[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Lucanis, running up to a ledge: This way, there’s a shortcut

My Rook: Whatever you say, Beautiful [throws herself over the ledge and dies]

he meant. he could use Spite’s thing to make us a bridge. but wow i didn’t question it even for a second huh

[bythexdreadwolf]

someone help him he has one brain cell and it’s fighting for dominance

[juxhex]

"i sure hope no elven deity breaks free from their prison in the fade and starts wreaking havoc on thedas"

the nefarious ghilan'nain:

[bythexdreadwolf]

mOrRiGaN aGeD bAcKwArD

sHe LoOkS tOo YoUnG

18 year old origins Cullen was out there looking like a whole ass middle aged man please be so fr

[bythexdreadwolf]

okay but

my rook immediately getting killed cause they decided to pspsps solas in his dread wolf form

[bythexdreadwolf]

My favorite part about playing DA2 is Meredith Stannard looking me DEADASS in the eyes and going “I’ll overlook your use of magic FOR NOW” like MAAM. I have been running around this filthy ass town waving my stave in front of your templars with reckless abandon, committing all sorts of apostasy and OSHA violations while making 0 effort to hide the fact I’m a mage for the last SEVEN YEARS like???????

[bythexdreadwolf]

SOLAS YOU EGG YOU DESTROYED THE WRONG BIANCA

[bythexdreadwolf]

I’ve known about Davrin’s baby griffon for five whole minutes and if anything happened to it I would kill everyone in Thedas and then myself

[bythexdreadwolf]

“the new trailer looks too goofy!! dragon age is a sErIoUs FrAnChIsE!!!”

ah yes

dragon age

the very serious franchise

the super duper serious somber franchise where I can wield a ham hock as a weapon and a wheel of cheese as a shield

that franchise

[bythexdreadwolf]

if I romance Emmerich is Manfred going to be in the room BioWare

[enormousgrapefruit]

i s2g, solas. get a job. stay away from her.

[bythexdreadwolf]

me, a mage, eyeballing the guy with the epithet ‘mage killer’ as my first romance: I can fix him

[bythexdreadwolf]

Day 05: Rain

ALISTAIR THEIRIN&&BRAVIA AEDUCAN. Word Count: 1486. 

The Ostagar camp was strange, to say the least. Strange for several reasons Bravia would’ve been thrilled to elaborate on, if asked, and had to her traveling companion, at length. She had already grown somewhat accustom to the big oddities of the Surface - the sky, the plants, the furry little animals, and the way Duncan seemed to have little regard for daily beard maintenance. But it had only been a few weeks and certain things still astounded her. The fact that everyone was taller than her, for instance. Taller, despite some likely weighing less than she did. The elves, in particular, she probably could’ve picked up and thrown quite a distance despite them being several heads taller than her, and some of the mages were the same height, but couldn’t dream of lifting the massive battle hammer Duncan had given her.

And there was the fact that no one addressed her with even an ounce of respect.

Not that Bravia could blame them. She couldn’t say how much pull her family name held on the surface and besides that there was the tiny detail that the name didn’t technically belong to her anymore. She was just another common foot soldier. Just another Grey Warden recruit with a past no one seemed to care about. They all had pasts, from what she could gather. Each and every person there had an intricate history that no one else cared about. As strange as it was, not being fawned over constantly let her become invisible when she wanted. She could move about camp as she pleased without anyone pestering her. Go where she wanted to go. Look at what she wanted to look at. All without a babysitter. As long as she avoided Alistair.

Not that she didn’t like him. In fact, of all the things in the Ostagar camp she enjoyed looking at, her - soon to be - fellow Grey Warden was her favorite thing to watch. Not for the reasons the kitchen girls liked to watch him either. They would all gossip about his cute hair and pretty face while Bravia found those things to be his least attractive qualities - but his ass. By the Stone, she was weak for that ass. If she hadn’t been raised better, she would’ve grabbed a handful of it by now, but she knew how important it was to make a good impression on her peers and besides-

She had other things to worry about besides Alistair’s hindquarters.

