#post-inquisition

[tired-truffle]

DA Kiss Week - Celebration

Ashvalla Lavellan X Cullen Rutherford

Word Count: 430

Showing up on the last day to drop this when I finally had some motivation hit! I hope you enjoy 😊

Slight spoilers for Ash’s main fic “Something’s Gotta Give”

The tiniest blink and you’d miss it nsfw theme so I’ve put the ficlet under the cut.

Sunlight drifted through the fogged windows and the jagged hole in the roof, warming the ends of their bed. Sheets lay tangled and discarded, unneeded when wrapped in the heat of each other’s embrace.

Waking up to Cullen pressing kisses along her shoulder had been a pleasant surprise, much better than Sweetpea’s tiny paws baring all her weight on Ash’s breast. If only she could have felt each tender caress of his lips, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, he’d chosen to lay his affections down the side of her body that could not fully feel. The burns from the Archdemon’s fire. Long-healed, but the stretch of too tight skin and fried nerves plagued her. Yet she’d survived that bloody night in Haven, had remained whole thanks to the spirit of love that now resided within her heart.

“Good morning, vhenan,” she said groggily, a small whine at the end of the endearment as she stretched. “To what do I owe such a lovely awakening?”

His nose nuzzled her neck. “It’s been exactly a year since Haven.” She knew, how could one forget the anniversary of one’s almost death? “And though I grieve our losses, I remain eternally grateful that you lived.”

Ash wiggled to loosen his grip on her hips, and she turned to face him, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb swiping over the scar that bisected his lip. “Like I would ever have let that creature take me from you when I had so much teasing left to accomplish.”

Cullen snorted a laugh, his grin lighting up his face and her heart. By the Creators, she loved him so much it hurt. “Maker forbid,” he said with a shake of his head.

Curls, mussed from sleep, rested on his forehead, and she brushed them back with delicate fingers. She wanted to see his face, all of him that she adored. “It feels wrong to celebrate on a day when so many perished, but it’s also a day where many survived what could have been a massacre akin to the Conclave. Perhaps we could celebrate that?”

His eyes softened, and he pulled her flush against his chest, her leg hooking instinctively over his hip. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

She smiled as he kissed her, soft and reverent and chasing away the lingering burn of her memories. Her battered, tired knight, his sword made of sweet kisses and his shield created from arm encircling her waist. Later, they would mourn their losses, but now, they celebrated the life they got to live, and all that was left to come.

[herald-divine-hell]

Ralia’s March

Context: After the assassination of King Amayian of the Frostbacks, his third child, and second eldest daughter, the Princess of Jader, Ralia, declared a holy war against the Orlesian Empire, as she blamed the Imperial House of Valmont for having betrayed her father, alongside the Fereldens. As the dead king was popular and beloved, her banners were swelled with old and new soldiers, some who had even served during the War of the Breach. The song, commonly known as ‘the Princess’ Song’, but also known as “Ralia’s March” was supposedly song by the 3rd regiment, under the 5th battalion, of the 1st Holy Armies under Ralia during the War of Retribution. It spoke to a familial and holy obligation for all mortal kind to kneel before the feet of Andraste’s Chosen and his family, and saw the Princess as the rightful defender of her father’s honor. This would begin the fantatic worship of House Trevelyan that Ralia would later prompt as an Imperial Cult.

The song was said to be scattered, and inrhymatic, but Ralia would later translate the language into Orlesian, with more flowery terms for her and her father. It is unknown which language it was song, as some even claim it was spoken in the forgotten tongue of the Dwarves, but that has been historically denied and condemned as merely fallacy.

-

Princess, Princess,

Oh, Princess of the House of Chosen,

do you see the heavenly banner fly across the mortal skies?

End this, end this, end it now!

The Beloved of the Bride’s, your Father,

honor has been tainted by treachery

of the great traitors who fouled his holy name.

End this, end this, end it now!

Cut every Orlesian

who cares the banners of the traitorous House!

Their sons blood will cleanse the sins of the fathers.

End this, end this, end it now/

The Holy House of Andraste

will never, never, never be broken!

Oh, Princess of the Herald, lead us to victory!

End this, end this, end it now!

The banners of the King

will flow from every corner of the world!

From seas to every sea!

End this, end this, end it now!

We are the holy sword

that will cleanse all will fire,

wielded by the daughter of the Savior!

End this, end this, end it now!

[varricmancer]

Can you write something where Varric finds out a female dwarven servant has a crush on him??

Okay, so this one isn’t quite drabble-sized! I began writing and my fingers just started flying and couldn’t stop. I blame the fact that this one was a Varric fic. I just can’t help writing about him getting the loving he deserves. Also, I’m sorry if this wasn’t quite what you had in mind, but Rosie’s been a character in my head for a while and I was pleased to have a chance to do something with her. 

Varric Tethras x OC || Fluff || 1,673 WC

It had taken him a while to realize that something was different. During his tenure as Viscount Tethras he’d of course gotten used to servants being around. He asked for ale and someone rushed to get it. He got blood on one of his favorite jackets and it was gone a day later. 

However, there was someone here paying him special attention. He didn’t really mind much, as no one was standing around while he bathed or trying to press him into a suit with as much give as steel. That was the whole reason he’d forgone the use of the valet they’d tried to give him. No, this person was watching for the little things. 

