#poor mages i wish they weren’t so good at being soldiers

[omgkalyppso]

It's 1 AM — happy belated birthday Owain! I wrote some owainigo / laslodin ? Intended as being able to be read as an S support for Laslow and Odin. Written to recognize Inigo as bisexual and polyamorous and Owain as a trans man. Vague about Owain's sexuality because he currently has his sights on Inigo only.

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It had been a long time since Laslow had felt like dancing; even recently, he’d wondered if he’d ever want to again, when they’d fallen into Valla and all hope had seemed lost. Yet when Xander had ordered he and Peri enjoy themselves this eve, he’d had a week for his dancer’s garb to be refitted — the clothes he’d arrived in — now matching a soldier’s girth and shoulders. He was not the spritely lad of years past, and wondered whether he looked like a fool.

In the least, the steps were as familiar as breathing, and the melody of the drums was known to his heart, even if the tune wasn’t the same.

His mother — his birth mother, whom he’d only known for such a short time, so much of her dancing was made for battle: relief in victory, love in anticipation, heart in loss. She remembered music of happier times, but those dances hadn’t translated into his tiny feet, so used to the sound of war drums.

He found his dancing riled the spirits of some, who watched or tapped a foot, mimicking a step or two, and Laslow felt further from them than he ever had before.

They were going home. He was going home.

This crowd would only be a memory.

.

He wondered where he would find himself: would it really be the world left in relative peace where Grima lay sleeping? Or would his intent send him spiraling far and away to the land of memory, nightmares and blight? Would Owain even wish to leave Nohr? It suited Odin Dark so naturally. He seemed happier as a mage, and through magic, his own and discovered, Owain had even managed to mold his chest into a form that brought him joy and comfort.

Inigo wondered whether Owain would hold any apprehension in sharing this version of himself with old friends and family.

Some would say Owain had no understanding of shame or embarrassment, but they’d never read his stories aloud, or seen him as a young bashful man who knew little and less of how to present himself. Still, Owain had grown, had carved himself and the world around him in ways that had secured their victories as of late.

Inigo knew that it was his own insecurities over returning that truly alarmed him.

Meanwhile Severa knew what she wanted. She always had. Her heart might be large enough to reserve pieces for all who showed her kindness and some manner of discipline, but she could never stay away from Morgan and her parents. Her home was known and waiting.

.

The song ended and he shared a soft laugh with his liege, a man whose trust and generosity he was on the cusp of betraying.

.

Public celebrations were a favorite of Owain’s. He had learned to handle a crowd, and could often find a group or three to regale with tales of victory, honor and suspense. There were jeers at times, but less when the people were joyous and relieved. Perhaps not all understood the challenges that had weighed upon their liege lords and borders, or their fabric of reality, but they knew strife, and wanted to believe it could be felled by a hero — why shouldn’t he be that.

He’d been shouting over the music for so long, that he’d nearly missed Elise’s voice marveling excitedly, “Hey! Did you know about this? He told me his dancing was a secret.”

While the Xander hushed his sister and they chittered on in silence, Odin Dark also fumbled in his tale, glancing, for a moment, to where Laslow spun daggered discs on his wrists. Owain might have trailed off entirely, and taken the time to watch as much of the performance as possible, whether to jeer or jest or compliment, but Odin had an audience, people who would think him missing or worse in the weeks to come, and so he dove back into an embellishment of the beasts they had defeated. He could watch Inigo dance again. He was sure of it.

.

The tents were relatively empty when the witching hour came to pass. The masses had retreated to the castles and campgrounds, manor houses and taverns where guests and guards were making due. A flutist was speaking with Laslow, a dancer by his side, correcting his posture, of all things. Owain sat on the edge of a fountain, and watched until his friend noticed, as Laslow turned away, red in his cheeks and upon his neck. He stopped their performance swiftly, seemingly assuring the dancer that he would remember to practice. It put a pinch in Owain’s brow, mournful that he’d spurred his friend toward another broken promise.

“You were watching then?” asked Laslow, spinning a ribbing at his side through his hoops so that they would lay at his hip, jingling.

“Even those whose ears I captivated with tales from the saga of Odin Dark, could look nowhere else!” He chuckled as Laslow sat by his side, shifting slightly, as the costume left little protection against the cool damp stone of the fountain. “If only you’d told me, we might have coordinated our performance!”

“I’d make a poor archrival then,” Laslow teased. “If I weren’t stealing your audience.” He stretched, and Odin watched how the bulge of his belly and triceps marked Laslow for his latest manner of fighting — reserved, sturdy, and strong. “And still, not one enraptured lady to request an encore, nor a single suitor to waylay my evening with a flower or three.”

“Only me,” Odin said mournfully, shaking his head.

“Only you,” Laslow agreed, smirking, and he saw how tired Owain was then, and hoped it was his performance, regaling the public with magic and mystery, but he knew it was the war, the ever present ones they’d fought through. He wondered if he would ever feel so comfortable as to compliment his friend, the growing wrinkles at his eyes, the stubble of his beard, the mouthwatering line of muscle revealed by his boastful outfit. He licked his lips. “My vexatious tormentor. Are you headed to sleep?”

Owain saw that the question had two answers. The first was an affirmative, though he would go to his room and stare at the ceiling, perhaps retreat to the library and spend his last few hours in this realm reading more and more of foreign magic as their time grew short. The second was a negative, and perhaps he and Laslow could find somewhere that drink still flowed, and they could pretend to lose themselves in tankards while he made a show of failing to find them dates and he either made a friend of the barman or annoyed him until they were both ejected into the night. However, something inside him overflowed, and Owain found himself seeking to fight the beasts of trepidation and consideration — perhaps he had already won, and it was their blood that had filled him with their ferocious candor as he asked, “Do you know I’m in love with you?”

Laslow’s eyes blinked wide, lashes casting a flickering shadow across his cheekbones.

“Owa—Odin,” he objected. “You can’t—” He huffed, frustrated, taking to his feet. “We fight against each other with every step.” He hid his eyes in his hands and then slowly adjusted his head as he admitted aloud, “I fight against commitment with every breath.”

“When do we not fight towards a common goal — against the forces of darkness, together?” Owain asked with a small smile, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the insides of his spread knees. “My confession need not change anything between us, it certainly doesn’t mean to change anything about you. My affection has grown even as you’ve found joy and rejection with your strings of lovers. And I’ve found that I can love you — that I do,” he swallowed, “love you. I’m saying it too much now.”

“There is nothing consistent in our lives,” Inigo said, sad and distressed. He wrapped his right arm around himself, squeezing at a shoulder, too muscled to feel right going back into his old life, too scarred to hope that wherever they found themselves in two days time that there would be the peace and family he’d hoped for. “I have gone days feeling as though everything around me is temporary, and others believing that this is what is real and it is me who doesn’t belong. We nearly failed. We—”

He hesitated as Owain stood before him, reaching out carefully to take hold of either of his elbows.

“We didn’t,” Owain said, calm and sure.

Time passed. Neither man could say how much. Patiently, Owain did not force an embrace, but he did rest his temple against Inigo’s, rocking his face towards him as he whispered, “And you’ve had some consistencies in your life. And me in mine.”

He waited longer, breathing deeply while his friend calmed in his arms, and then Inigo was lifting his left hand up to Owain’s hip and the mage smiled, letting his hands creep around the small of Inigo’s back, locking them together. “If I declared that I would dedicate my life to you, very little would change … and I think that’s very telling.”

“I feel good, with you,” Inigo murmured, tucking his face into the curve of Owain’s neck, “but my trysts don’t last and you—” he bit his lips, and as they rolled back into place he felt them pout against Owain’s skin, almost a kiss, “you’re too important for me to risk in a bout of bad behavior.”

Owain snickered. “Are you asking me to make sure you don’t grow bored? I think no matter what awaits us after tomorrow, I can promise it will be interesting.” He tossed his head back, and smiled wider as Inigo admired him; it was a wonderfully new feeling. “Do you think Odin Dark would settle for less? That the tale of the Avengers of Righteous Justice would end here?”

“Avengers?” Inigo repeated, pulling away from the embrace.

“I don’t forget my friends,” Owain assured him, but Inigo continued.

“And, really, I rather hoped that my tale might end. In some manner of the word… I want to rest. I want to feel the relief that these people felt, that our parents felt when their journey was over. To find a stage to dance upon, perhaps a student to apprentice while I’m still young enough to perform.”

“Then we will find it,” Owain said with conviction, his hands on Inigo’s shoulders. “A place where Selena can be a tired old general, or an extension of nobility, where our friends are close, and our families closer still, and where I study all the magic that has ever beset us with worry — that of gods, and dragons, and travel between realms—”

“Is this why you sought to be a mage?” Inigo balked, holding the dips at Owain’s elbows.

“All to keep us safe,” Owain said cryptically, blue eyes flickering with withheld words. “I will work tirelessly to make that peaceful realm you dream of, friend.”

“I can’t expect you to vanquish evil on your own,” Inigo said, a measure of wonder on his face. A puff of air passed his lips, joy and shock and hope twisting his lips first in a frown and then in a smile. “Very well then. Together, this time. We’ll start this tale together, as we’ve always been.”

“Then—?” Owain prompted, hopeful.

“Of course,” Inigo assured him, pulling himself into Owain’s space again, this time to plant a kiss on his warm lips. “I’ve loved you too. You need only look to your side — if you truly wish to take me as I am … then you will always find me here.”

#owainigo #odin fire emblem #laslow fire emblem #owain fire emblem #inigo fire emblem #inigowain #fire emblem fates #fire emblem awakening #fire emblem #i might write smut to follow this up with at some point #i'd hope i did alright on their speech patterns #for friends who are reading my writing but not familiar with the games odin = owain and laslow = inigo and selena = severa #they're going by false names because of travelling through space and time #my writing #i made this #the fanfiction i mean

[harveyb-wabbit92]

Skyrim: Touch the sky Ch1 Helgen’s chopping block.

The following is a non profit fan based story, TES Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, RwBy belongs to RoosterTeeth please support the official release.

=

I gain no profit from this nor do I own anything other then OCs and whatever sprouts from my imagination. Thanks for reading!

The feeling of cold and sound hooves hitting the frozen ground is what stirred Amon-Ra awake, her red eyes blinked and adjusted to her surroundings...She was in a wagon? the girl tried to move her long hair from her face only to find her hands tied. "Finally awake little one?" Amon-Ra looked across from her to see a blond man in a similar position, a stormcloak soldier she mentally noted she'd seen a few of them passing through Ivarstead...

Well run out of Ivarstead would be the proper term. the man gave her a tired smile "You were trying to cross the boarder, Eh? walked right into that Imperial ambush got captured with us and that thief over there." she looked to the right of her to see two more men.

One in rags and one gagged. Thief shot accusations at the Stormcloak as Amon-Ra got a look at the man next to her and the elven girl knew him well. Ulfric Stormcloak, of course he was just Ulfric the boy the last time she saw him, doubtful he'd remember her. The rare times they interacted was when he'd help her pick frost grapes,read and meditate, though their interactions became less frequent as he grew older.

As a child Ulfric never understood why she always wore a blindfold if she wasn't blind and was never allowed to leave the monastery? she had calmly explained that her eyes weren't normal and the monks and her father were protective of Amon-Ra's...condition.

"Got the Falmer's Bane, eh?" the man across from her broke her train of thought, both Amon-Ra and the thief looked confused "Falmer's what?" the thief asked before Amon could, "Falmer's bane on to the Nords they gain, Snow kissed hair and skin so white and fair, eyes red for the lost lives and blood they shed." The Stormcloak said unsure.

"At least, I think that's how the old poem goes?...either way she has it."

"My..mentor says it's called albinism where's she's from."

"Ah...so, she speaks."

"..."

The wagon driver snapped at them to quiet down, a few moments of silence the thief looked over at Ulfric and grimaced "What's his problem?" this caused the Stormcloak to glare at him "Watch your tongue Thief, you're in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak. The true high-king of Skyrim." The thief went from annoyed to stunned. "Ulfric? But if you're here then..." the color drained from his face. "Divines where are they taking us?!" Amon-Ra may be sheltered, But she wasn't stupid. it was the end of the line, the white haired girl blocked out most of the chatter as she came to terms with this whole situation. Was this really how it ends? Her the last of her race and bloodline... does it really end here with her? All because Amon-Ra wanted independence?

The wagon came to a stop and they were ushered off, Lokir desperately prayed to the divines as he was yanked off the wagon. "Please don't kill us! we're not rebels!" the man pleaded but, it fell on deaf ears...as the imperial soldier keeping the list of names called for Lokir of Rorikstead. instead of stepping forward Lokir made a mad dash towards the gates only to get struck down by the archers.

Amon winced seeing Lokir's body drop lifelessly to the ground,then it was her turn Amon stepped forward the guard looked perplexed as he checked the list, checked every name and couldn't see hers anywhere "who are you..what are you?" The albino girl shifted uncomfortably she couldn't exactly tell them she was a Dark/Snow Elf ... then again she not technically an elf either.

"I am Amon-Ra of Ivarstead."

"I see... Race?"

"....Dunmer? I suppose." that wasn't a complete lie, her birth father was a Dark elf her mother was Snow elf mixed with ... let's just say her grandmother was something other worldly, What exactly? her teacher was never very clear on... Amon-Ra took after her mother in a sense, for she was neither Man nor Mer a beast would would better way describe it. but that's putting it lightly.

The imperial blinked a few times as he looked the young elf over, she certainly didn't look like a dark elf, but alas there was no time to ask nor dwell as he turned to the armored woman standing to the side unsure of what to do.

"Captain, she's not on the list."

The guard informed his superior who just sneered. "List or not Hadvar, she gets the block." she ordered Hadvar look back at Amon sadly. "I'm sorry, I'll see if we can send your remains to Morrowind." Amon-Ra went to protest that she wasn't born in Morrowind! but was shoved forward towards the line up. The villagers got a good look at her."They can't be serious! She's just a little girl!" one of the men yelled causing a the others to whisper among themselves. "The poor thing looks barely passed her 15th winter."a woman stated affronted. under different circumstances Amon-Ra would've giggled and took that as a compliment, being a 191 years old and all! but now? It was all just a bitter memory in her last minutes life.

The captain snapped at the villagers to be quiet as the first man step towards the block, Was when Amon-Ra felt it, her eyes turned towards the sky the energy in air it felt... disturbed, Something was coming... Then there was a noise it was distant at first but, loud enough to cause everyone to look up. "What was that?" Hadvar asked his eyes scanned around bemused. "Nothing of our concern, give him is last rights," the captain ordered the priestess gave the man his last rights or at least tried to till' the man told her to shut up and get it over with.

Amon-Ra looked away as the ax came down on him. the sound came again a little closer this time. "there it is again!" another soldier said warily the captain ignored it "Now the Dark elf!" she ordered Amon was shoved forwards towards the block. the girl felt her eyes burn as she knelt down *I'm sorry father...* she winced waiting for death only for a deafening sound akin to an explosion caused her ears to ring.

Amon-Ra's red eyes shot up to see a large black figure swoop down and land on top of the tower... a dragon!? The shock wave by the beast's landing caused the executioner to stumble and drop his ax and the town erupted into chaos, as soldiers scrambled to get to cover and their weapons, the townsfolk were scattered screaming in horror at the black mass that ravaged through Helgen.

Amon-Ra was frozen stunned at what she was seeing, only to be snapped out of it by Ralof who had grabbed her arm a dragged her into one of the towers. the white haired girl scanned the room they were in, few of the Stormcloaks were there catching their breaths. Ulfric included he looked up from an injured soldier as Ralof walked over to his leader, the two discussed what was happening while Amon ran up the stairs.

"Jump on the inn next to the tower, We're right behind you!" the blond called up to her, the girl nearly fell down when the side of the tower was ripped open and a torrent of flames shot passed her, she looked up to see a pair of red eyes staring back at her perplexed, Amon-Ra flinched as the dragon sniffed then in a low voice hissed at her " Hi ...Los Nid Joor-" the dragon was cut off by arrows hitting the side of it's neck, It whipped it's head in the direction they came from he roared moving away from the tower and went after the poor souls.

The white haired girl wasted no time hopping into the burning Inn across from the tower, and running down the stairs and into the street. she looked around frantically her gaze landed on a little boy, her stomach drop when she saw the black dragon land behind the child, before she even knew what she doing Amon-Ra ran over to him threw her arms around him and ran the child and herself behind cover; just as the dragon spat a torrent of flames right where he had been standing, Amon sighed relieved then looked down at the boy.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh."

What were you thinking? are you trying to die?!"

"No, I wanted to hel-"

Hadvar cut him off "Trolof take care of the boy!" he then turned to the girl "Amon-Ra follow me!" he ordered the red eyed girl looked back at the boy before following after the legate who led her to the keep, this was the first time Amon-Ra ever killed someone. after she and Hadvar entered the keep he undid her bound hands, he told her to find some armor and a sword. she complied while Hadvar kept his eyes trained on the door in case any Stormcloaks wandered in when she was done changing.

Hadvar looked confused at her now braided hair. "how did you braid your hair so quic-" he was silenced when he heard talking over head. they saw Stormcloaks behind a gate, and the legate thought they could negotiate with them, They didn't give them a chance the second they saw Amon-Ra and Hadvar they attacked! Hadvar did most of the work as Amon-Ra had never used her skills on a human before...

As they traveled deeper into the keep depths Amon didn't know what to feel, sure she was trained to be a warrior. but, that was for Grimm not humans! and this damn Iron sword was so dull and clumsy! She wished she had her Jörmungandr with right now, then she'd be back in the swing of things! after fighting their way through stormcloaks,giant spiders and sneaking passed a bear.

They were out! Amon quickly changed out of the armor and into mage robes she found in the dungeons, she calmly threw her braid around her neck like a scarf and pulled the hood up before joining Hadvar outside where she saw the the dragon fly over them, for a brief second Amon swore she felt it's gaze on her as it flew off into the approaching storm clouds.

When all was said and done Hadvar led Amon to Riverwood. stopping a few times to point out the guardian stones and bleak falls barrow, The albino girl had to hold her hair still, to keep it wiggling it always did that when she was curious. her red eyes left the scenic view, she then followed after Hadvar only to bump into his back. She looked at him then at what was bothering him... wolves a large pack of them.

Amon-Ra made sure the nord man wasn't looking at her, she used her eyes on the wolves, the pack all looked at her and whined before running off with their tails between their legs, Hadvar was flabbergasted as he sheathed his sword. "That was odd...wolves usually don't back off when they see prey." he said turning to the girl next to him who just shrugged seemly just as bemused as he was as they continued on the path by night fall they'ed arrived to the small town.

#TES Skyrim #rwby crossover #fanfiction #female dragonborn #Amon-Ra #hey finally awake eh? #ralof #hadvar #ulfric stormcloak #riverwood skyrim #helgen #Falmer oc #Teldryn sero/Dragonborn

[eeveevie]

Shadow and Light

Nothing in Varric’s life ever goes as planned, but he’s damn good at improvising with the hand he’s dealt.

Varric introduces Hawke to the Inquisition, and with Garrett Hawke comes Bethany, much to Varric’s surprise. And there was much rejoicing. (Monty Python jokes not included).

Chapter Summary: Adamant: taking the phrase "I have a bad feeling about this" to a whole new level. 

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke

previous | 

5478 words (chapter) | Ao3

Chapter Five:  L’appel du vide

The siege on Adamant would be one for the history books, or better yet, Varric’s book—if he ever got around to actually writing down all the shit he was seeing. In an incredible show of strength, the Inquisition showed up in the Western Approach in full force, literally throwing everything they had at the Warden fortress. All of the Inquisitor’s inner circle were there as well, split up and in charge of their own battalion of soldiers during the battle. Lucky—or unlucky—for Varric, Aurelie kept him with her near the front lines. Right where the bulk of the action was.

“You’ll be less likely to make up the details later on,” she had joked when the decision was made back in Skyhold.

Now, as he watched another catapult launch a fiery missile towards the battlements, Varric wished he had never boasted about being an eager story teller. Couldn’t she just recap the event later on? No doubt there would be a detailed report from Curly that he could elaborate on. It wasn’t that he was scared—he was terrified—but that was beside the point. No, for Varric he had a dreadful feeling that something awful was about to happen, a feeling he couldn’t shake. For better or for worse he kept it to himself, focusing on Aurelie as she led them through the thick of the fighting.

