#varlen

[jibberjibbsart]

OC art dump! Varlen and Domino have grown so much since my senior film 😌 also don’t mind the outfit in the third pic, Twitter made me do it

[reluctantwrites]

The measure of a man

Thank you for the prompt - some long-overdue Pavellan it is! In which Varlen’s insecurity spikes when he realises there are a lot of differences between his knowledge and Dorian’s... (approx 1500 words) <3

Prompt from THIS LIST.

“Am I not enough for you?”

Dorian started, the words arriving like a slap to the face.  His hands, which were already gripping the edges of the tome he was studying, tensed almost painfully, his knuckles bleeding to white as Varlen’s words – his sudden accusation – sunk in.

“You know, part of me doesn’t even want to dignify that with a response.” Turning, Dorian fixed Varlen with a sharp look. “Varlen. Amatus. If you cannot tell by now how deeply I care for you, then I’m not sure there is anything I can say to convince you otherwise.” He sighed tightly, reaching up to rub his eyes. When was the last time he had slept? “May I ask what in the Maker’s name brought this on?”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?” Varlen was standing at the far side of the room. Their argument, because apparently they were arguing, passed back and forth through the empty air between them. “You spend so much time in here, with your books and your scrolls and your tomes. It feels like it’s all you do now! And I can’t even understand half of them, and then the other half are all to do with magic, which again, I don’t understand. Even when I try, I feel like I’m just in the way or slowing you down, a-and… and at some point…” He broke off, his once-sharp gaze sliding away, the anger melting into something impotent and uncertain. Distressed. “Just… answer the question, Dorian.” He swallowed tightly. “Please.”

For a handful of moments after Varlen’s outburst, all Dorian could do was stare at his amatus, dumbfounded and at a loss for how to reply. “Varlen, the research I am doing here is to aid the Inquisition. To help your sister. It is important.”

“I know.” Varlen’s voice was rough. Hoarse. His gaze remained fixed on the side wall, head turned away. “I know it is. I just…” He pulled in a shaky breath. “How can you stand it? Being with someone like me when you’re so…”

Genuinely not sure where Varlen was going with the thought, Dorian cocked his head. “So…?”

“Smart.”

The way Varlen admitted it… it was almost heartbreaking. No, there was no almost about it. He’d practically spoken the word to the floor, as though just saying it aloud confirmed something he had been trying to ignore; trying to hide.

Oh, that simply would not do.

Dorian closed his book with a soft thud, the pages so stiff they creaked like old wood underfoot. “Varlen…” He rose from his chair, bones protesting, muscles aching as he stood. He ignored it. “Amatus, look at me.”

Even Varlen’s body language, his arms wrapped around himself, screamed uncertainty. Discomfort. Shame. But at Dorian’s instruction, he did as asked, those pale blue eyes rising until they made connection across the empty space. Holding his gaze, Dorian began walking towards him, his approach slow and careful. As he moved, he began to speak, his words forming just as slowly and carefully as his steps.

“You know, I have met a lot of people who call themselves smart. Scholars. Politicians. Intellectuals, if you like. There are many such people, in places like Minrathous, who believe that the measure of a person’s worth lies in the depth of their lexicon. The breadth of their understanding of an absurdly narrow field. Their willingness to…” Dorian ground his teeth for a moment, but pressed on, the distance between himself and Varlen closing. “Their willingness to push the boundaries and discover the unknown at the expense of the moral. At the expense of themselves, and everyone around them.”

Varlen was shaking slightly. Dorian could see it now, as he came within a few feet of the elven man. It was something he should have – would have – noticed before, had his vision not been so closely aligned to the proximity of pages. 

“I don’t understand,” Varlen said softly. Even that small confession seemed to further ingrain his belief that he, for some unfathomable reason, was not enough.

But Maker, that was so far from the truth.

Reaching out, Dorian slid a hand past Varlen’s cheek, barely brushing his skin. His fingers nestled softly in his hair, caressing him, curling gently around the back of his neck as Varlen hung his head, seeming for all the world like a man about to break. And for what?

“Varlen… promise me you will never bow your head because of people like that.”

Confusion seemed to replace shame for a moment, and Varlen stiffened beneath Dorian’s touch. “What?”

