took hold of her shoulder, steadying her. She hadn’t even realized she was swaying. “Terra, he sent me with more than just a letter.”

Gorim fished in his pocket and took out a worn velvet purse. Among the coins glinted a chunk of golden metal. Terra blinked her tears away and saw that no, it wasn’t a nugget. It was the Aeducan signet ring. Trian’s ring.

He gently placed it in her hand and folded it into a fist.

“He loved you, Terra. That nug-fucker Bhelen, he’s not a real Aeducan. You’re the true last heir, and your father knew it. You deserve this, and no one else. He made that much clear.”

The ring felt heavy in her hand, like she held all of Orzammar in her palm. In a way, she supposed, she did. But she felt that she could bear it as long as Gorim held her other hand.

“I’m just so glad I found you. Thank the stone, thank the stone…” Terra drew herself closer to him, ready to step back into his embrace and find his lips. But a look she couldn’t quite decipher crossed his face, and he took a step back.

“My lady, there’s something else I should tell you. I’ve, well… I’ve found a life on the surface. A blacksmith’s daughter; we’re expecting our first. She’s… she’s lovely and…” Gorim trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

The world seemed to go still around her. Her heart, which had been thumping loudly in her ears just moments before, fell quiet. A few seconds passed, but they felt like centuries.

“I don’t understand…” Terra’s voice quivered, and she hated herself for it. “You said you’ve been waiting for me.”

Gorim’s face flushed red and he looked down at his feet. “I have been, of course. But… well…” Gorim stammered, his shoulders slumped. Terra thought that he looked almost like a scolded child caught stealing sweets before supper. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He had been in Denerim for how long? Two months now, maybe? And he still hasn’t come up with a good explanation as to how he tripped and fell into a smith’s girl, all while claiming to ‘know she had made it out’.

He mustered the courage to meet her gaze again and flushed an even deeper red. He had always been able to tell what she was thinking, as if her very mind was binded to his own. She could feel his shame radiating off of him like a sickness. He knew he had done wrong. He knew that as a knight, he had acted shamefully. And she knew it too. Some dark corner of her soul felt gratified in this, gleeful in his self-loathing. She felt the anger rising.

“So let me make sure I understand,” she began, her words already dripping in venom. “You know, or hoped, or believed or what have you, that I was alive on the surface. And you, as my second, sworn to serve and protect me until death, fucked me and whispered sweet nothings to me in Orzammar. But when you’re separated from me for two months – oh, less than that actually, since she’s already knocked up – you decided to live it up with the first surfacer you see?”

Gorim’s eyes filled with tears. “It wasn’t like that,” he said firmly, but she could hear the tremble in his voice.

“Then what was it like?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, but I didn’t jump in bed with a surfacer. I searched for you Gorim.”

“My lady… We never could have been together. You know that.”

All of a sudden she understood, and the tears she had been holding back came slipping across her face. It didn’t matter what happened, or what he believed. Gorim was an outcast, a surfacer. Je was stripped of his caste his family name. But Terra? To him, she was still Lady Aeducan, and she always would be. Even if they had stayed in Orzammar, if Bhelen had never betrayed them, he would still think himself beneath her. He might have loved her perhaps, but he would have walked away eventually. He could never see himself as more than her second.

She realized she had been squeezing the signet ring in her hand. She relaxed her fist and saw her house crest bored into her palm like a brand. Gorim watched her as she first tried it on her ring finger and then settled with slipping it on her thumb. Trian’s hands had been bigger than hers.

Gorim reached out to comfort her, but drew back, unsure of himself. “My lady, if I had known you were alive…”

Terra glanced back up at him scornfully. “Either you did, or you didn’t.”

He reared back as if he had been struck, but he knew he deserved it. She saw no trace of resentment in his eyes. She looked at him for a hard moment and her anger fizzled out, leaving her with nothing but a cold hollow in her stomach and the crushing weight of her loneliness. Gorim’s cheeks were wet from silent tears.

“I hope I’ll have time to meet her soon,” Terra said.

“I’d like that. My door is always open to you.”

“I love you, Gorim. I hope you’re happy,” she confessed. Her heart gave one last weak tug at what had been between them.

“The same for you.”

She immediately recognized that he had not confirmed his happiness, and Gorim saw it in her face. Before he could say anything else, she turned away to rejoin her group.

Terra glanced up at the sky, vast and unending above her. Her family crest rested upon her finger and its weight, though heavy, was a comfort to her. She had a blight to end, and she didn’t need Gorim to do it.  

#aeducan #gorim saelac #da:o #aeducan x gorim #dwarf noble #angst #orzammar #dragon age #dragon age origins #all the single ladies #F!Aeducan #female aeducan #lady aeducan

[ilovehallas]

Leave no witnesses

Relationships: Zevran/f!Mahariel, Tamlen&f!Mahariel

Summary:

As Andrastians give their loved ones to the fire, the Dalish give theirs to the earth.

Serket Mahariel knows that she's burying more than just Tamlen's body, but she never did learn how to experience grief in front of others. So she decides that she won't, and holds a funeral for two.

Tags: unprocessed grief, (not actually) unrequited love, hurt/comfort

[Events ended up aligning in the worst of ways in my game: after Zevran approached the warden to spend the night with her, he of course states that this is a matter of fun rather than feelings. Very soon after the confrontration with Tamlen happened - while I was on my way to Orzammar and the Deep Roads.]

Read on AO3

In the aftermath of the battle, it was as though all sound had disappeared in the void the fight had left. Silence droned on, deafening and maddening, not even the sheets of metal of her haphazardly thrown on armor scraping together would make a sound.

Reluctantly Serket tore her eyes away from the body before her.

“We should move camp a bit further” she stated, tone flat.

Nobody seemed to move for a moment, all of them just standing around her where they’d last slain an enemy, bodies still tense in combative postures. She couldn’t say for sure who was who, the light of the fire was in their backs so they were more like shadows than people.

“Even if we were to burn the darkspawn, their stench will linger” she continued. She didn’t like this, how her words seemed to echo in the dead air. Nobody was speaking. They were only looking at her.

“Move the camp” she reiterated. “I’ll take care of this.”

The first figures shifted, moving to follow her command hopefully. Some lingered uncomfortably, leaving with protests she didn’t bother to hear when she eventually stared them down. She must’ve said something too, but who cared what it was as long as it got the job done.

Good. She watched them, not turning her back on them just yet, not as long as she couldn’t be sure they’d stopped looking at her. Their eyes weren’t needed here, their questioning, prying eyes. Not a single one of them. Serket wouldn’t let them find answers because these weren’t questions any of them should be asking.

Something brushed up against her hand unexpectedly; her mabari Isun was circling her, reluctant to leave her side. First her sword dropped out of her hand, then her shield fell to the ground as she reached out to pat his broad head with trembling fingers. “You go too” she said, pushing gently but unyielding as the animal whined in vain at the rejection. With a sad little bark he eventually relented, trotting away to where her companions were busying themselves.

Once the sounds of the camp being torn down reached her, she set out to do her part, grabbing the nearest dead shriek. The horrid smell coming off of its deformed body stung in her nostrils and the repulsion stirring in her gut mixed with the exhaustion made it difficult to drag it away. This first one wasn’t too bad however, she dumped it into a natural shallow pit in the earth not far away. The second one was tougher, this one heavier and requiring her to get up close to securely grip it and hoist it up enough to carry. Her face was inches from its foul skin, lungs breathing in the blighted fumes. It was something visceral to hold on to, an anchor that kept her thoughts from wandering. By the last one, her limbs were shaking a bit under the strain, little shocks like lightning running through the muscles of her legs occasionally, her hair and her clothes sticking to her sweaty, itching skin, metal digging painfully into her flesh.

She surveyed her work, this little mount of meaningless dead meat. Time to face the facts. She staggered back to the field of the fight.

The sight of what remained of Tamlen was like a small earthquake, a rumble deep down at her core barely reaching the surface despite its violence. This wasn’t a case of a peaceful corpse that seemed as if he were only sleeping, the torment Tamlen had endured was readily apparent. His hands resembled claws now with how strangely contorted they were. He had no hair left; his skin was stretched tight over the bones as if most of his flesh had simply melted away, skin darkened in many places from spots of decay. Serket couldn’t even make out any last traces of his vallaslin. So this was where he’d been all this time. This was where she would follow if the Archdemon didn’t get her first.  

She’d have to dig a grave. Staying the night to sing for him wouldn’t be an option, neither would be planting a tree in blighted soil, she couldn’t offer any of the proper burial rites but she could dig a grave at least. At the very least.

Blinking against the stabbing headache, Serket looked around for any tool that could assist her because even like this she knew that she wouldn’t be able to do it with her hands. Frustration bubbled hot and angry in her when nothing caught her eye and it became apparent that she would need to go back to the others; she tried to run a hand over her feverish face but recoiled when she touched it to her skin and realized it was still covered in grime and blood.

She didn’t want to go where people were with their unfamiliar eyes, full of curiosity and pity and incomprehension. Everyone was a stranger to her, in a strange land, at once miles away from her and smothering.

With a silent sob, Serket picked up her shield again, raised it high above her head and thrust the pointed end into the earth. Again and again she hacked into the ground with it, coming to kneel in the dirt.

But of course there would be footsteps. Her eyesight now blurry from either sweat or unshed tears, she squinted at the approaching figures. This time she could see that it was two of them, one had to be Alistair, the other Zevran, trailing a bit behind. It was a cruel joke to play on her, she thought. Like a hot iron to her vulnerable flesh.

“Can we… help?” Alistair ventured, and she could see the way he helplessly turned his head as if looking to Zevran for counsel.

Serket shook her head. She wanted to tell them to go away, but as so often her tongue was tied suddenly, the words clear in her mind but somehow not coming over her lips. When the two men wouldn’t immediately leave, desperation took hold and she tried to communicate, trying to get her hands to sign words but they wouldn’t unfurl, wouldn’t release the shield she was clinging to.

“Are you sure?”

Of course she was. She wasn’t stupid. She willed her mouth to form words, anything to make them go away.

“I only need a shovel” she managed to get out, relieved that her tone didn’t seem to betray the effort it took to speak. Despite the pain she managed to get back on her feet. She wasn’t going to give them anything to see, this wasn’t the time or place for any of this.

“Wouldn’t it be—“ Zevran started, but she cut him off.

“I need a shovel, not you.”

The harshness of the words only registered in the way she had to spit them. She meant it. She really meant it.

“I guess I’ll… check if we have one” Alistair said, taking the first step backwards before he turned to face the camp instead. Zevran did so as well but not without another look at her, and as they walked away she saw that they were exchanging words she couldn’t hear. For a moment she was overcome with the urge to call them back, to beg them to help her, or to gouge out their eyes for seeing her like this.

Serket listlessly stared at the little hole she’d made in the soil. Everything about her felt so brittle. She’d hoped she would carry it with a little more dignity, but apparently not. She resumed her work even as the shield proved ineffective. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to let them intrude and endure their presence, because then at least they wouldn’t have known that it hurt. But it wouldn’t have been fair to Tamlen and her.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time she became aware of another presence approaching. Who was it this time? Serket hit the shield down harder. Wynne? Morrigan? To tell her that a spell could do what she was doing much easier or to berate her for her sentimentality? Sten, here to let her know that a buried ghoul does nothing but taint the earth? Leliana, with empty condolences for something she didn’t understand? Or one of them again. Alistair was alright with how easily he listened, but Zevran…

When she lifted her head however, it turned out that it was Isun, carrying a shovel in his mouth as he ran up to her. Expectantly the dog peered up at her, wagging his short little tail and nearly bumping the shovel’s handle against her from the excessive movement.

Wordlessly she took the tool from Isun and set it aside before she slung her arms around the mabari and buried her face in his bristly fur. Everything seemed to crash against her all at once and she was getting sucked down under fast; she pressed her eyes shut and waited for the onslaught to ease. Everything was too much all of a sudden, every little sensation burned. A wail she refused to release lodged itself in her throat, it pushed upwards but she stemmed against it with all she had, even as it choked her. She dimly noted the tears streaming down her cheeks as she waited for the end to come, one way or another. Her heart was pounding in her head. This was more than grief alone.

Isun held still for her as long as it took.

“I think it’s alright if you help” Serket said when the tide receded and leaned onto the shovel in order to stand. Isun barked a few times and pawed restlessly at the ground until she gave the sign that he could begin digging.

Serket had inevitably witnessed a few funerals in her lifetime. Life and death were intertwined, that was a law of nature that none of them would ever escape, so these occasions were commemorations of both aspects joined together. That’s why they were always a communal effort as well, to be reminded of the connections between them all, even those given to the earth. The ties that bound her and Tamlen together were knotted and wound tightly. That day they had been on the threshold together facing opposite directions; Duncan had pulled her towards life for another day then, and today she could give Tamlen that push he’d needed to go forward as well. In that way, things had ended as well as they could. Neatly and tidy.

Serket felt like throwing up. Nothing about this was good, no matter how she twisted it. She’d told Tamlen not to touch it. The clan didn’t know where he’d gone. They didn’t even know where she was now and where she’d come to rest one day. It was so unbearably unfair, all of it, that she had to bury her friend in this place so far away from home, in this pitiful grave with nothing.   She felt like throwing up, but maybe this was exhaustion.

At the end she was almost too weak to let Tamlen’s fragile body down into the hole, along with a branch she’d broken off a nearby tree. She had to arrange his limbs as much as she could so that it would fit. Once he was nestled into his resting place, Isun and her covered him back up with dirt, watching as Tamlen disappeared for the last time. What remained was only a little mound to mark the spot.

And just like that she was left the last witness of that day.

A bit deliriously, Serket scratched the mabari behind the ears, hoping that the gesture could convey her gratitude when it was all she could give right now. Soon she’d have to leave, go find the others again and find a way to pretend this hadn’t happened. There was one last rite before that that she could give to her friend.

“ O Falon'Din. Lethanavir – Friend to the Dead. Guide my feet, calm my soul. Lead me to my rest.”

The prayer was one to speak for a hahren, not somebody like her, but perhaps Falon’Din would excuse the emergency.

Serket averted her eyes upwards to the sky, the night still dark but bound to light up soon. It seemed like the right time to collapse and fall into a grave of her own. Where everything had been aching before, her body was numb now.

Isun, stubbornly loyal, wouldn’t let her. He lead the way for her as she stumbled along the path, yelping and barking at her each time she was threatening to lose her balance, pacing nervously around her each time she stopped.

“Serket?”

The sound of her name startled like she’d been caught out. Instinctively she attempted to correct her posture to appear more like herself again, glaring at the intruder without any teeth left to bite at him with.  

Zevran didn’t seem to even flinch, putting up his hands defensively. “I came here to meet you half way, not to spy on you. I didn’t see anything.”

Serket had no words for him. Why should she believe it. And why would it matter, if he was still looking at her now. Maybe he hadn’t seen the deed itself, but she still felt raw and exposed in a way she didn’t want to be in front of him. It was stupid enough the first time, by now it was nothing short of humiliating. The normal thing would be to keep walking. So she did that as well as she could, nearly tripping over her own feet when she brushed past him. With each step the weight of his gaze seemed to grow heavier; he caught her when her legs gave in.

This was so mundane. They’d supported each other like this before, when the fight didn’t go like they’d planned and they leaned on the other to walk in a simple act of camaraderie. He was too close now, too personal, but even she recognized that struggling would do nothing to help her. Don’t strip back another layer of skin now.

“Comfortable?” Zevran said in a misplaced jovial tone. Thank the creators. A million times better than feeling, than those looks.

“How long” she asked, the last words of the question coming out silent. She coughed, nearly throwing them both off balance.

“Not far” Zevran replied, “just a bit further down this path. Think we can manage that?”

A nod had to suffice as answer. It was difficult enough to move her legs when she couldn’t feel them. ‘Not far’ only told her that they’d be back sooner than she would be alright, even if time was more than relative in this moment. What was a journey to her could have been only a few minutes on foot. Tamlen was drifting years away from her now, maybe a whole life.

Serket looked around, hoping that something would catch her eye that could give her an excuse to stay behind just a little longer, so she wouldn’t be in this pitiful state when she’d have to face them. She needed to pull herself together.

“Set me down here” she commanded abruptly.

Zevran halted, but didn’t let her go just yet. “What for?”

Whether he was planning on releasing her or not, Serket tried to shake him off so she could be back on her own feet, transfixed by what she’d spotted partially concealed by tall grass. It wouldn’t get better than this river to make her inhabit the self she needed to be again. “A bath. I’m covered in filth.”

Without awaiting her companion’s response she staggered off the path the others had taken, clumsily trying to undo the bands of her breastplate but barely catching them between her fingers. There wasn’t even frustration anymore or despair, just helplessness.

Zevran kept to her side like a judgmental mosquito. She could see him eyeing her with a tilted head, anticipating the moment he might try to block her and guide her back to the flock. He snorted. “Well, maybe not such a bad idea.” They made it to the edge of the river, the water lapping at her boots. She still was clad in her armor, too uncoordinated to undo any of it.

“May I…?” Zevran started, stretching out his hands towards where she was fiddling with a clasp, hovering inches away. It felt cheap to agree, like giving in to a vice rather than accepting relief. Even though Zevran was thoughtful. There was nothing overbearingly personal about it as he helped her out of the bloodied metal and leather and the stained fabric she’d worn underneath. Only gentle assistance for a companion, as though for this brief period this was the most mundane thing in the world. Nothing more complicated than that.

Free of her armor and no thought spared to modesty she could observe the extend of the damage. Compression marks that would become bruises if not for Wynne’s interference with the process, putrid smears of darkspawn blood all over her hands and forearms, she could feel splatters of the taint dried up on her face.

Serket clicked her tongue, and Isun who had been rolling around in the grass approached her excitedly. She bent down and held out her arms to allow the mabari to lick off the blood as she half-remembered that the poison would otherwise wash into the water along with her.

At Zevran’s bemused expression she only replied “It’s okay. He’s already tainted.” Then she waded into the dark river, the coldness of the water knocking the breath out of her. As she gasped for air, her senses were sharpened to a needle-point, rammed right into her brain. Despite the shock she willed herself to get in just a little further, just a little deeper, before at long last she let her legs break away from under her. She landed in the water with a little splash in an awkward sitting position; the cold squeezed tight around her, agonizing in a way that made sense to her.  

“You can go” she called, drawing her maltreated legs to her chest.

“Shouldn’t I stay?” Zevran answered without hesitation. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“What for.”

“If I come back without you, the other grey warden might get suspicious of me, don’t you think? Yes, I think he’s been waiting for a moment like this.”

Serket shot him a wary look over her shoulder.

The grin on Zevran’s face fell a little, but stubbornly clung to a corner of his mouth. “‘Where is the warden, hm?’ You see, I left her alone in the river, nothing that could go wrong there.” He didn’t say anything for a while as the current tugged softly at Serket. “…I think it might be less awkward if we returned together. Less questions asked, for both of us.”

Somehow, Serket wanted to cry again. She only hummed. Because she loved him. She loved Zevran, pathetically. That’s why his gaze was hardest to bear and yet the only one she wanted. Even after he made it clear she was alone in this and she’d concealed the bleeding wound from him and steeled her heart. His gentleness, the way he didn’t recoil made it worse. The light of the waning stars gleamed on the water surface, little spots that danced distractingly before her eyes.

Zevran was permitted to stay, the damage was done anyway. Couldn’t even be trusted to bathe in the river by herself because of how she’d expended herself. The way they’d see her wouldn’t be the same anymore. And she was terrified of seeing her own face reflected, not wanting to know who she’d find there.  Was it cowardice? To not want to be seen as frail.

Ah… the discrepancy had only grown bigger. With halting movements she curled in on herself, leaning forward so that her face was submerged. Dull pangs of pain rang out in her chest the oxygen slowly went out, drowning out her thoughts. She wished she could compress this ache, could grab it with her two hands and press it to her chest so it could stay close and private with her. She wanted to bury the memory of Tamlen deep under her skin so darkspawn couldn’t get it. She wanted to wring the neck of any feeling that could make her this brittle again. So swallow it down.

“There was a hunter in my clan” she spoke when she pulled back, sluggishly blinking away the water running into her eyes, “who went to investigate some elven ruins he’d come across, without telling the keeper about it. In the end he contracted the taint and never returned to us.” She began scrubbing away at her skin, noting that she couldn’t get the soil out from under her nails even as everything else washed off. “So now he asked me to kill him.”

“Death was a mercy for him” Zevran’s voice sounded distant. “Though I suppose somebody you know asking you to kill them is not particularly pleasant.”

“I don’t feel guilty” she replied, trying to get up again, “since he was in essence already dead. What he was asking for was a burial, so I gave him one. …I overreacted, a little.”

By the shore, her companion had crouched down and was splashing a bit of water in his face. A long night for him too. “Oh, I’ve seen people do worse. No knives were pulled on me, for one, which has happened. But of course, that time I’d have been the one who did the killing” he said cheerfully with a shrug of his shoulder, moving aside a bit for her as she got back on land.

The bath hadn’t done her physical condition any favors, shivering rather than shaking now. Patiently Zevran helped her put her garments back on even if they undid some of the good of the bath. Her armor was left in the bushes. Somebody could come pick it up for her while she rested. And her sword and shield? None of them could go there. It was a burial site now. Zevran only laughed. Tomorrow was another day. Who was going to steal her things? The shriek Sten nearly cleaved in half? She knew what he was doing, clumsy in this matter as she herself was. Gratitude and shame swelled in her chest in equal measures.

