* 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉!

i'm posting this on behalf of a family friend and their family who are seeking safe exit from gaza; their family has lost their home from the bombings, have continously been displaced, and mohammed is determined to achieve safe passage for his entire family, including his diabetic father and 8-month old daughter. please share this around and donate no matter how small you may think your donation would be- every bit helps bring mohammed and his family another step closer to safety and peace of mind.

ever since they stepped foot into denerim, it seemed as though things had rapidly gone to shit. even more rapidly than the events of the last few months. it was bordering on inconceivable that king cailan died within the last year, and lancelot saw the hills around ostagar soaked bright red with his own weeping eyes. that is one thing about saving the world; you rarely have time to pause and ponder. he certainly had his hand to play in the "things rapidly going to shit" field, though he anticipated slightly more time before the templars would learn of his presence in the city again. even after briefly discussing what his life with the templars had been and his motivations for deserting with her, shame and guilt still weighed on lancelot's shoulders that beatrize had been dragged into having to essentially save him.

he had expected she would immediately dismiss him after seeking her out following the landsmeet, but there was not a word spoken until both of them were settled. a breeze from the ocean had washed over denerim as the sun disappeared, and the faint smell of salt brought forth a strange nostalgia. he donned not the garments of the weeping monk, only dark underclothes and a single scabbard for his shortsword, with curly hair fully unbound just above his shoulders. perhaps lancelot believed that he was in debt to her following whatever she had said to carden and that is why he had sought her out. perhaps he too appreciated sitting on the rooftops where nobody else would find you.

almost lost to the growing chatter of the city below, beatrize murmurs, i used to wanna be important, now i just wanna be alive.

has it really been close to a year already? beatrize has lost track of time at some point during their expedition, no longer bothering to count the days because it started to matter little. all that seemed to matter was survival; how to get through every encounter and live to see another sunrise, how to put together the puzzle pieces of the treaties, so that they might secure the assistance they need. lancelot had been with her since ostagar. it feels strange to think about that, to envision the length of time he had been fighting by her side. she knew he had his secrets. he had been the subject of hushed conversations between her and alistair, had been the point of interest of some of morrigan's not-so-subtle jabs. but she welcomed him into her party, tried not to ask too many questions, waiting for him to open up to her for however long it took him to feel safe enough.

it was only a matter of time, really, before something cracked open. when they took him away, beatrize could not rest until she knew they had a plan to get him back. they had been through so much together for her to abandon him at the last minute, the effects of lyrium as alistair described plaguing her mind like a persistent itch, her psyche recoiling from it on principle. negotiations were made, some unsavory threats leveled against the templar carden in exchange for his release. something in her eyes must have convinced him she'll make good with her promise, because lancelot was eventually freed. and now he's sitting with her on the gables of arl eamon's denerim estate, watching as the sun bleeds red on the horizon.

tomorrow, the darkspawn horde will come knocking on the city's doorsteps. beatrize's path is set before her. "our family puts our duty first. my father said those words to me as he was dying." she looks at lancelot and smiles. she is no real cousland, everyone knows that; her entire line ended with her, a family long forgotten by the a nation once at war, extinguished by a foreign tyrant who dared to sit on ferelden's throne. but she is bryce and eleanor's daughter, nevertheless; who they taught her to be is embedded in the very marrow of her driftwood bones. "i knew what i was signing up for when i drank from that chalice. riordan will do his best to get ahead of me and alistair... but nothing is certain." morrigan's solution echoes in her head. it seems preposterous and downright horrifying. the idea of asking alistair to go through the dark ritual is almost sickening to beatrize.

