#thedasweekend

[saessenach]

happy thedasweekend! how about "kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them ." for your pairing of choice?

hi hello!! it has been literal months but here they are 🫣🫶

Lavellan and Solas for @thedasweekend

[raptortier]

Happy Thedas Weekend!

How about Bellara & Emmrich nerding out with the Wisp color palette from the Veilguard Color Palettes?

thank you for the prompt! i love drawing these two separately, so both at once was fun! toying around with style stuff again also

@thedasweekend

[pancakesprince]

done for @thedasweekend - (my da sideblog: @elvhenprince)

leaning into the sideboob still counts as leaning into the side, right??

[justjasper]

hi, happy thedasweekend! I'd love to see "non-sexual nudity" with iron bull/dorian!

Big, gushing streams," the Bull says, as they stop near the falls. "I'm starting to feel inadequate."

"Enough is enough," Vivienne says curtly. The Bull doesn't quite wince, but it's a near thing.

"Sorry, Ma'am."

"Not you, dear," she says, on an titter of amused laughter. "We all smell absolutely wretched. I am not going another step until we bathe."

"Fair call," Dorian says, "I may pass out if I have to be downwind of the Bull a moment longer."

He's not wrong, after a solid week in the Emerald Graves. It's been a messy affair, especially today. The stink of blood, mud, shit and red lyrium sticks to all of them. Still leers at Dorian for good measure, though.

"We're all in favour, then," Cadash says. "Let's do it while the sun's high, save Dorian complaining about the cold."

"I never complain," Dorian says, and then; "it'll be buggery to get the dirt out of my robe."

"I think perhaps you're doing buggery wrong, then," Vivienne says, before the Bull can. He laughs uproarously as he scopes out a spot for his axe, fingers already unbuckling his harness.

Metal and leather gear is off first, handwashed in the river with scraps of cloth from the boss' pack. Set out in a sunny spot to dry while they deal with the fabric stuff, with some fancy-smelling soap Vivienne had on her person. It's something sharp and citrusy, the edge of medical about it.

Vivienne takes the Inquisitor's gear so Cadash can go ahead and wash first, since they'll need a lookout so they don't all get caught out by red templars while they're naked.

She's stocky, like all dwarves, no real softness to her. But not as lean as the Bull imagined, with the speed she can manage. The blue tattoos arent just on her face, but along her arms and legs, and along her back. More tattoos than the casteless he's met, about as many as some Carta he'd seen. Probably a good story there, for another time. There's a jagged scar that runs between her breasts, up over her collarbone and ends at her neck, like someone tried to gut her and got the angle wrong. Got to be a good story, too.

When she's about waist deep in the water, she turns back towards them at the bank, where they're washing the clothes.

"Hair?" she says to Vivienne.

"Yes darling," Vivienne replies. "I have oil for after."

Cadash nods, and starts unbraiding her hair and sideburns. Reminds the Bull a little of being a kid; if he grew out his hair he'd have the same tight curls as Cadash, and remembers the oils the tamassrans used to put on his after he bathed. Shaved it all off before he went into service, never grown it out since.

Cadash disappears under the water, and emerges a few seconds later, skin gone to gooseflesh. Once she's done washing she sits on a rock at the bank, her daggers in reach, and seems content to let the sun dry her out as she combs oil through her hair.

They lay the clothing out in the sun, and the rest of them wade into the stream.

"Not that cold," Dorian says pleasantly.

The Bull looks up at the falls, imagines the water's travelled along the river in the heat of midday, reaching them at the plunge warmed up. It's nice, refreshing. The riverbed is full of smooth stones, nothing too jagged - feels pretty nice on his sore feet, dozens of little points of smooth pressure.

Vivienne wades over to him to hand him a bar of soap and a cloth. Kind of expects her to tell him to wash behind his ears, but she just gives him an appraising sort of once over, a little raise of her eyebrow when he eyes settle on his soft cock and balls, hanging heavily between his legs, above the water's surface. There's no intent to it, but a curiosity satisfied - not really surprising. People wonder if he's proportional, even people like Vivienne.

He nods, and tries to find a slightly deeper area closer to the fall plunge, save his knees a bit from having to crouch.

Vivienne has lean, honed muscles that remind him of ballet dancers, without the stringy, dehydrated look that Orlais is into right now. He's pretty sure she incorporates dance into her training forms, and she moves with the grace of a dancer even as she sets to washing in the river. Her breasts have an upward turn to them, full and bottom heavy, and her nipples are pierced with silver.

"It's a rather mundane piercing in Orlais, you know," she says, by of of acknowedging his eyes on her.

"You're not mundane."

"Quite right."

"Rather easy to take to, I imagine," says Dorian, soaping up his armpits, also looking at Vivienne's breasts with interest. The Bull can smell the sandalwood of his soap even at a few paces. "Magical healing right after?"

"One of the less discussed benefits of magic," Vivienne muses, eyes sweeping along Dorian's body. "I'm rather surprised to see you've only jewellery at your face."

Dorian's nose ring catches the sunlight. The Bull knows, even if it can't see it at this distance, that as well as the nose and multiple piercings in his ears, he also has the slightest scar at his eyebrow from a piercing in his youth.

"I think I'd look rather marvelous with gold."

"Oh yes, with a chain, under something sheer, with a boat neckline."

Dorian is tall, surprisingly broad for a mage, well muscled. Not just for show, even though Tevinter is a lot of that; he's seen him training, crazy aethetic moves with a martial practice stave. He's hairy, too; not Blackwall hairy, but a defined trail under his navel into a well-manicured bush, and a little across his chest; present right now, but sometimes shaved away. The Bull gets a brief look at the adorable mole on his left ass cheek as he turns and squats, submerging himself to rinse off the soap.

"Hey, I'm not getting left out if we're all getting our tits pierced," the Bull says. "Boss, you in?"

"Been there, done that," Cadash calls from her naked sentry point.

"Bull, my dear, I rather think you're the one most liable to snag a nipple piercing and rip it out, the way you like to go about bare-chested."

The Bull grabs his chest with both hands, covering his nipples in mock-anxiety.

"Paint me a picture, why don't you."

