Did I mention I started writing an Inquisition fic?
I might not have mentioned this before, but I'm actually fairly new to the DA fandom. I started playing Inquisition last april, and it's rewired my brain.
I've only posted Veilguard fics on my Ao3 but I actually have quite a few Inquisition WIPs as well. (none of them are complete yet, but I've been thinking about my Inquisition blorbos lately and I might end up working on these again.)
Trying to post more of my writing on here so this is part of one of my favorite chapters, my take on In Your Heart Shall Burn.
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In the dead of night, nothing but frozen wasteland surrounded a field of makeshift shelters.
Was this really all that remained of the Inquisition?
Between the relentless snowstorm that only barely managed to let up long enough for them to make camp, tents filled with the cold and wounded, and the horror of losing Haven still fresh in everyone’s mind, morale was at an all-time low.
If that wasn’t enough to put a damper on the mood, their savior– the only reason they escaped in the first place– was still missing.
Technically, he was presumed dead, if you asked half the people around, but Varric chose to go with missing. Missing implied there was still a chance for Aramil to come back, and if anyone could have survived an entire mountain falling on their head, it would be the maker-damned Herald of Andraste.
Varric sat under the safety of a tarp as he waited for someone, anyone, to come up with a plan. Given that Cassandra and Cullen were still in the middle of a shouting match over which direction to travel next, he suspected no plans would be hatching anytime soon.
The truth (that none of them were willing to admit) was that Aramil was the plan, up until Corypheus showed up. With no other way to close the rifts, or his calming voice of reason to settle their disagreements, the Inquisition was all but crippled.
The remaining Chantry Sisters did their best to tend to the injured, while the soldiers kept watch for Corypheus or his pet archdemon.
Varric was keeping watch for Aramil.
Well, he was mostly trying to stay out of everyone’s way. He knew he was already permanently on the Seeker’s bad side, he wasn’t about to make that worse after the day they’d had.
The rapid crunching of boots drew Varric’s gaze to a scout, sprinting towards Commander Cullen.
“Ser, someone’s approaching the camp. It looks like the Herald.” the scout panted.
The moment they heard any mention of the Herald, Cullen and Cassandra took off towards the rest of the scouts, with Leliana and Josephine close behind.
“There! It’s him!” Cullen shouted.
Varric watched from afar as their beloved Herald rose into view.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” he muttered to himself.
Aramil shielded his eyes from the snow as he trudged towards the camp. Exhausted from his journey, he would have fallen face-first into the snow if Cassandra hadn’t caught him, scooping him up into her arms to carry him the rest of the way.
Everyone who could still stand began to crowd around Cassandra, hoping to get a better look at the Herald. Their hero, risen from the ashes of Haven.
“The Maker brought him back to us.” some of them whispered.
“The Maker sent him to save us.” others agreed.
Cullen managed to keep the crowd back, barking orders to the soldiers while Cassandra gently laid their savior down on a cot.
“Is he alive?” Josephine asked.
“He’s injured, and barely conscious,” Cassandra replied. “But yes. He is alive.”
“I will inform the others. They could use some good news.”
…
Though most of the Chantry Sisters had other patients to attend to, Mother Giselle offered to keep an eye on their sleeping Herald. With Aramil safe and sound, his advisors could return to the task at hand: Figuring out what to do next.
Varric kept himself busy jotting down future plots for his novels by the light of a small lantern, when a shadowy figure caught his attention.
Ordinarily, he would have been concerned to see someone lurking around the Herald’s tent, but Varric would recognize that sparkly robe anywhere.
Mother Giselle gasped lightly as she noticed the mage. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, when the Maker brought the Herald of Andraste back from the dead, I just knew I needed to see it for myself.” Dorian quipped. “Is our hero awake yet?”
He stepped forward to enter the tent, but Mother Giselle was quick to stop him. “He needs to rest. Leave him be.”
“Surely you must have other patients that require healing, yes?” Dorian asked. “How about I relieve you of your command?”
If it were anyone else, she might have agreed, but the Chantry Mother’s eyes always narrowed at the sight of the Tevinter mage. “I do not believe that would be wise.”
“And why not?” Dorian scoffed.
“I don’t know what you think you are doing, but this is not the time.”
“And I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re referring to, Your Reverence. Have I done something to offend?”
“You know exactly what I mean, young man.”
Varric rolled his eyes, tucking his notebook away as he stood. Even patient men had their limits.
