Thank you to @nirikeehan for the tag! This is maybe the cutest tag game ever so naturally I had to do all my girls as babies...
Luna Tabris, naughtiest girl in the Denerim Alienage. Look at that little face! You can tell she got away with murder... right up until she did Actual Murder. Oops?
Rhiannon Hawke, a chaotic little scrapper and a continual Problem for Leandra who really wanted a Nice Well Behaved Noble Daughter (despite, you know, eloping to Ferelden with an apostate.)
And, out of order for family resemblance purposes, her daughter, Cara Hawke-Laidir, little princess of Kirkwall who's never had anything bad happen to her even once (yet).
Rheyah Adaar, my other Kirkwall-born girlie and unwitting double Messiah. Look at those eyes and tell me you can't see why her dads started a heresy rather than let her become saarebas...
And, last but not least, Anaïs Mirella before she was Anne de Riva... basically unrecognisable before the horrors. Who is this child??? I don't know her and I don't know what kind of sick, twisted author would keep putting her in the Torment Nexus....
Tagging @adainesjacket @a-gay-bloodmage @queenofangrymoths @librivore42 @teine-mallaichte and... anyone else who wants to show me your babies!
I wish you would write a fic where someone gets pegged doesn't even matter who
For I Wish You Would Write A Fic Where... - a delightful ask game where you send me summaries and I attempt to write something around them.
This is the part where I remind everyone I am Deeply Unpracticed at writing smut, but for you, dearest @bunnygoats, I will try!
Justice/Rhiannon Hawke, Justhanders (background), spirit sex, first time, bondage, pegging (obviously), overstimulation
This was meant to be PWP but then it turned into a bit of a Justice character study as well. Sorry you had to wait this long but I hope it was worth it... ;)
the common tongue of your loving me
There are many needs to attend to, Justice has discovered, when inhabiting a mortal body. Especially a body like Anders', so fragile, so long-neglected and abused by the privations of the Circle or the road or by Templar cruelty. It is, surprisingly, easier to manage with Rhiannon Hawke's once-unwelcome assistance - she is far more aware of the impacts of stress or hunger or exhaustion on the mortal form. But even with her help, the mortal form still provides unique distractions to a creature of spirit unused to its sensations.
Touch, for example, is a constant distraction. Spirits commingle to commune or to battle, sometimes, but they do not have the electric sensations of nerves to run messages of presence or pleasure or pain from the skin to the mind. When he and Anders first joined themselves, even the touch of fabric on his skin was a constant, nagging distraction - whether it was itchy wool or smooth, crisp linen, it was impossible to ignore. Sometimes, it still is.
If fabric is a distraction, the touch of Rhiannon Hawke - her careful, callused fingers, swift at plucking the strings of bows and lutes and hearts alike - is almost an agony, a fizzing shock of pleasure so intense it comes close to pain. He does not know how Anders can bear the weight of her arm around his shoulders or his waist, let alone her hand on his, her lips against the sensitive skin of his mouth.
Intimacy is, in this context, a challenge - he can no longer deny that he wants her, to touch her, to please her, to allow himself to become lost in the searing pleasure-pain of her skin against his, but again, there is the difficulty of the limitations of his nature brushing up against the limitations of the form it now takes. From Anders' memories, he has access to a wealth of information on the mechanics of such interactions - from Karl and his other brief liaisons in the Circle and among the Wardens, from his time at the Pearl in Denerim, and yes, from his couplings with Rhiannon he's experienced from the back of their mind, where sensation is dulled and distanced to become comprehensible, categorizable.
From the distance between them, he can see how it ought to work - the push and pull of desire, the give and take of mingled pleasure and pain, and finally, the climax - the closest mortal flesh can come to experiencing the wholeness of similar spirits entwined, aside from what he shares with Anders in those perfect moments when they are one in thought and purpose. He wants that closeness, or the best approximation he can have, with Rhiannon Hawke, her burning bravery, her mercy that tempers his wrath. The problem, then, is in the realisation of this desire - he cannot take the second-hand information Anders' memories provide and imagine how to put them into practice.
Fortunately, here too, Rhiannon is aware of - and more than willing to compensate for - the vulnerabilities of his natures, and she is more than willing to come up with creative mitigations. Now, for instance, the sheets of her bed are the perfect cool, crisp linen to balance the warmth of the summer night, and the ropes that bind him to it are butter-soft, luxurious silk, firm enough to anchor him but neither constricting nor painful, allowing most of his attention to fall where he wills it - on Rhiannon Hawke, the creamy expanse of her bare skin scattered with freckles and scars, lined with delicate blue veins that shimmer in reflection of his own, the fall of her dark hair just barely covering her breasts in a way that part of him longs to brush aside- but he cannot. That is the point of the ropes, after all - to allow him to become accustomed to her touch on his skin without the pressure of becoming overwhelmed by it, by her presence.