"Perhaps some horn caps, for a little sparkle," Vivienne suggests, as she kneels, water coming up to her shoulders. "They'd protect your horns, too. Silver or gold, both would look good."

"What about dawnstone?"

"More pretty, less practical; a little brittle."

"I'd look so good," the Bull coos, and walks under the waterfall, turns his face up against the rush of water, let's it fill his ears for a moment.

Later, once the've washed, they sit on the warm rocks at the bank together, drying in the sun. Dorian's moustache has gone all fluffy, and he's trying to tame it without breaking their reverie by going to dig through his pack. Vivienne brings heat into her hands to help dry out Cadash's hair before loosely braiding it back up - he recognises the way she moves her hands to draw magical heat into her fingers and palms, the same way Dorian does before he uses heat on the Bull's knee or ankle.

He can see the shadows slowly moving, and they'll lose the sunlight over the little spot of river soon, forcing them back to the fight. He leans back on his arms, and finds Dorian there. Dorian presses his warm back along the Bull's, tipping his head back against his shoulder, and lets out a contended sigh.

[my fic on ao3] [my fic on tumblr] [bluesky] [prompt me]

for @thedasweekend

[the-bear-and-his-sunbird]

hello!! from the drunken confession prompts: "You're all I ever wanted. I'm sorry I can't say it sober." with emmrook?

Thank you so much for the prompt for @thedasweekendand thank you for the patience while I wrote it!

Pairing: Emmrook (Emmrich x Rook / Emmrich x Siobhan Ingellvar)

Words: 2,102

Warnings/tags: drinking/being drunk, fluff, slight angst but not really

Swirling his glass in his hands, Emmrich falls into despair.

As a professor and a researcher, that had not been born into any kind of fortune, it is especially important to have the right words at hand; to know whether he needs them to be soothing, enticing or evoking any other kind of feeling.

Words are magic, words are power, words control entire fates, yet words fail him around Rook.

Siobhan Ingellvar.

The name feels like a prayer on his lips, when he murmurs it into the silence of his empty bed, alone in the dark, the only time he truly dares to say it out loud. In those nights, he speaks of longing, he spills desires into the fabrics of his pillows, the one he feels almost escaping into the world when she is around but always pushes back into, only letting them out when nothing but his lovesick heart is there to accompany him.

But he wishes it to be her who hears it. She should hear it. She can never hear it. Emmrich keeps the hold on his tongue and for the first time in years, falls silent. For a considerate amount of time know, he is feeling like a yearning schoolboy, when she steals the eloquence from his lips and dances away, spinning yet another story with his heart.

Tonight this aching heart screams more than ever.

As some of them have left the dining hall to retire to their own chambers, others have stayed. Davrin, Lucanis, Neve and Rook -Her name is Siobhan, say it his mind screams- and himself have chosen to remain for a gregarious evening. Emmrich had thought about leaving after Bellara had bid them goodnight but after hearing Rook voice as she and the others made their way to the sitting area, he had acted on an impulse and sat himself next to them. Words fell easily out of his mouth – none that truly matter anyway- and the others listened attentively and laughed when appropriate, as they took their cards.

Now they are on their third round of wicked grace, Emmrich is failing. The logic of the game is understandable, but the deceit fails him, as the others rook their cards. As a result he looses over and over, drinking more and more. One time he sees Rook having to take a swig and as her sweet mouth sours into a thin line in disappointment, he offers to drink it for her.

A few moments ago he wondered why he keeps sitting with them, as they laugh and joke and win but then he sees Rook smile at him at his offer and suddenly he is ready for five more dreadful rounds just to bask in that sight.

Neve deals the fourth round of cards and Emmrich sighs, his mind swimming with liquor and longing. Out of nowhere a warm hand appears on his shoulder, throwing him a lifeboat in the waves.

“Are you okay, Emmrich?” Rook asks and her voice is so warm and comforting, he wants to kiss her until that warmth seeps into him. Something in him urges him,screams at him, to confess and have her know his feelings but he swallows it down.

“Yes,” he hears himself say, his voice sounding far away and proper, although the edges begin to slur already. He refills his glass and smiles at her worried eyes. “I am in good spirits.”

Neve gives a throaty laugh and both Emmrich and Rook look at her. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Are you ready for another round?”

He nods and takes his cards, while Rook hands falls away but his shoulder feels as if it left a burn.

After the fourth round ends, his mind starts wandering. He is not drowning anymore but gently floating among the waves, his eyes focusing on Siobhan, who jokes and shuffles cards, while her voice is a symphony to his ears. Whenever their eyes meet, his heart begins to race and he glances away, before surely as ever, returning to her once again. As his eyes drink her in, he notices that there is a ink stain on her hand, having extended onto the seam on her arm and Emmrich furrows his brow. She never allows her clothes to stain.

Without thinking he reaches out, grabbing the fabric and knocks a drink over. Staring at his wretched hand

“Oh,” he hears Davrin say and faintly sees him standing up “He’s really drunk.”

“One is always the first,” Lucanis murmurs behind him and offers Neve a towel for a stain that appeared on her leg.

When did this happen?

“I’ll bring him to bed.” Rook says, lifting his arm around her shoulders and suddenly the Room moves as he is hoisted up with surprising strength. He means to protest, he is not a child and certainly not that drunk, but then he feels her hand on his hip, her strong, nimble fingers curling around him, and snaps his mouth shut. Something in him feels wretched to enjoy this so much.

Unceremoniously they stumble out of the dining hall, while he leans heavy on her frame. She is tall, but not as tall as him and if he would dare to he could rest his mouth against her temple and breath his desires through her skull into her brain.

He hears himself talking, about fabrics and ways to clean it properly and thinks about how he could fix this for her, as her smell fills his nose.

Spicy and floral and warm. He wants to come undone in it but he merely waxes about a good cleaner in Nevarra and how he could introduce her, maybe we could go tomorrow? For a moment he revels in the idea. Would they steal away together? Would the fabric cleaner think they are a couple? Would Siobhan deny it or just give one of her world ending smiles? Why is it that his heart yearns for her to say she loves him at a mundane spot in Nevarra just so he could dare to steal the confession from her lips with a kiss and breathe his into her mouth in return?