The army had worked to destroy the front gates, creating a way for foot soldiers to flood into the stronghold. With them came the Inquisitor and her companions, Dorian cloaking them all in protective barriers as the corrupted Wardens attacked. Blackwall had charged ahead with Aurelie, the two taking on the enemy at close-range. Varric lingered back near the mage, careful to watch his flank for friend or foe. Cullen was there now as well, his presence a force of inspiration for his soldiers—he wasn’t afraid to fight alongside them. Also with them was Ser Stroud, his compassioned pleas towards his brethren falling on deaf ears.

Through it all, however, Hawke was nowhere to be found. It made Varric only slightly nervous, uncomfortable with how many crazed Wardens were running around. The enemy was unpredictable, not to mention there were demons literally popping up from the ground as they fought at the main gate. He only hoped that wherever his friend was, he was fighting like his life depended on it.

The loud crash of another Inquisition missile crashed against the walkway above them, punctuating the fall of the last enemy in the area. Whatever Wardens that survived quickly retreated, leaving the infantry team some time to regroup. Cullen approached Aurelie, not bothering to sheath his sword.

“Aur—Inquisitor,” he quickly corrected himself in a breath. “You have a way in, best make use of it. We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can!”

Aurelie seemed amused by that. “That’s a worrying lack of specificity, Commander.”

“There are more of them than I was hoping,” Cullen explained.

“What exactly were you hoping for? A tea party?”

Varric would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the fire and screaming around them. She really had spent too much time with Hawke. Cullen only shook his head, displeased, and regarded their Warden ally.

“Stroud will guard your back. Hawke is with the soldiers on the battlements, assisting until you arrive.”

Finally, an answer for Varric. Their conversation was interrupted by a body falling over the edge of the ramparts, which were crawling with demons. The sight only unnerved Cullen further. “There’s too much resistance on the walls!”

“We’ll clear them out,” Aurelie assured.

Cullen seemed to hesitate before moving away, running back to the gates where his men were awaiting further orders. Varric sympathized with the man, understanding how difficult it must be to throw Aurelie—somebody he cared about—into the fray. For a brief moment, he thought of Bethany, her place in all of this an even bigger mystery. He hadn’t seen her at Griffon Wing Keep on the way to Adamant, and he hadn’t spoken to her since...Bianca. The thought of Bethany being there now only added to his concern.

They fought as a group through the baileys, encountering possessed Wardens and demons the whole way. Miraculously, Aurelie and Blackwall had convinced some of the Warden warriors to stand down, a large group of them falling back to safety. Eventually they made their way to the battlements, where Varric found a familiar sight. Two, actually.

“You wouldn’t consider dying, would you?!” Hawke had just chucked a dagger a considerable distance, the thick silverite blade finding its home right between the eyes of some poor Warden.

At his back was Bethany, her hands alight with magic as she expelled a firebolt from her staff, it easily wiping out a pair of shades. “I think there’s a lesson here about the dangers of magic!”

Her appearance nearly gave Varric a heart attack—her words too—what was she doing here? He didn’t have time to comment as their group joined the fight, Hawke moving to team up with Aurelie. They had really perfected the art of double-dual-wielding rogues, working in tandem to flank their attackers. At least there were more allies than enemies now, Varric watching his aim as he shot dead a rather annoying despair demon. There was a rumble beneath his feet and the all-too-familiar guttural laugh of a pride demon.

“Big guy incoming!” he shouted. He felt a strange sensation wash over him, the hair on the back of his neck rising. It felt almost like another one of Dorian’s barriers, except Sparkler was too far away. Suddenly, Bethany was standing next to him, looking rather worried. So that’s what it was. He hadn’t felt Bethany’s magic in what seemed like a lifetime—not that he could feel it as well as he would’ve liked. His nerves calmed momentarily. “Thanks.”

She moved past him after that, fire on her fingertips as she engaged another shade. Varric cursed under his breath. Thanks? That had been the first time he had spoken to her in weeks and that’s what he chose to say? He grumbled to himself as he took out the frustration on the grouping of green wisps. Before he knew it the pride demon was vanquished, the battlements clear for more Inquisition soldiers.

“Inquisitor! Always a pleasure!” Hawke laughed as the last demon disappeared. Aurelie smiled briefly, gripping the man’s forearm in a shake. He patted her on the shoulder in kind.

“Good to see you in one piece, Hawke,” she nodded. “Bethany, surprised to see you here.”

“Two Hawkes are better than one,” she said coyly. She was even dressed in a similar fashion to her brother, red dragonling leather accenting her mage armor. Hawke regarded her with pride before glancing to the only one in the group with a scowl.

“Don’t look at me like that, Varric.”

Had they all forgotten what was happening? “What is she doing here? Didn’t the whole brainwashed mages make you think—”

“I can take care of myself,” Bethany stopped him cold. She crossed her arms, brow furrowed in frustration. “I wanted to fight.”

“There’s no arguing with her,” Hawke suggested, ignoring the way Bethany rolled her eyes at him. “You of all people should know that.”

“Not all of us are susceptible to corruption,” Dorian added, reasonably.

Varric decided it wasn’t worth to disagree. He didn’t doubt Bethany’s ability, but the circumstances had him worried about her well-being than ever before. That sinking feeling returned, but again he remained silent. Nobody ever reacted well to ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

“There are still more demons on the western battlements,” Aurelie explained, the group following her line of sight were Inquisition soldiers were struggling. Her silence told them she was contemplating what to do next. It was in the opposite direction of the main courtyard where most of the Wardens were held up. Hawke took that as his cue, and grinned, ready for another fight.

“Surely you can handle the rest of the demons without assistance,” Varric spoke, somewhat sarcastically. His sense of humor was barely hanging on. Might as well use it while he could.

“Of course I can,” Hawke replied, brandishing his ridiculously large daggers. “And don’t call me surely!”

He ran off towards the opposite end of the battlements. Bethany lingered to give Aurelie some reassurance.

“You go on ahead, Inquisitor, we’ll catch up in no time.”

Varric wanted to stay with them, but as Bethany turned to follow her brother without another word, he took that as a sign to keep with Aurelie. They ran through the lower floors of the fortress, quickly cutting down any opposing force they ran into. The sight in the courtyard was enough to stop them all dead in their tracks. The magister Erimond, and what they could only assume was Warden-Commander Clarel, holding the attention of the brainwashed Wardens as they completed some sort of ritual. In clear view was a large, closed fade rift. Aurelie’s shock was momentary as she ran forward, too late to stop the Commander as she slayed a Warden in sacrifice.

“Warden-Commander Clarel!” Aurelie shouted. Even though she had her companions stand back, Varric readied his crossbow, unwilling to trust this could end amicably. “If you complete that ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants.”

The magister argued almost instantly. Varric was sick of that tool and the sound of his voice.

“Do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!” Erimond yelled. Clarel blindly agreed with him, which only enraged Stroud.

“What do you think your Tevinter ally is doing? Binding the mages to Corypheus!”

His exclamation gave Clarel pause. The shock on her face screamed of betrayal. “Corypheus?”

Erimond was already at her side, his words too quiet for Varric to make out. His trigger finger was itching to shoot down the man now and hope it would end the madness. Clarel was conflicted as she stared between the Tevinter mage and the Inquisition forces. If they could delay this any longer, the Wardens would soon be outnumbered.

But suddenly, Clarel’s expression hardened. “Bring it through!”

“Oh, shit,” Varric muttered.

The Warden mages complied without question, using their magic to tear open the fade rift and bring forth…something. Stroud’s continued appeals went ignored as the Wardens stood ready to defend their Commander to the death. Aurelie shook her head, still determined to find resolution without further bloodshed.

“I’ve spared what Wardens I could,” she started. “See reason! Do not fall victim to this man’s corruption!”

Varric almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw some Wardens, including Clarel, staring at Erimond now with suspicion. The deception was crumbling—even with the indoctrination, she was now hesitant to continue. Regardless, her resistance only irritated Erimond. So much so that with a few taps of his staff, a resounding screech was heard from above.

Andraste’s ass—Varric hated when his intuition was right.

Within moments, Corypheus’ dragon was in the sky, barreling down towards the courtyard at an alarming rate. The red lyrium it expelled exploded a few feet ahead of them, the shining red of the blast nearly blinding. If Erimond’s intentions weren’t apparent before, they certainly were now. Clarel attacked him and the dragon in vain, and addressed her Wardens as the magister scrambled to run away.  

“Help the Inquisitor!” she shouted as she gave chase.

Chaos ensued. The Wardens that did listen to her command immediately engaged the demons that had been brought through the fade rift, including another pride demon.

“I am so sick of seeing these bastards,” Varric called out to nobody in particular.

“That’s not a very nice thing to call someone!” Hawke’s voice echoed around him, his body moving past Varric in a flash of red as he practically dove into the fray. “Did you miss me?”  

Even with Hawke’s typical confidence, Varric was not convinced, or even slightly relieved. Shot-for-shot, his fear was harder to swallow. The demons wouldn’t stop coming, and no matter how many times Aurelie or Hawke stabbed at the pride demon, it would not weaken. It was quickly turning into the worst thing he had ever witnessed, more than the fall of Haven, more than the near destruction of Kirkwall. In his distraction, a Warden mage knocked him over with the end of his staff. If he had used magic, Varric couldn’t tell—his one solace. There was fire in the man’s fist, primed for his target.

Guess this is as good of a place as any to be cooked alive, he thought. When he heard screaming, he wondered if he was having an out of body experience. It wasn’t until he felt a hand grabbing at his coat that he snapped open his eyes, unaware he had them closed in the first place. All he saw was Sunshine.

“Bloody hell, Varric.” Her eyes were wide with panic. She pulled him up by the collar with one arm, the other using her staff to set up another barrier. She quickly followed it with a few fire mines to keep enemies back as she helped him to his feet. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you think you can die on me?”

Varric blinked hard, wondering if he had hit his head. Was she…teasing him? Why was everyone joking at a time like this? Before he could respond, a flash of green exploded into the night sky. Aurelie had used her mark to expel a large amount of magic, the blast instantly killing the pride demon and the few enemies that lingered.

“How do we get out of here?” Her voice was laced with determined anger.

Stroud gestured towards the stairs that led to more battlements and a large stone bridge. “She went that way!”

Most of the group quickly made their way up the stairway, Bethany and Varric trailing behind.

“No, no, no!” Hawke quickly turned on his heel, stopping Bethany in her tracks. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking his head as she immediately made to protest. “You are not following me this time.”

“Excuse me?” she hissed. “Now you don’t want me to fight?”

Hawke groaned, throwing his head back in frustration. “That’s a dragon, a scary, lyrium-breathing dragon, and I’m not—”

“We don’t have time for this!” Aurelie interrupted them both and pointed to where more Wardens had made their way to the courtyard. Inquisition soldiers had followed, with their Commander leading them, but they would need help to keep the enemy at bay. “Stay here. Help here.”

Varric could tell that Bethany wanted to argue, but her mouth snapped closed, jaw set tightly as she nodded once. Hawke didn’t say anything as he simply grabbed her hands for a moment, squeezing them in a silent goodbye before he ran up the stairs with the Inquisitor. Blackwall and Stroud chased after them, but Dorian lingered when he noticed Varric was still standing there, just staring at Bethany. He didn’t know what to say—or if saying anything was the right thing to do.

“Varric?” Dorian called for him. He hesitantly stepped backwards a few paces before turning to follow.

That sickening sense of uncertainty returned, settling deep within his gut as Aurelie led them away. Before he rounded the corner, the last thing he saw was Bethany looking straight back at him. He prayed it wouldn’t be for the last time.

Bethany stood breathless amongst the carnage, her blood rushing and mana pulsating through her veins. She hadn’t had a fight like this in years, hadn’t been able to practice her offensive magic so freely in nearly a decade. It made her feel alive, but the circumstances filled her with a sense of dread all the same. She had been in the Western Approach for more than a week, away from Skyhold for a completely different matter when Leliana’s crows came with word that the Inquisition was marching to Adamant. Hawke and Stroud gladly joined the fight, and surprisingly, it didn’t take her too much persuading to be brought along as well.

The battle gave her something to focus on—as of late, her mind had been troubled with something much more delicate. Her heart. Ever since she had discovered Varric’s letters, she found herself confused, unable to deal with the level of embarrassment—jealousy—that she felt. Was she a fool to take their relationship, be it romantic or not, for granted? The appearance of Bianca had only made matters worse. She wondered if she had over-reacted or not.

So, she went to Griffon Wing Keep, thinking the distance would help. It did not. She found herself missing Varric, going back to read the carefully preserved letters she carried with her. She wanted some kind of answer to a question she wasn’t even sure how to ask. Did he still have feelings for her? Did he love her? Maker knew she still loved him, despite everything. That much she could admit, at least to herself. It was a dilemma she had never dealt with before, and somewhere within her very soul, she knew the outcome would affect the rest of her life. Her brother had tried to help, but she discouraged him, knowing the resolution had to be brought on by them alone. Too bad the end of the world didn’t stop for just two people.

“Bloody timing,” she muttered under her breath as she smacked her staff against an attacking Warden.

“What?” Cullen was behind her, his head turning slightly to look at her. She shook her head, willing a bolt of electricity from her fingers to knock the demon attacking him back. “Thanks,” he grunted, before moving away to attack another enemy.

Bethany grumbled at that, reminded of the exact and only word Varric had spoken to her since their reunion. Granted, she wasn’t expecting a full-fledged conversation in the middle a battlefield, but she wasn’t expecting a silent treatment either. He had no trouble talking about her, after all. It wasn’t until he left the battlements that she understood that it came from a place of concern. The same reason why she kept looking for him in the crowd of enemies, wanting nothing more than to keep him safe. When she and her brother eventually made it to the courtyard, she reacted in an instant, not knowing how injured Varric was when she found him flat on his back. This time he was dumbfounded, no doubt by the words she had chosen to speak. She was frazzled—the ridiculousness of the events unfolding around her had terrified her beyond the realm of rational thought. All she knew was that she did not want to leave his side. Not now, not ever.

Her brother had other plans.

“Damnit, Garrett!” She released the frustration she felt in a fiery blast, exhaling as her magic flowed out in a dramatic flair. The demons around her scattered into ash.

A deafening crash snapped her attention towards the stone bridge where the Archdemon had landed. A large portion began to crumble as huge arcs of lightening flashed upwards. Bethany could immediately sense the powerful magic being used. Powerful and dangerous. The ground—even the walls—rumbled with an intensity that nearly toppled her over. Cullen was at her side again and braced her, his expression slowly turning to one of fear as the bridge began to collapse at an alarming rate.

“Pull back!” he shouted, tugging on Bethany’s arm to ensure she followed suit. The only thing she could think was that the Inquisitor had been headed in that direction with her brother—with Varric. The ground troops fell back as far as they could, large groups of stone falling all around them.

“What was that?” Bethany was astounded. It looked just like—

“A tear in the veil,” Cullen breathed out next to her. His eyes were wide in disbelief as a large streak of green lingered in the sky. “They must’ve fallen through.”

He shuffled them to where Inquisition soldiers had commandeered a large room. Wounded lay on the ground, the few healers they had brought with them for the initial assault scrambling to triage. They would be safe here, for the time being. Cullen dispersed commands to his men as he passed, assuring that the fortress was well on its way to being taken. She clenched her fist, regretting that she wouldn’t be of much help here.

“Monitor the fade rift in the courtyard,” Cullen instructed a soldier. “Watch for any sign of—” His tone wavered momentarily. “The Inquisitor.”

“Do you really think they’ve gone through the veil?” Bethany asked. She watched as more soldiers rushed around them. Cullen didn’t answer her, distracted by his men’s movements and the general chaos of the room. She hesitantly reached out to grip his wrist, something she would’ve never dared to do in other circumstances. Regardless of his current position with the Inquisition, she still remembered his role at the Kirkwall Gallows. “Cullen.”

He shook his head, looking down at her hand. She pulled away, but looked at him expectantly. “It’s the only explanation that brings us any hope that they’ve survived,” he finally answered. His voice dropped dramatically as he closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his brow. “It’s the only thing that brings me hope.”

Bethany pursed her lips, slightly uncomfortable. She knew that there was some kind of relationship between the Inquisitor and her Commander, but his body language and expression spoke volumes to how serious it really was. It seemed Bethany was not alone in her worry of a loved one. They stood there silent for a few moments, just observing as more wounded were brought into the room. Suddenly, Cullen sighed, shaking his head again.

“I haven’t told her yet,” he spoke softly. Bethany looked at him curiously. He glanced back, and seemed ashamed of his sudden words. As awkward as she felt, Bethany knew that any conversation would help keep them distracted until more news arrived. Until they were needed.

“The Inquisitor?” she prompted.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, nodding once. “Aurelie. Yes,” he continued. “I haven’t told her that…that I love her.”

Oh. Her mind froze—she was in no mental condition to offer relationship advice. “I’m sure she knows…” she trailed, hoping she could offer even a little comfort. “What, with the way you two are.”

Cullen regarded her, brows furrowed as if he was still unsure. He seemed to hesitate before speaking again. “Does…Varric know?”

“What?”

“About you,” Cullen clarified. “Rather, how you feel about him?”

Bethany could feel her face running hot, mostly because this was not a conversation she thought she’d be having with anybody, let alone Cullen. Garrett, maybe, but here? Now? Was it really that obvious?

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tried to deny, but as she heard her own voice even she could tell it wasn’t very convincing. Cullen raised a brow at her and she groaned, closing her eyes tight until her vision became fuzzy. “Maker, you’re just like my brother.”

Cullen gave a short laugh. “Maker, I hope not.”

Bethany opened her eyes and the two shared a similar, amused smile. It was brief. She shook her head in disbelief, beside herself with how clear her mind was. That answer she had been looking for was just within reach.

“I struggle to wonder if it’s worth the risk,” she explained.

“The world is burning, we’re at war,” Cullen responded. “Considering the circumstances, I think the potential reward is worth the risk.”

“Says you,” Bethany didn’t mean to sound so abrasive, but the Commander only shrugged. They were both fools, but at least Cullen and Aurelie were already together. He had already taken that risk. “I don’t want to have any regrets.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Flying nugs. Bethany almost laughed at the sudden image that came to mind, but it was her quick thinking that gave her another answer. She took a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over her. It didn’t last. An Inquisition soldier approached, his expression grim. Bethany’s stomach instantly dropped.

“Commander,” he paused, as if the next words were a struggle to report. “The veil in the courtyard has opened. The Inquisitor appeared only shortly after the explosion. She’s saved the Wardens and—”

“Everyone has returned?” Cullen asked, interrupting his soldier. The runner shook his head.

“Not everyone.” 

The Fade. To say Varric was displeased would be the understatement of the entire Dragon age. What was this now, his third trip? First with Hawke, second with King Alistair, and now? He really needed to stop associating with people who brought him here.

“Why is it you never take me anywhere nice?” Hawke was frowning, or at least Varric assumed he was. It was hard to tell from the rogue’s upside down position as he stood on a nearby rock. Nearby, Stroud stood sideways, equally confused. Varric only wanted to lay down and wait for it to all go away.

“Fade shit here,” he mumbled. Nearby, Dorian looked at him, perplexed, and Varric just shook his head. “I’m thinking about just writing a giant footnote for this part of the book.”

“No details? How boring,” the mage replied. At least he was standing the right way. Maybe.

Varric looked around at the green and floating rocks. While the Fade looked different from when he was last forced here, it was similar enough that he didn’t feel like memorizing the specifics. If he had any say, he’d hope to forget this ever happened to him in the first place.

“This isn’t really how I remember the Fade looking the last time I was here…” Hawke trailed.

“It’s because we aren’t dreaming,” Dorian explained. “We’re here physically.”

Varric could feel his eye twitch at that. “No shit.”

“Was it like this when you walked out of the Fade at Haven?” Hawke asked next. He was looking at the ground, above him, clearly upset with his current position.

“I don’t know,” Aurelie spoke softly. She stared at her hand, the anchor quiet. “I still can’t remember what happened the last time I did this.”

“What if we found another rift to escape through?” Stroud pondered aloud. “There was a rift nearby, in the main hall…”

“Possibly.” Aurelie looked off into the distance, a large tear in the sky resembling the breech. “Let’s go.”

Hawke and Stroud were now standing on the ground where they should be. Varric blinked hard, wondering if they had even been askew before, or if it had been his imagination. He rubbed at his head as they walked, periodically glancing out across the landscape. The eerie darkness had him snap his focus back to Aurelie as she guided them. There were a few demons that patrolled the area, easy enough for them to kill.

