#we have redcliff as Love From The Other Side by Fall Out Boy

[sut4tcliff]

I LOVE HAVING BLORBO THOUGHTS ABOUT SONGS!!!!!!!! I LOVE MAKING IMPOSSIBLY INTRICATE CONNECTIONS W MY FAV CHARACTERS AND LYRICS

#please does anyone want to hear about my emo music connections to various kuro ships ple #theyre all angst btw #we have redcliff as Love From The Other Side by Fall Out Boy #we have Grelliam (or SebaGrelle) as She Had The World by Panic! at the Disco #AND WE HAVE SLINGPHRIES AS DEMOLITION LOVERS. I LOVE DEMO LOVERS SHIPS

[clarosowrites]

Reunited

After years of fighting the Crows and missing his Warden, Zevran returns to Vigil's Keep. The reunion he looked forward to, however, doesn't go exactly as he planned.

The next installment in my Clara Amell series, set sometime in Awakening.

Zevran slunk along the wall, his footsteps quietly pressing into the fresh snow. His slender ears pricked up at the sound of metal clinking against metal and he pressed himself into the long shadows. A solitary guard walked past him, spear resting idly on his shoulder.

He briefly considered knocking the man out--it would certainly make his job easier--but decided against it. His Warden took the safety of her men seriously and harming a guard, even an inattentive one, would upset her. Though he would still have a talk with her about their training.

He peered up at the stone walls of Vigil's Keep. Icicles hung off the parapets and windows, reflecting the pale moonlight. The old fort looked exactly the same--solid and ugly and thoroughly Fereldan.

He grinned. Against all reason, he'd missed this damn miserable country. Or at least the company he had left behind.

Taking the grappling hook and line from his belt, he widened his stance. It had been quite some time since he'd had to infiltrate a keep the old-fashioned way, but the motions came back to him quickly. He swung the hook once, twice, then sent it sailing up. It latched onto the edge of the roof and he quickly hauled himself up to the windowsill.

He could just see the bed inside. That bundle underneath the covers must be Clara. Slipping a dagger under the latch, he slid the window open, already imagining the welcome his Warden would give him. She would be surprised, of course, but happy to see him. She'd light up with that smile she saved just for him and-

Zevran froze, half in and half out the window, as a sudden clatter drew his attention. Next to the bed, a boy stood, mouth agape. A cup lay at his feet, water spreading quickly on the wood floor.

He screamed.

With a flash of pale skin, Clara shot up from the bed. Fire rushed towards him. Scorching heat enveloped him and his vision went black.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back and looking up at a very familiar, red-bearded face. He squinted as his vision blurred.

"Oghren?"

"Elf." The dwarf grinned, showing his cracked and blackened teeth.

Something was soaking into his clothes. Maker, he hoped it was snow.

"What happened?" He asked, his voice strained. He tried to life his head and groaned as pain echoed through his back.

A blonde human appeared behind Oghren. A mage, by the look of his robes. "You know him?" He exclaimed.

"You got caught, elf."  He laughed. "Thought we trained you outta that!"

"Well," Zevran grinned, pushing himself up to his elbows. "You can take the assassin out of the Crows, but you can't take the Crow out of..." He coughed, spitting blood into the snow. He sighed. "...you get the picture."

Oghren elbowed the mage. "Anders, heal 'em."

"He tried to kill the Commander!" He shouted.

"Just do it, sparklefingers." He grunted, glaring.

Zevran chuckled. Ah, the dwarf had been his usual charming self, then.

He closed his eyes as a healing spell washed over him, like a warm ocean wave. He sighed. That was something he missed--he had no mage friends in Antiva and had to be content with his own sloppy stitches for too long.

"Thank you." He said to the nervous-looking mage.

"C'mon." Oghren said, pulling him to his feet. "She'll want to see you."

Zevran stumbled into him, his legs weak, and leaned against his friend.

He looked up to his most recent perch, two stories up. The window was blown outwards, the surrounding wall blackened and scorched. Bits of glass and wood littered the ground between him and the wall, a good twenty meters away.

Braska, his perfect plan all gone to shit. What had happened? Who was that child?

"The hell where you thinking, anyway?" Oghren asked. "Commander don't like surprises."

"Maker forgive me for trying to be romantic." Zevran sighed dramatically.

Using his short friend as a rather smelly crutch, he limped toward the keep, leaving a sputtering human in their wake.

Oghren pounded on the doors to the main hall. "Open up!"

The doors swung inward. A dozen people were scattered throughout, some in sleep clothes, some in full armor, and a few in odd mixtures of both. All of them held weapons.

To his surprise, he recognized a man in the crowd--the blood mage from Redcliffe. This night was just getting stranger and stranger.

And then he saw her. His lover stood on a dais, a few steps above him, in front of a carved wooden throne. Her short blonde hair was tousled madly and she wore her golden dragon scale mail over a robe and trousers, the clothing sticking awkwardly from beneath her armor. Her silverite sword shimmered with electricity, held loosely at her side.

And behind her, the same child hid. Small hands grasped at her pant leg as he peaked out at him.

Zevran looked back up at her, his brow knitting. It couldn't be him, could it?

He saw the moment that she recognized him. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. But instead of smiling and running toward him and any of the number of things he'd dreamed of in their months apart, her expression hardened.

"Everybody out!" Clara call out sternly.

A dark haired man stepped forward. "Commander, you can't be serious, he--"

"That wasn't a suggestion, Howe." She snarled, sheathing her sword. "You're all dismissed!"

Zevran found himself frozen as the other Wardens filed out of the room, shooting curious glances at him. As he watched, Clara knelt down to speak to the boy, smoothing a hand over his blonde curls. He nodded and ran over to the blood mage, who swung him up on his hip as he left.

"Don't let her kill ya." Oghren said gruffly as he left. "Nobody else 'round here is any fun."

Then, he was finally alone with his Warden. His lover, his love, that he hadn't seen for over a year, and now she was looking at him with such empty eyes.

"Well, this isn't exactly the welcome I hoped for." He said, aiming for levity and falling short. "I imagined candlelight, some chocolates, and... rather less clothing."

Her expression didn't change. "You should've sent a letter ahead."

"I could say much the same of you, my Warden. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me." He said coldly. He hadn't had a response from her in months. At first, he excused it--she was busy, running the Wardens and fighting darkspawn--but now he knew it was something else.

"No. I didn't... I didn't know what to say." Clara said shortly. She took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the floor. "My son. His name is Lolan. He lives here now and I know this...that you never agreed to this. I understand if you leave."

"Leave?" His heart dropped. "Am I to be turned away so callously, then?"

"I don't want you to go, Zev." She looked up and he was startled to see tears in her eyes. He crossed the room to her, his hands coming up to cradle her elbows, wanting to embrace her but not willing to force it. "But a child--that was never part of our arrangement."

"Arrangement?" He asked.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do." He said softly. "But to spend so many months away from you, dreaming of you, and to hear you speak of it so callously..."

"I don't know what else to call it." She sighed. "I'm sorry."

Zevran could feel her trembling in his arms. "You look almost afraid of me, mi amora."

"Oh, Zev." She pushed her forehead against his, closing her eyes. She reached up to him and carded her fingers through his hair. "I'm not, I promise. I'm just terrified of what you might say."

"I can say it in a funny voice if you like." He murmured. "I do a wonderful Neverran accent."

She laughed.

"Ah, there she is." He said, brushing a tear off her cheek. "You worry too much, Clara. Haven't I stuck around this long? Tell me what's frightened you and we can work from there."

"I don't know how this will change things. Being a mother." She whispered. "I want both of you in my life, but you might not want him around."

He sighed, not knowing how to respond. He'd never taken care of a child--and he thanked the Maker for that, knowing how the Crows treated their new recruits. Maybe he wouldn't like this one. Maybe Lolan wouldn't like him. Maybe Clara had outgrown him while they were apart. She was a mother now, as well as Warden-Commander, she surely had better prospects than him.

But as she melted into his arms, he felt his worries fading.

"Are you happy?" Zevran asked.

She nodded, her eyes shining. "I love him so much."

"Good. I won't ask you to give that up." He said. His Warden had spent so much of her life alone and he would never dream of taking any happiness away from her. "Do you really want me to be around him?"

"What? I'm not asking you to be his father, Zev."

"I know, I know." He shrugged. "But I hardly think I'm a good influence on anyone, much less a child."

"Let me worry about that." Clara pulled him in and kissed him quickly. "So you're staying?"

"At this point, mi amora, you couldn't chase me away." He smiled. "Why don't you introduce us?"

She took his hand, lighting up with that smile that she saved just for him, and led him away. And Zevran followed her, like he always did.

#zevran arainai #zevran #zevran arainai x warden #zevran x warden #female warden #female amell #zevran x amell #zevran arainai x female warden #clara amell #kids #warden's kid #oghren #nathanial howe #anders #dao #da:o #dragon age #dragon age: origins #awakening

[hellas-himself]

Well, shit.

So here’s this little thing I wrote when I finished DAO and DA2. I completely forgot about posting it because Feyrhycien took over my life lmao 

.

.

I had never met the Hero of Ferelden.

I knew the stories, hell, I’d written about them more times than I will ever admit. The Warden, falling in love with a Crow sent to kill her. It was the kind of love story you’d find the Seeker reading quietly to herself when she thought none of us were looking.

But I didn’t know the Warden, not the way I knew Hawke.

The Champion of Kirkwall. 

She would come to the Hanged Man for drinks and games of Wicked Grace, even if she lost most of the time. It was in those moments where the burden her family had placed on her seemed a little less heavy. She would laugh until she cried. Except sometimes, the crying didn’t stop. I know they were her family but they blamed her for everything. And nothing she did was ever enough. But Hawke never stopped trying, never stopped helping.

Hell, that’s how she met Fenris.

I hadn’t expected the prickly bastard to stick around once we’d cleaned out Danarius’s place, but Hawke had said they’d talked, and left it at that. He started tagging along, which wasn’t always too bad if we were choosing between Carver and Aveline.

He came with us to the Deep Roads when Carver joined the Templars. He remained in Hightown, fighting at Hawke’s side no matter where she went. He was there when Bartrand returned and I went to pay my big brother a visit… But you know that, Hawke’s story is the very tale Cassandra used to take me prisoner.

To put it plainly, the broody elf was always around, stealing glances at Hawke.

Everything changed after Hawke fought Hadriana. Their romance ended before it began. Hawke is my best friend, it was only natural for me to worry- but it was obvious the two were in love, they still fought side by side. He was there for her when her mother was killed. Fenris wore a red band around his wrist, the Amell crest- a romance in everything but name.

I’ll never forget the smile on her face after Fenris apologized for walking out on her. And when Meredith was defeated, Hawke and Fenris took off.

Naturally, I didn’t tell anyone where she went. Not even with that damn hole in the sky. And once I met Lavellan, I saw Hawke all over again. I knew I was done for; I was going to follow this girl to the damn Fade if I had to (be careful what you wish for).

I kept everything I knew about Hawke secret because I didn’t want any of this for her, but I didn’t want this for Lavellan, either. Here was this woman carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and despite how she was treated by everyone, she wanted to help. Wanted to do anything she could to seal the Breach.

She took Ferelden by storm, sealing rifts and helping everyone; from farmers to nobles to the very people who had condemned her without knowing what had happened before she’d stepped out of that rift. Now, I won’t lie, I noticed how flustered she left Curly every time they spoke. I’m sure I’ll regret saying that later. But it was a surprise to see her warming up to Chuckles, asking him question after question about the Fade and his dreams, about elven history. We’d be at camp and she’d sit with him by the fire, talking about the mark. About anything.

But nothing came of it. She went to Val Royeaux. She traveled all over Thedas, coming back with new allies every time. The Iron Bull. The Grey Warden Blackwall. Sera and Vivienne. She took the time to talk to everyone, getting to know us all with every passing day.

And then we met Dorian.

Lavellan asked Solas and I to go with her to Redcliffe, knowing full well it was a trap. Was I really the only one who saw how worried Curly was?

With Leliana’s knowledge of the castle, we three walked right into the trap. It went to shit so fast, I still can’t put to words what it was like to see them just disappear. For Solas and I, she and Dorian had been gone for a few moments. Not even Alexius had moved from where he stood, unsure of what the hell had just happened.

When they came back… something had changed in her. She still made time for us, she still fought with everything she had. But the future she had fought through to come back had cast a shadow on her. I saw it when we sat down by the fire. She would ask about Kirkwall. About Hawke. I told her about Aveline and Isabela, Carver and Anders. Daisy and Curly. That made her laugh, trying to imagine what Cullen had looked like back then. She called him over one night to look at him by the fire and when she smiled, it almost looked like she was herself again.

But I saw the way she looked at Solas when she thought no one was looking. They didn’t talk as much as they used to. ‘I don’t have anything else to ask,’ she said when I’d teased her about it. Dorian managed to make her smile, at least- so did Bull and his Chargers. I didn’t dare to question when she’d just sit in silence by Leliana’s tent, staring at nothing for a time. One look from the Nightingale had everyone walking the other way.

The night she sealed the Breach, I saw the way she and Solas looked at one another before it happened. The worry on his face before she was standing tall, before the cheers erupted in the temple. But at Haven? Nothing. Not a glance. Not a word.

Even when Cullen was sending her out to face Corypheus as he led us out of Haven, she said no good byes. But when that dragon attacked again, she shouted for us to run. I saw the way Solas retreated into himself as we walked farther and farther from her, not knowing if she’d made it.

He showed nothing when she was carried to camp, he said nothing when everyone was fighting about where to go. What to do. But I saw them walk off together. I saw her smile when she came back alone.

And then we found Skyhold.

Lavellan was made Inquisitor and even with all her new responsibility, she made time for all of us. I want to say I saw her as much as Solas did, seeing as she walked by me every time she went to “walk around the library”. But they were talking again.

As she and Solas got closer, she strengthened her friendships with the rest of us. Facing Dorian’s father, hunting down a wyvern for Vivienne. I was surprised she didn’t hit Gatt in the face for the way he talked to Bull, especially after he and Lavellan chose the Chargers over the Qunari alliance. She was hung over for a few days after that, staying up late at night with Bull, drinking with his boys. Lavellan helped Curly through some heavy shit, and he finally seemed to relax around her. He still blushed, though.  

There were times Solas did not journey with her, and I would see the way he’d pace around that room a little more than usual. She had gone all the way to the Hissing Wastes without us, taking Dorian and Bull with her. Blackwall had told her not to play matchmaker, but Lavellan had helped him pick out flowers for Josie. He tagged along and said nothing more about it.

They read books together in the garden, sometimes she would sit at the little table and listen to him theorize about elven magic and whatever other fancy shit he talked about that brought the hearts out in her eyes. She would listen to Solas and Bull playing their games while we trekked through the Emerald Graves. She laughed at all my stupid jokes and shared books with Cassandra at camp, not at all afraid to talk about them with all of us there.

Vivienne had called us all into Lavellan’s chambers for us to see the gown she would wear to the Winter Palace. That was probably the first time I ever saw Chuckles a little flustered. Naturally, Josie forced us all into matching outfits that none of us liked, but Lavellan made a joke about it and Solas laughed. Truly laughed.

When Lavellan met Hawke, I saw history repeating itself. And I didn’t feel so bad about pissing the Seeker off. Hawke sent Fenris away to keep him safe. I saw those same shadows haunting Lavellan and I feared of what she would lose saving the world, when Hawke had lost so much by saving Kirkwall.

We followed her through the Fade. The Deep Roads. We hunted dragons and discovered temples that discredited the Chantry and had Solas and Lavellan talking long into the night. I knew it was a fool’s hope to see a happy ending, but every victory, no matter how fictitious left me wondering if maybe she would be the hero who walked away smiling.

But that was a fool’s hope.

After we defeated Corypheus, Solas disappeared. Leliana couldn’t find him, and Lavellan… Well, she had Thedas to worry about. Nobles and stupid political disputes. After all she had done, all she had lost- these bastards had the nerve to demand more of her. I knew she cried for him, I knew she stood out on that balcony, looking out as if she’d see him coming back home. But time passed, and there was no sign of him. The world really didn’t need an Inquisition anymore, but we didn’t know what to do yet. Lavellan walked through the room as if he had never occupied that space. She still flirted with Dorian, but that was safe. Nothing would come from that. He was her best friend and she was happy to see him in love with Bull. I was only allowed to ask about Solas if she could ask about Bianca. She never said I couldn’t tease her about Curly.

Before I went back to Kirkwall, we played a game of Wicked Grace. She won the game and instead of gloating, she just started to cry. Everyone was leaving and she’d be here, alone. I told her to sleep in Curly’s room, it was so small she might fall over in her sleep. She kicked my foot under the table for that, but it got her smiling.

I knew that she would have Josie and Cullen, but I understood. Kirkwall was lonely when Hawke was gone. I don’t know why, but I told her about Fenris and Hawke. About how he had left, how he had come back. They were together again after all this time, despite everything. I wasn’t sure if that was enough, but when we said goodbye, she thanked me for the story.

Two years passed and we were all together again. Lavellan and Curly arrived with Josie, the ease in which they stood beside one another made me hope that maybe she’d found something there, at least a friend. She joked about their clothes, about his hair and how long he’d taken to get ready in the morning. Josie asked them both to promise her they’d refrain from commenting on the Clerics and nobles in attendance. They promised, but I knew Lavellan had her fingers crossed behind her back. They followed Josie inside, the two of them whispering to one another and trying not to laugh.

The fate of the Inquisition was to be decided, and we’d face it together. But of course, shit can never be easy. Not for her.

A Qunari threat. Bodies piling up. And the Eluvian.

I had never seen Lavellan as angry as she was before she went into the Crossroads. But then, I’d never seen Curly look so worried. Everyone was a little more than surprised when he hugged her goodbye.

Once more, I followed Lavellan into the unknown with Dorian and Bull at our side. The mark started to react, worse than before. In agony she fought Qunari and demons until at last… Solas returned.

But only she went after him, not believing that he had betrayed her. Betrayed us all.

Waiting for her to come back felt like an eternity, Dorian wanted to walk through to find her but Bull wouldn’t hear it. But she came back to us, stepping out of that Eluvian, clutching her left arm- what was left of it. He’d had the nerve to say he loved her still. But she didn’t cry, she asked Dorian to patch her up. Once we made it back to the Winter Palace, she let Vivienne adjust her sleeve.

Shadows no longer haunted her, they’d become a part of her. And she commanded them. I saw it in the way she argued with the clerics, with the nobles, with everyone who had demanded everything of her. The Inquisitor, our Herald of Andraste- she had enough.

She started by disbanding the Inquisition.

Those of us in the Inquisition left Skyhold, leaving room for those who had no where to go. A safe haven. That was all Lavellan requested for before she disappeared without a trace. Word had it that Curly was living in some cabin in the Hinterlands, but I looked into it. There was a cabin, but no sign of Curly. Some Inquisition soldier named Jim was living there, and he said he hadn’t seen the Commander since he was riding out of Skyhold by himself- after Lavellan left.

Months later, I was having dinner with Fenris and Hawke. Daisy was there. So was Isabela. Carver showed up with flowers for his sister and for Daisy. Aveline and Isabela’s insults to one another were said with smiles. We didn’t talk about Anders.

Right when we were moving on to dessert, a knock came onto the door. Everything seemed to pause until I was handed a note in a familiar hand. I had to smile, I should’ve known.

I now sit by a fire, Leliana is looking at a map. I don’t know how the hell Cassandra is here, but she is, and she’s just as pissed as she was the day she met me. Dorian and Bull “went to bed” and Sera is messing with a jar of bees. Cole is hiding somewhere and Warden Blackwall brought Josie flowers.

I see her, standing by Curly, her arms crossed as she listens to Vivienne wax poetic about Orlais’ latest fashions. And yeah, you heard me right. Arms.

With her mind on the Blade of Tidarion and all the notes she took after meeting Fenris once in passing, Dagna created an arm band made of silverite and lyrium. The band is always visible, but the ghastly blue arm appears whenever Lavellan wills it. A lyrium ghost arm is what Dagna calls it- I didn’t have to ask what inspired the name; I saw The Tale of the Champion amidst her many books on lyrium and magic.

Lavellan smiles when Curly brushes his fingers against the back of her hand, because she can feel it this time. Dagna is sitting on the ground, observing Lavellan and how she takes Curly by the hand, jotting down her findings.

I notice everyone is observing them. Cassandra has hearts in her eyes and Leliana is actually smiling. There is hope on Blackwall and Josie’s faces. Sera makes kissy sounds which leave Curly blushing but Lavellan smiles, leaning closer to him.

I told her once how Fenris had come back for Hawke. How they’d run off together when the world didn’t need them. Solas isn’t coming back for her. She knew it before any of us told her. But she came back for us, for Cullen. She ran off with him when the world believed it had no need of her.

We’re going to find Solas. We’re going to stop him from tearing down the Veil.

After that? I’ll be writing about Commander Cullen Rutherford and how he won the heart of the Herald of Andraste.

Cassandra is going to read the shit out of this one.  

#Dragon Age #varric tethras #warden x zevran #fenris x femhawke #solavellan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x lavellan #the champion of kirkwall #dragon age origins #dragon age 2 #dragon age inquisition #herald of andraste

[aurlyn]

Bonus fic written for the 2019 @fic-or-treat exchange for the amazingly wonderful @bexterrr!

I couldn’t choose just one story idea - so here... have another! :) 

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, Alistair & Cullen Rutherford Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford Additional Tags: Friendship/Love, Falling In Love, How it all began, Pumpkin Carving 101, Cullen takes a chance, Alistair needs a friend, Alistair has a crush, Total Fluff, Sweet boys making friends Summary:

Alistair has never carved a pumpkin before, the new boy at the Abby takes him under his wing and shows him the ropes.

Something Beautiful and New

He watched from the edge of the yard as the other kids carved their strange-shaped gourds. It was an unusual tradition that happened every year and Alistair could never wrap his head around why they did it. All Hallows Eve was a couple days away. He knew it had something to do with the holiday, but it wasn’t something he’d ever celebrated back in Redcliff, or anything anyone had taken the time to explain to him in the last four years since he came to live at the Abby. So he watched from the shadows and tried to piece together the perplexing ritual.

As Alistair peered out from his hiding spot, he noticed the new kid, Cullen, off to one side, studiously carving away at his own pumpkin. At three years older than the other first years and not in any classes with the students his own age, Cullen didn’t spend much time socializing with his peers. Like Alistair, he mostly kept to himself. Unlike Alistair, he was respected in his request for space and solitude.

Alistair watched in fascination while Cullen effortlessly sliced into the soft flesh of his large orange orb. His golden curls moving in the cool autumn breeze, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth; his looks were striking, handsome. This wasn’t the first time that Alistair found his gaze lingering a little bit longer than it probably should, and probably wouldn’t be the last. There wasn’t much that he found enjoyment in, so as long as he wasn’t hurting anyone else, Alistair would take what little joy he could find in his day; and he quite enjoyed watching Cullen.

Unsure of how long he’d actually been lurking, Alistair was surprised when Cullen looked up and smiled at him.

He looked over his own shoulder to see if maybe there was someone behind him, but no… he was in the shadows, in a corner; there wasn’t any one else around.

Cullen’s smile grew wider as he set his knife down and waved.

Surprised, Alistair pointed to his chest and mouthed the word… “me?”

Cullen threw his head back with a joyful laugh and waved again, beckoning him over.

Unsure of what awaited him, whether it was the usual ridicule and rebuke that the other recruits dished out to him, or something else entirely, Alistair took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and slowly made his way over.

“Um… hi,” Alistair said, crouching down next to Cullen so no one else could hear.

“Hi.” Cullen smiled.

He didn’t smile often, but looking at the radiance spreading across his face, Alistair thought that a pity. He would do anything to see that look on Cullen’s face as often as possible.

“Did you…  um. I’m sorry if my watching bothered you.” Alistair finished, lamely.

“You weren’t bothering me. I was just wondering, how come you aren’t carving with everyone else?”

Alistair looked down and away. “I don’t really fit in with… anyone really. How come you’re not carving with them?”

Cullen shrugged, seemingly unaffected. “I don’t really fit in with any of them, either. I came here because I want to become a Templar, not to make friends.”

Alistair sighed, standing. “I’m sorry I bothered you, then. I’ll just…” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder and started to turn away.

Cullen gently touched Alistair’s ankle. “I didn’t mean you. Please, stay?”

The uncertainty in his voice gave Alistair pause, so he crouched back down with a tentative smile. “Okay,” he whispered.