Like the fact that when she left her tent that morning, water was falling from the sky.

The sound of it was what had woken Bravia in the first place - a soft and rhythmic tapping against the roof of her tent gently coaxing her out of her slumber. She rose and dressed, worked the knots out of her hair with the comb she’d bought from a travelling merchant on her way to Ostagar, and grabbed her hammer only to be stopped dead in her tracks by the sight of water trickling from the sky. It was as if that bright blue expanse had sprung a leak, only the sky wasn’t bright blue anymore - instead it was a chaotic swirl of varying shades of grey. The sun was nowhere to be found and the change in lighting cast a monochrome look over the camp that was both fascinating and terrifying.

Carefully, like a doe learning to walk, she reached a hand out, flinching back when one of the droplets of water splashed against her open palm. Duncan had told her about weather during a particularly windy day on their journey, but he’d never mentioned anything like this. No one else seemed phased though, aside from the way they rushed from covering to covering in an effort, she assumed, to not get too terribly wet so this must’ve been a fairly common occurrence, right?

She was preparing herself to reach out her hand again when a voice caught her attention instead, “Never seen rain before, huh?”

Bravia screwed up her face, her head snapping to look at Alistair like a predator training it’s sights on it’s prey - although in this instance she felt much more the prey than the predator. “Rain?”

“That’s what it’s called,” He pushed off the tent post he’d been leaning on, gesturing upward with that stupid look on his face, “Y’know, when water falls out of the sky. Rain. Though I suppose sometimes if it’s frozen water it’s hail. And there’s snow, too. Don’t know how to explain that one, really.”

Bravia took a step back, fingers curling around the hilt of her hammer. She had no reason not to trust Alistair, but her mind screamed that rain was dangerous. Wind it could handle. The heat of the sun and the hollow openness of a cloudless sky, it could handle. But water falling upon her? What if it didn’t stop? What if the world flooded? She couldn’t swim. There’d never been any reason for her to learn how to swim.

Alistair was at her side now, still grinning as he placed a hand atop her hammer, “Hey, relax. It’s not going to hurt you. You really haven’t ever seen it rain before, have you?”

She shook her head. He pulled off one of his leather gloves and reached out into the rain as to show her how harmless it was, his smile reaching his eyes in a way that seemed so innocently harmless. “See, look. It’s just water. You’re not afraid of water, are you?”

Bravia glanced at his hand, then back at him. She was afraid of water, he would be too if he sank as quickly as she did, but like hell she was going to admit it to him. Shakily, she reached her hand out alongside his, flinching again when the water hit her hand, but leaving her fingers extended this time. The droplets rolled across her skin lazily at first, their speed picking up as more and more hit the back of her hand. She was about to chance stepping forward when the sky rumbled, deep and heavy, like an earthquake in the heavens. Her body shook and then lurched backwards, colliding with Alistair’s legs with enough force to knock over one of the weaker humans.

Alistair wasn’t weak, though. In fact, it appeared to Bravia he was anything but. A hand jumped to her shoulder, steadying her as she struggled to find her footing again, thrown off balance by fear and the sudden redistribution of her weight. Red creeped into her cheeks, the meaning of such proximity between a man and woman not lost on her. It seemed to be lost on Alistair, though, because he smiled through it.

“That was just thunder.”

“Thunder?”

“The sound that comes before lightning. Or is it after? I can’t remember.” His eyebrows drew together as he tried to remember. He must’ve noticed the confused look she wore, because he almost immediately explained, “Lightning is...well, it’s like...I can’t compare it to elemental magic because you’ve never seen magic either. But when it strikes the trees, it can start a fire. It’s like...pure energy, I guess. Like when you touch someone after dragging your feet across a rug, I guess, only worse.”

She let her arms fall across her chest, one eyebrow cocked as she tried to decipher his lame attempt at explaining the phenomenons of nature. “You’re not very good at this.”