Zevran shouldered her once more as they continued onwards. Nature around them was beginning to wake and even as the fog in her mind had grown heavier and her eyes unfocused, she could make out the camp up ahead. With every step, Serket took on more of her own weight while Isun already charged ahead.  

“Don’t treat me differently now. Please don’t treat me differently, not you” she mumbled, her hand still on his shoulder.

Zevran didn’t reply right away. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The call of an owl rung out through the quiet of the night.    

#dragon age #female warden #zevran ariani #zevran x mahariel #tamlen #female mahariel #dragon age fanfiction #just throwing this out there haha #i die

[stepboldlyjess]

7th October—Favourite Wundersmith Moment

ahhh, i’m so sorry it’s so late. i got caught up this afternoon after school playing games with my sister and friends. again, as this topic was “favourite wundersmith moment” i decided to write a story based around my favourite moment which is when israfel sings to everyone in the museum of stolen moments. i hope you enjoy it :)

The Heavenly Voice

She felt...happy. Content. Safe. She would never again be sad. The voice echoing in her ears was heavenly. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. The celestial being was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Everything was just beautiful. She never wanted to leave.

A wave crashed over her head but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the celestial being. She couldn’t stop listening.

Pain exploded in her lungs and her brain told her to hold her breath but she couldn’t. She wasn’t in control of her actions anymore. She started feeling light headed and her eye lids became heavy. She knew she would die. She would die listening to the heavenly voice.

The voice stopped, breaking her out of her reverie. She looked up and saw another wave over her head. She coughed out water and she gasped for breath but none would come. She was no longer feeling happy, she was sad. More than sad, she was depressed. Water crashed over her and she fell to the ground, screaming.

{~~~}

She woke up screaming and quickly sat up looking around her room. When she looked to her left, she saw a head of ginger hair and a wall of grey fur.

“Mog! Mog, are you alright? Breathe, it’s okay, it was just a dream.” The soothing voice of her patron filled her ears and calmed her down the tiniest bit.

But it wasn’t just a dream. That was the horrible reality of those poor people who died in the Museum of Stolen Moments. Although those people were awful, and were ready to auction off her friends, they didn’t deserve the cruel end they faced.

Morrigan laid back down on her bed and turned her back toward Jupiter and Fen. She hid her face in her pillow and started to cry.

She heard the faint padding of Fen’s paws on the hardwood floor and the click of the door as she exited. She felt Jupiter’s hand on her back, rubbing up and down.

“It’s okay. Just let it out. Breathe.”

But Morrigan couldn’t breathe. She was finding it extremely hard. She would gasp for a breath but it wouldn’t come. She felt like she was back in her dream, drowning.

She then felt Jupiter’s hand leave her back. Her anchor to the real word. This only made her panic more and she started to lose vision of the room; everything was turning black.

Jupiter reappeared right in front of her and grabbed her hands, rubbing the backs of them.

“Breathe with me. Please, Morrigan, breathe. Breathe in.”

Morrigan breathed in a shaky breath with him.

“And breathe out.”

Morrigan breathed out.

“Breathe in.”

They took a breathe in.

“Breathe out.”

They did this eight more times, even after Morrigan got her vision back. She sat up and looked into Jupiter’s blue eyes and saw the concern deep inside.

“I’m sorry.”

Jupiter blinked in surprise. “What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s so early in the morning. It’s—“ she glanced towards the clock “—1:57. You shouldn’t be up.”

Jupiter frowned. “Oh, Mog. Don’t worry about that. Fen told me she was walking around the Deucalion and came up to the fourth floor. She said she heard you screaming and she came and woke me up. I came as fast as possible—“

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have had to.”

“No, Morrigan. Of course I did. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have come.”

Morrigan looked down into her lap and thought about it. She knew the answer. She was neglected her whole life. She could deal with a simple nightmare. But she knew if she said that aloud, Jupiter would get mad. She shook her head.

Jupiter sighed. “Mog, you’re my responsibility. I have to look after you as if you were my own. Sometimes...” Jupiter chuckled and Morrigan looked back up at him. “Sometimes I forget you aren’t mine. I forget you’re just my scholar. I love you so much, Morrigan, I can’t just listen to your screaming and not do anything about it. It hurts.”

Morrigan looked back down to hide the tears stinging at her eyes.

“Mog? What were you dreaming about?”

Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut and saw flashes. Heard the voice. She opened them and looked at Jupiter, taking deep breaths. He squeezed her hands and helped her time her breathing with his. Morrigan was silent for a while before she spoke.

“I was back at the Museum of Stolen Moments, except I hadn’t escaped. I was stuck. I was stuck listening to Israfel. A wave crashed over me and I started drowning, but I couldn’t control my body. Israfel stopped singing and I could move. It was exactly what you said it would be. I was so sad. I started drowning again. The pain was unbearable. Another wave crashed over me, knocking me down and I fell to the floor. Then I woke up.”

Jupiter shook his head. “You’re twelve, Mog. You shouldn’t have needed to witness that. Knowing you can’t save someone, it’s horrible. You would have felt a lot of guilt that night.”

“I still do.”

“That’s okay. Believe me, you’ll feel that guilt for a long time.”

They sat in silence while Morrigan thought about her next question. Finally, she spoke in a shaky voice.

“Will it ever get better?”

“Absolutely. But do you know the first step to getting over this? You need to talk to someone—“

“But, Jupiter, you aren’t ever here to talk to!”

“But what about Jack?”

“He’s only ever here for the holidays!”

“The Deucalion staff?”

“They wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay...what about Hawthorne? He was there too, Mog, maybe he needs to talk about it aswell.”

Morrigan felt a pang of guilt stab at her chest. She had worked herself up about the visit from Squall and everything that she saw at the Museum that she had forgotten to check in on her best friend. An image of him crying in his bedroom flashed across her mind.

“You’re not a bad friend.”

Jupiter had said the exact opposite of what she was thinking. Morrigan cursed him and his Witness abilities.

“I just—there are things I only want to talk to you about. Just like how a normal girl only wants to talk to her parents about something, I only want to talk to you about certain things.”

Jupiter’s face dropped as he listened to her. He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear before resting his hand on her shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Mog. I don’t know what to do. People always asked why I was never a patron and this is exactly why. I’m gone too often. I never wanted you to feel like you had to bottle things up, or feel alone...” He trailed off and held his head in his hands.

“I shouldn’t be acting like this. I’ve been neglected all my life—“ there she said it. She knew he would get mad, but she didn’t care. She needed to prove to him she would be all right “—I can deal with everything myself. I don’t need someone there all the time.”

“Morrigan, this is my job. This is what I was signing up for the night I took you away from Jackalfax. I just don’t know what to do about me being gone. But I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to argue but saw the sincerity in his eyes. She knew he was being serious and really was going to figure something out.

“Thank you, Jupiter.”

Morrigan yawned widely, and leaned back against her pillows. Jupiter stood up, and walked to where her octopus chair was in the room. He picked it up and brought it over to her bedside before sitting down in it.

“Go to sleep, Mog. I’ll wait for you. I’ll be here. I promise.”

He grabbed her hand again and started stroking the back of it. He hummed a soft tune to her as she fell back into a deep sleep.

She had dreams of voices. But not the heavenly voice. The voice of her patron, and her friends, and Jack, and everyone else at the Deucalion. The voices of her family.

so yeah, that was that. i really hope you liked it. i had fun writing it. i suffer from anxiety and panic attacks so i enjoyed trying to put that into a story. i hope i did it alright. i also couldn’t resist putting in some jupidad, and i think it fit. i mean, who else would comfort morrigan at 1:57am when she is screaming and waking up from a nightmare? again, i’m so sorry it’s late. two more days to go of this week and then it’s the weekend!

#mogtober2020 #wundersmith #morrigan crow #jupiter north #fenestra #jupidad

[5lazarus]

White Nights, Ch. 1: The Balcony

A year or so after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a brief vacation from mapping weaknesses in the Veil to Val Royeaux, and brings a new lover with her. She steps out to her balcony to enjoy the melancholy night, glances over curiously when a man steps out to the balcony attached to the room next to her, and freezes. It looks like the Dread Wolf had the same idea.

read on AO3 here

read Ch. 2: The Docks here, and Ch. 3: The Broadsheet here.

Sweat drying on her skin, she fishes a crumbled nightgown out of her pack and makes herself presentable. Anders snoozes on the bed, blissed into sleep. He surrenders himself so easily to passion. Lavellan watches him sleep, envious. She has always thought too much.

She finds the leather pouch of tobacco cut with elfroot a former lover made her, prepares her pipe, and opens the shutters to the balcony to enjoy it properly. She lights it, smiling to herself. She has never really gotten a vacation, but under Divine Victoria’s new law, mages enjoy an untold-of freedom of movement. And while she has left the infrastructure behind her, she still has the money and prestige. Enjoy the world while it still lasts, he said. Lavellan snorts and smokes her pipe. She has embraced it utterly, the cool night clean on her skin. Below her the streets of Val Royeaux babble, and she can smell the ocean. They took a room a few streets from the Alienage: that too is new. The Inquisitor, retired or not, is different from other elves, even when she has that apostate lover in tow. If anything, the addition of Anders endears her to the gossips of Val Royeaux. She has always given them something to talk about. She traces out the Pleiades and smiles. An adoring lover, a sea coast, and one more day off? What more can she ask? The shutters of the balcony next to her rustle and she glances over to see a bearded man step out, face cast in shadow. Lavellan notes the ears: another one of the People made good. He’s clutching a bottle of wine. She admires his silhouette--Anders is well-built but not particularly shapely--as he sits on the edge of the balcony and pours himself a glass. He lights himself a candle and raises the glass to his lips. He glances at her curiously and freezes. Lavellan takes the pipe from her lips, iced under his gaze. The rosy post-coital warmth disappears as if she’s just leapt into the ocean. Solas’ lips move soundlessly as he tries and fails to articulate their mutual horror. She thinks dimly, at least I still make him speechless. She should have put her prosthetic back on. She says, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Hand trembling, he raises his glass to his lips. He does not spill a drop. “I am leaving in the morning. I will leave earlier.” He drinks and sets the glass with a clink back onto the balcony’s edge. Still he stares at her. She supposes she looks just-fucked, because she is--hair ruffled, skin reddened, and nightgown thrown on carelessly. Anders likes to sleep nude. Lavellan laughs. “Wonderful. Hilarious. Three years Leliana has tried to track you,” and succeeded, but she will not tell him that, “and I find you on the opposite balcony, undressed. I suppose you thought the hair would be enough of a disguise.” Solas smiles. “It has worked before.” It hasn’t, but again she will not tell him that. “Certainly.” She puffs on her pipe and exhales smoke, watching it drift towards the street opposite. She can see light spilling behind the shutters of the floor opposite. Someone else like to fuck with the lights on. Lavellan smiles thinly. She remembers finding him in a tavern with Varric and Hawke, not too long about the Exalted Council. They had managed to find three of his eluvians in Ostwick and Kirkwall, thanks to his arrogance, and reclaim one of them. The beard does not disguise his face--or his swagger. She closes her eyes: unless this is all an elaborate double-bluff. What would Keeper Deshanna say? The wolf chews off his own leg to escape the trap. He has his back to the door, but both of his arms--and he can turn people to stone now, Morrigan confirmed. That would not be the worst thing he has done to her, though, would it? He is staring at her remaining hand, at the sylvanwood ring she now wears--a gift from Merrill, who said she needed it more. Lavellan laughs bitterly. “A Keeper’s ring,” she says. “I suppose you would not know the story. A relic of the People, to remind its leaders of the Dread Wolf’s betrayal. Though it was a lesson I never learned, and was read too late besides.” Solas flinches. “I had hoped it was a wedding ring.” He glances towards her room. From his perspective, she supposes, the unmade bed and the man in it are just visible, if he cranes his neck a bit, which he is doing. She is tired of looking at her life from his perspective. “Fuck you,” Lavellan says. She lays the pipe down carefully and half-closes the shutters. If Anders wakes up, he’ll see her--but Solas will not see him. But Justice will not allow him to attack an unarmed man, as if the Dread Wolf is ever without his weapons. “My apologies,” he says. “That was inappropriate. I...I have hoped you have been happy.” She looks at him incredulously. “Which is why you stalk my dreams at night, exactly like the nightmare of Dalish legends. To hope that I’m happy.” She gestures grandly. “Which is why you appear here, at my balcony, on my one vacation--” “An unfortunate coincidence,” Solas cuts in coldly. “And I will go. You know it has never been my intention to cause you pain.” He turns away and picks up his glass. “You took my arm off,” Lavellan says. Solas stops. “I didn’t realize that was an accident.” He turns around and to her amusement he is smiling wryly. He rubs his forehead. “It was eating at your bone marrow. But the next time an ancient artifact of untold power starts a cancer in your body, I will let it fester. Thank you for letting me know.” Lavellan watches him coolly and imagines rubbing the hot ashes of her tobacco into his face. Maybe it will leave a mark like the Anchor did, before it melted the skin from her muscle and disabled her permanently. It had stunk. None of the salves Vivienne had concocted had soothed it. The Anchor’s heat would melt through the leather of every glove she hid it in too, towards the end. She had known for a long time she would need to amputate it. She just had not thought it would take her whole forearm. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she says. She knows she should let him leave, but she wants to know. “If you knew it would--fester. Why did you leave without warning me?” Fear lances through Solas’ eyes, flickering in the candlelight. “I am not a cruel man,” he says instead. “That is not an answer.” She smiles unpleasantly, sitting down at the balcony’s edge, and crosses her legs. His eyes trace up her body. He looks afraid. She knows how he likes to use her, to defend himself and to flagellate himself against the fundamental truths of his being. The Dalish have pegged him right. He is a cruel man. He is a monster. He lost his humanity millennia ago, sacrificed on the grave of Mythal. Morrigan told her what the Well whispers. If the evanuris deserved untold punishment for killing the All-Mother, what is his due? The perpetual bleeding wound of what he did to her. Her stump itches, and she scratches at it pointedly: it has long since scabbed over, but he does like to pick at his wounds. “You have your life,” Solas says testily. “You have your freedom, and all the riches of the Inquisition. You have the time left to you. What else can I give to you?” Anger twists in her so viscerally she coughs at the bile rising in her throat. She steadies herself. “I am not your fucking petitioner, Solas. You’re no god of mine. You never were.” She stares back defiantly. After the Council, once Morrigan clarified the vallaslin did not bind her to the will of Mythal, she had Deshanna draw her brand brighter. She likes it. Mythal had watched her People suffer, killed by those who would sacrifice them. Her vallaslin is a promise: vengeance, for the world. All her gods have long been dead, and she is the last one standing. The agents of Fen’Harel have found little support amongst the Dalish and the elves of the Free Marches, Ferelden, and Orlais. Solas says, “I’m sorry.” A breeze drifts cold from the sea, and Lavellan shivers. This nightgown is meant to be taken off, not kept on. She glances inside. Anders is still asleep. He won’t be upset when she explains this to him, he’s had his fair share of bad exes--and been the bad ex. She has few illusions about him. He eases something in her, for now. He’s more attached to her than she is to him. She likes it that way, to hold someone loosely for once. He will not be the one who leaves. He idolizes her a little bit, but he doesn’t idealize her like Solas did. Solas follows her gaze and purses his lips. He says, “I am keeping you from your rest.” Neither of them move. He wears an ugly expression, made worse by the glowstones inlaid at the edge of the building, the candle still flickering on the balcony. She has always enjoyed the harsh angularity of his face and the starkness of his emotions. He seethes with discontent. Sometimes he channels it productively, passionately, but she can never forget that this is the man who stared at the Nightmare boredly, but raged at the useless Kirkwall mages. There is a foot between their balconies, and she is acutely conscious of the space. He could vaunt over it easily. So could she. Ugily he stares at her, burning her visage into him. She wonders: does he like what he sees? Does that matter? Of course it does. Uncomfortable, she taps her pipe against the balcony. She shakes her head, and smiling, says, “You still haven’t answered my question.” “What is there left to say?” Solas clenches his hands. “You have taken my measure. Why do you need me to stay what you already know?” “Because I don’t,” Lavellan says. “Because I want you to admit it. You left me to die in pain--” Solas steps closer, distressed, but she throws her arm up. “Don’t interrupt! You told me you loved me. You fucked me. You,” she starts laughing, thinking about Crestwood, “you brought me to a swamp to show me ‘how much I meant to you.’” She is grinning now, staring at him. Solas looks wretched: as if that means something. “You tried to reenact your savior fantasy with me--’ar lasa mala revas,’ my ass. And when I objected, you left me. While claiming I meant the world to you. And then you let my arm rot off.” “There were--considerations.” “Corypheus,” Lavellan says bitterly. “The Blight that is coming. The decay that is spreading in the Emprise, despite how deep we dig. The wakened Titan. And, at the root of this all, Mythal.” Solas freezes. His eyes widen in surprise and he beams at her--but as quickly as the smile flashes across his face, it is gone. He arranges himself neutrally again, pointedly tucking his arms behind his back. That little familiar gesture still amuses her, as much as it makes her sad. She had thought he did that to keep from touching her. Even the gulf between them is not enough. He still wants to reach for her--he won’t, of course, but it pings her vanity to know he wants to. He utters, “Well done.” Lavellan says, “You’re a patronizing prick, do you know that?” “You certainly aren’t the first who’ve told me that,” Solas replies, amused. Despite himself, he has crept to the very edge of the balcony. She reaches for him and he takes her hand, helping her to her feet. He puts his hand on her waist to steady her. The embrace is clumsy; there is a foot between them and three storeys below them. She does not let go of his hand, he does not let of her waist, and when she looks up Solas bites his lip. “Fenhedis,” he says, and kisses her. She grips his arm to keep from falling. Kissing him is so easy. She does not need to think, but sighs raggedly into the embrace. They break the kiss but do not pull away. He rests his forehead against hers, awkwardly bracing his knee against the opposite balcony. He looks like he is about to leap over to join her, or fall between them. She smiles ironically. A year ago she would have muttered, “Dread Wolf take me,” at a kiss as devastating as this: but so he has, again. Lavellan nuzzles at his face and murmurs, “I cannot go into your room.” She draws an arbitrary boundary, when she has already crossed the threshold. Anders still lays sleeping in the bed behind her. She thinks to herself, I can gather information. He wants to stay with me. He wants me to stay. He has always said it is easy to tell me too much, whatever that means. I can bind him to that. This is not an excuse. She looks up at him. Solas rests his hand on her shoulder, eyes tender. “Meet me outside.” “I owe you that,” Solas says vaguely, and Lavellan raises an eyebrow. That, too, is an excuse, more patronizing than hers. She can use that. She thinks she can use that. She has her anger to whip the lines she will not cross into her feet. They carefully pull away from each other. One false move, and the other falls between the balconies. Lavellan finds her pipe, still smoldering slightly, and Solas collects his wine and candle. Before she closes the shutters, she turns and sees him watching her. He says, “I love you. Though we both know you deserve better. I love you.” “Stop it,” Lavellan says, and he laughs. She closes the shutters, smiling as tears dot at her eyes. She places the pipe on her dresser and goes to her lover. Lavellan leans over Anders and whispers, “Wake up--don’t say anything.” Anders frowns in his sleep, and she shakes his shoulder gently. “Quietly.” He turns, alarmed, so Lavellan puts her hand over his mouth. She whispers, “The Dread Wolf rented the room next to us.” Anders rubs his eyes and sits up, careful not to let the bed creak. “What the fuck?” She shushes him. “I’m serious,” she whispers. “And we’re going on a walk. Use the crystal to call Leliana if I’m not back by dawn.” Anders says, “You’re serious.” Sleep falling from his eyes, he focuses on her face and reaches for her. Healer’s hands: she takes his hand and presses a kiss into the palm. He traces the outline of her lips with his thumb. Guilt grasps her, and she moves away from his touch. His face falls. “You’re going on a night walk with the Dread Wolf. Your ex. The Dread Wolf--who not only put the Veil up in the first place, but wants to tear it down and kill us all.” She tenses. “Keep your voice down. He doesn’t think I’d wake you. Have that much faith in me.” Quietly she slides off of him and pulls off her dress. She shoots him a look over her shoulder, hoping to distract him, but he is clearly displeased. Quickly she pulls on underclothes, a tunic, leggings--but she can feel him fretting silently. “I won’t stop you,” Anders says finally. “But you do realize what this looks like to me.” He is completely still, playing along for her. Lavellan straps on her prosthetic and fits a jar of bees into the compartment. She brandishes it at him, and Anders smiles slightly. She walks over to him and kisses him gently. “I’ll be back before dawn,” she says firmly. “And if I’m not--he’d kill me, not kidnap me.” She taps her sylvanwood ring with her prosthetic clumsily. “He does not think I would wake you. While we’re gone, check the guest registry. I want to know what name he used. And then call Leliana.” Pointedly she hands him the sending crystal. Anders sighs. “I’ll be back,” she repeats. And I’ll keep him walking and talking so I won’t fuck him, too, she adds silently. “And we’ll regroup in the morning.”

#solavellan #solavellan hell #solavellan fanfic #solas #lavellan #dragon age fanfic #dragon age #dai #post-trespasser #fanfic #white nights #anders #alas poor anders #5lazarus #hes5thlazarus

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke smut: Mouth Full

Chapter 40 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

In which there is some arguing after the events at the Temple of Mythal, and some smut. And, as always, some tenderness. ❤️ Read on AO3 instead.

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

By the time Fenris was halfway to the Great Hall, he regretted walking away from Hawke. Before he had the chance to turn around and go back, however, Leliana hurried down the steps to meet him in the courtyard.