The door to his room snaps him out of the thought.

“Ah-” he says, disappointment flooding him. “We have arrived.”

There is a tug and the door opens. In a blink there are inside his room and he hears Manfred hissing something.

“Can you get us a bucket and maybe some water?” he hears Siobhan say and then another hiss as Manfred disappears.

“Where is your bedroom?” Siobhan asks and when he points to the place where his hidden bedroom is, she drags him there.

“We really shouldn't” he slurs and is unsure what he means himself.

“We should.” Her voice leaves no room for discussion. “Open it please.”

So he does. Once inside she lets out a stunned woah and he smiles brightly at her. The room is more modest than he could afford but similar to his one at home. He aches at the word. Home. If only he could show her, would she be as amazed as now?

She ignores the books and the various artifacts, leads him away from the fireplace, over the woven rug and onto his soft bed. There he topples him over and he loses balance, falling onto his bed.

Siobhan stands before him, painted in warm ember colors by the firelight, making her freckles come alive.

You’re beautiful, he thinks and she giggles.

“Well you too, man that drank so much he forgot to be shy.” There is amusement in her voice, but no malice. No. She is never malicious.

Then she bows down and starts touching his boots. With a motion that is less elegant than he would have liked, he props himself up on his elbows. “What-”

“Shhh…” she says soothingly. “It’s only the boots and the vest, so you can sleep. Nothing more.”

He stares at her, his mind awfully blank at the way that she unclasps hooks and unties laces with ease. When his shoes are gone, she changes her position and kneels between his spread legs, fingers flying to open his button. When he stills her hands, she looks up at him again.

“What,” he whispers, “are you doing, Siobhan?”

Her eyes flutter shut at her name and a sigh curls from her mouth. “Say that again,” she begs and he does.

“Siobhan. Beautiful, most unknowingly cruel Siobhan, in what spell have you captured me?”

Instead of answering, she takes his face in her hands and says, “Why do you never say this sober?”

“Because I am a fool,” he whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You are all I ever wanted and I cannot speak those words sober, because I am terrified.”

She stills, questioning eyes and brushing thumbs and then she half sighs, half laughs as she says: “I would like to kiss you now, but you are drunk. So you must wait until tomorrow.”

Emmrich feels like being lit on fire. “Kiss me now,” he pleads, the ache in his heart throbbing with a feverish haze. Siobhan lifts herself up and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. The following whisper on his skin feels like a soothing balm. “Tomorrow, I will kiss your lips and whatever else you desire. Tonight, you sleep, beloved.”

It is a heavy word but tonight it feels like it makes him float. A boyish, drunken grin pools around his lips and he complies with her, just so tomorrow comes faster.

When his vest and boots are gone, he himself removes his cummerbund and folds it as even as he is able to manage, before letting him being guided underneath his soft covers. Siobhan tugs him in, pressing the fabric close around him and he lets his eyes slip close.

The worlds is spinning and Emmrich groans.

When he feels her knuckles brush his face, he leans into the touch, trying and succeeding to find steadiness in her.

There is another question that is edging around his consciousness, one that is so bold and earnest that its tearing down the already porous, crumbling wall. Opening his eyes, he fears that his heart will break if she leaves him now, with only ghosts of memories and his own yearning to keep him company.

“Will you stay? Please?” It sounds more like a whimper and he winces.

There is no silence, no hesitation, only simplicity in her honesty.

“Yes,” she says, pawns off her shoes and crawls over him to sit next to him. She puts a pillow on her lap and pats it and Emmrich crawls onto it, resting his head. Siobhans hands tangle in his hair, caressing his skin with tender care. “Would you like a story?”

For some reason, she always knows what he needs, no matter how buried his desires are and he finds himself agreeing. It has been a long time since he allowed himself to feel small again.

“Do you know the story of the cicada that wanted to go to a masquerade?”

“No. What is is about?” he murmurs, trying to imagine it against the waves in his head.

“Well… It began once upon a time but not so very long ago…” she begins and soon is weaving a story around him, cradling him in soothing warmth. Despite the turning of the room and the nausea building in his stomach, he feels himself relax. When Manfred arrives with water and a bucket – “Where were you so long, little one?”- he barely registers Siobhan slipping some down his throat before he is allowed to rest again.

Hands brush over his cheek and he cracks his eye open again, looking up to see her looming over him. She smiles and continues.

Emmrich can see the story now, a cicada hopping and dressing up, running away with a mask made out of a peacocks feathers to a most lavish ball and while she describes it to him most vividly, he wonders about the fabric again. Why was there ink on her sleeve?

“And then the cricket said-”

“What happened to your sleeve?”

She huffs. “That is not what the cricket said, Emmrich.”

“What did it say?”

“You should sleep.”

“What did the cricket say about the ink?”

“She wrote you a love letter. And if you sleep now, she is going to give it to you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. He nods and lets himself sink deeper into the approaching waves of sleep.

He could not wait for tomorrow and all of its pleasures to arrive.

[tinybatjoly]

Joly! Anguish! A line from Richard Siken's Snow and Dirty Rain: and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it’s getting cold.

@thedasweekend

Pairing: Miraen x Felassan CWs: Angst, dead Felassan WC: 790 When the one you love has died, memories and dreams are not enough, and memories and dreams are all you have.

He comes to them in dreams.

Only in dreams, now.

Warm fingers, breath light with citrus. 

The hairs at the back of their neck stirred, the press of lips just beneath their ear. 

Agony and bliss, blended. Inextricable. 

They are tangled in their sheets, a warm, quiet room where the whispers do not reach them. His hand over their chest and his heartbeat at their spine.

They are seated before a great aquarium, his fingers gentle as he unwinds their hair, stress and worry falling to the floor with their shed. 

They recline on a coarsely woven blanket, and he rolls to prop himself over them, and he is here and he is present, violet eyes brighter than the stars that crown him. 

“You’re blocking my view,” they complain, pressing their fingers to the tree that marks his cheeks. Pushing without pressure, because they will die if they lose sight of him now. 

“I am the view,” he laughs. 

They are alone in a field of ashes, and the scent of citrus is lost beneath the burning. 

