#post-inquisition

Sunlight drifted through the fogged windows and the jagged hole in the roof, warming the ends of their bed. Sheets lay tangled and discarded, unneeded when wrapped in the heat of each other’s embrace.

Waking up to Cullen pressing kisses along her shoulder had been a pleasant surprise, much better than Sweetpea’s tiny paws baring all her weight on Ash’s breast. If only she could have felt each tender caress of his lips, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, he’d chosen to lay his affections down the side of her body that could not fully feel. The burns from the Archdemon’s fire. Long-healed, but the stretch of too tight skin and fried nerves plagued her. Yet she’d survived that bloody night in Haven, had remained whole thanks to the spirit of love that now resided within her heart.

“Good morning, vhenan,” she said groggily, a small whine at the end of the endearment as she stretched. “To what do I owe such a lovely awakening?”

His nose nuzzled her neck. “It’s been exactly a year since Haven.” She knew, how could one forget the anniversary of one’s almost death? “And though I grieve our losses, I remain eternally grateful that you lived.”

Ash wiggled to loosen his grip on her hips, and she turned to face him, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb swiping over the scar that bisected his lip. “Like I would ever have let that creature take me from you when I had so much teasing left to accomplish.”

Cullen snorted a laugh, his grin lighting up his face and her heart. By the Creators, she loved him so much it hurt. “Maker forbid,” he said with a shake of his head.

Curls, mussed from sleep, rested on his forehead, and she brushed them back with delicate fingers. She wanted to see his face, all of him that she adored. “It feels wrong to celebrate on a day when so many perished, but it’s also a day where many survived what could have been a massacre akin to the Conclave. Perhaps we could celebrate that?”

His eyes softened, and he pulled her flush against his chest, her leg hooking instinctively over his hip. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

--

“Deryn, tell me about your family.”

The elf glanced at their lover. “Pardon?”

“Your family,” Samahl repeated. “I…haven’t seen mine in years—I doubt they even remember me—but what of yours?”

Deryn chuckled at him. “My family is my clan, vhenan.”

“Your…clan?”

“Yes. Some children are taken to different clans from the one they were born from. It’s how we survive. Sometimes they need more hunters, others have too many mages, it’s just easier when we track the numbers.”

“And what of you?”

“I’m still part of the same clan I was born into,” Deryn said. “My father passed when I was young, and I was trained into taking his place as a huntsman from then on. My mother wanted me to become an apothecary.”

“What did she do?”

“She was an herbalist.” Deryn crossed their legs as they sat up, straightening their back and gazing into the clear sky above them. “The clan’s healer, more specifically. She was good with spirit magic, but preferred to rely on physical medicine for some reason. The Keeper called her a madwoman for it.”

Samahl hummed as he laid on his side, resting his head against the fat of the elf’s thigh. “Did you have siblings?”

“No. None that I’d recall. If I did, they were probably transferred to other clans.”

“I…see.”

“What of your family, Samahl?”

The corrupted blood in the man’s veins froze, and he visibly stiffened. Deryn bit their bottom lip upon seeing the man’s eyes so filled with fright.

“A-Ah… You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much—”

“No.” Samahl immediately shot up, the whites of his sleeves stained green from the grass’s dew. “You told me of yours. It’s…only fair I told you of mine. Especially if we are to be…”

Deryn raised a brow, a soft smile gracing their lips. “Lovers?”

Tanned cheeks darkened from end to end. “Y-Yes…”

Deryn shrugged. “Alright, if you insist. But…” They placed a hand on the younger’s shoulder. “If it gets to be too much, don’t hesitate to stop. Okay?”

Samahl nodded. Then, taking a deep breath, he looked up at the sky. Reaching quietly for whatever memories he could drag from the chaotic depths of the ocean that was his mind.

“I have three fathers. You…may have heard of, well, all of them actually.”

“That so?”

Samahl sighed. “General Raleigh Samson—yes, that Red General—Commander Cullen Rutherford, and…Inquisitor Emeril Lavellan.”

Deryn’s eyes shot open. “Wait, you’re Inquisitor Lavellan’s son?”

Samahl gave a weary grin. “The very same,” he replied. “It wasn’t easy growing up…having the most famous, and infamous, men as your parents… Dad was pregnant of me when he disbanded the Inquisition, and I was born shortly after they began their ‘secret war’ against Fen’Harel. My sister, Nera, was sired and born three years later. Then Malcolm, the youngest of us, came three years after her.

