ultimate dragon age meme: Three Six NPC pairings (1/6)
VARRIC ♥ CASSANDRA
For @spirrum because she writes some of my favourite Cassaric. I mean really, it heals you.
“He watches her go, the words stuck to the roof of his mouth, part apology, part meaningless groan, but he can’t make himself say a single thing – can only follow the loping stride of her long legs, and the tension stuck between her shoulder blades, as though he put an arrow there but she’s too proud to let it show, and to let on that she’d expected something other than a sharp dismissal.
And that makes it worse, Varric thinks – that she should think them friends, or something close. Easier to be enemies and to hate each other’s guts, than to edge closer to something kinder, something that promises the softening of those hard lines. Because he’s loved her at her hardest, and he doesn’t know if he could survive it, if she looked at him the way he sometimes thinks she might, if he gave her a reason.”
I really love the whole ‘person A brings up wanting to have kids and person B had never really considered it but now can’t stop thinking about it’ trope
***
He wakes to the feel of her weight moving against him, to the warmth tucked under the curve of his arm pressing back with surprising insistence, and with his initial disorientation it takes him a moment to realise that he’s being skilfully, if a bit forcefully, nudged off the side of the bed.
Blinking away sleep, Solas takes stock of the situation – the whole, honest size of her stretched out across the bed. She tends to move around in her sleep, he’s learned; she’ll curl in on herself, a cat’s contentment in languid, too-large movements, and wiggle until she’s comfortable. Meaning, when she’s all but pushed him off the mattress.
“Ellana.”
“Mm?”
Her shirt has climbed halfway up her chest, and she’s tangled her bare feet in the wool blankets, an endearing chaos in her heavy slumber that it takes him a moment to tear his eyes away from. But, “I conceded the blanket,” Solas tells her, kissing the words into the dip of her throat. “That you yield enough space for me to sleep is not much to ask in return.”
Ellana grunts – there’s really no kinder way of describing the guttural noise that pulls from deep in her chest. “…could get your own blanket.”
“I did. You have commandeered both.”
She’s quiet at that, and for a moment he wonders if she’s fallen back asleep – if she’d awoken at all – when she suddenly sighs and, rolling over towards him, it’s to bury her face in the crook of his neck. “One day, we’re getting a bigger bed,” she murmurs, and whatever thought had been at the forefront of his mind flees on swift feet.
“A cottage somewhere,” she continues, when he’s failed to provide a response. “When this is all over. Small cottage. Big bed.” She giggles. “Lots of room for…activities.”
She’s not usually subtle – it’s one of her more charming qualities, but at least awake her propositions are shy and fumbling things, blurted rather than offered coyly, and with none of the suggestiveness he finds in her tone now. But when he thinks she’s about to continue down the path she’s started on–
“Hmm. Cottage’s got to be big enough for kids, though,” Ellana declares, and Solas’ heart goes still in his chest.
It’s not a good idea to pursue that comment – for his own sake more than anyone else’s, but, “I did not know you’d thought of children,” he says quietly, before he can stop himself. His hand hesitates by her ear, fingers shaking slightly, but when she hums in affirmation he buries them in her hair.
“Two,” she says, the word little more than a breath, but it’s loud in the quiet of her chambers – loud in his ears, filling his entire head, until it’s all he can think about, two sets of small hands and delicate, pointed ears; the first large and curved like hers, and the second–
“Mmmaybe three,” Ellana continues, and he knows she’s asleep – is certain she wouldn’t divulge this information so casually if she weren’t, and he should rouse her, Solas knows, but – “I’d like at least one of each,” she adds, as though to herself. “Hmm, a girl would be nice. You’d be so good with a girl.”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe, and he really shouldn’t think about it, but the wistful joy in her sleep-roughed voice drives every shred of common sense from his mind, and what’s left is a fledgling image taking shape too fast for him to banish it. And it’s impossible not to wonder – to imagine the fall of her hair, sleek and brown or a mop of wild, russet curls; a full lip tucked between uneven teeth, and a pale brow furrowed in fierce concentration. A dimple, perfectly placed at the centre of her chin, or one in each cheek–
“What about you?” Ellana asks then, the question half-mumbled, the syllables thick with sleep, and curled around a yawn.
