#pre-game

Amara shook her head, eyes on the floor. "No, Sir." She could sense the rune work carefully etched into the stone. Cleansing. Warding. A delicate net to keep spirits from claiming hosts prematurely and to remove the contaminants of decay from the space. She had sensed it before too - before she had run away, looking for answers the Watch couldn't provide. She and her age mates used to do work rotations in the morgue as part of their studies and chores. Guided observations, cleaning tools, restocking supplies. She hadn't known what it was or realized sensing the thrum-pulse of energy was particularly noteworthy. She knew better now.

Herath hummed, stepping back from the acid bath, carefully securing the vented cover and removing his heavy work gloves. "When next you speak with our incorporeal colleagues, remind them that some of us are bound by the realities of physical existence and would appreciate clearly stated requests. In writing, if possible." He gestured for Amara to follow him. "Fortunately, I suspect your visit might have something to do with our unidentified friend in receiving. Today has been uneventful otherwise. Come."

"You don't have to stop on my account, Sir," Amara said, following him as they walked away from the workshop and the tasks that Master Herath was no doubt trying to finish. "I remember the way."

"It is no trouble," he said, voice level and neutral as they walked. "And it is my duty. If the Spirits plan to lead you down here, Miss Ingellvar, then they need to give you time to review our safety procedures before you will be permitted to wander the mortuary without escort."

"Right. My training must be a few years out of date." Amara bit her lip, mentally adding that to the unending list of things she needed to do. She had built up a host of expectations about returning to the Necropolis during her harried trek back to Nevarra. Her imaginings of the hoops she would have to jump through to catch up on what she missed, to try and go back to being a model student and an obedient ward, had fallen far short of reality. Returning as an awakened mage had also introduced weighty new expectations and responsibilities. Endless lessons and practicums. Shadowing patrols, tutoring sessions with established Watchers. Training and more training. Trying to find her place in a place that had never quite felt like home. The past few months had been exhausting, her studies leaving her precious little time to do anything but mage-craft.

It also left her precious little time to dwell on what she had left behind or the answers she her never found and kept the Demons who hounded her from gaining control, so she found it hard to object.

Keeping her hands close to her sides, painfully cognizant of how presumptuous it was to turn the head of the mortuary into a tour guide at the say so of a wisp, Amara followed Master Herath to receiving. The room was quiet. The resident spirits - Mourning, Inquest, Decay, Sorrow - were all silent, sentinels lurking among the perfectly parallel examination tables that filled the room. Only one was occupied, the cadaver covered with a sheet and surrounded by incorporeal observers. They seemed to be waiting for something. The wisp that had dragged Amara down to the morgue flitted off to join them.

Herath walked over, pausing to put on fresh work gloves and gesturing for Amara to do the same. "Our unknown guest arrived shortly after sunset. City guards located him in a condemned tenement building after receiving an anonymous report." He carefully drew back the unadorned shroud. "Violence did not end his life. He was felled by age, exposure, and illness. He bares the marks of many years of hardship and none have come to claim him. In my experience with such vessels, none will."

The deceased was on his back, ringed in cold runes. Male. Human. Elderly. And painfully familiar. Amara walked over slowly, mindful not to touch anything as she studied his face. His hair looked thinner than she remembered, his face more creased. Seeing him perfectly still was unnerving and it took her a moment to find her voice. "He was called Osprey. He trained beggars and buskers for one of the gangs in Riverside. Minded the stew pot most nights too."

"Ah. You knew him," Herath observed.

"He taught me how to play the lute," she said softly.

Herath glanced up at the wisp, inclining his head slightly, in acknowledgement or thanks, Amara couldn't say. He did not question how or why Amara came to be aquatinted with a street hustler. "Are there next of kin we should contact, or will you speak for Master Osprey?"

The Spirits were watching too. Surely there had to be someone more qualified, one of the Aviary leaders or a friend or any of the actual Watchers, but glancing up at the wisp, at the attentive attendant Spirits, Amara knew there wasn't. She stood a little straighter, clasping her hands behind her back. "I will speak for the dead."