He always had plenty of his favorite foods around, even the hot cocoa The Iron Bull had gotten him hooked on. That in itself wasn’t odd with servants around, but the fact that most of the servants were ordered to stay until he put away his work and started eating was. Books would appear on his desk with a little note saying they thought he’d like it, usually a mere day after he’d finished the last one. Without ever asking, he somehow always had tea when he was ready for bed, a mug of ice-cold ale when the weather was unbearably hot, and a glass full of liquor when he was stressed. The most telling thing was the few times he’d been feeling sad, lonely, and overworked all of his meetings would suddenly be canceled and one of his friends summoned to the mansion. 

He had a feeling it was the new housekeeper, as most of the changes hadn’t happened until she took over. Before, the servants had been happily making him keep the same schedule and habits as the previous Viscount. He could barely even remember the day he’d hired her, as he’d been ass-deep in the reports and demands that were now the bane of his existence. He was fairly certain all he’d done was grunt, wave, and sign his name on the paper. It wasn’t until a month later that he realized he was steadily growing less overwhelmed and he owed someone a great debt. 

Once he realized that, he began to notice her all around the manor. She was dwarven - surface dwarf most likely, as she didn’t hold herself like a noble or have the grim air of casteless. It was perhaps a bit off to have a dwarven servant actually in charge of all the others, but hey, he was the damned Viscount of all Kirkwall, so why not? The servants seemed to accept her authority easily enough, he noticed, with her walking around like she was the one that owned the place. She was quick to berate someone for slacking off, but just as easily put everything on hold if someone was hurt or needed help. 

Varric felt like a creep once he realized how much he’d actually been paying attention to her without her knowledge. Why would he find it so fascinating to watch her marching through his halls with her curls bouncing along behind her? To see her bring cookies to his office with flour smeared on her cheek? Or to watch her laughing and playing with the other servant’s children in the garden?

Honestly, he had a pretty good idea what his issue was, but he was such a good liar he could even convince himself that the feelings slowly bubbling to the surface were nothing important.

He was particularly grateful for her influence around the manor today, as he already had enough to worry about. It was the first “anniversary” without any word or quick visit from Bianca. He finally has accepted that whatever crazy relationship they had was now over. He was free, and it was both saddening and a little exhilarating. It was weird to think of the possibility of moving on without the shadow of her tainting it. It was also really insane that when he considered moving on he thought of a specific face. 

He sighed wearily as he trudged up the neverending steps to his suite. It was days like this, when he was bone-tired and emotionally exhausted, that he missed his old rooms at The Hanged Man the most. But ultimately it was worth it, since he knew his firecracker of a housekeeper would have the bed turned down, the fire blazing, and a glass of something warm waiting for him. 

As he reached the last step, he heard the rumble of voices coming from the direction of his room. His hand instinctively reached back to touch his bow, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the familiar giggle of Mistress Housekeeper herself. He grinned and leaned against the wall near the door, listening in. 

“All I’m saying is that you should think about it, Rosie!” one of the elven servants said, the rustle of fabric giving away that they were probably changing his sheets. 

“Why, because we are both dwarves?” Rosie laughed, “That’s a horrible reason.”

“No, because you have a huge thing for him. You pine. There are sighs and sweet little smiles and blushing. I see it!” 

Rosie is stuttering enough that Varric thinks the elf might have hit a sore point. He smirks as his chest suddenly feels lighter. So she might feel the same way, huh? 

“It’s…not like that. He’s the damned Viscount and a ton of other titles combined. I’m not blind - obviously, he’s handsome.  And I admire how he stepped up to care for the city. And he treats everyone around him thoughtfully. He tells the kids wonderful stories in the garden. And when he laughs it’s so warm. And his smile is - oh Maker I’m in love with Varric Tethras.” 

Her stunned tone sent her companion in a peal of laughter, Varric himself so amused he almost joined her. He suddenly felt fifteen years younger. 

He silently stalked back towards the stairs to act like he’d just walked up them, making a big show of stomping his feet and yawning loudly as he got closer towards the door. 

Rosie and the elven servant - he believed her name was Seraya - were just finishing up putting his bed back together. The fire was indeed already warming the room and a steaming cup of tea was waiting for him on a little table. Rosie could barely maintain eye contact with him and her cheeks were still blushing brightly. 

She shooed Seraya away and gestured towards the tea. 

“Everything is ready for you. I had heard you had a tiring day, so I only prepared the tea, but if you’re still hungry I can fetch something quickly.” 

He shook his head, staring at her as he grabbed the cup and chugged it down in a few seconds. 

“Too tired to eat,” he grunts, setting down the cup and dropping onto the edge of the massive bed. 

Rosie hums sympathetically and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Sleep well, then, sir.” 

Varric’s hand takes on a mind of its own and reaches up to swiftly grab hers before she can take it away. He threads their fingers together, staring at them as she gasps in surprise. 

“Rosie…I…uh…me too.” 

Her shocked expression morphs as he watches her internal battle. Shock, confusion, embarrassment, until finally…

Rosie snorts and narrows her eyes, a slight grin lighting her face. 

“I should have known not to try having conversations with a sneaky dwarf around, no matter how high he’s risen.” 

“Sorry,” he shrugs, smirking up at her. “Habit.” 

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, her blush belying how confident she’s trying to act. “So…you heard that. And…you too?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, voice low with promise - and not a little exhaustion. He tries to hide his yawn because this is a very important discussion. 

