fade-touched

WARRIOR OF LIGHT !

"I've been told before I have a horrible poker face," Faust confesses, a foxish smile playing on their face. They'd forgotten how cold Skyhold could get and their nose and ears were already pink when he found them leaning over the barracks to look over the place. They kick their feet a few moments longer before letting them fall back down onto solid ground, leaning back from the side, "I mean, yes, I did come here to, you know, check on things, be a good little Rook and help out."

She taps her fingers on the stone. "I just also figured I could take a little stroll down memory lane while I was at it. I haven't seen this place in years! Look over there-"

“I don’t change things. Of course it’s still there,”

Skyhold is a monument to its recent past, frozen in an eternal state of the war against the elder one, just with fewer people on site. How bizarre it has been for him, haunted by the spectres of those who still live and breathe, even the people who have tried to reach out. But it’s simply easier this way – too much space to redecorate, too many memories to erase. Faust’s bolt and the little room he’d set up for the stowaway… odd testament to a child who no longer exists. 

It’s busier now, if only for its vital role as a refuge to those displaced by current events. Most of whom are asleep, bundled around fires or tents. Faust and Cathal are alone, two figures on the battlements. Though he stands a little behind them, stiff as his new self always seems to be.

“Ah, I remember. I remember getting a report on that. One of the many incidents in this place that I missed,” he says, a fond hum in his tone. “You were… a major character in many of the reports on my desk, you know,”

And now, they stand on the precipice of destruction. How many chances might Faust have to walk down memory lane again? How many will Cathal? These last years, every part of him consumed by the Inquisitor, who will he be if he doesn’t give his all to stop Solas?

This night isn’t comforting him. Quite the opposite, it’s unsettling. All the fondness in his voice is squashed in an instant when he remembers who they are and what is happening to the world around them. 

A sigh. He turns away from Faust so that he isn’t looking directly at them, and then a leather-gloved hand reaches his face – or, the white porcelain facsimile that had become his public face this past decade. A pale, exhausted man with gaunt pink cheeks looks back over the moonlit keep while his hand places something down on the stone.

❛    𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏   𝘼   𝘾𝙐𝙍𝙎𝙀   and   a   GIFT   in   equal   measure, 

              to   be   a   terribly   REAL   THING   in   a   terribly   FALSE   WORLD….

                —   #   𝐁𝐋𝐂𝐊𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊.   an   iconless   and   selective   roleplay   blog   for   original   character   and   mage   LEÓN   FARGO   VÁSQUEZ,   with   his   main   verse   taking   place   during   DRAGON   AGE INQUISITION as an optional companion.   other   verses   include   original   high   fantasy-inspired   lore,   ffxiv,   and   supernatural   /   vampire.   written   and   portrayed   by   JAY   (   he   /   him,   28+,   CST   ) 

    𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 & 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 // 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐑    // 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 // 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄

# KRKWLLS . by emily

"What people will think? I dunno," Faust leans against his desk as they look back at the door. "I'd probably think something along the lines of 'damn, I'd find a new office if that were me. If only some lovely, mysterious Lighthouse would take him in...'"

A teasing smile comes to her face as she goes on, but she's still looking at the door since she's sure he won't find it even a smidge amusing.

"I invited you, didn't I? I would like having you there." Faust insists stubbornly. "I'm sure Varric would like to say hi. You haven't even visited yet."

Hmmph. To say they forgot about his dislike of being called Cathal would be a lie, and they've never been an outstanding liar. It contradicts some of his very first words to them, which they also remember, reassuring a rascally stowaway that they didn't need to shower him in honorifics. Just Cathal was fine.

“I don’t have time for visits. The world is ending,”

Is she mocking him? The mention of Varric… it’s bizarre through the eyes of a man who knows of his friend’s passing through Harding’s brief letter, through the eyes of a man still grieving in private for a friendship he’d never patched up. Feelings he had not and will not share with Faust, feelings that they aren’t entitled to. But whether they’d intended it or not, Cathal can only take the words in the manner he can comprehend them. 

He assumes he’s being guilt-tripped, that he’s being asked to see with his own eyes what had become of someone he cared about, someone who had died in Cathal’s place. 

