#stuck in ostwick circle for so long

[arlatius-art]

Please, tell me about your mage inquisitor! I beg of you!!!

OHHHH MY GODDDDDDD literally just finished writing his four page backstory doc about his circle life pre inquisition, but I'll give you the abridged version

but it's still very long so under the cut it goes

Theo was raised in a very andrastian templar family and was the only one in his immediate family that had magic. and since his family is so pro cop they send him to the ostwick circle and are like "it's ok Theo the templars are just there to keep you safe :)" and Theo's like "ok! :)" but woah!! actually the templars suck!!! in his early years at the circle he lost any belief he used to have in andraste (if shes meant to be a champion of mercy and freedom, why are mages being treated like this?) and starts to resent the chantry and all templars

a year or two after hes sent to the circle his cousin (Percy) is sent to the same circle, they're very close to Theo is THRILLED at the new company and tries to help make Percy's initial transition into circle life more comfortable. it doesn't work very well though! Percy escapes the circle but gets caught and dragged back by the templars. when Theo hears he completely panics and goes and begs the templars to not execute Percy or make him tranquil

it's a whole production, begging, crying, on his knees, but more notably it is so crazy out of character. the templars do end up taking pity on at least one of them, and let Percy off with a firm warning. it really didn't deter Percy from trying again though and Theo realized that begging for Percy's life wouldn't work a second time

so Theo starts tactfully cozying up to the templars, trying to build up a rapport with them in hopes that if Percy tries to escape again the templars would be willing to go easy on him for Theo's sake.

it starts simple with making a point to greet every templar by name when he sees them, and over time it slowly built up to the templars having Theo spying on the other mages when the templars weren't around. over the years Theo turned in dozens of would be escapees or blood mages to the ostwick templars. he didn't actually have a problem with people trying to escape or so blood magic, but he considered the mages he reported to be reasonable sacrifices if it meant keeping Percy and himself safe(r) from templars

but Theo being friendly with the templars didn't escape the notice of the other mages in the circle. he quickly (and rightfully) earned a reputation among the mages as the templars lap dog.

he especially made a point to endear himself to knight commander golan and knight captain gabriel (oc, the templar in that last piece). Gabriel and Theo would later start seeing each other in secret and it would be just the worst most destructive and unhealthy relationship in the history of thedas ever

his plan to call in favors from templars to keep him and percy safe worked too. Percy escaped from the circle a LOT and when he was inevitably captured and returned Theo could call in a favor from the templars to let Percy off with a very light punishment

when the mage rebellion finally reaches the ostwick circle Theo's like "oooh fuck all the mages hate me and the only relationships I have at the circle now are Percy and the fucking templars I'm so fucked". somehow he manages to convince Gabriel that he isn't involved with the rebellion at all and that he had no idea this was going to happen (by that point the other mages knew not to talk about secrets when Theo was around). heesves the circle with Gabriel and stays with him until the conclave

even after the circles fell he still wasn't free, not really. he had no confidence that the mages could actually win the war. even now that he was "free" he decided that he had to continue to endear himself to the templars so that they would be merciful when the circles were inevitably reformed

he's mentally stuck under templar rule, even if he isn't physically

also he's a recovering lyrium addict (Gabriel used to have Theo take it with him)

#not art #ask #anon #dragon age #this is why i called him problematic #he is NOT a good person

[bogunicorn]

I have a Trevelyan OC who doesn't get a ton of "screen time" even in my PSLs. (I do a lot of writing, just most of it is in RP with my wife and will never see the public light of day.) It's because Ramsay is my main Trevelyan's younger brother, and his job in the narrative is to be unjustly killed during the fall of Ostwick Circle so his sister has a Tragic Backstory. But almost all of my Trevelyan siblings have a continuity where they're Inquisitor, and I wrote one up for Ramsay last year just for fun, and he ended up as this kind of cool, anti-authoritarian mage who specializes in fire and rift magic. I imagine him having, like... will anyone know what I mean if I say Wolverine Energy? Gruff, emotionally guarded, has done and is capable of doing very violent things, but also prone to ending up in leadership roles despite being like "ugh, no, I'm not a role model", would function well with a young girl as a morality pet.

Anyway what I've got stuck in my craw right now is the idea of a Trevelyan/Hawke fic with Ramsay and my red/purple blood mage f!Hawke (a classic Spiky Lady Character named Marsali), probably starting around Hawke's introduction in Inquisition and through the end of Here Lies the Abyss. The Warden companion is Carver, and it's this big heartwrenching thing when they're in the Fade and someone has to stay behind.

(Stuck this behind a read more because I just rambled about mirrored narratives wheee)

Marsali and Ramsay are both naturally wary of each other, they're both these guarded sorts of people, slow to trust. But they're such good mirrors of each other, and if you know me, you know I'm a big sucker for mirrored narratives. Marsali is the daughter of an apostate father and a noble mother; Ramsay is the son of a noble father and a common-born mother. They're both very much like their fathers, much to their own dysfunctions, Marsali because they're alike in personality and intensely close to hers, Ramsay because he's the only one of his siblings with a strong physical resemblance to a man who refuses to acknowledge him.

Marsali tries to suppress a natural talent and inclination for blood magic, but actively chose to learn arcane and force magic - schools of magic that focus on buffs, shields, areas of effect that push people away or slow them down - and only employs her more truly violent and aggressive blood magic abilities when she's backed into a corner or loses control. Her father shares her talent for blood magic and kept her from learning to harness it until she was an adult (long, long after she'd developed bad habits and a complete distaste for it, too late to cultivate true control). Ramsay has a natural talent for destructive magic and instead pursued control of it, turning his gift for violent magic into a useful weapon under the mentorship of a similarly inclined father figure in the form of Ostwick's First Enchanter.

Marsali is a mage protective older sister to a non-mage younger brother (who only didn't join the Templars because fate forced him into the Wardens). Ramsay is a mage younger brother to a protective older sister who joined the Templars to look after him in the Circle. Marsali and Carver's relationship is loving, but it has walls up as she's been parentified, and is often quite contentious and full of bickering; despite effectively being his mother figure, Thayet is much more open with Ramsay, especially after escaping the Circle. They rarely fight. For both Marsali and Ramsay, their sibling is the only family they really have, Marsali because hers is all dead, Ramsay because Thayet is the only one who wants to acknowledge he exists.

Marsali consistently shirks and runs from responsibility to anything bigger than herself, only grudgingly taking up the fight against Corypheus because she feels personally responsible for it beginning - and because of the danger to Carver with the false calling. Ramsay grows into authority and takes well to the kind of big picture responsibilities that the Inquisition demands, and he chooses the life and actions of a hero because it instinctively feels like the right thing to do.

And yet, because of their other-side-of-the-coin sorts of differences, I think they would really understand each other. Like they're just the correct amount of distance from one another to have the best view. Marsali sees Ramsay and understands exactly what it takes to be that sort of person, because she tried to be that kind of person and buckled; Ramsay sees Marsali and knows exactly how much love she has for the people around her, because he knows how difficult it is to care for other people in a world that's constantly trying to tear you away from them, up to and including by killing them.

And, of course, because of how similar Marsali and Carver are to Ramsay and his sister... holy shit choosing between them would be torture. Does he let Marsali die protecting her little brother and force Carver to live with a survivor's guilt that Ramsay couldn't stomach himself? Or does he let Carver do what he would do, stay behind and be the protector for once, knowing exactly what that kind of loss would do to Marsali?

I have an idea of what I'd do, but it's still percolating. I think for this fic I'd do an even split in POV specifically to show the depth of their sibling relationships so that bit in the Fade with the Nightmare feels incredibly fraught and tense.

#bog post #my writing #my ocs #dragon age #hawke #the inquisitor #Trevelyan #ramsay trevelyan #marsali hawke #oh i could do a thing with hawke's narrative #where she only uses her first name when carver is around #bc obviously he doesn't call her 'hawke' and that's an extra layer of guard between her and others #only letting carver - not even varric just carver - use her given name #acting as head of the family (what's left of it) by using her surname with everyone else #while ramsay uses his given name for everyone #but his nickname - ram - with his sister and close friends #because ramsay is more community-minded and more open to building found family #and marsali thinks of family as a vulnerable and finite resource to be treated with special caution

[contreparry]

happy friday! this week, perhaps "Seeing a dead person you knew in a stranger’s face" from the invisible cities prompts, for a character of your choice?

Absolutely! Here's some pre-Inquisition Trevelyan for @dadrunkwriting

"Absolutely not," Evelyn said as she rolled up the blankets and stuffed them into her pack. Olivia stomped her foot and sniffed loudly, a remnant of the mild chill she had taken when they traveled across Ferelden to Haven. Yet even though she was still sick and they were camped out on the edge of the Mage encampment outside of the Temple of Andraste and were surrounded by Templars and Chantry loyalists, Olivia's adventurous spirit couldn't be dimmed. It fell to Evelyn to be the disciplinarian, because her fellow Ostwick mages all made themselves scarce the moment they sensed an argument brewing on the horizon.

Assholes, the lot of them.

"But Evelynnnnn-" Olivia breathed in deeply, ready to launch into an impassioned speech that only a sixteen year old could prepare and recite. Evelyn placed a packet of medicinal plants on top of the blankets, then hid them under several pairs of clean wool socks. The dried plants weren't rare, but they were needed- and they were scarce. And you could never be too careful around strangers. Especially with the Templars about. Ex-Templars? In any case, travel was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Olivia was in no condition to travel anywhere, except back to her bedroll to sleep.

"No, Olivia," Evelyn interrupted. "You're not going to Haven today."

"But the Mages from the Spire are going! I won't be by myself!" Olivia insisted. Her pale red hair, almost golden in the winter sun, fell out of her tight crown braid and stuck to her forehead and neck in long tendrils. Her pale blue eyes narrowed as she glowered down at Evelyn. Evelyn sighed and folded a spare tunic on her lap. Her fingers traced the mending on the elbow. Mages from the Spire- Olivia had spent the past month in the company of Enchanters at least a decade older than her. A day with her peers would be a welcome change, and Olivia was only sixteen. And with the Divine and Andraste's Ashes so close only the most brazen would dare to fight on consecrated ground. There might be bitter words and whispers and watchful gazes, but an attack? No one would attack. Hopefully.

She looked up into Olivia's shadowed face. The sunlight turned the tendrils of her pale red hair white, almost like- Evelyn turned away. Lydia was a ghost who would never leave her mind. She was everywhere in Ostwick, from Deidre's playful scolding to Olivia's hair, and it just- Lydia didn't get a chance to travel. She never left Ostwick. Oftentimes Evelyn caught her mentor gazing out the window, out towards the sea, a wistfully misty look in her dark green eyes. She had friends across Thedas, life-long friendships that meant the world to her, but Lydia never met them. She never had the chance to, and now she never would. It was too late for her to meet her fellow Mages from other Circles, too late to put faces to letters that spanned across decades. Lydia was too late.

Olivia, however, was not.

"You're still sick," Evelyn finally said.

"Bu-"

"But if you're careful, and you buy some medicine from the apothecary, you can go," Evelyn interrupted. One day in Haven couldn't possibly hurt anyone, right? Everyone else was off doing their own business, and Olivia was a responsible girl! She could hold her own if there was any trouble- her ice magic was nothing to scoff at, and she packed a wallop of a left hook. She would be fine. Everything would be fine.

"That's not- wait. Really?" Olivia blinked. "You... you said I could go?"

"You've been patient and steadfast this entire journey. You deserve a chance to have fun. Make friends," Evelyn stood up and slung her pack over her shoulder. "Now hurry along, I'll see you at dinner. I'm off to the Temple, there's apparently a marketplace and someone's selling a manuscript on extinct plants I want to look at."

"Ugh, the plants again!" Olivia stuck out her tongue, just like Lydia might have done when they were young, before she was made First Enchanter. "You be careful too, Evelyn."

"Of course. Remember, go to the apothecary once you reach Haven. And if you're winded, rest!" Evelyn ordered, and she wrapped her arms around the girl and hugged her tightly. Be safe, she wanted to murmur. Don't draw attention to yourself, she wanted to add. But instead she stepped back and gently pushed Olivia out of the tent and into the sun.

"And have fun!" she added with a smile. Olivia laughed, swooped in to hug Evelyn so tightly it felt like her bones may crack under the pressure, and then she was gone, running up the switchback trail from their campsite near the frozen stream and up towards the White Spire camp, further away from the temple gates. Evelyn sighed and adjusted the straps of her pack. Lydia would have teased her for being soft, for relenting to a child's pleading and wheedling. Lydia would have laughed and joked about her secretly tender heart. Oh Evie, she would have said, your secret is safe with me!

"Back to work, then," Evelyn muttered, and she gazed up to the gray stone walls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If it had been anything else Evelyn would stay in the tent, but she had been searching for that particular manuscript for years. It had information about an ancient herb that was often used for medicine that might help slow Blight sickness, and- well, it could be useful. The best way to survive, to make sure that everyone survived, was to be valuable. Useful. Indispensable. And if that document could help- Evelyn shuddered and took one step forward.

She couldn't wait for the day to be over with.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle #and then the plot of Inquisition started #Olivia lives she was in Haven with her new friends they're all alive

[nirikeehan]

happy friday! "A grey fox with silver eyes" from the evocative prompts for your Trev?

LOVE IT, thank you. Here is some whimsical backstory nonsense for Thalia.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1644

---

Not long after she arrived at the Ostwick Circle, Thalia saw the fox. 

She was curled up on her bed in the dormitory she shared with the other new acolytes, staring out the leaded window, cross-crossed with diamond shapes. Out in the courtyard, amid the vines and flowers, sat the fox: shaggy grey with a fluffy tail. Its silver eyes bore into hers as she wiped at her wet face. She leaned against the sill to get a better look, and it fled. 

“Does the courtyard fox have a name?” Thalia asked at dinner that night. The entire Circle Tower ate in a cavernous communal space with high ceilings and long wooden tables with benches. Mages were assigned seats according to their age, gender, and seniority. Templars sat at the end of each table; usually they looked bored and uninterested in their charges’ chatter, but some were quick to interject if a mage spoke of something forbidden. Thalia had not yet sorted out what was allowed and what wasn’t. She hoped local wildlife was not a suspicious topic. 

“What fox?” asked her dorm mate, an elf around her age with an angular face, lilting accent, and green eyes. Her name was Willow. 

“You haven’t seen it?” Thalia asked. “It was near the giant oak tree.”

“Animals come and go. They have more freedom of movement than we do. I’m envious.” Willow drew a sharp look from their Templar chaperone, at whom she flashed a bright, innocent smile. 

The next day, when Thalia’s lessons had been let out, she followed the labyrinthine halls until she found the courtyard entrance. The sun was shining, the air crisp with the last gasp of summer. She had arrived at the Circle at the height of summer and had barely stepped outside since. This was partially because the tower’s stone interior was adept at keeping out the heat, and partially because she’d barely had the energy to do more than go from her bed to her classes to her meals and back again. 

Perhaps it was that deprivation that made the courtyard seem so vast and lush. Verdant foliage sprung up all around, marble columns and moss-covered statues dotted the space, and everything smelled like the fresh-cut lawn at the Trevelyan country estate. A wave of homesickness hit Thalia, and she needed to grasp a tree trunk for support. 

After it had passed, she steeled herself and set out to search for the fox. She looked through giant bushes with fronds larger than her head and rose bushes with pale blue blossoms, through winding dirt paths and the cool shade of gnarled trees. She looked and looked, and saw singing birds, floating butterflies, a pond wriggling with lustrous fish… but no fox. 

Thalia entered a clearing dominated by a round fountain that spurted water into the air and perched on its edge, dispirited. Had Willow been right? If animals could come and go as they pleased, the fox was likely long gone, and she was stuck here, forever. The rest of her life had never stretched out so long or daunting before her as it did in that moment.

Grey fur flashed at the corner of her vision. One dark leg and a bushy tail disappeared through a curtain of ivy. Without thinking, Thalia jumped up and darted after it.

Following her ears more than her eyes, she soon reached a massive wall, dotted with lichen and faded from the years untold that the tower had stood in Ostwick. She ran her hand along the rough stonework, walked the perimeter, and wondered what to do. Calling out to the creature would surely only frighten it further. 

Round a curve, she reached a cracked and weakened section of the wall. Tumbledown stones lay in a heap amid thriving weeds, and a small hole, about waist high, poked through. Heart in her mouth, Thalia leaned down to look. 

It was probably not large enough for a person to fit through, but it was a hole nonetheless, jagged and irregular and giving her a glimpse of the outside world. The Circle Tower was situated deep in the forest, away from the city of Ostwick proper — better to contain the dangerous magicks practiced there, her parents had always told her. Beyond lay a sun-dappled thicket, a carpet of wildflowers and old leaves, and, framed as lovely as a portrait, the fox. Its silvery eyes locked on hers, and she sensed a fierce intelligence there. Foxes were rumored to be clever, of course, but she had never seen one so close up to check. 

Thalia’s pulse quickened. On second look, the hole was small, but perhaps wide enough for someone to shimmy through… especially a girl in her early teens, unburdened by tall height or curves. 

She bit her lip, tugging nervously on the twin plaits she had braided her hair into that morning. The fox kept her gaze, as if urging her onward. 

If I leave, she thought, that makes me an apostate. A criminal. Wanted, for the rest of my life. 

Thalia had never given much thought to apostate mages before, aside from who had to capture who in games of Templars and Apostates with her siblings. Did they live in the woods, like the fox? They would probably have to — if they went to any city or town with Templars they’d get scooped right back up and returned. Thalia was used to living in manor houses with servants. Guiltily, she suspected she did not have what it took to live off the land like an apostate or Dalish elf. 

She was about to open her mouth and apologize to the fox when a shadow fell across her. “Hey, you! What are you doing there?” 

Thalia whirled. A templar stood behind her, gleaming in his metal armor, a hand on his sword hilt. Swallowing a panic, she said, “Just looking. There’s something wrong with this wall. See?” 

“I see it,” the templar grunted. He was much older than her, in his middle twenties at least, and had a broad, ugly face and messy black hair. She thought she might remember his name — Gareth? Jareth? He had sat at her dinner table not all that long ago, and had seemed to doze off while she and her dorm mates spoke of their classes. He did not look bored now. “You ought to get away from there.” 

Swallowing, Thalia took a step toward him, though she wanted to give him a wide berth, in case he decided to draw his sword. Jareth continued to squint at her and looked frequently at her hands, which she kept carefully at her sides, in plain view. 

“You’re Bann Trevelyan’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asked. 

Grateful, Thalia nodded. When her father was invoked, it meant she was to be treated gently. The scandal that had resulted in her placement in the Ostwick Circle had been sensational, and she was certain her family was still furious at her — no one had returned any of her pleading letters. But even though she’d been disowned in all but name, most of the Circle’s administration found it better not to tempt fate. 

Jareth’s jaw clenched. “Never did care much for the aristocracy.” 

The courtyard seemed to darken with his words.

“You probably think you can just walk around wherever you please, like the world is yours to command,” Jareth continued. 

Thalia had thought the courtyard to be a common area, accessible to any mage was long as they were not expected elsewhere. When she said this, he sneered, and it occurred to her that he did not care about the rules. He was on the prowl for someone to punish, and she was the one he had found. 

“I was only trying to see the fox,” Thalia squeaked. 

“The what?”

“There’s a fox beyond the wall. A grey one. He’s so pretty— he’s got these lovely silver eyes.” He seemed to be growing angrier at her girlish prattle. “Well, go on then, take a look if you don’t believe me.” She finished with a touch of haughtiness, even though she was terrified. She had no way to know whether the fox was still there; she’d only hoped looking stupid and harmless would save her. 

