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kettlequills · 3 years

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black emporium exchange fill: anything, anything

now all the gifts have been revealed, i can finally post this! done for little_abyss. pretty proud of this one! TW: grief/mourning, implied/referenced self harm, blood magic, implied sexual content, violence. Audacity/Merrill.

What would you risk, to save it all? // In the aftermath of Tamlen's disappearance, Merrill meets a spirit that calls itself Audacity.

Merrill met Audacity in a nightmare.

It was the same one it always was. Every night, back there, like she’d never left, heaving-sick in the belly of a boat, emerging coughing into the dampness of the Marches, the least free she’d ever been. The City of Chains had grinned at the elves it swallowed into its docks, and the mages had escaped only by hiding their staffs. Merrill remembered the smell of the lyrium-lingering Templars, the dense crush and press of human bodies and sweat. She had never seen so many people before in her life. In the nightmare, though, she was alone.

The mirror was dark and taunting in the hollow embrace of the crumbling ruins of the Brecilian Forest, where no wise Dalish went. In it, the fleeing edge of Tamlen’s back through the mirror, imagined, for Merrill hadn’t been there, wondered, sometimes, if it would have taken her instead. Wondered, sometimes, if that’s what Marethari would have wanted. Wondered if that was what Merrill wanted.

Merrill saw the hunter’s mouth, spilling black taint. Merrill had been there for that like she hadn’t been for Tamlen, there for the way he’d coughed and gasped, bubbling on the fluid in his lungs, as Merrill cast spell after spell to save him. Even blood only delayed the inevitable. For nothing, in the end. The clan never looked at Merrill quite right after that. Like she’d walked away and come back ghoulish from the ruins, like they’d kissed her, smeared her with a stain that was all the clan saw when they looked at Merrill’s face marked with the same gods they wore. Like the Creators hadn’t made blood with magic in it to be used.

Death when it came for him had darkened the hunter’s eyes to smudges and the hollows of his cheeks like he was gaunt, an old creature in a young hunter’s body. Like the ancients, wrathful wraiths that waited, cursing Fen’harel the Trickster for taking their gods away and shattering their curse-mirrors to the realm of dreams and demons that whispered, help me.

Through the mirror, she could see them – their ancestors, their people, their suffering faces and their tear-grave eyes, screaming as they clutched to them Tamlen, who had always been kind to Merrill. Tamlen’s gaze was spawn-dark, his smile was gone, gone, and he had no kindness left for Merrill, none at all. Was he with the Creators now?

Like clockwork, the mirror shattered, and Merrill was left, looking into in her own eyes. Green as grey-leaves, lost, and confused, alone against the darkness. Or almost alone. Around her feet, the bodies of her clan, spawn-bloated, blood-drained, Marethari’s staring eyes accusing, accusing. The blood between her toes that soaked and squirmed like her skin soaked it up, to replace the blood she’d lost on the hunter. The blood she’d given with a knife jagged as the mirror-shard and hope cutting each breath and each poisoned promise she begged from the hunter’s blight-licked lips.

Help me, the demon whispered. Help me.

Merrill closed her eyes and prayed to wake up. Every time, she feared it was real, felt immeasurable relief when she saw the rippling fabric of the aravel and knew herself among her clan and alone, except for her dead – Tamlen’s face, the hunters they’d lost along the way. This time, she opened her eyes in the dream, and knew she was not.

The demon was there, and it saw her.

On the green slopes of the Fade beneath Sundermount, Merrill felt the hole in the world. The Fade here was rippled and pinched, like a scar. Kirkwall was a burning blister in the distance, the howling grief of the city swelling like a canker, night after night. The sea-wind was foul and carried the screams of darkspawn-fodder, left behind on the docks of Ferelden but for the price of passage.

(Ferelden, where Tamlen’s body didn’t rest, uneaten by the worms that had crawled through the eyesockets of Brecilian Forest elves for decades of generations. The mirror shard pressed like a dagger into her skin through her pocket. It was heavier here, in the Fade, and warm like a breathing creature. Merrill always felt it. Always just on the edge of cutting her. Disagreements with Marethari had grown more and more pointed, and the shard sharper and sharper.)

Sunken into the darkness, the hole in the Fade where the demon cried was in the shape of chains. They sloshed when Merrill tugged them, curious, and her hands came away sticky and red. Help me, the chains whispered in elvhen voices, remember me.

“I remember you,” said Merrill, moved, and she saw in her eye a white-haired man, an elf, old, old as the mountain, close his eyes in bitter suffering. His face had no Dalish tattoos at all, but he carried around his shoulders a wolf-pelt. His throat smiled in a wet gash, and the chains pushed their way out like the grasping hands of an infant, out of his blood, out of his body. In his closed eyelids were mirrors.

The ancient ones slept on Sundermount, but they did not rest.

“Do you, brave elfling?” asked a voice, strained, indistinct, and Merrill looked for it – found-

The demon was bound, like the old elf, and it was beautiful. It was like something that had never been a wolf, with more eyes than legs, and the spiralling horns and scales of a dragon. The fur pushed its way out between the scales like vines, like the pitch between the boards of a ship. It smelled of shem-wine and the gull-cries of the new shore, of dusty books and magic. It was vaguely purple like forget-me-nots, each coloured scale smooth as an old statue, washed clear by the ages. Sparks cracked and snapped in its nostrils when it breathed laboriously, and its eyes, seven, maybe eight of them, looked at Merrill like a challenge.

Like they saw her, beneath her dead.

“What are you?” Merrill asked the demon because it paid to be polite. She had never seen Pride like this before, proud enough to ask for help, proud enough to demand it. Maybe desperation had made itself bedfellow in its purpose. The things that Merrill had done for desperate love of her clan – she knew that it could make any feeling stretch liquid to fill the containment of necessity.

The chamber it lay in was as red as the secret inside chamber of a peeled heart. Elfsblood was dark, dark and still warm where it rose around Merrill’s calves. When she opened her mouth to speak, the air tasted of iron and the adrenaline just before a bone-snapping fall. It was dizzying. Merrill had never been so conscious of her aliveness.

“Anything,” said the demon. “Anything I want to be. I am the pride of every one of us who has gone before. I am the boldness of the sun swallowing the night. I am Audacity.”

“Where are you?” Merrill asked. “Did you kill these people?”

“Hurting,” said Audacity. “Do you dare to help me?”

Now – Merrill wasn’t born yesterday, contrary to what Marethari thought. But after that night, she didn’t have that nightmare any longer. Instead, she had Audacity.

“What can you teach me?” Merrill asked the demon.

They were in the Fade again. Merrill sat and felt the warm blood ebb and flow around her knees. She gazed into her eyes in the shard of the mirror and Audacity’s fingers – humanlike, since Merrill had met Hawke, but still clawed, like Fenris’ gauntlets – curved over Merrill’s shoulder. Their body was feminine, crowned with feathers over the shoulders like Anders’ coat, dragonlike, wolflike, piratelike, since Merrill had met Isabela. Audacity’s breasts against Merrill’s back felt like the hand between the shoulderblades that pushed Merrill tumbling over the cliffs into the tossing waves of new experience, of the melting pot that was Kirkwall – comforting, warm, sure, since Merrill had met Varric. Audacity’s face was approximately elvhen ever since Merrill had met her own eyes in the cracked washbasin in the Alienage and known herself, but the band of crowning horns around the delicate, scaled features gleamed Aveline-sure and Aveline-strong.

Merrill’s dark hair was a raven’s wing against Audacity’s shock-storm cheek. Audacity’s chin was the pointed fork of a tree struck by lightning against a black wreathing sky, defiant til the end, against Merrill’s shoulder. Promise hung about it like perfume. Audacity held Merrill close, like no one could for Tamlen, like no one had for the dead hunter. Except Merrill.

There was Tamlen’s absence in the sanguine wetness that stained Merrill’s feet and Merrill’s hands and Merrill’s magic, and that left footprints when she walked in the Fade. The Blight sung its discordance through the bones of Merrill’s dream where she held the mirror shard. Where Audacity held Merrill and Merrill held the mirror shard.

It was warm and hard in Merrill’s hands, but her flesh was soft and chilled from the blood, the dream, the shadow of the nightmare Audacity ate, and it dimpled against Audacity’s searching grip. The chains clanked and shifted, heavy as snake-coil, all muscle. Merrill felt the echo of them, when Audacity was this close, in their corner of the Fade. In the warmth they made together, in that secret little hollow between Audacity’s spiritstuff ribs and Merrill’s thundering heart.

Audacity’s nose found its resting place in the shadow behind Merrill’s pointed ear, and it said, in its voice of the People whose blood wrapped manacles around Audacity’s spirit and Audacity’s body it had made for holding Merrill, “Anything.”

“Anything?” Merrill echoed, and Audacity’s pointed teeth grazed Merrill’s neck when its lips measured her pulse. Its clawed hand spanned Merrill’s stomach like the pinpricks of knives, like the rusty spikes that stabbed through Kirkwall’s walls and its listless summer heat.

“What will you dare to learn? What will you risk to know?” It was probably lonely, prideful creature, all alone in its pit of blood, Merrill thought. Kept apart from the world, soaked in death. When Audacity’s new-made fingers curled in the fabric of Merrill’s tattered and torn-again shirt, Merrill thought she felt desperation there. Hunger, there.

Or maybe that was Merrill’s own. It hadn’t asked her to free it. But Merrill dreamed of it in the daylight, its pointed tongue, its enamel-bone horns.

Anders called her a fool. But Merrill looked at him and saw Justice engraved in the lines of his flesh, and thought – Audacity would hate that.

“Tell me,” Merrill tipped her head back against Audacity’s cheek, felt its not-breath against her skin, its razor-crack singe of electric-tail looped around her thigh. It made her nerves prickle like they did when Merrill tried sips of the foul alcohol Varric pushed on her, chuckling with warm whiskey eyes when she coughed and spluttered. Never sweet, shem-ale and shem-wine. Not like Dalish Red. Not like Audacity. “Tell me of the pride of the Elvhen.”

Audacity’s words were rhythmic and soft, and they wove into her thoughts like glue for the mirror she made with blood and guile, each piece painstaking, weeks of work.

“Where are you, kitten?” Isabela needled once, halfway through a game of Wicked Grace with Merrill’s wrist limp and her mind sore with mental equations of metallic magic. Merrill looked at her and thought of Isabela’s lips, so soft, so inviting, so warm when she laughingly kissed Merrill on dares she made up, spewing darkspawn bile like the hunter’s had, at the end.

What was behind the mirror? Was Tamlen there, waiting, like Audacity was with brighter eyes like coals fanned with the sighs lovers made each time when Merrill rested her head against the thin pillow in her damp little house in the Alienage? Merrill wanted to know. Wanted to save her People. They had known once. The knowledge was there, locked away under the dusty sheafs of history. There was a way to fix the mirror, Merrill just had to be –

“Brave,” Audacity called her, when Merrill gripped its face between her hands and felt its scales cut her palms. Her blood mixed with the seething sea of everyone who had come before her that surged around Merrill’s hips, bracketing Audacity’s grapevine thighs. Its voice was the storm of Sundermount, deep as the sleep of the ancients that waited in the heart of its peak.

“What do you want from me?” Merrill asked Audacity, all of her breath left inside of Audacity’s chest, its mouth that tasted of sparks and stepping in front of charging carriages.

“Anything,” said Audacity, “What are you bold enough to give me?”

Anything, thought Merrill, for the taste of the strength to keep going with the thankless task of repairing the mirror, of banishing the Taint a cut at a time. She felt always faint, these days. The blood in Audacity’s prison was richer than ever. And Tamlen was still gone, the dead still distant, and the clan ran away from her when Merrill wandered the hunting paths.

Merrill answered by biting Audacity’s lip until it burned in her mouth and she saw herself reflected in the ivory mirror of Audacity’s scales. Her own eyes seared into Merrill’s soul, her face in the blood, in the scale, in the chain and the old man whose neck smiled redly. In Audacity, who moaned and met her touch for touch, kiss for kiss.

All spirits are dangerous, she said to Anders, I understood that. I’m sorry you didn’t.

Audacity traced the edge of the mirror shard that was as heavy as Merrill’s dead with a claw white as bone. Their reflection together was beautiful in the mirror’s Blighted face, Audacity’s horns spiralling over Merrill’s head while its lips kiss her hair. The ivory tips were beaded with red, red, from where Audacity had laid in the blood underneath Merrill and twisted and gasped, like it felt pleasure in the body it had made to hold Merrill. The horns crowned Merrill like thorns, like the spirals of vallaslin that marked her face.

“What will you risk to find out what your People have lost?” Audacity asked, its clawed palm upraised where it wrapped its arm around Merrill’s waist like a chain, an offering, a promise. Its skin was scale-soft when Merrill kissed the pad of its thumb, and its fingers twitched, as if it fought not to hold her cheek.

And Merrill said, “Everything.”

#dragon age #da2 #merrill #audacity #dragon age 2 #dragon age ii #dragon age origins #dao #da origins #inkwrites #black emporium #black emporium gift exchange

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much-obliged-timothy · 4 years

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Whumptober #10

Dragon Age - #10 - Blood Loss

“This is miserable,” Dorian announced.

“You’re being overdramatic,” Lavellan said, slipping past him.

“I am cold. My feet? I lost feeling in them three hours ago. I have to keep looking to make sure they’re still there,” Dorian said.

“Try a shirt,” Iron Bull said, smacking Dorian on the back good-naturedly.

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk,” Lavellan said, stopping to observe some tracks in the snow. “Honestly, Dorian, it’s not that bad here.”

“Emprise du Lion is the worst place in all of Thedas, and I’m saying that as a man who lived in Tevinter,” Dorian said.

“Well, boss?” Bull asked, ignoring Dorian.

“They should be up ahead,” Lavellan said, shaking his head to get the snow off his ears. “The snow has hardly covered these tracks. They’re the freshest we’ve come across.”

“Good. Then we can kill them and get out of here before Dorian complains even more,” Cassandra said.

“I see you shivering,” Dorian said, narrowing his eyes at her.

“But do you see me complaining?” she said.

“Quite frequently, actually,” Dorian said.

She marched on ahead, following the tracks in the snow. Lavellan let himself fall behind so that he was walking next to Dorian.

He slipped off the cloak he was wearing and draped it over Dorian’s shoulders. “Honestly, we need to get you better clothing. No wonder you’re freezing.”

“Fashion is worth the suffering,” he said, attempting to shrug the cloak off.

“Stop,” Lavellan said, putting his hand on Dorian’s arm. “You need it more than me. I’m fine.”

“Amatus, you are the one thing I will never complain about,” Dorian said.

“You were just complaining about me this morning.”

“Well, that’s because you jumped through that hole in the floor of Skyhold again.”

“I had to talk to Solas.”

“We have stairs!”

“The hole is faster!”

Dorian threw his arms up in exasperation. “When you finally break your legs, don’t come...well, not crawling to me, because your legs will be broken, but...you know what I mean! No sympathy from me.”

Lavellan laughed. “I think you’d show me a little sympathy. I did give you my cloak to keep you warm.”

“Ah, yes, thank you for giving me a cloak and more stress than I know what to do with,” Dorian said. “Noted and much appreciated.”

“Hey! Red Lyrium bastards up ahead!” Bull called back to them.

The air became charged as Lavellan called on his magic. “Well. Shall we go kill some Red Lyrium bastards?”

“What, going to climb up a cliff and jump on them?” Dorian said.

Lavellan flashed him that mischievous grin of his. “I just might.”

He grabbed his staff and ran forward. Dorian sighed, but gripped his staff and followed Lavellan.

Bull and Cassandra were already charging into the fray, weapons swinging at their surprised enemies. Lavellan cast a barrier of fire between him and Dorian, and their enemies.

They began flinging magic about, driving back enemies and taking down whoever was foolish enough to prevail towards them. Dorian let his focus go to the fight, trying to watch Iron Bull’s back as Red Templars tried to charge him. Cassandra was holding her ground thanks to her shield, but Dorian wished they’d brought along someone like Cole to catch the Red Templars off guard.

Still, they hadn’t expected to run into this much trouble. They’d just have to make do with the group they had.

The Red Templars were trying to get around Lavellan’s barrier, and Dorian had to switch his focus to keeping himself covered. Lavellan threw up another barrier, but several had slipped past when the first one went down and now ran at the two.

“Dorian!” Lavellan cried as a Red Templar reached him. Lavellan flung out his hand, ignoring the two Red Templars charging him, and Dorian could feel the tingling sensation of spirit magic as the Templar’s weapon came down.

It struck Dorian, but the protective shield of magic took the blow, and Dorian only staggered back, unharmed. He wasted no time in sending the Red Templar back with a burst of magic.

He spun to face Lavellan, just in time to see the Red Templar’s sword pierce through him.

Lavellan had tried to throw himself out of the way, which was the only thing that kept the blade from plunging into his chest. But it still drove deep into his shoulder, and he let out a cry that echoed horrifically through the air.

Dorian let his anger out in a burst of magic that collided with the attacker’s chest, sending him flying through the air with a scream. The corpses on the battlefield began to rise as Dorian’s magic surged through him and mingled with his fury. The corpses hefted their weapons, running for the two that had attacked Lavellan.

Dorian ran forward as the corpses reached their targets. He dropped to his knees in the snow, horror snatching the air from his lungs at the sight of the blood-soaked snow.

“Amatus,” Dorian whispered, gripping Lavellan’s hand. He forced a smile as Lavellan’s pained eyes fell on him. “It’s not that bad. I’m sure it hurts like a bitch, but you’re going to be fine.”

He was not fine. The wound was gushing blood alarmingly fast, and Lavellan was going to bleed out in just two or three minutes if Dorian didn’t act fast.

Dorian took the cloak off and moved to press it to Lavellan’s wound. Lavellan squirmed beneath him.

“No...no, you’re c-cold...you need it m-more,” he said weakly.

Dorian let out a choked laugh that was half a sob. “You idiot. You wonderful idiot.”

“Keep it s-so you’re not c-cold,” he said. He tried to shift, and winced. “Gotta...gotta stay warm.”

Dorian opted for tearing his pant leg, using the material to press against Lavellan’s wound. Lavellan cried out in pain, and Dorian used his free hand to push Lavellan down.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ll make it worse. Oh, hell. No, it’s alright. You’re alright.”

“B-Bad?” he whispered.

“No. Looks worse than it is,” Dorian said. Lavellan’s eyes flickered to the blood spreading across the snow. “Not all yours,” Dorian lied. “I took down two of them. Don’t try to take all the credit.”

Dorian didn’t know healing magic. His specialty wouldn’t be any use until it was too damn late.

But he had to do something, or Lavellan would be gone. Blood was already soaking Dorian’s trembling hands.

“Amatus,” Dorian said in alarm. “Stay awake. Look at me. I’m a great sight.”

But Lavellan didn’t open his eyes. His body went slack, and Dorian pressed his hands to the wound harder, desperate to stop any more blood from leaving Lavellan’s body.

No, no, no. He would not lose the man he loved. Not like this. What good was magic if he couldn’t use it to save the people he loved?

Dorian closed his eyes, having no idea what the hell he was doing. He just pushed his magic out, his mind focused on Lavellan’s torn flesh. He pictured it stitching back together, pictured the magic flowing through his veins the way it did when he cast his necromancy spells. A body was a body, and Dorian knew them well.

He let his magic flow into Lavellan until he felt light headed with the effort. Afraid of passing out and not being able to keep pressure on the wound, he opened his eyes and looked down, tentatively pulling a hand away.

The bleeding had slowed considerably. Part of Lavellan’s wound had started to heal.

“Oh, thank the Maker.” Dorian sagged with relief, and resumed applying pressure. “I am never going to stop complaining when you wake up. You scare the hell out of me. Fuck, I love you.”

Cassandra came running over to them, Bull picking off the last of the Red Templars now. She dropped to her knees at Lavellan’s side, and inspected his condition.

“I partially healed the wound,” Dorian said. “Don’t ask me how, because I have no clue. We need to get him medical attention, though. He lost a lot of blood, and he’s still bleeding.”

“If we can get him medical attention quickly, he’ll be okay,” Cassandra said, getting up. “Stay here. I’ll go get help. It’s too dangerous to move him. Keep the pressure on that wound.”

She took off at a run, determination on her face. Dorian looked down at his bloody hands, the only thing between Lavellan and an early death.

“You’ll be okay,” Dorian said, his voice shaking as badly as his hands now. “Probably won’t be able to jump down to Solas for a bit. But I won’t even whine about it next time you’re well enough to do it. Just the first time, though. After that, it’s fair game for complaining.”

He was well aware that he was rambling, but he felt compelled to keep talking. As if hearing Dorian’s voice would keep Lavellan tethered here.

Lavellan just had to fight a little longer. Cassandra would return with help, and Lavellan would be on bedrest for a while but then he’d be right back to his old self.

So Dorian kept talking, his hands pressed to Lavellan’s wound. This was all he could do for Lavellan now, but it was a task he would not fail. He didn’t care what it took; he would not lose Lavellan.

#dragon age inquisition #lavellan x dorian #whumptober2020 #no.10 #blood loss #fic #dragon age #Inquisitor Lavellan #dorian pavus #dragon age fanfic #jtdoeswhumptober #My writing #my post

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pikapeppa · 4 years

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Incaensor

Chapter 44 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which Fenris, Hawke, and the whole damn crew face off against Corytits Corypheus. Read on AO3 instead; ~6400 words.

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

Fenris, Hawke, and their companions set off at a brisk but measured pace for the Valley of Sacred Ashes. As always before a high-stakes battle, Hawke tried to keep things light.

“Let’s play a game, shall we?” she said brightly as they jogged along the snow-covered path. “When we get back to Skyhold, I’ll buy a drink for whoever can come up with the most creative way of killing Corypheus.”

