Ω spellwoven

what I've come to learn is that the world is never saved in grand messianic gestures, but in the simple accumulation of gentle, soft, almost invisible acts of compassion. indie private Warden-Commander Wystan Amell

[spellwoven]

The Joining

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howeveryclever:

Nathaniel furiously squashed down the urge to snap back at his commander, if only because he knew that conversation was a terrible distraction in combat. (And not because he knew that Wystan intended to ignore his advice anyways, the stubborn idiot). If the man would not yield then all the rogue had to do was eviscerate their enemies more quickly, such that Wystan did not have to fight for very much longer. It was a task that was easier said than done, however; Darkspawn were disgustingly persistent creatures, especially when they drew blood. Where one fell, another seemed to take its place, as vile as its predecessor and just as dangerous.

While Justice and Anders battled on – an unusual pair but a surprisingly effective one – Nathaniel focused on swiftly ending any Darkspawn that got within dagger range. He could easily handle any of the grunts, leaving Wystan to get rid of the magic-wielding types, which was plenty in the rogue’s eyes. He would have rather the man fallen back so they could properly defend him, but this would have to do until they were victorious or he could think up an exit strategy. Despite all his combat training, Nathaniel was regrettably not as well versed in escaping combat as he was in starting it, and doubly so when facing an enemy that would chase them down if they ran.

His planning was cut short when Wystan pulled him in, launching a barrage of elemental magic against the forces surrounding them. Not for the first time, he was grateful that the Warden Commander was on their side. He had heard tales of mages allowed outside their Circles to do battle, of course, but experiencing it first hand was something entirely different. Maker help them if the mages ever revolted.

Nathaniel’s awe was short-lived, though, as Wystan’s spell came to an end and the noise he made keenly reminded the rogue how irritated he was with the whole situation. “That was reckless,” he all but snarled, sheathing his weapons so he could sling one of Wystan’s arms over his shoulder, choosing to ignore the man’s question. “I have half a mind to let you walk back in this state. Can you walk with my assistance? We best make haste.” They needed to get him back to Anders and Justice before anything else decided to crawl out of a hole and try to kill them.

“It was necessary,” Wystan shot back, voice made unwontedly terse by the pain radiating out from the crossbow bolt still embedded in his thigh. “We were outnumbered, cut off from our reinforcements... another few minutes of that and we’d have been overwhelmed.”

He grunted as he forced himself back to his feet, trying not to lean on Nathaniel’s assistance too much and failing miserably to do so; as it turned out, he needed the added strength of the wiry, broad-shouldered rogue just to totter back upright. Damn and blast; that last spell had sapped more of his energy than he’d thought. Even the touch of Nathaniel’s arm, pleasant as it was on one level -- Howe was a decidedly pretty man, at least in his Warden Commander’s opinion -- was quite literally painful to him at the moment, a sensation like rough wool dragged across sunburnt skin. That was a symptom of the mana depletion; and it was a minor complaint compared to the other pains. He decided not to mention it, especially in light of the fact that without Nathaniel’s arm, he wouldn’t be able to actually stand.

“And another few minutes of that, and I’d not have had the mana left to light a candle, anyway,” he said, perhaps a shade petulant -- he had saved Nathaniel’s life, after all, not once but twice in the last five minutes. “I had to use what I had, while I still could.”

Honestly, Nathaniel was so growly sometimes; Wystan liked the man, quite a lot, but the constant questioning of all of Wystan’s decisions was wearing. It wasn’t so very unlike the Fifth Blight days in some respects, anyway; back then, everyone had been questioning his decisions, and for different reasons. Wystan hadn’t ever been able to please everyone with anything he did. Eventually, he’d stopped trying.

Well, mostly.

“I can walk,” he asserted, hoping it was true. “Or limp, at least. Might not be graceful or pretty, but it’ll get the job done,” he added, trying for humor. Nathaniel just looked so very good when he was wearing one of those rare smiles... arguably the more precious for their rarity, perhaps, like diamonds or enchanted blades or crystal grace blossoms, and yet Wystan could never resist trying to elicit more of them. 

Before he could say anything else, Anders had rushed up, with Justice not too far behind. “Anyone in need of hea...” Anders began, but broke off as his eyes fell on the bolt sticking out of Wystan’s leg. “Right then, that’ll be a yes.”

[howeveryclever]

Break Their Silence [spellwoven]

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howeveryclever:

“It should at least serve a purpose,” Natanael argued, not sure why he had to explain himself. “Doing something because it’s ‘nice’ or ‘fun’ is all well and good, but it doesn’t get you very far. It’s better to do it to improve your skills, or to do your duty.” Or to do as you’re told, was what he didn’t say, if only because the words tasted bitter on the back of his tongue. It was easier to let them go unspoken and unheard amidst the repetitive sounds of falling axes and splitting wood.

The offer came as somewhat of a surprise, Natanael pausing in the middle of setting up his newest log so he could turn and look at Col properly, scrutinizing. Was this some sort of trap? Did Col intend to lure him out into the woods so the other boys could have their fun without being interrupted by their elders? No, that was unlikely. It wasn’t as though the wolfmen had made any effort to protect him when he’d first arrived at the heall, and of all the boys who might try such a deception Col was the one Natanael would suspect the least. He genuinely enjoyed picking snowdrops for no other reason than it reminded him of spring. Not the kind of boy to be trying to catch Natanael unawares with kindness.

It takes him longer than he’d like to answer properly, still rolling the idea around in his head as he reaches for his axe once more. “I… would like that.” The admission is a quiet one, but Natanael’s gaze is certain as he looks back at Col. “I do not see much point in picking snowdrops but I certainly don’t intend to stop you from doing so.” There. A compromise. (And, truthfully, Natanael could think of worse people to go out into the woods alone with. At least Col’s company was tolerable, these days.)

The openness in his expression didn’t last long as talked turned to favourites, Natanael’s brow furrowing once more as he merely shook his head, not seeing the point in debating such a thing but not willing to budge from his position. He had no need for favourites; was it not easier just to eat whatever was put in front of you? What he did not expect, however, was the frankness of Col’s answer to his question, the boy offering up more information that Natanael had expected him to. Shifting awkwardly, he ran his thumb along the grain lines of his axe handle as he parsed the information, considering several answers before settling on, “I understand that’s… common practice, for children born of wolfcarls. Are you forbidden from seeing her again?”