Jareth watched her with deadened eyes, inching closer to the wall without turning, as if daring her to make a move. Thalia wrung her hands and wondered what would happen if he decided she was lying. She hadn’t seen another soul nearby, and it made her nervous to be alone with a templar where no one else was likely to see or hear. 

Jareth bent down and, at the last second, looked away from her and through the hole. Frowning, he began to turn back to her, but caught himself, and kept staring. 

“Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that.”

Thalia nearly wept from relief. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” 

“Damn fine creature, if I do say so myself.” Jareth seemed to remember himself and straightened, clearing his throat. “Don’t mean this is a safe place for you or anyone else to be hanging about. More stones could fall any moment.” Jareth’s hand went to his sword hilt, as if he expected to have to fight one off any moment. “Best if you go on back inside, and steer clear of this area entirely.” 

Thalia did not need another hint. She thanked the templar curtly and hurried away. 

The next time she visited the courtyard, a stone mason and his apprentice stood in front of the broken section of wall, repairing it. Thalia stood with a gaggle of other acolytes and watched them work.

“Well, there goes our only escape route,” Willow joked, to snickers quickly followed by shushes, in case any templars were near. Thalia stood by quietly, textbooks clutched to her chest, and thought of the fox. 

#thalia trevelyan #thalia backstory #ostwick circle #dragon age inquisition #can never resist me some mage-templar dynamics #dragon age drunk writing circle #fics

[melisusthewee]

OC Interview: Quinn Trevelyan

This took... a while. But it was such an interesting meme! Thank you so much @noire-pandora @morganlefaye79 @cleverblackcat and @darethshirl for tagging me! I almost sort of gave up on this and went back to my Warden as she would be much more open and candid about things, but when have I ever done the easier task?

For context, we will say that this interview was organized by Ambassador Montilyet once the Inquisition had comfortably established itself in Skyhold and its reputation had begun to grow, generating curiosity and interest among several circles across the south. Its subject found the whole idea questionable at best, but Josephine has her ways of wearing the Inquisitor down.

Introduction

Can you introduce yourself?

"Formally? Are you sure you want to write all of this down? Lord Inquisitor Quinn Julius [he grimaces] Barrington Trevelyan... His Most Holy... Herald of Andraste... etc etc. Look, just put down 'Quinn.' That's good enough."

What is your gender identity, orientation, and relationship status?

"I - what? I'm a man. And everything else is no one's business but my own. Unless this is a proposition. In which case - hang on, are you still writing?!"

Where and when were you born?

"Ostwick, 9:08 Dragon. If you want more details on the event, you'll have to go and write to my mother. Except please don't, as I don't want to read about it."

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

"I've used a bow since I was eight years old and I assure you I am even better than everyone says. You can go and check the competition board if you like. I'm surprised they haven't barred me from taking part yet... probably because I'm the one in charge. [he winks]

"There's an art to it. Everyone looks at a bow and thinks they can handle it just like everyone thinks they can pick up a sword and flail around until they hit something. But longbows aren't like you're plucking the strings on a harp. The average broadsword is what - two pounds? Compare that to the average draw weight of eighty-one pounds. You have to be strong, accurate, and careful. If the string's too taut, your aim will be off at best... at worst, it will snap and you'll lose an eye.

"As for style? Put down deadly. Yes, just like that. You didn't really think I'd give away all my secrets, did you?"

And finally, are you happy?

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Family and Friends

What is your family like? What is your relationship like with them?

[there is an extremely long silence]

"They're Trevelyans. There are a lot of them, they're wealthy, chances are that someone somewhere knows at least one of them. And they are all - well almost all of them - are all the way in Ostwick and I am here. And that's the best thing for all of us.

"...Yes, I did say almost. One of my brothers is - or was - a templar, and the Order's sort of not really around anymore so he stuck around with the Inquisition. Can you also interview him? Sure, if you want to. He's never had an interesting thing to say in his entire life though, so you're going to be disappointed. I'm the one with the looks and the personality."

Have you ever run away from home?

"There was one time when I considered becoming a bard - not the Orlesian sort - and just slipping away during one of the Grand Tourneys. I imagine no one would have noticed. But even I knew that was a very foolish idea as I didn't know how to play any instruments."

Would you want to get married or have children?

"No. Marriage is so... limiting. Why tie yourself down to one person? The idea is so dull."

Do you secretly hate any of your friends?

"What is the point of hating anyone secretly?"

What friend knows everything about you?

"No one. And anyone who claims otherwise is lying. Trust me."

Asked by fans

Can you read and write? Did you go to school?

"My father's the Bann of Ostwick. Do you really think they would have let me grow up without tutors? Life certainly would have been more fun that way, but no... I had lessons. I will admit that reading and writing is useful and important, but I'm not sure how important it was to learn to sing the Chant in its original Orlesian... unless you're trying to seduce someone who is very into that."

The scariest prediction you made that later came true?

"Hold on, did someone claim I was a fortune-teller? I'm Andraste's Herald, but she's the prophet, not me. I'm not making predictions about anything. I don't do that. Please don't start telling people that I do."

Do you have mental or physical problems?

"My back aches when it rains... old war wound and all. [he laughs] No, I've never been in a war... well, maybe depending on how you look at the current situation this might be my first. But I'm perfectly healthy. Make sure you put in that I was bright-eyed, alert, firm-chested..." [he continued but the transcript did not, despite his insistence to the contrary]

What's your main goal right now?

"Well, that's a complicated thing to answer. We're here to set things right. I'm here to keep the world from falling apart, and it isn't easy, and not everyone is amenable to stability. But I'm going to do it anyway."

Choices

Drink or eat?

"I don't think that's really an either/or choice."

Cats or dogs?

"If this is being published in Ferelden then I feel I should answer dogs. But I'm fond of cats too. Well, maybe fond isn't the right word. I am... amenable to both animals. There are a few cats around Skyhold that we keep as mousers, and only one of them is particularly mean. The rest are all right, and fond of chin scratches."

Optimist or pessimist?

"If you assume the worst then you can only ever be pleasantly surprised."

Sassy or sarcastic?

"Is there a difference? There is? Huh..."

Have You Ever:

Been caught sneaking out?

"Yes. So then I got better at it. And as long as I was back in my bed by sunrise, no one was the wiser. Oh, I'm certain this isn't new information to my parents. Trust me, nothing you write down about me is going to cause any greater scandal than all the times the city guard had to escort me back to my family's estate."

Broken a bone?

"I had my cheek broken in a tavern fight once. Cracked the skull right around my eye right about... here. [he taps his cheek just below his eye] It swelled up terribly and my father made me live with it for two entire days before he finally summoned a healer from the Circle to set it right. He thought it would teach me an important lesson, and in some way it did... just not the lesson he was hoping for." [he grins]

Did you get flowers?

"No, I can't say I ever have. [a pause] I'm going to be inundated with bouquets now, aren't I?"

Ghosting someone?

"Ah. Um. Well. Look, mornings are made of regret, so I don't intend to stick around for them."

You pretended to laugh at a joke you did not get?

"If I don't get the joke then it means it isn't a very good one and the person telling it shouldn't probably know that."

Oh lord, this took me forever... I hope this was amusing if not interesting though!

Tagging: @inquisitoracorn @rosella-writes @1000generations and anyone else who wants to do this and has yet to be tagged!

#oc: quinn trevelyan

[the-lightning-mage]

OC as a Companion

So, I’ve done this before, but I completely forgot about it, and Holly has changed. Not only that but I like doing long OC posts like this, and I’ve been meaning to do one for a while. This was originally created by @little-lightning-lavellan​. I’m not going to create separate posts for the others, instead I’m going to reblog theirs.

Holly Trevelyan

Background

Holly Trevelyan was born in 9:11 to Bann and Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick. She is the second youngest of their children. Her magic started coming in when she was seven, but didn’t become noticeable until she was ten. She was able to hide for another three years until she was 13. One of her older siblings discovered her, and told their parents. A few hours later the templars came, and brought her to the Ostwick Circle of Magi where she remained most of the time until the rebellions began. 

Both incredibly brilliant, and incredibly powerful, Holly excelled in her studies in the Circle, and passed her Harrowing at age 18. Despite this, she didn’t get the title of Enchanter until age 26 as the Senior Enchanters and the First Enchanter believed that it would better if she focused on research instead of taking on Apprentices. Most of her research focused on healing, and she has made many break throughs in the field. Her powers as a healer allowed her to travel outside of the circle at times.

Though she didn’t become an apostate herself until the rebellions, she did help others escape the circle. She avoids speaking about it, but she played a large part when the Ostwick Circle rebelled.

She shows up in Haven after the Inquisitor returns from Val Royeaux looking for her sibling. If the Inquisitor is human, and thus her sibling, she will beg to stay to make sure they survive. If they are not human, she will ask to join to ensure they can close the breach and to get vengeance for her fallen sibling. If she is refused, the Inquisition will receive news of her aiding refugees.

She is a romance option for male and female dwarves, elves, and qunari.

Location(s)

In Haven, she can be found just outside the chantry, near the two sisters (?) who will talk about healing, and gossip about the chargers. At Skyhold she can be found with the surgeon when they first get there. Afterwards she can be found in the tower right next to the stables, next to Cullen’s tower. Inside she has set up a makeshift lab of sorts.

Specialization

She has access to the rift mage specialization because she always had an interest in the fade, and the breach led to her picking up some new skills (she would also be a force mage in da2, and they’re kind of similar), but she also has access to the traditional spirit healer specialization, with some extra abilities like Rejuvenate, which tops up someone’s mana/stamina.

Combat Dialogue

Entering Combat:

“Here we go again!”

“Try me!”

“You’re braver than most!”

“Be careful.”

“You’ll regret this!”

Kills an Enemy:

“Down you go!”

“I told you so!”

“You forced my hand.”

Low Health:

“I need... cover!”

“Potions! Who has potions!”

“Help!”

Companions Low Health:

“Someone cover Dorian!”

“The Inquisitor needs help!”

“Cassandra’s not looking great!”

“Maker, help Bull!”

“Give Sera some cover!”

Fallen Companions:

“Cole!”

“Dorian, NO!”

“Maker, NO! Inquisitor!”

“The Seeker is down!”

“Varric!”

Location Comments

The Hinterlands:

“All those refugees...”

“At least it’s pretty here.”

“Ferelden has seen so much war.”

Storm Coast:

“I love the rain!”

“Oh, I loved sailing here!”

“No wonder there are so many shipwrecks here.”

Crestwood: 

(Old Crestwood) “All these poor spirits. They don’t want to be here, they just want to know what it’s like but they get stuck when they try to see for themselves. I hope they can find a way back before the worst happens.”

(In the caves) “I’m fairly certain that I can sense the rift beneath us.”

(In the caves) “Those poor people.”

(In the caves) “I wonder if there’s anything interesting here!”

The Western Approach:

“It’s so bright here. I can’t see!”

(Next to the poison hot springs) “I think I can smell the Blight here”

“I wonder how many forgotten ruins are here.”

Emerald Graves:

“Oh, it’s so pretty here!”

“I wonder what kind of flowers I could find here.”

“For the red templars to be here... makes me feel a bit sick.”

“It would be prettier without the Orlesian architecture.”

Exalted Plaines: 

“Demons, the dead walking, an Orlesian civil war, and the Freemen. Only way it could be worse would be if there were darkspawn as well.”

“We should clear a way for that Dalish clan.”

“Right, raising the dead, because there’s no way that could go wrong.”

Emprise Du Lion:

“We left Skyhold just to go somewhere snowy. Lovely.”

“Making lyrium from people? I’m going to be sick.”

“Maker... this is worse than getting the blight. At least someone with that has a tiny little chance to become a Warden!”

Personal Quests

Blood on Your Hands:

Blood on Your Hands is Holly’s personal quest. Once she gets to a certain level of approval, Holly will approach the Inquisitor asking for help locating a tranquil mage she had protected when the circle rebelled. She offered to try to reverse her tranquility, but she refused. Unsure of what to do, she did as the Tranquil asked. She also reveals that they were friends when they were younger, and while Holly believes no mage should be made Tranquil, she believes that her friend was particularly undeserving.

The first step is a war table mission with Leliana as the only option. This will reveal that the tranquil’s last known location was a place in the Brecilian forest. Then the Inquisitor must take Holly to this place. Once there, much to Holly’s horror, they will discover that since the tranquil could not use her magic to defend herself, she was used as a blood sacrifice by a blood mage. It is quickly learned that she is not the only tranquil used as a blood sacrifice either. The Blood Mage says that something about the tranquil make his magic particularly powerful, and he wouldn’t have survived fighting against the templars any other way.

The Inquisitor can either allow Holly to kill the Blood Mage, her preferred outcome, or they can let the blood mage go. If Holly kills the Blood Mage, she will bitterly and mournfully finally open up about the Ostwick Circle’s rebellion. If the Blood Mage is let go, she will stay with the Inquisition, but will no longer be available as a companion. She will not respond if the Inquisitor tries to talk to her.

A Rose by Any Other Name:

This is her romance quest and it’s basically just a silly fetch quest about collecting flowers. Throughout the game, Holly’s love for flowers is very, very apparent, and during a particular cutscene she says something that gives the Inquisitor the idea to get her some fancy flowers. After the Inquisitor gives the specialized bouquet to her, she rewards them with... well I think you can fill in the blanks.

Trespasser

She’s stayed with the Inquisition working as the Inner Circle’s personal healer. At this point she has started making some  headway into helping those infected with red lyrium. She helped Cullen with his lyrium addiction, and is perfecting ways to help with lyrium addictions as well. She goes not only to support the Inquisitor, but also just in case she’s needed.

In the epilogue it says that she is the leading researcher on Lyrium, and is working closely with Orzammar. When she is not working underground she stops by to help Cullen with the recovering templars. She also creates a prosthetic for the Inquisitor. She is well known for still being the Inner Circle’s personal healer when she can. She also stops in the middle of traveling to aid those who are in most need of her abilities.

Approval Gained

Helping the refugees in the Hinterlands and Emerald Graves

Helping the Dalish in the Exalted Plains

Killing Imshael

Freeing the people in Emprise Du Lion

Freeing the slaves in the Hissing Wastes

Telling the couple in Crestwood you won’t tell anyone where they were

Allying with the Mages (Greatly Approves)

Conscripting the Templars (Approves)

Helping everyone escape Haven

Saying you’ll represent the mages, or saying your main goal as Inquisitor is to stop Corypheus

Conscripting the Wardens

Any result that involves having more than one person rule Orlais

Having Morrigan go into the Well of Sorrows

Following the Petitioners Path

Convincing Calpernia to leave

Approval Lost

Agreeing to Imshael’s reward

Taking the reaver and templar specializations (because she’ll be worried about your health)

Conscripting the mages (Disapproves)

Allying with the Templars (Greatly Disapproves)

Failing to help people leave Haven

Saying you’ll use the Inquisition to make yourself stronger (or whatever that one is)

Banishing the Wardens

Gaspard or Celene ruling alone

Not following the Petitioners Path

The Inquisitor going into the Well of Sorrows

Fighting Calpernia

Trivia

If she and Cullen are not romanced, they will end up in a relationship together. Though, that’s after her calling him out about his views on mages.

She and Leliana get along scarily well.

She absolutely adores nature.

She’s like Cole’s fourth parent

In her fic (Like Lightning in a Bottle) she is both a companion and an advisor. Her title is simply Enchantress.

When they stayed in the Exalted Plains, she secretly healed one of the Halla.

Lightning is her preferred form of battle magic

She focuses on mental health as much as she does physical health

She has a very strong appreciation for the Wardens, though it is nowhere near Blackwall’s idolization

She knows Blackwall is lying right away 

#oc as a companion #holly trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age

[herald-divine-hell]

Moonlight Upon Shadow

A/N: Did Herald actually write something that has to do with an AU? Dastardly, I say. It’s mainly just fluff and Leli thirsting for Avvar Amayian, but this was stuck in my head for a while.

Silver light from moon and star played about the darken lake, ripples of light shivering across the shadow-filled blue, the gray stone-clattered floor glittering like gems in stone. Misting breath puffed streamers into the air, up into the pool of star-speckled night, clouds glittering white-gold by the tiny moons as they strolled slowly across the skies. High winds whistled gently above the glade, rustling bare branches and quivering moss and vines on the great walls of rounded stones that facing toward the encircling dark forest. Moonlight dripped tears of white over the paling green-crowned gray stone, brightening the light crust of snow, crunching beneath her feet as Leliana shifted, drawing her arms tighter around her. She fought back a shiver. Though the wind was high, those that reared down had winter’s bite, cutting through her leathers with blades sharper than steel and colder than ice. 

“You are cold,” a voice at her side whispered, though it ran across the silent glade like thunder in a night sky. 

Leliana glanced toward the voice, hiding a grimace within herself as her eyes trailed up to stare at the mountain of a man. Silver-white trickled down thick dark locks, some knotted tight in large braids, falling past his shoulders. A well-oiled braided-beard glittered with streaks of silver, some peppering his black hair. Despite the silver, he could not have been older than a man of twenty-six, but the wrinkles at his eyes, the faint gauntness at his cheeks made him seem older. High cheekbones reared from a chiseled face like one carved off a mountain’s cliffside, with the coldness and hardness of one, too. An icy glare burned in his almond-shaped, tilted silver eyes, glowing bright by moonlight. He was tall, as tall as a Qunari; Leliana only reached up to the underside of his chest. Broad-shoulders ran down to thickly-corded muscles, as strong as a bull and as thick as a tree trunk. The long, jagged blade, thick near the hilt and thinning with a clean cut and sharp point, was made of ice, enchanted with a constant misting of white pooling off it. Light and shadow ran across the surface of the blade in ripples, the blue darkening and lightening like a sky. A great white bear fur cloak covered his massive shoulders, his long braid thrown over a shoulder, falling near his hip. A remnant of snow frosted his locks. He made no move to melt it. And Leliana did her best to ignore the coarse covering of black chest hair, whispering of warmth, sliced with a long ravine of a scar, crawling down his right shoulder to his waist in a slash. 

She wanted to say no, but she remained quiet, leather-gloved fingers tightening around her arms as she drew into herself. Amayian Summer-Breaker was as frigid as the mountains he took as his rule. It made sense. Leliana knew he did not hail from the Frostbacks. A tilt of an accent whispered of the Marcher cities to the north, his name bearing one of an ancient Lord of Ostwick. How he got here and how did he become the Thane of Thanes was something Leliana was not quite sure. And she did not like not knowing. Perhaps that was why she joined him on this hunt, to learn more about the Inquisition’s new ally. What she had so far could count as little more than crumbs from a breadbasket. The man was as talkative as the cliffs near the lake; and somehow Leliana knew she would have gotten more from them than the Avvar. 

But it was necessary, was it not? she thought. No one truly knew the Shadow-Walker. He took control of a small tribe and united all the others, either by bloodshed or by deeds or by words. And that was all that was important. Important to him, anyway. Who cared about the past when the present is what needed to be focused on? The past held secrets, however, and secrets was Leliana’s song. 

“We will have to continue the hunt after the snow melts,” said the Thane, tilting his head up, the war-paint marked curved nose twisted as he sniffed the air. “Another storm is coming, and we need rest.” He glanced down, icy daggers melting to winter winds in those eyes. “Come.” He turned and marched on, long strides carrying him where Leliana would need six more to match. 

With his broad back faced away from her, Leliana allowed the grimace to crawl over her face. She was half-of-mind to find another shelter for her to take, as she watched Shadow-Walker strode toward the cliffs, a large hand resting on stone. Lines of blue light flecked up, vining in circles and sharp turns  before the wall creaked up with a low groan. “Come,” he called again, neither a command nor a question. 