“Fenris,” she said with a perfunctory nod of greeting. “Flissa mentioned that she spotted you and Hawke in the gardens. How–? What happened in the Arbour Wilds? Is anyone else with you?”

Her tone and expression were calm as always, but her face was paler than usual, and Fenris resigned himself to reporting to Leliana like he’d planned. An hour later, when he’d finished telling Leliana what had happened in the Arbour Wilds and quickly changed out of his armour, he made his way toward Great Hall’s exit, thinking perhaps that Hawke had gone to the tavern to unwind with the others. 

As he neared the rotunda, however, he heard Solas’s raised voice. “Do you not realize what you had nearly done? You would have given yourself into the service of an ancient elvhen god!” 

Hawke’s reply was quiet and indistinct, but as Fenris drew closer, he could hear her words. “... don’t want to be a magical slave, obviously. But if it was down to me or Fenris, I’d rather it be me.” 

His gut twisted painfully at her words. He peered into the rotunda. Hawke was sitting on Solas’s desk, and Solas was pacing angrily in front of her.

“It should not have come down to that,” Solas snapped. “I warned you not to drink from it.” 

Fenris stepped into the rotunda. “You didn’t, in fact,” he said. “You said that someone ought to drink it, and you refused.”

Hawke whipped around at the sound of his voice. A huge relieved smile lit her face, and Fenris instantly felt guilty for leaving her side. 

He joined her at the desk as she turned back to Solas. “Fenris is right,” she said. “And you definitely didn’t want Morrigan to drink, so what were we supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to use a modicum of sense, not go diving headfirst into a binding contract with a powerful ancient god!” Solas exclaimed.

This, of course, was the problem Fenris had as well. He leaned toward Hawke and lowered his voice. “I need to speak with you alone,” he muttered.

She wilted slightly, then waved a hand at Solas. “Get in line. Apparently everyone wants to give me a piece of their mind today.” She looked at Solas once more. “Tell me something, Solas. Why are you so mad about this? One minute you’re telling me the elven gods weren’t real, and the next minute you’re saying we have to be cautious about pissing them off. Which is it?” She tilted her head coyly. “My brain is too small to reconcile it, you see. I need you to break it down for me like the fool that I am.” 

“I don’t believe they were gods, but I believe that they existed,” Solas said angrily. “Something existed to start the legends. If not gods, then mages or spirits, or something we have never seen. And you nearly gave up a part of yourself to one of them!” 

Hawke tilted her head. “Aw, Solas. Are you mad because you care?”

Solas glared at her, then took a deep and measured breath. “That is a part of it, yes. You have been a friend, and I would not see a friend shackled in such a manner, whether that friend is spirit or human.”

Hawke’s playful expression sobered. ”All right, that’s fair,” she said softly. “But… Solas, some things are more important than being unshackled.”

“There is nothing that matters more than freedom,” he said forcefully.

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “Well, I’m afraid I disagree,” she said, and she leaned against Fenris’s side.  

Fenris swallowed hard. There was once a time when he would have agreed with Solas, when he would have agreed that there was nothing of greater value than being free. But now, looking down at Hawke’s beautiful and stubborn face… 

Solas sighed. He suddenly looked exhausted. “Hawke, you are… very young.” He rubbed his face tiredly.

Hawke smirked. “Oh come on, you’re what, maybe ten years older than me? Either that, or that elfroot sunblock potion you use is ridiculously effective.” She gave him a charming smile.

Fenris, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes at Solas. This wasn’t the first time Solas had made comments like this: comments implying that he was older than he seemed. As Fenris studied the sadness in Solas’s face, the suspicions he’d had in the Arbour Wilds returned to the forefront of his mind.

Solas gazed sadly at Hawke for another moment, then straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “In any case, it is fortunate that Fenris prevented you from tying yourself to a… difficult fate. I would ask that you not take such a risk again.”

Fenris frowned. He felt inexplicably annoyed at Solas asking this of her, even though it’s exactly what he planned to ask her himself. 

Hawke shrugged affably. “Well, let’s hope there won’t be any more magical ancient wells to deal with. Otherwise I might have to practice my swan dive.”

Solas frowned, and Fenris tensed. “Hawke–”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” she protested. She stroked Fenris’s arm soothingly. “Maker’s balls, so tense, the both of you.”

Fenris pursed his lips, then placed a hand at the center of her back. “Come. Let’s take our leave,” he murmured. She’d spent enough time hearing out Solas’s concerns; it was Fenris’s turn now.

She hopped off of the desk, then scurried over to Solas and gave him a hug. “Don’t worry so much. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.” She winked at him, then returned to Fenris and took his outstretched hand. 

Fenris glanced at Solas as he led Hawke out of the rotunda, but Solas’s sad-eyed gaze was on one of his remaining blank walls. 

Fenris turned away and put his suspicions aside for now. He would address them later, but his need to speak with Hawke was far more pressing. 

He was quiet as they walked toward their quarters. Hawke, on the other hand, talked the whole time. “Since we’re back at Skyhold so early, we should take advantage of the castle being this empty. I personally think you should choreograph some dance routines.” She shot him a sly look.

Fenris gave her a feeble smile. “I will never understand your attachment to that particular joke.”

“It was one of your first jokes! Of course I’m attached to it,” she exclaimed. She looked around the Great Hall appreciatively as they approached the door to their quarters. “Honestly, it’s a bit of a shame that we don’t host more huge parties. I know you hate them,” she said soothingly, “but the Great Hall would be fantastic for dancing.” She perked up suddenly and snapped her fingers. “We should just have everyone in the tavern bring the revelry in here sometime! There’s far more space here. More tables to dance on, more chandeliers to swing from…”

Fenris unlocked the door to their quarters, and she continued to talk as they made their way up the stairs. “You know, you’re right about Dorian enjoying that terrible dwarven ale. He likes to act so classy about his Vint wine and all that, but his taste in drinks is endearingly common.”

Fenris opened the door to their bedroom and stepped aside to let her pass, then followed her up the final flight of stairs while she chattered on. “Even Sera refuses to drink that one particular brand of dwarven ale, and she’s as common as they come. In the best way, of course,” she added. “But even she has standards.” She chuckled, then met his eye.

When he didn’t speak, Hawke dropped her gaze to her feet. “So, er… do you want to jump right into yelling at me, or do you want a little warm-up line first…?”

Fenris stepped close to her and tipped her chin up. “You frightened me,” he told her. 

Her anxious expression slackened slightly with surprise. Fenris knew she’d been expecting him to shout at her, but Solas’s anger had somehow lessened Fenris’s own, leaving him with something far worse instead.

Fear. The thought of Hawke being enslaved by some ineffable figure of power… it inspired nothing short of a chilling, heart-stopping fear.

She gazed desperately up at him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just… Fenris, I did what I had to do. Or, well, I was ready to. I just– no, let me finish,” she begged as he opened his mouth to protest. “Magic has made you miserable. The lyrium tattoos, the anchor, finding out that you’re… that you were a mage: all of it, it’s made you miserable, and I… I couldn’t stand the thought of more magic making you even more miserable.” She stepped closer to him and curled her fingers against his abdomen. “I just want you to be happy.”

“And you thought that your becoming a slave would make me happy?” he said sardonically.

She wilted. “No. You know that’s not what I mean. I just meant–”

He cradled her cheek. “Seeing you suffer the way that I have: that would make me miserable. The very thought of it chills my soul. I don’t understand why you think I would agree to that.”

She swallowed hard. “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I didn’t want you to see me doing it.”

He stared at her for a moment, then took a small step back. “That disturbs me, Hawke. You… you purposely made that choice without me. You didn’t even try to talk to me first–”

“Because I knew this was how you would react!” she protested.

“That is not an excuse!” he snapped. “We’re partners! I told you before: we walk this life together or not at all. Or am I wrong in that?” His anger was returning in force, an ugly mask for the fear that continued to curdle in his belly, and as much as he wanted to talk calmly about this, the thought of what she’d almost done – what she would have done if he hadn’t stopped her– 

“Of course we’re partners,” she said loudly. “But I–”

He cut her off. “You should have spoken to me first. And if you knew I would hate your decision this much, you should not have done it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you’re saying that if I told you I hated something you were going to do, even if it was important to you, you wouldn’t do it because we’re partners?”

“Yes,” he bit off. “That is correct.”

Her expression grew even more disbelieving. “Like what?”

“Like not placing Morrigan under the supervision of Templars,” he said. He waved a dismissive hand. “The witch is your problem now. I place the joy of that duty in your hands.”

Her face went slack with surprise, and Fenris suddenly realized why this whole concept was so strange to her: Hawke had always done things that Fenris didn’t like. Especially in the first year that they’d known each other, she had constantly made decisions he disagreed with. Her contrary actions were never intended to anger him, and she’d always apologized and charmed and cajoled him out of his rage, but still she’d done as she saw fit. 

And this, he realized, was why she was so incredulous now: Fenris had never really demanded that she modify her course of action. He’d expressed his displeasure, and he’d been vociferous in his disapproval at times, but he’d never truly insisted that she not do something he disliked. 

No, that wasn’t true. There was one time when he’d demanded that she not do something he disliked: he’d asked her to not to come along while he went to the Conclave. Nearly a year later, they were still living with the consequences of that moment, and he was still living with this cursed green mark on his hand. And Fenris knew that in the depths of her heart, Hawke was still carrying the blame for letting him go to the Conclave alone.

He met her wide-eyed gaze. He knew this was what she was thinking. But things were different now. They were in the midst of a war, and Fenris was the one in charge of all of these people, all of these damned lives, and… and he couldn’t focus on any of that if he couldn’t trust Hawke to keep herself safe. 

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “You should have spoken to me,” he said. “I would have forbidden this – this foolish act. And I wouldn’t be left with these horrific thoughts of my wife falling into the clutches of some unfathomable ancient creature.”

She shook her head. “This is so… Look, I was just trying to keep you safe! I promised I would keep you–”

“Promise me this,” he interrupted. “Promise you won’t make such a sacrifice again.”

She gazed at him in exasperation. “Fenris…”

“Promise me, Hawke,” he insisted. “Promise you won’t–”

“I can’t do that!” she burst out. “Fenris, I’m not sorry I went into the Well. I would do it again if I had to. And stop acting like you wouldn’t do the same thing in my place,” she accused. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself to save me, because you know you would. You’ve fucking tried to and I hate it too, and–” 

A sudden sob burst from her chest, and Fenris’s anger began to crumble at the sound of her distress. But Hawke wasn’t finished speaking yet. 

“I’m not losing you, all right?” she said fiercely. “I don’t care what it takes, I’m not–” She sobbed again and impatiently scrubbed the tears from her face. “No more bad things are going to happen to you. I won’t fucking let them…” 

He pulled her into his arms, and for a long, terrible moment, they simply stood in the middle of their bedroom clinging to each other as Hawke’s tears soaked into his tunic. 

He slowly stroked the back of her neck. “You will not lose me, Hawke,” he murmured. “I will always be by your side.”

She hiccuped. “You c-can’t promise that.”

“I already have,” he said softly. “Don’t you recall?” He pulled away from her slightly, and when she lifted her face to look at him, he cupped her salt-stained cheek. “I told you before. Everything I value is rooted right here between us. You will not lose me. I swear it.”

“Then why did you walk away from me?” she cried.

He swallowed a hot rush of guilt. “I know,” he said. “I’m–”

“I hate when you walk away,” she sobbed. “I didn’t think you would ever d-do that again…” 

Her hurt was bringing tears to the backs of Fenris’s eyes, but he forced them not to fall. “I wish I hadn’t. Rynne, I’m sorry,” he whispered. He carefully smoothed the tears away from her cheeks. “I am sorry. I should not have left you the way I did. It won’t happen again.” 

She sobbed again, then took a tremulous breath and nodded. Fenris tucked her head close against his neck until her tears eased and the rise and fall of her chest was smooth and even.

She released a long, heavy sigh and slid her hands up inside the back of his shirt, and Fenris savoured the warmth of her hands on his skin as she embraced him. A long, silent moment later, he leaned away slightly to look at her.

Her eyes were red with tears, and her expression was serious and sad. When he gazed at her without speaking, a tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips. 

“I’m all hideous from snivelling, I know,” she said. “Don’t look at me. Even Samson’s had better days.” She laughed.

Fenris didn’t laugh. He stroked her cheek instead. “I need you to promise you will not do anything so drastic again without speaking to me first,” he said quietly.

She dropped her gaze, but Fenris didn’t give up. He tipped her chin up until she looked him in the eye again. 

“Swear this to me,” he murmured. “We discuss these risks first. Anything so… life-changing. Anything so dire that it affects us both to this terrible degree: we discuss it first. We walk these paths together or not at all.”

At long last, she sighed and nodded. “All right. Fine. I swear,” she whispered.

Finally, for the first time all day, Fenris relaxed. “Good,” he said. “I could not bear this life alone, Hawke. It is ash unless we move through it together.”

She offered him a tremulous smile. “You smooth talker.”

He smiled faintly at her, then kissed her forehead. As he was pulling away, she tipped her chin up and brushed her lips lightly to his. 

Fenris easily returned her kiss, savouring the plumpness of her lips as she pressed them to his. When she deepened the kiss, nipping gently at his lower lip and pulling him closer with her firm hands on the bare skin of his back, he sank into the depth of her touch for a moment before leaning back to look at her. 

“Are you certain you’re in the mood?” he murmured. Her face still bore the signs of her distress, and although the press of her hips to his was suggestive, the slow stroke of her palms on his back was more tender than heated.

She nodded. “I want to be close to you.” She took a step away from him and started unbuckling his belt.

Fenris watched fondly as she pulled his belt off. She pushed up the edge of his tunic, and Fenris obligingly helped her to tug it over his head. She walked him back toward the bed, sliding her hands along his bare abdomen as she did, and when he was lying back on the pillows, she peeled his leggings down, leaving him bare. 

While Hawke was stripping him, Fenris watched her face. Her expression was content but serious, and it was quite a departure from the heated smirk that usually lifted her lips when she was pulling off his clothes. Even her removal of his clothing was more… purposeful than normal. Usually her stripping was either sloppy and rushed or very sinuous and slow, but the way she was taking off his clothes now, in this purposeful and careful way: it was unusual for Hawke. Particularly intentional, somehow, even beyond her obvious amorous aims.  

She unbuttoned her shirt and threw it aside, then started unlacing her bustier. But just as the bustier was about to come off, she met his eye and paused. 

She raised one eyebrow. “You look strange. Am I doing something wrong?” Her eyes widened. “Are you not in the mood?” Her gaze darted to his cock, which was standing at half-mast.

“No, I’m – it’s not that,” he assured her. “I’m just…” He paused and studied her for a moment before speaking again. “There is something on your mind. I can see it.”

She blinked at him, then let out a little laugh and continued untying her bustier. “I suppose. I just…” She fell silent as she dropped her bustier carelessly on the floor, then slid off of the bed and pushed her breeches and smallclothes off.

She turned to face him. “I have a mouth full of shit,” she said.

He tore his eyes from her bare body back to her face. “What?” he said flatly.

A brief grin lifted her lips. “I just mean… well, you have all your nice smooth words, and I don’t have any of that. I can talk shit, and I can bullshit, but I don’t have anything… you know, nice.” She shrugged. “I might have helped you learn to read, but you’re the one who has all the words,” she said seriously. “The things you say to me sometimes, Fenris, I just…” She pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes, and Fenris waited patiently until she met his gaze once more. 

His belly did a giddy little flip: her tearstained face was a lovely picture of pure affection. “You’ve always been the wordsmith,” she said. “I don’t have sonnets for you, but I have this.” She struck an alluring pose, then let out a little laugh and ran her hand slowly along the length of her nude torso. “I can give you this.”

His heart thumped painfully. Hawke was being playful and coy, but Fenris knew her well, and he knew she wouldn’t joke about this if it wasn’t how she really felt, at least to some degree. 

It was ludicrous, though. Fenris didn’t need Hawke to give him her body. He didn’t need to lie with her to know how much she loved him. Her ill-advised actions in the Arbour Wilds were the most terrible and obvious demonstration of her love.

But he also knew his wife, and he knew what the meeting of their bodies really meant to her. As salacious and lewd as Hawke was in public, the love she and Fenris made had always been more than mere sex. Even from their very first time together, Hawke had poured her affection into her palms and the press of her lips, stroking his skin and treating him with an uninhibited tenderness that was more healing than the cool green magic that she used to knit his wounds.

On that fateful first night together, Fenris was too conflicted and scarred to accept the love that her bare body had implied. But now, so many years later, Fenris understood Hawke’s intentions, and he was more than happy to accept what she was trying to give. 

He sat up on the bed and reached for her hand, pulling her close until she was straddling his hips. “You’re paying for my words with your body, then?” he said playfully. 

Her grin was instantaneous, and it chased away the remaining hint of melancholy in her face, exactly as he’d hoped it would. Even so, her answer was serious. “Nothing nearly so crass,” she replied. “I just… I love you, and I want you to know it, but my mouth is full of shit, all right?”

He pulled her closer on his lap and tilted his chin up to meet her lips. “Perhaps you can start by no longer saying that your mouth is full of shit,” he murmured.

She laughed and cradled his face in her hands. “I’ll fill it with something else, then,” she whispered, and she kissed him.

Fenris smiled despite her kiss, and she smiled as well until they were laughing against each other’s lips. It was a giddy and intimate sort of laugh, the kind that lovers share over something so inane and particular that no one else would ever laugh about, and Fenris savoured this moment of mirth for its very nature: the secrecy of it and the closeness it implied, and the sheer simple pleasure of having someone so dear that he could enjoy this sort of mirth. 

Hawke kissed him again, her slender fingers stroking his jaw and his neck as her lips glided over his own, and Fenris followed the cues of her body as she arched her back and tilted her hips down to meet the hardness of his shaft. She ran her fingers over his nipples until the air stalled in his lungs, then shifted lower on his body and pushed him down to lie on his back, and then she was kneeling between his legs and running her beloved hands along the insides of his tattooed thighs… 

He gasped and lifted his hips. Her tongue was trailing up along his shaft, and the warmth of her palm was cupping his balls. “Hawke,” he begged.

“All right, all right. So impatient,” she purred. Then she took his length into her mouth. 

He groaned and stretched languorously beneath her. The heat of her throat was a sweet contrast with the coolness of their sheets beneath his back. Her hands were sliding smoothly along his inner thighs, and Fenris closed his eyes and melted happily into her loving ministrations, savouring the caress of her caring hands as much as the rapturous pressure of her lips around his cock.

She suckled him sweetly, pulling his pleasure closer with every firm stroke of her mouth, and it wasn’t long before Fenris’s climax announced itself with a shivering rush of ecstasy that he groaned into the back of his fist. Hawke continued to take him deep, suckling his shaft until he reached down and stroked her cheekbone with his knuckles in a wordless plea to stop. 

She lifted her face from between his legs, then crawled up the bed to lie beside him. When Fenris opened his eyes and looked at her, it was to find her smiling at him with that soft and tender smile that he so adored.

Her smile broadened as he met her eye. “I love you,” she whispered.

He rolled onto his side to face her. “I love you as well,” he said. He gathered her close and slowly slipped his thigh between her legs. 

Her eyelids fluttered as his knee slid higher. When he pressed his leg against the telltale heat between her legs, her lips dropped open on a gasp. 

Fenris shifted closer still and kissed her. She curled her fingers in his hair and delved her tongue into his mouth, and he could taste the faint bitterness of his seed at the back of her tongue, but he savoured it for exactly what it was: a remnant of his own pleasure, the pleasure she’d given him so freely to show him how she felt. 

And now, as Hawke whimpered into his mouth and pressed herself against the rigid line of his thigh, Fenris wanted to show her the same affection in kind. 

He reluctantly peeled himself away from her lips and rolled her onto her back before kissing her again, but this time along the line of her neck just the way she liked. She drew a shaky breath and craned her neck to the side, and by the time Fenris’s questing mouth had trailed its way down her throat to her collarbone, she was arching her spine and spreading her legs. 

He slid one hand along the inside of her parted thigh. Her muscles were taut beneath his palm, but the skin of her breast was soft and smooth beneath his lips, and Fenris enjoyed the velvet of her skin beneath his tongue before tugging her nipple between his lips. When Hawke was straining toward him and whimpering with want, he slid down on the bed and brushed his lips along the tense line of her inner thigh. 

He placed a soft kiss on the fragrant wetness between her legs, and she gasped and twisted her hips. “Fenris, please…!” 

He kissed her again, then once more, and when she moaned his name a second time, he lifted his face to smirk at her. “Now who is the impatient one?”

“I’m always the impatient one where you’re concerned,” Hawke retorted. 

He smiled. “Fair enough,” he said, and he slicked his tongue between her legs. 

She twisted her fingers into the pillows and lifted her hips, and Fenris held her thighs steady as he tasted her. He was thorough and careful, running his tongue along the length of her cleft and taking her in until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, just the way she’d taken him. Soon his mouth was filled with her heady taste, and her primal scent was filling his lungs, and as Fenris teased the delicate bud between her legs, she tensed and shivered beneath his lips before crying her pleasure to the canopy of their bed. 

He continued to taste her, slipping his tongue gently along the plump folds of her flesh until she reached down and stroked his jaw to coax him to stop. He lifted his face and met her gaze, and as he basked in the lucid amber heat of her eyes, it struck him that this pose was an exact mirror of how they’d been positioned just moments ago, with Hawke stretched between his parted thighs as she brought him to his peak.

