#pre da2

[teine-mallaichte]

My story for @whumpmasinjuly-archive day 21 prompt - abandoned - got inside my head... So now I have an accompanying drawing

The story is here

Original plan was to litter the beach with abandoned weapons but it didn't look right so I gave up on that bit of the idea. Also wanted it to be raining/stormy but that was hard to draw 😅 I also quickly gave up on sails.

Fandom - Dragon age 2

Character - Fenris

[amervalk]

WIP Wednesday

The Warden at Amaranthine:

This is about my Warden Lorraine, who I haven’t written about in a very long time. I was feeling her today, and how she would feel about the subject of mage rights. Not exactly mage rights, but her getting to know one of her comrades, Anders.

The Warden-Commander enjoyed the peace of her den, or rather the silence. It had been more than a year since she had found any true peace. Amaranthine was on its way to becoming an unmitigated disaster. Her advisers were less than worthless as they gave her consistently bad advice. Her return from the Black Marshes as proof enough of that as she was forced to kill her own citizens. She smiled pleasantly as she unwound her dark hair, enjoying the feel of it against her neck. If Alistair was here he would have attempted to braid it himself and inevitably create some ridiculous masterpiece she would be forced to untangle later. A myriad of memories stirred, as she recalled how fascinated he was by her hair when they first made love.

“How do you ladies, you know, do things with all this hair?” He would ask in teasing wonder. “You know I bet I could tie you up with it.” Alistair said, his voice dark with intention on a concept Lorraine knew he barely understood. Still, her eyes lit up like a bonfire when she laughed and then Alistair would kiss her, his hands holding her face with wanting and earnest desire. Fingertips curled against her cheek, and she could barely breathe as he kissed her as if it were for the last time.

“So you can smile,” she heard a familiar voice say.  Lorraine sighed in recognition, Anders, the apostate. He was far from her favorite person, in fact, she struggled to like him at all. But he was useful and that was enough. He grinned as he sensed her disapproval and took a seat without asking whether permission was granted. “You don’t have to look at me like that, I’m not a monster. Besides, I just came here to thank you for trying to help with my phylactery.” Lorraine glared at him, her golden eyes irritated.

“You’re welcome, I may not entirely agree with you but we are comrades,” she said directly. Her choice of words were succinct. The subject of mages, even being a mage made her uncomfortable. After Klinoch Tower, and Jowan she despised her own kind, even herself for being cursed with a gift that was so dangerous.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Anders interjected over her thoughts, “What makes the First Enchanters pet student rebel against the Circle, and how did they just let you go?” He asked boldly, scooting his chair closer to where the warden-commander sat. The woman was slight and quite pretty. Her eyes, Anders imagined would look wonderful if she wasn’t so set at scowling at him. Even then, he found something lovely about her. Her features were delicate with a small nose and exacting expression. She was control and focus, just what a mage ought to be. It made him wonder, how had he turned out so wrong? He expected to be rebuffed, even scolded as he approached her with audacity, but he watched her shoulders slump.

“My friend Jowan was going to be made tranquil. He told me they thought he was too weak to endure the harrowing, so I agreed to help him escape the Circle. It was a trap, and the Knight-Commander wanted an example made of me, but the Wardens intervened.” she answered with austere honesty. Her words, as usual, were chosen precisely. “Jowan was a blood mage. I later killed him with my own hands after he poisoned the Arl of Redcliffe.” The betrayal stung less now, in fact she wondered how her friend was driven to such evil acts. Lorraine was expecting a joke or some crass remark but felt the pressure of Anders’ hand against the top of her own. She gaped silently, startled by his kindness, it didn’t occur for her to withdraw her hand. It had been so long since another human had touched her with any gentleness.

“The circles are wrong,” Anders said softly, “It makes mages forget they are people even. When you forget you are human, it’s like you don’t even matter,” his words were pointed, but a rough draft of a more profound position. “I am sorry for your friend. To be driven to blood magic,” he sympatized. Deep within, he understood the rage and desperation. He still preferred to sleep with his door open, the sight of it shut rousing too many fears from the year he was locked away beneath Klinoch Hold. He examined the Warden-Commander carefully. She was younger than him by a few years, as he tried to see past the chains from the circle and saw a scared, tired woman. Her nature forged in steel as she survived templars, darkspawn, and archdemons.

“It’s more complicated than that, Anders,” she offered, using his name. “All it takes is one blood mage, one apostate, and every mage  is a target.  Like during the blight, where innocent mages died because of one Senior Enchanter.” She didn’t agree with his radical notions, even if she understood them. Anders was serious as he stared into her eyes, unblinking and without fear,

“That’s the joke of it though right,” his tone was light, dancing on the fringes of anger but still pleasant enough, “No mage is innocent though, we’re born guilty.” He chuckled as he found something amusing in the irony of it all.  Lorraine  squinted judgmentally as he leaned back and actually burst out in open laughter. She withdrew her hand and asked,

“What’s so funny about it?” Anders was nearly undone as he continued his outburst. He took a few deep breaths and answered,

“Oh, well,” he struggled until finally controlling his laughter, “for a moment, you actually seemed human. But, you’re just a mage, like me.” Anders remarked brightly, he actually smiled as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, bracing for the inevitable slap to follow. It didn’t, but Lorraine didn’t respond as his lips brushed against her skin. Even so, his kiss was friendly, affectionate but not intimate. Just a gesture.