“I suppose not,” He agreed, “But lightning isn’t something you have to worry about. Given how short you are. Not unless you’re wearing full plate.”

“What does me being short have to do with anything?” Bravia demanded, shoving off how him hard enough to send herself flying backwards. She stumbled out of the covering of her tent, into the rain, and instinctively held her breath as water fell around her. One. Two. Three. As it soaked through her clothes and her hair and her shoes, she counted the seconds, afraid to move or breath or-

Unable to hold it in any longer, she exhaled, followed by a tentative inhale that seemed to be enough to convince her mind she wasn’t going to drown. Instead it felt sort of...pleasant. Freeing in a way she couldn’t explain. Completely unlike anything she’d ever experienced in her life. She let her hammer slip from her grasp, holding her hands up to catch raindrops in her palm as a smile spread, unbid, across her face.

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.” She could admit that much, at least.

Alistair stepped out into the rain with her, face turned up towards the sky. “You suppose so? I think it’s sort of cold.”

“It’s not so cold.” Bravia closed her hands into little fists, stealing a glance at Alistair as he stared up towards the clouds, “I think...with surprises like this...I might like living up here.”

[bythexdreadwolf]

30 DAY PROMPT CHALLENGE

day 04: kiss.

CULLEN RUTHERFORD//FT. A’S ELENA AMELL//WORD COUNT: 885.//CW: ADDICTION MENTION, PAST TRAUMA MENTION.

He can’t breathe.  Two fingers work their way beneath the collar of the uniform he’s been coerced into donning for the evening, trying to loosen its vice-like grip around his throat.  His Adam’s apple bobs as he nervously tries to swallow.  The fit veers just to the left of too tight, the jacket tailored perfectly to his body.

He doesn’t like it.  It lacks the comforting, protective weight of his armor and leaves him feeling vulnerable.  Too vulnerable; he hasn’t spent this much time out of heavy plate since before he took his vows, and it feels like a ball of anxiety has settled itself in his chest.  He scowls at the reflection in the looking glass of the quarters he’s been given at Gaspard’s manse.  He’s the commander of the Inquisition’s armies, for the Maker’s sake.  Given what they’ve come here to do, he should be armed and armored to the teeth, not trussed up like some Orlesian lapdog in velveteen and silk.  The ball of anxiety tightens a little as all of the what-ifs play about in his head.  The sigh that escapes him is more of a growl than anything, and he runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the meticulously styled curls.  The effect of the tousled tresses is startling, softening some of the severity of his features.  He decides he doesn’t like that either.  Andraste help him, he’s so far out of his element that the anxiety is beginning to bubble into full-blown panic, and he’s not even set foot in Halamshiral yet.

He’s never been overly-fond of Orlais. Or the Grand Game, for that matter.  It’s like playing chess with vipers, and Josephine has secured them an invitation into the very heart of their nest and he doesn’t even have his bloody sword.  To say he’s running blind is an understatement of the century.  How can he be expected to protect the Inquisition, to protect her, if he’s been stripped of tooth and nail?  Vulnerability has never set well with him and he’s already failed her, failed himself, once before, to disastrous consequences.  It leaves him feeling sick to his stomach, and again the old temptation is there — one drink, just one drink to slake the thirst, to make him strong.  The same song that haunts him night after night.  He ought to be taking it. I could protect her if I took it. He swallows it down and slams a fist against the wall.  He cannot do this.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and he knows it’s her.  She had said earlier that she would come fetch him when it was time for them to depart for the Winter Palace, but he’s not ready.  He’ll never be ready, not when he feels as naked and useless and abjectly miserable as he does right now.  It’s enough to send a familiar throbbing ache through his head.

“Enter,” he calls to her, his voice somewhat strangled.

The door clicks shut behind her, followed by the rustle of innumerable layers of fabric.  

“It’s nearly time,” she tells him.

