#erana lavellan

[faejilly]

Lath'enansalen

(heart’s blessings)

so hey there. Instead of continuing/finishing any of my idk half-a-dozen posted WIPS or myriad prompt fills, I decided to write something else entirely today. Have some DAI melancholy romance! Because I love Blackwall. (Because I lack sense?)

***

Creators forgive me, I'm in love with a human.

And everyone knows.

And everyone talks about it.

It's not as if The People don't gossip, as if we don't have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it's different when it's shem, when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words. 

It's different when it's so very often about sex. 

It startles, whispers of Grey Warden stamina and exotic Dalish techniques that die down whenever the speakers notice me, embarrassed blushes and mutters replacing them as they pretend to focus on anything and everything else near-by. But few enough people remember to look up, even in a place like Skyhold, and I have heard more than I would have preferred, carried by evening breezes up to my favorite perches. It is somehow unsurprising that this is something my ears would decide to have no trouble hearing.

At least the stables are safe, the grooms and keepers having adopted Blackwall under their care, ignoring all whispers and rumours attempting to pass the weathered planks of their walls. They stomp quite loudly whenever they must walk by or through Blackwall's work-room, and thump the ceiling with their fists before they climb up to the hayloft. They are kind, and it is difficult not to smile at the earnest way the youngest stable-boy always stares at the toes of his boots when he sees me there, so determined not to intrude.

I have extra reasons to enjoy the stable roof, the quiet below almost as beautiful as the expanse of sky above, almost as beautiful as the company I keep.

The quiet in the library is not so kind, the taut silence of held-in whispers following me as I walk through the shelves.

Dorian, of course, refrains from quiet. And would never let me remain ignorant of the... choicest rumors, his smirk bright and his arms spread wide as he repeats them. Such deplorable behavior, he proclaims, even as he appears to indulge in it himself. But his eyes are soft, and the silence around us deepens as a few shamed heads bow, and I know he worries, the ridiculous man, that I should let my heart make such choices for me.

He refrains from doing so in front of Blackwall at least, for which I am grateful. Blackwall stomps loudly enough after Sera teases him about them, his shoulders hunched and hands tight. They bother him, in a way they do not me, in a way I have yet to quite understand. They bring his shadows closer to the surface.

My shadows feel thinner now than I would have ever thought possible. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, to shake my head. How strange is the world, and however did I end up here? However did here end up with me? However did here fill up with people gossiping about me? I wonder how they come up with them, these soldiers and merchants and refugees who somehow find my every word and deed worthy of interest.

I wonder if they would be disappointed to know the truth.

For all I can feel heat pressing up beneath his skin until we are both full of it, for all there is nothing I enjoy so much as the feel of his shoulders or back beneath my fingers, we are not intimate in the way so many seem to expect.

I have seldom been particularly interested in sex, for all I knew I ought to have married and added children to the Clan. But now that guilt is lost, one small shred of quiet relief amongst all the other worries, and I find myself wondering if, perhaps, with him it might be different.

Perhaps I just needed my heart to ache, before my body would follow.

My heart aches so much more than is wise.

I love his hands, that never pause before they touch me. He doesn't touch me like anyone I've known, not like friends or family or Clan, not even like those few who wanted things other than friendship. Almost shy, no matter how many times I invite him closer, each slight touch so very gentle, as if to make up for the feel of the skin on his hands, thick and hard and calloused. Not that I begrudge the weight of his life, the marks of his labor, but it clearly bothers him. His touch almost catches against my skin, almost jealous, never willing to let go, not completely. His hands are different than a hunter's hands, or even the other soldiers I've been forced to know in this Inquisition. He shrugged when I tried to ask him, his palm held loosely between my hands, just one almost as broad as both my hands together. I want to know every step that led him here, to me, but I let him go as he pulled his hand back, and have not asked again.

There are many things he is not ready to tell me. There are things I don't know how to tell him, either, but it doesn't bother me. It does not make the current path less valuable, just because there's so much more left to go.

When he ducks his head before he drinks, or turns away from my face to look in the fire, it seems he is afraid of the twists in our path. I wonder what he thinks is beyond them. Sometimes I can see his hands turn at his sides as if he wants to touch, but cannot quite make himself reach towards me; I cannot tell if he is afraid for me, or of himself.

Sometimes I see his shadow across a doorway, made long and narrow by the angle of the sun, and the air goes too thin in my throat and my hands reach for my daggers, because I am afraid, so afraid, of what can happen to The People when surrounded by shem'len. Especially ones so dedicated to their Maker.

But then it is Blackwall, not a shem, and I step close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to lean against the solid weight of his chest, to remember that I love him, because and in spite of the fact that he isn't one of The People.