Closing her eyes, she thought back to everything she had come to know about Osprey during her time on the streets of Nevarra City. She left her mind open, as she had been trained to do, listening to the unheard murmurs of those who lingered beyond the veil as well. It was theorized that something - Spirits of Memory and Memorial, or the lingering spark of the lost - would often fill in the gaps for a eulogizer and help guide their words.

Wetting her lips, she spoke slowly. "He was clever. A natural storyteller. A talented singer. He trained as a bard in Orlais, but made a misstep in their Great Game and had to leave - he didn't like to share much about that time. He kept telling us - the kids he trained - different stories about what happened, usually to emphasize whatever lesson he was trying to teach us at the time. And he was always trying to teach us. Trying to keep us safe. He - his vision was never good, but it got worse as he got older. His hands also stiffened and he found it hard to play his music. He gave me his lute, taught me songs he remembered from home and things he had learned in Nevarra. He said I had a talent for it - that if Falcon couldn't help me find my way to the Dalish, that I should go to Val Royeaux. I don't think that was true, but it was kind. He did that a lot too - said things that weren't true, but were kind and - were the kind of thing you needed to hear."

He was also a drunk and a coward and this was the first time Amara had done this, stood at the side of a corpse that had once helped shape her life when they were among the living. She didn't say any of that out loud, instead reciting one of the funerary verses from the Chant of Light - one of the fancy ones, in high Orlesian. He would have liked that, having the lilting poetry spoken for fallen Kings and fancy bards spoken for him too. As she finished the recitation, Amara also sensed a prodding from beyond. Something else that needed to be said.

Amara opened her eyes, and looked at Master Herath. He had been joined by one of his assistants, a woman in journeyman's robes who was recording Amara's words in a journal while the Spirits lingered behind them. There was precious little physical space between them all, but Amara felt far away and removed. Untethered. Her eyes burned, but the rest of her body seemed to have stopped processing physical sensation. "He lived here," she said softly, "but he never chose it. Not really. He honored the Chantry teachings of his youth. He would choose the pyre, Master Herath."

There was a shifting of energies in the room. A buzzing hum. A release of pressure as an apparition passed through. A young man in Orlesian finery with a warm smile, looking at something in the distance as he strummed his lute. He faded, though the almost too faint to hear music lingered. Amara shivered, the last words of the Canticle of Sending tripping off her tongue. She felt like she did after endurance casting, wrung out and empty.

"The pyre shall have him," Master Herath said solemnly. If he was disappointed, he did not show it. "I understand why you are no longer available to clean scalpels for us. My gratitude for your assistance." He turned away then paused before speaking again, almost as an afterthought. "What other tasks await you this night, Miss Ingellvar?"

Amara was looking at Osprey, absently rubbing warmth back into her upper arms. "Work, Sir. Preparations for tomorrow's lessons."

Master Herath carefully draped the shroud back over Osprey. "Those who speak for the dead need to allow themselves space to mourn, Child," he said, glancing at Amara. "Do keep that in mind."

***

Her room in the dormitory was quiet when Amara returned to her quarters. Sybil was staying at her parents' townhouse in the City tonight - something about an emergency fitting for the gown she was to wear to some important person's wedding next month. Amara was glad for her absence, though she wasn't entirely sure why.

She wandered over to her desk. It was covered in notes and reference books for her current work on elemental incantations for Professor Nadine. She needed to finish that assignment tonight then make sure she had her preliminary draft on bone knitting done before the practicum tomorrow. Before bed she had also intended to meditate and journal about what she saw in the Fade. With the detour to the morgue, she was already behind schedule.

Her thoughts tripped over themselves and dissolved before they could become anything coherent as Amara stared unseeing at the waiting work. Sighing, she grabbed her desk chair and pulled it away, across the room, placing it next to her wardrobe. She climbed to stand on the seat and pulled out the dusty instrument case that she had shoved into the narrow space between the top of the furniture and the stone ceiling when she had unpacked her meager belongings.