They can stand amid the ruin, or they can walk. The flames sputter, weak enough to navigate. 

They walk.

Blackened trunks rise around them. Every step stirs clouds amid the destruction. 

“Are you a forest?” he asks, from somewhere far away. An old debate. What becomes of a forest when the fire has died is kinder than what will become of them. 

“Where are you?” They need his answer, and he cannot give one that satisfies.  

Their steps turn, speeding. Urgency that drives them without direction. Need and want and regret and anger. 

Fingers lace their wrist, threading the spaces between the bangles they had claimed, and he spins them into a dance. 

“You are always running, little star,” he chides. “How am I to catch you?”

Citrus on his breath. His hand is warm where he spreads his palm across the small of their back. 

When he spins them, the ashes scatter. Dust glitters, the scorched trees dissolving into the swirling void of space. They dance in steps half a beat broken, the nebula around them correcting what time has taken. 

“I am caught,” they confess. 

“I am gone,” he reminds them. 

“Not here,” they say. “Never here.” 

He smiles, softer than sunlight and far more wanted. 

“I need to tell you something,” they confess. 

“It's too late,” he tells them. 

“It can't be too late,” they argue with a ghost, with time, with loss. “Let me tell you now.”

“I'm not here, estar'lath.”

“Yes, you are.”

He smiles, and the violet in his eyes is bright. Agony and bliss, when he touches their cheek. They can feel the warmth of his fingers, the way he traces their skin. It doesn't matter that he sees their scars. It never should have mattered. 

“You should have told me sooner,” he murmurs.

“Would it have changed anything?” A desperate question, and an unfair one. They need to be angry, and he is dead and they are not. 

He doesn't answer. 

“Would it have saved you?” They press their question into his mouth, layering their lips and chasing his taste. 

Citrus, laced with ashes. 

“We will never know,” his kiss is chaste, closed lips to the open wound of their wanting, their wishing, their hopelessness. “But you should have told me sooner.” 

“Let me say it now,” they plead. 

“You have to wake up,” he says, and there is a canyon between them. They stand amid blackened trunks, and he stands in a starlit field, and even in dreams they know they cannot cross the chasm. 

“Please,” they beg.

“There is work to do.” They can see the sad turn to his smile even from this distance. “The work comes first. Maybe after. Maybe then it will be time.” 

“There is always work to do,” they spit. “I don't care anymore.”

“Yes, you do. Wake up, little star. You cannot change the choices you made. You cannot change the choices other people make.”

Another old debate. Their heart slams into their ribs, railing and rejecting the truth of it even as defeat drags its beat into their stomach. 

“Don't ask me to go,” they say. 

“I'm not here,” he says. “Wake up, little star. Go do the work. You always choose the work.”

The dream dissolves around them, and the bed they awaken to is too empty to be warm. 

They deserve the chill, they think, pushing themself from the mattress, gooseflesh rising on their skin as the air hits places sheets had shielded. 

And even dead, even in dreams, even as a ghost, Felassan is always right.

They drag themself from the dream as though peeling free of cobwebs. 

There is work to do.

[broodwoof]

Hi!!! Happy Thedas Weekend!!! (also thank you for organising all this !!) I hadn't really thought about Calpernia/Solas before, but you have me SO intrigued so for those two, can I suggest "what would you have done differently?"

you're so sweet, thank you 🥰🥰🥰 and you gave me a chance to write about one of my favorite niche ships >:3

ended up unexpectedly writing a calpernia-as-rook piece that got entirely away from me 😂 written for @thedasweekend !

available on ao3 -> Wishful Thought, Risen Up

ship: solas/calpernia, pre-relationship rating: t words: 4,703 veilguard spoilers

"Solas." Her voice cut through the myriad small sounds of this prison, a clarity in it that seemed to part the fog.

In a single moment, he thought he understood it all. Why Corypheus chose her. Why she led the Venatori. Why she managed these things. How she managed these things.

Corypheus had used her, of course. And the Venatori were a blunt instrument, violence practically for its own sake, gaining only a little depth under her command. But he knew—all too well—the need for such blunt instrumentation in the pursuit of changing one's world. He admired her command, her determination, and her perception, even if he could not admire the particulars of her choices.

Well. No more than he could admire the particulars of his own. Nonetheless, he thought he understood.

There was a power in her. She was slight, for a human, with a delicacy to her carriage that made her look far more fragile than she was. But he knew—from ample, bitter experience—just how capable she was. As a mage. A fighter. A hunter. A tactician.

He respected her.

But he could not allow that to sway him.

"Calpernia." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he wondered at it. Was she offended by his return of the familiar form of greeting? Suspicious? Analyzing?

Tired?

Many questions, and so few answers. But at least these were new questions, something different from the monotony of his agony. He had done well in designing this prison. Too well. The irony that he suffered his own design was not lost on him, no more than the irony of how constantly he suffered his own designs was lost on him.

"Or do you prefer 'Rook,' now?"

"I prefer answers, Dread Wolf."

"As do we all." She blinked. Surprised by his candor, perhaps?

Or it was just a blink. If he let himself, he could find patterns in the rush of wind, in the sighs of strangers, in the movement of clouds. He tried to not let himself, but it was harder here, now, with so little to occupy his thoughts aside from misery. Still, better to remain focused: a deep analysis of this conversation would follow, and he needed to pay attention to what was before he determined what it meant.

"Here I thought Wisdom had all answers." His lips curled at the obvious contempt in her voice, but he resisted the petty urge to bare his teeth. He would not be transformed into the beast he had so often been called.

"You've much to learn about wisdom," he said after a moment, "and about me."

"Why?"

He tilted his head, surprised by the question. She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. She was tense, guarding, shoulders raised. He had the brief thought, absurd under these circumstances, that she would be sore later.

"Wisdom is worth learning. Worth committing to learning, for it never ends. As for me? I should think that obvious."

"There's Pride."

He grinned, sharp and bright. And if he bared his teeth now, well, so be it.

"Quite so." His smile faded, searching her eyes across the divide. "I do not offer my history. I do not offer my thoughts. I do not offer my feelings. None, save those few that may be of benefit. Now, surely you have questions for someone who knows your enemies, who spent millennia with them?"