“Not at all!” Col said, in some surprise. Forbidden? What a strange idea! Why on earth would he be forbidden from seeing his mother? It was fairly common, actually, that the boys in the healls would visit family in town. Merely because Col himself never did was no reason to think... his surprise turned to something sadder as he looked at Natanael, taking in the deep furrow of the other lad’s brow and the confusedly truculent set of his mouth. Or maybe it was reason to think so, Col realized slowly.

“No,” he said again, big hands fidgeting with one another in front of him. He’d have preferred to still be splitting the wood, but their chore was nearly finished, the split logs stacked and ready. They’d have to fell more trees if there was to be more wood to cut. “I could go, if I wanted. Or if she wanted.” He shrugged, his face soft and open. Maybe he was making an offering to the other lad. Telling Natanael he wasn’t the only one dragging around a weight of pain, but that there was more than one way to deal with that weight. Or maybe Col was just like that. “She has her life there and I have mine here. It doesn’t seem... like either of us needs that.”

There’d been a time, when Col was younger, that he’d felt differently. He’d wanted to know his mother, to really be her son the way the other children were. He’d had some hazy notion of a sort of warm domesticity, hearth and home, a mother’s arms and a family all sitting down to a dinner together, jostling and laughing. He’d even gone so far, once, as making that trek into the village with the intent of seeking her out. But when he’d gotten there and seen her, he’d been struck all at once by the realization that the harried, tired looking woman was a stranger to him.

Later that night, sitting in the heall surrounded by the other boys and the older wolfbrothers, all of them laughing and jostling as they’d dined, Col had smiled. And he’d never sought out his mother again, nor wanted to.

“Anyway,” he said after a second, picking up the axe again. “Maybe we could go for that walk tomorrow then. I don’t have any chores on the roster till after midday; we could go out in the morning, maybe? I promise not to make you pick any flowers if you don’t want to.” Col grinned brightly. “You can just walk and enjoy the quiet. I’ll try not to break it too much with all my blather, even.”

[howeveryclever]

Becoming a Warden meant, Wystan had quickly discovered, that all of one’s hungers were multiplied.

It wasn’t such a problem – might even be termed a pleasure, in fact – when one’s eager, enthusiastic lover was close at hand. But when he wasn’t… Wystan groaned in frustration, staring up at the interlocking grey stones of his chamber ceiling, trying, without much success, to ignore the throbbing ache of arousal in his groin and just go back to sleep. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t exhausted, after all; they’d had a long day of it, fighting bandits in Amaranthine before making the long trek back to the Vigil. He’d barely taken the time to wash the road dust from his face and hands before falling into his very lonely, very empty bed.

Keep reading

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The Joining

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howeveryclever:

Wystan, Nathaniel had learned, was a man full of surprises.

When he had heard the Hero of Ferelden was a mage he’d been expecting… well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting a man of Wystan’s stature. The mage seemed twice as tall as he was broad, more muscled than many of the soldiers Nathaniel had served with and armed with both steel and magic. Yet despite his imposing appearance, off the battle he was as gentle and patient as an old mabari, nothing about his smile or his booming laugh suggesting he was a force to be reckoned with. Smart enemies knew better than to provoke one Wystan Amell. Sadly, Darkspawn were not Thedas’ most intelligent creatures.

Nathaniel was deeper in the battle than he would have liked, forced to abandon his perch when an Emissary began lobbing nasty spells in his direction. It was becoming more and more difficult to draw his arrows fast enough, their enemies pressing in on them despite Wystan and Justice’s best efforts to keep them away. Even Anders seemed to be struggling, if the lack of complaining was anything to go by, and it was all the archer could do to keep the ranged enemies on their toes.

He was just thinking about shouldering his bow for more melee-friendly weapons when Wystan’s roar startled him, reflexively stepping backward as the battlemage suddenly leapt between him and some sort of unseen danger. Nathaniel heard more than saw the arrow shatter, blocked by Wystan’s shield, and the ‘thank you’ had barely enough time to shape his lips before the crossbow bolt followed its whistling cousin. To his credit, Wystan barely so much as flinched, but that did not stop the flutter of anxiety that clenched at the archer’s chest. This was not good. If Wystan’s mobility was hindered, blood loss and deadly effects of poisoned crossbow bolts notwithstanding, the risk of him being unable to protect himself from a fatal blow increased dramatically.

Naturally, Wystan decided that this was the perfect time to charge forward rather than play it safe and take up a defensive stance. Bloody fool.

“You should fall back! You’ll be no use to anyone if we have to carry you back to camp!”

The sharpness in his tone was belied by the tightness of his expression, worry smothered by a mask of irritation as Nathaniel switched tactics, bow shouldered in favour of a twin set of daggers. Things were about to get messy, but the sooner they cleaned this up the sooner they could all get off the battlefield. “Anders!” He wasn’t sure the mage could hear him but it was worth a try as he charged in after Wystan, united, at least, in the goal of finishing the fight as quickly as possible.

“I’ll be no use to you now if I fall back!” Wystan shot back, not pausing in his forward charge. That arrow had come far, far too close to hitting Nathaniel – and even through the throbbing, white-fire pain in his thigh, Wystan felt the red-fire rage of it. How dared these creatures? How dared they come so close to taking Nathaniel from him? A quiet, rational voice whispered that Nathaniel wasn’t his, not really; but there was precisely nothing rational in charge of the big mage’s actions right now. He was all righteous fury and battle-rage, sheathed in ancient magics.

Distantly, he was aware of Anders elsewhere on the battlefield, casting spells of healing and rejuvenation; the idiosyncratic ‘taste’ of the other mage’s spellcraft was familiar. Distantly, he was aware of Nathaniel close behind him and the fact that the archer had traded in his arrows for daggers, dogging his heels as closely as Jack might. Distantly, too, he was aware of Justice; despite the flesh he wore, the spirit warped the Fade around him just slightly, tangible to a mage’s otherwise senses.

And he was aware, far more viscerally, of the enemies which surrounded them. To one side, he felt a spell being woven; the magic had a slick, greasy feel, foul and corrupted. Blighted. His eyes narrowed and his free hand wove in a complicated pattern as he channeled forth his own mana through the pulsing metal of the sword which served him in place of a staff. A burst of mana draining force lanced out; somewhere nearby, the Emissary screamed horribly and the spell it had begun stuttered and died.

