I think, therefore I am.

but i’m visiting my datefriend in canada tomorrow, and i’ll be without internet until it’s set up at their new place!

i finally hit diamond (i’ve been in 2900 hell for the past two seasons RIP)

“Andraste found no peace in life. In death, perhaps.” Peace offers no further speculation, for it is not the dead he seeks tranquility in.

“Are you prepared to walk in her footsteps? To sacrifice your own peace for that of the world’s?”

“O-oh.” His breath escapes in a mighty heave, heavier than he could have realized. When had he stopped? Breathing is rudimentary, in theory. For him, it always feels so forced. “I forgot.” A murmured apology, soft with his inhale. He tries again, but now his mind races and he must catch it before he can again settle. 

It’s harder to sleep when Solas is away, traveling with the Inquisitor. Ian never mentions it–he is fairly certain that Solas sleeps easier, those nights, and it is selfish of him to miss what comfort Solas gives–but he enters his own dreams with hesitation, shirking away from the rise of stone walls and the smells of crisp parchment and processed lyrium. 

It is harder to sleep when Solas is away, and he had not looked for company within this dream. Had he been asked, he might have said he would prefer none; the type of company he tended to attract frightens him, darkening his dreams and washing him with cold terror. 

This company, however, settles serenely in the memory of sunlight splashing over stone floors, and Ian recovers from a start to scramble into something resembling friendliness. “You–” Frightened me. “–hello.” 

He approaches the spirit, wary in his curiosity. His mouth curves, amused at the metaphor. He gathers the threads of the spirit’s meaning, but deflects his point. “I am no soldier.” Ian notes, shrugging. “And I have no skill at war or battle.”

His troubles may burden him–wearing him weary ‘til he struggles to stand–but they are paltry and petty when held beside that suffering he has seen in others.  

Surprise jerks the dream around them, a small fear that tugs at his form. Harmless, the kind of unrest he has learned how to smooth over.

“Greetings,” he hums, his even tone lilting, excitement evident. He had been waiting for this opportunity. When Love hears of this meeting he will have to recount every detail, though the affection in the young elf’s heart is harder for him to hear. What rings loudest is his desire for harmony.

Peace laughs at the refusal, a soft chuckle that brightens the sunbeam he rests within. “No, you are not, but there is no shame in that.” Still, the elf’s hands are bloodier than the most brutal of soldiers, stained with the blood of those he has sought to help. How many lives have been saved and lost by those hands? How much rest they must have delivered-- be it eternal, or temporary. Even in death, they heal, though each loss still lingers, unseen beneath scarred fingertips.

@beyondprogramming liked for a starter

“What exactly is the Iris anyway?”

He knows nothing of hunger, but over the years he had become familiar with the body language of hungry humans. Though machine parts riddle Genji’s body, there is no replacement for a full belly-- or at least, Zenyatta imagines so.

The beads that hum around his neck pull closer, forming a thick necklace around him, so as not to disturb the plate he holds in one hand. He floats down to the other’s level, ragged clothes brushing the ground. “Here, I hope it is to your liking.” Zenyatta proffers a plate of streaming rice porridge and hot chai, a meal he had served countless times before to organic pilgrims. It had brought them some semblance of peace after a long, cold journey, perhaps it would soothe the cyborg’s soul, as well.

“Shanedan.” The word is new upon his lips, but he speaks it as if he has knows the words with his entire being. Though the qunari had pretend to not notice his presence, he had noticed theirs.

Peace floats closer to the earth, drawing level with the elf before him. They brim with forgotten magic, yet bear the soul too young to remember what it means. When he grows nearer his expression shifts, his mistake becoming clear. “Ah, forgive me, I mistook your nature entirely.” Their fire burns too bright, too loud for any qunari. “A word of warning, da’hale: you follow in the footsteps of those seeking a different peace than yours.”

Though from the blood that stains their clothes, he reasons they know the consequences should their paths meet.

“To wonder what those we love would think of us now is natural.”

Mondatta’s presence weighs heavy upon him, though few would know it by how freely he floats. Zenyatta sees that same weight in the man before him, though the roots of his discord are still unclear. “Yet to dwell upon what we can never know is to walk an endless road.”

Not on purpose, but perhaps he had naturally been drawn to souls she had healed in body. Her dedication to her work is easy to admire, to revere, even. Science alone could not heal everyone she has saved, but it was enough to sustain them, until he came upon them. “Many speak highly of you, and I feel that, were they with me now, they would wish to thank you.”

The orbs around his head hum as their pace quickens. “My admiration of your dedication could not be measured. I hope you know how much a difference you have made in the world.”