The soft look Cullen gave him helped Alistair relax a little bit more. Encouraged, Alistair picked up Cullen’s knife and handed it to him. “Is it okay if I continue to watch from here?”

Cullen shrugged. “It’s probably easier to see up close anyway.”

When Cullen returned to his carving, Alistair sat and watched, fascinated. The silence between them was comfortable, which, in and of itself was startling for Alistair. It was better than standing in the corner where he couldn’t see very well, though. So far, Cullen created two triangular shaped eyes and the starting of a jagged mouth.

Once the mouth was completed, Alistair asked, “Why do you make the faces scary?”

Cullen looked up, surprised. “You don’t know?” he asked. “Have you never carved a jack-o-lantern before?”

Alistair shrugged. “Never had the occasion. This wasn’t something we celebrated where I grew up in Redcliff. Well… it was something that was celebrated, just not something I was ever invited to participate in,” he finished with a resigned sigh.

Cullen frowned. “But, what about here? You’ve been here for how many years?”

“I’m in my fourth year. But it’s not…” Alistair looked over his shoulder at the group of recruits studiously ignoring them. “Surely you’ve seen how they treat me. Why would any of them take the time to explain this to me? Plus if they knew that I didn’t know… it would just give them one more thing to tease me about.” His eyes grew wide with realization. “And the moment they realize that you’re talking to me, they’ll probably do the same to you. It would probably be better if I just… go.”

Cullen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Alistair leaned into it, the warmth and comfort reminding him how few touches of affection he’d experienced in his life. When he opened his eyes, Cullen was staring at him, not uncomfortably, but more like he was searching for something, trying to figure him out.

“Would you like to carve one too?” Cullen finally asked. “We can talk about it while we work.” He handed Alistair an unclaimed gourd that was sitting nearby.

Pulling out his own knife, Alistair settled-in next to Cullen.

“I hope you don’t mind getting dirty,” Cullen said. “Cleaning out the inside is the messiest part.” He showed Alistair where to cut around the stem then how to scoop out the seeds and pulp.

As they sat together carving, Alistair listened intently while Cullen explained that All Hallows Eve was a holiday where the veil was the thinnest and sometimes spirits crossed over to visit their loved ones. But sometimes, other spirits would cross over and the jack-o-lanterns were placed in windows and near doorstops to scare the evil entities away.

Alistair soaked up every ounce of information Cullen was willing to share. From celebrating the end of the harvest and welcoming in the new year, to wearing costumes and carving jack-o-lanterns, he was a rapt and willing student. He may not have ever celebrated All Hallows Eve before, but Cullen seemed happily determined to guide him through this holiday and excited to teach him about all the ones still to come.

Several hours, and several gourds later, Alistair and Cullen had become fast friends and already made plans to meet the next day to start working on their costumes and masks.

If All Hallows Eve shepherded in the new year, then this was definitely the start of something beautiful and new for these young men.

Notes:

Thank you to @tatteredleaf for beta reading for me (even though she was away at a writing convention at the time). Thank you so much for squeezing a little time in when you were so busy!

And thank you, once again, to @cullenlovesmen for helping me (inadvertently) work through my story ideas. ;)

#fic-or-treat #2019 #gift fic #cullistair #pumpkin carving 101 #making friends #the start of something new #how it all began #bexterrr #alistair theirin #cullen rutherford #chantry boys #fic_or_treat_2019

[rynezion]

deep water

As he grows up, they tell him there are no bonds in the world for the likes of him. Zevran doesn't think much of it—these days his mind is occupied by more immediate dangers, being seven and scrawny and the weakest of the children under the care of House Arainai.  There is no time to dwell on the possibility of soulmates, not then.

The others are violent. He is smarter. He gets to live.

<< Read on AO3 >>

(Later he will wonder if it was worth it, to coat his arms in the blood of his peers—later, when he cradles Rinna’s cooling body in his arms and Taliesen walks out of the room, expression cast in stone.)

He is fourteen when the dream comes.

It is grey and black and white like all of his dreams before. The grassy slope in front of him disappears into mist where the Fade swallows the edges and trees cast long shadows into the nothing, darker, somehow, than real-world black. That’s where he sees it: a spot of colour, impossible, half-hidden in the dark.

Zevran moves and his heart beats faster. The figure peels out of the fog and sharpens into the form of a girl in a blue robe. She huddles between the roots, sections of her long braid caught in the branches and thorns, the rest pooling by her feet. She hides her face in her knees. Her shoulders are shaking.

“Hey,” Zevran says. The girl curls up even smaller. “Hey,” Zevran repeats, quickly losing patience—in his world there is no place for fear unless it’s the fear of his mark, and this girl—

“Go away,” the girl says, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“What?”

She looks up then, tear streaked face brown and plain, and there is a bruise on her cheek. Her lips are bloody. Zevran crouches down. The girl frowns.

“You’re not Envy,” she says.

“Umm… no?”

“The other one is the same as you,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “but dirtier. He sleeps in the kennel with the dogs, you know?”

“The other one?” Zevran asks. The girl nods.

“I’m not allowed to talk to him,” she says. “Not anymore. The creche mother says they will take care of it tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Zevran says, head spinning. The girl’s accent is weird. Her eyes are unbonded-grey—he knows this, knows this because he is here and the girl’s robes are blue.

“What’s your name?” the girl asks.

The dream dissolves before he can answer.

Zevran opens his eyes to the cramped darkness of his cot and sighs.

It matters not. There are no bonds in the world for the likes of him, even if his heart of hearts leaps at the memory of a robe so blue—he is a knife and nothing more, and his life doesn’t belong to him. He has learned to live with it. It matters not, not any more.

The girl doesn’t come again. Neither does anybody else.

Life goes on.

Rinna talks about her dream-bond sometimes. They aren’t allowed, not really, but neither are they allowed to have this: to curl up on a bed too small for the three of them, warm and boneless in post-coital bliss. Rinna’s voice is sleep-slow as she tells them about a boy with bright red hair who promises to free her from the Crows, one day. They all know it is impossible. Zevran envies her anyway.

“We will be the greatest friends,” she says, “you will come with me and we will run to Rivain and start our own House where nobody needs to starve or be bought with coin. It will be glorious.”

Taliesen laughs and says he has no need for escape, or a bond; has never had one and never will.

“Maybe he’s dead,” he says. “All the better for me, huh?”

Rinna huffs and bites his shoulder. Zevran rolls away and looks up at the ceiling, the sagging beams and fading green of the tiles more mildew than paint. He wonders if that’s what it is: that whoever put the bruise on the little girl’s face came back to finish the job, if she’s dead and has been for years. The thought leaves a strange taste in his mouth.

But then Taliesen turns to lick the tip of his ear and Zevran succumbs to the feverish rush of pleasure, the brightness of the afternoon and Rinna’s laugh. He is in love and life feels full of possibility. Zevran considers forever as much as any young Crow can: to be cradled between eager arms today, tomorrow, for as many days after as they can scrape away from this jealous world.

They are young, and foolish, and the world is indeed cruel.

---

“And you’re sure this will work,” the mercenary says. She sounds skeptical. Zevran smiles an easy smile and twirls one of his daggers in the air, watching as the woman picks at her skirt with a look of faint disgust on her face. The seams of the dainty blouse seem to groan at the stretch of her shoulders. It matters not. The stage is set.

“It will work,” Zevran says. “We talked about this. It is only a party of five. How many of us is there, darling one?”

The woman scowls at him. “I can count, you know. There’s really no need to be an asshole.”

“Right then,” Zevran smiles. “Ready?”

“I guess. Andraste help us.”

It doesn’t take ten minutes until she comes running back on the path, expression long-suffering as she pretends to scream in distress at the company spread out in front of her. His mark’s party of five comes stumbling onto the clearing. No time to watch, to assess: the mercenary pulls her knife, the warrior twitches back with a shout as the blade finds a gap in his armour, the elf woman unhooks her staff and then—carnage. It’s a language he speaks intimately.

His mercenaries all die, of course. All he feels is relief when the scantily clad mage woman finally gets close enough to hit him in the side of the head with her staff: ice spiderwebs from the contact and he falls as darkness envelops him at last, at last. He stretches in that blessed quiet, ready, and then—

“Hey. Wake up.”

The world is cruel, and he is not dead.

Zevran opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, then exhales fast as if somebody punched him in the gut.

It’s the girl. The girl in blue robes. Zevran laughs, hysterical and somewhat helpless, and the girl’s eyes flood with colour: brown, brown, brown, rye bread and honey-gold, just like the dream. His dream. Behind her, the warrior staggers back and clutches his face.

“No fucking way,” the mage-barbarian says. The others—is that a Chantry sister? A qunari? What kind of sick joke is this?

Not for the likes of you, Master Arainai says in his memory, expression absent. The girl—woman—looks at him, one eye honey-brown, the other almost golden. The warrior turns toward them. A single tear spills down Zevran’s left cheek as his eyes itch and fill.

“No fucking way,” the mage-barbarian repeats.

But here it is anyway: life is cruel, he is not dead, and his bond is here, here, here.

Leliana finds it all terribly romantic. Bards. Sten (the qunari) listens with stoic indifference as she recounts stories of other famous triads—if Zevran has to hear about Alvinna the Fair one more time he will consider murder. Once the dizziness passes, that is.

Enchanter Surana, Andraste help him, gives him startled looks from the corners of her eyes. Alistair stomps on behind them

Morrigan thinks it’s hilarious.

“Listen,” Surana says quietly, “this doesn’t need to… mean anything. I mean…,” she swallows and clutches her staff tighter, “it is complicated. With. Yeah.” She glances over her shoulder at Alistair.

“I don’t even…like men. That way,” Alistair mutters, sounding queasy. Oh good. A Fereldan prude. Zevran swallows the urge to throw back an obscene remark—not the time, he thinks, even if it would be fun. The warrior has delectable shoulders and blushes so well. It would be easy.

And yet.

“I mean,” Surana continues, “you did try to kill us. Before.”

“I did,” Zevran agrees. She nods. They walk some more in silence. “I thought you were dead,” he adds.

“What?”

“The dreams?”

“Oh.”

A shadow passes over her face, half hidden by the choppy ends of her hair. It doesn’t even reach her shoulders anymore, instead it sticks up in untidy tufts around her ears. It gives her even more of a haunted look than her features already call for. Her nose grew to be large and crooked. Zevran decides he likes it.

“There is a potion,” she says then. Alistair makes a choked noise. “Circles, you know.”

“They have a thing about fornication,” Morrigan adds helpfully, “nevermind world-changing, earth shattering soulmate magic. Stuff of nightmares. Makes mages dangerously independent.”

“Hey,” Surana snaps. Morrigan cackles.

“‘Tis true, is it not? Poor baby bird. Whatever will you do now, with no templars to tell you what to do?”

“I—”

“Nevermind,” Morrigan says and brushes past them with her nose in the air, “You probably think I should be locked up too, to be taught table manners. Tch.”

“That’s not what I—”

Surana sighs. Zevran lifts an eyebrow and asks: “This happens a lot, then?”

Alistair looks pained.

“You have no idea.”

Things settle into a routine, after. Alistair stops watching him like a hawk once Zevran fails to poison or shank them all in their sleep. Leliana nags him for stories. Morrigan argues with Surana—it’s like watching somebody kick a puppy, Zevran thinks, as he watches her try and fail to keep the peace. Morrigan makes her nervous. It is almost charming.

Then they make it to Redcliffe and things go sideways, fast.

The dead burn. It is somehow not the most horrifying thing waiting for them between those cursed castle walls. (Alistair turns green as Surana splits her palm on the edge of a knife and Isolde lifts into the air, limbs spread in angles all wrong, dead.)

“It’s better that I did it,” she whispers to Zevran later. She is shaking. He reaches around her shoulders to pull her closer, but she flinches away.

“Sorry, I—”

“No harm done,” Zevran says, and his heart aches. She refuses to let him bandage her hand. The haunted look never quite disappears from her eyes.

The wound heals, but scars. Alistair spits cruel words of grief. Surana, face blank, only says: whatever it takes.

(It’s better I do it, than corrupt anybody else.)

Zevran understands necessity. He was made wrong decades ago, the first time a Crow master put a knife between his spidery child-fingers and pointed him toward another man. Surana’s quest is much more dignified than mere survival. Whatever it takes is a pretty good start.

Alistair stammers an apology. Morrigan slaps dishes and packets around and comes out with a foul smelling poultice, covers the wounds with the thick paste and says nothing.

Iraine lets her.

It’s strange, Zevran thinks, watching Alistair strip his gambeson and his shirt and wade into the stream without flinching at the cold, how they care for each other despite everything. He accepts a bowl of soup from Leliana. Alistair blushes when he turns around and finds Zevran watching.

Life goes on.

Zevran thinks he’s done with the ‘inevitable’ bullshit, but.

Alistair kisses him over smoking darkspawn corpses deep in the bowels of the Deep Roads for the first time. Branka’s carcass hasn’t yet finished bleeding. It is—something.

“You could have chosen a better locale,” Zevran pants into his mouth and Alistair makes a strangled sound. His eyes are large and mismatched and blurry with want.

“We almost died,” he blurts. The stench of dead flesh makes their noses numb. It’s perfect.

“Get a fucking room,” Oghren grunts. Zevran glances at Iraine. Alistair buries his face into his hands.

“Awkward,” Morrigan says, but there’s no true venom in it.

Iraine is there for the rest: hands on shoulders and soothing words as Zevran stretches out over Alistair, taking and breathing and living.

“I love you,” he whispers into the warm and sweaty darkness. In that moment he means all of it; Rinna’s smile and Taliesen’s easy hands, the dream-girl’s blue robes, Iraine’s mouth by his ear and Alistair’s strong arms.

It is a cruel thing, in truth. His heart is full and still, fear whispers: how long, this time?

Fortunate, then, that he has learned to wake from nightmares in quiet a long time ago.

---

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me,” Morrigan says, “how many of your ex-lovers will show up to murder us in the near future, you think?”

Taliesen tilts his head to the side. Zevran swallows the urge to laugh.

“Come home with me,” Taliesen says. Iraine glances at him—he looks back and sees nothing but trust, the quiet depth of her love. She nods. Zevran smiles.

They hold him after, once Taliesen’s body finishes cooling and they stagger back to Arl Eamon’s palace to get outrageously drunk. Zevran cries into Alistair’s shoulder. Iraine tucks herself against his back and closes her eyes.

“I have found something,” she says later, once the bottles are empty and she makes them drink a mug of water each. She leans back against the headboard and buries her fingers into Zevran’s hair.

“Do you know why only Wardens can kill archdemons?”

Zevran thinks he’s done with the ‘inevitable’ bullshit, but.

They end it dizzy and wrung out, standing high up on that Denerim rooftop. The dragon’s corpse is spread out around them like a small mountain. Iraine and Alistair lean against him, hands still tangled together, the buzz of necrotic energy traversing their skin with ease. Iraine’s hands are caked in blood and dragon entrails.

“So that’s why the Circle doesn’t like soulmate-magic, huh?” Zevran says. Iraine snorts. Tendrils of arcane residue trail around them like colourful ribbons and Zevran wonders if this is how she sees the world all the time: a blur between the Fade and the truth, the colour of magic trailing after everything living and dead. He tugs the two of them closer. Alistair’s sword clatters to the stone and he wraps two armour-clad arms around them the best he can.

“You know,” he says, “we almost died.”

“He wants to make out again,” Iraine says, and Zevran laughs, light and warm and free and holding tight, tight.

(There will be a monument here, in about a decade: three stone figures holding hands, moss and lichen growing in the crevices for colour. Alistair will pretend to hate it, but will spend snatched minutes and hours as King sitting under its shadow. Zevran will visit, sometimes. Iraine will never see it.

All will be well.)

#alistair/zevran/warden #zevistair #dao #my writing #iraine surana #invisible machinery #okay now THIS is out of my system #have some nonsense soulmate au for your friday evening

[cakelanguage]

Can you believe it? I’m not dead and I’m updating the “Dorian as a young boy” fic that I’ve been neglecting for God knows how long. But chapter 5 is finally here!