Wystan growled in fierce triumph and pressed his advantage. The enchantments he wore and the mana he had just stolen helped to balance out his own flagging strength, at least enough for one final effort.

“To me!” he shouted, pulling Nate into the close, safe circle of space in his own immediate vicinity. Anders would feel what was happening and back off; Justice, Wystan would have to trust to find his own safety.

The spell which was unleashed was a wild torrent, the culmination of everything he had learned from the bound spirit in the Brecilian and everything he had learned since. A chaotic vortex of elemental fury raged and swirled around the field of battle with Wystan – and Nate, close to his side – at the tempest’s churning eye. Fire, ice, lightning, spirit… all of it was in this spell, unpredictable, random, arcing and spitting and striking each of the enemies remaining, burning them and freezing them.

In the spell’s aftermath, Wystan sagged to his knees, a pained sound wrenched out of him as the crossbow bolt still in his leg sent fresh agony through him with the movement. But the spell, with its heavy cost in mana, had left him scoured out and emptied. His very skin felt raw and flayed and he recognized the signs; he’d overdone it, pushed himself too hard, too far. But he’d had to.

“Nathaniel?” he asked painfully. He coughed, and spat to one side. His mouth tasted like copper. “You all right?”

[howeveryclever]

Break Their Silence [spellwoven]

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howeveryclever:

“Is that the only reason to look for snowdrops?”

His confusion made itself plain on his face in his scrunched nose and wrinkled brow, the only real answers he gave to his work companion’s explanation. Did Col really think Natanael was the type of boy to pick flowers? He supposed, begrudgingly, that it made sense if he was looking to court a girl but to what end? The boy must have been a fool if he thought there was any girl in the heall who would give him the time of day, much less accept flowers from him as a gift. (And if he thought Natanael was the type of boy to do something as filthy as try and court other boys then this conversation – and any like it – was done.)

Blessedly, Col did not linger on the topic of his potential love interests, instead commenting rather sentimentally on the significance of the snowdrop’s arrival. As much as he disliked admitting it, it was moments like these where Natanael actually found himself a little curious about the boy who was trying very hard to become his friend. For all his chattering he would, occasionally, slip in something like this which made him wonder what sorts of other thoughts Col had that he was more reserved about admitting. Surely, if he thought as fast as he spoke, he wouldn’t have the time to sit and really consider the things that he seemed to. Such a strange boy, especially for a heall-bred savage.  

Natanael’s soft hum was noncommittal, prepared to accept that the sight of the flowers made Col feel hopeful but not about to add any thoughts of his own about the subject. If the sight of natural order made him feel anything akin to hope he would have had himself checked for a fever. There was nothing to feel hopeful about in this place, except perhaps that today he could enjoy lengthy and satisfying solitude.

But they were off the topic of flowers and onto berries, Col assuring him that the girl wouldn’t mind him sharing her gift with Natanael of all people (to which he couldn’t help but snort aloud). Was Col really that dense? Perhaps that was why he was trying so hard to be Natanael’s friend. Nonetheless, he felt as though he owed Col an answer, as involved in conversation as they were, and so he admitted, “It’s more proper to eat what’s in front of you and not have favourites, I’ve been told. Pickiness is frowned upon.” He bit back the ‘where I come from’, frown reappearing as he grabbed another piece of wood to cut. Searching around for a new topic, he asked, “You said you were born and raised at this heall, correct?”

Col laughed aloud, straightening from his work and pressing a balled-up fist to the small of his back for a moment, stretching backward; his back creaked audibly and he grinned a bit self-consciously. “Do you always need a reason for doing something?” he said by way of answer, winking sidelong. “Sometimes the only reason to do something, I figure, is that you want to and it’s a nice thing to do.”

He put another log in place and was silent for the moments it took to heave the axe overhand and around, thunking solidly into the wood and splitting it handily. There was a reason he often volunteered for this task, even beyond today’s excuse to spend more time with Natanael; he was good at it, and his overlarge, over-strong body was actually an asset. He liked feeling useful. It was very satisfying, and helpful to the heall, too.

He glanced over at Natanael. “If you ever just want to go walking, just because it would be nice to get away for a little while, let me know. I know all the paths around the forest here. We don’t even have to look for snowdrops.” It was a little offering, delicately placed. He knew Natanael likely wanted nothing more than to walk away from the heall and never come back – not that the other boy had anywhere to go if he did leave. But maybe just getting a little distance sometimes would help… and Col knew they wouldn’t let Natanael get out of sight of the heall without someone watching him.

But now it was his turn to crease his brow into an expression of confusion. Not proper to have favorites? Col knew that one couldn’t be too choosy in the coldest depths of winter when there wasn’t a lot of fresh food to be had, only the same stores they’d been eating every day for months, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t still have preferences! What kind of foolishness was this? “Well, that’s just silly,” he decided, shaking his head. “Of course it’s ‘proper’ to have favorites! I mean, you always have to share, and might not always be able to get your favorites, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have favorites!”

He shrugged and knelt to start stacking up all the wood they’d already split into a neat pile, fitting all the angles together just so to make sure it was stable.  “I was born in the village, actually.” He smiled up at Natanael. “My mother was… well, is, I guess… a weaver there. My father was a wolfcarl. They weren’t married, just dallying. She was a widow with some children by her late husband. She didn’t need another, so she kept me just till I was old enough, then sent me to my father... and I’ve been here ever since.” He stood, brushing his hands off on his tunic. “I heard she’s married again. But I haven’t seen her… in a while.” Since she sent me away.

[spellwoven]

motleysins:

Zevran had not meant the throwaway comment as more than a simple, flirty remark. He had not even thought about how it might sound to someone else and he regretted it immediately, regretted the change that it brought over the man who had spared him. Straight away, he had to wonder if Wystan had some reason to make the assumption. Had he, in the past, been given such an order, not in the spirit of fun but maliciousness instead? Zevran had heard a great many things about the Circles in his travels about the world, and at once he felt a rising anger for the injustices done there, the imaginary cruelties done to the kind, warm-hearted man before him.