The unexpected came when at the top of a hill stood a figure. Somebody, or something that looked exactly like Divine Justinia. Her appearance gave everyone pause, even as she greeted them individually. Varric hated to admit he was even remotely religious, but the sight of the most holy had him questioning his beliefs all over again. Their conversation with the Divine centered on the debate on whether or not she was real—it was hard to believe that she could be alive. No, it had to be a spirit. Especially when she began to discuss events that the real Divine would have no way of knowing.

Instead, the figure decided to explain the Fade and the enemy that lingered there. The Nightmare. How it had stolen away the memories of the Inquisitor, helped Corypheus brainwash the Wardens with the false calling, and was now working to keep them trapped there forever. Wherever the Nightmare was hiding, Varric couldn’t wait to introduce him to Bianca.

They battled the demons as instructed, and as promised, their defeat revealed that the mark of Andraste wasn’t really from the Maker’s bride after-all. Plot twist, Varric thought grimly. He could already sense Hawke’s fury as he engaged Stroud.

“The Warden’s actions led to her death!”

The Warden took it in stride. “I assume they had taken their minds, as you’ve seen done before.”

“We can argue after we escape,” Aurelie warned.

Hawke took that as a challenge. “Oh, I intend to.”

Varric still had his doubts, not wanting to believe anything he saw while he was here. That was the tricky thing about the Fade, it tricked you. He didn’t want to think about a monster that took people’s memories away. It would only lead to fear, which was exactly what it wanted. He focused on fighting, keeping his mind as clear as possible as they made their way. He tried to focus on Hawke, the Champion’s scowl so unfamiliar it rattled Varric’s bones. A voice dug into his brain—loud and abrasive.

“Once again Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric.” Must be the Nightmare. “You found the red lyrium, you brought Hawke here. Both Hawkes. They will both die, Varric. And it will be your fault.”

Despite the gab at his heart, he braced himself. “Just keep talking, smiley.”

The grim expressions of the others told him they had also been talked to, Aurelie pausing as she was momentarily caught off guard. Varric didn’t want to imagine what the Nightmare had conjured for her. Hawke looked at him, despondently for a moment. It looked as though he was about to say something when he shook his head, snapping out from the Nightmare’s grasp.

“How charming,” he grumbled with the faintest of smirks.

Further on, the Divine Justinia finally revealed her true nature. Well, sort of. Varric was still confused on if it was a spirit, a memory, or something else. Regardless, it was helping, leading them towards their escape. Except it wouldn’t be easy. It was never easy. In front of the glowing fade rift that would be their escape stood a towering spider—at least it was a spider to Varric. Judging by the looks of the others, it may have been presenting itself in any number of horrible ways. A different, towering demon that he could only assume was the Nightmare stood guard as well. The Divine spirit engaged the demon, sparking it to summon more.

Within minutes, they were overwhelmed. The Nightmare figure moved sporadically, vanishing after only a few swipes of Aurelie’s daggers. It had cast a spell that entranced Stroud and Hawke, the two struggling to help the fight in any way.

“Help for the mage, please!” Dorian was leaning his weight on his staff as he attacked with his free arm.

Varric shuffled over to him, tossing the spare healing potion that he had. He had already gone through several in the short time they had been fighting, with no end in sight. And then he was on the ground, the thump to the back of his head echoing in his ears. He hadn’t even seen what had knocked him out. The lack of Dorian’s reaction told him the mage had been hit too. It was painful, but only for a moment. More than anything, he heard ringing—the clashing sound of metal and magic. He struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, his vision was blurry. He thought to move, but a voice in his head told him that wasn’t the best idea.

Another explosion, Aurelie yelling out as she used the full force of her mark to literally tear the Nightmare apart. Varric imagined what it looked like, smiling briefly to himself as he heard the whispering scream of its defeat. It didn’t seem to be any kind of victory, however. He could hear Hawke and Stroud discussing something urgent.

“…I’ll cover you!”

Was that Hawke? Varric furrowed his brow in a lame attempt to hear.

“…A Warden must—”

Their words grew quieter. Despite Varric’s desperation to want to speak, he was unable. He closed his eyes, wondering if this time he really was about to die. If so, he wasn’t afraid—or at least, the fear he had been carrying with him was now gone. He was calm, almost aloof. Maybe that was the blood loss, or the concussion. All he felt was arms surrounding him, somebody picking him up with little effort.

Please don’t toss me, he thought. At least his sense of humor was determined to hang on to the bitter end. And then, his mind went blank, and he panicked to think of something else. Something better. If he had a choice of a last memory, it needed to better than that.

As the darkness finally surrounded him, he thought of the sun.

Sunshine.

Bethany.

#crab cakes #dragon age #varric tethras #bethany hawke #varric x bethany #oh i'm in danger #a crab writes #fanfic #and there was much rejoicing

[that-boy-needs-therapy]

Fortuitous that you have no soul, Khajiit Chapter 3: Dragon’s Breath and Tunnels

Fire engulfed the roof of the inn, heating the beastmen to an unbearable degree as they made their way to the other end of the building. The only way down that could be seen was a hole in the floor, blessedly free of fire that could possibly set Rajin-jo's fur alight, and the two wasted no time climbing down in an attempt to escape the encroaching flames. Even once downstairs the two could hear parts of the roof caving in with loud cracks, and ash fell down from the hole they passed through. Time was of the essence, and they couldn't stand still for too long if they wished to make it through this blazing inferno alive.

Sprinting for the door, both men heard people screaming, one voice being recognized as the imperial soldier who was calling out prisoner names earlier. Nererius grew nervous at the idea of running into a soldier at the time, but put aside his concerns long enough for he and the Khajiit to make it outside. Overhead the great dragon flew, screeching into the sky and raining fire upon the soldiers and civilians below. The sight of which the argonian would not soon forget.

“Haming, you need to get out of there!” the soldier called out to the child, tone desperate and fearful for the young boy. The child in question, young Haming, was desperately trying to help his father stand, tears in his young eyes and fear in his voice. Over the sound of chaos they could hardly hear the soldier and with Haming farther away they could not quite make out what he said. But, all too fast, the dragon made its descent. The child made one last desperate plea to his downed father, who only smiled sadly in return, before he finally turned and ran. “That's it, you're doing great.” The soldier said half-heartedly, eyes still glued to the boy's father.

Then the dragon landed, and burnt the downed father to a crisp.

“Torolf, No!” Cried the Imperial Soldier, Haming crying out a desperate 'Father!' in return. An elderly man in iron armor kept hold of the child as they all hid behind a wall, while the dragon again took off to the skies.

“Hadvar what do we do now?” The old man asked, eyes trained above them. The soldier, Hadvar, replied solemly.

“Get Haming out of here, find your way to the gate and climb over if you must, just run!”

Rajin-jo stared at the unrecognizable corpse of a man once called Torolf, heart in his throat. His mind flashed with memories of death and fire, and his own desperate voice calling out for.. for... “Rajin...” Mother, his mother.. He could not remember her face, but her voice, she.. “RAJIN!” The khajiit snapped out of his trance, turning to Nererius with wide eyes. He shook in his boots, quite spooked. The argonian took notice, and calmed himself. “Hey,” He said “We're going to get out of here, okay? Hadvar here told us he knows a way around the dragon, through the keep.”

“I... Yes, yes Khajiit understands.. Let us go then, the sooner we are away from this beast, the better.” With that agreed, the three made their way to the keep. They passed behind desolate buildings, the dragon swooping down to perch upon the wall they hid against and burning yet another man before their very eyes. Rajin-jo was becoming less level-headed, but kept as much focus as he could on the task at hand. He was sure he'd be fine once they were out of danger's path.

Quickly they ran, Hadvar taking lead and weaving them through rubble and bow-wielding soldiers. Past burnt bodies and strewn corpses. The voices were growing quieter now, with fewer survivors as either dragon or debris took their lives, or the scant few managed their escapes. Finally, with little time to spare, they found themselves outside the keep. Ralof, of course, had somehow gotten there first, and Hadvar was less than pleased to see him. Neither beastman payed their bickering any mind however, and Rajin-jo shouted above them.

“Is this really the time for arguments?! A dragon has attacked for the first time in what appears to be long enough they were considered mere myth, and you two fools choose to fight?! Let us escape together instead of committing to petty squabbles! This one is tired of the shenanigans!” And my, did that shut them up, hearing the Khajiit rage. Of course, he had a point. Their lives were in danger, and what good did it do either of them to continue letting their qualms get in the way of their survival at a time like this? Maybe it was best to just work together for the time being..

“Truce, Ralof?” Hadvar asked, holding a hand outstretched.

Ralof hesitated, but he, too, conceded. “Truce, Hadvar.”

Above them the dragon roared, jolting the quartet back into action. Hadvar ushered them into the barracks side of the Keep, stating that there would be weapons inside, and they all ran in as though death itself was biting at their heels. Given the circumstances, it quite nearly was.

“Where to go now, Khajiit wonders?” Rajin voiced, sparking to life a small orb of light in his palm. “We are within the keep, but to which way is the exit, Hadvar? This one wishes not to stay here until the dragon leaves.”

Hadvar shakes his head, pointing towards the gated entrance to the room. “We go through there, the keep comes out through a cave system, and that will take us out further down the hill towards Riverwood. It was intended to evacuate civilians in case of attack, but unfortunately we weren't prepared for a dragon.”

“When is anyone prepared for a dragon.” came Ralof's somber reply, as they heard more rumbling roars from outside.

“Khajiit says we keep moving, that thing could burst through a wall any moment.”

Nererius nods in agreement. “He's right, it burst right through the watchtower earlier, it could do the same here.”

“Damn,” Hadvar cursed, “Alright, lets keep moving then.”

The party of four made their way through, occasionally having to fight imperial and stormcloak alike, all taking one look at the group and declaring either Ralof or Hadvar traitors to their respective causes. It was an especially morose moment for the two men when they came down to the 'interrogation' room. The interrogator did not even bother to speak to them upon noticing Ralof, and the four faced off against the old sadistic man and his assistant.

While Nererius fought with a dagger, and the humans with swords and shields, Rajin-jo used magic. Simple spark spells, for simple foes, but his precision was a tad alarming.

The assistant came barreling at him with a hammer, to which Rajin-jo responded in kind with a swift kick to his midsection, barely scrambling away in time to avoid the hammer coming down upon him. He then stunned the larger man with a powerful shock to the head, and Nererius came to his aid with a stab to the man's back, clinging onto him with his powerful claws so the thrashing assistant could not knock him off. After a moment, he stopped struggling, the blood loss too much to bear, and he perished fast. Ralof and Hadvar finished off the elder Torturer at the same moment, and the four took a minute to breathe.

Ralof seemed distraught, holding his head in his hands. Hadvar, too, seemed less than happy, but he took steadying breaths and held his cool. The two beastmen did not say anything, but both knew that it had to be distressing to have to kill people they probably knew, maybe even fought alongside. For Hadvar this situation could end up especially deadly, if anything about their time in the keep got out. For Ralof it was much the same, but the likelihood of this information making it back to his superiors was much smaller by comparison, though not impossible.

One-by-one, they all finally calmed down from the fight, and began to search for supplies as they had done in other rooms. Hadvar and Ralof ignored each other for the most part, which was rather typical, but did not show any outward hostilities for the time being. Hadvar wandered closer to the cages in the room, and noticed a dead body inside. “Hey, Khajiit, come here a moment.”

“This one is called Rajin-jo, or Rajin for short. You may use his name, do not call me 'Khajiit' or 'cat'.” Spoke the Khajiit, still coming closer to see what the man wanted.

“Sorry, I won't do it again. But look here, do you think you could get it open? We might be able to use whatever the poor sod had on him.” Rajin-jo sniffed at the request, eyes narrowing in contempt.

“So, you think that since I am Khajiiti, that means that Rajin-jo can pick locks? Typical.”

Of course, Hadvar had the decency to look sheepish, but that didn't change the fact that he'd stereotyped Rajin. Nererius, witnessing what was happening, came over to try and defuse the situation. “I can pick locks.” He said, earning him a mixture of looks from the other three men in the room. “What? I was put on that cart for a reason, you know. But that's besides the point.”

With a flourish Nererius pulled out a knife that he acquired from the kitchen, and a lockpick, likely pilfered from the evidence chest in the corner of the room. “Do watch, I love to show off. At least, when I know I won't be arrested.” The argonian snarked, smirking with pride. The skill was useful for anyone in a pinch, of course, so neither of the other three men could really complain. They all gathered around to watch him work, and with little effort at all the lock was open and Nererius was inside, looting the body.

“Dagger, Mage clothes, a spell book-” Rajin-jo snatched it up with great glee, leaving Nererius to roll his eyes and rub his hand where the Khajiit's claws had caught his scales. “-Some coin, and a potion of magicka. Not much, but the coin might come in handy later. Most of this I suspect would be better suited for Rajin-jo, since he seems to be more magically adept than the rest of us.”

“Oh this one would be very pleased to take the magical items off your hands, indeed. Rajin-jo is in need of a new set of robes.”

The search continued for another full minute before they were made alert to the dragon again, the black beast's roars echoing far above. Hadvar pulled out his bow, face set in a grim line. “let's get out of here.” Said he, leading them through the hall of cells, and out the back. They all followed closely behind, keeping low and quiet. Rajin-jo listened to their surroundings, while Nererius kept a trained eye on everything.

To the group's luck, they made it through the remainder of the slowly deteriorating keep with little resistance, all the way up to the drawbridge that finished the transition from Keep, to cave. Rajin-jo watched the walls as they passed through, seeing the stonework shift from clean and dry, to wet and mossy, and finally to broken or unfinished cave wall. Sconces and torches were few and far between, with light coming from cracks above made ever greater by the ground itself shaking violently with every roar from the dragon in the sky.

They passed through a den of frostbite spiders, and by oblivion it was the least pleasant event for Rajin-jo since they made their escape into the keep. “Oh this is revolting!” He cried out, sending a burst of lightning hurtling towards the largest spider, his ears flat against his head and tail wrapped tightly around one leg in anxiety. Skyrim truly was nothing like Cyrodiil, being ever-cold and mountainous, and having giant spiders roaming about willy-nilly to boot!

In his moment of panic at the sight of foes he'd never faced before, behind him creeped another spider which he failed to notice. Rajin-jo had his attention focused forward, blasting any spiders he saw. Before he knew it, he was being pinned down, and-

“Rajin-jo!” Nererius yelled, ramming into the spider full-force and slicing it down its midsection before it had the chance to right itself. The spider let out a chittering cry as it perished, legs curling in on itself. Rajin-jo panted for a moment to catch his lost breath as he slowly stood. He turned to thank Nererius for saving him, only to catch his sour look. “You need to be more careful, fool. I figured you more careful than that.”

And oh, that just cemented it. Attractive or not, Rajin-jo was determined to make this scaled annoyance's life like oblivion itself came to life.

For the moment though, he held his tongue, and simply walked after Hadvar and Ralof, who were waiting for them at the other end of the den. They'd be out of here and towards Riverwood soon, then he'd have his fun.

#Skyrim #fanfiction #fanfic #message me privately if you want a link to the ao3 page #over 2000 words this chapter

[strivingscribe]

ILIC ~ ch 27

It’s Lost Its Charm by  MsMoon

Chapter 27 ~ Between Niflheim and Muspelheim

Chapters: 27/?

Chapter Navigation: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,16, 17, 18,19,20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27,

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age,

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence,

Relationships: I feel like it’s a little early for that…

Summary: As dreams went, she supposed being inside Dragon Age wasn’t too bad… At least she wasn’t the Herald (again). Or the Warden (again). Or Hawke (again).

Notes: This one is a big bang, you guys. I don’t even want to linger too much here, because it’s kind of a big deal.

As always, prompts, links, and tidbits are always available here on Striving Scribe. Hey :) if you like what I’m about and you want to help me put my cat in a sweater, you could totally follow this tumblr and heart some entries :3 That’d be cool of you.

And hey…I love you :)

Everything that had transpired beforehand seemed inconsequential.

The tedious occupation of hours, or the effort to occupy hours, the fight with Cullen and their subsequent peace, tending her horse, receiving her “order” from Seggrit, returning once to sing to the mages and the soldiers, Samuel’s return. All of it was nothing.

A sharp scream cut short, like the aftermath of an echo in a canyon and her body was rocketing across the frozen lake. She lost her breath, the wind knocked out of her as she slammed into the rock on the other side of the lake.

In that moment, aside from the warning of her scream, the valley of Haven stood still.

The soldiers still weren’t sure what had happened, and everyone held their breath as they surveyed their surroundings. It all happened so quickly, everyone was standing around, gawking and wondering why they were suddenly Charmer-less.

Amy came up for breath on her hands and knees, gasping and panting as though she’d just fought for her life. Squeezing her eyes shut, it was bright, too-too bright! She could barely hold herself up, her scalp felt as though it would rip away from her skull, as searing cold and frigid fire leaked through her flesh.

She heaved, vomiting into the snow at the base of the cliff. Once. Twice. She stopped counting after the fourth dry heave.

She tried to push away, to crawl away from the smell of bile. It hurt. Hurt so much.

Her mind was on fire, stories and memories from long ago melding and echoing inside her. Her head of her heart, it didn’t matter. Everything was Muspelheim and Niflheim.

“I must not fear.” she choked out. “Fear is the mind-killer. The little black death.” the words were surprisingly easy to say, even though her mouth felt so raw. They stampeded out, stumbling into a rushed line. “I will face my fear. I will let it pass through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Each shift of her weight was a new agony. Her hand shot out into the clean snow, she shoved into her mouth then spat the cool water of it out. She did this with every shift, hoping to quell the fire in her throat.

Her skin was full of electric pins and needles, like experiencing an allergic reaction or feeling quickly returning to a long-dead limb… It was everywhere, the feeling was too much, and the light burnt her eyes. Everything. Everything. Everything.

Everything except the fingers of her left hand. There was no feeling there, in the offending digits that had gotten her into this atrocity.

She yelped when she felt a rope-burn on her bicep. She tried to help (or at least, she tried not to hinder), because she knew it was not a rope, only Magpie’s grip.

Magpie had sprinted for her, hauling her into the shade under the dock that was on the other side of the frozen lake. She propped Amy against one of the wooden posts.

“What was that?” Magpie asked, too scared to swear or bluster around the question.

Amy only whimpered. “The mark.” she panted. “I touched Sam’s mark.”

Amy heard rhythmic clinking, and she knew that Cullen was running towards her—knew by the sound of his armor and the smell of him… which...now that she thought about it, it was strange to know his smell when he was still so far away.

Far away.

“Sam.” Amy murmured, finally cracking her eyes open. She kept her head down, blessing the shade this rickety dock provided.

She hid herself here in the dark. She had to. She saw too much. The snow was blistering white like bone bleached in a desert. She kept her gaze down, in the ice of the lake. The dark of the deep ice was comforting. The patterns there fractured into fractals of navy, cerulean, and cobalt. Just as hypnotic as the patterns in the snow, but easier to be lost in without fear of scalding.

And she could see Sam, still sitting, dazed and delirious as he gaped into the open air.

“Siheta. Solas.” Amy said. “Get them.”

Magpie’s eyes widened and she nodded, launching herself into a full run back across the ice.

“Don’t touch her.” Amy heard her say as she passed Cullen.

Amy flung an arm around the post clinging to it in desperation. If she didn’t keep a hold of it, she would melt, melt here just outside the reach of the wretched sun only to refreeze tonight. Or within seconds. A million thoughts and a million memories coalesced and raced through her mind.

She realized, both absently and absent, that there were too many sensations to focus on. She needed to breathe properly and pull her focus. Channel herself.

Cullen was close now, and a part of her was very afraid. What had the mark done to her? Would it upset him? Would those old Templar sensitivities to magic and magic users trigger something?

She nuzzled her brow against the sturdy post, praying to gods she didn’t believe in and wondering which she could. “The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones.” she murmured to herself.

There were some monologues that stuck with her. She’d had a crush on a boy named Phillip in high school. He’d been a theater geek, proving that charisma wasn’t a dump stat. She remembered his Mark Anthony...

“When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.” She wished that she were made of “sterner stuff”. As it was, it seemed that every situation sent her into a tailspin. She could barely stand herself.

Her scalp felt so tight! Her spare hand reached for the tie that held her braid taunt and snapped it in one pull. She shook her head, the fingers of her right hand forking against her scalp, reveling in both the strange tension and the loosening—it had been ages since she’d worn her hair down!

“O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.” she whimpered.

“Amy.” Cullen’s voice did not soothe her, though she was certain that was what he was trying for.

“Bear with me; my heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me.”

It was not the response he was looking for. She heard the creak of his knees, the stretch of hide, and the brittle give of ice as he sank onto one knee next to her.

