Part 1 - The Letter | Part 2 - Cope | Part 3 - The Arrival | Part 4 - Necessary Risks
Part 5 - Eleven Years (AO3 Link)
The final preparations take place and the infiltration begins. But first, Hanin has some things to get off his chest...
CW: mature themes re: the treatment of slaves in the Imperium (mainly physical and sexual abuse). The acts themselves are not described in any detail, but are alluded to briefly.
Hanin shifted uncomfortably, tugging down the sleeve of the black and gold uniform until it sat flat on his wrist, wishing pointlessly that there was more than just a thin layer of well-made fabric between himself and a potential blade. Grunting, he gave up trying to manipulate the uncomfortable outfit, and Cassius nodded his approval, arms folded across his chest. The man seemed far more at home in Hanin’s clothes, now that they had completed the awkward exchange. Apparently, smuggling additional sets of household uniforms might have drawn needless suspicion.
Hanin suspected Launcet just thought it would be amusing to make them swap outfits.
“Well, that was fun.” Lyrene, now clad in a matching servant uniform, sighed and twisted, glancing behind her. “Does this make by butt look as good as I think it does?”
Hanin chose not to dignify that with a response. But Daimon, who was currently sliding into Ralon’s shirt across the room, grinned and gave her an encouraging thumbs up.
“Probably the point, really,” Launcet remarked with a shrug. “Not to dampen your spirits or anything, but there’s more to it than just serving food. Talveron isn’t the worst dominus out there, but he’s far from a saint.”
The flippancy with which Launcet said those words sent a chill up Hanin’s spine. He turned to the man, gaze dark with warning. “What, exactly, are you saying?”
For the first time since they met, Launcet’s easy confidence seemed to waver. “I, ah… well, this is the Imperium. Slaves often serve… multiple purposes.” He moved, crossing the room to check the map, placing the table strategically between himself and Hanin before continuing. “I am simply saying that there are motives for almost everything. A flattering uniform is no accident, I’m afraid.”
Still scowling, Hanin glanced over at Lyrene, who took a moment to process the new information before releasing a heavy sigh.
“Well, thanks for ruining that for me.”
Shaking her head, she moved over to the table, Hanin falling into step, the rest of the Dawn Squad joining them. Cyrus, Ralon, Darren and Connors now wore the uniforms of guards, although for that night, it was unlikely they would be needed. It was simply a precaution, in case Hanin and Lyrene needed an out. As Launcet had said, it was better to be overprepared than underprepared.
For once, Hanin agreed with the man.
“Alright. Their little party should be winding down soon. Once it’s over, we’ll give it a quarter-hour, then send you two to the kitchen entrance.” Launcet, again, indicated the back area of the manor. Thankfully, it was not too far from their current building. If they were careful, they shouldn’t be spotted coming and going. “Everyone in the kitchens will be busy cleaning up and preparing for the morning banquet. It will be a special kind of chaos, so you shouldn’t have any problem slipping in.”
“Yeah, great, but what if they do?” Cyrus demanded, his brow knitted so tight it might be permanently stuck in a frown. “You got a plan for that?”
Launcet drew in a slow, patient breath. “Yes , I do, but thank you for your confidence. That, my prickly friend, is where you come in. Just in case there’s a problem, you’ll walk with them and be ready to give the excuse that they were tossing scraps to the chickens.” He leveled a pointed stare in Cyrus’ direction. “Happy?”
The Orlesian’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing, biting back a series of undoubtedly colourful suggestions about where Launcet could shove his happiness. Thankfully, the tone of the conversation changed as Launcet pulled a pouch from his belt and set it down on the table, opening it to reveal two silver discs, about an inch in height. After brief inspection, he tossed one to Lyrene and the other to Hanin. “Step two is covering up those markings of yours. Get it done. There isn’t much time.”
Lyrene groaned and wandered over to a window, plopping herself down in front of it and squinting into the glass. However, barely a moment passed before Darren sat down beside her and held out his hand, smiling as she tilted her head back and let him get to work on the markings that framed her face.
As for Hanin, he stood dumbly for a moment with the tin in hand until he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, Captain, why don’t you give me that? Seems our genius planner didn't think to pack a mirror.”
Launcet rolled his eyes at Ralon. “You try stuffing a mirror into your pants, Prince Charming. There was only so much I could smuggle.”
Settling into a chair and motioning for Hanin to sit across from him, Ralon just snorted. “Reckon I could do it just fine.” He flashed a grin at Hanin, popping the lid off the tin to reveal a thick looking tinted paste. Curious, he sniffed it, then crinkled his nose. “Phew. Alright, then, wish me luck! I’ll try not to make it look like you have some kind of skin disease.”
Hanin raised a brow at him, but Ralon just tutted playfully. “Nuh-uh, none of those looks tonight, Captain. You’ve gotta hold still.”
Deftly, the Antivan got to work, running his fingertip carefully along the lines of Hanin’s vallaslin, following the intricate curves that marked his dedication to Mythal. As he worked, the rest of the room dispersed, settling to speak in soft tones or otherwise preoccupy themselves. It left the two of them with a sense of privacy for which Hanin was grateful. It was odd, letting someone cover his vallaslin. A part of him felt silly for it, but it just seemed… wrong.
“These are important, right?” Ralon asked, dipping his fingertip into the pan and tilting Hanin’s head slightly up. “Like, a cultural thing?”
“Yes.” Hanin tried his best not to move as Ralon worked on the lines curving beneath his eye. “We receive them when we become an adult in the clan. There is ceremony behind it. Tradition.”
“Huh.” Ralon paused to inspect his work, then used this thumb to clean up some of the edges. “I don’t suppose you cover it for anything, normally?”
Hanin almost shook his head, but stopped himself just in time. “No. The vallaslin is something to be worn proudly.” He paused, then added, “It is a part of who I am. To hide it would be to hide my own face.”
The Antivan’s brown eyes shifted slightly, meeting Hanin’s for a moment before returning to their task. “Shit. This guy must mean a lot to you, huh?” When Hanin didn’t respond for a moment, Ralon gave a sheepish laugh. “I mean, not that the rest of this is child’s play or anything, but… I don’t know. This part just seems worse, somehow.”