Because and in spite of the weight of his secrets, so like and unlike my own.

I wonder if he was a murderer, before the Wardens. They say they give the condemned another chance, something worth dying for beyond their petty crimes. I wonder if they would have given me a second chance, if I'd been caught, if there'd ever been a Warden to stand between me and a lynching.

Somehow I don't think so.

Unless of course it was Blackwall. I can't imagine a version of our lives where he doesn't look so carefully, so thoroughly, at everyone before him. He would not have wasted someone as angry as I used to be, not when that anger could be turned against the 'spawn.

I wonder who Warden Erana would have been, fifteen years of her anger being encouraged rather than soothed, surrounded by shem instead of family, the beast let free instead of hobbled. I am not sure I would like that Erana, or that Blackwall could love her, but oh, the shem'len never would have ignored her. Never would have been safe from her.

I'm not sure why that makes me smile, the sort of smile that makes most everyone look away from me, eyes dropping too quickly towards the ground.

Except for Blackwall. He was never shem'len. He never expects me to be something I'm not. The rest of them seem to try to forgot what I am when I'm not staring at them, forget elf, forget Dalish, forget the flare of the mark in favor of Inquisitor, of treaties and troops, of Lady Lavellan. Blackwall calls me his lady, but when he says it I feel warm, cherished. Not like those human titles, pushing against me, everyone trying to shove me in a human box to make themselves more comfortable.

I love his eyes, pale and sad and always willing to meet mine. Even when the air is dark and the shine flares up bright enough I can feel the shadows move as I look at them, as I look at him. His eyes are as old as any Hahren I've ever met, and he never looks away.

Or if he does it is because of the heat behind them, because he sees me before him and wants to see more, never less. I wonder if there is a more that I could give him that would ever be enough. A more that could be too much?

I cannot imagine not wanting more of him, every touch, every breath, every day.

I cannot ever seem to ask him that, can never really be sure of what my question is, much less what answer I want to hear, to feel. Luckily it is not a question I need to voice, not yet. He holds himself back from it, goes so far as to leave my company sometimes when the fire behind his eyes is too bright.

He has ducked his head in more than one mountain stream, which is a sight I enjoy as well, the shudder of his back at the shock of it, the way his face eases as he stands, the way the water catches in his hair, darkening the black and making the threads of grey shine in the light.

Sometimes, he notices me watching him, and I can catch the glint of water in his eyelashes as he looks at me, and there is heat beneath his eyes again, and then he swears, and I have to swallow an absurd bubble of laughter as he turns around and stomps back to the stream for another attempt.

Usually I am kind enough to turn away, so as not to distract him again.

Only once am I not, once do I stay, enjoying his mostly amused frustration too much to leave, until he goes back four times, and I lose all ability at feigned composure, falling back against the sun-warmed rock behind me, laughing so hard I'm not sure I quite remember how to breathe.

I feel the weight of him against the ground as he marches over to me, can sense the low growl of his breath through the air between us, but all I can do is gasp as he picks me up and carts me over his shoulder to the middle of the pond.

I shriek as I fall, loudly enough I'm surprised the mountain doesn't slide down upon us, and he laughs, even louder, louder than I've ever heard, not just his usual soft rumbling chuckle, and I'm smiling as I gasp again from the cold, and then I'm sputtering and coughing and laughing, bright and ragged, even as I'm trying to find my feet and push hair out of my eyes.

He helps, fingers catching on new damp tangles no matter how carefully he smooths his hand back, and then his palm rests against my cheek, cooler than the usual heat of his skin on mine, but still warm, and I sigh, and my eyes close as I lean into his touch.

He grunts, low in his chest, so low I can feel it, though not quite hear it. His fingers curl against my skin, and I am painfully aware of wet leathers and clinging linens and one shockingly cold drop of water working its way past my collar and down my spine.

"You are not usually so cruel, my lady."

I open my eyes, so close to his face for a moment I can see nothing but a blur of skin and hair and a sharp pale gaze; I have to take a breath before I can focus, can see the way the skin beside his eyes is too tight, his lips are too thin, the spread of a flush across his cheeks.

"I did not ask you to leave." I let my hand rest against his chest, fingers spread as if there was some way to encompass the strength of his heartbeat, the breadth of his chest, with but a single hand. "I am not the one who sent you to the pond."

Something hardens behind his eyes, brittle and terrible, and the weight of it fills his face, pushes out, until his cheekbones seem too pale and sharp, weapons poised to strike. "Perhaps you should."

"How can I?" My voice is thick, and my free hand reaches up, fingers paused just before his lips. "What part of me could ever wish to see you go?"

