Lover of sloths and also Dragon Age. Word collector, sometimes writer, newbie artist, English teacher. Dragged back here kicking and screaming because of Baldur's Gate.
Bright Lost Things (94k I Various Ratings I M/F I Complete-ish) - A series of mostly standalone fics following the events of the game and beyond. The series itself is ongoing, but the individual fics are complete.
What Moves in the Dark (94k I E I M/F I Post-Campaign I Complete) - The Netherbrain is defeated, and all of Astarion's plans for his future dissolve when his closest friends leave him for Avernus. Struggling to find purpose and a way to walk in the sun again, he meets Liv, a wizard working in an alchemy shop in the Lower City. She has her own reasons for wanting to help him, but their search for a cure is put on hold when a mysterious blood illness begins sweeping the Lower City. Together, they team up to solve the mystery.
Invisible String (61k I M I M/F I Modern AU I Complete) - Brand new to Baldur's Gate, without friends or family but with a dream job as an archivist at Baldur's Gate University (that barely pays anything), Liv is introduced by a friend of a friend to Astarion whose social media career seems to be stalling and is therefore willing to rent out his spare bedroom to her. The roommates mostly avoid one another, and in a burst of loneliness, Liv joins the new app everyone in Baldur's Gate is talking about: The Weave. Who knows, maybe she really will meet someone and fall in love...
Dragon Age: The Veilguard - Lucanis Dellamorte/Camina Ingellvar
The Watcher and The Crow (103k I M, some E I M/F I Follows Events of Game I Complete) - A series of mostly standalone fics following the events of the game and beyond. The series itself is ongoing, but the individual fics are complete.
On Matters of Inertia (131k I E I M/F I Post-Game I Complete) - Saving the world is easy, putting it back together isn't. A post-Veilguard fic focusing on the relationship between Lucanis and Camina Ingellvar as they navigate their brand new relationship and all the duties and responsibilities that come their way in post-Blight Thedas. Featuring politics, dealing with that whole First Talon thing, and are we actually sure Harding is dead?
Halfway to Whole (4k I M I M/F I Modern AU - Teachers I WIP) - Veilguard modern teacher AU.
Reparation (160k I M I M/F I Post-Canon I Complete) - After the Inquisition is disbanded, Cullen Rutherford seeks a new life with his family in South Reach, alone. He works to open up a Templar Shelter in order to help Templars overcome lyrium addiction with the help of a healer Mara Lavellan. Cullen and Mara don’t see eye to eye on everything, but when an old danger appears they have to work together to keep Thedas safe, all while trying to keep the clinic running.
A Class Act (144k I M I M/F I Modern AU - Teachers I Complete) - English teacher, Mara Lavellan, is excited to start her new position at Skyhold High School. Skyhold is an underperforming school in danger of being privatized, and Mara is there to help them avoid closure. Everyone at the school is welcoming, well, everyone except a certain history teacher named Cullen Rutherford.
For the fanfic asks: 3, 4, 8, 9, and/or 14, dealer's choice on fic? :D
Ooooohhhh dealer's choice! I'm being given SO much power. Thanks for the ask, friend!
3. What is the inspiration behind this fic?
I'm going to actually talk about Handful for this one! Mass Effect 2 continues to be one of my favorite video games of all time. I think it's such a bold choice to kill off your protagonist in the first five minutes of the game! But I also find myself interested in the parts that the game doesn't really dig into. What is everything like for these characters while Shepard is gone? There are comics that help answer these questions, of course, but I always wanted more. So, in part, I saw an opportunity for an ending that could mirror that in Veilguard. I also think that I've written a fair bit of fic that is generally quite optimistic. I kind of want to do something tonally VERY different and maybe with a bit more horror.
4. What things did you research for this fic?
I tend not to write WILDLY outside of my comfort zone when it comes to fic. For Halfway, I consulted a lot with my partner about accounting, and we had many conversations to get that bit right. But I also researched district policies and bylaws on school closures and that process and how involved teachers are allowed to be. I looked up and read about teacher groups that had protested the closing of schools and what they did that worked.
For Handful, I researched a bit yesterday about building fires and corpses exposed to high heat. No context on that one. But uh...yeah.
8. Did any particular scene give you a hard time?
So many! really struggle with transition scenes. Oftentimes, a scene needs to exist for all manner of reasons, be it timing or it's that character's turn to have POV. I ALWAYS struggle with those scenes. I think it's often because I know what comes next and I know it's important and these sorts of scenes have their purpose, but they're also difficult because they kind of need to be filled. There were a few of these toward the end of Halfway that I really struggled with, but then they ended up being great scenes. For example, Lucanis helping Davrin on Saturday morning, building the prom backdrop. The garden center trip was one of those scenes! Usually, I love the scene when it's done, it's just a struggle to figure out in the moment.
9. Was there any particular scene that was extra fun to write?
Prom was so fun to write. I had a tough time not letting it spiral out wordcount-wise, but I was having the time of my life with Elek and his illegal lanterns. Also, surprising to absolutely no one, the entirety of the Treviso arc.
14. What is your favorite chapter?
I'm answering for Halfway again, but I think it's a toss-up between the flashback chapter, Chapter Eleven. And Cam and Lucanis's respective Satinalia celebrations, Chapter Seventeen.
I love Chapter Eleven because we get Varric alive! We get to see him and Cam together, and they're talking about important things. I also just really like the work I did about Caterina's death and Lucanis in the aftermath.
Chapter Seventeen is a similar thing. I just love a lot of the writing about Camina's family and going home to Nevarra. But mostly, I love the little reveal that he put the stars up!
11, 15, and 19 for the fic asks, but I’m going to let this be dealers choice so you pick what fic you want to talk about for each.
Thank you for the ask, friend!
11. If someone were to draw a moment from your fic, which moment would you pick?
Oh god, I don't know! I very much struggle with even picking out moments of my own fic I want to draw.
There are so many fun moments in Halfway to Whole, though. I would love art of their garden center visit. I think that would be so fun. All the plants and like...what it all means for them and their relationship.
I would also die if I got art of Lucanis on his ass in the snow during their cross-country ski adventure.
If anyone wants to draw Lucanis in his really ugly Satinalia sweater, they have my blessing. I was going to do it, and then I didn't lmao.
15. What element of the writing itself are you most proud of (e.g. dialogue, imagery, pacing, etc.)?
I'm going to answer this one for Halfway as well. I think I'm most proud of both Cam and Lucanis's emotional journeys through the fic. They're both dealing with a lot, but I think that I managed to give both of them space and time within the fic to really learn and grow. I think it happens really naturally and believably. We do see less of Cam's journey, but hers is less about the work put in and more about the realization she needs help, so I think it's okay. I just think where they start and where they end up, I'm really, really proud of it. I really tried to let them take their time and be a little messy about it.
19. Are there any particular headcanons or theories that found their way into the fic?
So many. I'm trying not to spoil anything for you, though. This is a small spoiler for Inertia, but I'm going to talk about it anyway.
I don't think Harding is the only dwarf that got magic! We know that hers sort of awakens after touching the lyrium dagger, but across the lore there's other stuff happening with dwarves. I think that her touching the lyrium dagger wakes up something within her, specifically, but I think with Solas back moving in the world and messing with the Veil, the Titans are more active than we know. I think all that shit with Valta had consequences.
I also really jive with the hive-mind connectedness of the stone magic for dwarves, and wouldn't that be wonderful to feel that sort of connection to the stone and to others and be folded into something? There's horror there, too. Because you didn't ask for that connection! And then, what happens when that goes away?
10. Is there any moment in your fic that makes you go crazy, even if it's not the most well-written?
Is all of it an answer? I feel like just the dynamic of these three makes me feel insane at all times. Things about the fic in particular, though. I feel really not normal about the Atwood poem I used to title the sections.
And I am never normal about this line from Illario: He only feels that he has her undivided attention when she is correcting him. He craves those moments just before the violence, the ones where she seems to finally see him.
12. Is there any aspect of the fic you considered changing? How would it have been different?
Made it like 10k longer? I don't know. I feel like there is a lot I covered, and a lot I didn't. I think there's probably more moments I could have dug into more deeply or given us more of.