He assumes he’s being guilt-tripped, and it works. Cathal does feel guilty, morally reprehensible because he hadn’t come to pay his respects. As Faust tips her head to look at him, he turns his concealed face away, as if to avert his gaze from theirs. Not even the teasing (as justified as it is) has soured him on Faust just yet. But it’s hard not to see them as the kid they once were. 

A sigh, exhausted and weak, despite an attempt to conceal it. 

there’s an incredulous look on her face as he speaks. it had been so incredibly long since she had seen cathal in person. and while they had spoken in letters, they had slowly dwindled over the years. some even being completely ignored. and dorian, even with their sending crystal, had scarcely heard from him either. it had hurt - more than she had expected. she had to return to tevinter. it was her home and if there was even the possibility that she could help right so many of its wrongs, she had to take it. and at the time, she thought he understood that. that she hadn’t left him behind on purpose. 

but as she looks at him now - the orlesian clothes, the strained posture, the mask that he wears. she can't help but feel responsible for it. like if she stayed in skyhold with him or even found a way to bring him to tevinter, he would still be the cathal she had met all those years ago. but perhaps even that thought is selfish of her, egotistical. that she would be able to stop him from feeling the pain, loneliness from being away from his partner and companions.

Nothing is offered to her in return: no display of emotion, no delightfully witty response. Perhaps it isn’t Cathal at all, but some other creature assuming his place with poor accuracy – demon of the fade, or some deceitful court bard positioned to sabotage the Inquisition’s necromanced carcass. 

Or maybe he’s just different. 

The Inquisitor shifts his balance from one foot to another – a slow, rather methodical retention of his stance. In younger years, he’d always struggled to stay put for too long.

“I did,” he says coolly. There’s an undeniable chill to him, but at least his words aren’t ice-spike daggers to aim at her heart. “I stopped writing,”

There’s no point in defending himself or refuting her claim, because it is simply true, and he has no real desire to act the fool. Cathal knows he’s been avoiding those he used to hold in high esteem, those of his ‘inner circle’ and some sick little voice reminds him that it’s ‘not his fault’ that they left. A voice he believes enough to trust, but not enough to echo. Sabina cannot be allowed the opportunity to call his feelings out for what they are: self-involved and entirely unfair. 

Still, she’s a friend – or, she was a friend. When he had those, she was a friend. He can’t admit that he came to see her, but he won’t leave. And he won’t bite. 

No. The Inquisitor, in all his finery, just turns away, as if to fein interest in the room they inhabit – a beautiful meeting place, if nothing else. 

"Well, unfortunately for you, an ambush is what you're getting, whether you want to hear it or not." Dorian speaks in a matter-of-fact tone as he pushes his glass away from himself on the table. "Now sit your ass down in that chair or so help me I will man handle you in a way you won't like. And you won't be able to stop me seeing as though you're a walking skeleton anyways. I'm much more afraid of Manfred than I am of you, in any case."

He stands, now, placing his hands upon the table and leaning in Cathal's direction. His gaze is filled with so many emotions. Exhaustion, pain, longing. Too many to even keep track of in this moment.

"You can try any and every exit of this bar, but we have Shadow Dragons and Rook's buddies posted. Security measures to prevent any of our shared enemies out and us in. Who knows. Maybe there will be an ambush and we'll be forced to stay put." He shrugs nonchalantly. "I have things, many things to say to you after this ridiculous ten years of silence from you and since I can't reach you in any way, this seems to be my last option and I will not let you waste my time any longer."

Ten years. Ten years of silence. Of neglect. What did he do to deserve such a chill from the man he used to call the love of his life?

"You could at least have the decency to tell me why you're so cold towards me. You're the one who chose to close the doors. I honestly believe you shattered that crystal I gave you back in Halamshiral. That is my best guess, seeing as though I send messages but never know if they reach you or not." The one that matches Cathal's hangs from Dorian's neck, to this day. It is the staple of every outfit.

The centerpiece of his devotion to a man who seemed not to give a second thought to him anymore.

At least, he was sure that Cathal didn't care anymore. Or maybe this was all a facade as well?