It’s a challenge just finding his voice, and he knows that if he were to remain silent, it’s likely she wouldn’t even notice – like she probably won’t remember speaking of this come morning, even as Solas knows that every word is etched into his own memory to stay. But he could say nothing – should say nothing, and pretend she never asked.
“I should like a girl,” he tells her instead, with an honesty that burns on his tongue, his voice little more than a murmur, and the pang of regret that follows is so fierce it’s hard to swallow past it.
Ellana sighs, seemingly content with the answer, and oblivious to the shaking fingers curled to a fist against her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, and he feels the beat of her heart – feels her easy contentment in the sprawl of her against him; the sleepy smile tucked against his throat, and each and every one of her heavy, even breaths.
“Shouldn’t make the bear juggle,” she mumbles then, brow furrowing with the words. “Solas – Solas, you need to tell Varric it’s a bad idea.”
He smiles quite despite himself, some of the tension bleeding out of his muscles until his palm lies flat against her back, but it doesn’t shake the tremble from his fingers, brushing against the ends of her hair where it lies in a tumble across the pillow. And – hers, definitely, he thinks, imagining how he might mix the right colour, brown and red, and if it would curl, or lie flat.
“I will tell him, vhenan.”
She murmurs something that sounds like agreement before she falls silent once more, but even as sleep pulls her back down in earnest, Solas remains awake, suddenly reluctant to welcome the Fade’s embrace. Because there’s a trickle of worry now at the back of his mind, of what he’ll find if he does – the sound of running feet and an elated voice calling out, young and bright. A bed that’s bigger but still too small, with her stomach round under his palm, and the mattress dipping under another shape who, like her mother, is not the least bit afraid to make room for herself.
But what worries him most is not the dream itself, but the very real longing that accompanies the idea now that it’s stubbornly taken root.
Discovering your Solavellan fics on a Sunday morning has officially ruined any chance of doing homework in time for class on Monday. To Solavellan hell i go!
As someone who’s now on the teaching side of things I should not be as pleased as I am to hear this, but oh well WELCOME TO HELL <3
Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endure. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Luthien
I really love the whole ‘person A brings up wanting to have kids and person B had never really considered it but now can’t stop thinking about it’ trope
***
He wakes to the feel of her weight moving against him, to the warmth tucked under the curve of his arm pressing back with surprising insistence, and with his initial disorientation it takes him a moment to realise that he’s being skilfully, if a bit forcefully, nudged off the side of the bed.
Blinking away sleep, Solas takes stock of the situation – the whole, honest size of her stretched out across the bed. She tends to move around in her sleep, he’s learned; she’ll curl in on herself, a cat’s contentment in languid, too-large movements, and wiggle until she’s comfortable. Meaning, when she’s all but pushed him off the mattress.
“Ellana.”
“Mm?”
Her shirt has climbed halfway up her chest, and she’s tangled her bare feet in the wool blankets, an endearing chaos in her heavy slumber that it takes him a moment to tear his eyes away from. But, “I conceded the blanket,” Solas tells her, kissing the words into the dip of her throat. “That you yield enough space for me to sleep is not much to ask in return.”
Ellana grunts – there’s really no kinder way of describing the guttural noise that pulls from deep in her chest. “…could get your own blanket.”
“I did. You have commandeered both.”
She’s quiet at that, and for a moment he wonders if she’s fallen back asleep – if she’d awoken at all – when she suddenly sighs and, rolling over towards him, it’s to bury her face in the crook of his neck. “One day, we’re getting a bigger bed,” she murmurs, and whatever thought had been at the forefront of his mind flees on swift feet.
“A cottage somewhere,” she continues, when he’s failed to provide a response. “When this is all over. Small cottage. Big bed.” She giggles. “Lots of room for...activities.”
She’s not usually subtle – it’s one of her more charming qualities, but at least awake her propositions are shy and fumbling things, blurted rather than offered coyly, and with none of the suggestiveness he finds in her tone now. But when he thinks she’s about to continue down the path she’s started on–
“Hmm. Cottage’s got to be big enough for kids, though,” Ellana declares, and Solas’ heart goes still in his chest.
It’s not a good idea to pursue that comment – for his own sake more than anyone else’s, but, “I did not know you’d thought of children,” he says quietly, before he can stop himself. His hand hesitates by her ear, fingers shaking slightly, but when she hums in affirmation he buries them in her hair.