Muscles bundling at her jaw, shivering as another wind drifted down from the pitchy skies, bringing another burst of brittle bites, she followed, snow and frosted grass crunching and echoing with her steps.

Warmth rushed so heavily and quickly, another burst of shivers rackled through Leliana’s body. Amber light blossomed like sunlight at dawn, and she blinked the tears welling in her eyes away. 

As her eyes adjusted, she found her slightly impressed by the sight. The cave was large and spacious, necessary for the Thane’s great height. A small long table marched at a side, with high-backed stone chains cushioned by wolf fur. Scones of blue-gray ice burned with silver-tipped amber fire. At the center, a golden-scarlet fire roared on stone slabs, lit a life by magic, shimmering the stones beneath in a soft sheen. 

At the far back, a raised platform was covered in pelts, from bears to wolves, some folded on top of one another to serve as make-shift pillows. Some seemed to have been knitted to be actual pillows by the Thane. The wall curved into an alcove, a deep pit that could fit seven Lelianas pressed side to side all the way to the edge of the raised platform. Far big enough for the Thane to lay in. More than enough for Leliana. Tiredness tugged at her bones at the sight, the warmth flooding her lips in drowsiness. 

Amayian was patting the clothes down, fluffing the pillows, before turning back to Leliana. “You are still shivering.” His fingers went to the emerald gem broach at his wide chest, unclasping it. Tugging it off, he flung it easily around her shoulders. It was large enough that it obscured her body from view. It smelt faintly of the man, of a sweet burning fire. And it was warm, too, still clinging to the warmth of the Thane. 

“Thank you,” said Leliana, beginning to shrug it off. “But I do not need it—” 

Large hands clasped around hers. Even with the gloves on, heat burned off him those collapsed palms and fingers. Gently, he tugged it back into place, a stubbornness frosting his hard stare. “No,” he said, voice clipped like ice and hard as stone. “You need this more than I.” He turned and pointed with his head. “You will sleep there.” Nodding, as if that was the end of the argument, he walked to a part of the stone walls, opposite the table. Reaching another hand to the wall, it shivered and groaned as it lifted up, a line of silver falling the length of a jagged-cut bolder. “There is a little pond where you can bathe, if you wish. I have some pelts you could use while your clothes dry. I will deal with that.”

Warmth tickled Leliana’s cheeks as her brows furrowed. “That is all well and good, but where will you be sleeping, exactly?”

“I will fashion myself another bed to sleep on.” He pointed toward another wall. “It will not take long, enough of a time for you to bathe.” His eyes glossed over her head, gaze fixated at the doorway that slammed shut behind her, cutting off the cold, dying wind from the heat-filled cave. “Tomorrow I will go find us some food.” 

Arms crossing beneath the heavy, warm fur cloak, Leliana dipped her hip to the side. “And I have your word that you will do nothing besides what you afford.”

His hand crossed over his chest, fingers twisting in an ancient Avvar manner that spoke of a promise over his broad-chest, to die if broken. “You have my word, Nightingale Sister.” 

The sternness of his eyes told her that she would not worry about that oath breaking; so, reluctantly, she gave a nod and walked toward the opened pathway to the in-cave lake. Her steps echoed in the high-ceiling cave, jagged points glistening like teeth overhead, and she passed Summer-Breaker, that scent of sweetly burning wood and its warmth filled her. “How will you know if dawn came?”

Without the cloak, she could freely see his broad shoulders, his heavy muscles, his wide chest covered in warpaint and scars and hair. Scars littered his hard face, cutting like dashes of white warpaint, some wide, others thinned. It gave him a darker, harder look. But the touch of scarlet and gold splattered like sunlight fluttering across a frozen lake, softening its chilled stare. Amber softly melted the hardness, an under touch of ruby burning his copper skin. “There are other pathways I know that lead to the top of the cliffs we are under. I will check in the morning, and wake you if you wish to join the hunt.”

Despite herself, Leliana smiled, as she tugged the cloak harder around her. “I will like that, Thane.”

He nodded and turned away from her, striding to the other wall, and another loud groan and he was swallowed by the spit of darkness, only a faint whisper of blue light and the hiss of melting stone gave answer that he still lived. Flutters of fire echoed from the pathway, amber spilling out like water from the widening corridor. 

Well, I got something, at least. This cave was old, which meant Amayian had lived here for a long while, before he became Avvar. He treated each wall he touched with delicacy, as if recalling past memories. How many other such caves existed, ones he knew like the back of his hand? Perhaps tomorrow more news will slither out, more signs for Leliana to decipher, secrets for her to unravel.

And she truly did enjoy unraveling secrets. 

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age ocs #my ocs #ocs #amayian trevelyan #leliana #dragon age leliana #leliana x inquisitor #inquisitor x leliana #da #dai #dragon age fanfic #my fanfic #my writing #amayian x leliana #fluff #avvar au #avvar amayian

[strongsong117]

WIP Whenever

I've been tagged by @johaeryslavellan yesterday! Thank you for tagging me (it's my very first tag in a post hoho) and your works are delightful!

Also, I decided to do this because I'm stuck in this fic and don't know how to proceed. I kinda need some help bc whenever I wrote made-up² stuff I felt guilty and wouldn't be able to finish the piece (it would just sit in a folder full of unfinished fics).

It's kind of a back story of my male Trevelyan and his quest for self-discovery (I think??) in the face of conflicting thoughts and feelings who would later meet a charming and charismatic Tevinter mage.

He remembers the first time someone ever confessed to him. It was a daughter of another notable house back in Ostwick, a person he considered a close friend. They've been friends for a good long while, back when Michael was around seven years old until he was nine. He was surprised when she walked towards him—beet red, blushing and stumbling over her words. And, contrary to what he knew was supposed to be his reaction, he was repulsed. Not by the fact that she liked him, but by that fact that she liked him. And it didn’t help that it made no sense, even to him. He thought that it was merely the reaction of a child who had absolutely no idea of what admiring another entails. But he was, once again, proven wrong.

Years later and he was what people would call an "eligible bachelor". He'd attended many of his aunt's parties, mostly out of necessity rather than preference, and there were numerous instances where he would be introduced to fine, unwed ladies. And he despised it. Later, in his twenties, he would start walking out of obviously orchestrated introductions with no guilt or remorse, but instead a satisfied smirk when he heard their offended gasps. Then, he would go to the estate's more hidden balconies and drown himself with thoughts and wine.

His gaze would wander around the crowd—constantly landing on some notable appearances and undeniably attractive faces—and he wondered: Was it simply preference? Did he not like the idea of being with women because that was simply not what he wanted? Did he prefer the companionship of his fellow men?

And so, with these questions swimming in his mind, he approached a familiar face that he knew was following his movements that night with more interest than others. Markus was the man's name, he remembered, and if memory served, he was a few years older. Michael chatted him up, invited him to that isolated balcony to try and get to know him. It was faster than he had anticipated. Markus had told him how he followed Michael's achievements through the years, how he had such an attractive face and how it was possible for him not to be married yet. Michael tried to brush the question off by reminding the man that he was still young—just a few years from his teens. He went back to the "attractive" part, hoping that the situation would escalate. And it did. Leaning against the balustrade with a man kneeling between his legs as he was pleasured—if it could even be called that, because he immediately pushed the man away, fixed and fastened his trousers, and ran to the farthest place he could to hide until the party ended.

Perhaps not, then.

Around 9:35, he had the opportunity to volunteer for a research expedition to the forests of Ferelden. They recruited him for his skills with the bow, and he took advantage of it to gain additional knowledge about historical and crucial events. Michael had always been interested to the point of obsession when it came to the history of Thedas and the different cultures of its inhabitants, so having the chance to see ancient Tevinter ruins and the remnants of elvhen structures up close was a wonderful bonus of his lending of his skills.

They had been in the expedition for a good 6 months—from Kingsway to Drakonis—and Michael was able to form new friendships with the people he travelled with. Immanuel, the circle mage that he befriended more than others, was their Tevene specialist, focusing more on their language.

Their friendship started when they were flanked by a pack of wolves while the two of them were sent out to search the area for nearby ruins. They worked well together, surprisingly. After that, Michael was the person whom Immanuel discussed his preliminary findings with and he listened to Immanuel's theories while adding his insights that amazingly helped the mage to form more concrete conclusions. During their free time, they talked about their childhoods and pasts, learning something new about the other each day. He admired Immanuel’s intellect and wit, and he was undeniably charming too.

Michael also loved the way Immanuel's eyes sparkled with passion as he speculated about all the possibilities—though Michael would admit he knew less than half of what he was talking about. It was as if his eyes reflected the starry sky itself, and Michael thought he could watch the man all day if that was the scene presented to him.

And it is inevitable to develop certain feelings whenever you’re constantly in the presence of a person who also liked your company. That was something Michael still knew he was capable of—attraction—even after all those unfortunate(?) incidents in his past. Maybe if he was the one who initiated things, it would feel less… wrong? Was that how it worked?

So, Michael waited for a chance—the perfect opportunity to bring up his feelings towards Immanuel, and to at least clear the air if it doesn’t turn out how Michael wanted it to. He waited for a whole week, but whenever he saw a window of opportunity to say it, it was as if he intentionally avoided bringing it up. There was even an instance where they were so close together—Immanuel needed something removed from his neck, only possible by wiping it off with something damp which they didn't have at that time—that Michael knew they both felt some sort of tension in the air that urged him to act on the blind instruction of desire.

Michael ignored the want to lap on Immanuel's neck with his tongue, and ignored the feeling that Immanuel might've thought of it too, and wanted. After that, his feelings were buried deep inside him until it dissipated and disappeared into the waves of the Waking Sea as they traveled back to the Free Marches.

After that expedition, he tried to write to Immanuel in the Ostwick Circle to check on his well-being and ask for an update on their research. He received a response once, but with an endnote that practically said “We’ll be busy so I can’t be bothered anymore,” and a dismissive thanks.

Well, that’s done, then.

After that, Michael never bothered with matters of the heart and focused on his training, instead. Training for what, he was never certain, but he liked being fast and sharp with bows and daggers. Thankfully, he was the youngest among the four sons of House Trevelyan, and he was never pressured concerning marriage. His parents already had multiple grandchildren, anyway. However, he was sure that his parents would discuss such matters with him in the long run. Something that inspired dread in him—even just the thought of it.

Aaand that's a bit long, innit? It's where I'm stuck now, for over 10 days 🙃 I'm pretty sure I was planning to lead this to the events of DAI bc Dorian but not sure how to proceed.

Anyways, I am tagging y'all amazing people @fancytrinkets, @ineffablewitch, @the-gay-wardens, @noire-pandora, @datrashbitch, @tessa1972, @trashwarden

It's completely up to you whether you want to do this as well, but I also wanted to hear your thoughts about the WIP! Does it have grammatical errors? Is it boring? Any constructive criticisms so far? Bc I definitely need feedback since I've only been writing for a short while and English ain't my first language.

#dragon age inquisition #male trevelyan #WIP #Halp #Will become Pavelyan #It's also my first time tagging people lol #Hullo! #I hope y'all don't mind :3 #For years I've been a hermit and don't know how the world works jk #I want to upload something in my AO3 bc it's been a while 😢 #Whoo this is kinda scary *nervous laugh* #Uhh how to put breaks in mobile 😐 #Sorry for a lengthy post

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Lydia Trevelyan: Bio

Born 9:14 at her family’s estate in Ostwick, Lydia Rowena Theodosia Trevelyan was the second child of Maksim Trevelyan and Theodosia Fraser Trevelyan. Her father’s family hailed originally from Nevarra before moving to Ostwick, Maksim’s title as Bann passing from his grandfather. Known for their mounts prized throughout the Free Marches, Maksim traveled to South Reach Ferelden in his twenties to observe the Bann’s farmlands there. He met Theodosia, daughter of the Bann, and they soon fell in love and agreed to wed. When they settled at the Ostwick estate, the sea view far different than the plains and mountains of Ferelden, Theodosia soon had a son, Aiden. Five years passed, and before Theodosia thought Aiden would be her only, she found out she would have another child. She named her Lydia after a queen of an “old forgotten isle whose story she read when she was a child,” giving her her grandmother’s middle name and her mother’s name as well, as per Nevarran tradition. 

Growing up, Theodosia was more hands on with Lydia, as Maksim saw Aiden as the one to take over the estate one day. Lydia thought her mother as warm while her father was more distant, though he always managed to dance with her at least once a week. Even at her young age, she proved to be an apt dancer. Her favorite place however was her mother’s garden, the jasmine plants and rose bushes fragrant and vibrant. In the spring and Summer her mother would take her there almost every day. Sometimes too, her mother took her to the beach, where Lydia learned to swim. One day, her mother promised to take her to Ferelden.

When Aiden was thirteen he left for a Nevarran boarding school. Lydia was eight years old, roaming the grounds during a family party when she saw her mother in the stables with one of her father’s friends, Roland. He raised his voice at her, and she was so frightened that she remembered what her mother told her: the strength to overcome is inside you. Fire pooled from her fingertips and burning down her family’s stables and injuring Roland, though Theodosia wasn’t hurt. The templars were called the next day.

Her mother promised she would write, visit as often as she could even. Lydia always talked about her mother coming and taking her away. That, and  mentioning she was named after an old forgotten queen of old made the other apprentices think her stuck up, though the First Enchanter Penelope had a fondness for her, and even the Knight Commander found her quiet strength endearing. The others also made comments about how small the Circle robes fit her, and how bigger sizes had to be made for her, leaving her embarrassed. She was also mocked for not using her fire magic, and in fact the other mages, Linnea among them, used to try to make her angry enough to get her to use her fire. It never worked. 

Despite this she had one dear friend in the Circle, an elf originally from the Ostwick Alienage named Willa, and the two often exchanged books with one another to read. One book was called The Highlander series, about a Ferelden knight named Arthur Dayne. One day when she was twenty-one, after she passed her Harrowing, a new templar called Asher came to Ostwick that looked a bit like Arthur Dayne. He waved and smiled at her, a small kindness she wasn’t used to. She saw him more often, smiling at her, even kneeling by her side in the chantry to pray with her, though her version of “praying” was to chant blessed are the peacekeepers over and and over again under her breath to make it look like she was pious, when the truth of the matter was she couldn’t understand how Andraste or the Maker saw it right to make her and other like her a caged bird. Her mother prayed once, but her mother didn’t write to her or come to her like she said she would. Then one day in the Circle library, Asher came to her and kissed her. On and off, they saw each other after that moment. they barely had time to talk, but he did tell her he hated being a templar, hated needing to rely on the lyrium. hated the chantry. He wanted to take her away and live with her in a cabin by the sea.

When Lydia was twenty-four they were found out--right when the Chantry explosion happened in Kirkwall. Asher was sent away and Lydia was shamed--though the First enchanter’s favor kept tranquility out of the question. She grew moody, depressed, stopped eating and often slept. When the Circles dissolved in the interim Ostwick remained neutral, though some mages like Linnea opted to leave. Lydia chose to leave as well, taking only a small knapsack with a few bottles of lyrium. She was cast aside by her father, who told her her mother had passed a year prior. Devastated, she made her way back to the Circle where rogue templars intercepted her. One scarred her across her chest. Asher saved her before the other could scar her across the cheek. He begged her for her lyrium, and though she remembered what he told her about it, she gave it to him anyway. 

Once back at the Circle, she found it had been ransacked by rogue templars and mages alike--those who were dissatisfied with Ostwick’s neutrality. Clarence, Willa’s lover, was killed in one of the frays, and after Willa found out she was pregnant, Lydia volunteered to go to the rumored conclave. At the Ostwick port, no boat captain would take her--they all knew about the mage with the long, dark hair and vibrant sea blue eyes. All except one captain, a woman named Isabela. Once in Ferelden, her mother’s home, she couldn’t appreciate it. 

Asher met her at the conclave. He begged her not to go in. She did anyway. 

#lydia trevelyan #I finally wrote her pre Inquisition bio lol #FINALLY #it's alluded to in the fic #bits and pieces #but I finally wrote it out proper

[thebookworm0001]

posting this again for no reason

Cyrus Amell

Solona’s older brother, eldest Amell sibling

Taken to the Circle when he was ~10 (not long before Solona is)

Ace (is literally so confused as to why these mages keep risking Big Consequences to hook up. Please keep it in your pants you could die.) and homoromantic

So kind, just the kindest boi

Wants to find his siblings

Wants his family together again

Doesn’t believe in the Maker (and he can suck his magic dick if he is real he want to have words with him)

Entropy mage (learns blood magic Just In Case) - does his best to use it defensively, but he has 100% slowly killed Templars in his Circle that super deserved it.

Didn’t inherit the family gift for spirit work but that doesn’t stop him from talking to them

He becomes pretty good friends with a spirit of courage in the Circle (this spirit is so proud of all these mages just doing their best)

Of all the Amell siblings, he has the best relationship with his magic and spirits

Plays Big Brother to the young apprentices because someone has to be kind to these kids and show them they’re not monsters

Political opinions boils down to: can you not imprison and torture us? That’d be great. Also fuck the Divine.

He’s not angry, just disappointed

-Hasmal Circle in the Free Marches

Faye Amell

Younger than Solona, middle child

Taken to Ostwick circle, later transferred to Kirkwall

Templars didn’t outright hurt her but there was definitely some harassment and general bad treatment

Saved by Hawke when the Gallows fall - neither of them know who the other is though

Angry

Wasn’t into the circle politics- too busy trying to stay not tranquil

Civil disobedience is the name of the game

Gay as hell

Tessa

Youngest Amell sibling (between maybe 12 - 14, taken to Circle @ 7)

Tranquil - super powerful spirit mage, scares the shit out of the chantry/Templars and they forcibly turn her tranquil almost as soon as she’s brought the to Circle

Like she had Big Demons stalking her dreams from the moment her magic manifested she was in danger (hi desire demons promising to get her back to her family)

-White Spire In Val Royeaux

Rowan

Middle Child

Non-Binary

They’re pretty chill

Creation mage - not that great at it. Not because they aren’t powerful but because who cares about regeneration spells when you’re stuck in a tower?

Puts repulsion glyphs around their bed so they can get longer naps and summons grease if they get past the glyph - this does not amuse the Templars

Let them sleep

They’re so tired

If you gave them a gift they would instantly fall in love with you (kindness??? In this economy???)

Is very smart

Has the best grasp on Tevene out of all the siblings

Reads weird shit that no one is quite sure how they got

Definitely uses magic to get their chores done faster

glyphs of paralysis on Templars when no one is watching

Chaos

How are they alive and not tranquil? No one knows.

-Anderfels Circle

#Cyrus Amell #Faye Amell #Rowan Amell #Tessa Amell #so in order of age: #Cyrus Solona Faye Rowan Tessa #Cyrus runs sex ed for the circle because someone has to teach these children they’re not dying #then she put pen to paper

[thereluctantinquisitor]

An Unlikely Ally

It was that thick, heavy feeling inside his skull that drove him mad. He could handle burning eyes and heavy steps, open wounds and broken bones. But to feel like a stranger in his own head, wading through endless fog, was almost too much to bear. 

He needed to sleep.

The nights seemed longer, somehow. Longer than when he used to watch over the clan grounds until dawn. Skyhold possessed an eerie stillness that made it difficult to distract himself. There was no investigating a rustle in a bush or a suspicious snapping of a branch. No need to follow a set of tracks to discern their direction, their numbers, their size and shape. Skyhold was just... there. Walled in and safe. He should be glad for it. It should be better that way.

Exhaling, Hanin raked his fingers through his hair, unbound and tousled from his earlier attempt at rest. He called it rest, now, because actual sleep seemed so impossible to achieve. How long had it been since he made it through the night? Days? Weeks?

How much longer could he keep this up?