“Promise me,” Dorian continued firmly, stepping in until they were so close he could feel the warmth of Varlen’s breath mingling with his. “That you will never think yourself inferior to people just because they know more words, or have read more books, or can recite dead languages to a room full of people just like them in everything save name.” He breathed out, tipping his head forward, gently touching Varlen’s forehead with his own. “I certainly don’t, amatus. Not for a single moment.”

There was something in Dorian’s voice; a plea mixed with a promise of his own. A rawness that might be because he was just too tired to cloak his words in bravado, or simply because he needed Varlen to believe what he said was true. And it was true. Every word of it.

Slowly, Varlen’s hand rose to wrap around Dorian’s arm, tentatively pulling him closer as though afraid the move would be met with rejection. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I know we’re so different. I keep thinking that… that it would be so much better for you, if you had someone who could actually help you.”

“You do help me.”

“How?”

Dorian’s free hand found Varlen’s; threaded their fingers together. “You keep me sane. Keep me grounded. You show me what it means to be open to people. To ideas. To change.” He gave a soft, endlessly fond laugh. “You show me which plants will leave my stomach in knots for days, and which will cure a headache. You show me every single day that there is more to this life than what I can learn on the pages of a book.” He smiled gently. “And might I say, no scholar, politician, or intellectual has ever been able to show me that.”

Varlen snorted, a faint smile curling his lips, a sheepishness to the expression that sent Dorian’s heart to its knees. “Even sleep-deprived and stir-crazy, you somehow manage to be disgustingly charming.” Dorian chuckled at that, and Varlen released a slow breath, some of the tension in his shoulders flooding out with it. “It’s just hard, to feel like you can’t be something. It’s like to be smart, you have to fit certain criteria. You have to be worldly and knowledgeable and wise and you need to have learned from the right books and listened to the right people speak and… a lot of other things I’ve never done.”

Dorian just shook his head, his hand tightening slightly around Varlen’s. “You know, I have it on remarkably good authority that very few smart people fit that criteria either. But that is beside the point.” He leaned back slightly to look Varlen in the eyes. To really look, and see the man who had won his heart with a smile moments after they met, and kept winning it over and over again every day since. He did it with who he was. With what he did, and continues to do. With the way he treats others and the way he faces the world time and time again, no matter what it throws at him. “So, if you want my opinion, no. You’re not smart, Varlen...” Dorian leaned in and kissed him, their lips lingering even as he felt Varlen’s brow crease in brief confusion at the mixed message. “You’re brilliant. Charming. Bright and with endless wit.”

Varlen’s hands shifted to wrap around Dorian, pulling him closer as he let out a  quiet laugh. “Yeah, like you’re one to talk. I think I got a lot of it from you, you know.”

But Dorian just shook his head, caressing Varlen’s face with his hand. “No. You are you, Varlen. And with every dusty tome in this god-awful place as my witness, there is no one else I have ever learned more from.” He smiled, then kissed him again. Varlen made a quiet sound - something like a sigh - his hands loose and relaxed on Dorian’s back as they held each other, awash with the warmth and relief of being in one another’s embrace.

In the end, it didn’t need to be said, but Dorian said it anyway. He said it because it was the truth. He said it because his heart demanded him to.

He said it for all the times in Varlen’s life when he hadn’t heard it.

“Varlen, you will always be enough.”

[jibberjibbsart]

In just an hour, you can watch my animated short film, Blind Date on YouTube!! Please consider giving it a watch 🥰🥰 (it won’t let me post the link :// but it’s called Blind Date- Senior Thesis Animated Short Film)

[jibberjibbsart]

Do you ever just... ship your own OCs?

[jibberjibbsart]

Who’s the main character of your comic??

Tyler is the MAIN main character and there’s about 3 side main characters.

(Varlen is my favorite ❤️ he’s my bug boy)

(I can’t believe I spelt my fav’s name wrong in my doodle :/ )

[reluctantwrites]

@kurosmind and sweet nonny, helping solve my blog’s lack of Pavellan content lol.  Prompt from THIS LIST. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan. Approx 1300 words, most under the cut <3

“I won’t leave you alone.” Varlen’s voice was soft yet insistent, reminiscent of a man ready to stand his ground before harsh reprimand. “Not after that. Creators, Dorian… why didn’t you say something?”

