dragon age HOLIDAY CHEER

If Dragon Age taught us anything, it's that we all need a little more LOVE.

[hornkerling]

Oh my god. Oh my GOD. My dragonageholidaycheer gift was delayed a little, but I see now that it was lost at sea.

Fenris writes letters to Varania. He searches. He has friends in Sebastian and Captain (of the glorious signature!) Isabela. His handwriting is just right. His words are…yes, theobsidianorder, you have succeeded in making my cry. I am going to podfic the hell out of this.

We’ve never met, but you have given me my favorite things in the most thoughtful, wonderful way I can think of. Complete with Old Norse Christmas carols and letters tied in string.

You are amazing. Thank you.

[jadesabre301]

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Male Amell/Morrigan Summary:  The mirrors in Morrigan’s life. A gift for sumomoblossom77 for the 2014 Dragon Age Holiday Gift Exchange at dragonageholidaycheer. THIS IS SO BELATED AND I’M SO SORRY BUT HERE IT IS, JUST FOR YOU!  I really enjoyed the chance to examine a different aspect of Morrigan, one I’d never tried my hand at before, and also your fanart of your OGB is adorable and I just have lots and lots of feels about Eirian carrying him around on his shoulders.  :D  Happy New Year! ———————————————————————————————

Amell gives her a mirror, the fool, fool to listen to her stories, fool to bother his head with remembering the details and above all fool to spend valuable coin on trinkets and yet—

she is so desperately, desperately pleased.

Also available at ff.net.

[dragonageholidaycheer]

[FIC] When Alistair Met Dunan - for iambickilometer

Pinch hit for iambickilometer. I don’t often write fics for Origins, but hopefully I was able to keep them in character and fulfill your request. Happy (belated) holidays! Pairing: Duncan/Alistair

When Alistair Met Duncan

Alistair bounced nervously in his chair as he waited for his date to show up. He was nervous, incredibly so, he’d never met anyone from a dating site before. What if he turned out to be a serial killer? Or worse! What if he was in some sort of cult that drank the blood of demons to gain the power to kill them?

He laughed at himself for that. “I’ve been watching way too many horror movies with Morrigan and Leliana.” Thinking of his roommate and her girlfriend made him wish he’d begged Morrigan harder to come with him. At least then he’d have someone to scare his date off if he did prove to be crazy. The fact that he’d told Morrigan this was likely the exact reason that she hadn’t come.

This whole evening was going to be a disaster, Alistair just knew it. If his date turned out decent and Alistair really, really liked him, then he himself was going to screw something up. It’s how these things always went; he’d majorly screwed up his relationship with Cousland, his now very estranged ex, and any dates since then had gone horribly wrong.

Why had he let Zevran talk him into joining a dating website? Yes, it was difficult to find Alistair’s dream guy in person—he preferred older males—but this was insane. Just because Zevran had found a wonderful older woman to be with, didn’t mean Alistair would. He loved to talk to Alistair about Wynne, bragging about her beauty and her bosom.

Despite all of his worries, Alistair somehow found the absolute perfect man on the first try. They’d hit it off so well. It had done wonders to help Alistair feel comfortable talking to the man, added to the fact that he had never pressured Alistair into a meeting. This date had actually been Alistair’s own, very regrettable, idea.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” Maybe his date wasn’t even going to show, and Alistair would not only be an idiot but look like one as well.

Alistair was so focused on going over everything that could go wrong, and subsequently berating himself for doing it, that he didn’t notice that someone was standing next to the table.

“Alistair?” The lightly accented voice pulled Alistair away from his thoughts and brought his attention up to the handsome older man who was currently smiling at him in bemusement.

“I … um … yes. I mean, yes t-that’s me,” Alistair babbled nervously, jumping to his feet to face the handsome man. “And you’re Duncan. I wasn’t sure if you’d show up at all…” He felt mortified as the words left his mouth, and had to fight the urge to fidget nervously. “Sorry. That was unkind of me. I’m a bit nervous.”

Duncan’s expression was kind as he gestured to the empty bench across from Alistair, asking silent permission to sit. When Alistair nodded they both took their seats. “It’s alright, I find myself nervous as well,” Duncan said with a laugh, meeting Alistair’s eyes. “I confess I don’t do this often. A friend of mine convinced me to try my hand at online dating.”

He didn’t seem nervous to Alistair, but hearing Duncan say it helped put Alistair slightly more at ease. Now that Duncan was there with him, Alistair was more worried about making an even bigger fool of himself than anything else. Duncan was really, really good looking and Alistair didn’t want to scare him away. His pictures on the dating website did him no justice at all. He was like a living god in Alistair’s eyes; a sex god even, his until-now dormant libido whispered. Duncan was taller than Alistair had initially thought, at least four inches taller than Alistair himself, his skin was naturally browned, and his hair and eyes were both dark.

It was hard for Alistair to look away when he finally managed to look Duncan in his eyes. “Well, we have that in common. My friend convinced me to try online dating, too. Apparently I’m a failure at meeting people in bars—too much babbling. Which I am doing right now…” Alistair trailed off with a nervous laugh. “It’s much easier to talk to someone online.”

“This is true, but of all those I spoke with none of them were as interesting as you. I felt a connection as soon as we began to exchange messages.” Duncan spoke like he wrote, as though every word he said was unconsciously trying to seduce you. At least that’s how Zevran had explained it when he’d discovered some of the conversations that Alistair had saved. Alistair hadn’t understood what he meant then, but he was pretty sure he got the idea now.

When people said something was sexy enough to make their panties melt, that’s how Alistair felt listening to Duncan. Not that he wore panties; he tended to be more of a boxer briefs type.

“I felt the exact same way,” Alistair admitted. “It was nice to talk to you; I didn’t feel like I had to force myself to enjoy it. It helped that we seemed to have a lot in common.” Which was true, it wasn’t everyday you found someone who was interested in old romance and monster movies, collecting swords, and hiking and also had a love of cheese. He had been so relieved when Duncan had agreed to meet with him, not all older men were interested in meeting up with a man who was over fifteen years their junior. “You were actually the first person I messaged. I was afraid because of the age difference.”

Duncan shook his head. “I’ll admit I was looking for someone my own age, but as I said before, our interactions drew me to you. I must say your pictures do you no justice. You are infinitely more handsome in person.” He chuckled when Alistair’s only response was a murmured ‘thank you’ and a blush. “Especially when you blush. It is endearing.”

That had Alistair blushing more. “Y-you’re really handsome, too … it’s almost unfair how good looking you are.” He fought back a wince at his own comment, wondering how much of an idiot Duncan would think him after such a comment. When Duncan didn’t laugh at him, he felt a flutter of hope in his chest.

“You certainly know how to flatter a man, Alistair,” Duncan said with pleased laugh, looking as though he were perhaps fighting a blush. “Thank you.”

Alistair smiled shyly, picking up his menu to hide the fact that his blush kept deepening. “The food here is really good and I’m starving. Shall we eat? I’ll pay if you’d like.”

Duncan shook his head. “Don’t worry about that, Alistair. I’ll pay with this one and perhaps you can pay next time?” The way he phrased it gave Alistair a chance to end things here and now if he chose, which was very considerate. Of course Alistair had no plans to end things, Duncan was his dream man and he wasn’t going to let him get away.

“That sounds fair,” he replied with the biggest grin he could manage, not caring if it looked dopey. “We should make it a real date though and not at a café.”

 The relief in Duncan’s face was obvious; he visibly relaxed and his eyes shone with delight. “That would be wonderful. I know many restaurants that would be suitable for us. Some of which are a must try for turophile’s like us.” At Alistair’s blank look, he chuckled and explained, “Someone who loves or fancies cheese.”

Alistair blinked in surprise and laughed sheepishly. “Oh! I didn’t know there was a word for that.”

“You would be surprised at the things there are words for. Even though they may not always be in English, there are terms for almost anything you could think of.”

“Huh, imagine that.” Maybe some of the words Zevran used weren’t made up after all. Then again it was Zevran, so it was hard to tell.

They both ordered some food and as they waited for it, they spoke more about their interests and what they did for a living. Duncan was a professor of linguistics at the local university, whereas Alistair’s linguistic experience was that he could say ‘I want some cheese’ in five different languages. Beyond that they had more in common than Alistair had first imagined and it pleased him to be able to talk about his passions with someone who shared them, especially his love of classic romance films.

By the end of the night they were both laughing and chatting as though they were old friends. Unfortunately the night did have to come to an end.

As they stood up to say their goodbyes, exchanging phone numbers as they did. Alistair couldn’t help but end the night with a line from his favourite movie. “Duncan, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” And by friendship, Alistair of course meant relationship.

[dragonageholidaycheer]

For kimmathy from armedwithawkward

[chenria]

Pinch-Hitter picture for last year’s “Dragon Age Holiday Cheer”. Since I don’t know when and if Santa Flemeth is going to post this I just take the liberty to post it myself… ^^” 

For: flutiebear Characters: Merrill, Carver Warnings: weapons? Title: Kirkwall Noir When Santa Flemeth asked me to pinch-hit I agreed instantly. (It’s not like you can deny Flemeth anything… you have seen what she can do…) But when I read that you were still without present it upset me. I was so happy about my own DAHC gift this year and it makes me sad that you haven’t gotten anything yet. So, after reading your wishlist this was the first idea that came to mind. Carver & Merrill - Kirkwall Noir. They are the protagonists in a “Noir AU” where Merrill is the head of a booze smuggle ring during prohibition and Carver is an undercover cop set to capture her and stop the underground activities of Merrill and her gang (though I think Merrill might just be a “fake” boss and that someone behind her is pulling all the strings and just wants to stay under the radar). So yes, that sums up what went through my head while I drew this. Spent all my afternoon on this so that you can get your gift and I really, really hope you like it! 

[dragonageholidaycheer]

I got my Dragon Age Holiday Cheer gift today from heretherebdragons.  I LOVE IT SOOOO MUCH!  It’s perfect.  The little Joining bottle is perfection.  I love tiny things (and collect miniatures.)  The colors are perfect and I love polished type stones.  My gifter had no idea about any of this and did it all off the scant info that I really loved the Grey Wardens.  It’s wonderful and I’m going to wear it proudly!  :)  It’s so gorgeous, I barely have words!

[dragonageholidaycheer]

Wrapping up DAHC 2014 and Gifts Outstanding

Every year we have a few gifts fall through the cracks and Santa Flemeth, despite some RL issues this past week is working on tracking down what she can. As a reminder, participants that did not respond either with a gift or a message to Santa Flemeth by the 31st of December will not be eligible to participate in future exchanges. While I understand (very much this year) how real life can get in the way of even the best intentions, it's unfair to those who worked to get gifts in on time despite their own holiday preparations. 

That said, I know there are still a few gifts outstanding thanks to the mail or late responses. I'm am contacting participants or pinch-hitters to do my best in making sure everyone receives something.

Thank you for your participation, and your patience.

[lyrium-lion]

Okay, I wanna say thank you so, so much for this precious gift for the Dragon Age Secret Santa event!! I really, really, really love this gift; it is so cute. I love the necklaces in Bull’s romance and I absolutely love how you packaged them! I wish I knew who my secret santa was, though!! Let me know your URL so I can shower you in Internet affection!! (P.S. My special someone I’ll put the matching necklace on will probably definitely be my Iron Bull dakimakura

[imadra-blue-deactivated20200728]

Title: “The Rules” Fandom: Dragon Age  Pairing: Alistair/Zevran Rating: PG-13 Summary: ”There must be rules,” Zevran whispered, his eyes hooded and his face strangely flushed given how cold it was. "Rules?" Alistair asked, struggling to choke back his sudden flare of lust. "Rules." Zevran eased the pressure off Alistair’s chest and pushed himself up on his elbows. He peered up at Alistiar, his expression earnest, intense, but his eyes were still hooded, and his lips looked moist. "I have Mahariel. And you are married man. I’m as much a bastard as you, but neither of us needs to be that kind of bastard." Written for: @syrenpan in the dragonageholidaycheer 2014 Secret Santa exchange.  (Sorry to be a bit late.  Sickness and holidays and the length of the story kept me slow.  Happy Holidays to you!) Notes: Set after DA:O, just before Act 3 of DA2. Features a conscious use of a trope. No Dragon Age: Inquisition spoilers, exactly, but references places that appear in that game.  UST fic, for lack of a better genre description.  Linked to AO3 due to length.  Thanks to emotionalmorphine for the lightning fast beta! Word Count: 4937

[LINK]

[marthas-adventures-in-the-fade]

This is my Dragon Age Holiday Cheer gift for the very talented kamidoodles/ kamidoodlesblog, who requested something involving her OT4 and also something Christmas-themed. Some notes:

Apparently Wintersend is the closest Thedas analogue to Christmas?

Apologies for how late this is.

Your OC’s are badass and attractive. My profuse apologies if I completely mangled their characterization.

Read More

[dragonageholidaycheer]

To stonecoldliuh: a very happy holidays, and I hope this picture finds you well and brings a bit of cheer your way. hopefully the content will make up for the somewhat limited supplies I had to create it with

[dragonageholidaycheer]

Cullen's Surprise

Ficlet for knightcommanderalenko who asked for Cullen/Warrior Trevelyan. It was but Mia (Cullen’s Sister) and Nathaniel (Luca Trevelyan’s brother) shoved their way in!