“Two,” she says, the word little more than a breath, but it’s loud in the quiet of her chambers – loud in his ears, filling his entire head, until it’s all he can think about, two sets of small hands and delicate, pointed ears; the first large and curved like hers, and the second–
“Mmmaybe three,” Ellana continues, and he knows she’s asleep – is certain she wouldn’t divulge this information so casually if she weren’t, and he should rouse her, Solas knows, but – “I’d like at least one of each,” she adds, as though to herself. “Hmm, a girl would be nice. You’d be so good with a girl.”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe, and he really shouldn’t think about it, but the wistful joy in her sleep-roughed voice drives every shred of common sense from his mind, and what’s left is a fledgling image taking shape too fast for him to banish it. And it’s impossible not to wonder – to imagine the fall of her hair, sleek and brown or a mop of wild, russet curls; a full lip tucked between uneven teeth, and a pale brow furrowed in fierce concentration. A dimple, perfectly placed at the centre of her chin, or one in each cheek–
“What about you?” Ellana asks then, the question half-mumbled, the syllables thick with sleep, and curled around a yawn.
It’s a challenge just finding his voice, and he knows that if he were to remain silent, it’s likely she wouldn’t even notice – like she probably won’t remember speaking of this come morning, even as Solas knows that every word is etched into his own memory to stay. But he could say nothing – should say nothing, and pretend she never asked.
“I should like a girl,” he tells her instead, with an honesty that burns on his tongue, his voice little more than a murmur, and the pang of regret that follows is so fierce it’s hard to swallow past it.
Ellana sighs, seemingly content with the answer, and oblivious to the shaking fingers curled to a fist against her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, and he feels the beat of her heart – feels her easy contentment in the sprawl of her against him; the sleepy smile tucked against his throat, and each and every one of her heavy, even breaths.
“Shouldn’t make the bear juggle,” she mumbles then, brow furrowing with the words. “Solas – Solas, you need to tell Varric it’s a bad idea.”
He smiles quite despite himself, some of the tension bleeding out of his muscles until his palm lies flat against her back, but it doesn’t shake the tremble from his fingers, brushing against the ends of her hair where it lies in a tumble across the pillow. And – hers, definitely, he thinks, imagining how he might mix the right colour, brown and red, and if it would curl, or lie flat.
“I will tell him, vhenan.”
She murmurs something that sounds like agreement before she falls silent once more, but even as sleep pulls her back down in earnest, Solas remains awake, suddenly reluctant to welcome the Fade’s embrace. Because there’s a trickle of worry now at the back of his mind, of what he’ll find if he does – the sound of running feet and an elated voice calling out, young and bright. A bed that’s bigger but still too small, with her stomach round under his palm, and the mattress dipping under another shape who, like her mother, is not the least bit afraid to make room for herself.
But what worries him most is not the dream itself, but the very real longing that accompanies the idea now that it’s stubbornly taken root.
Hello again! I can't recall having read anywhere about it... did Ellana choose to keep her vallaslin, or she let Solas remove it? Why so? I started thinking about it and couldn't guess, for all I've read about her! (Plus, you made my day with the second chapter of the Fenhawke merfic! As I said, I didn't romance him. You're just SO brilliant!)
You know I think this is one of those things that I’ve been meaning to write, but have never gotten around to? But oh, Ellana my sweet girl, she’s so attached to her vallaslin, and she’s been so proud of them ever since she got them – June’s, like her mother’s were, and her mother before her. Your hands are a creator’s hands, her mamae would always say – deft fingers moving quicker than her mind could come up with ideas, and her palms their own artworks of scars and callouses from years of trial and error. Woodworking is her speciality, and she whittles when she’s stressed, or to remind herself of home; she makes little trinkets for the others – tokens of good luck and nameday gifts, and her staff is pockmarked with designs she’s started on but never finished. But even though her inspiration is a bright-burning, always fleeting thing she never once doubted that her vallaslin were a good fit. They were hers, and they were earned, and so it kills her to get rid of them, but she just has so much trust in Solas, you know? So she believes him – she regrets it later, when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, and she thinks about what her late mother would think, and how her face doesn’t look right anymore. The freckles are too bright, somehow, the shape of her cheeks all wrong, because the markings were part of her, too, like her scars and callouses. It takes her a long time to come to terms with the choice – longer, even, than it does for her to get over Solas breaking things off.