“Dad wanted nothing to do with the Chantry anymore, as much as he approved of Divine Victoria’s decisions. He wanted a simple life again, or so Pa told me. So they…moved in with my aunt. Started a farm right down the road from that little village. That town was all I knew as a child.”

“And what of your…other fathers?” Deryn asked.

“Father—ah, Ser Cullen, everyone called him—started a sanctuary for templars like him and Pa. Men and women who survived the war and hadn’t become part of Corypheus’s army. It grew in almost no time, we couldn’t believe it! They came from far and wide: some offering aid and working under Father’s eye, others simply wanting to be surrounded by their brothers and sisters when they died of the madness. Those people often had no one else…”

“That’s…horrible.” Deryn shook their head. “I’m glad your father opened that sanctuary, then. It’s rather tragic to meet such a fate.”

“Indeed.”

“What of…General Samson, then?”

“Pa? Oh, he mostly hung around the house. Watched over us while Father tended to the sanctuary and Dad to the farm. He helped out with Dad’s chores from time to time, but…he was still recovering himself.”

“From…the red lyrium, correct? The same lyrium that…”

Samahl didn’t need to turn his head to know Deryn was biting their lip. He scowled.

“That’s corrupted my blood? That makes me hear voices in my head like I’m stark raving mad?” Then, his tone turning bitter, “The same lyrium that made me nearly kill my own bloody father?”

“Samahl, I didn’t mean—”

He held up a hand. “I know! I… I know.”

A long pause. Birds chirped in the branches above their heads, and the leaves swayed and whistled in the blow in the wind. Below the hill they sat upon, overlooking a small valley, stood a young girl. Her long hair was pulled into a braid, and her stubs for horns were just beginning to sharpen at their ends. She bent down to grab a fistful of flowers she found in the tall grass and turned to the pair, holding it up and waving to them. Samahl smiled as she ran back to them, shouting incoherent babble in greeting as she tossed herself onto his lap.

“What do you have there?” he asked her, and she handed him the weeds. “Dandelions?”

“Pretty!” she shouted. “Pretty flower for pretty daddy!”

Samahl’s face flushed again, and he chuckled at her. “You hear that, Deryn? Abbie thinks I’m pretty.”

Deryn snorted. “Oi. What about me?”

“Baba pretty too!”

They hooked their hands under her arms to lift her from Samahl’s lap, carrying her into theirs, as they gave a mighty laugh.

“Damn right I am!”

“Deryn!”

“What?”

“Language!”

Deryn scoffed. “Oh, please, she’s heard far worse just walking to the market.”

“Still… It’s our job to set an example.” Deryn chuckled.

“You sure are taking this parent job seriously, huh, dear?”

Samahl turned to hide the tint in his cheeks. “Well, someone has to,” he replied.

“Oi!” Deryn gave the other a shove, a playful smirk on their lips. “Give me some credit, eh?”

Samahl rolled his eyes and laughed before leaning his head on the elf’s shoulder. He closed his green eyes—his father’s gift, Nana told him when he was a boy—and sighed, his shoulder visibly slumping as he exhaled through his nose.

He always had plenty of his favorite foods around, even the hot cocoa The Iron Bull had gotten him hooked on. That in itself wasn’t odd with servants around, but the fact that most of the servants were ordered to stay until he put away his work and started eating was. Books would appear on his desk with a little note saying they thought he’d like it, usually a mere day after he’d finished the last one. Without ever asking, he somehow always had tea when he was ready for bed, a mug of ice-cold ale when the weather was unbearably hot, and a glass full of liquor when he was stressed. The most telling thing was the few times he’d been feeling sad, lonely, and overworked all of his meetings would suddenly be canceled and one of his friends summoned to the mansion. 

He had a feeling it was the new housekeeper, as most of the changes hadn’t happened until she took over. Before, the servants had been happily making him keep the same schedule and habits as the previous Viscount. He could barely even remember the day he’d hired her, as he’d been ass-deep in the reports and demands that were now the bane of his existence. He was fairly certain all he’d done was grunt, wave, and sign his name on the paper. It wasn’t until a month later that he realized he was steadily growing less overwhelmed and he owed someone a great debt. 

Once he realized that, he began to notice her all around the manor. She was dwarven - surface dwarf most likely, as she didn’t hold herself like a noble or have the grim air of casteless. It was perhaps a bit off to have a dwarven servant actually in charge of all the others, but hey, he was the damned Viscount of all Kirkwall, so why not? The servants seemed to accept her authority easily enough, he noticed, with her walking around like she was the one that owned the place. She was quick to berate someone for slacking off, but just as easily put everything on hold if someone was hurt or needed help. 