And of course, as her fingers trace a slow, deliberate line from the hollow between his collarbones, across his heart, the planes of his chest, the trail of sensitive hairs along his stomach, his hips jerk upward without any input from his will, seeking further stimulation from the pressure of her hands, her body, most of all from the glass cock that shimmers between her thighs.
His first sounds emerge as a wordless, plaintive growl, and her lips curve into a wicked, delicious smile.
"Words, sweetheart," she reminds him, and immediately makes her request nigh-impossible to fulfil by brushing her fingers against the root of his own cock. He shudders, twitches, already close to overstimulated merely by one touch of her hand. He cannot imagine how undone he will feel, by the time she is finished with him.
"Please, Rhiannon," he manages, voice hoarse with desire. "I want- I need..."
"What do you need?" she prompts, when his voice trails off, when words become meaningless in the face of what she has wrought in him.
"I need you," he says, when she lifts her hand enough to force words from his lips. "I need you to take me."
"I will," she says, reaching up to brush his cheek, and even there, he almost wants to keen from the feel of her fingers against his skin, their heat, their realness - she is the realest thing in the world to him in this moment. "Just be patient."
He almost does not hear the last word as her oil-slick fingers slide into him - he gasps, bucks against them, the world narrows to the stretch of her fingers inside him - and then she moves them, slow and deliberate and careful, too careful, and the noise he lets out his not entirely human.
She pauses, and he rocks against her, desperate for her to resume.
"Too much?" she says, and her cheeks are flushed with want, her eyes burning like blue flames, but still, even in her own desire, she is merciful, she is mercy itself-
"More," he says- he begs, really. It is already too much. It will never be enough. He will never have enough of her.
She does not tease him further this time - she quickens the pace of her fingers until he is achingly hard, near-shaking with desire, and the world turns near white when she adds a third finger and pins his shaking hips in place with her free hand. She slows again, then, perhaps realising before he does how close to the edge he is, her movements slow and languorous until he has adjusted to the sensation of fullness that is both too-much and nowhere near enough.
"I need..." He does not know the words for what he needs, for all that Anders, at the back of his mind, is more than willing to provide the vocabulary: take me, fuck me, use me. None of those terms quite fit what he desires - to feel her inside of them, to feel- to be as closely entwined with her as he is with Anders.
She does not force the words from him this time - she understands, as always, what his body needs, and is more than willing to provide it. There is a whine as her fingers slide out of him, and she soothes him: "Sh, you've been so good, I've got what you need," as she slides into him, her hands lifting his hips the perfect pressure, the counterpart to the stretch, the burn, the fullness so perfect it's almost unbearable as her hips come flush against his.
He could stay like this for an eternity, he thinks, as his eyes slowly refocus, at her mercy, no purpose to chase beyond her will and his body's needy pleasure. Then she begins to move within him, and there is no space within them for thought, for reason, for anything but her. Anders' pleasure, a soft and distant echo, feeds into his own, magnifies it, until there is no space between them, only yes and more and her. Only ever her, the flush of her skin, the pressure of her hands, the curve of her stomach, the slow, steady rhythm of her hips as she fucks into him.
"So good," she murmurs, "so good for me."
He shakes his head, incoherent with wanton lust, with desire that has made demons of stronger spirits than his.
"Not good," he murmurs, and his voice emerges as a low, wrecked growl. "Just- yours."
That breaks something in her, the last thread of restraint that keeps her gentle, careful with him.. She rolls his hips up to meet hers as she presses her body over his, skin against sweat-slicked skin mouth against his mouth, hands knotted in his hair, and she is the world to him now - her breath the only sound, the taste of her on his tongue, the sweet pressure of her inside him, as all-consuming as Anders, as the body they share.
"Mine," she purrs against his ear, and it is so true, so perfect that he shudders and spills against her belly, and this- this is the sweetest thing the mortal world has given them, to be so entwined with her and Anders both.
Chapters: 10/13
Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game), Dragon Age II
Rating: Mature
Relationships: Illario Dellamorte/Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook, Anders/Female Hawke/Justice (Dragon Age), Josephine Montilyet/Orana (background)
Extract:
The spell seemed to break, and Cara leant over the side of the table, and vomited up a torrent of viscera onto the stones of the floor. Within three paces, he was behind her, his hands pulling her hair back from her face, feeling the fever-heat of her cheeks and the wetness of her tears and the terrible relief that she was still herself enough to cry, and for one perfect moment-
For one perfect moment, he allowed his treacherous heart to believe the worst might be over.