Cassandra shot her a quick frown. “We must deal with his dragon before we can kill him.”

“I will deal with his dragon,” Morrigan said smoothly. “It bears on the rest of you to deal with the magister himself.”

“Exactly,” Hawke said. She flicked Cassandra’s arm as they ran. “So, Cass? How would you finish Corypheus off if it was up to you?”

“This is a serious matter,” Cassandra said severely. “I won’t indulge this game.”

Hawke pouted at her. “You really are like Aveline sometimes. Fine, fine, on to Dorian then. I bet you have some fabulous ideas.”

“I do, in fact,” Dorian said. “I thought it might be nice to start by pulling out each little piece of red lyrium in his body. Humble him a bit by turning him back into a regular-ish sort of fellow before killing him.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Hawke said keenly. “Who’s next?”

“Me!” Sera exclaimed. “I have an idea! Bees in his–”

“–breeches, we know,” Blackwall said patiently.

Sera elbowed him. “Wrong. He doesn’t wear breeches, beardy. I was gonna say bees in his ribs, you know? Shove ‘em right in there and get him all stung and swollen on the inside until he explodes. ‘Boom! Ahh! Oh no, ain’t got any lungs anymore because they’re blown up by bees.’”

There was a general murmur of approval and disgust, and Bull chuckled. “It’s creative. You have to give her that.”

“I dunno, Buttercup,” Varric said. “What if the bees get infected by the red lyrium in his body?”

Sera’s eyes went wide, then narrowed suspiciously. “They couldn’t. You’re having me on.”

Varric grimaced. “They might. Who knows?”

Sera gaped at him, then wrinkled her nose. “Well then, never mind.” She tsked. “Why everything’s always got to be so weird…”

“I have an idea,” Bull said. “Tear him apart into a thousand little pieces. Then we burn the pieces, and we place the ash in a sealed container with some of that acid from those pools out in the Exalted Plains.” He gave Hawke a knowing look. “My idea is the most thorough, little Hawke. You can’t deny that.”

She patted his arm. “That is pretty damned thorough,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at Solas and Cole. “What about you two? Any creative thoughts?”

Fenris glanced at them as well. Cole looked more vacant than ever; it didn’t seem like he was listening at all. Solas, however, answered Hawke’s question. “A discussion of strategy would not go amiss, truthfully,” he said. “Like any powerful mage, Corypheus’s attacks will rain upon us from a distance. If we can–”

“Boring,” Sera complained.

Solas ignored her. “... if we can have our warrior companions to pin him in place and weaken him, our chances will be improved.”

Bull let out another rumbling laugh. “That sounds to me like Solas is agreeing with my strategy. Hack the bastard up into little pieces.”

“I like that strategy, too,” Blackwall said. “The more pieces, the better.”

Varric patted his crossbow. “Bianca wants some action, too. If we’re talking about pinning this guy in place, a few dozen bolts could do the trick.”

“Arrows too!” Sera exclaimed. “Don’t forget arrows!”

Hawke laughed and waved a hand. “All right, all right, I’m loving all of these ideas. But so far I think Dorian’s is my favourite.”

Dorian preened. “Why thank you, Hawke. I surprise even myself with my cleverness at times.”

Bull reached over and pulled him close. “Could’ve fooled me, big guy. You’re always going on about how clever you are.”

Dorian huffed and tried half-heartedly to push Bull’s arm away. “I am not. How dare you slander me so? And don’t you wrinkle my clothes, or I’ll make you pay.”

Bull let out a dirty laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly. “I have had a thought. It would be nicely ironic if we could feed Corypheus to his own dragon. I know it is not possible, but…”

Hawke gaped at her in delight, and Varric whistled. “Damn, Seeker. I think that’s the best suggestion yet.”

“It absolutely is,” Hawke marvelled. “That poetic justice, though? Beautiful. All right, Cass, I’m buying you a drink when we get back to Skyhold.”

An uproar of laughter and protests ensued, and Fenris listened to their carry-on with a vague mixture of amusement and anxiety. He was thankful to Hawke for keeping everyone’s spirits up; this was, after all, one of her finest skills: putting a humorous spin on a terrible situation. As much as Fenris wanted to enjoy the banter, however, he couldn’t help but worry about what was to come. The Breach was open again, and if Corypheus turned the power of that blasted orb on all of them…

Eventually they reached the rubble that was once the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was even more grim than when Fenris had first come here with Cassandra and Varric and Solas: only the bare bones of the building still stood, and the red lyrium veins that were semi-dormant a year ago had shoved their way out of the ground in huge malevolent crystalline spikes.

A handful of Inquisition scouts were valiantly trying to fend off a pack of howling demons. Twenty paces away on a platform at the mouth of a crumbling doorway, Corypheus stood with his cursed elven orb hovering over his hand.

Fenris curled his lip in anger, then phased toward the nearest demon and materialized inside of it, blasting it apart in a cloud of ichor and scales. He looked up at Corypheus and hauled his sword from his back. “Enough,” he barked. “Come and face your death, mage.”

Corypheus let out a sinister laugh. “I knew you would come,” he said. He offered Fenris a mocking bow, then twisted his hand beneath the hovering orb.

A spike of discomfort pulsed through Fenris’s left palm. Then the ground beneath them shuddered, and with an ear-splitting groan of cracking earth and tearing trees, the remains of the temple rose into the air.

They all stumbled to keep their balance. “Maker save us,” Cassandra breathed. “How…?”

Hawke clicked her tongue and glanced tentatively over the edge of the hovering landmass they were now standing upon. “Well, this is going to make it awfully obnoxious to get home when this is all over,” she drawled.

Fenris glared at Corypheus; the magister was looking more supercilious than ever. “You have been most successful in foiling my plans,” Corypheus said. “But let us not forget what you are: a thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat.” He raised his arms grandly. “We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

Fenris sneered. “You are no god, and neither am I. The only thing we will prove here is whose life will be forfeit.”

“Yeah,” Hawke added belligerently. “And it’s not going to be Fenris’s.”

Corypheus let out another smug laugh. “Ah, the blood that attempted to bind me,” he taunted her. “Such mortal hubris you showed. You could not kill me then, and you shall not kill me now. I will be crowned a god over your bloodless corpse.”

“Try it, maleficar,” Fenris snarled. “I will tear the blighted lyrium from your flesh shard by shard until you crumble into the dust that you should have become a thousand years ago.”

“Hey,” Dorian protested. “That was my idea.”

From behind Corypheus, there was an enormous crunching sound, like the sound of a very heavy footstep. Another crunch ensued, then another, and then Corypheus’s dragon appeared over the top of the crumbling skeleton of the building.

They all took an instinctive step back, and Bull whistled. “Vashedan, that thing is huge.”

“Not the time to be admiring it, Tiny,” Varric said tensely.

Fenris watched the dragon warily. Its eyes were fixed on him, and there was already a fulminating crimson ball of energy writhing between its teeth. It wiggled its haunches like a cat about to pounce, and–

An enormous dragon with violet scales soared overhead and slammed into Corypheus’s dragon with an ear-splitting screech.

Corypheus whipped around in alarm, and Hawke whooped and punched the air with her fist. “Get it, Morrigan! Yes!”

Corypheus turned back to them with a snarl of rage. “You dare?” he hissed.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “And so we fight,” he said. With Hawke’s warm barrier on his shoulders and his greatsword in his hands, he phased toward Corypheus.

Blackwall and Cassandra began to run toward Corypheus as well. Fenris swung his sword at the backs of Corypheus’s knees, but before the strike could land, Corypheus phased out of his reach.

Venhedis, Fenris thought angrily. He’d forgotten that Corypheus seemed to have the same Fade-stepping ability that he and Cole – and apparently Solas – all had.

Corypheus waved at his orb again. A small pair of rifts appeared, and demons began falling through.

“Bull,” Fenris barked, but Bull quickly waved a hand in acknowledgement; he, Varric, Sera and Solas were already attacking the demons.

Another teeth-rattling dragon shriek rent the air, and Fenris looked up. Morrigan and the false archdemon were flailing and ripping at each other as they sailed through the grey and fractured sky.

Fenris dragged a hand through his hair and tried to think. He needed to close those small rifts before more demons came through, and they needed to distract Corypheus to stop him from opening more rifts, since each one he opened would only widen the Breach. But they couldn’t outright kill Corypheus until his dragon was dead.

He looked around. “Cole,” he barked.

Cole appeared at his side. “I’m ready to help,” he said.

“Good,” Fenris said brusquely. “Follow Corypheus as he moves across the Fade. Antagonize him as much as you can. Keep him busy.”

Cole nodded, then disappeared and reappeared behind Corypheus, who snarled and swatted at him before spitting diatribe at Blackwall and Cassandra. Fenris then ran toward his companions at the rifts.

He flung his left hand toward the nearest rift and pulled, dragging the edges of the rift together until it closed with its customary thwomp of pressure. He phased through a demon toward the second rift, then closed that one as well before turning to Solas.

“You are familiar with the properties of the orb,” he panted.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Solas replied.

Fenris nodded briskly. “Can you quell its power? Dampen it so Corypheus can’t tear the Breach wider?”

Solas bowed his head. “I will do my best.”

Fenris turned to the others. “Bull, Sera, Dorian: keep an eye for demons. Varric, focus on Corypheus. I forgot that he phases,” he gritted.

Varric patted his elbow. “Don’t worry about it, elf. Bianca and I will keep him busy.” He turned toward Corpheus and started loading his crossbow.

Fenris turned to Hawke. “You–”

“I’ll stay with you,” she said.

He hesitated. This was what he wanted; he wanted Hawke by his side, protecting him and keeping him safe as she always did. But she was the only healer they had, and if she was farther back from Corypheus, she might be safer…

He shook his head. “You need to spread your attention. Keep an eye on everyone as best you can. Defenses and healing,” he insisted as her eyebrows rose in protest. “We’ll need you–”

“I’m putting barriers on you first,” she interrupted. “Don’t even try and talk me out of it. That’s what’s happening.”

He glared at her stubbornly lifted chin, but Solas’s calm voice broke in. “Your life is tantamount, Fenris,” he said. “Only you can close the Breach. We are all well-served if Hawke protects you above everything else.”

“She’s going to do it anyway, elf,” Varric said over his shoulder. “Better let it just happen.”

Fenris dragged a frustrated hand through his hair, then gripped Hawke’s arm. “Remember what we talked about,” he said urgently. “Don’t–”

Sera suddenly shrieked and leapt into Bull’s arms, and they all looked up in alarm. A spiky array of red lyrium crystals as tall as Fenris’s waist had just appeared in the place where Sera had been standing.

“Move,” Fenris barked, and they all ran away from the red lyrium crystals that Corypheus had thrown their way.

“Almost got me, that did!” Sera exclaimed. She rubbed her arms and shivered as they ran toward Corypheus and the others. “I hate this stuff. Gems are for stealing, not for stabbing through the ground at people!”

Fenris didn’t reply. Frustration and impatience and – yes, a little fear – were pulsing through his blood. Without further ado, he phased toward the magister and lashed at him with a pulse of lyrium-powered energy and a roar of rage.

The ensuing fight was chaotic and frustrating and tiring. Corypheus kept jumping across the battlefield to higher ground, forcing Bull and Blackwall and Cassandra to run after him. Despite Solas’s efforts to stabilize the orb, Corypheus managed to open another rift, thus drawing Bull and Dorian and Sera’s efforts. All the while, Corypheus continued to pontificate at them in a loud ringing voice.

“You will fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will,” he shouted. “You dare to touch an avatar of divinity?” He sneered at Fenris. “Look at you, wearing slave markings on your face with pride. You are nothing. A race of snivelling cowards that shrank before Tevinter power!”

“Slave markings?” Hawke panted. She threw a barrier over Bull and raised an eyebrow at Fenris. “Is he talking about your lyrium marks? Why would he think you’re proud of those?”

Kaffas, Fenris thought. With everything that had been happening with Solas and Morrigan, he’d forgotten to tell Hawke about the grim origin of vallaslin.

But there was no time. Overhead, a terrible and mind-numbing shriek tore through the air, forcing Fenris to cover his ears. The dragons were still clawing and snapping at each other, dripping blood and ichor through the air. But Corypheus’s dragon was faltering. One of its wings was clearly broken, and it was swiftly losing height.

As Fenris watched, Morrigan peeled away from her foe, then rose swiftly in a nearly-vertical trajectory through the air before wheeling around and diving at the dying fake-archdemon. Her claws sank into its belly and her teeth sank into its neck, and it let out a terrible agonized screech.

“No!” Corypheus bellowed.

Hawke, Bull, and Sera all cheered, but Fenris was alarmed. As Morrigan was driving the dragon down, he’d noticed the open gash in her draconic side – a gash so wide and deep that he could see her ribs.

“Hawke,” he said sharply.

She looked at him with a smile, but her face fell as she met his eye. “What’s wrong?” she said urgently.

“Morrigan is injured,” he said. “Her side–”

There was an enormous, ground-shaking thud as the two dragons slammed into the cracked paving stones a hundred paces away. A moment later, the violet-scaled dragon melted back into Morrigan’s human form – a completely still and unmoving form.

“Morrigan!” Hawke gasped. “Shit. I’ll be back.” She ran off.

“Fenris,” Blackwall shouted.

He looked up. Blackwall was standing with Solas, Bull and Cole, and they were looking up at Corypheus, who had phased to a higher level of the crumbled temple. A thin stream of glittering light was streaming from the dead archdemon’s body back to undead magister.

Corypheus doubled over as the light sank back into his malformed body, then straightened with a snarl and pointed at Fenris. “It ends here,” he shouted, then raised his arms again. “Let the skies boil. Let the world be rent asunder!”

The ground was shaking again. Boulders and rubble were starting to float. As Fenris watched in horror, cracks began to appear in the ground around the structure where Corypheus was standing.

He looked desperately over at Hawke. Sera was crouching beside her, and Hawke was cradling Morrigan’s pale cheek while holding her glowing green palm over Morrigan’s still-bleeding side.

He stared at Hawke’s precious dark-haired head for an agonized second. Then he turned to Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian, who were clustered around him. “Let’s go,” he told them. “We have to pursue Corypheus.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re leaving Hawke here?” he said.

“She’s not going to like that,” Varric warned.

“I know,” Fenris said brusquely. He glanced at Hawke again; she was pouring healing magic into Morrigan’s side with both hands now. If he pulled her away from Morrigan’s side now, Morrigan would likely die.

And if Hawke stayed with Morrigan, she would be safely out of Corypheus’s reach.

Fenris swallowed hard, then turned to Cassandra. “Stay with her,” he said. “Guard her while she works.”

Cassandra nodded, but Varric folded his arms. “Fenris,” he said warningly. “She’s going to be pissed.”

“I know that,” Fenris snapped. “But we don’t have time to wait for her. We must catch Corypheus before–”

“Fenris!” Solas shouted.

His voice was a commanding snap. Fenris looked up just in time to see the cracked ground starting to split in two.

Kaffas, he thought. He needed to be on the other side of that crack. If he was here and the others were stuck with Corypheus, with no way to stop the magister from widening the Breach…

He turned to Cassandra. “Go,” he commanded. “Tell Hawke that Varric and Dorian are guarding me. It will put her mind at ease.”

“Inquisitor,” she said with a brisk nod, and she bolted off toward Hawke and Sera.

Fenris turned to Varric and Dorian. “Let’s run,” he shouted, and they took off toward the rest of the group at a sprint.

The ground was shuddering beneath Fenris’s bare feet, and his aching heart was pounding out a frenzied tattoo in his ears. The closer they got to the fissure in the ground, the wider it seemed to yawn, and – venhedis, if it got any wider, they might not be able to clear the jump…

He glanced at Varric. “Will we need to toss you across the gap?” he gasped.

“I’ll shoot you if you try,” Varric yelled back. Together, the three of them flung themselves across the crevasse.

Dorian landed on the other side with his usual grace. Fenris slipped slightly before righting himself, and Varric managed to catch the edge of the crevice with both hands before the ground split off and rose higher into the air.

Fenris and Dorian hastily grabbed Varric’s arms and hauled him onto the ledge, and the three of them sat in a heap on the ground for a moment as they caught their breath. Then Dorian spoke in a tired voice. “Fenris, is it just me, or is it extremely flattering that you’re using me as a defense against your wife’s future wrath?”

Fenris grunted and pushed himself to his feet. “As always, Dorian, vishante kaffas.”

“I’m quite serious,” Dorian said. He used Varric’s shoulder to pull himself upright. “I do think this means you count me as close a friend as Varric.”

Varric snorted, and Fenris shot Dorian an exasperated look. “Maybe you can fish for compliments later. Right now, we should–”

“Fenris!”

It was Hawke. Her voice was faint from the distance but sharp with fear, and an instinctive vice of longing seized his heart.

He looked over the edge and down at the platform where he’d left her. She was kneeling still beside an unconscious Morrigan and Cassandra had a hand on her shoulder, but Fenris could only stare at her face, which was twisted with distress.

“I love you, you fucking asshole,” she yelled.

His eyes burned with a sudden sting of tears. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but he couldn’t shout anything back, because his heart was lodged in his throat.

No, that wasn’t true. His heart wasn’t in his throat. It was down on the platform below and staring up at him with shining copper eyes.

He swallowed hard, then leaned away from the edge and turned to Dorian and Varric. “Let’s catch up to the others,” he said gruffly. He pretended not to hear the thickness in his own voice, and he was grateful when Dorian and Varric ignored it too.

They dodged more floating boulders as they ran up the cracked stairs toward Corypheus. The others were already battling with the cursed magister: Cole was flitting around him with his daggers in hand, and Bull and Blackwall were swinging and charging at him valiantly despite his phasing. Solas, meanwhile, had one glowing hand outstretched toward the orb and was throwing bursts of raw Fade magic at Corypheus with the other.

Corypheus caught sight of Fenris, and his grotesque face twisted into a mask of rage. He made a brisk pulling motion with his right hand, dragging the orb out of Solas’s range, then thrust his left hand at Fenris.

“Shit!” Varric yelled, and all three of them threw themselves aside just as a fresh array of red lyrium spikes appeared in the place where they’d been standing.

Fenris shoved himself to his feet. He was vaguely aware of Dorian’s vibrating barrier dropping over his shoulders before he lit his lyrium scars to life and phased toward the blighted magister.

Without thinking, he swung his sword straight at Corypheus’s ribs. The blade glanced off of the red lyrium spikes with a resonant clang.

Venhedis, Fenris thought furiously, and Corypheus laughed. “For months you have spoiled my plans. For months you have tried to stop me. And what have you learned? Nothing. For my will is the will of a god, and I will not be broken!” He clenched his fists, and a violent red glow began to build around them. A second later, he lashed his fists in a wild gesture, and a flare of ugly red energy lit the entire battlefield.

There were exclamations of pain from Cole and Blackwall, who were too close to Corypheus to dodge the attack, but everyone else was shielded by Dorian or Solas’s barriers. When the burst of energy died away, Blackwall stumbled toward Cole and thrust an elfroot potion at him. “Take that, boy,” he gasped. “Step back–”

Corypheus thrust his hand at Blackwall, and Blackwall hastily lifted his shield to block a volley of red lyrium crystals. He looked over at Fenris. “What’s our strategy?” he shouted.

Fenris knew what to do. The strategy he would use had worked with Meredith and with Samson, and he could only pray to the Maker or to Mythal or to whatever damned gods were out there that it would work with Corypheus too. But this time he was doing it without Hawke’s support…

He glanced at his lyrium tattoos – the tattoos carrying his magic – and took a deep breath. “I’ll weaken him,” he called to Blackwall. “Get the others ready.”

Blackwall nodded, and Fenris strode confidently toward Corypheus. “Your power is nothing compared to mine,” he taunted. He held up his verdant left hand. “You couldn’t take this from me at Haven, and you cannot take it now.”

Corypheus swelled with rage, and just as Fenris had hoped, he launched into a dogmatic speech. “You think that wretched mark will save you from my will? You think that you can save yourself or your people from the glory of a god? You are nothing, rattus,” he spat. “An insignificant mistake. A creature barely more than an ant on the ground...”

While Corypheus ranted, Fenris collected his energy and mentally pressed it toward the lyrium that lined his palms. Then, without any warning, he flung both his hands in Corypheus’s direction.

An enormous flare of magic – both from the lyrium marks and the Fade – surged from his hands toward Corypheus’s crystal-studded body. Corypheus let out an inhuman screech, and Fenris gritted his teeth as he shoved every ounce of his focus through his hands and into Corypheus’s wretched corpse.

An interminable, exhausting minute later, Corypheus fell to his knees, and Fenris fell as well. Then Blackwall, Bull, Cole, Dorian, and Solas were all attacking Corypheus in concert.

Fenris lifted his head and watched them blearily. He was exhausted already, not unlike how he’d felt at the Temple of Mythal, and he knew what Hawke would say if she were here: that he couldn’t use his marks anymore, not until he was feeling stronger.

Varric skidded into place beside him. “Fenris,” he said urgently. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes,” Fenris rasped. He pulled a bottle of elfroot from his belt with shaking hands. “Attack the magister. We need to finish him.”

“You got it,” Varric said. Without leaving Fenris’s side, he pulled Bianca out and began shooting volley after volley of bolts at the undead magister.

Fenris gulped the elfroot, then took a few slow breaths as he watched the fight. Corypheus was still screaming diatribe and flinging magic with his skeletal arms, but he was clearly taking real damage now: he was hunched over from his injuries and cowering from Blackwall and Bull’s forceful strikes.

“Not like this!” he squawked. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages…” He dragged the glowing red orb toward his body, then phased away from them to the top of another set of stairs.

Fenris wilted in exasperation. “Fasta vass. Will he never cease?” he complained. He rose to his feet with effort, and despite the warnings that he knew Hawke would hiss at him if she were here, he phased toward Corypheus.