I lean in closer, and I am not sure if I should shiver or burn as his hands slide to my hips to hold me close against him, without pause or thought, as if he cannot help it. Something kindles in my chest, low in my stomach, heat and want and worry.

His hands tighten, even as his head shakes, as his mouth opens, and I know he is going to try and argue with me again. But my hands are in his hair now, thick and coarse against my knuckles, and I kiss him, our lips cool from the water and the air, my arms pulling me closer, my body pressed to his, the rumble of his rough groan pressing against the unsteady rhythm of my heart.

I can feel the catch of his breath before his lips move against mine, before he kisses me back, hard and hot and my feet are numb and my mouth burns, and ...

He pulls his mouth away from mine, breaks away, and I feel it like the first crack of ice across a Vinmark lake in spring, deep and echoing.

My eyes close, my fingers curl, tight and tighter still, 'til I hear the hiss of his breath at the pain as his hair pulls.

If you cannot make yourself leave, please, please, why do you refuse to stay?

I let go, step back, feel the water part slowly around us. I wish I could leave, if he will not, but I don't, I can't, I never want to leave, but it hurts, this endless terrible balance, and I am afraid, so afraid that when one of us finally falls it will be too far; we will not stand again.

I hear his voice, no words, not yet, just a rough breath, and I shake my head, my eyes still closed. I cannot trust myself if he apologizes again. I want to slap him, knee him in the stomach, knee him somewhere lower, force him to react, to say, to do ... something.

But what if his choice is to finally turn away completely?

I growl, frustration twisting in my chest, and I turn around, away, blink my eyes at light on water, at light bouncing off ripples, dancing around me. I hear 'Aral's laugh in my head, his offer to stab Blackwall for me, carefully I promise lethallan, no terribly important organs, just enough he can't stagger off. How does that sound?

I am laughing, weak and restless, hand lifting to cover my mouth, oh that sounds perfect, ma serannas.

"Erana." My laugh is gone, as sharp and clean a break as a freshly cut rope at the sound of my name, so rare these days, at the barest brush of his fingertips against my shoulder. Butterfly kisses, Nala always called such things, the touch so light you felt it against your heart more than your skin.

Does she still? Or is her heart too dark to feel such things, after...

My tears are almost as cold as the lake, each breath a stab in my chest, cold and hot and pain; I have not let myself cry for them before.

I am sorry, sorry, I am...

I have never cried for myself before.

Perhaps I am flying, but it is warm, not cold as the air above the mountains must surely be, and there is Blackwall's heartbeat, steady and familiar, and the rest of the world faded and echoing, too far away to bother me, and still I am sobbing, my face pressed to his shoulder as he carries me out of the water.

We stop moving, and the sun is hot and his body surrounds me, warm and solid, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head, and then there is nothing but his heartbeat and his breath and my tears.

After, when my head hurts and my fingers grip too tight, he is still there, his hand soothing up and down my back. I lift my head and his face is too still, too sad, and his lips are cool when I kiss him.

I pull myself closer, push harder against him, and his breath is hot as his lips part for me, as he lets me in; his tongue is in my mouth and I make a noise I've never heard before, need caught in my throat, in the scratch of my nails against his skin as my fingers curl through his hair, as I pull myself closer, closer, pressed against him as hard as I can and it's still not enough, never enough, please, Blackwall, more.

His arms are as hard as ironbark around me, holding me together, holding me in place, but even as my breath burns in my chest his lips soften, and his voice is warm against my skin when he speaks.

"I am sorry for all you've lost, my lady."

I press my forehead against his temple, shudder out something that is almost a sigh. "I don't want to lose you, too." I don't know if I could bear it.

"I cannot promise you tomorrow."

I squeeze my eyes tight, and swallow hard, not sure if it's a sob or a scream that I can't let free.

"But I am here for you today." His voice is steady, his heartbeat even, and I know that if he could hold time still for me, he would. "And my heart will always be yours."

"Prefer to keep all of you, vhenan, not just your heart."

He laughs at the pout in my voice, a warm chuckle that eases the last of my shivers. I shift my weight enough that I can relax, legs sprawled as I lean against his chest.

"Let's not go back to camp, not yet." Stay with me, as long as you can.

"Of course." His hand rubs along my arm, and his breath is just heavy enough I can feel it against my hair. We stay like that, as the sunlight slowly fades, and we both pretend that our peace will last forever.

It won't, but I will treasure it forever. No matter what tomorrow brings, today is enough.

[faejilly]

A nice crisp apple, please! Any DA character

youth & Erana Lavellan

Iftel left, off to travel through the clans, to learn their magic, to share his own.