“Look at me.” He pleaded, and it hurt to hear it. Hurt to hear the fear in his voice.

“Fear is the mind-killer.” she whispered. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the shade they were in, but that wasn’t the real problem. Her focus tended to over-focus, if that was a thing.

Her eyes skittered to his, not missing his sharp intake of breath and the lean towards her as he peered into her face, but focusing intently on the irises of his eyes. She could see all the honey gold, the ochre, the tawny gilt and browns.

“I see the lion in you.” she whispered, leaning towards him as well. She was aware of his mouth slightly open and his eyebrows ticking up in surprise, but not because she was seeing it. Or was she? No. His eyes were what she was seeing.

She felt the scent of frost, heavy, burning the back of her throat, her eyes widening fractionally. “Bax.” she whispered before Bax fade stepped near the end of the dock with a wet smack and the aplomb of a raging druffalo.

“Don’t touch her.” He warned, and Amy did not so much see Cullen turning to glare at Bax as she felt it... But she did see it...or...or was aware of it? It was so difficult to process!

“Where is the stillness of wood? Of stone? Of crystal? Of metal?” Now, Amy felt as though the words were whining out of her weary throat. “All this noise. All this life. Is pain. We sense the power in this place. Power enough to destroy us. To end the pain. To be still. Again.”

Bax stared at her for a long second. “That is not as encouraging as I’d like.” he muttered under his breath.

“Sam.”

“Sam’s fine, Amy.” Bax assured, stepping closer and yet still keeping his distance. She didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he was looking at her and in a very different way than he had before. He was searching.

“No.” Amy whispered.

Sam was not fine. Sam was in shock, not medical shock but shock nonetheless. Even with Cassandra at his side, he was barely responsive, still sitting on the ice, a useless lump, like fuzz on furniture.

“Amy.” Bax’s voice was taut. “Amy, what are you doing?”

Her focus shifted, across the ice. To Sam. She needed to tell him she was alright, even if she wasn’t. That she would be fine, even if there was no certainty that it was so. They both needed to believe that.

“I have crossed the horizon to find you.” she sang. Sam, started, jerking back as he looked up at her. “I know your name.”

His eyes widened and she was suddenly very close to him, closer than she was to Cullen.

“They have stolen the heart from inside you,” she continued, aware of Cassandra springing back. “But this does not define you.” she reached forward, grasping his hand— the hand with the mark, and he didn’t snatch it away even with what had happened. Shock, most likely. “This is not who you are.” she assured him. “You know who you are.”

“...Amy?” he asked. Obviously still in shock, though Amy wasn’t sure why.

“Get away from him!” Cassandra commanded.

“Cassandra, don’t!” Sam barked back, which was probably the only thing saving Amy from a shield-bash.

“Maker’s...what in…” Varric, why and how was Varric even here? It wasn’t that the concept of him on the field was implausible, but Amy had never seen him there.

“Amy!” Bax’s voice was strained, urgent. Amy looked at him, seeing him… Seeing him under the dock across the lake.

Across the lake from where she stood beside Sam, except that she wasn’t beside Sam…

Amy’s eyes grew, suddenly surprised that she wasn’t in as much pain or having half the trouble focusing as she had been only seconds before.

“Is that you?” Cullen’s grim tone demanded to be heard. With one knee still planted on the ice, making to rise and yet still. Still deciding on which action to take, yet action was imminent in his intent.

Amy looked across the ice, because she didn’t know what he was seeing.

There, crouching near Sam on the other side of the lake, was… a figure. Even from here with her senses out of control, she could see that it was a woman, a woman made of something that was not smoke or sand or ash and yet it moved like those things, at least at its edges...it was somehow not quite solid but very present.

It was a shade of teal so dark it nearly wasn't fair to call it teal, and it appeared almost metallic in the light. The figure stood and turned, facing them... While it looked similar to Amy it wasn't quite right. The point of the nose and jaw were too sharp, the face too oval and not round enough. Cheekbones that could hurt a body.

"Mother." Amy breathed. It looked like her mother. Enough that Amy's heart ached.

"It is Amy." Bax said. "It's like... like magic, but not like our magic. It's like... a piece of Amy that's outside herself." Bax elaborated. "When I first arrived, it was like it was broiling around her incessantly clamoring, and then it began to shift when her focus shifted to Sam.

"It's ok, Sammy." the apparition soothed, though Amy was afraid that it would be anything but soothing.

Sam took in a shuddering breath, which Amy saw and heard though there was no way to explain the physics of that.

"Blessed Andraste." Amy wasn't sure who had said it, but it was one of the soldiers near Cassandra. At least she assumed he was, since Cassandra relaxed her crouch a touch and peered at the figure with more curiosity than wrath. “It’s Andraste.”

"Fear is the mind-killer." Amy murmured.

Two things occurred to her simultaneously.

Firstly, in a state of fear, she would always take comfort from her parents. Even if they could not help her, if they had no answers, if they were just as lost as she, their presence was a comfort.

Secondly, all of her efforts to distance herself from Andraste weren't going to work. It seemed to be the only way people could identify her without feeling threatened. This tied into another observation... dressing herself in their myths might be the best way to ensure her survival in a society that was taught to inherently fear magic.

“Amy, listen to me.” Baxtien ordered.

She looked at him.

“Are you in great pain?”

“It’s not as bad as before.”

He nodded. “As near as I can tell, that…” he pointed to the figure across the lake while not looking away from Amy. “that is a manifestation of your magic.”

“But how did it manifest?” Cullen asked.

“I touched Sam’s mark.” Amy said. “It exploded.”

“And it broke through the barrier that’s around your magic.” Bax breathed. “The process of the body acclimating to magic… it isn’t pleasant...at least, not always. It varies from person to person, but usually a mage’s body gradually adjusts to the magic that moves through them. The process is gradual, naturally ...well, typically. But this is...different.”

“You’re saying Amy’s magic is moving through her now.”

Bax was nodding. “When this,” he motioned to the woman on the other side of the ice. “manifested, the pain you felt wasn’t as harsh, yes?”

Amy nodded. Bax turned, looking back across the lake at the figure.

“Because you found a way to channel the magic into the physical world, outside of you.” Bax’s tone was filled with awe and a touch of speculation. It was obvious that he wasn’t sure of that, because he wasn’t sure how magic and Amy and Amy’s magic were functioning (separately or together). “But how?”

“I sang.” Amy reminded.

Bax’s eyes widened as her spun to gale at her. “Of course! Your power has always been in your voice!”

Her legs were folded awkwardly, half beneath her. Her body gave a flounce as she tried to use them, straightening one, then folding it again, before shifting her weight, utterly upright.

“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” Amy barely recognized her own voice, it was so laden with strain. She tried to focus again, this time on what Bax was saying. If the power was loose, and her body wasn’t used to it…

Her “power” was… loose? She needed to center herself, refocus, find a way to bear up under the strain.

...the usual.

Cullen stood, still partially crouched, his hands out but at a distance. “How are we supposed to help her if we can’t touch her?” He demanded, glaring at Bax.

“It could possibly hurt her just as much to be touched as it would hurt us to touch her.” Bax countered.

She needed something….

“Did you ever know that you're my hero,” The song was soft from the pain around her eyes and the constrictions of her chest. She planted one foot on the ice, cringing as she shifted her weight onto it. “And everything I would like to be?” She took a deep breath, then swiftly drew up, in a heavy squat now but at least she was on her feet. “I can fly higher than an eagle, For you are the wind beneath my wings.”

“Up.” The tone was absolute.

Bax leapt away, ending up half behind Cullen on the other side of the dock. Amy tried to obey, but still was crouching as she leaned heavily against the post.

“That is...most unsettling.” Bax determined. Cullen now stood upright with a hand carefully placed on his sword hilt.

Another figure, this one a towering male.

“Da.” Amy breathed, weirdly comfortable with her father’s visage.

“Stand up properly.” He commanded again, and Amy took jagged steps forward, keeping her hands against the post as she straightened out, using the post to push herself into an upright position.

Again, the pain had lessened, and now her body felt as though she’d pulled or strained so many muscles. The day after a marathon, the hardest day. The day you struggled to do everything, but you made yourself, because it was the only way to get better.

“When you learn how to suffer you suffer much less.” She reminded as she stared at the wood grain. “Thich Nhat Hanh.”

“Test your joints, assess the pain.” Her father’s voice has been a fading memory, but now...it was as if there had been no separation. “What do you need to do?”

“We… we need to get back.” She said leaning forward until she could prop herself against another post. This one, farther out on the ice. She made to rise again, but even using her arms to support herself against the post, it felt impossible.

She could remember things now that she’d forgotten even before crossing over to Thedas. She remembered falling off her horse for the first time, falling off a bike, falling off the monkey bars, falling and scraping her knees…. falling, falling, falling, and the pain of those falls.

She remembered her mother’s smile and her father’s gentle hands. Her eyes landed again on the figure across the ice. Not her mother, but herself. In the visage of her mother, because she needed that. “Focus on your goal, be aware of your own physicality. Move forward.” her father’s words in her father’s voice, a memory made manifest because she needed it.

She leaned away from the post, no longer propped up. The pain was manageable, but she couldn’t lock her knees. She tested them, bending into more of a boxer’s stance. She drew her elbows tightly to her sides, her wrists rolling so that her palms were up. After a deep breath, she clenched her open hands into fists.

“Go.”

Her right arm came up in a block, the gesture automatic, breath gusting out of her.

“Again.”

This time the left arm came up while the right returned to a resting position.

“Step.”

Her right foot drew back, a better fighting stance for what she specializes in.

“Forward.”

Amy realized then that her awareness was…. different. Expanded. She had her eyes trained forward, so she could still see the figure across the lake, and the soldiers not sure what was happening or what they should do. Mages were filing through the ranks as well, approaching the frozen lake to see what was going on.

She was also aware that the figure of her father was not just beside her, urging her on, but also doing this routine with her. It shouldn’t have been shocking for a multitude of reasons. It wasn’t as if her father didn’t know these drills, after all, but of course, this wasn’t her father. It was her. Their movements were seamless because there was no ‘they’, only her.

It occurred to her then, that with enough focus… she could be aware of many things at once from many perspectives and all of them were technically hers...because her “magic” was no longer bound up inside of her.

“Flowing through all, there is balance.” she recited. “There is no peace without a passion to create. There is no passion without peace to guide.” she felt another wave of blistering cold followed by heat. She breathed through it, shifting forward again. “Knowledge stagnates without the strength to act. Power blinds without the serenity to see.” she rose, standing normally, upright. “There is freedom in life. There is purpose in death.” Her elbows returned to her side, her palms up as she breathed deeply, experiencing the pain and letting it go even while more waves built inside her. “I am the fulcrum. The giver and the taker.”

And she began to walk forward. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as it had seemed moments ago.

Magie broke through the ranks with both Solas and Siheta behind. Solas scanned the situation from the masses before his eyes landed on Amy. Siheta sauntered forward, eyeing the apparition of Amy that took the form of Amy’s mother. She circled it, critically evaluating it even as she bent to help Sam into a standing position.

Amy spoke again, her words echoing in both of those metallic manifestations of her.

"My Mind is my power, my power is my Mind.” she murmured, another long-forgotten moment glaring to life. “When uncorrupted by other elements, my mind becomes my purest power."

“I think she has it… mostly.” Bax said, still somewhat behind Cullen. Cullen had risen to slowly follow Amy, though he was still at a distance. “This would be easier if…” Bax eyed Cullen for a moment before asking, “Commander, would you say that it’s better to ask for forgiveness or permission?”

Cullen halted and careened to glare back at him. “Why?”

Bax sighed. “No reason.”

Again, Amy felt the bitter sear of frost in the back of her throat, and then Bax snapped out of existence, appearing across the lake near Siheta.

“Did he just…” Cullen began before his expression boggled into confusion. “It’s impossible to fade-step that far.” he assured himself, though the evidence was dictating otherwise.

“Honestly, once you’ve created a compromising shield of warmth and you understand balanced propulsion…” Bax’s defense seemed to ebb before he shook his head. “It’s not that difficult.”

“Quite.” Siheta seconded, though her eyes remained on the apparition. It felt to Amy as though the voices were all around her...but she and Cullen still stood separate from the crowd.

“What has happened here?” Solas asked, forcing attention back to the matter at hand.

“Amy touched Sam’s mark, and when she did… There was this explosion?” Bax said and asked at the same time. It wasn’t that he didn’t have faith in Amy’s ability to grasp what happened, it was that he didn’t know if that was the correct term for what had happened.

“That…” Sam muttered, dazedly staring at Amy as she approached. He nodded. “That.” he finally concluded, still not able to fully engage with what had happened and was happening.

“She flew across the lake and she couldn’t stand.” Magpie was saying as Solas took measured steps forward. It was like he thought this apparition was some wild halla, and he were afraid to spook it. Or that it wasn’t a halla, but a demon, ready to lash out. “She was in a lot of pain, and she couldn’t see or do anything really, I mean, except retch up everything she’s eaten for a week.”

“All that is gold does not glitter” Now that they were this close, the three voices in tandem sounded… strange. They echoed off each other and flowed in perfect sync. “Not all those who wander are lost;” The eyes of both specters as well as Amy’s eyes bore into Solas as they said this. He froze, his eyes on the nearest—her mother.

Amy knew this could not continue. She could not divide herself this way, even if there was pain in it.

“Amy?” Cullen’s voice was soft, as though he were afraid she would spook.

“What is she doing?” Cassandra asked, stepping closer. Her eyes were on Amy now.

“The old that is strong does not wither.” She looked at the figure of her father, and he walked behind her and then into her space, and she jolted as that energy siphoned back into her body. As his form dissipated, she tried to reimagine its shape. Mostly because she wasn’t sure if she could contain this and still function. His form changed, encasing her like armor that fit like a second skin before fading entirely. “Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

She stumbled forward, but righted herself. She panted for a second, before reminding herself of proper breathing techniques. Then, she walked. Again. She was getting close.

“These are part of her.” Bax said in a way that conveyed even he knew it was needless to explain that.

“From the ashes, a fire shall be woken,” Amy continued, her pace stilted at first before she managed to even it out into something that felt more natural. “A light from the shadows shall spring;” she was finally able to see their faces with her own eyes. “Renewed shall be blade that was broken. The crownless again shall be king.” she said, finally standing mere paces away from the image of her mother.

The face contorted in sympathy. “I wish I could be with you, my Dove.” she said.

Amy swallowed past the grief and half laughed. “You are with always me, Mother.”

With that, she extended her upturned palms. Her mother smiled, and took her hands before walking into her space. The heat that flashed through her had a frigid cold on its heels. Amy was momentarily stunned by it, until she reminded herself that she’d need to focus and determine its course.

That energy wrapped around her torso, and then branched out of her back, rooted in her shoulder blades and rib cage before arcing up into enormous wings. They gave a single flap, and Amy felt as though somehow they were holding her up, because her legs felt stiff and dead while her torso felt heavy and sluggish. She swallowed and sobbed out jagged breathes before she remembered how to breathe.

“....just like Sailor Moon.” Magpie murmured.

Amy laughed, bright and bell-like. If Sailor Moon’s transformation was this painful, that dumpling-head never would’ve done it again.

Her hands and feet felt deadened. Her knees and shoulders were on fire, but it was a pulsing warmth instead of the galvanizing sear it had been before. Her torso felt like spearmint….

“Amy?” Solas asked, hesitantly stepping forward. “Are you in control?”

Amy’s eyes popped open, startling those in front of her. The irises of her eyes were glowing, making them a vibrant teal. "My Mind is my power, my power is my Mind.” she repeated, her voice droning. “When uncorrupted by other elements, my mind becomes my purest power."

Magpie leaned up, drawing very close behind Solas. “Please fix her.” she pleaded in a stage whisper. Solas only grimace. Amy wasn’t certain if his reaction was in response to Amy’s condition or due to Magpie’s proximity to him.

“She doesn’t need to be fixed.” Siheta assured. “She just needs to adapt.” she walked forward, drawing closer to Amy’s left side. “Amy, I’m going to touch you, and you’re going to tell me how it feels.”

“Right now? In front of everyone?” This was Tunan, sarcastic as ever. In the short time that he and his sister had spent around Amy, she’d come to enjoy his biting wit.

“Ha. Ha.” Varric grumbled. “Time and place, kid.”

Siheta set her hand over the top of Amy’s head. Amy hissed a breath in.

“Tight.”

She put her hand against Amy’s cheek.

“Hot.”

Another hand on her shoulder.

“Hot again.”

She set her hand against Amy’s back, between her shoulder blades.

Amy shuddered. “Cold-cold-cold.” This continued, with Siheta proding or simply laying her hand against several spots… What was strange was that the sensations changed. A spot that had been hot on the first encounter, it was sharp or tight or cold on the next.

Siheta drew her hand back, staring at the palm of her hand.

“Anything?” Solas asked. Siheta met his eyes as she stared over Amy, then she shook her head.

“Huh.” Bax murmured. “So, it might be safe?”

“For the person who touches her? Yes.” Siheta determined. “Amy still feels the discomfort.”

Solas’s hand skimmed the air around Amy’s head and shoulders. “The magic is all around you, and yet there is little substance to it… I wonder.”

“Wonder later.” Tunan said. “Lets get her back to the chantry.”

Amy groaned. It felt like it had taken hours just to cross that lake. She took a step forward, and then another. Walking up the incline, slight as it was, was still such a chore.

Words gushed out of her mouth, to have anything to focus on except the strain on her body. “The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous."

“Easy there, Charmer.” Bull murmured, drawing back. “Any of us could carry you.”

“When I can no longer walk, you may carry me.” she replied, stopping as she reached to top of the incline. She was both shocked and reluctantly accepting of the soldiers who gawked and knelt along the way.

Past soldiers and mages alike and through Haven, she walked. Slow and stilted at first, but then smoother, gaining momentum as she began to negotiate through the pain. She stumbled after crossing the threshold, and Cullen rushed to catch her….and the pain of impact caused her to promptly blackout.

There are a lot of references in this chapter. Amy recites the Litany against Fear from Dune and the description of L-sama (by L-sama) from Slayers multiple times in this. There are also quotes from Julius Caesar, Young Justice, The Dark Tower, Thich Nhat Hanh, the Grey Jedi code, and Bilbo’s Poem to describe Aragorn. The songs Amy sang are from Moana and Bette Midler’s Wind Beneath My Wings.

#ILIC #It's Lost Its Charm #Dragon Age Fan Fiction #DAFF #DAFF It's Lost Its Charm #Amy McManus #Samuel Trevelyan #Solas #Magpie #Tunan Lavellan #Tunen Lavellan #Varric Tethras #Moana #Dune #L-sama #Slayers #Julius Caesar #Shakepeare #Young Justice #The Dark Tower #Stephen King #Thich Nhat Hanh #Grey Jedi #Bilbo Baggins #The Lord of the Rings #Strider #Aragorn #Bette Midler #Wind Beneath My Wings #Cullen Rutherford

[annemayfair]

Parting Ways. [P.2]

@picchar @thatcalamity here’s the ending o w o

[Words: 2,348]

Oran opened his eyes.

The ceiling in his bedroom seemed closer, but there still remained a darkened spot where Rowan’s spell once hit. Oran always remembered it, having stared at it for a few years now. Light painted bright yellow squares as the sunset shone through the windows. He had slept long enough.

After washing off the grime of his tired and exhausted sleep, Oran kneeled before a large wooden box with smooth sides, packed to the brim with pillows and blankets. Honeybun slept, her belly with pink nipples exposed, and ready for the pups to suck on them whenever they pleased. Tiny squealing potatoes with squiggly thin tails rolled around in the box, some of them with eyes still closed. Oran noticed one that couldn’t get on his belly after rolling on his back, and picked him up gently.

“Good morning,” he greeted the tiny pup, kissing him on the head. The puppy made a sound much closer to a meow, and wiggled its tail. “Be a good boy.”

He placed the puppy next to Honeybun, petted the head of a sleeping mabari, and checked the plate right next to the box. It was empty, and Oran made a mental note to ask servants to keep her fed and happy.

Oran didn’t remember a time when there wasn’t a Rowan or a Gylys waiting for him outside his bedroom, with a mischievous look on their faces, with toys hidden in hands behind their backs. They weren’t here this time, however, and for the first time Oran truly realized how bizarre this wing of Redcliffe castle felt without the Guerrin kids in them. He never remembered this hallway being so quiet, with no stomping or running or laughing or yelling. And no barking of several adolescent mabaris.

There was, however, a baby crying.