  ‘From Skyhold

Dear Miss Rutherford,

Before I go into any detail, I should explain who I am. My name is Luca Trevelyan, also known as the ‘Herald of Andraste’ and a -’

Luca paused, not sure how to describe herself to Cullen’s sister. Luca liked the Commander but she was not sure if he felt the same way, despite Leliana’s teasing and Josephine’s giggles. Around Cullen things were… awkward to say the least.  Sat at her desk, she chewed at her pen before continuing the letter she said she would write to Cullen’s sister, Mia.

‘- colleague of your brother Cullen Rutherford, the Commander of the Inquisition.’

‘You probably know some of the details of the Inquisition from your brother but suffice it to say that it is our first year at our new home of Skyhold in the Frostback Mountains and we have decided to hold a Wintersend Festival.’

It was Josephine’s idea of course. She had pulled Luca into her office earlier in the day, and Josie had excitedly suggested they have the festival as a way to keep morale up during the long winter months. Sometimes Sera’s pranks by themselves just wouldn’t cut it. And that was when Luca had come up with the idea of inviting Cullen’s sister or even all his siblings, although she’d only seen the name of one of them. So here she was, doing her best not to get blotches on the parchment and trying to be careful what she said to someone she had never met. Not for the first time, Luca wished she had let Josie write the letter instead, in her precise yet friendly tone.

‘We would love it if you and the rest of your siblings could come as I know it has been a long time since you and Cullen have seen each other. It would be better if you could keep this a secret between us. One of my colleagues has told me we have some Scout’s in your area that would be willing to escort you back to Skyhold. If you let us know you can come, Leliana will sort the details out for you.

Yours sincerely,

Luca Trevelyan, Inquisitor.’

Sealing the letter, she delivered the missive to Leliana to be posted as soon as she could.

+=+=+

BANG! BANG !BANG!

“Maker’s breath, what is wrong with these people!” Mia swore as she jumped out of bed and rushed to pull some boots on to cover her bare feet.

The door banged again as she rushed downstairs to answer the door. “I’m coming!”

Opening the door, she saw one of the Mayor’s guards stood there, a man she had gone to school with as a child. “Yes?”

“Mia, this arrived with the Mayor today. Delivered from Skyhold by raven, would you believe?” He sounded impressed and she snatched the folded parchment out of his hand, thinking it must be some bad news about Cullen. The look of fear in her eyes was replaced by one of shock as she read the missive.

Looking up, she gasped, “Brandon, does your sister Belle still make dresses?”

Brandon gave her a quizzical stare. “I believe so. Why?”

“I’ve a new dress to have made. I’ve been invited to Skyhold for Wintersend.” Mia could not keep her excitement out of her voice. “Oh and I’ve a letter to write. If you’ve still got that raven, I’d like to send a message on it’s return journey.”

The guard nodded. “Fair enough. It’ll need a few more hours to recover I think. Drop it by when you’ve wrote it.”

Mia grinned and kissed Brandon on the cheek before pinning her long blond curls up and running off to see Belle, the letter tucked into her apron. Though the rumour that Mia would be going to see her brother at the Inquisition stronghold would be rife by suppertime, she wasn’t stupid enough to say just who had invited her.

+=+=+

Three days before Wintersend

“So, Curly, you looking forward to Skyhold’s first Wintersend festival?”

Standing in front of the large open fire in the Great Hall, Cullen rubbed his cold hands over his face at Varric’s nickname for him. Once the dwarf found a nickname, it seemed to stick. The only person he didn’t have a nickname for was Luca.

“Erm, yes.. I think it will be interesting.”

The last time Cullen had been part of a Wintersend festival was the year before he’d joined the Templars. Life had seemed so much simpler then – no being a Templar or dealing with a mountain of paperwork. Instead, they danced and ate til they were giddy – or his siblings did anyhow.  Cullen had watched from the sidelines and turned down requests to dance from local village girls – not so different when they’d been at the Winter Palace. He’d only wished he had the courage to ask Luca to dance, like Josie had told him to.

Varric chuckled, “Interesting? Well, you could say that. I believe we have a few important visitors joining us. You might even know one or two.” Cullen blinked in surprise before Varric continued, “Well, I better go help Sparkler lose his money. Later Curly.”

Opening then closing his mouth, Cullen watched Varric strut off. He had no idea of what the man was talking about and realised that like Cassandra, he found the dwarf in turns both baffling and infuriating.

+=+=+

A week prior to Wintersend, a trip was suggested to the Exalted Plains. Luca had felt she owed Keeper Hawen the three great bear furs before they left the area. It would certainly help keep the clan warmer on their journey. Unfortunately, they had run into more groups of Freemen of the Dales than they had expected and had emerged with more bruises than they would have expected.

“I thought we got rid of those blasted Freemen, Inquisitor.” Dorian said as they walked back to Skyhold, an edge to his voice.

“I think we have now, Dorian.” Though she was worn out, Luca smiled at the mage as they carried on walking. However Varric caught her attention.

“Nevermind Inquisitor, we have a Wintersend Festival to attend and I intend to drink that man of yours, Curly, under the table.”

Luca could feel the tinge of a blush on her cheeks as she said, “Varric!” A warning tone to her voice. “He’s not ‘my man’ as you put it. Besides I think you should try to drink Ironbull under the table. That would be fun to watch.” The group, including Blackwall continued to banter until they got into the courtyard. Handing over the horses to Master Dennet’s stablehands, Luca saw a young woman she had not seen before, with wispy blond hair. She swore she had never seen her before and yet… there was something familiar about the woman who looked quite lost.

“Inquisitor!” Luca heard Josephine’s voice from close by. “Come and meet Cullen’s sister.” Josephine stood close to the young woman and beckoned her over.

“Of course! I thought you looked a little like our Commander.”

“But much prettier of course! “Josephine purred delightedly. “The Commander is on his way. We told him you wanted to see him, Luca, so he would rush out of his office, taking those steps two at a time.”

Maker’s breath, the woman was impossible, thought Luca. “Had he known who was really here, he’d be jumping over his desk to see you instead.  I’m delighted to meet you at last, Mia.” Luca smiled and held her hand out to Mia, who hesitated, before shaking her hand and giving her slight curtsey.

“I have to say I was surprised to receive a letter from you. I thought there was a problem with Cullen – or he wasn’t behaving himself.” Despite the nerves, she recognised the smirk the young woman gave her.

“No he behaves himself quite admirable as –“ Josie’s voice was thankfully cut off before she could continue.

“Inquisitor. You wanted to see me?” Cullen’s voice boomed across to where she stood.

Leliana had suddenly appeared from the side of one of the stalls and put her arm though his. “Commander, you have a guest.” Her hand flattened in Mia’s direction and Luca put her arm on her new acquaintance to point the siblings towards each other.

Mia gasped and Cullen’s eyes widened and he barely had time to unfold his arms before Mia dropped her belongings and almost vaulted into his arms.

“Cullen! It’s been so long!”

“Mimi! You’ve grown so much!” He picked his sister up and hugged her to him.  Leliana, Josephine and Luca stood and watched the sight before them, Luca feeling the tears prick her eyes before turning to watch Josephine who had a single tear trickle down her face. Even Cassandra had a rare smile.

“We did the right thing.” Luca murmured as she watched the two of them catch up.

+=+=+

As Cullen took his sister into the Great Hall where food was being served to the guests, Luca heard the two of them talk. It seemed his other brother and sister had not been able to make the journey due to family or work commitments but Cullen was pleased Mia had arrived.

“So it seems I have a lot to thank Josephine our Ambassador for.”

Before Mia could say a word, Luca said, “You do. She arranged all of this.” She looked at Mia and raised an eyebrow at her to keep her part in this quiet.

Right then a familiar male voice shouted across the hall. “I’m here to see Lady Luca Amethyst Lucille Trevelyan.”

Luca saw Cassandra’s hand reach for her sword and strangely she found herself mirroring the action. Her taller, older, handsome brother was stood, still in his riding gear with a smirk on his face that she would dearly love to wipe off with the sharp end of her blade.

“Brother, how lovely to see you.” Luca put her hand in his as he swept to kiss the back of her hand she dropped her voice so only he could hear it. “You’re not in the Winter Palace now, why are you using my full name!”

“Ah sister, you’ve grown so much, yet you change so little.” The mirth in his voice irritated her as it so often did. If he ruffled her hair, she’d remove his hand with her sword, to be damned where they were. As if sensing her friend’s annoyance, Cassandra drew closer, hand still on blade.

“Inquisitor, may I help?” Cassandra ran her cold eyes over her brother and Luca tried hard to not grin.

“Ah, Seeker Pentaghast, this is my older brother Nathaniel Lucius Benedict Trevelyan, heir to my father’s Bannorn within the Free Marches and a complete pain in the backside.” Luca smiled but left the last part of her insult hanging in the air.

“Enchanted, Seeker Pentaghast.” He bowed low, having decided, Luca assumed, that kissing the hand of a sword-wielding Seeker was not a wise move. “I do hope my little sister has not been too much of a pest.”

Cassandra gave a disgusted gasp. “Indeed, the Inquisitor has been anything of the sort. You should be proud of your sister, Lord Trevelyan.”

Realising how dark it was getting and knowing she and her brother could continue their banter all evening, she knew she would have to change into her evening gown for the start of the Festivities. “Cassandra, would you show my brother to his room. I assume either Josephine or Leliana would have arranged this as they invited him.”

As much as he got on her nerves she could not tell him to go him. Indeed it was growing dark and the snow had already started to fall. “Brother I will see you later.”, she said before walking off towards her quarters, greeting people as she went.

Cullen, having seen but not heard the conversation, frowned. Mia grinned as she watched her brother, “So that’s the someone you’ve met is it? The Inquisitor? That’s a strong woman you’ve got a crush on.”

Cullen growled. “None of your business and it’s time we got changed for tonight. Let me show you to your room, Mia.”

+=+=+

Luca looked at the mask and ruffle laid out on her bed. Although it was standard practice to have a

mask for a ball in Orlais, they were not at the Winter Palace now. Besides she wanted people to see

her face. After all, some had come a great many miles to see her – even her brother, full of arrogance though he was. She was not close to her brother and wanted to ask him how the rest of her family were, though he seemed determined to annoy her. Stood in front of her full length mirror, she brushed down the dress with full frill and wondered if she should wear the formal suit they all wore to the Winter Palace instead. Making sure her hair and make up had not fallen or smeared, she smiled at herself in the mirror, the nerves tingling in her stomach.

  Slipping her heeled boots on and putting her cape round her shoulders, she walked downstairs, lifting her skirt slightly. She could hear the music as she walked into the Great Hall, two guards stood either side of her door. As she walked through into the main part of the hall, she could hear hushed whispers around her. Clearing her voice, she said, “Happy Wintersend from the Inquisition. Have a great night all of you.” Raising a glass of wine she said, “To the Inquisition!” This was repeated back to her by the crowd. “May the dancing begin!”

  +=+=+

  Mia watched her brother looking at the Inquisitor as they toasted Wintersend. He still had the same serious frowny look on his face from earlier and decided she didn’t want to spend all night with her brother and that look on his face. “You do know that man before was Luca’s brother.”

  “Hmm?” That got his attention, she thought. “And who told you that?”

  “That Orleisian woman with the red hair. She had invited him apparently – just like the Inquisitor had invited me.” Mia grinned as she told him the secret she had kept for so long.

  “Hold on, you both told me Josephine had invited you!” Cullen blinked.

  “Nooo, you assumed Josephine had invited me and we didn’t tell you otherwise.”

  Cullen rolled his eyes. “Women! Why can’t you just say what something is and be done with it?”

  “Because Curly, that would be too easy. Are you not going to introduce me to your sister?”

  Recognising the voice behind him and the fact he was cornered by both Mia and Varric, he simply replied, “Varric this is my younger sister Mia. Mia this is Varric.”

  “Resident storyteller and archer here at Skyhold. Would you care to dance?” Varric asked in his charming voice.

  “Oh erm, yes why not. And you,” she turned to her brother as she stood up, “go and find the Inquisitor. I think the two of you need to talk.”

  +=+=+

Luca pulled her cape round her shoulders and looked out over a moonlit Skyhold. The night had gone much better than she had ever expected. Her brother and Josie had got on very well but she knew they had a lot in common, noble blood and the Game included. She had danced with a few people but… no one she really wanted to. If she was honest, she had been wanting to spend time with Cullen ever since they’d met yet he seemed determined to push her away. Frowning she sighed and watched the people dancing and laughing in the courtyard below, the music drifting over the battlements.

“Luca?” Cullen stepped out of the shadows to stand next to her.

“Cullen, I didn’t know you were there. I thought you’d be with your sister or dancing with someone.” The tinge of bitterness was there in her voice and she could hear it. Maker’s breath, she hoped he couldn’t hear it.

Coming to stand next to her, he said,”No… Mia told me the truth – that you were the one to invite her to Skyhold and I wanted to thank you.”

Luca looked towards him, light shadowing his face. “Really? It was an idea I had when Josephine told me about the Wintersend Festival. I saw a letter on your desk from Mia not long after we moved to Skyhold and I thought after all the time you’d been away from each other, you should get to meet up again.”