I sort of wish I'd written more of the Villa when it was filled with people. I wish that maybe we would have gotten more of this Crow family before they're all murdered. I recognize that is really mean, but I do think that we would have cared a bit more when they died if we'd had the time to love all Caterina's children the way she did.
I don't know. I go back and forth on if the length of the fic is kind of part of what makes it what it is. That it's just a collection of moments, and it's not all of them?
Hey, thank you. Oh Inertia! I've actually been thinking a lot about this fic lately as I dig into Handful and make everything awful lmao.
5. Share a favorite snippet of dialogue.
"Because I do not get to think of it! Because what is the point in considering anything beyond this when it will not change what my life actually is? You know I don't want to be First Talon, isn't that enough, Camina? Do not ask me to dream up a life with you I'll never get to see. You think asking me what I want is a kindness, but it's not."
I'd pick an angsty line all the time, but I do love this as sort of the crux of a lot of what's going on in Inertia.
6. Share a snippet of favorite imagery.
He's surprised to find his feet still working, that they carry him out of the room, Illario hot on his heels, the sound of his boots against the marble floors a sharp echo. He glances back, just once, to see Caterina sitting as the solitary head of an empty table, staring blankly into the morning light. She looks smaller somehow, frame stiff in the gilded chair, less the formidable Talon of his youth and more an old woman. He wants to reach back to her, kneel beside her chair, beg for forgiveness. But there's nothing to be said that won't reopen this wound. Sometimes love means hurting cleanly, the kindness of a quick kill.
7. Share your favorite joke/gag.
Not me going...were there jokes in Inertia? And then immediately hunting through the smut chapters. My favorite running gag is how much skin and hair is a sensitivity nightmare for Spite.
“Lucanis has so much hair. Why hair? It does not stay in place. It falls out. And skin? Skin is not my favorite. Rook is my favorite, maybe better without skin, though,” Spite says.
9. Was there any scene that was extra fun to write?
Yes. I loved writing Camina's claustrophobic cave nightmare. I got to tap into my own experiences with caving and just the absolute awfulness that is doing a squeeze. It was SO fun to really dip into that experience and repurpose it here. Lots of folks said they absolutely hated reading that, so I think I did the job well.
12. Is there any aspect of the fic you considered changing? How would it have been different?
Yes. The entire Treviso arc went through a lot of iterations and changes in my head. Mariana was not a character I planned on, and then I created her and she was so....correct about the Crows! But she was also a problem I'd made with no solution! There was definitely a world where the Crows killed her. In fact, that was the original plan until I spent time with my friend and kind of talked her through where I was at with it, and we came back to that scene with Camina and Caterina in the garden and Camina asking 'don't you wish there was another way?'. I ultimately wanted us to leave Treviso thinking that it would eventually be okay...or at least be better. I think there's a bad ending in there where Lucanis and Camina feel like they can never leave Treviso, and yeah. Antiva is messy. I don't know that I did its messiness justice.
Send me a number (or multiple), and I'll gush about my most recent fanfic! Writers, feel free to reblog and include the name or link for your newest fic.
Summarize the fic in 3-5 sentences.
Summarize the fic using 3-5 memes.
What was the inspiration behind this fic?
What things did you research for this fic?
Share a snippet of your favorite dialogue.
Share a snippet of your favorite imagery.
Share your favorite joke/gag (if applicable).
Did any particular scene give you a hard time?
Was any particular scene extra fun to write?
Is there any moment in your fic that makes you go crazy, even if it's not the most well-written?
If someone were to draw one moment from your fic, which moment would you pick?
Is there any aspect of your fic you considered changing? How would it have been different?
What music did you listen to while writing this?
What is your favorite chapter (if applicable)?
What element of the writing itself are you most proud of (e.g. dialogue, imagery, pacing, etc)?
What are some fandom-specific selling points you think would entice other fans the most?
Are you considering a continuation, and if so, do you already have any ideas for how it would go?
What tropes did you find yourself including?
Are there any particular headcanons or theories of yours that found their way into the fic?
Do any comments on the fic tend to favor a specific line or element? If so, what is it?
Viago, Rook (Amri), & House de Riva/OCs; Viago and (my) Rook's first encounter. 1.6k w.
[content warning: child abuse, child murder; not graphic but openly talked about]
---
The first time they meet she is a mere eight, and he sixteen. He can he hear her sobbing in the courtyard from the laboratory window. She’s been there for nearly nine hours, in and out of her fits.
Rigor mortis will have set in by now.
“Merda, someone help that child with the body.” Master Andrea grumbles. He turns to Viago, who, alongside three other fledglings, is with him for the day for their medical studies. “Viago, go. It will be good practice.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Run along quickly now.” Master Andrea ushers him out of the room. “The rain will come soon. The humid air is bad enough – you know how she gets when she can smell them.”
Then perhaps she should not kill them so frequently, Viago thinks. He lets out a sigh, exiting the laboratory and descending the stairs. He passes a small handful of other fledglings and newly minted Crows, all watching as he makes his way to his dismal task – fledglings with a mix of sympathy and dread, Crows with a terse nod or smirk.
“First time is always the most difficult.” One Crow sighs. He stops in his tracks, turns his head to look at him.
“It is not my first time dealing with a body.”
“It will be hers.” The Crow nods towards the courtyard. “Good luck.”
As he steps out into the courtyard, he can smell the burnt grass. That woman always leaves a mess wherever she goes. Viago grumbles as he makes his way to the crying elven child in the center of the area, feels his jaw clench at what he can see of the body in her arms – large stains of dried blood across the trousers, and the small bare feet dotted with blisters and cuts.
So young.
Viago clears his throat.
“Hey.”
The little girl before him either does not hear him or ignores him. In the last six hours he’s heard some commotion – presumably other attempts at disposing of the body, but he also heard the child in hysterics. He imagines they left her to it – the more generous members of their house to allow her to mourn – to learn, while the practical among them leaving the job for some other soul to deal with.
Him. Viago sighs.
“Hey,” he says again, rounding to face her. He can’t help but grimace a little at the sight: both children covered in blood, one with her eyes wide open – a lifeless stare into the sky, the other’s filled with tears – puffy, red, and bruising. He schools his face into neutrality. “We need to burn the body.”
“No!” she cries, hunching over the body with her own, shielding her fellow fledgling from him.
“We need to burn the body before it starts to smell.” Viago grumbles, “And before she gets upset. Again.”
He heard the training session from the laboratory. He heard the way someone’s form was not to her liking, and how some girls were not as focused as others. He heard the fire being thrown, the terrified cries as the children scattered, and the whipping snap of Master Suha’s thin bamboo reed as it made contact with her girls.
One hit for a warning. Four follow in succession for disobedience or disrespect. Ten come after if she gets annoyed or offended.
Twice over he heard her strike her full set of fifteen, likely one for each fledgling. Master Suha is very exacting with her girls – “To teach them well,” she always says, and if they do not learn their lesson they may wear their shame upon their bodies for all their seniors and fellow fledglings to see.
She particularly loves to aim for the face.
Reluctantly, he gets on one knee, levelling his eyes with the crying child before him. He focuses his gaze on her eyes, forces her to look at him if only to ignore the large amount of blood coating her small frame, especially the blood smeared across her face, something more difficult to look past.
“You have not eaten all day. She will starve you if we do not get rid of the body, and leave you out here to sleep in the rain for several nights until eventually we will have to dispose of your body as well. You know this – you know her.”
A new flood of tears stream down the little girl’s face at his words. Viago does his best not to grumble yet again – he was never one for comforting others. At the very least she does not wail, instead bites her quivering lip and does her best to stay quiet as she nods, trembling. He watches as she looks down at her fellow fledgling, brushing the hair from her face and smooths it out with shaky, bloody hands. Tentatively, Viago reaches out to close the deceased’s eyes. She does not block him.
“Give her here,” Viago says, opening his arms. He really wishes he’d grabbed a spare tunic, jacket, or even an apron on the way out the lab. He’ll need to burn everything he’s wearing and scrub himself thoroughly later.
With trembling arms, the little girl moves her friend’s shoulders she’s been cradling closer to Viago, releasing her once his arms are under. He was right – her limbs are stiff now and it would be too much work to bend her into a position that’s a touch easier to carry. He struggles momentarily, unsure if he should be grateful for the small body he’s been tasked to dispose of, and wonders if he could leave the child alone for a moment to find a wheel barrel. She would likely go into hysterics at the indignity. He decides against it.