Already, he was losing his edge. The bruises on his side from where he’d missed parries during training were a testament to that. Without thinking, he reached down, brushing his fingers over the welts left by the practice blades. In a battle, he’d be dead. Cut down by a recruit. 

He didn’t hear Anacrea approach.

“It is late, Lavellan. Even for you.”

Hanin jolted, hand and mind pulling sharply away from his idle reverie. The mage was in a thick overcoat, the dark cloth falling to just below her knees. Beneath, he could make out nothing more than a simple affair, soft and warm. A thing for sleeping, he assumed. It was far from her typical attire. 

“I could say the same to you,” he replied, returning to his empty contemplation of the courtyard. “If you have come to lecture me, know I do not take advice well.” He was about to add from a hypocrite, but stopped himself. After all, even he could see the irony in voicing such a statement. He wasn’t blind. Just tired.

The sound of her footsteps on the cobblestones was louder than he expected, given he hadn’t heard her approach. When she settled beside him on the bench, the thick cloth of her coat brushing his leg, he almost convinced himself to look over at her. Discern what she wanted. But in the end, even the thought of it seemed too difficult, so he just breathed, quietly and slowly, and hoped she would leave.

She didn’t.

“You cannot continue like this.”

Hanin snorted faintly, as amused as he could be at hearing his thoughts voiced so soon by another. “What choice do I have. The world won’t stop for me.”

“No,” she agreed. “It won’t.” 

Funny, he could say it to himself over and over again - repeat it like a mantra - but coming from someone else it felt like a knife to the chest. An inescapable truth. His temple suddenly pulsed and he realised he had been clenching his jaw so tight that it ached. He forced himself to work it loose, but the conscious effort it took to keep it that way seemed almost more distracting than the pain. Not that it mattered where his focus lay. He had nothing to say to her. Whatever she was doing, it was wasting both of their time.

After about five minutes, Hanin broke.

“Did you just come out here to sit in silence?” He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, forehead resting heavily against his steepled fingers. They were cold against his skin. “If you have business with me, get to it.”

On a better day, he would measure his words carefully around the mage. He was smart enough for that. But at that point, he just couldn’t understand why she was tormenting him, sitting there, silent as the stone battlements that walled him in. Creators, berate him! Attempt to console him. Coddle him, even. Damn it, he needed her to do something so he could chase her away for it. 

But she was just sitting there.

“I know you wished you were there. When your clan was butchered.” The simplicity of the words - the coldness of them - caught Hanin by surprise. So much so that he flinched and felt a growl curl at the back of his throat - a warning. A threat. 

“Careful, Trevelyan.”

“No.” He felt her shift beside him, crossing one leg over the other. An act of ease. “I will not be careful.” 

Was she mocking him?

“Then what do you want from me, shem.” Each word was like spitting blood. Especially the last. But Anacrea, true to form, seemed unfazed by his anger. His frustration. His brittle edges. Leaning back against the stone wall, the collar of her coat bunched at her neck, the air curling as she breathed it in and out. It was only after each detail registered that Hanin realised he was looking at her - glaring at her. With a grunt, he shifted his gaze back to the courtyard, but made no effort to soften it. Like his aching jaw, it was too hard of a fight. Another lost battle to add to his collection.

“Do your people know of Circles?”

Hanin barely kept the venom out of his voice. “Of course we do. We have mages. We know the dangers of losing them to humans.”

He was half expecting - hoping - she would take either the bait or her leave. She did neither. “My Circle was at Ostwick,” she continued. Her voice was low, but not quiet. It was the level of polite, midnight conversation. “When the mages began rebelling in Kirkwall, the Templars grew paranoid. Erratic. Saw threat where there was none. Cursed at writing on the wall that only they could see.”

She trailed off for a moment, prompting Hanin to sigh tightly. “Just make your point, Anacrea.” 

If you have one.

“Very well. One evening, we were all summoned to the dining hall for the evening meal. It was nothing unusual, but we all felt the tension between us and the Templars. I raised my concerns, but they were... not taken seriously by my companions. While people sensed things were not well, they remained reassured. After all, we were not apostates. They had no reason to harm us.” There was a steel to her tone, now. An age-old bitterness Hanin almost felt he could understand. Maybe even relate to. “I chose to remain in my room that evening, cloistered by my own paranoia.”

The conversation was heading in a direction Hanin recognised all too well. He knew better than to try to stop it. “What happened?”

Her response was as abrupt as could be expected. “Like you clan, they were butchered. Right there in the dining hall. Defenceless in a place they thought they were safe.” She closed her eyes. “When I heard the screaming, I took my staff and ran towards it.”

Hanin, careful not to interrupt the story, gave a single nod of appreciation. “Brave.”

Judging by the winkling of her nose, Anacrea did not share his sentiment. “It was foolish. Had I not stumbled across other mages who had avoided the call to supper, I would have died along with the others. It was only the combination of us, and the distraction of the main slaughter, that saw us to safety.” Her brow twitched, as though seeking to frown but meeting resistance halfway. “There were less than twenty of us who made it out alive. I remember... passing the hall. The door was ajar. I saw them dragging bodies into a pile at the center of the room. It was... like collecting the dead after a war.”

Slowly, Hanin turned to regard the woman, his anger and frustration still lurking at the back of his mind, but no longer so overwhelming. Her face was blurry to him - most things were at that moment - but he could see the set of her shoulders beneath the cloak. The stiffness of her spine. “Not much of a war,” he murmured eventually, not exactly sure of what to say. Not understanding why she was telling him any of it.

“No,” she agreed. “It wasn’t.” She shifted then, and he felt the weight of her gaze upon him. “My point, Hanin, is this: I was there. I stood in that hallway. I passed that door. I saw the bodies of people I knew - people I cared about - stacked like rotten sacks of grain. I killed some people. Watched others fall.” She let the words hang for a moment, and Hanin had the feeling she was choosing the next ones carefully. “There is only one thing I have been able to come to terms with, after that night, and that is that none of it was in my control.”

Hanin frowned. “I... don’t understand.” She fought, after all. She was there. She made a difference.

“There is no one who made it out of there alive who did so because of my actions. I saved no one but myself. I am an excellent mage, Hanin - I am comfortable with my own ability. But I know my limits. My presence did not change what happened that night. It couldn’t. It is nothing but a fool’s wish - a desperate grab at grief and guilt - to believe otherwise.” Slowly, she reached up, adjusting her collar, drawing it closer to her neck. “All I am left with is a pile of bodies and blood on the walls. It is something I will never stop seeing.”

Some stubborn, irrational part of Hanin wanted to argue. To tell her that she had saved lives. That each Templar she killed was one less to harm those around her. If he had been there with his clan, he might have been able to buy someone else time. He might have...

I know my limits.

For the first time, Hanin forced himself to stop and think. Really think. He was not the only warrior among the clan. He was not the only one trained to fight, and fight well. Perhaps it was as Anacrea said - a strange mixture of guilt and grief - that left him with his hubristic notion that he would have been the one to save them. As though a gust of wind could change the course of a hurricane.

He really was nothing. 

“How...” The word stuck in Hanin’s throat, but Anacrea did not attempt to hurry it. She just waited until he found his voice. “How do you stop... feeling like this?” His hands curled into fists, and he stared down at them as though they were not his own. Ineffectual. Useless. “Every time I... it’s like losing them over and over again. Every night. I can’t...”

“I am not sure it ever truly goes away,” she said. There was no measure of comfort in her voice; no movement to console him. In truth, he was glad for it. “But how you manage the emotions will change with time. You will learn what works, and what does not. You will find ways to cast some demons out, and handle others.”

It was like torture, to drag the words out. “What did you do?”

To his surprise, the corner of her mouth lifted in a trace of a smile. “For a long time, not enough. I kept myself closed off from anything that could cause me pain. I returned home and left just as quickly. I was... afraid. That I would add my parents’ bodies to the pile. When I came here I sealed myself away with plants and sketches. Things I could control. Create. Keep alive.” Glancing across, her eyes seemed to reflect torchlight that was not there, somehow golden in the dark. “But I began with sleep, Hanin. There are natural remedies to assist the process - things you can ease away from once you regain control of yourself. Then I... began to share. With myself, at first, in writing. But then with others...” She trailed off, breathing a quiet sigh. “There are many here who have gone through terrible trials, be it war or demons or plain tragedy. Speaking... listening to them... it has helped remind me that I am not alone.”

Hanin let out a soft huff, but it lacked the bitterness of before. “So... this is all part of your personal remedy, then?”

“To be truthful, yes.” 

Well, at least she wasn’t shy about it.

“But I also spent too long wandering alone in... dark places,” she continued, “and if I can help shorten someone else’s journey, I consider it worth doing. So...” The fabric of her coat rustled gently as she stood, her hands coaxing the creases out of the front before she turned to face him. “If you will allow it, there are options.” She raised a halting finger. “Not cures. But options. Some will help. Some will not. The only question that remains is: are you willing to try?”

Somehow, the fog in Hanin’s mind seemed to clear for a moment. As he gazed up at Anacrea, her brow slightly arched, her expression patient without pity, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was it. This was the moment that would define his path. Despite his better self, some dark part of him scratched and clawed, desperate to keep him in place. Hold him back. Where he was now... it was a strange kind of comfortable. He had grown so used to feeling empty that the idea of possibly filling that space seemed almost too daunting for words. He could manage one step. But another? Then another after that, over and over? How could he possibly drag himself out of it? Maybe he’d manage it for a day. Maybe even a week. But could he really risk the inevitable failure? That moment when he misses a step and goes crashing right back down again?

Anacrea waited silently, her form a dark silhouette against the greystone walls. Silent. Standing. Broken, but mending, solid on her feet before him. Just as she was the day before. Just as she would be the next day. And the next...

Slowly, Hanin felt himself rise to his feet. In a single step, he was at her side. Exhaling, he glanced to the barracks on the far side of the courtyard, then turned his face to the tower in the distance, gaze eventually resting on the balcony at the highest point. 

“I will try.”

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #hanin lavellan #anacrea trevelyan #reluctant writes #so after thinking about the circle mage background #and Lavellan potentially losing their clan #I started considering how Ana and Hanin might navigate their grief #separately at first #but eventually finding some kind of understanding in one another #as people who have been through hell but will be damned if they don't drag themselves back out of it #so... this happened

[gingerbreton]

@dickeybbqpit Ask and you shall receive an essay! This got a little bit long for a reply, so I just went for it. Thank you so much for indulging me!

More Freya Trevelyan

After losing their parents, Freya and her sister, Isla, were raised by their aunt and uncle from Starkhaven. Yes, they were awful! Packed Freya off to boarding school as fast as they could and didn’t even tell her when Isla was taken away to the Circle - just left her thinking that she’d stopped writing back to her.

Freya was 19 when she got away, she’d been back from boarding school a year and was being set up for a marriage that was purely for the purpose of bringing in more money for her guardians. It was the eve of her wedding that inspiration finally struck her to make a break for it. News of the end of the Fifth Blight reached her, and with it the story of a woman not much older than her, who had travelled the length of Ferelden, saved it from destruction and in doing so had completely changed her lot in life. From commoner to queen. Now, Freya has no desire for power or royalty. What really struck a chord with her was that the Hero of Ferelden had completely changed what might have otherwise been her destiny. That you don’t have to be what the world is pushing on you (and she enjoys 10 years of living by that philosophy until in the Inquisition basically do it to her again!! But I digress...).

She got into smuggling almost by accident. Her first job was on behalf of someone who overheard her name and asked her to actually help get their apostate friend away from local templars. Since she was still wedding dressed up she managed to blag their way past the templars as newly weds. Over time she’s proved an occasional overground route for the Carta to shift lyrium, moved exotic collectibles like dragon eggs (and once a live pheonix) and on rare occasions has even dealt with the mage underground. She never got involved in anything dangerous - not purposefully at least - so really she isn’t particularly trained in combat and only carried a dagger for easily concealable self-defence. Come the Inquisition, her past knowledge of illegal lyrium movements makes her surprisingly useful for suggesting ways of cutting off those routes and making life more difficult for the Red Templars.

Freya did sneak into the Conclave with the sole purpose of getting Isla away from the Ostwick Circle. Typical that her sister gets stuck in one of the few remaining loyalist Circles while most other mages go free! It took most of her decade of underworld experience to get herself plus fake identity paperwork for herself and Isla to make good their escape. They had been trying to work out how to get her away ever since Freya escaped their aunt and uncle - exchanging letters delivered by bought off Templar (having a foothold in the illegal lyrium market has its uses, and tbh was probably the main reason she got involved in it).

Freya can’t remember the events of the Conclave, she just has a dull ache somewhere in the back of her mind, like something is very wrong. It’s not until she recovers her memories in the Fade that she realises Isla was with her when the Temple was destroyed and died in the blast.

On a happier note, Dorian does give her lots book recommendations. He feels it is his intellectual duty to balance out the damage that Cassandra’s romance novels must be doing!

Ugh! She copes with the deep road trenches about as well as I do; with a lot of swearing and demanding to know what kind of bastard would put a cog all the way out there! Near the edges she tends to keep a hand on whoever is in front of her, her companions doing make her go first when they can see she’s freaking out a bit, and Blackwall is always at her back, ready to catch her if she slips.

#thank you for asking me about her! #poor love hasn’t had an easy time of it #freya trevelyan #inquisitor trevelyan #dai #dragon age #my oc #i’ve been doing little drabbles on her and ecen those are coming out depressing! #poor girl! what am i doing to her?!

[pathofcomet]

modest in temper, bold in deed

{dragon age: inquisition | m. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 13.8k}

| https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274679 |

the world always came back to the same two old things: what can you gain, and what do you have to sacrifice for it? the world ends like this: a flame being ignited, but her vision turning to dark. the end of the world, and it was only the beginning of lady trevelyan of ostwick, herald of andraste, inquisitor. only the first list of what she had to give up: her world, her life, a sibling, her hand. 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an old, rich noble house is constantly in need of strengthening its political ties. Some do it through anarchy, some through religion. Most do it through marriage and tradition. It’s hard to break at what the world feels like it has known since forever.

She was not supposed to be anyone important. The youngest in a noble house, with no hopes other than becoming a Chantry cleric or being married off for any current political interest of her family. Her parents have been patient enough: she was the only daughter after four boys, coming in their later age – and they had time to boast the achievements of her brothers before her turn came. Her siblings scattered off: getting married and building families, forgetting about their snotty little sister, or registering for the Templar Order. It’s how life was supposed to go, and despite all her careful education, she had no one tell her that she can hope at a world different than what she was led to believe.

She read the tales, she saw the cities and the courts going on: sometimes without the plotting and backstabbing, sometimes free, but she never imagined her own life could be different. She was a lady and she had a duty. She knew how to wield her daggers, because not to would have been entirely foolish. She knew how to sew and how to play an instrument, though she was bad at lip-service, and as such usually ushered to a corner during more important meetings. She was rather dull and quiet (better to bite your tongue, than let out something that you might later regret, like why on earth people even believe these things? what in Andraste’s name am I even doing, at all?) – plain looking on top of that, too. It was easy for others to forget about her, and so it became easy for her to forget about herself.

Her mother has tried match-making ever since her first bleeding, but despite their status and their name, she was but the youngest, she was still young, and she was still of no interest to those her family wanted. So they waited: she sang the Chant some more alongside the sisters, went on various pilgrimages (more political than religious) with her mother, ushered off her brothers as they left to fulfil their purposes, as she waited (as she should, as she damn should). If any of her yearning for the outside world showed, when she looked out carriage windows for too long or when the dawn found her still awake, listening to the busy humming of an always awake city, nobody tried to bring it up. Young girls are difficult, but they’re supposed to get better, be prim, bite their fucking tongues.

The resentment grew, and because she didn’t have a name for what she was feeling, she refused to feel it at all. She was loved – as loved as someone can be in a strict family, and she had people care for her. She could never reproach the people around her that. But she learnt to be even quieter, she learnt to be smart and resourceful. She lied.

The proper gatherings of nobles tend to be so boring, after all. The corset is too tight, and her boob sweat is uncomfortable after too many hours. She feels weird with her mother’s rouge on her cheeks, too much with her skin tone, though she likes the hair let down over the shoulders, or the painted lips. But it’s always the same old gossip, the aunts and uncles gathered in a semi-circle around the youngsters, commenting – and darling, your daughter put a bit of weight on, right? she looks a bit stupid on those heels. And darling, she wanted to punch them.

Men approached them – the name doesn’t go unnoticed after all. Some act all proper, but they’re speaking of things she is not allowed to know inside her family, intrigues and interests she has read only hurriedly in old books under her blankets at night. She knows they like her all the more for that brief second when they can read her panic and stupidity on her face. Others are obvious in their flirting, during dances she is not allowed to refuse (her mother’s eyes burning on her back) – and they fumble over their lame pick-up line when she remains stone-faces, unimpressed. And well, some prefer to corner her on her way from the bathroom, in dark sides of poorly lit hallways, where no one can notice their faces, where no one can hear her protests. She burns with anger and fear and shame at their touch, is quick to act in shoving them away – but her heart cannot stop painfully thumping in her chest for the remaining of the night.

It’s these encounters in particular that make her realize how ill equipped she is for the real world, even the domestic one. People are so free in doing things simply because they can. So she starts testing her own limits and abilities, and where she finds herself lacking, she works harder.

She grows. She answers back more often now, a smile at the corner of her mouth when she knows she has the upper hand, but she’s always pleasant with those who need it, with those that give her no reason not to be. Plain, she remains for the most part. She likes it. It buys her time.

It was her mother that was supposed to be present at the Conclave, but she’s been old, and at the prospect of the long travels, and the cold on top of that, she quickly passed on the duty on her daughter. Her unfitting daughter, but there simply was no one left to properly represent the interest of their House – and if it is her rightful duty, she won’t shirk from it. Divine Justinia welcomed every single person personally, a presence like the sun itself. She met her brother there, and she felt happy, even when his armour bumped awkwardly against her when she tried to hug him.

But the Conclave was not that different from what she was used to, so she stayed silent and looked around, at all the political screams around her, all the upset dignitaries and skilful negotiators. The world always came back to the same two old things: what can you gain, and what do you have to sacrifice for it?

The world ends like this: a flame being ignited, but her vision turning to dark. The end of the world, and it was only the beginning of Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor. Only the first list of what she had to give up: her world, her life, a sibling, her hand.

***

In truth, the reason why she remained silent in front of Cassandra Penthaghast when she first her met was simple knee-jerk reaction. If someone is mad at you, screaming at you – you shut the fuck up, don’t make it worse. If she were to be honest, it was probably fear, just pure fear that made her adjust so quickly. She was scared of this new found power inside her, petrified at the implications of it (Andraste, the Maker – these are tale names, they should never have anything to do with mere humans). If not for Cassandra’s sturdy hand around her elbow, she would have crumpled to the ground upon the sight of those ruins, in the midst of which a breach was eating away at the sky, spouting out demons.

City ladies aren’t supposed to be fighting ghouls. She, in particular, participant at the Conclave too, is not supposed to be alive, but she is – and she wants to throw up at the surge of relief that she feels with each beating of her heart. She feels light-headed, like she betrayed some part of her humanity – and she wishes her own memories would come to her as easy as they seem to be stuck in the veil of magic. Another thing that she is not supposed to be familiar with: this kind of antique, powerful magic (it was supposed to be just in the stories, just another thing I couldn’t reac-).

And then she passes out.

***

The poor servant girl found her on the floor, forehead against the cold edge of the table, while she was trying to calm down a painful headache, calm her thoughts so her breath won’t start heaving. There’s too much happening at once – the lack of chains around her wrists must be a good sign, though. She is not a believer, but the adoration behind the nickname, the gleam in some people’s eyes – it is too much too bear, too much attention suddenly shoved her way. But she cannot run away, she has nowhere to go now that she lived through the impossible, now that she bears a mark. There’s no one else to do it but her. What a frighteningly simple thought: that no matter how unfitting she will prove to be, she’s all they have. A sword does not ask to be forged. She did not ask to be made into this pseudo-religious symbol.