Dorian, whose demand for solitude had clearly fallen on deaf ears, leaned heavily on the windowsill of his quarters, palms pressed to the dusty shelf. “Oh, of course. Was I to just drop it casually into conversation, then? Hello, yes, my name is Dorian Pavus. My own father attempted to ‘cure’ me with a blood magic ritual so I would be willing to continue the family legacy. Pleased to meet you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” There was hesitation in Varlen’s voice. In most situations, Dorian would want nothing more than to alleviate that kind of uncertainty, particularly where Varlen was concerned. But not this time. “I just meant it was important, considering we were going to meet him,” Varlen continued, then shook his head, the guilt he carried unmistakable. “Dorian… I was so insistent. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. A rather funny thing to hear from Varlen, given what he had just done for him. No, the encounter had not gone off without a hitch, but at the same time, it had gone far better than Dorian had anticipated. They had spoken at least, he and his father. Their relationship would never truly heal, and certainly not in the matter of a single conversation. Halward had done far too much damage for anything like that. But to know there was something there. Something other than blind hatred or disdain…

Well, it was something. Dorian was not quite sure exactly what yet.

“Please… say something.” Varlen’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. “I can go. If that’s what you really want.” It seemed the elven man had reconsidered his previous assertion. Perhaps it was Dorian’s silence that had worn him down. Funny, how silence often worked far more effectively than harsh words. Dorian was used to pushing people away; forcing them from his life. But this time...

“No. That’s not what I want, Varlen.” Dorian turned, now, to face the elf hovering by his closed door. “You’re right. Perhaps I should have told you, if only so you knew to expect treachery. For that, I apologise. Truly. I never meant to place you in harm’s way.”

Varlen’s expression immediately shifted from guilty to appalled. “What? Dorian, that’s not what I meant! It wasn’t about me, it was about you.” He stepped forward, closing some of the distance between them, but halted a few feet short. A cautious approach. “I wanted to know in case I pushed you into something you weren’t ready for, and if I did, I'm so sorry. I care about you, Dorian. Please believe that.”

Finally, Dorian glanced up to regard Varlen’s face; to read the sincerity written across it as clearly as his pale vallaslin. “I do.” The words surprised Dorian as much as Varlen, the elf’s brows rising ever so slightly at the confession. Just as the moment threatened to become too sappy, Dorian quickly attempted to recover. “I mean, rather hard to think otherwise, wouldn’t you agree? What with your sneaking about, passing letters like one of the Nightingale’s agents, attempting to restore a wayward son to his lost family. It must have been quite the effort. One you did not have to make.”

To Dorian’s surprise – and dismay – Varlen stiffened at his awkward half-compliment. “I didn’t sneak about. Mother Giselle wanted me to lie to you and trick you into going.” His expression darkened as he spoke the Chantry mother’s name, although the revelation hardly surprised Dorian, given he and Giselle’s strained relationship. “You know what? I told her to go find someone else to manipulate, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her do it to you. So accuse me of plenty of things. Being too stubborn. Being blind. Being stupid. Fine. But I never lied to you and I never will.”

“Varlen.” Dorian reached out quickly, taking Varlen’s hands in his. “That... is not what I meant. I apologise. But let me make one thing perfectly clear as I do: you may be stubborn, but you are neither blind nor stupid. I would never think that of you, and don’t ever think that of yourself. You are better than that.”

Maker’s breath, you are one of the best people I know.

It took Varlen a moment to restore his composure and lift his chin, meeting Dorian’s eye. They searched each other for a moment, as though they could see far more than simple flecks of blue and grey. As though they could read each other’s very thoughts if they only took the time to try. But they couldn’t, of course, and eventually Varlen swallowed and mustered a wan smile. “Thank you. I’ll… keep that in mind. But this is meant to be me comforting you, you know.” Gently, Varlen drew Dorian’s hands closer to his chest, his dark brow knitting in concern. “So… are you alright? And don’t lie to me. I want you to tell me the truth, no matter what.”

Dorian huffed softly, glancing away. “Even if you don’t want to hear it?”

Varlen’s grip tightened as he stepped in closer. Insistent. “Especially if I don’t want to hear it.”