He made a clumsy landing ten paces from the undead magister. The ground heaved and cracked once more, and Fenris toppled to his hands and knees. When he finally stood up, it was to find himself on yet another levitating chunk of land with only Solas, Cole, and Corypheus for company.

“Dumat!” Corypheus cried. “Ancient ones, I beseech you! If you exist – if you ever truly existed – aid me now!”

Fenris turned to face him. His red lyrium crystals were alight, and so were his eyes and the orb that he was clearly struggling to contain in his hands.

The orb. The blasted fucking orb. It was the source of Corypheus’s power, and the source of the Breach. If Fenris took it away from him…

He gritted his teeth. Then, ignoring his throbbing head and his watery-feeling limbs, he pushed past Solas and Cole and stumbled toward the magister, then reached for the orb and pulled.

The orb snapped out of Corypheus’s grip and into Fenris’s palm, and Fenris gasped. All of his exhaustion was suddenly gone, wiped away in an instant as the energy of the orb surged hummed through his skin and his blood. It felt almost as though the orb had been waiting to be reunited with the anchor on his hand.

Without another second’s hesitation, Fenris thrust the orb toward the Breach in the sky.

Light. Light and power and energy and heat surged through him, swelling in his muscles and his belly and his mouth, and he shuddered as it poured through the orb and up into the sky. Seconds later, seconds which felt like hours, the entire sky pulsed with another blinding surge of light.

The light was white this time. As the light softened from a blinding glare to a gentle glow, Fenris’s left arm dropped to his side as though a marionette string had been cut, and the orb fell from his fingers and hit the ground with a solid and resonant thunk.

All around them, the hovering pillars and rubble and boulders began crashing to the ground. The ground itself jolted, then began to sink back down as Corypheus’s vile magic faltered.

Fenris ignored it all and stepped toward Corypheus. The anchor was snapping and flickering on his palm, but for the first time, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. It felt like a warm and gentle buzz that rippled all the way through his skin from his toes up to his chin, and he focused on the vibration as he approached Corypheus’s hunched and misshapen form.

Corypheus slowly lifted his head. “Incaensor,” he spat.

Fenris didn’t reply. He had nothing to say to the ancient magister. Without any preamble or ceremony, he sank his flickering left fist into Corypheus’s chest.

Corypheus’s face slackened with shock. With no small amount of satisfaction, Fenris twisted his wrist and opened a Fade rift inside of Corypheus’s ribcage.

The magister’s misshapen mouth yawned wide with agony, but no sound came out: Corypheus couldn’t scream, because his lungs were obliterated and his jaw was torn away. He couldn’t move, for the rift was twisting and tearing his limbs into countless shards of flesh. Fenris gritted his teeth and poured the orb’s magic into Corypheus’s swiftly-disintegrating body, and when the rift closed with a peaceful pop, the only remaining piece of flesh in Fenris’s hand was Corypheus’s bloodstained heart.

Fenris looked at the heart with distaste, then crushed it into pulp and dropped it on the ground.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Cole said.

Fenris turned. Cole was watching him with a tiny vacant smile, but Solas was crouching beside the orb.

It was broken; shattered, it seemed, by a falling piece of debris. As Fenris drew closer to Solas, the elven mage lifted one of the broken pieces and ran his thumb along the jagged edge.

“It is lost,” Solas said quietly.

Fenris folded his arms. “Good. Its power can never again be used for evil purposes.”

Solas looked up at him, and Fenris regarded him with some surprise; he had expected Solas to frown or to lecture him about his reluctance to preserve a valuable magical artifact. But Solas’s expression was utterly despondent.

Fenris unfolded his arms. “You know more about this orb, don’t you? You know where it came from.”

Solas replaced the orb on the ground and slowly rose to his feet, and Fenris took a step toward him. “It’s Mythal’s, isn’t it?” he demanded. “The orb belonged to Mythal, and you knew it. That’s why you were so strange about the Well of Sorrows.”

Solas‘s gaze was still on the broken orb. “It was not supposed to happen this way,” he said softly.

“What wasn’t?” Fenris snapped. “Tell me what you know of this!”

Solas bowed his head, then looked at Fenris once more. “No matter what comes, I want you to know: you and Hawke shall always have my respect.”

Fenris stared at him. “What does that mean?” he said in frustration. “Do you know something we don’t? Solas, if you–”

“Fenris?”

Hawke’s distant shout instantly snared his attention. He whipped around, then ran toward the sound of her voice.

“Fenris!” she yelled. “Fenris, if you’re hurt, so help me, I will fucking kill you.”

Her voice was pitched high with tension, and guilt kicked his heart into a rapid beat. He skidded through a crumbling archway and stopped at the top of a flight of stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hawke was standing with the rest of their party, including a pale but healthy-looking Morrigan.

“Fenris!” Hawke screamed. She bolted up the stairs.

He pelted toward her. When he was halfway down the stairs, Hawke launched herself at him and flung her arms around his neck.

He stumbled back at the impact, then tripped on the steps and fell onto his butt with an oomph, and Hawke crawled haphazardly onto his lap. “Are you hurt?” she demanded. She patted his face and squeezed his arms, and her wild-eyed gaze darted across his armoured chest. “Any wounds? Bruises? If he fucking touched you, I’ll… Fenris, I’ll–”

“I’m fine,” Fenris told her. He slid his hands around her waist. “It is done, Hawke. He’s dead. It’s over.”

She heaved a huge sigh and patted his face again. “Thank fuck,” she breathed. “Thank fuck. I was so…” She took a deep breath, then kissed him firmly before burying her face against his neck.

She was shaking. Fenris wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her hard, and her breath against his neck sent a ripple of warmth into his chest. Now that Hawke was safely in his arms, Fenris could allow himself to relax a little bit.

A moment later, she leaned back and smacked his chest. “You asshole,” she said, and she smacked his chest again. “You left me behind! You – you fucking left me behind?”

The anxiety in her face was twisting into disbelief, and Fenris gazed at her in resignation. “There wasn’t time,” he said. “The ground was breaking apart. I had to pursue him. There was no choice, Hawke.” His defense was true, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty, particularly when her cheeks started reddening with anger.

“You went without telling me,” she accused. “You fucking left without telling me, and y-you didn’t even kiss me for luck…”

A tear tracked down her face. Fenris swallowed the lump in his throat and he reached up to wipe it away, but she gently pushed his hand aside and wiped her own cheeks.

She arranged her face into a smile and slid off of his lap. “You know what, it’s fine. What matters is that Corytits is dead. He’s dead! He’s…” She trailed off as Fenris stood up and stared at him with widening eyes. “It’s over,” she breathed. “Holy shit. It’s… it’s over.”

He gazed at her with some trepidation. An incredulous smile was lifting her cheeks, but he didn’t believe she would let him off the hook that easily for leaving her behind.

She let out a bright little laugh and kissed his cheek. Then Morrigan’s dry voice drifted up the stairs. “Victorious, I see. What a novel result.” She folded her arms and looked up at the sky. “And it seems the Breach is finally closed.”

Fenris looked up as well. The late evening sky was laced with a shimmering aurora of white light, like a rippling scar left by the magic that had attempted to tear it apart.

He let out a heavy sigh. Victory, he thought. Yes, this was a victory: their mortal foe was dead, and the sky was no longer at risk of being torn apart. But somehow, it didn’t feel real. This goal that they’d been pushing toward for a year had finally been achieved, and with more success and fewer casualties than Fenris could have hoped. But it just didn’t feel… real.

He and Hawke descended the stairs to join the others. They were all smiling at him, and as he and Hawke drew level with them, Varric folded his arms and grinned. “So? You gonna give us the official Inquisition verdict?”

Fenris nodded. “Corypheus is dead. I, er… I opened a rift inside of his chest and tore out his heart.”

Sera let out a mad cackle of glee, and the others oohed with varying degrees of disgust and appreciation. Varric turned to face them all and gestured grandly at Fenris. “Ladies and gentlemen, your Inquisitor doing what he does best: tearing corrupt magisters apart one organ at a time.”

There was a ripple of laughter and applause from the group, and Fenris awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Thank you, Varric. I think.”

Then Cassandra spoke up. “What do we do now?”

Fenris looked at her. Her smile was broad and her eyes were wide with wonder and pride, and as Fenris gazed at his companions, he realized that they were all watching him with the same degree of excitement and… and expectation. Bull, Blackwall, Sera, Dorian… even Varric was looking at him like he was waiting for Fenris to tell them what to do next.

A heavy sort of resignation settled in his belly. He ignored it and mustered a smile, then borrowed a page from Hawke’s book. “Drinks at Skyhold, on the Inquisitor,” he announced.

“You mean on Lady Montilyet,” Blackwall called out.

Fenris smirked. “Of course that is what I mean. Did you think they were paying me for this job?”

They all laughed and murmured their approval, and to Fenris’s relief, they turned away from him and started making their leisurely way back to Skyhold. Dorian and Varric began a spirited retelling to Morrigan and Cassandra about their part in the fight, and Sera started loudly telling Blackwall and Bull exactly how many pies she was going to eat when they returned to Skyhold.

Fenris listened to their cheerful talk with a dull sort of wistfulness. Then Hawke took his hand.

He looked down at her and admired her lovely smile – a smile that he knew was hiding her tamped-down anger. And for a brief moment, Fenris allowed himself to pretend that this was the end of it: this was the end of this war, and the end of the struggles and the unwanted decisions that he would be forced to make.

For a brief moment, Fenris allowed himself to pretend that things could be simple.

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

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heartslogos · 4 years

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newfragile yellows [769]

“He needs to see some measure of justice,” Evelyn says, hands tight around Ellana’s wrists. Ellana isn’t sure if Evelyn holds her out of concern for her bloodied hands or because if she holds any looser Ellana would turn and put her nails through Samson’s eyes. It could be both. Knowing Evelyn, it’s probably both.

“Justice? He was going to sack a temple,” Ellana replies.

It would be so easy to say that she gave herself over to her rage, to her wild fury, to her baser instinct of hurt, hurt, be angry and hurt. But she didn’t. Oh, all of that was there and so vividly present. But Ellana was there, she was conscious and complicit in every harm she put upon Samson, in every bit of truly savage pleasure from each contact she made with him that drew blood or stole breath. Let them call her a savage or a beast, for this? For this it is worth it.

Evelyn’s hands tighten around her wrists, and through the curtain off Ellana’s hair, and Evelyn’s hair as their heads are bowed together — Evelyn leaning forward, so close that Ellana can count her individual freckles and see the shadows of her eyelashes — Evelyn whispers, “Don’t forget who is going to be dealing that justice.”

Ellana traces the faint hint of Evelyn’s smirk with her eyes, surprise curling in her stomach, before Evelyn pulls back, a wash of magic flowing over their hands.

“What did you do to yourself?” Evelyn asks.

Ellana’s hands weakly curl and open, muscles and bones and fingertips and palms and knuckles sore.

“There are some things that aren’t done right if you don’t do them with your own hands,” Ellana answers.

And the feeling of putting a palm full of lightning and fire directly over the side of Samson’s face, a slap, a tear, and snarl, a rending drag of her fingertips that were so hot it felt like her bones had melted, and getting that horrible smell of burned flesh and that scream was music.

Evelyn shakes her head in dismay.

Ellana glances out of the corner of her eye to see Blackwall standing like a sentinel over Samson’s unconscious body.

She hears the sharp jingle of metal and she turns to see the Iron Bull stooping to pick up her discarded staff, the wolf’s head on it glimmering and glittering in the light. His eye meets hers and she refused to look embarrassed or chagrined or anything cowed.

Ellana knew what she was doing. Ellana doesn’t regret any of it, only that she didn’t manage to fully bring him down on her own and silence him before they got here.

“This is all I can do right now,” Evelyn’s voice calls Ellana back to her. Ellana turns back to her as Evelyn releases her hands.

Ellana slowly opens and closes them. Still sore, still aching. But not to the shaking and trembling degree as before. Manageable. She turns her hands over and sees that the opens wounds on her knuckles have semi-closed and the dark bruises on her hands have, perhaps, become a little less black and vivid underneath all that blood. Ellana hadn’t even felt it, not really. It’s either the battle-high or something else. Evelyn presses a vial of lyrium into Ellana’s hand.

She’s about to protest but Evelyn cuts her off with a sharp look. Ellana imagines that this is the look she gave when she was still a professor int he Circle, perhaps the look she gave to initiates who she thought were being stupid.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Evelyn reminds her, “Not after a fight like that.”

Ellana swallows her protests and uncorks the vial.

“Thank you.”

Evelyn nods once and turns to address the Samson issue with Blackwall and Cole.

Ellana drinks the lyrium, feeling the sharp, tingling cold of it washing down her throat. It stings her eyes and makes her lungs feel like they’re twice their normal size for a brief moment.

“That,” Bull says once she’s put the used vial into a pocket, “Was monumentally stupid. Literally. They should tell stories about this. Maybe do some murals. We could tell Varric and commission a book, or that minstrel Krem has a crush on. Get you a song. Sera’d be delighted not to hear about herself anymore for one thing.”

Ellana turns and takes the staff from him, hands settling along familiar grooves.

“It may have been stupid,” Ellana concedes, “But it’s what needed to be done.” She raises her chin. “Are you going to ask me to apologize for it?”

“No,” he answers immediately, eye scanning her for injuries he didn’t notice before.

“Why not?”

“A dozen reasons you can guess on your own without me telling you, pick the one you like best and move on,” he says, holding out his hand. She gives him her hands, leaning her staff against her shoulder. The familiar brush of its bangles brushes against the side of her head, the wash of magic comforting and pleased. He wipes the blood off as best he can, both of them grimacing at what’s uncovered by his ministrations. “That’s going to be a pain in the ass during recovery.”

Ellana doesn’t say they are worth every discomfort. Well. Not out loud. Bull reads it off of her anyway.

He cradles her hands in his larger one, covering them with the other as he breathes out low and tired and relieved.

“And you thought those training sessions would never come into play,” he teases. “Now I’m going to be insufferable about it, you know? Every time someone protests that they’re too excessive or whatever, I’m going to say that they’re necessary because it got Wolf through a one on one with a Red Lyrium Templar with a magic suit of armor.”

“Fuck,” Ellana groans. “I didn’t think about that part.”

“Nope,” Bull leans down and brushes his lips against the top of her head. “You weren’t thinking much. Don’t worry, I’ll embellish all the details so you sound good.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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ourdawncomes · 5 years

Text

The Year That Wasn’t

repost of an ongoing thread between @theshirallen, also featuring myself (again) on @theharellan. set during the events of in hushed whispers.

Thora

Dorian talks like this place is a bad dream.

Thora’s new to dreaming, but this doesn’t feel like one. Her boots are heavy on the floor, her breath loud in her ear, she still feels wet under her armour where they’d fallen into a flooded cell. Dreams – it’s like seeing everything fast and slow at once, here time turns as she remembers.

It’s all real. It’s all happening. Behind her, Solas is dying (the world is dying), and it’s her fault.

She reaches for a door handle, hesitating before she grips it. Every room so far has only led to more horrors, bodies fresh and decayed, all sacrificed to some nameless nothing that she’s not sure she wants to take the time to understand. She doesn’t have so much as a chance to turn it when she nearly jumps out of her skin, her heart leaping into her chest when inhuman growls sound from beyond the door. “Demons?” she asks, almost to herself, but Solas has an answer.

“No.” His voice is thick with a lyrium-coated throat, but his words still ring true. “It sounds like an animal.”

A mabari, maybe, from when Redliffe’s rightful owners walked its halls. “Be ready,” she warns, and throws the door open.

No attack comes, nothing bears down upon them, but the growls grow fiercer as she steps into the room. Like every room they’ve been to, this one still reeks of torture. A man lies rotting against the wall where he was chained living, and for everything else, an impression of blood where a life was taken. But in the corner, a sickly red glow like what had shone at the back of Solas’s prison. A sign of life, though not a long one.

This thing does not hide, however. Lyrium-rusted metal creaks and cracks as a chain is pulled to its breaking point, teeth flash through the kennel’s door as a wolf lunges towards them. She flinches, anticipating a blow she knows will never come. “The poor beast, I wonder what it’s doing here,” Dorian muses from beside her. There’s no room in her heart to wonder at the possibilities of why, it’s too full of fear– and pity.

She’s wanted to cry since they first found Lysas reduced to fevered singing, and the lump in her throat only chokes her more as she looks at it. There’s fierceness in its eyes, but its mane is tall with terror and its jaw is bound with a bloodied muzzle. It deserved better, too. “It won’t give us any answers,” she sighs, unsheathing a knife from her side, one sharp enough to give it a clean death. The tears hot on her cheeks feel stupid, of all things to cry about it’s this that pushes her over the edge, but she won’t sob, she won’t, she–

A small gasp halts her, and for a second she thinks someone’s walked in, but it’s Solas that reaches forward. He grabs her arm and pulls back, twisting it to where it hurts. “Wh–”

“Your knife, Herald,” he whispers with a strange desperation. Thora doesn’t ask why, her fingers loosen and he pries it from her. “Open the kennel.”

“Solas–”

“– Please.”

The second she’s at the doors, the angry front melts and the wolf cowers at the back of its prison, so small she almost wouldn’t believe it a threat. While her eyes examine the lock, she hears Solas speaking, but not to her. “I did not think to find you,” he mutters, “I had hoped…” Dorian exchanges a glance with her that looks just as lost as she feels. Her fingers link through the gaps in the cage, and she pulls, trusting Solas still knows what he’s doing.

The door pops off with the meagerest effort, lyrium eaten hinges brittle beneath her fingers. Solas wastes no time making use of her knife, but does not plunge it into the wolf’s heart. As the wolf’s growl softens into a heartbreaking whine, he reaches forward to allow it his scent with a tenderness she’s not seen from him yet. Then, the blade cuts the first leather strap that holds its jaw together.

Iander

He lays on his side, as comfortably as he is able. As comfortably as he is able, which means very little. Every breath is aching, and his bones burn beneath his skin. Air bubbles in his lungs, and over the eerie silence of the castle he can hear the rasping rattles of his inhales. He fights for breath, yet, without conscious desire to do so. It would be easier to stop, but something base within him demands that he continue. It can’t be hope. It can’t be. It’s something else, something stubborn.

He lays on his side, and he closes his eyes. The darkness behind his lids is softer than the glare of iron bars and the hum of hungry lyrium. It wraps around him, muffling the bite of the bands around his muzzle and the chain at his throat.

He lays on his side, as comfortably as he is able, with his eyes closed. The world is limited to the raking of air against his ribs, the darkness behind his eyelids.

And then it expands.

Footsteps. Boots against stone.

He chokes on his fear. Boots against stone. A hand at the doorknob. He knows what comes along with boots on stone. He knows what hands carry.

Heaving himself to his feet is agony. The band at his throat shifts, pulls at matted fur and scabbed wounds. Flexing his jaw to give warning fills his nose with the hot stench of his own lyrium stained blood. He feels his fur lift as he tenses, shoulders bowed in readiness.

The shapes at the door are distorted, but they advance despite his warning. He lunges again, growls broken by the force of his weight against the chain. He coughs, wheezes, lunges again. Metal flashes–he recognizes the sheen of a kept blade–and he retreats. His warnings fade to pleading, and he backs up until he folds at the back of his cage.

His pleading is as ignored as his warning, and hands extend to remove the bars that separate him from the rest of the room. Hands extend, and he cries, flailing as the knife approaches his face. There is no room to move. Nowhere further to retreat, and any advance is blocked by the hand that holds the knife.

He bucks his head, and he keens his pleading. He bucks his head, and the knife misses his flesh. It tears instead at the strap that binds his teeth, and he rips forward before a second attempt can be made. He rips forward, and the muzzle falls away, and he puts his teeth to use.

Solas

He cannot name what he felt when he saw Ian in that cage.

Is it relief, to know that he still lives? Sorrow, from the realisation that he has lived these months in agony? Regret, that he had not taken the chance to end Ian in a dream when it offered itself? There is something selfish in how his heart lifts, as he realises that if he dies tonight, it will not be alone.

His hands shake as he reaches for him. Hunger has made him weak, and although he moves his arms, they are alien to him. Yet still too heavy for him to slip away from, even in dreams. Solas breathes before he makes the first cut, stilling his tremours long enough that he poses no danger. Leather yields to the blade, and he feels a spell unravel as it breaks. It is too late that he realises he sees no recognition in Ian’s eyes, only blind fear that drives pointed teeth into his arm.

He cries out. The pain is white-hot, and his own teeth come down upon his lip to hold back a whimper. Air hisses between his teeth. Magic ripples over his skin as Dorian casts a barrier, and he hears his companions ready themselves. “Don’t,” he commands, with as much strength as his voice allows.

Freedom has a blood price, this time it was his.

Teeth so eager to kill retreat just as quickly (just as painfully) and Ian shrinks back, lips still curled to show off the blood that drips from his canines. What hope had kindled in Solas’s heart is tempered by how he pulls away. He swallows, and feels the lyrium inside him pressing like a knife against his throat. “Solas, you’re bleeding,” he hear Thora say.

“And dying,” he adds, “we shall see what kills me first.”

He fixes his gaze upon Ian, ears coming forward as if to mimic his. He lowers the knife to the floor, right hand reaching across his body to cradle his injured arm. “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but it seems you have a history with this…”

“Ian,” Solas finishes Dorian’s sentence for him, though he still speaks towards the elf before him.

“I– I don’t…” Thora’s confusion is as palpable as Ian’s, but for the moment he does not have time to spare upon explanations. Not when action will make his reasoning clear. Perhaps severing the muzzle might have undone a spell, but it was only one step forward. There is personhood behind his eyes, but only Solas seems to see it.