All he can manage is a nod.  She’s a vision.  Truly, Josephine has outdone herself, and for a moment, he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason than the collar currently cutting off his circulation and his own anxiety.  She’s all red lace and red lips, more tempting than any desire demon could ever deign to be.  The realization of that thought slams him back to reality, the pain in his temple flaring into life.  This feels too much like Kinloch, too much like the eery calm before the world was torn asunder and all hell broke loose.  But he cannot afford to go back there now; as much as he doubts that he can keep himself from drowning all evening, he must try.  He will not fail her again.

“Elena.”  Her name is barely more than a sigh on his lips, and he’s struck then with the desire to kiss her.  Because this feels too much like a trap, too much like Kinloch, too much like this may be the last time he will see her whole and well.

How much will the Maker ask him to lose before he sees fit that he’s been punished enough?

He reaches out for her and pulls her in for a rough, desperate kiss, his mouth hot and hungry against her own.  He cannot bring himself to say good-bye, to acquiesce to leaving this wretched place and setting foot in one far worse, in a place he cannot protect her.  He trails white-hot kisses down her cool skin as far south as her dress will let him, his fingers itching to rip the damned thing apart at the seams, to hang the Empress and hang Orlais, and just have the peace they’ve been so desperately chasing all these years.  But she’s confided in him what fate awaits them if they fail tonight, and he has to drag his mouth away from the pulse-point on her neck, his breath on her skin eliciting little goosebumps where it ghosts over her earlobe.  

“We should leave,” he tells her.

He’d rather launch a one-man assault on the Black City than to let her go.

[bythexdreadwolf]

DAY 04: Kiss

LIAWYN LAVELLAN//CULLEN RUTHERFORD. Word Count: 2196.

There was something calming about the meditative silence that hung over Skyhold’s gardens in the early hours of evening. Most of the pilgrims were attending the daily evening services at the Chantry. Proper members of the Inquisition had stumbled off in search of food or company. Liawyn’s companions and her advisors rarely looked for her there and, if she was careful, she could blend into the shadows and effectively find solitude for at least an hour or two. As the sun set in the sky, the shadows of the battlements stretched over the trees and grass and flowers, fading away nature’s colors until it was impossible to tell that they were even there.

Until it was impossible to tell that they were already fading away to begin with.

Liawyn pulled her knees into her chest, huddling further into a dark corner with a good view as she watched the doors to the Chantry. What must it be like, knowing the teachings of your religion instead of aimlessly chasing wisdom that had long since been lost? Was it easier? Would it be enough to ease her ever curious mind? Could the Maker bring color back into her world?

Or was she doomed watch what had once been brilliant fade until there was nothing left.

“Inquisitor-?”

It was a soft voice that rescued Liawyn from her thoughts, gentle and laden with concern. The Chantry service had ended and the gardens were silent. Cullen stood in front of her now and she was suddenly very aware of tears in her eyes. She chanced a look at him, terrified that the comforting brown of his eyes and brilliant gold of his hair had faded away as well but they were still there and so was he.

“What’re you doing here? I want to be alone.” She spoke into her knees, her voice muffled and heavy. She never had been very good at lying - she choked on ‘alone’ as it passed her lips, accompanying it with a barely concealed sob as she pulled her knees tighter into her chest.  

“Someone mentioned I might find you here,” Cullen replied. He tried very hard not to sound wounded, using the same tone of voice he did when they attended meetings with Leliana and Josephine instead of the more delicate tone he usually reserved for her. As he gestured to the open space next to her, Lia bit back her desire to apologize, “May I?”

“No.” She shook her head, but still made room for him to sit down next to her, moving back towards him once he’d settled down. He was warm and the fur at the top of his coat tickled her cheeks as she leaned against his shoulder. As their shoulders touched, she remembered the soft yellows of the sun in the Fade and the way those colors faded into pastel blues in the sky.

Thinking of the Fade only made it worse. Her heart clenched in her chest, threatening to stop entirely, and she set her hand down in the last bit of empty space between their thighs as a sort of emotional barrier. It wasn’t even because she didn’t want to be close to him but because her own naive openness had caused so much trouble in recent days.