Walking over to her bed, she sat and carefully took out Osprey's - her - lute. It was badly out of tune, but that was easily set to rights. She didn't give much thought to what she wanted to play, halfheartedly picking out scales and feeling foolish. About having let the instrument sit for so long or about picking it up again, she wasn't sure.

She remembered her first lesson. Osprey had shown her how to hold the instrument, naming the open strings, and had asked her what she was doing here, wandering the streets and squatting with a street gang when she had clearly known a softer life. She had told him she was trying to find out who she was as she dutifully repeated the names of the strings, the unfamiliar pressure of making them vibrate biting into her un-calloused thumb the same way it did now.

He had watched her with a small smile and told her that was the beauty of songs, that she could be whoever she wanted when she sang, different with every note.

Eventually, here and now with the memory of Osprey still beneath his shroud side by side with the memory of him guiding her hand over the strings, Amara's meandering found a familiar melody. She sang along with the messy accompaniment, her voice halting and hesitant, fighting through the tears that she hadn't realized had come as they tried to strangle the words before they emerged.

"Voici l'orme qui balance

Son ombre sur le sentier;

Voici le jeune églantier

Rien - rien n'a donc changé que vous."

(Here is the elm that sways Its shadow on the path; Here is the young wild rose, Nothing - nothing has changed but you. 'Infidélité' by Reynaldo Hahn)

(I am behind on things here, but it was time to send this one on it's way. 💕 I love Master Herath and want to know everything about him now. Osprey has also taken shape in a fascinating way. I have at least one piece from Amara's time with the Aviary that features him in the works. Thank you again Beasty and Sparkles for the writing games and the inspirtation <3. No pressure/saying hi tags to @kogarashi-art @seaglassmelody @davrinsleftpectoral @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @jukkaricity @serialsforbellara @kogarashi-art @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai @selennes @mythals-whore @booksncatsworld @maagisterpavus @lycheecatee @handsignals @hedwigoprah @sunny374940 @sorcerousadventurer @sandcastlekings @jenn2d2 @romancingtropes @necromanticsoul @pixiedurango @woundedsoul12 @flowersforthemachines )

Lucanis wouldn’t eat dinner that night, his grandmother had said. He shouldn’t be rewarded for his poor form during training. 

From the staircase, he watched her and his cousin eat in silence. When his stomach grumbled, he walked away. The good part about Villa Dellamorte is that it was big enough that he could wander around. 

And it was in these wanderings that he discovered secret passageways, behind bookshelves and hidden by paintings. He hadn’t had the chance to explore where they went but tonight’s events had brought him the perfect opportunity. 

Quietly, Lucanis made his way to Caterina’s study. He had discovered the passage by accident, while trying to find the book on wyverns. He had grabbed the wrong one and suddenly, the bookshelf moved out of the way, a vast corridor showing itself in front of him. 

He gulped but stepped forwards, pulling the lever on the side of the wall, as he heard the bookshelf moving once again. Lucanis gulped but walked forward, into the dark hallway, placing one hand on the side of the wall to make sure he wouldn’t get lost. 

Eventually, he reached a staircase that led upwards. As he climbed, he noticed a string coming down the ceiling and when pulled, revealed an opening to an attic. Once inside, he began to cough - there were cobwebs everywhere and a thin line of dust covered everything. 

There were crates everywhere. Lucanis approached one and tried to open it, but it was nailed shut. He noticed all the others were like that, impossible to open. The boy moved his attention to a large, rectangular object in the corner, covered by a sheet. 

He kneeled in front of it, taking a peek and realizing it was a painting. In one swooping motion, he removed the sheet, revealing a horizontal portrait. 

Various men and women whom he had never seen stared back at him, and it was when he looked at the center of the painting that he realized that this was a portrait of the Dellamorte family. 

His family.

Caterina had had five children and eight grandchildren, and they had all been depicted there, alongside their spouses. Their faces were not familiar to him. All of them had died before he could even learn their names.

Reaching a hand forwards, his finger traced Caterina’s face, the only one he truly recognized. She looked younger, though not by much, with less gray hairs on her hair and swore he could see a hint of a smile. 