"I do have one question." He inclined his head slightly, an encouragement. "Why?"

He laughed, and that seemed to surprise her more than anything else had, but how could he not? "Oh, is that all?" Humor remained thread through his voice, lilting across the divide between them. "Which why, Rook? There are many."

"All of it." She spread her arms, encompassing the prison, but he knew she did not mean this cage. "All of it, Dread Wolf. Why?"

"Surely you have been informed," he pointed out, her scoff derisive, sharp. He should be frustrated by it, but instead he found himself oddly pleased. There was something appealing about her sharp edges.

"I would have it from your mouth."

"Simply, it was necessary." She stared at him, clearly waiting for more, but he only met her eyes. Eventually they narrowed. A tension built between them, a thrumming force, exacerbated by the Fade itself. Emotion was powerful here; his own were as leashed as they could be, under the circumstances, but she did not keep hers similarly in check. And she was a mage. The Fade was trying to form around her, tendrils of power invigorated by her intensity. A warning was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back.

And why he held the warning in reserve? Why he did not give voice to caution? It was too plain a reason. Pedestrian. But powerful nevertheless, immensely tempting. It was a distraction. If he was particularly lucky, an opportunity. But he did not suspect anything would come from it, save perhaps a brief antidote to his boredom. Strange, to be bored here. A theater of misery, of despair, and certainly it did elicit such despair often enough. But it gave so little to consider. Reaction, emotion, but no thought. No consideration. No questions.

Calpernia, by contrast, gave rise to countless questions. Her very presence was a puzzle, her entire being a remedy to what ailed him. Even after she left, her presence—however brief—would sustain him. He knew as much from experience. He would ease the ache of boredom (of solitude, of loneliness) with the memory of her existence.

He studied her, analyzed her frustration, and awaited her behavior. He knew he could outlast her. There was no contest; he had existed among immortals. He still measured time differently. To wait years was inconsequential, impatience spanning decades.

Well. Whenever possible, at least. All this? The Evanuris, their cage, his ritual? He had not been able to wait so long. And the rush showed, for despite all his best efforts, all study honed and concentrating on a single moment… he had failed.

He was here.

And he had only one chance.

And she was staring at him.

"You are incredibly frustrating."

His answering grin was sharp, her sigh a stark punctuation.

"You are not the first to say as much," he admitted readily, and her little huff was—

Charming?

That was unfortunate.

He set the thought aside, but he felt it still. It was as a bruise, something with a deep, warm ache that part of him yearned to press his fingers against, to awaken the pain of it in full. But as a bruise, it was easily ignored if one could simply refrain from stimulating it.

Difficult to achieve, given its origin was currently meeting his eyes, but he could—and should, and must—fix his attention upon the moment itself.

He did wonder what answer she sought, though. She was not so foolish as to believe he would tell all simply because she asked. Given her history, he would not put it past her to be doing exactly as he was, trying to trigger reaction to analyze it. But he suspected there was more to it.

"Do you still seek your Tevinter reborn?"

The silence hung heavy between them.

"Do you still seek your world reborn?"

His smile was wan but true. "I desire as much," he answered, if the deflection could be so called. She scoffed, catching the way he didn't answer, as he all but knew she would. Still, it was satisfying.

"Well, I desire information that will help. And it seems you have none."

"On the contrary," he objected idly, something in him delighting at her obvious exasperation. He could not tell it from a fond pleasure or a cruel one, but it did not particularly matter. "Shall I solve it for you, Rook?" He had to fight back a grin as the air seemed to shudder around her, idly wondering if the group she was gathering realized quite how much she struggled with her feelings. It was a surprising trait for a mage.

"Must you toy with me? Is it not enough that I am forced to clean up your mess, I must also amuse you in the doing?" His grin fell away, an avoidance of baring his teeth. She was infuriating.

"My mess? As I recall, Rook, you were the one who brought a statue down on a delicate spell. It is surprising to find a mage so careless." Her eyes flashed with a fury he shared, a sharp burst amidst the thick, soft flow of the Fade.

"To stop you destroying the world!"

"That you might destroy it yourself?"

"I will have my home preserved! Restored!"

"Ah, yes," he threw his arms open extravagantly, "let's fix Tevinter! Surely a magical iron fist is better than a religious one!"

"And what would your world be, Dread Wolf? The iron fist of a spirit? Of the Evanuris? Or perhaps you'd seek a different title. God, perhaps?"

He scoffed, crossing his arms before him. It took a moment to realize he was repeating her stance.

He kept his arms crossed.

"I am no god," he spat, "and you are no saint. You, who commanded the Venatori. You, with the blood they've spilt upon your hands. You, who would see half the world in ashes that your Tevinter may rise."

"You speak from experience, Wolf." It was not a question, and he narrowed his eyes. Her own anger was even more evident, radiating off her in waves, the very fabric of the Fade crackling in proximity to her emotion. "Or did you believe your death toll would have been bloodless? If furious spirits, twisted and enraged, transformed into demons… if they ripped people apart, then it was an accident, is that it?"

"I was—" he cut himself off, the fight going out of him all at once. Suddenly, it all seemed terribly absurd. He wanted to laugh. "There is more blood on my hands than you will ever know," he said at last, watching the anger drain from her just as abruptly. Something in his voice, or perhaps his face, it tore the fight from her. "But, Rook. Calpernia. If you are not wary, there will be more blood on your hands than you can tolerate." He smiled, and felt its grimness himself. "After all, I speak from experience."

She stared at him. Then she drew a hand across her face, and it seemed to him as though she was indicating a veil, a mask. She did not touch her face, did not rub at her eyes, as he had seen others do. As this flesh had prompted him to do to himself. Instead it seemed a gesture, a deliberate restoration of some control.

"I did not come here to fight," she said at length, her hand dropped away, whatever meaning behind it remaining a mystery. "I did not come here at all. You trouble my dreams, Wolf. You make them nightmares, complete with dire warnings. Is your wisdom so callous, that I must debase myself to deserve it? Does the Dread Wolf speak only in riddles, a child's cruel cleverness, preening yourself upon your liar's tongue, never lying?" Her gaze seemed to pin him down. No, it seemed to open him up, and he found that he would have preferred the former. Somehow, she rendered him vulnerable, bare.