“Cassandra mentioned you had some difficulty in the field.” He tentatively rested his hand over hers, looking back across the garden, “Do you-”

“I am the Inquisitor. I don’t have difficulty in the field. I’m not allowed such a luxury.” Liawyn spoke before he could finish his thought, with a very certain tone to her voice.

“Liawyn,” He laughed, forced and awkward, “No one’s here. Tell me what happened?”  

“I-”

I was disobeyed. I failed. I couldn’t stop pointless slaughter - of an innocent spirit or of innocently ignorant mages. No one deserved to die. If we had been there sooner, I could’ve stopped them from performing the summoning to begin with. If I had been there sooner, I could’ve helped and Solas wouldn’t-

“I didn’t stop Solas. I lost him.” She finally concluded.

“You lost Solas?”

“Not-” Liawyn shuffled, “Not properly. Not permanently. But he was so hurt and there was nothing I could do to stop him and he just- he killed them and left. He’s back but- He just killed them, Cullen. He didn’t even give them a chance to redeem themselves. He killed them and I let him. What am I supposed to do now? I wouldn't have let one of my soldiers get away with something like that and Solas- Solas knows I'm against senseless violence. But he-”

Cullen listened. He was good at listening. He took in the information she offered without correction or objection or unwanted input. When she stopped to wipe tears off her face, he didn’t offer a sarcastic remark or quip about how childish it was to cry. He remained steady through her rambling, fingers tightening around her hand just enough to remind her that he was there. And when she’d finished, he stayed quiet for a very long time, staring up towards the slowly darkening sky in contemplation.

If it was anyone else, it would’ve been uncomfortable, but with Cullen the silence was soft. A sort of gentle peacefulness to steady her racing thoughts. She was about to break down her boundaries, shift just a little closer and chance another small bit of intimacy, when turned to look down at her.

“Do you love him?”

Green erupted back into her world, so blindingly vivid that it made her stomach churn. It washed out everything in it’s path, even the soothing color of Cullen’s eyes as they stared hopelessly across the garden, leaving nothing but searing neon green in her vision. The color of the Rifts. The color of the Breach. Everything shimmered in that horrifying shade of green for what seemed like an eternity and Liawyn’s only anchor was the way Cullen’s hand turned to grasp hers more firmly when he realized she looked ill.

When the world was finally normal again, the proper meaning behind his words registered in her mind. He was frightened. To him, Solas must’ve seemed steady - available and free of complications. It probably seemed inevitable. He knew her language and her culture and his endless wisdom was a perfect match for her thirst for knowledge. And what did Cullen have to offer, especially when he had such a terribly negative view of himself to begin with. Especially when he couldn’t see how much of a comfort his presence was without it being spelled out for him.

“No.” She felt frantic, speaking with a firm certainty that might’ve seemed intimidating to someone who didn’t spend most of their time with her. If she did love Solas, it wasn’t in the way that Cullen feared. Admiration and attachment and something sort of platonic and hopeful, certainly, but love- the kind of love that Cullen meant- it wasn’t something she’d experienced before that day Cullen had kissed her on the battlements and set slowly fading world ablaze for just a little while longer. “No…”

“Could you-” He spoke with uncertainty now, quiet and embarrassed, like a little boy dancing around a taboo subject. As if to prolong the inevitable, he pulled her close and slowly wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head and exhaling softly. “I mean- Do you-”

Love you?

Yes.

“I-” She knew she was blushing, but she still wasn’t certain either of them could properly see the color - just a telltale darkening of her cheeks. To her, it would’ve been dull but the shades of red would’ve been there still. What would he see? They hadn’t really discussed it yet. It hadn’t ever been important.

They say only children and lovers can see every color.

“When I’m with you- when I think about you-” She struggled with the words, “I can still see yellow. Brown too, y’know? Always.”  

“Brown?”