“I did not think that for a moment,” he hurried to reassure him, voice dropping in volume when he caught Wynne’s mistrustful look, reminded all of a sudden that they were not alone, that he was the unwanted outsider here. “I apologise, that was… a poorly chosen joke. I was simply…”

He broke off, staring down at his half-bandaged arms. How did he begin to explain exactly what it was that his flirting masked? That casual jokes and pick-up lines were the only way that he knew to distract anyone from looking too far beneath the surface? “I thought myself skilled at lightening a moment,” he admitted sheepishly, with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Ah, Zevran, what a fool you are! Please, Warden, do continue. I shall sit in silence and simply admire your pretty face whilst you work your magic.”

Wystan had always been very aware of his sheer size, ever since the growth spurt one summer which had taken him from a fairly normal-sized lad to a giant one, overtopping all his peers by two hands’ span or more. It had been sort of fun, at first; until the first time he’d misjudged his own strength and accidentally injured a friend when they were roughhousing. He’d quickly learned that he could be dangerous, just by virtue of what he was; he’d learned, too, that he intimidated others without even trying, or wanting to do so. They looked at him and feared him.

By the time he was twelve, he’d had a man’s growth and he’d found, or so he’d thought, a way to channel his strength and intimidating physique into an asset; he’d been training to be a guard in Amaranthine, to use his natural gifts to help people. And then his magic had manifested, and that path had been taken from him.

In the Circle, perhaps his size had protected him. He had never been one of those who was hurt, taken advantage of. But he knew it happened. He had heard the stories; they all had. The entire idea was purely abhorrent to him, that someone would use their power and strength so ill!

He tried to laugh, abashed and suddenly very aware that he’d vastly overreacted to what was likely meant as a joke, or even a flirtation. “No, I should apologize,” he hastened to say. “I… of course it was a joke. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He laughed, a little nervous sort of sound. “I guess I’m not very good at talking to people anymore. For the last thirteen years, I almost never met anyone new, you know. Circles get... a bit insular.”

Quickly, he finished unwrapping the bandage on Zevran’s arm and pursed his lips at the sight of the wound beneath. It had been sealed with magic, yes, but still stood out red and angry on the elf’s dark skin. It looked as though it hurt, the skin pulling tight where magic had knit it up again. A pale glimmer leapt to Wystan’s fingertips, wreathing his hand in its arcane light; very gently, he moved his hand over the revealed wound, bathing it in restorative energies.

After a moment, he glanced up from his work. “Pretty face, is it? And it’s Wystan, remember?”

[spellwoven]

motleysins:

Wystan’s gratitude was a simple, understated thing, but it struck Zevran through in a way that he had not felt in a long time. He was a mistrustful man by nature, but there was something so sweet, so honest, in the way that Wystan spoke that he wondered if he might really be genuine after all. Was it possible for anyone in this world to still be so innocent, he wondered—he thought that he himself had been jaded from birth, as had most other men he had known in his life, but he had to wonder at Wystan’s soft smile, at the gentleness in his eyes. How was it possible for such an intimidating-looking man to be so kind and gentle?

For the first time in a long while he was flustered into silence, and simply allowed Wystan to take his arm to tend to the injury. At once the silence felt, to him, too big and too empty—he had to say something, to make some joke, or surely Wystan would be able to see how affected he was by such a stupidly small kindness! “There are many injuries more under my clothing, you know,” he said, falling back under the protection of shameless flirting, of throwaway jokes and shallow compliments. “Should you wish me to strip, you need only give the order, my friend.”

The silence was a comfortable thing. Wystan was still aware of the small sounds of the camp around them, the low murmur of voices, the creaking of tent canvas, the crackle of the fire, the gentle refrain of Leliana’s lute as she practiced some melody or other; but those sounds somehow seemed to be part of the silence, rather than breaking it.

He moved quickly but gently, his fingers deft and delicate despite their size. He was a highly trained mage, after all; his hands were well-practiced in the intricate gestures required in spell-casting. Unwinding a bandage without hurting the patient further was little challenge, by comparison.

He glanced up from his work when Zevran first spoke; but before Wystan could answer, Zevran added that last comment, the insinuations so clear and bald that the mage could not help but suck in a breath and yank his hands away as though the elf had become a pillar of fire.

“I’d never…!” he exclaimed in something like horror, holding his hands out helplessly before him as though they’d become weapons, or live snakes. Swallowing, he glanced around the camp. Wynne was looking their way, her expression slightly questioning; Wystan shook his head and turned back to the elf.

“I’d never order you – or anyone! – to do anything…like that,” he said earnestly, but quietly. “I am glad you joined us, Zevran, but you don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to….” He faltered to silence, aware that his cheeks were likely flaming hot and red and hoping the low light would hide it. “I just wanted to help,” he finished after a moment, lamely.

[spellwoven]

motleysins:

If he had been worried about his own rambling, Wystan’s was far worse. There was no way to be generous about it—he was a stammering mess, and before he realised it Zevran was laughing, reaching kindly for Wystan’s hands. Flirting he knew, flirting he could do—and straight away he recognised that that was what the man was trying to do, awkward and stilted though the way he went about it was. Alleviating his embarrassment was the least that he could do for him, considering that he had spared him his life.

“Your hands are most pleasant indeed,” he reassured him, eyes alight with amusement even as he laughed. “And talented in many ways too, I am most certain,” he added, his grin at once as wicked as it was charming. How easy Wystan made it, to fall back into the personality of the harmless flirt that he had built for himself! It was not entirely an act, no, but he owed much of his success to being underestimated, and his persona of the charming, hapless lothario was the one that seemed to be underestimated the most. Besides; there was nothing quite so satisfying as seeing the look of surprise on a mark’s face when you slid a knife between their ribs after suffering an evening of their lustful pawing.

Not that he wanted to do that to Wystan, and that realisation surprised him. He had not borne the man any ill will even when he had set out to assassinate him, but now that he had failed once he had no intention of trying again. Whether he killed his mark belatedly now or simply abandoned the job altogether, the Crows would still want him dead; Wystan had not fulfilled Zevran’s secret wish for death, so he supposed it was up to his employers, now. The end game was the same, even if the method differed.

He pushed those weighty thoughts away when he realised the direction that they’d drifted in, turning his attention back to Wystan in time to see a similarly haunted look on the mage’s face. He had already guessed that there must be something more beneath that brightly-smiling exterior, but still, he saw something that he recognised in it, and at once his heart went out to him.

Stop it, Zevran, he chided himself, before he could begin to care too much. You know how this path ends.