None of us, Canaral and Nala and I, were allowed to go with him. We were all still bare-faced and awkward, as spindly and sharp-edged as halla colts in the fall. Iftel wasn’t any more mature, but he was Second, was magic, had a fate on his shoulders heavier than any of ours.

Brighter too, it seemed. I was mostly sure it would even out, in the end. Perhaps I was still just a little jealous. It was hard to settle, after he left, three sets of hands instead of four, the rhythm of our footsteps broken and uneven, until we all collapsed together during the stories and songs of a clear dark summer.

Nala and ‘Aral sat closer to each other each over dinner than to me, closer and closer, night after night.

They thought they were subtle.

They were not.

I was happy for them, but I didn’t know what to do with myself as the days passed. I’d never before been idle.

Only now there was nothing left to do. 

Hahren Mathus got tired of my twitching around the campfires, and gave me a fussy baby to soothe.

The next day I was gifted with a pair of toddlers. Twins, Esau and Elady. (If we were engaged in a battle between them and me that night, they won.)

The next day I made sure to find him in the afternoon and tried to beg him for mercy without it being too obvious what I was doing. He laughed at me, and gave me the youngest class of scouts-to-be, who at least didn’t run away laughing every other moment. They asked a lot of questions though, and I struggled to find enough words for all of them.

The next day I got them again. Someone must have thought I wasn’t terrible? I grabbed a practice arrow, and started sketching my answers in the dirt, half-formed maps and the shapes of leaves, filling in the gaps between my sentences.

The next day there was a pile of scrapped leathers and old vellum waiting for us, a stick of soft charcoal for me to use.

I kept the charcoal with me during the day, started tracing the shapes of the camp. I scraped the skins clean over and over again, until they were so thin I could almost see my fingerprints through them when the sun was bright.

I never needed the Hahren to find me something to do again. 

I practiced, and practiced, tracing my steps when I scouted, embellishing everyone’s stories when I returned to camp. I practiced until I managed to capture something of the way Nala and ‘Aral leaned together by the fires, the line of his back and the curve of her neck, and I sent it to Iftel, so he knew we were all still all right, however much we missed him.

So he knew not to take too long. It’d be a shame if they had to put off the hand-fasting because her brother got stuck somewhere during his journeying. 

So he knew he was always welcome home. 

[faejilly]

TMI Tues: Pick an OC. What was the moment when they first realized they were in love with their current SO? How did that realization make them feel?

AH

All your Shae stuff is giving me Blackwell feels, so.

Erana realized she was in love with Blackwalll when, despite the fact that they had neither of them talked about whatever was happening between them, about anything they may or may not be feeling, that they’d barely ever even touched, that they’d done nothing more than talk innocently and in public together, (except maybe for the carrying her out of a blizzard thing but she was only sort of conscious for that part), DESPITE everything that had not happened between them...

Blackwall was clearly agonizing over breaking off the relationship that wasn’t even a relationship, and he’d been so careful to wait until she’d recovered from Haven to do it, and he was so obviously trying to protect her even as he said he wasn’t.

And she went oh.

He’s being an idiot but he’s my idiot I want to keep him forever.

[faejilly]

I'm going to skip the symbols, but "old best friend" and "favorite teacher" for Erana?

✻ for an old best friend headcanon 

Canaral, oh Canaral. She was friends with her cousins as well as family, she and Nala and Iftel and Canaral running around together ever since they all could toddle, but Canaral.

He was the second youngest of eight, while Erana was an only child, her older sister Shilani having died when she was too young to remember anything beyond a faint fuzz of pale hair and maybe a hint of a laugh. She worries that even that isn’t real, that it’s just the things her parents told her often enough to make her think she remembers them... she’s never quite sure.

Instead there was always Canaral, loud when she was quiet, charming while she observed, sharp where she was soft, gentle when she was cruel, and he could always, always, make her laugh.

And when they were young they got in a fight with a rather precariously perched hawthorn tree and lost. (They were trying to get a treat for the halla, but rain! mudslide! bad luck! THORNS EVERYWHERE!) They both got a multitude of small scars that never quite faded, and Erana damaged her ear while Canaral scratched his eye.

Erana kept her ear hidden, for all the scar and the small notch in it were barely noticeable to anyone besides her. She felt it was displaying a weakness that could be taken advantage of, however, as it did damage her hearing.

Canaral, on the other hand, emphasized the thick white line across his eye as much as possible, using eye make-up when at camp, keeping an eye-patch for dealing with shem’len or attending any sort of multiple Clan event/meeting. (He claimed the women liked the eye-patch. And the men. He probably wouldn’t have had any trouble seducing his way through half the Dalish population of Thedas even without it... but he never actually did such a thing, for all he joked about it. He and Nala were hand-fasted as soon as they could convince their parents and their First that the were old enough.)