“Your-” She made an uncomfortable, almost distressed sound, clinging to the back of his shirt, “Your eyes. They’re- They’re brown. And your hair. It’s yellow- Golden really. And no matter what- even right after Haven. Even- even when everything’s lost. I can still see see shades of brown and yellow.”

Cullen was quiet for a long moment, breathing steadily into her messy hair as he processed his thoughts. It must’ve been more personal for Fereldens. It was a common topic of discussion for Orlesians, she’d been told, and Leliana and Josephine had always been relatively forthcoming with what they could and couldn’t see. For the Dalish, it was tradition for your primary color to be represented in your vallaslin, and it was often mentioned but never a matter of consequence. But for Fereldens-

Even Sera had been relatively private about what shades she could see, in a way that was shockingly uncharacteristic of her.

“Blue.” He finally whispered, pulling her gently into his lap as the word escaped his lips. “It was...blue first. I saw it in your eyes, back in Haven, but I didn’t...know what color it was until- I saw the sky.” His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, warm fingers pressing against her cold skin in an attempt to pull her even closer. “I haven’t seen colors since...sometime early in my Templar training but- When you are near I can- I see colors I don’t even remember the names for.”

Each word passed his lips with just a hint of uncertainty. He was speaking against her neck now instead of into her hair, his breath rolling along the length of her ear and pushing strands of hair out of it’s way. She could feel goosebumps rising along her arms and legs, but didn’t find the sensation uncomfortable. It was more of a tingling just under her skin - something she’d only felt when they were like this. Relaxing into his embrace, Liawyn rested her head against his shoulder, pressing a soft, encouraging kiss against his neck.

“Leliana’s hair and Varric’s shirt...they’re the same color.” He picked up again after a short pause, his body putting off more heat than usual. If he could see red, could he see the way her flush raced up to the tips of her ears? “Did you know-? At night, the sky it’s not black it’s this- deep blue and- I mean, you probably did know that and-” His words stumbled, focus roaming away from the conversation as it dawned on him exactly how close they were. “Grass and trees...I can see that now too. It’s everywhere...even...the mark on your hand…”

“That’s green-”

She closed her eyes tightly, afraid the color would envelope her world again as it had just moments ago. Instead, the hand that had been pressed against her back reached up to cradle her face and Cullen kissed her with with such intensity that it knocked the wind out of her. She moved like she’d been struck with a bolt of energy, fingers lacing together behind his neck as she pulled him closer in a motion that felt desperate and delighted and right. They stayed like that for a moment and the whole time Liawyn kept her eyes shut tight, but she knew if she opened them, color would bloom into the world.

Bright. Oversaturated. Delightful. Only to fade as quickly as it had come to the dull monotone she had to live with now.  

“It’s green-!” She tried to say when he pulled away for air, only to but cut off when he kissed her again, both of them laughing through the kiss now. She squealed softly in protest. What if someone saw? What if people started talking? He’d said he wanted to avoid something like that, but here he was kissing where anyone would see. She finally managed to catch his attention when he pulled back again, both of them breathing heavy puffs of air that streamed into the night.

“Come upstairs with me.” The words left her before she had a chance to think them through. Was it a question? It didn’t sound like one. Was it supposed to? She didn’t normally bark orders at him, but this didn’t seem like an order either.

“I thought we agreed-”

“I don’t care.” She whispered, breathless and desperate and burning for him. “If they wish to talk then let them talk. What business of theirs is it if we-” She blushed, gesturing instead of finishing her sentence. The gold in his hair seemed to shimmer like actual bars of metal. The soft almost auburn patches of fur in his cloak burning more brilliantly than any fire. “I don’t know much about politics and I don’t understand the reasons Orlesians gossip or why it’s bad that they do, but I can’t bare the thought of you leaving my side tonight.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. If this feeling, the way the world brightens when I’m with you, is love, then please…” Her face still burning red, Liawyn gently shifted so that she was straddling him, her warm core brushing against his as she eased all her weight down, “I want to drown in it.”

[bythexdreadwolf]

Feel free to ask us about our OCs or come scream in our askbox about your own!!! We love love love talking DA!