First//Previous//Next

You can also read it on AO3

~~~~

While going with the Herald and his party was the safer option, Dorian felt dread trail his steps. As they moved further from Redcliffe, so did Dorian’s bit of safety. The insurance that at least Felix would treat him right and not as if he were a speck of dirt or a snake slithering by were getting slimmer and slimmer with each passing moment. Out here he was going to have to fend for himself.

Not that he hadn’t been fending for himself since he left Tevinter. He’d gotten here in one piece, though he’d lost quite a bit to get here. He was well in-tuned with the loss of gold that had pressed against his chest for the majority of his life. It wasn’t big in the grand scheme of things, especially if it meant he could help Felix, but he still privately mourned the loss of his birthright.

If he lost his birthright to get here, what else was he going to have to give up now that he was out of Redcliffe without Felix to help him? While the Chantry sisters barely tolerated him, they did give him small portions of food when he’d looked “particularly pitiful,” as one of the sisters would point out. Felix himself would always try to sneak food that he could without arousing suspicion. Would the Herald and his party do the same? They had agreed to let him come with them at Felix's request but he didn't know if he could trust their word.

“You’re thinking pretty loudly back there, kiddo,” Varric commented, slowing his pace to walk beside him. He actually was only a few inches shorter than Dorian was and he longed for puberty to give his height a well-deserved boost. “Care to share?”

Dorian worried his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head. “Nothing important,” Dorian replied.

Varric shook his head. “Kiddo, I’d like to say everyone here believes you,” the dwarf sighed, “but right now we don’t. We don’t have all the information and we’re running off the inconsistencies between Grand Enchanter Fiona’s offer and the mage rebellions current status and the word of two Altuses who are willingly going against a Magister, who happens to be one of said Altuses’ father.” Varric’s mouth quirked up in a sheepish smile. “It’s a little hard to believe.”

“So think of myself as insurance that if one of us were lying you have recompense.”

Varric looked at him sharply. “Hey, no kiddo, just wanted you to share what was going on in that head of yours.”

Dorian was silent for a moment as he thought of what to say. Should he lie and make up something? Or should he just be forthright with his feelings on what was going on? Lying probably wouldn't do him any good besides create a mask that he doubted he could keep up for long.

He sighed. “I was thinking about the fact that I’m leaving the last place I had any insurance of kindness.” When Varric didn’t say anything he took it as a nudge to continue. “I left my home, gave up something I never thought I’d have to in order to get here, and I was… sad to leave my country.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I don’t expect you to understand. Tevinter is horrible how it is now, I’ll be the first to admit that. There isn’t enough acceptance, too much deceit hiding under honeyed tongues, and the slavery- don’t get me started on how awful that is. And no one’s doing anything or done anything about it. And Father always tells me that my beliefs would get me killed and that I will grow to accept it, but I haven’t.” He took a deep breath to halt his potential tirade. “But it is still my home, and I miss it.”

“No one is going to fault you for missing home. Hell, I miss Kirkwall and that place is sometimes like a steaming pile of nug shit.”

Dorian actually laughed at that. “Of course they will! They’ll think ‘of course he misses Tevinter, misses the slaves, the pampering, what a spoiled little snake!’ But I can handle missing home, that longing doesn’t come up often.” He sighed again. “But I had Felix back in Redcliffe, even if it was for only short spans of time when he could sneak away. But it was freely offered kindness and love that I had to leave behind.” He hiked his pack up on his back. “That is what I was thinking about.”

Varric didn't say anything more but he did clap Dorian on the shoulder giving it a squeeze before the dwarf let his arm fall back to his side.

“You both okay back there?” the Herald called back to them, a playful smirk playing at his features. “You're looking awfully serious.”

“Don't worry about it your Heraldness,” Varric said lightly.

“Now I’m worried,” the only woman in the party said.

The Herald waved his hand. “I trust Varric, Cassandra. If Varric says it was nothing then I believe him.”

Varric grinned. “At least someone in this party trusts me.”

The booming laugh from ‘Bull’ made Dorian jump. “Awe Varric, I trust you as much as I trust Rocky, you're fine.”

“Isn't he the one who blew up-"

“Yup,” ‘Bull’ interrupted proudly.

Dorian listened to them banter good-naturedly with each other with a detached longing. He had never really made any friends in the Circles, always too smart or just too much. He had never regretted not being able to before, he had Felix and Alexius and Rilienius when the man would indulge in hanging out with him. He even had Maevaris who was a delight when it came to discussing fashion and makeup; she was the one who suggested the kohl around his eyes to make him appear a little older. But he didn't have this easy banter, this camaraderie and it suddenly made him feel bereft of something special.

“-Kid? You still with us or did you go to the fade?”

Dorian came back to the present to Varric’s hand waving in his face. He shook his head to clear the fog of his thoughts, he could think later. “Yes, sorry,” he said. “What was it you were asking?”

“I thought it’d do us some good to actually introduce ourselves since we kinda jumped over that portion of our meeting.” the Herald said sheepishly.

Dorian stared for a moment before nodding his head. “That’s true, it would help if I knew all of your names.”

The Herald clapped his hands excitedly, like a child. “Excellent! I’ll go first, the names Aeren. Just call me Aeren, everyone else just calls me the Herald unfortunately.” He pointed his finger at the woman next, his grin never faltering even when the woman was giving him an icy glare.

The woman scoffed before leveling that stare on Dorian. He felt like he was about to be scolded by his mother when that look was directed at him. “Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast,” Cassandra said shortly.

Dorian's eyes widened and he clenched his teeth together to stop his jaw from dropping. “A Seeker? I haven't met a Seeker before, what do you-"

“Don't,” Cassandra interrupted.

Dorian wanted to insist and keep asking questions but held his tongue, instead just giving her a nod.

Varric elbowed him playfully. “You might already know my name, but I'm Varric,” Varric said with a smile which Dorian found himself reciprocating. He liked the dwarf, and could see them becoming friends. “Nice to meet you, kiddo.”

Dorian fought the urge to pout and instead playfully bumped the dwarf's shoulder with his own. “I’m nearly fourteen,” he insisted.

Varric shrugged. “Right now just about everyone out-ages you by ten years.”

Dorian huffed but he let himself sink into the banter.

The Tal-Vashoth cleared his throat, effectively halting Dorian’s lighthearted conversation. “I’m the Iron Bull, leader of Bull’s Chargers,” Iron Bull said evenly,

“‘The Iron Bull?” Dorian asked.

Aeren laughed. “The ‘the’ is important to remember.”

Dorian felt even more confused by that response. Why include the article in his name?

He must have said that aloud or the qunari was very good at reading people because he went on to explain. “The article makes it seem like I’m an object or a tool, not smart enough to do a lot of things. Makes business boom for my company.”

“That's actually very smart,” Dorian commented.

The Iron Bull snorted and shot him a smirk. “Not expecting a Qunari to be smart?”

Dorian shook his head. “The Qunari are matching the best of Tevinter,” Perhaps beating some of the best of Tevinter, “they, and subsequently you, are intelligent. I’m not so stooped in Tevinter’s ideals to think that you are all stupid beasts.” Although Dorian can’t deny he’s still uneasy around the Qunari.

The Iron Bull made a humming noise but didn’t say anything else to him on the subject.

 Battling with the Herald and his party was… an experience. Aeren himself was a force to be reckoned with. He hefted twin axes around with an otherworldly grace, cutting through darkspawn and wild animals alike. Aeren also didn’t seem to care about getting dirty as he did nothing to wipe away the grim and blood that splashed across his body and face. No one should look that good with blood splattering their face and Dorian had a newfound appreciation for the way the Herald’s blood-stained face would quirk up in a grin when he found something amusing.

Damn hormones.

Cassandra was a powerhouse that seemed to withstand every blow that was inflicted on her and then dealt back the same damage. She had no problem standing her ground in the face of any adversary and didn’t hold back her blows. Though she had a tendency to make sure she covered the Herald’s back at every turn. Dorian felt a bit awed by her attacks. So this was just a taste of a Seeker's power.

Varric, for all his jokes and talk of being a simple storyteller, must have the eyes of a hawk based on his accuracy with Bianca. Dorian thought he himself was excellent at accuracy when it came to his spellcasting, but he felt like an absolute novice after he’d seen Varric literally do a flip before firing off two shots consecutively. Varric provided great support on the field that he, and he assumed everyone else, was thoroughly thankful for.

And then there was the Iron Bull.

A force of nature, with raging battle cries and heavy swings of his axe sinking into the flesh of every enemy they came across. Dorian definitely could see what some of his countryman were talking about when mentioning the raw power Qunari possessed. But the Iron Bull also had an almost childlike excitement when it came to battling literally anything. It was almost endearing to see the excited grin and booming laugh the Qunari would let out after a successful battle.

The only problem was that the Qunari seemed to make sure Dorian was put safely out of harm's way. More than once, he’d been picked up by the collar and put safely behind the warrior. Which was all well and good and perhaps he’d be thankful if he actually needed it.

Which he very much didn’t.

It was insulting to be underestimated like he was. As if his title meant nothing, his skills meant nothing. For Maker’s sake, he was nearly an Enchanter, well on his way to officially receiving that title and that meant absolute shit to the Iron Bull. Was he supposed to feel thankful? Being protected like he was a helpless child, a mage still training for their harrowing having to be protected when faced with real combat.

He shouldn’t feel this upset about it. He was providing good support with his shields and healing the party when they needed it, but he still felt upset. Maybe he was just feeling stressed out by the unfamiliar environment. Maybe it was because he was alone and he felt like he needed to prove himself to the Herald and his party and yet he wasn’t being given the chance. No matter how much he told himself that they were doing it for his own good, the frustrated feeling grew larger making his lips purse into a thin line.

When it happened for the fifth time, Dorian had to resist from stamping his foot on the ground. He observed the battle going on in front of him, at everyone fighting against the foes who’d chosen to attack their party. He wasn’t going to let himself be shuffled to the background any longer. Carefully channeling the power through his body, planting his feet firmly on the ground to act as further grounding for the storm magic he felt crackle through his body. The familiar crackle of electricity gathered around him before he slammed his staff against the earth, releasing the chain lightning on the parties’ attackers.

The lightning arced from enemy to enemy and he watched with satisfaction as two enemies faltered and collapsed under the assault of the electricity. He followed it up with a fireball and a roar, channeling his frustrations through his attack.

Fire licked at the outlaw’s clothes, indiscriminately searing flesh and scorching armor. He blocked out as much of the cries of pain as he could, focusing on taking down the next target. Letting himself fall into the rhythm of battle that he’d grown used to since leaving the safety of his home, he kept casting.

He tried to stay out of reach of any of the men attacking their party, but when one got too close Dorian fade stepped away, extricating himself from the location and putting enough distance between them to let a bolt of storm magic strike his opponent.

It didn’t take long to defeat the group, especially with an additional fighter now that Dorian had joined the fight. He felt proud of himself, for entering the fray even with the Iron Bull’s overbearing protective streak attempting to keep him on the sidelines. Perhaps he’d finally acknowledge that he could take care of himself.

“Kid, you finally decided to join us,” the Iron Bull commented as he slung his axe back onto his back. “Was wondering when you were going to.”

Dorian gaped at the Qunari. “What do you mean?” Dorian asked, “You were the one making sure I had no opportunity to join the fight!”

The Iron Bull shrugged, scratching his head and smearing blood on his ear. “Figured you’d join eventually, thought I should cover you in-case you weren’t ready.”

“You saw me fighting all of those demons back at the Chantry in Redcliffe!” Dorian threw his hands up, squinting at the other man. “Did that mean nothing to you?”

“I think what Tiny’s saying is that he didn’t know if you were ready to fight people,” Varric interjected as he checked over Bianca for any damage.

Dorian crossed his arms “Of course I was ready.” He jumped as a sudden hand clapped his shoulder in a reassuring grip.

“In Bull’s defense, he was just looking out for you,” Aeren added warmly. “The big guy is hired as a bodyguard, so technically he’s just doing his job.”

“He’s your bodyguard,” Cassandra muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Varric waved his hand as if to knock that comment aside. “The point is, we didn’t mean to make you feel like we didn’t trust your abilities.”

Aeren nodded. “Yeah we just…”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You just didn’t trust my abilities.”

The Iron Bull snorted. “I guess you proved us wrong.” Dorian sniffed and gave him a look which only made the Iron Bull laugh. “I’ll try to tone it down, Dorian.”

“See that you do! I’m perfectly capable of taking on my fair share of enemies.”

Aeren breathed a sigh of relief and holstered his axes. “Thank goodness, maybe I can sit back and watch for a bit.”

Cassandra gave him a piercing look. “That’s not funny.”

The Herald’s head hung. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”

 They crested over the mountain before Haven not three hours later. Dorian's feet ached in his boots and even with the warmer clothes that Felix had given him he felt like his bones were made of ice. He wasn't used to this sort of weather at all, not when the climate in Tevinter was always warm and just the slightest bit humid as you got closer to the coast. But he didn't bring this to anyone's attention, instead keeping his complaints about the weather to himself. 

"Ah, there she is," Aeren said with a sigh of relief. At least Dorian could take comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one who was tired from their long trek. "Welcome to Haven, Dorian."

If Dorian were being honest, Haven wasn't much. The tiny village if he could call it that had no more than ten houses with the Chantry taking center stage in the back. He could see how bustling it was and for the first time Dorian really thought about the panic and unrest that infected the masses when the Breach had appeared. These people had lost their Divine and the peace talks were in shambles after the destruction of the Conclave. They'd banded together to try and stop what was going on and others had joined to help. He didn't know if there had been any instances where Tevinter had done the same. 

"We should be there soon," Varric said, carefully making his way down the steep slope. "Watch your step, it's easy to lose your footing with all this snow blocking our view."

Dorian nodded absentmindedly, switching his gaze from looking at the ground and what was in front of him.

Cassandra cleared her throat and Dorian turned his head to look at her. "Just so you are aware, a scout has already made the other advisors aware of our additional company," she informed, shifting the shield on her back to a more comfortable position. "I'm sure they'll want a full report from the Herald."

Aeren groaned loudly beside the Iron Bull. "I suppose they'll want to talk about the situation in Redcliffe."

Cassandra nodded her head. "To discover that the rebel mages have sided with Tevinter, especially after Grand Enchanter Fiona came to us to ask for our aid… well let's just say Commander Cullen and Leliana are most likely chomping at the bit to find out the details."

"Very well, I'll meet with them right away," Aeren said.

"I should be there as well," Dorian spoke up. "I know the details of what's going on."

"Which you told us," Aeren said turning his full attention to Dorian. "Unless you and Felix left something out when you were explaining the situation."

Dorian resisted the urge to flinch under Aeren's sudden hawk-like gaze. "N-no I did but I can clarify any confusion that might occur after your advisors hear about the situation."

"Somehow I doubt that will go over well with them," the Iron Bull commented. 

"I know that for a fact," Cassandra said. "It would be best if after the meeting, if any of them had further questions, they could ask you, Dorian."

Dorian wanted to argue with Cassandra but held his tongue. He was still an outsider; for all they knew, he could still be gathering information- have an alternative motive that would cause disruption within the council. Dorian finally nodded his head and started thinking of ways to listen in on the meeting. It'd be highly suspicious behavior, however, he'd be able to hear what the Herald's advisors really thought about the situation in Redcliffe.

"Don't think too hard about it, kid," Varric reassured, clapping him on his back. "I can show you around, introduce you to the rest of the gang."

Dorian made a noise of affirmation and started planning how he was going to now sneak away from Varric of all people. "Perhaps it'd be best if I ate something first?" Dorian asked.

"I could go for a drink myself," Bull said. "Gotta get a report from my crew but then I could meet you at the tavern."

Dorian shifted awkwardly at the mention of the Iron Bull's crew. There were more Qunari here in Haven? "Your crew?"

Bull laughed. "The Iron Bull's Chargers. Bunch of assholes, but they're my assholes."

For some reason hearing Bull sound so jovial about his crew made Dorian feel more comfortable. But it didn't deter from the fact that Dorian now realized he had a small window of opportunity to get away from Varric and to the Herald's meeting with his advisors because once the Iron Bull joined them Dorian knew he wouldn't be getting away so easily. 

Aeren clapped his hands. "So Cassandra and I'll be off to the Chantry for that simply delightful meeting that I'm so excited about attending, Bull is going to his Chargers and Varric and Dorian get to eat," his lip quivered as he turned towards Cassandra once more, "are you sure I can't at least get something to eat before this thing?"

Cassandra scoffed and Dorian wondered if it was Cassandra's default expression. "You should still have that goat jerky you purchased before we left the Hinterlands," she said.

"But Cassandra," Aeren drew out the vowels of her name in a whine, "that's emergency food in case we can't get some."

She gave him a blank look as they reached the end of the slope. "Seems you've found your emergency."

Dorian split his attention between listening to Varric point out different locations in Haven and taking in all the stares he was receiving from the village folk. He didn't look terribly different from them at first glance but Dorian could quickly see the differences. His clothes were a higher quality; having unnecessary decorative belts and bits of leather and fur while definitely Dorian's style, wasn't abundant in the people of Haven. It could also be the staff strapped against his back. Mages were still being oppressed and were always watched warily as if they were going to turn into demons at a moments notice.

Or they could tell he was from Tevinter, it could always be that. His safest bet was to stay close to Varric until he found an opportunity to leave and try and listen in on that meeting.

"-And that's the merchant here in Haven, he's an ass and jack's up his prices but he does have some good quality stuff if you can afford it. But if you ask me," Varric laughed and pointed back outside the gates, "just buy some schematics from Seggrit and take them to Harritt and have him make them. Takes a while to collect some materials but the Herald stops for elfroot every five minutes so you'll have plenty of time to get stuff." 

Dorian's ears grew hot and he turned to look away from the dwarf. "I did notice Aeren's… affinity to collecting elfroot but I thought it might have been an elf thing."

"Are you kidding me? Every time he stops I can hear Sera's complaining and Solas looks physically pained."

"Well that's different."

"Different strokes for different folks. Guess plants don't get 'em going." Dorian snorted and shook his head. Talking to Varric was easy. "Now, you want to actually eat something?"

"Oh um- sure?" He needed to sneak away, but this was his chance. "But I have to… relieve myself first."

Varric snorted and shook his head. "Say no more, pretty sure there's a chamber pot in the tavern somewhere in the back. Or you could pick a tree."

Dorian forced his grin to look relaxed. "A tree sounds a bit better to me."

"Well I'll be in the tavern getting some grub, come join me when you're done." Varric patted him on the back and started walking away. "Gotta introduce you to Sera, she spends all her time there."

Dorian wasted no time before he was headed for the Chantry. He tried to look as calm and confident as he could manage, refusing to make eye contact with any of the people who might've been looking at him. He saw a livid looking Grand Chancellor speaking heatedly to a harried group of soldiers who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.

"-it's bad enough that this Inquisition is allowing for the Divine's killer to walk around freely without even a slap on the wrist but to have the audacity to-" 

Dorian blocked out the rest of the man's speech as he reached the large double doors. He felt oddly proud of himself, that he managed to get this far without any issues. Perhaps he had gotten lucky.

Shimmying in through the small space he created he made his way inside. It was dark and smelt heavily of musty paper, wax, and potpourri; exactly how the Chantry in Redcliffe had smelled. He hoped Felix was doing alright. He could almost see the teasing grin on his brother's face when they’d get up to mischief and his fake reprimands to appease Alexius while he gave Dorian a thumbs up once Alexius looked away. He missed Felix so much.

He confidently walked to the doors on the far wall. He knew that confidence fooled plenty of people that you knew exactly what you were doing and that you were supposed to do it. He did notice a woman dressed extravagantly in the finest fashion from Val Royeaux giving him detached curious looks but she didn't make any moves toward him so he counted it as a win.

Once he was at the door he absentmindedly leaned his head against the door, pressing his ear against the surface to try and hear what was going on. It was obvious he was listening in on the meeting but he hadn't thought of what he was going to do once he had gotten this far. And no one had stopped him yet. Perhaps his age for once might be an advantage rather than a hindrance and people would brush it off as a curious child. 

Then again, he hadn’t recalled seeing anyone remotely his age since he’d entered Haven. He shoved his worries aside and pressed his ear harder against the door. 

“-Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go get the Templars,” A man argued. Dorian grimaced, he wasn’t liking how this was sounding.

“Redcliffe is in the hands of a Magister. This cannot be allowed to stand,” Cassandra said firmly.

“The letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name. It’s an obvious trap,” Another woman interjected, her voice heavily accented.

“I was actually wondering about that, why does he know my name?” Aeren asked. “Didn’t even think Magisters bothered to learn elves’s names.”

“Perhaps not in most cases, but you aren’t most elves,” The heavily accented woman said. 

Aeren didn’t give a verbal response to that statement, instead letting out a sigh to show his displeasure. “Whatever, what’s important is coming to an agreement on this. We’re just wasting time fighting among ourselves.”

“A Tevinter controls Redcliffe, invites us to the castle to talk, and some of us want to do nothing.” This woman’s voice was accented as well, but this one he could place geographically. Those from Val Royeaux had a very distinct accent.

“Not this again,” the other woman muttered.

“It’s like I’m dealing with children,” Aeren mumbled. He must have been standing closest to the door because Dorian doubted he would have heard the elf otherwise.

“Redcliffe castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults,” the man stated simply before lowering his voice. “If you go in there, you’ll die. And we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it.”

Dorian could understand the man’s hesitation especially with the fate of the rest of humanity relying on the Herald’s mark to close the rifts. That didn’t mean he agreed with the man though, especially with how quick the man was willing to cast the mages aside in favor of the Templars. 

“And if we don’t even try to meet Alexius, we lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep!” The Val Royeaux woman insisted. At least someone understood what was at stake if they ignored Alexius and cast aside the mages. 

“Even if we could assault the keep, it would be for naught,” the accented woman spoke up again, “An ‘Orlesian’ Inquisition’s army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Our hands are tied.”

Cassandra didn’t seem to agree. “The Magister-”

“Has outplayed us,” the man said sternly.

Aeren seemed to be at his wits end with the discussion as he spoke up. “The Magister’s son, Felix, told me Alexius is in a cult that’s obsessed with me.” The Herald’s amusement was clear in his voice. “I doubt they’ll graciously receive our apologies and go about their business. Typically not how cults are usually run.” Dorian doubted Aeren knew much about what cults were really like, but his comment did seem to lessen the tension that was going on in the room the group was in.

“They’ll remain a threat, and a powerful one, unless we act,” the Val Royeaux woman plainly said. 

Dorian was nodding his head at what he was hearing. Finally the meeting seemed to be on the right path to coming to a decision in the mages’s favor. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if the Inquisition decided that they would side with the Templars over the mages. Try to take Alexius down himself he supposed, try to wriggle himself back into Alexius’s favor to get the man’s defenses down so that he and Felix could take care of him. 

He was stopped from his eavesdropping when a shadow loomed over him. For a moment his heart stopped and he wondered if it was the Iron Bull that’d found him somehow, but the shadow was much too slim to be the Qunari. He tilted his head up and met the gaze of the fashionable woman he’d seen near the front of the Chantry when he’d entered the building. She didn’t seem too interested in what he was doing, but Dorian didn’t believe that disinterest for a minute. He’d worn similar facial expressions at numerous parties he hadn’t wanted to go to until he’d discovered that he could slip away with Felix or Maevaris if he pretended he didn’t want to be there. 

“And what are you doing all the way back here, child?” the woman asked.

Dorian looked at her imploringly and tried to put on his most innocent face. “I was just… curious. About the Herald. He uh… Varric mentioned that he and his advisors were having an important meeting and well I um… wanted to hear it from the source?” He was a fool and wished he’d learned how to be a honey tongued snake like his peers had been. 

She seemed to ignore his verbal stumble and gave him a small smile, like one gave a particularly amusing animal. “In other words, you’re the company the Herald brought back with him after his trip to Redcliffe.”

“H-how-?”

“Oh dear, people often forget the walls have ears and that fashion is an instant identifier.”

Oh she was good. She played the game with the grace of one who was well versed in all the ins-and-outs of the rules. “There was no point lying to her at this point. “I know exactly what is going on in Redcliffe and how crucial it is that the Herald side with the mages.”

She nodded. “The mages have their leashes too loose in Redcliffe. They feel too invincible. To allow that to continue and further excommunicating them to this freedom would be detrimental to getting things back into order.”

Dorian stared at the woman. “A-are you implying that the Inquisition should side with the mages to reinstate the Circles?”

“Hm, at least some sort of control needs to be put into action, but I doubt the mages will stand to go completely back to the Circles.”

With good reason, Dorian thought but didn’t voice. “Not that this isn’t a riveting talk, but I was busy listening in on the meeting.”

“Which you aren’t supposed to be doing.”

“Be that as it may, I would appreciate being able to continue listening if it’s all the same to you…”

“Madame De Fer, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais.”

Dorian stood a bit straighter and nodded at her respectfully. “Dorian of House Pavus.”

She raised an eyebrow at his name. “You are a far way from home, Dorian.”

“I’m here to do what needs to be done.”

She sent him that amused smile again. “See that you do.” And with that she walked away as if their conversation had never happened. He didn’t waste anymore time and instead tuned back into the meeting behind the door. 

“-their focused on Lavellan, we break the magister’s defenses. It could work, but it’s a huge risk,” the man said. He sounded much calmer than he did previously.

“I can definitely do distractions,” Aeren cheered. 

