#diem.

He is waiting in her quarters, standing on the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. He knows the way she walks, he knows the scent of her perfume from across the room, he knows it’s her. He takes his mask and helmet off as she approaches, turning towards her. He sets the metal down on the railing and runs his hand through his hair. ( in truth, it is getting almost as long as hers. ) 

“Ma belle.” First it had been ‘my lady’, then ‘Herald’, then ‘Inquisitor’, then ‘cherie’, now ‘ma belle’, whispered low and reverential. His demeanor must have been serious enough to give her pause, because she does not approach for a kiss in greeting- instead freezing by the glass doors of her balcony. ( How did they get to this point? Greeting with kisses and endless nights tangled up? He spends more time with her than his men, a fact they do not let him forget. )

How could he begin? 

He must, regardless. He is a Chevalier, not a snake hiding under a rock. He will not be a viper at court, using her to play the Game- - because she would never use him. ( Maker, what did he do right to deserve her? Perhaps it’s a punishment- - the fear he lives in for her now, how each wound on her alabaster skin is a knife to his heart, the jealousy that consumes him when he sees her Commander leaning forward to tell her something. Torture, worse than he could have imagined. )

He must do this, or he could never live with himself.

( At Halamshiral, before they were presented at court, he caught her left hand in his and slid a ring on her finger. A large, deep purple stone surrounded by diamonds. ‘Only for tonight, to show them that you are with me, so I do not have to kill every man who looks at you.’ Oh, how he still wanted to. )

“This arrangement- -” Them, bound together by their parents, that they had no say in. “Does not have to go forward.” Grim, his gaze straightforward and looking slightly past her. “You could have any man you’d wish; the wishes of your family do not need to guide you anymore. You are the most powerful woman in Thedas; an arrangement made before you became thus does not hold you any longer.” 

This is worse than Adamant, than facing Gaspard at Halamshiral, than lying in the hot sun of the Western Approach with blood filling his lungs and waiting for death to finally take him. Releasing her from whatever imagined bond of duty their parents imposed upon them- - and risking losing her, having her choose someone else. It would destroy him, well and truly, but he could only accept it.

She must, he must- - he would not keep her if she did not want him. She was worth so much more than that. ( In truth, so much more than he could ever give her. But he’d give her all she could ever ask for him or die trying. )

“Say the word, and we can call it off. My men and I will stay until the endeavor is finished, you do not need worrying about losing our might. But I will not hold you to a bond you do not choose yourself, cherie. I love you too much to ever do so.” 

An easy arrangement, two disgraceful, disobedient children of high birth- - he never expected to love her. He wasn’t supposed to, and yet- - 

| @ofthedas | 

Duke Jean-Marc Blanchard’s pale gold mask remained on its stand with the red plumage marking him as a chevalier. The sun warmed his face high up on the ramparts where he had asked her to climb with him, no easy path from the floor of Skyhold to its outer-upper reaches. His freckles darkened almost immediately, the color high in his cheeks. He was not used to being so exposed to the sun, but he did not mind at the moment.

There were more important things, like the way the wind tangled itself in her dark hair, the sound of her laughter as he took her hand and pulled her up to his vantage point. It was a bit athletic to get up there, but with a partner it was much easier. The view, he had thought previously, was worth it, but now he found himself unable to look at the high peaks surrounding them.

He did not have to worry about smudges on his cheek when he wore his mask. 

Diem’s touch his delicate as she smiled up to him and rubbed her thumb over his cheek bone, the ensuing flush spreading down below the ties of his shirt. He felt exposed in that moment, his mask another piece of armor in the Grand Game, but this was not part of that. (Their betrothal? Yes. But not what followed, not this.) 

He caught her wrist in his hand and turned his lips to kiss her palm. (There, the warmth of his blush and the chill of her palm. Had he worn his mask- - ) He turned his head to rest his cheek in her hand, closing his eyes. He felt her touch down his spine, in his chest, at the back of his skull. He hadn’t let go of her wrist yet, was not quite willing to relinquish the feeling of her hand on his face. 