“The crematory is in the back,” he tells the little fledgling. “Come.”
As they make their way out of the courtyard, several fledglings on cleaning rotation pass them, moving in to the area they left behind.
Their walk through Villa de Riva is a quiet one, most fledglings and Crows having retreated to wherever they might go in their limited free time once lessons have concluded for the day – some out to Salle’s streets, others to their lovers’ arms, and a considerable few continue to train, study, or work. He wishes he were among the last, although the thought of leaving the child behind him alone in the courtyard with the body of her friend leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He swallows it down.
“What’s your name?” He glances down at the little girl on his heels. He does his best to hide his discomfort at her proximity.
“...Amri.”
“We’re almost there, Amri,” he tells her.
Their modest crematory, a small investment to make body disposal more efficient —and perhaps a slight show of wealth— is located in the back of Villa de Riva, connected to the equally modest smithy that was built for special interests and experimentation, though he’s heard talk of expanding the space. Several Crows and studious fledglings continue to work alongside hired blacksmiths as the sun sets. They nod wordlessly at the two of them as they pass.
“Viago.” Alessandra, House de Riva’s primary undertaker, comes out to greet him, bringing a stretcher with her. Viago lays the body down and follows Alessandra’s lead, carrying it past the threshold. “And this is?”
“Amri,” Viago answers for her, the little girl jumps at the mention of her name, tucking herself behind him. She’s likely never met Alessandra, unsure of what to make of the woman.
Alessandra offers Amri a sympathetic smile before she begins to work quietly, only sparing some words to Viago to run through the instructions on preparing the body with him again. Amri hovers behind him, thankfully enough out of his way, but he catches her approaching the body of her friend several times, grasping at her own hands, unsure of what to do with herself before moving farther away again.
Once they’ve finished, Alessandra turns to the elf.
“You’ve been very brave, Amri. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Alessandra says, kneeling to meet the little girl’s eyes. “We can give you a moment alone with her, if you’d like.”
Amri looks at Viago, evidently seeking some sort of permission. Perhaps she assumes he has some authority over her. He should tell her to say no, to simply watch, to hold her chin higher and honour her friend, and that a Crow does not allow their emotions to overtake them.
But between himself and House de Riva’s generous undertaker, he nods in the direction of her friend, and she takes slow steps toward her one last time, looking back at him with either fear or something he can't quite place. He can hear her start to sniffle.
She will learn from this, as difficult as it is.
Alessandra leads him outside and closes the door behind them.
“That woman.” She sighs. “I swear she puts more girls in that furnace faster than she buys them.”
Viago grits his teeth, turns his gaze elsewhere and listens between the sound of hammers and clanging metal, and hears the cries of the little girl in the other room. She did not kill this one, he wants to say, but thinks better of it.
From his spot in the laboratory that morning, from its open window, he heard her. He heard how Master Suha scolded them, accused them of being more preoccupied with playing Crows rather than wanting to be Crows. He heard her command them to face each other in a single match to the end, or she would finish their training there herself.
He heard the begging of whom he now knows is Amri, imploring for forgiveness. He heard her terrified sobs and pleading as he can only imagine her friend turning on her. He heard the sound of their blades clashing, cries for a Mina, the name of the other fledgling, to stop. For a moment he heard absolutely nothing but the sound of Master Suha’s expensive shoes step through something wet, and then echo through the villa as she walked away, ending the lesson.
Then he heard little Amri scream and cry for hours.
"There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
"Promise me," Lucanis had said at the end of the world, "if Solas betrays us again and you see an opening, you take it. And so will I."
He'd simply had no idea how damning extracting that promise from Camina's lips would be.
Elgar'nan is dead, but the world is still ending. The Fade is tearing itself to shreds, unraveling in long, ragged tears, as though some long, spindly fingers have hooked themselves into the very fabric of creation and begun to pull. Lucanis can feel it in his bones, behind his teeth — the terrible tilt of the world, the sickening sensation of something fundamental slipping out of place. Spite is howling inside his skull, frantic and feral. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The air tastes wrong. The sky feels wrong. Everything is wrong.
He watches Camina stand there amid the collapse of everything, battered and exhausted and somehow still managing to be hopeful, holding out that fucking dagger. Offering trust and mercy, and one last chance to Solas, as though the world isn't already bleeding out at their feet. As though hope alone might be enough to stitch it back together.
For one impossible, devastating moment, Lucanis wants to believe her.
But Solas betrays them anyway.
Solas is halfway up the steps when Lucanis hears him say, "To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."
Camina's desperate glance back over her shoulder at him is one of the many images he will carry after this day is done. But in the moment, he has no way of knowing it will be the last time she looks at him. There is a question in her eyes that seems to ask, Are you with me?
The answer is as it ever was: always.
She sprints up the steps at Solas, the spirits she calls upon reaching up from the ground below, the clutch of their bony fingers slowing him, making him stumble. In all the time he's known her, she has never been a very proficient fighter. He'd noticed it the first day he met her in the Ossuary. He hadn't understood why she wielded her magic like a blunt instrument, why every spell and twist and turn was clumsier than any fledgling he had ever seen. He'd learned later that it was because she is an academic, had been trained to protect and ward. But she was never like him — born and honed into a weapon until little else remains. She holds her staff up anyway, fighting for this world.
Camina always knew this was a weakness. She spent hours in the courtyard training and learning. He'd even sparred with her a fair few times, but she never had any hope of besting him. She'd asked him more than once for his assessment of her abilities — he was the mage killer after all. And he'd stumbled through some awkward assessments, watching her amethyst eyes for any sign he'd somehow overstepped.
Now, he wishes he'd said more. Wishes he had woken her up at whatever passed for dawn in the endless brightness of the Lighthouse. That he had insisted on training her himself. Maybe then she would have had some hope at besting Solas now.
Solas is injured, but he is still a god. And she is just one stubborn woman.
Solas's magic lashes out at her, the green sparks knocking her off her feet. Spite is furious, and Lucanis lets that rage and fury guide him. He has killed one god today; what is another?
"LEAVE. ROOK. ALONE," Spite yells as together they pounce at Solas.
Neve is back on her feet too, the icy shards of her own magic flying Solas's way. Lucanis trades blows, his rapier scraping the length of the lyrium dagger's blade. By then, Camina is at his side, her familiar necromantic magic an onslaught aimed directly at Solas.
There is a pulse of power; he and Neve are knocked off their feet. His head slams against implacable stone, and everything is blurry for too many painful seconds. When he manages to lift his head, Camina has her hands on the dagger, wrestling Solas for control. Their fighting is ugly, desperate — action and reaction.
Lucanis ignores the ringing in his ears and rolls his shoulders as he stands, readying to leap at Solas once more. Another pulse of Solas's magic, and this time he tries to roll, to dodge whatever spell is coming his way. It turns out to be pointless because a barrier has emerged, protecting him as much as it keeps him from rushing to Camina's side. He thinks it must be Neve, but the magic isn't hers. He whorls quickly, looking for the answer, to see who it is that is keeping him back. Morrigan and the Inquisitor are here.
"Solas!" The Inquisitor pleads.
How useless their attempts to persuade the Dread Wolf; Solas has control of the dagger now.
"Camina!" Lucanis screams the moment before Solas plunges the dagger into her side. He sees the blow coming, the awful arc of it, the way her dodge is far too slow.
Solas looks almost surprised to see the blow land, and Lucanis wonders if he is remembering another ally he had stabbed in much the same way. Camina seizes the opening, grits her teeth, and rips the dagger from where it was plunged, her blood spraying out, coating the ground. In another world, he thinks he might be proud of the way she uses a move he knows he taught her. The way she drops low, sweeping the dagger around to knock Solas off his feet. He knows she's sliced the backs of his legs in the process, and Solas groans as he collapses to his knees.
"Now your blood is on the dagger, too," she spits.
"Rook!" Morrigan calls, a warning, a portent.