Dipping a fingertip back into the pan, Hanin moved his head accordingly to Ralon’s silent guidance. So far, his squad had been kind to him. They had not pushed for answers, or even for more than what was already detailed in the plan. Despite the lengths they were going to, none of them had demanded anything personal from him to justify the risk. Without hesitation, they had just accepted it as something that needed to be done. They had just trusted that it was important enough to be worth it.
Sitting there, with Ralon carefully concealing his vallaslin, Hanin realised with a pang of regret that they all deserved so much better from him.
Perhaps it was his turn to trust.
“We were… together, for a time. Athran and I. When we were younger.” He closed his eyes as Ralon began working near them, the scent of the tinted mixture something akin to wet clay and stone. “Over eleven years ago.”
He felt Ralon’s hands pause, just for a moment. Then, as gently and calmly as before, they kept going, carefully brushing across Hanin’s skin. “Well... that explains a lot. I mean, some of us had a feeling, but it didn’t seem like a good time to go prying into your personal life.”
The corner of Hanin’s mouth twitched up slightly at that. “Impressive restraint.”
Ralon’s chuckle was quiet and fond as he patted over a couple more spots on Hanin’s forehead. “Yeah, well... we learned from the king of bottling things up. What did you expect?”
As usual, he showed a remarkable talent for delivering a compliment and an insult simultaneously, but Hanin was not one to hold such a skill against him. But before Hanin had to think of something to say, Ralon continued softly. "But seriously... thanks. For telling me. Or us, because you know I'm going to go tell the others the second you leave." Hanin just huffed softly at that. He knew. Ralon smirked slightly and continued. "I know you don't like talking about your clan, after everything that happened, and shit, that's fair. It can't have been easy to ask us for help in the first place, but it means a lot. Even more, now that we know what you're going through a bit better."
Guilt twisted like a knife in Hanin's gut. "I shouldn't have kept it from all of you. I'm sorry."
"Hey, your business is your business. We were going to give it everything we had anyway. Fact of the matter is you didn't have to, but you did. It's just... nice." A soft smile replaced the smirk on Ralon's lips. "We trust you too, Captain."
Hanin didn't know what to say to that, and in truth, there was really nothing more to add. Instead, he just remained still until Ralon finished his task, an instruction that he open his eyes and face the lantern marking the end of the arduous process. “Hm... doesn’t look like I missed anything,” Ralon murmured, inspecting Hanin’s face like a painter before a canvas. He raised his voice. “What do you guys think? Look alright?”
The next thing Hanin knew, he had twelve sets of eyes trained intensely on his face. He swore he’d had nightmares that were similar.
“Looks good to me,” said Cyrus. “I mean, weird as fuck, but you can’t see any of it.”
“Don’t touch your face,” Connors instructed sternly. “It will rub off if you’re not careful.”
Glancing across to catch Lyrene’s eye, she and Hanin nodded. It was strange, seeing the woman without the mark of June. In that moment, Hanin was almost grateful no one had brought a mirror. He had not seen his bare face since he was fifteen years old, and he had no desire to.
“Alright, if we’re done playing salon, it’s time to get moving.” Launcet was at the open door, peering through the crack. “Looks like the kitchens are coming to life. Means the fun’s over and it’s time to get to work.” Glancing over his shoulder at the group, he tossed them a wink. “Same goes for you lot.”
Breathing out a long, steady breath, Hanin stood, Lyrene and Cyrus moving to his side. He was about to leave when Ralon cleared his throat, catching his attention.
“Hey, be careful, alright? Both of you.” Ralon’s gaze passed over Cyrus to focus on Lyrene, and ended on Hanin. “We’ll get him back. Just play it safe.”
With that, the trio exited the building, Launcet joining them for a time before breaking away to head to the guard’s barracks and find a copy of the roster. Heart thrumming, Hanin and Lyrene made their way across to the manor, the once inviting cobbled path now feeling ominous and exposed; a dead giveaway. But Cyrus strode beside them, the uniform well-tailored and neat, a blade belted securely to his side, a scowl dark on his face. Hanin had a feeling his presence alone would be enough to see them wherever they needed to go.
They arrived at the kitchen entrance just as an older servant was pushing her way out with her hip, a heavy sack burdening her arms. Without thinking, Hanin reached out, quickly catching the door and holding it open. Flustered and red-cheeked, the woman glanced up, brown eyes confused for a moment as they came to rest on his face. A tense moment passed. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanin could see Cyrus shifting slightly, about to intervene.
“Ah, you must be one of the new ones!” The woman grinned, wrinkles drawing aside like curtains to frame her face. “So polite. Strong, too. Maker, it's about time we got someone with a little meat on his bones.” She shuffled past, taking care to navigate the single step that led down to the cobbled path. “You just head on inside. Plenty of work for a big pair of hands.” She glanced up, catching sight of Lyrene. “Ah, good, more of you! Go on inside, too. As for you...” She winced and shifted, holding out the heavy sack to Cyrus. “Be a dear and help an old serving woman. That’s it.”
Uncertain of how to back out of the rapidly unfolding situation, Cyrus just grunted in surprise as the old woman dumped the sack into his arms. He glanced across at Lyrene, who shrugged helplessly, and gave a terse sigh. “Fine. Where are we taking this thing?”
“Out to the chickens, dear. My turn to feed the poor things tonight. Come along.”
Lyrene’s eyes widened like saucepans. She turned to Hanin as Cyrus and the old woman shuffled out of hearing distance, the lady practically gluing herself to Cyrus’ side, chattering away as they walked. “Shit… good thing he kept quiet, huh?”
Nodding, Hanin opened the door wider. “It was. Come on.” Hurrying forward, Lyrene darted into the kitchens, Hanin following close behind. Almost immediately, Hanin was nearly crashed into by a harried looking servant, his hands full of vegetable scraps, a demand for them to be brought to a bin halfway past his lips until he took in the height and bulk of Hanin’s form. There was the briefest moment of calculation, during which he clearly thought better of the request and moved on. The entire interaction was over before Hanin even had a chance to mutter an apology.