Then Cara wrenched herself away from his fingers, away from the wings Spite attempted to wrap her in.
“Don’t touch me,” she gasped, between retches, and then, small and plaintive and fearful: “Mama?”
happy DADWC! for some horror, how about “There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” for Hawke/Anders/Justice?
So this turned out to be way more than a snippet, which always happens when I start to write these three! I hope you're alright with a longer fic than usual, because editing it down is not in the spirit of the evening… I also thought this would end up slightly more horror than hurt/comfort, but… Anyway, please enjoy Justice experiencing the Horrors of his first ever crush (with a lot of angst for Anders on the side.)
Rhiannon Hawke/Anders/Justice, pining, angst, hurt/comfort, the mortifying ordeal of being known, pre-relationship, Justice character study
@saladruiner | @dadrunkwriting
a hole in my soul
Mortals do not love as spirits love. Justice has always known this, at least in theory. To love, for a spirit, is to be drawn to another's nature like a moth to a flame, whether out of similarity or compatibility or fascination. To love, between spirits, is to entwine, to commingle, to merge and perhaps become something greater than your individual parts, until your mutual purpose is fulfilled and your natures pull you apart. Mortal dreamers use the same language for their desires, but the deeds and emotions they associate with them are so different as to be unrecognisable - to be drawn to a fellow spirit or mortal soul has never driven Justice to consume or possess them, to take from them until there is nothing of what he loved that remains. It has never left him raw and agonised in its removal, its absence. He is- he was complete in himself. There was no space for yearning for anything beyond his purpose within his nature.
Since he was cast from the Fade, he has learned much of mortal love in absentia. He feels it in the ache in Kristoff's breast when Aura looks at him with revulsion, the ghosts of a thousand smiles and tender moments that exist now only in stolen memories. He feels in the frantic beat of Anders' heart when he wakes from a nightmare or a different sort of dream weeping Karl, Karl, Karl. He feels it when they let their magic burn through the man he loved, and through the Templars who killed him. It is an open, unhealing wound, and no matter how much magic or lyrium or vengeance he pours into the space it left, he cannot heal it. Love, to mortals, then, is an injury that never heals, and he will protect Anders from suffering it again at all costs.
He cannot, therefore, tell him I love you in good conscience, for all that what they have become- what they are, monstrous though it may seem to his mortals, is love incarnate to spirits and demons alike. They are united in form, in purpose, in goal, and there is no being in the Fade or the mortal world he would prefer to be entangled with than Anders, now that they are one.
It pains him, that the name mortal tongues give to what they share is abomination, that Anders can only call what they share as corruption rather than love. Not the lack of reciprocation, exactly - mortals do not love as spirits do, and the emotions Anders feels towards Justice (guilt, warmth, shame, affection) are a pale shadow to the searing grief of Karl's absence - but the fact that Anders cannot see the beauty in what they share through the horror, and that is in part Justice's fault. His rage, his vengeance, after all, destroyed the Templars who sought to tear them apart, for all that Anders blames himself.
All this, though, he can accept. Love, even unrequited, is as ancient as mortal hearts and dreaming. It will not destroy him, and he will not permit it to destroy Anders. Desire is an entirely different matter.
He feels it spark beneath Anders' skin the first time Rhiannon Hawke brushes her fingers against his arm, the warmth of her fingers tangible even through the thick fabric of their sleeve, and he flinches back from it. Anders' surprise mingles with disapproval, mingles with irritation.
"Am I not even allowed to enjoy looking at beautiful people any more?" he complains to their reflection, and Justice feels himself twist in confusion, in shame.
I did not- she was a distraction, he defends himself. The contact was unexpected. I did not know you would welcome it.
"From Hawke?" He can feel Anders' disbelief radiate through both of them. "Have you seen her? She could touch far more than my arm if she wanted- if things were different," he amends, his gaze sliding away from his own reflection, and he feels it pulse again - the agony of love's absence, where Karl Thekla used to sit between his ribs.
I do not wish you to be hurt, he offers, and Anders makes a scoffing sound low in his throat.
"You don't want me distracted," he retorts.
The two motivations are not in conflict, Justice says, tries to flood their bond with the affection he feels, the worry, but Anders cannot accept them. Our purpose cannot be fulfilled if you suffer.
"I've been suffering all my life," he grumbles, "Why should this be any different?"
It is not a question that Justice can answer, and so they fall to silence, the bond between them an uncomfortable, fractious thing that he cannot soothe, however hard he tries.
Hawke could soothe it, he thinks, bitterly, with her glib tongue and bright smile and warm hands that make Anders' nerves sing like lyrium beneath his skin, but Justice, at least in this world, this place, cannot be soothing, cannot be ameliorative. Justice in Kirkwall is a broken bone never set, a gnawing hunger never sated, and this does not make for a comfortable life to share, however much he wishes Anders to be comfortable, however much his beloved deserves comfort in a world that has too often been cruel to him.
