♦ - Moira? <3 - freefromthequn
ACCEPTING - //send me♦ in an ask if you would like me to write a drabble about anything involving your character. If you have multi-muses, and do not specify, I will pick one at random. Domestic. Fighting. Emotional. Funny. Insightful. Heart breaking. Complete fluff. The drabbles will (usually) be short. If we have never RPed before, I will be drawing on information found in your muses / about /characters section and or gut instinct impression of your character. I am sleepy, but I want to write and I figure I could do a few of these before bed called. Mutuals, non mutuals, never rped with before, all welcome.
She thinks about the past. She thinks about it at four am, before the fingers of the sun could spread apart the clouds. Before the sun would do anything more than light some far off horizon not yet high enough for Skyhold, and not bright enough to reach the business of the kitchen. She thinks--is this what I want? Is this how it will be? Am I really content? She takes up a bread loaf tin like she would have taken up a claymore and she swings it just as dangerously now as she did; then. Except now, she killed yeast, defended sweets from little greedy hands, and protected delicate flans from being jiggled flat. Is this it? Is this all that is left of me? She thinks it. She doesn’t say it. She smiles, as she wields a rolling pin with the same accuracy she might have used a javelin. She smiles, as she uses the precision once for bow and arrow to powder-sugar over delights and curl icings over cakes with the long studied though she might have given to a tactical frontal assault. It bothers her, sometimes. The pain, too, yes. But it bothers her. Am I useful, now? Am I needed? Am I doing good?
It’s the nights when she really starts letting herself think maybe not that they come to her. The Inquisitor. Their companions. The children. The woman and men in her kitchens. Never all at once, but simply...randomly. They come to her with hope in their eyes or sadness. And they speak to the woman who wields hot chocolate with a hand steady enough that had sewn wounds, thrown knives, and slit throats if need be. They leave her kitchen with their shoulders a little straighter, a smile a little brighter, and a step perhaps less lagging. (And perhaps they leave her kitchen with a cookie or two, as well. But that was neither here nor there.) So those nights, when she thinks about the past, when she asks herself: Am I useful? She picks up the empty tea mugs, the bare plate where cookies once where and smiles. I am, she thinks. And she remembered happiness.