“It’s a huge risk,” the man emphasized.

“Come now Commander, ye have little faith in my ability to get on people’s nerves.”

“Trust me we’re plenty aware of this ability of yours,” Cassandra said blandly. Dorian had to bite his lip to stop himself from barking out a laugh. Cassandra didn’t hold back her opinions at all.

He was waiting to hear more when he felt a hand against his shoulder. Dorian tensed and turned to look at the soldier who looked at him with confusion. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he said. “This is a meeting between the Herald and his advisors, he’ll give his orders once everything’s been sorted out.”

Dorian shook his head. “I have information about the magister in Redcliffe and his methods.” He prayed that this was one of Leliana’s scouts who knew about the situation in Redcliffe. The soldier blinked at him and looked between Dorian and the door like it held a complicated problem that he was trying to solve. “I just want to be able to offer my aid to them.”

The soldier warred with himself for only a moment more before he pushed open the door to the meeting room. The room instantly quieted and Dorian forced himself to not shrink away from suddenly being the subject of everyone’s attention. He could feel Cassandra’s glare and the exasperated look being sent his way by Aeren. 

The soldier cleared his throat and gestured to Dorian. “He says he has information about the magister and his methods, Commander.”

The Commander didn’t seem to know how to take him his face going from a stern gaze to outright confusion. But he gestured to Dorian to speak.

“Your spies will never get past Alexius’s magic without my help,” Dorian said. It was true, Alexius had always been good at wards and he doubted any old mage would know how to create a hole in them without disrupting the whole spell or attracting Alexius attention. “So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

“This mission could mean life or death for the entire Inquisition, and you’re a child,” the Commander said, not unkindly. 

“I’m fully capable of holding my own.” He wasn’t going to budge on this. He was coming along whether they wanted him to or not. “I’m coming along.”

The Commander seemed to want to argue further with him, but he turned his attention to Aeren who was pinching the bridge of his nose. “The plan puts you in the most danger. We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this.” The Commander paused before continuing on, his focus completely on the Herald. “We can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait. It’s up to you.”

Dorian opened his mouth to argue, but was silenced by an elbow hitting his shoulder. He turned to see Aeren giving a manic grin to the room. “And pass up the opportunity to be asked to be annoying? I think not.”

The rest of the group nodded and started to sort out the finer details. Dorian quietly took steps to the door only to be stopped by a hand grasping his shoulder. He was getting tired of being stopped like that. 

“If this meeting is adjourned, I think Dorian and I will grab something to eat, won’t we Dorian,” Aeren said. It wasn’t a question but rather a fact that Dorian wasn’t going to get away from. The Herald walked with him out of the room, his hand never leaving his shoulder. 

Dorian squirmed under Aeren’s hold. “A-aeren I-”

“I understand why you did it, but you really could’ve gotten in trouble.” The Herald sounded tired. “I really was going to let you know what the verdict was when the meeting concluded.”

“I couldn’t guarantee that you’d choose the mages.”

“You couldn’t do that eavesdropping either.”

Dorian shrugged. “I figured if it was going badly and sounded like you were picking the Templars I could burst in and try to convince them otherwise.”

Aeren laughed. “You think causing a scene would change their choice?”

“Felix always said that I had a nact for dramatics, I felt it wouldn’t hurt my chances.”

Aeren looked considering. “Huh, I guess that might have worked a little. But you’re still in trouble.” Dorian sputtered but Aeren plowed on. “For what you just pulled, I’ll be taking you to the Tavern with me, have Varric and Bull scold you some while I eat. Then I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Dorian supposed he could live with that.  

#parvus magus #dorian pavus #BAMF!Dorian #dorian is a teen #my fic #dragon age fic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #m!lavellan #I'm finally updating this #someone please be proud of me #motivation is a fleeting mistress #but I'm trying #Young!Dorian Pavus #dragon age kink meme

[jchb32273]

30 Day Dragon Age OC Challenge - Day 19 and 20

Courtship and Conclusion

(Yes, still behind! Swear I’ll catch up!)

This segment will contain MAJOR SPOILERS for my fic!! You have been warned! 

Doesn’t mean I don’t want y’all to not read it... but... you know... 

*As a side note, I am combining Day 19 and 20 into one post here, because after I re-read it, I realized I covered more than Day 19 had asked for originally! Oops... but at least it’s a good oops. ^_^ 

I think I can honestly say that I fell for Alistair from the very first smile that he gave me when we first met at Ostagar. Here I was a newly Harrowed mage, outside the Tower, and in the real world for the first time. Then I meet this goofy man (with a great smile) who says to me, “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

Next thing I know, we were fighting for our lives at the Tower of Ishal, while a battle between a thousand troops and probably twice as many darkspawn was raging in the valley below.

We had no idea that the end result would be the death of everyone… except for us.

Suddenly, the two of us were on the run, not only to avoid the blame that Loghain put on us – saying that we were responsible for the massacre at Ostagar – but also to try and recruit our new “army” to help battle the Blight!

Who had time for romance?

And yet… we found it.

Two lost souls. Two Grey Wardens.

The last Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

Love?

No. Not at first. But the spark had definitely been ignited.

Alistair gave me a rose shortly after we had saved Lothering.

We shared a tentative kiss by the shores of Lake Calenhad before saving The Circle.

By the time we reached Redcliffe, it was clear that we were falling for each other – even after Alistair revealed that he was the bastard son of King Maric.

We saved the town from a plague of undead that was being summoned by Arl Eamon’s demonic-possessed son, Connor. Then we freed him from the possession by getting help from the Circle. Alistair and I then traveled all the way to Denerim to find Brother Genetivi. He had been looking into the whereabouts of The Urn of Sacred Ashes, which the arlessa believed could cure her poisoned husband.  

It was a lengthy journey to Haven (which Alistair did not take with me) but I successfully returned with a pinch of Andraste’s Ashes.

Arl Eamon was saved, much to everyone’s relief.

That night, Alistair came to my room. We took that final leap in our relationship.

Maker, the things he made me feel that night.

Perhaps we should have been more careful, but you can’t control love… and since Alistair didn’t seem to care… why should I?

The following months were some of the sweetest I had ever savored. Our torturous weeks in the Deep Roads only ended up strengthening the bond we felt with each other.

But no relationship is perfect. Dealing with the aftermath of Ostagar caused some stress between us, and once we had returned from our journey there, a fight caused us to separate.

Those were some of my most miserable weeks.

Time – as they say – heals all wounds. Including ones of the heart and soul.

Satinalia was a special holiday for me that year. Alistair and I rekindled our relationship (boy, did we ever!)

After a lengthy stay in Denerim, we assisted the Dalish. They agreed to send us troops for the Blight. Now that all of our Grey Warden treaties had been honored, we returned to Redcliffe.

From the frying pan and into the fire.

Arl Eamon had kindly asked that Alistair break off his relationship with me months ago. He wanted to have Alistair step up to his birthright. To become the rightful King of Ferelden, he would need to find a wife with noble blood. When Eamon found out that we were still together… the proverbial shit hit the fan.

We were forbidden from having contact with each other.

Our only small comfort was that Alistair and I had a method of being able to communicate without having to be physically near each other. It wasn’t much, but it helped through that difficult time.

The day of the Landsmeet finally arrived. We were able to expose Logain’s crimes. He and Alistair fought, which resulted in Loghain’s execution.

And it was done.

Alistair was going to be King… if he survived the battle with the archdemon. In the interim, Eamon would serve as regent, though Alistair did make the stipulation that if he fell in battle the crown would go back to Anora.

We traveled back to Redcliffe to meet up with the gathering armies as it seemed that the darkspawn were heading in that direction. With us, was a Grey Warden that I had found and rescued from Arl Howe’s dungeon. His name was Riordan.

Once back at Redcliffe, Alistair and I met with him one evening. He explained to us that the only way to permanently stop the archdemon – and the Blight – was one of us would have to die.

Riordan, as the eldest Warden, volunteered to take that fatal blow… but if he failed then it would be up to Alistair… or me… to end it once and for all.

Then more bad news.

The archdemon had tricked us.

The horde was descending on Denerim!

We’d begin the forced march back to the capital in the morning. It was that night that Eamon found Alistair in his room, praying and crying. Alistair told Eamon what our final fate may be. Hearing this, Eamon relented and let Alistair and I have some time alone… to say goodbye.

As we made our way to capital, I made a decision.

I was not about to let Alistair die.

If Riordan failed in his task to slay the archdemon… I would do it. I’d make that final blow and end the Blight.

The battle was long and bloody. We lost a lot of good people… Riordan included. So I did as I’d promised myself. I slew that damned dragon. The day was won. However, something strange happened.

I was alive.

So was my love.

Weeks after that battle, the citizens and nobles of Ferelden wanted to celebrate our victory. Not wanting to take the chance of losing me ever again, Alistair did something I was not expecting. He stood in front of those nobles, every bit a magnificent King, and said he was going to marry me.

“If the very woman who saved all of our lives is not worthy enough to be my wife, then no one will be!”

Naturally, there were protests. I was a commoner! I was a MAGE! I couldn’t be a Queen!

After much deliberation and arguing, the nobles finally relented… I could marry my love, the King, so as long I had no claim to the throne myself. I agreed. I could be his wife, consort to the King, and potential mother to his heirs, but no more.

This was fine by me. I just wanted to be with my love… for however long we would have together.

Many nobles, though they did allow our marriage, do not believe it will work out. After all, we still both bear the Grey Warden taint in our blood. What is the likelihood of an heir? They figure that Alistair will leave me in favor of a woman who can bear children.

They don’t know their King very well.

He and I have already discussed the situation and we believe our love will find a way.

Love… and perhaps a touch of magic.

#30daydachallenge #dragon age origins #my original character #kylara amell #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #king alistair

[dornishsphinx]

T, U, and Y!

T: Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending?

Hmmm hard and fast headcanons that I’d die defending

From SOV, Conrad’s mother was a lady-in-waiting and close friend to Berkut’s mother who came with her to the capital when she married into the royal family. Lima was invited to the capital during the famine because the Rigelians were desperate. He saw her there and demanded she come with him in exchange for aid. (I may also be writing a fic on Conrad’s mother, watch this space ^_^)

Wrt Tellius, the United Bird Tribes eventually fall apart, the specific breaking point coming about due to arguments about over succession. The ravens end up putting forward Naesala and Leanne’s raven son and the hawk population are adamant that he not be considered (some going as far as to say that ravens in general shouldn’t be considered) due to lingering anger, the ravens getting angry in turn and moving to once again declare the independence of Kilvas (and taking a bit more territory with them this time since they’re in a stronger position.)

When it comes to Naesala and Leanne’s kids, the heron girl mostly takes after Naesala in personality, though the raven boy is more similar to Reyson than either of his parents (both also have traits from Leanne, but they’re less noticeable on first impression.) Both can sing galdr due to their mother but, especially for the raven boy, its effects are far weaker. (Maybe let’s say in gameplay terms that raven boy can buff and not actually refresh.) 

Their heron daughter on one occasion also accompanies Naesala on a diplomatic mission to Begnion, where she decides to learn beorc magic—with Sanaki’s blessing and occasional direct tutelage—as a way to bypass herons’ inability to fight the laguz way, even staying there for a while when he leaves for his next destination. This is a major scandal in the laguz world.

U: Three favourite characters from three different fandoms and why they’re your favourites.

Oh man, it took me a while to settle on who to talk about, but:

Jason Todd (DC Comics)

Jason is the reason I got into DC generally, so I was already biased, but Jason is interesting because he’s a counterpoint to the idea that Batman knows Gotham City better than anyone, as someone who actively grew up on its streets rather than in the safety of a mansion, and someone who came to a vastly different conclusion on what had to be done to make it safer without being painted (mostly) as a clear-cut villain. Also, he’s a literary nerd and it’s such a cute little detail which is never really brought up explicitly on page but is a recurring thing in the background. The antique book collection in UTRH, reading Pride and Prejudice while in jail, really liking school as Robin, and in other bits I can’t remember the context of. 

Where he gets fascinating is on a meta level though. We have the juxtaposition between what modern writers want Jason’s Robin to have been (I really love his run as Robin too, he’s such a cutie in comparison to what he becomes later) and how he actually was written, which kinda comes off as the characters themselves trying to convince themselves of something that isn’t true. And I’ve seen complaints about how people treat his death as being so much more important than others’ deaths when he’d hardly the only DC character to die, but it’s precisely because of real-world circumstances that it’s such a big deal–killed off by poll, left untouched for decades, his costume an ever-present ghost in the Batcave and for the Batfamily–it’s one of those things that can only happen in a big shared comicsverse medium.

I’ll never forgive the New 52 for being the reason we never saw, and can never see now, the Batfamily and Red Hood’s relationship develop.

He just became an ally again randomly in a way that screams editorial mandating “make them get along now, we don’t care how.” They just made everyone do a 180 without bothering to explain why or how and I hate it.

(Also, imo, grey morality Red Hood>outright villain Red Hood AND outright hero Red Hood.)

Laurent (Captive Prince)

Man, I know Captive Prince is controversial, but the story is just so good and even though it’s been a while since I read them, Laurent as a character has stuck with me. (I mean, I adore Damen too, but so many of the character concepts

I’ve come up with since reading the books have been Machiavellian princes shutting themselves off from their emotions, I’m pretty sure Laurent is the source.)

He’s had to adapt to survive the personal hell his uncle transformed the Veretian court into when he (and Damen) got the rest of their family killed—and, at the same time, anyone with the power or desire to protect Laurent from him—when he was just a little kid, and has just built up all the walls around himself. Seeing them slowly peel back and reveal the other sides to him he’s been forced to keep hidden for so long is one of the great things about the series. He’s such a well-realised character, and as you read along, you get to the point where you just need to see him succeed in taking Vere back from his uncle.

He always has the best comebacks too. Nearly everything he says when he’s not awkwardly trying to work his way around emotions he can’t properly express, usually when around Damen, is just pitch-perfect sarcasm even in dire circumstances.

Just a great character overall.

Franziska von Karma (Ace Attorney)

Last time I talked about a favourite Ace Attorney character it ended up being Ema, but I did say she only just beat out Franziska, so it’s her turn now. I’m so sad she’s not reappeared in any of the main games since the original trilogy, though at least we have Investigations. She still has to give Phoenix that card back!

But yes, I just love Franziska. She is very much part of the running theme of legacy families in Ace Attorney with her need to attain perfection and measure up to the Von Karma name, and her relationship with Edgeworth is sweet in a super competitive way. When she comes back later and spends the night trying to solve the puzzle locks to save Maya, you can also see that she has gone through a lot of development over the course of JFA and T&T.

(I maintain that 6-5 would have been vastly improved if she’d taken Edgeworth’s place, and am not entirely convinced it wasn’t originally written with her in mind. I mean, last time she appeared she was undergoing character development and trying to save Maya in a spirit medium-related setting, and this time had Maya being in a perilous situation in a spirit medium-related setting in a foreign country AND she has a history of working with Interpol. It would have actually made sense for her to show up as opposed to the Chief Prosecutor of a foreign country.)

(Also her design is amazing)

(Foolish fool)

Y: What are your second-hand fandoms (i.e. fandoms you aren’t in personally but are tangentially familiar with because your friends/people on your dash are in them)?

Dragon Age is the big one I can think of. I played a little of Dragon Age Origins before Redcliffe became a never-ending zombie nightmare and I wasn’t able to progress, so I don’t count myself as having really played, but I pretty much know all the spoilers. And have even plotted out who I’m gonna romance when I finally do get around to it. Current plan: Alistair (while pouring one out for the F/F romance with Morrigan that could never be), Fenris and Josephine.

Also Marvel, kinda? I don’t really buy or keep up with Marvel comics anymore aside from going to see the movies. I’ll check it out, but usually it’s only on a whim. (If Agent of Asgard/JiM Loki ever get a run again, you can count on me jumping back in.)

#haha i didn't realise how long the jason bit got oops #my biases are clear #asks

[authorellenmint]

Romancing Ser Barris

I wrote cutscenes as they would appear in-game were Barris a potential love interest. For all the Barris fans out there. More coming with every reblog.

First Flirt:

Positioned before the stables are a gaggle of children, each of them ranging in age from nearly 13 to a tender 4. The Inquisitor is drawn to the kids all saluting a fist to their tiny chests in honor of the man standing with back straight, head high before them.

"What do we do if we spot a dragon in the sky?" Barris asks.

"Wing the bell," a voice pipes out from inside a too large templar helmet.

"And then..." the man leading them continues.

"We run to the stone kitchens to take up our place, Ser!" a taller boy calls, his eyes never drifting from Barris'.

Curiosity fully piqued, the Inquisitor steps into the range of the templar. "Ser Barris?" she asks softly, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Ah, Inquisitor," he full on blushes.

"What's going on here?"

"We were...that is to say, I was attempting to teach the children preventative measures should Corypheus attempt to attack Skyhold."

The Inquisitor pulls even closer to Ser Barris, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Is that wise? Aren't you afraid of giving them nightmares?"

"Personally, ma'am, er...Ser." Barris wrings his hands over the hilt at his side, his eyes closed tight in contemplation. "I know what it feels to be too young and helpless in the face of an oncoming horde of darkspawn. The fear of not knowing what to do, not having a plan to take control of the situation induces far more nightmares than knowing evil exists."

"I had no idea," the Inquisitor gasps, a hand resting upon the emblem on his chest as if to soothe away the pain of the Blight.

"Preparing the children, the ones who survived Haven, forming a plan for them should the worst arise, I thought it to be..." He pauses in his personal thoughts, his striking green eyes darting to the woman before him. "That is, if it's all right with you, Inquisitor?"

She couldn't stop the smile rising up her cheeks, the Inquisitor bobbing her head. "Yes, it's...a good idea."

"Ser Bawwis," the child trapped inside of the templar helmet mewls. With a chuckle, Ser Barris drops to a knee and helps to excise the head caught inside, revealing a girl with braids scattering to her shoulders. Giggling, the girl places a quick kiss to the man's cheek, bringing an even brighter flush to his glowing skin.

With a hand curled over her chest right above her heart, the Inquisitor muses, "So adorable."

Barris rises to his feet, the helmet safely tucked into the crook of his arm. "They are rather cute," he says while watching the kids fall back into line.

"Yes, the children are as well," the Inquisitor smiles slyly.

"Ah," Ser Barris gasps, his sight dropping to the ground while the flush grows beyond capacity. The Inquisitor fears she might have overstepped her bounds, when those green eyes rise from under his brow to stare directly into hers.

Sliding back, her cheeks starting to burn, the Inquisitor says, "I shall leave you to it then, Ser Barris."

Romancing Ser Barris 2

Starting a Romance:

Cracks of broken wood and grunts are the only sounds to fill the air as the Inquisitor opens a door. She watches Ser Barris pry a rotted board off with his bare hands. When he turns to hurl it onto the pile he catches sight of her and smiles.

“Inquisitor. I did not hear you enter.”

“People rarely seem to expect to find me around Skyhold. Probably all of those random but necessary trips to Crestwood, or the Hissing Wastes, or the Emerald Graves, or all of southern Thedas really,” she laughs while stepping in closer.

“Quite,” Barris blushes. “I only returned the day before myself from Val Royeaux.”

Sliding up beside the tattered remains of whatever once stood in this ramshackle tower, the Inquisitor graces her fingers upon the next board to be removed. “We seem to keep missing each other.”

“I,” Barris smiles reflexively, his head bent in thought as if that might hide the flush, “I suppose we do.”

With all her strength, the Inquisitor yanks the board off, rusty nails spraying through the air for her effort. As the grunt of exertion fades from the stone’s echo, Barris takes the rotten wood from her. “You don’t need to, I was only trying to help prep the tower for the other templars…”

His chin drifts down to his chest, nearly banging against the armor that never leaves him. After twisting the board in his hands, Barris sighs, “This is beneath someone of your standing.”

She snorts, “How so? Seems all I do is run around solving everyone’s little problems.”

“But you’re a gift from Andraste Herself. You’re wise, and kind, with a beauty more striking than any sunset the Maker deemed possible.” His lavishing lips pause in their compliments barely a stone’s throw from her cheeks. Realizing what he said, Barris tries to shrink back, his entire face beet red. “Inquisitor.”

In a soft voice, she says, “I think you can call me by my name.”

“That would be disrespectful.”

Her fingers cup Barris’ warm cheek, practically on fire now, and she tugs his stuttering lips towards her. “Is this disrespectful?” her mouth whispers before plunging onto his. Barris’ pillowy lips mold to hers, his hands swooping around her waist as she cradles his chiseled cheeks in her palms. Heat stronger than any rage demon attack builds inside, her tongue finding safety inside of the templar’s mouth.

“Wait,” Barris turns his head to the side, breaking the kiss, but his hands remain upon her hips. “This isn’t right. Not, not in such a fashion. I should be, a woman of your grace must be courted.”

She blinks in surprise, “Courted? Why? I’m not sure what that even entails with a Ferelden/Human.”

“You deserve no less, my Lady,” Barris solemnly proclaims.

“Very well,” she steps back, accepting she can’t stop him and growing slightly curious.

Barris’ hands pool to the side, his eyes sweeping over the work before him. “I will need some time to prepare. Perhaps after I return from my next mission, and you are in Skyhold as well?”

The Inquisitor bows her head, unable to stop the smile at how serious he’s taking it. “I wonder, while in the midst of this courtship ritual, am I not allowed to kiss you?”

He smiles brightly, swooping his trusting arms around her body. “I believe we can make a few exceptions,” Barris whispers before tasting her lips once more.

Romancing Ser Barris 3:

The Gift:

The Inquisitor is so busy at the desk, she doesn’t realize someone’s entered her room until the armor glints from a sunbeam. Squinting, a hand shielding her eyes, the frown erupts into a great smile as she spies Barris standing awkwardly in the middle of her floor.

“My Lady,” he begins, hands hidden behind himself.

“You’re back,” she cries, leaping to her feet and rushing to his side. Where normally there’d be a hug, Barris steps back a moment, causing the Inquisitor to frown in confusion.

A huge breath fills his lungs, his striking green eyes shut as he seems to be girding himself. “Inquisitor,” Barris begins, causing her to fold her arms in consternation. When a smile toys with his lips, he whispers, “My love. I humbly ask that you…”

From behind his back swings a perfectly round shield the color of a lake by fall’s almost wintery morn. Into her hands he places it while finishing, “accept my gift of courtship.”

“Of course,” she says automatically, her pinkie skirting along an etched vine that trails the edge of the metal. “What is it?”

Barris’ hand soothes over the middle of the shield, the metal fogging from the warmth of his body. “It is tradition in Ferelden, when a man wishes to proclaim to the village his intentions in another, he will forge for her a shield.”

“You made this?” she gasped, turning over the shield polished more smoother than a river rock.

“It took me some time to find enough everite to forge it, but I…” he gulps, his eyes meeting with hers, “I consider you worth the effort.”

With a smile, she fits the shield on her arm, impressed by the great weight. “Why a shield?”

“In the old days, before the Imperium invasion, when the man was pressed to defend his lands from invaders, his woman would be forever at his side using his gift to protect the family. Their love is said to be only as strong as the shield on the wife’s arm.”

“A beautiful thought. Do the markings mean anything?” she circles around another small vine section. While most of the shield is pure, about 10% of the edge is made up of the decorations.

“Yes,” he whispers, a nail trailing one of the vine etchings, “whenever a man thinks of his love too far from his arms, he will carve one.”

She gasps. There are a good hundred or so vines already, and he could not have had it long on his person.

Barris’ fingers slip in behind hers, the pair of them holding the shield together. The allure of his body pressing tighter to her back beckons to the Inquisitor. Leaning against him, she whispers, “I’m not exactly a shield person/This is far too lovely to use upon a Venatori.”

He smiles sweetly, his plush lips cupping near her cheek, “You could always store it upon the mantle.”

“I adore it,” she turns, greedy for the first kiss in a month of work. “It’s almost as breathtaking as you.”

Barris happily gives her another two kisses, each pulsing hotter with every return. “Then you accept my gift?”

“I already said yes.”

“Without knowing what it was. What it means…”

Together, they fold their hands, heads bent to watch how easily the fingers intertwined. “I understand,” she says, “what you’re offering. What you’re gifting me. What you’re asking. And I want nothing more than to be your shield arm.”

Greedily, the Inquisitor and Ser Barris fall into each other’s arms, both falling towards her bed. The fading sunlight glints upon her name etched into the bottom of the shield.

Love Scene:

A messenger stops the Inquisitor in the main hall. "Ma'am," he greets her before passing over a letter.

She opens it to reveal the words from Ser Barris, "My love, meet me at the docks in Redcliffe village when the moon is at its peak."

With a smile, she folds the letter in her hands.

*Fade to black.*

Moonlight glints upon the choppy waves, boats knocking against the blackened docks as the Inquisitor steps towards a man sitting in a stripped, two-seater rowboat. He catches sight of her and calls, "You came."

"Of course I would," she smiles while approaching Ser Barris. He's eschewed his templar armor for little more than an ivory tunic and tight pants. "It's been some time since you've last crossed Skyhold's threshold."

"I know," his half moon smile wanes, head dropping a moment before he leans out of the boat to take her hand, "but I have every intention to make up for my absence."

With a smile, she accepts Barris' hand and steps into the small boat. It bobs with her weight, the Inquisitor lashing out to grip onto the sides before she settles onto a bench. Her love sits towards the prow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal the flexing forearms as he dips two oars into the water. Without another word, their boat silently trails away from the docks out onto lake Calenhad.

The churning waves fade to a pristine mirror, the Inquisitor watching Barris' reflection as he continues to glide the boat deeper into unknown waters. With a smile, she dips her fingers into the glassy reflection, brisk water beading up her hand.

"Ah, best be careful," Barris says, "there are shrieking eels hiding in the depths of this lake."

She yanks her hand out, stares a moment overlong at her fingers as if one might be missing, before frowning. "Shrieking eels? Are you messing with me?"

