TREVELYAN

when they're sleeping

it's not just the way they're at rest. it's that they're at rest with you. it's not just that they're safe but that they feel safe enough to let you see them like this. it's trust and it's intimacy. and you're not sure you're ready for them to see the emotions in your eyes right now. they've been through enough. you both have. sometimes it scares you just how much you love them. it terrifies you that you feel happy as they lay there, eyes closed and hair a little messy. their features twitch and you know they're dreaming and it scares you because if you fall asleep too you won't have a nightmare tonight. you'll dream of them. or nothing at all. and either way it will make you need them more. and you're not supposed to need anyone but it's them. you want to hold them in your arms and never let go. you want to protect them but you know they want to protect you to. this is the kind of love you long for and it's the kind which will hurt if you lose it. but here you are anyway. it's too late now. you're glad it's too late to go back.

All she can hear is her blood racing in her ears, a chorus of rage as her quarry slams into the ground below with a tremor. She can see nothing; not her companions, not the field of battle as it tunnels on the slit pupil of the dragon's eye peering up at her.

She does not hesitate.

There was almost no color left in her irises as the blade sinks deep into the creature's skull. Obsidian strands cling to her neck from sweat and rain, rain that continues to pelt down on them; she's as if a woman possessed. Rain water clinks against the metal of her armor as the roaring death rattle of the dragon subsides, leaving them in silence. She's panting, nose bridge creased viciously from the exertion.

It is done.

The rage ebbs away as the adrenaline and fire from her wounding subsides, and she's—tired. Her shoulders shake from the grip she keeps on the blade as her chin trembles, the blue of her eyes slowly returning as they flood with tears not yet shed. The rain continues as she tries to breathe.

She's tired of being this, she's tired of the responsibilities stacking and stacking; is it still yet not enough?

No, it never is.

She dares only look in the direction of one companion, needing to make sure he stands. Her port in a storm, her true north, emotion swelling within her chest as she's afraid if she lets go of her blade—she will collapse altogether.

" put it down, it can wait. " she leans against the war table, the only two left within it's confines after the others had retired. tis it not always them? a cousin, more like a sister, reaches out to grasp at the inquisitor's hand that's flattened to the map of orlais, a brief brush of familiarity that may draw the woman from her thoughts. it has been far too long since she had last seen her consume anything. " have you eaten today, evie? " she ought to address her superior by her title, but she doesn't come to evelyn as her commander—but kin.

                                                     vanilla

oh heart of ice and mind of gold, what am I to do with you? you are only good in small amounts, bittersweet fledgling, you are hard for most to swallow. your spirit is strong, your wit is potent, your biting essence drives even the most daring away. but why are you hiding your sweetness? I know within you, you are soft, but humanity has made you bitter. you mask your pain and sorrow with spite and sensibility. you say you do not care about trivial things, but don’t you? sweetheart relax. you can let down your drawbridge, the waters are not poisoned. I know you have looked monsters in between the eyes and scoffed at them, but please, relax. you think your armor protects you but it is smothering you slowly. little owlet, when will you learn, words can only get you so far? feelings are what makes this world pulse. do not suppress your feelings. your heart can still thaw my dear. trust.

The loss still hangs her shoulders to the earth, the missive still crumpled in her saddle bag as she makes the less than valiant return to what remains of their forces. While death is nothing knew to her, Guinevere still carried him like a funeral shroud veiled over her stoic expression. Varric was not a loss she was prepared to bear.

Now, with the world drowning in this slithering, pulsating blight, her rage is all that keeps her upright on her mount. One thing after another, it never ends. It never stops.

" We will stop Solas—by any means necessary. "

And by the Maker, she means to make good on that promise. Watching as the people in the South clamor for their lives, the darkspawn unrelentingly pouring from the Deep Roads like infectious parasites on the land.

If it were not for those who still remain, she might have been swallowed up with it.

As she dismounts from her horse, her right hand sooths down the animal's neck before she begins to make her way toward a familiar and all too welcomed face. And it manages to pull a real but pained smile across her face. The closest she'll ever be to home.

" Aneth ara, is that how you say it, mo charaid? "