But her hand is glowing green, and the sky is opening above her head, and she really wants to go and die right now, but there are people around her, braver and kinder than she ever hoped to be, and they’re relying on her. She wants to believe, in the end, that it is them that should give her a fitting purpose, away from what she’s known until now. She cannot bear to look at herself, she cannot bear to trust herself, so for the time being, she trusts their desperation, their need, their orders, their pleas.

So, she tries again. She smiles the next time when she goes and visits Cassandra, because after all they are both noble ladies who just wanted to follow their family’s path only to find it’s a dead-end. The comfort sits in what remains unspoken between them, in the way they wear their shoulders, in the way their voices soften just upon certain words. She leaves beaming, hopeful, at least more at peace. It’s just the same with Josephine, who is sweet like honey, caring and understanding, but just to hide the bittersweet, old familial resentment. Hell, if she doesn’t know what constantly having marriage shoved down your throat is like.

She must admit, she’s been…. upset at first. No one really wants to be a hero, or a leader. But she believes (she has to believe) that the fact that she can and want to help is enough. She doesn’t have much to offer, she’s lacking in combat experience, and she’s been snappier than usual, not much of a diplomat. She goes around the camp, asks for what she can do, but it’s all mechanic, her mind far-away, stuck on what she has lost.

She spends too much time harvesting plants in the beginning, foraging for ingredients and materials for the camp. She needs to make herself useful, while allowing herself some time to think this through – and it helps, in a way. No one gave her any time to mourn, unlike all the people she’s meeting who are grieving and forgiven in their actions because of it. She thinks of her brother, his ashes mixed with that of tens of others. She thinks of all these political links that she must navigate, that she thought far from her reach before. She thinks of her family, that she doubts she’ll get to see again – not in the same way, anyway. She spends nights wide awake, tears falling on the side of her face into the pillow, crying over the past that she left behind. It wasn’t even precious, it wasn’t even hers, but she’s so petrified in the face of all the unknown that awaits her once the sun rises again, that she can’t make herself sleep. She’s scared of all the power that’s been shoved onto her.

If she makes one detrimental decision, it could end fatal for the entire Thedas. So she sighs, picks another elfroot, greets another peasant – and counts her blessings, starting with each breath she’s taking.

Varric has these stories he likes to say of the Champion of Kirkwall, and she loves them dearly. She’s not much younger than that hero, but the tales reached her ears at first when she was a teenager, and she remembers the copies of romance books, all read several times through, how much they used to touch her then. Hawke was only a human girl in the beginning too. She asked him once, after too much to drink, in those early days: what am I supposed to do? How can I possibly act like their chosen one, when I know myself the most?

But a leader is simply someone who sees something wrong and goes in to make it better. If she hasn’t yet run away, she can do that, one task at a time. It’s a resilience typical to them human girls, Varric would guess, but this Herald of Andraste is asleep before she gets the answers that she wants, and he laughs in his ale, storing another story for another time.

Mother Giselle is comforting, kind. But even this person warns her, that she should not bear the weight of it all alone. But all around her she has seen only frail, heavy shoulders. Busy heads, dark under circles, people with more responsibility and more work than her. She doesn’t know who to turn to, despite any kind of understanding that might start flourishing between them. She’s not their friend, she’s their ally, and she must not bend, must not crack, must not burden them further.

***

When Sera calls her plain, just a human, she wants to cry with relief. She knows it’s in jest, but the comfort is almost unmatched – to know that there’s still a part of her that remains like before. Whatever mystery the world is trying to shroud her in, at the end of the day, when people meet her, she is still that plain woman, nothing much.

She accepts all help gratefully. If it was a mistake trusting, then she’ll deal with it when the consequences come biting her in the ass, but until then she must believe that the people who say they care about the big hole in the sky actually do. She tried doubting, thinking things over, but it was tiring and painful, dissecting everyone’s intentions like that.

It feels a bit unfair that in the middle of it all, she learns to find who she is, she finds a voice. Rather, she can’t ignore it. Cullen looks her straight in the eye when he asks a question, Josephine asks for her advice each time she finds a spare moment, and in the midst of the battle, her back reaches Cassandra’s. She feels selfish, relishing in these instances when she is acknowledged so fully, beyond any differences. She can accept or deny requests as she deems fit, and she ends up trying to fulfil most of them, the desperation in these people’s voices too much to tell them no. There’s nothing like their tired smiles afterwards, like the overflowing gratitude.

She did something. She made that something. Each action has a consequence, and this idea is so powerful that it is enough to get her drunk, to steel her determination, to make her accept this place more easily. So when Josephine asks, she doesn’t complain about the living conditions. When Cassandra trains, she joins her. When Leliana loses herself in her past, she lets her.

When allies pour in, one by one – she welcomes them. A long-forgotten relative in Dorian Pavus. A secret Warden, powerful mages…

***

And the Iron Bull. She hasn’t seen the sea as angry in a long while, and she supposes it matches with the fighting that breaks, with the swift moves of that massive warrior, with the precision and power of his group. Her own party has almost nothing to do as they arrive, and as the weapons are thrown aside, her heart is thrumming in her ears, because these are the exact kind of people that she’d like by their side as they fight against demons, assassins and whatever threats Andraste may throw in their way too.

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” she says, mind already made that she’s to buy their first round of drinks, once they’re all set up at the Inquisition’s headquarters.

Standing, the Iron Bull is almost twice her size. There’s a shiver going down her spine as she is forced to look up at him, hurry to keep up with his paces. She’s never seen someone as intimidatingly huge as him, and she’s absolutely enthralled. He’s good – and good is not a good enough word, but he’s also honest about his connections, all cards laid in front of her, charmingly so. It’s the easiest ‘yes’ she has said in a while.

But the beginnings are always the hardest. Everyone’s new, no one fully trusts each other, everyone’s questioning or doubting, there’s so much work to be done, issues upon issues.

“So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

What a relief, she thinks, looking at this larger than life man smirking down at her. She can’t help asking questions, prodding at him – she’s fascinated by him and what he can do. The first battle they fought by each other’s side, she wanted to kiss that weapon of his, kiss in his battle cry – because suddenly everything became so much easier. He loves fighting in a way that is not at all relatable to her, and for the first time since she started the whole closing-of-breaches thing, she didn’t have to bite back tears as a mage healed her palm blisters, because for the first time, she didn’t have any.

So, she is glad for his presence. Even if it comes with exchange of information and secrets, even if it is paid. She feels a bit lighter around him, a part of whatever it is that’s weighing her down passed onto him, easier to bear. What an incredible revelation that is to her, that she doesn’t have to doubt his place, at least for now.

She doubts enough as it is: her own family’s help, their spare resources, the abilities of the young men they just recruited. Her ability to actually stop this force tearing apart the world. So to stop thinking about it, she lets her mouth run off, asking questions that no lady should have, hearing of things that she would have been protected from, in her past life. It’s refreshing and empowering, to get to experience it all, like this, with a slight smile passed between the two of them, the hint of something not yet entirely bloomed.

***

The future is cold and red and it doesn’t exist for her. It’s both a chilling and peaceful thought at the same time. Per others’ words, she should consider herself lucky, no army of demons to be faced, but time and space are tricky here, and she breathes anyway, both her of her own moments, and the one stuck in the future, but with no memories to prove it.

She dislikes magic. The way it can change so many things, so easily. It’s terrifying and unnatural. Dorian’s mouth running off, trying to explain things makes it just a tiny bit better. It’s reassuring to know that at least someone here knows what’s going on, can counter the weaving of reality’s fabric. Stuck like this, she can’t believe she can feel guilty for things she didn’t do, couldn’t do because she was dead. The red lyrium burns at her eyes and conscience, but she feels better with old allies at her side, with how surprisingly optimistic they all are. From where she stands, the future is just… bleak. It doesn’t stop her from fighting, from trying to undone it. In the midst of the battle what she thinks doesn’t matter; she just has to follow those that know better, just wield her weapons. She’s grateful to Leliana, that she also doesn’t want to know the truths of a what-if. Ignorance is bliss after all.

Between the local fighting, the dragons, the helping, the political treaties, the plant gathering… she closes the breach. Barely. They don’t even have the time to celebrate it before an attack is upon them, all that they’ve achieved gone in the blink of an eye. One second she’s surrounded by her people, the other by flames and rubble. So hopeless, so soon. She bites her anger this time, asks for suggestions instead, asks for help – desperate to change something, to not allow this to end.

At least, by now, she’s gotten used to Cullen’s orders, to Cassandra’s alertness. It’s easier to move, knowing them, knowing they have one common end goal, knowing that they’re on the same side. This time, when she has to put her life on the line, she doesn’t hesitate. It hasn’t been long, but this place, with the people in it, became something precious to her. If she’s to give it something back, wouldn’t be this new life awakened inside her the proper price? It’d be a lie to say she is not scared – she is terrified. The kind of power that a dragon, that Corypheus holds is not something that you can understand without seeing first-hand, and no matter how many times she might encounter it, it feels new and overbearing each and every time.

When she falls, she half wishes she’d actually die. Sacrifice done, struggles ended. Instead, she coughs out the dust from her lungs, presses against her frost-bitten toes, moans in pain at her bruised ribs, and after one sharp intake of breath, she starts moving again. Path found, made when not. It’s always a good sign when you encounter enemies, you know there’s something of value to be found at the end.

Her precious advisors have been fighting for the long hours that she spent resting, healing. She’d kill for a drink, but none of them are in a position where they can allow her this. Her only peace is Mother Giselle, kind once again, with faith so hot she feels she might burn against it. She doesn’t believe in her own power, she knows better than anyone her own fear and despair that made everything happen. The immense luck. The explanations that no one can understand or give her. It’s all so complicated, too complicated.

What she learns that night, in the heart of the mountains, is that she doesn’t have to believe, as long as others do. And despite the darkness of the night, a new dawn will always come. Theirs find them on their way to Skyhold, a new place that they can call home. She has Solas to thank for this. Her heart expands in her chest, humbled at all these people that are willing to come together under one common goal. It’s humanity at its most desperate, and at its best as well.

***

Cole helped them. Lately, she’s been thinking that’s a good enough sign of ally ship. To her, it doesn’t matter much that no one can explain what he is. It’s not like anyone knows how to explain her that much either. It’s a strange solace that she finds at the side of this spirit, that speaks in people’s last thoughts, a voice barely above a whisper. There’s no lies upon a dying man’s lips, so Cole speaks the truth at its barest.

“I used to think I was ghost. Then… I learned to be more like I am. It made me different, but stronger.”

She smiles despite herself. What a relatable description. Her hands start trembling a bit, listening to him. Her past life seems so distant now, buried under all the new scars on her body, under all the letters for the Inquisition, under all the spies and rumours. She can recall it, though: the days passing her by with nothing worth remembering or doing, her family passing by her without a nod of acknowledgement; a ghost. It is the Inquisition that made her into who she is today: a tiny bit braver, a tiny bit stronger, a tiny bit smarter, a tiny bit kinder. A tiny bit more like herself.

Here is the only place where she can belong now. And once, she’s been told that wanting to help is enough. So Cole stays.

***

Inquisitor. A new title. More to burden her down. Will it ever stop?

***

She wants to laugh in her guard costume, with Bull hovering above her, fixing the scarf around her neck, the night cold making home in her bones. She wonders sometimes, if he’s even bothered by the weather, and it’s another childish thought. With him, she finds that she is more comfortable than usual. She is still his boss, the Inquisitor, but she’s also something beyond that. She knows he is a spy, and yet she doesn’t fear for her life for even one second as they make their way in the courtyard, destination unknown to her.

They sit around a fire, her acting barely worth the name, hearing the stories of those joining her army. These are her fighters, the people under her – and it is humbling to know more beyond the eyes under a helmet. It’s a new perspective: the fears, the needs and the motivations of others.

She’s been thrown into all of this, place sculpted for her because there was no one else. But here, around this campfire, are people who willingly put themselves out there, who wanted to do something about life happening to them. She wonders if she would have had the courage, back in the luxury of nobility, to pick up her daggers and do the right thing.

She doesn’t want an answer to this, ashamed it might not be the one she wants.

But it speaks of the Iron Bull’s good leadership skills, that he went out of his way to show her this. To remind her that each and every one of the men under her are just as alive, just as much of a protagonist in their own lives as them. His care is touching. No one tried guiding her so close to the heart of the Inquisition’s ranks, to let her know that her influences matters in more than table war decisions and high court skirmishes. It’s with these people that she fights the hardest battles.

She is grateful.

***

Hawke is the stuff of stories and legends, and above all, she is alive and well right in front of her. She doesn’t think she can stop her admiring grin from spreading, or the grateful looks thrown at Varric. Once a hero, always a hero she supposes – and in the lines of Hawke’s shoulders, she can read the same guilt and responsibility that are oh so familiar to her. She’d like for them to talk more about something else than the threats they have to face, and the corruption in the ranks of organizations they’re not even part of. It’s frustrating sometimes, that they have to care about so many things at the same time.

And gods, she hates the Fade. It’s the start of everything, the end of everything. A place with no real rules, knowing more than their own hearts. It’s tricky, true to the worst of them. Everything is upside down, and her head hurts, trying to piece together what she is seeing with the laws of the natural world. She can feel herself freak out, and some of her companions are not much better. She feels bad for having dragged them into this mess, but whereas Hawke and the Warden are at least used to the basics of it, it’s the first time she sees the Iron Bull less than confident. It makes her fight harder, to get to the end of it faster.

Her memories are only telling her what she already knew: that only luck brought her to where she is today, a bad (good?) timing on her part, and magic beyond her understanding. But at least she can feel whole again, she can shake off the doubts, for she knows the truth now.

When the Nightmare appears, it’s not that scary. When it’s companion spiders do, though, the Inquisitor screams. limbs frozen in place. She fears many things, and above all of them, spiders. For Maker’s sake, she screamed her first night in Haven too, upon discovering a spider in her bed, but these are one hundred times bigger than the usual, and she cannot move. That is, until Bull is charging at them, and the sight snaps her out of it, brings her back to herself and the task.

But it’s not easy, fighting your worst fears, knowing the kind of power that they have over you. She wants to scream, bang at the graves, scratch at the reasons engraved into the stone – but she doesn’t have the time, she never does –

Stroud remains in the Fade. Dies there, as a hero, like the dead can get any satisfaction out of how they’ll be remembered. Hawke leaves almost immediately, the world a bomb ready to blow them all to bits, all the time. The Inquisitor is slow in her return, spider guts still glued to her hair and armour, unshed tears making her face puffy and red. When she talks to others though, her back is still straight, and the Iron Bull notices the changes in her expressions, the body language, and tries not to be too angry that he’s gotten dragged into all of this, when it’s so obvious that she’s just as tired of it.

Back at Skyhold, she draws herself a warm bath, postpones any reports, sits in the water, gaze vacant, face stricken with tears. It never gets easier, and she doesn’t know what to do. She feels exhausted deep in her bones, and no matter how many times she scrubs at her skin, she can’t shake off the horror. So she gets dressed, ready for a walk.

Her feet carry her to the courtyard first, where Cassandra… is kicking Bull’s ass. She’d have laughed, if they didn’t look that serious. She’s passed the task, and she sits there unsure, the stick in her hands, eyes unable to meet his. When she asks for explanations, there’s none actually given to her, so she steels herself, balances herself on her feet, and hits. She’d like to talk instead, but she doesn’t trust her voice, and if this is what he needs, then who is she to deny him?

“Didn’t know you like it that rough,” she jokes, a smile finally on her face.

The Iron Bull stops, returning the gesture before replying, making up his mind that maybe it’s time to let this human meet his favourite group. With alcohol and some jokes, he’s sure it’ll be fun. And just maybe, she’ll stop frowning a bit, the lost look on her face gone for a while. She agrees to meet them that night, and he talks about each of his men in the Chargers with so much pride, so much warmth that she can’t help but feel welcomed and happy. She knows it’s an honour to be here, between this knot-tight group. She knows that no matter if she’s their boss or not, he wouldn’t have let her in if he didn’t deem her worthy. So she accepts another drink, asks for another story, makes herself more comfortable on the chair.

By the end of the night, they’re singing tales of their achievements, and she can’t help following their tune, humming under her breath. Then, it becomes a more common occurrence, finding Bull in the tavern, stopping him for a drink or a short chat, finding more and more about him.

"My people don't pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions... and live with the consequences," he tells her once, when she stumbles in the tavern after a tiresome war council, after finding out the dead of several hundreds, under the Inquisitor’s symbol. She’s not sure if it’s supposed to make her feel better, that she’s getting immune to making life-altering choices from morning to night. But his voice is laced with something… something maybe like admiration, or at least respect. It makes her feel like she’s less of a mistake.

He’s a man of power and a man of honour, just as she first thought him to be. But he’s also kind, attentive, and so subtle. He is not looking for acknowledgement in any other skill than fighting, and this makes him all the more fascinating for her. That she could start praising him and not stop for the next thirty minutes, and yet here he is, acting like he is not doing much.

Still, she’s thankful for him. She isn’t sure if it’s his Ben-Hassrath training, but he always seems to read her mind, ease her mind when she’s tensioned. It’s not something that she would have expected from the most intimidating of her allies, but she is not complaining. It’s moment like these that make her slip out flirty words without realizing. It’s the sight of him, suddenly, at the edge of her vision, that make her yearn to stop any important discussion, to go and get him instead.

This time, it’s actually important business with him, his people. Krem and his chief are fighting, getting her through a possible alliance with the qunari. She’s gotten used to this too: making out his words between ragged breathes and swords scratching. She wouldn’t even dream of denying him, not after he worked so hard, on both his sides, to make this work.

The mission reminds her of the first time she met the Chargers. The same stormy sea, the gloomy rain. She can feel her clothes sticking to her skin, her hair heavy on her back, but she’s gotten used to ignoring what she doesn’t like about her life. She focuses on Bull’s old acquaintance instead, curious at the memories knotting them together.

Both her and Gatt noticed that the easier tasks went to the Chargers, but whereas he seems mad, incriminating… the Inquisitor just thinks it natural of him. He cares about them enough not to make them fight mindlessly. But in the face of an ambush, does he care about them more than he cares about his people?

Even she can’t guess his answer: The Inquisition or the qunari? Whatever choice, he’ll have to live with it for the rest of his life. If he picks his men, he’ll become what he’s hated most, what he has hunted once, as an agent of the Ben-Hassrath. If he chooses to follow the Qun, the men he has spent the last years with are all dead.

She sits to the side, silent as they argue, her heart aching for him. But then Bull turns towards her, eyes questioning and hurt. She doesn’t know if she wants to hate him or love him for seeking out her say in it. She’s only heard of his life in the Ben-Hassrath, tales that are far away, both in time and space. But she has seen the way he cares about the Chargers, she has seen them in action so many times before, and she can’t imagine there being a day when they won’t fight together, as one, celebrating a win at the end of the day.

“Call the retreat,” she says, stunned that her voice didn’t fail her.

Gatt’s words slap at her, shame her, anger her. She knows that people die either way in this exchange of theirs, and fates are changed, but she can’t help the rage taking over her at his own. It’s not fair, the choice is made, no matter what else is said now… it has been done. She has never heard the Iron Bull sound quite as pained as in those moment following the boat going up in flames, parts of his people dead.

There’s only one place where he can return now. To them. She wonders if this choice is also binding him to the Inquisition in a way, for now. There’s no alliance between their organization and the qunari, after all. Bull becomes Tal-Vashoth.