“You’re not still seeing that woman?” 

“Nope,” he responds with a tired grin, a little surprised that she knew about Bianca. But he guessed he’d never really made it that much of a secret. 

“You’re rather short on words today, I see,” she chuckles, letting him pull her closer and wrap his arms around her waist. He tucked his head into her stomach, breathing in her scent freely for the first time. 

“Too tired to make the words go,” he mumbled against her dress as she tugged his hair free from the tie. 

“Mmmm, then go to sleep. We can talk more about this tomorrow.” 

“Sleep with me,” he blurted. 

“What?”

He glanced up, grinning at her sheepishly as she quirks an eyebrow. 

“I mean just sleep. Lay down with me. Please?” Varric Tethras was begging? Shit, he was more tired than he thought. 

He realized it was worth it though when it seemed like she softened before his eyes, lips turned up in a fond grin. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He kicked off his boots and threw his jacket onto the floor as she laid her shoes neatly nearby and took off her apron. Varric watched as she tugged a couple of plain combs out of her hair, letting the curls tumble freely down her back. He wanted to just sit there and watch her like some Darktown creep, but his eyes were watering and burning with exhaustion. 

He slumped into the covers, sighing as his body was finally happy with him enough to stop hurting so much. His eyes barely opened as she slid in next to him, just as clothed. Her stuttered breathing gave away how nervous she was, but she wrapped herself around his back anyhow. 

“G’night, Rosie. Remind me to kiss you in the morning.” 

Her muffled laughter vibrated against his back, earning a sleepy grin. 

“Alright, now sleep.”

And for the first time in ages, Varric Tethras fell into the black void that was a dwarves lot excited and hopeful for the future. 

[kita-lavellan]

You know you’re DEEP into Solavellan Hell when an innocent Meme on Facebook gives you plot bunnies ^_^

Pride and his Vhenan....

@faerelden

“Just... Just stop, Solas!” Kita shouted, the winds swirling around them almost stealing the words, ripping them from her lips and dragging them across the half lowered veil.

It was like Solas had summoned a storm instead of lowering a veil, and chaos had begun erupting around them as people panicked and spirits clamored to the forefront with curiosity, only to be met with open hostility and fear.

"I can’t,” Solas said simply, and she would have thought him stubborn except for the pain in his eyes. ‘Another mistake’, his gaze said, another failure as he watched the spirits he so adored become baffled and confused by the world they had been separated from for too long.

“It’s too late, Vhenan, the process has started. I can’t stop, it’s impossible... Fenhedis...” the ancient elf cursed, hands lifted, shaking, and glowing green as he held the half cast spell. Neither completing it or releasing it, and Kita took a step closer, and then another, until she could lay a single gentle hand against the center of his back.

Solas’ head bowed, and his shoulders shook beneath her tender touch and Kita felt her breath catch when she spotted a single glistening tear trail it’s way along his cheek.

One last plea was all she had, so she stepped closer still, her other hand sliding along his arm, settling against his wrist just shy of the glowing green light of Solas’ spell.

“Just... try.”

Link to Kita’s Masterpost

[thereluctantinquisitor]

"Your bed head is really cute" with Darren and Cyrus!

“Your bed head is really cute.”

Darren grinned as the comment sent a flush to Cyrus’ cheeks. The Orlesian wasted no time grabbing his pillow and shoving it in Darren’s face. “Shut up! Maker, you’re embarrassing...”

Laughing brightly, Darren pushed the pillow down, leaning over it to press a kiss to Cyrus’ indignant lips before he had a chance to complain any further. “Why is it embarrassing? It’s true.”

“Just... keep it to yourself.”

“Why?”

Cyrus huffed, tugging his pillow back and flopping down on it. “I don’t know. I just... it makes me feel...”

Darren blinked. “Bad?”

“No, not... I don’t know.” Darren watched quietly as Cyrus folded his arms across his chest, the movement almost self-conscious. No, definitely self-conscious. “You can’t just... say that shit when someone wakes up.”

There was a pause, and Darren had to admit, it was a bit uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to ruin the moment. It’s just that Cyrus looked like a rumpled bird, nesting comfortably among the blankets, and it made Darren’s heart ache in the best possible way.

“I’m sorry.”

Those blue eyes flashed towards him. Then away again. “No, don’t... it’s fine.” He hesitated, then shifted, nudging Darren’s arm up so he could slide beneath it. His dark hair tickled Darren’s neck, soft and smelling of soap. “You’re just... a lot to get used to.”

“I can stop. Tone it down, or...”

Cyrus shook his head, the movement small but perceptible.

“No. I... want to get used to it. It’ll just take me a minute.”

A soft snort made its way past Darren’s defenses. More than a minute, that’s for sure. “Sure. That’s okay. Just... tell me if I go too far.” He chuckled. “You know I’m a sap.”

This time Cyrus laughed, and the sound was like a release, the tension flooding out of the room. Darren shifted, drawing him closer, sighing contently, his hand running absently up and down Cyrus’ back.

He could take his time. That was fine.

Darren had all the time in the world.

[chaotic-good-hawke]

TMI Tuesday (if you're still accepting these): How would Damita feel about Leliana becoming Divine?

Thank you for asking, friend! 

