#davrin week

Davrin couldn’t disagree that some of the worst monsters he’d ever encountered were people shaped. Elgar’nan came to mind, as well as the Venatori like Aelia, and the First Warden who’d ordered the griffons to be blighted during the fourth Blight, but Davrin had met more people that were either simply indifferent or good than he’d met evil people. 

Assan chirped, settling beside where Davrin sat on a log, Rook’s latest letter in hand. The Warden reached out and idly scratched the griffon behind the ears. “What do you think Rook’s got to say this time?” he asked.

Assan responded by nipping at the edge of the paper. 

Davrin laughed, “I see.” He considered the scrawled ink on the page. The last two letters Rook had detailed his current location in the Free Marches and talked about the current state of things. He’d written about following up on people’s tips on where to find openings to the Deep Roads, and how people were trying to reclaim their homes or farmland from the Blight. 

Honestly, the letters seemed to be the antithesis of the Warden Davrin had spent the past year working with to save the world.  Who was this Rook that came across in these letters? Was there some side of Rook that he hadn’t seen?

He shook his head, remembering how the other Warden’s lips curled in contempt as he regarded some of the people they’d overheard on the dock outside the Cobbled Swan. One of the women had been talking to another about how she had an allowance and debated using it to help some of the residents of Dock Town, and another asking how that would actually help. 

“People will talk about helping, but they never do,” Rook had declared. “It makes them feel better to talk about it without ever having to lift a finger and actually do something useful.”

Davrin had rolled his eyes at the human Warden. “Really, Rook? We’re here right now to help Neve. How can you say that people never help? People like Neve, like the Viper? They’re heroes.  And we’re Wardens. Wardens literally exist to fight the blight, darkspawn, and to save people.”

Rook glanced scornfully at him, “Just because you help people, just because you save people and you act like a hero doesn’t mean you’re a good person, Davrin. Oh sure, you’re a good person, Neve is a good person, but people in general?” He;d given a dismissive shake of his head.

Creators, Rook drove Davrin crazy with his cynicism. He rubbed his forehead and turned his gaze back to the letter from Rook, wondering what revelations this one might contain. 

Davrin,

I hope your search for a new site for the Grey Warden headquarters with Evka and Antoine is going well. It’ll be a lot of work, I’m sure, but it will be worth it. It will give the Wardens a place to call home. (this last line was scratched out but Davrin could still read it)

The Wardens couldn’t ask for better leadership right now than Evka and Antoine. She guided the Wardens through the fall of Weisshaupt, when First Warden Glastrum would have only led them to utter ruin.

People are rebuilding here in Starkhaven. I met Varric’s friend Aveline, the guard captain he wrote about in ‘Tales of the Champion.’ Viscountess Aveline Vallen is a formidable woman. She’s steady, just the kind of leadership the survivors from Kirkwall need right now. There’s been some talk of the Kirkwall survivors returning to Kirkwall to see what they can rebuild, but for now they remain in Starkhaven. Aveline told me with everything Kirkwall has been through, it might be better for many of the people to stay in Starkhaven and build new homes here, or to find somewhere new. 

I wish you could have met Varric. He’s one of the few people I’ve ever really had faith in other than Evka and Antoine. He really believed he could stop Solas. Solas had been his friend, once, and he cared about saving that friend. And the bastard ended up killing him, maybe not completely intentionally, but he stabbed Varric when he tried to interfere with Solas’s ritual and it killed him.

Davrin frowned a little when he noticed there were tear stains on the paper. Had Rook been crying when he wrote this? 

The Warden realized then that Rook had never told him much about the night of Solas’s ritual. He’d described the ritual itself very briefly, mentioned Solas had killed Varric when he’d interrupted the elf, and how Solas had ended up freeing the Evanuris, but he hadn’t talked about how Solas had killed Varric. In fact he’d never talked about his grief over losing the dwarf, even after he’d returned from the Fade Prison.

Davrin remembered the horror in Neve’s expression when she realized that Rook had thought Varric had been alive the entire time, and hadn’t realized the dwarf had died the night of the ritual, all because Solas had used blood magic to mess with Rook’s mind. How much had it hurt the other Warden to realize his friend was dead, and that he had no time to mourn because the world still needed saving.

Davrin winced at the thought. Rook had been so utterly focused on their plan to retake Minrathous and the fight against Elgar’nan and his forces. Rook had buried himself in work to cover his grief. Within days of their victory over Elgar’nan, Rook had asked Evka and Antoine to accompany a few of the Wardens they were sending south to help Southern Thedas recover from the Blight.