"A little," he laughs and she joins in.

"Where are we going?"

"I wanted to give you something," Barris says. The methodical tug of the oars, the glistening splash of water against his skin, the continual bulge of his muscles all enthrall her.

She cannot look away, even while saying, "You're too generous. Every moment I see you, you're there with another gift." Her lips twist from the smile in her heart into a pang. While thoughts of him bring joy to her soul, there's always a vein of pain -- the two of them often on opposite sides of thedas regardless of her wants.

"This one is special," he whispers while turning the boat to the west.

Rising from her spot, the Inquisitor sits beside Barris. He lets go of the oar just long enough for her to catch it. Together, as if forever in tune, they begin to row the boat. Splashes of wood sundering water are all that speak between them. She feels his body winding through the silent air, not even an inch away from hers.

"I've missed you," she says, her eyes closed.

"I fear for you," he answers back. Tugging his oar in across his lap, Barris turns to her. His glistening palm cups her cheek, tugging her to him for a kiss. As the heat burns through the crisp night, their tongues twirling a more intimate dance than in any orlesian ballroom, her fingers hunger for his body. She swoops both hands to his jawline, Barris' hand cuddling the back of her head as he pulls her ever tighter.

A kerplunk breaks through their kissing, the Inquisitor's eyes opening wide as she turns to watch her abandoned oar sink to its watery grave. "Oh no," she gasps, trying to reach for it despite being far too late.

"It's all right," Barris assures her, "we have another," he lifts up his oar. "And besides, we're where I hoped to take you."

He twists her to look behind, watching as the prow of the ship parts through the glassy water. First it crosses a large white orb, so great it nearly encompasses the boat itself, reflected from the sky above them. As they continue, the boat barely drifting, the second smaller moon appears from behind the great one. At the aft rests the giant, impressive, named moon. At the prow, the tiny, often forgotten and sometimes misplaced moon reflects upon them both.

"This is..." she gasps, "beautiful." She watches the twin moons shiver in the lake's embrace, her own skin trembling at the awe-inspiring image.

"You're," Barris' lips press to her shoulder and continue higher with every word, "far more beautiful." When he reaches her lips, he pauses to say, "You've struck my heart since our first meeting. The fall from that arrow is the most delectable pain I've ever known."

Her hands wrap around his shoulders and she pulls him to her for a kiss in the middle of moonlight.

*Fade to black*

The Inquisitor's head is nestled upon Barris' bare chest, barely bobbing with the waves as the boat creaks around them. She too is as naked as the day of her birth, one hand keeping her body pressed tight to him as they stare up at the sky. The moons have long since moved on, not bothering to stop for two people sharing in each other.

"I've never done that before," she sputters, her voice exhausted, "On a boat, anyway."

His smile could shame the moon, brighter than any constellation in the sky. He turns his eyes to sweep over the woman resting upon his body. "I love you," he whispers, lifting her hand to press a kiss to each knuckle.

"I love you too," she says back.

"There was a mage I knew in the circle, claimed to be able to predict future events," Barris' voice drops, his green eyes shut tight in memory. "I wish I knew what happened to her, so I could ask..."

She turns on her stomach, her chin dipping into his pec while her eyes hunt him out, "Don't."

"Do not what? Worry for you? Fear for what will happen next in this war against a false god?"

Her palm presses to his chest right over his heart. "Only focus on coming back to me. On walking back through Skyhold's gates into my arms. On knowing I'll come back for you. Please."

Barris cups his hand over hers, the fingers folding together in perfect formation. As the boat rocks under them, the stars dance through the sky, he whispers to the world, "I swear it."

After the Wilds

The Inquisitor walks into Skyhold’s infirmary, her eyes fully upon the man trapped in a chair as a healer winds bandages around his propped up leg.

“Ser Barris?” she swallows down the concern in her voice, but just barely. His head lifts and his brow shifts from joy at discovering her face, to a frown as he glances at his injury, before shying away to one of distant protocol.

“Inquisitor,” he tips his head to her in deferment, both of them watching as the surgeon finishes up the last of her ministrations.

“How bad is it?” the Inquisitor asks, her heart throbbing in her chest. She hadn’t received word from anyone in her army since leaving the Arbor Wilds via mirror – including any of the templars.

“Broken, but in time it should take to mending nicely. Provided you follow my instructions to the letter,” the surgeon waves a finger at Barris and he shakes it away while easing his splinted leg off the chair to the ground. The Inquisitor flinches the same as her love, sharing in the pain.

“What happened?” she puts to Barris, but the surgeon interrupts.

“Damn fool leapt from a cliff to save a mage caught in the middle of two red templars.”

Barris purses his lips, those verdant eyes darting to the floor, “It was all I could think to do.”

“Coulda damn well broken your neck!” the surgeon continues to harangue him even as the man shrugs. The Inquisitor knows that feeling well – making a decision even knowing how it might end in your death without question or regret. She flexes her hand, remembering the terror rising in her heart when the Grey Warden corpse’s flesh began to crack open into Corypheus.

“May I,” she coughs, turning to the surgeon, “have a moment with Ser Barris?”

The woman bows her head, wipes her hands off on a stained half apron, and slides out to the other section of the infirmary. The Inquisitor waits a beat – trying to be certain no one else will come through – before she falls to her knees, her body swaddling around Barris’. Nuzzling into her cheek, his nose sniffs deep as if to remind himself she’s real and alive.

“When I didn’t hear anything, I was…” she gasps, tears blinding her eyes.

His warm hand cups her cheek, keeping her pressed against him. With a soft whisper, his breath caresses her skin, “I feared for you as well, my love.” She slides back from his hold, staring into the endless depths of his eyes. “And I yet do.”

Barris glares at his splinted leg and begins to rise. The Inquisitor offers a hand to him, helping the wounded warrior back to the sky. He smiles a moment, proud of the progress, but it is short lived. Hissing in pain, he begins to sink.

“This isn’t right,” he gasps, his hands clenched in fists. “I should be by your side for this final fight!”

“Not if you’re injured.”

“A broken leg is nothing, my arm can yet lift a blade,” he insists as if that’s all that’s needed. “Who knows what you will face from that monster? I cannot let you go it alone.”

“And I will not let you risk your own life for mine,” she cries back, two weeks of worrying herself into a knot unwinding upon him in one snap. No word would come from the Wilds, and it would have been unseemly for the Inquisitor to show preference for one soldier out of the army. All she could do was wait, and it nearly did her in.

“My love,” Barris sighs, his palms comforting her cheeks and hiding away any errant tears. “My life is yours.”

“Your life belongs to the templars, the Inquisition.” She knew he’d do it too. If soldiers are needed for this last push, he’d go. He’d be there, and he could die right before their victory just as assuredly as her.

“Perhaps,” he draws his fingers over her palm, “but my heart rests in one woman’s hands.” Smiling through the pain, he says, “And nothing, not even a false god, would change that.”

She falls forward, her hands scooping around her love for one more hug. One more kiss before the end, whatever that may be. “Promise me something,” Barris’ words breathe against her neck. He reaches behind his chair to unearth a shield, their shield. “Promise me you will take this into battle with Corypheus. So I will protect you and be by your side.”

Her fingers roll around the edge of the shield, her eyes never leaving Barris’. “I will,” she vows before leaning towards her love to fall into his kiss. Barris slots the shield onto her back while melding their lips, revealing that after these few months the surface is completely coated in entwined etchings of vines.

The Final Fight:

All of Skyhold celebrates in the slaying of Corypheus. The Inquisitor glances amongst her most trusted companions all imbibing with glee in the main hall. A single, fiery glint off of steel catches her eye and she turns, her smile breaking wider than the moon.

"I can't believe it's over," she says, sidling next to the man holding a drink instead of a crutch.

"I can," Barris smiles, his full attention upon her. "I knew you'd be the light to pull us from the darkness."

Her heart burns to pull him to her for a kiss, but there are various nobility and diplomats watching. She settles for letting her hand brush against the edge of his, both staring across the partying throne room.

It was done. They were safe.

"There is something I wished to tell you," Barris turns to her, his voice preternaturally serious. "I've decided to follow the Commander's lead and stop taking lyrium."

"Is that safe?" she gasps. While Cullen yet stood his ground, at the moment his hands pawing through the few small cakes to find a strawberry one, she knew it'd been hard on him. There seem to be days when even he isn't certain if he can last through the challenge.

Barris' blinding green eyes hunt through hers, pinning down her worry, "It is a risk, one that could cost me given the Order remains that rest upon my shoulders. Perhaps it is selfish of me to say, but I do not want to lose a single memory of you. The Commander is proof that I can still do good even with my powers..."

"Ser Barris," she interrupts him, tears glistening as she smiles wider, "I order you to do what you feel is best."

He too grins, "As you say, Inquisitor." For a beat the two lock eyes, his tongue darting to his lips, "But I have kept your attentions for too long. Please, you should mingle with the rest of the heroes."

Accepting her duty, she wanders out to speak with the next in a long line of congratulations. But for a moment she glances back to her knight in shining armor.

After a long night of laughing, drinking, feasting, and talking, the Inquisitor begins to retire towards her quarters. As she reaches the door, she's stopped by a familiar face.

"I hoped you'd like some company for the evening," Barris begins, his body pressing closer, the intoxicating heat enveloping her.

She takes her hand off the door handle and places it upon Barris' forearm. "There's nothing I'd love more," she darts her eyes up and down his body. At the bottom she pauses, "How's your leg?"

"Worried about injuring me?" Barris finds her fears hidden in the question. Before she can voice the answer, his sturdy and safe hands swoop around her ass. A single yelp erupts from the Inquisitor as the Knight-Commander lifts her into the air, securing her body in his arms. She winds her legs around his waist, her chest crushed to the armor as they fall into the kiss of survival.

A kiss worth fighting for.

Barris' lips slip away and he whispers, "I think it'll do fine for the evening." Giddy, the pair of them open the door and vanish into the long stairwell to the Inquisitor's quarters. Not once does he put her down.

As the sun rises over a new dawn in thedas, Barris brushes his hand against her cheek. With no eyes watching, no orders, nothing but hope before her she happily curls her face into it.

"All that and you're still standing," she muses. Even with her eyes closed in joy she can feel his protecting gaze watching her.

"I could say the same of you, my love," Barris whispers back.

With a languid turn, the Inquisitor walks out to her balcony. Rosy streaks of the sun turn the snow a glistening pink. As she places her hands over the banister, she says, "Everything's going to change."

Warm hands slide over her stomach, tugging her away from the long fall and back into his embrace. Barris' chin caresses her shoulder, his lips whispering, "And I shall be by your side for all of it."

Trespasser

In her red velvet finery, the Inquisitor approaches the scope overlooking the lush Orlesian fields. She bends down to peer through it when a voice coughs from behind her.

"I'd hoped to catch you before the talks began."

Smiling wide, she spins in place. Her eyes drink in the man in the finest uniform he owns, his hair worn long with locs spilling to the right. She aches to envelope him in her arms, but keeps both at her side.

"You're here," she all but leaps in joy. "I feared, what with the problems along the border..."

Barris steps forward, his hand picking up hers and swaddling it, "I would not be a step from your side, not when you need me."

"I know, love," she sighs, trying to keep on a brave face even as her heart swells in gratefulness at his mere presence. "But I suspect the only thing I need worry about is my legs falling asleep as the talks carry on."

"Will the word of the Knight-Commander carry any weight to honor the good deeds of the Inquisition before the council?"

"Some," she tips her head in thought, "I hope so."

He smiles, his teeth blinding in the bright southern sun, "Would the word of the Knight-Commander be enough to provide the Inquisitor a momentary escape?"

"Depends on what you had in mind." Forgoing the eyes behind masks watching her, fully forgetting the warnings Josephine bathed her in, she slips her arms around the back of Barris' neck. It'd been too long since last they were together.

The man whistles once, causing a horse to trot up from behind. He brushes a hand against the steed's flank and smiles. "Trust me."

"I always do," she answers, leaping into the saddle.

*Fade to black*

In the distance, she can make out the Winter Palace along with all of her people fretting over the coming talks. But here is sunshine, velvety grass caressing her knees, and no diplomats to pry her away for miles. "I hope no one panics because they can't find me for a few minutes and thinks this an act of war," she mutters to herself.

Barris ceases grooming their amenable horse long enough to glance once back at the Palace as if to make certain a battalion of chevaliers aren't coming for him. "We should have a little time to ourselves before any declarations are made."

With a hand placed to her hip, she cocks her head to the side in the direction of a blanket stretched over the ground. "Whatever did you have in mind?"

Both of his hands scoop around her cheeks, preparing her for the onslaught of love he unleashes from his lips. The kiss is so deep, so heartfelt, so soul-meltingly warm, she nearly tumbles to the ground in surprise.

"I've missed you," Barris whispers.

"Me too...especially at night," her fingers begin to wind their way towards the templar skirt.

Her love gasps, letting her try to undress him a moment more before he fumbles to catch her hand. "Wait. There's...something I want to say."

Leaning down, Barris rustles through the grass to lift up something hidden beside the blanket. She crosses her arms and sighs, "You did not pull me all the way out here just to give me a gift."

"No," he insists, then his eyes dart to whatever is in his hands, "I mean, I..." His fingers draw over the edges of his would-be gift. "Old habits."

"I don't want them to die," she insists, cupping her hand behind the back of his.

"I believe it is time I step away from the templars entirely," Barris whispers, his eyes shut tight.

"Relapses happen," she races to comfort him, "All those days around the others taking lyrium. I don't blame you for..."

"That is not why," his smile nearly rends her heart in two. It was a hard climb out of that hole whenever he fell, but she was always there with a hand to help.

Barris scratches his fingers over his gift before passing it to the Inquisitor. "Here," he announces as if she had no idea it was for her.

Into her weighed down palms he drops a brick, white stone with both of their names carved into it. "What's this for? To bean the Ferelden diplomat in the head?"

He laughs at her mocking throw of the hefty brick at the Arl. "No, it's the cornerstone for our hearth."

"Our hearth?"

"You deserve a mantle for our shield, a heart for a home. Not a keep, not a hold, a home."

Her breath catches as he too draws her palm over this no longer unassuming brick. "Delrin...?"

"I don't care where in thedas you want it to be. Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches, Nevarra... I'll even build it in Skyhold if you cannot imagine giving it up, but please, my love," he clasps his hands under hers, both holding their future in their palms, "let me give you a home."

"Will you be there?" she gulps, tears rising in her eyes.

"Every day."

"Yes," the Inquisitor gasps, her lips cupping his in a kiss. Tears of joy drench both their cheeks as Barris tugs her ever tighter.

As he pulls away, Barris' bright eyes drift to the ground a moment, a blush dabbing his cheeks. "Then you accept...?"

"Oh for the love of," she hurls the brick behind her to the ground where it safely thuds to the grass. With both hands, the Inquisitor grabs onto the man who'd been by her side in both flesh and spirit for two years.

"I'm never letting you go," she says, her voice full of command. With a shove, she and Barris both tumble onto the blanket, the man laughing as his armor jangles from the fall. Her hands part down the templar emblems clinging to his body, her fingers aching to wrench them off.

Barris cups her chin, tugging her to him for a kiss. "Nor I you." As the pair roll through the sweet grass, trying to make up for lost time, the summer light shines a single ray down upon the brick.

Carved upon its surface under their entwined names is the date 9:44 and the phrase "Our Home."

THE END

#dragon age inquisition #barris #ser barris #delrin barris #templars #kissing #romance scenes #li #otp #dragon age #templar #sfw #love #barris x inquisitor

[assortedcorn]

Cullen/Inquisitor OneShot

Hey everyone! This is my first time posting a OneShot kind of deal thing on tumblr. I just love writing and I honestly daydream about Cullen more than I should since he’s fictional. Anyway, I have an account on AO3 but I’ve had A LOT going on since I last updated so I’m just gonna continue writing here. Thanks for reading! <3

••••

“It’s so fucking cold, it’s miserable, and I’m so done with this place.” Belle scoffs, blowing heat between her hands.

“You’re the one that wanted to leave, m’lady’quisitor.” Sera laughs.

“I know, I just, I wanted to clear my head.” Belle sighs. Belle tries to clear the images of the man she swoons over. She tries to clear the images of his godly build, that smile, those eyes, everything. She wants it gone.

“Ya, ya. I get it. You miss pretty boy don’t ya?” She says, a smile creeping on her lips.

“Sera... that’s ridiculous.” She lowers her head, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I hate that nobility pish you have to put up wit. Cantcha just not follow rules?” Sera asks, annoyed.

“It doesn’t matter, even if I wanted to. The commander and I, we come from two different worlds.” Belle huffs, looking out over the wall that cascades over the snowy mountains underneath them. The sun was slowly making its way into the sky after a long, hard, night of negotiations in Redcliffe.

“Isabelle.” Sera protests.

“Sera, enough. He... he doesn’t think of me that way, anyway.” Belle turns around and crosses her arms against her chest. “It’s just a simple infatuation.” She thinks back to the day in the war room where she was blatantly watching the commander as he spoke about whatever she wasn’t paying attention to. She knew she wanted him, she was just so scared. The way he gripped the firm pommel grip, the way his finger wrapped around it. The way he stood, so strong.

“Infatuation my ass! You know damn well those rich tits don’t give a rats ass about you! Your parents sent you to the frickin’ chantry for fucks sake. Now that you’re miss save the world from damnation, everyone and their mother wants you to marry their half-wit sons. It’s your life, innit?” Sera says, more annoyed than before. “Cullen feels the same way as you. Everyone in skyhold sees it.”

“It might be my life but it will never be MY life, Sera. Let’s go home. I’m sick of this shitty weather.” Belle sighs, pulling her hood full of fur over her long, brunette locks. She pulls the letters from her bag, examining them sadly, then stuffing them back deep down.

“Did we miss something?” Cassandra asks, her and Solas trying to read Belle’s stoic face under her hood.

“Nah, Miss tits over here ain’t in the mood.” Sera says.

The party hops onto their mounts after a good job done and over with, heading back to skyhold to finally be warm and get fed. It’s been two weeks since they’ve been home. They were away not only because Belle wanted to clear her thoughts of the commander but because the mages requested her presence. It was never easy dealing with their constant demands and bitching about the templars.

••

The group returned to a warm welcoming at the gates, they were met by Josie, Dorian, Vivienne, Varric, and the rest of the residents in Skyhold. Everyone always wanted to see Belle, she was the Herald of Andraste! She was everything anyone wanted to be. She was the embodiment of grace, of kindness, and beauty. She was a sight to be seen and a flame never to be dimmed.

Even though Belle wanted to clear her mind of the man she admired, she was disappointed to see that he was not at the gate waiting for her like usual.

“It’s good to have you back home, my lady.” Josephine smiles, greeting Belle as she walks through the doors of the war room.

“Yes, did your negotiating go well, Inquisitor?” Leliana asks, her hands behind her back.

“Mhm.” Belle replies, tiredly.

“Go get some rest, Isabelle.” Josie says, putting her papers down onto the table.

“I guess the commander has decided our meeting wasn’t good enough to attend?” Belle retorts.

“Well, you see, the commander is actually dealing with some paperwork in his room.” Josie replied.

“Oh, yes, Cullen has been receiving marriage proposals from woman all over Thedas. From what I understand he’s turned down four very nice young ladies this week.” Leliana giggles

Belles fingers grip the edge of the table, breaking a piece of wood off. The loud snap echoed through the room as if it was a pin dropping in a silent room. Belle was shocked to see what she had just done, looking at her hands, she throws the small piece of wood across the room.

“I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to this dragon blood shit. Bull has been trying to help me but I’m still not used to the new strength.” Belle sighs.

Belle takes her leave and heads for her favorite spot on the battlements. She practically runs out of the war room. She is angry, fuming actually. What was she feeling in her chest? Disappointment? Sadness? Rage? It was so empty in her lungs, the crisp air of Skyhold greeted her as she whizzed past anyone who walked by her outside. The guards greeted her at every spot they were stationed, it only annoyed her more. “It’s fucking Isabelle!” She yelled inside her head, trying to shake the divine title from her head. She wasn’t anything special, she just happened to get magic, she just happened to fall through the fade, it was all circumstance. Not some divine bullshit.

Belle was so consumed by her thoughts and her anger, she didn’t care who she walked by or who she bumped into. The tears were blurring her vision, the rage blurring her thoughts, her heart was aching at the thought of Cullen getting married. She loves him, from the moment she laid eyes on him fighting demons at the very first rift she closed, he was her salvation. All because of her noble birth, she could lose him, lose the life she wishes for so terribly. It can all be taken away.

Belle started to run, she was almost there, that broken piece of stone over the stables. That was her spot. That’s where she went to scream, to cry, to be by herself because that’s all she can count on. Herself. Life has taught her that many times.

But before she could reach her little piece of peace, a hand gripped her elbow and pulled her off her path. It was like she was being coathangered off of a mount, it took her breath away for a moment. Tears flying out of her eyes into the thin, cold air. Her long hair, flying in front of her face as she is pulled back into someone.

“I’ve been calling you, Inquisitor!” The deep, sweet, honey-like voice echoed through her head.

She stopped dead in her tracks, hearing the ONE voice she was afraid to her coming back home. All she wanted to do was get her thoughts in order but no, mr.handsome hair HAD to come after her.

“Good evening, commander.” Belle replied, keeping her head down and her hair covering the mess smeared across her face.

“I’ve been writing to you while you were away, why didn’t you respond? I was getting anxious.” He said, worry in his beautiful voice. Belles heart cracked even more knowing she caused him any kind of anxiety.

“I, uh, I’m sorry. I might’ve just forgot I had them, we were so busy. You know?” She says, tapping her foot, squirming under Cullen’s gaze. She could feel his eyes on her and it made her heart race and her face heat up like a campfire. “But I gotta go.”

“Wait!” He says, pulling her back again, this time by her hand. “Maker! You’re freezing, Isabelle. Why aren’t you wearing anything for this kind of weather?! Wasn’t it ten times colder in Redcliffe?” He disapproves.

“Commander, with all do respect, you’re not my father. I will dress myself how I wish.” She huffs. “I really have to go now.”

Cullen grabs her by the shoulders enough to stand her still, he wipes her hair from her face and sees what she had been trying to hide the entire time. His chest tightened at the sight of such a strong woman reduced to tears from some unethical reason. Cullen had never seen her cry, ever.

“Isabelle... what happened?” His voice lowers with concern written across his face.

“It’s nothing.” She sighs, looking away from him.

Cullen had just finished writing more replies to the many who were writing him, his hands were bare and untouched by his leather gloves. He missed the inquisitor while she was away. They had always enjoyed each other’s company until now, it worried him.

“Isabelle, come with me to my room and we can talk like we always do? Okay?” He says, trying to smile in reassurance to her. Cullen knew she liked hot black tea, he thought back to the many times they stayed up late drinking it.

Belles heart was beating so fast she could feel it behind her face. The commanders hands were calloused but they felt like heaven resting on her frozen cheeks. She was melting under his skin, oh she wanted him to touch her more but it was only going to happen in her dreams.

She nodded following him into his office/bedroom. He opened the door for her, allowing her to sit in the chair adjacent from his desk as he sat in front of her.

The atmosphere was thick, awakward, and was like watching paint dry. Belle felt stuck and so did Cullen.

“Now talk to me.” He says, staring deep into her.

Belle was fiddling with the pieces of skin on the sides of her fingertips, a nervous habit she always had since childhood.

“How have your many proposals been treating you, Commander?” Belle asks, treading hazardous waters.

“What does that have to do wi- oh.” He says, his face reddening, his breath catching in his throat. “Please tell me I didn’t cause your discomfort so much that it made you cry?”

“Well, no, I-“

Cullen shifted in his seat, running his fingers through his curly tufts of hair, letting out a deep sigh.

“You haven’t been writing to me, you ignored me on the battlements until I chased you down, and you looked like you wanted to kill something. You haven’t even addressed me by name, like we agreed weeks ago. This is my fault.” He says, interrupting her. “I’m sorry.”

“No, comm-Cullen, I’m sorry. I have been imagining stupid things in my head like any young maiden would... just stupid girl stuff. Not your fault.” Belle defends. She felt stupid now that he felt this way.

Cullen rose from his desk, making his way to Belle as he galantly strode across the room. Belle immediately stood up, making her way to the door trying to leave before he could reach her.

Cullen took her by her upper arm and turned her into his chest. He looked down at her, into her tear stained, bloodshot eyes. His beautiful amber eyes pierced through her, it felt like he was looking into her soul. She always felt that with him and nobody else, he was special, he was who she wanted.

He backed her into the now closed and locked door, placing an arm over her head. She was shorter than him, like actually shorter. Belle was at least five foot two and Cullen was a literal beast towering over her.

He lowered his head, his nose brushing hers. A hand snaking up her hip onto her side, pulling her close. “This is my fault.”

“H-how?” Belle stammers, shocked by his actions.

“You didn’t come home when you said you were, you were only supposed to be gone for a week and you were gone for two weeks and three days. I was worried sick, you know.” He smiles, his voice lowering once again.

At this point Belle thought her body was going to spontaneously combust.

“Cullen, I’m sor-“

“Don’t be sorry, I know. Did you think that the way I’ve been with you, I’d be the same with anyone else? I know how you feel, love.” He replies, cutting her off again.

What?

“Wait, what?” Belle asks, surprised.

“Oh, sweet maker. You know I’m not good with words, Isabelle...” he says, frustrated with a smile.

In one swift movement Belle’s lips were captured in one sweet, long awaited, moment by the commander. His strong hands were gently wrapped around her face, his fingertips in between her hair, pulling her into him as close as he could get her. Belle’s hands found their way at his sides, the cold plates shocked her fingertips. Their lips danced playfully together. Both Belle and Cullen had waited too long for this moment, the fire between them only just starting to fully become one flame.

“How long have you waited to do this?” Belle asks, in between breaths.

“Longer than I should admit, my love.” He smiles, rushing back into their heated passion.

#Cullen #Cullen Rutherford #cullen ruthferford romance #cullen stanton rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x female inquisitor #inqusitor #OneShot #au #love #romance #dragonage #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfic #dragon age romance #fluff #sweet #cassandra pentaghast #sera #solas #josephine montilyet #Leliana #skyhold #Redcliffe #mage #mages

[princevolker2788]

Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfic: I’m Sorry - Part 2

@xavirne

Shorter chapter, but I think we both know what happens after this don't we?

When next she woke, Cassandra found the boy still in her arms, almost unmoved throughout the night. His steady breathing tickled the shell of her ear, forcing a small chuckle from her lips.

Carefully, so not as to wake him, the Seeker slipped out of his grasp while simultaneously covering him with the blanket. He didn’t seem to notice her absence, instead curling into the pillow with half a mumbled word.

            Shaking her head at the admittedly adorable display before her, Cassandra moved to the folded clothes at her side. She dressed quickly, finishing strapping on her sword belt and ready for the morning’s exercises. Before leaving she pulled aside a nearby guard.

            “The Herald is still asleep, I’ll be by the stream if he asks.”

            The guard offered a nod and took up position by Cassandra’s tent. Satisfied, she limped to the stream to begin her stretches.

            Sweat dripped down her brow as she finished her form. Her sword arm felt heavy, and her knee throbbed, but overall, she was relaxed.

            “Cass?”

            She turned with a smile to find Alphonse rubbing the sleep from his eyes, though clothed in his usual attire.

            “Rest well?”

            The boy nodded, though not without a grumble.

            “Could go for another hour or so.”

            The Seeker smirked.

            “Well, we wouldn’t be able to get back to Haven if we woke later.”

            “Mmm…”

            Alphonse leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her thigh.

            “We should get ready.” She added, while ruffling his hair.

            “M’ready.”

            “You have your pack?”

            The child gave a noncommittal grunt in response and wrapped his arms around her leg.

            “Come on, let’s go.”

            “M’kay.”

            Alphonse took hold of her free hand as they trudged back to the tent. Soon they their equipment readied, though not without some degree of prodding. Whatever Alphonse’s previous life was like, it appeared that early rising was not part of it.

            “Breakfast!”

            It was as if night had turned to day for all the energy the Herald displayed. He seemed a blur as he rushed to the fire pit, a wide smile on his lips.

            “Should have led with that I suppose…” she groused.

            “Food does tend to trump all.”

            She turned to find Varric at her side, Bianca strapped to his back. The dwarf wore his familiar cocksure smirk, though there seemed to be a degree of softness to it, less so than their time spent in the interrogation cells.

            “Thought you were supposed to take it easy Seeker.”

            Cassandra scoffed and jerked her head towards the center of camp.

            “You’re beginning to sound like Solas.”

            “Wouldn’t want that, got a reputation to uphold.”

            Alphonse was situated near the firepit, flanked by Solas and a few other guards. As soon as he made eye contact he called them over with a wave and a smile.

            “Sleep well, Songbird?”

            “Songbird?” asked Cassandra.

            Varric chuckled as he collected a bowl of meal.

            “You’ve heard him croon, right Seeker? He’s no slouch.”

            She couldn’t help but quirk a brow at the child, who seemed keenly interested in the contents of his bowl rather than his companions.

            “I sang when we went to the Chantry.” He said after a moment, cheeks red.

            “Oh?”

            Cassandra took her place at his side, setting a hand on his back for support.

            “My brother used to say I was… blessed by Andraste herself.”

            He chuckled weakly and leaned against her.

            “Ironic, isn’t it?” he said, looking at his marked hand.

            Varric paused to look her in the eye, concern creasing his brow.

            “Alphonse…” she tried, only to find the boy wrapping an arm around her neck and planting a kiss to her cheek.

            “No no, you don’t get it. I like the name!” he said cheerfully, “It reminds me of home.”

            With this, he hopped down from his seat and gave Varric a hug as well.

            “You should give out more přezdívky Varric.”

            This left both the storyteller and Cassandra dumbfounded as the boy rushed off to whatever task he deemed important.

            “Well… that was a turn around.” Said the dwarf after a moments pause.

            “Indeed.”

            Varric coughed.

            “So… are we gonna discuss the dragon in the room, or not?”

            Cassandra frowned and met his gaze levelly.

            “What ‘Dragon’?”

            “The fact that he killed three men just yesterday and is acting completely unfazed? That doesn’t strike you as odd?”

            “We already discussed it, in the clearing.”

            Varric quirked a brow.

            “And?”

            “I told him what he did was for the best. He was… terrified of himself Varric. What would you have done?”

            He sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

            “I don’t know Seeker, I really don’t. But... for someone so young to kill so early in life… it’s sick.”

            Cassandra hung her head, looking down at her bandaged knee with a silent fury. If she’d just been faster…

            “I think he’s seen far worse, in Redcliffe.” She said.

            “True, just… let him be a kid Seeker. Don’t let this ‘Herald Of Andraste’ thing take over who he is.”

            She locked eyes with the rogue, and with a nod, set a hand on his shoulder.

            “I think that’s both our responsibility now, don’t you?”

            His eyes widened in surprise, and a devilish smirk began to form in the corner of his lip.

            “Are you going soft on me Seeker?”

            She shoved him off the log.

            “Hardly, this is for his well being. Now ready yourself, we march for Haven.”

                                                                  ***

            The afternoon arrived just as they made their way into town. Alphonse had remarkably stayed awake the entire time, chatting with a few of the younger soldiers and even swapping a joke or two with Varric. Cassandra looked down to the child in her lap, at his fresh smile, the lighter look in his eyes. After a few moments he took note and looked up.

            “Something wrong?”

            She ruffled his hair.

            “No child. Nothing at all.”

            He seemed to accept this answer, turning his attention to Josephine and Leliana, who immediately began fussing over his appearance and quizzing him on proper court etiquette.

            “Cass, help me!” he half whispered as they began to drag him off.

            The Seeker chuckled from atop her mount and shook her head.

            “You have my sympathies!”

            “Traitor!” he called back.

            Cassandra chuckled again and handed off the reins to a stablehand before moving to the Chantry to fill out her reports. No doubt Cullen would want to drill her about the group’s tardiness, something she was hardly prepared for. All she wanted was to fall into a bath and go to bed, maybe read for a bit.

            She sighed as she shouldered through the big heavy doors. The sisters were muttering the Chant Of Light and Vivienne seemed to be reading in her little nook. Steeling herself, Cassandra marched to the end of the hall and entered the war room. Cullen locked eyes with her, concern creasing his brow.

            “Scout Harding filled me in on most of the details.” He said.

            Another sigh eased its way past her lips.

            “Maker preserve me.”

            A small silence was shared between the two, broken only by the sounds of prayer through the door.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Yes.”

            Cullen sighed.

            “Are you lying?”

            “Yes…”

            She felt the commander take up a position at her side. Eventually, he set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She took a breath, attempting to steady her nerves, and to stem the tears that threatened to fall.

            “We almost didn’t make it.”

            “But you did.” He said, removing the hand.

            Another silence passed between them.

            “He loves you, you know.” Said the former Templar, “Like a mother.”

            Cassandra let out a scoff.

            “Why he does is beyond me, I’m hardly the finest example of motherly care. At least Josephine acts like the noble she is, she’s far more… delicate when it comes to speaking to him.”

            “Yes, but he doesn’t like The Game, and I think he prefers your brand of… oration.”

            She scoffed once more.

            “Well then.”

            “You’re too hard on yourself.”

            Cassandra shook her head and set her fists upon the table.

            “He needs protection, more than I can provide.”

            “He needs you, and especially you, now that we have the mages on our side. There’s no telling what could happen, or what will happen afterwards.”

            “You mean because it might kill him.” She said bitterly, fingers tightening.

            He sighed.

            “Yes.”

            She took a seat, rubbing her eyes with her still gauntleted hands.

            “He’s just a boy.”

            “I know.”

            “He killed three men to save me Cullen. Three.”

            The knight was silent at this. She risked a look to find him scowling, eyes fixed on the image of Redcliffe castle scrawled on the map.

            “I… don’t know what to say.”

            “He should never have been there in the first place.”

            Cullen took a seat next to her.

            “You would have been killed had he not. What’s done is done.”

            “I know, but I’d hoped that he’d get out of this without being forced to do that. I didn’t kill a man until I was eighteen, much less have an opportunity to.”

            “Are you concerned that this will affect his behavior?”

            “I don’t know, but I think I should at least teach him how to fight, and when it is appropriate to act with violence. It’s the least I can do for him.”

            Cullen nodded.

            “Well then, you better get your rest.”

            She smiled.

            “You as well.”

            With that, the Seeker strode out of the Chantry and back to her own little hut. She stopped as she passed Alphonse’s cabin, watched over by at least three guards, and probably Leliana’s people as well. The candlelight from the small building outlined three figures, easily identifiable as the Spymaster, Ambassador, and of course, Alphonse.

            “Now, what is the proper way to greet a nobleman from Orlais?”

            A heavy sigh escaped the boy’s lips.

            “Now, Now Alphonse, this is essential, especially if you want to impress a certain lady.” Said Leliana with a knowing lilt to her voice.

            Cassandra could hear a muffled groan, followed by a satisfied chuckle.

            “Leliana.” Whined Alphonse.

            “Come on, the quicker you do this, the quicker we leave.”

            Cassandra held back a chuckle of her own as Alphonse groaned again before clearing his throat.

            “Bonjour Lady Montaguie, mon nom est Alphonse Trevelyan, plaisir de vous rencontrer.”

            His Orlesian accent was a little off, but otherwise the boy spoke perfectly. It appeared that all those grating hours learning from the two had paid off.

            “Good. Now, to bed.” Said Josephine, with a distinct air of satisfaction in her voice.

            “Oui tune Josie.” He quipped.

            The two women shared a laugh together before offering a ‘goodnight’ to the boy and exiting his cabin. Cassandra offered the two a nod, before entering the building after them.

            “Cass!”

            She smiled and took a knee in front of him.

            “Alphonse… how would you feel about… learning how to fight?”

            The boy frowned and stepped forward, setting a hand on her knee.

            “I thought I wasn’t supposed to?”

            Cassandra covered his hand with hers.

            “Ideally no, but these are dangerous times. And… I would like to teach you about fighting, when it is permissible to commit violence, and when to hold back your blade.”

            His frown deepened as her took in her words. Slowly realization came to him, and he looked to the floor.

            “Because of the clearing?”

            “Yes.”

            Alphonse sighed.

            “I dunno Cass, I-I’m not sure I wanna fight ever again.”

            She squeezed his hand.

            “I don’t want you to have to fight either, but I want you to be able to protect yourself in case—” she paused, holding back the obvious fear she was about to voice, “In case I’m not there for you.”

            He nodded. After a moment he stepped forward and gave her a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder.

            “OK.”

            Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped him up in a tight embrace.

            “We’ll begin tomorrow. Meet me in the training grounds after breakfast.”

            He nodded into her shoulder and let go.

            “Night.”

            “Goodnight… songbird.”

            The two shared a brief chuckle as they went their respective ways, content, and altogether confident that the future would be brighter than the previous weeks would indicate.

            Of course, what one wishes for and what one receives are rarely similar…  

#Dragon Age: Inquisition #Cassandra Pentaghast #Alphonse Trevelyan #Authors OC #Young Inquisitor

[funkypoacher]

Augustine 74, and Matty 55 (with your choice!)

Augustine/Alistair - Kisses Where One Person Is Sitting In TheOther’s Lap. (I plan to do the other one, too)

Thrones and Needs

He exhaled haplessly and sad. Slouching low in a high-backed seat, Alistair took a deep breath, held it with clenched lips and clasped fists, and then let it billow out, all blustering and loud. He seemed so much the specter of a distraught little boy: pouting, lost; forlorn. His new, regal reality shone like the glint off a golden crown, and though it did not out-gleam the humble light of his eyes, it was very near to doing so.

Alistair was wretched. Augustine saw it. She knew that she was ruining the man’s life, but she was not, for a Maker-forgotten second, sorry. She would do it again, and again, with Andraste as her witness.

“Hm?”

The room smelled thick with beeswax and myrtle. The shutters fended off an evening sun. Humming sweetly, Augustine stood near the doorframe, a cautious hand upon the wood, a careful stance throughout her body. She watched the future King of Fereldan while waiting for signs of life or expiration. When Alistair looked up at last, the bags under his eyes were as dark as bruises, and they matched all the weight that was on his back. But dead men carry no baggage: with their shed bodies went their worries. This was why Loghain was now free as a bird, and why Alistair, in his gilded cage on his velvet perch, could be approached. He might be buried by doubts, but that meant he was breathing.

“Thought I closed it,” the man wondered quietly.

“You didn’t,” the woman answered gently.

Closing and locking, turning and walking, Augustine advanced lightly with her delicate hands clasped at her breast. She was the only thing in the room to stir: candle-flame and shadows alike stood as still as Alistair sat. Upon finding his side, Augustine cupped his chin with her forefinger and lifted his face. In a brief moment of self-interest, the woman simply considered the feel of him. He was warm, soft, and rough, and everything. The itch of resilient, stubborn facial-hair; the glow of the hearth caught in his dark flesh: it made her ache hard and deep. Augustine was not usually so bold –so lewd– as touch him. It was improper and, according to the rules of class and etiquette, illicit. Moreover, Augustine had been raised to refrain from that kind of affection: a casual caress of friendly sweetness; the innocent embrace of the chastest of lovers. Just like him; just like her Alistair, she’d been taught restraint. Which was why she knew how he hungered for it.

He sighed again. With her hand on him, Alistair sighed. However, it was now another sigh of a different kind that wracked him, and when the man slouched it was so he might fall further into her hold.

“So… strange story; stop me if you’ve heard this one: this fellow gets made king and then gets engaged on the same night…”

As Alistair’s beautiful, brown eyes looked up at her, Augustine’s fingers traveled from his chin to the chisel of his cheeks, tracing out the bones beneath. “You should be king, Alistair,” she said. “You’ve more than Anora: more heart, and more royal blood. You will be better for Fereldan.”

“More than Anora? Is this your way of telling me I’m fat?” Signature sarcasm dispensed with, the man nuzzled into her hand. Alistair closed his eyes and kissed her palm. “Oh, I know. It wasn’t myself I was thinking about, anyways. I’ve come to terms with what being King will mean, and I think it means I may do some good. I was thinking about you. It’s unheard of that Grey Wardens have children, which you know. And the King –me– will be expected to produce an heir. If we can’t— if the bloodline cannot be continued… They won’t blame me, Augie. They’ll blame you. And I can’t stand the thought of that.”

Swallowing a sorrowing exhale she’d been holding since he started speaking, Augustine forced a smile. “Is this why you’re sitting in here pouting? Worrying over me? We leave for Redcliffe tomorrow. You ought to be sleeping. Or with the men. Morale is high, but it is still far more important than myself right now.”

“Um, no?” Alistair took the hand which had fallen away from caressing him. His large, cumbersome, perfect thumb brushed back and forth over her fingers. “Maker, there must be something in the air if I’m sounding like the sensible one. Or maybe it’s the food…? Something other than wine and cheese in the fondue, perhaps. Love, if we survive the Archdemon and my coronation –no promises on that, mind you– then we will be King and Queen of Fereldan sitting pretty on our even prettier thrones. And we will be beholden to the people. Which means babies. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Augustine’s eyes rounded; her mouth fell open: it felt like she’d been slapped. There’d been no intention of malice, but the reality of their situation was simply that of a hundred little heartbreaks and a hundred stunted dreams. Without warning, and though she struggled against it, the woman contended with a contingent of tears.

“I didn’t mean—! Ugh.” Alistair’s face scrunched up in self-abasement. “I meant the responsibility of it, not the babies. I know you want children. But what you want most will now be used against you, I promise you. Will you be able to handle that? Will I?”

He watched her softly. She breathed hard. Never had Augustine had the devotion of anyone. Her parents preferred their son, her suitors had been side-eyeing her dowry, and even childhood companions had faded to acquaintances over time. Alistair’s selflessness in the face of her interests cradled her heart and made her feel precious. His beautiful person and spirit, as always, put things into perspective, and though, yes, Augustine wanted the protection which power precedes, she admitted to herself in this moment that she only wanted him. King Alistair would keep the blight and battle at bay, but Warden Alistair could have loved her just the same.

And yet she was still content to be ruining his life. Because at least while King the hardships of a Warden would not end him. He would go on loving her.

“I want many things, Alistair,” Augustine smiled sadly. Her finger traced over his upper-lip; meandered up to his brow. “I want children, and a home. I’d like my family to be alive. But wants are not needs. And I need only you.”

Climbing into his lap, shivering as Alistair’s arms encircled her, she clung to him, smelled the salt, sweat and musk of his body, and was sure her heart would burst. Alistair’s eyes hazed and brightened at the same time by some miracle that only he could manage, and then Augustine lifted his face, and pressed her forehead to his lips.

“That is the crown I need. And this is the throne I need. That’s all. Just you.”

“Augie,” Alistair wheezed. His hand gripped her harder and pulled her closer. His breath was scented like the sugar of candied fruit, and sent spikes of urgency to her belly as it brushed her neck and ears. “I love you, Augie.”

Augustine stopped from keeping her weight light upon him. She let finally herself fall hard and fast into her lover. “I love you, too, Alistair.”

Their kisses were soft and quiet compared to the thundering of their hearts. Their languid, ardent loving was outmatched by hammering chests. Although, to be fair, those passing their door heard their passion far more clearly. Or, at least, the creaking of the chair.

#my writing #Augustine cousland #augustine #alistair x warden

[laurelsofhighever]

But They Would Live

Relationship: Alistair x Cousland Words: 4083 Summary: "Do you know what happens when an archdemon is killed?” The Landsmeet goes in a different direction (and nobody has to sleep with Morrigan this time). Read it on AO3

Silence fell over the Landsmeet. The last echoed clangs of steel and shouting faded into the rafters. Alistair stood, breathing hard, his sword steady in his grip and his knees locked to stop them trembling from exhaustion, all too aware of the eyes upon him, regarding him the way a cat regards a wound ball of string.

The fight had been brutal; despite his age and his outdated armour, Loghain had punched with the force of a bull, driving the younger man back in obvious hopes of a quick victory. But not for nothing had Alistair battled ogres and spent months training with warriors who had shown him the value of speed and precision over brute strength. And so the fight had ended with the disgraced Hero of River Dane on his knees, knocked down by a well-timed shield bash that had caught him off-balance and open to a blow from the sword once wielded by his oldest friend. His helmet had rolled across the flagstones, blood dribbled from a split lip and washed his right arm with crimson, but still his lip thinned in a sneer, as if there wasn’t a blade at his throat – as if the victory was his.

“So, there is some of Maric in you after all.” The old man grinned. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get it over with, if you’re going to kill me.”

Alistair sucked in a deep breath through his nose. This was the usurper who had betrayed the king and left the Grey Wardens to die, who had then started a civil war in the middle of a Blight and would have let Ferelden fall entirely into ruin. He glanced around at the circle of nobles – at Eamon, who could not quite hide the savage, triumphant curl of his mouth, and at Anora, who hovered at the front of the crowd, her face a mask of stone. If not for everything she had done, if not for the battle-heat still raging in his blood, Alistair might have felt a twinge of pity for her.

And there, at his right hand, Rosslyn. She had been magnificent addressing the nobles, her voice carrying through the hall like the first birdsong on a dark morning. Not even when Loghain had towered over her and spat accusations in her face had she been cowed – she had only turned from him in dismissal, full of grace, and woven such an argument that even Gwaren’s staunchest lackeys had hesitated in defending their lord. And then she had stepped aside to let him fight, to offer him the same closure she had found with Howe, hiding her worry behind the lopsided smirk and the laconic tilt of her head that had first made him love her all those months ago.

She nodded ever so slightly, her grey eyes bright on his.

“Forget Maric,” Alistair spat, turning back to Loghain. “This is for Duncan.” He drew the blade back, ready for the swing. The nobles tensed, Anora whimpered –

“Wait!”

As one, the nobles turned to the source of the interruption, and parted for the lean, haggard figure who came panting into the hall.

Rosslyn’s fingers dropped from her sword. “Riordan.”

“Riordan?” Alistair repeated. “The Warden imprisoned by Howe?”

“It is good to see you again, sister.” Riordan inclined his head. “I am glad you made it out of Howe’s dungeon in one piece.”

“I might say the same,” Rosslyn replied, imitating the gesture.

“I went to find you at Arl Eamon’s estate, but a servant told me you were already here,” he explained. “I am here on urgent Warden business.”

“Can’t it wait?” Eamon snapped.

“No, it cannot.” Riordan glanced between the two Wardens in front of him before fixing his gaze on Alistair. “What I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. You must believe me – you will regret it if you do not listen to me.”

Alistair frowned, a suspicion forming in his mind, but nevertheless he lowered his sword.

“Someone see to it Teyrn Loghain stays put,” he said, with as much authority as he could muster. Before they had left the estate, Eamon had warned him not to make it look like anyone was giving him orders. It seemed to work, and after guards stepped forward to flank the still-kneeling regent, he led the way out of the hall to what he hoped was an antechamber and not a broom cupboard. Rosslyn marched half a pace behind him, but he fought back the impulse to reach out and take her hand while they were still in sight of those that might use the gesture against them – Eamon had warned him about that, too.

Then the door of the antechamber slammed shut behind them, and Alistair found his patience had worn thinner than anticipated. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Rosslyn next to a wide window set into the north side of the room, and felt her tension in the rigid line of her back and the haughty tilt of her chin.

“You want us to let him live,” she said in a voice like ice.

Riordan glanced warily between the two of them, choosing his words. In the bright light, the pallor of long incarceration was easy to see under the ochre shade of his skin, and with it, the fine tracery of black veins that had started to creep up the length of his neck.

“The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown,” he explained, nodding. “Let him be of use – let him go through the Joining.”

“Absolutely not!” Alistair’s face wrinkled in a snarl. “How can you even suggest that? That man left our brothers to die and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals – he tortured you!”

“We need as many Grey Wardens –”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this.” Alistair shrugged off the concerned touch Rosslyn lay over his arm and stomped to the window, hoping the view over the harbour might calm him down, or else show him that he was in the Fade and everything Riordan had just said was part of some awful nightmare. He felt his lover’s eyes linger on him, but refused to turn around. He could imagine how she looked when she rounded instead on Riordan, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed in the way that could make even hardened criminals snivel like children.

“Why do we need him?” she demanded. “After everything he’s done – what good is one more Grey Warden against a horde of darkspawn? We already have an army – dwarves, mages, even the Dalish have pledged to join us. What is one man when counted against all of that?”

Riordan sighed. “I feared this might be. You are both new to the Grey Wardens – were you told how an archdemon is slain?”

“You mean there’s more to it than just, say, chopping off its head?” Alistair sniped from his place by the window.

“Have you ever wondered why the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the darkspawn?” Riordan asked. He looked at Rosslyn as he spoke, having decided she was the least stubborn of the two.

“The taint,” she replied. “It allows us to sense them.”

“And much more than that.” He raked his hands through his hair, trying to dredge up the words his own mentor had used for him when he had learned the last and darkest secret of their order – the true meaning of their motto. He paced as he told them, because watching his feet was easier than watching realisation dawn on the faces of the two Wardens who seemed younger than he himself could ever remember being.

“…The essence of the archdemon cannot survive the transfer into the new body… but neither can the soul of the Grey Warden,” he finished, coming to a halt.

Alistair had stepped away from the window. “Meaning… the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon… dies?” He glanced sideways, but Rosslyn was staring empty-eyed at the flagstones, eyebrows knotted in disbelief, folded in over herself like someone had punched her in the stomach.

“Yes,” Riordan answered. “Without the archdemon, the Blight ends. It is the only way.” He paused. “If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer. But if I fail, it must be one of you. That is why I asked you to let Teyrn Loghain undertake the Joining; the more of us there are, the more chance we have of stopping the Blight before it spreads throughout Ferelden and beyond.”

“What about Orlais?” Rosslyn’s voice had never been so small, so lost. “At Ostagar, King Cailan said there were Wardens waiting in Orlais.”

“There is snow in the Frostbacks, and the archdemon is already on the move. They would not make it in time.”

“So it has to be one of us,” Alistair murmured.

“Yes.”

The air crackled. Alistair’s mind whirled, shying away from the truth he had denied all along but which had always lurked in the recesses of his thoughts, behind every wide swing, every near miss that had allowed them to get even this far. He couldn’t breathe. When he reached out for Rosslyn, she flinched away from him and he pulled his hand back as if burned.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of such news,” Riordan offered. “But you had to be told. I will wait in the hall for your decision.”

The Warden left without another word, and in his wake silence crowded in from the corners of the room. Alistair watched him go. Rosslyn had shuffled noiselessly over to the wall, leaning a hand against it like a drunkard with her face turned into the stone, and he could find no words to comfort her. His feet seemed rooted to the floor.

She punched the wall. Hard. A sound somewhere between a roar and a sob burst from her chest over the crunch that came as her knuckles connected, and Alistair was by her side in an instant, his gauntlets discarded on the floor with a clang. She hadn’t lost control like this since Redcliffe, when she had found out the attack on Highever had been driven by political manoeuvring instead of simple greed.

“Let me see –”

She winced away from him again. “I’m fine,” she snapped, though the fist she cradled to her chest shook and dropped scarlet blots on the floor.

