the ground walked here is a wonder

･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ RULES･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･

indie multimuse. features canon & original muses. multi-ship & multi-verse. side-blog. by arlo (they/them). very slow activity.

a study in; writing your own story, answering the hero's call, atoning for your past, finding your place in the world, and fighting for what you believe in.

blogroll: intothewildsea - pressedpetalsinpages

muse list below (bios will be linked as they are completed):

He hadn't meant to be away for so long.

Days turned into weeks. After he'd gotten severe injuries in a fight with some bandits - one of which was a nasty burn that covered his left eye, rendering it completely blind - he had been in no condition to travel. Healing had taken longer than he would have liked.

But, eventually, he had managed to make his way back to Mal's town. He hoped that Mal wouldn't be too angry at him, for staying away longer than he had promised. He hadn't thought to send a letter. Being injured had left his brain foggy for a while and it just didn't cross his mind.

The night was quiet and it was late, but Daphne couldn't sleep. Anxiety was gnawing at her. Her head rested on Gale's chest, turned just so to make sure she didn't poke him with her horns. His arm was wrapped around her and she listened to his steady breaths.

Dragonborn.

The word kept rattling around in his head. Part of him wasn't sure he believed that he was Dragonborn. That he was some sort of chosen one. Life didn't work that way for people like him.

Despite that, he had gone to the Greybeards. He had shown the ability to use the Thu'um. According to them, he was Dragonborn.

What in the hells was he supposed to do with that information?

Fight dragons? End a civil war? What was expected of him? Why was the weight of Skyrim suddenly resting on his shoulders, when days before, he was going to be executed like a common criminal? Why was he supposed to fight to protect a world that would snuff him out simply for being an orc?

It was all very frustrating to mull over.

He had returned to Whiterun to stock up on supplies. People still seemed a bit uneasy around him, because of his stature and height, but at least they were willing to do business with him. He supposed the fact that he'd slayed a dragon endeared him to them a tiny bit.

When exiting one of the shops, he bumped into someone. They were on his blind side, but thankfully, as soon as he knocked into them, instinct had him reach out to grab their shoulder and steady them.

He was still learning the layout of Skyhold, discovering its little nooks and crannies. There hadn't been much time to snoop between the missions and fighting dragons. And kissing the Inquisitor.

He was trying to keep that part discreet, though, for the time being. Only because she had asked him to. He didn't think it was because she was embarrassed of...whatever their relationship was. A fling, maybe.

At this particular moment, he wasn't snooping. Niamh had sent him on a errand to deliver a book to the librarian. He hadn't even realized Skyhold had needed - or had gotten - a librarian. Delivering the book gave him an excuse to poke around. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It had been two days since Roland had given Muriel shelter and treated his injuries. They still ached, constant reminders of the collar and cuffs that he had been forced to wear for so long. They itched, too. The bandages kept him from scratching the wounds, at least. He knew he'd feel guilty if he ruined the kind man's handiwork.

Roland had been kind enough to cut his hair as well. It had been long, matted, and dirty. No amount of brushing would get the tangles out. Now it was cut to his chin. Still shaggy and messy, but at least it was no longer gross.

He'd finally let Roland coax him into taking a bath. After a good scrub he almost felt like a new man. He'd been given fresh clothes. Clothes nicer than anything he'd ever owned, honestly. They were soft and comfortable.

Instructed to sit, he settled by the hearth, obediently staying still while Roland wrapped fresh bandages on his wounds. Each touch made him flinch despite him knowing the other man wouldn't hurt him.

It had taken some time, but Muriel was slowly getting used to sharing a space with another person. He had felt awkward at first, sharing Ruby's tent, even though she had been clear with him that he was wanted there. Sleeping next to her had been a bit harder. Touch was been difficult for him. If they brushed against one another, even in sleep, his entire body would tense and he'd jerk away out of instinct.

He knew she understood, probably better than anyone, why he reacted that way.

Slowly, though, it had gotten better. He was getting better. While he didn't want anyone else to touch him, Ruby could, and each time her fingers brushed his or her hand rested on his forearm, he flinched a bit less. And soon he found himself craving her touch in ways he'd never thought he would.

Those were thoughts he would never voice aloud. They were too embarrassing. Even just the thought of them made him flush, all of the way to the tips of his ears.

So it was no wonder when he stepped into the tent and accidentally caught sight of Ruby changing clothes that he turned as red as a strawberry. He couldn't manage to sputter out any words and quickly turned, scrubbing a hand over his face.

when they're getting ready for the day

this is all you've ever wanted. you and them and the promise of a future. you should be getting ready too. but you lay in bed for a moment, still feeling the traces of their warmth on the sheets, their scent on your skin. you watch how carefully they choose their outfit for the day. you watch as they pair the colors. you memorize that face they make when they stand at the mirror checking every detail. you savor how routine it is. you savor it because you both earned it. there is something precious in the domesticity and you vow to never take it for granted.