Damita was very conflicted, at first. She is Andrastian, but she does not support the Chantry. She and Leliana had argued about her serving Divine Justinia. But, ultimately, she accepts that Leliana can do good in the role, bring real change to Thedas. And she does get quite a bit of pleasure being the elven mage wife of the Divine, arguably the most powerful person in Thedas. Not to say they don’t have issues because of it, but she does support her wife. 

So…I got a little carried away and inspired, so I wrote a little scene about them…

Divine Doubts, Damita x Leliana, 844 words

Val Royeaux looked thesame as the first time she saw it. Well, not quite. It was more familiar to besure, the lines of the opulent architecture not as jarring and wondrous. The scentof the sea was strong tonight, the wind blowing in the salty sea air andmingling with the floral scents that marked the city proper.   

Damita trekked throughthe night, to get to the city. She had been halfway to Skyhold, before she gotthe message saying Leliana would be in the capitol.

She had been out ofcontact too long.

Two years, two crazyyears tracking down a cure and finding…more questions. They had more leads,which some of the others were looking into, but they had been gone too long. Whenthey checked in at Soldier’s Peak, Damita found a pile of messages from Leli.After reading them, she immediately left, not truly believing the words sheread.

Reaching the Grand Cathedral,she retraced her steps, so often taken when she needed to find Leli, needed tovisit the quarters of the Left Hand of the Divine. She paced through thehallways and up the stairs, to the quarters of the Divine. She found a doorwith light spilling out from under the door.

Seeing no one, sheslipped into the rooms. Before her was a fire burning bright, a large deskcovered with neatly organized piles. Couches piled with pillows and landscape portraitson the wall. And there, there stood her love.

“My people said you werein the city. I cleared the way for you.” 

“Leli, how could you?” The words come tumblingout, much like her hair, which had blow out of her braids in the journey andhung freely in tousled curls as she pulled back her hood. Seeing Leli in thoserobes, the robes that even when she was the Left-Hand, she never wore. Formless,that ridiculous hat, the symbols of the Chantry stitched into every piece ofthe fabric.

“That is some way togreet me.” Leliana said, crossing her arms, her face blank. Well, blank tothose who didn’t know her. Damita could read the emotion on her love’s face, thetiniest tells that she was hurt.

“Leli…”

“You did not consult mebefore running away for 2 years! You left a note, a note! Barely communicatingwith me that whole time.” Leliana so rarely raised her voice, but her voicebroke ragged with defensive anger. “I tried to seek you out, to tell you whatwas happening here, but you weren’t here!”

“I did it for us!”Damita exclaimed, her own voice rough and strained.

“Why did you think Idid this?!” Leli shouted. They stared at each other, breathing heavy, hurt and confusedand…lonely.

Damita broke first,rushing the rest of the way in to embrace Leli, burying her face into hershoulder. Leliana wrapped her arms around her, one hand to her head, one to herback. They stood in silence for a while, hearing each other’s breathe, just takingin each other’s presence, but words still unsaid hanging heavy between them.

“Am I still your wife?”Damita asked, the shuddering uncertainty lacing her words. The thoughts thatplagued her the whole journey brought to bear: The Divine could not marry.

“Of course!” Lelianasaid, pulling back to look down at her love. She cupped her face. “I can changethings, Damita.” She kissed her forehead. “I will change things. The Chantrywill no longer be what it was. It will be what it was meant to be. A beacon,not an iron fist. No more Circles, just the freedom of the Maker’s light.”

Leliana traced thelines of worry on her wife’s face, her fingers finding the familiar trail offreckles.

“I’m married to theDivine?”

“Yes, love.” Lelianasaid, placing a kiss to Damita’s cheek, reassurance in her words and actions .

“Even though I am an elvenmage?”

“Yes, love.” Lelianareplied, placing another kiss on her other cheek. “You are my wife and nothingwill change that. I love you.” Leliana kissed her deeply, pressing years of longing into it. 

Damita finally broke the kiss. “Is this what you want?”Damita asked, pulling away to look at her.

Leliana paused and then replied with conviction. “Yes,love. It is.”

Damita sighed. “Then Iwill be at your side, whatever comes.” Her bright purple eyes looked up at Leliana, holding hergaze, and then she frowned. “But we have to do something about that hat… and Iam not calling you Victoria.”

Leliana laughed, reliefflooding her face as she smiled, well and truly smiled. She pulled off the offendingarticle and swooped up Damita in her arms, whose own face broke into a grin.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,Leli.”

In the firelight, theyheld each other close, the troubles of the future set aside for the night. Theywould figure it out, together. Fight and hash it out tomorrow. But for tonight,they had each other and that was enough.  

[reluctantwrites]

Unwanted Reunion

In which an old enemy reappears and hasn’t changed a bit... (approx 2200 words). Post-Inquisition, Darren x Cyrus. 

Sometimes it was just nice to get out for a bit. Enjoy a nice meal. Drink some mead. Relax. For many people who had history with one another, such an outing would often lead to fond reminiscing, or anecdotes that are begun by one person and finished excitedly by the other. But for Darren and Cyrus, things were a bit different. They always had been.

And that was okay.

Smiling, Darren reached an arm up, waving for a server. It was one of the fanciest Inns in Glendess; a place Darren liked to bring Cyrus as often as he could. The prickly man would never admit it, but it was the only place that had his favourite wine; blueberry from the vineyards in south-east Orlais. He’d probably scowl and call it a guilty pleasure. Darren didn’t see anything to feel guilty about.