“I can remove your collar,” he says, “I need only your trust to do it.” But trust is hard to come by in cages, and he does not sound or smell as he did in dreams. He opens his hand, slick with his own blood, his left arm pounding with his heavy heartbeat. Though his skin smells of sweat and grim and his voice rasps from lack of use, the magic he summons smells the same– of cool rainfall, the likes of which neither have felt in a year.

Iander

The way skin yields to his teeth is less satisfying than he imagined. Blood is hot against his tongue, and it bites back with the same rancid taste of lyrium that lines his own blood. He yelps, retreating, his own cry overlapping with that of–of whoever he had bitten. He retreats, and the bars behind him press cold against his fevered pelt.

Magic hums in the air, pushing between him and the shapes that fill the room. It feels clean, bright. A little empty. It lacks the heat, the anger that fuels everything. It’s foreign, and might be a comfort if fear didn’t bind at his throat. He doesn’t understand. His lips pull back, snarling another warning. He breathes, pulling air past bloodied teeth as his sides heave and he waits for the knife to advance again.

It does not. It sings a quiet note as the blade comes to rest against stone, discarded by the hand that wields it. Confusion builds, bubbles at his tongue. Confusion is a soft noise, softer than he believed he might yet birth. It bursts like a hiccup, and he shrinks further back. The pads of his feet slide, scrambling for traction against the filth at the bottom of his cage.

The shadows speak to each other, but it isn’t the way he remembers shadows speaking. There’s urgency there, but not cruelty. And–

His name.

He had forgotten it. Forgotten that he had once existed beyond these chains, this fever, this fur. Hearing it now, it feels distant. As if it still belongs to someone else. Someone months lost.

He shudders.

It hurts to hear, to remember. He doesn’t want to. He had forgotten that he–that there was anything else he might lose.

He shudders, flinching away from an outstretched hand. He should strike again, put force behind his warning, but…

Ian….

Magic rises in a bloodied palm, and it–

He recognizes it. Rain on a cold spring morning. Mist over hills where the sun crests the horizon.

It’s been so long.

It’s been so long, but he recognizes it. Recognizes how it fills his lungs and soothes his aching. It feels safe–deceptive, something in his gut protests–it feels like comfort. The fur along his spine relaxes, and he moves. Slowly. Carefully.

His tail remains low, and he crouches as he moves forward, pushing his nose closer toward the smell of rain.

Solas

The nose that presses against his palm is dry to the touch, sick from starvation and abuse. Solas swallows thickly, pity welling in his chest as his hand moves to stroke his fur. He can feel the bones beneath his skin, body sucked dry of any fat that once clung to them. Death is near for the both of them, and yet Ian still shrinks back, as afraid to face it as he is.

His eyes fall to the collar about Ian’s neck. Rust has eaten away at it, and it will not take much to break it. A winter spell, an application of force, and it would shatter– but that would only cause its wearer undue stress. His bloodied hand reaches forward, arm throbbing where canines sank into his skin, to touch the lock that holds the device together.

“Can either of you see a key?” he asks. Solas turns his head, but room is veiled in darkness he had not known before this. Darkness elven eyes ought to see through, but strain as he might, it makes no difference.

Behind him, Thora moves with surefooted steps. Her eyes gleam, but not as his do. He remembers seeing dozens, hundreds of those eyes gleaming in places that had never seen the sun (though not as kindly as hers). As she searches, his fingers curl in fistfuls of fur, pushing past the revulsion as how tightly his flesh clings to his bones. He hears a soft thud, and then, “I think I found it.” She stops as far from him– and the cage– as she can afford, holding out a key as rusted as the lock it pairs with. Solas reaches out, only for her to pull it away before he can hold it. “Wait–” she says, brow furrowing. “You, I… explain what we’re letting out.”

“Not a ‘what,’” he returns, leaning further to pull the key from her grasp. She doesn’t try to stop him, it slips from her hands like water and holds it like it will fly from his. “Where you might see a wolf, I see more.”

“That’s not–”

“He is a shapeshifter, a prisoner the same as I was.” Solas holds the lock in hand, and fits the key inside. It resists, rust scraping off with a sharp scream that pushes his ears against his head. His heart is in his throat as the lock crunches open and his hands pull apart the collar, red rust tinted redder by bloody fingerprints. It falls, clattering against the cage, singing metal sounding out freedom louder than his voice can manage.

Iander

He pushes his nose closer toward the smell of rain, until it presses against a palm that smells of blood and sweat and biting lyrium and grime. A sigh huffs through him, and his weight comes to rest against the floor of his prison, his body too heavy to keep himself upright.

Solas. It’s Solas. Solas. He came, after all. How long ago had–Ian had given up, and then he had forgotten.

His chain pulls tight at the collar, biting into his neck as he strains to reach beyond his confines. Solas leans forward, and a hand pushes through his patched fur. He shudders, feeling skin slide along his spine, his ribs, loose where he’s become wasted. His sides heave, every breath a battle he is determined to win. Fingers check the lock at his neck, another hand maintaining contact with his fur, reassuring in its refusal to withdraw.

He listens, ears rotating as the shapes behind Solas shift, moving around the world beyond his confinement. He doesn’t quite catch their words, sounds that reach him through a heated fog–distorted and meaningless. But Solas shifts, and Ian breathes, and the lock at his neck shifts, and then it screams.

It screams as if it is reluctant to release him, and his ears fall flat, teeth bared in a desperate plea for his freedom. It comes in a heavy clank, metal chain tangling on itself as his throat is exposed. He lifts himself–body still heavy, but so much more manageable–and launches forward, through the kennel’s mouth and into Solas’s chest.

He wears a new body by the time he’s there. A different body, one that feels foreign, forgotten. But he stretches his arms, wrapping around Solas until he can bury his face, dampness on his cheeks felt only distantly as he breathes in the wrong scents. Solas should smell of more than biting lyrium and dungeon dampness. But there is no doubt in him, now.

“Solas…”

Ian’s voice is unrecognizable, and his ears flatten at the creak of it. Hoarse, harsh, uncertain. Words taste stale, and the movement of his tongue against his teeth is awkward, unpracticed.

“Solas. I remember you. I had–I had–I remember you.”

Thora

She can’t take her eyes off Solas’s arm. It’s bleeding, not enough to kill him, but enough that she knows he feels it. Unless the lyrium has killed all the feeling in his limbs.

All the information coming at her: that this place is real, that it isn’t, that they can undo it, that the wolf isn’t a wolf, it all tangles in her head until she’s ready to scream. She’s dying to sit down and have everything explained, but she can see the lyrium dancing before Solas’s eyes when he blinks, like spiderweb blowing in the breeze, and knows they don’t have the time. “Be–” Careful. The second word of her warning is caught at the back of her throat, silenced by the sound of a rusted lock falling open.

Her hand reaches back for the hilt of her hammer, braced for an attack. The wolf, person, whatever, rushes forward and–

Fur melts into flesh, thought truth be told she couldn’t describe what if someone asked. All she knows is one second, there was a beast, and now… “Ian.” Solas’s voice is soft despite the rough lyrium edge. His good arm braces the elf’s back, holding him like an old friend, or– someone more. She looks away, feeling suddenly as though she’s intruding on something she has no right to see.

A moment passes, and then another, long enough that saying something doesn’t feel cruel, but it’s Dorian who speaks up first. “Shall I fill him in?” he says to her, though loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“No, I can, just– if I miss anything.”

It’s all so much, and none of it sounds real.

“Ian, that’s your name, right?” she says, as she speaks Solas moves his head to look at her, eyes glowing unsettlingly. “I’m Thora, I– uh, people were calling me Herald of Andraste before all this, and I– we,” Thora gestures between herself and Dorian, “got thrown here from a year ago, by Alexius.”

“The same day they captured me,” Solas adds.

“Yeah, exactly.” Now that she’s started talking, she’s realising quickly Dorian should have said all of this. “Dorian here thinks there’s a chance to fix all this, to get back the same way we came here, but we’d like your help.”

“But we do not need it.” This time Solas’s addition is less helpful. He stands, bones cracking, hand extended to help Ian up. “You can run. I promised the Herald I would remain ‘til the Breach was closed, you made no such oath.”

#like dust‚ i’ll rise ( thora | ic )#theshirallen #theharellan #v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inquisitor )#( my writing )#the dawn will come ( queue )

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glowyelfboyfriend · 6 years

Link

Chapters: 5/? Rating: Explicit Relationship: Fenris/Male Hawke Additional Tags: Recovery, Red Lyrium, Masturbation, Complicated Relationships, Kink Negotiation, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Rape/Non-Con, PSTD, Consent Issues, Sloppy Makeouts Summary: Fenris is a free man, again, recovering and relearning how to be a person in Skyhold while he waits for the operation to remove the red lyrium from his markings. He discovers that among all the things Danarius stole from him is his ability to find sexual gratification, even from himself. Plagued with guilt and shame regarding his broken sexuality and unusual fantasies, Fenris attempts to drown out his thoughts and instead is prompted with a new option he didn’t know existed.

Fenris and Iron Bull’s conversation continued into the night, weaving between additional rules and boundaries to more casual topics. When Fenris eventually said his goodbyes and headed back to his room, his head was buzzing with both anxiety and excitement. He was surprised with how comfortable the qunari made him feel. How he turned what had been haunting Fenris into something considerably tame and normal.

It felt like the right direction, or at least something worth trying. The relief at having something he could do to try to lift the shame and ghosts from his skin let him breathe. He had been trapped, unable to discuss or tear out the thing that dogged him, and now at least he had a plan.

It felt good.

But, of course, Fenris awoke the next morning paralyzed with fear. What had been a comfortable comradery the previous night turned to untrusting paranoia. His elation at having expressed his unwanted desires twisted and darkened into deep shame. He curled on his bed, the red heat beating under the sheets as he held his head in his hands, groaning at the thought of telling anyone about this.

Why did he do it? Why had he agreed? Was there any way he could get out of it now? Even if he convinced the Iron Bull to drop their tentative plan, there was no way Fenris could pluck the knowledge from him. The qunari knew, he knew more about Fenris than he should, and why wouldn’t the man use it for his own benefit if Fenris withdrew their arrangement?

Fenris’ breaths came quicker, his body shaking as his mind unraveled into memories and terror. Even if his body was attuned to the desires of his old master, it did not mean it was what he wanted . His cock stirring at the thought of being bound, of being pressed and dominated and spreading himself to be taken did not mean he wanted it from this qunari. How could he have ever agreed to do anything like this, especially with anyone other than Hawke?

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Inhale. Exhale. His lungs trembled at the effort but softened and followed his gentle command within a few moments. The thoughts fell away slowly as Fenris retreated, focusing on his slowing heartbeat, the thoughts leaving behind shadows and aches.

He was fine. It was not that serious. Besides, should the Iron Bull ever choose to retaliate it was not like Fenris was helpless. Fenris could change his mind, Bull had said it himself more than once, and everything would stop. Even if he didn’t believe it, he knew that the qunari had a reputation he cared about and that, once again, Fenris was not helpless.

((Continue reading on AO3))

#fenhawke #fenris #iron bull #dragon age fanfiction #my fic

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thereluctantinquisitor · 6 years

Note

Out of curiosity, and because Delton has become so popular suddenly, has he ever become kidnapped and needed to be rescued by a pissed off Bull?

You know what? Probably. Here, have a ridiculously long rescue fic, because that is apparently the only way I know how to answer asks

Redbull. Delton x Iron Bull. CW: kidnapping, abuse, torture (mostly suggested). Approx 3500 words. [AO3 Link]

“Right, then. What dowe have here?”

Delton flinched as thehood was pulled from his head, blinking back tears when the darkness he hadgrown accustomed to gave way to sudden and blinding light. Cursing, he tried toturn away, but a hand snared him by the hair, dragging his head back so roughlyhe had to grit his teeth against the pain. A figure stood before him; a tallman in heavy plate. A strange red hue surrounded him, emanating from his skinlike perfume visible in the air. Of course, Delton was well aware that it wasfar from so benign a thing.

Well, this is just great. Defiant, Delton tested the bonds around his wrists,cursing silently when he heard the tell-tale clink of steel. Not much he coulddo about that. Rope he could have at least tried to burn off in a pinch. Thetall man – some kind of Templar, if Delton had to guess – took another stepforward, looming over him.

“Inquisition, I takeit?” he asked, then glanced to whoever was behind Delton, the question clearlyintended for them. That person shifted, their shadow moving in the flickeringfirelight.

“Yes, Knight-Captain.Travelling with a small group.”

Shit. Delton’s heartrate picked up, hammering a wild rhythm against hisribs. The Chargers. Bull. What had—?

“And what of theothers?” the Knight-Captain asked, sparing Delton the silent panic. Thesubordinate hesitated.

“They… weren’t therewhen we caught this one. Tormond thinks he was a scout trying to check our fortifications.”

“Actually,” Deltoninterjected, “I was trying to take apiss. So thanks for interrupting that.”

The Knight-Captain glanced down, seeming surprised thatDelton had spoken. “Starkhaven,” he noted after a moment, dark brows raised.Delton just smirked.

“Nevarra. Nice to meet you.”

The Knight-Captainhuffed, a swirl of red accompanying his amusement like breath on a cold night.“An ear for accents, then. You are a long way from home, Red.”

Delton’s lip curled into a snarl. “Don’t call me that,” he said,but the momentary anger gave way quickly to pain as the hand in his hair tightened,forcing his head back again, bearing his throat to the Knight-Captain. Like ananimal before the hunter’s knife. Aye,this probably makes the top three worst situations I’ve been in…

To the Knight-Captain’s credit, he raised a gloved hand,signalling his underling to cease. Delton released a tight breath, jerking awayas soon as the grip slackened, lowering his head, Bull’s words playing over inhis mind. Protect your neck, Red. That’sthe first place an enemy’s gonna want to put their blade, and the last placeyou want to find it.

Shit, but if he didn’t wish Bull was there. Was thatselfish? Probably. But for the first time in a long time, Delton felt it. Thatdeep, withering ache that seemed to fill the marrows of his bones.

Helplessness.

“I will call you what I please. Is that understood?” Therewas something about the way the Knight-Captain spoke. It made Delton, for allhis stubbornness, want to shrink away. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere torun or hide, chained on the floor of a barren room. In the end, not wanting tomake matters worse, he didn’t reply.

Apparently, that was the wrong move.

Before Delton knew what was happening he was on his feet,dragged from the ground, the Knight-Captain’s hand closed tight around hisneck, crushing his throat. Delton wheezed, struggling, feet kicking at theloose stones and dust as he tried and failed to pull in air. Those red-coaleyes of the lyrium corrupted burned straight through him. “You will answer when spoken to,” the Knight-Captain said, voice low. Dangerous. Deltonhad heard voices like that before. They were the ones you learned to avoid inthe dark.

Lips parted, no sound able to pass, Delton’s eyes rolledback, darkness clawing at the edges of his vision, panic and lack of airmingling in a potent haze that threatened to drown him. Then, he hit theground, air rushing into starved lungs, pain lancing up the arm he landed on.Coughing, Delton curled in on himself, trying to force away the memories of ayoung boy in an alley. Trying to hold back the fear. Shove away the pain. Onhis own, alone on the bad nights, he could indulge in his own weakness. But here?

Here, he could not afford to appear anything but strong.

“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the otherTemplars asked. His voice was sharp and harsh; steel chords in his throat. TheKnight-Captain considered for a moment, his pale eyes sending a chill crawlingup the back of Delton’s neck. Then, he gave a bored shrug.

“Get what you can out of him. Use whatever means proves mosteffective.” That heartless gaze locked with Delton’s. “The fate of a single manneed not feature on my report.”

… How long had itbeen?

Delton swayed in the dark, losing his balance for a momentbefore getting his feet back under him. His legs burned, the cramps knotting his calves leaving him in a cold,nauseous sweat. Eyes stinging, he shook his head, red hair soaked, wrists throbbingwhere they were manacled above him. The chain he hung from was attached to aring. It dangled from the ceiling, hoisted and secured just high enough toleave Delton with two options: bear his weight on his toes, or hang by hishands.

”S-Shit…” Deltonbreathed, his shaking legs reaching the end of their strength once again. How many times had that happened, now? Hewould have to hang for a while. Teeth gritted, Delton tried to ignore the pain,lowering down inch by agonising inch, the pressure on his abused wristsincreasing, metal biting into already damaged flesh. Despite trying to control hisdescent, Delton eventually reached a critical angle and his ankles gave out,sending him jolting down with a cry of pain. For a second, he thought he mighthave dislocated something. Luckily, as he breathed through the blinding pain,he was able to determine that was not the case. But he knew what it lookedlike; the damage he could not see. Skin discoloured, rubbed red-raw by thesteel of the cuffs. The tickle of something running down his arms; theindistinguishable warmth of blood and sweat. Strangely, as he hung there likemeat on a hook, the constant burning wasn’t even the worst of it. No, it was breathing. He couldn’t. Not properly, atleast. Every time Delton tried to drag in air, it stuck halfway, arms raised toohigh, chest pulled too tight. It felt like a single deep breath might snap him intwo.

The door creaked open; a shallow, grating sound. A ribbon oflight spilled across the floor, cutting through the dark, and a man entered. Hewore no plate. No armour at all save a single gauntlet on his left hand. At aglance, Delton knew he was no soldier. At least, not one who had seen anyactual fighting. Not for a very long time.

“Ready to talk, Red?” he asked amiably, as though they wereseated across from one another at lunch. Delton glared at him, shaking,sweating cold and hot all at once. After his angry outburst at theKnight-Captain, they had all startedcalling him Red.

Taking Delton’s silence for the answer it was, the torturersighed, examining his gauntleted hand, turning it over before the torchlight.“You will talk, you know.” Theknuckles were lined with metal studs, tips gleaming menacingly in thefirelight. “Between you and me, startingnow is really in your best interest. Why suffer through the means when the endwill be the same? Save yourself the pain.” He flashed a crooked half-smile.Delton figured he might have been charming, once, before he lost sight of whatit meant to be human. “And save methe pain of cleaning up. This can be remarkably messy work.”

“Forgive me for not weepin’for you.” Delton knew his type. Aye, they knew just what to say as theysliced off the soles of your feet and drove needles under your eyelids. Theyconvinced you it was your fault. That the pain, the suffering, was all simplythe price of non-compliance. Perhaps after enough time, that lie had becometheir truth. Perhaps it was what they needed to sleep at night.

Or perhaps they simply enjoyed watching others break.

The torturer set his torch in the sconce of the room’scentral pillar and moved closer, inspecting Delton from head to toe; a masterpainter considering his canvas. That cold, calculating stare left Deltonfeeling exposed despite his tattered clothes, his hands curling, nails bitinganxious crescents into his palms. He hated the way he flinched when the manreached out and grasped his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Hm.” The torturer turned Delton’s face roughly to the side,chains rattling with the movement. “This is truly a pity. I hope you at leastenjoyed that face of yours. I’m afraid it won’t be quite the same once I amdone.”

“W… We had a good run,” Delton rasped, throat like ash, themetal gauntlet cold against his skin as he forced himself to smile. “I’m notmuch of a talker.”

He had hoped it would be disconcerting, a broken mangrinning madly in the dark. But the torturer just smiled right back.

“I find that rather difficult to believe.”

Releasing Delton, he stepped away and turned to a nearbytable, his attention drawn to a long wooden box. Silently, he flipped up thelid, revealing the array of tools inside. Blades with edges wicked-sharp, wrappedin thick cloth to prevent accidental cutting. Ironic. Pliers. Needles. Hooks, thin and thick. Instruments forcutting, pulling, tearing, piercing, crushing. In that moment, his gaze fixedon the promise of pain, Delton’s mouth went completely, utterly dry.

This was reallyhappening.

“You’re the first I’ve had in a while,” the torturercontinued, his back to Delton. One of this hands brushed lovingly over thetools, pausing every now and then like a noble struggling to choose theirdesired sweet from a platter. “I was going to keep it simple, you know. That’swhat this was for.” He raised his gloved hand, those sharp metal studs makingDelton wilt silently as they flashed in the torchlight. Then, the torturerslipped it off in a gesture that could only be described as bored. It fell to the ground with ametallic clink. “But it is far too brutish,isn’t it? No… you seem like the sort of man who appreciates a little finesse.”

Delton didn’t answer. The torturer continued regardless. Itwas something he had best get used to.

“No, a beating does not suit you. Not at all. But this…” He drew out a long, thin bladefrom its cloth wrap. More a needle than a knife, he held it carefully betweenhis fingertips and turned towards Delton, face half-lit by the torch. Waveringshadows fled into the lines of his gaunt cheeks. “Ah,this little one has always been a favourite of mine. So small. So sleek. It seems a rather innocent thing,yes? Yet it can do so, so very much in talented hands.”

He moved towards Delton, footsteps echoing about the barrenroom. Delton had returned to standing on his toes and, on instinct, tried toback away. Of course, he did not get far – couldnot get far – the chain pulling tight after barely a few inches, tugginghim off-balance. He found himself hanging uselessly again as the torturer slowlybreached the distance between them. A meter. A foot. An inch. Delton grimacedand turned his head away, trying not to think about that gleaming piece ofsteel. Those dark, keen eyes.

“Yes. Yes, that is good,” the torturer murmured. Fingersbrushed the curve of Delton’s ear, moving his hair aside. The second Delton’sexhausted, terrified mind realised what was happening he jerked away with agrowl, chain rattling, legs aching, blood trickling down from his ruined wrists.

“Get away from me,” he hissed, but the hand returned,gripping him by the lower half of his face hard enough to bruise. Turning himlike a hound for inspection. Delton could see it now. The needle. Its tip was pointedtowards his head. Towards his ear.Delton tried to say don’t but thehand muffled the word into something unintelligible. Senseless. Useless.

He was useless.