Luca had thought he might be annoyed with her for reading the letter. Instead, the low chuckle from his throat came as a revelation. She liked hearing his rare laugh. “You need to laugh more often. Varric is right, you’re too serious.”

He shook his head. “Not around you I’m not.” Holding his hand out to her, Cullen said, “May I have this dance, my Lady?”

Luca felt her breath catch in her throat. “I thought you’d never ask.” Slipping her hand into his, she put her other hand on his shoulder and was pleasantly pleased as he led her into a dance, without stepping on her toes.

“You really can dance? I thought you just didn’t want to dance with me, Commander.” This time Luca had a smile on her face, her words humorous not accusing.

“This dance has been a long time coming Luca. I owe you a dance from the Winter Palace at least.” He wouldn’t tell the Inquisitor that he’d asked Scout Harding and Krem to train him in how to dance privately, without making a fool of himself. No doubt that would come out at some point. Skyhold had a way of telling its secrets.

As the music ended, she stood on her tip toes and kisses his cool cheek. “Thank you for the dance, Cullen. I hope we can do that again sometime.”

His hand moved over her soft cheek before staring into her hazel eyes. “Oh we will. “ His blue eyes shone as his lips touched hers and for Luca, it seemed as if the floor of the battlements fell away.  The kiss continued and that was when she heard it, yelling and cheering. Breaking the kiss, she glanced over the battlements, to see a group of people, including their siblings, wolf whistling and yelling at the two of them.

“Oh kill me now, please.” Luca put her head in her hands before she felt his hand on her elbow.

“Come with me.” He whispered, leading her into his office.

“But they’ll talk!”

Pulling her into the office, he pressed her against the door and simply replied, “Let them.”

+=+=+

Finally the evening dance drew to a close. The festival would continue with feasting and sparring over the next few days but the dance had been the main event. Leliana sat in front of a fire, her feet bare trying to keep them warm.

“Ah here you are Red, I thought I might find you here.” Varric pulled up a chair and joined the spymaster in front of the fire.

“Did you have a good evening? I saw you dancing with Cullen’s sister earlier.” Leliana rarely danced but she took in a lot of what was happening around them.

“I did. Let me guess, it was you who invited the siblings.”

Leliana smirked. “I invited Nathaniel but it seems the Inquisitor invited Mia herself. That woman has the skills to make a good spymaster.” She didn’t mention she had seen Nathaniel and Josephine slip away to her bedroom together earlier on.

Varric chuckled. “It’s about Mia I wanted to ask you about. I think she likes Honnleath but she hasn’t found anything to keep her there. I thought either you or Josephine might talk to her. Perhaps she could work as an agent for one of you.”

“Hmm, an interesting proposition. Perhaps it might be an idea not to let Cullen know you talked to me about this though.”

Indeed it took the persuasion of the Inquisitor a few days later, for Cullen to realise that Mia would be just as safe in Skyhold as she would be in Honnleath.

+=+=+

[dragonageholidaycheer]

At Last

From: hollyand-writes

To: chileancarmenere

After many years of Isabela’s attempts to seduce Fenris, he finally gives in – when Isabela is least expecting it. 1,396 words. Also on AO3.

Written for chileancarmenere, who requested Carver/Merrill, and Fenris/Isabela. I hope you don’t mind that I made Fenabela the focus of this fic, but Carver/Merrill are the secondary pairing - hope that’s OK with you. Sorry it’s so late! Hope you had a very happy holiday season, and a Happy New Year!

‘…And three kings. There. I win,’ Isabela declared, settling back in her chair and swigging the last of her bottle of ale. ‘I hope this time you’re not betting anything you’re not prepared to lose, Kitten.’

‘Oh, it’s OK, I’ve brought my money pouch this time,’ Merrill said amicably, sliding the silver coins across the table to where Isabela’s cards lay face up beside her feet. ‘I still can’t work out how you always win, though.’

‘Because I cheat, Kitten,’ Isabela chuckled, putting her bottle down. ‘As I believe I’ve said before. Another drink?’ She signalled Norah, who rolled her eyes and pointedly ignored them. Isabela didn’t press the point; Norah would come round eventually, and Isabela had been living in the Hanged Man long enough to know all its ways and wiles – including Norah’s.

‘Oh, no thanks, that’s quite alright,’ Merrill chirped, finally picking up her own untouched bottle of ale as if she’d suddenly remembered she had it. She eyed the dark bottle thoughtfully, took a cautious sip, and pulled a face. ‘I don’t think I will ever get used to this,’ she said, staring at the bottle sadly, while a scowling Norah walked over and clattered two more bottles down before walking off, grumbling something about Corff not paying her enough for the extra work.

‘Drink enough of it, and you won’t notice the taste,’ Isabela told her, picking up one of the bottles Norah had brought. She was about to draw her first gulp when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shock of white hair in the Hanged Man’s doorway.

Fenris.

Isabela paused for an instant, then casually gulped down her ale, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. ‘Good at matchmaking, not so good at the analogies’ was how Isabela had described herself to Carver at Chateau Haine – when the templar had inadvertently revealed his feelings for Merrill – but what about setting herself up with the man she had long laid her own sights on?

Isabela certainly had proved good at matchmaking for other people. Merrill was now re-reading the letter Carver had sent her, blushing and smiling furtively at his words, the words he could never explicitly say in a letter that risked the Knight Commander intercepting it, but which held all the promise and tenderness of the next time a templar knight would be able to meet clandestinely with his apostate mage lover.

Not that Isabela wasn’t proud of her success regarding Carver and Merrill, of course. Isabela had a generous heart, no matter how much she denied it, and seeing her elven friend happy was enough to kindle a quiet satisfaction within her, no matter what was going on in her own life.

But Fenris – well.

Isabela was no stranger to going after what – and who – she wanted; she’d had her share of beautiful men and beautiful women and didn’t regret any of them. But Fenris, lithe and prickly and lyrium-lined and more beautiful than anyone she’d seen in her life, remained tantalisingly out of reach. He’d gradually relaxed into returning her flirtations over the years, and she could swear the hungry look in his eyes meant he wanted her as much as she wanted him, yet nothing ever came of it. It was frustrating and fascinating, and none of the other arms she’d found comfort in during her years in Kirkwall had ever managed to curb her craving for Fenris; something she never understood.

Until Fenris, Isabela had always managed to seduce anyone she wanted, and remained unfazed about the rare few she couldn’t. The fact that it bothered her that Fenris seemed to be one of the rare few, however, was a new feeling entirely.

He moved across the tavern floor with the silent grace of a cat, his green eyes smouldering at her even from a distance; and for the first time in her life, Isabela felt strangely unsettled. Fenris loomed over her and paused, his sleek figure emanating a heat that turned her insides to jelly, before sliding into the chair between her and Merrill.

‘Fenris,’ Isabela greeted him smoothly, giving him a wide smile and a saucy wink that belied her true feelings. She waved confidently at Norah for another drink, ignoring the second bad-tempered eye-roll the waitress gave her. ‘How unfortunate. We’ve just finished our game of cards.’

Noticing her for the first time, Fenris glared at Merrill, but Merrill remained happily (and perhaps stubbornly) absorbed in her letter. Isabela sighed inwardly; Fenris had always remained at odds with Merrill no matter how hard the latter tried to be friendly – even Merrill’s destruction of that wretched mirror with her own two hands hadn’t seemed to help matters, and Isabela had no interest in being caught between her two favourite elves. (Well, not in that way, of course.)

Fortunately, Fenris turned his attention back to her. ‘Unfortunate, you say?’ he rumbled in his deep, deep voice, raising one dark eyebrow, and Isabela’s insides went unexplainedly soft again. ‘I would have said my timing was perfect.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Well, quite. I would hate to think I was… interrupting anything.’

‘Well, look at you,’ Isabela smirked, amused now, ‘all Mr Smooth all of a sudden. If you could throw some cold insolence in with that smoulder of yours, I should be most grateful.’ 

‘You have asked me this before,’ Fenris smirked back, ‘and I still don’t understand how you want me to be hot and cold at the same time.’

You’ve been blowing hot and cold on me for months, Isabela thought to herself, but aloud she chuckled. Even if she’d been getting seemingly nowhere with Fenris after years of flirtation, she wasn’t about to give up so easily. Seduction was sometimes a long game, after all, and Isabela was more patient than she let on. ‘I can certainly think of ways I could make sure you were.’

Fenris chuckled. ‘And now I’m curious.’ His deep green eyes bored into her intently, and suddenly Isabela was very glad no one could ever see her blush.

‘I’d best get going,’ Merrill said suddenly, standing up. ‘I’m meeting Car– I mean, I have to be at home for – something, later,’ she stammered, and Isabela almost laughed out loud at the elf’s own reddened cheeks, ‘and I had a lovely time and I’m sorry I couldn’t finish the ale, and – I’m babbling, sorry,’ she finished, cheeks even redder, and Isabela waved away her concerns.

‘Don’t worry, Kitten,’ Isabela said, feeling secretly relieved at the clumsy distraction. ‘You just get going and I’ll see you later. Have a great time tonight,’ she added, with a knowing wink, and Merrill smiled at her warmly before nodding politely at Fenris and leaving the tavern. Fenris, however, kept his attention firmly on Isabela.

‘So,’ Isabela started, to break the silence that had descended upon them. ‘What brought you here tonight?’

Fenris’s eyes burned into her, a predatory smirk playing on his lips that Isabela had never seen before. ‘Perhaps… you did.’

So it was going to be one of those nights. Well, two could play that game. Not that it was anything new; Isabela and Fenris had been dancing around each other for years even though all her flirtatious attempts to seduce him had been in vain – it had almost become habit. ‘Really?’ Isabela swigged her ale bottle thoughtfully. ‘Did you want me to guess the colour of your underclothes again?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Hmmm.’ Isabela took another draw from the bottle. ‘Red.’

‘Guess again.’ Fenris was smirking again, his gaze intense and unreadable, and there was something different this time, something about his demeanour that told Isabela that this wasn’t one of their normal fun flirtations. Could it be –

‘What’s in it for me if I guess it right?’ she asked lightly.

Fenris leaned forward, eyes burning into her. ‘Whatever you want.’

Now we’re talking, Isabela thought to herself. She put the bottle down on the table, and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘And if I don’t guess it right?’

Fenris’s smirk grew even wider, predatory even; and finally, Isabela understood. ‘Whatever I want.’

‘Hmmm.’ Isabela sat back, looking thoughtful, but inside her heart was pounding. ‘And what would that be,’ she said, hoping to goad him into a reveal. 

To her surprise and shock, Fenris grinned, stood up, swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to her rooms.

[dragonageholidaycheer]

A Fine Feathered Mess: DAHC gift for hollyand

"Carver," said Merrill, "I've decided you need a pet."

In retrospect, that really should have been his first warning.  

Hands behind her back, Merrill struggled to maintain her grip on something unseen and, apparently, very wiggly.  

That should have been his second.

"Vhenan," he said, the word tumbling, still awkward, from his chapped lips, "you don't have to—"  

Merrill cut him off with a wave of her hand and, in so doing, almost dropped her burden. "Nonsense," she said, readjusting. "You do nice things for me all the time. Let me do a nice thing for you."

Whatever she concealed squirmed, violently, and Merrill bent nearly in two to follow. Automatically Carver reached out a hand. For once, it didn't shake. Almost.  "Do you need help with that?"

She jumped back from his touch. "No peeking!"

"I wasn't—" He sighed. Whenever Merrill got that determined set to her jaw, Carver knew there was no arguing with her. "Whatever. No peeking. But what brought this on?"

She shifted from foot to foot, and did not look up at Carver when she spoke. "It's just—well—I know how lonely you've been lately."

Lonely. Right. That was his problem.

"Not that lonely," he replied as warmly as he could manage.  

The attempt made her smile, at least. "Don't be contrary, ma vhenan. I know you, and I know you need company, more than I can give. Besides," she continued before he could protest. "You Fereldans need your companion animals. You're lost without them."

"Us Fereldans?" He snorted. "What does that make you?"

"Dalish," she replied, as if it was the stupidest question she'd ever heard.

Actually, it probably was. Carver grimaced. Almost ten years later, and he still couldn't help sticking his foot in his mouth around Merrill. It was comforting, in a way, to know that some things would never change.

Behind her back there came a soft murmur, and for a brief moment, Carver had the sharp, foolish hope that Merrill had found him a mabari. But that would be impossible. You couldn't find a good Fereldan breed this far north; Marchers had too much Orlesian in them yet to appreciate a proper hound.

Still, he couldn't deny that he would love a mabari. A real man's hound; one like Garrett's, perhaps –except bigger, of course, with more fur and drool; and his, all his…

"Here you go!" Merrill thrust her hands in front of her.

Carver's eyes went wide. In her grip was a squirming, squawking, fluffing—

Chicken.

"Say hello to Feathers," she said, beaming.

"Hello," said Carver, because, well, what else could he say?

The chicken's beady eyes stared into him—no, through him, as if he weren't even there.

"Say hello, Feathers," Merrill commanded.

Obediently, Feathers clucked. As chickens do. Because – and Carver was still struggling to understand this part – Merrill had gotten him a chicken.