It was strange, how those simple words from Varlen seemed utterly incontestable. In that moment, Dorian was certain that, yes, he could tell Varlen anything. He could tell him anything, and he would listen. Believe. Care. That knowledge alone left Dorian’s throat tight and uncomfortable, so he did the only thing he could think of to keep himself going. Lowering his gaze, Dorian pressed Varlen’s knuckles softly to his lips, then released his hands and turned away.

“Dorian…” There was an unspoken plea in the saying of his name, drifting on something akin to sadness. Failure. But all of it was entirely unnecessary.

“Some wine, I think. If we are to do this.” Rather than flee, Dorian moved towards the cabinet at the back of the room, its glass doors displaying a number of his favourite vintages; bottles he had saved for important occasions. Reaching in to retrieve one of his most prized, Dorian was plagued by not even an inkling of doubt: the conversation about to take place certainly qualified. Glancing over his shoulder as he retrieved a pair of glasses, Dorian caught Varlen’s confused stare and mustered a soft half-smile. “You might want to get comfortable. There is… much to discuss.”

The relief that radiated from Varlen in that moment was almost palpable. The elven man nodded and hurried about, moving a pair of chairs together, so close that their knees would likely touch when they sat. Dorian did not mind in the least. “I do hope you are ready for this,” Dorian continued lightly, his tone an attempt to mask the seriousness of the statement. “I come with a remarkable amount of baggage.”

To his relief, Varlen laughed at that, clearly taking it for a joke. A good sign, perhaps. Or perhaps not, depending on how this conversation went. “I’m ready,” he insisted, favouring Dorian with a warm smile as he accepted a glass of wine. “And there’s no amount of baggage you could come with that could convince me otherwise.”

Dorian arched a brow as he settled into his chair. “Oh? I might surprise you, Varlen.”

A grin, bright and genuine, spread across Varlen’s face. “You always surprise me. But you won’t scare me off, so stop trying.” He raised his glass, gaze softening, losing some of its playfulness, replacing it with encouragement. “So let’s talk.”

Despite how nervous he was, Dorian found himself catching a piece of Varlen’s smile and shining it back at him. “Very well. If you insist.” He reached up and gently tapped his glass against Varlen’s, surprised to find his heart somehow lighter for it. “Now, where to begin…”

[reluctantwrites]

...Is it too late to send a protective prompt? -sneakily slides “Take my hand, I got you.” for Varlen and Riven over toward you-

Never too late for the Thedas Wondertwins! In which Varlen loves to act brave and drag his sister into easily avoidable nonsense for the sake of adventure. Takes place pre-Conclave. 

Riven, of course, belongs to the lovely @chaitea09

“Take my hand, I got you.” Varlen’s back was pressed to the wall of the cliff. Sure, they could take the long way around… but who ever wanted to take the long way anywhere? 

From solid ground, Riven eyed the ledge warily. “This… doesn’t seem like the best idea, ma’lin. It rained last night. The rocks might still be slippery.”

Varlen made a distinctly childish noise; a whine he had perfected in his youth and only ever used when alone with his sister. “Aw, come on. We left the clan to go on an adventure, right?”

“Well, actually—”

—“Adventure, Riv.” Varlen grinned and extended his hand to her again, shuffling a little closer. Loose pebbles shifted beneath his feet, skittering down the face of the cliff. It was impossible to hear the sound of them meeting the water below over the whistling wind. “We won’t fall, promise!”

It was always interesting, watching Riven come to a decision that she knew was not the wisest. Sometimes, Varlen swore he saw his sister race through the five stages of grieving in the span of a few seconds when speaking to him, but when acceptance finally arrived he laughed in delight as she reached out and took his hand. Slowly, carefully, she stepped out onto the ledge beside him. Their scarves fluttered in the wind as they pressed their backs to the cold stone. Taking a moment to breathe, the twins stood there for a few beats, adjusting to the sensation of walking a ledge so narrow it felt almost like floating. 

Eventually, Varlen looked at his sister and grinned giddily. “There, see? Not so bad!”

Riven cast him a swift sidelong glance. “If I don’t look down, perhaps.” Seeming a bit more comfortable now that she had committed to the task, she started slowly letting go of Varlen’s hand.