“It’s busy in here tonight, huh?” Craning his neck, Darren glanced around, trying to catch sight of one of the waitstaff. “I wonder if something’s on…”

Cyrus, chin planted in one hand, the other nursing an empty wine glass, snorted and rolled his eyes. “The harvest festival. Remember? We only passed, what, fifty notices for it on the way here?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right!” Darren grinned brightly. “I’m taking you to that. Don’t make that face! You’ll love it, I promise.” Still smiling, he cast his gaze around once more. “Maker, it reminds me of the Herald’s Nest. Remember how many soldiers used to squeeze into there?”

Cyrus wrinkled his nose. “Don’t remind me.” When Darren turned in his seat again, Cyrus groaned and stood sharply, chair skidding out behind him. “Forget the waitstaff. You want the same thing again?”

Surprised but not complaining, Darren nodded. His expression grew fond as he leaned an elbow on the table and watched Cyrus roll his eyes and head towards the barkeeper, sliding between tables and chairs, ignoring everyone he bumped into along the way. Chuckling to himself, Darren just shook his head slightly. It was probably better that Cyrus was the one to go. With Darren’s size and inability to not apologise for nudging people, he’d probably take all night to get there.

--

The bar was crowded too, already drunk men and women clamouring for the attention of one of the three staff manning the drink-stained counter. There were kegs lined up behind them, different ages and ingredients stamped on their front. Bottles lined three tiers of shelves, a ladder propped to the far left to provide access to the most expensive range. Often it was decorated by cobwebs and dust, but as Cyrus watched, one of the bartenders grabbed it and set it up against the wall, climbing the rungs tentatively, clearly unused to the journey upward. Odd, Cyrus thought, genuinely surprised. Who would have the coin to…?

“Cyrus? Maker’s arse, is that you?”

The voice was as familiar as it was infuriating; the mere sound of it forming the shape of his name set Cyrus’ teeth on edge. He made a conscious attempt to pretend he hadn’t heard the man over the din of the tavern, turning his head away as though observing something on the other side of the room.

Sadly, it was never that easy.

Not with Brenner.

“It is you!”

Cyrus turned slowly, as though every inch of movement was an immense feat of strength. “Brenner,” he said, jaw tight, “the fuck are you doing here?”

Part of Cyrus wondered if he should relax a bit. Give the man a chance. After all, it had been five years. People change. They—

“What a damn awful sight you are, eh?” Brenner tsked, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down Cyrus’ form. “I’m going to have to get in contact with Reynolt again.”

Cyrus’ eyes narrowed sharply. “Why?”

A smirk twisted the corner of Brenner’s lips. “Had a bit of a bet going, you see. I wagered you’d be dead in a ditch in a year. Yet… here you are. Breathing.” He sighed despondently, then glanced to the side, throwing a half-smile to the barmaid as she slid him his drink. The way she fluttered her lashes at the bastard made Cyrus’ blood boil. Brenner was the kind of person you could only wish was as grotesque as his personality.

“Well, I’m alive. Hope you lost a fortune on it, asshole. Not that Reynolt deserves any coin either.”

“Oh come now. So bitter!” Grinning, clearly already a few glasses deep in whatever top-shelf liquor he was drinking, Brenner draped an arm around Cyrus’ shoulders, tugging him in close. “We could be friends, you and I. Let bygones be bygones. I’ll forget the money you lost me, and you can stop being such a little Orlesian bitch.”

It was simple business to shove the noble prick away, but Brenner just laughed and ooh-ed for his little crowd of followers who were watching from a table by the hearth. “He’s a feisty one, that Cyrus,” he declared to anyone in his immediate proximity. Cyrus was already stalking away. “In more ways than one, if you ask around the barracks!”

--

Darren, who had been chatting with a merchant in town for the festival, startled when Cyrus sat stiffly in his chair, knuckles standing white against his skin. “Hey, are you okay?” Reaching out, Darren rested a hand over the Orlesian’s, worry evident in the gesture. “You look ready to hit someone – what happened?”

Cyrus took a tight breath, eyes flicking back towards the bar. “Just some dickhead,” he said simply, returning his gaze to Darren, “but we should probably get go—“

“Andraste’s flaming tits – what is this!”

Again, Darren started, turning, confused. Cyrus just closed his eyes, his fist seeming to curl even tighter beneath Darren’s hand. Emerging from the crowd, Brenner sauntered up to their table, his eyes bright with a kind of cruel, unbridled delight at the sight before him. “I don’t believe it,” he declared, gesturing with his cup to Cyrus, “the bastard,” he shifted the cup across to Darren, liquid splashing onto the table, “and the farmboy! How quaint.”

Recognition slowly dawned across Darren’s confused face. “Brenner?” He blinked, clearly as surprised as Cyrus was at the man’s appearance. “What are you doing in Glendess? I thought you lived in the north?”

Something in Brenner’s expression tightened at the question, even though Darren hadn’t meant it to be insulting. “None of your business, boy.” He swept an arm towards the wall, a notice pinned to it by a single gleaming nail. “If your curiosity so demands it, I was travelling south and heard about some festival nearby. I thought I might grace it with a bit of class. Perhaps pick up a peasant or two for a bit of a romp.” He raised up cup, taking a handful of long, deep gulps, clearly unconcerned that he was mid-conversation. Cyrus had no intention of waiting for him to finish.