He made his way to the biggest nursery, farthest from the staircase, and pushed the door open. A tall thin woman dressed in heavy red velvet rocked a crying baby, the babe’s head on her shoulder; her straight blonde hair disappeared in folds of her dress.

“I was told that Vints don’t care about their children,” Oran leaned against the doorframe, crossing his hands over his chest. “I thought you’re supposed to find an elf for every need he has.”

The woman turned around, hushing at the baby and patting his back. Her dark brown eyes pierced Oran straight to the doorframe, but then a slight smile bloomed on her lips as she waddled towards him. Her walk was unsure and somewhat clunky, but that is to be expected of a woman who just gave birth.

“Only if the child is not a mage, unwanted, or a kossith,” she told Oran, approaching him. She then kissed the baby’s head gently, and played with the tiny palm held between her fingers. “He drank dill water earlier, but it’s not helping yet. Tummy ache.”

“Oh, you poor little pup,” Oran stroked his nephew’s bald head, feeling the cotton-soft hairs that appeared to be as light as his mother’s. “Maybe next time eat a bit slower, right?”

Young Eamon interrupted his crying to burp, and his mother hurried to get a spare cloth her son could use if needed. Oran watched her fuss around for a few minutes, held the babe as she placed the cloth around her shoulders, and fondly listened to her coo and talk to the child.

“I’m glad you feel well here, Gaia,” he told her. “Gilbert is a lucky man.”

“He is,” she did not protest, whirling around the room, trying to cheer the baby. “And I’m glad everyone knows it.”

Oran kissed Gaia’s hand before departing downstairs. He wondered into a small inner garden where Ysenda used to teach Gylys about flowers and plants that could kill. He and Gilbert would hide under the bench sometimes, pretending that Nan was an archdemon’s scout, trying to find them. Of course, Nan always won, and the boys cried as Ferelden’s fate was forfeit.

Redcliffe, unlike his Rainesfere, felt more like home. It was built to be a home, despite looming over the nearby town like a menacing giant. Guerrins were here to stay from the start. Oran listened to the sound of rustling leaves with his eyes closed, counting how many bedrooms there were in his new homestead. Embarrassingly small bedrooms with unwelcoming windows and cold fireplaces, low in numbers and uncomfortable, pressed against the Main Hall, were abominable at best. If he ever wanted to have a family there, renovations were in order.

“Finally up,” a voice made Oran jump. “Good evening, Oran.”

“Good evening, mother,” he rose to his feet.

A tall woman in a dark blue dress made her way from the opposite side of the courtyard. His mother remained as beautiful as her portrait above the main hall’s fireplace, but the years stripped away the fresh pinkness of her skin and fullness of her shoulders. And, of course, on her portrait, there are no dark blue veins around her mouth and eyes. The taint did not touch her when she was Nathyara Mac Eanraig.

But now she was Nathyara Guerrin, Victor of the Fifth Blight, Ex-Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, Arla of Redcliffe, and a mother of the Five Guerrins. Her black hair grayed at the temples and whole locks were now always ash in color, and her spiky gaze got muted with age. Oran moved to greet her, kissed her hands, and she placed her skinny palm on his cheek.

“When did you arrive?” He asked, escorting his mother to the bench.

“This afternoon,” she replied, sitting down and fixing the folds of her dress. “You were sleeping, and covered in puppies. I took the liberty of placing them back in Honeybun’s bed.”

“I was wondering how they got back there,” he sat beside her.

For a while, the two of them stared at the sky above them. Oran heard laughter and hurrying footsteps of servants who prepared Gilbert’s study for when he shall arrive.

“How did she look to you?” Nathyara broke the silence.

Oran’s memory invoked the shape of Fenlin in bright sunlight of the day of her wedding. Her white hair, braided like divine halo around her head, was illuminated into yellow of the liquid gold. She smiled a lot, and laughed, and she seemed to be the happiest woman in the whole wide world.

“She was perfect,” he finally said. “They both did. They looked so… natural together. Just the way newlyweds should be.”

He never knew if his tone was too sad, or if his face fell as he spoke. But as he did, his mother’s hand gently squeezed his, and when he looked up at her, he saw compassion. He lifted their joined hands and kissed his mother’s hand.

Then he let himself go. His smile and fake normalcy fell, his shoulders sank, and he felt the corners of his mouth go low. Suddenly his throat was dry. And he shouldn’t have been this way, not on her wedding day, not now, and not ever. But something tugged and gnawed on him from the inside, and this little moment in the garden seemed to be the only opportunity of letting it all out.

And he knew he shouldn’t take it.

“But you were there, as well,” he nervously laughed it off. “Wouldn’t you say that the couple was adorable?”

“I think I enjoyed it,” Nathyara said with a shadow of indifference in her voice. “It was a luxurious reception I wish your brother hadn’t negotiated. Seems a bit too extravagant than both of them were comfortable with. Certainly too much wine and saffron broths.”

She shivered, and Oran chuckled. His mother carried a deep disdain for the red aromatic that she developed during her youth in Orlais. He never quite understood it, but then again, he did not eat saffron for years every day.

Both of them watched the rising wind pick up few dried leaves and carrying them away. The summer neared its end, and soon the trees and grass around these parts would turn to rust color, as the peasants would harvest their crops. Castle would be filled with people and their produce, and even this courtyard will briefly be serving as a brewery. Oran wondered if he’d see it soon.

“You’ll learn to live with it.”

“This is not for long, they’re going to be imprinting in no time,” he tried to deflect the implication.

“You did the right thing.”

And then Oran started thinking. It did not surprise him that his mother, whose intuition was nigh unnatural, saw what was going in his heart. He wondered how she spoke with such conviction and understanding, if she… if she went through it herself. But that is impossible!

Right?

“Why?” He asked his mother in disbelief. “Whom and when?”

Nathyara softly chuckled, leaning back on the bench. Her relaxed pose and a dreamy smile on her lips reminded Oran of family evenings when she scared Rowan with stories about the darkspawn near the fireplace, with their father, hugging Gilbert and Gylys, played along.

Was she unhappy then as he is now?

“A fortnight passed after the Ostagar when we made camp near a stream,” Nathyara began her tale. “I took the first watch, and Rythlen slept curled up in her tent. I prayed for her safety, for seeing her reinstalled as Teyrna of Highever, no matter the cost. I believe my mood was quite grim, and it was easy to catch on.”

Oran listened to her intently.

“The boy Warden who survived with us woke up and started chatting me up. Just talking, making bad jokes about two dwarves in a drag and so on. But it helped,” a smile bloomed on the lips of the old Warden. “It helped to distract myself from losing a family again. It helped to chase away bad thoughts and the dread of failure. And on the second night, as we spoke, I felt a needle pierce my heart.”

“Alistair,” Oran said quietly.

“Alistair,” echoed Nathyara. “When I first saw him, I thought that Cailan simply changed his armor to fit in with the soldiers. You know, to mingle. But then I discovered they were different. Very, very different.”

“Of course, we were busy,” she continued. “Mending a broken kingdom and reviving ancient treaties is no easy task on its own, but we had men and almost everyone run after us as we traveled. But there remained a needle in my heart, a small needle that pushed me to joke around with Alistair. It pushed me to tease him, to make him laugh and blush. But then it stopped when I saw Rythlen’s eyes when they talked. How could I do this to her? How could I put myself above her, and take what she wanted?”

Oran, not controlling himself fully, formed his palms into fists. He knew what his mother spoke of. He truly had been there, and he remained there in a way.

“Even when they walked hand-in-hand and kissed behind everyone’s back, sure nobody saw them, there was this voice in my head,” Nathyara’s voice started to crack. “At first, it kept saying: “Nathyara, you could spend your life with this man”. And I thought I could. I imagined myself in his arms, my head on his shoulder, feeling the beating of his heart with my hand. And then the voice in my head said: “Nathyara, you want to spend your life with this man”. And I did. And when it wasn’t my duty on watch, I imagined his eyes on me, looking at me, desiring me. But that never happened.”

Oran’s hand landed on his mother’s shoulder as he hugged her, and she hugged him back.

“She was so happy on her wedding day,” Nathyara’s voice was barely audible. “Dressed in laces and silks, smiling at him, nearly singing because of how happy she was. And I got to hold the crowns, and announce them King and Queen of Ferelden.”

Nathyara wiped away a tear in her eye, and Oran pressed his lips against his mother’s forehead.

“And then I learned to live with it,” she said simply, shrugging off her momentarily sadness.

“Are you happy with father?” Oran asked her. He needed to know, he must know. “Do you love him?”

“Do I love him?” She repeated the question. “After thirty-five years of marriage, what is the point to ask if I love him?”

“It’s the only thing that matters,” Oran told her.

She drew back from him, sighing. She stared to the right as she thought before finally answering:

“I gave that man thirty-five years of my life and raised him five children,” she said with a smile in her voice. “My desires became his, and his hopes became mine. We fought together, we starved together, and we celebrated together. And never, ever in our lives we hated each other. So yes. I suppose I do love him.”

She looked up at her son, placed her hand on his cheek, and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“My beautiful, noble son,” she kissed him again. “Why must you suffer so.”

“I just need to learn to live with it,” he replied to a question she did not ask.

They talked some more, about this and that. But the mood simply wouldn’t lighten up. Oran caught a servant girl and instructed her to keep Honeybun fed. Nathyara reprimanded two men who nearly dropped a mahogany table. In the end, Oran stood up, and excused himself.

“When will you be leaving?” Nathyara inquired, standing up herself. “I assume you’re going to abandon us soon.”

“In a day or two,” Oran answered. “I have a plan for the hold; the treasury keeper might not like it, but I need a house, not a hold. Besides, when else will I have an opportunity to build an entire house?”

He waited for a while, before adding:

“If I may, mother, tell Gilbert to find me a wife. I’m tired of waiting.”

#Fenlin Lavellan #Rahlen Theirin #Oran Mac Eanraig #Nathyara Cousland #Nathyara Guerrin #Honeybun the mama #Dragon Age #2nd Gen #Coon Writes

[awkwardblushing-blog]

Chapter 65 - Return

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8129126/chapters/25174101

They stood at the top of the stairs, well above the mass of bodies gathered in the main courtyard, watching with bated breath as the stream of soldiers filtered in beneath the portcullis. Bastien recognized a few as the ones Leliana had sent out to scour the neighboring hills, well out and past the wilds. His hands flexed against Dorian’s, convulsively squeezing them and Dorian returned each gesture. He’d given up. He’d completely given up hope the day Leliana presented the shredded armor to him. He desperately wished the people weren’t misinformed. He hoped the lookouts were right. He recognized Rylen near the head of the column and just behind him… Cullen. Cullen was riding directly behind Rylen. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to rush forward and embrace him, but he didn’t know what sort of image that would portray to the people of the Inquisition. He glanced at Dorian, looking for some kind of sign, some signal to tell him what to do. When Dorian smiled, and motioned his head towards Cullen Bastien’s heart soared and, after giving Dorian a rather loud kiss, he bolted down the stairs, ignoring his pounding heart and burning legs until he was at the head of the column.

“Cullen!” He shouted, walking alongside with so many members of the Inquisition. He’d thought his voice was drowned out in the multitude of cries resonating around him, but Cullen’s gaze met his and he smiled wide. Slowly swinging down off his horse, with the help of a few scouts, he made his way towards Bastien and embraced him. He’d lost a bit of weight, but he was alive. They’d both approached the brink of death and somehow made it back in one piece, if not a bit scarred and tired. Cullen grinned down at him.

“It is good to see you, Bastien.”

“Likewise.” Bastien grinned back, releasing Cullen’s hand as Cassandra approached to embrace him in turn. It wasn’t long before Cullen was fully surrounded by the people who cared for him, who’d desperately missed him. It seemed wholly impossible he’d survive, and Bastien wasn’t the only one thinking it.

“I must ask, how did you manage to survive? We recovered your armor but it was in poor shape.” Leliana spoke up, “It did not seem likely you would survive such an injury.”

Cullen colored a bit and gestured to a woman Bastien didn’t recognize. She sat rigidly on the back of a horse, her long auburn hair windswept around her face, her bright azure eyes glancing frantically at the excited crowd undulating around her. At her feet, a mabari stood hunched, ears back and sniffing, snarling at anyone who tried to approach.

“She found me face down in a river bank and nursed me back to health. I’m fairly certain she is regretting that decision at the moment.” He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “She was… not pleased with the idea of coming to Skyhold.”  

Bastien regarded the woman carefully. Her tanned skin shimmered with a barrier, so she had to be a mage, a rather terrified one. Her entire frame radiated fear, a desperate desire to flee, but he couldn’t allow her to leave, not without a proper thank you. He knew Leliana wanted to ask her questions, but that would have to wait. Breaking from the group, he approached her slowly, stopping when the Mabari’s gaze flicked to him and he began to growl.

“My name is Bastien Trevelyan, and on behalf of the entire Inquisition I would be honored to express my gratitude. Your rescue of Commander Cullen is nothing short of miraculous. He is very dear to us and we felt his loss keenly. You are welcome to remain in Skyhold for as long as you like, please make yourself at home.”

“I would rather leave, if it’s an option.” Her voice was clipped, her eyes hard on his. “I was not brought here by choice.”

“I would speak with you first,” Leliana stepped forward, hands folded behind her back, “After which you are welcome to depart when we have troops to escort you home.”

“And if I refuse?” Her tone was sharp as she addressed Leliana. Bastien stepped forward, hand outstretched and the warmest smile he could muster on his face.

“Please, just give us a chance. We are friends of mages here and no harm will come to you. You are free to roam Skyhold to your hearts content. At the very least, Cullen should show you our garden.” Her gaze followed his hand, seeming to lock onto it for a moment. Her eyes narrowed, her face pulling to a scowl before widening in surprise. She looked at him, then down to the ring before shaking her head.

“Very well. I will stay for one night. After that I will take my leave as I see fit.” Dorian saw Cullen’s face fall at her words and his eyebrow shot up. Interesting. She swung off her horse and the Mabari glued itself to her leg.

“May we know your names?” Bastien added, taking an additional step forward and offering his hand.

She took it timidly, shaking it briefly before letting go. The mabari sniffed at him and seemed to relax, a gesture which appeared to soothe at least some of her concern.

“My name is Maerin, this is Harel.” The mabari leaned into her touch as she rested a hand on his head. Bastien laughed outright, startling the both of them.

“I’m sorry,” He grinned, “Its just been a long few weeks so something somewhat funny seems hilarious. He just seems like such a sweet and protective beast but you named him ‘Dread’.”

Maerin smiled, looking down at the dog, “It was the only one he liked, I don’t think it fits him well either.”

Harel snorted, tongue lolling to the side in a grin when he looked up to Maerin’s smiling face.

“Well then, I’m certain you are exhausted from your trip. Cullen, please show her to whatever room she would like then get some rest yourself.” Josephine interjected giving Bastien a pointed look before motioning to the crowd to disperse.

“Yes, sorry. My excitement got the better of me. Please, I hope we can speak more later.” He ducked his head and took a step back, embarrassed at his very public overexcitement.

“Don’t rest too long, Curly. It’s been too long since I beat you at wicked grace, that changes tonight.” Varric grinned, pointing a thumb at Bastien, “Rosie here is getting too good.”

Cullen nodded farewell to them all and, gently taking Maerin by the shoulder, guided her to his office. They were barely out of sight before Bastien turned, wrapping Dorian in his arms and spinning him in the air.

“Put me down!” Dorian exclaimed, cheeks visibly darkening, “I told you I am not a damsel.”

Bastien didn’t seem to hear the protest, cupping Dorian’s cheeks in his warm and rough palms before pressing their lips together in a kiss that conveyed his excitement and relief all at once. Dorian melted into it, feeling shaken as Bastien abruptly pulled away to hug Josephine and Cass, grinning ear to ear. His heart continued to pound in his ears as Bastien began to celebrate Cullen’s return. Even with Bastien’s reassurances, even hearing his strong heartbeat, Dorian hadn’t been completely convinced of his recovery. But now he most certainly was, and the need for physical contact he’d been repressing rushed to the surface in one uncontrollable craving for skin to skin, of being close to him, of basking in the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. He had been by his side through his recovery, but he’d missed this Bastien so much. He felt his eyes begin to burn and turned, heading back towards the stairs.

He barely made it three feet before Bastien caught him, bracing his arm around his shoulder as he turned to wave goodbye to their companions. He guided them both towards Dorian’s room, which was far closer than his loft, and closed the door gently behind him. The instant they were alone Dorian barraged him with kisses. Soft and gentle all over his face, firm and heated against his lips, all while tears of relief began to stream down his face.

Bastien laughed gently, kissing Dorian back with equal enthusiasm before taking his hands and pushing him away. He gently brushed a tear from Dorian’s cheek and leaned forward, pressing a firm kiss to Dorian’s hair.

“I’d like to assume those are happy tears,” He murmured, pulling Dorian firmly against him. Dorian nodded against his shoulder. “Did you miss Cullen that much?”

“No,” Dorian’s voice was muffled against his shoulder, “I missed you.”

Bastien laughed, “Me? You’ve been constantly by my side how could you possibly miss me?”

Dorian squeezed him tighter, “I missed this you, the you that laughs, the you that smiles that wide, the you that shows your affection as you feel it, the you without restraint.”

Bastien stroked Dorian’s hair. “I have been neglecting you.”

“You were injured.” Dorian dismissed quickly, but Bastien pulled back, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t matter. With everything you have done for me, I’ve let you feel alone and that is unforgivable.” He lifted Dorian’s hands to his lips with a smirk, “Though I will try my very best to convince you otherwise.”

Dorian most definitely did not blush.

“Dorian Pavus, I am so hopelessly in love with you I don’t even know where to begin. I’d tell you you’re beautiful, but you know that already. Have I told you how proud I am to be with someone so impossibly strong? Perhaps I should tell you how my heart still skips when I see you looking at me? When you brush against me? When I wake up beside you? That I only truly feel anchored when I’m near you, when I’m holding you?” Bastien moved closer, his lips brushing the shell of Dorian’s ear, “Should I tell you how you occupy my every waking thought? Of your rather wicked presence in my dreams?”

Dorian most definitely was not bright red. Bastien’s lips trailed along his jaw, brushing gentle kisses to the corner of Dorian’s mouth, his thumb trailing along the opposite side.

“Maybe I should just keep it simple, and tell you that Amatus… doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He captured Dorian’s mouth, arms curling around him to pull him in as he devoured him so thoroughly Dorian’s mind went blank. His hands, trapped between their chests, could do nothing but grip his tunic, clinging desperately as he was consumed.  He soon felt the cool stone of his wall press against his back as he was pinned between the strength of the stone and Bastien. Completely surrounded by such strength, he felt something wound tight inside of him relax and all the weariness from the last few weeks came rushing forward. He felt Bastien smile against him as he sagged heavily against the wall, not protesting when Bastien lifted him and gently set him in the bed, breaking the kiss to pull the covers up to Dorian’s chin.

“Everyone is healthy, everyone is safe.” He brushed his hand along Dorian’s hair, against his cheek, “Get some rest, my most beloved, you’ve earned it.”

Dorian felt coarse whiskers brush against his temple before giving in to his exhaustion and falling into a deep sleep.

#dorian pavus #bastien trevelyan #pavelyan #stumbling #dragon age inquisition

[brooklynislandgirl]

C.O.N.S.T.A.N.T.I.N.E.

C: Can they swim well?Beth has always thought that John has a swimmer’s build, tight and compact muscles built more for speed than for strength. But she’s never seen him in the water. He’s never met her on her element, she follows him in his. Because John is like Andy; John is air. The smoke from his lungs. The element of the mind, and his is so quick she sometimes can’t keep up with it. Would the water embrace him? Would it pull him under and drown him? Would it spit him out, cold and wet and broken?She doesn’t think she’ll ever find out.

O: What would it take to break them, inside and out?"My counter is this. Go fuck yourself you lunatic."

She doesn’t have to think about this. She knows. She’s seen it. Heard it. Can see the blood on her hands if she’s not careful. It echoes in her mind, replays itself as she lies alone in bed. A hand where he should be resting in his absence.The woman’s name, Charley Fucking Price, she’ll never forget. Just like she’ll never forget the sound of the chains around his throat. The things that happened. The filth. The way he’d pushed away her own life’s energy that she gave him willingly.But then John screamed.She doesn’t remember much after that, just sounds. Always sounds. The way the rusty nail split her palm open. The way Michael pleaded with her to be allowed to live. Begged.The loudness when she pulled the trigger, point blank range."That'll do, luv," John said, voice abrupt, right against her ear. His hand came to rest over hers as he spoke, carefully pushing her aim down. "Give us the gun, yeah?" And then he left.And she doesn’t think she’ll ever find all the pieces.