Intent on proving his point with unnecessary bravado, Varlen took it upon himself to scoff and lean forward slightly, gazing directly down. “Oh c’mon, it’s not that…” 

The cliff yawned before him, slicing a straight path towards the earth as though sheered by a god’s knife during the Creation. At its base, barely shrouded by the spray of salt and mist, water broke on jagged rocks, white peaks clawing their way up the stone, dragging pieces of it from the cliff wall as they crashed back into the sea. 

Varlen’s mouth went dry. Without thinking, he scrabbled slightly along the wall, catching Riven’s hand again before she had a chance to move too far away. At the contact, she gave him a quizzical look.

“Uh… I mean… safety first, right?” A nervous laugh bubbled up from Varlen’s chest, then he cleared his throat and nodded in his best no-nonsense way. Fake it until you make it, Varlen. That’s what… well, someone used to say. Maybe. “Alright. Easy does it, Riv. Nice and slow. No looking down, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“No slipping, either.”

“Naturally.”

“And, um, no letting go. For safety… reasons.”

Even though his attention was now focused solely on their destination at the cliff’s far side, Varlen swore he could hear the shape of a smile on Riven’s lips as she gave his hand a soft, reassuring squeeze.

“Of course, ma’lin. Safety first.”

[reluctantwrites]

One Last Chance

I had some lovely people asking about Athran’s situation and the possibility of Hanin embarking on a rescue mission of his former lover. So, without further ado... here it is (or, at least, the first part of it).

Inquisitor Riven Lavellan and Tahl Hildessen, of course, belong to @chaitea09​ (who I would also like to thank for beta-reading this for me)!

Part 1 - The Letter (AO3 link)

Most mornings for Hanin were spent in a kind of simple routine. First, he woke, stretching out stiff muscles against linen sheets, arching until he felt his spine reach its natural limit. Rising, he would wash his face, a bowl of water ready and awaiting his attention, letting the water run slightly down his neck and chest before wiping it away with a cloth. That done, he would dress simple and clean, his shirt and trousers laid out from the previous night, ready to be slipped into at a moment’s notice. His boots were much the same, unlaced and waiting, the worn leather begging for replacement. Another thing to tend to that day.

But it was Hanin’s hair that always took the most time.

It was the only thing he could not prepare in advance. Before sleeping, he would release it from its braided knot, finding it far simpler to start afresh than attempt to resurrect a night’s worth of wear. That meant in the morning, dressed and awake, he spent at least ten minutes sitting cross-legged on his bed, his hands working away, his eyes attempting to catch his reflection in the glass of the window by his bed. Some days were easier than others. Luckily, even on the days where the sun made seeing himself nearly impossible, muscle-memory served its function.

It was during one such process, just a few moments from finishing, that Hanin received a sharp series of knocks on his door. Surprised at the frantic pace - he was unused to even being disturbed before noon now that Corypheus had been defeated - Hanin stood, fingers still working at his hair. By the time he reached the door and opened it, he had secured it in place with a final twist of his tie.

Before him stood one of Leliana’s scouts. Hanin’s expression immediately shifted into a frown and the man tensed, standing a little straighter, moving into a shaky salute.

“S-Sir Lavellan, uh, sir!”

Creators preserve him.

Hanin sighed out his nose, trying to maintain the peaceful mood of the morning despite the disturbance. “Report.”

The scout swallowed. “The Inquisitor requests to see you, sir! She stated the matter was urgent.”

His frown deepened. He couldn’t even begin to think what the problem might be. “Where?”

“In the War Room.”

“Very well. Tell her I am on my way.”

By the time Hanin arrived in the War Room, there was already a small crowd gathered around the map.

“This could work,” Josephine was in the process of saying, bowed alongside Riven over her clipboard. “With Dorian and his contacts raising concern over the Venatori, and the recent actions of Corypheus and his followers, we might be able to negotiate a meeting on the matter.”

“It would serve two functions,” Leliana agreed. She moved like a shadow behind the pair, hands behind her back, keen eyes narrowed and thoughtful as she paced in a slow line. “First, to deal with the Venatori threat. Second, to deal with the matter of your clanmate.”