He did know, and yet, he could not help himself. His hands gently released Wystan’s, and returned to his lap. “… You may look over my injuries, if you wish,” he offered softly then. “It is most kind of you. Wystan.”

Wystan allowed his hands to remain in the elf’s, surprised at the comfort the simple contact brought. The big mage supposed, from the glint in the Antivan’s eye and the rocking lilt in his tone, that Wystan was being flirted with. The idea did not exactly displease him, though he supposed perhaps it ought to; he was vaguely aware that it was a tactic men like Zevran likely used to lull the unwary -- at least, that was the impression he’d gleaned from what few contraband copies of serials had been passed from hand to hand under the tables in the Circles.

Those stories had always been full of rollicking adventures -- dashing men and beautiful women. The evil folk had been very purely and simply evil and so, easily recognized and easily hated. The good folk had always prevailed, after many trials, and all had been set right. Often, those stories ended with a kiss, or a marriage. Happiness, despite the loss of a few rather unmemorable but apparently beloved companions along the way. 

He’d only been out of the Circle and on this particular adventure for... was it a month now, or two? ... and yet already, he saw hints of the truth which hid behind the grand stories. War had no glory in it. The darkspawn were easy to hate, yes, easy to fight and kill; and yet what of that almost-human look he would swear he saw in a hurlock’s eyes across the field sometimes? And what of an enemy like Loghain, human as could be, and yet abandoning his king to die?

What of someone like Zevran himself?

Nothing about any of this was simple; and not one of those serials had ever mentioned how uncomfortable and unpleasant life on the road really was, how lean and hungry it could be, how frightening and lonesome. 

Holding the elf’s strong, dry, warm hands in his own felt good. It felt grounding. It was a simple, humane sort of comfort; perhaps the oldest, the most basic. A tiny assurance that one was not alone.

“I’m glad you joined us,” Wystan said; and in that moment he entirely meant it, without any reservations. He was grateful even for the few breaths of time in which his solitude felt lessened. He was so desperately uncertain these days, uncertain of what to do, where to go. What was right. They all looked to him, and so he tried to be strong; but he’d never felt so alone because of it.

He expected to feel a pang when Zevran retrieved his hands; but instead, Wystan felt lightened for the first time in days, as though some burden had been lifted, or shared out.

“Thank you,” he said, bending forward to begin unwrapping the length of bandage holding a poultice to the elf’s wound.

[howeveryclever]

Break Their Silence [spellwoven]

[spellwoven]

howeveryclever:

Apparently it was going to be one of those mornings.

Natanael could barely keep up with Col’s words, his work partner eager to tell him all the things that had transpired since they’d last seen each other as though if he did not speak them quickly they would leave his mind forever. Once, he had thought the young man to be rather stupid, a savage son of a wolfman possessing nothing but muscle between his ears. As much as he would have enjoyed his initial assessment he’d found that Col was actually quite knowledgeable in many areas, and was just comfortable talking about all of them. At once. It was almost difficult to parse at times, but Natanael was determined to prevail.

(Ignoring him, after all, seemed to only make it worse, so it was better just to participate as little as possible. Also, Col looked like he would snap Natanael in half like a twig if he wanted to.)

“Will we be required to pick the snowdrops?” He had taken a liking to the forests around the heall, making time to learn then as he had once known the forests near his father’s holdings. One day he fancied they might even allow him to hunt in them, once they were confident enough in his skills (and comfortable enough handing him a bow and arrow). Col, though, may be allowed more freedom than he, and it might be worth the boy’s company to venture out into the woods a little further than usual.

Natanael left the comments about food mostly untouched, but was unable to help but sigh at Col’s final words, arching an eyebrow at his companion as he reached for another piece of his own wood to chop.  

“If the girl in the kitchen smiles at you then I believe her gifts are intended just for you. I would not share them if you wish to keep her favour.”

“Only if you want to pick them,” Col answered, grinning. “Sometimes the girls weave them into little crowns or tuck them into the braids of the lads they fancy. If there’s a girl who caught your eye -- or a boy -- you could pick one to give them, I suppose!”

He plopped another log into place in front of him and gave a heave of the axe, splitting the wood in twain. It was good, honest labor; despite the chill which still hung in the morning air, he was beginning to sweat already. Pausing, he rolled the sleeves of his rough-spun tunic up to the elbows. If the sun got much hotter when it hefted itself all the way up above the tree line, perhaps he’d take the tunic off altogether. 

“I always just find it a bit of comfort to see them,” he added. “There’s something nice about knowing spring really is coming back. The days are longer and warmer and everything feels... sort of hopeful, I guess.” His smile was a little sheepish; he knew no one would look at him and expect thoughtfulness lurking in such a big frame, let alone sentiment.  But Natanael was actually talking back this time, which was also somehow hopeful. At first, the other lad had maintained a sullen silence no matter what Col tried... or he’d responded snappishly, when he did. It hadn’t bothered Col, though; he’d just kept smiling and kept talking.

And now listen! It was even a bit of progress, he thought. He couldn’t help but laugh at Natanael’s clear exasperation. “Oh, she’s kind enough, and quite pretty, but I’ve no interest in her favor.” He had eyes for one of the other young lads, an orphan who’d come to the heall as a tithe. “She knows it, too. I think she’s just being nice. She wouldn’t mind if I shared with you, I’m sure! What’s your favorite? I confess, I have a weakness for strawberries....”

[howeveryclever]

Break Their Silence [spellwoven]

[spellwoven]

howeveryclever:

“Rendanson.”

It was hardly the first time his heritage had been wielded like an insult, nor was it going to be the last.  But where Natanael had once sneered at his antagonists because he - unlike them - was going to inherit sizeable and well-managed holdings, now all he could do was scowl and hope that the savage wolfmen didn’t let their trellwolves rip his limbs off. He told himself that he did not fear their retribution, that he only held his tongue as often as he could manage for Rahaf and Thomas’ sakes, but the reality was he had no proof of his father’s innocence to answer the unspoken accusations. Rendan the liar, Rendan the thief, Rendan the torturer, Rendan the conspirator, Rendan the trellwolf murderer. Until he could clear his family’s name he did not have a snowball’s chance in summer of ever being able to walk with his head high once more.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wearing his family’s crest on a pendant around his neck, the snarling bear head a fitting match for his usual thundercloud of an expression. Rahaf sighed every time she saw it, but she’d since given up trying to convince him to take it off. Discarding his family heirloom did not make him any less Rendanson, Natanael had pointed out coldly, and it wasn’t as though the wolfmen would welcome him with open arms if he cast it aside. Moreover, it wasn’t like they were here for pleasure; they were here to work off their father’s debt to the heall, paid for with their sweat and tears because Rendan’s holdings had gone to his greedy neighbours.  

