#dadrunkwriting

Before his magic had manifested, Oliver had even thought to join the Order himself.

But in truth, he'd never given it much thought when it came to Cullen. Yes, he was a former templar, but somehow Oliver just assumed he was handling it by continuing to take Lyrium. They had connections with Orzammar for such a purpose, after all..

Now, though, Oliver was noticing changes in the man. The trembling hands, the lack of appetite, the way he vanished so often into his office, almost hiding from the world.

Was Cullen suffering alone?

Or did anyone else know?

Oliver looked up, startled, as he realized that he'd arrived at the door to Cullen's office. Hesitating for only a moment, he raised a fist and knocked twice firmly.

"Come in," Cullen called after a moment, and Oliver could hear the weariness to his voice.

He pulled the door open, rusted hinges squealing, and entered.

Why Cullen had chosen this particular room as his seat of command, Oliver didn't know. The roof was half-gone and it was isolated, here on the battlements. Still, not everyone could be given the type of huge room and office he had.

He was the Herald of Andraste, after all, he thought bitterly.

"Inquisitor!" Cullen said, rising to his feet as he set down a pile of parchment hastily. "What can I do for you?"

Oliver could see it in the dark circles under his eyes, the way he seemed to flinch at the sunlight streaming through the door. The lyrium withdrawal was hitting him hard.

"Cullen," he said, trying not to betray his worry in either his words or expression. "Please, sit. I was hoping to speak with you."

"Of course, Inquisitor," Cullen replied, lowering himself back into his chair, eyes darting to the door and back.

Closing it behind him, Oliver moved to sit himself.

"I was hoping we could talk about what's going on recently," he started.

"Ah, well," Cullen started, somewhat awkwardly, "The recruits are coming along well —"

"That's not what I meant," Oliver interjected gently. "I know something is wrong. You can trust me, Cullen. Please tell me the truth."

Cullen looked into his eyes for a moment, before sagging, something exhausted appearing on his face.

"So you know," he said. "How?"

"I recognized the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal," Oliver said, voice soft and kind as he could make it. "My brother Tomas is a templar. Back before… before the Circle, he told me about taking it. It wasn't difficult to figure out that it's addictive. The Chantry doesn't keep secrets nearly as well as it thinks."

Cullen bowed his head, running a hand through his blond hair.

"Yes, I see," he muttered. "I thought — well. Never mind what I thought. I'll announce that I'm stepping down from my command tomorrow. I can recommend someone to replace me, if you like, though I'm sure Cassandra has someone better in mind."

Oliver stared at him for a moment, surprised. When he came to speak to Cullen about his lyrium problem, he certainly hadn't expected this.

"I'm not here to remove you from your position," he said slowly. "I see no reason for you to step down. Unless you want to, of course, but I'd be sorry to see you go."

Cullen looked up at him, eyes wide.

"I — I don't want to continue taking the lyrium, if that's what you mean."

"No, of course not!" Oliver exclaimed, horrified. "If you want to stop, it will be difficult, but I believe in you."

"But why? I'm not fit for the position, not like this."

"Cullen," Oliver said patiently, leaning forward. "We can handle this. If you need help or to take a step back once in a while, we can find you a second-in-command. If you need support, we're all here for you. But you can beat this. I know it."

"Thank you, Inquisitor," Cullen said, voice breaking slightly. "I — you won't regret this, I promise."

"I know." Oliver smiled. "And once you're feeling better, I would like to see you spend more time outside of your office. Perhaps we can have dinner."

"I would like that, Inquisitor."

"Please, Cullen. Call me Oliver."

This wasn’t a cause for concern - Anders would stay up as late as his own body would let him every time, and he was always busy.  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he’d joked once, and Hawke had grabbed his chin in his hands and growled, “No you won’t, because I’ll drag you back just so I can kick your ass.”

No, he just missed him because he always missed Anders when he wasn’t there. Restlessness danced through his limbs, his own blood felt itchy in his veins, and he was just alone with his heartbeat and the feeling that it wasn’t beating right because half of it was away from him.

He had about as much likelihood of getting to sleep like this as he did of Meredith climbing in through his window to tell him a bedtime story. He glanced down at Dragon, wondering if he’d fancy a walk, but the mabari was snoring loudly on the rug, dead to the world. 