It was difficult, getting through the warzone that was the kitchen. Hanin swore he had been on battlefields that possessed more order; more structure. Cooks and assistants shouted back and forth over the clamor of pots and utensils, boiling water throwing steam into the air, the floor gritty with salt and flour as Hanin tried his best to navigate the chaos without drawing too much attention to himself. That proved to be a nearly impossible task, and as he moved he found himself mechanically grabbing pots and bottles from high shelves on command, passing them down to impatiently waiting servants who would have made admirable drill sergeants in another life.
Lyrene, however, managed to slip by relatively unscathed, the woman soon finding her way to a doorway at the far side of the room. She lingered there awkwardly until Hanin was spat out by the crowd a few feet away, his dark uniform askew and dusted with flour, a bottle of salt, for some reason, clutched tightly in his hand. Before he even turned to look at it, it was snatched away by a passing cook.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Lyrene grinned as Hanin fired her a deadly look. “C’mon, cranky. This way.” She opened the door and slipped through. Hanin followed, tugging his uniform straight, determined to escape the broiling havoc of the kitchens. Soon, he found himself swiftly submerged in near total silence. The bright lights of ovens and lanterns disappeared behind the closing door, leaving Hanin and Lyrene in a grey-stone corridor, only the muted hum of arguments and barked instructions making it through the thick wooden barrier. “Creepy,” Lyrene whispered, then slowly set off, her footsteps softly echoing as she moved. “Kind of like dipping your head underwater, huh?”
According to the floor plan, the cellar entrance was halfway down the hall. Sure enough, Lyrene halted before a second door, less sturdy than the one they had just fled through. Its hinges creaked in bitter protest as she pushed it open to reveal a smaller room with a large trapdoor built into the floor. The entrance to the cellar.
And a guard, sitting a few feet behind it.
Lyrene froze as the guard looked up from his book and grunted, his face pulling into a scowl beneath his thick, unkempt moustache. “What’s this, then? You lot done with duties?”
Some part of Hanin immediately screamed kill him. Luckily, and possibly for that precise reason, he had not been sent alone.
Dropping into a curtsy, Lyrene bowed her head. “Yes, Ser. Apologies for interrupting.”
He grunted again, shifting, the chair squeaking beneath his bulk. “What about the kitchens, eh? Got a lot of busy-work in there.”
“Of course, Ser.” Lyrene did not hesitate. “We offered our services, but they preferred us away from the food.”
There was a long, heavy pause as the guard seemed to chew over her answer. Then his eyes slid across to Hanin, standing directly behind Lyrene, his uniform a dishevelled mess. That fact likely helped prove Lyrene's point, and slowly the guard nodded. Leaning to his right, he grabbed a key from a hook on the wall beside the chair. “Right. Fair enough.” His heavy boots scraped across the stone floor as he stood and crouched down by the cellar entrance. He slipped it into the thick padlock, turning it until the metal snapped open, freeing the doors. “Go on, then. Off with you.” Glancing up, his gaze lingered for a moment on Lyrene. “Unless you want to spend a little time with me, that is...”
Immediately, Hanin moved past Lyrene and stooped, throwing open one side of the trapdoor, revealing a flight of steep, unlit stairs. “We are under orders,” he stated flatly, nodding for Lyrene to move past him as he stood between her and the guard. “No fraternising.”
As Lyrene scampered past, the guard glowered up at Hanin. “That so? Wasn’t made aware of any orders like that, slave.”
Sensing he was racing towards dangerous waters, Hanin tensed his jaw and took a gamble. “It is a household rule, for when there are important guests.” Thinking back to what Launcet had said earlier, Hanin grit his teeth. “We are to remain... available.”
Understanding seemed to flash in the guard’s eyes, and he huffed, waving a dismissive hand towards the cellar steps. “Fuckin' perfect. Take a job like this, and for what? No perks at all.” Grumbling, he returned to his seat. “Last time I volunteer for any of this shit…”
Leaving the man to his bitter reading, Hanin took his leave, moving down the steps, trying his best to hide the visceral relief that his gamble had paid off. From what he’d seen of Talveron’s personal guards, they all took their duties very seriously, particularly with such important visitors at the estate. A rough looking man reading a book in a side room? Just because he was dressed like one of them didn’t mean he was cut from the same cloth. More than likely he was a mercenary, or a guard from a lesser noble, who had been sent to bolster Talveron’s forces for the duration of the event.
The cellar door slammed shut after a few moments, and Hanin heard the sound of a lock snapping in place.
Well… that was something new to account for.
Letting that issue drift to the back of his mind for the time being, Hanin reached the bottom of the stairs where Lyrene was waiting, shifting back and forth from foot to foot, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Oh thank the Creators,” she breathed when Hanin appeared. “What were you thinking? Don’t you remember what Launcet said? What Ralon said? We need to play it safe!”
“Are you safe?”
Lyrene hesitated, mouth still open mid-reprimand. “I… yeah. I suppose.”
“Then we played it well.” He paused, then reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You are already doing more than you should, Lyrene. Just because we are not in uniform does not make you any less of my responsibility.”
Slowly, seeming almost reluctant, Lyrene nodded. “Yeah. I’m getting that, alright? Just… don’t go throwing punches or anything. I’m drawing a line there.”
A faint smile played across Hanin’s face as he released her shoulder. “Understood.”
The cellar was about what Hanin had expected, although admittedly not quite as terrible. Stone made up the walls, floor, and ceiling, the surprisingly large space interspersed by wooden support beams to maintain the integrity of the structure. On the right side of the room, cots were crammed in tight rows, only about three feet of space between each bed. None possessed more than a blanket over a thin mattress, and while a healthy number were occupied, a significant amount remained empty. A wooden barrier split the room down the center, the other side of which Hanin glimpsed a makeshift living area with chairs, tables, and benches that, while plain, could at least be considered usable.
“It’s like a prison,” Hanin murmured. The word left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was no other way he could think to describe it. “It functions, but…”
“What gave it away? Was it the guard? The locked door? The miserable grey walls?” Lyrene’s face had twisted into a scowl. She clearly enjoyed being there as much as Hanin did. “Come on. Let’s look around. If your clanmate is anywhere, it’d be down here.”
Nodding grimly, Hanin and Lyrene split off to cover more ground. There were no guards in the cellar, so Hanin felt less worried about letting his subordinate out of his sight, especially considering majority of Talveron’s slaves appeared too exhausted to even raise their heads, let alone pick a fight. Moving about the space, Hanin was grateful for the dim light. It meant that, even though there were no more than fifty beds in the cellar, no one really took the time to scrutinise him as he passed. In fact, majority seemed more interested in picking their way through meagre meals, or engaging in soft conversations with their neighbours. At a glance, most were humans of varying ages, majority of whom appeared to be native to Tevinter. Briefly, he recalled Varlen mentioning the Imperium practice of selling oneself into slavery. Hanin could only imagine how dire their situation must have been, for anyone to even consider trading away their freedom.
With Lyrene prowling the rows of cots, Hanin found himself moving towards the left side of the room, a break in the wooden partition allowing passage at its centre. However, as he approached, the sound of a sharp conversation stopped in him place.
“...t were you thinking? Have you finally gone mad?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Then what the fuck were you doing there? That wasn’t even your area.”
“I just wanted to see them, Tellene.”
“Did you get a good look? Well, did you? Was it worth all… all of this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I had to try something. Is that so wrong?”
“What’s wrong is you pulling a stupid stunt like that, and then what? You come crawling over to me to coddle you like a damn child, that’s what. Every bloody time.”
“I’m sorry. You can go sleep. I don’t need your help.”
“... Oh Maker’s breath. Piss off with that and hold still.” A pause followed. “I swear, you’ll send me to my grave good and early. Just what exactly did you think would happen? That they’d whisk you away on the spot?”
“I--”
-- “That they’d drop everything and buy you from the dominus?”
“No, I just--”
-- “Then what?” The woman’s frustration had clearly reached its peak, her tone as sharp as a freshly honed blade as it cut the man off. “I don’t know what you’ve been thinking lately, but you’re living in a fantasy. I’ll tell you what will happen. They’ll come here, have their little meeting, and then they’ll leave. Just like all the rest. And guess who’s going to be left picking up the pieces again?”
Hanin could feel that thrum pulsing in the back of his mind, his heart hammering against his ribs as the conversation gave way to a tense, heavy silence.
“... I said I was sorry.”
The woman released a long, exasperated sigh. “I told you, Athran. I told you not to go getting your hopes up. Now… Maker, look at you.”
Athran.
Even before hearing the name, Hanin had known. Deep down, he had known. That voice, the way he spoke, the cadence of each sentence, was like a piece of shattered memory pressed into his palm, cutting deep, drawing blood. And all he wanted to do was close his hand around it. Hold it close.
Breathless, unthinking, uncaring, Hanin stepped around the barrier into the room.
Mismatched furniture littered the area, some grouped, others standing alone by the cold stone walls. It was mostly empty save for two figures sitting at one of the tables in the back corner, although Hanin could only see the face of one. The woman was an old elf, likely in her sixth or seventh decade, her shrewd green eyes narrowed into disapproving slits as she peered at the face of the man sitting across from her. An elven man with long blond hair.
Hanin's stomach dropped to its knees.
“It’s nothing a little makeup can’t cover, Tel.” That voice. Hanin took a step slow step forward, mind reeling, his throat so tight it felt like he was being choked by an unseen hand.
Tellene rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Well, doesn’t that just make it all better. You really--” She cut off suddenly, her gaze snapping across, honing in on Hanin like a hawk on a rat. “Are you lost or something?”
There was venom to the words, but also a kind of instinctive protectiveness. Like a single puzzle piece slotting into place, it set some small part of Hanin at ease to know she was there, fussing over Athran. “No. I’m not.”
Her expression darkened, jaw tensing as she lowered her hands, a cloth clutched in one, a small tub of salve in the other. “Then get lost. If you’re new, go find someone else to hold your hand. Mine are full.”
“Tellene. Don’t be cruel.” Athran rested a staying hand on the woman’s wrist, everything about him strangely slow. Strangely calm. Or perhaps defeated was the better word for the way in which he moved, like the air was thick and his heart just wasn’t quite in it. Even as he turned, it was not without difficulty, a pained tremor wracking his frame as he twisted in the seat. “I’m sorry about her. She’s just…”
Athran’s gaze came to rest on Hanin, and the rest of the world seemed to crumble to ash at his feet. Flooding in to fill the space came a deep and impenetrable nothingness so fathomless and dark Hanin feared for a moment that he might drown in it.
A beat passed.
Another.
Then, slowly, those brown eyes widened.
Athran’s expression shifted, his familiar face falling slack. The chair grated across the floor as he rose unsteadily to his feet, the sound impossibly loud, impossibly slow, as though it had been dragged out for minutes instead of seconds. That thrum in the back of Hanin’s mind slowed as well, quieting until it was nothing more than a dull, rhythmic thump, the sensation pulsing through his body until it lost its shape, melting into another rhythm. Another sensation.
The beating of his heart.
“I’m here.”
The words sounded so laughably inadequate, even as Hanin said them. Athran just stood there, his breathing short and stiff, the space between them seeming too far, too distant, even though it wasn’t. Even though they finally, finally, shared the same room.
“You’re late.” There was something odd about Athran’s voice, like in the process of speaking it had been drawn too tight. Pulled too thin. Stiffly, Hanin swallowed.
“I know.”
Athran exhaled in a sudden, shivering rush. The breaths started coming deeper, his lower lip beginning to tremble even as he fought against it, hands curling into fists at his side.
“It’s been eleven years.”
That impossible pressure rose back up, coiling at the back of Hanin’s throat, threatening to choke him.
“I know.”
He didn’t have the words. Even after two weeks of planning, of agonising, of sleepless nights building up to that precise moment, Hanin had never found them. He’d played it out over and over in his head, but none of them were right. None of them were enough . None of them could ever give shape to all the things that needed to be said.
So, he said the truth.
“Ir abelas.” Shaking his head, wishing he was better - wishing he was more - Hanin took a single step forward. “Lethallin, I...”
Hanin never had a chance to finish his sentence. He never even had a chance to finish the thought behind it because the second the first word left his lips Athran was moving. In the space of a few frantic heartbeats he crossed the distance and was in Hanin’s arms, head buried against his chest, his grip so tight it was like he was terrified Hanin would vanish from between his fingers. For once, it was nothing for Hanin to hug the man back. He held Athran so firmly that when the man's legs almost gave way beneath him he didn’t fall. Instead, Athran was caught and held by Hanin as they both stood in shock, in disbelief, in relief of eleven years of distance closed in the span of seconds. With Athran finally safe in his embrace, the pair locked together so tightly, Hanin dared the Creators, the Maker, anyone to try to tear them apart again.