“Great. How about you fuck off to your little fanclub over there and leave us alone? I’m sure they panic whenever your dick’s not in sucking range.”

“Cyrus,” Darren said, surprised mostly by the hostility from the other man. Brenner must have really brought back some bad memories.

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. Always the tough one, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s it like, shacking up with a farmer? Do you fuck on the hay like the cattle, or in the mud like the pigs?”

Cyrus looked about ready to murder. “Still obsessed with my sex life? I figured you would have gotten over that shit after five years.”

Another chuckle shook its way from Brenner’s chest, melodic and strangely infuriating. “Well, it always was eventful. We were just waiting for you to make your way around our barracks. I must say, your avoidance was rather hurtful.” He considered, then wrinkled his nose. “Then again, knowing where you had been, perhaps it was for the best.”

“You fucking—“

Cyrus made to get up, anger only spiking further at the man’s smug look of self-satisfaction at his reaction. But Darren reached out quickly, catching Cyrus by the arm, holding him still. “Don’t,” he implored. “He’s drunk and he’s not worth it, Cyrus.”

Brenner hummed, raising a hand to his lips as he regarded Darren. “Mmm, yes. Listen to your farmboy.” He cocked his head, an amused smile spreading across his face. “Tell me… Davin, right? Is he a screamer? I’ve been dying to know for far too long and simply must be put out of my misery.”

Darren felt Cyrus tense in his grasp. He was like a snake, coiling for a strike.

Only this time, so was Darren.

“You should leave,” Darren warned, the words hanging in the air between them. “Now.”

Brenner arched a brow. “Oh? Or what? There’s no Captain Lavellan to run to here, boy.” He laughed, already grinning in anticipation of his own joke. “Daddy’s not here to pull you out of trouble.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him and he glanced back at Cyrus. “I… Maker, did you ever call him that? With your, ah, issues, I imagine it likely.”

There was a loud, sharp thump as someone struck the tabletop. It echoed throughout the tavern like a canon shot, slapping the room into sudden silence. Only, it wasn’t Cyrus who had lost his temper.

It was Darren.

“I’m going to give you one more chance, Brenner,” Darren said quietly. Conversations began to stir uneasily back to life in the far corners, but nearby, there was nothing but tense silence. “Walk away.”

Never one to back down in front of a crowd, Brenner grinned lopsidedly and spread his arms. “Or what, kid? You’ll cry? Guilt me to death? Try to… to…”

Brenner’s cocksure front faltered as slowly, carefully, Darren stood, his chair grating across the floorboards as he rose and faced Brenner. Funny - he used to seem so much bigger, five years ago.

But five years was a long time.

People change.

“No. I won’t cry.” Darren’s voice was dangerously calm as he stared down at the man who had made their life a misery all those years ago. “I’ve grown up enough to know you’re not worth it.” He shifted, moving closer, the act causing Brenner to take an awkward half-step back. “You had your warning, Brenner. There’s a new deal now. You’re going to take your friends and your foul mouth and you’re going to leave Glendess.”

“B-But,” Brenner stammered, but Darren just shook his head sharply, the gesture apparently enough to cut the man off mid-protest.

“Listen. I haven’t got in a fight since I left the Inquisition. Never had to.” Reaching out, Darren placed a hand on Brenner’s shoulder, bearing down slightly – pointedly. “Don’t give me a reason. Please.”

--

All Cyrus could really do was watch in mute fascination as Brenner all but shed his outer layer of tanned skin, replacing it with something chalky-white. “R-Right. Yes. No, of course. Wouldn’t want that.” He swallowed thickly and glanced at his shoulder, where Darren’s hand remained. “I’ll just, ah… be off, then.” He gave an almost giddy laugh as he attempted to save face. “Not much to be done in a small town like this, after all. My time would be far better spent elsewhere.”

Darren smiled; a thin, false smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. It would.” He released Brenner and the noble brat all but scurried like a rat back to his cronies at the other side of the tavern. Slowly, Darren breathed out, the tension in his posture melting away with it as he turned back to Cyrus. “I… um…”

All Cyrus managed was a shake of his head. “Shit… things really do change in five years, huh?”

It was meant to be a compliment, but Darren’s expression seemed almost mortified as he sat back down. “Not really. I mean, that’s not… that’s not me, I just…” His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the table. “I didn’t like what he was saying about you. About us. And in public like that? He had no right.”

For the first time that evening, Cyrus felt a genuine smile drift across his lips. “Yeah. He didn’t.”

“Besides,” Darren added quickly, seeming strangely nervous, “you wanted things to be different here, remember? When you first came back. You said you didn’t want people thinking of you the way they did at Skyhold, always getting into fights and causing trouble.” He glanced over at Brenner, nose crinkling in distaste. “I know it wouldn’t’ve been your fault, but still… I’d rather be the one to do it, if it came down to a fight. Folks know me here. They’d know he deserved it.”

Cyrus hadn’t even thought about that. Perhaps that had been part of the reason he’s let it go in the first place, and he just hadn’t even realised it. “I…” Words escaped him for a time, and they sat in drinkless silence, the tavern bubbling back to life around them. It was only once the truth of it really sank in that Cyrus found the right words. “Thanks, Darren.”

