#gylded

[saarebcs-blog]

@gylded

              “The --- the valla --- I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say the word.  The tattoos on your face.  Do they mean anything special, or --- ?  ‘Cause they’re BEAUTIFUL.”

[ahvir-a-blog1]

Bad Dream :(

send me ‘bad dream’ to give my muse a nightmare.

              ‘ i can’t believe you took deshanna’s staff, ahvir!  she’s going to kill you! ’                          ‘ tel’abelas!  see what i can do with this! ’

       everything is too bright.  so bright it hurts to look at it.  but maybe rem was always like that.  grinning, laughing, she is more glorious than the sun.                                   time moves strangely in dreams.  one moment they are running through the forest, laughter on their lips, fingers tangled --- and the next it is the same familiar scene { burned into her skull, the callouses of her fingers, pulsing bright alongside the mark } that has played across a tormented memory a hundred times.  they are coming --- she is BRIGHTER NOW, a god more beautiful than any --- mythal, andruil, ghilan’nain forgive her blasphemy --- and she thinks to fall to her knees.  either to beg her not to die --- not this time, not this time --- or to WORSHIP HER.  but thin brown legs are locked, still and tight and trembling.                              ‘ get behind me. ’                                       ‘ what are you doing --- don’t --- !! ’                                         blood and heat and pain pain pain; she is simultaneously ahvir, staring on in mute horror, mouth contorting to form words --- ‘no, no, stop, she’s not a mage, creators, help help help MAKE IT STOP’ --- and rem, agony as a sword is run through her.  she tried to block with the staff, but weapon is large, clumsy in hands trained with a sword.  they are both so small.  little girls, CHILDREN, too young to die, too young for war, too young.  there is blood in her mouth.  it tastes like copper, and she is aware of the taste before she is aware of the sensation of a weapon scraping against her spine as it is pulled out of her.  she falls to her knees, soft ground { it rained just hours before --- the sun is out.  it is beautiful, how it streams through trees, bright on red red red } cushioning the fall as blood pours out of the wound and her mouth.  another templar grabs her hair, yanks her to look up, and she is ahvir again.  she begins to scream, now, finally, throat ripping with the force of the action, lungs emptied, emptied, emptied.  she cannot stop screaming.  it sounds like forever.  it sounds like a sob.  she watches as the templar finishes the job.  blood spatters onto them, onto the ground, onto her.  onto her.  it burns through her flesh like acid.  when the shems turn to look at her and point their swords she doesn’t understand.  she cannot stop screaming.  she can smell the blood.  they don’t need to point their swords at her.  rem’s blood is going to kill her before they can.  she is sure of it.  she cannot stop screaming.  

                           the shem speaks but she cannot hear him.  rabbit.  knife - ear.  who knows what he says.  it doesn’t matter.  she cannot stop screaming.  he reaches for her, grabs a fistful of that long thick hair of hers.  the sword she cannot wield falls from her hand.  she can smell the blood.  they are going to kill me.  she cannot stop screaming.  there is a sword pointed at her, and he is speaking and she cannot hear it.  she can smell the blood.  she cannot stop screaming.

             she cannot stop screaming --- !!

                                                 “VENAVIS!” she screams, bolting up; throat is raw, hands with knuckles white.  someone says something about a fever, but she cannot recognize the voice, cannot make out the words.  where is she --- ?  WHERE IS REM?  the scream does not quiet, stretches on, she can smell the blood she can’t stop screaming THEY KILLED HER THEY KILLED HER THEY KILLED HER!  someone reaches for her and she jerks away, fever - bright eyes searching and seeing nothing.

                          it is not until isa’s voice, familiar amidst the confusion echoes, until isa is the one grasping her shoulders that she can see.  familiar eyes nose ears isa isa isa lavellan home SAFE --- and she throws herself into her arms.  the scream dwindles, dies, turns into a tearless sob and feverish woman, injured herald clings with desperate fingers.  she does not know what safety is, only that these eyes are familiar and that means they are GOOD.

           so quiet she cannot hear herself, she begs, “don’t leave me.”