They send assassins in the end, though he deals with them on his own. She wants to slap that disappointed smile off his face, or the knowing words out of him. She’s angry because she’s worried, and his chiding is well-deserved, so she takes it all mutely, eyes scanning his body for wounds instead, heart sinking in the pit of her stomach at the misunderstanding.

He knows way more than her. She doesn’t have the training necessary to help him, yet he chose her as possible help in this assassination attempt. She stops him with a sigh.

“How’s the wound?”

He shrugs it off, but she’s still slowly reaching for his arm. He doesn’t move away, so she grabs him, makes him follow her to her chamber, where she’s at least busying herself to cleaning his wounds.

“Tal-Va-Fucking-Shoth.” The bitterness behind it stings. She sees a man no different than the one she has met before, just more… burdened. She tries telling him as much, but he’s stubborn, lost. It makes her want to shake some sense into him.

“Hey!” Her voice is strong; her gaze is firm. “You’re a good man.”

There’s a pause, their eyes meeting, his stubbornness breaking, her words settling in.

“Boss… Whatever I miss, whatever I regret… this is where I want to be.”

She smiles, letting him go. He has to report the two dead assassins, after all, and she has an evening meeting that she needs to get going for. But she decides to remember his words, keep them locked in a dear part of her heart, return to them whenever she doubts herself next, hoard his reassurance like something precious and important, to rely on.

***

She swears she’ll get an eternal headache from all the arguing between her advisors, the numbers that she has to check, the judgement that she has to bestow. She walks around like a blind man, stumbling over stairs, hoping the other person gets out of her way before they knock against each other, her nose stuck in record books or letters for aid. This is exactly why she doesn’t notice Bull in her room, on her bed, until he speaks; why she shivers upon hearing his voice, dropping the papers all over the floor.

She’s blushing before he’s even done with his sentences; what a crass way of phrasing it, after all (though now her mind is running off, imagining exactly how tantalizingly satisfying riding him would actually be). He cares though, enough to ask her if she is sure, several times. By the time he walks across the room to reach her, her heart is beating in her throat, heat setting aflame her entire body.

She gasps when he touches her, his palm warm at the small of her waist, the other hand pining her arms to the wall behind her. She can feel his thumb pressing patterns into her skin, where her shirt has ridden up. At this point, she’s already so needy that she begs him to stay. Despite his words, the first kiss is soft and slow, testing exactly how they match, how they taste. With each second, Bull grows needier, pressing hungrily against her lips, his tongue finding hers.

She’s light as a feather in his arms, as he carries her towards the bed. He’s read her too many times, he knows her too well now – and beyond the lustful gaze, she’s a human noble from a heavily religious family, and her experience ends with several make out sessions, heavy petting and the occasional steamy novels. It excites him more than he thought, knowing that this sheltered, shy daughter is burning at the image of having him, is blushing at his words and at his touches.

She needs this, needs it more than she needs the extra hours of sleep or a good feast. Her body is all tense under him, outside demeanour brought into bed with him, and Bull hates it. He determines to coax her out of her role, to have her without an armour, without a title. It’s so thrilling he can barely keep in a groan.

“Legs open,” he demands, tapping at her knee once, looking her down, waiting.

She hurries to listen, hypnotized by the commanding tone in his voice. Her eyes are sparkling with curiosity, and his fingers are slow and kind as they find the waist of her pants, slowly dragging them down, off her. Her smalls are wet already, and she’s smelling so prettily already, all for him. But Bull is patient, and with parts of her clothes thrown on the floor, he focuses on the naked skin left for his exploration. He takes hold of one of her heels, starts slowly kissing his way up on her leg.

She squirms under him, and his eyes cut as they finds hers. “Don’t. Move.”

He punctuates his remark with a bite against her inner thigh, and she gasps his name. He works slowly, licking and biting, teasing the areas that get a reaction out of her.

“Please,” she begs, and Bull chuckles against her covered heat, making her shiver.

“Please what?” He teases, looking up at her: the inner thigh covered in love bites, the red cheeks, the hands knotted in her sheets.

“Touch me,” she breathes, sounding like a whiny brat. His hands roam over her body again, moving higher, helping her out of her shirt, freeing her chest. His mouth hungrily follows, lips around one of her nipples, a hand around the other. She’s more vocal now, low moans and sharp gasps, body reacting to his actions, and he smiles, biting lightly against her skin before switching his focus once again.

He trails kisses down between her legs again, and with a sharp move, she’s left naked before him. She’d feel more embarrassed if not so desperately needy, over the fact that he’s still fully dressed in front of her.

He starts slow, at first. A kiss so light against her cunt, that she would have barely felt it if not accompanied by his breathing. One lick, deliciously slow, along her folds, and she’s left gasping for air. Fingers kneading at her thighs, pressing so hard that she’ll bruise, as his tongue darts forward, entering her.

“Oh-” Her voice is soft, barely there, eyes shut tight as a ripple of pleasure goes through her body. She’s so receptive that she thinks she’ll die right here and then, legs wide around Bull’s head (and what a way for the young Inqusitor to go). But with each of his ministrations she’s feeling more and more; two of his fingers pumping inside her, his mouth around her clit.

“Bull-“ she warns between pants, and she can feel him grin against her as he speeds up. She comes with a small gasp, a smile on her lips, and Bull carries her through her orgasm, not stopping, licking at her juices.

When he finally rises, his chin is glistening, and her face burns up in reply. He leans close, kissing her, letting her taste herself, and she moans against his lips. One of his hands is tenderly petting her hair.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fantastic.” She beams up at him, because it is the absolute truth.

“Good,” he smirks. “Then you’re ready for more.”

She yelps when he drags her closer, kisses her more urgently. He can feel him between their bodies, and she moves just slightly, creating the smallest of frictions. Bull moans, a sound that she’s sure she will never tire of, before pinching her ass for misbehaving.

He lets her go just for a few seconds, enough to discard of his clothes as well, and when he turns back to her, she stares. Honestly, it’s impossible not to. She has seen him run around half naked countless of times, she has seen him fight and train, but like this, entirely naked, she can appreciate the firm muscles, and the strong body lines all the more. His thighs alone look like they’ve been sculpted by the gods, and she can feel herself clenching at the sight. Then her gaze moves, falling on his dick – and all the staring would have probably harmed the ego of a less self-confident man. As it is, Bull just grins.

Then, with absolute certainty, she says: “It won’t fit in.”

He laughs, heartily. “We won’t know until we try, will we?” Though she can see him still growing at her comment, and her eyes go wide.

“You’ll break me in two,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, though she’s still laying down, her legs clamping shut in arousal. Bull licks his lips at the sight, dick twitching.

He moves just to retrieve something from the floor, before he’s switching his entire attention back to her. He slowly takes her hands in his, moves them above her head. She can feel the leather of his belt around her wrists, pining her to the bed, but she doesn’t question it, doesn’t flinch against it, her eyes curious, but not fearful. She rubs her legs one against each other, searching for the tiniest bit of relief in the movement. His voice this time is softer.

“No matter when, if you tell me to stop, I will.” He looks at her then, making sure the words registered properly, before he straightens once again above her.

“Now, be a good girl and open your mouth.” Her head snaps at him, and for a second he’s sure she’ll call it off. Then, slowly, she licks her lips, gaze moving towards his dick, and she opens her mouth, tongue out, looking all warm and invitingly.

He moves slow, let’s her adjust to the size, taste of him. She’s new at this, but what she lacks in experience, she makes up in enthusiasm. She licks at him at first, so soft and slow that it drives him half mad, then more and more passionately. His hand moves, a finger tenderly caressing her cheek, both sweet gesture and a signal, and she takes him in, as far as she can go without gagging. Barely half of his dick disappears in her mouth, her head bobbing around it, but he can feel her teeth against his sensitive skin, and her mouth is so warm, it feels so good, that he starts moving his hips, fucking into her mouth, without thinking too much about it. She tries her best to adjust to his pace, to accommodate as much of him as she can, and it’s the sequential moan that vibrates against his dick that eventually reminds him of what he is doing here.

With a tense jaw, he pulls out. There are tears forming at the corners of her eyes, and he kisses them away, moving afterwards to her mouth; a praise for her work. She smiles against him.

The sheets between her legs are stained with her arousal, and Bull smirks; he would like to tease her about it, show to her that she wants this as much as he does, but he remembers how adorably cute she’s been before, how pliant he’s been under his hands and words, and he lets her go just this one time. His hands are moving her legs apart once again, and her eyes are watching him, half still scared, half excited.

There’s no point in discussing it further: if it’ll be too much for her, he’ll stop, make her come again in the same way he did the first time, issue laid aside. If not, they’re both about to have some mighty great fun. He places himself at her entrance, and with a small nod in her direction, her teeth biting her lips, he pushes.

She panics at first, tensing under him, cunt clenching around him, her legs clasping around his body. He moves his hand around her waist to guide her, his thumb again melding patterns into her skin, the motion calming. She breathes in, slowly relaxing, and following her body’s signals, Bulls moves again, until he is all fit snugly inside her.

Her eyes are clasped shut, her nails digging in her skin. He stays like that, waits for her to reach some kind of comfort in the position, in the newness of the situation; his lips mindlessly kiss against her temple, her wrists. Eventually, she begins moving: slow at first, then faster, needier, hips rocking against him, chasing some relief. He starts matching her every move, reaching deeper and deeper parts inside her each time he almost pulls out, only to slam inside her with all his force. She moans, cries out broken words, parts of his name, swears.

“Gods, harder,” she moans, and it’s the only plea he plans to listen to. He grins, grunting in pleasure, cunt so sweet, fitting him so well, cries so loud, the smell of sex so strong, the sound of skin slapping against skin so delicious. He loves it all.

He moves a hand upwards, fingers playing with her nipples, grabbing at her boob painfully. It gets a reaction out of her, he can feel her clenching around him – so he leans closer and bites at her neck, hard. She comes with a cry, and there’s a smirk on his lips as he keeps fucking her through her high, coming, too, a minute later, inside her.

She’s all spent, eyes barely open – but still, when he moves out of her and away, she moans, a soft cry in protest at the lack of warmth. He’s staring at her cunt, his cum leaking out of her, before the sound of her arms straining against his belt snap him out of it. He’s quick to move, untie his knot, rub at her wrist and fingers, kiss the bruising spots. She sighs against his touches, rolling towards him, seeking more of him, in her tired state. He chuckles, but still moves away.

Instead, he grabs her water basin and a piece of cloth, and returns to the bed. The water’s cold, and she flinches when he starts cleaning the mess between her legs, but allows him access after the initial reaction, grateful that she doesn’t have to do this on her own, knowing that it would have been postponed until she wakes up.

There’s no awkwardness between the two, as he goes on with his care, as she tiredly checks the marks he left behind on her body. But despite how spent she feels, there’s also no stress left between her shoulder blades, no worries she can immediately recall. Maker, she’s been fucked good. And beyond that, for once since everything started, she hasn’t been in control. A most thrilling and exciting revelation.

Bull leaves without saying anything more, though she can hear him ushering away Leliana through the door, and she is most grateful. Only then does she allow herself to fall asleep.

***

The next day, she walks around… probably funny. She feels like her insides have been shifted around and put together weirdly, but she’s happy that the process has been… way less painful, and way more enjoyable than the stories she’s heard made it out to be. All praise probably delivered for Bull. She feels weirdly fascinated by this side he pulled out of her, and she can barely stop her mind from running after the memory of their time together for enough to still be productive.

But despite what happened, for the next week she cannot find a moment alone with him. After the first few days, she starts wondering if they’ll even discuss about it at all. But she’s been calling up meetings with Cassandra, went training with Cullen, and entertained nobles by Josephine’s side. People came rushing to her with requests, and the Inquisitor’s chair was waiting for her judgements each morning. The Chargers have been sent on a short mission, the courtyard suddenly emptier without them.

By the time the night falls, she is so tired that she can only quickly wash up and fall asleep. She knows they’re back because she can hear Krem hoarsely singing alongside the rest of the Chargers, and there it is- Bull’s typical, pleased laughter, after a job well done. She passes by the tavern smiling, stack of papers in her arms, and she decides she should celebrate alongside them, Inquisitor style, by checking all of these reports.

There’s a cup of mulled wine with cinnamon on her desk, most likely Cole’s doing, and she smiles against the rim as she tries it out. Around midnight, Josephine comes around, reminding her that they’re all not that serious, worried about the lights still on in the Inquisitor’s chambers. No matter what she feels like in the worst moments, she doesn’t mind this life that much, when it is like this: songs fading out into the night, friends looking out after each other, in so many different ways.

She makes her resolve to actually talk to him the next day. She idles half of the day away before she musters the courage. He’s in his usual spot in the tavern, splayed on his chair, drinking his ale, and she’s light-headed with nerves as she makes her request to see him alone. She hates that she has to spell it out for him; he knows better, but he likes to fuck with her, make her work for every word leaving his mouth.

“What’s on your mind, boss?”

“You are!” she sounds like a child again, petulant that she has to voice her requests. She can feel her insides burning just from having him in such a close proximity, his voice rumbling low. Inside this room, he is commanding her every word and action, and he moves around like he owns the place. She wants to drop to her knees in front of him, just from the power of his attitude alone.

“When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.”

She can go with this: first his admittance, that she is at least worth something to him, and then the fact that he knows what she needs better than she does. But how is she supposed to know such a thing, when she never had the respite to question herself on such matters?

So, she has Bull for this. He explains everything in that kind voice of his that he used in bed with her before, talking of everything expertly, carefully – powerfully. She already trusts him with her life each and every time they go out into the battle, and she’s about to relinquish him power over her body and her pleasure, too. Just the thought of it leaves her so much lighter, and his reasoning is actually touching: a mutual arrangement that benefits them both, but somehow born out of him knowing that she desperately needs someone to overpower her, to make decisions in her stead, at least in something.

He’s so much bigger than her, and he’s an absolute madman in a battle. He could snap her neck in two without any effort, and she fears the potential of this power only, enough to send a surge of excitement through her body. The fact that she trusts him exactly because of that is the foundation of all of this.

“Take me,” she breathes, hands already reaching for him.

He takes her then, against the wall, arms held in one of his, the other rough at her waist, pumping into her, their breeches at their knees only in their haste, no preparation. It burns at first, but a deliciously sweet burn, that turns into pleasure with each of his waist’s movements, and he grunts into her ear, she bites into his shoulder. There’s the slight movement, fingers clasping around her throat, barely any pressure against her skin; but enough to have her clench against him, have her coming fast and hard, panting in the space between them, foreheads touching, as he follows, spilling his seed inside her.

Then it becomes a common occurrence; finding him in her room after a particularly tiring day, him slapping her ass as they pass each other on Skyhold’s hallway, running away from boring meetings to make out with him in cramped closets. Sometimes it’s just him waiting with a warm cup of tea, though, massaging her sore muscles after a particularly tiring day. Sometimes it’s him asking her to train together, until they’re both spent on the ground, exchanging random stories. Sometimes it’s her helping out Krem with sharpening his sword, or their healer with renewing his supplies. Sometimes it’s just the two of them and the width of one room, nothing beyond it.

***

Cole is scary sometimes; he knows so much. It’s not even that he knows, but that he shares it, says it out loud, unfiltered. She likes this about him a lot, that he offers her a glimpse at the world as it truly is, beyond bitten tongues, shameful secrets, stifled pain. That he does it out of want to help, that he doesn’t want to have dumb people collapse under the unspoken. Most of the times, the timing sucks, and it ends up in embarrassment – but the effect is enlightening either way.

Still, she can’t stop shaking while he speaks with her, for the first time, of the things she carries locked deep in her heart.

“War and weariness, blood and battle. Life, learning to lead, clash, kill. And past that, the weight of all, on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs. It must be very hard. I hope I help.”

She knows him kind, she knows him caring. She knows he’s only reflecting back the desperation beating against her ribcage. She knows it’s just her truth, pouring out of his mouth. She bites back the tears as she touches his shoulders, thanking him. He’s one of her friends here, even more so for the fact that she doesn’t have to tell him anything, for he already knows. She just didn’t expect him to tell her that he knows, not so… outright.

Bull finds her later, face hidden in her pillow, chest still heaving with the remains of a panic attack. His fingers curl calmly in her hair, massaging at her scalp, body winding around her to hold her. She shakes, sobbing, terrified of failing, terrified of winning.            

Then it happens to him as well: “Guilt at not feeling guiltier.”

No matter how many times she reminds him: that he is a great man, that he’s done good and admirable things, that there’s nothing to feel guilty about, that he saved people he cares about… The Iron Bull still finds a part of him missing, his entire life as he had known it in what he had thrown aside with that decision.

They’re not that different after all. She tries to tell him, that there’s nothing coming out of fixating on the past. That the future is either bleak or non-existent, and the only place in time that matters is now. It helps, somewhat, but not enough, and there are evenings when no one can tell where he’s gone. She waits for him through the night, and when he eventually stumbles back, it’s her arms that welcome him. Not consolation enough, but she can only hope that someday, it might be.

***

Josephine warned her; that she is to welcome a lot of stares and comments through all her night at the palace if she takes the Iron Bull as her companion. But she refused to take anyone else with her, and he’s the most skilled out of all of them at picking up secret body language. If there’s a plot to uncover, then his training is the most helpful. That was the official argument anyway. Part of her just wanted to experience this with him. It was a selfish request, Orlais isn’t particularly welcoming with qunari, in general – and certainly not with the one accompanying the Inquisitor.

She was used, once upon a time, to this kind of social gatherings. But back then she never had such attention pointed at her; and she can’t help but bother Bull every five minutes, just to make sure she doesn’t look foolish dressed like this, that she didn’t leave food at the corner of her mouth. She’s supposed to represent the entire organization, and she thinks at the way the dress barely fit her, after Josephine left her breathless with a corset, or how her manners have been forgotten in the midst of all the battling, and how hard it is to try and at least care about the nobles swarming them.

As night goes on, things settle for a bit. But each time a remark about the Iron Bull is made, she wants to tear their smiling faces apart, to stuff their rotten mouths with daggers. All these nobles that think they are better, because they’re keeping their little dirty secrets beyond closed doors and fancy masks, because the blood in their veins is somewhat of a higher quality. She learnt that everyone bleeds the same, if hurt properly, so it’s not that of an impressive boast.

Then – someone calls her by her name. Not her title, not her lineage, but her actual name. She stumbles, reaching out for the table near her to remain standing.

“Brother,” she whispers, as her oldest sibling mock curtsies in front of her.

“Starting religious rumours, recreating an old organization and bedding a qunari. You surely got the attention of everyone across Thedas, sis.”

She cannot move. Just as during the old times, when having her family reproaching her something, the first instinct is to close up, to stop doing anything that might get more of their attention. But no matter how much she remains still, her brother’s comments are still pouring in.

“Brother,” her voice cuts off his monologue, and he actually looks surprised. “I do what I do so you can still enjoy this disgusting lifestyle of yours in peace, so that everyone else in this goddamn world can go on living.” Her hands are shaking hard by now. “And whatever I decide to do is no concern to you anymore.”

“You’re still a Trevelyan.”

“Sadly, brother. But I am, above anything else, the Inquisitor.”

She raises her head; dares look him in the eye. She almost wants to collapse in relief when he scoffs and leaves her. If he expected his pliable youngest sister that he used to know, then he is the one in the wrong. One cannot survive the things she did without having them change her. Even with the twisted rumours reaching him, he should have known better. Maybe he expected her to be a puppet head figure, or have her old alliances still standing. She maybe has forgiven the fact that they didn’t send even a servant after her when they discovered she was still alive, but she hasn’t forgotten. She refuses to matter to them now, when her influence spans widely enough that they feel threatened to have the same name as her.