This equalness, Fenris thought, was exactly the point of all of this. This was the point of the life they shared and these trials they walked and the countless times they fell together in this tangle of hands and tongues and tenderness. He and Hawke were here together, sharing this life side-by-side and moving as one through every mess that was placed along their path, and Fenris refused to have it any other way. 

He crawled up the bed to join her, satisfied by the way her brilliant copper gaze shifted from lazy pleasure to a fresh flare of excitement. When Fenris roughly rolled her onto her belly, she gasped in surprise. 

She was flat on her belly on the bed, and he stared lovingly at the expanse of her tattooed back for a moment before pushing her legs apart. Her breathing grew sharp and desperate as she lifted her bottom to accommodate the angle, and when Fenris pumped his hardening cock against her slick cleft, she jerked and pressed her ass back toward him. 

“F-Fenris,” she stammered. “I – ah! Fuck me, please!”

I need you, he thought feverishly. He lowered himself over her until his chest was pressed to her back, pressed as close as he could possibly be. His shaft slid smoothly between her legs, and it wasn’t long before her smoothness and warmth brought him to full attention once more. 

“Fenris,” she mewled. She could hardly move beneath his weight, but she arched her back nonetheless, and Fenris indulged himself by tasting the tattoo that curled across her left shoulder before brushing his lips over her ear. 

“Do you want me, Hawke?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said loudly. “Yes, of course I do.”

He slowly slid his cock along her folds. A desperate sob burst from her lips, and she tried to twist beneath him, but she was hindered by his body trapping her against the bed. 

“Fenris!” she whined. 

He pumped his hips again in a slow and torturous grind until she burst out another needy sob. “Fenris, please! I need you!”

That was what he’d wanted to hear. With her desperate and needy words ringing in his ears, he shifted his hips and fed himself into her slick and waiting heat. 

She mewled and scraped the mattress with her nails as he sheathed himself inside of her. Once he was fully buried inside of her, he lowered his lips to her ear once more. “Am I close enough to you now?” he whispered. 

To Fenris’s surprise, she shook her head. “No,” she panted. “There’s no such thing as being too close to you.” 

A rush of emotion squeezed his thrumming heart. He felt exactly the same. Hawke was ensnared in his arms, pressed so tightly to his chest that he could feel her every desperate breath and every bead of sweat that was collecting between them, and still it wasn’t enough. 

Without releasing her from his embrace, he pumped his hips. Hawke jerked and gasped, and Fenris slid into her in a slow and steady rhythm until their breathing was ragged and rough. 

He panted against her ink-clad shoulder before pressing his mouth to her ear once more. “I feel the same,” he said. “I will tear my way through a thousand battles as long as the promise of your arms awaits me at the end.”

She sobbed out a little laugh. “See, you and your fucking gorgeous words – ah!” She broke off with a gasp as he thrust into her hard. 

“I am not finished with these words,” he rasped. “Rynne, I promise you this: only a lifetime at your side will satisfy me. There is nothing in this world or the Fade that will tear me from your grasp.”

She sobbed again and scrabbled in the sheets until she found his hand. “You promise?” she whimpered. 

“I do,” he whispered. Then he continued to fuck her, giving himself to her in a hard rhythm that he knew she particularly liked. 

Sure enough, her eager breaths grew sharper and more broken, and Fenris carefully shifted his hips until she cried out and dug her nails into his arm. “”F-fuck,” she moaned. “I – oh Maker...” 

He tilted and rolled his hips, and a breathless minute later, she shuddered and cried out in ecstasy. Encouraged and riled by her pleasure, Fenris fucked her faster as his own climax bloomed, lifting its way from his cock to his belly and up past his pounding heart until it burst from his mouth in a guttural groan. 

He pressed his lips to her back to muffle himself. Her golden skin was scented with an intoxicating mixture of heat and sweat and the sweetness of their sheets, and Fenris hungrily licked her tattooed skin as his rapture climbed through his limbs. 

When the last pulses of pleasure eased away, leaving him limp and satisfyingly spent, he carefully withdrew from her. 

She gripped his wrist. “Stay,” she pleaded. 

He kissed her shoulder blade. “I plan to,” he murmured. He and Hawke might be spent from their exertions, but Fenris couldn’t bear to move away from her warm and pliant body. 

He tried to shift slightly so his weight wasn’t resting on her, but she gripped his wrist even harder. “Fenris, don’t go,” she insisted.

“I’m not,” he said. “I am only trying not to crush you.” 

She rolled over to face him and twined her legs with his. “I would happily be crushed by you,” she said. “It would make a lovely epitaph. ‘Rynne Hawke, squished by handsome elven husband.’” She smiled cheekily. “I think it would make a good story.”

Fenris huffed. “Fortunate, then, that you are not the writer among our friends.”

She laughed. “Who says I’m not? Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing all this time in the mage tower: writing a book about all the times you fucked me and nearly crushed me afterwards.” She tapped his chin playfully. “Maybe I’ll name it after something of Varric’s. Hard in Skyhold: Fuck Harder–”

“Vishante kaffas,” he complained, and Hawke burst out laughing. 

As always, her laughter was loud and bright and uninhibited. It filled his chest with lightness and hope and a dizzying rush of love, and he couldn’t help but smile and pinch her waist. 

She squealed and laughed even more raucously, and Fenris finally laughed as well. “You’re an idiot,” he said fondly. 

She hiccupped with mirth and ran her hand through his hair. “Only for you, Fenris. Only for you.”

Her smile was warm and broad, and Fenris admired the unmitigated happiness in her face. But to his own dismay, her words plucked a fresh note of worry in his heart. 

Only for you, Fenris. These words carried a weight now that they never used to before. Hawke had sworn not to do anything rash again without consulting him first, and Fenris wanted to believe her – no, he did believe her. But these words were tainted now, coloured with the ugly what-ifs of what had nearly transpired in the Arbour Wilds. 

And along with the reminder of this afternoon’s nearly-disastrous events came his worries about what would happen next. 

They’d successfully foiled Corypheus’s plan yet again. But how many more times would they have to chase the cursed magister down before this ordeal was done? How many more times would they be presented with these terrible opportunities for danger – opportunities where Hawke would be bound and determined to keep Fenris safe, just as he was determined to shelter her?

How long would it be before they could have the peace they’d wanted for so long?

“Fenris?” 

He looked at Hawke. Her face was still content, but her expression was soft with concern. “Where did you go?” she murmured.

He tightened his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m right here.” 

She smoothed her thumb over his eyebrow. “You’re worried.”

He sighed heavily. “I don’t want to think of anything else right now…”

“... but you can’t help it,” she murmured, and he shook his head. 

She was quiet for a moment, and Fenris waited silently as she rubbed his earlobe between her fingers. Finally she lifted her eyes to his face. “Can I help?”

He swallowed hard. Her face was businesslike, but her legs were still tangled with his, and… kaffas, he couldn’t imagine doing this without her. He couldn’t imagine trying to cope with all of these burdens without her.

He tucked a damp strand of her hair behind her ear. “You already are,” he said. “This is where I want to be. Keep me here, Hawke.”

She smiled. “Is that an order from the Inquisitor?”

He gave her a chiding smirk. “No. It is a suggestion from your husband.” 

“Even better,” she whispered, and she snuggled closer still. 

He held her close and pressed his nose to her sandalwood-scented hair. Even without the presence of the Inquisition’ army, there were matters that needed to be deal with now that they’d returned: the misbegotten knowledge in Morrigan’s possession, and the suspicions that Fenris now harboured about Solas, and what in the Maker’s name was going to happen next in this seemingly never-ending quest to destroy Corypheus once and for all.

But Hawke was pressed against him, fragrant and warm from the love they’d just shared. Her eyes were closed and there was a tiny smile on her raspberry-red lips, and as Fenris breathed in the perfume of her hair, he allowed his busy mind to drift. 

For once, Skyhold was quiet and still, and Fenris had done all that he could do to avert another major disaster. 

And for now, he would savour this moment of peace in Hawke’s arms. 

#Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenris #fenris fic #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes

[darlingrutherford]

C and G for OC ask! :D

Aaaah, thank you so much for the ask!!

C: Comfort

1. how do they sit in a chair? 

Sarya Lavellan - She’s a bit more relaxed when sitting. Josephine has had to clear her throat loudly on occasion because she’ll turn her head and see Sarya sitting cross-legged in her chair (Josephine does her best to try to get Sarya acting a bit more “proper” for sake of impressing noble allies, to little avail). She’s more likely to slouch when sitting for long periods of time, especially once she starts daydreaming (which happens often). 

Lana Surana - Very straight-backed. She doesn’t cross her ankles beneath the chair or anything super proper like that, but she was definitely barked at to sit up straight enough times as a kid to have it drilled into her. Sometimes, if she feels herself beginning to slouch, she can hear her mother’s voice in her head as a warning and immediately rights herself. 

2. in what position do they sleep?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya’s all over the place. When sleeping by herself she usually starts out on her side, and will wake up sometimes halfway off her bedroll hugging her pillow. When sleeping with Cullen, she usually starts out curled in towards him or him in towards her with his face buried just below her neck. Cullen quickly learns to hold onto her tightly, lest he wants to wake up with her ass in his face (not that he’d mind). 

Lana Surana - When alone, very curled up, making herself small. She often starts out with a blanket over her head to fall asleep, and then straightens out in her sleep and ends up on her back much like how she constantly straightens herself while sitting. This doesn’t change much when she’s with Alistair, starting out curled out with her back to Alistair, though she’s happy to trade in the blanket over her head for his arms which he keeps tight around her to keep her safe. She still ends up straightened out at some point in the night, which Alistair takes advantage of and ends up sprawled across her with his face in her chest (his “favorite pillow” as he likes to put it). 

3. what is their ideal comfort day?

Sarya Lavellan - A day with her friends and loved ones where nothing goes wrong and everyone is happy. No Anchor flaring in her hand, no demons, no Great Game to play, just laughter and maybe good cakes to share. 

Lana Surana - Spending time somewhere quiet, away from civilization, just Alistair and herself. Comfort is something that’s difficult for her to find after everything she’s been through and the impact it’s had on her views of herself, but she’s always found comfort in solitude, and Alistair has a way of making her relax that’s uncanny to her. 

4. what is their major comfort food? why?

Sarya Lavellan - Tea; she was trained as an herbalist on top of being a mage, so she’s able to make a tea and enchant it to suit her needs. Cakes are always a comfort as well, although not always as readily available as tea. She loves cakes because they had very little access to sweets like that in a roaming Dalish clan that stayed away from human settlements for the most part, so it’s become a bit of a delicacy for her.

Lana Surana - Fruit, especially berries. Her father used to give her berries as a treat, and she’s reminded of him whenever she eats them. The memories are bittersweet, but she’d rather remember than not at all.

5. who is the best at comforting them when down?

Sarya Lavellan - Dorian. Don’t get me wrong, Cullen is great at soothing her and making her happy, but Dorian is her best friend and always has the best gossip to take her mind off of things. He’s also a fierce friend and is ready to throw the sass right back at any Orlesian mistaking Sarya for a servant (or, on occasion, try to convince them that she’s his servant and they can go toss themselves if they think they can just go and steal his elf. Always good when he wants to make people stare). 

Lana Surana - Alistair. He goes the extra mile to cheer her up when she’s down, and lucky for him she loves his sense of humor so it’s not difficult for him. He’s also very intuitive when it comes to her hiding her feelings, so he can catch her before she goes too far down into a dark hole. 

G: Gorgeous

1. what is their most attractive external feature?

(These were actually really hard for me to come up with from my perspective, which is immensely funny to me for some reason. So, I’m writing these from the perspective of their romance)

Sarya Lavellan - (From Cullen’s perspective): Maker’s breath, I have to choose just one? Then, I suppose… her mouth, specifically the way it curves when she smiles. The trio of freckles on the back of her left shoulder, the ones just below her neckline. Come now, you can’t possibly expect me to pick just one.

Lana Surana - (From Alistair’s perspective): What, her most attractive external feature? Liiike, her adorable little nose? But then, what about her gorgeous blue eyes? Oooor… her, ah, breasts, because… well, those are… ahem… very nice as well, you’ve… probably noticed. I mean, I have… Who wouldn’t? 

2. what is the most attractive part of their personality?

Sarya Lavellan - Probably her want to help others. She’s very genuine and wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s usually the first person to jump to their feet when someone is expressing any need, and will stay dutifully at a friend’s side when they’re ill or sad or just in general need someone. She chose Mythal’s markings for her vallaslin for a reason.

Lana Surana - Her fierce loyalty. Lana tries not to get too close to people, but she will defend them with all she has. She believes it’s her duty to protect people, and will especially go out of her way to protect those who have ever so much as smiled in her direction out of fear of them being hurt because of her. 

3. what benefits come with being their friend?

Sarya Lavellan - A friend of Sarya’s is always cared for. If she finds them to be dissatisfied, she will try to find a way to lift their spirits. If they are ill, she’ll nurse them back to health. Plus, being a close friend of the Inquisitor has its own perks for sure. 

Lana Surana - Someone who always has your back, who is quiet but loud when it comes to defending you. She’s easily amused, so your jokes are sure to get a laugh no matter how dorky. 

4. what parts of them do they like and dislike?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya is proud of being a mage, of having abilities that allow her to help others in ways that not everyone can (this also extends to her herbalist abilities). She wishes she could be more outspoken and stand up for herself better around people she doesn’t know, and also wishes that she dealt with chaos better (and her life has been nothing but chaos since the Conclave).

Lana Surana - This one was difficult to answer for Lana because there’s a lot of self loathing because of her past. If she could pick something to like about herself, it would probably be her appreciation of solitude. She can go a long time without speaking to someone and feel at peace. She very much dislikes being a mage, and is convinced that if she had not come into magic then nothing would have happened the way it did. She sees being a mage as somewhat of a curse, and being a Grey Warden as her penance for everything bad that her magic has brought upon those she knew. 

5. what parts of others do they envy?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya envies Vivienne’s confidence, Cullen’s willpower, and Josephine’s ability to make heads or tails of the Great Game.

Lana Surana - Other than not being a mage, Lana envies Alistair’s lighthearted nature in spite of everything that’s happened to him, Morrigan’s pride in being a mage, and Leliana’s knack for seeing every detail even in tricky situations. 

#schoute #oc meme #dragon age #sarya lavellan #lana surana #my ocs #fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #dragon age origins #writing reference

[alleiradayne]

New Frame of Mind

For @inquisitor-julia‘s 2,000 Follower Giveaway, @geekyblackchic won 2nd Place, which was a 2,000 word one-shot written by yours truly. Congrats to @geekyblackchic! And thank you so much, @inquisitor-julia, for allowing me to participate in your giveaway!

New Frame of Mind

Ora Lavellan receives regular letters from her closest companions, and through their friendship, she finds hope for the future after the events at the Exalted Council.

Word Count: 2,721 (whoops!) Featuring: Ora Lavellan, memories of her companions Dorian, Cassandra, Cole, and Varric. Rating: SFW (some angst, some hope, and lots of coping)

A cool breeze rippled the canvas of Ora's tent, rustling the parchment in her hands and racing gooseflesh along her arms.

Wind. Wind between feathers, lifting, soaring, flying. The horizon stretches, reaching, tilting. You love to drift among the clouds but have forgotten how.

Ora recalled the once forgotten memory with stark clarity, Cole’s words resonating in her heart. Flight. She smiled with fond reverence as she remembered their conversation; Ora had not felt the wind buffet her wings in what had to be an age, a closed chapter in her book.

Difficult enough losing an arm, Ora Lavellan had lost more than that after the events of the Exalted Council. The anchor had exacted a high price, the least of which had been her limb. Fickle thing, magic. And most of all, shapeshifting. Such an intense form of transfiguration. Mages often transformed other objects, but those that mastered the art transformed themselves.

In the weeks following the Exalted Council, Ora struggled. And that struggle stretched for months. No shapeshifting. And no hunting wild game. Unreliable, her standard magic often destroyed most creatures. And failed shapeshifting left her terribly vulnerable. That loss had seeped into the depths of her very soul, leaving her hollow and empty, a shell of her former self.

Her memory continued as her thoughts wandered, manifesting in a cool autumn day not unlike today. Cole had found her alone on the high ramparts of Skyhold. His words resonated in her mind as if she sat there with him once again.

It’s not the arm that matters. The form you take doesn’t care how many arms you have. Spiders have twice as many limbs as us, but mages mimic all sorts of spiders, big and hairy, small and spiny. I like the fluffy ones with big eyes. The Witch's spider scares me…

A full belly laugh filled her tent as she recalled Cole’s cryptic words, but he had spoken the truth. Morrigan’s spider form was the stuff of nightmares.

Another breeze snatched at her letter, and her focus returned to Cole’s most recent letter.

You can have your wings again, soaring and sailing on the currents of the sky. The Fade eats limbs, but it never devours your dreams. It breathes life into your lungs, full and free to be whatever you wish.

Cole’s letters rarely lasted more than a few thoughts, always mysterious but never without purpose. They harkened background to a time when she had needed his wisdom and his compassion most.

I died, alone, cold, and terrified. But I never wanted to die, I wanted to live, to help, to keep others from feeling what I felt as the Fade took me away. Skyhold helped. Old and powerful, sleeping, slumbering, but waking with your presence. A spirit brought me to you and here I remain. To help.

He had helped, and in ways Cole would never understand. He believed in her when few others had, when even Ora doubted herself. And after Solas, after the Viddasala and the Exalted Council, Cole had been a beacon of hope, a sheer force of willpower that pushed her to try harder every time she failed.

Ora considered her missing appendage, now replaced by an ethereal, shimmering limb. Illuminating the canvas of her tent in a faint blue glow and casting sharp shadows in the far corners, she twisted the arm as if it were her own. A marvelous feat of magic. And for the first time, it felt like hers, whole, complete.

Despite the bitter memories, her companion’s letters tugged at her heart, lifting her spirits whenever she wandered lost in a forest of guilt. She shuffled through the papers, sending Cole’s to the back and finding Cassandra’s next.

Inquisitor It will take me an eternity to get used to addressing you without your title. And a part of me will always consider you the Inquisitor, even though the Inquisition no longer exists as it once did. It still pains me to recall the Council, how Ferelden and Orlais treated you. Considering the circumstances, I’d hoped they would see reason. But I shouldn’t be surprised.

I digress. How are you fairing? Have you found anything? I miss our conversations, your company. Maker, to think, the last we saw each other, you had nearly died…

But thanks to Cassandra, she had not. With years of battle under her belt, the Seeker had leapt into action the minute Ora had returned to Halamshiral. Cut off the infection, stop it in its tracks. But that meant losing part of her arm. The alternative was anything but.

I worry about you. I know you’re doing well, but I still ask. And while least important, I know it matters to you: how is your magic behaving?

Always practical, Cassandra broached a subject with less tact than a charging druffalo. But it drew a smile from Ora despite her choice of words, selflessness beyond measure. Cassandra put the needs of others before her own, most of all her friends. And she had put Ora first, above anyone, following the Exalted Council. Though that time had not lasted long, Cassandra’s resilience in the face of defeat proved invaluable.

Think of it as an opportunity. To start over. To learn again. To learn a new way. If Varric has taught me anything these last fifteen years, it’s that there’s always a better way.

And she had been right. The loss of her arm had forced Ora to relearn everything she understood about magic. Though unpleasant, it had been worth every minute she had struggled, for now, Ora’s magic rivaled that of the most powerful mages. And she had Cassandra, as well as Cole, to thank for that.

Not to mention Dorian. The next letter in her stack bore the seal of the Tevinter magister. And to think, not five years prior, any letter with that seal would have instilled fear and panic into any recipient. But in those five years, Magister Pavus had paved the way for a new Tevinter, starting with his humble beginnings in the Inquisition.

My Dearest Ora, I hope this letter finds you, first, and if it does, it finds you well. I appreciate all your work on improving our sending crystals, and when I next see you—most likely not in Tevinter—you’ll have mine for the work it requires.

True, their sending crystals provide futile after several months of use. Ora’s initial investigation revealed attunement issues, the bond between the pair of crystals fading over time. She had made improvements to her own but required Dorian’s to finish the process, permanently linking the two for good.

Which reminds me, you might want to stay away from Tevinter for a time. Locals, including other magisters, have noticed a large grey eagle that they are claiming has graced our skies as some sort of good omen. As pleased as I am to see you back in fighting shape, I worry the magisters are getting the wrong idea. Which isn’t surprising, and it won’t be the last time they take the most far-fetched idea away from something as mundane as a fucking bird. No offense, of course, my dear.

And of course, Ora took none. How could she? Dorian’s strict retraining efforts had been as important, if not more, than his support. Though not trained in the fine art of shapeshifting, Dorian understood the mechanics of magic, the intricacies of balance between not only raw elements, but of power and control as well. Where most mages followed written formulae and studied books, Dorian concocted his own brand of magic with exquisite detail, a creativity Ora found necessary given her physical and mental state after the Exalted Council. Dorian’s words replayed in her mind as if he stood beside her.

I cannot imagine what you’re going through, Ora. Few mages ever face what are staring down at this present moment. All challenges aside, I believe that you are more than capable of relearning all you once knew, and more. But it will take time

What you now lack in physical form must be balanced with mental acuity and power. Your elements are disjointed as well and will require recalibration, but be cautious here. One miscalculation and you could find yourself completely fucked. This will not be easy, but lucky for you, I’ve been fabricating magic most of my life, and there aren’t many better at it than I, if do say so myself. I would one day see you surpass me.

Though that education had lasted only months, Ora learned everything she could. But before long, Tevinter had called and Dorian had left Skyhold. And their brief time together at the Exalted Council fell short of fulfilling by leagues. It had been his final words before departing that had meant more than she had realized in the moment.