But it is far too late. Tendrils of magic are already reaching, already seeking, already curling around them both. It happens slowly and then all at once. The Fade tear hangs open above them all like some terrible maw, and they are lifted, both of them flying into the air. The magical tendrils have pushed Camina and Solas together in some facsimile of intimacy, their bodies flush as they struggle against the magical bindings. They hang there for a moment in their struggle, suspended, caught.
And then it swallows them both before it disappears.
"Nooooooo!" The word emerges from him in a primal scream as he watches the woman he loves disappear for the second time in so many weeks.
He staggers to his feet, running at the space she just was as though he might still be able to catch her. As if there is still some echo of her to grasp onto. He glances around wildly, looking back at Morrigan — the shade of Mythal — surely she has a way to fix this, a means to make this right, to bring Camina back?
"Bring. Rook. Back!" His demon rages, and for once, he doesn't mind the way Spite rips the words from his throat.
"'Tis done….at far too high a price," Morrigan says. "The Veil repaired, sustained once more. Where they have gone, I dare not even think to follow."
"Then send me! I will go," Lucanis pleads. He'd told himself never again after Tearstone would he feel so desperately hopeless again, never again would he allow her to go somewhere he cannot follow. If only it was up to him.
It is the pity in Morrigan's eyes that is an answer in itself. He falls to his knees beside the puddle of her blood, stays there so long it runs against his knees, seeps into the leather and stains it.
Tagged by the wonderful @sorcerousadventurer, @epiphany-jones, @gatesofminrathous, @sorrygoldfish, and @blightwashed. Thank you for thinking of me!
I'm going to take a page out of @qaanngi's book and post an art and a writing WIP this week.
First up, writing. Just posted the prologue for I Will Show You Fear in a Handful of Dust today(Let's just refer to it as Handful going forward because that's a mouthful ha!). So here's a bit of the first chapter. It's a real tragedy that it's taken me this long to write a Neve POV. As always, Eliot references abound here.
Neve tucks her handkerchief away as she steps back out into the cold, persistent drizzle. These days, Minrathous feels empty, hollow. Those who could afford to leave have fled, and those who couldn't eke out some version of survival.
It is hard, she thinks, to explain the changes in her unreal city, to its rhythms, its patterns. It is something she feels that only someone else from here can truly understand. The way the city breathes is different - something changed in it while she was away, something deeper than the obvious blight and suffering. Every day, she feels that she is trying, grasping, attempting to find the thread of this place again, that maybe if she does, she will find absolution for not being enough to save it completely. But she knows she's not the only one who seems to be searching, seeking. Those acknowledgments live in glances, in nods on familiar corners where she is seen and therefore known. It is impossible for her to travel in obscurity these days.
And on that very optimistic note, here's a peek at a piece I'm working on for Lucanis week. I am especially proud of the armor rendering here.
Tagging @qaanngi, @thewyvernrising, and @grad-writes (though I suppose it's not Wednesday for you, is it?).
"There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
"Promise me," Lucanis had said at the end of the world, "if Solas betrays us again and you see an opening, you take it. And so will I."
He'd simply had no idea how damning extracting that promise from Camina's lips would be.
Elgar'nan is dead, but the world is still ending. The Fade is tearing itself to shreds, unraveling in long, ragged tears, as though some long, spindly fingers have hooked themselves into the very fabric of creation and begun to pull. Lucanis can feel it in his bones, behind his teeth — the terrible tilt of the world, the sickening sensation of something fundamental slipping out of place. Spite is howling inside his skull, frantic and feral. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The air tastes wrong. The sky feels wrong. Everything is wrong.
He watches Camina stand there amid the collapse of everything, battered and exhausted and somehow still managing to be hopeful, holding out that fucking dagger. Offering trust and mercy, and one last chance to Solas, as though the world isn't already bleeding out at their feet. As though hope alone might be enough to stitch it back together.
For one impossible, devastating moment, Lucanis wants to believe her.
But Solas betrays them anyway.
Solas is halfway up the steps when Lucanis hears him say, "To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."
Camina's desperate glance back over her shoulder at him is one of the many images he will carry after this day is done. But in the moment, he has no way of knowing it will be the last time she looks at him. There is a question in her eyes that seems to ask, Are you with me?
The answer is as it ever was: always.
She sprints up the steps at Solas, the spirits she calls upon reaching up from the ground below, the clutch of their bony fingers slowing him, making him stumble. In all the time he's known her, she has never been a very proficient fighter. He'd noticed it the first day he met her in the Ossuary. He hadn't understood why she wielded her magic like a blunt instrument, why every spell and twist and turn was clumsier than any fledgling he had ever seen. He'd learned later that it was because she is an academic, had been trained to protect and ward. But she was never like him — born and honed into a weapon until little else remains. She holds her staff up anyway, fighting for this world.
Camina always knew this was a weakness. She spent hours in the courtyard training and learning. He'd even sparred with her a fair few times, but she never had any hope of besting him. She'd asked him more than once for his assessment of her abilities — he was the mage killer after all. And he'd stumbled through some awkward assessments, watching her amethyst eyes for any sign he'd somehow overstepped.
Now, he wishes he'd said more. Wishes he had woken her up at whatever passed for dawn in the endless brightness of the Lighthouse. That he had insisted on training her himself. Maybe then she would have had some hope at besting Solas now.
Solas is injured, but he is still a god. And she is just one stubborn woman.
Solas's magic lashes out at her, the green sparks knocking her off her feet. Spite is furious, and Lucanis lets that rage and fury guide him. He has killed one god today; what is another?
"LEAVE. ROOK. ALONE," Spite yells as together they pounce at Solas.
Neve is back on her feet too, the icy shards of her own magic flying Solas's way. Lucanis trades blows, his rapier scraping the length of the lyrium dagger's blade. By then, Camina is at his side, her familiar necromantic magic an onslaught aimed directly at Solas.
There is a pulse of power; he and Neve are knocked off their feet. His head slams against implacable stone, and everything is blurry for too many painful seconds. When he manages to lift his head, Camina has her hands on the dagger, wrestling Solas for control. Their fighting is ugly, desperate — action and reaction.
Lucanis ignores the ringing in his ears and rolls his shoulders as he stands, readying to leap at Solas once more. Another pulse of Solas's magic, and this time he tries to roll, to dodge whatever spell is coming his way. It turns out to be pointless because a barrier has emerged, protecting him as much as it keeps him from rushing to Camina's side. He thinks it must be Neve, but the magic isn't hers. He whorls quickly, looking for the answer, to see who it is that is keeping him back. Morrigan and the Inquisitor are here.
"Solas!" The Inquisitor pleads.
How useless their attempts to persuade the Dread Wolf; Solas has control of the dagger now.
"Camina!" Lucanis screams the moment before Solas plunges the dagger into her side. He sees the blow coming, the awful arc of it, the way her dodge is far too slow.
Solas looks almost surprised to see the blow land, and Lucanis wonders if he is remembering another ally he had stabbed in much the same way. Camina seizes the opening, grits her teeth, and rips the dagger from where it was plunged, her blood spraying out, coating the ground. In another world, he thinks he might be proud of the way she uses a move he knows he taught her. The way she drops low, sweeping the dagger around to knock Solas off his feet. He knows she's sliced the backs of his legs in the process, and Solas groans as he collapses to his knees.
"Now your blood is on the dagger, too," she spits.
"Rook!" Morrigan calls, a warning, a portent.
But it is far too late. Tendrils of magic are already reaching, already seeking, already curling around them both. It happens slowly and then all at once. The Fade tear hangs open above them all like some terrible maw, and they are lifted, both of them flying into the air. The magical tendrils have pushed Camina and Solas together in some facsimile of intimacy, their bodies flush as they struggle against the magical bindings. They hang there for a moment in their struggle, suspended, caught.
And then it swallows them both before it disappears.
"Nooooooo!" The word emerges from him in a primal scream as he watches the woman he loves disappear for the second time in so many weeks.
He staggers to his feet, running at the space she just was as though he might still be able to catch her. As if there is still some echo of her to grasp onto. He glances around wildly, looking back at Morrigan — the shade of Mythal — surely she has a way to fix this, a means to make this right, to bring Camina back?
"Bring. Rook. Back!" His demon rages, and for once, he doesn't mind the way Spite rips the words from his throat.
"'Tis done….at far too high a price," Morrigan says. "The Veil repaired, sustained once more. Where they have gone, I dare not even think to follow."