If Natanael was being honest with himself – a rarity, sadly – he did not altogether mind the work. While he was no burly wolfman he was not without his own muscle, and the chores (while mindless) were helpful in clearing his mind. Even more importantly, he could often do them alone or in limited company, which made them somewhat of a respite. Unlike his siblings, Natanael had yet to make himself any friends at the heall, a by-product of his pride in his heritage and his unpleasant demeanour. As far as Natanael was concerned, however, his lack of companions suited him just fine. He didn’t need to “play nice” with the wolfmen, or the gaggle of boys they kept around in the hopes of pairing them up with wolves one day. Natanael’s obvious disinterest in trellwolves only further separated him from his peers, which suited him just fine.  

There was, however, one young man who didn’t seem to take the hint. He was the only person that Natanael had had to actually go out of his way to avoid, his determination to befriend Rendan’s eldest son so strong that Natanael was finding it difficult to resist him. But while Natanael could steer clear of him at meal times and other gatherings there was no getting around it when they were partnered to do chores together, as they were that morning. Natanael tried not to grimace as he adjusted his axe over his shoulder, stepping past his chore partner with a stiff, “Good morning,” that was purely out of ingrained politeness.

Perhaps this time they could chop wood without engaging in mindless chatter.

@spellwoven

Col had traded chores with Isbeorn for this. His size made him well-suited to chopping wood, anyway; and he was too big and too broad to move around the kitchens without feeling like a lumbering bear. Isbeorn, a much more normal-sized lad, wouldn’t be nearly so in the way in the kitchens as Col knew he’d be.

And anyway, Isbeorn had fairly leapt at the chance to trade, even though the menial scullion work to be found in the kitchens was hardly enjoyable for a growing boy with aspirations to be a warrior. Col knew why.

Rendanson.

Natanael was something of an anomaly in the heall. Col had been born to this life; his father, dead these ten years, had been a wolfcarl, his mother a widowed weaver in the nearest town. She’d given him to the heall to be raised among the other boys, raised among the pups, rough and tumble as they were. He wondered sometimes if she missed him; but she’d had other children by her dead husband before him and had remarried since. Her life was full, he was sure. And his had been, too. The heall was a family. The pack was a home.

But Natanael had yet to find his place in it. He wasn’t heall-born. He wasn’t a tithe-boy… or not really one. He hadn’t been given to the heall in hope of making a partnership with a trellwolf, as the others had. He was… well, wergeld, living wergeld. A prize. A payment, not in gold or in blood, but in life.

And it was clear enough to Col, if not to anyone else in the heall, that Natanael was miserable with it. They said he bore his father’s guilt. They said he was his father’s son, Rendanson, and they said his dour manners and sharp tongue were only proof of it. But Col looked at him and thought differently. What reason had Natanael for kindness when he received none? What reason had he for soft words when all he was given were sharp ones? There was no reason for smiles, for warmth, when all the heall had given the young man was scowling and coldly turned shoulders.

So Col had taken it upon his very broad back the weight of everything the heall should have been for the other young man. He was strong. He could bear it all, and would do so joyfully if only it meant that Natanael knew that there was a place for him here.

Grinning broadly now, Col set a new log out before him and hoisted up his axe. A muscular heave and a resonant thunk and the wood fell split, the fresh scent of piney resin flavoring the chill morning air with its bright tang.

“Good morning to you, Natanael! And a fine one it is, do you not think? There will be snowdrops soon, I’m thinking; I will show you where they grow, if you would like it. Spring has found her way back at last! Soon, I am thinking, there will be more than stale storage grains for the breaking of our fasts on a morning like this one! There is a girl in the kitchens who smiles at me; perhaps she will give me berries I can share with you, when spring has come.”

[spellwoven]

This, Nathaniel thinks, is not a problem he imagined ever having when he first joined the Wardens.

Even with his arm thrown across his eyes he can’t completely block out the knowledge that, just beneath the sheets, his half-hard cock aches with unfulfilled pleasure. He doesn’t really remember much of the dream he was having before he was thrust into wakefulness– for better or for worse – but he knows that it had featured a very naked Wystan and his big, beautiful hands in rather graphic detail. (And, if the full-body flush of pleasure that has his heart rate spiking is anything to go by, had features some other parts of Wystan’s anatomy that he’d only just recently become privy to.)  

A part of him wants very much to be annoyed by the whole situation. It’s clearly some ridiculous hour of the morning when even the birds haven’t started singing yet, no one in the Keep is awake, and somehow his body has decided now is the perfect time to deal with the results of his subconscious. Nathaniel has a pretty good idea of what fueled this particular dream sequence, feels an acute twist of guilt in his gut that he’s even thinking about such things given the current circumstances (taken, Wystan is taken and not about to stoop so low as to be unfaithful), but apparently it’s not enough to dissuade the primitive part of the archer’s brain. This thing between him and the Warden Commander has been building, bit by bit, day by day, until even Nathaniel cannot say he is unaffected by it. He wants, like he hasn’t wanted anybody in some time, and the rekindled flames of desire are not so easily smothered.

Of course he could try and ignore it, roll over onto his side and pretend like he hasn’t noticed the way his sleeping pants tent in the front, but ever since he’d become a Warden Nathaniel had found his appetites to be much more difficult to dismiss. Even the simple slide of fabric over heated when he shifts teases at the sensitive head of his cock and makes his fingers curl into involuntary fists. He shouldn’t indulge in this, knows better than to make Wystan the subject of his fantasies, but he also knows that if he does not do something his sleep will surely suffer and then everyone will be sorry for it.