Standing next to her right arm was a woman with dark hair and eyes, and a man stood beside her, a hand on her shoulder. The woman, like the others on the painting, dressed in dark shades of blue and purple, but on her arms, she held a baby, swaddled in a white fabric. 

Lucanis squinted as he looked closer and saw the opal ring on the woman’s finger, his eyes widening in realization. 

That was his mother, holding him as an infant. The man, his father. There was another woman, on the far side of the painting, who also held a child in her arms - Illario. Lucanis had never known how much like his mother did he look like. There were no paintings of his family to be found in the villa. No mementos, nothing. 

His gaze returned to the crates once again. From the corner of his eye, Lucanis saw a crowbar, hidden in a corner. He picked it up and made his way to one of the crates, using all of his strength to open it. 

Even more paintings inside, these ones individuals. Besides the portraits, there were leatherbound notebooks, and taking a quick look inside, he realized those were diaries and journals. Names he didn’t recognize graced the pages, all belonging to different Dellamortes. 

He opened another crate. This one contained old children’s toys and music boxes. Small shoes, fit for a baby and a blanket. Those were not his, that he knew, and much less Illario’s. Rummaging through it, he found a small locket on a golden chain. As he reached for it, he felt a searing pain in his hand. 

Looking up, Lucanis was met with Caterina’s scowling and furious face, her cane in hand. 

“What are you doing?” She asked in a low hiss, not waiting for an answer. “You were not supposed to be here.” 

Lucanis brought his hand close to him, keeping his head lowered. He bit his bottom lip, trying to swallow back his tears. That was a weakness, as Caterina had once taught him, and he wouldn’t showcase it in front of her. 

He felt the tip of her cane come underneath his chin, lifting his head up to see her. 

“Have you lost your tongue? Speak, boy.” She demanded. 

“Our family…these were their things, were they not?” He asked “Why have you hidden it from us?” 

She did not respond and Lucanis felt an anger build in him. 

“Tell me, Caterina, why did you never show any of this to me or Illario? We deserve to know about them.” She closed her eyes, turning away from him. 

Lucanis stood up, pointing at the painting “I don’t even know their names! They’re my parents, my uncles and nieces, and I know nothing about them because you never talk. Do they mean so little to you?”

He felt the sting on his cheek as the sound of a slap echoed in the attic. 

Lucanis scoffed. “That’s all you know how to do. Hurt us.”

“I do this to keep you safe.” She finally spoke, pain lingered in every word she spoke. “I was too lenient before and it cost me everything. It will not happen again.”  

Caterina looked from the painting and then to Lucanis, placing a hand on his injured cheek.  “She was much like you. Stubborn, brash and never listened to her mother.”

She looked into his eyes as she said that and he wondered if Caterina was really looking at him or was he seeing her. Lucanis took a deep breath. 

“She was your favorite.”

“Yes.” 

Lucanis took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I won’t come here again.” 

Caterina nodded and took a step back. “Go to your room.” 

He bowed his head and made his way back. He did not hear the sounds of Caterina’s screams nor the sounds of things being thrown and broken. 

No, he only walked straight to his room and crawled to his bed. He did not speak to Illario as he thought of things that could not be. He wished for a life he could not have, one with loving parents and siblings to play with, with a smiling grandma that sang him to sleep. 

A life with no pain was not the life of a Crow.

Lucanis turned around in bed, facing the wall, and reaching into the pocket of his pants, he retrieved the locket. Caterina hadn’t noticed him swiping it right underneath her eyes. It was golden and shaped like a heart. 

Carefully, he opened it. On one side, there was a small painting of a woman and a child, but this time, he recognized it as him and his mother. On the other, there was an inscription. 

Faustina & Lucanis Dellamorte. 

He traced the name with his thumb over and over again before holding it tight to his chest, sleep soon claiming him.

.

The battle was over.

The sun hung high and golden, a rare mercy in a world that too often bled red. Smoke curled in lazy spirals from broken carts and scorched earth, the remnants of siege still heavy in the air. Bodies had already begun to be cleared, stacked neatly, respectfully, as the crows circled above.