You did the right thing, Ora. You always do. Trust yourself. Believe, as we do, in you.

Another smile lingered on her lips before Ora returned to Dorian’s letter. He wrote of change in Tevinter, of subtle plans and less than subtle scheming. And, as always, he left her with another professional piece of advice on redesigning magic for her differently-abled body.

The hand might help you feel whole again, but never forget it is not real. It may feel real, and it may even look real beneath a sleeve and glove. But it is not. And that is okay. Use that to your benefit. Imagine the look on your assailant’s face when he thinks he’s got your wrist but then poof! It’s gone and you’re sprinting down the street.

Leave it to Dorian to think of a practical benefit to lacking a wrist. But he had a point.

Don’t forget, your magic is yours alone. Use it as you see fit.

“I will, Dorian.”

His letter found the bottom of the stack as Ora moved to the next piece of parchment. There, the sigil of House Tethras bound the folded stock, red wax pressed with a neat stamp. She popped the seal free and read.

Hey, Shifty. Been a while. This Viscount nonsense keeps me busy. You knew that already. But it doesn't keep me busy enough that I couldn't write more often. Sorry about that.

He apologized in every letter, never excusing himself or asking for forgiveness. Not that he had done anything that required her forgiveness. He wrote her more often than any of her friends, and at once a week, Ora mused he wished he had the time to write her every day.

I hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary lately. Thought you might have quit searching, gave up. But a rumor cropped up this week and well… life is stranger than fiction, as they say. So, here’s me asking if you’ve been flying around Tevinter the last month or so.

Ora laughed again, relishing Varric’s surprise as another rumor of her grey eagle circling Tevinter reached his ears. Creators, but she’d never meant for the tale to grow so tall. Or long. An eagles’ penchant for circling and excellent eyesight provided the perfect cover for searching. How anyone had blown such a trivial and mundane event so out of proportion never ceased to amaze her.

If so, I’m happy to hear you’re flying again. Nothing pained me more than the months after the Exalted Council. I was of no help. Definitely not with magic. I'm handy with a quip here and there, but even my words failed me. Shit, you’d think I’d be better at it but, I’m terrible. Writing drama was never my strong suit. Forget helping a real person suffering something as difficult as you did.

“Oh, Varric,” Ora started, “you helped in ways you'll never know."

He'd been the first to console her and the last to leave Skyhold. Varric's keen sense of the mortal condition disputed his letter; while his books might contain the utmost contrived of narratives, his words and his company had lifted her from the darkest depths of her fall.

You can't keep sleeping all day, Shifty. Trust me, I've tried. The weeks after Bartrand... had it not been for Hawke, I'm not sure where I'd be right now. Probably crazy as Bartrand.

Most mornings following the Exalted Council had started the same way, Varric climbing the steps to her room and sitting on the chaise until Ora found the drive to get out of bed. Sometimes he brought breakfast, other times sweet pastries. And with each conversation—wherein Varric talked at length and Ora listened—the sun rose a little brighter each morning.

When was the last time you even tried to shapeshift? I know I'm talking out of my ass here, I know shit about magic. But seriously, when was the last time you even tried? How do you know it'll be terrible? And even if it is terrible, so what? Get back on the horse. Just because you fell off doesn't mean you can't get back on it. Granted, missing half an arm might make that a little harder. But you find a new way, right? Instead of getting on from the left side, get on from the right.

That had been the last morning Ora slept in past sunrise. With a newfound sense of determination, she had set out to relearn everything, challenges be damned.

And now, two years past, Ora sat in her tiny canvas tent, the whispering of Harvestmere crisp on the cool dawn breeze. Varric's letter meandered as it so often did, hopping from subject to story to scandal as quick as a frog leaped lily pads. And in closing, he bid her good luck in her search and, as always, to write more often.

With the final letter finished, Ora added them to the growing stack in her leather-bound folder. Secured from the elements, she cherished those messages sent from every corner of Thedas in the capable hands of Leliana's scouts. Alone, they kept her company, and on darker days when her mood sank and her magic still struggled to cooperate, she reread them. There she found courage, willpower. An unmistakable drive to carry on, however wayward she might have become.

As they days grew shorter, Ora spent as much time as possible in the sunlight. But that morning, she had burned enough time on letters she might have otherwise read by candle light. Except on days like these, when the creeping hints of malaise teased the fringe of her subconscious, her mental health took priority over all else.

Ora crawled from her tent, another day of hope and promise ahead of her. A rustle of leaves scattered across her campsite as the wind gathered momentum, building in a sudden rush of gusts and lashes that grasped at her robes. That wind encircled her, pressing closer until a tight swirl of air encased her in a protective shell.

Fear loomed. Doubt reared. Imbalance threatened. Every failed attempt, every botched shape, every crumpled figure since the Crossroads crushed her spirit in that interstitial space between thoughts. She would fail again, as she had so many times before. And she would be left vulnerable, alone with no one to defend her should she need it. The racing thumps of her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs as if to escape, as if to burst from her chest and abandon the terror that pained her so. Creators, why? Why had they abandoned her with such hopelessness? What had she ever done to deserve such a fate? Her vision blurred, tears gathering from the wind or from the alarm bound so tight in her chest, Ora was unsure. Tension grasped every muscle in her body, wrenching and writhing to be free of the trepidation that plagued her. Breath sucked from her lungs in terrified gasps, too much, not enough. Dizzy, spinning, the world tilted, turned, twisted...

It had lasted but a second, the amalgamation of her fears fading to tiny specs in the distance like the trees beneath her beating wings. Higher and higher, Ora climbed for the clouds, the wind racing between her feathers once more. And in that ascent, in that effervescent transcendence, Ora soared.

Fear faded. Doubt receded. Balance restored.

And there, far off in the distance, lay Tevinter. Ready. Waiting.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to reblog!

#my writing #dai #fanfic #lavellan #ora lavellan #not my oc #inquisitor-julia #geekyblackchic

[bravenewworldvehnan-blog]

First Fanfic DA:I

Ok...so here it is: The Inquisitor trying to come to terms with her role in the impending doom...comments etc welcome! Special thanks to @solverne and @cullywullycurlywurly for helping me with a core question :)

The Inquisitor retreats to The Crossroads for a little existential crisis...

Genevive smiled as the peaceful silence of The Crossroads washed over her. It had taken some cajoling to get Morrigan to activate the eluvian and let her go through it alone. Although she had succeeded in this, she could not deter Morrigan from standing guard on the other side. She took in the trees that looked like large vine-hugged transparent planets on stems, and drew comfort from the mist that milled between mirrors and the statues that were dotted about the courtyard. The silence was the best. She had just wanted a few minutes to gather herself; Josephine, Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana - they were all so supportive and ready to jump at a moment's notice - but they weren't Inquisitor, they weren't the Herald of Andraste. Maker. Am I the Herald of Andraste? She could barely distinguish what she believed anymore.

When she, Dorian, Solas, and Cassandra had returned from The Fade a few days ago, she had thought that she had all the answers to this supposed divine anointing that had befallen her; but now...she wasn't so sure. Could one person be so blessed with "happy" coincidences that it seemed they were divinely chosen? She knew the decisions she made were her own, directed by her own conscience - but even she had to marvel that she was still alive to make them. Dorian was always so good at being glib in the face of the epic nature of what they were doing, that she never stopped to realise that what he was actually doing was pointing out how insane this all was. They fell through and walked in THE FADE - The Actual Fade. She hadn't even had time to process that part before Solas made some sort of "Oooo! I have never seen this side of The Fade before, isn't it sinister, but also pretty in its ghoulishness" comment. She really should stop spending so much time with Dorian...she loved Solas, but sometimes his enthusiasm for the Fade was a little unbearable.

The memories had come back to her, been wedged in where they were once wrenched out, and she had felt a strange reassurance that what she had inadvertently been marked to do had purpose. Whether it was divine was beyond her, but that it had to be done was not a question: Face Corypheus and win. She couldn't even say or die trying. With her dead, the tenuous alliances that The Inquisition had formed could not stand against him. She knew this from the way that some of her companions viewed each other, and feared that the bickering amongst themselves would eclipse their greater purpose. For what was an Inquisitor or Herald but the finely polished blade that gave direction and focus to a cause?

Just as she was about to lose herself in a labyrinthine musing she heard the tell-tale sound of a body passing through the barrier of an eluvian. It was odd. It didn't come from behind her, and as far as she knew, The Inquisition was in possession of the only active eluvian in Thedas at present. She crouched behind the large paw of a wolf statue that seemed to be surveying the landscape with a look of remorse and responsibility. Moronically she had left her bow at Skyhold, but on Morrigan's insistence she had accepted the dagger that she was examining as a precaution. She fingered the guilded, jewel-encrusted hilt and hoped that the blade's damage was as impressive as its gaudy handle. Andraste. She should've been more careful. How stupid she had been to assume she could disappear off the world stage for a few minutes of peace. Now there she was, hunched behind a statue, bowless because of her own idiocy, and probably about to be flanked by some or other darkspawn that had magically wandered somewhere they shouldn't - yup. That sounded like her life.

She flattened her back against the wolf's heel so that she could crane her neck around to peer in the general direction of the pop, but her eyes were only greeted with dark and cracked eluvians, and swirling mist. Maybe she'd just imagined it? Her nerves were thrumming through her body, the feeling so familiar, that she had to pause and wonder whether she hadn't just created the sound because she was finally relaxing and not in a space where darkspawn lurked around every corner. She had heard tales of Templars who had been at Kirkwall who still jerk from their beds at night to attack unsuspecting inanimate objects. Maybe this was the beginning of that for her. Maybe she was losing it, maybe the anchor was changing her.

As though it knew she was thinking about it, it suddenly, angrily, flared in her hand. She yelped, dropped the dagger, and cradled her left hand as it seared with the now familiar, but increasingly intense, discomfort that felt as though her nerves had suddenly grown teeth and wanted out. This can't be happening. Can it? Not here. Still clutching her now dimly glowing, but glowing nevertheless, hand she looked up to determine where the rift was. What met her gaze was unexpected: an ethereal form hovered under the tear, but it wasn't hostile. In fact, it hardly noticed her at all. It was looking around The Crossroads like a woman searching for her matching earring before a party. This was definitely strange behaviour. She remembered the way the Spirit of Wisdom had looked at Solas when it begged him to kill it - in that moment, as in this one - the monstrous looked more human than monstrous.

She wasn't quite certain when she had decided to start walking towards it, but she found herself leaving the safety of the wolf statue, emerging in front of the spectre. Her fingers twitched towards the dagger, now in her belt, but it was her voice she used to catch its attention.

"Hello?" she said tentatively, wondering whether the spirit would even speak the common tongue. "Aneth ara, Inquisitor." The form replied.

"Do I know you?" She asked, taken aback by the social greeting.

"Not exactly, but I have been watching you." The Spirit stated simply.

"Um, excuse me? What do you mean watching me?" Genevive's momentary relaxation was replaced with confusion and a tautness in her solar plexus, the last thing she needed was more complications.

"When you dream." The Spirit replied matter of factly. "You are important, so you are seen."

"Am I dreaming now?"

"No, you are here." The Spirit confirmed. "I had hoped that you would come to this place in solitude. The veil is thin here so it is easier to manifest."

"I don't mean to be rude...but what are you doing here?"

"I have watched you move against Corypheus." The Spirit said shimmering as it spoke. "If he finds this place, he will destroy everything." Genevive looked at The Spirit, wondering why it was telling her something she already knew. "You see how easy it is for me to tear The Veil here; he will rend it asunder. There will be no stopping him. Even though The Veil has not always existed, it cannot come down now."

Genevive's eyes widened, The Veil had not always existed? She knew The Maker had put it there, but it had existed for all of human memory. "The Veil can come down entirely? I thought Corypheus would only punch a hole through to The Fade? I thought The Maker created it?"

"So many thoughts, lost to time, that become truths."

Genevive didn't even pretend to understand what that meant, but pressed on. "So you're saying that if Corypheus gains access to this place, he will not only physically walk into The Fade, but he will rip apart The Veil, thus tearing down the barriers leaving both sides to bleed into each other?"

Sadness shrouded The Spirit's amorphous features as its voice quivered. "Yes. Demons shall overrun this world. Many shall perish, but magic shall return. It will be landmark; a shift back to what was."

"You mean like before The Veil?"

"Yes, no barriers, all interacting together. After the initial chaos."

Genevive was not sure whether The Spirit longed for The Veil to come down or was asking her to make sure it stayed up. "Why are you telling me this? "

"With Corypheus at the helm, it cannot be what was. It will usher in a new Dark Age. The Age of Dragons will be over, and he will hold dominion over us all. You must stop him."

"No, really?" The sarcasm bubbled out of her before she could think, The Spirit looked slightly confused, she breathed a steadying breath as all the fears she had come here to escape flashed through her mind again. "I am going to do my best, more I cannot do."

"I know this already." The Spirit confirmed. "I came only to give you more information. I know you take Corypheus' threat seriously, I see the worry cloud your mind. I only wanted to show you that your worry is justified and how much truly is at stake."

"Gee, thanks." She didn't know how to feel about anything that was happening. She could see The Spirit was starting to disapprove of her wanton use of sarcasm.

"Go to the Arbor Wilds and stop him." It seemed as though it was waiting for her to have another acerbic retort - she bit back the 'lovely spot for a holiday' that was hovering at the edge of her tongue.The Spirit held Genevive's gaze for quite some time. "Stop him before we are all slaves to his will." With that final edict it slipped back into the Fade, leaving Genevive standing slightly agape below an open tear. She was leaving this place with her head more full of noise than when she arrived, that was for sure.

Processing this shouldn't take this long. The Spirit hadn't really told her anything she didn't know, with the exception that Corypheus would tear The Veil down. As in gone. She knew if he prevailed he'd bring hell to them in a hand-basket, but the idea of everything in existence bowing to a crazed magister had not taken full shape until just now. Something else was bothering her. The Spirit had said The Veil shouldn't come down now: as though it was inevitable that it would come down. She really hoped that would be after her lifetime, because if she still had to navigate that aftermath, she'd probably become as crazed as Corypheus.

Before she could lose herself too far down the noise spiral that that train of thought was causing, she heard the unmistakable pop of a demon crossing the tear. Andraste. She really should've closed it before she let her mind wander. She made short work of the demon by plunging the jewel-encrusted dagger into its newly formed sternum, and then, while it did the imitation of a startled guppy, she quickly mended the tear. The tear popped out of existence just as the dagger fell to the floor, no longer held in midair by the fibrous tendrils that made up the demon.  She took one last look at the now peaceful again Crossroads, and stepped back through the eluvian to Skyhold.

"Illuminating respite, Inquisitor?" Came Morrigan's velvety voice as she stepped through.

Genevieve looked at her, debating whether to tell her what had transpired. "Quiet and beautiful. Just what I needed." She smiled, "Thank you for standing guard...and for the loan." She said handing the jewel encrusted dagger back. "It may need a little polishing."

#dragon age #fanfic #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquistor #eluvians #corypheus #morrigan

[dragonagecompanionsreact]

inquisition companions react to finding out the inquisitor (who always covers their face) is actually the hero of ferelden? (Plus warden Alistair and Morrigan pls?)

Morrigan: She knewinstantly, of course. It was the walk, the bearing, the weight on theirshoulders and the pride that kept them tall. And their eyes. Those eyes,peeking out from behind their mask, would likely haunt her for the rest of herlife, for one reason or another. “I’ll keep your secret, old friend, if youtruly do not wish these others to know,” she tells them when she announces thatshe’s to join the Inquisition. IfRomanced: “Ah, my love, how difficult it will be to keep your secret whenwe shall be sharing a bed. I will not be moved from this. We shall be a familyonce more, and that’s final. Now, take off that ridiculous mask and kiss me.”

Warden Alistair: Inwardly: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Okay, don’t panic. It’s only your damned commander here. No need to panic. Or say anything dumb. “Heeeeeeeyyyy there!” Damn it! If Romanced: Well, if the way they steal into shadowed corners frequently isn’t enough to give the Warden away, nothing will. But by the Maker, he will spend time with his lover! They’re out here risking their life against impossible odds, as usual, and he doesn’t even get to stay by their side for the duration! Necking in the corner is the least of their worries at this point.

Bonus King Alistair: Yeah, he really didn’t have time to notice. There were more pressing matters to deal with. If Romanced: “Keep that beautiful face covered, love. Your identity is a vulnerable point, as much as I hate that. Our enemies would use you to hurt me and use me to hurt you. If I can’t be here with you, at least you can try to stay safe.”

Leliana: She knewimmediately when they were found in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but she didn’tknow what to do with the information. She kept it to herself, allowingCassandra and the others to think whatever they wanted to think until she hadthe opportunity to speak to them alone. “Why are you here, what happened?” sheasks them. Though their answers are far from satisfactory, she’s willing totrust that her old friend would never have done what they are accused of. If Romanced: “My love, we must stop meetinglike this,” she giggles to them even though they’re shackled in a cell. She’scleared the room to speak to them, ostensibly to question the prisoner. Shegrins at them, completely certain in her belief that they are innocent, thatsomething else is at work, and she’s simply grateful to be back with her lovereven under such circumstances.

Cassandra: She’ssuspicious, especially with how careful Leliana is being around them. Shewonders why they insist on the mask upon having their hands unbound, but allowsit anyway. She has her suspicions about who they are but keep them to herself.When she finally knows for certain, she’s more confused than anything else.“Why not simply tell us who you are?” she asks. “It would have helped removesuspicion from you to know that you were the one who ended the Blight!” If Romanced: “You didn’t trust me withthis?” she asks them, a bit hurt. “You are a great hero, someone I admiredbefore we even met. And I treated you so poorly when we met. Knowing this wouldhave saved us both a lot of trouble.”

Cullen: Though the lasttime he saw the Warden was in the midst of his torture, he remembers them asclear as day. He knows who it is that stands before him on the battlefield,masked and cloaked though they are. He could never forget. He would ratherforget. If Romanced: “I knew it wasyou from the first moment I saw you, mask and all,” he confesses, rubbing theback of his neck. “I wanted to thank you, to ask your forgiveness for whathappened the last time we saw each other, but I realized that you must behiding for a reason so I stayed quiet. I’ve kept your secret, and I willcontinue to do so if that is your wish.”

Solas: He knows the name,he knows the title, he knows the significance of their actions, but he doesn’tknow them. He recognizes them as he studies the Anchor, but it seems to himthat their identity doesn’t particularly matter. He keeps it to himself moreout of indifference than any desire to keep their secret. Whatever they seek byhiding won’t affect his plans at all, so it doesn’t matter. If Romanced: “I knew. I’ve seen yourface in the Fade more than enough to recognize you, but I saw no reason toreveal this information. We were both under enough suspicion as it was withoutadding to it unnecessarily.”

Sera: She didn’t know. Shehad no idea. She thinks it’s kind of cool and she’s impressed that they wereable to keep the secret so long. “If you’re that good at hiding yourself, thinkyou’ll be that good at pranks?” IfRomanced: “So you were a hero even before all this Coriffyshite? Wow,you’re even bigger than I thought. Famouser. More famous. Oh, you know what Imean. Now give me a kiss, you big hero.”

Blackwall: He’s takenentirely by surprise, and one of his first thoughts once the shock wears off iswhy they didn’t out him as not being a Warden. He’s too afraid to ask, ofcourse. It’s humbling, though, to be in their presence, to know them so welland work together as they do. IfRomanced: Again, he wonders why they didn’t tell everyone he wasn’t a Warden,but he figures that someday he’ll work up the courage to ask. “I’m sort ofhonored that you would want me, aftereverything, out of everyone. You could have just about anything or anyone youwant, but I’m so glad it’s me.”

Vivienne: She didn’t knowenough about the Hero of Ferelden to pick them out of a crowd, but the maskmade her suspicious since they clearly weren’t Orlesian and it wasn’tdecorative like hers; it was a mask to hide behind, not a mask to show off. Shetried many times to parse their secret, to discover what lay under that mask.She had a feeling it was important and a good thing to know, but after a whileshe decided to let it be. If they wanted to tell her the truth, then theywould, but all she was doing was exhausting herself. When she finally does findout, she’s more delighted than anything else and congratulates them on theirability to keep their identity secret for so long.

Dorian: Honestly, it wasn’this business and he didn’t really care to find out why they always wore a mask.When he does find out, he thinks it’s all a marvelous joke and spends quite along time trying to figure out what everyone would think if they found out. If Romanced: “Well, that’s… oddlyintimidating, now that I think of it. You defeated an archdemon. Oh, amatus,and now you have to face another one? One that is controlled by an evil,ancient magister, no less? Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you the wholetime.”

Iron Bull: He had hissuspicions. He’s not Ben-Hassrath for nothing, after all. But he kept histhoughts to himself and went along as if everything were just peachy. When thetruth is finally revealed to him, he claps them on the shoulder. “No wonderyou’re so good at slaying dragons!” IfRomanced: “Yeah, I know. Thanks for trusting me with it, though. It’s okay,kadan. I’ve got your back.”

Varric: He didn’t knowuntil they told him. “Look at that! I get to fight alongside both big heroes ofthe age!” he cries. “This is so going in my book. It’s way too interesting notto.”

Cole: He knew. Of course heknew. “Yes, tainted blood, aching heart, you’ve seen so much death, lost somuch of yourself. It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll try to help.”

Josephine: She didn’t know,didn’t guess. She knew there was something worth hiding under there, of course,but she didn’t expect this. She wonders what the secret will do to theInquisition, if it should be revealed or not. She leaves the decision up tothem, but worries about the consequences if the secret is discovered by theirenemies or accidentally revealed by their allies. If Romanced: “Oh, my love, why didn’t you tell me? This changesnothing about my feelings for you, of course, but I wish I had known!”