Of course, then she finds him again, and two years’ worth of progress disappears with the sound of his voice, but she doesn’t feel relief to find that he was telling the truth, even as she stands before him, finally comfortable with her naked face, and her hands bearing callouses from more than her whittling knife.
But then she loses her arm – her hand, with its deft fingers and its scarred palm, and it takes her a few days but the moment she realises she can no longer whittle, when she finds herself reaching with phantom fingers for a knife she can no longer hold…
Of all the things he’s taken from her – her vallaslin, her trust, her heart – I think that’s the one she can’t find it in herself to forgive.
Hi there! For the last prompt thing, how about Loggerhead - Uncommon aggression for Fenris/Hawke?
loggerhead: uncommon aggression
He’susually the angry one – the spitting insults are his, where she’ll respond with clever-tongued quips, laughter in her voice, and she’ll grin through her irewith ease where he’ll wear his fury plain on his face. It’s part of hisfreedom, Fenris thinks – a small thing that he’s claimed for himself, after yearsspent like a ghost, not even allowed to feel the injustice of his situation.And he’s reclaimed it without shame –the anger is good, feels good. He feels.
ButHawke – Hawke doesn’t resort to anger easily. She’s not like her brother, alwayslooking for a fight. Or – she is, but not that kind of fight, the kind broughtabout by righteous fury, or a deep-seated sense of injustice. And even bare-knuckled brawls she’ll greet with a smile and a whoop, but in all their years Fenris has rarely seen her truly angry.
Thesight is…something to behold.
“Mindrepeating that?” Hawke asks, hands resting on her hips, the gesture emphasisingher rather impressive, pregnant belly.
Theformer Inquisitor – and what looks to be most of the recently disbandedInquisition’s inner circle – watches the movement with expressions of varyingdegrees of surprise. But then, their arrival had prompted much of the samereactions – they hadn’t exactly been invited to the Exalted Council, Fenris muses, although to be fair, a lack of invitation has never stopped Hawke from cheerfullyinviting herself. And she had, along with her extended family, meaningFenris and the belly, and he suspects the latter of having some hand in theextremely short leash she’s got on her temper these days.
Ofcourse, it doesn’t exactly help that their arrival is also met with despairinglybad news.
“Theworld’s going to shit,” Varric says, letting loose a sigh that sounds aboutas old as he looks. “Again.”
Hi there! For the last prompt thing, how about Loggerhead - Uncommon aggression for Fenris/Hawke?
loggerhead: uncommon aggression
He’susually the angry one – the spitting insults are his, where she’ll respond with clever-tongued quips, laughter in her voice, and she’ll grin through her irewith ease where he’ll wear his fury plain on his face. It’s part of hisfreedom, Fenris thinks – a small thing that he’s claimed for himself, after yearsspent like a ghost, not even allowed to feel the injustice of his situation.And he’s reclaimed it without shame –the anger is good, feels good. He feels.
ButHawke – Hawke doesn’t resort to anger easily. She’s not like her brother, alwayslooking for a fight. Or – she is, but not that kind of fight, the kind broughtabout by righteous fury, or a deep-seated sense of injustice. And even bare-knuckled brawls she’ll greet with a smile and a whoop, but in all their years Fenris has rarely seen her truly angry.
Thesight is…something to behold.
“Mindrepeating that?” Hawke asks, hands resting on her hips, the gesture emphasisingher rather impressive, pregnant belly.
Theformer Inquisitor – and what looks to be most of the recently disbandedInquisition’s inner circle – watches the movement with expressions of varyingdegrees of surprise. But then, their arrival had prompted much of the samereactions – they hadn’t exactly been invited to the Exalted Council, Fenris muses, although to be fair, a lack of invitation has never stopped Hawke from cheerfullyinviting herself. And she had, along with her extended family, meaningFenris and the belly, and he suspects the latter of having some hand in theextremely short leash she’s got on her temper these days.
Ofcourse, it doesn’t exactly help that their arrival is also met with despairinglybad news.
“Theworld’s going to shit,” Varric says, letting loose a sigh that sounds aboutas old as he looks. “Again.”