On the heels of their victory, instead of taking time for himself and to grieve, Rook had immediately thrown himself into another form of work. Just thinking about it made Davrin’s heart ache.

He forced himself to finish reading the letter while he grappled with these thoughts.

I intend to use Starkhaven as a base of operations for the rest of the time I’m here in the South. I’ll likely travel within a few days of the city to help deal with darkspawn and help people in the countryside, but if anyone needs to get a hold of me, they can send a letter or messenger to Starkhaven. Bellara knows which Eluvian is closest. It’s within a few hours walk of the city, so not too far. 

You know you can write back to me, right? I’d like to know how things are going for you all up north. Neve and Emmrich are already sending me letters regularly letting me know how they are doing. I wouldn’t mind if you did the same, alright?

In the meantime, you can plan what our next argument will be about.

Take care of yourself and give Assan treats and ear scritches for me.

Yves Thorne, Rook.

Rook wanted Davrin to write him back? He was asking Davrin to actually correspond with him? And he was actually being pleasant towards Davrin in his letters? 

Had Rook been replaced by a demon or something? Maybe he should talk to Neve and Emmrich and ask that question.

Davrin shouldn't be nervous.

Granted, he's in the passenger seat of a shitty barely functional car and has been for the better part of what he would guess has been a half hour. With the sway of the vehicle, it's difficult to fully tell how long they've been traveling. Or what sort of roads they've been on. Whether the journey has been made on twisting turning back or on main thoroughfares, he wouldn't know. That's the point of a blindfold, he supposes.

So yeah, he probably shouldn't be nervous.

"You gonna tell me where you're taking me?" he grumbles, grasping blindly at the door as the car hangs a sharp left at far too fast a speed. "Or at least give some good clues as to where someone can find my body?"

From the driver's seat comes an amused hum. "Oh, don't be so dramatic," Silvia huffs. The blinker clicks on softly unlike during the preceding turn. "I'll be sure to leave a map, but whoever comes will have to solve my riddles three before they get to you."

He snorts. "I always figured you were more of, like, a witch in the middle of the woods that lures in unsuspecting travelers to keep in your basement." A laugh is barked out in response. The corners of his lips curl upward. His cheeks brush against the bottom edge of her scarf that is tied securely over his eyes. "I guess a bridge troll works, too."

She sucks her tongue against her teeth, a habit he assumes she must have picked up from her grandmother. "Are you calling me a troll because I'm short?" 

"No, I'm calling you a troll because you like to try to rage bait me every chance you get." This garners another laugh. Not quite as elegant and graceful as she often likes to present herself in certain situations but, rather, open and loud. The way she's been since they've met. He admires that in her even if she chalks it up to being insane or having had a bad childhood. That vulnerability can't be all bad as far as he's concerned. "Also you're clever and damn good at puzzles."

A beat of silence passes. The blinker clicks on again. "Am I a pretty troll?" she wonders. He can hear the grin on her lips.

Not smiling back would be an impossible feat, so he doesn't attempt it. "You're a very pretty troll."

As it turns out, being a very pretty troll is exactly who she wants to be. He can't see her, but she shifts in her seat. A clear picture can be painted with her squared shoulders, the little smirk on her lips as she watches the road, her eyes cutting back to him briefly. Something stirs in his heart the way it usually does. An excited sputtering like an hyperactive rabbit who made itself at home in his body the moment they met. 

"Is it meant to rain?" Certainly a shift in conversation, though not one he is opposed to taking. He's pretty much out of compliments that can be given to trolls.

He leans forward as if he is able to see through the front windshield. Likely, the sky is cast in a pale grey given the fact that the sun was out just a bit earlier. Maybe thirty minutes by his best estimations. A quiet warm light accompanied by the birds singing high in the trees. Insects buzzing in bushes and along flowers. Spring is in full effect, so it isn't farfetched to think that it could rain even if it had been clear not long ago. "Looks like it might," he confirms. It's not like she doesn't talk out her ass from time to time with the confidence of a decorated scholar. 

"Right?" A change in terrain is evident when the smooth ride from the road turns into a bumpy vibrating mess. He grips onto the door out of habit. Silvia isn't a bad driver per se. She just has little regard for traffic laws… or her own well being. While he cannot see where she's taken their vessel, he wouldn't be too surprised to find she took them off roading because the person in front of them has been going under the speed limit for the last ten minutes. 