#Morrigan #warden alistair #king alistair #cullen #Josephine #Leliana #Solas #vivienne #dorian #iron bull #blackwall #cassandra #sera #cole #varric #mod katalyna

[lady-hammerlock]

Assassin’s Creed Rogue - The Novel - Chapter 13

29th July 1757

I do believe it was during our journey to meet with La Vérendrye that Liam revealed to me the true purpose of the box and manuscript. Perhaps it was during the many hours that Liam sat with Achilles in his grief that the mentor revealed the truth to him. Perhaps Liam had already known. I do not know, but I do know that Achilles knew the truth of it all long before he chose to inform the rest of us.

And perhaps you who are reading this, whoever you are, already know about the manuscript and the box, and so my explaining it now will be meaningless, but perhaps not. Perhaps this is all just as new to you now as it was to me then.

The manuscript and box, you see, when used together, were said to point the way towards ancient Precursor sites of immense power. The Assassins, and, I assumed, the Templars, wanted to reach these sites in order to harness whatever mysterious power lay within. I had already heard tales of fantastical weapons; swords that could rouse the hearts of men, and Apples of Eden, ancient artefacts that could force those around you to carry out your will. I will admit that in those days I was more than a little curious as to what sort of artefacts the manuscript and box would lead us to.

We had arranged to meet with La Vérendrye at the port of Saint James. As far as I could tell the fort was little more than a freezing pit that offered passing vessels a safe place to refit and resupply. When we arrived we discovered that La Vérendrye’s ship, the Gerfaut, had been severely damaged. She was still afloat, but it was a close thing, and she was in no shape to venture out onto the open seas. It would take weeks and a lot of hard work to return her to the beautiful state in which La Vérendrye preferred to keep her.

Liam and I found our French comrade sitting on a crate near the port, taking large swigs from a suspect looking bottle. I don’t know what it was that La Vérendrye had been drinking, but as we approached him I could smell the alcohol on his breath. The man was already at least half way drunk.

Le Chasseur stood nearby, a couple of bottles of the same cheap alcohol placed by his feet, although judging by the fact that he was still capable of standing perfectly straight I did not think that he had imbibed nearly as much as La Vérendrye.

I don’t mind admitting that after everything La Vérendrye had put me though, when I saw the opportunity to revel in his own pain a little, I took it.

“Chevalier,” I greeted him. “What happened to your vessel?”

He didn’t even look up at me. Instead he took another long drink from the bottle in his hand.

“I got myself into a bit of a scrape,” he replied, sounding every bit as bitter as I had expected. “Sent three ships in all hands to their watery graves. The Gerfaut nearly followed them down.”

He went to take another drink from his bottle, discovered that it was empty and angrily threw it aside.

I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be getting anything more out of him. Chevalier de la Vérendrye was not as full of wrath as I had anticipated. Instead, seeing him so drunk and broken was almost disappointing. I suppose I could empathise with him, at least a little. After all, if I had been in his place and it was my beloved Morrigan that had been so badly damaged, I probably would have turned into a bitter, drunken wretch as well.

I turned my attention instead to La Vérendrye’s pirate ally, who was apparently content to simply stand back and watch La Vérendrye drink himself to oblivion.

“I trust your fate has been better Le Chasseur?” I asked.

“Indeed,” the pirate replied. “My sources informed me that Samuel Smith has searched far and wide looking for answers on how to make that strange box work. He just returned from New York.”

Le Chasseur grabbed the remaining couple of bottles from off the ground, tossed one to La Vérendrye who opened it with relish, and kept the second for himself.

“Where is Samuel Smith now?” I asked Le Chasseur.

“Refitting his schooner,” Le Chasseur replied with a grin. “If you hurry, you can catch him there.”

Le Chasseur grabbed a map from somewhere within his coat and tried to pass it to me, but before it had changed hands, La Vérendrye had jumped to his feet and snatched it out of Le Chasseur’s grip.

He stood there, taking a swig or two from his most recent bottle of alcohol as he gazed at the map. I contemplated snatching the piece of paper back, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead I stood behind La Vérendrye and tried to get a good look from over his shoulder.

Le Chasseur told us that Samuel Smith was travelling on board a ship named the Equitas. The map charted the Equitas’s last known location and projected course. He gave us all of her details, and told us all that he could about her movements. He was right. The Morrigan would hopefully be able to intercept the Equitas, but only if we made haste.

There was just enough time to resupply the Morrigan, and to fit her with a few new puckle guns that Le Chasseur had acquired for us as a gift, although I don’t think any member of my crew was sad to leave Saint James behind us so quickly.

As we made ready to leave we were granted another surprise to go along with Le Chasseur’s guns, although this one was far less pleasant.

I had not invited La Vérendrye onto my ship, much less asked him to accompany me on my pursuit of Smith, but he stumbled onto the Morrigan right as we were about to weigh anchor. He was still clearly drunk, and I cursed under my breath when he announced that he would be accompanying Liam and myself on our mission, but I refused to let La Vérendrye’s presence get to me. I was sure that he wanted me to be miserable, so I was going to be anything but. He did not make it easy though.

If I had thought that having La Vérendrye on board had been a pain in my arse the last time, he was even worse when he was drunk. He yelled his complaints about the Morrigan and her crew at the top of his lungs, complaining about her speed, her durability and anything else that came to mind. I am sure that the Morrigan was not as large or fast as his beloved Gerfaut, but I did not see how that gave him any right to be so disparaging.

“At least my ship is till seaworthy Chevalier,” I fired back in anger.

Eventually he began to sober up and get himself back under control, but I was already holding the Morrigan’s wheel so hard in my rage that I was afraid my fingers might leave indentations in the wood.

It wasn’t long before we spotted the Equitas, right where Le Chasseur had told us she would be.

“Lady luck never ceases to smile upon you Shay,” La Vérendrye commented, and I frowned.

It wasn’t luck. Despite how much La Vérendrye liked to put down my ship and my crew, it was skill and careful planning that had allowed us to catch the Equitas. Le Chasseur’s reports had been correct, and the Morrigan had made even better time than I could have hoped. That was why we had found the Equitas. Luck had nothing to do with it.

The three of us; myself, Liam and La Vérendrye, all knew that Samuel Smith was the man who controlled most of the Templars wealth. He was an important figure, and La Vérendrye argued that we should kill the man as soon as we possibly could.

I knew that we couldn’t however, and told my companions as such. After all, Lawrence Washington had entrusted Samuel Smith with the Precursor box. If he still possessed it and we fired upon the Equitas, then we might send it to the bottom of the ocean along with the ship and the high-ranking Templar on board.

We couldn’t risk it, or risk engaging with the Equitas at all. There was nothing for it but to follow the Equitas until it pulled into port.

The Equitas must have spotted us, because it changed its heading and turned towards the north. We kept pace with it, and all the while I wondered what the devil the captain was playing at.

Their plan soon became clear. The Equitas made for a large channel; one which had almost completely frozen over with ice. Rather than be deterred by the ice however it powered forward, cutting through the ice almost effortlessly.

“She’s hoping she’ll lose us,” Liam commented, turning to me and grinning. “Thinks either we’ll brave the ice and get ourselves caught, or that we’ll go the long way around and lose them completely.”

I returned his smile.

“If that’s what the Templars are hoping for then they’re in for an unpleasant surprise,” I replied.

La Vérendrye looked between the two of us, clearly unaware of the reason for our confidence. I called for full sails and Liam relayed the order, and the Morrigan charged after the Equitas at full speed.

I could see La Vérendrye growing concerned as we approached the massive sheet of ice. Little did La Vérendrye know that Liam and I had added a few very important upgrades to the Morrigan since he had last joined us on board. We had invested in some new cannons and upgraded the armour on her hull for a start, but the most crucial upgrade, at least as far as our current journey was concerned, was the addition of an ice ram on her hull.

This beautiful piece of modern technology meant that even a smaller ship like the Morrigan would be able to plough through ice sheets like those in front of us as though they were nothing. Considering how often my travels had taken the Morrigan and myself to the frozen north in recent months I had considered it a vital addition.

This was the first time that we had tested out the ice ram, and as we started to successfully cut through the ice the men let out cheers of triumph. Even Chevalier de la Vérendrye’s manner changed from fearful doubt to pleasant surprise. I could tell that he was impressed. Perhaps this ice ram would be the thing to finally get him to compliment the Morrigan. I was underestimating how much of an arse he could be though.

I let out another cheer as we cleared a particularly thick sheet of ice.

“Don’t waste time congratulating yourself,” La Vérendrye snapped in reply.

I found myself frowning, if only for a moment, but then I told myself that I would not let La Vérendrye’s terrible manner bring me down. The ice ram was a wondrous success, whether La Vérendrye was willing to admit it or not.

We continued the chase, the Equitas leading us to parts unknown. She was clearly desperate to be rid of us, but seemed as unwilling to engage in open combat as we were. I became more and more certain that the Precursor box must be on board the ship, and Smith and the ship’s crew were doing everything that they could to protect it.

As we continued to chase after the Equitas they began to drop flaming barrels of tar and pitch into the water behind them. The sea’s current made them drift towards us, and it took a lot of clever manoeuvring to avoid them. As it was one of them made contact with the Morrigan’s hull. The flames turned some of the rigging to ash, we lost one of our lifeboats, and her side was scarred by a nasty black mark and a few small holes that the men quickly patched up as best as they could.

Eventually the Equitas pulled ashore at a small island that appeared to be of little consequence, and which was situated many miles from any sort of settlement. We weighed anchor a little further down the shore. Samuel Smith and his allies knew that we were coming, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t still take him by surprise.

I left Liam and La Vérendrye on board the Morrigan and swam ashore. The island was covered in a thick blanket of snow, but there were still trees enough for my purpose. I took to them as soon as I possibly could, and travelled through them, just as Kesegowaase and the other Assassins had taught me, until I spied Samuel Smith’s encampment.

The Templar had wasted no time in preparing for my arrival. He had surrounded himself with guards and seemed to be yelling at them.

As I grew closer I soon realised he was not shouting at his men however, but at me. I was taken aback. I had been careful. It did not seem possible for him to have already spotted me. It soon became clear that his voice and the wild gesturing of his hands were not being pointed in my direction however, but rather at the clearing as a whole.

He was screaming and yelling at the whole island in an attempt to communicate with me. If an observer had not known about my presence then they might have thought Smith a madman.

“You will regret this!” he shouted. “Think about what you are doing, Assassin. Your brotherhood is using you!”

Smith knew that I was coming, but it was clear that he had no idea where I actually was, otherwise his men would have already shot me. I watched him for a moment, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on the words that he was shouting. They were affecting me more than I would have liked to admit, poking at old scars that had barely begun to heal.

I frowned, forced myself to focus on the Templar, and waited for the perfect moment to strike. I could already tell that Samuel Smith would be an easy kill. His hand shook as he held a sword in front of him. Even if I hadn’t managed to sneak after him, I doubt he could wield the blade well enough to even injure me in a proper fight. It did not seem fair, but I forced myself to harden my heart, as I had learned to do all too well during my time with the Assassins.

As soon as the perfect moment arrived I leapt down on top of the Templar, my hidden blade plunging into his chest, right where I knew his heart would be.

Samuel Smith immediately fell to the ground, the Precursor box flying out from within the folds of his coat as he did.

“This cannot be,” Samuel Smith cried out as he reached for the box. Even in his death throes he was focussed only on protecting the damn thing.

I kicked it out of his reach. None of Smith’s guards moved to pick it up. I was in that strange in between land between life and death once more, trapped in an intimate moment with Smith right before mortality claimed him.

“No!” the Templar cried out, as though the loss of the box had hurt him even more than the blade which had plunged through his heart.

I leaned down and picked the box up. I remember thinking that it seemed so small for something which held so much power.

On the ground by my feet Smith did his best to crawl after me.

“Do you even known what that is?” he asked me.

“An ancient artefact,” I answered. “A treasure from those who came before.”

“Yes,” Smith gasped as death began to claim him, and then appeared to lose all will to fight. “It matters not.”

He paused, and began to cough up blood. My attack had skewered his lung as well as his heart. His death was not as quick and painless as I would have liked, but judging by how weak he was growing, and how difficult he seemed to find it to speak, it would not be too long regardless.

“Some of the greatest scientific minds of all Europe,” Smith continued, his breathing laboured and his words slow, “could not… make it… work…”

I had the box. I also had answers as to why it had taken us so long to track the blasted thing down. Smith had travelled to Europe to seek answers, and yet he still had not found any. I could already hear Liam’s voice telling me that we had scored a grand victory; that it was a time for optimism. It was perhaps easier to convince myself I was glad at Smith’s passing than it had been with Washington’s; after all, I had finally made progress after months of stagnation; but I was not glad. Victory against a man who could not hold his sword straight did not seem like a victory at all.

Regardless, I had other things to focus on. As Samuel Smith let out his last breath and his heart stopped beating once and for all, I was plunged back into the living world, and discovered that Samuel Smith’s guards were aware that I had killed him and had begun to surround me.

I had to kill a couple of them before I fled, heading back in the direction of the Morrigan. The guards chased me, but could not follow me through the trees and over the steep rocky surfaces that lay between themselves and my ship. By the time I reached my destination there were no guards in sight.

I passed the box to Liam and shook off some of the freezing cold water that clung to my jacket. As I expected my friend immediately tried to convince me it was a time for celebration, but I found I could summon no joy.

La Vérendrye was apparently hiding away in the cabin he had claimed as his own, nursing the last of what was proving to be a dreadful hangover, so at least I could voice my doubts to Liam without the French man overhearing.

“I don’t feel much like celebrating,” I tried to tell my friend. “I know we have to get these artefacts back, but at what cost? Samuel Smith could barely hold his sword straight. Killing him was…”

“Necessary,” Liam interrupted me.

“But,” I began, about to say that Samuel Smith had never done anything against the Assassin cause. The man was a glorified paper pusher, for god’s sake, but I was not allowed to say more than that single word before Liam was interrupting me once more.

“But nothing!” Liam snapped. “Smith was a dangerous man, a Templar, and what’s worse he had the Precursor box. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Perhaps,” I conceded, realising that there would be no point in arguing with Liam, not in his current mood.

Needless to say, I was not proud of myself, and I was beginning to find it very hard indeed to pretend that I was. I could no longer convince myself that I believed everything Liam was telling me.

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#i make my own novel #assassin's creed #assassins creed rogue #assassin's creed rogue #shay cormac #shay patrick cormac #liam o'brien #chevalier de la verendrye

[sasi-in-wonderland]

How to safe a life (Assassin’s Creed Fanfiction Shay X Haytham)

A short Shaytham Fanfiction. Just had the idea. I hope you like it :) 

  It was already late on this day. It was winter and pretty snowy and cold 

outside.Haytham and Shay were on the Morrigan to organize and plan some stuff for the order. "That was it for today i think." Haytham said while laying away his notes. "Sir, you should eat something." Shay said while he opened a cabinet and pulled out a basket full of fresh red apples. Haytham looked at the basket and smiled. "What?" Shay asked him confused. It was an unusual sight to see the Grandmaster smiling. "Nothing, i just think you have a predilection for apples." Haytham said. Shay nodded "I do". He replied while Haytham took an apple and ate it. "They are very tasty and fresh." the Grandmaster said. "Indeed, i got them this morning from a market. I am very sorry that i don't have anything else here at the moment." Shay apologized. "Don't worry it's fine. Shay, i have to talk to you about something." "And what might that be?" Shay asked and leaned against a wall. "Tomorrow we need to set sail to Boston, i need to do some business there, would that be okay?" Haytham asked. Shay looked confused at him. "Sir, of course it is okay. What business?" he asked. Haytham shook his head. "Shay, you know you are my most trusted companion but this is something personal..." he said. Shay looked at him "I understand, Sir. I will immediately order Gist to set sail to Boston. The wind is just fine, we should be there at midday by tomorrow. Please get some rest while i will take the control of my ship." Shay said. Haytham grabbed Shays arm "Wait... there is something else." "Sir?" Shay looked at him. "I have a mission for you which you need to take care of while i will take care of the personal business. You shall sail to Philadelphia and take down the Assassin quarters there." Shay nodded "I understand. I won't disappoint you. But please Sir, you need some rest... don't take it personal but you work too much the last days... you barely get rest. This is not good...." Shay said with a sign of worrying in his eyes. Haytham sighed. "You are right, Shay... you know... there are so many things going on in my mind...." he said while sitting on the bed in the cabin. "Maybe it would help if you talk about it....furthermore i hope it isn't a dangerous personal mission" Shay said while looking into the tired eyes of his Master. Haytham shook his head. "Cormac, i want to give you something..." Shay looked at him. Haytham handed him over a small book which looked like a diary. "Please just take care of it, while i will be away." he said. "As you wish, Sir, but now please get some rest." Shay took the book and left the cabin to steer the morrigan.On the next morning the temprature was sinking deeper so it was even colder. The wind was flogging into Shays face as he threw out the anchor in Boston. Haytham came out of his cabin. He still looked tired even though he slept until midday. "Good morning, Sir, hope you had a peaceful night." Shay asked. Haytham looked at Shay "You were up the whole night to steer your ship?" he asked surprised. "Aye, i was. Just as i promised we arrived now." Shay said. "Cormac, you should get some rest too if you stay up all night and sail overtired you will crush against a growler and kill us all." he exhorted him. "Don't worry, Sir. I am a skilled captain. I know what i do." Shay assured. "Alright then... i will be back soon, do not forget your mission." Haytham said and left the morrigan.

Shay looked behind him with a weird feeling. "Everything alright, Captain Cormac?" Gist asked. Shay nodded. "Set sail to Philadelphia! I have some business to do." he commanded.A few hours later the Morrigan reached the harbour of Philadelphia. Shay looked at Gist "Christopher, please take care of my ship." he said while Gist nodded. Shay walked through Philadelphia while still having a weird feeling about the personal business of his master. On his way to the target he bumped into an old lady. "Watch where you walk!" she hissed. "Excuse me." Shay said and realized that something felt out of his pocket. It was the mysterious book which he got from Haytham. He picked it up. There must have been a reason why he gave it to me... he thought.He sat down on a bench and opened it. "It's his journal.... but why...... i cannot read it...." he said it to himself. He knew it was wrong to read it but curiosity always had the upper hand. Shay started to read the Diary. He overleapt some pages. Sir....i never knew you had a sister.... neither did i know your father was killed by a Templar..... he thought. Personal mission.....so you are taking revenge on Reginald Birch..... Shay thought. He was worried about Haytham since he was stressed out a lot the last days... but he also had a mission to do. Should he postpone his mission...? But what would Haytham, who was thinking so high of him thinking about him then?