He feels the ache for it secondhand, through their shared skin, whenever Rhiannon Hawke laughs or smiles or reaches out a tentative hand, awaiting permission to touch them again, and, if not for the pain that lay in wait after such tenderness, he would almost be tempted to surrender, to say: go to her, let her give you what comfort she can.
But he knows the agony of love when it is taken away, and it will be taken from them, as it was from Kristoff, from Aura, from Anders when he lost Karl. It is a beautiful, impermanent thing, but its beauty is not worth the havoc it wreaks in its wake, and Anders has faced far too much of that havoc in his short mortal life to suffer further from it.
So yes, he knows that desire is a danger, both for his host and for himself - he has seen how it has warped others of his kind, twisting them away from their purpose, and he does not intend to be so transformed. He is guarded, he is wary - and still he is unprepared for it when it comes upon him, when Rhiannon Hawke reaches out to seize his hand mid-battle and press it to the side of a frightened apprentice mage who'd just attempted to set fire to her hair.
"Heal him!" she orders, and he does, but first, he feels himself burn beneath his skin with sudden, fearful want. She is not Anders - she does not have his intimate knowledge of the world's injustice, or the rage and loathing they both feel when it is enacted, but in this moment, he sees every bit of the warmth, the beauty that has drawn Anders in like a moth to a flame. He sees Mercy incarnate, and the urge to keep hold of her hand, to entangle himself with her as he would if they were both spirits, rises up to choke him.
His love for Anders is as much a part of his nature as his purpose, now, but this- this is something alien, some flaw in his nature, or that of the body he inhabits. It is well to be drawn to Rhiannon for her mercy, for her fairness, but he should not long for the touch of her hand on his, should not meet her eyes and feel the song of lyrium burn through him, should not see her dark hair cling to her sweat-streaked skin and itch to smooth it to order again. These are not desires a spirit of justice should possess.
I think, he murmurs to Anders, one morning as he shaves, when he can see his lovely, beloved face well enough to read the emotions that flicker across it, you were right, when you said I was becoming corrupted.
Anders' hand jolts as he speaks - the razor draws a line of bright blood against the red-gold of his stubble, the pale foam of the soap. Justice forces his fingers to open. The razor clatters into the basin with a splash. Anders stares at its palm as though it is no longer his own.
"Right." His voice is shaking, and Justice can feel his lips peel back into a smile that feels hideously, monstrously false. "I suppose now I get to say 'I told you so', right?"
I did not say you corrupted me, Justice corrects him, hastily. This is not a burden Anders must bear - he cannot help Justice's weakness, or the flaws of his own flesh. I meant- there is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.
Anders flexes his fingers again, then, cautiously, covers its wrist with his other hand. "My anger-" he begins, and Justice interrupts, before he can spiral into self-loathing once more.
Not your anger, he corrects. Wrath and Justice are far closer than you like to acknowledge. This is… something else.
"Tell me," Anders demands, and, when he does not respond immediately: "Justice, please. You can't tell me you're becoming a demon and just- leave it at that!"
The words start off as falsely light and playful, as Anders always begins when he is covering up some darker emotion, but something harsh and unhappy breaks through towards the end - fear, he realises. Anders is afraid for him.
I do not have words for this, he says, and it is true. There is no language he knows for this- wanting that is far more of the body than of the mind. Mortals speak of it, he knows, but till now, he's had little cause to listen.
"Then show me," Anders demands, and - blessed, cruel, overwhelming - opens his mind fully to Justice, and for a moment the bliss of connection, of love fulfilled if only for a moment, and he feels Anders gasp, the weight of Justice knocking the breath from his lungs.
This, Justice says, when he can surface long enough to pull together the images, the sensations - Hawke's face glowing with fierce determination, her voice taut but determined: Heal him!, her lyrium-bright eyes, the brief heat of her hand on his-
And Anders, bewildering as always, begins to laugh. To laugh so hard, in fact, that he shakes, that his knees buckle, that he has to sit down right there on the floor of the clinic, holding his knees as if otherwise the laughter will shake him to pieces.
This is not amusing, Justice informs him. I am- becoming warped by carnal desire! I am no better than the demons who misled the unfortunate souls of Kinloch Hold! Anders, I- I want. Beyond the bounds of my purpose, I want her.
"Justice," Anders informs him, when he catches his breath, "As a healer, I am afraid the diagnosis is far more dire than that."
What, pray tell, could be worse than corrupting my own nature and yours into a warped perversion of our true selves?