@gildedfaith | wehAs all things, she fit in his lap like she was made for it. It was enough to hold her like this, to wrap his arms around her and keep her close for however long they had. He felt the stress of it- of her being in danger at all times, of the world ending, of Court and Orlais and their nation’s own problems- fall off of him. If only for a moment, if only for however long he could steal. ( He had never claimed to not be selfish, a greedy mess, and, Maker, he was no different with her. ) 

All was right as he leaned his head back to allow her access to more of him. No fear from him as she explored and took her time. She handled his previous trepidation with gentleness and understanding, avoided the scars that made him jump, didn’t ask of his past or his pain. She simply loved, and broke his heart in doing so. He was nothing but her plaything in moments like this. He’d do whatever she wanted, whatever she asked of him, if only to make her happy. 

How did you get here, Jean-Marc? 

He had plenty of freckles- he gained them easy, it felt like even through his clothes. Her lips found as many as she could and she pulled happy little noises from him. His lips found her hair and he pressed a long kiss against her. He committed the way she smelled to memory, the heat of her in his lap. 

And I love you. All of you, catches in his throat. 

He can’t stand it. He can’t stand whatever she was doing to him. 

He pulled back from her and shifted his hands so he could kiss her properly, steal her lips from his freckles. He pulled her closer against his chest and gripped her like he was against she’d turn to smoke, to dust in his arms. And I love you. All of you. Every piece, down to the damned green mark on your hand. 

The whole world was waiting on news from the Conclave. Some chevaliers recalled to Val Royeaux from the Dales, expecting deployment against the mages or celebration for an end to the war, Maker bless Divine Justinia V for her wisdom, long may she reign on the Sunburst Throne. Duke Jean-Marc Blanchard waited, bored, trapped among vipers at his family estate. ( He was due to be married, you know. His fiancee was attending the Conclave. She was a bard, like his own father wanted to be when he was young, for House Valmont. He was told it was very exciting and brave. He did not care. ) 

He waited. 

An explosion, the Most Holy dead with all the rest. All the rest. Including her. Oh. 

He did not care.

It was better this way. He could go off to the Dales, die with honor like he should have those years ago, and finally be free from The Game and his family, and he wouldn’t torture the poor girl for the rest of her life. The Maker spared her from him, at least.

News, or whatever information could come. 

What mattered: 

She was alive, though the rest had died. 

Oh.  A letter, written quickly. A Chevalier can ride faster than anyone else in Thedas, and the men under Jean-Marc were just as skilled as he on horseback. I am on my way. 

What else could he do? He had a duty, no? 

The Commander was pure Fereldan posturing and sabre rattling. 

( A unit of Orlesian Chevaliers riding into Haven at due haste after the Chantry denounced them? As if the fledgling Inquisition didn’t have enough problems. Either they were about to mount an invasion or Orlais had sent specialists to claim the Herald. Either way, unless something changed, blood would be drawn. )

Their leader stood his ground at the gates as if he had every right to be there, refusing to disarm, his mask causing his voice to echo as he yelled back at Cullen, his voice strangely amplified. ( Funny how Orlesians wore those masks even in battle. Perhaps this was why. ) 

@veilsong | 

Orlesians. 

Ten years on from the Blight, four decades from the occupation, Shaw was still slow to trust anyone born west of the Frostbacks. Their Game and their dithering- awful. Saving the world required to put allegiances and petty grudges aside, however. 

The Arl left his city in trusted hands and went to see what was going on for himself. ( When dear Lelianna sent the raven asking about the Wardens, he did not respond. He simply showed up to Haven. ) A mess, but at least they were trying. So he stayed. Picked up arms and followed again. It felt good. He missed this life- of sleeping rough and fighting through whole armies. 

This current operation required some- - well, someone who could take an ogre down solo. Shaw had the experience- and the gall. It was an easy choice. He observed the monster from up the cliff, his blood humming. The monster felt it, too, growing agitated on the isolated beach. Shaw did not hear the Herald approach, his focus so intent on the beast. ( The Calling was worse with a Darkspawn so near. He was not as sharp as he used to be. He had not thought he’d go to the Deep Roads so soon, but it looked like whenever this business was done- - - ) Spooked, his left hand went to the pommel of his greatsword and he was ready to draw when- oh. 

Orlesians. 

There was a breath of contemplation, the man frozen. Usually he managed to keep people away by his surly nature and scowl. If they made it past that and were rude about it, he’d cut them down without mercy. But a kiss for luck before a dangerous endeavor? Shaw would not have suggested it, was not particularly interested in such things, but if it’d make her feel better- - -