“I can watch him.” Varric spoke up. “Sparkler’s right. There must be lots of people who need you right now. Let me take this one off your hands.”
Mother Giselle sighed quietly to herself. “Alright, but if the Herald's condition changes, let me know immediately.”
“Of course.” Varric nodded.
Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he caught Dorian smiling as the Revered Mother left her post.
“Well,” Varric began. “If you need me, I’ll just be... right over there.”
Dorian pretended to look scandalized. “And leave our poor hero, defenseless against the evil Tevinter mage?”
“Just don’t let her see you.” Varric whispered, leaving Dorian alone with the Herald.
…
Grateful for Varric’s timely intervention, Dorian made himself comfortable on the cot next to Aramil. Comfortable, being a relative term. The stiff fabric seemed to absorb every bit of chill in the air, even through his clothes. How the elf could sleep soundly under such conditions, he’d never know.
“Gave us all quite the scare, oh Lord Herald.” Dorian whispered, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. “You do like to make an entrance, don’t you?”
As he watched the sleeping elf, he found himself fighting back tears for some Maker-forsaken reason. He was only glad Varric wasn't there to see him making a fool of himself. There was no reason to worry, Aramil was safe.
The reassurance did nothing to erase the fear of his... friend, dying in that avalanche.
Though his complexion looked paler than usual, Aramil’s breathing remained steady. The healers had already given him enough elixirs to mend his injuries, but they hadn't done much to help with the cold.
Dorian began searching the tent for a blanket, or anything to help keep the Herald from freezing to death, but to no avail. Supplies had been dwindling since they left Haven. Everything they had was already in use.
“What is the Inquisition coming to?” he pondered aloud, ignoring the way his voice still shook.
Dorian sighed to himself, and began to rub his hands together, generating friction to draw heat from The Fade. Slowly and carefully, he pressed his palm against the center of the Herald’s chest. The fire spell didn't draw enough heat to cause any real damage, but just enough to keep him warm inside his armor.
After a moment, the elf’s eyes fluttered open. “Dorian?” He carefully raised his head, reaching up towards the mage’s hand.
“Hold still. I don’t want to burn you.” he replied, focusing on maintaining an even temperature.
Aramil’s hand returned to his side as he laid back down. “That feels… nice. How are you doing that?”
“It’s a simple spell. You’ve seen me cast it before, just on a much larger scale.”
“Dorian, please tell me you’re not pressing a fireball into my chest.” Aramil asked. It was nice to see the avalanche hadn’t destroyed his wit.
“Nonsense.” Dorian chuckled. “Just a trick I learned after you dragged me into this frozen tundra. If you’d like to go back to sleep, I could explain it to you.”
The Herald exhaled sharply. It might have been a cough, if it weren’t for the way his lips curled into an amused smile. “I’d like that. Maybe later.”
In an effort not to cook him from the inside out, Dorian removed his hand. “Better?”
“Warmer, at least.” Aramil nodded. “Thank you.”
“How do you feel?” Dorian knew it was a silly question, but he felt rather helpless watching the elf suffer.
“Like a mountain fell on me.” Aramil tried to sit up, but immediately winced in pain.
Dorian quickly moved to stop him, guiding him back down to prevent further injury. “Relax. Do try not to break anything else, I’m already going to be reprimanded for waking you up.”
“How long was I out?”
“Not long as long as they expected you to be, after that whole display. Never a dull day in the Inquisition, is there?” Dorian asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“Decidedly not.” Aramil agreed. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
“No,” he answered, honestly. “But if it’s of any comfort, neither does anyone else.”
“And Corypheus?”
“No signs of him near the camp. Of course, that could change at any moment, but it appears we’re as safe as we can be... We have you to thank for that.”
Aramil sighed with relief, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Dorian glanced back for a moment, to make sure none of the Chantry Sisters were lurking about. “Whatever for?”
The elf fixed his gaze on Dorian as he attempted to smile. “I think that drink might have to wait.”
Dorian did his best to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the Herald’s words. Even after all they’d been through in the past 24 hours, Aramil was still thinking of him.
“If you wanted to cancel, there were easier ways to tell me.” he teased.
“And miss the chance to spend time with you? Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless you’re having second thoughts?”
“Not a chance.” he assured him. “You know me. I never turn down a free drink.”
The elf began to drowse, letting his eyes close once more. “Good to know.”
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If you made it this far, thanks for reading! If folks are interested, I might post more of these. I had about 30 pages of fics written before veilguard came out.