Fenriswatches Hawke’s shoulders tense, muscles a tight coil beneath her thin summer tunic. The heat has left a sheen of sweat along her pale brow, and it makes herhair curl into lovely, dark ringlets.
The bright flush in her cheeks, though, he suspects is from more than just the weather.
“Iretire for two years,” Hawke says tightly, “thinking ‘well, after thecluster-fuck at Adamant, things can’t possibly get any worse’.”
“That’soptimistic even for you, Hawke,” Varric points out, entirely unhelpful, although Fenris is secretly inclined to agree.
“It’snot as though we could have predicted there was an invasion afoot,” theInquisitor – Ellana, Fenris remembers vaguely, from Hawke’s many recounts – says, thewords clipped. She’s favouring her left arm, or – what remains of it, anyhow. Fenriswonders if it’s a recent amputation. It looks to be, from the feverish gleam inher eyes.
“Oh, no,”Hawke says, arms crossed over her chest, although the effect is ruined somewhat by her massive stomach. “Of course not. Because Kirkwall didn’t raise anyalarms.”
“Yes,let’s talk about Kirkwall, while we’re busy pointing fingers,” Ellana snaps,squaring her shoulders. She’s a good half a foot shorter than Hawke,although it doesn’t seem to stop her from trying to physically tower over her.
“Yes,”Hawke agrees, tersely. “Let’s.”
“Oh,boy,” Varric breathes.
Andthen they’re off, in what proceeds to become an all out shouting match between two of themost influential women in Thedas, the first one arm short of a set, and thesecond sporting a belly that looks ready to burst. The only thing missing tocomplete the picture is the Queen of Ferelden, but with the crackle of powerthat thrums in the air, like a thunderstorm brewing, Fenris exchanges a look of concern with Varric, and decides it’s probably agood thing they’re one monarch short of starting a small war.
Hawke’shand flies to her side then, knuckles pressing just below her ribcage as a hiss tears pasther clenched teeth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to shout, and Fenris is moving before he’s had time to think, onehand on her elbow to support her, even as she tries to wave him off.
“Hawke.”
“I’mfine.”
“SerahHawke–” the Antivan Ambassador begins, but Hawke looks ready to glare her down, aprotest already on the tip of her tongue, and now Fenris’ own anger is kindling, adear and familiar thing–
“Hawke,you are not f–”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, it just kicked! It gave me a start, there’s nothing wrong–”
“Hawke, would you just sit the hell down?” Varric snaps, and then someone isoffering a chair – the Commander, face strangely grave and a twinge uncomfortable –and taking advantage of her surprise, Fenris all but pushes Hawke into the seat. Of course, it’s to a string of grumbledprotests, but she yields without a fight, and, he notes, heart clenching, she’s still got her handpressed against the side of her stomach, knuckles white under her skin, and her fingers trembling slightly.
Amoment passes wherein they all remain standing in an awkward semi-circle around the chair, before Hawke’s browlifts. “I hope you’re not expecting a show.”
Someof the others move to give her space – the Seeker and the Commander stiffly, half-embarrassed, with muttered words about being neededelsewhere that makes the corner of her mouth quirk, Fenris notes, even as hefeels his grip tighten on the back of the chair.
But Hawkesinks into her seat in earnest then, and he feels the touch of her head againsthis hand, and – his anger leaves him, bleeds out of his tense shoulders alongwith the sigh loosed from her chest.
TheInquisitor remains with Varric, expression yielding all sorts of emotions,before she seems to settle on something that looks like fond exasperation touched with relief. Breath released in a huff, Ellana sinks into a crouch in front of Hawke, lone hand reachingfor the one that’s not pressed against her belly, and when they grip each otherit’s with enough force that their clasped hands shake from it. And Fenris remembers then, the stories –fondly spoken, ofthe fiercely optimistic Inquisitor and the strange friendship forged over the course of long days spent trekking through damp caves, and the Fade itself.
“It’sa mess,” Ellana says now, no anger left in her voice, still hoarse from shouting. “I’m sorry.”
Hawkelaughs – once, entirely mirthless. “It’s always a bloody mess.” Then, with more softnessthan she’s known for, and her grip tightening on that small hand, “You havenothing to be sorry for. This isn’t your fault.”