Maybe Master Kenway needs me right now.... Shay thought and decided to postpone his mission.Shay went back on his Ship and commanded Gist to set sail as soon as possible to sail back to Boston. Gist looked at Shay "Well that was fast business." Shay looked at him "I didn't get my mission done... Gist... i have a bad feeling about Master Kenway...like something happened to him....." Gist raised his eyebrow. "Captain Cormac you should not worry. The Grandmaster is very skilled. He will be alright whatever his mission is." he said. Shay looked at him "Gist... even the most skilled people aren't safe from death...." Shay said while thinking about the part about Edward James Kenway's death in the journal.One hour later the morrigan reached Boston. Gist looked up into the sky. "Captain Cormac...? Do you see that...?" he pointed at a big cloud of dark smoke. Shay cursed. "That's not good. I have to go!, Gist, please take care of the ship!" Shay said as he wanted to run into the direction of the cloud. Gist grabbed Shays arm. "You will not go there alone." he said. "As you said the most skilled people aren't safe from death.... your own words..." Gist said. Shay looked at him. "Thank you, mate." Shay said and ran with Gist into the direction of the smoke as two aggressive people ran towards them and attacked them. "I will take care of them! Look for Master Kenway!" Gist yelled. One of the attackers grinned "Master Kenway, huh? Well he will get roasted by now." the man said. Shay looked shocked "Birch..?!" "Indeed that's my name." the man said. "GO CORMAC, don't lose any time!!" Gist yelled while fighting against Birch and his comrade. Shay nodded and pulled on his mask to ran into the smoke. It wasn't easy to see there "MASTER KENWAY??" he yelled as loud as he could several times. He got no answer. He saw a big house which was on fire. "Shit..." Shay cursed and walked into the house trying to avoid the flames as safely as possible. "MASTER KENWAY???" he yelled again caughing because of the smoke. The smoke was burning in his eyes. Many corpses were laying around. He looked to the floor and saw Haythams hat laying there. "Master Kenway!!!" he picked up his hat and walked further into the house. There he saw Haytham laying on the floor. "MASTER KENWAY!!" Shay picked him up immediately and tried to find a way out of the house. Flames everywhere. He wrapped Haytham into his cloak and ran through the flames outside, coughing from the smoke. Gist was still outside badly injured but he was still able to walk. Beside him lay the corpses of Birch and the other man. As Gist saw Shay he immediately wrapped a blanket around him to turn off the flames. "Captain...Cormac.... i am sorry... i did my best..." Gist passed out too Shay caught his body with his other arm. With Haytham and Gist in his arms he went back to the ship. He staggered his way. His eyesight was blurring from the smoke. Meanwhile Gist was awake again. Shay layed Gist into his Cabin he was able to bond his injuries himself. Shay carried Haytham into his cabin and layed him on his bed. He layed his fingers on his neck to find out that his pulse was very weak. Shay sighed. "Master Kenway... please hold on...." Shay whispered while grabbing Haythams Hands. Shay also had a lot of injuries caused by the fire but he didn't cared about them. His priority now was his Grandmaster. Night came and Haytham still didn't woke up. Shay lit some candles and sat beside Haythams bed, holding his hands while taking care of him. He layed his head on the bed and fell asleep.Time went by so fast. The third day in the middle of the night Shay still sat beside his Grandmaster and slept with his head on his bedside. Shays hands still laying on Haythams hands. Haytham opened his eyes slowly, looking around. "Where am i....?" he asked quietly. Shay felt Haythams hands slowly moving and woke up. "Cormac....?" Haytham asked. "Master Kenway...." Shay said. Shays eyes filled up with tears as he pulled Haytham slowly into his arms. He tried to hide them. Haytham looked confused. "Cormac....?" Haytham asked again. "You almost died...." Shay whispered. Haythams eyes widened. "I remember....there was an ambush..... Birch wasn't alone.....I.... wait where did you know....?" he asked Shay. "Master Kenway... i am so sorry.... i read your journal.... the one you gave to me before you went there....." Shay said quietly still holding Haytham. "I gave it to you in case i wouldn't survive....how long was i gone...?" "three days.... Gist was also injured but he is fine right now.... he killed Birch...." Shay said. Haytham sighed relieved. "You were laying on the floor in the burning house... i thought you were......" Shay swallowed. Haytham looked at Shay. He cares so much about me....Haytham thought and layed his hands on Shays shoulders. "You saved my life....." Haytham said. "But you shouldn't risk your life because of mine...." he continued. "Master Cormac, your life is much more valuable than mine.... without you the order would bankrupt...." Shay said while slowly letting go of Haytham. "No it wouldn't." Haytham said. Shay looked at him wondering. "Because they would have another great grandmaster.... Shay Patrick Cormac.... promise me something...." Haytham said. "Anything, Master Kenway...." Shay said looking deeply into his Masters' eyes. "If something happens to me... and i won't survive... please take in my place...." Shay nodded. "Yes, Sir...." Haytham smiled weakly and pulled Shay close then kissed him deeply

~ The End ~

#Assassin's Creed #haytham kenway #shay patrick cormac #christopher gist #fanfiction

[wootensmith]

Doom

“Tetragonal structure. It’s not like the normal lyrium,” said Dagna, peering through the glass. “Do you think that could be changing the tonal quality? Why it ‘sings’ differently?” asked Dorian. “Possible,” she answered, “We can run some tests.” “Solas, would you stop pacing for two minutes together?” “I apologize,” he said and came to an uneasy rest beside the table. Dorian glanced up at him. “She’ll be back any minute, I’m certain. The boy can’t have gone far. We’ve already combed the grounds between us.” “I should have gone with her.” “I don’t know, Morrigan’s downright scary when she wants to be,” said Dagna. “Always has been. Wouldn’t want to cross her if I were you.” “Besides, if she’s through the eluvian, then at least she’s safe from Corypheus, right? If he’d found one we’d be dust by now,” added Dorian. “There are worse dangers than Corypheus,” said Solas. They both stared at him. But Cassandra burst into the Undercroft before either of them could question him. “War room,” she barked. “The Inquisitor’s back. Morrigan says they have a plan.” “Ha! What did I say?” Dorian clapped his shoulder. “A plan?” asked Solas, “I thought they were looking for Kieran.” Cassandra frowned. “I don’t know what happened, but the boy is safe. I am not certain about the Inquisitor, though. She seems— shaken.” He followed her across the Keep and into the War room. 

“I know how to defeat his dragon,” Morrigan was saying. “As for matching Corypheus, that is up to you, Inquisitor.” “Yes,” the Inquisitor answered. “I know.” The others broke into a low chatter of planning. Solas pulled her aside. “Are you well?” he asked. “I saw her,” she said, still half-mesmerized. “I spoke to Mythal. In the Crossroads, she had brought Kieran. She was not— she is not as I expected.” She laughed but it was sad and low. She shook her head. “She did not— there was no mention of anything besides Corypheus. The aid she offers against him— it changes nothing else.” “I didn’t expect it to, my love,” he answered. “I did.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “I am glad you still have hope. And sorry when it is crushed. I will find her once Corypheus is dealt with. Perhaps she—” She cried out and clutched at her hand as the mark flared. The room was awash in green flame, not all of it from her and the others turned toward the window. “It is almost done, my love,” he said quietly, pulling her hand into his own. He traced the cracks of the anchor with a cooling spell. “Let us finish it and end this poison.” “The Breach has reopened,” called Cassandra, pointing to the window. “Then we must return to Haven,” said the Inquisitor, recovering and straightening, though he could feel the mark bursting from her skin in thrumming pulses. He tried not to imagine the pain it was causing her. Cullen shook his head. “I have no forces to send, they are still on the road from the Arbor Wilds.” “I know,” she said. “Perhaps it is best this way. The soldiers cannot seal the Breach. They can only fall. They will be needed here when they return.” “When we return,” said Cassandra. “I— yes, of course,” said the Inquisitor. “Skyhold must stand until then. Iron Bull, can the Chargers do it?” “Sure, Boss, but—” She shook her head to cut him off. “Dorian, we will need to activate the wards—” she touched Solas’s shoulder. “Will you show him? Below?” He hesitated. “Tel’vara,” he said. “Not without you.” He moved away. She had already turned to Vivienne to organize the mages. He tugged Dorian’s arm and led him to the ancient library. “She can’t really mean to leave me behind,” protested Dorian. “She means for you to save them if we fail,” he said, pressing the latch at the side of a shelf. “Third row, left. Remember.” “Yes, of course,” Dorian said absently. Anyone else, Solas would have forced to repeat the instruction. But Dorian was listening, even distracted as he was. “It isn’t shameful,” he answered, flicking a ball of veilfire into a nearby torch and ducking into the dark tunnel. “She trusts you to act in her stead. It is not a small thing.” “Then why not ask you to do it?” He tried to clear the tightness in his throat. “I would not have agreed, if she asked. I suspect she knew that. And— I think she meant it as a kindness for all of us. If this ends badly, then you will be with Bull. And I will be with her.” Dorian hurried down the tunnel behind him. “What am I meant to do if she falls?” “Remember that Corypheus is mortal. And remind others. Protect them until the time comes that another can challenge him.” He fell silent a moment and then stopped and turned to Dorian. “The stories we tell, the things we remember— they make us believe that the side of the righteous and the good always win. That evil is always beaten back. Real war— is not what it appears. But there are battles that are worth fighting, even as you know you will be crushed. We may fail. Corypheus may reign for a time, and it will be terrible. But he is not a god, as much as he wishes he were. And if the worst comes to pass, still it is not the end. Another will come along, in time. Perhaps many others. They always do. Even in the very darkest times good people exist. I know. I’ve found them. And someday, someone will succeed in defeating him. This place— you, Dorian, must stand until they arrive.” Dorian shivered. “Maker’s breath, Solas, don’t fail.” “I don’t intend to. But if we do— I will be at peace knowing it is you who remains to fight.” “Won’t bring me any,” Dorian muttered. The stones around them shook and he flinched. “We’re running out of time.” He gave Solas a gentle push forward. When they emerged from the veilfire chamber again, Vivienne was issuing hasty orders to the mages and Iron Bull was already on the battlements surveying the distant emerald fire that blazed over the horizon. Dorian squeezed the Inquisitor’s hand. “Don’t forget your barrier, sorora, I will not be there to remind you,” he said. She leaned down on the horse to embrace him. “I have not forgotten my shield, fratera, I leave him here to guard my people,” she said. “If the Breach does not close, bring them back to the Veilfire room. Don’t let Bull and the Chargers waste themselves on the Keep. And— and take your research with you, you will need it.” Dorian looked over at him, confused, but Solas shook his head, putting it off for later. If they did not survive, there would be no pushing back the Blight. It did no good to alarm him. Solas leapt up onto his waiting horse beside the Inquisitor and they sped off. For all his caution, he did not suspect that he would not see the three of them again. What might he have said to them, had he known? What might he have asked of them for the Inquisitor’s sake? The journey to Skyhold had taken several days on foot. But the return was much faster. The deep winter snow was lessening as they descended the mountains, spring already creeping up its side. They had no refugees to care for and linger over and the horses were swift. Even so, the sun had already sunk by the time they reached the valley. Dozens of frightened settlers had gathered near the ruins of Haven, seeking some aid. The Inquisitor stopped when she saw them. She glanced back at the others, barely visible in the dusk. “Yes,” said Cole suddenly, appearing beside her. “I can do that.” He turned to Sera. “They need help. A quick way, a secret way, back up the mountain.” Sera slid from her horse. “Why me? Why not Varric?” she asked. “Bianca needs the workout,” called Varric. “Be safe, Sera,” was all the Inquisitor said. Sera reached a hand up to hers. “Come back, Buckles,” she said. The Inquisitor nodded. Sera and Cole melted into the crowd. The Inquisitor pressed her heel to her horse’s flank and they moved on. “This is as it should be,” she said after a few moments of silence. “Ending as it began.” “It’s only poetic if we survive to tell it,” said Varric. “You will,” said the Inquisitor. “We will,” said Varric. “Tragedies don’t sell. And my publisher is scarier than Corypheus.” She let out a shaky laugh. Solas was glad to hear it, even weak as it was. Cassandra was praying, the words a staccato whisper on Solas’s right side. He wished something was there to hear it. For her sake. "You who stand before the gates, you who have followed me into the heart of evil, the fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat. Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember: not alone do we stand on the field of battle,” he said calmly, Cassandra stuttering to a stop to listen. “I didn’t know you knew the Chant, Solas,” she said. “I have heard it many times. That verse, particularly, is comforting, regardless of belief.” The Inquisitor’s horse shied as stones beside the path rose into the air. Varric swore under his breath. A dense hum of magic threaded through the air. The Inquisitor hissed through her teeth as the anchor brightened, a burning star in the palm of her hand. Solas leapt down and ran to help her. “Tell me, where is your Maker now?” Corypheus’s voice rumbled against the rocks, rolling over the entire valley. Cassandra shuddered and her sword scraped out of its scabbard. “Call Him. Call down His wrath upon me.” “It is coming, demon,” muttered the Seeker. “I’m well,” said the Inquisitor, pushing his hand gently from hers. “You aren’t,” he answered. “It is only a fleeting pain. A few more moments and it will be gone, for good. Save your strength— I will need you.” He pulled his staff from his horse’s saddle. Varric swatted his pony and it took off, back toward home. The others followed. Corypheus’s laugh shook the valley. The Inquisitor shuddered. “You cannot, for He does not exist,” came the heavy voice, “I am Corypheus. I shall deliver you from this lie in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared!” “Maker’s breath, he eats a little rotten lyrium and practices some lopsided necromancy on a dragon and he thinks he’s a god. He’s madder than Meredith was,” said Varric. He checked Bianca and looked up at the Inquisitor. “Tired of this shit, Inquisitor. Let’s get it done.” She nodded. They wove through the ruins of the temple, more of it slowly rising into the air. A large shockwave pulsed past them and they heard cries from ahead. Harding’s scouts were battling a score of fear demons when they reached the inner temple, Corypheus standing placidly by, Solas’s orb spinning in his palm. She cried out at the sight of it and Corypheus saw her. His laugh rasped and slithered around them, malice made sound. “I knew you would come,” he said, offering them a mock bow. Solas finished off a demon with the end of his staff. “It ends here, Corypheus,” said the Inquisitor. She stood tall and still, her voice clear. But he could feel her pulling at him, an urgent tug beneath the skin. He slammed the butt of the staff to the ground. Still here, Vhenan, he thought. “And so it shall.” The magic Corypheus gathered was like a building storm between them. Even Harding’s scouts felt it, backing quickly away. The earth beneath his feet shook and rose, the edges crumbling away in a heavy rain of soil and rock. A few islands of cinder and stone hung high above Thedas. High enough that Solas could make out the glimmer of Skyhold beyond the peaks of the mountains. No escape. “You have been successful in foiling most of my plans,” said Corypheus as the trembling beneath them stopped. “But let us not forget what you are. A thief. In the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat.” “Then we are the same, you and I,” said the Inquisitor. “The orb is not yours. It never was. And you are much smaller than you know. Turn back, Corypheus. Or you would be the god of a dead world. The master of nothing.” Cassandra looked over at her, startled. “What?” she asked. “You cannot save someone who does not wish it, Vhenan,” he warned. “He does not dread the Blight. He has been a creature of it for centuries.” “And who, instead should take my place? You?” sneered Corypheus, “We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.” “Neither of us, Corypheus. You are not the first to pretend. And not the first to fall. Turn back, before it is too late.” A shriek tore the air overhead. The dragon was loose. “C’mon Morrigan,” murmured Varric. “She’ll be here,” whispered Solas. As if in answer, a deep roar shook the ruins and the heavy thrum of large wings passed overhead. “You dare?” asked Corypheus backing up a step. The Inquisitor’s barrier rippled up around them, Cassandra already charging toward the enormous magister. Corypheus easily fade-stepped away, his laugh echoing over the stones. “A dragon. How clever of you. It will avail you nothing. You will fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will.” “Divine ass, maybe,” muttered Varric, a bolt already leaving his crossbow as he circled to higher ground behind Solas. “Sera would be proud,” said Solas feeling the satisfying thud as his spell connected, freezing Corypheus’s twisted flesh. “Kind of busy, Chuckles,” shouted Varric, “Leaving the witty stuff to you.” Another bolt streaked by. Cassandra had connected now, her blade chipping away at the bone and crystal that somehow held the creature together. The Inquisitor’s lightning arced and leapt, branching and bunching as it crept toward Corypheus. She was drawing from the Breach, he could tell, even without looking at the mark, her own magic a warm flood pushing back the magister’s own. “I will not stand for this outrage!” shouted Corypheus and a wall of red lyrium pierced the earth around him. The Inquisitor’s spell broke off abruptly and she clutched her head with a cry. Solas felt it too, the agonizing hum of the crystals. He clenched his teeth together hard enough that he feared they might break and turned his spell from their enemy to the red poison. They shattered, piece by piece and she recovered, shaking her head. Cassandra slammed into the magister again with a clang. Corypheus roared and vanished, fade-stepping again. “If you desire death, you shall have it,” he shouted. Cassandra cried out and buckled to her knees. She held back a stream of poisonous power with her shield and it grew hot almost instantly. Solas fade-stepped to her, yanking her out of its path. “Go!” he shouted, racing for the stairs. The others were just behind. The periodic zip of Varric’s crossbows echoed behind him until a great roar and clatter made him turn. The stairs had crumbled away behind the Inquisitor as the dragons smashed into them. “Varric!” she called, reaching over the gap as the dwarf leapt for them, but it was too far. “Don’t worry, Inquisitor,” he shouted back, “Bianca’s bite goes farther than you’d think.” She shook her head. “Get to cover. I don’t know what happens if he lets it fall.” “Let’s find out.” Varric aimed at the distant form of the magister above him and shot again. Solas pulled her up the steps. Cassandra was already fighting a lesser demon, chopping her way toward Corypheus. He pulled his own barrier around them. The Inquisitor flung a searing bolt. She was getting stronger the closer they came to the Breach. But so was Corypheus. “Rattus,” scowled the Tevinter, “You are nothing. Part of a race of sniveling cowards who shrank before Tevinter’s power.” “And you are a carrion beetle,” snapped Solas, “A burrowing pest that cannot leave the dead in peace but claims a giant’s corpse as his kingdom and revels in the rot that he finds there. A scavenger that can neither kill nor create but only steal.” His own spell tore from his hands, slamming into Corypheus who rocked backward with the blow. “And this rattus will end you.” “I will sear you from the heavens!” he answered and Solas’s heart stuttered at the agonized cry of the Inquisitor. Pure fade splashed down upon her and she clutched her arm. “Vhenan!” he shouted. “I’m well,” she gasped, staggering to her feet. Cassandra grunted and bashed the magister. He slid away again and Solas’s spell hit the empty ash where he had stood. “Follow him,” said the Inquisitor, sprinting even as she gripped her arm. “Look out!” screamed Cassandra, shoving him. A massive boulder smashed into the ground between them, a small shard shattering off and nicking his cheek. “Ma serannas, Seeker,” he managed. She nodded and they raced after the Inquisitor. “The dragon is wounded,” she called back to them. “Mythal told us we must end it if we are to defeat Corypheus. He will not die as long as it lives.” “Then I’m glad we’ve had practice at this,” said Cassandra, bending to catch her breath. The dragon’s massive skull turned toward them, its bones knit together by a few flaps of remaining hide and ruby crystals. “This will hurt,” said the Inquisitor. “You should stay back,” he said, pushing in front of her. “No. It will be over soon enough.” She gathered a crackling ball of white fire between her hands, her skin snapping and shimmering. “Ready?” she asked. “Always,” said Cassandra, bouncing on her toes. The lightning shot out, popping and arcing in a tortured bend. A thick, nauseating stench rose from the dragon as it roasted under her fire. Cassandra slashed at it’s hide, trying to rip it open. Solas’s hands swirled and a deep cloud formed above. “Seeker,” he warned and she looked up, sprinting away. He let it go, a frozen rain spattering the dragon. For a few seconds, its hide steamed and hissed where the lightning had struck. Then it slowed, its skin stiffening. It was never a strong thing, this creature of ancient bone and brittle scales. But its breath and claws were deadly, even so. It had long terrorized them. No longer. Another power stolen by Corypheus. Another creature enslaved to his mad will. Cassandra and the Inquisitor closed in, neither holding back, and it shattered, collapsing and crumbling into ash. A plume of red sparks rose from it, sucked away toward the tower. “What was that?” asked Cassandra. “Corypheus,” said the Inquisitor. “Or— some vital part of him. He is vulnerable now. We must hurry.” “Let it end here!Let the skies boil, let the world be rent asunder!” shouted the Tevinter from above. The Inquisitor looked over at him, the terror plain on her face. “Could he do it? Now? Are we too late?” “I don’t know, Vhenan,” he said sadly, looking up at the tower. He stumbled up another set of stairs. Her footsteps echoed closely behind, but Cassandra lagged, exhausted. The tower shook and Cassandra shouted for help. They turned and saw the archway collapsing between them. “Cassandra!” called the Inquisitor. She threw aside her staff and clawed at the rubble. “I’m well, Inquisitor. But I cannot reach you.” He sagged with relief at her voice. “Are you trapped?” asked the Inquisitor, still rolling aside stones. “No, I was not beneath the arch. Maker’s mercy, I’ve failed you—” “You haven’t. You have brought us so far, Cassandra. We will finish it. Find Varric if you can— and the others.” “I’ll find a way through. I’ll get to you somehow.” “Rest, Seeker,” said Solas, touching the stones. “It will be over long before you can find a way. Do not exhaust yourself. You will be needed, no matter the result.” There was a deep sigh from the other side, but no further argument. Solas picked up the Inquisitor’s staff and handed it back to her. “We must go,” he said, “He will not need long to tear it down.” She nodded and headed further up. She was shaking and he caught her hand in his own. “Whatever happens,” she said, turning her face to him, “Know that you are loved. Just as you are.” She released his hand and sprinted for the top. The Breach was larger and the orb pulsed with power in Corypheus’s hand. “Grant me power, to finish this last rite,” he demanded. “Who are you praying to?” asked the Inquisitor, lunging for him. “We all know there is no one listening.” Corypheus flung an arm out at her and she went flying, her back slamming into a stone pillar. Solas didn’t look, couldn’t look, to see if it had killed her. Not when everything she’d suffered for was still in the monster’s hand. He drew from the Breach, a great chunk of stone hurtling into Corypheus. Bigger even than the one Andruil had tried to kill him with so long ago. Corypheus just laughed and batted it away. “The orb sustains me,” he said, and knocked Solas onto his knees. “For how long?” he asked, struggling to stand again. “It is not yours to command. It will kill you. It is already killing her and she has taken care to use it only as she must. You toy with it, and all the time it is consuming you.” Solas had never been so grateful to see the web of lightning. It slammed into Corypheus. Still alive, he thought. Corypheus staggered. Tried again to summon more power. Solas began tearing at his connection to the Fade. “Not like this!” cried Corypheus. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages—” He clutched at the orb, trying to pull from it, fighting Solas. The Inquisitor’s hand closed upon his arm, leaning on him for aid. She raised the anchor as he stopped to hold her up. She was battered, blood trickling through her hair, one of her legs dragging uselessly behind her. “Dumat! Ancient Ones, I beseech you,” continued Corypheus. “If you exist, if you ever truly existed, aid me now.” “They cannot hear you,” groaned the Inquisitor. The mark flared and the orb wrenched away from Corypheus and into her hand. “We are utterly alone.” She looked over at Solas. “Is this what you want? If you ask me, I will yield.” she said, weary and hopeless. His reluctance and own hope won. “Close it, my love,” he said, “Buy us a little more time.” The mark exploded, arced through her, through the orb in a great channel of power. The breach twisted, pulling itself closed, a great wound, healing at last. “This cannot be,” said Corypheus as she took a limping step toward him, the orb still in hand. “It is,” she said, taking a few more dragging steps. “See for yourself.” She ripped open a small tear. Corypheus cried out and was sucked in as it snapped shut again. She dropped to the stones, the orb at her side. The tower shuddered, Corypheus’s spell collapsing. “It’s coming down!” she shouted, her hands shooting up to protect herself. His own raised out of pure instinct. A massive boulder hung suspended above her head, their spells holding it there. She looked up at it and then at the orb that had rolled between them. It sat under the shadow of the same stone that threatened her. She looked up at him. “Take it,” she said. He stared at it for a second. “There’s no other way, Solas.” She looked up at the boulder again. “If I let go to move—” “Push it away. Help me.” He tried to push against it with his magic, but it was too large and he was too exhausted. “I can’t,” she cried. “There’s nothing left.” He faltered. “Take it. Save them. Save your people.” “Don’t ask this.” “I can’t hold it much longer, emma lath,” she pleaded. “Take it. Hurry.” He tried again to shove it away. The boulder slipped a foot toward her. His own spell was failing. “You’re the only one who can stop this,” she said, “You told me yourself. Take it or lose everything.” He let go and fade-stepped.