"I try to make an appointment to see you, conveniently you're gone. I send letters and not ever a reply. Have you read any of them? Or do you burn them upon receiving them?" It is hard to keep his composure, but what does one do when the one person you loved most in this world all of a sudden disappears? Yes, he is keeping all of the South from falling apart, but what was happening a year ago? Five? Nine? Had their love just been a lie all along?

Dorian needed, desperately, to know. Whether or not he would be able to sus out a lie or believe the truth is to be determined.

A laugh – though it lacks all the warmth of his younger self. 

“Looks can be deceiving, Dorian. I can still fight,”

He cannot. But pride is a wonderful thing, a fatal flaw of the Inquisitor which has kept him from reaching back to his lover, from stepping away from his position, from showing the world what had truly become of him. Pride is what keeps him standing up, as if to defy – or to push his luck. Dorian could take him down in a heartbeat, yet he stands with his arms crossed like he might still be in control of this reunion. As if he were the predator, not the prey. 

“What an excellent use of the Shadow Dragons’ time. Let’s hope the venatori don’t use it as a chance to make their move,”

Ten years, and where did it get him? Lonely, sick and miserable, ambushed by his amatus in a Minrathous bar. The steel in the Inquisitor’s eyes melts into something liquid and less secure. It’s hard to face him like this, hard to look into the eyes of someone he’d wronged so horrifically and act as if he doesn’t care. 

It aches. It aches to care so much, to still find the man as attractive as he’d been the last day they saw each other. What he wouldn’t give to touch his face, to run his hands through that longer hair, to whisper sweet nothings to the man in those quiet hours of the morning.

Talk of the crystal induces another laugh. Oh, the irony of it all. Under all the finery, it still hums with a certain magic – never to be taken off, but never to be answered. Every message had been received, had even been felt. In private, he cried in longing.

Why hadn’t Dorian moved on? Cathal had given him plenty of reasons. 

He sighs, then turns further away from him with his arms still crossed. The gloved fingers of his right hand drum on the metal of the prosthetic arm, one small tell of his uncertainty.  

"Gladly," the witch nods resolutely. "I'll tell him thrice, if I must. You know how he can be."

There's no argument there. No defense is made on Solas' behalf. No evident love lost there. But not much caution, either.

As a child, there was an undeniable current of frustration simmering beneath their skin masked inexpertly by their attitude, still prone to picking fights and bouts of fear-fueled aggression. It's waned since then, having grown into the world, more or less, in their own way. An older Faust, now, well-traveled, well-written, well-learned, has a sparkle about them that dips well past heedless curiosity and borders on foolish naivety. The fear of the world and its dangers seem to have been forgotten entirely over the years.

And so they approach this issue as they have all else: with a foxish grin and a itch for entertainment. All the more evident while sitting across from someone as solid and stern as the Cathal they've met today.

She swirls her finger around the rim of her drink as she continues to elaborate on his earlier question.

“I do know,” he says, and the anger rises to the surface of those words. Solas is still an open wound – something he keeps picking away at, raw and infected underneath all the layers of falsified identity Cathal now wears. And the only thing he wants to do is kill the dread wolf, the maker of so much of his misery. 

Or, so Cathal thinks. 

“When the time comes, I want to be there. I need to see that smug look wiped off his face,”

There’s a moment when he softens, though Faust won’t be able to see it. Trouble used to be his middle name, used to be the entirety of his agenda, and the self-censorship she displays is so oddly similar to how he used to feel when dealing with authority. Every friend was an “alliance” he’d forged, or a bridge he’d built. Every piece of mischief (usually aided by Sera) was just “strategic dismantling of our enemies” 

“And so I’ve heard,” says the Inquisitor, with just a hint of humour in his tone. “I hear you made an enemy of the First Warden, that you already have reach across the Northern continent, including here in Tevinter where he did his foolish little ritual,”

A sigh. He repositions the prosthetic arm as if the thing exhausts him. Without a drink to enjoy or even simply play with, he’s at a loss for things to do. The stiff demeanour is nothing new, but in Faust he sees a reflection of the past and feels somehow more disjointed from it all. As if studying them even more intently, he leans forward, a difficult question on his lips: