HOWWWWW DID YOU MANY TO DESTROY ME IN JUST A FEW PARAGRAPHS 😭 (re: recent Fenders prompt 😭) I DEMAND FLUFF IN REPARATION
(jk it was absolutely beautiful, even if it broke my heart into a million tiny pieces and made cry 😭💖) BUT should you feel up to more Fenders: “pushing a strand of hair behind their ear” from the touch prompt list? 🥺 (or literally anything soft 🥺)
Aaaaaaah hahaha I’m so incredibly flattered. ONE DAY I will write the definitely not too angsty fic about Anders answering his calling days before the HoF finds a cure BUT in the mean time, your wish for fluff is my command. I hope you enjoy this!
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
Characters: Anders, Fenris
Tags: modern-ish AU, liberal use and abuse of the Ser Aveline myth, also pseudo-medieval fairytale storytelling, it’s just fluff all the way down, also brief cameo by google translated gaelic I can only ask forgiveness for my sins
“And so the maiden turned, and seized the fallen knight’s sword and shield, and turned upon the creature and said, “I am no simple noble, ready to lay down before your slaughter. I am a knight.” And the creature saw that it had been mistaken, for this was no mere maiden, but Ser Aveline herself, with hair as red as the flames of our Lady’s pyre, standing mighty with her fallen companion’s shield in one hand and her sword in the other. The creature turned, howling, and fled back into the forest, and Ser Aveline threw aside the sword and shield and tumbled to her lover’s side, gently pushing back her hair. But it was all for naught, as Ser Marie had been taken to Our Maker’s side. And so Ser Aveline wept, such sobs, it is said, that even now the trees in that place echo her weeping, and bushes of Spindleweed grow and choke the clearing.”
Fenris’ voice is deep and rich as he reads, brass-rimmed glasses reflecting the flickering red light of the fire. The lyrium on his skin refracts the light strangely in a dull iridescence, like moonlight in fog or glitterdust. Fenris’ hands move, gingerly turning the page of the book as he reads on. An illustration of Ser Aveline mourning her lost love is cut in black ink, bleeding green watercolours and dripping blue for mourning. Against the soft, warm weight of Fenris’ chest, Anders shifts a little. At the end of the sofa, their legs are a warm tangle. Libertas sits over their feet on the back of the sofa with her eyes shut and purrs. On the rug on the floor beside them, Fidelis is curled in a ball like the puppy she used to be. Fenris’ free hand hangs over the side of the sofa and lazily scratches her ears.
“Ser Aveline swore a vow that day that she would never love again. But unbeknownst to her, the Maker had other plans. For no sooner had she left Brecilian forest, than she was a stopped by a cohort of Dalish warriors. Ser Aveline was a mighty knight, and she understood that she would not be able to beat back every Dalish arrow. So instead she raised her hands in surrender, and asked whether she might speak to the leader of so fine a battalion. And it was then that she laid eyes on the second great love of her life: Feynlasan. He was a warrior whose skill with a blade was unparalleled by any except Ser Aveline herself, and he had long served as a mighty protector of his people. Ser Aveline recognised her new acquaintance by reputation, for she had heard in great detail of the tattoos that Feynlasan wore on his skin. Therefore she gave Feynlasan a warrior’s greeting, and clasped her first to her chest. Feynlasan was surprised by this, because he had not expected such courtesy from a human woman.”
Fenris’ mouth pulls into a wry smile, and Anders tilts his head to grin up at him, wriggling to sit up a little. Fenris lets him, moving his arm from around Anders’ shoulders and shifting until his back is resting against Anders’ chest. The smell of woodsmoke is rich in the air between them, and the red and gold upholstery of their sofa is soft and thick with embroidery. Anders drops an absent kiss onto Fenris’ head as he continues, and Fenris moves to pet Anders’ knee before he goes on.
“Ser Aveline stayed with Feynlasan and his people for ninety days and ninety nights, and in this time they taught her the ways of the Dalish elves, and schooled her in their arts of archery. It is said, even, that she won a prized set of Ironbark armour, a material that can be worked only by the Dalish, (much to the envy of Dwarven artisans, even now),” Again, Fenris’ voice curls with his smile before he goes on, “She won these raiments in a ritual hunt, a test of strength and skill - the aim of which was not to kill but instead to befriend one of the elves’ strange and mighty Halla. She returned with her steed, C’ablaigh, whose name in their language means Fleet Footed. For these she was rewarded with Ironbark armour, and many more gifts besides.”
On the rug, Fidelis yawns, a great high pitched thing, and sets her head down on her paws. Against the walls, the shadows lie thick and heavy, shivering only occasionally with the movement of passing traffic on the road.
“Halfway through Ser Aveline’s time with the Dalish, she was taking water in the river at night when she sawan apparition, seemingly woven of the moonlight. This spirit took the form of Ser Marie, and spoke to her, and this was the seventh of the many miracles Ser Aveline was gifted by the Maker.”
Behind Fenris, Anders’ eyes begin to drift shut as his shoulders relax against the soft stuffed arm of the sofa. In the grate, the fire is low and amber, occasionally murmuring like a sleeping dragon. Anders can feel the low rumble of Fenris’ voice in his chest, and the sensation is as familiar as his heartbeat. Fenris’ fingers turn the page, and the lyrium of them glows dully in the dark. A strand of white hair slips forward from behind his ear, and absently Anders reaches out and tucks it back. As he does so, Fenris turns and presses a dry kiss to the heel of his palm. Anders sighs, and lets his arms fall to wrap around Fenris’ belly.
Fenris goes on, reading from the beautifully illuminated book of fairytales that Hawke claimed was once an Amell family heirloom. On the page facing the cramped, gothic black ink print, there is a beautiful illustration of Ser Aveline leaning down from a balcony bound in ivy toward Feynlasan, himself reaching up for her.
“And so it was, after speaking with the spirit of her lost love, that Ser Aveline allowed Feynlasan to court her. And after ninety days and ninety nights, he had fallen utterly in love with her, though her own heart was still a secret to him. Still, Feynlasan confessed his love to fair Ser Aveline, and requested that when she left the Dales and their secret glades, he might accompany her on her quest. And she was uncertain, because she knew what a valuable warrior he was to his people. But he assured her that he had trained them himself, and knew that any one of his apprentices could best him at swordplay. And so Aveline asked for this to be demonstrated to her, and when the performance was done she stepped into the ring, because she was afraid that Feynlasan’s heart might have betrayed him and his people both. But when the elvhen warriors defeated her as well, she was satisfied, and agreed that Feynlasan might accompany her. And so it was that Feynlasan went with her from that place, and remained by her side for many years.”
Fenris’ voice echoes into the living room of the house he and Anders had bought together. On the carpet, Fidelis is snoring, and on the back of the sofa Libertas has tucked her head into her forepaws, curled like an ink comma with her tail tucked against her belly. Behind Fenris, Anders’ breath blows softly against his head like a warm breeze, and his chest rises and falls in slow, deep breaths. A smile touches the corner of Fenris’ lips, and gingerly he closes the book and sets it on the coffee table. Stifling a yawn, he slips off his glasses and sets them on the cover.
He should go to bed. Both of them should.
Instead, Fenris tugs up a knitted wool blanket that Merrill had given them from where it has become trapped between Anders’ legs and the sofa cushions. Lazily, he tugs it over them and turns over on Anders’ chest, setting his ear over his lover’s heart. He falls asleep listening to the slow, steady beat. When he dreams, he dreams of knights and fairytales and flashing red-blonde hair.