Despite knowing that Shanedan’s personal thoughts on her interactions with Cyrus that morning was bordering on being downright abysmal, Assan couldn’t help but admit to herself that she thought that blue-eyed black-haired human’s sassiness was adorable, like a disgruntled puppy, all teeth and thinking he’s looking all sorts of vicious when she could just reach out and pop him on the snoot if she felt like it.
This was providing she didn’t have a good idea that Cyrus would crack her just for trying and she knew that he could too.
It wasn’t often that she got to witness a spar that honestly put her brother on his toes. He didn’t sweat from mere exercises like that very frequently. But the thing about exercises was that they could still strain and she kept eyeing her brother all through the remainder of the training session until the squad leader, Hanin, dismissed them for the morning.
Shanedan wouldn’t drop one of his weapons to strengthen his defense unless his shoulder was bothering him.
If it was though, he didn’t show any sign of it.
But then again, this was still Shanedan she was thinking of.
He had been that way all her life, pretending nothing was wrong, everything was fine. That his hurts weren’t worth making others worry. She was his baby sister and she still couldn’t convince him that his thoughts, concerns, and pain mattered just as much as anyone else’s.
She wished she could take away those scars and those memories and just let him trust and feel freely.
As they retreated from the training ground, Shanedan met her eye and he spared her a smile like a wince. Fleeting and soft like wet clay. “Are you going back to bed?” he asked, knowing that it was still early for her. She didn’t like being awake at this hour and normally, she would have but not after a spar that had gotten her blood pumping.
Assan wrinkled her lip and shrugged, “There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep after a training session like that.”
“Would you join me for breakfast then?”
Their eyes met and she saw it.
The little bits of emotions in his eyes that he couldn’t restrain despite all of his self-imposed self-control that he had mastered. That was how she knew when things were real for him, that he wasn’t acting.
That expression in his eyes was more important to her than every luke warm smile he had ever worn.
One day she hoped she would be able to see that emotion bleed into the rest of his face, so the rest of the world could see what she saw.
“Yeah. I think I will,” Assan stated before giving him a light-hearted swat on the small of the back, “Go on ahead though, I’ll meet you there.”
A subtle dark brow of his rose in mild curiosity.
“Alright.”
He never did pry into her own personal matters, giving her faith in whatever it was she was going to do, and Assan watched as Shanedan walked to the kitchens to gather them some breakfast.
As soon as he was out of view though, she sprinted back to their lodging to look for the ridiculous bag of seeds Shanedan had made forever ago to deal with muscle aches, dropping a couple hot coals from the dying hearth into the bag and retying it before she snatched up the fur-lined boots she had bought him for his birthday a couple years back and hurried along to meet him at the kitchens.
One of these days her brother was going to lose his feet to frostbite walking around the way he did in his Dalish leggings with nothing else, she was damn sure of it.
Every elf she had seen in Skyhold wore shoes, even that new squad leader of theirs.
Stupid boy.
Shanedan Shanedan looked up from whoever it was he was talking to shortly after she took her first few strides into the hall, taking her by surprise when she realized that he was sitting with a few members of their new team, one of them the sturdy looking human with brown eyes and a scar at his mouth, that cute blonde elf girl too, and not far from him was the jumpy kid and captain asshole himself.
She had known her brother all her life and sometimes it still took her by surprise that he could hear her in such a crowded place. Assan knew that her gait was as familiar to Shanedan as his own heartbeat was and she was almost certain that he had memorized the stride pattern of half of Skyhold’s population by now too. A habit of his that he had tried to get her to do as well but she struggled with. Shane had tried to get her into several of his many potentially life-saving habits but she just wasn’t brilliant like he was.
Striding across the hall over to them, she smirked to her brother, “Making friends?” she inquired as she held out the bag of hot grain and his boots, not moving to sit down until he reluctantly took them from her. It was rare for her to indulge in breakfast considering her normal sleeping pattern but it looked like she would be taking part in it more often since she and Shanedan had been dumped in with the ‘Dawn Squad’.
Shane didn’t need to be there with her, he didn’t cause problems like she did, but she knew why he joined.
He never left her side.
He would always watch her back, and she would always watch his.
She wanted to make sure just as much as he did that they didn’t repeat history.
All they had left was each other.
“Familiarizing myself with our team,” he said softly as he slipped his feet into the boots and then situated the canvas sack under his coat to let the heat soak into his shoulder, his eyes on the table as she sat down to be opposite of him.
The guy, Ralof, Ralon, something like that, looked on in surprise at the gifts that she had bestowed upon her brother. “No boots, huh? Shit, I thought that was just a strange elf thing,” he said, grinning playfully before the elf jabbed him hard in the ribs with her slim elbow, “Ouch! Hey, I’m going to need my own bag of hot grain if you keep that up!”
“There she is—the troublemaker,” the elvish girl greeted, wiggling her fingers and winking, “Welcome to the team! Anyone who’s able to piss off Commander Curly is a decent sort in my book,” she said, grinning.
Assan gave a small laugh, “As far as I’m concerned, it is a weird elf thing. He picked it up from Zese I’m sure, he was the only elf in our merc band,” she said, her lips curling into an almost cruel smile and she held out her fist to the elf, Lyrene she thought her name was, “You I already like,” she stated with a smug grin, Shanedan observing the interaction quietly with a soft curve of his lips, only briefly drawing attention to himself when he flagged down the serving woman.
Lyren snorted, bumping fists with Assan. “What can I say? We elves are an influencial lot. Y’know, once you look past the crippling oppression.”
There was a flicker of discomfort in Shanedan’s eyes that made Assan glance at her brother before Lyrene humorously raised her foot, showing off the sturdy boot it was clad in, Ralon wrinkling his nose when she grazed his cheek with it. “Then again, no one wants their toes dropping off out here! That’d be a pain in the ass.”
Ralon raised his brows, shoving his comrade’s boot back under the table and glanced between the two siblings. “So a mercenary band, huh? Shit. That would’ve been a hell of a thing. Ran into a few of those, traveling south of Ferelden. Rough folks,” he said, trailing his eyes over Assan and she raised her brows with a playful smirk under the inspection. “Can’t say I’m completely surprised though. You look like you could scare folks stiff on a good day.”
“Yeah, and scare them dead on a bad one,” Lyrene shot in with a laugh.
“Yeah well, I wasn’t always so awesomely scary, especially not then,” Assan shrugged, her eyes shifting to Shanedan as her lips pressed thin for a moment. “And Shane, well…”
Her brother filled in for himself, “I’m a runt.”
As though that explained everything.
Ralon nudged him a little, “Hey, well y’know what? Surrounding yourself with a bunch of short-asses like us is a pretty clever move then. Kinda hard to think of someone as a runt when you’ve gotta crane your neck to look at them anyway.”
The statement made Assan let out a bark of laughter and she saw the look in her brother’s eyes, almost matching his smile.
Amusement.
“I’m not much taller than you guys. The squad leader is nearly my height,” he pointed out in all modesty.
“Well, not much taller is still taller!” Ralon grinned.
“Shaaaaaaane,” Assan prodded her humble little brother, “you’re still like four inches taller than him. And a full head taller than Dick Black over there,” she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of Cyrus.
“Assan…”
The grouch in question had been shoveling his breakfast into his mouth when Assan made the comment and shot her a sharp glare. “Huh. I keep forgetting the cow can speak. They don’t serve hay here, you know,” he said snidely, eyes flicking over to Shanedan. “So how about you and the runt fuck off and bother people who give a shit about you. If there are any.”
“This cow can throw you across the hall, pint-size. Let’s not forget that the runt handed your ass to you on a silver plate,” Assan shot back without missing a beat, Shanedan wincing a bit on the other side of the table.
Cyrus sneered, lip curling in disdain. “Fucking try it,” he snapped, “Come on then, I’m waiting. And before? The runt got lucky. I just assumed being slow ran in the family.”
The blond boy, Darren, piped up despite looking like he wanted to crawl under the table and hide. “Stop it. Please. We’re meant to be a team aren’t we? Can’t we just try…”
“This is between me and Horns over there,” Cyrus said, gesturing at Assan with his spoon with his eyes narrowed at Darren, “So shut up and stay out of it.”
“He could have disarmed you five times over the course of that spar, assfuck, that’s hardly luck!”
“Twice,” Assan heard her brother murmur, almost anxiously stirring his food rather than eating it.
Cyrus barked a dry laugh, “Oh look, it’s trying to count now,” and he smirked at Shane’s correction, “Huh, better luck next time. Maybe start simple. Like with zero. Because that’s precisely how many fucks I give about you and your half-pint brother.”
Lyrene piped up on the other side of the table, “Okaaay, how about this? We eat our breakfast and try not to kill each other?” she suggested, motioning about the room, “All the other squads seem to be able to manage it.”
“If you’re waiting for me to give a shit about your opinion, you better pack a lunch, sweetheart, cuz it’s going to be a while.”
“Last I checked, you were the one who came over here looking to start shit with me. You’re real big on talking about it. I’m just waiting for you to put your money where your mouth is,” Cyrus smirked, his gaze darkening. “But seems you’d rather just sit there and call me sweetheart. Cute. But I have a policy: no animals.”
“Cyrus, give it a rest,” Ralon said sharply as conversations around them started to go quiet. “Listen: if the two of you get into a fight now, Hanin’s going to be more than just pissed. So unless you both want to be running laps and cleaning latrines for the next two weeks, you need to calm down. Let it go.”
And then…
Well.
Shane.
“I’m sure the two of them could fuck it out during their mutual punishment,” he said casually to Ralon and Lyrene who both choked on their porridge, coughing and sputtering with laughter, ignoring the copper blush and look of disgust on Assan’s face and both Cyrus and Darren went red—one in embarrassment and one in anger.
“Shanedan, that’s disgusting!”
Those stormcloud grey eyes turned to her, quirking his brows mildly, “Well, since you two seem to enjoy professing your undying affections to each other in the middle of breakfast…”
“You seem real interested in what your sister’s fucking, runt,” Cyrus snapped, fists clenched, “Keep that shit up and people are going to think the two of you are even more screwed up than you already are.” And with that, he shoved his bowl away and stood, glowering around the near silent hall. “What the fuck are you lot gawking at?”
And proceeded to storm out, a few suggestive whoops and whistles trailing from the tables as he passed.
And the door to the mess hall thudded shut behind Cyrus.
“You are disgusting,” Assan told her brother, nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Drastic times call for drastic measures,” he said simply, shrugging and without another word he returned to eating his porridge.
“Well… That was something.”
Assan glanced to Ralon who was smirking at Shanedan as he took a swig of water from his tankard. “Nice one. Takes skill to get Cyrus to stalk off like that.”
At the other end of the table, the boy, Darren, shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry. About him, I mean. You’re not…”
His eyes flicked to her and then back down to his food, “Any of those things he said you were.”
Ralon chuckled but when he spoke, his tone was gentle. “Pretty sure she knows that, kid. Cyrus talks more shit than all of us combined.”
Assan pursed her lips with a sigh and a shrug. “Don’t worry about it,” she told the boy, “that’s hardly the first time either of us have heard crap like that and it sure as hell won’t be the last. We get it from all kinds being vashoth,” Assan explained, trailing to Shanedan with a bit of curiosity on her face, a thought scampering across her brain and then scurrying away.
“That’s probably true… but still, you shouldn’t have to hear it from your own squad, that’s all,” Darren said quietly.
Assan’s expression softened at Darren’s words, her own brother’s smile gentle and some fondness in his eyes from his kind words, and she reached out to ruffle his hair, “You’re adorable, I hope you know that.”
The gesture made the boy’s cheeks tinge a little and smile, pleased that the tension had all but evaporated now that Cyrus had left.
“But!”
Everyone jumped a little when she slapped the table, making Shanedan wince slightly, “Now we don’t have to worry about sassy-pants butting into conversation.”
“He probably wouldn’t have to begin with if you hadn’t mentioned him in the first place, Assan,” Shanedan sighed, although everyone else relaxed to grins and chuckles.