“The Knight-Captain mentioned you had an ear for accents. Itdispleased him, although he hid it remarkably well. He likes to shroud himselfin something of a mystery, you see.” The torturer’s voice was utterly calm,perhaps even a touch amused. He was enjoyinghimself. “So this is nothing personal onmy part, Red. In fact, it is one of the lesser pains I can inflict. But thereis something you learn quickly in my, ah… profession.Not all pain comes from the wound itself.”

Delton’s eyes widened and he tried again to pull away asthat needle moved into his ear. But he was held tight, the torturer far strongerthan his lithe form suggested, those fingers digging hard into Delton’s jaw. Hedid not feel the needle, but he knew it was there, held steady in thosewell-practiced fingers. Moving deeper. Sensing the inevitable, Delton felthimself begin to panic, desperate to fight, kick, scream, but too terrified to move. A whine built up at the back ofhis throat – it was the only thing he could do – as that needle slid, so, soslowly…

“The drum, they call it,” the torturer murmured, breath hotagainst Delton’s cheek. “Swim too deep too quickly, and it can burst. A cleanpain. Sharp. Sudden.” His tongue flicked out, swiping across his lips. “Iwonder what might happen if a needle pierced it slowly. Slid deeper still…”

No. No, don’t! Delton couldn’t move; he didn’t dare. Panicseized him but he was helpless, eyes wide, already pleading silently despiteknowing this was far from the worst that would be done to him. The truth aboutDelton was that he was not a brave man. He never had been. He ran and hid andstole. When he was caught, he plead until he could run and hide again. Butthis… this was something else. A game for his tormentor, as mental as it wasphysical. The torture lay not only in the pain, but in the slowness of it. Thewaiting. The knowledge that the needle was insidehis head and he knew it was thereand he wouldn’t feel it until it was too late, scraping, piercing through…

It was too much. Delton’s breathing stuttered and stopped ashe squeezed his eyes shut, body shaking, not enough air, not enough air—

The door slammed open.

Bull crashed into the room, not pausing to take in thesight, not pausing to think. His axe, its head as large as a grown man’s chest,slammed into the torturer, the force of the impact throwing him away fromDelton. Metal clattered to the ground, ringing like a chime against thebloodied stone, the sound accompanying Delton’s cry of pain as that handreleased him and left him swinging. The torturer slammed into the table, his toolsscattering across the floor, fleeing before his groping hand. The other, onceclad in that gauntlet, was pressed tight to his stomach, its contents spillingpast his arm as he rasped and groaned. Bull did not wait. Unlike the torturer,he was not one for speeches. Blood bubbled to the wounded man’s lips but hegrinned wide as Bull raised his axe. They both knew it was a merciful death.

Bull delivered it anyway.

For once, Delton closed his eyes, turning away before heheard the axe fall. It was too much. All of it was just too, too much. Theshackles. The smell of blood. The lack of sleep. The tightness in his chest.The burning. The torment. The needle. The needle.

Rough hands wrapped suddenly around Delton’s waist and hegasped, eyes flying open, not really seeingas he bucked and kicked. But those hands wouldn’t leave; wouldn’t leave. They stayed and held and stilleduntil finally a familiar voice broke through the roar of panic in Delton’shead.

“… Kadan. Listento me. You know me. I’m not going tohurt you.”

Slowly, his struggling gave way to uncontrollable shakingand Delton found his voice. Tentative. Weak. “Bull?” He blinked, the world ahaze of firelight and shadow. “I… d-didn’t. Didn’t tell ‘em anything. I-I didn’t…”

A smile, soft yet tense. A comfort for Delton, a deadlypromise for anyone else. “Hey. I know, Red. You did good.” A pause followed. Itwas the most uncertain Delton had ever heard Bull. “You hurt?”

The question almost made Delton laugh, but he just didn’thave it in him. “N-Nah. Just… peachy...”

In any other situation, that might have earned him a snortof amusement from the Qunari. But for the time being Bull was already busyinspecting Delton’s restraints. “Needs a key. Hold on.” Slowly, Bull started torelease Delton’s waist, and it was at that moment Delton realised why Bull hadbeen so intent on grabbing him in the first place. The steady drag of his ownbodyweight returned, too much too muchto endure after it had been so mercifully taken away. A hoarse scream tore fromDelton’s throat and Bull seized him again, bearing his weight, holding him up once more. “Easy, easy… I’ve got you.”Bull’s voice was so calm. So reassuring. He’sgot me. Now unable to do what needed to be done, Bull angled his head towardsthe door. “Hey Krem! Get in here.”

Delton trembled in Bull’s arms, able to breathe but unableto shake the deep, irrational terror that he would be left again. That Bullwould let him go; abandon him and not come back. He’d already caused so themall so much trouble. More than he was worth. Krem arrived, and his eyeswidened in alarm at the sight. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but Bull cuthim off with a stern order to find the key. For once, Krem did not offer a quipin reply, moving immediately to the body of the torturer do as instructed.

“Hey… you wanna talk to me, Red?” Bull asked softly, deepvoice soothing as it filled the room. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Delton closed his eyes, body pressed to Bull’s as the Qunariheld him up, taking the pressure off his legs and wrists. “S-Sorry,” hebreathed, the words catching in his raw throat. “’m sorry, Bull. I didn’t…”

Bull said nothing. Just held Delton a little tighter,drawing him as close as he could. That alone said more than words ever could.

Luckily, it did not take Krem long to find the key. Hehurried over, dragging a stool across the slick stones, standing on it tounlock Delton’s wrists. The manacles snapped open and the red-head collapsedinto Bull’s ready arms. For once, Delton didn’t complain as Bull cradled him. Intruth, his body was too weak to do anything but lean limply against theQunari’s chest. Delton sagged. Closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look down athis wrists; he didn’t dare. But Bull did, and the sound of his low, furiousgrowl told Delton all he really needed to know about their state.

“Those bastards. I’llkill them all for this.”

Krem stepped up to Bull’s side, his hand resting gently onthe Qunari’s massive arm. “You already did, Boss.” There wasn’t a trace of thelieutenant’s usual humour in his voice. Frankly, if Bull had dealt with theother Red Templars the way he had dealt with the torturer, it was likely nothingmore than a statement of fact.

Bull’s arms tightened protectively around Delton, thenloosened just as fast, likely worried about aggravating any other injuries.Ones he had yet to see. “Huh. Good.” Bull moved out of the room and into thenarrow corridor, careful to manoeuvre Delton out the door. “Got something moreimportant to do now, anyway.”

Despite it all, something about that voice, rumbling fromdeep in Bull’s chest, left Delton feeling warm. Safe. Comfortable, whencomfortable was about the furthest thing he could possibly hope to be. Delton shuddered– a reflexive spasm – then let himself go limp, breathing in the scent offamiliar leather, his mind drifting away from that room. Away from the chainsand the smell of blood.

This time, Bull didlet him go, but only to the realm of sleep. Only because he so desperatelyneeded it.

And for the first time in what felt like an age, Delton wentwillingly.

#dragon age fanfiction #iron bull #delton #rescue fic #angst #hurt/comfort #cw: kidnapping #cw: abuse #cw: torture #yeah this is not a fun one #sorry folks <3 #u_u #reluctant replies #reluctant writes #redbull #backtraf

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cedarmoons · 6 years

Note

59. Kissing So Desperately That Their Whole Body Curves Into The Other Person’s for our sadsacks in beloved

the siege of the emprise du lion is referenced in beloved but not shown, so here is solas’s pov in the aftermath of it. contains a depiction of solas having a panic attack! otherwise enjoy some old-fashioned solavellan hurt/comfort! :) || tip jar

Thepatrol returns with a report of slaughtered soldiers in a valley of theEmprise. The horses are gone, the weapons stolen, the corpses stripped andviolated with red lyrium. Another casualty of the assault on theEmprise—tragic, but at this point no longer unexpected. The full might of theInquisition was situated in the Emprise to dislodge the fortress that remainsone of Corypheus’s last bastions, but the force of red Templars and copious amountsof large rifts—all due to the fools’ manipulations of blood magic and redlyrium—have slowed their progress considerably.

Solas does not panic until thescout tells them that this party had been escorting the Inquisitor to one ofthe rifts above the frozen lake. Her body is not among the soldiers, and thehorses’ hoofprints had been swallowed up by another blizzard.

“The Inquisitor is gone,” the scoutsays.

Solas turns on his heel and leavesthe tent.

Cassandra, Dorian, and the Iron Bull join him at the stables. Solassaddles his mare and rides to the front of their front camp, waiting for themin silence. Once they are all gathered, Solas takes a deep breath and rides outtoward the valley.

He does not see it until he seesthe blood. He can feel the spirits pressed against the Veil, whisperingto him, whispering to each other, preserving whatever they had seen even now.He will not watch their re-enactments. He will never watch their re-enactments.

She is gone.

And the blood—

When he dismounts, his legs are tooweak to hold him. He falls to his knees in the snow before a broken bow, her bow,surrounded by scattered silverite arrows and flicks of red lyrium. His breathscome in short, sharp gasps, misting out in front of him. He feels the worldtilt under his body, feels nausea rise hot in the back of his throat, andthough he is clutching at his staff he feels weak, unsteady. His chest isburning, lungs blistering with every breath, all he can think of is her smileand her hair and her laugh and sheis gone she is gone she is gone

Someone moves to stand in front ofhim. Solas wrenches himself back, forcing himself to his feet even though theworld tilts under him and he almost falls again. The snow around them meltsinto slush, making him slip in the mud, but Iron Bull steadies him. A dagger offlame is buried straight in the center of his chest, he cannot think, he cannotrationalize what is happening—

“Solas,” Bull says. “Look at me.”

Trembling, Solas obeys, chestheaving as he gasps for air. Bull takes a deep, slow breath, letting it outjust as slowly. He does it again, again, and eventually Solas forces himself tostop, to breathe, though his heart still races, and the burning dagger in hischest only digs deeper with every rise of his chest. Bull’s eye is light greyin the sunlight, somber as it stares down at him. He glances up at theircompanions, and Solas looks away, at the blood running red in the mud, mixingwith the water to form a cloudy, opaque puddle.

How much of it was her blood?

Was she—

No. Do not think of it.

“Wanna go somewhere quiet?” Bullasks. Solas nods. “Okay. Let’s go. Can I touch you?”

Solas swallows, ignoring his drymouth, and nods again. Bull helps him to his feet once more and says somethinghe cannot hear past the rush in his ears, but Cassandra and Dorian do notfollow them. With a gentle hand on his back, Bull guides him toward the frozenlakeshore, ignoring how the snow melts at Solas’s approach.

“Focus on my voice,” Bull says, themoment they are relatively alone. “What’d you say to Cole, once? Focus on theworld. The ground under your feet. Breathe with me. You’re safe. There’s nodanger. She’s gone, yes, but we’ll find her. The boss is a smart woman. Shehandled Adamant, she can handle this.”

He breathes, slow and deep, and Solasfinds himself closing his eyes, listening to the drag of the Bull’s breath inthe air. He keeps his grip on his staff tight as he listens, mimicking theslow, deep breaths until his lungs no longer burn. The Iron Bull keeps talkingto him, assuring him of his safety, of her safety, of how much the Inquisition would do toget her back safe and sound and in his arms again. Despite his mind logicallyarguing against him, the Bull’s self-assurance and sheer confidence in her well-being reassures some unsettled part of his mind.

Solas does not know how long ittakes for the panic to fade, but when it does, his eyes are wet. He wipes atthem with a thumb and swallows hard. “Thank you, Iron Bull,” he says. “I—I—”

“Don’t worry about it, Solas. Youthink you’re okay to head back now, or do you want to stay here for a littlebit longer?”

If he returns, he will have to seethe blood, and the broken weapons scattered in slush and snow. “I will stayhere,” he says, ignoring the tremble in his hands, in his voice. His throat ishoarse, raw, as if he had been screaming for hours. Bull nods, and asks him ifhe will be all right if he returns to Dorian and Cassandra. He only leaves whenSolas gives his explicit, verbal permission.

Solas stares out at the frozenlakeside, where a tremor of green is spitting sparks above it, a scar upon thecloudy white sky. She had managed to stabilize it before the ambush. Despitehimself, he smiles, tears welling and spilling down his cheeks.

She is gone. But they will get herback. They will. He must believe they will.

He goes to the Fade, of course. Thered Templars had placed some sort of block around her sleeping mind, somethingunnatural and blighted. He can sense her, but he cannot find her. Whenever hereaches for her familiar light in the darkness of his dreams, to tell her thatthey are coming for her, that he loves her, a red and hissing light pushes himback into swirling darkness.

Cassandra leads the assault onSuledin Keep, three days later. The best of the Inquisition marches at herside, and they manage to break past the initial defenses of the fortifiedcastle. It is a long, ugly battle, one that culminates in a courtyard, wherethe entire Inner Circle faces a man Solas had once known. The Forgotten Ones’leader calls himself Imshael, now, and bears a human form. He is exponentiallymore powerful than Solas remembers—but in the end, he is cut down by the InnerCircle’s power, and he dies laughing, with a whisper of funny how things never change, eh, Fenny? in Solas’s ear.

An odd, detestable nickname, one thatwould never have made sense in their shared tongue.

Once the ashes of the leader of theForgotten Ones is scattered on the winds, Solas turns to Cassandra. “Thedungeons,” he says, and his voice sounds strange and distant to his own ears.“We must first search the dungeons—”

“Solas.”

Cole’s voice, light and musical,and a hint of worry. Solas turns at once, and his legs almost give out againwhen he sees Ariala, shivering and wearing prisoner’s rags, her hair a knottedmess. He drops his staff and stumbles toward her, and inexplicably she is theone to catch him, to hold him by the tops of his arms and press her forehead tohis. He lifts his hands to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over the smears ofdirt and blood on her cheeks.

Her face is bruised, he notes—it isdark, ugly, and shaped like a hand. Solas fervently hopes that he had been theone to end whoever had done that to her. There are more cuts on her arms andlegs, evidence of frostbite at her fingertips, her prisoner’s garb doingnothing to shield her from the elements. Solas does all he can for her. Heheals her cuts and bruises and marks, and warms her fingertips untilcirculation returns to them, and when he cannot see any further injuries heholds her close.

“Vhenan,” he whispers. “Are you—?”

“I’m okay,” she rasps, voice hoarse.

He swallows. He does not wish topress where he may not be wanted, right now, but she is here and whole and haleand he cannot resist. He thumbs her full bottom lip, and pulls her close, andwhispers against her cheek may I—?

“Yes,” she breathes, “please.” Herblunt nails scrape over the back of his neck, making him shiver. He turns hishead and she is there, her mouth slanting over his, lips chapped but warm and areminder that she is alive, she is alive, she is alive. She is warm in his armsand alive and unharmed. He presses harder against her, needingher closer, needing her safe. Her arms wrap around his neck and her body bends,swaying back, and his follows hers, curving into the arc she forms for him. Hishands clutch at the sackcloth they’d put her in, ignoring how the fabric scrapes at his palms.

“Solas,” she gasps once they part,her forehead pressing against his. She’s still bent over, and he is stillleaning over her, desperate for her touch. He opens his eyes, only to see herstaring at him, wide-eyed, some fleeting panic hidden behind her eyes. “Solas,we’re not alone.”

He straightens at once, steppingaway from her, though he runs his hands down her cold, pebbled arms and takesher palms in his. The soldiers begin to cheer, and when he looks over hisshoulder he sees Cassandra and the others gathering, smiling, their browsshining with sweat. Ariala shifts, hiding herself behind him, and he moves aswell, pulling her close until she closes her eyes and rests her cheek againsthis chest. Solas strokes her hair, tilting his head down to press a kiss to herbrow.

“Do you wish to speak to them?” hemurmurs. Ariala swallows.

“No,” she murmurs. “Not right now. I just want…somewhere quiet. Safe. Warm.”

“I’ll tell them,” Cole says,slipping away. Solas had not even noticed his presence.

Cassandra is the one who finds thema small, quiet bedroom in the Keep—an officer’s quarters, with a single bed, abrass tub with drainage, and a fireplace. The windows are broken, but a simplebarrier keeps the worst of the cold out. “I will return with a change ofclothes for you,” Cassandra says. She hesitates at the door. “Ariala. Myfriend. I am… glad you are all right.”

“Me too,” Ariala says, with ahoarse laugh. She crosses the room and pulls Cassandra into a hug, seeminglyunaware of the Seeker’s heavy armor. Solas sets to starting the fire.

When Cassandra is gone, Solaslistens for Ariala’s footsteps, soft and light across the stone floor. Themoment she stops beside him, he looks up at her and rises to his feet. Arialastares at him, her dark brown eyes black in the firelight, and Solas lowers hishead, pressing their brows together. His exhale is unsteady, and he cannot keephimself from lifting his hands to cradle her face, to reassure himself of herpresence.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers.

He knows. He can feel the subtle tremorsin his body, a cocktail of battle high and relief at finding her. “You arewell?” he asks, his voice hushed. “You are—you are not—they did not—”

“They did nothing. I’m safe. I’mhere with you,” she says, her voice just as quiet as before. She draws hishands away, lowering them to rest at her sides, and she holds the back of hishead, keeping their foreheads pressed together. After a moment, she pulls away,only to roll up onto the balls of her feet and press a dry kiss to his temple.Gently, she guides him to the bed, coaxing him to sit before straddling hislap. Solas wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, pressing his ear toher chest, taking comfort in her heartbeat despite how fast and unsteady itspulse is under her skin. She says nothing, instead running her hands down hisback in long, lingering touches that make him arch into her.

“I thought you dead,” he whispers,closing his eyes. “Vhenan, I—I did not know if you were dead or alive, I couldnot find you in the Fade, I thought—”

I thought I’d lost you.

He stops himself, choking on hisown words, and instead turns his head to rest against the junction of her neckand shoulder, his arms wrapped around her so tightly he fears crushing her. “AmI hurting you?” he murmurs against her skin, and some of the tightness in hischest eases when he hears her small dissent.

“Just—hold me, please,” she asks.“Tighter.”

He complies, crushing her to him,savoring her warmth. Cassandra knocks before entering, and Solas thinks thatAriala will want to leave him, but she does not move. Solas opens his eyes butdoes not lift his head, and he looks over her shoulder to see the Seeker,flushed bright red, leave a change of clothes and a comb on a dusty end tablenearby. He holds her, savoring her every drifting touch, until she begins tosquirm away. He releases her, but misses her the moment she is out of hisembrace.

He turns away as she changes into aset of warmer clothes. “There’s a set for you too,” she says from across theroom. “Let’s get you out of your armor, okay?”

He does not move until he feels herhand on his back, moving over the tops of his shoulders. Her thumb presses intoa tense muscle and he hisses through his teeth as the muscles strains,protests, and ultimately relaxes. He turns toward her, but with a light,too-airy laugh she pushes him away.

“We can’t cuddle unless you getchanged. I don’t want dried bloodstains on my pajamas.” Her grin is hollow, forced.

Solas does not return her smile,for he sees the shadows in her eyes. He stands and takes her hands in his,kissing each fingertip, watching how the false, confident mask she had beenbuilding crumbles before his eyes. “Do not hide your pain from me,” he says.“Please, vhenan. I am here. Let me care for you.”

She swallows thickly, and when sheblinks, her eyes turn glassy. “I—” she starts, but stops herself and turnsaway, her hands falling from his. Solas’s chest is tight, but he forces ashallow breath and crosses the room to change. Once he is in sleepwear suitablefor the Emprise’s chill, he returns to the bed, where she sits cross-legged, staring atthe hands in her lap. Her hair is a frizzy, tangled mess, pulled back into amessy bun at the nape of her neck.

“They were going to take me toCorypheus,” she whispers, once he is beside her. Solas swallows and draws herinto his arms, slowly, waiting for any stiffness or hesitance or any other signthat she does not want this. But she turns into him, pressing her cold faceinto his neck, and he tucks a hand under her legs to drape them across his lap.

“I would have followed them,vhenan,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. He closes hiseyes, ignoring the burn in his chest. “I would have followed them to the endsof the world to save you.”

She laughs, hoarsely, her breathhitching at the end. “Sweet talker.”

“I am utterly serious.”

She nuzzles against him, stillshivering from the cold. He runs his hand up and down her back, casting agentle heating spell that will keep them both warm. “I know,” she whispers intohis shirt. A shiver runs down her back. “I know you are.”

He inhales a shaky breath and tuckshis head against hers, eyes falling shut and arms wrapping around her. Shesighs, a little sound that betrays her relief, and presses closer against him.“I am sorry I was not there when you needed me,” Solas whispers.

“Solas,” she says, lifting herhead, just a little. Her lips brush the underside of his jaw, and he sucks in abreath, pulling away just a few inches so that he may angle his head down andkiss her again. A small, breathless sound escapes her, and he keeps one hand onthe small of her back while the other sinks into her hair, holding her close.Her hands clutch at his tunic, nails digging into the fabric. When they part,she gasps, eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded and hazy. Somehow they hadmaneuvered so her back was on the bed, and he was hovering above her, hisweight resting on one arm.

“I thought I’d lost you,” hewhispers. He blinks, hard, and twin tears fall. They land on her cheeks andtrail down her own skin, as if they were her own. She swallows and reaches forhim, pulling him down to lay on the bed beside her, pressing their foreheadstogether. His hands tremble in hers.

“I’m here,” she whispers, voicerasping, hoarse. They fall quiet, hands intertwined, and eventually she asks ifhe will hold her while she sleeps. That leads to her shifting around on the bedand him pulling her close, until her back is pressed against his chest and hischin rests on her shoulder, cushioned by her thick hair.

“You are comfortable?” he asks.“You do not feel—trapped?”

“No. It’s perfect.” She lifts theirintertwined hands and kisses the back of his hand. Solas cannot stop the shiverthat runs down his back, and he presses a gentle kiss to her clothed shoulder.

“Very well. Please tell me themoment that changes.”