"Then send me! I will go," Lucanis pleads. He'd told himself never again after Tearstone would he feel so desperately hopeless again, never again would he allow her to go somewhere he cannot follow. If only it was up to him.
It is the pity in Morrigan's eyes that is an answer in itself. He falls to his knees beside the puddle of her blood, stays there so long it runs against his knees, seeps into the leather and stains it.
Absolutely deeply unfortunate that my therapist's advice to me about my struggling to complete house projects in the summer time actually fucking works?
She's like okay, just go about your day and make a list on your phone of all the things you're finding annoying around your house. You don't have to do anything about these things. You're just making a list. And then, the next day, you pick ONE thing from the list and do that.
And you know what? Minus last week when I was SO sick I couldn't move....it's working? And my life gets just that much better every single day because I am deliberately removing an annoyance.
Asking myself the really important questions with this WIP, which is just how many references to The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot are too many references?
I also can't decide if the man who wrote an entire poem bemoaning the modern state of culture and art would be horrified or delighted by the ways I'm using his words in Dragon Age fanfiction lmao.
I'm finishing up drafting chapter two this morning, but I do think that this will start posting this week now that I am no longer dying.
Relationship: Lucanis Dellamorte/Davrin/Neve Gallus
Rating: Explicit
Words: 70k (Chapter 14/?)
Tags: Real World Modern AU, Men's Gymnastics, Sibling Rivalry, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Mystery, Family Drama, Humor and Angst
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Chapter Fourteen
Of the myriad ways to lie, Lucanis has always preferred the passive sort. White lies, lies of omission, lies of minimization, half-truths—the lies of a childhood defined by one golden rule above all else: Appease Caterina. He is not practiced in the sort of bold lies told with smooth smiles and flippant words, lies meant to deceive. He would have preferred to keep to what he knew, to say that it was fine, that it only hurt a little, that it would probably be better in a few days with some ice and elevation. It was a long weekend, after all. He had the time to spare. It was all possible. It's not a lie if he makes himself believe his own words, is it?
Then, Davrin had forced his hand.
Lucanis stares between his swollen knee on his left and the little white pill in his right hand.
After the incident, he'd sat propped up in the PT office, Davrin massaging and prodding the mosaic of scar tissue while Manfred watched on with a plastic hot dog strapped to his skeletal hand. It had been a simple tumbling pass of all things—a full twisting layout—the sort of thing Lucanis could do in his sleep. But he'd come down strange, and knowing that electric pain on impact, the way it shot up his thigh and radiated outward with searing heat, he'd known in an instant it was bad.
Tagged by @thefrostyshepard, @dags-over-caravans, and @thewyvernrising, thank you for thinking of me. It's been a minute since I did this, so let's update this.
Last Song: I've kind of been cycling Clair Obscur as the writing music lately, so definitely some of that. Also, Noah Kahan's new album is on perpetual repeat. Sprinkling in some Phoebe Bridgers, too, because I snagged concert tickets, and I know that's more than one song, but I can never pick one thing. I contain multitudes, okay?
Currently Watching: The Legend of Vox Machina. Though I did rewatch the entirety of The Pitt on Sunday and Monday when I was too sick to move. Usually, I am terrible at watching things, though. I blame the dog; she thinks everything on the t.v. is real.
Current Obsession: The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. I have been poring over my annoted book of it, and all my notes from Oxford. How many references to this poem are too many in the new WIP? Also, the new clickety clackety rainbow keyboard I bought is bringing me lots and lots of joy.
Currently Reading: I finished Land by Maggie O'Farrell last night. I don't want to say too much about it because I think that this is one on a lot of folks' TBR, and it did *just* come out. It was more of a family saga than I expected, but it was really beautiful, and I'm still sort of processing the ending and my feelings about it. It's complicated. A lot of near misses. I think that's the point? Closure doesn't exist? I don't know! I am starting The Memory Hunters next, though. Being down and out this entire week with this cold has really thrown me off everything I wanted to be doing.
Currently Working On: The new WIP, I Will Show You Fear in a Handful of Dust. Prologue is done. I'm still drafting out chapter one. This is the first day this week I've felt good enough to really work on it. I've got some lofty prose-level craft goals on this one, so I don't think it's going to update nearly as frequently as I usually do, but I've also been updating once a week for the better part of a year and a half now, so I think maybe a break is warranted.
Currently Wearing: Sweats, baby. I'm still kind of sick and certainly not leaving the house for anything right now. My tank top does have a mountain on it, which tracks.
Last Internet Search: Dock Town Dragon Age - I was checking if it was one word or two because I can never fucking remember. Which maybe gives you a hint as to where chapter one of the new fic takes place.
Favorite Flower: It's summer, and I love my snapdragons. I have really fond memories of my grandma's planters on the side of her deck filled with snapdragons and her showing me how to gently pinch the blooms to make it look like a little mouth opening and closing. I don't have any pics of them currently and I'm not venturing out, but I have really pretty, very dark purple ones in my yard this year. It makes me happy every time I see them.
Tagging @gatesofminrathous, @sorrygoldfish, @thegeminisage, @epiphany-jones, and @qaanngi if you're feeling so inclined! <3
Ivy couldn't help it. She knew Bellara, possibly better than anyone else there, and she could already see the gears grinding inexorably forward in her friend's head. She knew Bellara was already looking for a way to blame herself for what had happened back in Copse Hollow, and that it would not be any great leap for her to spin out a web of guilt from that singular incident to the rest of the disappearances and deaths that had scourged the forest. "I already know what you're thinking, and there is no possible way this has anything to do with you. You literally had a one in seven chance of the symbol carved on Amos's chest being associated with the god that you chose for your vallaslin."
"Ives, it's not just that it is the symbol of Dirthamen, it-"
"It doesn't matter!" Ivy interrupted, softening her tone at the look of surprise in Bellara's eyes. "It just… it doesn't matter, Bel. What happened to Amos wasn't your fault. None of this was. I mean, prior to this mess, did you have a single even tenuous connection to this forest? To the Dalish who live here? There's just no logical reason someone would be targeting you with all this. It doesn't make any sense."
"None of this makes sense, Ivy," Bellara countered. "But it's not just the symbols matching up." Her eyes fell away, which was a sure sign there was something she hadn't told them yet that, at least in her mind, she probably should have. "You all said that none of you slept well at the inn that night, right? Weird dreams, insomnia, anxiety, whatever. But somehow I get a perfectly blissful, restful night's sleep? Only me, the one person who is chronically staying up way too late because her mind can't just shut up for thirty seconds? I've been getting better sleep since I entered this forest than I have since I was just a kid."
Ivy felt the hairs raise on the back of her neck. When Bellara had made her admission, a wave of something had seemed to wash over the forest: something that almost felt… pleased with itself. "Ok, so you're sleeping better. Maybe it's just the fact we're riding every single day and when we're not in the saddle, we're investigating a bunch of people who really, really don't want to talk to us. Maybe your brain's solution for all the stress and exhaustion is to finally cut you some slack and let you get some rest."
Bellara did not respond at first, instead exchanging a glance with Willow where she had remained quiet during Ivy's outburst. Ivy couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at that: there had been a time when Bellara would have just confided in her directly, but now… well, maybe now she didn't know Bellara better than the rest of them did. There was, in fact, the kind of terrifying possibility that she didn't know her at all anymore.
"It is certainly a possibility," Willow offered diplomatically, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over them. "I agree with Ivy that it is perhaps too great a leap to assume that Dirthamen's symbol showing up on Amos's body means the killer was somehow trying to make a connection to you, Bellara, or that your newfound ability to sleep through the night is necessarily ominous."
To her credit, Willow's tone did not seem to indicate she was merely patronizing either or them, but Ivy could tell that the Guardian was worried. Whatever was going on, it wasn't normal. Then again, absolutely nothing about this fucking forest was 'normal.' "Ok, I'm getting the sense there is a 'but' coming up here pretty quick."
Willow shrugged. "I do not know, Ivy," she admitted. "So far, these could plausibly be written off as coincidence, but they are odd enough that I think they are worth keeping in the back of our mind. Unless there is something else you would like to add, Bellara?" The question was pointed but not unkind, yet Bellara flinched slightly despite the gentleness of the inquiry.