#solas #solas x lavellan #lavellan #dragon age inquisition #corypheus

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Abelas’alas’en

Chapter 41 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! A bit of a longer one, so only the first half is here; read the whole thing on AO3. 

A very conversation-heavy chapter here, with a hint of smut because Rynne can’t keep it in her damned pants.

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

Much later that night, Fenris lay gazing up at the canopy of the bed while Hawke’s slow and sleepy breaths ghosted across his chest. He’d spent the past couple of hours drifting in and out of a restless sort of slumber. Hazy, unfocused anxieties kept drifting across his mind like half-dead leaves on a sluggish autumn river, and he couldn’t quite tell if they were fragments of dreams, or pieces of his waking worries that refused to depart his half-conscious mind. 

One concern in particular kept rising to the front of his thoughts. And unlike his worries about Corypheus and the future and the anchor on his hand, this concern was one that he could address right now. 

He carefully disentangled himself from Hawke’s arm. She murmured a sleepy protest, and he kissed her temple to soothe her. “I’m going to the kitchen,” he whispered. “Should I bring you anything?”

She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “Next time,” she mumbled. A moment later, she was fast asleep again. 

He tucked the blankets around her naked body, then tiptoed over to the writing desk and scrawled a quick note to tell her where he’d gone in case she awoke more thoroughly. Then he slipped down the stairs and into the Great Hall.

As expected, the hall was empty but for a pair of guards and lit only by the torches on the walls – and by the spill of light emanating from the rotunda. 

Fenris padded silently to the rotunda, then paused in the doorway. Solas was exactly where Fenris had known he would be: standing tall on his scaffolding with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a jar of paint in one hand. 

He was painting a new mural on the freshly-plastered wall, and Fenris quietly studied the charcoal outline of the scene. Then, slowly, he entered the rotunda and made his way toward the elven mage. 

Solas glanced at him briefly. “Fenris,” he said softly. “I’m surprised to find you awake.”

Fenris nodded a brief acknowledgement, then leaned against the nearest doorjamb and folded his arms. He watched Solas very carefully as he asked the question that had been nagging at his mind all afternoon and night.

“Are you a Sentinel?” Fenris said. 

Solas paused in his painting, then shot Fenris a thoughtful glance. “I am not a Sentinel, no. But I am curious to know what led you to ask such a question.” He dipped his brush in the jar once more, then continued to paint. “I would hope that your reasons for asking are based on deeper observations than my lack of hair.”

Fenris scowled briefly at this. “Your accent, for one,” he said. “I have never met another elf with an accent like yours, or such a fluent grasp of Elvhen. Aside from Abelas.”

Solas tilted his head quizzically. “You presume a shared history based on accent alone?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “A very unusual accent,” he pointed out. “But that is not all. Abelas considered the Dalish to be shadows. Pretenders in false vallaslin. But you he singled out. ‘Elvhen such as you’, he said, and you knew what he meant.”

“It is no secret that I am learned in the ways of ancient Elvhenan,” Solas said. He turned back to his mural. “Perhaps the Sentinel recognized our shared knowledge.”

“How would he know you have shared knowledge?” Fenris demanded. “He doesn’t know you.”

Solas was silent for a moment. When he looked at Fenris again, his eyebrows were tilted with sadness. “His name,” he said softly. “Abelas. It means ‘sorrow’.” He paused and dipped his brush in his jar, then continued to paint. “There is a word in Elvhen: abelas’alas’en. It means ‘world sadness’. A deep and melancholy wish to see a world that’s different from the one in which you find yourself.” He looked at Fenris once more. “It is a sorrow that hung heavy on his shoulders. It hangs heavy over many of us here. Perhaps that is the kindred wish that he saw in me.”

Fenris frowned. “Why do you wish the world was different?”

Solas shot him an odd look. “Is it truly so strange a wish? When you first escaped Tevinter, you told me that you wanted change not in yourself, but in the world around you. I mean only to say that I know such desire.” He turned back to his mural. “Corypheus and the orb, the chaos of the Breach, Grey Wardens and Templars… There is much in this world that inspires sorrow and a wish for change.”

Fenris pursed his lips. Solas wasn’t wrong about that. If it was possible to change things – the political structure of Tevinter, the way Fenris and every other elf were dominated by humans, everything that had conspired to throw him and Hawke into this incessant ocean of danger… 

There was much in the world that needed changing, to be certain. Yet Solas’s answer left him unsatisfied.

He frowned and watched Solas painting for a time. Then he launched into his next argument. “Hawke says your magic is different in quality than any magic she has ever seen before.”

“I expect that is so,” Solas said. “Magic learned directly in the Fade must be very different from magic taught in a leashed and lessened form through the Chantry.”

Fenris frowned. Magic should be leashed and lessened for the sake of safety. But that wasn’t the argument at hand right now. 

He forced himself to stay on point. “Merrill and Dorian didn’t learn to magic through the Chantry,” he said shrewdly. “Hawke says your magic is different even from theirs.”

“They have not trod the pathways of the Fade,” Solas calmly said. “They have not walked its winding trails and seen the wisdom it provides. They are not somniari, as you and Dorian would say.” He glanced briefly at Fenris once more. “You will recall that I discouraged Hawke from learning the art of dreamwalking.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Fenris said quietly. As though he could ever forget Hawke’s desperate hope to contact Carver in the Fade.

Solas nodded once. “If not for Hawke’s… dangerous but understandable motives, I would have taught her what I know,” he said softly. “Your wife is an excellent student of magic.”

I know she is, Fenris thought. Then he shot Solas a suspicious look. Solas’s manner was calm and forthcoming, but Fenris still somehow felt as though he was being manipulated. 

“That is your answer, then?” he said skeptically. “Your magic is different from the others because you learned it directly in the Fade?”

“Remember that the Fade is governed by completely different rules – or rather, by no hard rules at all,” Solas said. “Nothing there is quite the same as it is in this world. The nature of my magic reflects that difference.”

Fenris folded his arms. “And you claim that Hawke could learn to be like you if she – if you – she could perform magic like yours, if she were taught?”

“She could, yes,” Solas said.

“So she too could learn to phase across the Fade?” Fenris said swiftly.

Solas glanced sharply at him, and Fenris straightened. A reaction at last, he thought with a combination of anger and relief. 

He took an aggressive step toward Solas’s scaffolding. “I know about your phasing,” he accused. “Dorian told us you are able to skate along the edge of the Fade in a manner similar to Cole and me, and those Sentinels. Why did you hide that?”

Solas frowned. “It was not my intent to hide it from you. It was my intent to hide it from every other mage.”

Fenris scowled. He didn’t like the way Solas had phrased that, making it sound like Fenris was one of the mages.

Solas, meanwhile, was still blithely talking. “Consider the implications,” he said. “If all mages could skim the threshold of the Fade, it would require barely an effort to take it further. To push through the delicate border of the Veil and into the Fade directly. You know firsthand how dangerous that would be – both for the people of this world, and for the denizens of the Fade.”

“But not for you,” Fenris said in an accusatory manner.

“Not for me, no,” Solas said mildly. “Nor for Cole, for whom the Fade is his home.”

“And for me?” Fenris said archly.

Solas tilted his head and gave Fenris an appraising look. “I believe we are in little danger of you abusing that power. Your ability to handle the power bestowed upon you is among your greatest strengths… which leads me to my next question.” Solas lowered his jar and brush and turned to face Fenris directly. “What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?”

Fenris recoiled slightly. “What?” he said. He was starting to feel unbalanced by the twists of this conversation, and he wasn’t quite sure why the topic had shifted from Solas to himself. 

“The Vir’Abelasan,” Solas said. “Its power and wisdom are now yours, by means of Morrigan. What will you do with that power?”

Fenris gazed at him dumbly. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered the Well’s knowledge as belonging to him at all. Morrigan was the one who held its insidious secrets in her mind; Fenris was worried about the Well’s cursed contents as a power that belonged to her, not to him. 

“I had not thought about it,” he finally said. 

Solas’s eyebrows creased slightly. “Yet the humans are already asking you to answer. Will you restore the Chantry? Destroy the Chantry?”

Fenris licked his dry lips. “I…” Almost immediately, he trailed off as a terrible truth struck him.

This decision was what he had to look forward to once Corypheus was dead: a decision about the fate of the Chantry. But the Inquisition was not directly associated with the Chantry. Kaffas, they were not even directly associated with one particular nation. Well, they were linked with Orlais, but that was an alliance for the greater good. How could the Inquisition – how could Fenris – be expected to make a choice about the fate of the entire Chantry?

“That should not be my decision alone,” he said finally. “Nothing so momentous should be the decision of one person alone. I will… Hawke will help me decide. And Cassandra. And our advisors.”

Solas shook his head ruefully. “You think to share your power, to avoid the temptation to misuse it. A noble sentiment, but ultimately a mistake. While one selfless man may walk away from the lure of power’s corruption, no group has ever done so.”

Fenris scowled. “You, Hawke and Fiona have not been doing badly with the mages here. Or are you seeking a demotion?”

Solas studied him quietly for a moment, and the look on his face continued to melt into sadness. “You have great faith the counsel of your companions,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Fenris said belligerently. “Some more than others, but yes.”

Solas sighed and looked at his unfinished mural. “I know that mistake well enough to carve the angles of her face from memory,” he said softly.

Fenris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “‘Her’? ‘Her’ who?”

Solas looked at him once more. “A figure of speech.”

Fenris gave him a hard stare, but Solas steadily returned his gaze for a long moment before picking up his paint and brush and turning back to his mural.

Fenris watched the elven mage carry out a few more brushstrokes, then folded his arms again. “So you deny that you are a Sentinel.”

Solas nodded. “I am not a Sentinel.”

“And you are not… an ancient elven spy,” Fenris hazarded.

“I am not, no,” Solas said. He shot Fenris a brief, sad smile. “If only every life could be so easily summated.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and as Solas turned his attention back to the mural, Fenris continued to watch him mistrustfully. Something about this entire exchange was throwing Fenris off, but he couldn’t put his finger on the problem. It irked him that he was the one who seemed to be coming out worse for wear from this… What was this intended to be, in fact? A conversation? A confrontation? An interrogation, even?

Then Solas’s calm voice broke his buzzing thoughts. “You are welcome to remain and watch, though I would advise you to sit,” he said. “I will be working here for the rest of the night.”

Fenris didn’t reply, and he didn’t sit. He watched Solas silently for some time as the mural emerged from his practiced brushstrokes. 

Finally he spoke again. “There was something else that Abelas said. He called my… the lyrium marks ‘a form of the true vallaslin’. What did he mean by that?”

Solas was silent for a moment as he finished a section of the mural. “What do you know about the ritual that placed those markings on your body?”

Fenris leaned slowly against the wall. “Danarius found the method in an ancient treatise. He liked to boast that he was the only one clever and skilled enough to master it.”

Solas carefully dipped his brush in his jar of paint. “I have long suspected that your markings were a form of vallaslin. A form that has been modified to control its wearer, unfortunately,” he added with a respectful nod. “What you say is consistent with what I have learned in the Fade. That is likely all that Abelas meant: that the… practice of vallaslin dates back to the times of Arlathan.”

“Then it seems that the vallaslin are something the Dalish remembered correctly,” Fenris said somewhat acidly. Then he paused in confusion. Why was he defending the Dalish to Solas? Fenris didn’t particularly like the Dalish, either.

Solas frowned. “As a matter of fact–” He cut himself off abruptly, then turned back to the wall.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Solas said. “It is… of little consequence now.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Solas’s brushstrokes were slightly more brisk than they’d been just a moment ago. 

“Speak, Solas,” he commanded. He wasn’t about to let Solas off the hook, not now that he was being cagey.

Solas clenched his jaw and finished a few more strokes, then turned to face Fenris. “There is… something I have been reluctant to reveal to you,” he said. “Something I learned during my journeys in the Fade. I learned what the vallaslin truly mean.”

Fenris frowned. He didn’t like the apology in Solas’s face. “What?” he demanded. “What do they mean?”

“They are slave markings,” Solas said quietly. “Or at least they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

Fenris stared at him. A creeping sense of the surreal was encroaching on his mind, the same sort of dizzying strangeness that nagged his mind when he thought too hard about the sheer existence of the Sentinels, and it took a long minute before he was able to speak again. 

He took a deep breath. “You mean to say… the ancient elves kept slaves. They… they enslaved other elves?”

“That is the case, yes,” Solas said. His expression was growing sadder by the moment. “A noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

Fenris gazed at him in silence, struck dumb by the awful revelation. For centuries the Dalish had tattooed their faces to mark their elven identity. They had worn those tattoos proudly to show themselves as the ‘true’ elves, elevated above their city-born counterparts. And all this time, those tattoos were just another mark of the exact institution the Dalish sought to divorce themselves from?

A terrible, mirthless laugh burst from Fenris’s lips, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Kaffas. Venhedis fasta vass.” He began to pace restlessly. 

Solas lowered his jar and brush. “Fenris–”

Fenris cut him off. “So I am forever marked as a slave. Both in modern and ancient times. That is…” He laughed again, but the sound was more snarl than mirth. “I should find a glass of wine to wash this down before the irony chokes me.”

Solas rested his fingers on the bannister of the scaffolding. “I am sorry. Truly,” he said. “I would not have told you this if not for your enquiring mind.”

Fenris spun toward him. “You are blaming me for this?”

“Not at all,” Solas said. “In fact, I commend you for your questions. You and I have not always seen things through the same eyes, but… you have surprised me.” He tilted his head. “Neither you nor Hawke have been what I expected.”

“How thrilling to know we’ve subverted your expectations,” Fenris snarled.

Solas lifted his chin and gave Fenris an appraising look. “You are not a slave, Fenris.”

“I know that,” he snapped.

“I know you do. Never forget it,” Solas said. “Those markings on your skin have shaped you, but they do not define what you are.”

Fenris glared at him. Did Solas think he didn’t know this already? That he hadn’t spent years fighting his own metaphorical shackles to get where he was today?

He turned away and stared unseeingly at one of Solas’s finished murals. Then Solas spoke again in a quiet, calm tone. “If you have further questions, I would be happy to talk some more.”

Fenris swallowed hard, then glanced at him. “No. I… this has been… It is enough. I will take my leave.”

Solas nodded politely. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

Fenris nodded tersely in return, then left the rotunda and returned to his and Hawke’s quarters. 

Hawke was still asleep. Fenris prowled quietly around the bedroom for a few minutes to calm himself, then slid gingerly into the bed.

Hawke rolled over and curled up against him, and Fenris quietly inhaled the sleepy sandalwood scent of her hair. A moment later, she lifted her head. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. 

He wilted slightly. He hadn’t wanted to worry her in the middle of the night. “What makes you think anything is wrong?” he murmured.

“You’re so stiff,” she said. “And not in a fun way.” She ran a hand along his arm. “What happened? Did you find weevils in your toast?”

Her tone was jocular, but her eyebrows were tilted with concern. Fenris sighed and sat up against the head of the bed. “I need you to speak to Solas in the morning,” he said.

“To Solas?” she said in surprise. “About what?”

“About his behaviour in the Arbour Wilds,” Fenris said. “I attempted to confront him–”

“Confront him?” she said.

“Yes,” Fenris said. He frowned at her. “You can’t deny he was behaving suspiciously today. Contradicting himself at every turn, acting as though he couldn’t decide whether to lecture us or silence us? It was strange, Hawke. You know it was.”

She dropped her gaze and nibbled the inside of her cheek, and Fenris watched with a pang as the dreaded worry bled across her face. 

She settled against his side. “Well, what did he say when you confronted him?”

“Nothing that… assuaged my concerns,” he said. The ugly truth of the vallaslin rose to his mind again, but he pushed it aside for now. That was definitely a conversation for the morning, not for now 

“Do you think he lied to you?” Hawke whispered.

“That is what frustrates me the most. I don’t believe he did,” Fenris said. “But he is also… There is something more going on.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Nobody is that calm when faced with such probing questions.”

“Varric is,” Hawke said.

Fenris scoffed. “Varric is a practiced storyteller. He spins tales for a living. He thrives in the face of probing questions. Solas, on the other hand…” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe he is lying per se. But he is not telling us everything, either.” He looked at her. “That is why I need you to talk to him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” Fenris said. “And he is fond of you. Perhaps he’ll be more forthcoming with you.”

Hawke suddenly propped herself up and looked him in the eye. “Fenris, you aren’t really jealous of him, are you?”

Fenris stared at her in surprise. Her face was very serious. “Why would you ask that?”

“The comments you made in the Arbour Wilds. About me flirting with him,” she said. She gently stroked his chin. “You… you don’t really think–?”

“No,” Fenris said hastily. “No, of course not.” The very thought of Hawke straying was laughable. 

“Good,” she said. “Because that would be gross. He’s like my father.” She settled against Fenris’s side once more and wrapped her arm around his waist.

That’s what I’m afraid of, Fenris thought. Hawke’s closeness with Solas was a threat, but not for petty reasons of jealousy. No matter what Solas said, there was something deeper going on, something ineffable that danced at the edge of Fenris’s comprehension. And if Fenris was being truthful, he was scared. 

Scared of how it would affect Hawke, if yet another of her close friends` turned out to have some dark and devastating secret. 

Anders’s tragic face crossed his mind, and he frowned into the darkness. Then Hawke spoke again, and her words were so closely aligned with Fenris’s thoughts that it was uncanny. “You don’t think he’s got top-secret plans to blow up Skyhold or something, do you?” 

He had better not, Fenris thought threateningly. But he didn’t say this. Instead, he stroked Hawke’s arm. “No,” he murmured. “Blow up an ancient elven fortress? He would see that as a colossal waste of history and memories.”

“I suppose,” Hawke said. “Preserve the elven glory and all that.”

“Mm,” Fenris murmured. He continued to stroke her arm slowly, and as the warmth of her naked skin seeped through his tunic and into his side, he finally felt himself starting to relax. 

Her soft voice broke the silence once more. “Speaking of elven glory…” She shifted closer and slid her leg over his, then tilted her chin up and kissed his neck. 

He smiled chidingly and squeezed her arm. “Hawke…”

“Yes?” she said coyly. She pressed her groin against his thigh. 

He squeezed her arm once more, then kissed her forehead. “Not now,” he murmured. Sex might be her preferred way of de-stressing in the face of a new problem, but now that he was back in bed with her, his exhaustion was creeping in on him. 

She chuckled, then kissed his throat once more before shifting slightly away from him. “All right, hands off the handsome elf,” she whispered. “But you don’t mind if I, you know, look after my own business, do you?” 

He shook his head and shuffled down into the covers. “Not at all.” He yawned, then tucked his arm beneath his head and closed his eyes. 

She settled under the blankets beside him. A minute later, he felt the mattress shift slightly, and Hawke released a long, soft breath. 

Fenris opened his eyes, then turned his head to look at her. The light of the moon was casting a feeble ivory glow across her features, and Fenris studied her closed eyes and her parted lips as her left hand moved between her legs.

He watched her quietly for a moment longer, his half-asleep eyes taking in the rise and fall of her collarbones and the taut tendon in her neck as she drew out her own pleasure. Then he rolled lazily onto his side to face her. 

He smoothed his palm over her breast. She gasped and arched her spine, then let out a little moan as he slipped his hand beneath the blankets. “Y-you don’t have to…” she breathed. 

“I want to,” he mumbled. His semi-stiffened cock was pulsing between his legs, but his fatigue was too strong and his limbs too heavy. Hawke’s pleasure was imminent, however, and at least Fenris could share in that.

He slid one finger smoothly through her folds, and she pressed her hips toward his hand. She was wet already and the bud of her pleasure was swollen and ripe, and within the space of a minute, Fenris’s gently stroking finger coaxed a cry of ecstasy from her throat. 

She grasped his wrist. “Fenris,” she gasped.

He didn’t reply. His body was a pleasant buzz of vicarious pleasure, but his heavy eyelids had fallen shut, and he had to force his waning wakefulness to remain. 

He angled his wrist and pressed two fingers inside of her, and she cried out once more and bucked her hips to take his fingers deeper. A few minutes later, minutes during which Hawke’s gasping breaths and rocking hips fought valiantly for attention against the gentle darkness of Fenris’s dreams, she pulled his hand away from the apex of her thighs. 

She brought his hand up to her mouth and sucked his fingers clean, and Fenris’s eyes popped open for a surprised moment. She was gazing at him, and her expression was a breathtaking mixture of satisfaction and desire and tenderness – all the things he most liked seeing in her beautiful treasured face. 

“I love you,” she panted. “I love you so much, Fenris. More than anything.”

He smiled faintly. “As I love you,” he murmured. 

She rolled close to him and kissed him, and Fenris sleepily noted the musky flavour of her pleasure on her lips before she chastely tucked her head beneath his chin. He lazily draped his arm over her, and in a matter of seconds, he finally fell asleep.

Read the rest on AO3.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne #dorian pavus #solas #varric tethras