The laugh she exhales through her nose is barely perceptible as they bound over a gravel road. Hardly a whisper in a space filled with clattering joints and creaking bones. She really needs a new car. "Hey!" she barks, voice bouncing with the car. "You can't even fucking see." Perceptive, this one. He grins at the faux offense she's taking at his charade. "You don't know shit about the weather right now."

"I'm honestly a little impressed it took you this long to realize." She mutters something under her breath. He isn't certain exactly what she says, but it sounds a bit like This fucking guy. "Don't be mad at me that you asked a blind guy what the weather is looking like. That's a personal problem."

Without much warning, the car lurches forward when her foot slams onto the brake. Likely, this is mildly annoyed retribution for a silly joke. Not too far off from something he might have done, though he'd like to think that he might have just thrown his own car in neutral to let her sputter in a brief moment of anxiety. The Pontiac, however, likely couldn't handle such a maneuver. Slamming on the brakes like this is trial enough for the bucket of bolts, so it's for the best they remain here upon her abrupt stop.

What he doesn't anticipate is her shifting the car into park all while muttering, "I'll show you a personal problem." The driver's side door opens with a groan and then closes again with a shriek. He makes a note to attempt to oil the hinges later if it's not raining. Gravel crunches outside the perimeter of the car, so they're somewhere far enough away from his house that any sort of residual traffic or noise pollution from the city has faded into nothingness. Wherever they've landed is on a gravel road. Also it might rain. His door swings out from under his grip with noticably less squeaking than the other. "We're here."

Her voice is softer now. Like how she'll speak as they chat over ice cream late at night. She will ask him about his day and listens intently no matter how little she really understands. Asking questions. Staring at him with eyes filled with an affection he sometimes isn't sure how to hold. She grasps his hand after he disentangles himself from the convoluted seatbelt that he almost makes him understand why she was so opposed to wearing a belt when they met. Almost.

Feet meet the poorly laid gravel. He grimaces, working on maintaining his footing on the uneven ground. No wonder her car felt like they were rattling around inside an empty can. "Can I take this thing off now?" he grumbles. Mostly, he's concerned that one misstep will lead him to fall directly onto his face. The smaller, more diluted part of him wonders if her grandmother in her waning months is finally taking a hit out on him. He's not entirely convinced they came by their money way back during some Industrial Revolution scheme in Italy and Spain back in the day. In fact, he wouldn't be shocked if Nonna sent a guy or two to sleep with the fishes in her prime.

"Not yet." There is an edge in Silvia's voice. She sounds… excited, if not a little anxious. He's almost affronted over the fact that he has no idea what she's planning. It's rare she is able to keep something from him, though he supposes he deserves more than ever to be kept in the dark from time to time. "Come on."

Each step they take feels an ocean's length. Long strides made at uneven paces on even more uneven ground. He'll be lucky if he makes it out of this unscathed at this point. Tripping and landing in the bed of pebbles feels more like an inevitability than a possibility at this point. Even so, an excitement churns in his gut. Maybe it is more anxious than excited, much like her voice, but he's not feeling particularly inclined to question it. Her hand is warm in his for once, and that's enough to keep him trodding along behind her like an obedient puppy. 

Fuck, sometimes he wonders who this person is. The one she unwrapped so easily from the moment she opened her mouth at that bar. A carefully contained flame that had been left untouched for quite sometimes. One the laid in wait for something that was likely never going to pay much mind to intricate bows or meticulously folded layers. But she saw this burning and watched it not unlike a cat watching a reflection of light from a watch face jump around on a shadowed patch of wall. Carefully. Excitedly. Expectantly. A fire that burns too bring and too long for the wrong reasons. One that will stay lit even in the dreariest and most unwanting of circumstances. Resilient, he has always told himself. Undeterred. Bull-headed and blind, he should have realized. Seeing what he hoped for instead of what was really in front of him. There has never been any fear or disdain held for him or how much he feels. Only a wild childlike wonder that glitters in her eyes as she holds his entire heart in the palm of her clammy hands. Even in moments where he has deserved far less than that.

He suspects he's been in love with her basically since the moment they met, and he's told her that much. On several occasions, actually. He's spent a lot of the last few months reminding her that he loves her. Saying it. Repeating it. Showing it. That sort of unerring adoration must be earned even if she has proven that it will be given willingly and with little stipulation, and he's working his hardest to to just that.