“You truly have no fear,” Lorraine declared, her gaze affixed to him intently. She didn’t want to admit that Anders had a point, but could not bring herself to disagree. A wry grin sat on Anders lips as he admired her in earnest jest,

“Oh, Maker, yes I do,” Anders breathed, a bizarre smile on his features, “But I have courage too. The Chantry could never convince me that I was less than human. Even if they tried, it was why I never stopped trying to escape. We deserve more, Warden-Commander. We’re not just mages.” He stated, his voice finding certainty amidst his mocking tone. “Do you really think you’re just a mage?” He challenged. The stern expression on her face, marked by her silence was enough to tell him that she resented his words and he was delighted. Anders stood, his lanky body accentuated by long robes. “Well, I should probably be going,” he affirmed, ready to enjoy sleeping in a proper bed. As he turned, Lorraine  asked, more curious than upset,

“Why did you kiss me, Anders?” She stood as well and his expression was impish as he his eyes sparkled,

“Simple really: first, you’re pretty, and second ,you looked as if you needed one. I was more than happy to oblige.” Lorraine’s face softened as she mentally shrugged. It was a good enough reason, she supposed.The apostate departed on those words as Lorraine unwittingly smiled.

[teine-mallaichte]

Whumpmass in July day 21

At some point I really need to start whumping some other characters... but I saw this prompt and my first thought was far too well formed not to run with...

Fandom: Dragon age 2 Character: Fenris @whumpmasinjuly-archive day 21 - Prompt abandoned. Premise: When Danarius left Fenris in Seheron, when the only person he had every really known, and the only life he could remember sailed away leaving him alone in a world he couldn't possibly understand... as much as years later that could be framed as his escape from slavery, on that moment is was an abandonment.

The battlefield was chaos; screams, clashing steel, the hum of the arcane, the scent of blood, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Through the maelstrom, he moved with skill and precision, without conscious thought, his master's orders guiding his every action. Each strike, each parry, a testament to the brutal training he had undergone.

The tide of battle shifted, the call for retreat echoing across the field. He looked around desperately, he eyes finding his master amidst the fray, struggling against a relentless enemy. Without a moment's pause, he fought his way through, his body a shield, his sword an extension of his will. Blood slicked his hands, not all of it his own, and pain lanced through him where a blade found its mark. Yet, he pressed on, driven by the singular purpose of protecting his master.

They reached the boats at the edge of the shore, his master was usured aboard, but he was stopped.

"There is no room for a slave."

His eyes widened in disbelief as the guard's words sank in. The chaos of battle still raged behind him, but the true storm was within. He glanced at his master, hoping for a word, a glance, anything to suggest that this was some kind of mistake. But his master's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, cold and distant.

“Master?” He managed to choke out, his voice a strained whisper. He wanted to believe it was a mistake, that the master would call him aboard, that this was some cruel joke.

The master’s eyes briefly met his, an emotion flashing through them—a flicker of something distant, perhaps pity or regret, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The guard's firm hand gripped his shoulder, conflicting instints warred within him, to gight, to comply, he looked to the master, needing guidence.

"We have no space for an injured slave," the guard reiterated.

His world shattered in that moment, a crack that splintered his very soul. The words, the finality in them, were a hammer blow to his heart. His master’s gaze, once a beacon, was now a void, unfeeling and detached. The guard’s hands were firm, unyielding, as they pushed him back towards the shore.

“Move aside. You’re slowing us down.”

“Master!” His cry was a raw, desperate plea, but the boat was already pushing off, its oars cutting through the water with a relentless rhythm.

He staggered, the pain of his injuries forgotten in the face of this new, deeper agony. He tried to follow, feet stumbling over the wet sand as the waves lapped at his ankles. The wet sand clung to his feet, the waves lapping at his ankles, growing higher with each wave. But he could not swim—slaves were not permitted to learn such skills. The cold salt water stung his wounds, mingling with the blood, and the chill seeped into his very bones.

But the boat sailed on, his master’s figure growing smaller and smaller, until it was nothing but a speck on the horizon. He had never known anything but his master’s commands, the cruel affection that had shaped his existence. Now, abandoned, he was adrift in a world that suddenly felt vast and hostile.

He stumbled back to the shore, the salty water mixing with the blood from his wounds. Each step was a struggle, his strength ebbing with every movement. Collapsing onto the wet sand, he lay there, gasping for breath, the agony of his injuries merging with the deeper pain of abandonment. His master's face haunted him, that final, indifferent look a knife twisting in his heart.

For a long time, he lay there, the sounds of the battlefield fading into the background. When he finally mustered the energy to move, the sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the shore. He forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and looked around. The beach was littered with the remnants of battle: broken weapons, discarded armor, and bodies of the fallen.

He was alone.

(accompanying art)