Varric felt like a creep once he realized how much he’d actually been paying attention to her without her knowledge. Why would he find it so fascinating to watch her marching through his halls with her curls bouncing along behind her? To see her bring cookies to his office with flour smeared on her cheek? Or to watch her laughing and playing with the other servant’s children in the garden?

Honestly, he had a pretty good idea what his issue was, but he was such a good liar he could even convince himself that the feelings slowly bubbling to the surface were nothing important.

He was particularly grateful for her influence around the manor today, as he already had enough to worry about. It was the first “anniversary” without any word or quick visit from Bianca. He finally has accepted that whatever crazy relationship they had was now over. He was free, and it was both saddening and a little exhilarating. It was weird to think of the possibility of moving on without the shadow of her tainting it. It was also really insane that when he considered moving on he thought of a specific face. 

He sighed wearily as he trudged up the neverending steps to his suite. It was days like this, when he was bone-tired and emotionally exhausted, that he missed his old rooms at The Hanged Man the most. But ultimately it was worth it, since he knew his firecracker of a housekeeper would have the bed turned down, the fire blazing, and a glass of something warm waiting for him. 

As he reached the last step, he heard the rumble of voices coming from the direction of his room. His hand instinctively reached back to touch his bow, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the familiar giggle of Mistress Housekeeper herself. He grinned and leaned against the wall near the door, listening in. 

“All I’m saying is that you should think about it, Rosie!” one of the elven servants said, the rustle of fabric giving away that they were probably changing his sheets. 

“Why, because we are both dwarves?” Rosie laughed, “That’s a horrible reason.”

“No, because you have a huge thing for him. You pine. There are sighs and sweet little smiles and blushing. I see it!” 

Rosie is stuttering enough that Varric thinks the elf might have hit a sore point. He smirks as his chest suddenly feels lighter. So she might feel the same way, huh? 

“It’s…not like that. He’s the damned Viscount and a ton of other titles combined. I’m not blind - obviously, he’s handsome.  And I admire how he stepped up to care for the city. And he treats everyone around him thoughtfully. He tells the kids wonderful stories in the garden. And when he laughs it’s so warm. And his smile is - oh Maker I’m in love with Varric Tethras.” 

Her stunned tone sent her companion in a peal of laughter, Varric himself so amused he almost joined her. He suddenly felt fifteen years younger. 

He silently stalked back towards the stairs to act like he’d just walked up them, making a big show of stomping his feet and yawning loudly as he got closer towards the door. 

Rosie and the elven servant - he believed her name was Seraya - were just finishing up putting his bed back together. The fire was indeed already warming the room and a steaming cup of tea was waiting for him on a little table. Rosie could barely maintain eye contact with him and her cheeks were still blushing brightly. 

She shooed Seraya away and gestured towards the tea. 

“Everything is ready for you. I had heard you had a tiring day, so I only prepared the tea, but if you’re still hungry I can fetch something quickly.” 

He shook his head, staring at her as he grabbed the cup and chugged it down in a few seconds. 

“Too tired to eat,” he grunts, setting down the cup and dropping onto the edge of the massive bed. 

Rosie hums sympathetically and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Sleep well, then, sir.” 

Varric’s hand takes on a mind of its own and reaches up to swiftly grab hers before she can take it away. He threads their fingers together, staring at them as she gasps in surprise. 

“Rosie…I…uh…me too.” 

Her shocked expression morphs as he watches her internal battle. Shock, confusion, embarrassment, until finally…

Rosie snorts and narrows her eyes, a slight grin lighting her face. 

“I should have known not to try having conversations with a sneaky dwarf around, no matter how high he’s risen.” 

“Sorry,” he shrugs, smirking up at her. “Habit.” 

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, her blush belying how confident she’s trying to act. “So…you heard that. And…you too?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, voice low with promise - and not a little exhaustion. He tries to hide his yawn because this is a very important discussion. 

“You’re not still seeing that woman?” 

“Nope,” he responds with a tired grin, a little surprised that she knew about Bianca. But he guessed he’d never really made it that much of a secret. 

“You’re rather short on words today, I see,” she chuckles, letting him pull her closer and wrap his arms around her waist. He tucked his head into her stomach, breathing in her scent freely for the first time. 

“Too tired to make the words go,” he mumbled against her dress as she tugged his hair free from the tie. 