"Yeah, I… I should probably tell you guys. When I woke up this morning, back at the inn, there was a small, simple vase on the windowsill with snowdrops arranged in it. They've always been my favorite flower, ever since I was a little kid. We used to have play bonding ceremonies with me, Ives, Cyrian, and his best friend Cormac, and the only way they could ever get me to play was by crafting elaborate bouquets of them for me to use as the 'bride.'"
Ivy couldn't help a chuckle. She remembered those games. She also remembered that both her and Bellara had always hated it, and as often as not the two of them would run off together to have adventures of their own, leaving the bewildered boys at the 'altar.' She wondered if either of them had ever figured out that, at least for Ivy, boys were never going to be that interesting. "Ok, so there was a nice bouquet of flowers in your room. Maybe they were left by or for the previous occupant, or maybe Amos just hadn't gotten around to replacing the vases in the other rooms before we got there. I didn't get the vibe he was exactly expecting a large crowd."
"No, you don't understand," Bellara shook her head forcefully. "They weren't there when I went to sleep. Someone, somehow, snuck into my room while I was having weirdly deep, peaceful sleep, and left a bouquet of my favorite flowers on the windowsill. That can't be a coincidence, you guys. And that's why I can't just write the other stuff off as coincidence either, and why I can't just pretend that none of this may somehow be linked to me."
Ivy felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach, and across from her, Willow sat back against a tree with a heavy sigh. "Well, shit," she said, her eyes squeezing shut as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Alright, that… certainly lends some credence to your concerns, Bellara. We need to go chat with the others, see if we need to adjust our plans."
"No! I mean, I don't think that'll be necessary," Bellara rushed to say, almost tripping over the words. "Like, this is weird. It's definitely weird. But nothing bad has happened yet, exactly? At least not to me. The last thing I want us to do is completely upend our plans or abandon those people who have gone missing just because I got spooked by some flowers. I think as long as I stay with the group I'll be ok, right? This only happened when I was on my own and in a separate room from everyone else, so it'll be fine. Honestly, if we're worried about anyone, it should probably be Ivy, since we still don't know who that dagger that was driven into Keeper Lanaya's floor was meant for, or how they even got in her house in the first place, and-"
"And that kind of feeds into Willow's point," Ivy interjected before Bellara could spiral any further. "We. Don't. Know. And yeah, this time it was some pretty flowers instead of a dagger, but that still leaves the question of how in the void someone was able to get in and out of a locked room without leaving a single trace."
Willow nodded slowly. "I agree with both of you," she said, standing up and brushing the forest detritus from her trousers. "Bellara, you are correct: we cannot just abandon those who have gone missing and may still be out there somewhere, almost certainly in danger. We will continue on into the forest as planned, but we are also going to inform Emmrich and Davrin about this latest development. I do not want any of us in the dark on this. Ivy, you are also correct: we need to uncover the 'why' behind all of this, because I strongly suspect that answer is going to prove more readily available than the 'who.'"
The trio returned to the main camp and Willow provided Emmrich and Davrin a succinct summary of their discussion. Ivy was grateful she didn't have to make the attempt, and she suspected Bellara was, as well. She still didn't know all that much about Willow, beyond the fact she was some sort of chosen one amongst the Mourn Watch despite not having any magic, but she was proving to be a damn good leader and was willing to make decisions when the rest of them couldn't, and that was good enough for Ivy. She had enough to worry about with Bellara being targeted by… whatever this thing was. That was where her focus needed to be.
And, ok, maybe on whoever had tried to stab a dagger through her torso. She should probably keep an eye on that too.
"That is where we currently stand." Ivy came back to the present in time to hear Willow wrap up her summary for the others. "As much as I do not like the fact that someone, or something, out there has taken an interest in Bellara, I do not think running away is going to solve the problem. In fact, I think that because Bellara has attracted its interest, there is a more than zero chance it would not let her leave even if we wanted to. Our best bet is to continue on and find whatever it is that is causing all this. Are we in agreement?"
"Indeed, dearest," Emmrich nodded firmly. "I shudder to think what those poor souls might be suffering out there, and I cannot abide with them abducting one of our own. We must press forward."
Davrin was quiet for a long moment, then gave a brief nod. "I agree. I also think we need to consider the possibility that the usage of elven symbols is a red herring; something to throw us off the scent of the real culprit. I'm not saying it couldn't be one of us, I'm just saying that using that sort of scare tactic would be a real easy sell these days after everything that went down with the evanuris. Bellara got flowers, sure, but Ivy just about got a dagger through the ribs, so we're running even money on elven targets just within our own little group."
"And, while I hate to muddy the waters even more," Ivy spoke up, "There is also just the general bizarre vibe going on that doesn't necessarily seem to be directed at us, just… I don't know… I guess 'around' us? Whatever tried to call Bellara deeper into the woods, or the glowing eyes I keep seeing in the dark, or whatever it is that has been setting off Davrin's weirdness senses… There is definitely something out there, and we've definitely attracted it's notice one way or another."
Even as she spoke the words, Ivy felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and a minute flash of pain dart through her nerves, almost like when she had tried to pet Assan after walking on a rug in her stocking feet. She glanced at the others, but no one else seemed to have been affected. Ivy decided to keep it to herself, for the moment. It was probably nothing.
It had to be nothing.
-------------------------------------------------
They continued deeper into the forest, this time with Davrin and Assan at the head of the column as they picked their way along the narrow path, and Emmrich and Willow bringing up the rear. No one had said it, but it was clear they were trying to keep Ivy and Bellara as shielded as possible given they were the two that thus far appeared to have drawn particular interest from whatever entity lurked in the shadows. The steady sound of their horses' hoofbeats seemed muffled by the canopy overhead, and while Ivy still had the distinct feeling of being watched, it didn't exactly feel malevolent. In fact, it almost felt as though it were simply observing; waiting to see what they would do next.
The path opened up slightly, and Ivy took the opportunity to nudge her horse closer to Bellara's. "Hey," she said carefully. "I'm sorry I kind of freaked out earlier. Whatever other feelings I have about all this bullshit, I shouldn't have put that on you, and I shouldn't have escalated an already scary situation."
"Oh!" Bellara said, blinking rapidly a few times before turning towards Ivy. "Ives, it's ok! Really! I wasn't mad, just kind of surprised. I didn't expect anyone to react that strongly to the connections I was making, especially since you know I kind of have a habit of just saying ideas as they pop into my head and kind of going with a 'stream of consciousness' narrative. I know it can be a lot and not everyone really has the time or patience or inclination to listen to me ramble. It's why Irelin and I never really worked out, you know? Or… anyone, actually. Willow and Neve and Emmrich are always so nice about it, but I can tell sometimes they get lost too, even though they try really hard to follow my thoughts. They're all so nice and I'm really grateful they give me that space to just be who I am, but I'm also trying really hard to be more mindful of it and just-" She stopped short, offering Ivy a sheepish smile. "Well, you see what I mean."
Ivy just laughed. "Oh, Bel. I could listen to you ramble all day if you wanted. And Irelin is lovely, but if it wasn't a good fit for the two of you then it wasn't a good fit. No one's fault." She had to pull that last bit out of herself with a little more effort than she should have admitted to, but it really was true. As insanely envious as Ivy had been of Irelin while she and Bellara had been together, she bore her no ill will, and she really saw no particular blame to be foisted onto either party for their parting of ways. "And I promise I'm not mad that you made the connection. I just don't want you to, and I say this with love, do what you usually tend to do and end up blaming yourself for something that was one billion percent not your fault, you know?"
"Like I did with Cyrian?"
"Yeah," Ivy sighed. "His death wasn't your fault either, Bel. Either time."
Bellara was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. "I know," she finally said. "And I know that if I did blame myself, I would be cheapening his sacrifice; trying to diminish the way he did finally die and the hero he actually was at the end. He told me that I had a good heart, and that he'd listened to it. So maybe in the end we both got some absolution."