His eyes drifted to his desk. Had the time come for him to… Maker forfend… catch up on his correspondence?

He heard the Darktown passage door downstairs open with a great leap of relief. (The fact that it was loud enough in opening to hear upstairs caused Bodahn great distress, but Hawke refused to let him fix it, because he liked hearing when Anders got home.) Seconds later came Anders’s footfall on the stairs, and Hawke hastily ran his fingers through his hair - washing the blood out had left it very fluffy - before sprawling back on the bed on what he hoped was a seductive fashion. Dragon let out another loud snort in his sleep, and farted.

The bedroom door opened, and Hawke said, “Well well, what’s a mage like - what happened??”

Anders was grinning at the sight of him, but Anders had blood on his face, so Anders had no right to be grinning until whoever had hurt him was dead. “This is a nice surprise,” was all he said, propping his staff against the wall and starting to shuck off his outer robe.

“Why are you bleeding??”

“Don’t worry about it.” Anders very deliberately dropped his outer robe to the floor, a very smug smirk on his face as took in the sight of Hawke waiting for him on the bed, and any other time Hawke would abandon whatever conversation he’d been having without a moment’s thought, but there was BLOOD on his FACE. 

He’d kneeled up on the bed in alarm, and Anders stepped up into him, taking his head in his hands, running his fingers back into his damnably fluffy hair, which Hawke remembered the same instant Anders’s fingers paused on discovering it. “What’s happened to your hair?” he half-laughed, even as his fingertips stroked soothing lines along his scalp, and the feeling of Anders’s body pressed to his own was making certain parts of his anatomy very distracted.

Hawke would not be distracted. Hawke was stubborn like that. “What’s happened to your face??”

“It’s nothing, honest. But where were we? ‘A mage like…?’” Anders leaned in and started to press kisses to his cheek, down his jaw, down his neck. Hawke let out a huff despite himself, and he felt Anders grin against him, felt his hands trace from his head down his arms and to his waist.

“A mage like - like - like a stubborn ass who won’t tell me what happened!” He’d have liked to have said something clever, but Anders was fully leaning against him now, trusting him to support his weight, whilst his hands rested on his hips and he kissed his adoration to Hawke’s neck, the exact spot he knew made Hawke groan and grip at him. 

“Hmm, that doesn’t sound very romantic,” Anders murmured, and pushed a little harder, toppling back to lie on the bed. “Try again,” he said firmly, and he was using his authoritative Warden/Healer/Rebel voice which Hawke thought was deeply unfair, because Anders knew he was helpless against it.

“A mage like - like -” All thought was abandoning him, drowned out by the pounding of his heartin his chest, fierce and strong and exultant to have its beloved returned, and the singing of his blood in his veins. Anders’s eyes were full of fire as he crawled over Hawke’s body, as he lowered his own, as the weight of him settled against his every waking nerve and sent jolts of pleasure from his toes to his skull. He gasped. “Like-”

Anders hummed in satisfaction, and kissed Hawke, flicking his tongue against his lips in way that could only leave Hawke groaning and opening his mouth, letting Anders kiss him even more deeply and claim him completely. Anders rolled his hips against his own and the sensation had Hawke gripping the bedsheets beneath him, mind all but whiting out with the desire to just give in.

With his last ounce of willpower, the tiniest shred and scrap, he gripped Anders between his thighs and flipped them, so that it was Anders flat on his back on the bed, and Hawke hovering over him. He grabbed Anders’s dangerous hands and pinned them above his head, pressed his body down into the mattress with the weight of his own. But even then it was a close thing - the sight of Anders beneath him, breathing hard and dishevelled and with flushed cheeks, and his hardness pressing dangerously close to Hawke’s own - it was only the blood still on Anders’s face that gave him the presence of mind to do anything more than whimper and fall on him again.

“Please just tell me,” he managed to gasp, “that you’re all right.”

The fire in Anders’s eyes banked just a little as they softened. He reached up and traced a hand against Hawke’s face - not a touch meant to arouse, but just to reassure. “I’m fine, love,” he promised, and Hawke believed him.