"There is no grand mystery," he told her bluntly, when he felt he had found his voice once more. "You face terrible foes. My fault, yours, ours… it changes nothing. I am imprisoned, and you are free. You have the dagger. You have the route. If you do not destroy them, they will destroy you." She did not move, did not respond. He swallowed. "You have found those who would support you. They will be necessary. There is little I can say that will truly prepare you. You might lose some of those who follow you: you know this. You might be killed, yourself: you know this, too. You might succeed, or you might fail. I know your foes better than you do, but I have not known them for centuries, I do not know what they have become in their imprisonment. I can not tell you the breadth of their power, I cannot reveal to you the specifics of their aims, only my interpretations. But you hold me in such doubt, such contempt, that to share my suspicions may cause you to reject them as possibilities outright. I would not soothe my ego by awakening yours. You will have from me what you can ask for, but it is not to toy with you."

"You think," she said coldly, "that my contempt for you is greater than my desire to win? That I would ignore information that might aid me just to spite you?"

"I think," he countered, working to keep his voice even, "that it is a very—forgive me—a very human characteristic."

"Ah." Her voice dripped with palpable deirision. "As opposed to elves? Or is this human as opposed to spirit?"

He threw his arms open once more, frustrated: "both. Either." He sighed, arms dropping to hang limp at his sides. "Or have you never encountered someone unwilling to hear the truth because you are the one speaking it? Have you never been rebuffed by those who reject any lesson they do not come to independently?" That seemed to give her pause, her gaze darting away.

"That, I will concede." Her voice was remarkably soft. He blinked, feeling unbalanced… for it was as though he now saw her in an entirely different light. Had her sharp edges dropped away, or had his sight slipped beneath them, finding a vulnerable core that ought to have been secret? It felt like a violation to witness this, somehow. But he did not look away, as much for selfish reasons as practical ones, and he watched as she considered. Watched as she nodded, apparently to herself, and lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the rocky ledge across from him. "Tell me. I will hear you."

He raised a brow, but did not comment. Instead, after a moment of consideration, he opted to mirror her position. His armor was not terribly conducive to sitting cross-legged, but he did not want to tower over her across the divide as he explained, still not entirely sure it was the right thing to do. "Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain," he began, "are powerful foes, as you are well aware. The Dalish call Elgar'nan the All-Father; in this, they are not wrong, for he was first-born." He shrugged. "So to speak. He was the first to create a body for himself from lyrium. It was…" he hesitated, trying to find a way to describe it accurately, "a tremendous accomplishment. Nothing like it had ever been attempted. Nothing like it had ever been conceptualized."

"You almost sound like you admire him," she pointed out dryly, the comment surprising him. But then he smiled.

"I do not, but I did at the time. I admired such ingenuity." After all, how could he not? "And we did not yet understand the terrible price."

"But surely you knew he made his body from lyrium?"

"From a powerful material found within the earth, yes. But we did not understand what it meant to the Titans, that it connected them."

"Connected?" Her head was tilted, her curiosity evident. His smile was fonder than it ought to be, especially over such a grim topic.

"Yes. The Titans… well," he demurred, "I will not pretend to fully understand them. Lyrium is perceived as their blood: while not a false view, it is a limited one." He held his left arm out, displaying the length of it, as he traced a path from his wrist to his shoulder with his free hand. "In these bodies, blood flows. It functions. As it did within the Titans. But," here he tapped his arm before settling his hands in his lap, lightly clasped, "the role our blood performs is all internal. Yet, many lyrium veins are outside of the Titans. Why do you think that is?"

For a moment, he thought she would press him for the answer. She looked as though she would, impatience tightening her features. But then she seemed to reconsider, her gaze settling in the space between them, although he thought she saw nothing of the Fade now. He noticed then that she worried at her lower lip as she thought, wisely—for once—averting his eyes and his mind from the observation.

"I might assume," her voice came as a surprise, although it should not have; that it did was indicative of how quickly and deeply he had fallen into the trance of his own thoughts, and he resolved then to insist upon an awareness of the moment, "that it has spread beyond them as the result of violence. As though it was spilt and hardened, stone and soil growing up around it until it was buried, becoming a natural part of the earth." He nodded, pleased by her considered response, although perhaps moreso by her willingness. But her gaze hardened, shaking him from this simple pleasure.

"Well reasoned, but not quite. This state is natural. They spread, growing far past the fixed confines of their individual bodies." He looked at her, had been looking at her, watching her face for reaction. As such, he could clearly witness the moment that she understood, but this time restrained himself from showing his satisfaction.

"Then, the lyrium was a part of them, but outside of them… and you spoke of a connection." He nodded, and this time she seemed too engrossed in the considerations to be annoyed by it. "They use it to communicate? Or," she continued before he could say anything, "likely not to communicate as we know it. As we are."

"Quite so."

She seemed to have entirely forgotten—or set aside—her frustration with his praise or acknowledgement. Without it, the atmosphere between them softened somewhat, from a sharp tension to the gentle crush of a page that had been worried overlong.

"Then, to sense, perhaps? Well," here she seemed to gather herself, pulling her wandering mind back to the present, "whatever the… mechanic employed, the result is the same. When you—when the Evanuris—" he did not think her specification was meant to soften his role in it, "took the lyrium, it is possible you stole communication, or part of it, rather than form itself."

"And?" He prompted, wanting to pull her past that particular conclusion. It unduly gentled what they had done, as if their crime was lessened that they did not cut into flesh, rather committing a crime far more abstract.

"And…" she hesitated, and he did not know her enough to parse uncertainty from care. "The lyrium that was taken, it was not cut out of beings. It was of them, but not in a way that you recognized." She searched his face, and apparently found her confirmation within it, for she nodded slightly. "You admired him when you thought he did something admirable with a… a component, I suppose. A mineral."

"Yes."

"When did you learn it was something much more?"

"I should have realized upon his emergence, as they earth seemed to shudder with what he did, but it was not the first time I had seen such shaking. But upon Mythal's emergence and the repetition I was convinced it was something dangerous, and I hesitated to take a form of my own. When I did, the shaking came again, but this time I felt it."