She nods, and settles furtheragainst him with a sigh. He holds her until her shallow, uneven breathingsteadies and deepens. Only then does Solas allow himself to close his eyes andput to rest the sickening anxiety that has rattled within his heart for thepast two days.

She is safe and warm and alive inhis arms, and he will keep her that way for as long as he can.

#solavellan #solas x lavellan #fic #anonymous #Ariala Lavellan

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patheticnugbaby · 7 years

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Nightmare

Pavellan fluff for all your comfort needs. Rajmahel has a nightmare, luckily Dorian’s there to comfort him.

WARNING: Mentions of blood, horror, gore, and the horrible things that happen to you when you die.

The awful, jagged green-black landscape stretched in all directions. The great, slow swirling of the breach hung overhead, it spun the wrong direction. In the distance, he could see spirits being pulled apart as they were yanked through, disappearing with a tiny bubbling flash of green light. His ears flicked as he heard the staggering rattle that had grown all too familiar. Rajmahel swallowed, hard, then he turned.

A fear demon hovered, not even a full pace away. Terror clenched in his gut as those horrible arachnid legs flexed on its back, tilting its blind head before it lunged forward, its skeletal body flickering in and out of view. Rajmahel dodged away from it, his boots skidding angrily on the stone. He backed away from the demon, holding his left hand out as if that might slow it. His foot snagged on something squishy and he fell. He looked to see what he’d landed in, only to scramble away in mute horror.

A mound of corpses, all fresh and racked with the ragged claw marks and burns from angry demons. Each one wore the face of one of his friends.

There was Cullen, prone, red lyrium spiraling cruelly from his broken body. Josephine, not far away, her sweet face twisted in fear and agony. Leliana laid over Josephine, her back seared with the marks of a pride demon that she’d shielded for the ambassador. Cassandra, rent apart and looking to be drained of her blood. He couldn’t see her shield arm, not until he saw it laying over Varric, covering his chest in a charred shield. It hadn’t done him much good, not with his face looking like that. Solas laid in a pile of bodies with Iron Bull, Cole, Sera, and Vivienne. It was a miracle he recognized them at all, burned and torn the way they were. Blackwall’s body laid in front of them all and had taken the worst of the damage. Rajmahel only knew it was him because of the silver griffon crest on his shield. Strange, that that should be the only thing untouched by all this devastation.

A pit formed in his stomach as he realized that Dorian wasn’t among them. He heard the shuffling scrabble of something behind him. He closed his eyes, unwilling to turn around, even as he felt the tingling on the back of his neck, between his shoulders. The stench of death threatened to overwhelm him and it very nearly turned his stomach. Suddenly, blood-slick fingers clutched at his now bare ankle. He yelped and jumped away, only to be faced with the glassy-eyed corpse of Dorian, crawling, reaching for him.

He covered his mouth as though it would keep him from screaming, from vomiting, from anything. Dorian’s dead, mangled body shuddered as it crawled to him, bloody stumps of fingers reaching for him.

“Amatus,” He croaked, rattled.

Rajmahel screamed-

“-amatus! Wake up! Please-!”

Rajmahel choked and threw himself away from the bed. The covers tangled in his legs and tripped him, so he scuttled away on his hands and knees until he reached a wall, whirling to press his back against it, knees curled in, hands out. It was only then that he finally managed to look back to the bed.

Only to see Dorian, gray eyes wide and fearful, one hand partially held out, fingers curled in, “... Raj?”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, curling a little tighter on himself. His heart pounded in his chest and he struggled to breathe, fear still unreasonably clenched in the pit of his stomach. His back itched like they were all still there. He was going to open his eyes and they were going to be piled in his bedroom. Staring, glassy eyes and fetid blood covering the floor-

“Rajmahel,” A soft voice, like velvet under rough fingertips, “it’s alright. You’re in Skyhold, you had a night-” the voice caught, just for a moment, “you had a bad dream, Amatus, that’s all it was. It was just a bad dream.”

He dug his toes into the thick rug, heels scraping on the stone floor. His back was pressed against the cold wall when he inhaled he smelled paper, ink, woodsmoke, and the faintest tinge of lavender. Rajmahel looked up, sheepishly wiping his eyes with the back of a hand once he realized that he’d been crying at some point. Dorian was on the floor in front of him, gentle hands reaching, but hesitant; his eyes were wide and hesitant.

Rajmahel felt a broken sob tear out of his throat and he lunged forward, tugging Dorian into a tight, shaking embrace. Dorian’s arms wound tightly around his back, his head pressed against Rajmahel’s chest. He held Dorian tightly, pressing his face into dark, mussed hair before he started to weep in earnest.

“It’s alright,” Dorian murmured but he heard a slight tremble in his voice that made him gently pull him up to his face.

“You’re real, aren’t you?” Rajmahel’s voice shook, rough with sleep and fear as he ran his fingers all over the other man’s face, his cheeks, brow, proud nose, and full lips.

“What an odd question,” Dorian smiled, shifting so he could cup Rajmahel’s face in his hand, his eyes looked a little wet, “of course I’m real, Amatus, I’m right here.”

Rajmahel shuddered a little and pressed his forehead against Dorian’s as he took a soft, shaky breath, “You’re alright, you’re alive,” it sounded too much like a question for his liking.

Dorian pressed a kiss onto the pad of his thumb that rested on his lips, “I’m alive and well, Amatus. It’s alright.”

Rajmahel sighed heavily, finally smiling a little, even as new, fresh tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, quickly wiped away by soft, gentle hands, “Creators, Dorian, I’m s-”

“Hush,” Dorian cut him off, frowning enough to get those little wrinkles on the bridge of his nose, “don’t apologize, even if we’re up all night.”

“You always complain in the morning if I keep you up too late,” Rajmahel chuckled softly, managing to swallow some of the fear that coiled in his belly.

“That’s different,” The ghost of a smile on his lips, Rajmahel ran his thumb over the mussed mustache, coaxing a wider smile from him, “Stop that, you know it tickles.”

“It makes you smile,” He replied, gently smoothing the mustache again, this time rewarded with an indignantly wrinkled nose.

“You could hire a new steward with better taste in wine, that’d make me smile too,” Dorian quipped, tucking stray locks behind Rajmahel’s ears, “your ears are still twitchy.”

“They’ll do that until I relax,” Still, he attempted to still them and was sure that he was unsuccessful.

“Is there anything I can do?” Dorian asked, his voice full and earnest as his fingertips traced along Rajmahel’s jaw.

He shook his head a little, “I don’t think so, vhenan,” he pressed a kiss to Dorian’s frowning brow, “You should rest. I won’t be able to sleep for a few hours yet, and one of us should be well-rested for tomorrow.”

“Fuck that nonsense,” Dorian almost snapped at him, but not quite, still he glowered up at Rajmahel, gray eyes boiling with an angry heat, “You don’t get to wake me up in the middle of night, screaming your lungs out until I finally wake you up and you fly out of bed like you have a dragon on your ass then tell me ‘It’s alright, Dorian, I only gave you the fright of your life, go on back to bed now’!”

Rajmahel winced a little, lightly touching the soft, dark circles under Dorian’s eyes, “I am sorry, vhenan. You’re right-”

“That’s it,” Dorian stood up, quickly enough to leave his fingertips tingling from the sudden lack of touch, “come, stand up.”

“Why?” He tilted his head, ears flicking cautiously, even as he stood; Dorian had that secret smile on his face that made him wary.

“Trust me, Amatus,” Dorian bowed slightly and held out his hand, a warm, charming smile sliding over his face like a glove.

He hesitated, only for a moment before he allowed Dorian to take his hand and was immediately whisked into his arms. He laughed hoarsely as their fingers interlocked, his hand moving to rest on Dorian’s shoulder.

“What’re we doing?”

“Sometimes you ask the most painfully obvious questions,” Dorian grinned, turning them gently towards the hearth, “We’re dancing. I would’ve thought you were familiar with the idea, we’re done it before.”

“Oh, for-” Rajmahel chuckled, shaking his head as his ears perked forward, “why are we dancing?”

“Does it matter?” Dorian murmured, swinging Rajmahel away from him, their forearms pressed together, the other arm behind their backs as they circled each other, “As I recall you like dancing. You told me that Clan Lavellan danced often, especially at night.”

“We did, and I would like to dance with them again when this is through,” Rajmahel smiled, allowed Dorian to sweep him back into his arms, “you would like it. You haven’t been to a party until you’ve been to a dalish party.”

“You say that but you haven’t been to any Tevinter parties. Makes the Winter Palace look like cakes and tea cozies,” Dorian grinned, his hand pressing Rajmahel closer to him, “and you’d have to learn a whole dozen new dances.”

“You could teach me,” He chuckled, shaking his hair out of his face, “you’ve always been an excellent teacher.”

“You should know by now that I’m excellent at most everything, Amatus,” Dorian chided him, bringing their interlocked hands to his lips to kiss Rajmahel’s knuckles.

“Your accent for elvhen is atrocious.”

“I said most everything,” Still, Dorian smiled, spinning them all the way over to the banister before he slowly started to turn back into the room, “there are still words you won’t tell me.”

“I am lucky that written elvhen is almost gone, or you’d find out on your own,” Rajmahel smirked, “Lathan na. Ne’inalanehn na.”

“Exactly. If you’re not careful I’ll have to torture it out of you,” Dorian threatened but a grin spread over his face as he leaned in a little closer, “Do you know that your voice goes lower when you speak elvhen?”

“Does it, ara’vhenan?” Rajmahel smiled, reaching up with a small yawn to run his thumb along Dorian’s jaw.

“Does the ‘ara’ make it mean something else?”

“No,” He smiled a little wider, “ara means ‘my’, ‘my heart’.”

“But it changes when you add it to the end?”

“Different kind of ‘ara’,” Rajmahel yawned a little wider this time, “that one means ‘self-journey’, roughly, though it’s a little more complicated than that. When I call you ‘vhenanara’ I mean ‘desire’, or ‘journey of my heart’.”

“Please tell me that all of it isn’t just names,” Dorian groaned almost theatrically, making him laugh again.

“You say that like you don’t enjoy them,” Rajmahel grinned at him, then leaned up to put a tiny kiss on the tip of Dorian’s nose, “Ir’inalanehn.”

“Hush you. For all, I know you could be calling me whatever the elvhen word is for the wrinkles on a nug’s ass.”

Rajmahel laughed, one of his big laughs that started in his belly and shook his shoulders. He was cut short by another yawn and he caught the smallest widening of Dorian’s smile. He grinned, gently shoving Dorian’s shoulder.

“You ass, you’re trying to tire me out!”

“I assure you, Amatus if I wanted to ‘tire you out’ I could be a great deal more creative about it,” Dorian purred, cupping his face with a warm hand before he shoved Rajmahel backward.

He yelped, flailing his arms around before abruptly landing on something soft and very, very warm. He sat up, frowning at the bed he landed on, then up at Dorian.

“Remind me when we made it back to the bed?”

“Somewhere around ‘Ara’vhenan’, I believe,” Dorian gave him a crooked grin before he jerked his chin towards the pillows, “get under the blankets, I’ll throw another log on the fire.”

“Dorian-”

“I’m not requiring that you sleep, Amatus,” He interrupted as he threw a new log on the fire, “at the very least you should rest, I’ll read to you.”

“Excuse me-?”

“I know you like it when I read to you, and I can’t say I blame you, I have a marvelous voice,” Dorian chuckled softly, snagging a book before he climbed into bed, lifting the blankets and gesturing impatiently, “come here.”

Rajmahel flicked his ears before climbing in next to him, cuddling up to rest his head on his chest, Dorian’s arm wrapping snugly around his shoulders. As the warmth of the blankets settled over him he yawned again, allowing his eyes to close-

Dead, glassy eyes, splinted fingers reaching-

He jumped, suddenly clutching tightly to Dorian again.

“Shh, Amatus, it’s alright. I’m here,” Dorian pressed a gentle kiss on the top of his head before he started to read the words aloud again.

Rajmahel barely even heard them. He heard that voice, warm and soothing. Safe. He nestled himself a little closer to Dorian, ears twitching a little restlessly until he felt Dorian rub carefully at the tenseness in his shoulders. Sometimes he felt the soft weight of Dorian looking at him, just for a moment before he went back to reading for him.

“Lathan na,” Rajmahel murmured sleepily as he tried to climb a little closer to Dorian, who made a small, curious noise.

“Sorry?”

“Lathan na,” Rajmahel repeated, a little clearer this time, “It means ‘I love you’.”

He fell asleep almost immediately after he said it. He didn’t witness the sudden stillness that came over Dorian before he slowly, carefully closed the book he was reading from. There was a fluttering in his chest and a kind of pleasant, tingling pain in the corners of his eyes.

“Kaffas,” He cursed quietly, even as he gathered Rajmahel a little closer to him, pressing tiny, fervent kisses onto his hair, his forehead, between his eyebrows, “I love you too.”

He knew he wouldn’t be able to say it to him, not while he was awake. He hoped that Rajmahel knew anyways, in the way he occasionally just knew things. Maybe he did if that new little smile on his lips was anything to go by. It probably wasn’t, but this time he dared to hope.

Dorian pressed one more tender kiss on Rajmahel’s brow before carefully laying him down until his head rested on the pillows. Dorian wrapped his arms around him, holding him to his chest with a shuddering sigh, somewhere between relief and fear.

“Amatus,” He settled a little better into his pillow and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him...

“Vhenan.”

#Pavellan #DAI #Dragon age fanfiction #patheticnugbaby writes #patheticnugbaby's inquisitors #Rajmahel Lavellan #Ruaidhri LAvellan #Dorian Pavus #pavellan fanfiction

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obsidianmichi · 7 years

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Eirwen rolled away, her feet dancing a few steps back. The vines whipping about her wrapped together into her a protective dome. Her hand lay on it, and more roots shot off the wriggling surface. Their tips twisted into spikes, they slammed through three of the oncoming Red Templars.

“Hey, Varric,” Bull muttered.

“Yeah?” Varric glanced at him.

Bull grinned. “Remind me to never piss off Pip.”

Varric laughed. “Coulda told you that before, Muscles.”

Solas glared at the pair, frustrated. “We must get down there!”

“Course, can’t let her have all the fun,” Bull replied. “Barrier me up, Solas!”

With a sigh, Solas did as he asked. Light flickered on his fingers as he manipulated the delicate balance of the Veil. Flicking his fingers, he lay the protection over Bull; sure he knew what would come next.

Bull leapt off the cliff, plunging twenty feet to the hard, frozen ground. He sprang forward without breaking stride, bellowing as he raced toward battle.

Solas sighed.

Below, a behemoth stumbled from the forest. It titled about on its points, screaming. Its cub dragged on the ground behind it. The surviving Templars circled it, two archers with their bows drawn exiting the shadows beneath the trees. They fired on Eirwen’s protective shell. Fire roared to life as the arrows exploded. Flames cascaded down across the plants, glimmering with bright orange and red. The gray blur that was Bull raced across the road toward them, his axe high.

“Here goes, Chuckles.” Varric sucked in a stiff breath and dropped off the edge to the first foothold.

Solas followed, one eye on the fight.

Eirwen rolled out from behind her burning protection. He saw one hand light as Bull raced past her, the other reaching back around into her pouch. A silver shimmer covered them both, re-application of their barriers. Without any verbal communication, Bull went right and she dodged left. The bow across her back, she held a small black circle in one hand. The other rested on the pommel of her knife. In the next moment, she was on her feet. The black circle uncoiled, and began to spin.

A chain, Solas realized. He leapt lightly to the next root, continuing after as Varric made his descent. She fights with a chain, certain movements may require two hands. Therefore, she does not require hand signs to cast.

The chain whipped about in a figure eight across her body. She sent it outward with a flick of her wrist. Flying through the air, it caught and wrapped itself about an oncoming Templar’s sword. The chain went taut. Another yank and the sword came free. It spun away through the air, landing with a clatter on the frozen ground. In the next instant, the chain and bladed tip returned alight in flames. The tip lodged in the disarmed Templar’s throat, fire catching on those parts of his skin still lyrium free.

He screamed.

Eirwen sidestepped to the left, narrowly missing another Templar lunging from stealth. She whipped about, the chain returning to her. She caught the front half with her free hand. Swinging sideways, she looped her chain about the first of the second Templar’s blades and secured it tight. She went past him in a whirl, dragging his dagger free of his hands. Released, it flew high. She caught it, driving the blade smoothly through the back of his neck.

Varric fired into the next two coming at her. Bianca’s bolts pierced through their armor, and sent them to the ground.

Solas landed on the ground and raced forward, his eyes moving to where Bull had begun his dance with the behemoth. They could not both cover Eirwen, and it seemed she was more than capable of looking after herself. He sent a blast of fire into the behemoth, aware of Eirwen racing toward them from the other side. Bull dodged a strike by the heavy club, bringing his axe down on the creature’s arm.

Roots broke through the ground, wrapping about the behemoth’s legs. Another pair lashed out, seizing the creature’s arms. Eirwen shouted, “now, Bull! Solas!”

Solas gathered the primordial energies of the Fade around himself, summoning a boulder from the Fade he sent it flying into the behemoth. As Eirwen’s roots and vines wrapped themselves about the misshapen creature, it had nowhere to go. The boulder slammed full force into its bulging crystalline exterior. Cracks rippled across the red surface, deep cracks appeared.

Iron Bull spun round, axe lifting high, and brought it down. The blade sheared through the behemoth’s in a clean strike, swinging back about to rest on Bull’s shoulder. The behemoth fractured, crumbled, and tumbled to the frozen ground — save for those parts held by root and vine. It’s remains glimmered like scattered rubies on the blood spattered snow.

I wrote this mostly because I wanted to have fun. Eirwen’s two elemental aspects really are earth and water (and fire), so it makes sense those two would combine into trees. Besides, the Keepers channel DnD druids pretty hard.

I haven’t focused much on Eirwen’s training as a Keeper. (One of the things I hated about DA:I was the homogenization of the races and their magic. They all had access to the same trees, suggesting the Circles, the Dalish, and the Tal Vashoth all practiced the same magic in the exact same way.) I always did have a soft spot for the DA:O Keeper specialization. The justification I came to for Eirwen, at least, is that she doesn’t use the culturally specialized magic for the most part. I was trying to be honest to the abilities in Inquisition at the time, and now I care a lot less.

The Dalish are very secretive and the best way to avoid having their secrets known is simply not to use that knowledge where it might be questioned or... ever. I don’t think Eirwen consciously thought about that decision, she spent a lot of time avoiding thinking about home as a way to keep herself from being homesick.

Companion Eirwen has fewer barriers to just straight up showing off. It may have something to do with Ellana niggling her about being the weakest mage in the Inquisition. Ellana may have gotten herself thwacked by a tree root.

This is that moment when I remember I’ve written 20k+ in like a week.

#eirwen lavellan #my snippets #dragon age fanfiction #fight scenes #companion eirwen au #companion eirwen

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5ftgarden · 7 years

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Like We Used To

For @silent-of-spirit, who is my biggest Fels and Alistair fan, and for @galadrieljones who asked me to help her fall in love with Ali.

Denerim • Royal Quarters • Post-Adamant

Alistair paced nervously in his own room, waiting for her to descend the stairs like she always used to, a flurry of footsteps and jokes. Instead, he heard her quiet bashful footsteps as she walked down the stairs, dressed in a dark red gown, her blonde hair pinned into a sort of half crown on her head. He felt his breath leave his lungs as he took in the sight, one that he had never dreamed of witnessing again. 

“You look stunning, Fels,” he whispered, reaching his hand out towards her. She smiled and took his hand, allowing him to lead her down the stairs.  “I feel stunning. It’s been so long since I’ve been in anything but armor, wearing a dress is... strange,” she laughed merrily. “Though it does lace a little tighter than it used to.”

She turned and showed him the back, which had once been strappy to the point of being risqué, now tightly tied in an effort to keep the fabric from slipping down her bony torso. He could just see the tips of the griffon wings peeking out above the collar. 

“You still look as beautiful as the first time you wore it,” Alistair sighed, spinning her around carefully into his arms. “I see you got a tattoo?” 

“Isabela’s idea. You remember her, right? She thought it ‘stunningly appropriate for a woman of my skills’, if I remember correctly. Had it done in Rivain before I went off the map.” she smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She could see the pain in Alistair’s as she spoke of her adventures, knowing that she had completely broken his heart. “I dreamed of leaving it all behind and coming back here every night,” she whispered, slumping slightly and wandering towards the fire. 

“Where all did you go?” 

She put her hand on the stone mantle and stared into the flames, as if searching for the answers in the crackling coals. “I’m really not sure. I went north for a while, went to Rivain, went to Weisshaupt and did the official ‘warden-commander’ paperwork. I went farther north then, following old legends, old wives tales about darkspawn. They led me west, and I remember crossing a border to a land I couldn’t find on my maps. I stayed there for a long time, trying to find what I could -trying to find answers. My trail led me south about two years ago, and I crossed the Imperium on foot, still searching. I was just outside of the capital when I heard the Calling.” Alistair walked towards her and hugged her tight. “I was terrified that I would die out there, away from everything that I knew, away from people who understood me. Away from you. So I pressed further south, into Orlais, and laid eyes on the Breach for the first time. I heard tales of the Inquisition, and the gathering force at Adamant, so I went hunting for more clues.”

Alistair pondered silently before speaking up. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes and no. I found some terrible things, Alistair, some things you don’t want to, and shouldn’t know. I found more questions than answers in the end. I suspect the Inquisition has more answers than I do about the Blight, now. We’ll have to pool our information at some point. I can write a letter to Leliana, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

Alistair was suddenly struck with how tired she looked. The fire light cast strange shadows over her face, highlighting creases that he didn’t recognize, hollows and scars that she hadn’t had before she had disappeared. “Maybe when you’ve rested more, Fels. For tonight, I want you to enjoy yourself. Relax.” She responded with a weak smile and turned to sit at the tiny table, which was laden with food.