Um. I’m wandering all over the place, sorry. He was charming and sneaky and was disturbingly good in a close-up knife fight, so he would go out looking for trouble while Erana watched his back and smiled innocently at anyone who glanced their way... and maybe shot them if they got too curious.

She doesn’t talk about him at all during Inquisition. He was at the Conclave, helping her escort/guard Iftel (their Second), and the loss of both of them hurt too much to let herself share them with anyone for a long time.

♘ for a favorite teacher headcanon

Iftel was always kind-of the Mom Friend(tm) even at, idk, eight, so he was almost as much a mentor as a cousin as a friend? He did occasionally indulge in trouble though. 

Hahren Mathus, who was old and grumpy and knew all the best stories, and if you were quiet enough for long enough you could see him smile as the fire died down in the evening.

[faejilly]

nsfw prompt: 16 for the ship of your choice

sleepy morning kisses that accidentally turn intense + Inktober #31: Final 

Erana Lavellan/Blackwall... sad and sleepy morning kisses count, right?

It was still dark, the barest shivers of grey just starting to show through the windows, though it was still dark and cozy inside the room. He was always careful not to think about that too closely; the top of a tower on top of a fortress on top of a mountain and it was always warm. There were odd whistling breezes in hallways half-buried in the rock below them, but here, this, wide and open and ringed with windows and balconies, here there was never a draft.

Skyhold liked its Mistress.

Skyhold had excellent taste. 

Thom turned his head, breathing in deep before he gently kissed the top of the head resting on his shoulder. She hummed, almost a murmur, not quite awake, her head turning further in towards him, pressing against him. Her fingers curled until the hand that had been resting on his chest was almost a fist, tight and taut.

He smiled, and lifted his hand ‘til it was wrapped around hers, his thumb gently stroking her fingers until her grip eased, until he felt her sigh.

“It’s almost morning, my lady.”

“No.” Her voice was thick and slow, and he felt her shake her head. “Still dark.”

He lifted her hand up to his face, kissed the center of the palm and felt it spark green against his lips.

“No,” she repeated, clearer, smoother, lifting her head ‘til he saw the glint of green shifting in her eyes, turning her hand in his grip until her fingertips brushed against his lips. “It’s still night.”

“Eran --” He started, and her fingers pushed hard against his mouth until he stopped.

He could see the barest shape of her hand, that spark of green shifting to the side until it vanished into his beard as she pressed her palm to his jaw. The glint of her eyes disappeared as they closed, as he felt her forehead press to his, felt her breath ghost across his face. “It’s still dark, still night. Just a little longer.”

You have to leave in the morning. 

She didn’t say it, but they both knew. They’d promised, he’d promised, and it was time to live up to his word at last.

So why did it feel like he was breaking the only vow that really mattered?

He had to swallow the urge to apologize again, had to swallow the heat that threatened to spill out of his eyes, had to swallow the twist of anger and regret and guilt burning his throat. Had to kiss her again, the soft brush of his lips against her nose, her cheek. He felt her body move beside him, closer, warmer, and her mouth found his, warm and soft, and he sighed, she sighed, her breath was his, his heart was hers, and he kissed her until the tremble in his hands eased, and he could breathe again without a shudder in his lungs to give away his grief.

She kissed him, her mouth soft on his and her fingers soft in his hair and her body soft and warm in their bed. 

Her bed.

She kissed him, harder, deeper, her mouth open and inviting, inviting, her body hot and pressed to his and her breath in his throat and his tongue pushing between her lips and she hummed, low and uneven, and he felt it in his chest pressed to hers, in the tightening grip of her hands in his hair, felt it in his mouth, against his tongue, and down his throat as he swallowed.

He rolled, she rolled with him until she was pinned beneath him, his body settling on her as she groaned, and he felt her thighs part, just a little, just enough to set his weight across her hips the way she liked it, just enough his cock was already starting to get hard, just enough that when he lifted himself up enough to rub against her that he could hear her breath catch, could feel the way she curved up beneath him. His hands found hers, gripped tight, palm to palm to palm to palm and fingers interlaced; he pulled them up above her head, pushed them down into the bed, held her there, pinned beneath him as he kissed her, as he swallowed each and every one of her sharp shallow breaths, as he felt each tiny tremble and jerk beneath him, as he felt the way her skin heated against his, their chests pressed so close together he could feel her heart speeding up, beating against his breastbone.

Please,

yes

please.