The words are familiar, and hold more conviction now than when she tries speaking them to herself, Fenris knows.
Ellana smiles, but it’s a rueful thing. “They just brought a whole council together to decide that it is, in fact, my fault. Didn’t you get the memo?”
Hawke snorts. “They needed a scapegoat. You were conveniently within reach. If I’d arrived a day earlier, they would have had a hard time deciding who to award the winning prize.”
“Some prize,” Ellana quips. “They didn’t even give me a medal.”
“Orlesians,” Hawke says, and Fenris is reminded that, however long she’s lived in the Marches, she’s still Fereldan. “I imagine there’d be a gilded noose attached to it, if they did.”
Ellana shakes her head, but doesn’t correct her, and a moment of silence passes where neither of them speaks. But they don’t let go – their hands remain, clasped over the curve of Hawke’s stomach, a strange sort of bond in a world slowly falling to pieces around them.
Ellana draws a breath then, shoulders straightening a bit. “I’m not going to ask you to help me,” she declares.
“I wasn’t waiting for an invitation,” Hawke counters easily, and Fenris wants to protest, but Ellana beats him to it.
“Hawke,you’re pregnant.”
Hawkelooks at her, then at Fenris, inclining her head briefly, their eyes meeting for just a moment before she’s turned back. “And if the Veil comes crashing down? Granted any of us surviveit, that’s not a world I want for my child.” She glances down at that, to where theInquisitor’s sleeve has been rolled up, so as not to hang completely empty. There’s a question there, loud in her silence, but she doesn’t speak it.
But, “Iwon’t let it come to that,” Ellana says, answering it anyhow, and her expression morphing into something that’sat once fiercely resolute, and achingly sad.
Hawkelooks at her, and something passes between them – some old understanding,Fenris thinks, and doesn’t know what it is, but he’s glad of it when Hawke relents, and says, “You’ll have to fight for both of us, then.”
Ellana’slook softens, and, “I’ll fight for more than that,” she vows, in a way that makes Fenris wonder.
But Hawke doesn’t seem to find the words at all odd, and with her sigh some of the tension lifts from the room. “I apologise for the – outburst.”
“Youwere angry,” Ellana says. Scared,Fenris wants to correct, but doesn’t. She’d never admit to it – easier to blame it on anger, than on what lies beneath.
“Yes,well,” Hawke snorts. “After Corypheus, I’d hoped to have at least a few yearsto enjoy a relative peace, before everything went to hell again.”
Ellanagrins. “Wishful thinking? Varric tells me it’s not your style.”
“It’snot,” Varric agrees, but there’s a frown sitting deep between his eyes. “Yousure you’re okay, Hawke?”
“Rightas rain, Varric.”
“And Badger?”
“Stillkicking,” Hawke quips, giving her stomach a pat, and her hand rests on it withease now, knuckles no longer white-boned, but her fingers loose and drumminglightly over the curve. Then, to Ellana, “Not to trespass on your hospitality,but I’d kill for something to eat.”
Thesmile she receives in turn is decidedly wry. “Trespass to your heart’s content –we’re not exactly on the best of terms with our hosts at the moment.”
“Noshit,” Varric snorts. “Only reason they haven’t sent us all packing is the pityyou’ve inspired with those sad mabari eyes.”
“Theamputation helped,” Ellana drawls, before giving Hawke a tug with her remaininghand, helping her out of the chair. But the Inquisitor’s smile is hard aroundthe edges, and quick to fade, Fenris notes.
They’reherded over to the table, the rest of Ellana’s inner circle having taken theirseats – an easy atmosphere between them, but for the remnants of an old tension that lies draped acrosstheir shoulders. It’s a strange assembly of people, and they’re the odd ones out,Fenris realises, as Varric takes his own seat, grin firmly in place and an old ease inhis movements as he says something that makes the Seeker shoot him an exasperated look.
“Remindsme a little of the Hanged Man,” Hawke murmurs, almost wistful, as he helps hertake a seat.
Hissmile, surprisingly, comes without effort. “Not enough puddles of piss.”
Hawkebarks a laugh, a keenly genuine thing, and her blue eyes are bright when she looks at him. “Don’t let Varric hear you say that, he’ll be so homesick he’ll want to hop on thenext ship back to Kirkwall. And I need at least another day before I get on a boat again.”