Ivy's heart splintered a bit at Bellara's confession. Even with as much time as she spent far afield from the main Veil Jumper camp, she knew there had been some really shitty rumors that had been whispered by some of their members, though fortunately very few, about Bellara's loyalties. Which may have resulted in Ivy picking a few fights. Correction: it resulted in Ivy winning a few fights. And somehow, for once, Strife hadn't chewed her ass out for it. In fact, Ivy almost could have sworn he was proud of her. Which was weird.
"Bel," she said softly, "It wasn't your fault. Whatever absolution you think you needed, you just… you didn't. Cyrian's actions were his own. You and I both know he was a good person, in his heart, he just… he lost his way for a bit, you know? And he needed you to remind him of who he was. Who he really was, not who he became under the sway of Anaris."
Bellara flinched a bit at the mention of the Forgotten One. "I don't know what he experienced wearing that damn ugly mask," she said. "I know Irelin said it couldn't really control him, but experiencing the feelings of a so-called 'god' had to be overwhelming. I can barely keep my own thoughts and feelings straight, let alone trying to carry those of a megalomaniac bent on world domination."
"It's definitely got super villain vibes written all over it," Ivy agreed. "Almost like something you'd read out of a serial, it's that out there." It was a less than subtle gambit to change the conversation, and they both knew it, based on the small, grateful smile Bellara threw her way.
"Oh, definitely. Except the villain would probably have to be toned down, right? Otherwise no one would ever believe it."
They slipped back into easy, casual conversation, mostly Bellara filling Ivy in on all the serials Neve had been able to scrounge up for her over the past year and which ones she'd liked best. It was not until they approached a stretch of the desolate path that once again narrowed to a single-rider track through the density of the forest that Bellara's narrative slowly petered out, and her soft oaken eyes looked back to Ivy.
"Ives… why do you care so much about whether or not I blame myself? I know we've been friends for like, literally forever, but then you disappeared for so long and you never really explained why and it kind of felt like you were avoiding me the few times we did manage to be at the base at the same time. Don't get me wrong!" She rushed to add, "I'm so glad you're back and that we're spending time together again and everything, I just… I don't know?"
It was rare for Bellara to be at a loss for words, and even more rare for Ivy to take this much time as she was to consider her words before speaking. "I just… I worry about you. For you," she said, stumbling over the words. "I know I fucked up in a big way by ghosting you the way I did when Strife unofficially banished me over that botched temple mission, and I still feel really guilty about that, but I also really… you mean a lot to me and… I just know you. I know that if there is even a tenuous way to shoulder the blame or responsibility for something that went wrong, you will, because it's a way to defuse tension or redirect anger or frustration from others. And you don't need to. You don't have to carry the weight of everything that goes wrong with the Veil Jumpers, or the Veilguard, or the rest of the world. You're a brilliant, kind, beautiful person in your own right. You don't have to be more than what you are, and I don't want to lose you a second time just because some lunatic in the woods is making you feel like this is somehow your fault. Cause it definitely isn't."
"That… wow," Bellara said, her eyes falling away and her words, for once, completely failing her. "That's so nice of you, Ivy. I… I didn't realize you felt so strongly about all of it."
Ivy let her horse fall back into single file behind Bellara's praying the other woman hadn't noticed the fierce burn that had risen in her cheeks. "I know a lot has changed, Bel, and I know I haven't been there for you like I should the past couple years, but you're still my best friend. Which means I'm still gonna do my best to drag you out of your blame spirals when they pop up."
Bellara's laughter filtered back towards her, muted but real. "Appreciate it, Ives. And, you know, for what it's worth? It's been really great having you around again. I really missed you."
Ivy was pretty sure her cheeks were about to combust they'd grown so warm. "I really missed you too, Bel."
They fell back into a companionable silence necessitated by the narrow trail and the density of the trees pressing in on them from all sides. The Brecilian once again seemed calm. Watchful, maybe, but not particularly malicious or mischievous. Under other circumstances, Ivy may have even been able to enjoy herself in a place like this: quiet, out of the way, only the distant calls of birds and the skittering of small creatures in the underbrush breaking the peace. In fact, the further they delved into its depths, the harder Ivy was finding it to believe that whatever was going on here had anything to do with the forest itself. She couldn't quite put a finger on it, but the Brecilian almost seemed… indifferent, maybe? It was certainly aware of their presence, she had zero doubt of that, but thus far their passage had been unhindered.
A few hours past the noon zenith of the sun, they reached a wide clearing that must have once been the Dalish camp used by Lanaya's clan on their annual pilgrimage through the Brecilian. Ivy couldn't help but be relieved that it appeared to have not been used in a long time: the familiar tracks of aravals had been overgrown with wild grasses and wildflowers, and the simple wooden fencing that once enclosed a distant paddock where halla would have been kept was now mostly rotted and sagging boards. Crumbling statues of what Ivy had to assume were the evanuris had been further defaced by mortal hands, and she couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not.
Here, the Brecilian Passage would have once run through the camp, but Lanaya had explained that traders and others who regularly used the sole 'established' path through the woods had slowly shifted to sidestep this particular patch of forest. No one could say why, at least as far as Lanaya knew. It had just kind of happened over the past two decades. It didn't feel super weird or spooky, but then again, Ivy was kind of having a tough time trusting her own senses in this place. There almost seemed to be a constant buzzing in her ear, and she couldn't tell if it was the lazy hum of insects in flight, or the veil trying to put up guardrails against their own crazy insistence on pushing further into the forest.
"Been a long time since anyone set up camp in this clearing," Davrin observed. "I'm guessing that once the Dalish stopped coming here, no one else was in a big rush to claim it. Think we should stop and set up a base camp, or keep going?"
He addressed the question to all of them, but they in turn all looked towards Willow, whose lilac eyes were scanning the borders of the meadow, considering the line of trees that marked the border between the light of the clearing and the obscure depths beyond. "Let's press on a bit farther," she said, swinging back up into the saddle. "Worst case scenario, we can always turn around and return to this spot to camp for the night, but we still have several hours of daylight left. I would hate to waste them."
Ivy couldn't help but notice what Willow had left unsaid: none of them were eager to spend another night in the darkest parts of the forest, at least not without getting an idea for what might be waiting for them.
"Widow Marlowe said the path that would take us to the ruins would be marked by a small wolf statue," Willow said, leading her horse towards the treeline, "Set apart from the others, and facing away from the main camp. Three guesses who that was for," she observed with a wry laugh. "I wonder what Solas would think of us now."
"Probably wouldn't tell us even if he could," Bellara retorted, but there was no bitterness in her words. Ivy suspected that, whatever the Dread Wolf's sins, Bellara had moved past them. Part of her was envious that Bellara had actually had the opportunity to meet the Fen'Harel. Part of her was more envious she'd never gotten the chance to punch him in his smug face personally.
It was complicated.
They picked their way along the path, occasionally identifying landmarks that Cataline had told them to keep an eye out for if they decided to seek out the old ruins. It felt as though they wandered for hours, but by the passage of the sun overhead Ivy guessed it had only been one, two at the most. Half the time it felt as though they were going in a great bloody circle, the path splitting randomly only to meet up again after skirting a wooded knoll or crossing a creek bed. When they did finally stumble upon the overgrown clearing and the towering ruins that crouched over it like a pile of picked over bones, it almost felt as though they had done so on accident. Or perhaps the forest had simply grown tired of watching them wander aimlessly and had nudged them in the right direction.
"Oh this place is all sorts of wrong," Ivy muttered under her breath. For the first time since they had left Copse Hollow, she had the distinct feeling that something, albeit something she could not fully put a name to, was not right about this place in a way that was not reflected in the rest of the forest's relatively indifferent weirdness. An oozing sensation slithered over her feet, and she had to fight the instinct to jump back in disgust. All the moreso when she looked down and saw absolutely nothing there. Every ounce of magic in her veins seemed to be sparking, nervous energy pulsing in time with her rapidly accelerating heartbeat. She risked a glance at Bellara and Emmrich, and was both reassured and frightened to see the nearly matching grimaces on their faces. Ivy realized she probably rounded out the terrified trio.
Davrin and Assan took an experimental step forward, the latter's beak pointed straight ahead and his ears back flat against his feathered head. "Yeah, Will, not sure if we want to try tackling this place this late in the day. I don't know what's in there, but I can tell you one thing: we're not alone out here."