“Mmmm, then go to sleep. We can talk more about this tomorrow.” 

“Sleep with me,” he blurted. 

“What?”

He glanced up, grinning at her sheepishly as she quirks an eyebrow. 

“I mean just sleep. Lay down with me. Please?” Varric Tethras was begging? Shit, he was more tired than he thought. 

He realized it was worth it though when it seemed like she softened before his eyes, lips turned up in a fond grin. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He kicked off his boots and threw his jacket onto the floor as she laid her shoes neatly nearby and took off her apron. Varric watched as she tugged a couple of plain combs out of her hair, letting the curls tumble freely down her back. He wanted to just sit there and watch her like some Darktown creep, but his eyes were watering and burning with exhaustion. 

He slumped into the covers, sighing as his body was finally happy with him enough to stop hurting so much. His eyes barely opened as she slid in next to him, just as clothed. Her stuttered breathing gave away how nervous she was, but she wrapped herself around his back anyhow. 

“G’night, Rosie. Remind me to kiss you in the morning.” 

Her muffled laughter vibrated against his back, earning a sleepy grin. 

“Alright, now sleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

Those blue eyes flashed towards him. Then away again. “No, don’t... it’s fine.” He hesitated, then shifted, nudging Darren’s arm up so he could slide beneath it. His dark hair tickled Darren’s neck, soft and smelling of soap. “You’re just... a lot to get used to.”

“I can stop. Tone it down, or...”

Cyrus shook his head, the movement small but perceptible.

“No. I... want to get used to it. It’ll just take me a minute.”

A soft snort made its way past Darren’s defenses. More than a minute, that’s for sure. “Sure. That’s okay. Just... tell me if I go too far.” He chuckled. “You know I’m a sap.”

This time Cyrus laughed, and the sound was like a release, the tension flooding out of the room. Darren shifted, drawing him closer, sighing contently, his hand running absently up and down Cyrus’ back.

He could take his time. That was fine.

It is Dorian who gives her the final push. He arranges an evening in the tavern, and several drinks later he departs with Iron Bull, giving her a cheeky wink and a meaningful nod towards the dalish youth sitting opposite her.

Loranil.

She tries to make conversation, listens to him talk enthusiastically about what he's seen (he's just returned from Haven, he says, helped clear up the mess, assisted in finding anything that could help the Inquisition hunt down the Venatori that remained). She nods, and listens patiently - or attempts to - but it becomes painfully clear that he is far too young for her. Not in age, but experience. She has faced horrors that he could not even dream of. She had made decisions that have affected entire states, dabbled in the politics of nations.

He will never see her as anything but the Inquisitor. So she leaves him with a smile, and bids him to pass on her well wishes to his clan.

Josephine, sweet Josephine, gently points out that a change of scenery might do her good. So Lavellan leaves for Wycome both eager and fearful of seeing her clan - for her face is bare now, and there are so many harsh truths within her that she does not think she can spill. She does not want to ruin them the way she has been ruined; at least not this first time she is seeing them.

Clan Lavellan is well settled, she's pleased to see, but Deshanna is- not unhappy, but certainly discomfited to see her face bare.

“It was the mark, I think,” Lavellan lies at first. But Deshanna has known her since she came out of her mother’s womb, red-faced and screaming, and is not fooled. So late at night, she curls up in the Keeper's aravel and spills all the truths she has learned.

She wants sympathy and understanding, a shoulder to cry on. But Deshanna is very disturbed.

“It might be best if you leave,” she cautions carefully, unable to meet Lavellan's eyes. “If what you say is truth-”

“It is!”

“Strange truths from a strange man who is no longer with you, da'len. If it was indeed the truth, would he not have stayed by your side after his hand removed your marks? Perhaps he was sent by Fen’harel to test your devotion to the Creators. Why would any man who claimed to care for you leave you, especially after he-” the Keeper gestures to her face. “After he removed your vallaslin?” Deshanna shakes her head sorrowfully. “I remember the day you chose to receive your vallaslin, da’len. You were young, and so proud. And now-” You have changed, hangs in the air, and Lavellan does not dispute it, for it is the truth.

Her time with her clan is- different. No longer is she the careful, cautious First they knew. Once again, her experiences have molded her into someone that the rest of them cannot understand. They cannot even begin to understand her. She has seen too much, learned very many new things, and she can’t help but question the stories she’s been told since childhood.

The differences between her, and the rest of her clan, grow more painfully obvious by the day. The word cursed is never mentioned, but it becomes clear that the Keeper thinks she is not someone who will bring good to the clan.