Anders lays a hand to his cheek, and Justice feels the warmth of connection surge through him, of comfort, something he has never wanted- never needed before, and something like an echo of the lyrium-song flashes through his skin. He flinches back from it, and Anders, gently, tenderly, returns the hand to his cheek anyway.
"Justice, my friend, my better half," he says, though he is still trying to swallow his laughter, "I suspect you are suffering from lovesickness."
This is not a joke!
"I am not joking," Anders soothes. "I've taken a look at your symptoms, and- Justice, you have a crush."
That seems to be the right word for it. Justice feels truly crushed by the mortification of the revelation.
Spirits are not meant to have- crushes, he says, resentfully.
"Yes, I know, you're above all that, with your glorious ethereal commingling of natures-"
I did not say they were base or foul, merely- antithetical to our nature.
"Not so very antithetical, apparently-" Anders pauses, takes a breath, seems to calm: "This is really what you fear corrupting you? Not my anger? Not- what we did, when we left the Wardens?"
Anger is a part of my nature, as it is yours. This… this is something alien to me.
Anders joins their hands, then, and Justice squeezes them together, making him laugh. "Not so alien," he says, soft and wondering. "You- you love me. Even now, knowing what you know."
I always have. He lets it flow through him, now that the walls between them are eroding, lets it spill over the aching wound where love has always sat within him, hopes it will dilute some of the pain. This would not be possible, if I did not.
He does not expect it to be reciprocated, but he feels it nonetheless - the secondhand lyrium-song that rushes through him, its sweetness, its familiarity.
"This is how love begins, for some of us mortals," Anders tells him.
It is not so, for spirits. He shows him flickering images of Anders as he has always seen him, his stubborness, his resilience, the wrongness he sees within the world and longs to put right, all the things that drew Justice to him like a moth to a flame, less desire than magnetism, the inevitable pull of their natures to each other.
"But your body is mortal now," Anders reminds him. "Is it corruption, to take on some of its traits?"
Is it corruption, Justice echoes, for your soul to carry the weight of my anger? For mine to hold some of your bitterness?
They do not know the answers any more - the truths their worlds tell them are too different, too disparate. But for once, the bond between them is a flood of joy and affection rather than a tightrope to walk, and surely there can be no evil in that, for all that they do not understand it yet.
Ok so this is weirdly specific, but feel free to be open in the interpretation. So I want more Cara, because of course I do 😅 and I saw this prompt in one of your lists : your OC’s description of their game’s events.
But I'd like to alter that slightly... So you said she was born after an ill-advised post deep roads encounter (I forget your exact words) so... Therefore she saw a lot of the DA2 narrative... As a kid... So I would like to see her interpretation of any of the DA2 events 😝
Ask for more Cara Hawke-Laidir and you shall receive! I don't know if this counts as exactly what you asked for, but the end of Dragon Age 2 is possibly the most formative moment in her whole life (pre-Veilguard, at least) so this is what you get! Apologies in advance, this turned out WAY longer than I expected...
Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Orana, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Anders, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Rhiannon Hawke, Justice/Rhiannon Hawke/Anders (mentioned), angst, tragedy, canonical terrorism
@teine-mallaichte | @dadrunkwriting
when hell bares its teeth
Cara was curled up in her favourite window-seat when the world ended. She felt the explosion rather than heard it - a low reverberation that shook the house to its foundations and cracked the panes of the window she was snuggled against. She flinched away from it in shock and rolled onto her knees, peering out through the broken panes, her book cradled against her chest. The street outside was empty, peaceful, even - but as she glanced up, she could see the climbing column of smoke cutting the bright blue sky in two.
"Orana?" she called out, her voice trembling. There was no immediate reply. She forced herself to her feet. Orana was the grown-up, and on days when her parents were busy, she was in charge, but Orana got scared, sometimes, when people shouted or magic flared, and then Cara was meant to leave her alone or make sure she was safe and comfortable.
She took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time, where she found more broken glass and embers knocked from the fireplace scattering the stone floor.
"Orana!" she tried again, fingers beginning to flicker in the familiar pattern of a seeking spell. A soft, sobbing sound crept from under the table. Orana was down there, curled into a ball and shaking, shaking, shaking, like her father after a bad dream.
Cara tried to make her voice low and calm and commanding, like Mama's: "Orana, don't be scared. Are you hurt?"
She didn't know what to do if a grown-up was hurt, though she knew where the elfroot potions and the bandages were stored in case of emergencies. She'd figure it out. Daddy always explained what he was doing when he patched up her cuts and bruises, and she wasn't a baby to burst into tears at the sight of blood.