This time, when she pressed her mouth to his, Alistair did not retreat. His hands crept up her sides, squeezing the tender flesh above her hips as she hooked her legs around his waist, and his tentative tongue intertwined with hers, eliciting a sigh of contented revelry at the warmth he so willingly gave her. Their breaths grew shallow and their kisses forceful as they writhed against one another, each movement more earnest, more desperate than the last. His hands roamed beneath her tunic, fingers drawing delicate circles around her nipples, and when he finally pinched one, just the way she’d taught him to, Nathra sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard.

“Easy,” he murmured, breathless as his thumb traced the line of her jaw.

But Nathra, having finally tasted warmth, didn’t want easy. A primal hunger had taken root in her belly the moment his fingertips met her flesh, and she desperately wished to eat her fill.

So, she doubled down, one hand grasping a fistful of his overgrown locks and holding him in place as she sank her teeth into the side of his neck. A low groan rumbled in his throat and she took it as a request—or at least permission—for more, and bit down harder.

“Wait,” he said, “you’ll give me a mark.”

“And?” Her mouth returned to his skin as quickly as it left, and with renewed urgency.

“Nathra”—a stifled moan broke through his words as she found a new spot to latch onto—“Nathra, please. Zevran will never let me hear the end of it—Morrigan too.”

She chuckled into the crook of his neck. “They will tease you regardless, because you make it too easy.” She bit down again, and the vile curse that fell from his mouth only served as motivation to prolong his torture.

“Nathra,” he said, and her name left his mouth like a plea for mercy.

“If you want me to stop”—she broke away long enough to meet his gaze, nipping at his bottom lip between words—“you’ll have to make me.”

Alistair froze, eyes wide and chest heaving, and she realized she’d never spoken to him this way—no one had spoken to him this way, for there was no one before her—and her face broke into a devilish grin.

She dragged the tip of her tongue along the trail of soon-to-be bruises lining his neck and whispered, “If you want me to stop, then make me.”

The sound of Alistair’s breath hitching in his throat only made his flesh taste sweeter, his tortured yelp of protest like music to her ears as she clung to him, adamant in her refusal to grant him reprieve until he forced her to let go.

“You’re hurting me,” he said, though, if the moan that followed was any indication, it was a pain he thoroughly enjoyed.

Nathra slipped her hands beneath his tunic and raked her nails down his back, digging deep to provoke his ire; she needed to draw the fire from his belly, needed to know if it burned like hers, but he let her. Over and over again, he let her pull and prod and dig and bite—until she met his mouth, trapping his tongue between her determined teeth.

He growled and pulled back, but she pursued, and he slammed one palm flat against the middle of her chest, pinning her to the ground. The moment he heard the smack of her back against the ground, his face crumbled.

“Sweet Andraste,” he said, eyes wide with worry as he cradled her face with both hands. “Have I hurt you?”

“For fuck’s sake, Alistair.” Nathra covered her face with her hands and, knowing it was unfair but unable to stop herself, sighed heavily. She shrugged him off and propped up on her elbows. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy a little pain?”

“I, erm…” He sat back on his heels, gaze averted, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, no, I suppose it hasn’t.” He met her eyes, and spoke softly. “Everywhere we go, something or someone is trying to hurt you. Why would you want me to hurt you too?”

His expression was sheepish, soft and genuine in this heart wrenching way that sent waves of guilt pulsing through her chest.

“Forgive me for being so inexplicably brash,” she said, reaching for his face, and offered a tender caress in reconciliation. He accepted her invitation with a warm, though still bemused, smile, and leaned into her touch.

“All the traveling, fighting, and arguing, and being under constant threat of attack—from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, every muscle is clenched, and even my dreams are torturous.” She stroked his hair, fingers trailing down the slope of his neck and across the bones of his shoulder, a weak smile forming on her lips as she met his gaze. “It’s difficult to explain, but there’s something…cathartic, about receiving pain from someone you feel safe around—someone you know would never truly hurt you.”

Alistair looked at her like she’d spoken another language, eyes wide and brows furrowed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be,” she said, and harnessed every ounce of willpower she could muster to conceal the disappointment in her voice. She plastered a smile to her face and pressed her lips to his, but he stopped her.

“I’d like to try.” His nervous hands flitted from his sides to her shoulders, to her face, and then down the back of his neck, like he just couldn’t be sure where they were meant to go now. “I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m doing here, though, so if you could just—”

Nathra grinned and took his hands. “Start with what you did before, when I bit your tongue.”