"You don't mean the trembling," she pointed out, and he could feel how tight his smile was.

"No. I felt that, too, of course, but what I felt was… them. I did not know them, but I felt them. It was…" there was a growing frustration in him as he struggled to explain. "Have you ever been preoccupied, but suddenly drawn to the present because you feel watched? It was akin to that. I felt a stirring as of a slow waking, a discordant pressure that I struggled to witness, disoriented as I was."

"You stole their voice," she said, and the simplicity of the statement was devastating in its accuracy. "You stole their voice, and you wore it as flesh."

"Yes." He could say no more. He could barely say that.

For a time, there was a silence between them. But even around the old despair this conversation had awoken, a sediment that her careful steps into his world stirred, he recognized the comfort of this silence. Not that it was a comfortable silence, but there was a comfort within it. It was the absence of isolation, he knew. Could not fail to know.

Here, in this bitter prison he had built, he was never alone. Never alone. Haunted by memory made manifest, haunted by his ghosts except that they could touch him, could stare at him, plead with choked voices he'd thought forgotten. Wished forgotten. Mourned that they were forgotten… mourned, now, that they were remembered, pulled whole out of some deep pit within him and strung up like a macabre play of every single thing he had ever done wrong. But none of the specters were a true presence, and even with all the weight strung between himself and Calpernia, even with her caution and her contempt and her frustrated anger, she was real. She was a pulse in this pulseless place.

As absurd as it was, he did try to not think about it. To not think about how she—and she alone—alleviated his isolation. How eager he was for these times, and how much deeper his loneliness felt after she left, the Fade echoing with her presence. Like a scent, suspended in the air and stirring deep memory, a nostalgic despair for something only moments past.

In the lingering silence, he found he could think of nothing else.

He knew better. He did. It was more than foolish, it was the height of folly. As if he had made some sick game out of always finding the worst path forward. But knowledge and emotion, they were separate forces. They wove together, of course, waxed and waned together, breathed and bled together, but they were separate. And logic could not bury emotion, try as it may.

He knew her face. He knew her eyes. He knew the way she held herself, the way she carried herself, the gap in her smile that filled him with such raw tenderness…

The height of folly, indeed.

Within him, sour in his throat, were bubbling cruelties. Ways he could wound her, could drive her away, could make her leave. She would return, of course, but he could make those experiences brief. Ever the bare minimum.

As his mouth opened, cruelty and kindness warred, and out slipped—

A hum. A single, soft, thoughtful noise, the kind of considering sound he had made often in his life. Was it habit, then, that gentled his response? Was it uncertainty? Or was it simply that he…

That he wished to continue?

She was focused on him, drawn to him… No, he chided himself. No, not that. What else would she be drawn to, in this place? Her focus was practical, and he must be practical in turn. She had come to him, not for the pleasure of his company, but for information. Such information as she would need to do what must be done. And it was a bitter thing, that; each aid provided would push her towards the great cruelty he would have to enact. It soured his mood, soured even the familiar desire to share, but he had done grim tasks many times before. This would be no different.

"The Evanuris," he continued, as if there had been no pause, no disruption, no cloying doubt, "are skilled, powerful, and they have been Blighted. The Blight they wield is an ancient thing, perhaps…" he paused, considering. "Perhaps primordial, in its way. The Blight that these lands have faced is something changed by time and in many ways dulled, but what Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain bring is strong and violent. It has an innate power, a consumptive hunger, even greater than the Blights you know. You have seen the effects of it already, but there will be more ahead."

"I know," she said, and he had to resist smirking. She did not know, could not know, not truly. But he was aware that wasn't what she meant, just an acknowledgement that she would face the Blight again. "It is why we approached the Wardens."

We. That was interesting, although after a moment, he decided it was not surprising.

"You were wise to do so," he agreed, allowing her to interpret the 'you' as she would; herself, or the group she had gathered around her. "But you will need more than the Wardens and their knowledge." He thought of Scout Harding. Thought of the pulse he had felt richochet throughout the Fade, something he at first found unfamiliar, before realizing it was such an ancient familiarity that he had all but forgotten. He did not know that it was her, but it stood to reason. He said none of this, only hoping that Calpernia would understand that this connection to ancient dwarven magic may be what turns the tide. The Evanuris were familiar with it, of course, but they would not have planned for it, would not have expected it.

And yet, that may be the lesser benefit.

The Blight was born of the Titans themselves. Sundered from themselves, enraged and wounded, a twisted connection had been formed. One unexpected consequence of many. He could not say what Harding's awakening may do to the Blight, or to the Titans themselves, or even if it would have any impact at all. He did not know. But it seemed unlikely that nothing would come of it, whether risk or boon. He wanted—no, he needed—Calpernia to be prepared.

"What more?"

"Anything," he answered in the same open-ended manner she had asked. "Everything. Whatever knowledge you can find, from whatever source. Although…" he smirked, and she glared, "I need not tell you to be cautious. Hear what it said, know it, but do not trust it."

"You're right," she said icily, "you do not need to tell me that, Fen'Harel."

There was a small surge in him. He thought it anger, for a moment, but… no, not anger, but something that was kin to it. When he realized, it did not come as a surprise, although a part of him wished it had.

He was not angry: he was eager, engaged, wanting to dig in, to argue with her more. He was enjoying it. Enjoying the sharp, biting back-and-forth, enjoying the hard edges of her frustration, enjoying the way it sparked in her eyes. She was a bright flame here, a stark contrast to his low burn, and he wanted to bask in that warmth.

Selfish. Irresponsible. Foolish. Foolish above all. Wisdom, the eternal fool. None of that came as a surprise, either.

He felt the tug as she began to ease towards consciousness, something growing painfully tight in his stomach, mourning the loss of it. Of this. But he could not let his anticipatory grief be known. "Eyes open, Calpernia," he said simply, smiling at her.

She gave him a strange look. A searching one, although that was not the strange aspect. No, it was that it seemed… almost wistful. Before he could crush the thought, it rose in him, a treacherous rush of hope: she wanted to stay as he wanted her to stay.