[ahvir-a-blog1]

five times kissed :U

send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed.

        she is drunk the first time, and it might mean nothing.  not that she’s drunk — that means a lot; she is taking haven badly, death death death the smell of burning flesh could have saved more could have saved all of them.  she’s only just ceased being feverish from the cold and the wounds, forehead still just barely warm.  but the kiss.  it is merely that poor isa has been tasked with dragging the drunken inquisitor from the herald’s rest back to her room before she embarrasses herself further.  up the steps, to her door, to her room, ahvir stumbling even with her arm thrown over a supporting set of shoulders.  and as ahvir falls into her bed she ceases swaying just long enough to press a clumsy, grateful kiss to isadore’s nose.  she grins, too widely, at her dumbstruck expression.  the grin is still on her lips when she wakes up and can’t remember why she’s smiling.

          she is not drunk the second time, just ELATED.  the news that their clan is safe has her singing, floating, flying, all the fear in the world not enough to undo her ecstatic joy.  she can’t wait to tell her — casts a barrier about her body and literally throws herself off the castle to find her sooner, trusting the magic to heal the wounds she suffers.  She can barely SPEAK when she finds her, grinning, giggling, bright and bursting and warm as she was, once, before rem and the conclave and the world on her shoulders.  she takes isa’s hands although she knows she shouldn’t, presses a kiss to her forehead although she knows she shouldn’t do that, either.  in this moment, she loves clan lavellan too much to care.  she loves ISA too much to care.

          the third time she is sad and she is quiet and she is ANGRY.  both are bruised and both are wounded, but isa is hurt worse.  isa took a strike for the inquisitor that she shouldn’t have and as ahvir worries her lips raw with her teeth and presses eratic magic into her companions’ wounds, she silently berates both the woman before her for her willingness to sacrifice and herself for nearly failing to protect her.  but the words stay in her head, pounding around her skull.  her fingers shake, and when isa presses her hands over the digits to still them, ahvir draws her hand to her lips and presses into her knuckles all her fears, all her pleading requests not to hurt herself for her sake.

          the fourth time it is because isadore didn’t listen to her.  because isadore got hurt for her AGAIN, because she is laying on the ground, wounded, eyes closed, dead dead no no no she can’t be dead — and as soon as the last of the venatori are dead ahvir is at her side, falling to her knees and pressing bloodied fingers to her face, her shoulders, wake up, wake up.  nearing tears, pressing an ear frantically to her chest.  silent, for a long moment, then — ba - bum.  ba - bum.  she lets out a laugh, relieved and backed by too much air, that sounds like a sob and draws her form close to her and pressing a frantic kiss into her bloody hair.  

            the fifth time is hardest.  because ahvir needs to be the hero just one more time, and isa knows it but she is still looking at her with THOSE EYES.  ahvir remembers the look.  she’s worn it herself too many times.  so she tries to smile, single hand brushing the other’s hair from her face, and her hand does not shake.  she is not afraid to die.  not for this.  not if it means her people, and the world, and ISA — not if she knows they won’t have to.

            “don’t be scared,” she says, still smiling, soft around the edges, the well screaming in her ears at the betrayal she is about to enact.  HE IS YOUR MASTER!!  never again shall we submit.  “it’s going to be okay, isa.”

             she leans and presses a kiss — quick, chaste, an apology — to the other’s lips.  and then she turns on her heel to face the monster she let loose once.

[lionquisition]

smooches the commander tbh

          “mm---” cullen grunts in surprise against her lips, cheeks already flushing hot with embarrassment even before she pulls away. it’s not as though he dislikes kissing her, of course --- not by any means --- but when she does this sort of thing right in front of all his soldiers and half the key members of the inquisition, he’s understandably a little caught off guard. he lets her lips linger for a few seconds, then pulls away, pressing a palm to his cheek in a (rather meagre) attempt to hide his blush. 

                “... isadore.”