Lyrene gave a half-shrug, “True enough,” she agreed, “but frankly, Cyrus being an ass is about as sure as the sunrise. Would’ve happened at some point.”
“So,” Ralon chimed in, smiling and leaning forward as he fixed Assan with a curious look, “How’d you find dawn training? Added a few nice dents into Connors’ shield.”
She smirked as she gazed back to the man. “Honestly, for a first day, it was pretty mild. My first day training with Ore was a lot harder.”
“You were also six back then, Assan,” Shanedan quietly pointed out.
“Yeah yeah, shut up.”
“Ore… One of the mercenaries you mentioned before?” Lyrene inquired, cocking her head.
“You were only six?” Ralon added, brows raised in surprise. “That’s rough. How long were you both with the mercs?”
“She was our mama,” Assan said at the same time as Shane said, “Assan’s mother.” And she looked at her brother at the same time he realized his mistake and his entire body tensed up subtly. She took a deep breath through her nose and she shrugged, “I was six when Ore decided to start my training. Shanedan was seven when she started his. Probably would have started sooner if she hadn’t been pregnant with me,” Assan admitted, “We were with Ore, Zese, Maltese, Ghorbash, and Katria until I think I was nine. After that… well, Shanedan pretty much raised me, jumping from whatever merc group that would take a nine year old and a sixteen year old to the next.”
Ralon’s gaze flicked between the two vashoth. “Right. Gotcha.” And he gave Shanedan a half-smile. “Older brother, huh? That’s a tough gig.” And he playfully winked at Assan, Assan smirking in amusement.
“So what happened?” Lyrene asked suddenly, ignoring Ralon’s warning glance, “I mean, you started hopping around at nine, yeah? Something must have caused that.”
Shanedan’s expression was unreadable.
His tone flat as he spoke.
“They went on a job and didn’t come back,” he said quietly as he stood, sparring them the courtesy of a smile like a wince. “I’m going to go meditate. I’ll see you all later,” he excused himself softly before he turned to leave, his half-full bowl of food remaining at his spot.
“See you around then…” Ralon lamely said, turning and glaring at Lyrene.
She looked lost.
“Was it something I said?”
Assan reached over to pat her hand reassuringly, “It’s nothing personal,” she explained. “Shane’s an avoidant: won’t talk about things that bother him even if it might kill him.” And she sighed. “We don’t know what happened to band. Shane was left in charge of me and when they didn’t come back by the deadline, we assumed the worst. Shane went from being just my brother to being a parent to me too. If they are alive, we haven’t seen hide or hair of them.”
Ralon sighed. “That must’ve been difficult for both of you. I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
“What happened was kinda to be expected. It’s part of the risks that come with the career, right on up there with potentially being stabbed in the back by people you think you should be able to trust.”
His mouth twitched up at the corner. “Our squad, we’re not much to look at but we might be better than mercenaries. Maybe.”
Assan smiled with a short laugh. “There aren’t as many risks in an army, which is why Shanedan suggested we come here in the first place. Stability isn’t something you find in many merc bands, especially not the ones we were in.”
“Poor guy,” Lyrene murmured. “At least he’s got you.”
“And my word that we won’t try to stab anyone in the back,” Ralon added. “Even Cyrus, believe it or not.”
He paused though, remembering something. “What was that grain for by the way?” he asked, “Has your brother got a bad shoulder?”
“Kinda. Broken collarbone,” she corrected, tapping the far edge of her own clavicle.
He winced in sympathy, “Ouch. Nasty injury, that. Tends to play up well after the fact. Was it recent?”
Assan finished her bowl of porridge and dragged Shanedan’s half-finished one to eat it too. “Some time last year. Bastard we were working with got pissed and stabbed Shane. If he was a normal height for a Qunari…” she said and frowned.
If her brother wasn’t the runt that he was, he probably would have died.
“There are healers here,” Lyrene suggested. “Maybe they could take a look at it?”
Assan scoffed. “The only way he’d go to the healers is if I personally dragged him. The chance of magic being used on him puts him on edge in the worst way, even if he won’t show it or say it.”
“Not a fan of magic, huh?” Ralof noted, picking at his bowl. “Fair enough, can’t say I blame him. But if it’s causing trouble…” and he shrugged, “Well, it’s an option.”
Lyrene sighed, leaning an arm on Ralon’s shoulders to regard Assan, “So what happened exactly? For you to end up here with us, I mean,” she asked, glancing around the table. “We aren’t exactly the ‘golden team’ after all. Supposedly. I beg to differ.”
“Yeah,” Ralon added. “Shanedan mentioned something about folks getting hurt but didn’t exactly go into detail about it. Whatever it was must’ve pissed off Cullen.”
Cringing a bit, Assan ate a mouthful of porridge to maintain her silence for a little bit, picking her words like she felt Shane personally would. “Well, I didn’t fall back when I was told to. Shanedan came and got me against orders and a few guys that like him covered him. They got hurt,” she explained.
Shane, her brother with a flawless record of obedience, had disobeyed orders in order to protect her.
“Least to say,” she added with some mildness in her tone, “it wasn’t the first time I didn’t follow orders given by that idiot team leader we were under.”
Lyrene snorted, “Yeah. Shit orders are a pain. Sometimes I wonder how they decide who gets to run things around here.”
Ralon rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah, you’d be a much better option, Ly. For sure,” he teased, grinning as he earned an elbow in the ribs. Then he turned his eyes to Assan. “Well here’s to hoping you and Hanin get along better than the last team leader, Assan. This is… well, it’s the end of the line as far as the army goes,” he noted, spreading his hands.
The elf nodded in agreement, expression darkening a little. “Yep. We screwed up here and… well, we’re probably screwed.”
Assan wrinkled her nose with a snort. “We’ll see.”
After a moment, she sighed, fiddling with her spoon, twirling it in the air absently. This team really was the bottom of the barrel and Shanedan didn’t deserve it.
“Shanedan’s the one I’m worried about. He’s got no real reason to get kicked if I do and the only reason he’s with this squad is so he can look out for me.” Like he always was. Like he had been since the day she had been born. “If I’m being honest, this place feels like it’s been good for him so far but…” and she shrugged, “I’m not sure about me. I don’t want him to leave somewhere he might actually like just to look after his kid sister. Again.”
