remember the fire;

@worldevoured | varric & kat.

He wants to write her a story. One where there is not blood in the carpet and her hands shaking as she tries to recognize to recognize herself in the mirror. He wants to write her sleeping peacefully and safely, nothing under her pillow except maybe some flowers picked by Bethany, sweet smelling for sweet dreams. 

He wants to write her laughing bright in the sunlight. He wants to write her smiling as Blondie flirts with her- relentlessly, even though he knows her heart is his. He wants- - - it’s complicated what he wants. He wants to write her happy and loved. He wants her to get her boy and ride off into the sunset.

( What he wants is complicated. If she rides off into the sunset, she leaves him in Kirkwall. If she smiles at Blondie like that, she’s not smiling at Varric like that. He wants to write them  a story where she threads her fingers through his hair and takes it from its tie. He wants to kiss down her olive skin and for her gorgeous, perfect legs to part for him and- - well. what he wants in that respect is not complicated at all. ) 

The book is not one of his. Some writer out of Seleny- classically Antivan and consumable. The Manor is quiet, now, without Leandra clucking about. Lonely and cold, Varric doesn’t like  being here but he likes the thought of Kat alone even  less. Her eyes are closed as she listens to him read aloud. The only sign she is awake at all is her little smile when Varric adds his own aside or embellishment. The fire is dying but Varric is reluctant to move to stoke it. Kat is pressed against him, so close he can feel her heartbeat.

The light dies slowly- and Varric wants to write her a story. He wants to write her happy endings and pillows with flowers instead of knives under them. He wants to write her and Anders not living in fear or with war in their hearts.

But what he wants? What he actually wants is complicated. 

So he writes her a story. As the light fades and he can no longer see the words. He writes her a story of a beautiful woman and her dashing and dangerous lover with a past. He writes them a happy ending. 

It’s all he can do. 

@worldevoured | secret muse selectionsss

She was still a recruit; and Kirkwall was much harsher than home. (Ostwick was... quaint. It smelled of the sea, of the scraggly cedars that loved the salty soil. It was comfortable where Kirkwall was brutal. But Evie had a sword and her training- - who would be so bold as to attack a woman on her way to the Chantry?)

A silly question, she’d come to learn. Kirkwall made men bold. (No, not quite right. It made them desperate. Oh, Maker have mercy on them, they were doing what they felt they needed to do.) 

Kirkwall was... confusing. (To make it harder for the slaves to escape. To make it feel pointless to try.) Evie found herself turned around, with eyes following her. (Bold, desperate, Maker forgive them.) 

Cornered, foolish, her hand grasped her pommel when- - a voice behind her, deep and thickly accented, a warm hand on her shoulder. The men cornering her raised their hands and backed away, Evie looked to her savior with thanks on her lips. (If she were not who she was, she would have been dumbstruck. Dark skin and striking blue eyes, regal bearing and strength. The cut of his jaw as he stared the men down. She was who she was, however, and it took quite a bit to shake her already.) 

She smiled, he smiled, and kept his hand on her shoulder as he guided her to the Chantry. Introductions were made- apparently Sister Edith (who was Evie’s real, actual sister Edi) had a feeling that Evie had gotten lost, asked Sebastian to look for her, it was not a problem at all. 

Sebastian watched as the recruit ran to her sister in the too-quiet Chantry, how the younger girl swept the Sister up in her arms and spun her in joy. (It had been just a week since they had been reunited, but one couldn’t tell from their laughter and joy. Evie wondered, later, if he felt a pang in his heart over his lost brothers- or if he felt jealousy that he never had something like that to begin with.)

He sees her from afar- she uses her shield more than her sword, and even then she barely does more than strike with her pommel or block a blow. His hand goes to his bow and he notches an arrow quickly- but her assailant is already on the ground and he can’t get a clear shot. She points down the alley and he hears her tell the ruffian- go. if I see you again, the Maker will judge whether you are fit for mercy, and I will send you to Him. 

The man scrambles up and runs off, leaving Evie Trevelyan breathing heavily and watching. (She can’t hear Sebastian approach over the pounding in her ears, over her focus on the man who was desperate enough to try to jump a Templar.)

“Evie.” She doesn’t turn and his stomach twists. He’s quick in his approach, quiet in his boots, just focused on if she’s alright, if she’s hurt, if- - his hand is warm and strong as he grasps her shoulder. “Evie!” 

(She knows him, knows his voice, has fought beside him, and prayed in silence and peace.) 

It happens quickly- she spins and knocks him to the ground with her shield, pointing her sword to his throat. Her face is colder than he’d ever seen, even in battle. 

“Oh!” Her face cracks as she looks down to him, quickly redrawing and sheathing her sword. “Oh, Maker! I am so sorry.” Her cheeks flush and she offers him her hand to help him stand. “You startled me- -” Kirkwall is harsh and brutal and getting worse by the day.

“Oh, I hit you rather hard. Can you breathe? Maker, we should get you to a healer.” She’s speaking quickly, frowning and still flushed with embarrassment for reacting so instinctively. She hears no protests, tutting and putting her arm under his to help him walk. 

(Two broken ribs for Sebastian, wounded pride and ample shame for Evie.)

@ophelialived | i don’t make the rules this is canon.

It is, in fairness, a valid question to anyone else in the kingdom. It is, in fairness, a question that most of the party standing behind Linshaw Frain would answer “No, of course not.” to. 

To Linshaw Frain, however, it is a stupid question.