[bythexdreadwolf]

DAY 03: QUILL

FARANNI LAVELLAN//LIAWYN LAVELLAN. FARANNI LAVELLAN//SOLAS. Word Count: 1734. 

Small growls of frustration filled the library as she stared desperately at a blank piece of parchment, trying and failing to magic words out of thin air in the same fashion the library regulars around her seemed to be doing with ease. Writing had never been her strong suit. When she’d been with her clan, she’d only been taught the basics of literacy because Liawyn had been desperate for someone to practice with, and in the time since she’d learned a little more thanks to tutoring from Dorian and Solas and Finn. Still, she was more articulate with a bow and arrow than she was with quill and ink, and being bad at something served enough to frustrate her, especially today.

It had been more than half a year since Liawyn had been killed in the explosion at the Conclave. Faranni had initially planned to celebrate, so to speak, by riddling a defenseless straw dummy with as many arrows as she could find. Then, if she didn’t feel better, maybe she would craft or buy more and send those flying as well. Anything to take her mind off the sting of loss that still burned just beneath her skin. Anything to make it go away. Would it ever go away? How many Red Templars would she have to kill before she could sleep without being plagued by nightmares?

Would the cycle of revenge ever satisfy itself?

This whole writing escapade had started with Dorian and Finn ambushing her at the shooting range, one on each side. Finn had mentioned before that her blind rage wasn’t exactly healthy, but had never complained about the fact that the same rage was what got things accomplished in the field. She could go berserk better than the best bruisers, mowing down unarmored enemies with a downpour of well placed shots. But perhaps the fact that her anger hadn’t died down had the Inquisitor worried. Josephine had mentioned that her temper didn’t exactly sit well with the nobles, and Finn couldn’t very well expect Solas to babysit her every time they had company.

Or maybe he was just being a good friend. In her heart, Faranni wanted to believe that she’d made friends beyond Solas. She wanted to believe that Finn had her best interests in mind, that he had her back, but the black pit of anxiety in her stomach screamed otherwise.

“Riddling templars with arrows is all well and good and you’re an excellent shot,” Finn had said, handing her an ornate box that housed the quill she now spun in her fingers, “But Dorian and I think it might help with your emotional constipation to write some of it down. It’s supposed to be...I don’t know, therapeutic, I guess. And it’ll help with your writing.”

They two of them led her back to the library, set her up with some parchment, and told her to write about her feelings. A letter to Deshanna or Sorrel. Perhaps to her parents? Dorian had even, after they wrestled her bow away from her, recommended trying to write a letter to Liawyn. “And burn it after,” He’d said, “Or keep it. Whatever makes you feel happy.”

And so she sat, unable to escape because Finn had stationed Dorian right around the corner. Write something, she told herself, twirling the quill between her fingers, It’ll be good for you. It’s what Lia would’ve down.

What Lia would’ve done.

It’s been a bit over six months since they sent you away. You smiled when Deshanna gave you the news and said you’d never really fit in with the clan anyway. Too much curiosity. Too much of an interest in the ways of the outside world. Maintaining and conveying our history wasn’t enough for you. When you told me the news, that you were honored to be sent, I told you that if you left I’d never accept you back. I said you should never come back. I was angry and I didn’t mean it literally but it seems like you took it literally anyway.

For all your cleverness, you always were sort of airheaded.

Her hands shook. Vision blurring with tears as memories that had been locked away bubbled to the surface. But still, she had to continue. This is good, she told herself. Facing these memories was good. A good way to honor Liawyn. And she didn’t have a choice in the matter regardless.

I came to Haven looking for you. Instead I found the Inquisition. I think you would have fit in faster than I did. So many different races and cultures working together - it would’ve been a sort of paradise for you. All held together by a human mage named Finn. He let me stay and in a lot of ways, he’s been looking out for me ever since. I wonder if the two of you would’ve gotten along. Sometimes I wonder, what if you had been the one to survive and he had been the one to die. I know it’s a morbid thought but if you’d been in his position…

What would you have done?