He wasn’t sure if she’d asked, if he’d begged, but he needed, she wanted, he let her hands go, his fingers trailing down her arms, his beard rubbing against her neck as he moved, chasing the shivers beneath her skin. He reached her breast, kissed her nipple, sucked it into his mouth to hear her gasp, to feel her body jerk, let his teeth scrape so she’d tug on his hair, hard, harder, and he let her pull, let her push. He moved down her body, kissing her stomach, her hips, the curve of her thighs.

He kissed her between her legs, moved with each shift of her hips, her legs, listened to each stutter and keen and gasp, licked every fold and curve of her sex until his mouth was full of her, ‘til his beard was wet with her slick, ‘til he could tell she was close by the tension in her thighs, the tone of her breath, the grip of her fingers in his hair. He found the very spot he’d teased the most, flicked his tongue across her clit to feel her jerk, then pressed hard, hard, and moved his tongue up, up, and he felt her come, heard her cry, felt her fingers grip and give, her body arc and fall, her muscles tense and ease, shivering and shifting as he licked, soft and steady, to ease her along, to stretch out those lingering trembles of pleasure for as long as he could.

He felt her final sigh, the last bit of tension leave her, and he pulled himself up, kissed her hip, her stomach, the hard line of her breastbone, the edge of her collar-bone, the lift of her neck, until at last she turned her head and kissed his mouth, her tongue soft and quick against his lips as she tasted herself, as she tasted him, and it was his turn to gasp, to jerk, as he felt her fingers find his cock, soft at first, trailing against the heat of his skin ‘til he wanted to whimper, to beg, and then her wrist turned and she gripped him tight and he would never want for anything ever again, just this feeling, the taste of her in his mouth and his cock in her hands and he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t, didn’t, wanted, and everything was heat and he came, overflowed, burning and shivering and on fire with joy.

She kissed him again, wet and messy, and her hands stuck to his skin and his beard dragged against her neck and she was laughing, soft and almost silently, and he rubbed his nose against the line of her jaw, kissed her cheek to feel the smile curve beneath his lips.

“Well, we certainly can’t go out like this, now can we?” It was light enough he could almost see her smile now, could see a bit of how much it cost to hide whatever lingering shadows of sorrow she still carried for the future. 

Not here, not for this. He smiled back, thought only of how beautiful she was, how warm her skin, how kind her words, thought only of how much he loved her right now, this very instant. 

“I am afraid you’re right, my lady.” He let his fingers trail against her ribs, felt the shiver of another laugh between them. “We’ll need a very thorough scrubbing to be presentable.”

“I’ll get your back if you’ll get mine?”

He hummed his agreement, let his lips find hers. She kissed him back, slow and lingering, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold him close, and he pretended he couldn’t see the sky outside her windows, couldn’t feel the shift in the air around them as the sun began to rise.

Just a little longer.

[faejilly]

Inktober #10

prompt: honor Erana Lavellan/Blackwall

I do not think of him as shem’len. I never have.  Perhaps, at first, I thought only Warden... they do work so very hard to keep themselves separate. But when I no longer first thought Warden, it was Blackwall that he became, never shem.

Sera’s more a shem than he is... she’s assuredly proud of that.

It is not that he speaks well of The People, differently than his kind. He has made his fair share of thoughtless comments, but each and every time he watched, he saw, he apologized.

A human. For not knowing what to say to an elf.

But even those apologies are brief. Not eloquent, but always sincere. He barely speaks of himself at all, and if I was to take him at his word there would be very little to notice of him.

He says he is nothing special, but Wardens don’t have to fight demons and he does. Never a flinch, never a doubt. It may not be easy to always stand between the monsters and this fledgeling Inquisition, but he makes it clear it was a simple choice. 

He certainly is as ignorant as I am as to how the Veil functions, how to fix a tear to the Beyond. But still he stays. Even before he knew I was the “Herald” herself. Even before he knew anything about me beyond elf, he tried to protect me.

I’ve been a shield between danger and those I needed to protect.

I’d never expected anyone not Dalish to do the same for me.

He says not to trust him, but despite the weight of that shadow on his shoulders, how can I not? When every moment I see him helping everyone around him, training our recruits, offering a hand...  

He doesn’t flinch from the glow in my eyes, my hand. Every brush of his fingers against an arm or glove is so kind, and careful. He says he doesn’t deserve to be here, doesn’t deserve my respect, but how can I believe that? Every action he takes shows I should hold him closer, not push him away.

Even when he tries to push away himself, it is so clearly because he thinks I need to be protected from him that it is difficult not to trust him the more for it.

I am a besotted fool, clearly, but Blackwall will never be shem’len.