Wisdom, the eternal fool, indeed.

He blinked, and just like that, she was gone. Just like that, he was alone.

He ignored the press of ghosts, their thin, fractured voices an attempted denial.

Yet he was alone. He knew it for the truth it was. And whatever this was within him, whatever delicate spark may catch, he had to crush it now. It could not be allowed to weaken him when the time came.

[elfyroot]

Happy Thedas Weekend! You up for some Rhela/Gelduran cowboy AU goodness? Perhaps the prompt, "I don't think your intentions are honourable."

I am always happy to provide some Rhéla and Geldauran nonsense. :)

@thedasweekend Ostagar Man @ AO3

It was a very rare day in Ostagar: the sun way out but not scorching, the breeze from the plains kept the air temperate, and both Rhéla and Geldauran had the day off.

Another first - Rhéla was driving. His truck, of course.

When they hopped inside, did he have to wait approximately 5 minutes for her to scoot the seat to a spot where her feet could reach the pedals? Absolutely. Did he mind it? Not so much.

Somehow she had managed to look at him both sheepishly and appropriately annoyed as the seat’s motor made that steady brrr while moving forward toward the steering wheel.

And yeah, it was worth every second.

Once those short - and did he mention, very attractive? - legs were able to press down the clutch, they were on their way.

Rhéla’s mood shifted after her annoyance. Geldauran understood her quite well, he liked to think, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed under her t-shirt. A deep breath. With the windows down, the wind kicked up her hair, the soft curls floating around her head as they sped toward the edge of the city.

Geldauran himself had sunk deep into the leather seat. A treat. His hand dangled out the window, hat tilted just enough to keep the sun from blinding him. He did not know their destination, though that wasn’t really the point.

No plan. No work. Just time spent together without the weight of their badges.

A quick glance down between them as he watched her shift gears. His attention drifted slowly to her hand tapping on the steering wheel, in time with whatever low country song that murmured through the radio. A brief thought of how nice something shiny would look on that 4th finger.

Not quite the time to lose himself in those thoughts, he reminded himself. Drumming his fingers where they rested on the open window.

They weren’t too far from the county line as they passed what appeared to be an older patrol car sitting next to a telephone pole. One of those that Hafter had decommissioned over the years - they were built like tanks and had a decent get-up-and-go but became far too expensive to maintain when Orzammar stopped making parts for them.

Geldauran barely gave it a second thought, that is, until the siren wailed behind them.

With a quirked brow, Rhéla met his eyes briefly from behind her glasses. The quiet click of the indicator as she pulled off the road. The trucks wheels kicked up dust as they came to a stop, engine warm and ticking as it settled under the Ostagar sun. The patrol car pulled up close behind them lights flashing but the siren now silent.

Rhéla glanced up in the rear view mirror, “Don’t think that’s one of ours.”

“Why do you say that, Rhey?”

A quiet huff, “Well, pretty sure that ‘Ostagar’ is spelt wrong, for one.” Sure enough, Geldauran dipped his head to look in the side mirror, and in big bold letters was OSTEGAR. When the Deputy stepped out of his car, he adjusted his belt. Male. Human. He wore the out of date beige and brown uniforms that Geldauran had transition the department from last year. They even wore the stupid-looking campaign hat with the tassels.

“And -” she continued, “he’s got the beige and browns we used to wear.” Clearly noticing the same warning signs that Geldauran had. A small tug at the edge of her lips revealed her usual crooked smirk was particularly amusing - or someone was being particularly stupid.

A brief look passed between the Sheriff and Undersheriff with a nod of silent agreement.

“License and registration, ma’am.”

The Deputy stood there with his thumbs in his belt like he watched far too many cop shows in preparation for this role. Rhéla squinted at him through her sunglasses, she could feel Geldauran sink lower into the seat, arms crossed and letting her handle it.

She didn’t recognize the Deputy, and while Hafter County wasn’t exactly small, she had made an effort to at least learn as many names a possible. From the name tag on his shirt, it said ALERION. Unless he married into a clan - unlikely - that was certainly not his name. His badge was missing its badge number to identify himself.

Though, at least Ostagar was spelt correctly this time.

Rhéla’s attention dropped to his belt. Handcuffs in the wrong location, the gun was clearly fake by the bright orange ring poking out from the end of the barrel, and the holster itself was not standard issue. By the Void, was this man even trying?

A sound escaped from the back of her throat - some bizarre mixture of disbelief and utter amusement at how idiotic this man was. With her sweetest voice, she handed him her license and registration. Placing her sunglasses on the top of her head so she could bat those eyes at him.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

Geldauran huffed behind her. She could just about feel the smirk that radiated off the elf. If she weren’t trying to get the fake Deputy to mess up, she might’ve slapped Geldauran’s arm.

“You were speeding a ways back. Mind stepping out of the vehicle?”

Oh, she didn’t like that. A brief glance to Geldauran who merely nodded, she slipped out of the car and heard the faint click of Geldauran’s seatbelt unbuckling. A flash of his phone screen reflecting light as he typed a message.

The Deputy gestured vaguely to the front of the truck. “Place your hands on the hood of the vehicle ma’am.”

Rhéla wasn’t sure if the man was going to try to cop a feel or was just feeling particularly racist. Maybe it was the power trip. Either way, she was not going to play around.

Before he could even put his hands on her, Geldauran appeared, hat tipped back enough for Rhéla to see those green eyes flashing with something it didn’t do often - anger. He grabbed the Deputy by the wrist and spun him, slamming him onto the hood of the car as he pulled out his own cuffs.

“Well, Katie Mae got back to me and seems as though that patrol car our friend’s got? Was stolen from the salvage yard. And I got a feelin’ that this man’s intentions aren’t so honorable. Is that right?” He asked the man as the handcuffs clicked around their wrists.

The Deputy let out a grunt, face pressed against the hood.

Rhéla snorted, “Looks like real bad luck, pulling over the Sheriff on his day off. Was really lookin’ forward to the beach, Geldy.”

Geldauran gave her that stupidly charming smile, the one that made something in her stomach flip just a little and her heart beat faster, “Now, now, sugar. We’ll get to the beach. I always keep my promises.”