#ayv

Tagged by @thelittlestboi

Here is part of a fic abt my Hawke I have been working on:

“Leandra puts on her brave face, a brittle mask. Ayv holds their family together with two hands, pouring any grief they may have into it. If they help Bethany peel the potatoes and pretend not to know that Carver is leaving and cook the dinner and fix the broken fence and take the sheep to pasture and bring them back and help their neighbors harvest the crops of the season, there is no time to think of their father. Except for when they’re trying to sleep at night. Except for the spaces between breaths. Except for when Leandra weeps. Except for every meal they take, seated across from an empty place setting. Except for when Apawstate lays despondently on the stoop and sighs. Except for when they take up his old staff, theirs now, to cast a spell.

In those moments, they recall him. His bad jokes and his loud laughter. All the hours he spent teaching them, and later Bethany, how to control the wild magic inside, how to take the power in their chest and let it out through their hands. The way he felt, cold and stiff, as they helped Carver lower him into the grave beneath the oak tree on the edge of their property. The grit of the grave dirt beneath their nails.

Ayv does not know what to do with all that memory. The way it brings the pain back to them, just as heavy as it was the first time. Every passing thought is an ache they cannot soothe, a weight they cannot put down. It is unbearable, but they bear it anyway, stumbling along through their day with it because it cannot go away but neither can they. If they spend all night crying, Bethany won’t sleep. If they spend all day drinking, none of them will eat.”

And part of a fic abt my Lavellan: 

Dorian clears his throat and withdraws his hand from his pocket, holding a small wooden box stamped with a fancy Orlesian seal. Ematuelanuren doesn’t recognize it, so it isn’t from a noble house. He takes the box and pulls the lid off. Inside, resting on a bed of velvet, is a gold pendant. It’s in the shape of a snake with two heads, one on either end of its body, crossing over itself. Beneath the snake are seven jewels set into a leafing shape, etched with scales. Ematuelanuren is intimately familiar with the Pavus birthright pendant, having seen it around Dorian’s neck every day for a year and touched it himself, running his fingers over the fine texture of the scales, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It’s still there, hanging on Dorian’s neck, catching the light from the sun. 

“I thought you could wear it, tonight, under your clothes, of course,” Dorian says, gone unnaturally still in the way he does when he’s concentrating on not fidgeting. Ematuelanuren draws the box closer to his chest, blinking a few times in silent surprise. “I had it made in Val Royeaux, at considerable expense for discretion,” Dorian titters, “It’s a, ah, tradition, here in Tevinter, to present your intended with a replica of your family’s birthright, to indicate your commitment to them.” 

“You’re proposing?” Ematuelanuren blurts, keeping his voice low enough to not draw attention by pure strength of will. 

“No! Well, not right now, no,” Dorian laughs again, pressing a kiss to Ematuelanuren’s temple, “When I propose, you’ll know, and it certainly won’t be following days of debilitating sea sickness. Will you wear it?” 

Hearing Dorian say “when”, as if their marriage is a point of fact, makes Ematuelanuren’s stomach flutter. The whiplash from his mood mere moments ago makes his head spin. “Of course,” he says, handing the necklace to Dorian and turning around for him to put on. Dorian lifts his messy braid out of the way and clasps the delicate chain with steady hands. He rests a hand on the back of Ematuelanuren’s neck briefly, just above the chain, before stepping back. Ematuelanuren turns and smiles, allowing him a moment’s peek before dropping it beneath his shirt. The chain is long enough that the pendant sits against Ematuelanuren’s sternum, ensuring it won’t fall out of the neck of his clothes.