“So, tell me what’s happened to everyone while I was away! All I know is that Anders is dead after blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry, Leliana’s started the Inquisition, and she has that Templar we rescued back at Kinloch as its Commander?” She bit into an apple that she had picked up, her eyes momentarily rolling up in praise as the tartness popped in her mouth. She hadn’t had apples in years. 

“Apparently a certain Lady Morrigan is currently at Skyhold as well, though she refuses to answer my letters,” Alistair laughed, digging into his own plate. “Zevran was last heard of around Kirkwall by this lady named-” 

“Hawke. Circinae Hawke,” Felicia finished, popping another chunk of apple into her mouth, eyeing the mistrust on Alistair’s face. “Isabela sent me a letter when I was at Weisshaupt, and gave me Hawke’s information, should I ever need to get something to you. She wasn’t the Champion of Kirkwall at the time, but she was discreet, and was able to indirectly help me out of a lot of scrapes. In return, I fed her any information I came across about red lyrium -which wasn’t much. She was at Adamant with the Inquisitor.” 

“Well, she’s making her way towards Weisshaupt now, supposedly in the company of her husband. I don’t know what we’ll hear from that trip,” Alistair muttered, poking at a piece of bread. “As for the others, Oghren is still running a bar with that lady he ran off with and is apparently happier than ever –he named his kid after you, by the way, and she’s almost as devious; no one’s heard from Sten, and Wynne died shortly after you left, Andraste preserve her.”

Felicia shut her eyes and nodded solemnly as she sipped her wine, smiling as she recognized the taste. “This- uh, this is the vintage from your coronation year, isn’t it?” She asked, faint memories tickling at the edge of her mind of tours of vineyards, and some particularly steamy stolen moments behind a barn. 

“I kept a bottle back, for a special occasion. I know it was your favorite,” Alistair mused, sipping his own glass. Felicia flushed slightly, and went back to eating. “I drank the rest of it alone, mostly. When I wanted to forget that you weren’t here. I’m glad I get to end it on a happy note.”

Her hands fell into her lap, twisting her napkin awkwardly. Her voice was thick with emotion. “I’m never going to stop apologizing for leaving, Ali. Never. I should have-” 

“Andraste’s tits, Fels! If you’d told me, I would have gone with you, and where would that have gotten us?” Alistair cursed, slamming a hand down on the table. “You did what you had to, I understand that. I mean, I would have appreciated a letter or two, but you did what was necessary, and I forgive you for that. I’m not the bumbling idiot boy you put on the throne ten years ago, I can understand causality.”

His eyebrows furrowed with concern as she pushed away from the table hard with mumbled apologies, and started to walk towards the stairs. He stood up quickly and grabbed her wrist, dragging her back into his arms. “Don’t leave. Please. I’m sorry for that, it was unworthy of me. I was just so scared when you left me here alone. It’s been so heart wrenchingly lonely without you.”

Felicia disengaged her wrist from his hand and leaned up against the wall. “You never married?”

“They tried. Yeah, sure the air-headed ninnies they paraded in front of me could spout hours of Orlesian poetry, but none of them went through rescuing my entire void-ridden kingdom with me, and sat my ass on the throne. None of them were you.” He breathed deeply, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t stand them.”

“You even turned down the Inquisitor?” Felicia’s eyebrows raised in skepticism, and Alistair shuddered. 

“That woman scares the shit out of me. Inquisitor Grace Trevelyan is made of pure meteor iron, and is as cold blooded to boot. Did you hear what happened at a ball in Orlais? She incinerated a Duchess. Incinerated. Regardless, she wasn’t available at the time anyway, being a mage-hunter and all that. Besides, she’s apparently having quite the time with her Commander,” Alistair laughed, nervous, but still waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Really? That poor man we rescued from the tower? Wasn’t he at Kirkwall too? And he’s with a mage?” 

“And the bastard King of Fereldan is in love with a Paragon Princess of Orzammar; scandalous, I know,” Alistair laughed, as Felicia blushed bright pink. Her mind ran in a million directions, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, opening them to find Alistair hovering over her as she pressed her back into the wall, half hoping the stone would open and swallow her up right then.

“Do you mean that?” She whispered, her eyes scared and hopeful, her hands white knuckled as she tried to find purchase on the wall behind her. 

“Madaena Felicia Aeducan, I love you, and I have never stopped loving you, no matter the distance between us,” Alistair breathed, bringing a hand up to cradle her chin. “Even when I thought you weren’t coming back, I didn’t stop loving you.”

“Ali, I-” Any words she was about to say were cut off as Alistair bent down and kissed her. Not with the burning passion of a man who had just reunited with his lost love, or with the emotion of one who had just lost her, but with the measured burn of wanting more. There was a subtle edge to it, almost angry, but grateful at the same time. Felicia’s head was spinning when they finally broke apart. 

“I missed that,” she sighed, pressing herself into his chest on tip toe, and kissing along his collarbone. Alistair groaned as he swept her off her feet and carried her over to his bed. 

“Sweet Maker, woman. You will be the death of me.”

#felicia aeducan #alistair therin #warden x alistair #alistair x aeducan #king alistair #warden aeducan

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scurvgirl · 7 years

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Queen of the Stone, Part 6

Read on AO3, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

She has been a Grey Warden for eleven years, and the taint is beginning to consume her. She needs to find a cure soon. So Elodie Amell sets out in search and finds herself in the city thought long-lost, Kal-Sharok. There she discovers something much bigger than just a cure for the taint running through her body.

A companion story to my other story, In Your Gaze I Wish to Stay, but this can be read separately!

First Light

Elodie makes her way back to Denerim and to Alistair. A note - Katra is my Hawke, she romanced Fenris, she's been staying at Skyhold helping the Inquisitor (Miriel Lavellan).

The final installment!

A month later and she made it to Skyhold, dirty and exhausted but still riding her high of relief. She greeted Fiona with a broad smile, breaking down in tears on how she had been released from the taint and how she could finally move forward with her life. The woman held her close, her own eyes turning glassy and wet. Elodie didn’t know if they had been freed of the taint in the same way, but she was the only person (so far) who truly understood what this meant.

Freedom. The truest taste of freedom she had ever had.

Fiona smiled kindly back and wished her well, eyes gleaming brightly.

Unfortunately Inquisitor Lavellan was not at Skyhold, she had ironically descended down to the Deep Roads to answer Orzammar’s call for help about devastating earthquakes. But it was no matter, Elodie stayed with an amazingly pregnant Katra Hawke and they rested against each other, both basking in the futures that awaited them. Elodie told Katra she should name the baby after her, which made Fenris scowl with a firm “no.”

She spent the next week with Dagna, reporting most everything. She explained her interactions with the Titan and left out Kal-Sharok and the precise location. Dagna seemed completely preoccupied with the rest of the tale to really notice those peculiars. Elodie told her about the part with the elven woman reaching her hand out with blood magic, the lyrium turning red and the Titan being forced to her will. Elodie told Dagna what the Titan said and the spirits that had buoyed up the Veil, veritably isolating the Titan from the dwarves.

Dagna’s eyes lit up as she took it all down, scribbling madly. They wound up in a long magical theories discussion on all the potential implications of this. The Blight, lyrium, blood magic, the Titans, Stone, the Fade.

The conversation lasted for days, until Elodie was sure that Dagna had all the necessary pieces to begin her own speculation and research. And as tempting as it was to show Dagna the cutting of the Titan, she knew better. Some things…some things had to remain secret until it was their time to be revealed. So she kept the box close and sealed, shielded in her own magic.

She wound up staying two weeks, delivering her information and tales to those it would best serve. She kept the robes and other trinkets away from prying eyes, however, doing her best to keep her word to keep Kal-Sharok’s secrets. Not that it was easy, Skyhold was full of people, nosy people at that.

The new Spymaster, in particular, was the nosiest sort. But a sort she was undoubtedly familiar with.

“Zevran Arainai! Exactly how did you manage to take over as Spymaster?” She asked, hugging her old friend close. He chuckled and patted her back.

“Ah, if I gave away my secrets I would not be a very good spymaster, no?”

“Pish! What are secrets between old friends?”

“Old? Oh you wound me!” He teased, guiding her to his office, er…roost? It was in an alcove above the library of which Dorian haunted. He smiled at Elodie in passing, quickly getting distracted by his book on antique spell weaving patterns.

“Now what is all this business of you no longer being a Grey Warden?” He asked, leaning back in a chair. He looked good, rested, his hair was longer and there were lines at the edges of his eyes, but the whole “aged” part of his look only seemed to enhance his handsomeness.

Elodie grinned, “I am no longer a Grey Warden, it is true. And soon, neither will Alistair.”

Zevran chuckled again, not seeming the least bit surprised.

“You were never one to simply let things lie.”

“Certainly not, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

He laughed more freely and they fell back into a long conversation, catching each other up on what’s happened in their lives. He regaled her with tales of hunting the Crows and ending up in the service of the Inquisition. She told him of the Deep Roads, of her investigations, and her plans, of which he whole heartedly supported.

She spent her remaining days in Skyhold with Zev and Katra, bouncing between the two with only a few appearances to Josephine. She was going to enjoy her time with friends rarely seen, particularly Zevran who had dropped off the map about a year ago.

It was odd in a sense, to see Zevran like this, to be like this herself. Older, wiser, in these positions of great power. Shit, Leliana was now Divine and Alistair King of Ferelden. Maker knew where Morrigan was, but she had been in the Orlesian court. Elodie could scarcely believe it, they barely had it together while facing the Blight and now…now they were some of the most influential people in Thedas.

As she saddled the Nugalope in preparation to leave for Denerim, Zevran promised to send gifts of her most likely impending pregnancy. She smacked his arm lightly, badgering him not to jinx it. They wished each other luck in their endeavors and then she was off, heading back to Denerim on the plump Nugalope, Daffodil, with a securely fastened box of a cutting of a Titan.

It was another month before she reached Denerim and all the tension left her body as she guided Daffodil into the city and to the palace. She had sent a raven at Skyhold to the palace, informing Alistair of her imminent return but she…she was actually here now. Standing before the palace gates, taint free and ready to great the future.

The gates were opened quickly, the guards immediately welcoming her home from her journeys. They eyed Daffodil warily but the horse master seemed unsurprised by the newest addition to his stables. Her things were taken off Daffodil, a servant by the name of Riari hurrying them into the palace while Elodie strode to the back of the palace, to the gardens where the king of Ferelden was sparring with his son.

Their son.

Duncan, now seven and a half, lunged and parried with his father, blonde hair bright in the sun. There was laughter and an ease in the boy learning how to fight. And she couldn’t feel them. There was no tether she felt to Alistair other than the love in her body, there was no odd hum she felt with Duncan – the darkness was gone, leaving only the love.

Elodie closed her eyes for the briefest moment, reveling in it, before stepping into the light.

“You’ve improved a great deal, little one,” she said. Both Alistair and Duncan dropped their practice swords and turned to Elodie, their faces in the same awe struck expression.

“Mum!” Duncan yelled, running towards her. Elodie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the boy, holding him tightly to her. Her eyes squinched closed, heart burning with relief and happiness to have her son back in her arms.

Alistair rushed over to her and wrapped his arms around them both, all of them creating a heap of smelly, sweaty bodies, happy tears streaming down dirt streaked faces.

“You’re home – I did not…I saw the letter but it was almost too much to hope –

“I will always come back,” she whispered. Alistair shivered and leaned heavily on her, a welcome weight that reminded her how far she had come.

But suddenly he pulled back, eyes wide in an incredulous expression.

“I don’t…but you’re…Elodie??!” His voice pitched.

She grinned, “I was successful, yes.” She didn’t want to go into detail with Duncan present but Alistair clearly understood, his face changing from awe to happiness to awe again. His eyes shut and she knew he was thanking the Maker for it, for whatever role the He had in this. Elodie closed her own and clutched Duncan to her.

Thank you.

As much as she wanted to continue to hold Duncan, Elodie was filthy. She had a bath drawn and sank into it with a long moan. The water was hot and prickling with bath salts she was certain that one of the castle staff had imported from Rivain. Bless them, she had missed such luxury. She lingered for a moment, simply enjoying it before setting to work. She scrubbed and scrubbed, removing all traces of the Deep Roads and the surface roads from her skin. She wanted to smell like a flower and a lady by the end of this.

The door creaked open as she dumped a small bucket of water over her head.

“It’s just me! I wanted to talk when I knew we wouldn’t be overheard,” Alistair announced and she nodded, rubbing the water and soap from her eyes. She pushed her hair back to smile at him while he took a seat by the tub. He had gained a bit more weight, most likely from stress eating, but he wore the weight well and he was as handsome as ever. Elodie leaned out of the tub and pressed a kiss to his lips, happy and savoring his touch.

“Right, talk,” she murmured, nipping at his lips. He chuckled and sighed in that adorable way of his before leaning back.

“Oh I know and trust me, tonight neither of us will be sleeping but we both need to get caught up on occurrences.” His face turned serious and she settled back into the tub.

“It is admittedly a long story, one that I will gladly expand upon when we have the proper time, but know that there is a cure for the taint. I don’t know if it is the same as the Blight, the thing that cured me seemed…like it was separate. But I have learned so much. Did you know that dragons are immune to the taint? Or at the very least, extremely resistant to it some way – they bypass it, the secret is their blood.”

Alistair’s eyes widened and he ran a hand through his hair, “Maker, that means –

“They could really be old Gods. That’s what I thought, but when I was down there, I…had visions…and I think the Archdemons may actually be neither. I think they are shapeshifters, like Flemeth.”

The weight of that realization fell upon him, making him slouch in his seat.

“We should inform the wardens at Weisshaupt,” he said and she didn’t know if she agreed with that. Yes, they should know of the real threat posed but…it would put Kal-Sharok at risk if the wardens discovered the Titan’s powers in this regard.

“We can decide that later, there is more. I was not cured by dragon blood, though I do think we can replicate the effects with dragon blood with proper study. I was cured by a Titan, that is how you will be cured too.”

“What is a Titan?”

As much as she wanted to wait until she wasn’t in water and turning into a pruny mess to tell him about it all, she launched into the story, telling him about Karega and her husband and the lyrium visions and the Titan and how the taint got started from blood magic being used on a Titan. She explained how the Titan essentially imbued her with pure lyrium energy to flush out the tainted lyrium energy. It rid her of the taint incurred by the blood magic because that Titan had never been touched by blood magic.

She was…purified. It was an odd thing, no doubt, but for some reason it worked. And the connection to lyrium was persistent, she could feel it humming to her whenever she got close to it. Like the taint but not.

Stone sense.

It made as much sense as the rest of her life and yet here she was, naked in a tub explaining her latest adventure to the love of her life.

“It gave me a piece of itself to plant in the deep roads at Kal-Hirol, but before I do that, it will purify you and Duncan. Freeing you from any taint circling in your veins. Alistair,” she reached up and cupped his cheek, smiling so broadly her cheeks hurt, “you will be free.”

Her heart felt full to burst as a soft smile spread across Alistair’s face. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I love you, so much, I…Maker, I am a lucky man.”

His old words made her chuckle and his lips cut that chuckle off with a sweet kiss. They would soon be free together, free to have a family and just…be. He was still a king, and there were responsibilities with that, but over the years they had figured it out. The Landsmeet had accepted their king and subsequent queen and mistress –

“Alistair, where is Anora?”

When he paused she knew. Her eyes shut and she sagged into Alistair. She loved Anora, not in any romantic sense, but she was Duncan’s mother, they all had a hand in raising the boy. They were a family, an odder one but…it worked.

“Her illness was too much for her, the healers said there was nothing they could do.”

Cost. There was always a cost to decisions, no matter how good and sound they were, cost was inevitable. Elodie could have been here, could have saved Anora…but then that would have cost Elodie her own life, Alistair’s…maybe even Duncan’s. The taint was not strong in him, barely there but it was present enough that it gave her pause and…. There was always a cost, and this time, Anora paid it.

“Maker guide her soul,” she whispered. She’d…organize another vigil, as mistress and court mage she felt like she had some sort of duty for this. Anora was more than a friend, they shared a son.

“This isn’t your fault, the healers said –

“The healers are not me,” she hissed.

“They still know things, Ellie.”

Tears eked out of her eyes and she buried her face further into his chest, “I should have –

“You were doing what you knew what was best.”

Cost. There was always a cost.

Elodie leaned back into the tub, elated and defeated and conflicted, mourning for Anora but so excited for the future her and Alistair could have.

Alistair informed her the rest of the events she had missed, how the Bannorn was already pushing for him to remarry even though he couldn’t bring himself to – not so soon after Anora’s death and with Elodie away.

She thanked him dearly for waiting, she would have to explain to the Bannorn that he did not need a wife to rule – that she had done her service as queen twice over, and had produced an heir, a healthy, flourishing heir. Alistair was king, but she knew that several of the Banns had daughters they wanted married off to the best suitors.

Alistair was officially a bachelor again and she knew just how desirable he was.

“If anyone is marrying you, it’s me,” she told him firmly. He raised a brow at her, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Now you want to marry me!”

“Oh hush you, I’m in mourning. Anora is – was – the mother of our son.” She cast a simple warming spell over the water and resumed cleaning herself, determined to still be clean and feminine after all the drudgery of the roads.

But Alistair just kissed her head and cheek, “She is missed. But I am so happy to have you home. And so is Duncan! He was terrified that he had lost both of his mothers.”

Elodie fell silent, staring into Alistair’s eyes. She didn’t need to tell him that if she hadn’t done what she did, Duncan very well would have lost her, she didn’t need to tell him that it was a calculated risk to go and find a cure. He knew.

He stroked her cheek then stood up, “I will leave you to the bath. I told Duncan I would be five minutes and I am sure I am over that time.” He bent down for another kiss, lingering for a moment.

After Alistair left she hurried through the rest of her bath, eager to be with Alistair and Duncan again. She emerged twenty minutes later, all wrinkly and smelling like flowers and spices, feeling like an Elodie Amell that is not dirty or tainted or in peril of any sort.

She stood there for a long moment, just…savoring the freedom. Naked and wrinkly, water dripping down her back, the air cold against her body and she just – breathed.

She went from an unforgiving household with her birth family, thrown out on the street when her magic surfaced. She stumbled into the Chantry, cold, hungry, and filthy. The Circle was a warm, clean, gilded cage where she flourished…to a point. When First Enchanter Irving said that she should reign in her magic so the Templars wouldn’t get suspicious, she did. She held back. And then her Harrowing came and she didn’t think she’d have to hold back anymore. And then there was Jowan and getting recruited into the Grey Wardens and it seemed she got to taste freedom for five minutes before it was ripped away each time.

But now…it was going to be more than five minutes.

The robes she donned were a light blue with embossed white flowers. She dried her hair first with a towel then with a spell. She put her hair into a simple braid before making her way out of the room and down the hall to where Alistair and Duncan are eating dinner. So wondrously domestic and calm.

Duncan saw her out of the corner of his eye making him turn his head to her quickly, his face lighting up in a brilliant smile. She joined them at the table, sitting next to her son and he leaned against her.

“I missed you, Mum,” he said. Elodie smiled and kissed the top of his head.

“I miss you too, sweetheart.”

Dinner was a lovely affair, though the servants kept rushing about as the castle finally realized that Elodie was indeed home. They overheard plans of a large banquet for the following day, making Elodie chuckle. While everyone else seemed to be embroiled in the chaos of manners and celebrations, Elodie and her little family enjoyed their meal, telling each other stories of their various adventures. Duncan was progressing well with his sword training, but he confessed he preferred to ride the horses. Alistair spoke of the lighter subjects the Banns had presented him over the last year and Elodie took care to describe the ancient city around the Titan and how amazing it was.

At some point, Duncan asked if she was going to leave again and she sighed, drawing him into her lap.

“Not if I can help it. I will need to journey to Amaranthine soon, but that will be a short trip.”

“We can go together, I’ve been meaning to go there anyways,” Alistair interjected. Elodie gave him a small smile in thanks. Traveling to Kal-Hirol should not take long, particularly since the efforts to rebuild the outpost had been going well.

After dinner, they continued to stay up, playing little games with Duncan, reestablishing a new normal. While he laughed and stayed close to Elodie, wrapping his little arms around her, he felt different. Older in a way that had little to do with his age. Sadder too. She put him to bed, opting to hold him until he fell asleep.

After he fell asleep and she extracted her body from his bed, she tiptoed back into her and Alistair’s room. It hadn’t changed, the drapes and the rug and the bedding was all the same. Well, no, there were more pillows on the bed than before, occupying her side of the bed. Alistair emerged from the attached washroom, in a long, frayed robe that was as old as his kinghood. He looked at the pillows on the bed, then back at her. He stepped to the side of the bed and swept them off, the soft things bouncing against the floor in his earnest to make room.

“This bed is too big for one person and you were gone so,” he stammered, blushing like he used to when they were out in the wilderness, fighting darkspawn and bickering with Morrigan.

“Clever.” She sidled up to him, wrapping her arms around him, reveling in his closeness. Tomorrow he would take hold of the Titan fragment and be taint free by the end of the day, tonight they could celebrate her return and tomorrow…freedom.

Alistair brought his arms around her and looked like he was about to say something, but his eyes dipped down to her lips and he leaned forward while she leaned up. Their lips met and the arousal that had begun in the tub returned in full force. Her hands delved under his robe, caressing soft, fuzz covered skin.

Their kiss morphed quickly from chaste to heated to obscene. She pushed his robe off his shoulders and he untied hers as they fell back onto the bed.

“I love you, I love you,” they whispered to each other in between hurried kisses and searching touches. Their bodies pressed into each other, giving into each other, reunited.