Willow rubbed her forehead briefly as though she were trying to ward off a headache. "Agreed. Let's return to the old Dalish campsite for the night. Emmrich, love, would you place some magical markers along our path back so that perhaps we might find our way a little easier tomorrow? I am aware," she gave a small smile as Ivy was about to interrupt her, clearly already guessing her thoughts, "That there is a fair likelihood that someone will tamper with them or remove them altogether, but I think between that precaution and Davrin's tracking ability we'll be right." She took one last glance towards the ruins. "Strange, how something this 'civilized' could exist in a place as wild as the Brecilian. Perhaps the forest should have been allowed to reclaim it long ago."
Ivy didn't disagree. The other villages that occupied the woods were huddled and small, as though they were perfectly aware they were at the mercy of the forest's whims and not the other way around. But this monstrosity… this was an act of blatant defiance on the part of whoever had constructed it. Either that, or it had been built long before whatever spirit embodied the Brecilian had made the forest its lair. She wasn't sure which option was more comforting.
They made their way back to the clearing, but this time the journey felt almost disappointingly brief. While something clearly did not want them to find the ruins, it apparently had no problem with them fucking off and leaving them alone. Emmrich placed his tracking runes on several rocks along the way, but even with that delay they were back and setting up camp within an hour. Ivy had cooking detail that night, which meant they might not eat fancy but they ran less of a likelihood of something charred (Davrin) or complex to the point of absurdity (Emmrich). She began tucking kindling into the cone of firewood she'd stacked up, and was about to summon a spark to set it alight when something caught her eye at the edge of the camp.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but there was undeniably something there. And it was coming from the direction of the ruins.
"Shit." Ivy muttered to herself, straightening her posture and peering towards the border of the forest. There it was again; just a hint of movement, taunting her. Or tempting her. Because even though every rational cell in her body was screaming at her to either stay put or at least alert the others, Ivy found herself taking first one, then another tentative step closer to the deepening gloom of the woods.
To her credit, she could tell she was fighting it. Her feet, while moving, were dragging on the ground, digging shallow trenches with ever step. Her hands were clenched into fists, nails digging into the flesh of her palms so severely she thought she might actually feel the hot stickiness of blood blooming against her skin. Her thoughts swam in a confused murk, but one impulse seemed to float above the rest, a macabre buoy that crooned a single word over and over again.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
"Like the void, you asshole," Ivy spat, the words crawling out of her mouth in a low growl. "I'm not your fucking puppet."
And just like that, the feeling faded, the strings cut. Ivy no longer felt the compulsion in her blood. It had been replaced by something else: blind, white hot rage. She stormed towards the edge of the camp, footsteps pounding the ground, ignoring the startled shouts from Willow and Emmrich. Someone had violated her mind, her very being, and damn it but Ivy was not going to let that stand.
"Ivy!"
She stopped short, Bellara's voice cutting through her fury. Her friend darted forward, reaching out and grasping Ivy's hand tightly. "Ives, don't. That thing out there…" Her wide oaken eyes scanned the dusky shadows of the forest, "It's not right. Like, really not right, Ives." Bellara looked up at her, and Ivy could see the slash of fear there.
Thank you for the tag @sorrygoldfish! Very fun to read about your thought process and inspiration for TWAWKI! And also @gatesofminrathous, who just had me nodding right along to all the things. Tagging @blightwashed, @qaanngi, and @thewyvernrising, if you have something you want to chat about, or I can suggest something. I'm going to talk a bit about Halfway to Whole as a whole (lmao) since it's done!
Pick a scene/chapter/whatever from one of your fics (or I'll suggest one!) and add any commentary you feel like. Why that line? How come this plot twist? What does the eyebrow waggle MEAN?!?! I want the dirt and I can only smash my face up against the glass of your stories so hard before I start to leave smudges.
I feel like now it's done, I can probably talk about my *secret* goals for Halfway. Every time I approach writing a fic, I always have craft goals. There's so little you can actually control in posting writing, and I never have goals in the sense of like exposure or a fic doing numbers or anything like that. Instead, I always have craft goals. There are a few things I'm trying to do in the writing of a fic, so I thought I'd talk a bit about those.
I didn't know all of the plot for the fic when I started, but I did know that I felt really strongly about there being no Third Act Break-Up. Now, there is nothing wrong with the Third Act Break-Up! It exists within the romance genre for a reason! But also, I knew what I was going to put Cam and Lucanis through before getting together, and I just couldn't conceive of a reason why they would break up that would feel realistic. Which meant, of course, that instead of the tension leading us to the end of the fic being internal, it had to shift external. I'd been sort of crumbing Zara's fraud subplot throughout most of the fic, and it was certainly a struggle to have it pop up sometimes like 'this is still a thing!' even with the rest of the plot I cared a lot more about lmao.
Major props to my partner for helping me figure out the entirety of the fraud plot. My partner made it pretty clear that in today's digital environment, fraud is a lot easier to get away with if you sort of exploit the digital vs. physical systems. So we gave the district a separate document upload portal that everyone hates using, and they especially hate re-teaching the school board how to use. By design, it's not connected to their accounting system directly, so it was easy for Zara to get the CFO and comptroller in on the scheme, and they just grabbed the document for her, and she was able to edit her name off the RFP paperwork showing she would have a conflict of interest. The school board signed off on the contract, and voila, pay off. And she would have gotten away with it, too, if not for Lucanis and Rana!
The second big goal I had for this fic is that I wanted it to reflect my thoughts and beliefs about teaching. A Class Act (my Inquisition teaching fic) was written back in my third year of teaching! It's a tough one for me to return to because it's so clearly written by me pre-pandemic and pre-Masters degree and pre-burnout. I want to go back and hug that younger self because she just didn't know what was coming.
I think it's clear by this point that I also suffered from burnout. I remember very, very clearly the day I figured it out. I was driving home from an education conference with my best friend, Chris. At the time, I was holding down two teaching jobs. I taught at my current job doing all the things I still do (and more, tbh), and I also taught at an eating disorder treatment center for two straight weeks every eight weeks. Every eight weeks, my life would fall apart when I worked twelve-hour days for two straight weeks. I'd teach a full day (often without a prep due to yearbook), and then I'd go teach for three more hours. At this point, my partner had tried to sit me down to be like...why are you killing yourself for this little? And showed me spreadsheets like that was going to make me listen to him! No one tell him, but I knew he was right because I was burning myself out. That day, on our way home, I turned to Chris, and I said, "I think I can be a great teacher either at our school or at this eating disorder place, but I can't do both." And the car was really quiet, and Chris was like..."You're right." It was SO difficult to step away from a good thing. I knew the work I was doing at that facility mattered, and that those two weeks I spent with the students there were so fulfilling. But it was also killing me. My therapist, Alicia (lol yes, she is very pleased to exist in fic!), was really proud of me and also told me that there is no moral superiority to being busy. Which I hated hearing, but as always, she's right.
Cam's burnout comes from a very different place, but my big goal was to show how a good thing can still be a bad thing for you if you're not taking care of yourself. And I also wanted to show that it's possible to dig yourself out of that pit, and still love the work you feel like you're supposed to be doing.
It's certainly not the point of the fic, but I tackled some big deal education issues! Vouchers, alternative schools, funding disparities, teacher burnout, compassion fatigue, fighting that teaching as a calling bullshit, and probably more that I'm not remembering. But I feel like, yes, this right here is the snapshot of how I feel about teaching and education at this point in my career.
And I hope down to my bones that it still reads as a love letter to this career despite all the ways I know I'm being critical of the system at large! That was another big goal! It's a bad system, and I still love it! I still grapple with the concept of being a cog in a flawed system and all the inequities that still exist. I am not ignorant of the fact that I've perpetuated those problems out of sheer ignorance or by adherence to bad policies. But still, there is something inherently beautiful about people who show up to do a thankless job for the love of it. And maybe it's not perfect, but there are so many teachers out there who love their content and their kids, and I hope the crew I built in this story feels like they belong among their ranks.
Halfway is not even close to a perfectly crafted story. But I feel like it hit the goals I laid out for it when I began writing it. I didn't expect it to get quite so personal or to parallel my life the way it did, but that's the beauty of writing a fic over time the way we do. I'm proud of it because I did with it what I set out to do and more. To me, that makes it successful.