Would you have shared your optimism with the rest of the Inquisition? Would you have brightened their outlooks on life, in the same way you brightened mine? Would you have shared your beautiful, colorful soul with them, eager to learn everything they could teach you? Would you, six months after the explosion of the Conclave, sat down to write a letter to me?

Would I have read it? Or would I still be so blinded by anger over your leaving that I would’ve-

The quill fell out of her hands, body shaking with grief over her actions and her loss. Faranni pressed her back against the chair, trying to put as much distance between herself and that damned letter as possible. She drew her knees into her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs - effectively made herself as small as possible and wept.

For what she had done. For what she could have done. For what she had lost.

It seemed like hours. Hours that neither Finn nor Dorian came to find her. Hours that no one came to her rescue while anxiety mingled with sorrow to form something inexplicable. Something that told her, loudly, that she should die. She would deserve it, after all. She had no right to be angry over Liawyn’s death when she’d been the cause of it. She had no right to be here, fighting at Finn’s side, when she frequently imagined a reality where he was dead. She had no right. She had no right. She had no reason to live-

Her spiral was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, gentle yet firm. It pulled her back into reality. The reality where Finn was alive and Liawyn was gone. The reality where she had been given a chance to exact her revenge. The reality where she was the only one left to offer herself forgiveness. When she looked up, she was met with grey eyes. Wise. Familiar. And full of sympathy.

“Breathe.” Solas told her.

She did as instructed. A breath in and then a breath out. And another. And another. And another until finally she managed to release her legs and let them slump back down to the floor. “Why are you alone?” He asked her.

“They-” Her voice still shook, but she did her best to appear strong. Solas knew otherwise. He knew of her fear, but it was nice to pretend, “They thought it would help to write about my feelings. Instead of wallowing in my anger. I think maybe Finn was afraid it might consume me. I think maybe he was trying to help.”

“A wise notion,” Solas agreed, kneeling down next to her. His hand never left her shoulder, “But I think it is unwise that they left you alone to do it.”

“I couldn’t write while they were watching,” Faranni confessed, “So Finn asked Dorian to keep an eye on me, but-”

“If I had not seen you, I would not have known something was wrong either.” He admitted, “You told me what Dorian and Finn think you need. Tell me what you think you need.”

“Quiet. I thought I needed to shoot something, but I shoot things every day,” She watched him nod in agreement, a feeling of validation and something else pooling in the pit of her stomach, “I need quiet. I need-”

“The dead cannot forgive the living.” It was harsh. Too harsh. Spoken strong enough that she flinched when they were said, “But from what you have told me of Liawyn, I don’t believe forgiveness is needed. I think she would have been happy to see you surrounded by people who care about you and I think she would have been honored to have you fighting for her.”

“People who care about me?”

“Of course,” Solas rose to his feet, coaxing her up with him, “Do you think Finn and Dorian did this to torture you?”

“Well, no, I-” She steaded herself against him, warmth spreading through her body where it had been cold just moments ago, “I thought Finn wanted to reign me in.”

“I think if Finn had the chance, he would unleash you upon every noble to step foot in Skyhold. I think, given the chance, he would encourage you to heal in whatever healthy way you deemed necessary. Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?”

The tips of Faranni’s ears went red when she realized Finn was watching them, leaning against a nearby bookcase and smirking like the smug little shit he was. Immediately, she shoved away from Solas, the blush creeping further into her freckled cheeks as she went to swipe her letter off the table. Solas rubbed his shoulder where she’d shoved him, feigning injury, and Finn laughed, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I know it might not be your way of doing things, but I prefer to keep my personal matters personal.” She said proudly, turning to hand him the damp piece of parchment she’d snatched off the table, “I wrote the letter.”

“You don’t have to give it to me.”

“Then...what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Like Dorian said, keep it. Or we can burn it.”

“Yeah,” The thought of burning her pain, her anger, her shame, bright a smile to her face, “Let’s burn it.”