At that, Hanin’s ears pricked. Striding into the room, he made his presence known at the table with a curt nod, settling in between Varlen and Cullen, the latter of whom seemed close to rubbing his beard off in agitation. “I see the value of the expedition,” the Commander said, eyes locked on the war map, honed in on Tevinter, “but Maker, we need to exercise caution. The Imperium is a dangerous place. Inquisitor or no, you will need to be careful. Not everyone sees value in what we do.”

Riven nodded slowly at that. Her attention remained on Josephine’s clipboard, blue eyes shifting back and forth, following the lines on the paper, re-reading them over and over. “Yes,” she murmured after a moment, “even with Dorian’s support, we will need to prepare countermeasures.” Glancing up, she shifted her gaze from Cullen to Leliana. “I take it you both have some ideas on that?”

Leliana’s lips curved, dancing a fine line between a smile and a smirk. “Your trust is well-placed, Inquisitor.”

Cullen, for his part, gave a stiff nod, his mind distant, no doubt moving pieces on a mental chessboard. “A show of force may be needed. To an extent, of course. We have to prove we remain a serious faction, even after Corypheus’ defeat. Josephine,” Cullen straightened, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword as he addressed the ambassador, “could we consult the matter? You would know better than I the, ah… appropriate amount of soldiers to march over the Imperium’s border without raising concern.”

Josephine smiled and nodded. “Gladly, Commander. As for the other matter…” Her grey eyes flicked to Hanin. Even though they had decided to step away from their relationship, it was sometimes difficult for Hanin to let go of that tightness in his chest at her attention. “Perhaps the three of you would prefer some time to discuss?”

Riven nodded before Hanin had a chance to respond, and he was glad for it. After all, he truly had no idea what was going on. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine took their leave graciously, the three of them engaging in soft murmurs of strategy as they left. The moment the doors shut, Hanin frowned and turned his attention to Varlen and Riven.

“What is this about a clanmate?” He didn’t dare get his hopes up. It was foolish to ever let it go so far. But he would be lying if he said no small part of him stirred at the notion, longing for it to be true. Be it for recovery or revenge, he no longer cared. Either would suit him well. “Was Tevinter involved in…?”

He needn’t say it, so he let the sentence taper off. Varlen and Riven exchanged uncertain glances, before the Inquisitor placed the clipboard on the table and slid it across to Hanin. “I’m… not sure about that. But I received a letter this morning.”

“From someone claiming to be part of our clan,” Varlen added, arms folded as he stood beside his sister. “I mean, I’ve never heard of him, and neither has Riv.”

Riven nodded, although her attention remained on Hanin. “So we wanted to know if you recognised the name.” She paused, a soft breath holding her thoughts from her lips for a moment. “As much as I want to believe there are others from clan Lavellan who still live, I cannot discount the possibility of a trap.”

It was a fair caution. Hanin grunted his agreement as he reached out and drew the clipboard towards him. The letter was a simple affair, the parchment poor quality, the ink so watered down it was barely visible. Whoever sent it had done so either slyly or with limited means. Without further ado, Hanin began to read.

Inquisitor Riven Lavellan,

You likely do not know me, but I do not know where else to turn. When you were a child, I was taken from our clan by slavers. For the past eleven years, I have been kept by the altus Talveron Idaris at his estate in Perivantium.

I know you will not remember me, but I fear this is my only chance. I have finally gathered enough to bribe one of Talveron’s servants to smuggle out this message. If I am caught, it may mean my death. Creators preserve me, but I have to try.

Ma halani. Please. I cannot continue like this.

Athran Lavellan

Athran.

Athran Lavellan.

“Hanin… are you alright?” Varlen took a wary step forward but Hanin raised a hand, noticing for the first time the tremor in his limbs; the quivering of the clipboard in his grasp.

“I know him,” he breathed. The room seemed to fall away, until all that was left was himself and that letter. Himself and that name. “I… we...”

“He is clan, then?” Riven’s voice was calm, her tone a natural counterpoint to her brother’s. It was enough to gently draw Hanin from his own mind, the warrior finally lifting his eyes from the letter to meet hers. Where her voice was even, her gaze was where she showed her concern.

“Yes.” Hanin swallowed dryly, feeling strangely nauseous, his gaze drifting back down to the parchment. “He is.”