"Isn't she just beautiful?" Merrill grinned down at the bird cradled in her arms. "She's a Korcari Yardbird. I saw her and, at once, I thought of you. Here." She shoved the chicken at him. "You should hold her. She's yours, after all."

Awkwardly, Carver took the bird into his arms, where at once it began to squirm and squirm in a quest for freedom. Carver wished there was some polite way he could do the same.

The sight of the two of them, however, made Merrill clap her hands together. She squealed in glee. "Look, she likes you!"  

Something warm trickled down Carver's forearm.

With a curse, he let the bird go. The wretched creature flapped as it hit the ground, loosing a few downy feathers that floated to the ground like snow. Then it set about pecking the dirt behind Merrill's feet.

If Carver didn't know any better, he'd have said the bird was just as displeased about this arrangement as he was. The thought needled.  A chicken wasn't allowed to be disappointed in him. It just wasn't.

"Do you like her back?" asked Merrill.

"I—" Carver cleared his throat, then made the mistake of meeting her gaze. It was so open, so hopeful, that whatever he had been about to say died in his throat. "Merrill," he said instead. "Why in Thedas would you see a chicken and think of me?"

She shrugged. "Because they're big and cute and they eat anything you set in front of them?"

Carver felt some -- but by no means all – of his irritation ebb away. "Maker, why not a druffalo while you were at it?" he muttered.

Merrill wrinkled her nose. "Druffalos aren't nearly so snuggly as chickens. Obviously. Plus ,they take forever to tell a joke."

"What—How—" Carver shook his head. "Nevermind. I believe you."

Merrill peered at Carver closely. "Did you want a druffalo, ma vhenan? They're still selling calves in the square, but I'm not sure where we'd keep one." The chicken began to nuzzle Merrill's bare foot, or perhaps nibble at her toe; it was hard to tell the difference. "But you're right. Maybe we should get a calf, too. That way, Feathers has a friend for when you're out on a job."  

Carver had the sudden image of a full-sized druffalo pecking at Merrill's pants. "No, no, just the chicken will suit," he assured her. "I'm only surprised, that's all. I didn't expect," he struggled for the right word and came up with nothing, "this."  

Merrill nodded gravely. She knelt to pet the top of Feathers's head. "I know things have been hard," she said, "what with the Order gone and your brother off to Ansburg and—you know."

"I know." His cheeks burned. Merrill never mentioned the word 'addiction' -- she was too kind-hearted -- but they both knew Carver's shame for what it was. For years, nearly all his pay and even some of hers had gone to the lyrium dealers. But they'd been visiting Kirkwall less and less often, as the remaining ex-Templars either left or died from their withdrawal symptoms, which left Carver increasingly desperate. Over the past few months, his thirst for dust had brought him so low that if he'd had any dignity left, he'd leave Kirkwall at once and save Merrill the trouble of keeping him. But Carver didn't have any dignity left. He only had Merrill. "But what does a chicken do to make any of that better?"

"Plenty!" she insisted. "She can cuddle your toes, and chase the rats, and she'll keep our stoop clean of bugs, I'm sure." She looked up at him, eyes large and liquid. "Do you not like her?"

"Of course I like her," Carver lied.   

The chicken did not reply in kind. It just looked up at Carver. It looked and looked, and it did not blink.

It could have been worse, he told himself as he met its dead-eyed stare. It could have been a wyvern.

**

It wasn't as if Carver hadn't ever been around chickens before. Back in Lothering, the Hawkes had had a good-sized coop, with enough hens to keep them in eggs throughout the long winters.  

But it had been Bethany's job to manage the birds, not his. She'd been good at it, too; she'd sing to them while they gathered around her ankles, bobbing and clucking and scurrying all about. Bethany had made them all very happy. Carver, meanwhile, had only made them vaguely bored.

Feathers wasn't like those old yardbirds, however, which was both good and bad, but mostly bad. She was grumpy and sullen and pecked at any finger left outstretched for too long. Merrill wouldn't hear of leaving her outside at night, so while they slept, the beast would root in his clothes and molt on their pillows. She took baths in their water barrel. She pecked holes in their bread. And she steadfastly refused to lay any eggs, which Carver understood for the personal insult it was.

Plus: the little monster could run. And shit. Often at the same time.

Carver had served at both Ostagar and the Gallows; he thought he'd seen every atrocity the Maker could conceive. But that was before he found what Feathers had left for him in his boots.  

"I wish you were a dog," he told the creature as he attempted to scrape out the congealed goo with his lyrium dagger. "At least a dog has the sense to only crap in one spot."

"She does," offered Aveline, who watched Carver work with great interest. She held back a smile, but just barely. "From what I see, she only craps on your things."

Carver inspected the room around him. "Maker's balls, you're right." He made a disgusted noise. "Bethany would've been so proud."

Aveline chuckled. Feathers, perhaps drawn by the cluck-like sound, ambled over to her and leaned against her leg. Aveline's hand fell to meet her.

"You complain, but I'd have thought any reminder of Lothering would be welcome to you," she said, idly smoothing the chicken's hackles with her thumb.  

"Some things are better left to memories," he grunted. His knife struck paydirt, and a chip of something foul went flying across the room. It landed on a battered, dusty chest that hadn't been opened in months.

They both fell silent then, Aveline watching him work. "How are you doing?" she asked after a long moment had passed.

His hands tightened on the knife. "Fine."

"Just fine?"  

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" Her gaze, as hard as the chicken's, bored into him.

"I know my own mind, thanks," he snapped.  

She sighed. "Ass."

Carver shrugged and dug harder into the boot. Better Aveline think him an ass than the alternative.

"It's just—if you need anything—"

He looked up at her sharply. "Why? What has Merrill told you?"

"Nothing," Aveline replied quickly. Too quickly. "Nothing at all."

Grumbling, Carver bent his head back to his work. "As I said, I'm fine," he said. "I don't need anything, not from you, not from anyone."

"But—"

"But what?"

"But it would be alright if you did." Her eyes were soft and kind and not at all like how they usually were. Carver found he couldn't look into them for very long. "It's not easy, doing what you've done."

Carver exhaled, his hands working the knife with hard, choppy strokes. "And what is it that have I done?"

"You know." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Given up lyrium."

He chuckled bitterly. "Haven't given up drake-spit. Just can't find any, is all."

A bit of Aveline's gauntlet caught on Feathers's plumage, and she squawked. Carver sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Aveline stroked Feathers until she calmed down.

"You sell yourself short, Carver," she said once the bird had settled again. "It's out there. If you really wanted it, you could find it. Not in good places, or with good people, but you'd manage."

She was right, of course. But it was one thing to pay three sovereigns to an Orzammar dealer for a half-full philter every few weeks, and another thing entirely to secure regular dust by hitching himself to the black market. When he and his brother had left Athenril's employ, he'd made a promise to himself that he'd never go back there. He'd never again stoop so low. He didn't intend to break that promise now, no matter how bad his symptoms became.

A man had to have limits, a line in the earth he didn't cross. His father had taught him that, and it was important to honor the memory. Since Carver wasn't a mage like his brother was, Father's lessons were pretty much all of the man he had left.

But he couldn't say any of that to Aveline. She wouldn't understand. Or, worse, she would, and she'd become insufferable about it. She had once been married to a Templar, after all.

So instead Carver said the first thing that came to mind. "If I went back on dust, how ever would we feed Feathers?" He nodded at the bird, who groomed her wing and appeared unconcerned with the perilous balance in which her dinner hung. "The beast eats ten times her body weight in a week. She'd have to eat my boots instead of just crapping in them."

Aveline chuckled. "You know, the older you get, the more you sound like your brother."

"Stuff my brother," he grumbled. "I bet he'd probably even get on with this damned bird. He always did have a thing for feathers."

Aveline smiled.

"Ah, now there's the Carver I know." She stood and began adjusting her gauntlets. "I ought to get back to the Keep. If the Guard has more work to hire out, I'll let you know. In the meantime, take care of your girl."

Carver snorted. "Merrill doesn't need me to take care of her."

"I wasn't talking about Merrill," she said. She knelt and scratched the chicken's back once more. Feathers cooed appreciatively. "Don't you let him boss you about," she said. "If he gives you grief, you have my permission to peck out his eyes."

"They don't actually do that," he felt compelled to say, though for Aveline's benefit or the bird's, he couldn't say.

"Of course not," she said, winking at Feathers.

Feathers, to his knowledge, did not wink back.

**

Carver stabbed into the rafters, hands gripping the broom handle like a broadsword. His arms barely shook, even though it had been almost three weeks since his last philter. Amazing what strength rage could achieve.

"You know if I was still in the Order, I could have you down this instant," he informed Feathers, who was presently at work cleaning her wing on the highest beam. "Just one Smite and you'd be ass over tail feathers like the rest of us."

Feathers murmured apathetically.

"Don't you talk back to me, you stupid bird." He jabbed upwards again, and missed Feathers by several inches. "Don't you know who buys your corn?"

Down came an amused cluck.  

"Laugh it up, fluff ball," he growled. "But I'll get you down, one way or another."

Carver grabbed the edge of their dining table and dragged it over to under where Feathers had roosted. He clambered on top. He stood, unsteady. The wood groaned, but it held.

"You're lucky I don't take lyrium anymore," he told her. He crept closer to the bird. "Very lucky." Up on tiptoes he went. "Lucky, lucky, lucky. The luckiest bird in Kirkwall."  

When Carver was inches from the bird, he launched himself toward the beam on which she sat. Unperturbed, Feathers flapped out of range.

She didn't even bother to cluck.

Carver's hands, meanwhile, closed on nothing but air. Momentum carried him further than he'd intended, and he pitched forward, falling. His flailing legs knocked the table away, leaving Carver to dangle uselessly from the beam.

As he swayed back and forth like a curtain cord, he met Feathers's gaze.

"Not a word of this to Merrill," he told her. "Not. One. Word."

**

Bethany used to sing to the chickens when she fed them, and though he'd never have admitted it to her, Carver had always had a fondness for her voice. Her songs had had a sweetness to them, even the sad ones.

Carver's voice was not nearly so lovely, but he sang to Feathers at mealtimes anyway. It was important he do so, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate.

"And Hessarian, he shed a tear/as that dog laid on the pyre," he sang, his voice cracking on the high notes. "Too bad you've not the same manners."

Feathers stared at him, her eyes black as an abyss.

"And there's Andraste's mabari/ by the holy prophet's side," he continued. "In the fight against Tevinter/ that dog would never hide." He finished the verse with a flourish, then flung a few rinds of vhenadahl fruit her way.  

Feathers clucked appreciatively and devoured them.  

With a sigh, he eased himself into a chair by the table. The ache in his bones wasn't as bad today. It hadn't been for several days, actually. The pain came and went like a tide, but lately he'd been having more good days than bad. He wasn't about to question it.

"What a family we make," he said, feeling almost jolly. "An ex-Templar, an ex-First, and now an ex-roast dinner. If we were a game of X's and O's, we'd win."

Head bobbing, Feathers polished off another rind.

"They say the Maker sent him special/ always loyal, without pride," he continued, watching her peck. "So he could be the sworn companion/ of the Maker's Holy Bride."

When he finished, silence fell like a heavy blanket. Carver coughed to break it.

"Sorry about my singing," he said. "It's been a long time since I've had the occasion. Besides, my sister had the voice of the family. She knew lots of songs. More than me, anyway." He sighed. "You'd have liked her. She always did have a way with hens. Maybe they thought she was made of corn, I don't know."

Feathers paused. Then, astonishingly, she abandoned her half-eaten rind and slowly approached him.

For a moment, Carver thought he might be making progress with her, that she might even snuggle his shin, as he'd seen her do so many times with Merrill.  

Then Feathers squawked, crapped on his foot and launched herself back into the rafters.  

Carver fought back a smile and sang, "Yes that chicken's the companion/ of the Maker's Holy Bride."

**

The dreams came, as they always did. Running from Ostagar. Running from Lothering. Bethany's screams; an ogre's laugh. Gamlen in the Gallows courtyard, his brow drawn and heavy. Templar blood dripping from his sword. The tingle of lyrium on his tongue, in his veins. The song he could no longer hear in his waking hours. The silence slowly driving him mad.

Carver woke, shaking, cold from his own sweat. He felt thin, stretched out, like a tunic too worn in the elbows. Merrill curled against him, heavy, warm, his anchor in the dark. And yet, she was too much right now. He needed air. He needed light. He needed—Maker only knew what he needed.

Disentangling himself, he got up and pulled on some trousers and went outside.

The alienage courtyard was still. Peaceful.

No, not peaceful. Deserted. Everyone who lived here could be dead, and Carver would never know.

His breath caught in his throat. Through the leaves of the vhenadahl tree, he could see the swirling hole in the sky, and, for a second, the swirl almost looked like the sails of a windmill.

Suddenly Carver's eyes stung. His vision swam. He collapsed against the wall, slid to the ground, and cradled his head in his hands.

"My Maker, know my heart," he whispered. The words did not come to him as easily as they once did. "Take me from a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me—judge me—" He stumbled on the final part of the Verse, unable to remember what came next. "Just judge me, I guess. Everybody else does."

Suddenly there came a warm weight against his shins. Soft fluff tickled his bare forearms. Startled, Carver looked up from his hands.