Almost by instinct, she runs away to find him. To find Iron Bull, life easier to bear at his side. He’s drunk on annoyance, nobles no less shitty to him. She surprises even herself when she invites him to dance, desperate to divert both of their attention towards more pleasant topics. He laughs at her suggestion; he knows the nobles; he knows they would take it exactly for what it is. Just as the person that is accompanying her, they can still explain things, stop the rumours before they’re turning into the truth. If they’re seen dancing though… there will be more than alliance between the two of them, they both know it.

Still, she waits in front of him. She refuses to accept a no from him this time, and his agreement afterwards comes way more easily, partly want to please her, partly need to annoy these nobles.

He has also noticed the way they’ve been eyeing her, both men and women. The Inquisitor is still a young woman, beautiful enough; made even more desirable by her appearance tonight, by her status, by her name. He fucking hates nobles. He’d like to grab her waist, parade around with her by his side, show them all exactly how unavailable she is, shove it in their faces that his is the only touch that matters, his words are the only ones that bend her.

But they’re not here to enjoy themselves, not yet anyway. The room stinks of deceive and assassinations plots, besides the usual sexual appetite. So he pushes away his frustration, and they discuss who’s doing who out of these nobles, the latest fashion of Orlais, and the food. Then, he has to let her go and to will his mind to focus on what they need to do.

After everything, she still wants the good old same: a moment of respite. After the stifling ballroom, all the running around, all the lies she had to make sense through… the night air on the balcony does wonders against her skin, for her tangled thoughts. She leaves the rest of the mess for Cullen and Josephine to deal with. Then, unsurprisingly… the Iron Bull is by her side. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, the day having been so long.

Then, he bumps against her: “Come on, let’s dance.”

She smiles, happy as a little child, as she makes herself comfortable by his side, his hand on her back, finally. They stumble around for a bit, size difference making their steps not match, but they soon find their rhythm – and they find they don’t care about who is watching. Not at all.

***

“So, I heard an interesting rumour…” she starts, sipping from her ale, fixing Bull with her eyes, trying not to let all of her emotions show on her face. He raises a brow at her, an invitation to continue.

“The servant girls?” He chokes on his drink, his feet loudly hitting the floor from where he was keeping them up on table. He won’t ask how she knows; rumours travel the easiest in Skyhold, and there’s no point in denying something that is true, in trying to convince her of the opposite. Each person has their own needs, and he finds pleasure in allowing others’ to find theirs. It’s been simple enough with those girls, less complicated, less heavy. Something more surface level and unsatisfying.

“Not since – not since us.” He says. This is the truth. He has focused on the Inquisitor only; just as her sole focus is on them all. She carries it all, and it is his pleasure to make sure she doesn’t break under the load. She has started trusting him more and more, with past stories, future hopes, with her heart at its most vulnerable. He has felt humbled by her tender gestures, by how willingly she fell into his arms and stayed there, glued herself at his side. He couldn’t give her anything less than that. Plus, the sex has been great, her a most enthusiastic pupil.

Her lashes lower, and she moves around the table to reach his side. A quick glance around the tavern tell her that it is late enough into the night that those that aren’t passed out have already retreated into their rooms, so she’s not shy at all when she positions herself over his thigh, facing him. He can feel her heat through his pants.

“You know,” she says, moving to kiss along his jaw. “You’re the only man that ever touched me.”

His body immediately responds to the confession, breeches suddenly uncomfortable. A hand moves to rest on one of her thighs, fingers tightening around her.

“Tell me… what’s this? What are we doing?”

It’s one of the few times that he actually lets her decide in this relationship. He allows her an out of it, always. There’s always one word, katoh, sitting between the two of them – and he seems more fearful of it than her. He never pushes her to the extremes, she’s always the one that needs to ask for more, and it’s true in both sex, and apparently feelings too. He tells her of an old tradition, and only then does she start moving, grinding against his leg, and he contracts his muscles, providing her extra firmness.

Her breathes are hot against his neck, her hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders for support. His hands are now on her ass, kneading the flesh there, grunts escaping him as she starts moving faster, pressing harder against him. She’s whispering her fantasies in his ear, telling him of all the times she imagined him having her, of all the ways – and she comes like that, on top of him, his hands barely having touched her.

“That was so hot,” he says, helping her stand up. There’s a wet stain left behind on his clothes, and he grabs her hand, slowly pulls her someplace else, where he can actually do all the things she mentioned. “You’re so bloody fuckable,” he grunts, ripping her shirt off her, and she laughs, her hands searching for his belt.

***  

So, she hunts and kills a dragon. In the name of love. The Iron Bull roars as it crashes to the ground, the impact making it shake underneath her feet. The ends of her hair are burned, and she’s covered in blood from head to toe, but there’s pride vibrating in her at the end of it all, so she kind of gets where Bull is coming from, with all the enthusiasm for dragons. She hides a tooth inside her jacket, plans to treat everyone in her party to a good meal once they’re all back and cleaned up.

That bath was one of the best she’s taken in her entire life, and the meal too. Her body is hurting everywhere from the strain of the battle, but everyone is also happy. No one can match Bull though, as he passes a strange drink to anyone foolish enough to accept it. She takes a seat at his side, willingly exposing herself to the thing that left the Chargers dozing off on the floor, probably. She drinks, and she listens to him talk about dragons – and gods, this could be considered foreplay by itself. She chokes on the alcohol each and every time, and she falls more and more drunk with each gulp.

That night, she hears that nickname for the first time. Kadan. When after their third drink, they toast to each other; and what beautifully it sounded to her then, The Iron Bull and his Inquisitor.

He compliments her on her fantastic tits, and though they laugh along the way, struggling to make it to her room, she remembers loving it then the most. She went on top, her tits bouncing in the air with each movement; the way he shuddered under her when she kissed his horns, the way he came with a loud shout. Everything so much like them.

***

When they’re drinking with everyone else, Varric decides to tease them, ask for details on their relationship. She’s sure he put most of the puzzle pieces together, and he just enjoys seeing her squirm in her seat, all while Bull remains unfazed by her side.

“That room is for me and her. No one else invited.”

Her heart leaps in her chest at how quickly he defended their... whatever they are. She looks up at him, asking for more, though she knows that if it is to come, it won’t be here. Varric, though, is relentless.

“Aw. Safe harbour from the world outside.”

This eventually gets a reaction out of him, though it’s now the one she was hoping for. He looks almost panicked, grossed out at the suggestion. Even as if this is exactly what he offered her during their times together. Is it that weird, that others can make out what is going on between the two of them? Is it that weird, that it can more poetically be put into Varric’s words?

But the second Varric turns away from them, Bull winks at her, and they share one conspiratory smile, the truth only for them to know. The necklace is burning her from where she keeps it in her pocket.

***

“There we go. No Inquisition. No war. Nothing outside this room. Just you and me.”

She wants to kiss him again, just for the way in which he says these things; like they’re truly the only two people that matter in this world. He is splayed naked in her bed, and gods, she wants to wake up to this sight of him every single morning. She’s aware that she’s been only taking and taking, and she’s surprised to find out how greedy she can be when it comes to him. She wants him in all possible ways, under all known laws – and it still wouldn’t feel enough. So she settles for the one that matters most to him. She’s only in a thin shirt, rummaging through last night’s clothes, looking for her present, when her door is slammed to the door, Cullen in the frame.

The Iron Bull remain unbothered on their bed. Then, Josephine follows. It seems like the Maker doesn’t want to make anything too easy for her.

“Can I help either of you with anything?” the Inquisitor asks, clearly annoyed. Before the two have time to answer though, Cassandra strolls in. Much like the other advisors, the sight of a naked Iron Bull makes her stop, petrified. It is, still, her the one that snaps out of it the fastest.

The words burn her, meant to shame her or give her a way out of the situation, neither things that she wants or make justice to what is actually going in. Momentary diversion cannot even begin to describe their relationship, and she can’t help her indignation at such choice of words. They haven’t even tried to keep what they’ve been doing a secret, and enough people know about it, yet her most trusted people doubt the validity of her intentions.

Her gaze burns at their back until the door finally closes, and she sighs, dropping on the bed near Bull. She opens her palm, revealing what she’s been holding onto all this time: exactly the proof of how serious she is in caring about him, in… well, loving him.

Then: Kadan, again. Sober, softer, realer. His heart. For the first time, they make love and name it as such, a certain softness even in the harshest of his touches, a tenderness behind each of his kisses. Gods, she loves him.

***

Cole is…. way too familiar with their sex life. And no matter how many times they try to make it stop, it’s almost like when they’re together, his mouth automatically runs off, and about their feelings and their deeds. It’s not like much has changed, besides having him more often around her, needing no excuses to have him near. He’s tenderer, more obvious in his attention and devotion, but the same can be said about her. With their relationship out in the open, she almost never shuts up about him, to those that know him.

But having drinks with all of them, that’s when they can’t escape the scrutiny.

“She almost says the word, sometimes. Katoh. She tastes it on her mouth, sweet relief, a breath away, tongue tying it tenderly, like you tie her. But she doesn’t, for you. And for her. Because it makes it mean more. A fuller feeling, a brighter burst.”

All the blood rushes to her head, embarrassed beyond belief. Under the table, she squeezes at Bull’s hand, and she really wishes a hole would open up and take her. He tries to make Cole stop, but the other guys are insisting on hearing more, even as Sera is shouting over all of them, that she can’t quite see how the Inquisitor is still able to walk after they’re doing it. Looks like word of how big Iron Bull is did rounds.

“You act like you’re in charge, the Iron Bull. But it’s really her. She decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energize, but never to anger. She’s tied, teased, tantalized, but it’s tempered to what she wants. She submits, but you serve.”

“If you take away all the mystery, it’s not quite as hot,” he replies.

Barely whispering, cheeks aflame, the Inquisitor says: “Bull… yes, it is.”

He grabs her, carries her out of the tavern with the hollering cheers of their friends as a background, and only poor Cole is left confused amongst the chaos, while she giggles at his chest, aware that her cheekiness won’t be forgiven so easily.

***

The closer they get to the end of the fight, the more uncertain she grows. There’s no way of knowing if she will make it out of it alive, and she thinks he is protecting him, reminding him of this fact. She is the key piece in the fight against Corypheus, and there is no guarantee that winning won’t cost her life. It’s a price that she has been ready to pay, ever since the beginning, but now she’s figuring out that she has more to regret leaving behind. Him most of all.

It’s one of their rare days where they can sleep in, where the world doesn’t demand urgency out of them. In the face of her words, of the reality behind them (and how sweet together sounds, pouring off his lips), they make love once again. His tying is soft against her skin, silk rope, and this time he denies her nothing, just gives and gives until they’re both breathless and spent.

It turns out that she actually makes it out of it alive. It doesn’t sink in until Bull says it, anchors her to the reality of it all. She cries throughout that night, her purpose finally coming to an end, and he doesn’t know how to console her in the face of the newfound freedom. He just wants her to know that he’ll be there, for her. A choice he makes every single day.

***

Years down the path, the Inquisition still exists, though its current aims are to still be discussed. By her side, the Iron Bill still remains. The Chargers are still dealing with requests, but their headquarters are in Skyhold, yet. Some things remained the same, while some things changed. She is older now, she yearns for more stability, and the suggestion for marriage, though surprising, is not denied. She’d like to fight less, to focus on some other things in her life.

She remains his kadan. A title of honour for the woman he loves, something he mentions each time that he can, proud even in the face of Varric’s teasing. He’s also grown.

Solas betrays them. Or rather, he betrays this entire world, a lonely god inside of it. If the years he spent in the Inquisition, by the side of the most honourable and amazing people she knows didn’t convince him that maybe they are still worth saving, she doesn’t think she can even dare try doing it on her own. But all that she knows and all that she loves is in here, and so she will try her best.

Her glowing, green hand, the symbol of her fight, is trying to kill her though. She screams every other breath, eyes hectic in looking for some mages and healers that can help her. They don’t have the time to knock her out, so instead she bites into a ball of cloth and passes out from the pain instead.

When she wakes, her left arm is gone. The ghost of her pain still lingers in her brain, and when she reaches for the glass of water on the table near her, it’s with the arm that is missing that she does. The healer finds her on the floor, cradling the stump at her chest, lips bitten to blood, but tears unshed. She has given this mark everything she could, and now she can fully admit it. Much like her body, part of her heart got amputated too, in this last fight – knowing that it’s not really the last, that she still has to keep going.

She’s angry, more than anything else. She refuses to speak with any of the mages tending to her, and they consider it natural, given the circumstances. She doesn’t want to return back to her old life, only to figure out what unfitting this new version of her is. Then:

“Kadan.”

She hasn’t heard him enter the room, and now it’s too late to hide what’s left of her arm. She can feel him measure her up, and only when she finally dares to look up at him to meet his gaze, do the tears fall. She’s always so weak and pathetic only in front of him. The bed creaks under the added weight, and he’s unsure in his touches, not knowing where it hurts, where it doesn’t. He hasn’t even washed up or changed from the road, after dealing with the spies in their ranks, immediately finding her, especially after being told about her wound. He cups her cheeks, kisses all over her face, slowly and lovingly, grounding her.

“Darling…” her voice cracks in the middle, and she sniffs loudly, ungracefully.

For a while, they disappear. Their friends know only that they are together, but they understand the need for a break, for readjustment. Still, even upon return, she hates that she has to roll around her shirts every morning, to match the length of her arm, that she’s only half as capable in combat now.  But there is nothing that she can do now, other than just try to move forward.

She remains near the Divine, in the Inquisition’s ranks, trying to restore some semblance of an order in Thedas. There’s rumours of the Chargers taking on odd jobs all across the continent, though no one knows the real truth.

***

When Inquisition’s work is done, it will put its sword away.

#dragon age inquisition #the iron bull #female trevelyan #iron bull x inquisitor #da: i #da: i fic #the inquisitor #dragon age #qunari #da fic #da: inquisition #my writing

[laurelsofhighever]

OTP ask o’clock! 6, 17, 20, 26 & 28 for both please! Enquiring minds want to know

17This is revenge for all the questions I sent your way isn’t it? Happy to oblige!

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

Rosslyn and Alistair: Rosslyn would never admit, but she’s very enamoured by Alistair’s shoulders. She likes watching them when he trains, and running her fingers over the freckles there, and most of all, she loves the way she can rest her head in the crook of his neck when he hugs her. Alistair, by contrast, doesn’t care who knows about his obsession with Rosslyn’s hair. He first started helping her with it during the Blight, but it’s so long and soft and fun to play with that after, he learned how to do fancier braids just for an excuse to play with it - never as neatly as her maid, but she doesn’t mind. 

Maighread and Cullen: To Maighread, Cullen has beautiful hands. They’re bigger than hers, rough and blunt from swordwork, but still elegant and gentle with her, and best of all, most people never see them. Unless he’s writing, his gauntlets stay on, which makes the appearance and feel of his hands something like a secret shared between just the two of them. Cullen loves Maighread’s mouth, and by extension, her voice. When they first knew each other, she had a great poker face, but the shape of her mouth always gave the game away - he was bubbly for hours the first time he caught her trying to hide a smile from something he said. When they get together, he likes it when she reads to him, because he finds her voice really soothing.

17. Who says I love you first?

Rosslyn and Alistair: Alistair says it first, almost because he forgets he hasn’t already said it (if that makes sense?) He’s had the feelings for a while, and only lacked the courage to ‘fess up, because she can be really scary when she Deals With People, but he didn’t need to worry. She gives him the biggest grin and says it right back.

Maighread and Cullen: Now. These two. Cullen decided very early on that he wouldn’t tell her how he feels, because of every (perceived) problem between them and his own issues thinking she’d never feel the same way. She, however, spent a very long time arguing with herself about whether to say anything, and ended up blurting out that she cared for him one night after he found her out on the battlements soaked to the skin with rain. But the confidence that gives him about her feelings means he’s the first to take the plunge and say the ‘L’ word and assure her that he wants their relationship to last.

20. What do their family/friends think of their relationship?

Rosslyn and Alistair: Fergus is very fond of Alistair as a brother-in-law, mostly because of how happy he makes Rosslyn. He can see better than she can how it’s changed her as a person, and he’s very happy knowing they had each other for support during the Blight. Cailan’s dead/his opinion is spoilers, so I’m not giving you that :P As for their friends, most of them think it’s cute, or at least definitely a good thing, even if tent walls can be a little too thin at times…

Maighread and Cullen: The inner circle were taking bets, but they were nudging the two of them together for ages, and it was definitely good for morale. Mia, who finds out by accident, is grateful to Maighread for being what finally gave Cullen the push to a) write home and b) start taking better care of himself. Maighread is not in contact with her family, since they only acknowledged her as a relative once the Inquisition started being important, but her relationship with Cullen (a commoner *gasp!*) does not go down well, because it adds insult to the injury that the Ostwick Trevelyans are not on good terms with the Inquisition.

26. What would be their theme song? Wait just let me pull my entire playlists

Rosslyn and Alistair: This is really difficult, but I’ll say Set Me On Fire by Thousand Foot Krutch

Maighread and Cullen: Trickier, because I don’t know their relationship as well, but maybe Hurricane by Panic! At The Disco

28. What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Rosslyn and Alistair: They worry. On the one hand, they both know how competent the other is, but after spending so much time in each other’s company every day, they fret a lot when they’re parted. It’s eased a little by sending letters and planning what to do when they’re reunited, but it’s nothing compared to being in each other’s arms again.

Maighread and Cullen: Their roles mean they’re used to being apart. It’s not easy, because they both have dangerous jobs, but they manage. Maighread plays with the coin Cullen gave her, and finds interesting trinkets - plants, feathers, rocks - that she can bring back to him since he’s stuck in the tower all the time (She nearly stops because he makes a joke once about where he’s going to put them all, but then next time he asks if she didn’t find anything interesting on her trip and it tumbles out that he really likes that she thinks about him so much). He spends a lot of time worrying, making sure she has everything she needs, and rereading her letters in quiet moments. Sometimes he sneaks a shirt from her wardrobe so he can fall asleep with it, because then he has fewer nightmares.

OTP questions

#these were many questions #and i loved writing all of them #and thinking about all the oneshots i now need to write #gingerbreton #rosslyn x alistair #cullen x maighread

[withthebreezesblown]

From the Fragments, You Will Rise

She is eleven--only just. It’s her birthday. There are sweetmeats of every description, and there’s a roast that looks like someone slayed a high dragon. Everyone is laughing. Her father is beaming at her even brighter than usual, but she can still see the thing he’s always trying to hide in it: the knowledge that this will end soon, and when it does the pair of templars waiting in the stables will lead her, a hand of the back of each of her arms, out of the house and into a carriage, and less than two hours after that she’ll be closeted away in the stone walls of the Ostwick Circle as securely as the mages whose families cannot pay a bribe exorbitant enough to make the Circle’s Revered Mother look the other way and don’t have the leverage of the Knight Commander being their younger brother, of their daughter being his favorite niece.

She hadn’t thought she’d be here today. Last time her father had her brought, she hadn’t been able to bear his aching smile or the way the light painted her favorite window seat in warmth or the fact that she had been expected to smile back, and for her to smile to have none of his pain in it. She had tried so hard to swallow it down, all that ungratefulness, had tried for so long, and she just couldn’t keep down another mouthful of it. She’d screamed at him. Told him she never, ever wanted to come back to his stupid house again, that they were all stupid, all of them, him and her brothers, that she didn’t want to see them anymore.

When she realized he intends to go on as though her outburst never happened, she doesn’t know if the emotion that welled up in her, so strong she swore she could taste it, was desperate, supplicating gratitude or vile, bitter resentment.