The blond blinked, cocking his head, then a smile spread across his face. “Hey, any time. You know I’ve got your back. Now…” He cast one last bitter look towards Brenner then nodded towards the door. “You wanna get out of here? It’s a nice night. We could go for a walk?”

Cyrus snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

[shannaraisles]

A ko-fi commission for the lovely @queen-among-writers, who has been very patient and joy to work with! Featuring her Kassandra Trevelyan. :)

Assent of Man

Dusk spread over the mountains, bringing night to the deepest valleys, crowning the highest peaks in flaming light. The sun settled on the horizon, hazy through wisps of cloud, a blood-orange face smiling upon the world before it allowed the moons to take up their vigil. Even up here, in the heart of the Frostbacks, the summer air was still, heavy with the heat that drove them all to seek shelter during the high hours of the sun, forcing the pace of work within the walls of Skyhold to slow as they prepared to leave for Halamshiral. The Exalted Council had been called, and the Inquisition was bound to attend. That did not mean they had to like it.

Up on the highest balcony of the fortress, Commander Cullen laid his hands on the stone railing, letting the first hint of the night's breeze cool his naked form. Behind him, in the sultry warmth of the Inquisitor's quarters, Kassandra sighed as she dozed, sprawled atop the covers to make the most of that faint touch of wind that reached for her. An absent smile touched his lips, tugging tight at the scar that decorated his face, the jumble and fall of his thoughts calmed just at the sound of her peace at his back. The sunset painted the peaks in blood and fire, his thoughts passing through the same in memory as he watched the light grow dim.

How had he come to this? How had he earned it? A position of respect, the accomplishments of his men and the Inquisition as much his as they belonged to the woman who had lead them this far; such mastery as he could hope for over the weakness of flesh that had been forced upon him when he had chosen the path his life would take as a youth; friends, true friends, who had found their way past his heinous mistakes and bluster to draw him close despite his protests. And her ... her faith, her love, her softness shown only to him in these private hours they could snatch together. Kassandra Trevelyan could have chosen anyone, yet she had chosen him. Not only chosen him, but given him an anchor, not only in her love but in the shared devotion they felt to the tiny girl they had made together, whisked away for these few hours by Leliana and Josephine. And in that choice, his life had somehow found its way to this place, this moment, when everything seemed at peace.

He looked down at his hands, bathed in the blood-red light of the sunset, and, for just a moment, it seemed as though his hands were slick with the real blood of those whose pain he had contributed to in the confusion of his own trauma. All those mages at Kirkwall, made Tranquil even after their Harrowings; other punishments that gave pain where none should have been given - not by his hand, but by his implicit agreement when he did nothing to prevent it. Even when he had spoken up, far later than he should have done, all he had achieved was to be cut out of Meredith's councils, no longer trusted enough by her to know the worst of what she had in mind. He had been lucky, he knew, to have been with those of the order in Kirkwall sympathetic to Ser Thrask's attempt not long before; glad that together they had, at least, managed to calm some of the mages they encountered and encouraged them to hide until the worst was over. But there had been no such choice when it came to storming the Gallows itself. Innocent blood was on his hands; the blood of innocent men and women who had only been defending themselves against an unfair, unlawful death sentence laid down upon them by a madwoman. If Hawke had not been there ... he did not want to imagine how long he would have stood by in silence without such a catalyst to spur him into embracing the right path at last.

He ached for the Templar Order, deep in his heart. They had begun with such noble purpose. They had been intended to protect and serve, and that was why he had wanted to join them in the first place. The boy he had been had been so certain that the best way to protect and serve Ferelden and Thedas was to join the Templars. He'd wanted to help people - people, not just those born without magic. Nor had he been alone in that noble ambition. Many of the boys and girls he had trained with had come to the Order with the same hopes, though not all of them had been willing apprentices to the sword and the Chant. In truth, there had been a good deal more learning of the Chant than he had been expecting, he recalled with a rueful smile. He had expected armor and swordplay, and while there had been a great deal of that, there had been a great deal more reciting of the Chant while candle burned down, while distractions were offered in the background. It wasn't until many years later that he had realized the necessity of such practices. A templar engaged in negating the power of a mage was subject to many such distractions; the need to keep their mind focused at all costs was the true shield against magic and spells. Perhaps he wouldn't have objected so much if he had known the purpose at the time.

He had been so proud the day he was knighted. The day I first took lyrium. His hand shook at the memory - that first burn of distilled lyrium through his veins, burning him, marking him, taking hold of his destiny quietly as the Chantry had deemed it. Of all the things he had done, he resented the most that the Chantry had allowed him - and so many others - the leash themselves so firmly without the least notion of what it would mean to break that leash. Oh, he had done it now, certainly; at least, the leash was not so tight about his neck any longer. The craving would always be there; the pain of being without the lyrium would always haunt him. Yet he refused to mindlessly follow any longer. Two years without lyrium, and still it called to him. It always would. But he had pleasanter distractions now that took the entire focus of his mind without demands on anything he did not willingly give. The woman dozing in the bed behind him, for example.

Kassandra was ... how could he define her? She was the light in his darkness, the unexpected reward he had never seen coming. He had thought to love her in silence, never speaking a word nor betraying a glance, and yet she had spoken first. She had given him the means to walk onward into the light, never faltering in her certainty that he could undo the chains that bound him to the Chantry. Though they knew now that Andraste had not been the one to deliver her from the Fade, still he believed that Andraste's hand covered his lover's path. The core of Andraste's teachings was love, and love was what had helped him finally find his way once more. Though he might never tell her to her face, Kassandra would always be the Herald of Andraste to his heart.