Much like in the car, she stops suddenly in front of him. His feet skid along the gravel, his balance threatening to give out on him to leave him to crush her beneath his weight. "Stay here," she whispers as if he would go anywhere else even if he wasn't blindfolded. The most terrifying part of all of this—past the mystery drive, past the shitty jokes—is that he would follow her just about anywhere given the opportunity, blind or not. He is no stranger to love, to wanting, to yearning. Not to diving into a shiny new thing headfirst just because he wants it. Not to digging his heels so far into the sand it would take a miracle to change his mind.

This blind trust in another person knowing full well they could light his entire world on fire with the single flicker of a match? That is all new to him. An unknown frontier he's wandered into and would explore forever given the option. It's terrifying, but what is life without a little risk?

Her scarf falls from his eyes with a simple tug, despite how long she spent finicking with the knot initially. Gravel shifts beneath her feet behind him as she fidgets. A nervous habit sometimes but more often than not a (mostly) endearing side effect from being a creature that is unable to sit in one place for very long. The overcast light assaults his eyes at first in a searing blaze. Thank god it isn't as sunny anymore, he supposes. 

He blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust. One presses shut as the other works in a manic effort to help him get his bearings. They are not in the middle of a field she decided to use as a shortcut. In fact, it appears they are in someone's ill-maintained driveway. Weeds poke up through the already sparse gravel. Slivers of grass and clover have poked their heads up toward the hiding sun. The edges of the driveway give way to an overgrown yard on either side. Though the edges are a little blurry for his liking, wildflowers grow high between swatches of tall grass. Blues and purples and pinks. Brilliant golds and browning whites. A beautiful array in an otherwise overgrown jungle.

Before them stands a house. That term feels a little generous, though. The building stands tall but a little crooked with time and wear. A set of stairs sits in a state of disrepair leading from the edge of the driveway that has mostly been taken over by a patch of mugwort. The third step is missing completely while the others have planks that are half rotted. Creeping vines have wrapped themselves around every post holding up the sagging porch, which appears to wrap around the better part of the home itself.

Barely alive greenery smothers what looks to be a turret on the second or maybe even third story. He can make out the sky from the other through the smashed in windows, but at the far end, he can just make out what he thinks to be an old stained glass window. Siding has fallen off in large sheets and litters the grass with glittering droplets of broken glass. If not for the fact that these things were suffocating the foliage, he might have admired the odd sad beauty of it all.

Shingles are missing from the odd angles and shapes of the roof. Points and slopes are planes are left in disarray with patches that have blown off on the wind or sunken into the few blatant holes. It is an odd house. One that reminds him of dollhouses they show in movies. A little Victorian, gothic, and outright weird, but it also lacks that distinct creepiness that usually accompanies dolls, which he's silently grateful for.

He glances about the large yard that is surrounded by tall oak trees. Leaves dance on the breeze, singing a song of weather that has yet to reach the ground. The breeze is sharp and earthy in his head as he breathes it in. It is the scent that comes right before a thunder storm. The sort that sends kids racing home on their bikes trying in vain to outrun the rain. That leaves windows cracked open to let the cool air in but not the wet from outside. Maybe she's right. It could very well rain.

When he looks over to her, he finds Silvia chewing on the inside of her cheek, staring at this old building. Or rather, something in front of it. He follows her eye line to a For Sale sign that has seen better days. Color has been stripped away by days or months or years in the sun. Laminate is peppered with bug guts and dirt. There is a picture of a realtor, but he'll be damned if he can make out a single feature on the person's face.

"So is this where you kill me?" he wonders, breaking the perfect silence that can be found in the atmosphere before a storm. 

Her gaze flicks up to him, brows furrowing. "Be for real, jackass," she grunts, shoving his shoulder.

The corners of his mouth lift when she bites back her own smile. "I am being for real." Arms fold over his chest as he returns to his appraisal of the vacant property. "You brought me to this abandoned haunted house blindfolded. You've got to be up to no good."

She drags the pad of her thumb over the side of her index finger, no doubt rubbing at the callous there. It's a tic she has had for so long and does so often the skin it rough to the touch. Even when she digs her nail into it, she comes back with nothing but red half moons staring back at her. No blood. No broken skin. Nothing. He fights the urge to pull her hand into his. Run a gentle touch over the rough patch. Sooth a nerve he knows with remain pinched.

"I wanted to know what you think," she explains quietly. "About… this." He thinks this place might need to be knocked down, and if not, it's in need of a serious face lift. "Things have been rough, and I just… I don't know. I wanted something for us."