So he waited. He watched her pace, then turn and pace the other way as she tried and failed to wring out the rage she could not quash behind her noble’s mask. Her borrowed dress, worn to reduce the threat of her appearance, swished around her ankles with every step.

“Rosslyn –”

“It’s not fair!” she shouted, as if her name had been the catalyst for the explosion. “How much more are they going to take from us? How much have we given, only for them to ask for more and more and more again until there’s nothing left? Isn’t it enough that we’re destined to go mad and die surrounded by corpses in the Deep Roads? And now this!” She stopped pacing, and dragged her uninjured hand through her hair with enough force to yank out the pins Isolde’s maid had placed there that morning, turning away from him.

“Rosslyn…”

“Every time I think we’re ahead – every time I think we’re going to win and make it through this – something else comes along and just…” Her head dropped behind the shield of her hand, her shoulders tensed so they wouldn’t shake. Even without seeing him, she felt Alistair behind her, and at last pressed close into his chest, despite the awkward bulk of his armour. The heavy plate jutted into her body at the wrong angles, but it was warm from his heat and the weight of his arms felt like the safest thing in the world.

“We’re not going to die,” he told her. “Not for a good long while.”

She pulled back from the embrace as if to protest, but the words died in her throat. Instead, her hand reached up to cup the edge of his jaw, brushing over the pulse point below his ear before changing direction to trace over the angles of his cheek and the trailing curve of his eyebrow. His eyes were warm as embers as he rubbed away the trace of tears along the edge of her nose, offering a small smile when she leaned forward again and nestled into the crook of his neck.

“We’ll have to get Wynne to look at this,” he muttered, tenderly bringing her broken hand up for inspection.

She rolled her head to watch his ministrations. “To be fair, I ignore the impulse to hit things far more often than I succumb to it.” The joking tone fell flat. “Alistair… what are we going to do?”

His fingers twisted into her hair, the scent of it something he never wanted to be without.

“If Riordan wants Loghain for the Grey Wardens, then that’s what he’ll get,” he decided. “And then that traitor can die a better death than he deserves.” He pressed his cheek closer into her temple, hating the idea of Loghain’s taint on Duncan’s memory, but knowing what he would hate more.

“It’s not the same,” she pointed out. “An execution is not the same as throwing a man to the wolves. We’d have to live with that.”

“I won’t lose you.”

She sniffed, tracing patterns on the back of his neck. “You sound so certain.”

“Didn’t you see that duel back there in the throne room? That means I’m a king now. Kings know these things.”

“We haven’t even crowned you yet,” she huffed, “and it’s already gone to your head.”

“I’m a fast learner.” He chuckled. “Besides, when this is all over, you’ll still be here to keep me…”

She felt him tense and leaned back, her own worries forgotten in concern for him. “What is it?”

Not quite ready to answer, he let his hands slide down from their place on the back of her neck, ghosting over her ribs until they settled on her waist. Through the thin layers of velvet and silk he felt the shift of muscles conditioned by years of training and months of battle, great strength tempered by softness only he was allowed to see. He could tell from the curious tilt of her head the expression he would find in her eyes, but his gaze had focussed on her lips and refused to lift higher. He hadn’t been this uncertain with her for months, but now his heart pounded within his chest.

“Alistair?”

“I was just thinking…”

She hummed. “Clearly. About what?”

“What you looked like standing out there in front of the Landsmeet.” His thumbs traced small circles over her hips. “You were – I can’t even describe it, and that’s me, the person who never shuts up, lost for words. It seems to happen a lot when I’m around you,” he added. “Maybe this isn’t the best time, with all this doom hanging over us – or maybe it’s the perfect time, because maybe it’s hope that’ll see us through the next few days – but… I looked at you and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. All this talk of me being king and I didn’t think.”

He glanced up finally to find her watching him, patient but bemused, her earlier anger still traceable in the taut line of her jaw. There was nothing for it but outright confession.

“Love, when you were out there, winning everyone over to our side, I was in awe. I’ve always been in awe of you, ever since we met. But out there, you – you looked like a queen.”

Rosslyn looked prepared to retort, but her breath refused to leave her lungs.

“When I'm crowned, I'll need to get married as well. Eamon more or less told me as much – and it wasn’t a pleasant conversation, believe me,” he added. “But if I can’t have you… I don’t want anyone else, and I can’t do this without you.”

“You could, you know,” she replied slowly, running a hand along his arm. “You’ve never been the fool you try to play.”

“Is that a no?”

She snickered, nervous. “I don’t recall hearing a question.”

“Don’t you? I – Maker’s breath – can I start again?”

She shook her head, biting her lips together to stifle her smile.

“Cruel woman,” he accused fondly, even as he tucked her uninjured hand in his and lifted it to brush a kiss along the knuckles. His lips lingered there, too entranced by the softness of her skin against the pad of his thumb and the weight of the words on his tongue.

Then, with a deep inhale, he found his voice.

"Will you marry me?"

--

White-knuckled, staring down at a map in an upper back room of the Gnawed Noble, Alistair clung to the memory of Rosslyn’s answer like a talisman, nodding every time Leonas Bryland paused for breath despite having long since ceased to listen. He had felt the death of the archdemon like a punch to the gut, had seen the pillar of light rise into the sky from the top of Fort Drakon and explode outwards in a ring of fire. Even now, the panic of the surviving darkspawn writhed beneath his skin, the influence of the taint churning with the little food he had managed to swallow that morning, and with his own, gnawing worry.

She was up there. She was in the middle of everything, still fighting. How was he supposed to care about casualty reports or troop movements when she was out there, lost amid piles of flaming rubble and streets lined with charred, arrow-stung corpses. The last reports to reach him had mentioned that she and her party had been seen, all still alive, carving a path to the dark mouth of Fort Drakon’s door. Someone had told him Riordan was dead; he had downed the beast but not killed it. Someone else had brought word that a survivor had limped out of the tower, babbling about demons, genlock assassins, and endless ranks of the walking dead.

He had faith that she would make it – after all, he had seen her scythe through swarms of hurlocks like they were flies, had watched as she leapt and felled an ogre with a single blow. But against such odds… Dark thoughts led trails through his mind and he had to grit his teeth against them.

All he knew was that the archdemon was dead… which meant a Grey Warden was dead. Only two Grey Wardens had entered Fort Drakon. What if one had fallen to the monsters within, forcing the other on to make that final, terrible choice? As Alistair’s imagination shied away from one possibility, it grated against the other, trapping his thoughts in an endless loop of Rosslyn, alone, bleeding out in a corridor surrounded by the bodies of those she had slain; or Rosslyn, screaming as her soul was devoured, burned from the inside out by the archdemon’s taint.

Stop it.

He must have made a noise, because Bryland paused and asked him if he was well. He hardly knew how he answered. Instead, he forced himself to remember: the silk of Rosslyn’s hair, of her laugh; the way she towered over those who tried to intimidate her and listened with tender care to those who needed help; how her thighs wrapped around his waist when they made love. Nobody with so much life in them could die. Nobody who shined as brightly as she did could die.

A change in the ambient noise outside made Alistair look up from his maps. He hushed Bryland with a curt wave of his hand, trying to work out the difference. Before, there had only been the lyrical cadence of the Chant being sung over the dead, discordant with the crows and the clangs of dropped swords thrown in piles for easier counting, but now something else threaded into the melody, a growing swell of voices coming from the south that sounded like a salute.

“Your Majesty, wait!”

Alistair had already clattered down the stairs. Nobles and officers waiting for audience in the taproom hastily stepped back when it became clear he wouldn’t be slowed down, so intent on the door that calls and restraining touches alike brushed off him like oil over water. They could only follow, confused, as he stumbled into the street.

The marketplace had been levelled, the fountain at its centre cracked into the shape of a jagged tooth that leaked sooty water like a wound. Alistair sprang to the top of the chantry steps for a better view, wanting to be certain of his direction, heedless of judgemental eyes. The flattened buildings allowed sound to carry, but it echoed strangely in the gathering dusk. The sound was growing louder – coming closer, then – but he still couldn’t tell whether it heralded victory or outrage, and for a wild moment he felt like locking himself in the chantry, just so he wouldn’t have to find out.

And then she appeared, one hand in her dog’s ruff, with Eamon, Sten, Wynne, and Leliana following behind with the rest of the soldiers that had gathered behind them on the long walk back. She was limping. She clutched her ribs as if they pained her. Her hair had been singed and darkspawn ichor dulled the sheen of her armour, but Alistair saw nothing beyond the fact that she was alive. He only realised he had shouted her name when she looked up, dazed, searching for the source of the noise. When she spotted him, her face split into a grin and she moved forward with new energy, but her injured leg had stiffened too much since the battle and she didn’t it twenty feet before he was gathering her up in his arms, not bothering to quell the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Don’t tell me you were worried,” she croaked when she finally mastered herself enough for speech.

He hugged her tighter. “Not for a minute.”

They stayed wrapped together, eyes squeezed shut, jaws and fists clenched because how else could they express such vast relief that Fate had decided to be kind? The crowd fell away, the stench of smoke and voided bowels and blood lost in the feeling of strong arms and warm breath and hair tickling the nose. When they did pull out of the embrace, they did not part. Alistair raked his eyes over Rosslyn’s face, anxious for damage. She reassured him with a tired smile, her hand tracing the deep cut a shriek had gouged across his left cheek.

Someone coughed behind them.

Loghain’s body had been placed on a bier held at each corner by Redcliffe soldiers, the peaceful expression on his face a contrast to the greasy black soot and viscera that covered his armour.

“What should we do with him, Your Majesty?” Eamon asked.

Alistair looked at Rosslyn.

“He was noble at the last,” she murmured. “Just as the stories always said.”

He nodded and turned to Eamon. “Take him to the palace. He saved us all – he should have a fitting funeral.”

In silence, the king and his future queen watched as the stretcher was carried past them, more aware than most of what Loghain had saved by his sacrifice. Many of the soldiers who had come to see the fallen hero followed as Eamon’s men marched west, until at last the two of them were left alone, just another bit of flotsam let go by the tide of war.

Rosslyn sighed, bone-weary.

“What’s that for?” Alistair asked, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “We made it.”

Smiling, she pressed her forehead into the curve of his jaw. “We did…”

She had told him once that there would always be more battles to fight. Tomorrow, they would start to rebuild; they would stand upon a platform before a pyre and ring out speeches for the hero who had given his life in service for his country, and they would do so knowing who had sent him to his death. They would have to live with the guilt of it.

That was later. For now, in the smoking aftermath with only each other to cling to, it was enough to know that they would live.

likes and reblogs always appreciated (◠‿◠✿)

#dragon age: origins #dragon age #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #king alistair #warden alistair #dragon age fanfic #rosslyn and alistair #rosslyn cousland #my writing

[hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz]

26 for Sula/Blackwall, and 43 for Dot/Reyes ? *3*

Still working on the Dot/Reyes one, but here’s this little AU comic where Sula and Blackwall’s first kiss happens earlier. ;) I’ve literally always wanted to write this fic, but I never could get it right. I should note though, I know literally 0 about horseback riding, so sorry for that.

26. “I didn’t intend to kiss you.” - Sula/Blackwall

The Hinterlands were a better place to learn to ride, even as far as it was from Haven, and as busy as they always were around these parts, they still found time for lessons.

When they first got the horses from Dennet, the Herald had unconvincingly pretended that she was overjoyed, and enthusiastic about the acquisition. When she was told that she had to ride them as well, to aid in travel, she found any excuse not to. After Dennet’s daughter tried racing her, and the Herald fell flat on her face to the Iron Bull’s great amusement, the rest of her inner circle caught on.

Blackwall knew what it was like to have to learn something nobles found second nature—he remembered the early days after leaving Markham, trying his hand at learning on his own, Chevaliers and minor nobs alike laughing at the idiot Markham boy, until some busty Starkhaven girl took pity on him and taught him (for a very convenient price). It wasn’t a necessary skill, but it was a useful one. When they left the Redcliffe farms, he took the Herald aside and asked if she’d like some pointers. Purely business—she’d have to be among nobles of all sorts, and striking an imposing figure on horseback was a guarantee for quick respect with them. Any additional time spent with the Herald, on a one on one basis? He hadn’t even entertained thought.

Much.

And now, riding lessons were a great activity when the rest of the camp had turned in, and the two of them were still restless.

“You’re still putting too much strain on the reins,” he said, riding up beside her. She was nervous on the horse, and the animal could tell. He took her hands holding its reins, and tried to ease her and the horse both with a smile and kind words. “You don’t need to strangle it. It won’t move unless you want it to.”

“That is plainly untrue,” Sula said, and though she laughed, he could feel her shaking still, though her hands loosened their grip on the reins. “I did not do anything to that horse Senna lent me, and it bucked me off.”

“You don’t have to be afraid. That won’t happen again, not while I’m here.”

He didn’t miss her smile, nor her blush, and he tried very hard not to think about it, even as he involuntarily squeezed her hand, and felt his heart speed up. Focus, he told himself.

“You’ve been doing well besides. We just have to get you actually going faster than a trot, and you’ll have figured the whole thing out.”

She shrugged, but gave moving the horse a try. He let go of her hand (he’d still been holding it, damn it), and moved his own horse back to give her space.

He hadn’t meant to laugh, but she was so stiff as they rode the slowest pace possible, it looked like she’d been turned to stone. “There, you’ve got that! Now… Try… faster?”

She glared at him, “Exactly how much faster do I need to go?”

“Well, the idea is the horse is faster than you walking.”

She sighed, and kicked the horse’s sides gently, like he’d instructed. He laughed again, but was pleased that she was starting to look less terrified as things went smoothly. She kicked again, and the horse picked up its pace again. When they turned back around, she was smiling despite herself.

“Alright… This… This isn’t so bad,” she said, and she laughed a little as she kicked again to canter over, and stopping short of him and his horse. “Not so bad at all!”

“You just can’t be scared. It’s easy enough to direct it—it’s trained to listen. Just remember that, and you won’t fall,” it felt good to help her this way. She was a good student, put in the work, and this was an interaction that felt… More in line with a Grey Warden in the service to the Herald. It prevented too close of quarters. There was a focus that kept them from their penchant for flirting. And he could still admire her from a distance, knowing that he couldn’t flat out stop admiring her. Sitting confidently and calmly on the horse, she did strike the figure of a noble lady, tall, carefree, and lovely. She was an objectively beautiful woman in this way, rather than the sweet, kind, and cautious Sula Adaar, with golden eyes, and freckles, and pink lips and faintly greyish pink cheeks that blushed under his gaze, and spoke low and teasingly dirty jokes in the tavern—Focus, he told himself, remembering that they still had to cover galloping, jumping, evasive action, far too much to start day dreaming about the Herald.

And while he was daydreaming, she’d gotten cocky. “You know, I might not even need more lessons?” she said, laughing, cantering about in a circle in the surrounding area. “I’ve got the basics! That’s probably all there is to it, right?”

“Well, no,” he said, starting to ride closer. “It’s enough to get by, for sure, but if we’re going to be riding these all around, we’ll probably need to cover jumps, fighting from horseback…”

“Jump? That seems easy enough? Ride up to something fast enough and it just knows, right?”

“No, it won’t,” he said, laughing, until he realized she was serious. “Sula, it won’t.”

But she’d already made her first mistake. Already in a canter, she tried to kick the horse to go faster. It did, and she immediately tensed up, and lost the reins. “Shit!” she cried, and he echoed her sentiment, racing after her as the horse began running wild.

The string of curses the two of them shouted as the horse ran and ran and ran further away from the camp echoed off the mountains surrounding them. We’ll be lucky if no one hears, Blackwall thought, filled with dread, as his horse began to close in on the runaway Herald. He couldn’t really blame her though. Once he’d figured out the basics, he had tried the same thing. Unlucky for him, the horse bucked him into the side of a barn. Lucky for the Herald, he managed to grab hold of her horse’s reins, and slow them sufficiently to a trot, before it decided to kick at either of them.

They were both breathing heavy by the time they came to a stop. She looked down at him, cheeks aglow from the exertion and embarrassment, her eyes wide and guilty. “I’m… So sorry.”

He couldn’t take it. He burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, he had to get down from the horse, or he would have fallen from it. She followed, also laughing.

“We’re so far from the camp! Damn it, I shouldn’t have gotten so—Aaah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said in between her laughter and trying to catch her breath.

He grabbed her shoulder, to lean on, and to assure her that it was quite alright, but something caught, her foot in the horse’s reins perhaps, or him on some slippery rock or log, but they both tumbled forward, and the laughter continued, covered in leaves and mulch.

“This is still better than my first time, believe me,” he said, turning to look at her, and she turned as well, smiling, her mouth open to ask something, but the question died on her lips.

He felt almost stuck in a memory, thinking back to that busty Starkhaven girl, and how easy it had been to fall from his horse, and right into her arms, surrendering to her hungry kisses. Such a thing could happen right now, so easily, and Sula Adaar was just as beautiful a companion as the Starkhaven girl had once been. Perhaps more so. Perhaps that was just the knowledge that he could not and should not kiss the Herald. Blackwall, a noble man, probably would have reminded himself sternly of that knowledge, stood, and prepared their horses for the short ride back to camp, and been done with it.

Sula Adaar had that same hungry look in her eyes, as she looked down at his lips, and bit her own, turning slightly closer, her hand inching ever so slightly his way. When she looked back up from his lips, there was want in her eyes.

Thom Rainier had always been very bad at not doing whatever it was he wanted.

He kissed her. He pulled her close, probably too fast, but when their lips met, she was just as forceful, her hand tangling itself in his hair, her tongue meeting his, her legs wrapping themselves around his, every inch of her wanting him. Instinct drove his hand to the ties of her gambeson, and she moaned as his other hand roamed her thigh, and that’s when noble thoughts returned to Thom Rainier.

Focus. She’s the Herald of Andraste. You can’t undress the Herald of Andraste, Blackwall thought. He pulled away, and her eyes were still closed when he realized his mistake.

He sat up when she opened her eyes, and bit her lip in confusion. He looked away when she whispered, “Blackwall?”

“Forgive me,” he said, and it felt like the blood pounded angrily all throughout his body, aching to be kissing her again. “I did… I did not intend to kiss you.”

“You don’t have to apologize… I wanted to kiss you,” she laughed, “I don’t think you lured me out here for this, and even if you did, I don’t mind.” That was too much. He could not indulge this.

The Herald of Andraste was a much different caliber of woman than the Starkhaven girl. Both were sweet, decent folk, to be sure, but the Starkhaven girl suffered no slight to her character, no damage to her cause for succumbing to a quick fling with Thom Rainier. Perhaps a bastard, but a stable hand in Starkhaven could expect those. The Herald? Too much was at stake, for him and her. He stood, and walked to the horses, careful not to look at the Herald. “We should head back,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, and without emotion.

“We… Aren’t in any hurry,” she said. She was making this difficult. She sounded sad.

“I should head back. I left some work I have to attend to. Forgive me,” all lies, but what wasn’t? He had to leave her side, that was the only thing that was certain. He mounted his horse, and gave her a slight nod before riding away.

It was an idiotic thing to leave her alone, to not discuss what had just occurred, but he couldn’t face it, not then, not while he still wanted her, not while he could still taste her on his lips. He needed to be alone.

There were no more riding lessons after that.

#adaar x blackwall #dragon age blackwall #inquisitor adaar #blackwall x inquisitor #blackwall x adaar #thom rainier #sula x thom #long post #dragon age fan fiction #dragon age: inquisition #my writing #sula adaar #blogteas

[eowynstwin]

An old fic I found while clearing out my laptop hard drive. Unedited. Alistair/Cousland. NSFW. Enjoy.

Her hands came up to unlatch the brassiere, but Alistair suddenly spoke without thinking. “Wait! Don’t—I mean—I wanted to—Maker’s breath…”

Elissa regarded him curiously, head tilted. “Yes?” she asked.

He pulled his lips between his teeth and glanced down at her hands, which still rested at the clasp between her breasts. Face burning, he finally said, “I want—er, that is—can I…can I take it off? Instead?”

He’d bungled it. Utterly bungled it. She was going to put her clothes back on and leave and tell him tomorrow morning that maybe they should wait, maybe they should end it, maybe they should—she was smiling. She was smiling at him and lowering her hands to her side.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her smile not only on her face but in her voice. “Can you?”

He blinked. She was…joking? He continued to stare a bit, and the smile fell from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t joke about this, it’s not right—”

He didn’t let her finish. He pounced, taking her face in his hands and kissing her senseless, and they slowly descended down onto her bedroll. He moved his kisses from her mouth to her neck, darting his tongue out to tickle that spot he’d discovered in the Gnawed Noble only a week ago. She guffawed, and slapped her hands over her mouth in surprise. Her chest convulsed with her silent laughter as he tickled her sides, too—his wonderful, beautiful girl was ticklish all over and by Andraste’s flaming sword he loved her for it.

“Alistair…Alistair!” she gasped, panting for lack of air. He gave her mercy, and pulled his hands away as he sat up. She made to get up with him, but he put a hand to her shoulder. She must have seen something in his expression, for she lay her head back down on her pillow, her gaze never leaving his. He leaned down and swept his hands up her bare stomach, capturing her mouth in a lingering kiss as his finger reached the clasp. He pulled up and turned his attention to her chest.

The Maker was smiling upon him—he got the clasp undone without any trouble, and he slowly pulled the brassiere apart. He lowered the two pieces to either side of her as he focused on her breasts. They were small and so delicate-looking for a person with such a strong body—peach-pink tips and creamy white skin, rising and falling slowly with her chest as she breathed in and out. “Maker’s breath,” he murmured reverently. “You are so beautiful, Elissa.”

“Alistair,” she whispered. He looked back up at her face. Her expression was, perhaps, softer than he’d ever seen it, lips parted just slightly, a dusting of pink across her cheeks. “Oh, Alistair…” she repeated.

He shifted in position, putting one knee on her other side so that he was straddling her. He brushed his thumbs over her tightened nipples, drawing circles around them with the gentlest pressure. Her eyes slid shut as she sighed; he desperately, desperately wanted her to do that again. He also wanted to—so he did. He pressed a kiss right in the valley of her chest, and then kissed his way up until he sealed his mouth over one of the hardened peaks.

“Mmmm,” she moaned, her hands coming up to rest in his hair. He placed one of his own at her ribcage, and covered her other breast with his other, kneading the pliant flesh as he licked and nibbled.

Honestly, he was surprised at himself—he’d never touched a woman in his life before her. Chantry priestesses had slapped his hand away when he’d reached out as a boy for comfort, and no lay sister or scullery maid would look at a bastard, and a Templar-recruit at that—and certainly not at a Grey Warden. So the act of touching and kissing and pleasuring a woman had been naught but a passing fantasy, something to imagine when he had his hands around himself at night; now he had the most beautiful woman in Thedas underneath him, clinging to him, telling him don’t stop, don’t stop, oh, Alistair, oh, yes, Maker, yes!

He pulled his mouth from her breast with a wet pop and met her eye, smirking at her. Moving his head to the other side of her chest, he dragged his tongue from the underside, closing his lips around the nipple and giving a strong suck before he breathed, “Do you enjoy that, Lady Cousland?”

She lightly smacked the side of his head in response. “Where does a celibate Templar learn to do that?” she inquired. He was rather proud that she was breathless.

He bit his lip to keep from smirking even wider. “You underestimate how long I’ve been wanting this, you know. I’ve thought about how I’m going to touch each and every part of you.”

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. “Pray tell,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Well,” he said. He gently closed his teeth around her nipple and slid one hand between her legs, cupping her over her smallclothes and squeezing. The resulting moan sent a throb through his cock, which was already half-hard. Maker’s breath, what would it feel like to have it inside her, to have her writhe beneath him as he pulled in and out of her? He was torn between wanting to find out now and wanting to continue touching her.

He’d heard from some rather…crude stablehands as a boy in Redcliffe that a woman’s first time was supposed to hurt, but when he’d asked Zevran (in a rather mortified state) if that was true, the assassin had given him probably the most serious expression he’d ever seen him make and told him that if a woman’s first time hurt, the man she was with didn’t even deserve to lick the heels of her boots.

Which was why Alistair was hesitant to actually do the deed—if Elissa wasn’t going to enjoy it, if she was going to be in pain because of it, he’d rather not do it at all. He couldn’t live with himself if he took his pleasure at her expense.

But he had a question to answer. “I’m going to kiss every part of you, Lady Cousland,” he said. “I’m going to wrap my hands around your breasts and bite at your neck until there’s a big, red mark there.”

She ground her core against his hand. “And just…ohhh…what are you going to do with that handful you have down there, Ser Alistair?”

He moved his hand from the juncture of her thighs to one breast so that he was doing exactly what he said he would do, and lowered his weight onto her as he pressed his lips to her neck. “When and only when you’re ready,” he breathed as he massaged her mounds and nipped at her skin, “I’m going to take those undergarments of yours off and fill you up as far as I can go, and I’m going to—” blast it, he was running out of words. How was he going to say he was going to thrust his cock into her until she was screaming without sounding like a complete fool? And didn’t that sound rather violent? Honestly, it sounded like it would hurt—“I’m sorry,” he groaned, “I lost my chain of thought.”

Elissa pulled his face up to hers; she was smiling so tenderly. And he knew at once she didn’t care that despite his best efforts he was brand-new to this, and he remembered that though she possessed more knowledge of these matters than him, she was new to it, too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

“Don’t be,” she murmured back, and kissed him.

They maneuvered a bit so they could get her brassiere all the way off, with him sitting up and she lifting her back and shoulders. Then, she guided his hands to her smallclothes. They worked together, as they always did—he dragged the waistband down over the curve of her rear and she worked one leg out of it, hooking her knee on his waist. He slid the garment down her leg and set it aside, and she was naked underneath him, hair fanned out and a blush blooming across her chest as her eyes traveled across his bare chest and down to his stomach, and down to the bulge he knew his now painfully-stiff cock was making by now.