She felt a little like crying when Orana looked up at her, pale and glassy-eyed, but they couldn't both sit here and cry. Well, they could - they had three years ago, when the Qunari revolted, but they had kind Master Bodahn then to take care of them: he'd hurried them into the cellar and told them all stories to keep them quiet, and Cara had tried to make rabbits out of light for Sandal until Orana flinched away from them. She'd only been six, then, though. She was nine now, and practically a grownup.
"Miss- Mistress Cara!" she said, which wasn't right - Orana wasn't supposed to call anyone Master or Mistress any more, but sometimes she got scared and forgot. "I'm sorry, I'll clean up the mess-"
"We can clean it up later," she managed to say, though there was a wobble in her voice she didn't like. "Something is wrong. We should go somewhere safe."
That was the first rule when things got scary, Master Bodahn had told her - find a safe place, or safe people, and stay with them as long as you can. Safe people would be Mama and Daddy and Justice, or maybe her uncles and aunts, but none of them were here, so she and Orana would have to find a safe place, and be safe people for each other.
She took Orana's hand and slowly pulled her out from under the table. They were almost the same height now, but when she was stood up, Orana blinked and came back to herself, and squeezed Cara's hands.
"Very sensible, Carissima," she said, smiling, and Cara relaxed a little, just for a second. Then there was an urgent banging on the front door, and they both flinched.
"Cellar?" Cara suggested, and Orana nodded.
"Cellar indeed."
She leaned into the fireplace and grabbed something from the far side of the hearth, and chivvied Cara down the stairs as the sound of splintering wood shattered the air behind them.
Cara felt a chill go through her as she remembered her father's warnings: If you hear the Templars coming, you run, Cara-hase. You don't look back, and you don't stop. Who else would dare to knock down her mother's door, but the monsters that still haunted her father's dreams?
"Orana," she whispered, into the dark. "Did I ever teach you the Rabbit Game?"
The Rabbit Game was one of Daddy's inventions. They'd played it ever since she could remember, ever since she was small enough to toddle after him, clutching the hem of his robes. The rules were simple - you had to make it through the passage from the cellar to the clinic, as quick as you could, making no noise, leaving no footprints. When she'd been very small, he'd given her a handful of veilfire to light the way, but grownup girls and clever little rabbits had to play the game in the dark. Foxes and wolves could smell smoke or magic on the wind, and if they caught you, they would eat you all up.
When she was a baby, being eaten all up wasn't scary. It was being scooped up in her father's arms and tickled and kissed and fussed over until she squealed. But then she got older, and realised he wasn't trying to teach her to hide from foxes and wolves, and that there were worse things that could happen to a girl than to be eaten.
Still, as she crept along the narrow passage between cellars, Orana's hand gripped tight in hers, she pretended she was playing the Rabbit Game again, that the footsteps she could hear distantly were her father's, that the worst that would happen if they were caught was that she wouldn't be taken out to the market for sweets. Panicking wasn't how you won the Rabbit Game. If you froze, or you made too much noise, they'd catch you easy as anything.
Run, Cara-hase. She ran, as light on her feet as they'd practiced, making cushions of air beneath the soles of their shoes to catch them before they could clatter. She heard, distantly, a shout that sounded a little less muffled, and felt Orana squeeze her hand and try to muffle a sob. She tightened her grip, and kept running until she felt her outstretched hands catch on the false panel that led to the clinic. She closed her eyes, remembered her father's voice in her ear: Just above your head, there are three nails to press on. The second, then the third, then the first, got that, little rabbit?
She was taller now - they were on a level with her breastbone - and she pressed down on them until she heard the reassuring click of the door opening. She pulled Orana through and closed it softly, collapsing against it. The passage continued round a corner, and hopefully the- whoever was chasing them would follow it rather than them. She'd done it. She'd won the Rabbit Game, and they were in the clinic, and Daddy would be here and tell her everything was alright-
Orana was staring at her, and she realised she'd said her names three times, and she hadn't heard. Why hadn't she heard? She was meant to be listening, meant to be calm and grown up, but she felt suddenly small and shivery and scared.
"Cara," Orana said, crouching to take hold of her shoulders, as if she was a very little girl. "Do you know where your father is? He seems to have- stepped out, for a moment."
That didn't make sense. Mama had gone to the Gallows, she said, to make sure the mages were safe, but Daddy had said he'd be at the clinic. He was supposed to be at the clinic-
Cara's breath was quickening in her throat, and now she really wanted to cry, which was stupid, because nothing bad had actually happened, and at any minute her father would be back and would explain everything. Nothing was actually wrong. Nothing was actually wrong, because if something was actually wrong-
She could hear the sound of people rushing around outside, of crying and screams, of wood cracking, and she knew in her bones that something was Actually Wrong, which made no sense. If something were that badly wrong, Daddy would be at the clinic, making sure people had a safe place to go, that anyone who was hurt was taken care of. And yet, the clinic was empty, holding nothing but a silence more horrible than the noise outside when it should have held warmth, comfort, safety.