Lethallin, though I think he knows enough of the weight of that word between me and Solas to bolt if he heard me say it.

Vhenan would be safer for him, for all it is too dangerous for me.

My heart, given to a man who doesn’t know what it means. Who probably never could, even if I could make him listen as I told him.

I cannot regret the gift, nonetheless.

Even if he never trusts himself enough to take it.

[faejilly]

Inktober #3

prompt: warmth

Dorian & Erana Lavellan (I’m totes cheating you guys, I did not write this today. But I finished it today so whatever, my fictober is Clean-Up-Month apparently.) Sequel to: http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/124795828438 Dorian-comes-to-Haven ficlet that I suppose I really should get over on AO3 at some point? Maybe. Probably not today tho.

She doesn't smile enough, the Herald. Now that he knows she's got a smile, it is tragic how seldom she lets one escape from her.

Seems like such a waste. She is always so serious, with her so called Council suspicious and trusting and desperate in turn, making her smooth their feathers.

As if she didn't have enough to do.

As if he didn't have enough to do, trying to figure out the hole in the sky. Shouldn't have to worry about feathers.

Figurative or literal; those long dark black ones occasionally left behind by the Spymistress' messengers make his nose itch.

The Herald seems to like the creatures. 

Dorian resists the urge to shudder.

Maybe she is part bird herself? He's vaguely surprised the dwarf hasn't run away with that comparison before now, considering his tendency towards ridiculous nicknames. It seems quite clear a comparison to Dorian. There is something about the way she can stare, such focus in bright steady eyes, a tendency to perch and watch... some sort of kestrel, perhaps, hovering and waiting to see what the rest of them will do, before she risks her own final, deadly dive.

She's quieter than the Nightingale's winged compatriots, at least. No squawking. Or if she does squawk, she keeps it very much to herself. Sometimes her eyes narrow when she's watching her advisors squabble though, and he thinks she wants to peck.

But she never does.

She still doesn't smile either.

He should do something about that.

He wonders if there's anywhere in this Maker-forsaken wasteland of snow and rock to find a decent bottle of wine.

Or wait, no, he has a much better idea.

It will require getting up early, though.

Maybe it would be easier just to stay up until the time is right?

Much better plan, he does have that crate of books the Chancellor oh-so-reluctantly surrendered from the basement to go through.

He grins, and goes in search of a bottle of wine as well. Couldn't hurt, if he manages to find one. Somehow. Help keep him warm while he's reading.

He almost forgets, almost loses track of time, caught between the pages of a terrible translation that nonetheless has more references to the text of Awiergius' original work than he's seen in years...

But then he realizes the light has changed, a grey tinge sneaking around the edges of his vision that isn't a wash of exhaustion but rather that dim reflection on snow and clouds before the sun has quite risen.

It's time.

She opens her door quickly enough after he knocks, tugging on the hem of her jacket, so quickly it's apparent she was already dressed before he arrived. Her head tilts, sharp and wary, kestrel indeed, I was right, "Dorian?"

"Do you have many northern admirers likely to brave the cold and invite you to breakfast?"

"I suppose not." She blinks, a lift of eyebrows that is clearly amused, but not quite the smile he seeks. "I did not think you were familiar with the idea of mornings?"

"Only when it's really very late rather than early, my dear."

She coughs, and there, the barest twitch of her mouth. Good. He offers her the widest deepest bow he can manage without letting the wind sneak up his sleeves, and grins as he stands tall to see a silent laugh caught in her eyes.

"You're ridiculous."

"Am I?" He turns, gestures with his arm to have her step out and walk beside him. "Or is it just that anything seems ridiculous when there's no sunlight yet to warm a fellow?"

"You may have a point." Her face is still at ease, her eyes  bright, not still and cool as they become once the rest of Haven is staring at her. "But you can't let a lack of sunlight stop you entirely."

"I could!" He lets his voice rise, resists the urge to place his hand on his heart and stagger. "Imagine it, a vacation in a nice warm arm-chair doing absolutely nothing until the weather stops being so dramatic"

"But you won't."

He shrugs. Of course he won't, but very few people have ever bothered to notice that. Most of whom are worse than dead, now. Except her. "Maybe tomorrow."

She shakes her head, her steps steadily crunching through the crust the snow reforms each night. It's comfortable, the silence she can draw around herself, implacable yet soft.

Right as she's about to step up towards the tavern, he waves her sideways, and her eyebrows lift as she follows around the corner and up behind the ovens, to a tiny table with two stools pushed against the brick chimney.

Her head tilts at the sight, a shift of her hair keeping the right side of her head shadowed, as always. She always keeps him on her left side. Keeps everyone except Solas on her left side; he wonders if anyone else has noticed. "A winter picnic?"

