Perhaps my first worldstate will be Nasrin's, Vivienne as Divine. I never expected the tie-in cardgame bioware threw together to introduce the Dragon Age Keep would take over my brain the way it did, but taking a bad throw from The Last Court and creating Nasrin was delightful. I love her and Vivienne together. This was one of the last fics I wrote for them. Art my @villnis-archive
The party is delightful. Josephine has not outdone herself–Vivienne expects that none of them have seen the ambassador truly stretch the limits of her capabilities. Some things, even at the end of the world, are too vast. But the pleasantry rolls off her tongue and Josephine accepts it with grace and barely a glance over to the petit-fours that are, if overheard, ragged whispers are to be believed, “Just not quite right, Leliana. Stop laughing.”
“You have more reason to celebrate then the rest of us, madame Vivienne,” Josephine says now, the lights from the chandeliers dripping restored light through her hair and over her skin.
Vivienne smiles. “Perhaps. Things shall be frightfully busy.”
So say I to the one person here who has any right to protest her own workload. The thought is rueful, kept contained. If Josephine suppresses any sardonic looks, the effort does not show on her face.
People surge and swell around them, leaving drifts of conversation behind. Dagna stares at refracted light through a wineglass, leaning back against Sera, who stands with arms looped through the other woman’s and a softer expression on her face than Vivienne has ever seen. Her free hand tugs at a tablecloth, careful mountains of glassware creaking ominously as the fabric shifts. Leliana had ordered clear space along with tonight’s musicians in a fit of whimsy, and Varric and Cassandra are carefully not dancing. They stand close, shoulder pressed to arm, eyes anywhere but each other. Cullen attempts to blend in with one of the old armour sets against a far wall, and Vivienne wonders, for as much time as it takes for her to check his movement and swallow some of her drink, when the Templar stopped being the first person she noticed in any shared space.
The Inqusitor, patches of new-healed skin still showing raw across her cheeks and the backs of her hands under her wealth of light, has a hand resting on the ersatz Blackwall’s shoulder, lips pinched as he offers words Vivienne cannot quite pick out over the crush. They, she thinks, looking at the shape of Narsin's mouth, are speaking Orlesian.
Bull raises a tankard in her direction. Vivienne bites back a sigh.
“Forgive me, darling. I find myself distracted. It is a lovely party.”
A tucked-up smile from the ambassador. “I should rescue the punch table from Sera. Please excuse me.”
“Good luck,” Vivienne says. “For my part, I—”
—Nasrin is heading toward the door, brushing off curious hands and thanks with increasing fervour the closer she comes to her destination. Her head is up, her colour high, and Vivienne almost laughs. It’s an old walk. The kind the marquise would have had tutors for, that Vivienne had learned from need.
Eyes front. Shoulders back. Move like the world cannot touch you, darling.
“A moment of your time, Inquisitor?”
She is smiling as she steps in front of Nasrin, the corners of her mouth aching from the effort of keeping things seemly. Nasrin startles at her voice, eyes widening.
“I thought—you said there were preparations,” she stammers, back resting against the doorway that leads from the great hall to her chambers.
“Honestly, my dear.” Easy to move a hand, let it brace on the stone just by Nasrin’s face. “These are preparations. And I would never miss your party.”
“I don’t think I could say the same.”
Vivienne laughs, eyes moving as Nasrin swallows. She wants to catch each tiny movement. “I know. Still, I would like a word.”
“I—of course.” Nasrin turns, still within the light cage made by Vivienne’s body, and the door opens under her hands. They both step through.
 “You have been avoiding me, my dear.”
Nasrin does not want to die. The effort of not dying over the past few months shows in every twinge of muscle, each curl of pain that ghosts the bones of her arms, her fingers and the back of her skull, the straight bones each leg. But she thinks she might, with Vivienne in her space, hands wrapped fast about her own as she draws Nasrin out into the balcony.
“—I know why, marquise. And it is all right.”
Nasrin swallows. “Do you?” she asks. “Is it?”
“I was not fair to you, over the wyvern. The cure for my Bastien.” Pain flickers across her face, clear even though Nasrin is turned into the glare of the setting sun. “I would do everything again, of course,” she says. “But I am aware of—”
“—he is important to you,” Nasrin says. Not was. Importance does not care about bodies. She tugs at the ring she wears on a chain that hangs to the base of her throat. The thank you gift for dangerous alchemy that did not do its job. “I would always help. I—”
“—you care for me, darling,” Vivienne says. “A great deal.”
The floor is solid. Good stone. Old as gods. It shouldn’t be. “This is what you want to talk about?”
“You have made me Divine,” Vivienne says, head tilted to the side. “Not solely you, of course. But your influence has allowed me to find doors I did not know could be opened. As I’d hoped. And I have helped you a great deal, of course. Your own fear of magic is considerably—”
“—are you babbling, madame?”
“—I care. Very much.”
Nasrin has too much skin. Clothing rasps, and if she looks up, if she sees the small, soft smile that graces Vivienne’s face, she is unsure if she will ever breathe again. A whimper is caught up in her throat along with all her air.
Vivienne’s hands move to her cheeks, fingertips blooming cold as the anchor in Nasrin’s left hand flares in response to the small magic. Nasrin feels it trickling through her skin. Her lips part.
“Breathe, my dear,” Vivienne says, stern. “If you insist I must then you ought return in kind.”
Nasrin turns her face into the other woman’s touch, Her lower lip grazes a fingertip, sticking in a shock of pain as cold flares into heat. She gasps. Vivienne closes her eyes.
With an effort, Nasrin pulls back, unable to stop herself from running her tongue over her lower lip. “Why tell me now?” she asks.
“I have told you before,” says Vivienne. “But sometimes we deserve something explicit, don’t you think?”
Vivienne is not done. She reaches out again, one hand twining with Nasrin’s marked one. “Thanks to our efforts,” she says, “I am going to be exceptionally busy. But I did not want you to ever—I had a concern you might—” she breaks off. “You must never doubt me, Inquisitor.”
“Nasrin,” says Nasrin.
“Please,” she whispers, and the sound is so much smaller than it should be that Nasrin is surprised it isn’t lost under the sound of her own heartbeat. “I am just my name, with you,” she says. She lifts her free hand, palm up. “And perhaps this?”
“Yours,” Nasrin says. “If you are the next Divine.”
Slowly, Vivienne drops Nasrin’s left hand and reaches for the chain around her neck. She tugs. The metal snaps as she does, a small line of pain on Nasrin’s skin, but she does not move. She keeps staring up at the mage as she picks up the gold ring she had crafted with careful fingers.
Nasrin raises her right hand.
They are both silent as Vivienne slides the ring onto the forth finger there. Her eyes are intent as she lowers her head, and Nasrin swallows another gasp as Vivienne lets her lips drag across the knuckles. Acceptance and promise, understood in touch.
“Kiss me,” Vivienne says, voice fainter than Nasrin has ever heard. “Kiss me and seal it, Nasrin.”
For the rest of this ridiculous love story, you can read Marquise on AO3