"I don't-" She swallowed, tried to make her voice less shaky, because she had to be brave, because Orana was probably more frightened, "I don't know where he is. I- he'll be back soon."
It didn't feel like he'd be back soon. The surgery was too tidy. Daddy's desk was usually piled high with papers she wasn't supposed to look at or (when she was too little to understand) draw on. Now it was swept clean, his healer's kit sat neatly on the chair, as if waiting for him to return with far more patience than Cara. It felt wrong in a way she would not have the words for for years. It felt like he was already gone, and fear sank into the hollow between her ribs and made her heart flutter like a caged bird.
"I- I'm sure he will," Orana echoed her, and squeezed her shoulder. Cara wished she hadn't. Orana was not a very good liar.
A fist slammed into the door to Darktown, and they both flinched at the sound. Orana shoved her down under the desk, so hard and so sudden she slammed her head against it and cried out.
"Ow, Orana-!"
The rapping came again, more urgent this time. Orana's hand clapped down over her mouth, her grip on her shoulder painfully tight.
"Please!" A rough voice called from outside, "For pity's sake, if we ever needed a healer, it's now!"
Cara was not a healer, was barely even a mage, but when the banging came again, she knew what her parents would have done. She wrenched herself from Orana's grip and ran to the door, yanking it open. Outside there was a small crowd of people, pressed tight against the clinic's wall to hide from the chaos outside.
She looked up at them, feeling suddenly very young and very out of place in her pretty embroidered dress with its fine ruffled petticoats. Even of the smallest of the children looked older and more tired than she'd ever felt. She swallowed, looked up at the nearest grown-up (a man, heavily scarred, bleeding from a deep cut on his scalp, and said: "He isn't here, but- I can help you, or try."
He stared down at her through his one remaining eye, and she felt a little sick. "You're just a kid," he said, with something like disgust, and she almost wanted to cry. Then she felt Orana's hand on her shoulder again, and realised that if she could be brave for Cara, when she was so much more scared of so many things, Cara would have to keep being brave for everyone else. She wondered if her mother had ever felt like this - too small and too frightened and having to do the brave thing anyway, because there was nobody else to do it. She hoped not. Being a hero shouldn't feel like this.
She swallowed down the sick she could taste at the back of her throat. "Maybe, but- I'm all there is right now."
He made a scoffing noise, moved to wheel away, but another man, shorter, face badly bruised, caught his shoulder and gave him a glare. "D'you know anything about healing?" he demanded, and she wanted to say No, she wanted to say Go away, she wanted to say I tried to be nice and you're being rude, because nobody had ever spoken harshly to her before, but that isn't what a hero would do. That isn't what her parents would do.
So she put her hands on her hips and said, in her mother's voice: "I know everything my father taught me, and Orana knows some too. And- and if I can't help you, you can wait here until he comes back."
He would come back. He always came back. It was the promise he made every time he had to leave unexpectedly, and couldn't tell her when he'd be home. He'd kiss her forehead and say: I'll be back soon, Cara-hase, and I'll bring your mama with me. He hadn't said it this morning, but then, they'd argued this morning. He'd been in one of his black moods where only Mama could reach him, and she'd pestered him for attention rather than leaving well alone. Maybe that was why she couldn't find him now.
She shook that thought off and stood aside, letting the people flood in. Some of them were limping, supported by friends or family, or favouring arms that were clearly broken. Cuts and scrapes she'd seen plenty of - she knew from memory how to clean a wound out with elfroot, and Orana, steeling herself, could close up the longer or deeper ones with neat, careful stitches. She'd never seen bruises so dark or so big, but she spread spindleweed balm across them nonetheless and said calming things like There, all better, and It'll be fine if you're careful, even if she wasn't sure it was true.
"The tunnels keep collapsing," the man with the bruised face told her while she smeared gooey spindleweed across it, as his husband swore loudly through Orana's stitching. "Whatever happened up in Hightown, it's shaken the foundations, and the Templars… they're looking for- someone."
He cut himself off as he seemed to focus on her face for the first time. "You said your daddy would be back soon?"
She nodded. "He always comes back."
He sighed, looked past and through her. "They always do, kid. Until they don't."