"I'll keep it brief, I promise." He shudders at the very thought of lingering, delighted by the huff of air that escapes her, not particularly close to a snort of laughter but clearly related nonetheless. "This way."

He tilts his head, though he knows his gesture is nothing like as compelling as her own, and slips inside. They stop, and he watches as her eyes close, and she breathes, just breathes, and there at last her shoulders ease and her mouth curves, and she smiles at yeast and heat and the beginnings of bread.

Such a simple joy.

It is nice in here. Not quite as good a smell as cracking open a new crate of books, but he'll accept that maybe not everyone would agree with his priorities. He waves, and the baker he'd talked to the day before smiles, and slides a small basket his way, the contents already wrapped and covered in a faded checked cloth.

He waits until she opens her eyes, then slips them both back outside to perch and eat their hot rolls and lean against warm bricks and complain some more about the cold.

All right, he's the only one complaining about the cold, but her eyes are bright as he does, and her smile doesn't ever completely go away.

[faejilly]

Inktober #19

Prompt: Nature Some relatively early Blackwall/Erana Lavellan fluff

I don't hear him coming up the path, but I recognize the shift of light out of the corner of my eye, the weight of a shadow too broad and deep to belong to anyone but him.

I cannot help but smile, though we are new and fragile enough I am caught in a conflicting urge to duck my head to hide it, or to turn and fling myself out of my perch and into his arms.

He's remarkably good at catching unexpected ladies throwing themselves at him.

Though I'm not sure how unexpected a drunken Sera or my own besotted greetings could ever actually be... he knows us both quite well, after all.

I seem to have chosen the ducked head by default, as he stops at the base of the tree, one hand pressed to the trunk as he looks up towards me.

He's on my left-side.

I have never had to ask, still haven't told him all the details of my injury, of my past, of Canaral, but he always knows to smile at me from my left, to plant his feet and guard on my right. It soothes an ache in my chest I cannot explain, makes the hollow echo to my side on my bad days seems smaller, quieter.

He makes so many things easier.

I shift my weight and slide, a skittering of bark falling around me as I go; he leans back, but his arm is still firmly braced when I land on my feet. Trusting my aim, vhenan? I lean back against the trunk to smile at him, close enough to touch.

Close enough to kiss.

He recognizes the invitation and leans in, his free hand lifting to trace his fingers along my jaw, into my hair, and I close my eyes as our lips meet, as I gift him the small lift of pleasure that hums from my throat into his mouth with my breath, my tongue, and I am pressed firmly against the bark, the breadth of his chest a pleasure pressed to mine, the hint of sap and fresh wood still lingering around us from my slide.

He pulls back even as my fingers slide through his hair, and his forehead is a solid weight against my own, his breath warm against my face, and I am not sure if I'm more pleased by his greeting or regretful that it ended.

"To what do I owe this lovely visit?" I cannot stop smilling, but I do not mind however ridiculous I may look, because I can feel him smiling back.

"Do you know, my lady, I have entirely forgotten?"

"Truly?" The delight bubbles up in my throat, too bright and shining to let go, even to sound the laugh I can feel trembling in my chest. "Then perhaps you should kiss me again, see if you remember."

He laughs, that low rumbling chuckle I can feel through my chest, my stomach, and my eyes close again to savor the sensation. I can feel the shift of his head, his voice warm as it ghosts across my cheek, a whisper just for my good ear. "I feel that would have entirely the opposite result."

I sigh, mock disappointment, but then he kisses the edge of my ear, pushes even closer to reach my neck, warm and ghosting breath, the barest brush of lips, and I lift my chin to bring him closer, curl my fingers through his hair to hold him tighter, and forget everything in the world beyond the circle of his arms and the warmth of his mouth against my skin.

Until Sera's sharp laugh sounds, and the weight of his head settles against my shoulder with a sigh. "Sorry Beardy," she does actually sound slightly regretful. I hadn't know she could do that. "But dinner's ready, innit?"

"Right," Blackwall mutters against my skin, and I have to swallow the unexpected return of the urge to giggle at the sensation. "That's what I was supposed to tell you."

I do giggle at that, just a little, and he raises his head, and I stop as I meet his eyes, feel my smile settle into something smaller, warmer. I could drown in his eyes, heat and shadows and sorrow and such a trembling impossible sliver of hope. I kiss him one more time, as softly as I can, and push gently at his shoulders. "We'll only get interrupted by the patrol again anyways."

He grunts, but there's a smile hiding there, half hidden by his beard, and I am content as he offers me his arm and we turn back towards camp. Even with Sera skipping and snickering behind us.