Mathias didn’t care about any of that, though. Not right now, because there he was: Leon. Bloodstained, sweat-slicked with golden curls damp and plastered to his brow, his tunic torn at the shoulder and sword held loosely at his side.

He looked like war. He looked like victory. He looked divine.

Their eyes had met across the courtyard. Leon stood with one hand braced against the stone of the old building, trying to catch his breath and something in his expression, raw and unguarded, unlocked something in Mathias.

He walked toward him.

Leon didn’t flinch when Mathias stopped before him. Didn’t move away when fingers tangled in the front of his ruined tunic, pulling him close. He didn’t glance around to see who was watching because it didn’t matter.

They had won and Mathias kissed him.

There, in the middle of the sunlit square, with dirt on his boots and blood beneath his nails. He kissed Leon like a man starved. Like a man claiming what was already his and Leon? He didn’t resist. He gave in with a sound that was almost a sob, all tension unraveling in a rush as he pressed forward, lips parting as he let them in, letting them dominate the kiss. 

The stone wall at Leon’s back was still warm from fire. He gasped as Mathias pushed him into it, his head tipping back instinctively as hands slid down, rough and searching, until they found the curve of his hips.

“Here?” Leon whispered, dazed, breath trembling. “Now?”

Mathias didn’t answer with words. His hand closed around the back of Leon’s thigh, lifting it with authority. Leon made a strangled sound, eyes fluttering closed and body responding before his mind could catch up.

Leon wanted this. Wanted the eyes. The silence. The awe. Let them see. Let them know.

He moaned into Mathias’s mouth, fingers curling in the folds of his cloak, anchoring himself as Mathias rocked into him. It was raw and possessive, teeth scraping his jaw, breaths hot and ragged. Leon let his head fall back, panting, mouth open to the sky as he surrendered to it. This moment, this man, this brutal and beautiful claiming of his heart, body and mind~~

Somewhere in the distance, a soldier turned and looked. Another followed, but no one said anything.

Because they all knew.

What this was. Who Leon was. Who he belonged to.

Mathias didn’t rush. He made Leon feel it, every noise he coaxed from him, every thrust that made Leon cry out and grab helplessly at his shoulders. It was worship. It was something holy and ruinous.

“Say it,” Mathias growled into his neck, voice low and shaking.

“I’m yours,” Leon gasped, not hesitating. 

They stayed like this, Mathias grinding his clothed hardness against Leon, not caring if he ruined the pants and he would, of course, take him properly, but right now he was fine with this: both of their arousals rubbing together through the fabric, the need adding to how desperate they were for some release. Leon tugs at Mathias’s hair hard, as he digs nails into his shoulder, his scalp. He’s kissing him like a man dying of thirst, as if Mathias was his last meal, his last drink. “Mathias…” Leon moans, eyes struggling to stay open. “I can’t…it’s too much–!” 

“Then let go, make a mess of yourself for me, my little lion,” he purrs out in a soft, velvety tone. 

Leon obeys, his eyes squeezed shut as at last he came, the orgasm washing over him, making all rational thought vanish and he feels the warmth in his pants, moaning softer now as he trembles. Mathias held him through it, he had yet to finish, but it was fine because this was better. 

“On your knees, Leon,” he whispers softly. Leon obeys. “You were so good, you did so well. You led us to victory once more.” 

Leon preens, flushed and dazed and glowing with pride. He leans in, nuzzling their still very obvious hard arousal and mouths him through the pants. He licks, he nuzzles, he breathes him in as if drunk off the scent of the other, like he just could not get enough. So he goes for it, working the pants down, freeing Mathias before he takes him in, moaning in contentment. This was perfect, this was everything. He wastes no time and its sloppy and not at all delicate, but it is raw and full of need and desire and Mathias cannot help himself. Fingers entangle themselves in gold curls, guiding him, setting the pace and Leon’s bruised throat opens for him more, the pace rough and intense and Leon gags, breathing through his nose as best he can…but Mathias was thick and choking him and it was so perfect, he didn't want this to end.  