And he had almost lost her, too many times. Lost her to the heedless stupidity of fearful men and women at Adamant; lost her to the coarse cruelty of a magister and his minions, to the snow and the wind, at Haven. Even now, years after the fact, his heart clenched at the memory of watching the avalanche plummet down to cover the village, knowing Kassandra was there. Squinting through the darkness of the night to find the shining beacon of Fade-light on her hand, only to see it wink out of existence and know, deep in his soul, that she was gone. Gone before he could touch her face, taste her lips; gone before he could even admit to himself how deep his feeling for her ran. He had remembered the preaching of the elderly priest in Honnleath in those moments, her ramblings on the dark night of the soul that found the dawn's light in the love of the Maker and Andraste. That night had been his dark night of the soul. The wind had blown bitterly cold, the wolves howled, and Cullen had mourned for a love he had never acknowledged, even to himself, while she lived. In truth, he had given up hope in those hours, his patient vigil at the mouth of the valley nothing more than a means to give himself privacy as he struggled with the anger, the pain, the tearing maw of loss that screamed in his chest. And there, on the snow, the flash of green Fade-light.

He'd been moving before he even registered what he saw, shouting back to the other watchers, There. It's her! He barely recalled Cassandra crowding in at his back as he'd hauled Kassandra up onto her feet, grimacing at her moan of pain, at the blood that decorated her dented armor. Between them, they had carried her down to the camp, listening to the awe and wonder that spread before them, yet all his mind had been consumed with Kassandra. Would she live? How had she survived? Would she live? The ache in his chest had not dissipated as he waited, deepening with anxious uncertainty until finally the mages emerged with the news that she lived. And all at once, the enormity of what had happened had hit him. It had taken all his strength not to fall to his knees and weep for the miracle that had brought her back to them, all his focus to turn his attention to what they should do next. A crooked smile tugged at his scar once again as he remembered the thought that had driven him in those hours before she woke - I must make her glad to have escaped the death she embraced for our sake. And the quieter, less noble wish - I want her to be proud of me. Of us. He hadn't truly wanted the pride of anyone since his childhood until that moment, nor had he mourned anyone with such raw immediacy of passion. He had hoped never to have to feel that gnawing pain again.

But, of course, there had been Adamant. The last resort of good men and women lead into foolishness by fear, and all he had been able to do was open the door for the Inquisitor and her companions to forge ahead and prevent the abomination taking place at the heart of the fortress. He'd had to watch the woman he loved walk directly into danger yet again, powerless to do anything but coordinate the attack that would keep the worst of the danger from her. Yet the scream of the dragon circling the high stone walls had filled him with terror. The last time he had seen it had been at Haven, flying away from the icy wall of death unleashed by Kassandra in hope. The last time he had seen it, he had mourned the loss of her ... and at Adamant, he had mourned again when word reached him of her disappearance through a Fade rift. Yet that pain had been so much worse, constrained as he was by his duty at the head of the army around him. There had been no leisure to grieve for the woman he loved; no time to linger on the knowledge that there would be no more stolen kisses, no more quiet moments. No chance to regret never telling her the truth of his heart. And, for the second time, she returned from seeming death, weary and wan, haunted by the Nightmare of the Fade, and this time, he had not cared who saw the depth of his feeling for her. Orders given, he had shown her his grief, his fear, his love ... and still the words had not come.

Not until a few weeks later, back in the safety of Skyhold, when uncertainty had become confidence with the surety of her consent, and he had finally given her everything he had to give - his body, his mind, his heart, his soul. And again, she had spoken first, the words a tender memory from that gentle morning, and he had responded with absolute truth. I love you. The words were a new leash, yet one he wore with pride. He loved Kassandra, for all her fiery faults and stubborn misdemeanors; she loved him, for her sins. He would never stop thanking whichever deity had brought them to one another for this chance. He would never take her for granted.

"Cullen?"

His head rose as the last of the light bled from the sky, the sun dipping beneath the horizon as the deep blue of night rushed to wipe the fire and blood from the clouds. He glanced over his shoulder, a tender smile softening his features at the sight of Kassandra, disheveled from sleeping through the worst of the afternoon's heat, her toned curves complimented by the lacy confection she had chosen for their sojourn in bed.

"What's wrong?" she asked, ducking beneath the arm he raised to invite her against his side.

Cullen kissed her brow, holding her close as he breathed her in, his eyes straying to the empty crib that held their daughter every other night but this one.

"Nothing, my love," he promised her softly. "With you by my side, nothing will ever be wrong."

He felt her sigh as she relaxed into his arms, raising his eyes to the sky above them, watching as the first stars began to sparkle against the deep blue-black of night. Tomorrow, they would leave for Orlais, to attend this blasted Council and allow the politicians to pick at them until only bones were left. He might never wipe the blood from his hands, and nor would he wish to, choosing to remember with painful clarity those who had suffered because of him. But for now, for tonight, there was only this ... only Kassandra, in the quiet of Skyhold, and the certainty that, though his life had not been well-lived without her, he would earn this peace every day for the rest of his years, for her and with her. And one day, perhaps ... he would finally deserve her.