“Duly noted.”
Fingerstouching the back of her neck, the worn red kerchief brushing against hershoulder, pale and bared beneath the loose neck of her tunic, Fenris watchesHawke’s eyes close briefly, a silent gratitude in the near imperceptible tiltof her head, kept private between them even in a room full of near-strangers.But it’s always been that way for them, he thinks – stolen looks across an old tavern, and small touches; her fingers against his wrist, and his rare, private smiles. Their words have always been the loudest when spoken withsilent touches.
“Sowhat’s this about one of yours going rogue?” Hawke asks then, as Fenris takes aseat, her slender fingers searching out his, as though without thought – as thoughthe years have left them so wary of separation, they’re always seeking out each other’sheartbeat. Small assurances, hethinks, but doesn’t know for whose sake it matters most.
Varriclaughs, but it’s a short, hard thing. “That’s a damn long story, Hawke. Yousure you’re up for it?” And for a moment, Fenris wonders if he’s really asking for Hawke, or for himself.
But Hawkegrins – anger gone now, eased into something Fenris and Varric both recognise, and for all thatshe’s lovely in her fury, he prefers her like this, smiling and at ease.
“Ifit will give me some insight to this whole mess, I don’t care if you spend the rest ofthe night telling it.”
Fenriscatches the look Varric slides to the Inquisitor, seated on the other side ofthe table, but the small nod that follows is accompanied by a grateful look –one that reminds him once again that Varric has spent years with these people, andthat whatever story he’s gearing up to tell them, this isn’t one that will make it to the printing press.
Butperhaps that’s for the best, Fenris thinks, as Varric begins setting up the pieces for his newest tale – the wolf in sheep’s clothing at its heart, and Fenris feels a prickle ofunease crawl up the back of his neck at the epithet; a warning that tolls with an uncomfortable promise.
The hand curled around his under the table tightens its grip, and when he pushes it closer she lets him, until his palm lies pressed against the curve of her belly. He feels the kick that follows, asthough in response – as though his nearness is felt, and sought. And he thinks this is the only world that matters; the onethat sits beneath Hawke’s heart, at once so infinitely small, and too big towrap his mind around. And it doesn’t matter how many other worlds are at stake,or for what reason – his own purpose has never been clearer, in all his years,enslaved or free. To protect that frail, new heart, and the one that beatsabove it – the one that’s endured more ends than beginnings, that’s beenpatched up from countless losses, but that still sits, resolutely in its place behind bones that have broken and healed and broken again.
Thisworld will not end, Fenris vows, and Hawke will not endure another loss. Andhe’ll hold the damn Veil together with his bared hands, if that’s what ittakes to ensure it.
The continuation of the Fenris/f!Hawke merfolk AU which has thoroughly swum away with me.
read from the beginning // read on ao3
***
The bustle of the Kirkwall docks rises and falls around them like the waves against the wharf, a push-and-pull of orders shouted across crowded decks, and laughter ringing above the cacophony of heavily tinged Antivan and Fereldan accents mingling with the usual Marcher lilt. But their corner of the docks lies mostly quiet – there’s no one disembarking, and other than the occasional overseer passing along the anchored ships, it’s just the two of them.
The sloop bobs in the water, a pretty little thing, and at odds with the lumbering shape of the trading vessel floating at its side. Isabela lets slip a keening sort of noise, a sigh bordering on a moan. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Hmm,” Hawke agrees, eyes skimming along the gleaming dark wood, and the elegantly carved letters etched deep into the planks. “The Champion?” she asks, tone a tinge dubious. “Seems a bit excessive, for such a small thing.”
A snort from beside her, and Isabela crosses her arms over her ample chest. “Would you like me to give you the run-down of the many merits of small sizes?”
“Please don’t.”
“Are you sure? Because–”
“And here I thought you loved big boats,” Hawke interrupts, before Isabela can ask – although on second thought, she’s not exactly steering the conversation towards safer waters.
Isabela laughs, and waves a hand, the gold rings on her dark fingers catching the light of the morning sun. “Big boats, small boats – a predilection for one doesn’t mean I have no love for the other. I mean just look at this beaut – the lithe curves, the slender mast. The smooth, polished wood. Oooh, I’d love to take her out for a good time.”
