#fahleon

Name: Fahleon Lavellan Race/Class/Specialization: Dalish elf/Archer/Assassin Gender Identity: Nonbinary

Varric’s nickname for them: Smiles

Recruitment Mission: The Wardens are gone, or missing, or in hiding - possibly all three. They’ve always been a mystery, usually for the best, but with the threat of a possible Archdemon and an ancient Tevinter Magister, the Inquisition would be a little safer with a Warden’s knowledge and skills by their side. There’s few reports of Warden activity in Fereldan or Orlais, but what of elsewhere? The best Warden to ask where to hide is a deserter, perhaps. 

He'd found a sturdy seat instead and planted himself there ever since, hands folded tight in front of him to keep the mana jumping restlessly between his fingers from igniting anything of importance. His heel had tapped a shallow dip in the muddy ground and there was soon to be another if he hadn't a distraction as his other leg took up the job.

Watching the comings and goings of the recruits had been something to do, and his wandering mind had drifted to wondering what they'd done before making their way to the Wardens - or what they'd done to get themselves there. It was a challenge when he had little experience of the outside world and its people and what sort of positions could be held, and he'd come to an abrupt halt when an elf sat down across the fire pit from him. Just what had he done to get himself there?

The elf looked as nervous as he felt - a pale face set with glossy, red-rimmed eyes. Long hair obscured half of his face but thin, intricate tattoos wound their way across his cheeks and up to a sweat-beaded brow in a delicate whirls. With his arms crossed over his knees, he was bent forward, deep exhales ending in a sharp whine as he wheezed. Perhaps he'd been forced into it. Leverette knew all to well of the templar raids on the Dalish clans in Fereldan; one raid might have pressed him into leave his home in search for another. Although, instead of a staff at his shoulder, there was a bird.

That, had Levy's attention.

Of all the people to see here, of all times -

The elf raised his eyes at the sound of his hiccup and there was no mistaking the deep gold freckled in the dark irises staring him down, gaze as harp as the thin line his mouth made as he frowned. Not when that same gaze had haunted his nights, watching him in the dark from one tree or another as he went through a bed time routine with his father at the cabin on the edge of the forest.

Something brightened in the elf's eyes, as well, and it broke through the clouds fogging his expression for a moment. Leverette struggled to his feet and made his shaky way over.

"You're...you're the elf. From -"

"You're the shem," the Dalish agreed. Levy couldn't look away from him.

"You grew you're hair out."

The corner of Fahleon's mouth twitched. "You grew wrinkles."

Levy rubbed at the space between his brows with a thumb and gave a weak chuckle. "The Circle will do that to you. You..what happened? After...after..."

"The attack?" Fahleon shrugged. "They left."

"They didn't come for you when it was over?" Fahleon shook his head and Levy felt something in his chest loosen. "Is it...is the house - is it still there?"

"Last time I checked." Levy blinked. "It's been a while since I've needed to. I don't know the current state."

"Thank you," Levy sighed, and he thought his legs would give out if he didn't sit sometime soon again. There was space besides the elf, and he took it, flushing when it earned him a set of raised brows. "It's a strange place to meet up, isn't it? Funny, too, I suppose."

"I'm laughing on the inside."

Levy snorted. "How did you end up here?"

"Darkspawn got me sick. It was die then or die later."

The elf didn't ask for a reciprocating answer, but Levy felt he deserved one anyway, and the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I had a high risk of demon possession. The First Enchanter thought to protect me by putting me though the Harrowing to prove to the templars I was capable and Duncan just happened to be there when I came out of it, Enchanter and all." He shrugged.

"That's the problem with all the shem towers. Nothing better to do than talk about demons. Start seeing them everywhere."

"And what do you see all the time?"

"Elfroot."

He'd never talked to the elf before. He'd felt his presence, sharp and heavy as it was on his shoulders, constantly. It had grown into a sort of comfortable weight, after a while, when he'd grown used to being watched. He understood it to a point - he and his father had been trespassers in an area known for trespassing. It was easier to put an end to the problem before it became a problem, and the hunters assigned to watch for any signs had done their jobs effectively. In the Circle, the feeling of eyes was a sick and twisted feeling, felt in the gut more than on his shoulders. It never became comfortable, only taking a tighter hold of his insides and yanking when it pleased to remind him that he would never be free. His hands sparked again and he wiped them on his pants.