“I’m going to come, Leon, I want you to swallow every drop,” he commands and Leon, obedient to  a fault, squeezes his thighs in understanding. Mathias lets go, the tension snapping, the coil unbound as thick warm ropes of his seed coat Leon’s tongue and throat, forcing the knight to swallow it all. 

He pulls, finally, after a few more seconds and then, with gentle care, pulls them up into a kiss. 

“I love you, Leon.” 

Lace watched as Mercar — Rook, Varric had called him, allegedly for obvious reasons — finished setting up his tent in the little corner of the Arbor Wilds they’d claimed for themselves for the night as they traveled south. His movements were precise when they made or broke down camp, it was like watching Commander Cullen when the Inquisition had been at Haven. Tent poles just so, and flaps straightened.

Maybe he’d been a soldier? Or maybe he was just very neat, like Ma. Not in his behavior or anything. He was pretty informal, which was lucky since he was stuck with her and Varric now. Neat in specific ways. Hygiene. Dress. Tents, apparently.

Whatever the reason, odd tent-flap-precision aside, he’d taken to following her and Varric around as they looked for Solas pretty well. Made it look easy. She was almost envious.

It hadn’t been easy, for her. The Inquisition had been one thing. At first, she hadn’t been far from home. That was part of what had made her such a good scout, despite being a teenager. Lace hadn’t known much, but she’d known the Ferelden Hinterlands and Redcliffe near as well as anyone really could. People had been impressed, given her more work and more important jobs, because of it.

It had been wonderful; finally, being a surface dwarf from the farm had made her good at something. And lots of people had thought so! Not just Ma.

But it had been kind of…well, terrifying too. She hadn’t felt as prepared and as knowledgeable as everyone had seemed to think. And this was the Inquisition! Leliana was counting on her, the Inquisitor was too. Maker, the, well, the Maker was counting on her! Andraste!

She’d spent four years waiting for someone to realize she had no idea what she was doing. Sure, she could read terrain and track. She got to know new places well quickly. But that wasn’t special. That was just being her. And being surrounded by special people made it real easy to expect to be caught any day.

It was still kind of surprising to her she hadn’t been.

And then the Inquisitor had shown up at Ma’s door. Asked her if she’d do one last mission for him: help Varric track down Solas.

Saying yes to the Inquisition had been easy, and it had lured her away from home by degrees. A druffalo following tall grass. Agreeing to leave home again, this time to go even farther, was tougher meat to chew. If she’d been asked by anyone else, even Varric himself, she probably would have turned the job down.

Maybe that was why the Inquisitor had come himself? Maybe he’d known? He always seemed to just…know stuff.

Of course, Lace knew, that could have been just Leliana. So the mystery might not be much of one at all.

“Thanks for catching the food,” Rook said, startling her out of her thoughts as he started cooking a fish on the fire for them all. She’d offered to make supper for them, but he’d insisted. So, not wanting to be rude or make him feel excluded, she’d accepted with a smile.

Luckily, he was an okay cook, even if he was a slightly boring one.

“I was happy to,” she assured him, over the sound of the crackling hearth and popping oils from the fish skin. “Stomachs don’t stop just because we’re tracking down Solas, right?”

“Right,” he agreed easily, a friendly and open smile on his face. He always seemed comfortable, never awkward or nervous. At least so far, though it had only been a few weeks.

Some people were just lucky, she guessed.

Before the momentary silence could turn weird, she asked, “Do you like to cook?”

He chuckled, and waved his hand in a non-committal way. “Not exactly? I mean, I’m okay enough at it. We won’t die or anything.”

Rook grinned and Lace wondered if she should be worried.

“But it’s the least I can do,” he continued, flipping the fish over. “I’m no expert scout, and even less an expert on ancient Elven gods, so I figure I should contribute what I can.”

Lace could sympathize with that. She always felt that way.

Maybe he just faked his confidence better. Or maybe he was just a team player. Time would tell.

“Well, we appreciate it.” She smirked a little, “Varric said the next time I give him a ham-and-jam slam that he’s chucking me in the pond.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Not sure how he thinks he’d get away with that unstabbed.”