That thrum. Hanin hadn’t felt it in years at such strength. It was like a drumbeat inside his skull; an impossible command. Impossible to ignore. The urge to stuff the letter in his pocket and march to Tevinter within the hour ran like a river through his veins, so close to breaking its banks that all sense had fled.

It was his other clanmates, Riven and Varlen, who kept him in place.

“Did you know him?” Riven shifted, leaning her hands on the edge of the War Table, silently tracing the line between Skyhold and Tevinter with her eyes. “This Athran?”

Did he know Athran?

“Yes.” Uncertain of how much more he should say, Hanin chose to leave it at that. “He was a hunter, a year older than me. I thought…” Shaking his head, Hanin re-read the letter, Varlen and Riven sharing a long look but saying nothing to interrupt. It was kind of them. Hanin wasn’t sure he could keep pace with all the thoughts churning in his mind, yet alone a conversation. Eventually, upon reaching the end of the letter - upon reaching that name - Hanin found his voice once more. “We thought he was dead.”

Varlen wrinkled his nose, moving around the map to stand closer to Tevinter. “Well, if his letter’s anything to go by, it might have been better if he was.”

“Varlen!” Riven’s appalled face was strong enough for both her and Hanin, the remark hitting the warrior like a slap to the face. Varlen immediately winced, cursing softly under his breath.

“Shit, sorry. Sorry. I just… you know what I mean.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Dorian told me some things, back when he was trying to convince me not to go with him to Tevinter. I don’t know if they’re all true, but if they are...”

“I understand,” Riven said carefully, and Hanin didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked over to him, “but that’s not helping right now.”

“I know.” Varlen chewed on his lip, clearly taking a bit more time to think before he spoke. “Okay. We need a plan, then. If we have a clanmate out there, we need to get him back. I’m not going to just sit here and let him stay a slave.”

“Nor am I.” Taking a deep breath, Riven motioned for Hanin to join them on her side of the table. Still feeling somewhat in a trance, Hanin obeyed the silent order, clipboard in hand, that letter staring up at him accusingly. In his mind, it spoke words that had not been written by Athran’s shaking hand. Why didn’t you look harder? How could you just give up? Did you really care so little about what happened to me?

They were all questions Hanin hadn’t asked himself for a long time.

But that was only because he had asked them so many times over the years they had lost all meaning.

“We were discussing the situation before you arrived,” Riven continued. She reached out, gently touching Hanin’s forearm, bringing him back to the present moment. “It is possible to set up a meeting between the Inquisition and some Tevinter magisters in regards to the Venatori presence in the south.”

“Not many, mind you,” Varlen added, leaning on the edge of the War Table. “Most aren’t exactly open minded about the whole thing. But Dorian should be able to wrangle up enough that it looks legitimate.”

“It is legitimate,” Riven corrected, “but we also don’t all need to be at the meeting. Perivantium is between the Tevinter capital and the border. If we arrange for it to take place there, Josephine said it would hardly seem suspicious.”

Slowly, Hanin nodded. It all made sense, and for the time being, that had to be enough. He doubted he would have anything of value to add for a while, at the very least. “I want my squad with me.”

As though expecting no less, both Riven and Varlen nodded. “Have them ready to travel in a week’s time,” Riven said. “We should have the main details organised by then. As for Athran’s situation…” Her fingers absently worried the cuff of her sleeve, brow creased in thought. “Well, there’s not really much we can do until we see what we are dealing with. I will ask Leliana to find out details of his estate.”

“Yes. Thank you. That will help.” The response must have sounded as mechanical as it felt, because the next thing Hanin knew he was looking up at a pair of worried faces.

“You, ah… sure you’re okay?” Varlen asked again. “You look like you’re about to keel over. No offense.” He turned to his sister. “I knew we should have told him to sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Hanin took a deep, steadying breath, preparing himself to walk away. But he hesitated after a moment, his hand still on the clipboard. “The letter…”

Riven expression softened. Reaching over, she opened the metal clip, letting the paper slide free. “Take it. Josephine already made a copy.”

Not sure why it mattered so much to him, Hanin just nodded his thanks, tucked the letter into his pocket, and left. There was much to do.

His boots would have to wait.