"Can you..." Levy licked his lips. "Can you watch me, again? In case I do something stupid."

Fahleon hadn’t seen much of Raya lately, but he took his accustomed place at the window in the kitchens she worked in nonetheless. He didn’t miss her excitable chatting - that wasn’t the right word he’d use, at least. He was bored, maybe, without the antics he was usually caught in whenever she was around, but he didn’t miss the headache that came with it. 

“Want me to make you one of your favorite pies?”

It was back in full force today, pounding behind his eyes in time with the dull, throbbing ache in his side. 

Fahleon sent her a narrowed eyed look and tried not to move too suddenly when Raya shooed him from the windowsill to pull down the fruits hanging above it to dry. He winced and leaned heavily against a table, instead.

He wasn’t sure he could eat. He’d shoved a handful of elfroot down his throat to ease some of nausea and another handful was pressed against the wound in his side, maybe a broken rib. It was no replacement for true healing, But Fahleon had never liked them anyway. He’d never let a shem lay a hand on him. They always meant ill will whether they said they were only helping or not. Raya was barely tolerated - but only barely after the last time she’d tried to heal him. His hand went to the burn on his side and he flinched when he felt the new wound damp beneath his hand.

“Fae?”

He narrowed his eyes further when he caught Raya glancing, wide-eyed at the blooming color against his tunic. He’d worn a dark color on purpose - the damn thing had been bleeding for two days now - but the red showed up despite his efforts. Fahleon straightened as much as he could and grit his teeth. “’M fine.” He’d take his chances bleeding out.

“How long?” Creators. Fahleon rolled his eyes and tried to turn away. It made his muscles pull and he groaned out a short curse. He shoved Raya away when she took a step close. She stumbled but caught her footing. “How long have you been like this?” He looked away without answering and he only turned his head further when she stomped a foot. His hand itched where the anchor split open his skin as she reached for her magic. 

“A day.” He rubbed his palm again his pants. “Maybe two.” Whenever the last time he’d gone to the hinterlands was. It was hard to think when his head hurt and his side burned and the magic of the anchor ached under his skin. He felt lightheaded and he pressed a hand to his head. Raya’s joined it, and when Fahleon glared up at her, he found himself halfway fallen out of his seat. She felt cool against him and he’d wondered when it had gotten so hot in the kitchens when the ovens weren’t even on. 

“We’re taking you to a healer.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. He tore himself from his grasp and only succeeded in falling further out of the bench. Raya helped him to sit upright again.

“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

Raya’s mouth thinned into a tight line and sweat beaded her brow despite Skyhold’s freezing morning air. The deep wrinkles around her frown deepened further as Fahleon pressed a hand to her shoulder, pushing it down, and guided her wrist up to angle to bow higher. Her arm shook. 

“This is stupid.” 

Fahleon snorted, breath puffing white in front of his face and hiding the amused curve of his lips from view. “You wanted to learn.”

“Yeah, to shoot a bow! Not to stand here like a snowman all day.” Raya made a move to throw the bow down until she caught his look. She lifted it up again, still not straight. Fahleon nudged her arms back into the right position. She squinted with one eye down the sight of the blunted stick nocked against the string for practice, and he sighed, rubbing at his temple. “When am I going to kill a bear?”

He let his fingers trace over the scar by his eye before dropping his arm back to his side. “Hopefully never.”

Raya’s arms finally shook too hard and her fingers twitched, and the practice arrow flew skewed towards the target. It landed short of the stack of hay and tumbled in the snow a few turns. Raya growled something under her breath and stomped through the practice ring to snatch it up, and Fahleon rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand to wipe the smile off his face. Raya pointed the arrow at him and he worked his jaw to keep from doing it again. 

“I saw that.” He lifted a brow. “Unless this is an alternate universe, you just cracked a smile.”