Feathers leaned against him. She neither asked for further affection nor gave it; her head was tilted away, as if Carver were a particularly uninteresting post, just a temporary rest on her way toward greater roosting places.

Carver's shoulders relaxed.

"Thanks," he said, and meant it.

She pecked sullenly at his bare toe.

"Not one word, I promise," he replied.  

**

On his good mornings, when there were no merc jobs for him to pick up, Carver would patrol the ruined avenues of Old Town for looters and gangs.  He never found any, of course. But it mattered to him to look, all the same.

Merrill refused to bring Feathers down to the relief tents in Darktown, so instead the bird took to following him on his rounds, no matter how many rocks he kicked her way to persuade her otherwise. Somehow, however, his rocks always missed. Carver didn't bother himself overmuch about why that might be.  

These days, Old Town was little more than an open pit. The sector had been almost entirely levelled by Anders's attack on the Chantry, and there hadn't been enough money in Lowtown to fix it, so rubble it had remained. Elven children played here occasionally, tilting on the stones, re-enacting the Qunari invasion or the Battle of Kirkwall. Carver was glad that most of them were too young to remember how Old Town had gotten the way it had.

"And over there," he told Feathers, pointing out a heap of still-scorched stone, "that used to be my uncle's house. I lived there for a time, though it's probably safer now as rubble." He chuckled to himself. "Oh, and that's where Keran's sister, Macha, lived," he said, gesturing to another ruin. "She made the most delicious biscuits you'd ever had, though she'd always save the lion's share for Paxley. She'd had a thing for him, you see. I wonder where she is now.  I wonder where they both are now." Carver scratched his chin, thinking. "I hope ol' Pax is doing well for himself. He was a good man. Bit squirrelly, but good. You'd have liked him, I think. At least his mustache, I'm sure."

Feathers tolerated his monologue without squawking once. Carver took a piece of stale bread from his pouch and tore off a hunk to reward her for her silence.  

As she ate, he leaned against one of the larger stones and stretched out the soreness in his shoulders and back. The pain had a way of collecting there; but lately, it hadn't been so bad, only a pale shadow of what it had once been. Maybe because he hadn't taken dust in over three months. The realization made him feel almost nostalgic.

"I always thought I'd be back to Ferelden by now," he said to Feathers. "Not much reason to stay now, what with almost everyone I knew either dead or gone."

Feathers interrupted him with a cluck.

"Sure, Merrill's still here. And Aveline. But that's it, mostly. Even Varric left, can you believe that? Ran off to join some cult in the Frostbacks, the crazy bastard." He shook his head. "Grief has a way of making you do weird things, I guess."

With a sigh, Carver looked around him. Rocks and rubble and not much else. Kirkwall was still a shit hole, no doubt. But after ten years, it had become his shit hole. The clang and din of the bazaar; the tart taste of Corff's finest; the dockside smell of rotten fish – it all had become part of the tapestry of his life, a habit he couldn't seem to break. Carver was a fish out of water who'd forgotten how to swim.

Eventually he'd go back to Ferelden. He and Merrill talked about it sometimes, but always in the far away sense. One day, but not today. Today there were bricks to lay and orphans to feed and looters to dissuade with the business end of a sword. Reconstruction wasn't much for glory, but it was a living, and that was good enough for him.

Funny how his priorities had shifted. Grief had a way of doing that too, he supposed.

It wasn't until Feathers began to coo and peck at the rocks that Carver realized how agitated she was.  

"Oh, don't worry about us, girl," Carver said. "I won't be joining any cults any time soon. Neither will Merrill. It'll take more than some blasted hole in the sky to scare us."

Feathers looked unconvinced.  

"Really, girl. I've been to the Frostbacks. It's a hell of a place." He made a face. "No place for a chicken, anyway."

That seemed to finally put her at ease. Carver smiled and tossed her another hunk of bread.

**

One morning, a particularly large lizard had trespassed into Carver and Merrill's shack. It had made off with a slice of bacon – the first meat they'd been able to afford in weeks.Feathers had not taken kindly to the intrusion. She'd squawked at the creature, flapping and diving at it as if she were the Queen's own falcon.  Eventually, the lizard had relinquished its prize and skittered away.

From then on, Carver began to find headless lizards around the hovel. In his boots. In their bed. Even at the foot of Merrill's halla statue, like an offering.

"That's disgusting," she said, holding the dead thing by its tail.

"They're gifts," Carver explained. "She's a hunter. She's hunting."

Merrill glared at him. "She's not a falcon, Carver."

"Of course not. She's better than a falcon," he says, scratching her under the wattle, just where she liked it. "Aren't you, Feathers? Aren't you better than a falcon?"

Feathers stared at him blankly.

Merrill threw up her hands in disgust. "Fine. Just make sure she doesn't leave any more gifts in my elfroot. It's hard enough to find without lizard bits contaminating it."  

"Feathers makes no promises," huffed Carver. "When her killer instinct strikes, it must be indulged."

Merrill rolled her eyes.

As soon as her back was turned, Carver slipped Feathers a piece of fruit. With a happy murmur, she tore it clean in half.

**

By Harvestmere, Carver's lyrium sickness had become little more than a memory. He hadn't had dust in almost a year, and he'd recovered enough to heft a sword more days than not. Often he could even muster the trek to Darktown, where Merrill had organized the elven relief efforts in Anders's old clinic. Between his greater mobility and Varric's people sewing up that the hole in the sky, Carver felt that things in Kirkwall were finally starting to return to some semblance of normalcy – or, at least, a new normal.

He should have known it was too good to last.

At the first frost, Sebastian came back, bringing with him torches and drums and an army a thousand strong. He only wanted Anders, or so he claimed. But Anders hadn't been sighted anywhere near Kirkwall in over three years, and even the poorest guttersnipe had heard the gossip about how Sebastian – no, Prince Vael – had begun introducing himself as the Grand Unifier of the Free Marches to the Orlesian court.

As heavy boots clomped through Hightown and the skies once more lit on fire, Carver knew it was time for him to once more join the fight, and with nerves fluttering in his stomach, he opened the dusty chest he kept in the corner.

Inside was a suit of armor and a sunburst shield. Both were dulled from disuse, but they both still smelled, powerfully, of lyrium. Carver breathed it in, and at once, he could hear them all again, a whisper behind his ears: Cullen calling out orders; metal squealing, clanging, sword on dented shield; laughter behind flagons; barracks-side whispers; voices of the lost and dead and long-forgot; and the lyrium, always the lyrium, thrum-thrum-thrumming in his veins, pulsing like a heartbeat, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-ba-ba-dum.  

Carver swallowed deeply and removed the plate.

"Do you think it still fits?" said Merrill over his shoulder.

"We'll make it fit," he said through gritted teeth.

Merrill nodded, and piece by piece, she helped him don the old kit. It was heavier than he remembered. Bulkier. Smellier. Truth be told, he'd lost his feel for full plate; the old armor clung to him so clumsily that it was a wonder it had ever fit him at all.  

When the last piece was in place, Merrill stepped back, but not out of reach. Her hand drifted slowly to her mouth. She stared at the flaming sword on his chest for many heartbeats without speaking.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You look so handsome," she replied.

Carver snorted. "Right. I feel like a ham in a tin can."

"No. You look like a knight in shining armor." She met his eyes. "But you always did, at least to me."

His smirk melted away, and he took her hand. "And you, ma vhenan, one of the elven queens of old," he said earnestly.

Her fingers squeezed his. Then she cleared her throat and let go.

"We have a problem," she said, holding up a saucer-sized piece of plate in her other hand. "There's one piece left over, and I don't know where it goes."

Carver stared at the piece. For the life of him, he couldn't remember either.  

There came a clatter by the chest. Both jumped, turning their heads to see Feathers scratching at the canvas. She was apparently attempting to build herself a nest in the dust. Carver's glove was in her beak.

"Good idea, girl," said Carver. "Get comfortable, because you're staying here."

Feathers squawked at him and sat on the glove.

He frowned. "I'm going to need that," he said.

"I don't think she wants to stay," said Merrill. "I think she wants us – well, you – to stay instead."

Carver's eyes softened. "I told you before, girl. We'll be okay. Merrill and I have seen dozens of battles. We'll be fine. We'll be back before you even know it."

"He wouldn't lie," added Merrill. "He's very bad at it."

Feathers clucked at them miserably.

Merrill looked to Carver and Feathers and back again. A smile crept onto her lips.

"I have an idea," she said.

Loosing her pauldrons, she unwound the leather thong binding them and unthreaded it, only to then re-thread it through two holes in the mystery plate. She bent over and tied it behind Feathers's hackles.

Merrill stood and inspected her handiwork. As it turned out, the piece of armor made an excellent breastplate for a chicken, almost as if that had been its purpose all along.

"Now she can come with us," said Merrill, scratching under her wattle.  

Feathers nuzzled her hand appreciatively.

Carver smiled. He ought to protest; he ought to force the issue—but how could he? Feathers looked so proud in her armor, puffing out her chest as haughtily as a mabari in full kaddis.

It was ridiculous, really. A chicken in battle armor? It made about as much sense as a Fereldan and a Dalish choosing to repel an invading prince from a blasted out pile of rubble. Or, for that matter, a Templar and a blood mage falling in love.  

But, like most things in his life, Carver wouldn't have it any other way.

"Thatta girl," he said. "Let's go save our home. Let's go get our happily ever after."

Feathers clucked in protest.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Fine," he sighed. "Our happily feathered after."

[dragonageholidaycheer]

No Moment Was Made to Last (for spectreromanoff)

A gift for @spectreromanoff from dreamerinsilico.  Your prompt for a F!Warden/Morrigan piece made me very happy, so that’s the one I went with.  I drew inspiration from how you described your Surana’s relationship with her for the piece, but chose not to use Phoebe specifically for this because I didn’t want to risk getting her not-quite-right (or completely wrong, for that matter) - I know it can be more than a little disconcerting to read your OC as written by someone who doesn’t really know them.  The Warden here was invented solely for the purpose of this fic.  I hope you enjoy it!

The apostate sorceress had frightened her, at first. 

That fear was not as Alistair’s sullen distrust, which itched and grated like sawdust escaped from a pallet into the bedsheets, but a live, fluttering thing that cautioned against Aeris Surana’s immediate instinct to defer to the proud human woman. It was awe warring with a wariness born of being surrounded by strangers, nearly all seeming to demand her trust, her service, or both.

But Morrigan had not demanded any of those things, and that had made it hard not to trust her, which unsettled Aeris all the more.

Then the old woman who laid claim to the name of a legend had cast her unwilling daughter into the world with the pair of fledgeling Grey Wardens, and Aeris had seen that not even a Witch of the Wilds was granted all the freedom she could reach for. Fearful awe had shifted in that moment to a fascination that gilded an unlooked-for, but ironclad sense of kinship that she both wanted and feared to express.

“Did you grow up at that one place in the Wilds, where Flemeth lives?” Aeris had asked quietly one evening, after the two mages had already been sorting fresh-cut herbs in silence for ten minutes.

Yellow, predatory eyes flashed up at the Warden’s own peridot green, and Aeris bit her lower lip, realizing belatedly that this might not sound like the most earnest line of questioning in light of Alistair’s choice of retaliatory topic in his verbal duel with Morrigan earlier in the day.

“Of what significance do you find it if I was raised in one patch of the Wilds or another?” the other woman asked in acerbic rejoinder, fingers still methodically sorting cut stems and stripping the leaves where necessary. “I have been given to understand that they all look very much the same to a town-dweller.”

Aeris glanced down automatically, breaking the crackling gaze, her own ink-whorled, olive-skinned fingers stilling at their task as she made herself look back up and answer simply, “They might, honestly. But I know they don’t to you. That’s… why I’m interested.”

Whatever Morrigan had been expecting in answer, that clearly had not been it, and Aeris felt a whisper of almost guiltily amused satisfaction at having successfully side-stepped expectation. The human did not acknowledge her own surprise verbally, but the irritation in her severe features faded, leaving something more akin to faint disgruntlement, and she nodded, very slightly. “We… moved about a great deal, in fact,” she answered more tolerantly after a moment, sharp eyes diverting back to the task her hands had automatically continued. “At times ‘twas to elude the interest of townsfolk or templars who ventured too close to wherever we lived at the time. On other occasions, Mother offered no explanation; she simply informed me that we were relocating, and then we did so.”

“Did you have a favorite place, or sort of place?” Aeris asked, slowly taking up her work once more, words carrying nothing but earnest curiosity.

The silence stretched in the wake of the question for long enough that the elven Warden began to think the other woman would not answer, but Morrigan did speak, eventually. “I… suppose that I did. I preferred sites within easy flying distance to a crossroads or a settlement. Spying on townsfolk gave me little end of amusement. But we did not ever remain in such places very long. Why do you take such fascination in my mother’s traveling habits?”

Her mother’s, Aeris noted. Not hers.

“My elder sister and I were taken to the Circle when I was three. Traveling with Duncan to Ostagar was… the first time I’d ever been beyond those walls, since then.”

Morrigan might have shuddered, or perhaps it was merely a trick of the flickering firelight shadows.

“So… I’m just perhaps a bit too curious what it’s like to grow up outside. I apologize if I’m prying,” she finished, shrugging with discomfort.