“One more piece,” she breathed. He lay against her again, and she hooked her legs around his middle.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his breathe labored. He core was pressed up against him, rubbing just slightly, and it was making him see stars.

Once again, Elissa guided his hand between her legs, but this time she maneuvered his fingers between her folds; they were slick, and soaked, and when she pushed one of his fingers into her they both gasped. “You won’t, oh, Alistair…” she moaned.

He moaned with her; the thought of that slick, tight, blazing heat around him was almost enough to finish him. He couldn’t wait any longer, otherwise everything would be over before it began, and he’d be more humiliated than he’d ever been in his life.

“Now,” he gasped, “please, Elissa!”

Her toes hooked around the band of his loincloth and pushed down; he hurriedly got them off and kicked them aside, taking himself in hand. Elissa was looking down between them curiously, biting her lip, her brows drawn together.

It was painful to say it, but he had to. He had to. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’re not sure, I promise.”

Elissa pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Alistair, if you don’t put that in me right now I might go mad.”

He wanted to cry with relief, but that would have made a rather unpretty picture. He made sure he was positioned just right and then…he eased himself in.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as her heat enveloped him. The muscles in his gut and thighs and arse clenched as he pushed in inch by inch, a guttural groan building in his chest until it burst from his throat. The bite of Elissa’s nails in his back only intensified the ecstasy; when he looked down at her, her head was thrown back and her mouth hung open, chest rising and falling rapidly, breasts shaking with her panted breaths. She was moaning, too, quickly uttered mewls with each exhale that he could swear vibrated down into his cock.

“More,” she gasped. “More!”

He obliged in the only way he could think of—he pulled himself out halfway and then shoved back in, and she cried out as her hands fell to his rear and clenched into the muscles.

“Again,” she moaned.

“So—demanding!” he panted as he starting thrusting. Her thighs tightened at his sides.

“I save your pretty arse every day, Alistair,” she laughed. “It’s the least you could do!”

He thrust into her with a particularly forceful slam. “Would the lady like something else, for all her hard work? Maybe a song while I do all mine? ‘You know, Andraste’s old mabari, he don’t show up in the chant!”

Her laughter caused her channel to clench around him, and his song was quickly cut off as he gasped. She did, too—she’d felt it, same as him.

“Come here,” she said, and he lowered himself down, slowing the pace of his thrusts. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he buried his face in her neck, and from there they moved together, their pace growing quick as they got close to their ends.

Elissa hit hers first; her muscles tightened in his arms, and her channel clenched around him so tightly his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A squeal in his ear, nails digging into his back, and she was coming, rolling her hips to prolong her climax. Not long after, he reached his end too; as the pressure built in his groin, he had to prop himself up to get the perfect angle, and like a dam bursting his own orgasm hit him; he thrust his pelvis forward to finish as deep inside Elissa as possible, spilling his seed into her as he collapsed on top of her.

“Oh, we should’ve put down a towel…” she said, though she didn’t really sound like she minded much. Their eyes met, and after half a beat they were grinning at each other, and suddenly they both began to laugh.

Alistair slid himself out of her, rolling off to her side. “Maker’s breath, did I really start singing Andraste’s Mabari?”

Elissa’s giggles went into full-blown guffaws. “You did! You really did. It was wonderful.”

He wrapped her up in his arms. “It was?”

She smiled at him. “It was. All of it. Every minute.”

He responded by kissing her. “I love you,” he murmured against her mouth. There wasn’t anything else to say—he did, and he wasn’t taking it back.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Forever and always.”

He could live with that.

#alistair/cousland #dragon age: origins #dao #alistair therin #cousland #otp: something to live for #it's been 84 years since i posted any fic oy vey #dont mind me

[calamity-writes]

Eh 27.3 Endgame

Cast: Haylan ( @siriusdraws ),  Rythlen Theirin ( @picchar )​, Milliara (me!) Theseus Trevelyan (@perditionxroad), Peanut Adaar ( @cupcakelogic ), Fiowyn ( @shyquisitor )

Guest appearance: Karya and Aldes ( @kingsdragonage ), Kenslynn ( @megan-mayhem ), the DuMarcs ( @fangrl-esque )

~4600 words, Rated R for violence and language

Fiowyn - Skyhold

Fiowyn stood stock still, holding Nils behind her with one hand, while the other stretched out toward the woman that stood between her and the exit. Tall, regal and imposing, the so-called First Enchanter had pressed her lips together primly at Fi’s refusal to hand over the boy.

“You’re only making this harder for everyone involved, dear,” the woman said with a small sigh. “Here you are, pitifully defenceless and rather drunk, and you plan to stand against me?”

Fiowyn took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes on the woman with the weird horned hat as she turned to speak to over her shoulder to Nils.

“Nils, sweetie,” she said calmly. “Why don’t you crawl under Mamae’s bed for now? I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out. Until then, cover your ears and close your eyes okay?”

Nils gave her hand a squeeze and scrambled under the four post bed. It was huge, and it would keep Nils away from any blowback or spells. Fi didn’t doubt that the mage had the upper hand, but she couldn’t -wouldn’t- just hand Nils over so some prissy Orlesian woman.

“A poor decision, darling,” Vivienne said with a sigh. “The boy needs a proper education and he’ll get one despite his mother’s misguided opnions on the matter. Such a shame she went… native with you lot,” she said, voice icy. She flicked her grip on the staff she held and a blast of force struck Fiowyn square in the chest, knocking her back to the floor by the bed.

“I would stay down if I were you, dear,” Vivienne said. Through the ringing in her ears, Fi heard the woman’s heels click on the floor, approaching where she lay and where Nils hid just a arm’s length away.

Fiowyn looked over at the boy, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands over his ears like she’d told him. Something glinted by him, and Fi said a silent prayer of thanks to whichever of the Creators fuelled Millie’s paranoia. stuck to the slats of the bedframe was a pistol.

“Whatever it is you think you’re going to do,” Vivienne said, “Don’t.” Fiowyn watched the mage lower the head of her staff until it pointed directly at Fi’s nose. The tip started to glow, and the hairs along Fi’s arms prickled with static.

“Say goodbye to your nephew, darling.”

Theseus - Winter Palace

Another night and Theseus would have let the questions go. Another night, when his… his… when whatever Milliara was to him, hadn’t killed her ex. When she wasn’t trying to shut him out for no reason. When his blood wasn’t flush with lyrium thrumming with every beat of his heart. He tried to shake the questions off but they chewed at the back of his mind, fuelled by Lyrium.

It was one of those lesser known side effects, like losing your memory after several decades of use. The Chantry didn't tell you the rush Lyrium gave you until your first draught. They let you feel the way it made you bolder, less afraid, and told you it was for when you had to face down abominations and blood mages who would sooner show you your own spine than listen to reason. Whether it was truly the Maker giving him courage or just a chemical reaction tot he lyrium, it didn't matter. The effect was the same. The thrum of the drug in his veins pushed and pushed at the questions until he couldn't take it any more.

Three long strides took him up to where Milliara was stalking forward, muttering to Rythlen.

“Millie, talk to me. Please,” he said, reaching for her arm. “Tell me what’s going on. Tell me what happened. Did he hurt you? Did he-”

She flinched away from him, yanking back from his hand. The flash of fear in those silver eyes cut deeper than any words she might have flung his way. He’d never done anything to hurt her, never. Did she still think he would? She'd said she trusted him, but that was before she'd chosen the bastard Chevalier to watch her back.  Now Rousseau had hurt her, forced Milliara to kill him. He might have deserved it, but if Theseus had been there, if he knew what happened maybe he could help... somehow.

“Don’t,” Milliara growled up at him. “Don’t push this right now, Theseus.”

Looking up at him, he watched Milliara put on a mask of anger to hide the fear. She didn’t have to, not around him, didn't she know that? It wasn't as though they were in the middle  why did she try to hide that she was just human? Theseus winced internally at the phrase.

He realised Milliara was squinting at him, eyes flicking back and forth as she stared at his face. It took him a heartbeat to realise what she was staring at. He had forgotten she had such good eyesight in the dark. With her eyes, she'd be able to see that his pupils were still contracted to points,

“Are you… high?” She hissed.

“Lyrium doesn't make you 'high',” Theseus said, frowning.

“You- you took lyrium. What, here?” she asked, eyes wide. “Why would you take lyrium here? For all you know someone could have poisoned it, or worse, corrupted it with that red crap!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” he snapped back. He'd thought she was over this. He needed the lyrium to be effective in combat. She'd said she trusted him. Looks like she didn't anymore. “I took it so I could protect you. We don’t know what we’re facing out here, and you kept leaving me behind-”

“I almost lost you at Adamant. I wasn't going to lose you here.” Milliara jabbed a finger into his chestplate. Her glowing vallaslin flickered angrily in time with what would be her pulse. Theseus knew she was truly angry now, but so was he. The only thing that stopped him from raising his voice was her admission that she'd been scared for him, not of him.

Shit.

"Millie I'm sorry," he started to say. She didn't give him a chance to continue. Grabbing his chestplate, she pulled him down to her eye level.

“But this is bigger than you, and bigger than me and bigger than Fred. If I have to cut through you too because you were a dumbass and took lyrium in the fucking Orlesian-godsdamn-court, I will. I’ve done it once and I’ll do it again.”

Milliara let go and smacked his hand away as Theseus reached out to stop her, to try to smooth things over. She'd done it once? Did that mean when she'd been at Redcliffe she'd killed whatever she thought had been him? Or did that mean she'd killed Fred, and wouldn't hesitate to kill him too?

“Trevelyan, take Dorian and find Leliana and Cullen. Tell her what happened. Ry, Solas, New guy, we’re going Duchess-hunting.”

“Mil-”

“That was an order, Knight,” she snarled over her shoulder. “Move your ass.”

Theseus watched her stalk away, unable to meet Rythlen’s  eyes as she glanced back with an empathetic face. Instead he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

He had his orders. He hated them, but he had his orders.

‘I’ve done it once, and I’ll do it again’.

“I thought we were past that,” he muttered to himself, then turned to scowl at Dorian.

“Don’t look at me,” Dorian said, holding his hands up in defence. “I did try to tell you to drop it.” The Altus clicked his tongue. “But really, trusting Lyrium here to be untampered with? I hope you’re right and it was untouched.”

Theseus shook his head, starting towards the doors that would lead towards the main ballroom.

“I mean, in Minrathous you’d already be dead by now, but I hope you’re right.”

“You didn’t need to add that part, Dorian,” Theseus said over his shoulder.

“Hm. I suppose you’re right. Well, let’s go save an Empire, shall we?”

Maeve - Winter Palace

Everything happened so fast.

The Empress approached the dias and microphone to address the crowd and had yet to even say anything when the doors to the ballroom burst open and militants with harlequin patterns on their armor strode into the crowd, rifles raised and voices shouting for everyone to get onto their knees and put their hands behind their heads.

Cullen and Maeve both reacted on instinct. He punched the nearest bard, grabbing and twisting the gun from the man’s grip. Maeve slammed her glass into the woman behind him’s throat, grabbing the rifle and pointing it to the cieling and away from the civilians and nobles.

The masqued woman squeezed off a spatter of shots on reflex, the bullets punching into the gilded moulding of the ballroom cieling, sending chunks of plaster and dust falling down onto the screaming people below.

Gritting her teeth, Maeve grabbed the woman by the collar and twisted, throwing her over her hip and to the hard floor. Viciously, she yanked the rifle free and squeezed off a burst into the bard’s chest.

“Get to the Empress,” Cullen was shouting. Maeve could hardly hear him over the screams. But behind him there was another bard, there were too many. She couldn’t leave him and lose him like she’d lost-

Maeve grabbed Cullen’s lapels, twisting and throwing herself between him and the bard. She felt the first bullet punch into her back, tracing a line of fire through her that bloomed into white static in her chest. The other two shots were distant thuds, a hand pounding her back as she choked on the hot froth that bubbled up her throat.

“Maeve?” Cullen sounded so scared. She tried to cup his jaw, but her hands weren’t working right. “MAEVE?!”

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t let- I’m sorry.” Her lips were still moving, but they were numb now, her whole body cold and numb aside from the trails of fire through her chest. “I love you.”

Warm arms wrapped around her, and Maeve smiled.

Cullen was always so warm...

Milliara - Winter Palace

“Soo...” the new guy said, keeping up as Millie and the others jogged around towards the balcony that jutted out into the courtyard from the head of the ballroom. It was where the peacetalks were to take place, an oasis from the crush of nobles and where the true business of Ruling Orlais was done.

It was also a back way in that Florianne wouldn’t expect.

“What,” Milliara said, turning through the maze of trellises and hedges. She wasn’t stopping, they’d wasted too much time already.

“Do you two always argue? Not that I'm complaining, it makes missions more entertain-”

“Get to the point or stop talking,” Millie said.

To his credit, the new guy took direction well. He coughed awkardly but let the poor attempt at banter drop. Theseus could learn a thing or two about that, Milliara thought bitterly. She'd said not now, and she'd fucking meant it. This wasn't the time or the place to talk about feelings.

"May I have a weapon before we find the Duchess? Pretty please?” Galaren asked. "Unfortunately her men took mine before-"

Without looking behind or slowing down, Milliara pulled the handgun from the small of her back and held it out to the side for the New Guy to take.

“Just take the gun,” she said, biting back a sigh. "And try not to shoot anyone wearing black."

Milliara felt him take the weapon and heard the click as he checked the magazine. At least he knew that much. Whatever witty reply he might have had was cut off by the stutter of small arms fire that ripped through the night air.

“Shit,” Milliara said, breaking into a run. The balcony was just ahead, with the trellis she remembered still there. Bless the void for small favours, Milliara leapt up onto the wooden lattice, climbing up it as fast as she could. Inside the ballroom there was screaming and more gunfire until a familiar voice spoke on the sound system.

“Lords, Ladies, dear Orlesians,” Florianne said. “Welcome with me an end to the corruption of Orlais, an end to the infighting and pointless Civil War. Welcome with me the reign of the only true God, the Elder One!”

Leaping from the trellis to the balcony, Milliara landed  and rolled on the flagstones, absorbing the worst of the sound. She crept forward, bent low to hide behind the feast table that stood between her and the ballroom until she reached it’s edge. Peering around it, she could see Florianne standing  next to a kneeling Gaspard and Celene. Each had a Bard in armor standing behind them with a handgun pointed at the back of their heads.

“Mother fuckers,” Milliara breathed. She glanced over at Ry, and signalled she was going in. They’d have to catch up, there was no time to waste.

With no gun –damnit New Guy– she was limited with what she had to work with. Millie peered at the top of the table, plucking two cheese knives from the spread and tucked them into her belt.

She took a breath in and held it, letting it out as she stepped out from behind the table and launched her two daggers at the gunmen. There would be others, and a knive thrown was a knife you couldn’t count on getting back.

The first gunman stumbled with a cry, the gun falling from his hand. The second grunted, legs buckling underneath him as the superheated blade of Milliara’s dagger bit through the back of his neck. She didn’t stop to watch if the blade had paralysed him or not. Pulling to stolen cheese knives free from her belt, she ran them over the spongey pouch at her hip, coating them in poison. If they weren’t already, this was Orlais after all.

The attendees at the ball gasped as Millie appeared from the darkness of the balcony. Milliara twisted, slamming her foot into the head of the injured gunman and knocking him over and away from Celene.

Behind her, Milliara could hear the others landing on the balcony, and she felt the cool prickly of magic settle around her shoulders. Solas, she guessed, but in the thick of things, it could be anyone who’d cast the spell. Millie just open it was a friendly spell and not a malicious one.

“You are as stubborn as ever,” Florianne said, lips peeling back from her teeth. “But before you move further, let me ask you: how much do you love your son?” Milliara froze, cheese knives in each hand. The chill she felt may well have been ice water poured down her spine.

//Never let them see you bleed,/ she reminded herself. The next words were unbearable, but she said them because she had to, because if she didn’t, she’d give up what was most precious to his… hyena in silks.

“I don’t,” Milliara lied. “I would have thought you’d understand bargaining chips, Florianne. Keeping Nils meant keeping Frederic in line.” She forced her lips into a smile with too much teeth, even as she prayed to the void that Nils was safe. Skyhold was remote, it was patrolled and Fiowyn, Peanut and the others were there. Nils had to be safe. “Of course now that Fred is out of the picture… he’s a child as any other.”

Florianne hesitated. It was only a flutter of doubt but Milliara saw it in the Duchess’ eyes before she turned to face the crowd. The courtiers, sharks one and all, caught it too. Blood was in the water, and it wasn’t the Inquisitior’s.

“I don’t believe you,” Florianne said, gesturing up toward the screens hung around the dias. They flickered and cut away from a shot of Florianne to an image of the inside of Milliara’s rooms at Skyhold. More specifically, the floor where Fiowyn lay on one of he rugs that had been brought in at Josephine’s insistance. Nils liked to run his toy ships along the curling vines woven into it.

Now, Milliara watched as her cousin stared up at whoever was wearing the camera. A staff was outstretched toward Fiowyn’s face, crackling with energy. The camera spun, knocked off balance and Milliara caught a glimpse of dark manicured hands reaching out and throwing a ball of energy towards the two figures that now stood in the doorway. The audio crackled and popped, static and shouts of surpise as a Very Angry Qunari who was wearing a ruffly pink apron and bows on her horns, charged. Kalieth behind her was shouting, but whatever it was that she said was lost in the static and feedback.

The camera tumbled, bouncing and rolling to the side to show Peanut haul Vivienne to her feet and physically throw her into a wall.

“Hmm,” Milliara said, placing her hands on her hips. “This is going really well for you, Florianne.”

Vivienne tried to rally, reaching into the ether and pulling out a glowing blade to slash at Peanut. But a shimmering barrier sprung up, sending the blade skidding off harmlessly.

From underneath the bed, a small face and hand could be seen, and Milliara’s heart swelled up painfully as she realised her son had helped to protect his tutor. She swallowed hard, trying to regain the cold mask of indifference. It was too late.

“Don’t love him hm?” Florianne said, smug. She reached up to her collar and pulled at the butterflies there. Whatever magic or engineering had held the dress together released, letting silks fall to the floor. Underneath she wore light armor, similarly painted in ugly harlequin red and white. Orlesians.

“Look,” Milliara said, giving up on the pretense of indifference. “You’re not going to win this, Florianne. Surrender now, and I’ll let you live. You tried a play and it failed. There’s no shame in admitting you lost.”

“No shame?” Florianne asked, placing a hand to her breastbone in shock. “In losing to an elf? Please, I would rather die, rabbit.”

Milliara felt her lip twitch up into a sneer at the slur.

“That can be arranged. How about a duel? One on one. The winner takes the game tonight and the other’s life.” Milliara glanced out at the crowd, eyes scanning and catching key faces. Leliana, Josephine, Alistair were all there. Accounted for. If she could minimize losses, if she could just keep this from getting worse-

“Hm,” Florianne said, tapping a finger against her lips. “No.”

The Grand Duchess pulled her other hand around from her hip, now holding a handgun similar to those her henchmen had held before Milliara had incapacitated them. Instead of dodging to the side, Milliara threw herself forward. The gun flashed, bucking twice in Florianne’s hand before the elf was on her. Cheese knives or no, they were sharp and coated in the strongest poison Milliara had been able to make earlier that day.

The broader of the two slammed into the crook of Florianne’s elbow, slicing through the thin material there to bite into flesh. The poison was fast acting, not lethal but enough to disorient, and hopefully enough to turn the odds into Milliara’s favour. She had, after all, brough cheese knives to a gunfight. Not one of her best moments, she knew.

Florianne’s spare hand snapped into a hard punch to Milliara’s face, splitting the skin over her left eye. The hot blood that poured out stung her eye, and Milliara squeezed it shut to keep it from distracting her. But the hit had been enough to dislodge her grip on the Duchess. A sharp kick send Millie sprawling back onto the marble floor for the second time that night, and she wheezed and rolled back onto all fours.

Bright bolts of energy arced over her head and slammed into the Duchess, sending her staggering back. And Rythlen, beautiful, warrior queen that she was, charged forward and slammed the edge of her shield into the Duchess’s stupid masqued face. Florianne toppled, arms flailing at her face, now shattered by the Warden Queen’s strike. Hands were helping Milliara up, but he Inquisitor didn’t take her eyes off Florianne. The Duchess had let out a garbled cry for help, but her agents weren’t coming to her rescue.

Spitting blood from her mouth, Milliara snatched up the thermobladed dagger from where it was still buried in the gunman’s neck. With three strides, she was by Rythlen. The Queen sliced low with her sword, taking the Duchess out at the knee. Milliara, aching and exhausted, stepped forward and slashed her dagger down into Florianne’s exposed throat. Red sprayed out onto both Millie and Ry, staining pale skin. It was the second time tonight, but this time Milliara didn’t feel sick as she watched the body slump to the floor. This time she just felt relieved.

Looking up at the crowd below them, she saw that the guests had risen up and overpowered the Harlequins. Alistair and the Starkhaven Prince now held rifles and fallen agents lay by their feet in slowly spreading pools of blood.

“I really…” Miliara wheezed, bending over and bracing a hand against the railing of the balcony they stood on. Her chest was aching and she realised that one of the bullets had struck her chest  armor, bruising already hurt ribs. “I really missed this.” She offered a half-smile to Rythlen.

“Bullshit,” Ry said, sheathing her sword and deactivating her shield. “You’re hurt. Let’s get you sitting down and have someone take a look at you.”

Milliara debated a smartass remark, but by the time she had anything half-way decent she had Ry on one side of her and the New Guy on the other, helping her out to the night air where the negotiations and feasting table still stood, relatively undisturbed.

“So, is every mission like this?” Galaren asked, helping Ry ease Milliara down into a chair. It was upholstered in white velvet and Millie took a deep, perverse, pleasure in knowing she’d stain it beyond all saving. Fuck Orlais. The only good things here were the music, the coffee and the cakes.

“Yes,” Milliara said, leaning her head back against the chair and closing her eyes. She winced as cool hands touched her forehead, just above the cut on her brow.

“Apologies,” Solas murmured. “I can help ease the swelling but it will take some time to heal. I do not have the skills that Enchanter Haylan does when it comes to medical arts.”

Milliara heard the swish of skirts approaching them, along with a delicate clearing of a throat. Reluctantly opening her non-blood covered eye, she looked past Solas to where Celene and Gaspard now stood. To their credit, neither one looked as though they’d just had their lives threatened. Calm, composed, the dust was even gone from Gaspard’s knees.

“We owe you a great deal, Inquisitor,” Celene said. “You have saved our life, and exposed a plot to drown our Empire in chaos. Yet, we still must resolve the matter of the Orlesian Civil war, or tonight’s sacrifices will all be for nothing, non?”

“Briala and Gaspard both were aware of the plot and tried to turn it to their advantage,” Milliara said, gesturing with her hand towards Galaren. “He can attest to Gaspard’s role.”

She watched the Empress feign horror and had to resist rolling her eyes at the display.

“But-” Milliara said before Celene could demand Gaspard’s head. “The Inquisition requests that you don’t kill Gaspard. Just exile, he can serve with the Inquisition until the Magister Corypheus is defeated then go off to… fuck, wherever,” she said, waving her hand vaguely. “Just not Orlais.”

Celene huffed, but nodded gracefully.

“As a favour, we grant this request in face of all you have done for us tonight, now, if you will excuse us, we need to see to clearing up this mess. Guards, escort our dear cousin Gaspard to the Inquisition forces, and fetch a healer for the Lady Inquisitor.”

**

Washing off the blood and grime of the night was cathartic, even though the cut on her forehead stung when water touched it, Milliara had stood with her head under the shower head for a full minute, just to feel the water wash off all traces of Fred and Florianne.

If she’d been allowed a choice, Milliara would have stayed in that shower for the rest of the night. It was safe and quiet, and most importantly away fromm qyestions about what had happened with Fred. Reluctantly, she’d dried off and fixed her hair and makeup in the guest suite Celene had given to them to use. Rythlen had already finished and now was pulling on her gown again.

“Rather impressively, casualties were low tonight,” Leliana said, standing by the door with her arms crossed at her waist. She’d arrived while Milliara was in the shower, and waited until she’d finished drying off to start the debriefing. “However, Cullen is… despondent. Maeve did not survive despite the best efforts of Celene’s healers.”

Milliara was quiet at that, and glanced down at her right palm, where the Anchor’s scar glowed green on her hand. In another universe, had things worked out differently? Would she be the one who had died tonight, and Maeve who had survived to save Orlais?

“Who else?” Milliara asked, standing slowly from her seat at the vanity and crossing to where her change of clothes hung from the closet door.

“A few minor nobles, Frederic of course, and the serving staff. We discovered Briala’s body in the front garden, whether she’d been attempting to escape or help the Empress, we will never know”

“Millie,” Rythlen asked, perched on the edge of the bed. “Are you doing okay? With everything that happened tonight…” 

Her first reaction was to snap at Ry, tell her that she was fine. But, she wasn’t. And Milliara had had enough lying to friends for one night.

“No,” she admitted, unzipping the garment bag and pulling out the dress inside. It was white, simplly cut but embroidered with glimmering beads. Like her suit, the dress had a plunging neckline, and was slit up the centre to allow her to move easily. It was a far cry from the confections Fred used to dress her up in. Thank the Void for that.

“I’m not, but, I will be eventually,” Milliara admitted after a moment. She winced, pulling on the dress gingerly over the bruises that had started to bloom along her ribs and back. "Right now, I just want to try to enjoy what's left of the night. The food and wine and music and maybe listening to that Starkhaven Prince talk about anything."

Leliana smiled. "He does have a charming voice, doesn't he?" the bard said. "I'll tell our people to keep an eye on you and to fend off the suitors."

Milliara paused in the middle of pinning on the Inquisition broach and looked over at Leliana in horror.

"What... suitors..." she asked carefully.

Leliana just smiled, and opened the door.

"Go on, enjoy yourselves," she said. "I'll manage the rest of the evening so you two can relax. I suggest trying some of the petit fours, they're quite delicious."

Milliara watched Leliana slip out the door, then looked to Rythlen. Tall and strong, the elf wondered how the Queen managed this, the life of ruling and court and everthing. Every day.

"Hey... Ry?" She said quietly. "Thank you. For being here." For being a friend. "It means a lot to me."

#Entropic Horizons #Endgame #Milliara #Theseus #Rythlen #Fiowyn #Peanut #Kalieth #FRANNNNDSHIP