N: What do they usually eat for breakfast?Amazing, Beth didn’t think it was possible. That two people could live on a diet of whisky and cigarettes. And coffee. Cold, gas station coffee. She wonders sometimes if that’s one of the reasons he keeps her around, because her body feeds his through a hand on his shoulder, through lying back to back in the middle of the night talking about their demons.And how she wish that particular phrase was only metaphor.

S: How stealthy are they?John isn’t much for stealth. He’s flash and fire and smoke and illusion. He’s lies and pretty promises and that fucking smile. But he needs it. He needs to be seen. He needs to cast a shadow that spans the globe, he needs to be a legend whispered in the dark places between brimstone and pain. John needs to be larger than life.He’s the Laughing Magician. The Constant One.And even heaven quivers at the mention of his name, where angels weep and laugh and curse.And Beth?Doesn’t mind being in that path of that shadow.All she needs is John.

T: Where are they ticklish?She grazed his ribs, again, trying to tape them up. At first she thought she hurt him, the bruises spanned his skin ugly and dark like some technicolour spiderweb. It hurts her just to look at it, and she’s a nurse before she’s anything else. She mistakes that sound for a hiss of pain, and only belatedly realises, John’s stifling a laugh.She’s half tempted to flick him over the binding but soon, she’s laughing too.“Ya really awful ya know?”“And I don’ ‘ear ya complainin’, luv.”

A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school?John’s never considered him much of a seer, like the oracles of old. He doesn’t get untethering yourself to the whims of time and tide, of looking into the future or the past. But it’s charming when those wide green eyes unfocus and she whispers to him with a voice of dry, rustling leaves.He watches her carefully, makes sure she comes back to herself because he knows how easily she can get lost. It always leaves her a little queasy and he can’t fault her for that, can he?He tells himself he took her on out of pity.The truth of it is, she sees things for him.She sees things about him.She sees him.

N: What do they usually eat for breakfast?He doesn’t know how she can do it. The congealed egg makes him want to throw up a little in the back of his own throat. He watches her dip her toast soldiers into it, lift it to her mouth, take small thoughtful bites. Better things she could be curling that mouth of hers around.He says so.The toast and eggs get thrown in the trash but he can still see a little bit of a blush on her cheeks.Sometimes, Beth was too easy.

T: Where are they ticklish?They’re researching. Books thicker than she is. Words swimming before their eyes; they’ve been at it for hours. She finally shifts, her toes in his lap. Absently he takes on and runs his thumb down the center of her sole. Her whole body jerks as if he’s set her on fire, a sound so high pitched that he thinks she’s deafened the entire East Coast comes pouring out of her. The book hits the floor only a few seconds before she does and she does the dry land equivalent of trying to swim away from him.John’s a gentleman.He goes for her knees next.

I: On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do they love themselves?For all that he’s ego and bluster, John doesn’t think much of himself. Knows himself too well, knows the things he’s done, all the mistakes that he’s made. The mistakes that have been paid in blood and agony and fire. No one survives him in one piece.But you wouldn’t know that, if you held Beth up as a mirror. She believes every word he tells her, and some of the ones he doesn’t.N: What do they usually eat for breakfast? {This one was written by John’s Mun and he can effing fight me because this is all canon now. This whole story, some of which was excerpted earlier}

John took her hand, loosely entangling her fingers with his. "I'm alright," he told her. His voice remained low, a tender whisper lest anything louder break the spell of intimacy cocooning them."I'm not," Beth shot back.Nodding, John put his arm around her shoulder. "You will be," he said.Beth pulled her fingers from his grasp and grabbed him, turning his half-hug into a full embrace. Her arms wound gingerly around his waist, head resting on his chest. She put her ear against his sternum, listening for the vital percussion of his heart. A little slow on the uptake, John stood like he was made of stone for several beats. Eventually, his hands fell to rest on her hips. He placed a quick kiss to the top of her head.Honestly, he was surprised she didn't cry. She didn't make a sound for a long while, just held tight to him. He ran his fingertips up and down her back, fiddling with the terrycloth bathrobe she'd wrapped herself in."Sorry," she muttered at length, "jus’ one liddle longer.""I'm sure I'll cope somehow in the meantime," John deadpanned.Thankfully, Beth gave a snorted laugh and smacked his shoulder. "I'm having a moment," she complained, "stop being a smartass.""Thought you liked my arse just as it is," he teased.She pulled away, dragging the heel of her hand under her eyes. The cool wetness of tears prickled at John's chest where she'd rested her head. "I burned breakfast," she admitted, sounding utterly miserable over those poor sausages."Yes you did." John kept his arm draped across her shoulders and tugged her close to his side. "Why don't you sit down before you murder any more defenseless breakfast foods? Ol' John'll make us some beans on toast."

E: How are they with children?She only ever lied to John, once. Beth told him that as a mage with a gift for controlling life, that she could decide when and where she conceived children. The answer was good enough, no need to pry into it, right?

Mostly, she didn’t want his pity.She didn’t want him making the kind of platitudes that often came with the truth. Advice that she could always adopt. That children weren’t the be-all, end-all of existence.It might have been unfair, but then... when had things ever been exactly fair for either of them?Luckily, John took her at her word. He wasn’t exactly lining up to become a parent, either. He had his own reasons and none of them seemed important at the time, and some days, he could even look in the mirror without hating himself.

#Mahalo!Anon #Pettydabblermysticboy #The Laughing Magician's Apprentice #Family doesn't Always Begin and End with Blood #Anonymous

[mistralrunner]

Trespasser Liveblog, Part Three: Dungeon and Dragon

In which things get literally and figuratively dark and we embark on a final epic chase through eluvians.

Menel's like yay finally I found the Viddasala and we can talk—okay you’re just going to run through the eluvian and have your people attack me sadface

Speaking of which, do you have any genre awareness here, Viddasala? You do know if you leave chances are we’ll defeat all your people and come after you? Admittedly you’re busy hunting this agent of Fen’Harel.

Ah Viddasala you're not a good guy but I still like you as a character. Probably cause I wish we had more female Qunari characters.

Fun fact: when I watched @inner-muse play Trespasser I was convinced the book on her shoulder would have some plot significance. I was sadly disappointed.

Viddasala’s perspective on the Inquisitor as a tool necessary for sealing the Breach but then too dangerous to be left alive after is interesting though...Generally it seems like people fear the Inquisition for its military power, not the Inquisitor’s command of the Fade. I feel like Menel and Josephine did a good job of downplaying how terrifying the anchor can be, in part cause Menel is a very disciplined mage and in part because people see the Anchor as a divine gift since you can never dissuade people about the Herald thing, and divine gifts aren’t terrifying to the populace like mages are, they’re like Templar and Seeker powers.

Menel’s sick of the attitude the Qun and the Chantry have of, well if you hadn’t resisted and just submitted to our clearly superior ways, we wouldn’t have had to resort to violence

Thanks awesome archivist spirit for giving me the password

Also I’m amused at how the archivist is called “One who guides seekers of knowledge true” when I have a Chantry Seeker of Truth in the party

Goodbye library, hello war table angst

I completely forgot Dragon’s Breath targeted more than just the Winter Palace. The moment they mentioned Gaatlok in Denerim I instinctively flinched cause Karena and Alistair you do NOT hurt them

Wonder if Wycome was targeted too even though a council controls it, not nobles.

What is the timeline for this DLC, though? How quickly can messenger birds travel from Halamshiral to Denerim and back?

SHUT UP CULLEN STOP HATING ON JOSIE SHE WORKS SO HARD

Oh yessss Josie

Poor Josie

But yes put your feelings out there seriously your coworkers messed things up and you’re trying so hard to hold everything together. Seriously her dialogue here is one of my favorite things, the acting is so good and she’s finally tearing into Cullen and it’s great

Ouch ouch ouch

Excellent music shift when Menel starts talking about the anchor getting worse  

Menel: So...it's been getting worse. I don't know why. I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how much time I've got left. What I do know is that the Qunari need to be stopped. So I need to get to the Darvaarad while I can still fight.

He’s just so determined and defeated at once cause he doesn’t want to end it this way, not in a fight, especially one he was not prepared for cause this was supposed to be a diplomatic venture, and the not knowing is figuratively and literally killing him. The Anchor has always been an unknown to some degree and it repeatedly has been something that intrigued and bothered Menel, it’s what drove him into studying rift magic in the first place, and now for all his efforts he’s still helpless. Is it a natural breakdown? Did his studies of rift magic aggravate it? At least laying out the facts, what he knows and doesn’t know, is solid, that’s something, and he’s just clinging to the certainty of a task to do, a way to help.

Rhovan welcomes Menel to the you're on limited time cause strange magic and enter extreme self-sacrificial hero mode club

Ooh nighttime, that’s a fitting mood shift

Okay I did run about doing a few side things, namely groaning about the fireworks being too hard, if pretty, picking up codices, finding halla statuettes, and Varric really you made a paper dog out of the letters?

I’m disappointed the purple smoke people are apparently just a minigame I was honestly convinced they were tied to agents of Fen’Harel and put me on edge from the beginning of the DLC

It's a top hat and a halla statuette! That gives me a staff schematic instead of a top hat....

It’s wonderfully eerie how the Inquisition soldiers are occupying everything. Except for that one Inquisition soldier playing with the dog.

Seraaaaa

“Not right. Do everything for everyone, get sick. Not right. Can't put arrows in it, put them everywhere else. I will never miss. I will make them know Menel had (scratched out) HAS friends.”

Just feeeellsss

Time to go to the Darvaraad. I have to bring Cassandra and Sera cause there’s no way they wouldn’t help, they’re the ones who would deal with being helpless the worst, and then I need one mage in the party cause Menel knows with all this crazy magic around if he falls they need a mage to keep the party safe, so Dorian cause Vivienne’s going to stick to handling the politics. Maybe I’ll just headcanon Bull was also in the party...

I also headcanon the Taken Shape outfit was actually a product of Vivienne and Dorian’s efforts to research ways to fix the growing problem with the Anchor, with some assistance from Menel cause he is a rift mage. They weren’t able to reverse it but the armor possibly slows down the breakdown of the Anchor and also takes away enough of the pain for Menel to focus on casting. Mostly. It helps that the arm with the anchor is the one encased in armor.

Plus I love symbolic costume changes.

Ooh is this codex written to DA2 Tallis? It’s really eloquent too. If concerning.

Menel: Red lyrium. Do the Qunari have any idea what they're dealing with? Sera: Of course but they’re special and careful and nothing bad will happen.

Haha yes true, the story of so much of Dragon Age

Maybe we shouldn’t blame them too much, they’re probably assuming they’re protagonists who actually can get away with such things if they so choose (blood magic for the Warden and Hawke, chugging mysterious liquids in general for the Warden, the Inquisitor carrying around red lyrium shards, etc).

Aww Sera’s “Stop hurting! Please” line was so well delivered

Pfft there’s a copy of Swords and Shields and of course Cassandra notices

Ahhh Josephine’s letter trying to stop a war with the Qun I love her she works so hard

Although again I’m wondering at the timeline cause there’s the implication all the eluvian mess happened in a day since it ends at night but sending a raven to the Qunari and (almost) back is even farther than Denerim. I guess the way back might have been shorter cause Eluvians but even so.

Ataaaaaashiiiii

That dragon is so gorgeous wow poor thing

The poison breath is so creepy though.

I still keep forgetting discharging the mark is a way to explode things

Aww Sera's little delighted “this will be legend!” as we free the dragon

And it was pretty legendary

I’m really happy we had a dragon encounter that didn’t involve killing a dragon please can we keep up with this record?

Menel: NOW CAN WE TALK PLEASE Vidasaala: FINE HERE LOOK AT HOW IGNORANT YOU ARE SOLAS IS AN AGENT OF FEN’HAREL THIS IS MEANT TO BE A DRAMATIC PLOT REVEAL

I headcanon Menel already pieced things together and suspected it was Solas but was hoping to be proven wrong so when the Viddasala confirmed it he took the "that bastard was manipulating us" line

And Menel rarely expresses anger in words so

But he was practical enough to know Solas is his last chance for his hand even though he knows Solas has lied and manipulated and has his own agenda but Menel clings so desperately to that hope of negotiation

And here comes the mark going haywire. The energy coursing around his body when the focus bar is close to full is so good

THE THEME MUSIC

This place is so pretty I want to just run around taking screenshots but I’m too much in dramatic climax mode to do so. The anchor meltdown and the music help

I keep Fade-stepping ahead of the group cause my focus bar is almost full and right into hordes of enemies to discharge. Not sure if Menel did that canonically cause that might be too much for his companions.

Hi Saarebas

I saved the Chargers, but I wonder what happens if you don’t bring Iron Bull along for the last mission and hadn’t saved the Chargers. Does he just show up out of nowhere?

We have to fight the Saarebas twice?

“Your soul is dust!” seriously Qunari can be so dramatic

I DID NOT REMEMBER THE PRIDE DEMON WHY WHYBWNRKRJRJR

At least it falls the moment you defeat the Saarebas

Going to save the conversation with the Egg for another post cause that is going to get long.

#running plays trespasser #Menel Lavellan

[vhyral]

Blooded Hands, Bleeding Hearts

How do I do this?

Pairings: Anna Hawke x Fenris, Reyna Hawke x Orsino, Garrett Hawke x Anders, Vatriel Mahariel x Zevran Arainai

Worldstate: Vatriel Mahariel is the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Commander, Garrett, Reyna and Anna Hawke are the three older siblings of Carver and Bethany Hawke with Reyna being the Champion of Kirkwall

Setting: Garrett and Anna Hawke have accompanied the Inquisitor to the siege of Adamant Fortress. This ficlet follows the party’s last moments in the Fade and the aftermath of the battle. Fenris and Anders arrive in Skyhold, seeking their respective Hawkes.

Words:  4775

Her hands are slick with red, her daggers slowly sliding out of her tightly clenched grip. The ghouls- no, the demons- whatever the corpses with the milky eyes and the black teeth are, they melt into nothing once slashed open and leave scars on her as farewell gifts. The Fade-air is thick and liquid when she breathes between strikes, clinging on the rogue’s clothes and dumping her hair.

It is not made to be breathed by creatures of flesh and blood, Anna Hawke thinks. It feels like she’s choking on honey.

“We cannot delay!” Cassandra’s voice echoes, after the last of the demons has been reduced to dust. “It knows we’re here.”

The Inquisitor scrambles closer, the little elf’s features drawn as she speaks with the warrior, casting worried stares towards the kneeling Warden ahead. She whispers and motions and the Seeker grunts. Two minutes, she issues and joins Blackwall at his rounds, circling their perimeter, their boots sloshing through the muddy, ankle-deep waters. Meanwhile, the bald mage walks to the Inquisitor and leans closer to her as if to share a thought. The wild boy with the hat- Cole- trips right behind him, tagging at his robes. Solas’ eyes have been sparkling with awe non-stop, even when they meet with the Fade horrors. Anna frowns and turns to her brother.

Garrett is at her side like always, his armor glinting under the dim green fade-light. He has been there since they fell into this pit of magic and uncertainty, guarding her back, and for a second, between the smoke and the smell of his thunderbolts scorching the stones near her feet, it feels the faintest like Kirkwall, like the life they had built with blood and sweat before being forced to flee again.

“I never thought I’d miss the smell of Darktown’s sewers yet here we are.” She gives him a tired smile and Garrett shines her one of his own, crooked and soul warming.

"Don't let Varric hear you say that." he laughs.

“I’m literally right over here, Hawke.” The dwarf rolls his eyes at them from where he had perched himself during the fight, on top a nearby rock. A fade-rock. It would not surprise Anna if it sprouted legs and began crawling around with the dwarf riding it like a mighty stead carrying him into battle.

"We will be fine.” Garrett promises, scratching at the remnants of a demon’s claws on the dark metal around his neck. “But we have to move. Soon.”

Further down the narrow path, the Warden Commander is on her knees, her elven lover’s arms around her, holding her close, holding her stable. Her own hands squeeze over her lower abdomen, paperwhite and trembling as she heaves.

"Visiting." Fenris says to the guard that stopped them underneath the Inquisition flags, right before they crossed the huge wooden doors. Behind him, a man is yelling to another guard, trying to gain access to the castle for his goat while a gilded wagon attempts to drive through the doors only to be stopped by flailing Inquisition soldiers.

Morning had already passed when he and Anders had caught the first glimpse of Skyhold from across the rocky mountain landscape, the snow on its tallest towers thick and glistening to the evening sun. The Grand Gates of the stronghold were still wide open when they reached them, letting the colorful, loud crowd of soldiers, merchants and refugees come and go under the watchful eyes of the guards.

"We were invited by Varric Tethras. Here."

The letter comes out neatly folded if not a bit worn out from use- a pretty stellar condition after having travelled half of Thedas in the chest pocket of his cloak. The other man's eyes flutter quickly over the few written lines, straight to the signature at the bottom of the page. There isn't much for him to skip and after weeks of reading it by the campfire, Fenris knows each word by heart.

Broody, it reads, I tried to convey your words to our dearest Hawke. I truly did, once. I'm sorry but for all my charms, Stabby seems to be having none of it- the answer is still no. The hiss I received must have been the shortest conversation I've have had since the Seeker ceased attempting to communicate with me with grunts. The Inquisitor says any friends of mine are welcome in Skyhold- Chipper's a good kid but unless you want your head shaved by an angry redhaired, I'd advise you against accepting any kind of invitations for this part of Thedas.

Then a scratched up line, like someone had snatched the parchment up and managed to scribble a few words before the letter was retrieved. Fenris, the big cursive letters almost screamed with her voice, you over worrying fool! We’ve talked about this. Extensively. I am a grown ass woman and I PROMISE I will roast you with red peppers if I see one lock of fucking white hair around-

These words he read every night before going to sleep. She had not written to him after reaching Skyhold. Too dangerous, too easy to get stolen and Anna never had enough patience to slap down a code instead of her bare thoughts. There was a huge smudge of inked fingertips after her scribbles and above Varric’s signature and the guard’s eyebrow raises noticeably when he reaches the part.

“Master Tethras is usually in the Main Hall this time of the day.” Fenris accepts the letter back with a nod and folds it carefully, slipping it back over his heart.

“He’s not here.”

The elf is stomping around in circles in front of the table one of the kitchen servants guided them to when they asked for Master Tethras. It is small and round, made of well polished pine wood and placed strategically in front of one of the Hall’s many fireplaces. Varric isn’t there but his papers are- stashed parchments, books, ink bottles and more pens than one single dwarf could possibly use neatly organized in one corner.

Anders, strangely, has claimed for himself the seat closer to the fireplace. He is now deftly swirling a pen between his fingers, making its short, black feather jolt and shed a little. His hood has been thrown back- leaving it on would attract more eyes than taking it off, he scoffed when Fenris grimaced. True, with the poor excuse of a beard he has grown around his chin, comically resembling Garrett’s- Fenris had tried not to snort the first time he had seen it-, his golden hair cut short and greying, the mage looks roughly ten years older and is hardly resembling the man that once set Kirkwall- and perhaps the whole of Thedas- on fire.

“You’re… feigning calmness.” Fenris side eyes him. Anders had been restless during their ride through Ferelden, pushing his horse forward to lengths he usually wouldn’t try to reach, spending nights awake and staring at the fire flakes as they rose towards the night sky. Now, he sits idly back on the chair, seemingly relaxed. Yet, after a second, more careful glance, it is obvious that he’s doing a shitty job at concealing it- the mage’s shoulders are visibly stiff and his features drawn, lips pressed together as he keeps his eyes squarely on the pen.

“It’s called keeping a low profile.” he murmurs, stealing a glance around the main hall. People had stared for a bit when they had first entered but visitors are nothing new for Skyhold and after an hour, they now are as good as another piece of decoration. “They’re in an emergency meeting and since you didn’t want to give your name and we can’t quite give mine, we weren’t even announced. No one's going to come running out of there to meet us any time soon.”

Fenris lets out a groan. They are so close, this waiting is killing him. The rumours have been bad but the uncertainty they carried is the worst of it all and the elf can feel himself almost vibrating where he stands, his hands flexing from and into fists at his sides.

The Champion of Kirkwall has fallen. Hawke is dead.

Both Anders and him had walked the long way to the Inquisition’s stronghold with one thought tormenting them every passing hour.

Which Hawke?