the title of warden-commander catches his attention. he has heard fleeting whispers of the grey wardens, though not enough to garner what their cause was or what they stood for. he will ask her more later, assuming he survives this interaction. " there is no offense. you've people to protect, a home to keep safe. i cannot fault you for your caution, " eragon replies, and though there is no warmth, neither is their any stiffness, resentment. she is only doing her job. when she rises from her seat, eragon watches, stares; there is no tense or coiled threat in her movements or the way she approaches, but just as it serves her no misfortune to be cautious, neither does it cost him anything. " we were headed east. we are … looking for something. nothing pertaining to ferelden, if it soothes you. "

eragon rubs his wrists once they are free of the shackles; they do not ache, were not bound long enough to become raw or sore, but still does he fidget out of habit. " her name is saphira. " there is a note of fondness to the statement, and his voice takes on the lilt of an individual speaking about a friend, a loved one, rather than a pet. " she hatched for me - what was it, ten years ago? or has it been eleven, now? " from his tone and the way his focus shifts past beatrize, it seems almost as though he is asking someone else - someone not currently present, someone distant and listening. after a second, eyes snap back to beatrize, and he continues without faltering, " ten years. not quite as impressive as twenty-two, but we'll get there. she is my dragon, and i am her rider, and i assure you, while she is not harmless, she was not bred for war. "

he thinks about thorn. about murtagh. eragon's ears flatten slightly. he can't help it. " no dragon should be. bred for war, i mean. where we are from - " he stops abruptly, the name on the top of his tongue dissipating before he can speak it aloud. saphira, jabbing against him, warning him to be careful about what he might say, as if he wasn't already well aware. " where we are from, dragons are not beasts. they are not omens. they are intelligent as you or i, and though it changes nothing of the way things are here, i have never known them - those from home, anyway - to be bad luck. i don't know what has happened here, but i'm sorry that it has, beatrize-elda. "

beatrize manages a polite nod of her head. she didn't expect his earlier irritation to be diffused so quickly, but she's glad for it. eragon sounds like someone who understands, who isn't merely offering empty platitudes that resemble understanding. the warden-commander wonders if he, too, has people to protect and a home to keep safe, wherever that home might be. "if we're speaking honestly, it soothes me little. i don't like not knowing things." this she says with a slight smile. there is a part of her that is tempted to interrogate him, but save for flying a dragon, there is no evidence of a crime. he went with her people willingly, and she is determined to be courteous until given a reason to act otherwise.

"no matter, your business is your business. my concern is ferelden, or at least this part of it. i try not to act beyond the mandate of my office." if he had landed in gwaren, it would be a different story. her authority extends a little bit further there than the warden-commander title affords her. amaranthine ( and vigil's keep ) belongs to the wardens as a collective, despite the fact that she holds the title of arlessa. if the threat is not connected to the blight, it is not her jurisdiction. "but east, you mentioned? do you intend to travel beyond the frozen sea?" now that would be a point of interest. there is no record of lands beyond those waters, no sailing vessel who dared venture out ever successfully returned. any attempt to document habitable lands beyond the scope of their current maps had not yielded information thus far, and no one has been brave enough to try since the last failed attempt.

amusement twinkles behind her dark gaze at the mention of his dragon's name. "that explains the color, then. my scouts told me she's blue." a blue dragon... she has never encountered one of such vivid color, though there are tales from the emerald graves of the greater mistral, blue and gold and always shrieking as it flies over human settlements. it is enough to deter her from ever willingly visiting. "i wasn't aware dragons can be bred for specific purposes. it seems to me the dragons in your lands are very different from ours. the ones i've met were only ever interested in tearing my limbs off or belching fire in my direction."

the motion of his ears catches beatrize's eyes. she wonders what kind of tell it is. already, she's noticed his eyes going out of focus, as though he's listening to some sound only he can hear, temporarily taking him out of the conversation. "a lot has happened here," she responds simply, not seeing it fit to inundate him with a history lesson. if he sticks around, they might have time for that. but for now, she has determined that he is no threat, and though she needs to write a letter to anora explaining his appearance and assuring the queen that things are under control, she thinks she is well within her rights to consider him a guest of the warden-commander, at least until she has more information at hand.