To Aeris’s surprise, Morrigan actually chuckled, the sound low and dry as she shook her head slowly. “I do not take offense at the questions. But if ‘twas a tale representative of a more typical existence you were seeking, I am likely among the very worst to ask.”

The Warden’s angular face split into a sudden, wry grin, and she bit her lip and nodded, glancing back down at their herbs. “I… That’s… definitely a fair point. Still interesting, though.”

“As you say,” Morrigan murmured. Her tone was dubious, but a smirk still lingered at the corner of her lips.

…

“I am… uncertain that I can preserve the integrity of the design,” Morrigan said, looking down with a near-scowl at her reckless companion’s hand where it sat carefully cradled, palm-up, in the human mage’s own. A deep, freely-bleeding gash interrupted the intricate lines of the tattoo that traced in spirals and graceful arcs across the skin of the Warden’s palm where the woman had grasped a darkspawn’s blade bare-handed to channel electricity directly into the assailant’s body.

The darkspawn had died, sure enough, but Aeris had been sheet-faced with blood loss by the time the skirmish had ended. And of course the templar oaf and the Orlesian girl had both thought the maneuver heroic and daring rather than foolishly, painfully unnecessary.

“Do whatever you need to. I can redo the whole design if I must. But thank you in advance for trying,” Aeris gritted out, her eyes remaining closed. She had squeezed them shut as she’d given the far more capable healer her hand, clearly unsettled by the sight now that the adrenaline of the fight was fading. Morrigan scarcely blamed her for that… though her sympathy only went so far. Lightning had range, and Aeris should have been making use of that.

With a nod of acquiescence that the Warden would not see, Morrigan carefully called forth a stream of power, slowly but steadily cleansing and re-knitting the mangled flesh. The result was more successful at maintaining the tattoo than Morrigan had feared it might be, but a thin line of completely new skin nonetheless remained to slice across the whorls of ink, giving the appearance of a scar, though Morrigan’s healing work had not been sloppy enough to leave true scars since she had been a half-pint girl. “’Tis complete,” she informed Aeris, almost absentmindedly tracing the pad of her thumb along the marred design.

There was something unsettling in the Warden’s face when her eyes opened to meet Morrigan’s, that prodded the witch to hastily cease the contact and let her own unmarked, long-fingered hands fall back into her lap.

“That’s not nearly as bad as I’d worried about,” the Warden observed with a small smile. “…And of course it feels worlds better, too. Thank you, Morrigan.”

“You… are most welcome,” the witch replied, awkwardly and somewhat peevishly suppressing her instinct to point out that it was to her own benefit on a purely functional level to assist the group by healing its wounds, and she hardly required thanks.

The last time she had said something like that, Aeris had taken rather impressive exception to it. Morrigan still didn’t much understand why (and understood why the woman’s displeasure affected her as it did rather less than that).

“May I… inquire, perhaps, as to the nature of these designs?” she asked almost hastily a moment later, as she realized that it was perhaps the most natural opportunity she would find to make such an inquiry.

Aeris’s smile stretched into something Morrigan had trouble interpreting – was she surprised? Pleased? Shy? Perhaps all of those, or none of them.

No, she was definitely pleased. That much, the witch knew, at least.

“Oh! Of course. It’s something… some of us did, in the Circle.”

Morrigan could not completely suppress her look of disquiet, and her stomach clenched in a strange fashion as Aeris’s expression fell. “Something your jailors put on you?”

“No!” The elven mage’s delicate brows drew together in a fierce frown, and she shook her head vehemently. “They only barely tolerated it, in fact. A sympathetic Senior had to explain how it was a good lesson on a lot of different things all at once – symbology, discipline, healing – to get the Knight-Commander not to forbid it.”

That was… well, not worse, by Morrigan’s standards, but it certainly didn’t sound good, either.

“One of the older apprentices – she was…” Something indefinable flitted across the Warden’s face, gone as quickly as a cloud that drifts ever so briefly across the sun. “… the same age as my sister, when she was taken. One of her parents was Dalish, and she told a lot of us about the vallaslin they ink onto their faces to mark adulthood.”

Morrigan nodded her understanding of that practice, still skeptical, but quiet as the other woman continued.

“A few of us – elves, mostly, but a few of the human apprentices, too – decided to start our own tradition kind of like that. It would be blasphemy to actually take vallaslin without a Keeper’s blessing, but we came up with our own symbols to take to commemorate things we learn or do or love, and they go on our hands, around our wrists, and even climb up our arms, sometimes.” Aeris’s frown eased a bit as she spoke, lips turning up instead in a wryly bitter smirk. “We started on just our fingers and palms, for a long time, to keep it to ourselves. It took them months to notice that a handful of us seemed to be getting into fights with inkpens on the daily.”

The Warden held out both hands, now, palms up and forearms bare for Morrigan’s curious inspection. Though she did not touch Aeris’s inked skin again, her eyes traced intently along the intricate lines of the nested and linked designs. Solid bands of varied widths circumscribed two fingers, while a delicate, simple line of dots embellished the length of one middle finger; dizzying spirals wound their way across her palms and perhaps an inch or two up the insides of her wrists. The inner part of her left forearm bore a bold, almost violent stroke that swept halfway to her elbow. All the lines were dark brown, save for a spiked ring in deep, stormy blue on the very center of each palm.

“There are bits for each different school I gained competency in, with detail added for mastery,” Aeris explained in a murmur as Morrigan continued to take in the sight in silence. “Rings for tests passed. Other pieces for a few friends and mentors who helped me learn something important. One little spot for passing my Harrowing.” She snorted softly. “We didn’t want to give that the same honor the Seniors try to.”

“…A worthy sentiment,” Morrigan replied, equally quiet, with an approving glance upward. “What is the significance of the large mark on your left arm?”

She could almost feel the sudden, charged tension in the air, even before the Warden answered. “That’s the only mark that’s ever going there. It’s for my sister,” she said, all humor completely fled from her voice, leaving it hard and brittle and chilly in a way that did not suit her. “She… was judged ‘unfit to be Harrowed,’ and they made her Tranquil.”

Morrigan drew in a sharp breath, letting it out in a hiss as she met the other woman’s eyes. “Your Circle is barbaric.” It was all she could think of to say, and she knew it was the wrong thing a split second after she’d spoken.

But the flash of anger she saw on Aeris’s face faded back into a stiff nod of agreement, and her rebuke was mild, if intent. “If it was my Circle, I’d have razed it to the ground a long, long time ago.”

“I…” Morrigan swallowed tightly. “Forgive me. I find that quite easy to believe.” Aeris only nodded, palms still extended, and the human mage cast about for a way to shift the conversation back toward kinder winds. “What are the colored circles?” she asked, reaching out at last to rest the tips of her first two fingers lightly upon the marks in question.

“Lightning,” Aeris answered after a beat, with a chuckle that was almost a sigh, glancing down at their hands. “It’s my favorite, if you hadn’t already noticed.”

The Warden’s recklessness that day aside, she did tend to make rather effective, and at times, impressively creative use of that particular part of elemental magic. “I… had, indeed,” she murmured, faint smirk returning as she drew her hands back.

Aeris’s fingers curled, just slightly, as Morrigan’s retreated, as if in involuntary attempt to prevent that departure.

…

“Morrigan, she turned into a dragon. A dragon!” Aeris paced a few steps back and forth in front of the dying fire, gesticulating agitatedly. The scent of sulfur and scorched wool was all about her – in the dark hair that had escaped her braid to lie messily, stickily against her face, in her cloak and her shirt, and even seemingly in her very skin.

Yellow eyes stared back at her, sharp as always, but Morrigan’s arms were crossed over her chest defensively, and Aeris thought she saw – or was she simply wishing it there? - a hint of conflict in the other woman’s gaze.

“I warned you that Flemeth was exceptionally powerful. ‘Twas clearly not hyperbole, but ‘tis just as clear that you proved equal to the challenge she posed.”

Aeris gave her a long, hard look, her own arms stilling to rest elegant-fingered hands on her hips. Then she sighed, a quiet rush of breath, and broke the eyelock with a shake of her head. Cryptic, Morrigan could be, but an omission of that magnitude went beyond that to the point of being egregiously counterproductive. “You didn’t know, did you?”

The look Morrigan gave her confirmed the guess, as well as the secondary, unspoken assumption that the witch would not have admitted that of her own accord. “I have suspected a great many things about her, but… no. I did not. I would have informed you.”

There was a hint of reproach in this last, and Aeris bowed her head in a nod that held an answering note of contrition. “What about you, then?” she asked after a moment’s pause, one eyebrow lifting. “Are you actually human, or… or something else?”

“As best I have ever been able to determine – and that is not necessarily well, for as you see my mother has always been rather less than forthcoming about her own nature – I am but a human mage. A potent one, certainly, but no more than that.” Morrigan paused, eyes sliding away from Aeris to fix upon the smoldering coals of the second campfire as she sank down onto a nearby stone, limbs tense and her shoulders hunching very slightly forward as if to brace against a chill. “Perhaps Flemeth did not even bear me herself, though I can think of little reason for her to name me her natural daughter if in fact I am not.”

At Morrigan’s shift in tone, Aeris’s frustration and any dregs of anger that had persisted all bled away, leaving her simply very tired and increasingly concerned. Morrigan being the sort of person she was, it was disturbingly easy to forget that their away party had returned with news that they had successfully slain her mother. Whether or not that relationship was one of birth, it could not have been as insignificant as she would obviously prefer the group to believe.

Taking a deep breath and moving to sit nearby, Aeris ventured, “Will you… miss her at all, do you think?”

That earned her a flashing knife of a glance, there and gone like a spark jumping from the campfire. “I shall remain annoyed at the number of secrets she kept and which will now stand even smaller chance of being revealed. But ‘twas a necessary thing, and I see no reason to dwell upon it. You have my thanks for the risk you undertook to assist me on the matter.”

Aeris’s lips tilted upward, faintly, wryly, and she nodded. “I… hope you know I’d have gone anyway, even if we’d known what she could do. That risk… couldn’t stand.” I couldn’t stand taking it. Not with your freedom.

Morrigan’s eyes met hers again, this time nearly opaque in their expression, but she nodded, very slightly. “I would not wish to presume. But truly I… did not doubt it. You.”

The moment stretched like an overdrawn bowstring between them, until Aeris could barely breathe. But the mention of secrets had reminded her, and the tightness eased as she rubbed at her nose with self-directed exasperation. “Blast it, I’d almost forgotten,” she muttered, casting about for the oilskin napsack she had originally carried to Morrigan’s campfire. Locating it, Aeris carefully withdrew a thick volume bound in ancient leather and extended it toward the other mage. “I was able to find her grimoire, as you’d asked. I hope it helps, at least a bit.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened, and she blinked at the book for a moment before taking it in near-reverent fingers. “…And many more thanks are owed for this, I believe,” she murmured, eyes sweeping the cover of the grimoire, then back up to Aeris’s face. “I was uncertain ‘twould be recoverable.”

“I try to keep my promises, even when they’re a bit overambitious,” the Warden said with a soft, tired chuckle as she rose once more, shouldering the now-empty bag. “And here’s another one,” she added seriously. “If you end up wanting to talk about this – any of this – I’m ready and willing. But I’m not going to push it otherwise, I don’t think. Alright?”

The Witch of the Wilds looked back up at her from the firelit leather book cover to catch Aeris’s gaze, and at that moment, the Warden was certain there was something far warmer in those predatory depths.

…

The entire world was rock.

Rock, and the damp chill of the deep underground, though it was occasionally cut by startling currents of sulfurous heat that arose from the even deeper chasms.

Rock, and the pervasive, coppery smell of blood and minerals leeched from the stone by trickles of water that came from nowhere and everywhere.

Rock, and the constant strain of vigilance for attack by everything from darkspawn to giant spiders.

It had taken Morrigan very little time to decide that she despised the Deep Roads.

Empathy was not a thing that came naturally to her, but she also found that she could not help but imagine just how much more difficult it must be for the Grey Wardens, to be so enclosed and constantly feel the darkspawn to some degree. Aeris’s nightmares had become visibly, drastically worse since the second sleep period (there was no concept of ‘days’ in this forsaken place) out of Orzammar, and she began regularly picking up second watch shifts until Morrigan had threatened to drug her… and it was a sad commentary on the entire state of affairs that the teeth of that threat was not the desire to avoid an alchemical escape so much as the desire to conserve their very limited supply of herbs.

Alistair had reacted to the stress by projecting even more forced bravado and attempted humor than usual; Aeris, by descending into a watchful near-silence, save for terse instructions given to their small party. And Morrigan, who had never before in her life regretted a lack of chatter, of all things, was increasingly concerned and disturbed by that silence.

And then chill had given way to a constant, fetid heat, and sleeping nightmares, to waking ones.

It had been a great good fortune, to find the tiny spring as they had fled the darkest depths, a few hours before, but no water, either trickle or deluge, would wash out the imprint of memory left by their encounter with the Broodmother. Morrigan scarcely cared, in truth, that Aeris had rejected her advice in the matter of Branka; they were alive, and they were moving back toward the surface… and eventually, Morrigan knew, she would be glad for those things. Now, however, it was all she could do to keep invasive thoughts at bay. “I’m sorry,” Aeris murmured over her waterskin, much later, after they had made what passed for a camp in the Deep Roads. It was the first she’d spoken in hours, and the words caught Morrigan off-guard. The witch gave the Warden a questioning frown, dry lips parting to speak, but no answer emerging.

“For… back there. At the Forge. For yelling.”

Morrigan blinked slowly at her, the memory sluggish to process and connect to what Aeris was saying. Aeris had indeed yelled at her, she supposed. She recalled being angry, if she thought about it. Mostly, though, she recalled being afraid that the mad dwarven smith and her enslaved, highly magic-resistant golems would break through their defenses and crush the exhaustion-hazed, already mana-depleted elf who fought at her side.

“’Tis… of little consequence,” she answered finally, hoarsely, giving Aeris a sidelong glance and watching the firelight flicker across the other’s sharp features. “The result of your choice was favorable.”

“Still. I wish I hadn’t.”

Aeris was at times an unfathomably strange creature, yet this sort of thing no longer surprised Morrigan as it used to. She nodded slowly, accepting the apology without further rebuttal, her eyes sliding back to the fire a moment later.

A shiver chased its way over her skin, and she bit back a snarl as she forced back another flash of memory. The dwarf’s snarl as she raised her notched blade and charged forward, shield braced to crash into Morrigan and interrupt the spell she was weaving. The surge in the Fade as Aeris’s wall of force collided with the dwarf and arrested her charge long enough for Zevran to draw her attention elsewhere.

Then she jumped as an ink-marked hand suddenly closed in a gentle hold around her wrist, but the startlement subsided into another shudder as she could not bring herself to protest the blatant attempt at comfort. Instead, she lifted her other hand to cover Aeris’s and squeeze, offering what she could give of that same comfort, in turn.

Whether it was minutes or hours later that Aeris rose to collect a bedroll and the two of them settled by the banked fire, wrapped in a blanket and each other, Morrigan could not have said.

And whether it was days or weeks later that they first camped under the stars once more, Morrigan was similarly uncertain, but that night, she made a quiet request and received, from reverent fingers, a small but intricate design at the base of her palm that mirrored a new one upon Aeris’s own.

For you.

…

It hurt to agree, hurt to watch the set of Morrigan’s shoulders as she turned away to make for Alistair’s chambers.

There had been relief, of course, in the hope that Morrigan’s proposal had offered, that they might all live to walk away from the battle to come, and have a future to look forward to. But what could that future be, other than bleak? Would it be worth this night, and the consequences to come after?

Strangely, the idea of what the child would be alarmed her very little. It was the thought of Morrigan’s path that churned her stomach and left her pacing, cold, in front of her room’s fireplace.

She should not have assumed, perhaps, that Morrigan would return that night. For all the intimacy between them over the past handful of months, the witch’s habit of solitude was one that remained, and one Aeris respected.

Still. Still.

She passed the remainder of the time by arranging for a bath to be drawn in her chambers, the water still cold from the well, for mages had little need of hot stones or kettles for such things.

When the quiet knock came again, she let out a breath that she felt as though she’d been holding the entire time, relief mixing with renewed trepidation in her chest as she moved to open the door. Morrigan entered and nodded silently, her bearing still stoic, but to Aeris’s eyes, it carried an edge of awkward anxiety that she’d only recently begun to truly be able to recognize in the taciturn woman.

Aeris said nothing in return, and instead simply allowed the door to close before pulling Morrigan into a careful embrace. The witch’s shoulders stiffened briefly, but relaxed a heartbeat later, and tentative arms came up to wrap around Aeris’s slender waist.

“There’s a bath, if you want,” Aeris murmured at length, when they had released one another. “I wasn’t sure, but…”

“My thanks,” Morrigan cut off the explanation with the sighed words and a slight nod. “’Tis a welcome thought.” She turned toward the inner chamber, but hesitated visibly, swallowing as she turned back and added, “I… do not wish to be alone, if you do not.”

Aeris knew, by now, that the difficulty lay in the asking rather than in the sentiment itself, and that made the asking all the more potent. She smiled, full and warm, some of her own tension loosening a fraction more.

Later, they abandoned Aeris’s rooms with their thick, stifling walls and tiny windows and made their way up, past incredulous guards to the roof of one of the watchtowers. Neither had been comfortable at the idea of sleeping beneath stone once more; instead they laid their bedding out under the star-strewn sky and drank in the sight of it together for long hours before finally drifting off, Morrigan on her side and Aeris nestled warmly against her back, one arm thrown over her body.

…

The Archdemon lay dead, and both Wardens lived. Flemeth’s designs had served one purpose, at the least, and the other… Morrigan did not wish to think on it, not then. It was hard enough to leave.

She had meant to take flight as soon as the battle had ended and she had assured herself of Aeris’s safety, just vanish into the twilight without a word. It might have been easier that way – hypothetically, at least, since she had not been able to bring herself to do so.

Instead she waited alone on the battlements, toying pensively with the carven ring she wore, though it currently told her only what she already knew. Aeris was nearby across the Fort Drakon rooftop, giving orders to their allies for completing the darkspawn rout. Let the others think Morrigan aloof and uncaring all they wished, so long as a single Grey Warden mage did not.

“Morrigan,” came Aeris’s voice after a time, hoarse from yelling. Her green eyes, when Morrigan turned to meet them, were questioning.

“Aeris,” she acknowledged. “I did not wish to depart without… informing you.”

The small, sad smirk that tugged at the Warden’s lips said that she knew what Morrigan had actually meant. “Thank you. I can’t….?”

“No.” The word held an edge of sharpness, but it was softened by the step Morrigan took forward to close the distance and take her hands. Aeris’s fingers brushed against the still-new design on Morrigan’s palm.

“Alright,” she whispered.

Morrigan held her eyes as well as her hands for a long moment, finding nothing left to say. Finally, she leaned down, slowly but without hesitation, and caught Aeris’s lips with her own.

The kiss was both long and painfully, inadequately short, and the familiar freedom of wind through her feathers as she spiraled aloft at last, far more bitter than sweet.   

[dragonageholidaycheer]

Here’s my gift for LisSuperKawaii! So sorry about the lateness. I hope you enjoy this picture, it’s the very first time I’ve drawn both a mabari and a halla!

[dragonageholidaycheer]

For maybethings from tinyfierce

From tinyfierce for maybethings, who requested adorable Bull with their Cadash. Chargemastide

A/N: GUESS WHO GOT YOU AGAIN THIS YEAR MAYBETHINGS YEAHHH But seriously, wanted to write something non-spoilery for Vyera and Bull. I combed your tumblr looking for info about Vyera and samples of her voice (and you answered my asks, thanks!), and since I wasn’t sure which direction you went on Bull’s personal quest with her, I went with the last post I saw before I finished. Anyway, just wanted to write something fluffy and sweet – and there’s nothing like the holidays for slow burn. =)

Satinalia, First Day Full of purpose, Vyera pushed open the tavern door and strode straight ahead.

It was lively, more so than usual as the chill of winter seeped its way even through Skyhold’s protective magic. The courtyard, once a throughway for sparring and idle chatter, was now the center of all things festive. What had once been a one-minute stroll from one end of the other had become nearly five times that: start walking, avoid scout blindly carrying large rolled-up banner, dodge back from another scout carrying ribbons, take a few steps forward, nearly bump into two mages arguing about how best to light tree candles, maneuver through conversation, circle giant inconvenient conifer firmly mounted in the middle of route, weave through stacks of crates, nearly trip on bottle of wine rolling across the ground, crash into servant chasing after it.

Facing this everywhere across Skyhold, her usually chipper and upbeat demeanor had understandably been dealt a serious blow. No, the winter celebration was not winning any points with the Inquisitor, and it hadn’t even formally started yet.

Still grousing, she reached Krem’s usual seat. One look at what she held in her outstretched hand, and he smirked, thumbing in his commander’s general direction. “Bull,” she called as she closed the distance, and he turned. She held up a poorly-carved statuette made to look like one of the war table’s figures, most likely made from a bottle cork. She spun it once, twice between her fingers and cleared her throat.

The qunari merely grinned at his handiwork. “Nice, huh?”

“The war council regrets to inform you,” she began flatly, “that your ‘requisition assignment’ is a giant waste of Skyhold resources.” Her nose wrinkled the more she looked at the crudely-hewn figure. “What is this supposed to be, anyway?”

“A man and a tree,” he explained, the chair beneath him creaking in protest as he leaned forward to point out the finer details in his carving. “You see, this is the trunk. And this here is the farmer. And that’s his– ”

“Lovely,” she interrupted, settling her free hand on her hip. “But what does that have to do with beans, exactly?” “Cocoa beans,” he corrected. He tilted his head and gestured to the carving again. “Hometown delicacy. Grow on trees. Grind ‘em into a powder, and there’s nothing else like it!”

Sighing at the look on his face, Vyera couldn’t help the corners of her mouth tugging upwards ever so slightly. “Well, Cullen and Leliana say that diverting half a dozen ships to Rivain to pick them up is completely unfeasible.” She tossed him the figure, allowing herself a quick admiring glimpse of the scars on his hands before pulling her gaze back to business.

“You almost got Josephine,” she admitted. “When she read the word ‘cocoa,’ her eyes glazed over like a Feastday ham.” He chuckled, and Vyera crossed her arms over her chest. “Final verdict, though: no way.” “Not a problem, Boss.” He leaned back, hooking one arm over the back of the chair and lifting his chin. “I’ll ask Varric. That guy gets shit done.”

He spread his knees, and the inviting look of that gesture wasn’t lost on the Inquisitor as she turned and pulled her hood up to face the incoming cold.

Satinalia, Second Day

Festooned.

That was the best word for the courtyard in its present state, walls covered in long banners and ribbons hanging from the parapets, and the massive tree Dorian had insisted upon choosing rendering the sparring arena unusable. Decorated poles had been mounted in the ground, lanterns hung, and the smell of pies fought with the sharp tang of tree sap for dominance.

“You putting this in your reports, too?”

Vyera nudged Bull with her foot, prompting him to chuckle. They stood on the landing halfway in the middle of the keep steps, a high enough vantage point to observe the goings-on.

“Just watching,” he said, scratching his chin as a fond grin wound itself across his craggy features. “Holidays are the best. Even the Vints know how to throw a good party.”

The dwarf murmured something noncommittal in response, and Bull glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t agree?”

She sighed, watching as servants pried open crates of spices and sorted them accordingly. “I never cared for them,” she admitted. “Mostly they were just occasions for the annual brunt-assigning of family guilt.” With a shrug, she grimaced at the memories of uncomfortable feasts and passive-aggressive dinner conversations. “Besides, I was always busy – the carta’s got a lot to do when people are busy looking the other way celebrating.”

He turned to face her, spreading his arms. “Then come join the Chargers! We’ll change your mind.”

There was no hiding the amusement on her face as she looked up at him. “A bunch of qunari-led mercenaries celebrate Satinalia?”

“Kind of. Fourth day, anyway.” Proudly, he tapped his chest. “We call it Chargemastide.”

Vyera raised an eyebrow, still smiling, but saying goddamn nothing to reward him for that awful name.

“Most of the Chargers don’t have kin,” he explained, “and everyone else can’t be with theirs. It’s the life, you know? So instead of getting raw about it and drinking ourselves numb, we took all the best of every festival and drink ourselves sick. It’s a lot more fun, too.”

“All right,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll bite. What’s first on the list?”

Bull laughed, a booming sound that echoed in the Inquisitor’s chest and made her heart thrum. “First,” he began, “Orzammar, for Rocky. He gets the foulest, strongest stuff he can find– ” “Really not selling me on this, Bull.” “ – and we all make toasts to what failed to kill us this year. Then it’s Dalish’s turn.” He made a sweeping motion with one arm, taking a half-step back. “Old clan tradition. You search what you’re carrying at that exact moment, find the best gift. Put it on the table. Then we all get ale and whoever downs theirs fastest gets first choice.” At her skeptical expression, the qunari grinned. “The drinking part was our idea.”

“I’m game,” she said, “but won’t the best ones be gone quickly?” “Doesn’t matter.” He snorted and spread his hands palm-up. “After a few of our drinks, you can’t tell your ass from your elbow. Went in one year wanting the piece of drake leather Stitches dug up for a grip, woke up in the morning with a goat testicle necklace.”

“Wow,” Vyera managed, doing her best to look some semblance of impressed. “Yeeah,” Bull rubbed the back of his neck, the return path of his hand across his chest hard to ignore. “Apparently almost punched Krem through a wall over it. Don’t remember a damn thing, but I kept it anyway.” He thumbed back toward the tavern. “Want to see it?”

She turned away to hide her smile.

“No way in hell, thanks.”

Satinalia, Third Day

“If I have to smile and simper and shake one more hand,” Vyera muttered over her drink, “someone’s getting stabbed.”

The Josephine-mandated finery chafed at her neck and wrists, but the talking-to she’d been given about how important their allies in the nobility were had been grudgingly accepted. These were the coffers funding the Inquisition, and this feast wasn’t just about the food.

Vyera had been sure to situate herself near the banquet table. She’d learned a lot from these dinners – a mouthful of sweetmeats, when well-timed, could save you from at least fifteen seconds of conversation. A minute, tops.

She was pondering what strategy to best employ when a blonde elf joined her, letting loose a revolted noise and undisguised sneer.

“Pompous twats, the lot of ‘em,” she huffed. “An’ that’s an insult to twats everywhere.”

“Tell me about it,” sighed the Inquisitor. “But if we try to escape, Leliana will have us shot.”

“ ‘s the only reason I’m still here,” Sera agreed, plucking a handful of cheese slices from the artful arrangement behind them. “That and the food’s not half bad.” Half a dozen went in her mouth. “An’ Bull’f fing.”

“Bull’s thing?”

At her quick interest, Sera grinned smugly.

Goddamnit, Vyera cursed to herself. She needed to get that under control, and how.

“ ‘s like this, see.” The archer sidled up to her, discreetly tugging at something tucked under her cuffs. A hint of leafy green briefly peeked out before it was expertly hidden away again.

“Parsley?”

“Parsley,” Sera confirmed, snickering. “I’ve got quick hands, an’ Bull’s got quick eyes. I see how many pockets I can stuff bits of it into, an’ he has to call ‘em.”

“I see.” Her eyes followed one of the Orlesian minor nobles crossing in front of them, nodding her head in acknowledgment as he gave a passing bow. “And if you get caught, it’s just a vegetable.”

“ ‘s the plan. That, an’ not go mad on one of these snotty cocks.”

Stretching a bit to accommodate for her height, Vyera caught sight of Bull quickly. He stood within an easy distance, drinking and talking with Varric over a very fashionable yet horribly-undersized side table.

“So,” she asked casually, “how many has he gotten so far?”

“All ‘cept one,” she managed through a mouthful of bread. “He’s good, real good. You were s’posed to be next, but…” She wagged a finger, smirking. “Never takes his eyes off you, does he? ‘s asking for it, that is.”

Heat spread from beneath the Inquisitor’s collar, warming her throat.

“Got any more parsley?”

Sera’s grin broadened. “You want in?”

“Damn right I do.” “Brilliant. Two shakes.”

Bull met her gaze through a gap in the well-dressed crowd, just long enough for Vyera to pointedly raise her glass.

He toasted her back, smirking as the Inquisitor had a fistful of parsley unceremoniously shoved into her waist sash.

Satinalia, Fourth Day

The instant night fell, Chargemastide began with a bang.

On the second floor of the tavern, raucous and joyous, were the mercenary company and their adopted sister-in-arms. Their drinks were always full, their faces bright, and their cobbled-together traditions were drunken perversions of their pious roots.

Vyera loved it from the start.

The toasts of ‘these bastards didn’t get us’ had included everything from Venatori and dragons (the latter getting a particularly loud cheer) to tripping on a stick and that one wart Rocky had.

“Coulda killed me,” he growled. “Thing didn’t look natural.”

She’d even won one of the better prizes of Dalish’s battle royale – though ‘better’ was entirely subjective – and planned on using her new nug carving as a paperweight for the important documents.

Naturally, the drinking was followed by more drinking. The Fereldans in the group made a rule that every time anyone, Charger or no, caught fire from a Satinalia candle, everyone drank. They’d emptied a few tankards that way, toasting the poor singed bastards.

There was one tradition that played to her strengths, however. She might not have been much of a drinker, but she was Carta, and she was a gambler – and Krem’s Tevinter tradition was a game of poker. True to the Vints, material things weren’t important; they played for favors. Unspecified, non-retractable, at-the-winner’s-discretion favors. Everyone’s name went into the pot, and if you won it, you kept it.

Krem won Bull’s. Bull won two: Stitches’ and, to her chagrin, Vyera’s.

Vyera, however, won four.

“Not bad, boss,” Bull had observed as he tossed his cards back in. “But don’t forget, I own your ass.” He tapped the paper with her name on it, clawed finger looking menacing as she steeled her features.

“You might own it,” she countered, leaning back and folding her hands. “But maybe you don’t know how to use it right.”

She was rewarded with a chorus of wolf-whistles and claps on the back – and the slow roll of Bull’s shoulders as his eyes damn near burned a path up her from toes to tits.

Yes. Much better than Carta holidays.

It was well into the evening when it came time for Bull’s tradition, which was another in the long lineup of ‘original sounded lovely, now drunken chaos’ events planned for the evening. He explained that Seheron was overrun by migratory birds in winter, and the qunari would have meditation contests as to who could attract the most to roost on their horns with their stillness.

For Chargemastide, however, everyone took turns balancing things on their heads while the others pelted them with corks.

It may not have been dignified, but they made up the difference in enthusiasm. Bull must’ve told the tavernkeep months before, because there were washtubs – washtubs – filled with corks of every size and shape. The serving girls were only too happy to get in on it, hurling childish insults and laughing themselves to tears as they whipped tiny projectiles at whoever the current victim was.

Vyera was good and soused for her round, taunting everyone to come take a shot at the famous Inquisitor and pass another book to add to the head-tower and she’s already lasted twice as long as Skinner and she could water daisies with those insults and you call that a throw? and she could do this all night, bring your worst! Of course they’d responded to the challenge, and she only gave in after Grim damn near dumped a half-full tub over her head.

Her ribs hurt from laughing long after they’d moved on to the next drinking game. It appeared to be nothing but playing single cards and the lowest drank, but it was enough. Lost in a heady, boozy glow, Vyera lazily rolled her forehead on the table beside the game, listening to the stories and smiling pleasantly. Any attempts to move were protested by her sense of balance, and the table seemed more and more welcoming the more the world spun.

A chuckle and warm hand on her shoulder roused her slightly. “Come on, mighty Inquisitor,” Krem gently coaxed, “you’ve had enough.” He attempted to move her to sitting, but her rolling vision saw fit to steal her body of any remaining strength. She slumped back onto the table, groaning.

“I’m using my favor,” she grumbled, attempting to fish around in her pocket for the scrap of paper with Krem’s name on it. “ ‘Let me die here’ is good.”

“Keep it,” he laughed. “I’ve got a better idea.”

The last thing she clearly remembered was a strong arm under her backside and another around her shoulders, and then all the blood left her brain.

When she came to, her head was a little clearer – though the situation wasn’t. Not at first. It took her a moment to realize that she was being carried, and that her generous savior had already made it to the Great Hall.

“Bull?”

She could feel the chuckle vibrate in his chest, and the soothing rumble of his voice was stronger still.

“You up? Good, get the door. My hands are full.” As they reached the door to the stairs, he leaned over, and she lazily turned the latch. He walked through and kicked it shut, starting on the long trek up to her chambers.

“You did good tonight, Boss.” His tone was edged with pride, and Vyera’s skin tingled at every point of contact with his. “Made their night. Really.” He laughed, and that tingle grew into a burn. “Got some stories to tell now.”

She let her forehead fall against his shoulder, warm breath brushing against his throat. “I’m glad I came out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Snickering, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. Her strength had returned enough to shift in his arms, and she raised her head to plant a kiss on his scarred cheek. She felt his smirk widen beneath her lips at the gesture, and he rumbled appreciation.

“Now that’s my kind of thank-you.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” It didn’t take much at all to turn his head and claim his mouth.

The feet beneath her stilled, and she felt him gently lift her a bit, easing the difference in their height. The kiss was chaste, by most standards – parted lips and soft pressure – in the darkness of the stairwell tower.

She pulled back, and immediately felt him let out a long breath.

“Damn.”

She tensed. “No?” He held her a bit tighter as he began climbing again. “I’m not saying no,” he said slowly. “But I can’t say ‘yes.’ Not to drunk people. It’s a thing I… try not to do.”

As his meaning sank in, her relief was palpable. “So if I were sober– ” “You have to ask?”

She smiled against him, enjoying the way he made noises in his throat when he was irritated.

“Redheads are always trouble,” he groused.

“But you love ‘em.”

“Shit yeah.”

Satinalia, Fifth Day

Even with the hangover, she had to admit that the music was a brilliant idea.

Josephine had brought in musicians from the Fereldan lowlands, a whole host of them, and the afternoon’s festivities had been lively and merry as a result. It didn’t take long for Skyhold’s Fereldan occupants to start dancing and dragging others in to do the same, locking hands and switching partners and spinning in patterned steps. It didn’t matter your nationality or race – anyone without something in their hands, Orlesian, Tevinter, elf, and dwarf alike were enthusiastically kidnapped.

Vyera watched from the relative safety of a purple-and-gold awning, leaning against a wooden pole as the throbbing in her head came and went. This was good to see; every person here deserved a chance to enjoy themselves and forget, if only for a short time, the danger that the lurked beyond the keep’s high walls.

She stifled a laugh as one of the cook’s hands grabbed Cullen by the wrists and yanked him into the line of dance against his protests that really, he wasn’t just being modest when he said that he couldn’t dance and maker let him just not injure someone.

He’d disappeared into the crowd when a warm cup was pressed into Vyera’s hands. “Hair of the dog,” Bull insisted. There was a moment when his beautifully imperfect hands pressed against hers, and the rough brush of his skin sent gooseflesh spreading across her arms. With a small smile and a nod of thanks, she lifted it to her lips. The aroma of the spiced wine he’d brought was simultaneously both wonderful and repulsive, but her head won over her stomach and she took an experimental sip.

As she felt it settle into her churning gut, the Inquisitor visibly winced. Both from the wine – and from the bandage she was about to rip off.

“So,” she began, “about last night.”

He turned, leaning back against the pole opposite hers. “This should be good.”

“I was drinking a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t usually– ” He held up a hand to stop her. “Gonna stop you there, boss.” Frowning a bit, he scratched his back against the pole. “I know how this goes. ‘I was drunk,’ ‘I wasn’t thinking,’ ‘Never again,’ same shit. Heard it all before. But I’m not buying it.”

Focusing her gaze on her cup, the dwarf sighed into the steam. “There’s nothing to buy, Bull. I’m apologizing.” “Don’t.”

The tone in his voice caught her attention, and when she looked up, she was met with a feral-looking smirk.

“Surprised me,” he said. “You’re a timid one. Didn’t think you’d make the first move.”

Tension eased, Vyera allowed herself a snort of disbelief. “Timid? Have you seen me fight?”

“Yeah, and nothing gets me worked up hotter than a woman who can take a demon down in under a minute.” He crossed one ankle over the other. “Last night, though? Should do bold shit like that more often.”

She smirked as she sipped at her wine. “Noted.”

Satinalia, Sixth Day

Not that she’d ever admit it to Dorian, but that stupidly massive tree was absolutely beautiful.

From her balcony, Vyera looked down on the festivities below. It was a crisp, clear night, and the glittering lights below made the days of suffering various inconveniences worth it. She heard voices, chattering and singing and cheering in different tongues.

“All right, you got me,” Bull called from his seat on the stone bench behind her. “Best seats in the house.”

“I told you.” She turned, sporting a well-earned smirk. “Being Inquisitor does have its perks.”

The downside made itself clear quickly, though – a cold breeze caught the back of her neck, slipping into her clothes on its way past.

At her shiver, Bull chuckled. “Lot colder up here when you’re sober.”

“Come to think of it,” she said thoughtfully, “the only other time you’ve been up here was the other night, and we were both plastered.”

“Yeah, about that.” He waved her over, and she obligingly closed the gap. As he raised his left hand, she was struck with the impulse to run her fingers over every crease, every scar, every misshapen knuckle.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” “Three.”

The other arm caught her around the backside, pulling her straight into his lap.

“Good.”

Satinalia, Final Day

Vyera’s hair, thick and straight and one of the few points of vanity she allowed herself, covered the pillows in well-mussed waves.

Propped up on one elbow, Bull hummed appreciatively as he let a few locks run over his clawed fingers.

“Redheads?” the Inquisitor prompted, grinning.

“Redheads,” he confirmed. The hand not supporting him slid its way over the sensitive swell of her hip, earning him a halfhearted swipe and a snicker as Vyera stretched, shifting the blankets around her. 

“I deserve a break,” she teased. “Fun as that was, that could hardly be called resting. And it’s already morning.”

“I don’t half-ass things.”

“I noticed.” She rolled over into his chest, enjoying the sound of his massive heartbeat and the warmth of his skin. It was gone quickly, however, as he suddenly rolled toward his end of the bed with a grunt.

“Right, that’s it.”

Confused, she watched as he rifled around in his long-since-discarded pants, determinedly looking for something. “You’re letting the cold air in under the blankets.”

“I know. Just bear it until – ha!”

He returned, pulling her back into his arms and reaching over her to triumphantly slap a piece of paper down on the end table. “I’m calling in my favor.”

Burying herself in his warmth, Vyera frowned. “Already? What for?” He rolled onto his back, arm still pinned beneath her. His feet hung well over the edge of the bed, and he lifted one to illustrate his point. “You’ve got a week to commission a bigger bed. Or else I get to choose where we do this.”

She laughed, braving the cold air to retrieve the paper. “Hang onto it. You don’t need to waste it on that – I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.” She gently pressed it into his face, eliciting a chuckle. “Call it a Satinalia present.”

He laughed and grabbed a firm handful of ass to bring her back in. “Change your mind about holidays?”

“Maybe.” She smirked as she closed her eyes. “Just don’t screw it up in the last twelve hours and you’ve got a chance.”

“Yes ma’am.”