The ‘Champion of Kirkwall’ had been left as an open term on purpose, for safety, and they had all agreed to it. It was once the title Reyna Hawke carried, her legacy from almost being impaled on the Arishok’s spear during what now was one of the most widely known duels in Thedas. Yet even in the very city of Kirkwall, the title had been changing hands from one day to the other- after all, there were three Hawkes with exceptional abilities and where Reyna would clean a street in Hightown from thieves, Anna would locate someone’s lost kid the next day and both deeds would be deemed as done by the Champion. When they fled, rumor mingled with gossip and the Tale of the Champion, expertly written as to not give out much about the Champion’s family, had obscured the fact that there were more Hawkes running around Thedas than anyone could ever handle.

But Reyna never set foot in Skyhold, both of them are sure about that. The last letter that had arrived with her sand colored hawk barely a month ago spoke of Antiva and a small, sunny room rented near the Port. It spoke of the sudden decline of Orsino’s health and her reluctant- yeah, right, Anna had laughed- decision to aid the elder mage until he overcame his illness. Thus, only two Hawkes had ever arrived at Skyhold, no matter how strongly Fenris had opposed to the idea when Anna had come to him to talk. And now, someone is supposedly dead and he can feel his chest hurt every time he catches himself wishing that it isn’t her.

He scans the grand hall around him. Dust is dancing in the sunlight pouring in from the huge glass windows, swirling over the lit torches lining its walls. An elf in scout armor is walking their way and he takes a step to the side, placing himself in her path.

“Serah.” he calls. She blinks his way, one of her ears twitching over short, red hair. He gives her a second for the usual quick scan of his face. Her eyes widen the slightest to his tattoos and Fenris asks.

“Where to the Ambassador’s room?”

“What are you planning to do?” Anders is on his feet and following him closely as Fenris walks with long, sure strides across the Hall.

“I’m going to announce myself.”

“It’s impossible to outrun that!”

There’s blood running down Cassandra’s forehead as she yells, her eyes stuck up and glinting dangerously under the green Fade fires. The smell of sulfur is on the air, burning their noses, the hissing of raw Fade energy hissing at the edges of their hair, remains of the recent battle against the Nightmare.

“Go!” comes a hoarse order from behind their backs, “I’ll keep it busy.”

“Have you gone insane?!” Anna has never heard Zevran’s voice ring as thickly and ominously as right now. He grabs the Warden Commander’s arm when she swirls around, his fingers closing in what looks like a death grip. “We’re going.” he growls at her.

“Since when are you making my decisions for me, Zevran?” she hisses back, trying to shake his hand off but the muscles on the Crow’s arm flex and he tags her closer instead, her boots splashing through the murky waters. She glares daggers at him and he shakes his head.

“Since you, my dear Warden, seem to have lost your good judgement.”

“This is NOT the time for this!” Cassandra howls at the same time as a bellow crashes into their ears- the demon is recovering and it will soon be coming for them.

“Knives and fire and steel that cuts, too real, too solid, permanent, burning! Gut them, burn them, chain them up and drink them dry!” Cole wails and then doubles down and holds his head, grunting in pain. The Inquisitor rubs a comforting hand down his back.

“I can give you at least five.” Mahariel insists. “Run and you’ll make it. I have fought uglier things that this in the past.”

“Andraste’s flaming underpants, Vatriel-”

Thunder booms behind them and Anna jumps.

“If you could hurry it up a bit, thank you very much.” Garrett huffs from their rear guard. He raises his arms above his head and lets lightning rain down upon the few demons that have found the courage to slither through the scorched battleground from before and come after them. “I mean it’s not like we have a giant spider coming for our sorry asses here or anything. I can handle this, sure.”

Anna turns around, teeth tearing at her lips as she adjusts the grip on her carved knives. Her muscles still feel sore from their recent fights as she steps towards the demons, melting into the shadows. All she wants is warm food and cold beer and to put her feet up in front of a fireplace without something being out for her neck.

“Go back. To being. Fucking mist.” she hisses as she plunges a dagger deep enough into a ghoul’s eye, it sinks to the hilt. An arrow zooms by her ear as Varric falls into work alongside them.

“I can put up a shield.” she hears the Inquisitor’s voice. “It can hold for a while until you all get out of here and I’m a fast runner-”

“Not open for discussion.” the Seeker cuts her and Lavellan groans.

“Cassandra-”

“A barrier could indeed be held for longer than usual here in the Fade.” Solas offers. “But to risk sacrificing you would be ill adviced if not mindless.”

“This is the Wardens’ fault, all of it.” The Commander’s voice sounds adamant. “No, Zevran. This is MY responsibility.

“It is not even just YOU that would have to stay back anymore!” the Antivan snaps. Anna throws her dagger to a nearby crawling spiderling. It hits it square between its open jaws and it evaporates with a screech. “Good riddance, you freaky nug.” Garrett laughs. “Good one, kid.”

“Sir? Sir, please! You cannot go in there!”

Josephine finds herself at a loss when the strangers first storm right through her doors. She has no meeting arranged for the next three hours and the Council is not yet done. She had briefly returned to her desk to fetch a couple of official documents when the door had swung open, smooth on well oiled hinges. It hits the wall behind it with a bang, making her jump and sending several of the parchments she had been carrying to the floor.

“This area is off limits!” she states now, sharpening her tone and stepping forward to quickly slip her body in between the unknown pair of men that rushes inside and the inner door that leads to the War Room. A flutter of her eyes and the scout that had arrived seconds earlier to deliver a report quietly excuses himself back to the Hall. Hopefully the guards will be here soon enough. “You can’t just barge in here like this, gentlemen, please. We can talk this out.”

“Apologies, Serah,” the elf at the front stops a few steps away from her and speaks, looking her square in the eyes, “but we have come to see the Hawke siblings.”

His pupils are big, expressive and brightly green, mesmerizing as he firmly holds her gaze, and Josephine gives him a quick appraisal now that he is finally standing still instead of marching towards her.

“I’m afraid the Council is private-” she begins.

And then she sees them, where they’re poking from his scarf, around his neck and up his chin, the white tattoos with the faint blue iridescence that curl against dark skin. The ambassador knows better than to let her surprise show- she lets the initial rush of adrenaline of having this very elf right in front of her, here in Skyhold, pass. The man behind him shifts on his feet and Josephine eyes him carefully. He is wearing a hood that partially hid his face but she can make out the tiniest hint of blonde. She inhales sharply- if that is who she thinks he is, Cassandra won’t be happy at all.

Then comes dread- they are here for a reason. They are here for Hawke.

“Serah Fenris. Serah.” she motions towards the chairs of her office. “If you have a minute.”

“Go!”

Varric’s face is a mess of pain, loss and bitter understanding. “Garrett.” he croaks.

“The woman is with child, Varric.” The tall man rolls his staff in his hands before looking up, clear blue eyes meeting with the deep green of the Warden Commander. “And who’s better suited to fight in the Fade than a mage?”

“My brother,” he says loudly for her to hear, “he’s a Warden. If you meet Carver Hawke, let him know that his brother was very proud of him. Tell him his brother loved him, dearly, deeply, always.”

“That should embarrass him out of his grief pretty quickly.” he chuckles.

“No! Garrett!” Anna lunges herself at him, a hand grasping his wrist, the other one closing into a fist around the fabric of his garments. “This is bullshit!” she roars. “You’re not staying here! I’m not leaving you in this hell!”

She glares at him and Garrett gives her a small, weary smile- his free hand finds its way to her cheek and cups it softly- he smells of blood and sweat and ash but so does she and it’s a familiar smell.

“There’s no other way.” His voice is soft. “We will never outrun the Nightmare.”

She can feel a lump forming in her throat, the familiar pressure behind her eyes. She grits her teeth instead and shakes her head violently, scanning the area around them. They can hide, they can split up and try to confuse it, she can knife the demon in its blasted, cursed eyes-

His hand, still warm on her cheek, tags gently, guiding her eyes back on his face, keeping them there. Garrett’s cheeks and forehead are smeared with black and his lower lip sports a blood red cut- his breathing is hitched but he’s smiling softly at her and the rogue feels her chest constrict.

“There’s no other way, Anna.” he breathes. His forehead comes to meet with hers and her hands let go of everything to come cup his temples, her fingers hooking into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this. You’ll have to explain to Reyna, Bethany… to Anders-”

“I’m staying.” Her voice is ragged, her lips dry. “If you’re staying, I’ll be with you to the end.”

“Anna…”

“No, no!” she hisses. “You get to throw your life away but I can’t do the same for you? I’m staying, Garrett. You are my- I’m not going, I’m not losing you.”

Varric’s voice is hoarse behind her. “Kid…”

“Varric.” Her heart is fluttering like a caged bird now- her body trembles in the thought of what’s to come and then steels, warms up and tightens as she turns to face the dwarf. She didn’t come seeking death but leaving Garrett behind feels like a death in its own and she won’t have it. In a corner of her mind, somewhere, a small voice whispers- maybe with the two of us, we can win, we can make it, the two of us, together.

“You have to write to him.” she tells the dwarf. “Fenris. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him, now and forever.”

Varric’s face twists into a mass of pain to her words, his knuckles turning white where he holds Bianca. “Kid,” he shakes his head, “not like this.”

Something explodes in the distant and the ground underneath their feet shakes, the rumbling that echoes through the air growing louder instead of dying down. Anna unsheathes her knives as Blackwall lets out a war cry.

“We don’t have any more time!” he yells. “We have to leave. NOW!”

“And so, we’re out of time.” Garrett huffs.

“Wha-”

She turns- and then her limbs suddenly feel heavy, getting glued into place with every muscle that she tries to move.

“Garrett!’ she croaks bewildered. “Garrett, what-”

His hand is pointing towards her, lit with arcane energy and deep lines form on his forehead as she stares at him. Light pillars flicker around her and that’s when she realises the spell being cast on her.

“Spirit Cage?” she shouts. “Spirit Cage, on ME? Garrett! Let me go! Let me go right now!”

“Varric!” her brother yells instead. “Blackwall! Get her out of here, NOW!”

“No! NO!” The men’s hands are on her shoulders then, around her waist, pulling her, dragging her with them and Anna struggles against the invisible ropes that keep her arms from pushing them away, her legs from kicking. She’s being carried away and for every second passing, Garrett’s getting further away as he flexes his arms and firmly grabs his staff.

“Garrett!” she screams. People are yelling around her as they run. Blackwall is grunting under her weight and Zevran’s voice is encouraging his wife forwards from somewhere at the head of the line but all Anna can see is the tall man they’re leaving behind, the glinting of the ice blue gem of his staff, like a beacon in a sea of green.

“GARRETT, NO! NOT LIKE THIS! GARRETT!” Her throat feels like being teared up from the inside out. “GARRETT!”

At the distance, her brother looks back one last time and his voice carries over the ominous rumble when he yells.

“I love you.”

The words reach her just as the monstrous demon breaks through the hill hiding them from its view all this time. It comes with its million legs thrashing and an explosion of flying rocks and fire and Garrett turns to face it, small in the distance and with his armor shining with swirling mana.

She doesn’t feel remorse when the spell loosens and she beats against Blackwall’s helmet with all the strength she can find in her, when she kicks Varric in the shoulder while trying to break free. She doesn’t see the rift’s edges when they jump through it and crash against hard stone, knees and elbows bleeding as they scrape against the floor.

She only keeps on screaming as she’s held back from jumping back in, someone’s arms around her own, Varric’s hands against her chest as the Inquisitor stands and waits for a heartbeat and then for some more and when no one comes through, she finally raises her hand and blinding green flashes.

She screams harder than ever when he can’t hear her anymore.

“… Kid?”

Anna jumps, knocking down one of the flags the Inquisition advisors use to pinpoint missions on their map.

“Shit.” she mutters and reaches down. The damned thing has rolled further down the war table and she gets on her knees to get it. “Fuck.” she repeats. “Sorry.”

She straightens back up and catches the Inquisitor stealing a glance at her. Lavellan’s eyes are clouded but she averts them fast when Anna stares back and turns to where Leliana and Cullen are bickering.

“You ok?”

Varric usually doesn’t participate in Council meetings- a case has come up deeply connected to Kirkwall though and his presence has been requested. He has not taken the task with joy but he has come nonetheless. Anna knows he is here mostly for her. He has been trying to be in her immediate perimeter ever since they returned from Adamant Fortress.

She wishes he didn’t.

“Are you?” she rumbles.

Pain flashes across the dwarf’s face and the rogue feels the sting of her words coming right back at her.

“Damn it, Varric.” she sighs. “Sorry. I… don’t- this… it’s difficult.”

“I know.” He scratches his chin, absentmindedly staring at the advisors and the Inquisitor trying to find some middle ground over a mission. “Believe me, Kid, I know.”

“Did you write? To everyone.”

He shakes his head.

“The words won’t come.”

How do you write about something that doesn’t feel real? Several days have passed and still, whenever she manages to make herself faint, late at night, she wakes up the next morning with a few blissful seconds where everything feel like just another dream. Where Garrett bangs on her door with plates full of pancakes. Where Dog and her are a warm mess on her bed, the mabari drooling on her hair. And then, Garrett never comes and Dog is old and a world away from her, with the other half of her heart, and she has to truly wake up and keep on going, living, in a world with muted colors.

She has to write to Fenris, to let him know that she is alive, that she is ok. She knows but her fingers refuse to ink the words and the parchment is waiting half empty on her desk.

“What is taking Josephine so long?” Leliana wonders from the other side of the table. “It has been ten minutes already.”

“I should go check.” the Inquisitor turns. “Maybe she needs some help.”

There it is, a window out of this room, away from talks for future expeditions- all she wants at the moment and so Anna sets the little flag back on the table. “Let me. I could use some fresh air.”

“Ask her to bring all recent correspondence with Duke Dumont, yes?”

“No, not you, Varric.” Cullen calls when the dwarf motions to follow her to the door. “We just got to the requests from Kirkwall, we need your assistance.”

Varric shrugs, gives her a strained look and drags himself back to the war table, looking not pleased at all. Anna on the other hand rather prefers this turn of events- he is so stricken with grief and she can’t deal with this right now. She needs space.

“Later, Varric.” she waves, letting the doors close behind her.

She is glad no one has fixed the hole in the wall between the war room and Josephine’s office. She gives herself a second to stand before it, letting the setting sunlight blind her eyes and the breeze caress her face. It almost feels like a touch across her cheek.

“Josephine?” she calls, pushing down the handle to the dark door leading to the ambassador’s office. “Leliana is looking for you- oh, visitors. Excuse me-”

One of the men standing over Josephine’s desk is covered from head to toes, a dark cloak around thin shoulders and his head hidden underneath a hood. He is hunched over the various papers and talking to the ambassador with a low voice- tension is radiating from where his hands have clutched the rim of her desk, bony fingers white from his tight grip.

It feels fishy and she discreetly moves one hand to the dagger at her waist. The man standing next to him, clothed in similar travelling clothes and with white hair caught into a tight ponytail, turns sharply the moment her voice rings across the room.

Anna takes it all in at once, in a moment- the green of his wide eyes, the arch of his nose. The red ribbon keeping his hair in place. The glint of sharp teeth when he opens his mouth.

“Fenris?” she manages before going airborne, strong arms closing around her waist and burning hot lips crashing onto her own and he breathes his next word right into their kiss.

“Anna!” he growls. “Anna, Anna, Anna!”

Her own hands find his back instinctively, nails digging in and holding on to him desperately- the kiss is long and fiery, an explosion of colors and rapid hearbeats and for a glorious moment, she forgets everything that isn’t him. It leaves her heaving for air when he finally puts some space between their faces, both of them breathing hard into each other’s arms.

“You’re here.” Fenris whispers feverently, one hand reaching up to smooth her hair, guiding her head to rest against his neck. “You’re here, you’re safe.”

The rogue nods, her throat blocked for a moment. She can smell the road on him, the dust and the horse hair and underneath all that, his aroma that reminds her of nights under the sheets and warm arms around her back. Her eyes burn and she pushes against his chest a bit- she wants to see his eyes again, his face, him.

“How?” she croaks once words finally seem to return as an option of response. “What are you doing here?”

Fenris’ expression clouds to her question and his eyebrows lower menacingly over his eyes, a hint of anger finding its way to his now tightly pursed lips, to the sharp line of his jaw. His hand finds the side of her neck and squeezes firmly.

“What was I doing away from here is the right question. We heard the rumours, Anna. I thought you were dead!”

“I’m not dead.” she shakes her head. “I’m not…”

We?

“Anna?”

She freezes. It is the voice she dreaded to hear. Not here, not yet. She is not ready for this.

She looks behind Fenris, where the cloaked stranger has let his hood fall back over his shoulders. Golden hair shine under the last sun rays and she spots the red scarf around his neck.

“Where is Garrett?” asks Anders.

@forthelifeofoneburglar, @notyourinquisitormate, it’s been a while so here it is again. I’m almost done with the second part so I thought I should remind you you should reread it before the next assault of angst.

#look I wrote a thing #hawke #garrett #garrett hawke #anna #anna hawke #reyna #reyna hawke #anders #fenris #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da #da:i #put a read more cause it's huge #tell me what you think #long post

[ateamforumsfanworks]

Guide to Leeching and Dealing with Leechers - Please don't hate me for this!

08-08-2015, 02:23 PM

Originally Uploaded by Forum User: beepbeep

NOTE: Before reading this guide, please understand that this guide and thread is not here to chastise, criticize, or insult any player who wishes to play the game. However, realistically speaking, not everyone is going to enjoy the game the same way, and some people's way of enjoying the game may cause other people to not enjoy the game. The goal of this guide is to help people reach a level of compromise by giving players in different scenarios the best possible options they can choose to take.

This is my guide on leeching. Yes, leeching. There’s a lot of it in this game, and I’m sure there’s a lot of players who are annoyed by it and a lot more who practice it. I want to raise some awareness about this in Unison League to hopefully make the situation of leeching better for both those getting leeched from and the leechers. It sounds weird, but rather than be frustrated with the situation we can all try to accommodate ourselves the best we can.

Hopefully you’ll find this guide easy to understand. There’s 2 parts: Part one for the leechers; Part 2 for those getting leeched off of. I’ll be only covering some basics – the rest is up to your preference and opinion.

Part 1: Leechers

My first recommendation would be to switch your class to CLERIC and try to raise your MATK and MDEF as high as you can to get some boosted heals. Have at least one AOE heal and two single heals. If you get a status ailment landed on yourself you need to be able to remove them ASAP or you might just die after getting para’d or confused.

Secondly, bring Unison Monsters that heal (Shinatobe, Unicorn/Slepnir, Valk, etc). Cuchulainn or any other monster that provides Healing Wind related boosts is a poor unison choice for leeching because your HP is probably so abysmally low that you’ll just die anyways. Additionally, and most importantly bring a Goblin or some other colorless monster for HASTE. If you aren’t pulling your weight in a PvE run and you don’t even have haste, you can bet that your chances of the entire team ditching you to die are going to shoot up dramatically.

Continuing on this point – timing your unisons is important. On the more dangerous runs, you should be the ones initiating unisons for haste or your healer unison as much as possible. As a general rule of thumb, time your unisons to be in sync with opposing attacks that will hit you in order to dodge them. This Unison Dodge technique is commonly practiced in more difficult runs, and is often overlooked by even advanced level players during simpler runs, and often results in unnecessary deaths when not successfully initiated.

As a leecher there, are two important things: Surviving the run, and making sure that your DPS teammates (ie, your victims) also survive the run and keep attacking for you. So let’s go over the main points one more time:

1. Class to Cleric: 1 or more AoE Heal, 2 single target heals, as much Matk/Mdef as possible for heal boost, enough Pdef to not die to one physical attack. Your gearscore should end up floating around at least 32k for this to work, 40k or more for more security.

2. Heal and Haste Unisons: Goblin = 2 cost. Get it. No excuses.

3. Unison dodging: Practice makes perfect, being able to do this will save your life.

Lastly, let’s cover some things I don’t recommend: Heaven’s Breath/Life Up, non-Cleric classes, buff support.

HP increasers are poor choices for leeching because you don’t really have that much life to boost. Chances are if you’re a leecher you’ll start out sub-30k HP and will get boosted to around 50k HP without any class boosts or weapon boosts such as Heart of Vitality. At a glimpse it looks like it could help, but the cooldown for those skills is so large there’s enough of a window for you to get killed.

Non-cleric classes are not recommended because you probably can’t do damage and those skills are likely to be taking up spaces for heal skills. Therefore you put yourself in more danger by not choosing cleric class for leeching.

Buff support is not recommended for the reason that if you buff your party, it makes it easier for them to leave you to die and then walk off with the buffs you so foolishly provided for them.