She shook her head, tried to remind herself that he didn't know her parents, that they always came back to her. That they were heroes, and that meant they always came home. She told herself that over and over again as the hours passed, as more people flooded through the door - some she could help, most she couldn't, even as she rationed and diluted the few elfroot potions kept aside for emergencies, and she didn't feel like a hero at all. She felt like she was a little girl again, and school had finished, and nobody had come to collect her - the cold, uncomfortable feeling of being forgotten, mingled with the fear of something Very Wrong having kept her parents away. At least now she was busy - now she was helping people, if only a little. Then she'd had to sit in the Chantry while the sisters did evening prayers, the stench of incense making her feel sick and sleepy and even more forgotten than she felt now.
Like the last time, when her mother finally came, she burst into angry, relieved tears like a baby, and flung herself into her arms. She'd been trying to be a hero, or at least a grown-up, for far too long, and suddenly she was hot and tired and hungry and scared but her mother was here and those were no longer her problem to fix.
"Where's the healer?" someone demanded over her head, and she relaxed, waiting for the reassuring answer.
Instead, her mother said: "Gone," and that was when she realised that this was nothing like the Qunari attack, that her life would never be the same again. That the world could be cut into two neat halves by a single syllable.
Happy Friday! I don't know if Cara is Hawke's biological child or an adoptee, so I tried to pick a prompt that would work either way: having the baby wear matching clothes with the pet.
Second promptfill of the night for you! Cara is in fact a biological Justhanders Nepo Baby, which is where she got her magic and also her audacity. <3 Fluff is really hard but hopefully you enjoy this!
Justice/Rhiannon Hawke/Anders, Anders & Cara Hawke-Laidir, Halloween costumes, family fluff
@lasatfat | @dadrunkwriting
a grievous betrayal
“I thought,” Anders says, arms folded, “we had an agreement about Cara’s Satinalia costume this year.”
Rhiannon looks up at him through her lashes, lower lip bitten, expression penitent, almost irresistable. Almost.
“It wasn’t my idea,” she hedges, running a hand up his arm.
“True,” Justice interjects, “but irrelevant. We had an accord, my love.”
“We had an accord,” Rhiannon agrees. “Cara, however, had her own opinions.”
Balanced on Rhiannon’s hip, in her brown velveteen leggings and jumper, Cara yawns, and, apparently in agreement with her mother, makes a sound that might be “pubby.”
Or possibly a particularly expressive belch. Either way, it’s adorable, even if it does cause the (controversial) mabari ears on her little hat to bounce.
“See!” Rhiannon says, kissing the top of her head. “She wanted to be a puppy. Could you say no to this face?”
Cara is very difficult to say no to, it is true. It is a trait she seems to have inherited from her mother.
Nevertheless, they have been betrayed in a most grievous fashion: “You promised I’d get to pick her outfit this year.”
“Yes, before I found out she’d have opinions,” Rhiannon retorts. “Isn’t it enough that I’m wearing the cat ears you picked out?”
She does look very endearing in the cat ears, which do not quite distract from the low cut of her shirt, or her own clinging breeches. It is fortunate they’ve had two years to become a little inured to her many attractions, or they would not be finishing this particular argument.
“I pubby!” Cara interjects, cheerfully.
“I thought you were going to be a kitty cat this year,” Anders replies, holding out his arms as she flails towards him. Puppy or kitten, she’s still just small enough to have the warm, slightly milky smell of a recently-bathed baby, and she giggles as he kisses the top of her head.
“No kitty!” she says, with mischievous glee. “Pubby!”
“And which puppy are you?” Rhiannon coaches her, with an indulgent smile.
“C’vall!”
Of course she’d favour the elderly, slightly smelly Mabari that Anders has failed to banish from their bed for two years now, over the perfectly respectable little orange kitten that he brought her for her last birthday. (Lady Whiskers, of course. She was too small to name a kitten, at that point.)
He frowns down at her, in mock confusion. “So you’re Cavall?”
“Y’s!”
“Then where’s my little Cara-hase?”
Cara lets out a ringing peal of laughter as Cavall trots into the hall, with an even more — well, hangdog — expression than usual.
“Das’ Cara!” ‘Cavall’ informs him, cheerfully.
Cavall is, indeed, in an oversized version of one of Cara’s frilly nightdresses, complete with a little cap tied beneath his chin. It is a funny enough sight that he almost forgets he’s meant to be annoyed.
Justice, however, has his own opinions: “Rhiannon,” he intones, “Allow the creature its dignity.”
Rhiannon crouches by the dog for a cuddle, heedless of the smears to her careful facepaint. “They’re a dog and a baby,” she informs him. “They don’t have dignity yet. You, on the other hand…” She grins, bright and wicked and irresistible. “Your costume’s upstairs. Hurry up, we’re already late!”
Will we ever have rights in this house again? Justice grumbles, as she hustles them up towards their room, but then she kisses them featherlight on the cheek, and it is very difficult to maintain truly righteous anger when blushing.