“That really did hurt, you know.”

“Alistair.”

“Right, sorry.”

He placed his palm against her chest and guided her onto her back, eyes darting from his hand to her face, and said, “Like this?”

She shook her head and sat up again. “Harder.”

“Right.” He nodded, and his expression was so uncharacteristically serious she had to stifle a chuckle. But he pushed her down again, with more force than he had after she’d bitten him, and though he winced as her back hit the ground, his hand remained, pinning her in place.

“Yes,” she breathed, “just like that.”

He broke into a proud smile that quickly faded into furrowed brows and narrowed eyes; he took on a new role, a different character just for her, because he was wholeheartedly and unabashedly hers.

“Fuck me, Alistair.” Her chest heaved beneath the pressure of his hand, heart thumping against his calloused skin, and his eyes widened under the weight of her demand. A flash of uncertainty clouded his gaze, and she reached for him, hooking her finger beneath his chin and drawing him downward, where he could feel her breath against his lips as she spoke. “I said, fuck me, Alistair.”

She needn’t ask a third time, for he kissed her with reckless abandon, claimed her needy mouth with his wanton tongue until every part of her was pleading for release and when she bucked against him, he forced her down with the weight of his body, holding her in place. Her hands tugged impatiently at the hem of his tunic and the lace of his leathers, and he gave in; he revealed all the parts of him she was so desperate to see, touch, and taste, allowing her lips to wander over his bare skin. She decided to test the waters, to look for the fire a second time, and, taking one nipple between her teeth, she bore down until he cried out.

He pushed her back, unflinching as her body hit the ground, and stripped her of every barrier that remained between them. When her hands reached for him, he pinned her wrists in place, and when her legs wrapped around him, he crushed her beneath his weight; and she inhaled the scent of his sweat and desire, reveling in the power she held over him, and marveling at the power she drew from him with every act of rebellion. She thrust her naked hips up to meet his, and he came down on her harder, gripping fistfuls of hair at the nape of her neck, ruthless mouth latched to her pulse until he’d made his mark, and then—after he’d pulled back to admire his work—he leaned down, voice hushed to a whisper, tickling the lobe of her ear.

“Spread your legs for me.”

She swiftly obeyed and he rewarded her in kind, slipping his fingers inside her as he crushed his mouth against hers. He always set his pace in accordance with her moans, keeping a careful eye on every twitch and twist of her hips to guide his motions; but tonight, he was not careful. Tonight, Alistair was impatient and greedy, because Nathra made him so, and she’d do it again, and again, and again, if he let her—and he would.

He held her wrists above her head as he buried himself within her, a loud, low groan tumbling from his mouth to hers as their lips met. The Alistair who took his time, who ran his fingers across every inch of her skin and planted sweet kisses in the crook of her elbow and the hollow of her throat, was elsewhere, usurped by a man consumed with a singular desire—to fulfill his lover’s demand in every sense of the word. He gave no pause between strokes, deprived her of any opportunity to catch her breath as he filled her over and over, relishing in the sound of his sweat-soaked skin as it smacked against hers.

And Nathra, with her lover’s hands bound up in her hair, pinning her down as he fucked her, face buried in her neck as he claimed her bruised skin, lost any sense of restraint that remained within her. He met her gaze with wild eyes and her lips with a trembling need, and when his hand pushed down on her chest again, every string that once held her together snapped.

“They’ll hear,” he said.

“Let them,” she replied, and her cries carried across the field, but she didn’t care—she couldn’t care, for reality was beyond recognition as Alistair brought her up and over her peak, clutching her tight as he reached his own.

They held one another as they came down, foreheads touching and eyes closed, each wearing a satisfied smile.

“As if the fucking dog barking wasn’t enough!”

“Ah, come on now—they deserve a bit of fun. Perhaps you will consider inviting me next time, no?”

Nathra snorted, belly shaking beneath Alistair’s weight, and she made a half-assed attempt to conceal her laughter with a palm against her mouth. “Guess Morrigan and Zev are still awake.”

“Get it while you can, Alistair! They never stick around for long.”