If you follow these basics, you should be able to leech like a pro and your victims either won’t mind as much or may not even notice until the run is over that you were even leeching

Part 2: Victims – those being leeched off of

First, you can simply retire, but I don’t recommend doing this just because you end up screwing over 2 or 3 other people who are legitimately trying to do a run. So let’s go onward.

All non-leechers must have a colorless monster for HASTE. This is imperative if you want to punish a leecher as you don’t want to let yourself die just because you ran out of Cost to cast heals.

For Clerics, don’t heal the leechers. By healing the leechers you put your DPS teammates at more risk of dying.

For non-Clerics,

invest in some bulk

for your PvE set. I’ve been in teams where my DPS teammates die and retire while the leeches survive because they didn’t have enough bulk and ended up paralyzed or reflected while the cleric healed the leech. Ultimately in pug teams you have to be responsible for yourself. Bring what you should bring to contribute, but do not expect other people to do the same. Nobody likes being the highest gearscore person and then dying to some unfortunate circumstance while the sub 50k GS leech survives.

I also recommend that non-Clerics devote a slot to 1 heal just to cover yourself in case of a pinch-scenario.

If you invested in

bulk and a heal

for yourself, this also works to your advantage if you wish

to punish

the leecher. You now have the option of punishing the leecher. If you are able to properly heal yourself, you can cease your attacks on any monster and allow the monster to carry out its attacks while the leecher takes damage. Select an appropriate monster with AoE attacks and let the endurance test take place. The leecher should die before you if you’ve appropriated the proper amount of bulk due to simply being underleveled and undergeared. After you have succeeded in killing the leech in your party in the time you deem appropriate, continue on and finish your run. Give yourself a maximum of 2 minutes to kill your leecher as it is not worth sabotaging a time bonus just to get a leecher killed, and if a leecher is able to stay alive that long, changes are he/she is smart enough to be able to endure the entire run. I recommend killing leechers toward the end of a run, as it is the best way to waste more of their time and helps to drain more of their AP.

Now that you know these basics, being able to identify leechers is your next step. Generally non-Soldier leeches will have HP that hovers around 30k and Soldier leeches will have slightly higher HP.

Here at

http://i.imgur.com/LG6NVBr.png

I have provided a sample image of a team (whose identities have been hidden) I recently ran with in the Rank 30 (36 ap) Wonderland run for a shot at Alice. It should be very obvious that the party’s leech in this picture is the 34k GS Cleric. This cleric actually survived the run because the Archer and Lancer did not decide to punish the cleric. The cleric averaged heals at around 8k HP for AoE heals and a single target heal that maxed at about 11k after buff. The cleric also carried a Soultaker for Haste. If it weren’t for the underpowered healing, the leecher could have actually made a suitable cleric, but in the end the archer still had to heal himself while I healed myself, the lancer and the mage.

The basics for dealing with leechers generally boil down to:

Being able to keep yourself and your non-leech teammates alive.

Knowing how to identify a potential leech.

Wanting to or not wanting to let a leech get away with leeching.

Number 3 in these basics is really the most important point. If you’re OK with someone leeching off of you while you do everything in the run that’s actually not a bad way to play if you can keep enjoying the game. If you’re getting frustrated at people leeching off of you, letting the leech die is a great way to relieve a bit of game-related stress. It’s really a matter of personality and preference – as a leech victim, whether you’re accepting of it or frustrated with it, your reaction to a leech in your party is perfectly justified. Just make sure to remember to have fun.

Ultimately, if the leechers follow the leecher guide, less victims will need to follow the victim guide.

I’m sure there is more that could be said, but this is already a huge wall of text and if you took the time to read through all of this I hope it gave you some sort of benefit whether it be insight or a good laugh. If you have anything to add, any comments are welcome and appreciated. Thanks!

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 12 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Fading Light

There is a persistent myth that a person can somehow catch up on their lost sleep. Total bollocks in Rory's experience. There was only so long a healthy body could stay asleep before it had to be up and moving; certain necessary biological functions that absolutely had to be attended to. Water and food were just as necessary as sleep, but it was proving far easier to regulate her intake of those than it was to try and reestablish a reasonable sleep schedule.

She didn't remember much about the journey back to Haven - a vague recollection of falling over far too many times for comfort until someone decided she should be carried. She blushed to remember just who had picked her up; Cassandra, of all people, insisting that she was the freshest of the soldiers and the healer was the most precious of the cargoes that needed bearing down the mountain. Lord, but that woman was strong. And as soon as she was no longer responsible for keeping herself upright, Rory had passed out. The next thing she remembered was waking up briefly to the sound of Chantry hymns at sunset, a good ten or more hours after she'd fallen asleep, safe and secure in one bedroll among many, packed into the quieter end of the field hospital outside Haven's gates. She'd roused just long enough to have a drink, use the pot, and check in with Fabian, only to roll back into her blankets and drift back to sleep.

That second slumber lasted only another three hours or so, and she woke to the more familiar sound of the wind over the ice and the quiet voices of men and women in pain. Leaving the bedroll, she made herself known to the healers who were covering the night-shift, relieved to note that they had things pretty much under control. She was treated with startling respect - startling, because she honestly hadn't realized they all looked on her as the senior healer in these parts - uncomfortable with their deference to her suggestions, but she had also been firmly told to go back to bed. Unable to face just lying there in the darkness, not quite able to force herself to sleep again just yet, she chose instead to leave the tents, wrapping up tightly in her cloak as she breathed in the gloriously fresh air.

The world was green. The eerie light of the Fade spilled out from the stabilized Breach, staining the night sky, the moons, the snow. She'd never realized just how much that tainted light could affect the play of shadows and light over everything around her. And it wasn't a dusky shade, or a foresty shade. Here and in person, Rory realized that Fade light was Disney lime green, raising the specter of Maleficent in her mind. Unfortunately, Corypheus was no Disney villain. Poor, unfortunate souls ...

Turning her face away from the Breach, she shivered in the wind, letting her gaze skim over the snow-swept ice. Everything was still green, but it was easier to pretend she wasn't standing within spitting distance of that awful scar in the sky when it wasn't in her eye-line.

"You should be sleeping."

For once, she didn't jump on hearing an unexpected voice in the quiet. Perhaps she was just too tired. Whatever the reason, she simply turned her head toward Cullen as he came up beside her, looking just as weary as she felt, no armor tonight betraying that he, too, was supposed to be sleeping.

"So should you," she answered softly. "Have you had any sleep yet?"

"A few hours," he told her, staring out over the ice. "There's so much to do. And ..." He trailed off, but she knew what the unspoken problem was. The nightmares. Too many demons, too little sleep, too much history, all keeping him from being able to approach sleep calmly. The shadows cast by the events at Kinloch Hold still stretched their hands over him.

"And," Rory agreed with a heavy sigh of her own. She could still hear the screaming of the dying, somewhere in the back of her mind. She'd been lucky so far, but she would suffer nightmares of her own sooner or later. "How is your head?"

Cullen gave a sigh of his own. "Mercifully clear," he admitted, his tone deep with gratitude as he glanced at her. "That second potion of yours seems to be working."

"I'm glad. The last thing you need is that headache on top of everything else." She shivered in the gusting breeze, shaking out her shoulders before pulling her cloak closer about herself.

"Cold?" Without waiting for her answer, he reached over, wrapping one long arm about her shoulders to pull her close against his chest. "You should go inside. We can't have you catching a chill."

She snorted with laughter, offering no objection to being hugged into him. "Contrary to popular belief, you can't catch a chill just from being cold," she heard herself tell him in amusement. "Lack of sleep, on the other hand ..."

"So go to bed," he told her promptly, grunting as she unwound one hand from within her cloak to prod his stomach.

"You go to bed," she countered, surprised by the way he caught her hand, enveloping her smaller fingers in his bigger palm.

They were silent then, both lost in thought, neither prepared to try sleeping again just yet. Without quite realizing it, Rory's head tilted slowly, finding a resting place against Cullen's shoulder as they shared the peaceful silence together. Her gaze focused on his hand and hers, enchanted by the contrasts there. Hers, small and weak, encased in pale blue hide; his, large and strong, wrapped in supple dark leather. Two hands with two different purposes, yet driven by the same need to protect and serve. She felt his head tip, his jaw pressing lightly to her hair as the arm about her tightened just barely.

"The next time I give you an order, I expect you to obey it, Rory," he murmured to her. How long has he been holding onto those words, she wondered. That conversation was days ago.

"And I will, if it isn't a stupid order," she answered him in a soft tone.

"I don't give stupid orders," he argued, his voice as soft as hers, lacking the heat of a true argument. Perhaps he was just too tired, too.

"That one was," she told him, curling her fingers through his as she felt him tense. "No, listen. Without a healer on hand, your party would never have reached the Temple, let alone held it. More people would have died. You don't have to like it, Cullen, but I won't be kept from where I'm needed."

"You could have sent the girl," he countered quietly.

"I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I had." Rory shook her head just a little, rubbing her cheek against the fur that adorned his shoulder. "Evy's brave, but she wouldn't have been able to cope. The forward camp was the best place for her. I'm the official healer; I couldn't ask anyone else to do that."

He was silent for a long moment before answering. "You're right, I don't like it," he sighed, his chest expanding and contracting against her. "But I understand. Just ... promise me you will stay back from the fighting."

She smiled faintly, touched that he was so concerned about her safety. "I think we've established that I can't fight for toffee," she assured him gently. "I can definitely promise to do my best to stay out of the firing line."

"That's all I can ask."

He dropped her hand, twisting to pull her closer as his arms wrapped about her fully. She went easily into that embrace, sliding her own arms about his waist in answer. In the eerie green night, it didn't seem real to be standing here in Cullen Rutherford's arms. Is this a dream? Am I in the Fade? If this is a dream, why hasn't he kissed me? I don't dream cut-price Commander, I dream full-on horny obsessive Commander! ... so why does this feel so much better?

"You did everything you could. At a certain point, a man's life falls into the Maker's hands."

She felt her breath catch in her throat. How does everyone seem to know what's hurting me? Am I that easy to read? Justinia had seen through her in moments; now Cullen was offering reassurance to doubts she had expressed to no one, not even herself. She hated that feeling of helplessness, of knowing that there really was nothing she could do. But she hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

"I should have ended it for them," she whispered sadly. "I didn't want to believe it was over, and they suffered for it. No one should die like that."

"You weren't ready to make that decision for them," Cullen murmured in a gentle tone. "And no one blames you for it."

"Calman did," she pointed out, but he wouldn't let her focus on that thought.

"Calman is an idiot," he said disapprovingly. "I heard about his behavior. And you still cared for his wound the way you care for anyone else who comes to you."

"My personal opinion doesn't matter," she told him, sharing a simple but fundamental truth of anyone in any kind of caring profession. "It doesn't matter if I hate his guts and wish he would fall off a cliff. He was injured and in pain; he needed a healer. That's my job, not to pass judgment."

"Exactly." Cullen drew back a little, looking down into her eyes. "It's your job to help those who can be helped. Every death lies at the feet of whoever did this - mage, templar, or other. Not yours."

She couldn't bear to look into his eyes, to see the warmth and sympathy there, not when she wasn't ready to let go of that sense of her own accountability. Maybe I could have stopped this from happening. Could we have stopped Corypheus here, before he killed Justinia and broke the world, if I had just said something a few days ago?

Closing her eyes, she pressed her face to his chest, thankful she met only warm wool and not bracing cold metal. "Tell that to my heart."

His arms drew more securely around her, holding her against the accusations rolling through her mind. "You tell it to mine," he murmured against her hair, feeling the same weight of guilt. "Security was my responsibility. All those people ... I failed them all."

"No." The word was muffled in his chest, making it necessary for her to raise her head once again and brave his gaze. "Cullen, no. You are not responsible for this tragedy. You said it yourself - the fault lies with whoever did this. They are responsible. Not you." And if I get the chance, I'm going to kick Coryphytits right in the nadgers for making you think you might bear the blame for any of this.

"You're so certain," he said wonderingly. "How can you possibly be so sure?"

She smiled gently, daring to reach up and let her gloved fingers curl to his cheek. Oh my gods, I'm touching Cullen-gorgeous-Rutherford! "Because you're a good man, Cullen," she told him firmly. "Too good to be able to conceive of anyone doing something so evil as this. And that isn't a bad thing."

"I wasn't always like this," he told her regretfully. "I've done terrible things."

Not so very terrible, in the circumstances. "Everyone has a past," she countered. "It's what you do in the present that counts."

"There you go with the caring again." He smiled his invisible smile, deflecting her earnest assurances with the barest hint of a blush on his chilled cheeks.

"Well, it's not a river, I can't dam the flow," she pointed out warmly. "You really do need to get some more sleep, though."

His smile faltered, the flame of fear hidden deep in his eyes. "I'm afraid to sleep," he confessed in a low whisper, the words almost lost in the breeze off the ice.

Her heart clenched as he admitted to this deep fear, tender concern choking her throat for a moment at his hesitant admission. Oh, my poor, broken lion ... "They're just dreams," she told him gently. "They can't hurt you."

"And ... the demons ..."

Damn, I forgot about the real demons in the Fade shit. She shook her head, edging just a little closer in the wrap of his arms as she held his gaze. "You are not weak," she insisted fervently. "You are no fool. No demon will ever trick you. I believe that. I believe in you."

"With the Veil torn -" he began, but she cut him off, laying her fingertips over his mumbling lips.

"I'll prove to you how safe you are in your dreams," she told him, her tone refusing to take no for an answer. "How safe it is to be around you. Just trust me." Her hand claimed his, turning to pull him away from the lake and toward the lines of sleeping tents.

He followed at her heels, realizing about halfway to their destination what it was she had in mind. "You can't spend the night in my tent, Rory," he protested, though he made no move to pull his hand from hers, or to slow her progress. "Your reputation ..."

"... can handle a little salacious gossip," Rory informed him confidently. "I am a healer. You are the commander, and you need to sleep. So I am going to help you get that sleep."

"I won't take a sleeping draught," he objected fiercely. "I need ... I need to be able to wake up."

She rolled her eyes, turning to look at him pointedly. "Do I look stupid to you?" she asked with mild amusement, knowing how much it must have cost him to say those words but refusing to coddle a fear that would kill him if he didn't overcome it. "Get in the tent, Cullen."

He hesitated, rubbing his neck as he eyed her, clearly torn between obeying and insisting on protecting her reputation. She met his gaze calmly, not at all concerned about her reputation, or lack thereof. What she cared about was proving to him that it was safe for him to sleep, even with the Breach so close; that he was in no danger of possession because of the man he was. After all, the first victim if he was possessed would be the person sleeping closest to him - her, in this case. She wasn't afraid, and she was hoping that one night with her sleeping at his side would be enough to prove to him that he didn't need to be so afraid, either.

He must have seen that in her eyes, recognizing her stubbornness for what it was. "Some people would call you crazy for tempting fate this way," he warned, but there was a warm kind of accepting defeat in his eyes as he said it that sent a prickling shiver to her toes. That's right, Cully-Wully, pick your battles. Let the crazy lady win this one. After a moment of watching her refusing to give an inch, he sighed, ducking into the tent ahead of her.

She felt a ridiculous urge to pet him like an obedient dog. Who'sa good boy? You are! Suppressing both that and her happy grin, she ducked in after him, tying the flaps securely behind her. The brazier was unlit tonight, the biting cold only slightly lessened by the wind-break of the waxed canvas.

"Chilly," she commented, perching on one of the chests to remove her boots. "Lucky me you run hotter than everyone else."

"What?" Crouched by the bedroll, Cullen looked up at her in confusion. She watched the comprehension dawn on his face as he caught on to what was going to have to happen. The blush was glorious to behold, rising with gradual grace in glowing red that crept up from the collar of his tunic to burn even the tips of his ears. "Oh ... oh, I see." He cleared his throat nervously. "Is ... are you ... is that ... acceptable, to you?"

How can he not know how adorable he is? I'm all but forcing myself into his bed, and he's worrying about me? Rory couldn't have stopped the smile rising on her face if she'd tried. "It is acceptable to me," she assured him as gently as she could. "Is it acceptable to you?"

"Uh, I ..." He seemed to be groping for something to say that wouldn't make him out to be a horny teenager or a frigid old maid. "I ... wouldn't want you to get cold."

"It's very important your healer doesn't keep you awake with her chattering teeth," she agreed, pleased to see the ghost of a smile flicker across his face in response, the way his shoulders relaxed as she made no big thing of an act that most would consider to be even more intimate than sex. Look at you, being all confident. What happened to Little Miss Talks Nonsense?

"Yes, that would not be conducive to a good night's sleep," Cullen agreed with her, tossing his boots aside. "You are sleeping furthest from the entrance, however."

Rory sighed as she wriggled her feet out of her own boots. Should have expected that, smarty-pants. "Still protecting me?" she asked lightly.

He met her gaze with a burning sincerity that turned the thoughts in her head to quivering jello, holding out a hand to invite her down into the blankets. "Always."

My turn to blush. And what a blush it was. It began somewhere around her belly button, gaining momentum and heat to meet the chilly air at the top of her high-necked tunic with what should have been an audible sizzle. It felt as though she could have cooked dinner for six on her face. And don't forget that you're grinning like an idiot, too.

Bright red and embarrassingly close to giggling with sheer nervous delight, she slid her hand into his, letting him tug her down onto her knees beside him. "Don't you say a word," she warned, knowing from experience that he was enjoying the fact that he'd made her blush again.

"My lips are sealed," he promised in amusement, reaching to undo the tie of her cloak at her neck as she worked the buckle of her belt loose.

Potion bottles jangled softly against one another as she set her many-pouched belt to one side with her boots, letting Cullen lift the wool cloak from her shoulders while she unbuttoned and removed her gloves. Without words, this all felt very intimate, as though there were more here than a stubborn woman proving a point to an equally stubborn man. And for all her noble sentiment, Rory could feel her nerves fluttering as she crawled by him to lie on her side, her nose mere inches from the canvas wall. A moment later, she tensed as the long, lean length of Cullen Rutherford curled himself into the contours of her back, drawing his thick blanket over them both. His arm came to rest about her, the weight of it laying directly over her almost healed ribs, but she didn't mind that pain. It was a reminder that this was real, it was happening. No one had aching ribs in a dream.

He felt warm and solid against her back, a protective shield against the world outside. Hot breath wet her neck with humid heat, sending scorching shivers down her spine to earth somewhere inside with crackling intensity that made her press her thighs together tightly. She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to relax into the broad chest that lay against her back, the strong thighs that cradled her backside and legs. You're just going to sleep. He's this close to keep you warm, not to ... wait a second ... She wriggled experimentally, and felt her cheeks burn once again. Oh, my giddy aunt ...

"Uh ... Cullen?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you ... comfortable?"

She could almost hear him carefully considering the question, examining himself from top to bottom as he shifted at her back, making her ever more aware of what she had noticed. Feet, arms, legs, head, chest ... Oh. Cullen cleared his throat in embarrassment, lifting his arm from about her to remove the hard object pressing into her backside, laying the dagger down beside her head. Well, that's disappointing.

"My apologies," he murmured, wrapping his arm about her once more. "Force of habit."

Rory bit down on a slightly hysterical giggle before it could escape. "Understandable," she managed to assure him in a whisper, shifting to lay her hand over his at her stomach. "Try to sleep, Cullen. I'll keep you safe."

He pressed his face against the back of her neck, his arm tightening around her as he huddled closer in the cold night. "Where were you ten years ago?" was mumbled against her skin, a question he no doubt hoped was too indistinct for her to understand and answer.

On the streets with ten pounds to my name and nothing else, she thought, but she couldn't, wouldn't, tell him that. That belonged in a past that had no place in this world. Tonight was about him; helping him to relax into sleep, to understand that he was more than capable of defending his own mind, even when he was lost in dreams. With that in mind, she stroked her fingers gently against his arm, his hand, humming a soft lullaby she remembered from her childhood, before everything had gone horribly wrong. Though to her it was sad, a reminder of a life that had been far from perfect, to Cullen it seemed to be soothing, lulling him into accepting his weariness, into letting sleep claim him. She hoped that sleep would be dreamless. And if it wasn't, she'd be here to pick up the pieces and try again. Here, she would stay, at least until morning, gossip and rumor be damned.

Wrapped up in the arms of a man she was fairly sure held her heart in his palm and didn't even know it, it wasn't such a bad way to spend the night. She just hoped he wouldn't regret this in the morning. Everything looked different, in the cold light of day.

#set in darkness #multi-chapter fic #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #cullen rutherford #rory allen #the aftermath of the explosion #sleepless nights #fluff #angst #all the angst #suggestive cuddling