With a heavy exhale and a reflexive glance at the door – he can’t see if it’s locked but it never hurts to check – Nathaniel pushes the blankets, his sleepwear, and his smallclothes down past his knees, sighing at the feel of the cooler air on his cock. He reaches down to grasp his erection with one hand, fumbling towards the bedside table for a handkerchief with the other. Making a mess is always out of the question, no matter how fast he wants this whole thing to be over so he can go back to sleep. He sets the piece of fabric within arms reach and resettles his arm across his eyes, letting the darkness clear his mind as he touches himself in steady, measured strokes. It’s not like he needs to think of anything to get off; mere tactile stimulation is more than enough to achieve orgasm and it’s not like he makes a habit of this sort of thing. All he has to do is relax and let the pleasure build, cock sliding easily through the loose curl of his fingers and–

(Could he fit Wystan’s cock in his hand like this?)

The thought flickers across his mind and he cannot help the jerk of his hips, breath catching in his chest and heat burning at his cheeks. Nathaniel bites his tongue as if to stave off such curiosities, for all the good it does him. While he’s never been much good at constructing fantasies based on pure imagination he’d always had a very good memory, which meant anything sexually stimulating had to be constructed from things he had experienced first hand. Wystan’s cock had never entered the equation before simply because he hadn’t got a proper look at it, though the Warden Commander had accidentally rectified that a mere two days ago. Nathaniel hadn’t meant to see anything, merely glanced up when a bout of roughhousing was getting too loud in the baths, but his attempt to prevent anyone from getting hurt had instead given him a perfect view of Wystan in all his naked glory.

If ever there was a time that Nathaniel loathed how good his memory was, it was now because he doesn’t even have to try to recall what he’d seen. He can see it all-too-easily in his mind’s eye: Wystan’s damp skin, the faint flex of his muscles, those big hands clasped around bigger forearms, the heavy weight of his cock between his legs. What would it be like to bed a man like that? To feel this hands on his hips, wrapped around his cock, slick and pressing inside to open him up for Wystan and Andraste’s blood if that’s not enough to make his toes curl in the sheets and pleasure flare hot in his gut.

Nathaniel has to swallow down the low groan that threatens to make itself heard, sacrificing any control of his breathing as he lets the hand around his cock trail down to stroke over his perineum, then lower until the teasing touch is too much to bear. He doesn’t have anything nearby to allow for such explorations, and while it has been some time since anyone has touched him there it has clearly not lost its appeal. (And, clearly, the prospect of Wystan being the one to remind him of those pleasures is one he would very much enjoy.)

Without oils he has to return his attention to his erection but it is enough just to imagine, to draw on old memories of his mentor’s touch and the feeling of being fucked open on her glass cock, and add to them the sensation of Wystan’s hands gripping his, and the weight of the mage’s body against his own, seasoned with just the hint of speculation of what it might feel like to take a man of Wystan’s size inside him—

He almost forgets to grab the handkerchief when he comes, moan caught behind his teeth as he curled inward, thighs trembling in the aftershocks of his orgasm. For several moments after he can only lie there and catch his breath, staring into the darkness of his room and trying not to think too hard about where he’d let his mind wander. Blessedly, Nathaniel only has the presence of mind to wipe himself clean before weariness overwhelms him and he settles back to sleep. There will always be time in the morning to deal with the aftermath. 

[3parts]

He could lead armies, Angua thought. He really could. Some people have inspired whole countries to great deeds because of the power of their vision. And so could he. Not because he dreams about marching hordes, or world domination, or an empire of a thousand years. Just because he thinks that everyone’s really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made the effort, and he believes that so strongly it burns like a flame which is bigger than he is. He’s got a dream and we’re all part of it, so that it shapes the world around him. And the weird thing is that no-one wants to disappoint him. It’d be like kicking the biggest puppy in the universe. It’s a kind of magic.

Terry Pratchett, Men At Arms (via 3parts)

[j-august]

“Well done,” said Carrot. “I’ve always said you can do more with a kind word and a smile.” The crowd looked at him with the kind of expression people always wore when they looked at Carrot. It was the face-cracking realization that he really did believe what he was saying. The sheer enormity tended to leave people breathless.

Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay. (via j-august)

[spellwoven]

CROW:

The Warden joked so easily about the manner in which they had met, and yet, he genuinely seemed to hold no grudge about it. It perplexed Zevran, to be so easily forgiven; not that he had ever left a target alive before now, but even a half-botched assassination had always been met with disapproval and punishment from the guild masters. Not this… this open acceptance, this seemingly genuine interest.

He did not trust it… but he liked it. False or not, it was nice to believe, for a moment, that there were still good people in the world.

“Ah, it is little more than a hobby,” he declared, sheepishly retrieving the leather when Wystan reached for it. The grotesque little faces were not masterfully recreated, and in truth they were copies of the gargoyles littered around the chantries of Antiva, but the elf had steady hands and if nothing else then the quality of the tooling was a good one. “A simple distraction. ‘Idle hands are a demon’s invitation’—or so the saying goes, does it not?”

He was a naturally verbose person, but even he knew that his chatter was a nervous, reactive thing. He had entered this contract expecting to die, which he had already failed at, in more ways than one; and so every moment from hereon in was an unforeseen future, and the uncertainty of it filled him with a restlessly giddy sort of energy. “Such concern for your enemy! If I had such a welcome from every man I tried to kill, I might make an effort to fail more often. It is very kind of you, my friend—though ‘friend’ is a little presumptuous, perhaps you would prefer ‘Warden’ instead—but I can assure you, I am quite the resilient person. It will take more than a few injuries to take me down.”

Wystan grimaced expressively. “They tell us that one in the Circle, too, and I think they tend to mean it a bit more literally there than usual,” he said, laughing wryly. Scenes from his own Harrowing, not so very long ago, flashed briefly through his mind; one thing was certainly true – Wystan would never again look at a mouse quite without suspicion! His lips twisted into a little private smile; perhaps he’d ask Zevran to decorate his armor with mice, in honor and remembrance of Wystan’s first real battle.

Or perhaps not. He had to remind himself that he didn’t know this fellow, not really – and that Zevran had been hired to kill him. Wystan, for whatever reason, believed Zevran when the elf claimed he’d be loyal now and not try again, but even light-hearted and sweet-natured Alistair was suspicious of the Crow. Perhaps Zevran was Mouse all over again. Perhaps Wystan was being a fool.

Well, he’d rather be a dead fool for trusting too easily than a live cynic, hateful and bitter.

“Distraction or not, hobby or not, I think you’ve very talented hands,” he added after a moment, coloring slightly as he realized the words might sound a flirt. (Did he mean them as one? He wasn’t entirely sure.)