[ahvir-a-blog1]

@gylded

        “PLEEEASE, Isa?  I’m really good at it!”

                     Ahvir has several passions.  Battling, beating shems at their own games, Elvhen history.  The most pressing one at this instance, however, is HAIR.  Playing with other’s hair and, better yet, BRAIDING IT in elaborate styles.  And Isadore, the woman has just realized, has hair that is just long enough about the bangs for braiding.

                                “Please please pleeeease, lethallan?”

            She isn’t going to take no for an answer.

[ahvir-a-blog1]

@gylded

                ‘ Breaking, shattering, mouth full of metal, white hot, burning – I wanted to do better, be better. For us, for you, for the Inquisition – ’ 

             The mark sparks.  She remembers, hours ago spilling into years ago and too much too much.  She remembers and Cole WINCES and she is grateful that the anchor is too loud for him, loud and bright enough to block out the thoughts that SING familiar in an overcrowded skull, failed her failed her failed her, dark - skinned body dead on the ground bleeding out red red red templars no no died for me died for me NEVER ASKED HER TO DIE FOR ME --- !!

                           The mark sparks and she remembers and she SLAMS her fist into the rocky crag they rest against, bloodied bleeding, cannot feel the way the knuckles fracture and then frantically heal beneath the barrier Dorian cast that has not quite worn out yet.  WHY do people keep DYING for her?  She isn’t worth it, she isn’t WORTH --- 

           “She didn’t want ---”

                     “Cole, DON’T.”

      Her voice is thick with unshed tears and self - loathing.

                                  ‘ I wanted to do better, be better. For us, for you, for the Inquisition – ’ 

             She SCREAMS, then, staff slammed into the ground as she curls around it, fists tight, tight, tight around the wood like they’d been after REM, always training stronger stronger so you can protect them no one else will suffer you will protect the clan you will keep them safe you will not FAIL THEM like you FAILED HER and she SCREAMS and she CRIES for the first time in years, breath hot and coming too fast and no air I FAILED HER!!

                                    I WANTED TO DO BETTER.

                             “YOU WERE BETTER --- !!”

               The mark SPARKS, BURSTS, painful like the weight of a dead girl in her arms and excess magic spills from the focus on the edge of her staff, fire coming in waves, rolling down the wood and her palms.  YOU WERE BETTER!  You were better than you were, you were better than them, you were better than ME!

                                     “YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO FUCKING DIE TO BE BETTER --- !!”

                        They let her scream and they let her sob and they let the magic burn out of her.  When she falls to her knees and the staff slips from her fingers Dorian kneels beside her but he does not touch her, and Cole steps away so he will not risk hearing and spilling that which should not be said.  When she needs to stand, shaking and emptied of herself, Dorian wraps an arm around her waist and helps her, keeps the arm there until she stops swaying.  He offers, when they reach the body.  Cole does, too.  She cannot speak to tell them no.  She merely shakes her head while bloodied fingers twitch and ache, while she shifts the corpses inside of her to make room for one more.

               She carries Isa back to the camp just like she’d carried Rem.

[jcined-a-blog]

@gylded​

               “Inquisitor!  ANDRASTE’S TITS, you startled me!”

         It’s not ENTIRELY Isadore’s fault --- the Warden has been JUMPY.  At least the singing is quieter today; damned annoying { frankly } but not UNBEARABLE, not painful.  She offers a sheepish smile, hands raising.  “If this is about the recruit with the broken nose, I swear I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”

[lionquisition]

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw your face.”

     “i am hoping you mean that WELL,” he returns, fighting down a smile. for his part, he only vaguely remembers the first time that he saw hers; after all, he had met her in the wake of a battle at a rift, and they had exchanged barely two words before parting ways. he remembers finding her striking, but that is really all. he’d had no time to form an opinion of her until they had met later on, back at haven, when there were no demons surrounding them and no holes in the sky to knit shut. then, he had been afforded a better look at her --- and by the maker, he certainly will not soon forget what he thought of her then.