His eyes drift back to the house. To its hazardous staircase. Onto the sagging porch. Over the peeling siding. Across the patchy roof. Through the shattered bay windows of the turret. Back down to the ancient sign that lays on the grass. The earth at the end of the stake is dark, damp, fresh. He returns his stare to her, finding her watching the house like it might come to life and snatch them out of the driveway.

"Silvie, what's going on here?"

She blinks those saucer eyes at the house—three times in total—and then looks up at him. "I sold my apartment." Quite the admission even if it's not surprising in the least. More and more of her things have been crowding the space in his tiny house. Not that he minds entirely. He's just glad she's there. She could be a little neater if he really had to grasp at something, but that's neither here nor there. "And you won't let me take you on an airplane for a honeymoon, so I thought… well, I guess I didn't think so much because now that I am thinking about it this should have been more of a discussion—"

"Sil."

"Like, I had this whole big reveal of this thing, but no, we should have discussed things first because it's a lot of work. It'll take so much time and effort. On top of that, you have work. I have work. There are so many stupid factors involved here—"

"Silvie."

"Viago told me this was a stupid idea, and I thought 'some fucking thought this guy has.' I mean, he wouldn't know romance if it came up and punched him in his stupid fucking face. I told him 'nah, this is gonna be great'. Now, we're here and I don't even know what to say, and—"

"Silvia!"

Her mouth snaps shut mid-sentence, lips pressed together in a tight line. The look of a child who unsuccessfully tired to explain why her hand was in the cookie jar. She sucks her cheeks in, biting down hard at the insides of her cheeks. Either she is trying to keep herself from rattling off further or bursting into tears. Each option is equally likely by his count, so when she takes a tiny step toward him, he scolds himself for not considering the third door (sometimes, window) she always manages to weasel her way through. 

A shaky breath is sucked through her nose before she starts again, "I know you love your house." He does. It's the first thing that was ever his. Bought off auction for pennies, he gutted what was a little shack ready for demolition and turned it into a tiny haven just outside of the suburbs. The house leaves a lot to be desired by way of space and amenities, but it's his. "I know you do, but it's… it's so small."

That's by design. This space was created with only his occupancy in mind. For years, it was perfect. A place to crash between shifts. To hunker down in during periods of time off. He's never had to host anyone because he doesn't have the space. Usually, other people are more inclined to host due to the fact that he has exactly three chairs and a loveseat. It is a house that has suited his needs very well.

"And I don't know." She curls the hand that's been fidgeting into a fist, and the ring on her finger catches the dull light of the sky. "I wanted something that we could both be a part of." A shrug. "I have a lot of money in the trust fund from my dad that's just sitting there."

"That's your money." He is hardly broke. Davrin is a good saver. He's smart with his money. Little spending on frivolous things leads to high yield savings accounts. For a rainy day. An emergency fund. The sort of things her bizarre family didn't seem to give much thought to. "You should keep it for you."

She scoffs. "What? No, that's stupid." Her arms fold over her chest. "It's for both of us, and I want to use it for this." Last he checked her philanderer father didn't have Davrin's name on such an account. "And you don't get to tell me what to do. You're not my supervisor."

He considers arguing. That she should save that money for when they might need it. For when she might need it. But what would the point in that be? She clearly has her mind set on this place—of all places, this damn project house. As a stubborn ass himself, he has finally learned that when ramming a rock against a hard place no one wins. Every instinct he has ever had wants to tell her this was a mistake. That they should have discussed this first. That this is a decision they should make together, not one day when she decides she wants to rebuild a dollhouse with him. 

Davrin a year ago would have fought this. 

However, Davrin a year ago also never had anyone buy him a house, so he thinks it all might even out.

Glancing back at the sad sagging skeleton of the house, he sighs. He shakes his head, and with it, a laugh comes. "This is going to be a huge undertaking. You know that, right?" Her eyes shift back up to him, a sparkling returning to them amid the anxiety that still flutters around her. "Like, you're crazy for this kind of huge."

She shrugs again. "I don't know. We usually figure it out," she replies, digging the toe of her sneaker into the gravel.

God, always with the fucking flying by the seat of her pants. He thought he was bad with it. Then little miss giving a man she barely knows a key to her apartment flew into his life and decided everything needed shuffling. A tornado that picked him up and tossed him right into a technicolor dreamland. The best agent of chaos he has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

He realizes now that he has effectively been recruited into the agency of chaos simply by knowing her. At this point, he might has well be second in command for setting a wedding date with her. Hell, they're basically co-owners with this money pit of a house thrown into the mix.