And so she is rejected.

Again.

Just over a week into what was meant to be a month-long stay, she leaves her clan. This time, it feels final.

There is a hot, bilious bitterness in her belly.

Everyone is surprised to see her back so soon in Skyhold, but thankfully no one asks about it. In a drunken stupor several days later she lets the truth slip out to Dorian, who sympathizes with her in vino, and the two of them make loud, drunken curse-toasts to her Keeper and his father.

It makes her feel better. Marginally.

She tries, she really does. She is tired of the loneliness that awaits her each night in her bed. She wants love - or at the very least, someone who can help her repair her damaged heart. But this “moving on” feels very elusive.

She can’t seem to find anyone. Cullen is handsome, yes, and she knows her advances would be well-received by him. But there’s a niggling voice in the back of her head that reminds her that he was a templar, and though she knows he is no longer one of them, she also knows that he will never be able to accept the full range of her mage abilities. He deserves someone who is- someone like Cassandra. She thinks they would make a good pair.

Dorian is with Bull, Varric is still thinking of Bianca, and Cole- well, the lad is like her son, and she pushes that thought out of her mind with a grimace.

Which leaves her with - Blackwall.

He is familiar. Their conversations are never forced, and he has a gentle manner about him. He is courteous and kind, and always mindful of her feelings. For a time, she thinks he can understand her, perhaps more than most. He- he knows what it is like to be changed. They both now lead different lives than the ones they had in the past.

And one night, her mind silenced by wine, she takes him to bed.

It is- he is still kind. Still gentle. Reverential, but in the wrong way. He doesn’t touch her as though he’s afraid she might vanish. His fingers are thicker, his palms rougher. When he brings her to peak, her heart doesn’t sing.

When he hilts into her, it feels wrong.

He leaves her bed before the break of dawn, and she curls up and weeps. Though it is not his fault - he certainly did nothing wrong - she feels dirty, and she cannot scrub her skin hard enough.

It is when she stares at herself in the mirror, skin almost painfully red, her face scattered with a plethora of freckles that she had never quite noticed before- it is then that she understands.

She will never find anyone else.

It makes her want to break things, so she does. The crystal decanter - a gift from some noble or another - shatters in the fireplace. She sweeps the contents of her desk to the floor.

Sets the sheets on the bed aflame. Watches them burn to ashes.

It is her advisors who help clear up her mess. Leliana and Josephine quickly squash any rumors, but Blackwall has heard enough to form his own - not incorrect - suspicions. He is still graceful when she breaks off what they had, and she cannot help but feel more than a little bit of regret.

There is nothing for her to do but to drown herself in her work, so she does. She enters the Deep Roads, learns secrets both terrible and awesome. She travels to the Frostbacks, meets with the Avvar.

Meeting Ameridan disturbs her more than she’d care to admit.

She does not want to die alone.

She fights yet another would-be god, and slays him. When she returns to Skyhold, she has been given a new name - Godkiller.

It is a title even Leliana cannot dispel, and it seems to be what tips the scales against the Inquisition.

There is an Exalted Council. She recognizes the sycophants and the cowards for what they are. She doesn’t mince her words when she addresses them. 

Doesn’t care to.

She knows she’s dying. The mark will kill her.

But it seems a peaceful death is not meant for her.

There are qunari in the Winter Palace, and she must solve yet another crisis. But this one-

This one, has him.

A name she hasn’t heard in two years. A name she thought she would never hear again.

Whatever the qunari planned - that becomes secondary. She has a new quest - a very personal one.

She has to save him.

It is a long, twisted path. There are so many ruins, magnificent structures that show her what her people were in the past. Buildings so wonderful they defy belief. She wants to read every tome that remains in the Shattered Library, but she can’t. There’s no time.

There are so many qunari. There is a dragon. There is a particularly vicious saarebas.

At last, all that remains between her, and him, is a mirror. She walks through the eluvian.

Makes her way towards him.

Sees him - Solas, but not Solas, he is powerful, too powerful, he is like a god…

He tells her the truth, at long last. Two years she has waited for the answers to her questions, two years she has waited for him to tell her the truth, and now she is here, bloodied, bruised, broken, and she wishes she had never heard it.

But it strikes her. Solas. Fen’harel. The Dread Wolf. He Who Hunts Alone.

She laughs, hysterically, at the large eluvian in front of her that has gone silent after his departure.

The Dread Wolf has ruined her; if she cannot be with him, then she, she too-