“I, uh… my hands might not look like much compared to yours—” Maker, that was even worse! “—but if you need healing I can help. Let me, please. I want to. You’re—” Handsome and charming…. “—one of us now, and it wouldn’t do for you to be going around putting on a brave face when you could be at your full strength with the rest of us. I’m sure it takes more than an injury to take you down; but we have a lot of dangerous people to face. And some not-so-people, too, but those are just as dangerous.”

The hurlocks privately horrified him; their human-like proportions, their human-like stature, and their bone-chillingly inhuman faces and vocalizations. But sometimes, there was something about the eyes… something which nearly remembered humanity, or craved for it, or hated it…. He repressed a shudder, all mild flirtation vanished in the sweaty, fever heat of his nightmares.

“Wystan,” he said then. “Friend is good too. But my name is yours to use, if you want it.”

[howhufflepuff]

This is what The Rock was wearing at the MTV Movie Awards when he let everyone know that his Hogwarts house is Hufflepuff.

[spellwoven]

The Joining

It was the whistle that saved Nathaniel’s life.

Sloppy fletching, they would discover later. The arrow had whistled as it had flown, rather than arcing toward them with the near silence a better quality projectile might have.

But even in the midst of the roil of battle, even having willingly dropped himself into a sort of red haze in which his magic and his body and his humming, hissing sword were fused into a single deadly tempest of power and destruction – such a relief, to give his strength free rein at last – Wystan had heard the whistle and looked up to find its source.

He kept a sort of mental landscape of the battlefield and knew with an unerring instinct the arrow’s target the moment he’d picked its slim shape from the sky. With a roar of anger and negation, the big battlemage flung himself forward with a grace belying his stature, unthinkingly and unquestioningly putting himself between Nathaniel Howe and the danger. The whistling arrow struck his upflung shield and shattered on it.

The crossbow bolt which followed it did not.

It sank into his thigh, by chance or design finding the only lightly-protected gap between tasset, poleyn, and scale-mail tabard. A line of bright agony shot through his leg and he knew at once the bladed tip of the bolt had creased his femur. Shit. He did not have time for this!

Gritting his teeth, Wystan snapped the bolt off, leaving most of it inside his leg; it’d keep the bleeding temporarily staunched. At least until Anders could get to it; Wystan was supposedly a spirit healer himself now, Wynne having finally pronounced him more likely to heal someone than harm – but healing oneself of an injury like this was difficult for a lot of reasons, not least of which was lack of strength to effect it properly.

Growling again, he surged forward, laying about him with the ancient blade Spellweaver, each parry and thrust of the lyrium-infused silverite a spell cast, every blow a bolt of power unleashed. He could not fight like this for long, but if he did it well enough, he wouldn’t have to.

@howeveryclever

[spellwoven]

motleysins:

If the Warden was aware of the eyes on them both, then Zevran was doubly so. After all, nothing provided a healthy dose of self-awareness like being the only enemy in a camp of friends; he half expected to wake up with a knife in his back, or poison in his food.

But for now, he was alive, and… despite everything, he was not dead.

He… still did not know how to feel about that. Elated, in an adrenaline-fuelled sort of way; surprised, certainly; deep down, probably even a little relieved, if he was being honest with himself. He did not know if he wanted to die, not really, but he had convinced himself so completely that this was to be it for him that the realisation that he still lived was… hard to process. This was meant to be a suicide mission, he had made certain of that when he had bid for the contract. But had he cared? Rinnala was dead, by his own hand at that, and if he had ever loved himself before that then he certainly could not remember how to now.

He still felt as though he floated, suspended in a strange, dream-like state where he was alive when he shouldn’t be but instead had given his loyalty over to a complete stranger, and wasn’t that a strange turn of events? He wanted to sleep for an age, or wanted to shout, or dance, or simply lie down and block the world from his thoughts. He did not know how to feel, what to think, too many urges striking him all at once. This was as far as he had planned for his life; what did he do with himself now that he was surrendered to this unseen fate?

And thinking of fate—here came the Warden in question, that gentle-faced mountain who had spared his life when he had hoped to find an honourable death at those hands. His own hands stilled on the scrap of leather they held; amazed that he had been allowed to retain a knife, he had whiled away the evening so far by engraving little faces on it—a distraction from the thoughts that crowded his head, and from the ache of the injuries that he had patched up himself when they had stopped to make camp.

But if he was an adept at death, he was a master at hiding his emotions, and his smile, when he turned it to the greeting, was faultless. “I have suffered worse, my friend,” he reassured him easily. “It certainly takes more than one sordid scuffle to take Zevran down! And you; are you as injured as I feared?”

Wystan laughed and shook his head. “Not as injured as you’d hoped, perhaps?” he asked, grinning crookedly. One eyebrow arched; the elf had meant to kill him, after all! He’d set up an ambush and everything. Wystan felt rather bad about the fate of the Crow’s erstwhile companions. Or were they accomplices when the common goal was murder? Still. It seemed a waste. He knew nothing about the lives of those men and women, but he mourned the need to have killed them.

“Ah, but never mind the injury. Wynne’s seen to it. She assures me I’ll have a handsome scar to show off to all the ladies and boast of my prowess. Seems to me all I’d be able to boast of is being too large and slow to duck a dagger when I ought to have, though.”

He moved to sit cross-legged on the ground beside the elf, peering curiously at the bit of leather Zevran held. The dim glow of firelight revealed the faces Zevran had etched into it with some fair skill; the shifting light made the faces seem to grimace and caper and leer as though they were alive. Wystan reached out and ran a finger along the scrap of leather as though to assure himself the little grinning imps and gremlins were only carven leather. He half expected them to bite. “This is amazing!” he said, genuinely enthralled. “So cleverly done. You are very talented! Where did you learn this? Have you been practicing it long?”

He paused, and put his big hands back onto his knees carefully. “Ah, but you’ve distracted me! Or I’ve distracted myself, perhaps.” He grimaced wryly; the curse of an inquisitive mind, perhaps. He’d always been far too interested in everything, far too prone to distraction. He’d driven his instructors in the Circle mad with his constant questions. 

“May I check your bandages? Or perhaps you would benefit from a simple regeneration?” He lifted his hand; an arcane blue light played about his fingers. “I’m no spirit healer; Wynne despaired of teaching me. But I’ve the basics of Creation, anyway.”