Ralon leaned back, sighing deeply. “Time will tell, I reckon. Either way, we like the two of you. But it gets easier,” he stated, “once you feel like you can trust the people watching your back.”
Lyrene placed a hand over her heart, “Aw, you trust me?”
“Ha! Not a chance. I trust Connors and the kid, you’re a downright liability.”
“Psh. Ass.”
Assan laughed at the banter.
Relaxing some, Lyrene smirked a bit, “I think you’ll be fine, so long as you and Cyrus don’t tear each other’s throats out, that is.”
Assan snorted at the mention of that black-haired, blue-eyed bugger.
“What’s his deal anyway? Cuz that’s one serious stick up his ass.”
They all exchanged glances at Assan’s last comment, and eventually, the blond elf shrugged helplessly. “No idea what his problem is, to be honest. Maybe he was just born a dick.”
“I don’t reckon he was hugged enough, growing up.”
Assan’s golden gaze was in sync with everyone else as they turned to the meek speaker, Darren himself.
“My ma always said a hug smooths away sharp edges and, well… sharp edges are all Cyrus has.”
His eyes lifted from his bowl and he flushed suddenly at the realization that they were looking at him, looking back down.
“Just sayin’…”
Cute, shy, and sweet. What are the odds?
That was just plain adorable.
“Maybe,” Assan subtly agreed, thinking about other assholes she had met in her life. Other mercs, mostly. Ghorbash had been one of them. And she remembered the one time she had spoken to Zese about how hard he was on Shanedan. And she shared the elf’s words of wisdom, “Some people are assholes because they don’t know any other way. Like a self-defense mechanism. Lizards that drop their tails. Frogs with poisonous skin. Butterflies that taste bad.”
She realized she had finished her brother’s porridge when she scraped the bottom of the bowl.
“Either way, it’s like trying to read a closed book. Pointless,” Ralon said with a snort.
And then he rose a brow at her. That amused grin on his face that she was starting to recognize as second nature to him.
Grins like that meant playfulness, and she liked people who were playful.
“And what about you, huh? You like trouble or does trouble just have a habit of finding you?”
Oh that was the question.
And the Qunari grinned shamelessly.
“Yes.”
She had a feeling that she would be right at home among these three teammates of hers. Playful and charming Ralon, teasing and joking Lyrene, sweet and shy Darren.
Yeah.
This felt like a good team already.
Maybe it would be good enough to even draw Shanedan out of his brittle shell.
you think i did this on purpose? For Ralon :) I miss the boy
It was a nice evening, Ralon supposed. The light fading at the edge of the treeline. Warm. A slight breeze that tickled his legs and sent a shiver across his skin.
He should really go pantsless more often.
“You are such an asshole.” Cyrus huddled over a pair of torn pants, needle in hand, jaw clenched. Whether he was frowning in concentration or sheer rage, Ralon couldn’t quite say.
“You think I did this on purpose?” Reclining, Ralon tapped his bare feet together absently, drinking in the quiet campsite. It was weird, being sent out on a mission with just Cyrus. Then again, you didn’t really need a full squad to check in on a couple of farmhouses. The nearby rift had been closed that morning, but that didn’t mean a stray demon or two hadn’t slipped by earlier. “You’re the one who made me gather firewood,” Ralon continued helpfully. “I told you, the Inquisition uniform doesn’t account for my... assets.”
“Kill me...” Cyrus muttered as he thumbed the needle through the fabric. “Have you tried not lifting things like a fucking idiot? That might help.”
“And strain my back instead? No thanks. I’d rather tear my pants any day. I mean, have you ever felt how good the breeze is around your---”
--- “Don’t.” Cyrus' gaze sliced through the air between them. “I swear to the Maker, I’ll let you walk back with your ass hanging out if you say one more word about... that.”
There was no use trying to fight the grin that spread across Ralon’s face. He liked getting Cyrus all fired up. Mostly because it was interesting to see how much harder it was getting. Back in the day, Cyrus would have probably swung at him for being a smartass. Now, even though he was pissed off... he was still mending Ralon’s pants, the needle dipping and swooping its way through the dark cotton. So, rather than push him any further, Ralon changed tact.
“Where did you learn to sew?”
Cyrus’ hand paused briefly, then continued working away at the tear. Ralon knew that kind of pause well. It determined the difference between the truth and a lie. “A... family friend taught me. I had a habit of tearing holes in my clothes.”
Despite Ralon remaining quiet, Cyrus offered no further detail. Ralon supposed it made sense. “You probably got in a few fights, huh?”
Cyrus snorted softly. “Yeah. Something like that. Figured it’d be better if I solved my own problems...” He raised the pants slightly. “This included.”
The wind picked up, sending the leg of the pants across where Cyrus was working. As the Orlesian cursed, Ralon hopped up and leaned over, picking it up and holding it out of the way. “Come on, it’s the least I can do,” he said after receiving a suspicious look from Cyrus. “Maybe I can learn a thing or two if I watch you do it.”
The idea of not having to mend Ralon’s pants again seemed promising, so Cyrus just shrugged and allowed Ralon to stand beside him. For a few seconds.
“Could you at least sit down or something?”
“Why?”
Slowly, Cyrus turned his head. Fixing Ralon with a flat look, his eyes flicked down, then up again. It took a few seconds for Ralon to work out what the problem was. When he did, he burst out laughing.
“My bad! Probably not the best view from down there, huh?”
☁️ What’s something your OC wishes they could forget? Why is this? Or, what is something that your OC has forgotten? (or do both!) For Ralon!
Ralon doesn’t have all that many regrets, but he does wish he could forget what he did the night his older brother disappeared. He and Damiros never really got along well (their relationship was more antagonistic), but every now and then Ralon thinks back to that evening when Damiros didn’t come home. At the time, he was like ‘good’, because it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with Damiros’ shitty ‘friends’ causing trouble anymore. Now, Ralon regrets not going out looking for him, or even asking around as soon as he noticed Damiros wasn’t where he was meant to be. His parents were devastated, and the implications of Damiros just vanishing began to weigh on Ralon too.
Damiros wasn’t the reason Ralon left home. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been keeping an eye out for anyone who looked even remotely like him.