It wasn’t until the late hours of the night and potentially even the early hours of the morning that they finally fell asleep, sweaty and naked and spent, curled up in each other’s arms.

Morning arrived in a lazy haze with a tall, soft Alistair wrapped around her, holding onto her like Duncan held onto his teddy bear. Asleep like this he looked so much like the young man she met at Ostagar, and when he opened his eyes he transformed into the man she was still madly in love with.

He nuzzled under her jaw and breathed her in.

“I still can’t believe you’re here and you’re…just you.” His voice was raspy and deep with sleep, soft with intent. She trailed a hand over his arm and into his hair, all sticking out in soft angles.

“It’s amazing how it works out, isn’t it? How after everything we can have what we…you want this, right?” She whispered. Alistair shifted so that he was more on top of her.

“More than anything,” he affirmed and then he was kissing her again. The kiss turned into another one and then they fell back into each other, getting swept up in it all.

An hour later and they burst into Duncan’s room only to find the boy already awake and playing with Alistair’s old Grey Warden puppets. They let Duncan take one puppet to a breakfast of fruits, breads, cheeses aplenty, and boiled eggs.

They laughed and teased and ate in such ease and happiness that Elodie almost believed it was a dream or that she had actually died in the Deep Roads and this was a kind hallucination imparted to her from the Maker. But it was reality and that was such a gift, a gift that she wanted to expand. She bit her lip and looked over at Alistair, thinking about what babies born of them would be like. If they’d be little happy, cheese loving little ones or maybe they’d be mages and love botany and books.

Elodie leaned over to Duncan and kissed the top of his head, “You know why I left, yes? You know why it was important that I went?”

Duncan nodded slowly, “You and Papa are sick, you needed to find a cure. Did you?”

She smiled and nodded herself, “I did. I’m not sick anymore, but your papa is and I need to heal him. And I need to heal you too, so you don’t get sick.”

An uneasiness flitted into her at the idea of manipulating that energy through the boy, but what choice did she have? He wasn’t tainted, not exactly, but he was drawn to it. How old would he be when he found the Grey Wardens? When he said that he wanted to join their ranks, not fully understanding what the Grey Wardens were.

No, Elodie had to…she had to protect her son, and if it meant a day of discomfort, then so be it. She turned towards Alistair, his face drawn into a harder expression that he usually reserved for unpleasant negotiations with Orlais. While she hated what she had to do, there was no other way, they were out of time. The taint in him would kill him if it could and she was not going to let it cut his life short, not when his happiness was so close at hand.

Duncan fidgeted but nodded his head slowly, “Al-alright. Will it hurt?”

Elodie paused, trying to find the words, “I will try to make it not hurt, but it should be quick for you.”

“What about Papa?” His eyes were wide, bright and concerned. Her gaze softened and she drew him close to her body.

“Your papa has lived through many difficult things, he will live through this too, and at the end…he’ll be even better.”

Alistair leaned over and ruffled Duncan’s hair, “I’ll be fine! It’s not like I’m fighting the Archdemon again. Now that would be a different story. At least the dragon would have a tasty snack.”

Duncan snickered and wrapped his arms around Alistair, “No! The dragon can’t have you! You said we could be in bed all day and eat cheese.”

“Oh now, you can’t eat cheese all day – you’ll get sick,” Elodie said only to have her son and beloved blow raspberries at her. She rolled her eyes but smiled. This…was the right thing, it was. You have to sometimes re-break a bone to set it properly, this was like that. Break, so proper healing can happen.

After breakfast, they began. They moved into a small healing room annex to Elodie and Alistair’s bedroom. There was a cot for Alistair to sit on while he waited and Duncan sat on a small chair, trying not to fidget. Elodie unlocked the small chest containing the lyrium, now solidified into a fragment, and cradled it carefully in glove-clad hands. The light was almost blinding with power but she held it, carrying it to where Alistair sat. His clothes were plain, far simpler than anything he had to wear as king, but it was best to not soil what good clothes it did have.

The light filled the room as Elodie began to breathe, connecting herself into its power. She could direct it for a short amount of time, and in that time she could purify Alistair and Duncan – she could, the knowledge was bestowed in her by the Titan.

Power built and built in immense waves. Whispers entered her head, echoes of spirits long since passed, their words indistinguishable from the rush of power and blood in her ears. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped as the magic clicked inside of her. Now, she had to send it out now or else it wouldn’t work.

Elodie extended her arm out towards Alistair and let the Titan’s power course through her in an overwhelming rush. It flooded her body, shoved its way into cavities she didn’t know she had, but she had it, she was in control for this moment and she forced it out and into Alistair. His body seized as the magic infused lyrium poured into his body, forcing the taint out of his body. Blackish water dripped from his pours, his mouth, large stains forming on his clothes.

Duncan screamed but she couldn’t mind that, not when she sent a sliver of the power to him, forcing whatever darkness lurked inside of him out. He shuddered and vomited his breakfast, but it was gone from his body, gone from Alistair’s. She could feel the pulsing of their lives in that moment, so perfectly in synch with the Titan. She felt their hearts, their souls, purged clean. A cry escaped her as the power left her all at once, retreating back into the fragment.

Elodie slumped back against the table, all of her energy having left with the Titan’s power. Alistair coughed and sputtered drawing her attention to him. Duncan moaned and she looked to him…her son. She had to get to her son. Stumbling, Elodie somehow made it to him, holding him and cleaning his face. She guided him away from his mess and to the couch in the room.

“Mum…I don’t want to do that again,” he cried and she shook her head.

“You won’t have to, don’t worry, you’re fine now, you’re fine,” she was out of breath. If she could just…breathe, she could heal them. Yes, a healing spell, she needed to do something.

Elodie pulled herself up and took a deep breath, steadying herself, before beginning to move her hands and chant. The spell drifted from her and she directed it to sink into Alistair, coiling inside his body and then releasing to ease his pain. He shook and sputtered then sighed as the spell worked its way through him. Elodie fell back against the wall and cast a smaller spell for Duncan. He shivered in response but followed his father’s example and settled quickly, moving to lean against her.

The room then fell quiet save their exhausted panting. Her eyes fluttered closed. Beyond the sudden drain of energy pulsed a twinge of relief. That pulse grew until she could feel it in her heart. She gave a short, soft laugh, smiling in the face of it all. Alistair was free. Duncan was free.

They were all finally free.

It took an hour for any of them to have the energy to move from their spots. Elodie directed both Alistair and Duncan to the baths where she took care to help bathe them. Alistair rested heavily against her, occasionally groaning from the lingering pain. Every time he coughed, more brackish liquid came out and she was quick to wipe it away. After the baths, she took them to bed, where Alistair was quick to pass out.

Duncan however, remained awake, disoriented and sleepy, but awake. He reached out for Elodie and she couldn’t not crawl into bed with them, curling herself around her son and love. This was what she had traveled to Kal-Sharok for, family and freedom.

“I feel weird,” Duncan whispered and Elodie resisted chuckling. He would feel weird, a bit empty and a bit more separate from Alistair and maybe even Elodie.

“I felt weird too, it goes away. You know what this means, though,” she asked, holding him to her. He shook his head and she sighed, searching for the words.

“Your father and I were sick, we were…not able to do things but now we are all free, and you are too, to be the person you choose to be.”

“I’m the prince, I’m going to be king,” he whispered.

“If you choose it, then yes. Never underestimate the importance of your choice.”

She had made Alistair king, had gone against his wish and part of her regretted it. He had not wanted it, and while she stood by it being the best decision for the country…she wondered what he would be if he had not become king. And yet…if he had not become king, had not married Anora, their son would not exist.

There were only so many regrets she could hold in her heart and at the end of the day, this was not one that prevented her from sleeping.

But she wanted to learn from it all the same, she wanted to give Duncan that choice because she could. Ferelden should have a king who wants to be king, a king who knew how to serve his country. And perhaps…even a queen.

Elodie’s hand moved to her stomach and hoped.

The next few days blurred together in a haze of healing, holding, and late nights full of love and hope. There was a gathering of the nearby nobles and the whole of Denerim celebrated Elodie’s return. Grateful for their love, she had chefs and cooks prepare as much food as possible to feed the people of Denerim.

And while all of it was grand, she felt the burden of the Titan shard growing. She had to make her way to Kal-Hirol soon if she was to fulfill her end of the bargain. By the end of the week, they were packing up the horses and carriage to head out to Amaranthine. She climbed into the carriage with the box containing the shard, sitting next to Duncan. Alistair took his customary spot on his horse out in front though she found that just the slightest bit ironic.

Bad things happen when I lead!

It was a marvel and a relief to find how mistaken he had been about his abilities. Traveling to Amaranthine was always odd, an equal mixture of constantly running into merchants and bandits all the while sloughing through muddy roads.

It rained nigh constantly and by the end of the week, they were all soaked to the bone and cold. Even Elodie and Duncan did not manage to escape the downpour. It made her chuckle at first, reminding her of the days when this was an almost weekly occurrence. Maker, it wasn’t even that long ago that she had to sleep on the ground instead of a cot as she traveled across Thedas. And yet, it all felt so different. With Duncan and an Alistair who looked fairly different from the young man of ten years ago present, Elodie felt herself…almost shift in herself.

They made it to Amaranthine and were quickly whisked away into the small estate held by the Arl. The Arling had undergone several changes over the last few years, and while there was still a notable presence from the Grey Wardens, it had mostly been reduced to a cooperative venture with the Arling instead of allowing it actual political power over people who were not Grey Wardens. People were free to join and some prisoners had even been, but the position of Arl and Warden Commander were no longer synonymous. This then led to a change in location of power. Vigil’s Keep became the center of all Grey Warden operations while the city of Amaranthine remained the seat of power for the Arl and Arlessa.

Arl Braeden Ewart greeted them at the gates and was quick to bring them into the estate. His son, Raine, ran down from the second floor in barely restrained exuberance.

“Duncan!” He yelled and the two boys were then off, chasing each other through the large home, the drudgery of the journey forgotten.

While the boys played, Alistair and Elodie were guided up to the guest room where their things were brought. Elodie peeled her sopping wet robes from her body and let her hair down, unwound her breast band, tossing it carelessly to the side.

Alistair’s arms suddenly came around her, the heat of his chest pressing into her back as he leaned over and kissed her neck.

“I can think of something that can warm us up,” he whispered, kissing her ear. She chuckled.

“Oh? Would you care to enlighten me?”

And he did, oh he did.

They dined with Braeden, his wife Melantha, and their children. Wrangling Raine and Duncan proved to be a bit of an adventure though they were eventually lured to sit down and eat due to their rumbling bellies and waning energy.

Dinner passed with social ease and she fell back into bed with Alistair, curling up against his chest. He held her close and she reveled in their closeness. Duncan was asleep, or at least pretending to be, sharing a room with Raine.

Alistair held Elodie to him, smiling into her hair.

“You know,” he began, “with the taint gone…we could…”

“We could what? Live to the ripe old age of seventy?” She teased and he chuckled.

“Well, that but you know, Duncan’s always wanted a little sibling…if…if you want to try again,” his voice grew quiet and tentative. Her body tensed for a moment, remembering the loss, the…pain they had gone through before. She had always blamed her inability to keep a pregnancy on the taint but what if it wasn’t the taint? What if it was her? Could she live through that loss again?

Could she live if she didn’t at least try?

Her fingers trailed down over Alistair’s soft chest, drawing random patterns and contemplating a future of children. She wanted, oh she wanted, and this had always been the plan but there was that fear.

Elodie took a deep breath and nodded, “I want to try again.”

Alistair held her close, and while they didn’t try that night, there were many more nights to try in the future.

The next day brought with it fog and a heavy overcast of clouds, but there wasn’t rain, Elodie took her blessings where she could get them. She kissed Alistair on the cheek and Duncan on the forehead, wishing them goodbye after breakfast. She promised to return as soon as possible, which she hopefully would mean less than a week. Her horse was swift in its journey, carrying her to the old chasm now lined with winding roots and sprouting trees on the dirt walls of the chasm.

The cleft in the earth was just as great as she remembered it, though more overgrown now due to the heavy rains and the now receding signs of blight. Still, she saw dark corrupted spiders skittering down below, preying on deepstalkers. She thought back to the skrimmers she faced in the tunnels beneath Kal-Sharok and marveled at how different the spiders were here.

She left her horse at a nearby homestead, paying the farmers a sizeable sum to watch over the horse while she journeyed into the Deep Roads.

The upper tunnels hadn’t changed too much over the years, but the lower roads had. Dwarves from Orzammar and surface traders had created an outpost in the most easily cleaned parts of Kal-Hirol, though there was still a slight lingering scent of darkspawn and shit. The dwarves greeted her with familiar nonchalance. She had helped set up this outpost, had brought the documents from Kal-Hirol to the shaperate in Orzammar and she had even suggested merchants shift their routes to here for better trading opportunities. It had been a successful venture so far. Kal-Hirol was growing from a mere trading outpost to a small village, spreading further into the recesses of the old Thaig. Meanwhile, it also brought in gold to the nearby farms who wished to expand their consumer base. All in all, the arling of Amaranthine had seen some of the most impressive growth over the years – along with Redcliffe and the central Bannorn.

Small children ran to and from stalls, chasing each other in a rowdy game of tag. She dodged their speedy pathways and continued forth into the deep, walking past the stalls and the small outcropping of homes. The Titan’s shard sat comfortably attached to her belt and her magic seemed to…reach into it every now and then. Or maybe the shard was reaching for her magic and she was just responding. Either way, there were frequent moments where she felt more connected to the Stone around her, to the dwarves milling behind her. And as she delved deeper into the roads, heading to the deepest part of the Thaig, the more the shard drew her in, the more intertwined she felt with her surroundings.

Was this the trade off? She can no longer sense the Darkspawn but now she was connected to the stone?

Elodie rested her once tainted hand against the cool rock wall of the road. She gasped as energy suddenly poured into her, building a sudden connection that allowed her to feel things. The skittering of a spider. The thump thump of deepstalkers walking around. The indefinite spread of the taint.

It was so…deep here. How was planting the shard here a good idea? Wouldn’t the taint get to it? Would it be immune to such an overwhelming amount of corruption?

She closed her eyes and removed her hand, sojourning forth. Or maybe that was the point. Plant the shard of purity, of hope, in the deepest, darkest, most corrupted place, and let it grow to blast it all back. Fight the darkness from within.

A poetic thought, though she didn’t know how practical it was. But this was the Titan’s wish, and so she continued. Elodie made her way through Kal-Hirol, fighting spiders and darkspawn and deepstalkers, choosing to try and keep hidden as much as possible.

The deepest part.

Pour over the rock.

After two days of journeying into the dark, she found a drop that was so deep that she could no longer see the light that she cast down. The darkness enveloped it completely.

Here. A quiet feeling rose within her and she opened the box on her hip. The shard glowed brightly in her hand, almost blinding her eyes that were now accustomed to the dark. It pulsed and she closed her eyes, thanking it one last time before dropping it into the pit. It made no sound as it fell and hit the bottom. The light though…the light bloomed in the dark and the Stone sighed in relief. The lyrium in the surrounding stone, even the faint strands, erupted with energy that flowed in and out of Elodie like she was part of it. It was like when the Titan had initially blasted her but more…chaotic, less of a directed beam and more of a scattering of birds when they are awakened suddenly.

But then, all at once, it fled her body and receded down into the chasm with the shard.

She stood there on the edge of the pit for a moment longer, smiling in wonder. This world was weird, and yes, that was her professional Hero opinion.

It was another two days to make it to the trading outpost. And then another day to make it to Amaranthine. She was back in just under a week, less than a fortnight, really.

The rain started back up as she arrived and she was quick to hand off her horse to the stable master. She ducked into the estate, her robes now damp enough just to be annoying. The home was warm and dry, filled with echoing laughter from her son and Raine. She would have to take care to invite Raine’s family over more, Duncan should have friends, particularly if they are going to be the rulers of the land someday. Friendships and alliances make the government work or fail and Raine’s family was a good one. Amaranthine was beginning to flourish under their care.

And now that she was back and free to handle herself as however she wished…they were going to travel more. Duncan should see his country, know more than the palace, see how the people in his country lived. He should know the Banns and Arls and Arlessas, the Teyrnirs of his country. It was important to build up those friendships, facilitate those alliances.

Elodie was quiet as she made her way through the estate, contemplating the future as she was wont to do lately.

The sound of barking and children’s laughter broke her out of her reverie. The boys sped past her, two mabari hounds chasing them all in good fun. She chuckled and Duncan turned around to wave at her before barreling back down the corridor.

The guards nodded in greeting, saying “My lady” behind their helmets. She nodded back to them and she headed to the room where she and Alistair were staying. She entered the room to find it empty, which was fine really. She changed into more suitable clothes, clothes that had not been worn for a week and smelled like the Deep Roads. No matter how many times she braved those treacherous depths, she never quite got used to the smell. It was like rotting flesh combined with the smell of rancid milk. Unpleasant was really an insufficient term.

She was tempted to draw a bath…but it was close to supper and she was also hungry….

Bathe…or eat….

Her stomach rumbled, making up her mind for her. She washed her face and arms in the wash basin then applied some of the fancy Orlesian creams the Arlessa had gushed about. They smelled very flowery but she took flowery over rotting flesh and rancid milk any day.

Her hair went up into a braided bun, and she donned a gold necklace Alistair had gotten her in the early days of his kinghood. The chain was small and dainty and the rose pendant as delicate, not overly embellished, and it was her favorite piece of jewelry. The rose he had gifted her still remained pressed in the pages of her healing journal, somewhat wilted and old, but it was there, a symbol of their enduring love, even as they changed.

Elodie emerged from the rooms and inquired to one of the guards in the hall where the king might be. None of them knew which meant only one thing – the larder. Shaking her head, Elodie turned towards the kitchens, the children running past her again, the dog trailing after them.

The kitchens were busy with preparing supper and she was sure but she was able to sneak her way to the larder where the king was indeed ensconced in – nibbling on cheese. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at him. Upon seeing her, he blinked, mouth still half-full with cheese.

“Elodie!” He exclaimed, or he tried to with his mouth full. But his face brightened and he stepped to her quickly, wrapping her in a tight hug. He didn’t mention the smell of the weariness in her face from travel. He simply tucked his face against her neck.

“It’s over?” He whispered and she rubbed his back, smiling and nodding.

“At last, my love,” she replied. A chorus of “aaawws” erupted from behind them, reminding them how they were very much not alone. Elodie stepped back, blushing, but she took Alistair’s hand and guided him out of the larder all the way out into the hallway. Out of sight of the apparently nosy kitchen staff, she kissed his cheek, waiting for him to finish his cheese.

“It’s done, it’s all done, I don’t have to do anything more than I don’t want to, it’s done,” she repeated, kissing his face over and over again in barely restrained happiness. It flowed through her in great droves, filling her up, making her laugh free of inhibition.

“I want to try and I want to do. Alistair, there is just so much we can do, I –

“Marry me,” he blurted out and she stopped. Did he just? Her eyes widened, hand lifted up to her lips. He…did he…oh he did. She knew he did because he turned bright red, his eyes wide and he shuffled his feet like he did when he first asked her if he could kiss her.

She wanted to say yes but all that came out was, “I’m a mage.”

He quirked a brow at her, “Really? I had no idea.”

She poked his arm, “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I do. And the Circle is no more. You can’t be queen but I have been doing some reading and you don’t have to be queen. It’s called a consort? You’ll be my consort but really I just want you as my wife. Maker, I want to marry you, Elodie Amell, because I have loved you for so long and I am tired of having obstacles between us. Let’s just…be married.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, or anything for a solid minute. Her eyes welled up with tears at the end of that minute, Alistair becoming more and more fidgety. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Their heights weren’t too different, and she was able to just snuggle into his shoulder, happily weeping.

“Yes, yes, YES! Yes, I will marry you and be your wife, consort, person,” she laughed. His arms came around her and held her to him.

“You are the love of my life,” he whispered into her hair.

“And now we are free to be just that,” she replied.

Elodie Amell had known many titles and labels in her life – apprentice, mage, Grey Warden, Hero of Ferelden, Arlessa, Warden Commander, rebel, Court Mage, mistress, mother, and now…she entered a new phase of her life, as wife, consort to the king, the love of her life. She was still powerful, still strong, but there was a certain…overwhelming joy to be able to be something she never she would be.

Free. It was all she wanted for so long. Free.

There were still ties that she was bound by, obligations to be met but she was ultimately…free. Free to decide to keep those obligations and friendships.

Late after supper and her and Alistair consummated his very sudden, improper proposal, Elodie sat down at the small desk in the guest room. She wrote the first letter to Karega, thanking her once again for her hospitality and kindness. She informed her of the success of her mission and that she was cordially invited to Elodie’s wedding to the King of Ferelden. Elodie was certain the dwarven queen would have to decline the offer, but it was only polite to invite her. She wrote the second letter to Leliana, and she addressed it as such instead of the apparently now Divine Victoria. This time, she was certain the newly elected Divine would insist on marrying the two. She wrote to Oghren at Vigil’s Keep, inviting him and Felsi and the babe. She wrote to Zevran, opening the letter with ‘so how many assassins can sneak into a royal wedding?’ Morrigan, Katra, Miriel, Teagan, and so many others were going to receive jubilant letters announcing the impending marriage between her and Alistair. Elodie was careful to word it so that they would not blab the information too soon – Alistair and Elodie would be expected to announce it themselves in some grandiose celebration most likely.

She nearly dropped the quill when she recalled they had yet to inform Duncan. Well. She supposed the letters could be sent after they informed him.

Elodie set everything aside and turned back to the bed. Alistair slept on his stomach, snoring softly. Amazing how many things changed and yet stayed the same over the years, she thought, crawling back into the covers, curling herself around his body. He made a snuffling sound before settling back in. She rested her head against his back and took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered closed and she fell into a deep, restorative sleep.

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