When the whole family accompanies her to the stables as soon as the last bite of food is swallowed, she finds all over again that she doesn’t know if what she feels is gratitude or resentment that they’re putting an end to this so quickly today.

He isn’t sending her away so soon though. He points at one of the horses, a filly she doesn’t know the name of. She used to know the names of them all. She used to like to watch them take their first steps after they’d been born and suggest names herself.

He points at this one now, and he says, “She’s all yours, Evelyn. Happy birthday, my girl.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. After a moment she hears her own voice saying, “But I can’t take her with me.”

He clears his throat awkwardly, lays a hand on her shoulder that is both reassuring and crushing, and says, “Well, no. We’ll keep her here for you. She’ll be here waiting. Just like all of us.”

He lets her ride alone. She’s done so a few times--she is after all, a Trevelyan, even if she is a Circle-bound mage, and what Trevelyan can’t ride alone by age eleven--but it’s never been like this. She wonders if her father already knows when he tells her, “Easy now. Just take it slow,” as she settles in the saddle that she’s going to ignore him.

For all she’ll be able to ride, he might as well have given her some halfway-to-the-grave nag or a runt with uneven legs. The price this filly would have fetched is nothing for even a Trevelyan to scoff at. She knows from the wind in her face and the long, smooth stride under her. It’s like flying she thinks, leaning in over the horse’s neck, whispering, “That’s it. Good girl. Let’s go.” For just a moment, she thinks this must be what it feels like to be free.

When she finally, reluctantly, returns to the ground, there’s still a dreamy smile on her face.

“Happy with her, then?” Her father’s face is pleased and proud and full of affection, and just this once all the hurt that usually comes to the front when he looks at her is held at bay.

“She’s wonderful! Thank you, Daddy!” She flings her arms around his waist and squeezes as hard as she can, her face buried in his ribs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Thank you for ignoring me before. Thank you for bringing me home again.

He just holds her to him for a long moment. “Of course, “ he says finally. “Of course.”

She remembers what he used to say: Anything in the world for my girl. She remembers when he stopped saying it--after she responded with, “Don’t make me go back. I don’t want to go,” and he just said, “Oh, Evelyn,” and he had pretended he wasn’t, but he’d cried then, and she’d hated herself for it, for hurting him like that, and she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t say that, wouldn’t ask that ever again, but it was the last time he’d made that promise to her.

And then the templars are quietly trying to catch her father’s attention. “Excuse me, messere? It’s only that it’s getting late, and it’s no short jaunt back to the hold.”

Her father clears his throat awkwardly again, settles his hand heavily on her head as he strokes her hair. “Well, my precious girl. You’ll have to choose a name and christen her next time, then. I’ll send for you as soon as I can.”

Like she always does (always except for the last time, but they’re going to pretend that didn’t happen, aren’t they?), she smiles serenely. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’ll study hard, and I’ll see you soon.”

Hours later, back at the tower, she keeps her head down as she passes the other mages. They say she’s cold, a stuck up little miss, but she remembers when she hadn’t known any better and had smiled and waved after coming back from her father’s estate. “Can you believe the gall? She’s rubbing it on purpose.” When the templars weren’t looking, they’d crowded her into the corner, taunted and pinched. There’d even been the sharp sting of a palm against her cheek before someone hissed, “Not where the templars will see--Declan will have you flayed!”

So she keeps her head down, though that wins her no friends either.

In her own room (that’s another thing the other mages hate her for, not having to share the girl’s dormitory like all the other apprentices), she raises her head and stares into the mirror.

This is the thing she hates the most about having her own room. She doesn’t know who it is she’s supposed to be in here. In her father’s house, she’s Evelyn Trevelyan, Bann Edwin Trevelyan’s youngest child and only daughter, a “brave” child who “bears her magic” with “decorum and dignity befitting her house.” Amongst the other mages, she’s Evelyn Trevelyan, the Knight Commander’s niece, quiet, stuck up, a “real show off” with her magic who “always sucks up” to the templars and the senior enchanters.

She stares at the utterly blank face before her. In here, with no one to please, she has no idea who Evelyn Trevelyan is at all.

She feels her breathing speed up, though the face in the mirror remains bland, the only movement a tiny flare of her nostrils on each exhale, the faintest hint of a crinkle at the corner of one brow.

She understands then what she’s feeling, finally. It isn’t gratitude or resentment. It’s gratitude and resentment, wave after wave of them both, mixing together, jostling against each other, shaking her through and through. She clenches her fists. The senior enchanters are always telling her that she needs to learn control--that she can pretend she doesn’t have any emotions all she wants, but until she learns to control her connection to the Fade the way she does her face, none of them are buying it.

She clenches her fists tighter, but the feeling in her chest keeps expanding and expanding, until there’s a shattering sound, and for just an instant she thinks stupidly that it’s her body that’s shattered like glass. It’s just the mirror though.

The pieces scattered on the floor catch odd, out of order fragments of her, an eye there, a strand of hair, her nose, and somehow that feels like a more accurate depiction of her than the full reflection ever had.

She sighs, shoulders slumping. She needs to clean it up. She doesn’t want anyone to know she lost control of her magic. Again.

#dragon age fanfiction #evelyn trevelyan #i dunno look i meant to be working on my dao long fic #i have no idea where this even came from #i feel like this may need some kind of tw #but i genuinely don't know what to call it #breezes drivel

[sky-scribbles]

Party Banter with Inquisitor Jowan

(Brief explanation: this is an AU in which the Hero of Ferelden tells Jowan to run in Redcliffe. He adopts the alias ‘Levyn,’ and later adds ‘Trevelyan’ when he joins the mage rebellion and starts masquerading a former resident of the Ostwick Circle. And then he ends up at the Conclave.)

~

Vivienne: I wrote to an old friend at the Ostwick Circle, Inquisitor. I’m afraid to say she didn’t remember a Levyn Trevelyan.

Jowan: Oh. Well, I… kept to myself a lot, and… and I wasn’t very... accomplished. So she probably wouldn’t remember me.

Vivienne: I find that surprising, having seen your abilities on the battlefield. You have some difficulties with controlling your magic, certainly – nothing that further instruction would have fixed had this ridiculous rebellion not sprung up – but you clearly have a great deal of potential.

Jowan: My Circle didn’t agree. They nearly made me Tranquil. 

Vivienne: Indeed? I’m sorry to hear it, my dear. It would have been a great loss for the Inquisition had they done so, and to the Circles. But they saw something in you, and decided you were strong enough to face the Harrowing. Be proud of that.

Jowan: … Right.

~

Jowan: So, how long have you been a Warden?

Blackwall: I prefer not to count the years. Reminds me of how much silver’s growing into my beard.

Jowan: I don’t suppose you ever met the Hero of Ferelden? Or... did you ever speak to someone who’d met him?

Blackwall: I never had that honour. I travelled on my own, recruiting, never stopped by the Warden outposts. As far as I can tell, even the Wardens don’t know where the Fereldan Commander is now. Why do you ask? 

Jowan: Oh, I, um... It’s just that I always looked up to him. From - from when he became famous after the Blight, I mean.

Blackwall: Hardly surprising. A Circle Mage gains his freedom by joining a great cause, then saves the world? You must see something of yourself in him.

Jowan: No. But I’d like to.

~

Varric: So, Disaster -

Jowan: What?

Varric: That’s you. Disaster. Look, after that incident with the druffalo -

Jowan: I – I didn’t mean for it to happen! I thought I had it under control -

Varric: Exactly! That’s why you’re Disaster.

Jowan: [Sigh] I deserve that.

~

Cassandra: Trevelyan, may I ask where you stand on the rebellion?

Jowan: Behind it.

Cassandra: Hence your presence at the Conclave. You don’t support the Circles, then, or the Templars, or -

Jowan: The Templars who keep the Harrowing secret, so you dread it for years and you’re so scared that you'd do anything to avoid facing it?

Cassandra: I didn’t -

Jowan: The Templars who throw innocent people into Aeonar? The Templars who hunt those who escape as if they’re animals? The Templars who just won’t stop staring? The Templars who make you afraid to even have friends, because they could be taken away from you tomorrow and – and then you’ll have lost the only person who was ever on your side -

Cassandra: This sounds personal. I didn’t mean to reawaken bad memories.

Jowan: It doesn’t matter. I need to remember those things. I don’t know what kind of person I’d be if I let myself forget.

~

Varric: You all right, Disaster? You’ve seemed a bit on edge ever since Redcliffe.

Jowan: What? Oh. It… it was just hard seeing… 

Varric: Seeing the rebellion let itself down like that? Yeah, they messed up, but it all worked out. There’s no need for you to beat yourself up over their mistakes, ‘specially after everything you went through to fix them. What happened in Redcliffe wasn’t your fault.

Jowan: [sighs]

~

Dorian: That young man we saw in that other future, the... the one who killed himself before the demon could take him. I know you’re thinking about him.

Jowan: I’m trying not to. 

Dorian: Look, I don’t know the full story. About who he was, I mean. But I do remember what you said there. About -

Jowan: Dorian!

Blackwall: What’s he on about?

Jowan: Something I said in that dark future in Recliffe. You heard it - the you in the future, I mean - but when we went back, you forgot, and  -

Dorian: Actually, when we returned to our proper timestream, he and Varric never heard your little outburst at all. 

Jowan: Please, don’t ask what it was about. I only said it at all because I was upset, and afraid. And now I can’t share it with anyone else.

Blackwall: You’ll get no argument from me. Everyone has their secrets.

Dorian: Anyway, if you need to talk about... about the contents of the outburst which shall not be discussed in earshot of our illustrious comrades, I’d be happy to buy you a drink in the Herald’s Rest later and let you rant to your heart’s content.

Jowan: Thank you.

~

Sera: I saaaw you.

Jowan: Saw me… when?

Sera: Out for a stroll. You. You and the lady Josie.

Jowan: What? I – but – we were – just talking –

Sera: Talking leads to more than talking. You too shy to get on to the more-than-talking part? ‘Cause I can drop some hints for you –

Jowan: No! No no no no no! No! [coughs] Please, Sera, I… I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know if it’s even going anywhere. Or if it should.

~

Vivienne: Inquisitor, dear, might I have a word?

Dorian: Why do I get the feeling that you actually want to have the word with me?

Vivienne: I’ve already received a few letters from acquaintances, asking whether it’s true that a Tevinter magister is secretly instructing the Inquisitor in necromancy.

Dorian: Firstly, it’s far from secret. Secondly, I’m teaching him entropy magic. If he wishes to refine it into necromancy – which, lamentably, he does not – that will be his choice. Thirdly, I am an altus.

Vivienne: I’m sure the maleficar-fearing nobility will greatly appreciate those distinctions.

~

Cole: I picked the lily because it was so beautiful, but then it withered and died. Blood on the stones, bare, breaking, everything burning as she turns away.

Jowan: ... What did you say?

Cole: It wasn’t your fault. You wanted to protect. First you wanted to save yourself, and then you wanted to save her. Good intentions shattered, scattered like blood on the Circle floor.

Jowan: It doesn’t change anything. If you meant to do something good, but all you ever do is hurt people... Cole, none of those people would have had suffered if I’d just never existed.

Cole: Flowers for Falon’Din on a stranger’s grave, rifts sealed and safe, warm wool given to waiting hands. A barrier raised, travellers shielded from blighted claws by a mage without a chain.

Cole: They’re glad you exist.

~

Solas: Why entropy magic, if I may ask?

Jowan: Well… back in the Circle, I kept trying to learn primal magic. My best friend was studying it, so I thought if I focused on it too, I’d have someone to help me when I got it wrong.

Solas: If you took your failure for granted, it is hardly surprising that you struggled. So, you have discovered a talent for a different school of magic?

Jowan: It was Dorian’s idea. I’m... actually not bad at it. I never thought I’d be any good at entropy. It just didn’t seem much like me.

Varric: Disaster, if you want to meet someone who really doesn’t match the kind of magic they’re best at, I need to introduce you to Daisy.

~

Cassandra: The most important thing to remember is that you must not obsess over landing hits. In a duel, it’s less important to slice your opponent than it is to make sure your opponent cannot slice you.

Jowan: Right. Avoid being sliced. How do I do that, exactly?

Blackwall: Keep your body angled – never show your front if you can help it. Give this bastard a smaller target to hit at.

Cassandra: Remember, you may actually have the advantage in strength, if not in experience. You are used to wielding a mage’s staff – far heavier than a rapier. You may be able to use that to your advantage.

Blackwall: But don’t treat the foil like a staff. Those swishing things you do with a staff will leave you completely exposed.

Jowan: [low moan] I’m going to die.

Cassandra: Nonsense. We will train you from dawn until dusk if necessary.

Blackwall: And you know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t do everything you can.

Jowan: You’re right. I… I’ll fight to stay with her. To deserve her. I won’t just let her go. Not this time.

~

Iron Bull: All right, boss, I need to make a list. The Chargers are begging me to tell them about all the weird crap you’ve gotten into.

Jowan: Can we all just never talk about… any of it… again?

Iron Bull: So in the fallow mire, you walked right into some mud pit and sank up to your eyebrows –

Jowan: I was trying not to be killed by undead. I… really don’t like undead.

Iron Bull: In the Exalted Plains, you spent half an hour stuck inside the ramparts, looking for the way out –

Jowan: That place was like a maze!

Iron Bull: In Emprise du Lion, you got knocked into a pit by a darkspawn in Valeska’s Watch. Four times!

Jowan: I’m still not great at targeting my Fade-stepping. [pause] No mention of the bear incident?

Iron Bull: Nah. Even I don’t ever want to talk about the bear incident again.

~

Blackwall: Inquisitor, I... need to thank you. What you did - standing up in front of the entire Inquisition and telling them who you really are -

Jowan: It was no braver than what you did in Val Royeaux.

Blackwall: My crimes are a thousand times worse than yours. I didn’t know those children were in the carriage, but I knew I was killing innocent people. You thought you were doing some good.

Jowan: I knew I was poisoning a man. A man with a wife and a son. And I knew how wrong blood magic was. But I did it all anyway. Still… that’s not the point. This isn’t about which of us is worse or which of us is braver. It’s about the fact that we’ve both got a second chance now.

Blackwall: And I intend to make the most of it. Thank you.

Jowan: Thank you. If I hadn’t watched you own up to what you’d done, I might never have done the same myself. When they brought you before me, I knew I couldn’t judge a man for the same crimes I’d committed myself. I knew… I had to tell the truth.

~

Varric: Josephine knew, right? You told her the truth before your dramatic revelation to the rest of us?

Jowan: Of course! I think Leliana might have killed me if I hadn’t. She recognised me as soon as we met, and when she realised I had feelings for Josephine, she was, um, rather insistent that - 

Varric: Wait, wait, back up, Disaster. You’d met Sister Nightingale before?

Jowan: Sort of. In Redcliffe, when I was imprisoned, she was there with Firion - I mean, with the Hero of Ferelden -

Varric: Firion? As in, Firion Surana? 

Jowan: I was never in the Ostwick Circle, Varric. I was in Kinloch Hold. Firion was... he was my best friend. He was like a brother to me. And I betrayed him, but… somehow, he never hated me.

Varric: Later, we’re sitting down and talking through the details. There’s a story here and I don’t know it. That never sits well with me.

~

Cassandra: So, Dorian - you knew?

Dorian: Absolutely. Why, are we still bitter about being left in the dark? Still determined not to speak to him? Still letting out exclamations of disgust every time he enters your presence?

Cassandra: It would have been bad enough had it been only Blackwall who was lying to us. But for the Inquisitor - the face of the Inquisition, the man all southern Thedas looks up to, the Herald of Andraste - to be a maleficar, the man responsible for the horrors in Redcliffe during the Blight -

Dorian: Did you see him in the dark future, Seeker?

Cassandra: I don’t see what -

Dorian: You didn’t. Neither, technically, did Varric, Leliana and Blackwall. But I did. I saw him fall to his knees as that young man, Connor, burned himself alive. I saw the look in his eyes as he told us who he was and what he’d done, why we shouldn’t trust him to lead us, how he could never save Redcliffe, seeing as he’d almost destroyed it. If you’d seen that too, I doubt you’d be so quick to condemn him.

~

Iron Bull: Hey, boss, back me up on this one. That witch’s kid. There’s something off about him.

Jowan: Off how?

Iron Bull: [grunts] Just a gut feeling. He doesn’t act like someone his age should. You see it too, right? I’ve seen you staring at him.

Jowan: He’s a bit strange, but that’s not why I’ve been watching him. Something about him… he looks a bit like…

Iron Bull: Like one of those creepy kids from a ghost story?

Jowan: No. He just reminds me a bit of an old friend, that’s all. And I know his mother knew –

Iron Bull: Knew who?

Jowan: It, um, doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.

~

Solas: Inquisitor.

Jowan: … Solas?

Solas: There’s no need to look at me the way a startled nug looks at a fox.

Jowan: You’ve not been talking to me much recently. I thought you were angry.

Solas: I was, when I thought of how you ran from your blunders. Your ignorance and negligence caused unimaginable suffering. But was the result of years of being taught to fear yourself. You have accepted your guilt and acknowledged the harm you caused. Now you have learned to face it, and you have done what you could to repair the harm you caused.

Jowan: I hurt Lily. I can’t fix that.

Solas: You have become a man who would not hurt the one he loved in such a way again. That is a brave thing to be.

~

Cole: You tried to help. You didn’t understand, and you got it wrong. Like I got it wrong when I killed the mages. I thought it was right and it wasn’t.

Jowan: That doesn’t make it better.

Cole: No. You hurt people. But you know that, so you don’t hurt them anymore. You help them. Like I do.

Forgiven, free, forging a new life in his own name, Rainier, feeling real as he faces it. Because you let him move forward.

In the library, sharing the silence, soothed by the sound of you turning pages. A southern mage, of all things – and he laughs at the thought, laughs properly inside, because having you as a friend makes laughing easy.

Quiet before the fireplace, warm and right in your arms. She thinks of the steel flashing in the city square and nearly shivers, but she doesn’t, because when you hold her the world is bright and soft and nothing bad can happen.

You came into their lives, and you made them better. You want to look at what you’ve done and smile, because you know you’ve helped. And you should. You think you don’t deserve to smile, but you do.

Jowan: Maybe I do.

~

Varric: Word around the Keep is that you’re planning an expedition, Disaster.

Jowan: Yes. Dorian and Blackwall and Cole are definitely coming, and if anyone else wants to… well. No one has to. It’s a personal thing, not an Inquisition thing.

Varric: Let me guess – the standard ‘person reveals their true identity, then sets out to right the wrongs of their past’ mission?

Jowan: Um… yes. I’m going to Aeonar. They say it’s abandoned now, no one knows what happened to the people who were there. If I can, I’m going to find Lily. Avenge her, and everyone else, if the worst has happened. And if she’s alive, do what I can to make amends to her. 

Varric: You’re really getting the hang of this ‘new life’ thing.

Jowan: I think I might be. I finally found the courage to talk to Connor. Leliana helped me get in touch with Firion, and he still fusses over me like a mother hen. I’m never going to use blood magic again, and the Circles don’t exist any more. They never will again if I can help it. No more Tranquillity, no more stupid young mages scared of their Harrowings and scared of themselves. And… I have all of you. I have the Inquisition. I… have Josephine. Somehow. Don’t ask me what I did to deserve that.

Varric: Saving the world? Maybe even making it a little better than it was before? Giving us all a good laugh? I think you’ve earned yourself a happy ending, Disaster.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #jowan #inquisitor jowan #skyhold gang #party banter #looks like i finally found a quick way to summarise this au #i'm working on writing the story of The Redcliffe Breakdown (tm) #so that might happen soon #sky's writing #tw: sucide mention #inquisitor x josephine #josephine x trevelyan #long post