“Aaaand Oghren, apparently.” Alistair’s body shook against Nathra when he laughed, his breath coming in tiny huffs against her skin. “Great.” He rolled onto his side, gentle eyes meeting hers as he pushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair behind her ears. “Did I…do okay?”

The damned eluvian she had discovered in the forest had been taken over by red lyrium when they burst through, and the ruin with it. It had been too still, she thought, and now she understood that the forest and its Lord had likely quarantined the entire area—forbidden even the wind from trespassing. The only sound in the ruin had been that terrible, terrible hum, a grating noise that set her teeth on edge and made Kieran cry out in pain. What she had hoped to be a safe haven had turned into a trap, and she was momentarily overwhelmed with rage and hatred. She loathed this corrupted lyrium. She hated that her son was connected to it in any way. She despised that witch and the destiny she had unwittingly thrust upon Kieran. Most of all, in that moment she hated herself for thinking that she might find any recourse here.

But there was nothing for it. She could only press onward. If not here, then in the forest. If not the forest, then in the town.

So Morrigan tripped and ran through the Tirashan, and into the Applewoods—and that is where she wind comes crashing down upon her. She is prepared for it; it is not the first time she has breeched the Horned Knight's lands and summoned his attention.

"We must pass through!" she barks at the wind, knowing it will hear her through the thick magic of her shield. "I proved myself to you before—I vow I shall return to you again in three days to pay the toll, but you must let us through!"

A flock of crows bursts out of the trees in front of her, too low to the ground to be anything but a manifestation of the forest's protective will, just the same as this gale. In the wake of their swirling feathers, Morrigan sees that the trees have parted.

"You are in danger," the Horned Knight says, "and I would not bring that danger upon my children and subjects. You may pass, using my green roads. But if you do not wish for your pursuer to see the path you take, you cannot see the path you take." The Horned Knight pauses, and his inscrutable gaze passes over Kieran's form slumped over her shoulder. "Walk with your eyes closed, and you will find the safe haven you seek. Return in the same way in three days."

Morrigan is too winded to voice how tired she is of riddles. Instead, she shakes Kieran roughly, pats his cheek. His owl-like eyes open just a crack.

"Almost," she breathes, pushing his hair back from his brow. He is slightly feverish, she thinks, and curses herself again. "My love, 'tis the last leg of our journey, and it shall be a test. We must keep our eyes closed, no matter what sounds or visions await us. Do not open your eyes unless I have deemed it safe. Am I clear?"

"Yes, mother," he rasps. "Do you need me to walk?"

Yes, scream her arms, and her back, and her legs. "No," she says gently. "Promise me that you will not raise even one lash, and I shall carry you to the end of the earth if I must."

He nods.

She assumes the form of a bear for this journey, and the Horned Knight makes no protest. She does not need her eyes if she has her nose; she can keep her mana focused on this barrier of stealth, as long as she has her claws and teeth to defend herself. And most of all, she can carry her son on her back just a little more easily. He knows where to grasp her, where he can bury his face in her fur to hide from wind and woe.

And Morrigan plunges into the greenery.

What follows is a journey she cannot describe, except that it defied any nightmare she had ever had. Thorns lashed at her, brambles tore at her feet, but she did not waver, for Kieran has reached into her mind to whisper: "The green paths sing differently than the mirrors do, but all the roads lead to the same place." Though she knows not what he meant, she had long learned to trust his cryptic comforts. Now is different. Even if the air itself seems to burn and push back against her. The wind, at least, stops screaming.

This place is no longer green, Morrigan knows, though she does not open her eyes to see it. She can feel it well enough—the corruption that has seeped into the earth, like a toxin in the water, and the malice it brings. It is the same corruption that lingers in her beloved's blood; it is the same ancient awareness she sometimes senses in her son's eyes. But it is all wrong.

She begins to suspect what toll it is she must pay, when she returns to the Horned Knight in three days.

When at last she stumbles from the "green paths," she is ready to forsake the form of a bear forever. Her hands are bloody when she reverts, but when she turns to assess Kieran she finds that he, blessedly, was untouched by the dread magics of that in-between place. She falls to her knees, still bracing him up; it is her blood that is smeared across his silver breastplate, not his.

Behind her, she hears the familiar shrill whistle of the Silent Hunter. She bows her head forward and rests her cheek over Kieran's heart.