#talesfromthefade

m!Hawke/Fenris, “And Where Do You Think You’re Going?” (AO3)

Thanks for the prompts! Here’s some coming home fluff for Trea Adaar x Josephine Montilyet for @contreparry @honestly-wilde @talesfromthefade @dadrunkwriting

Trea felt like collapsing and she could see the same sentiment in her companions as they each settled their mounts in their stables. The stars were bright above their heads and the cool night breeze did little to ease the sweat from their brows. They murmured soft ‘goodnights’ as they went their separate ways and then Trea drudged up to her quarters alone.

Making her way up the several flights of stairs took more out of her than she was expecting and she briefly entertained the idea of simply sleeping there on the landing. But after nudging the bedroom door open as quietly as possible and ascending the final flight of stairs, the welcome she was greeted with was more than worth the sore muscles.

Before her, Josephine sat peacefully on the bed, reading by candlelight. A fire crackled in the hearth, everything was still, and Trea couldn’t deny the allure of the softness of the scene. Cast in the flickering glow, Josephine’s hair, her cheek, her skin against the satin night shift she wore, everything shined and Trea’s chest ached as she smiled.

Josephine looked up at her entrance. “Oh, my love, you’re home!” Her voice, wrapped in a familiar kind of welcoming warmth, was also unmistakably soaked in drowsiness.

“No, no, don’t get up,” Trea hummed as she dropped her pack and slid out of her boots, watching Josephine’s attempt at getting out of bed. “I’ll just be a moment,”

On any other night, Trea might have taken her time freshening up before bed. Removing her pieces of armor with care, scrubbing thoroughly at her skin, giving her sore muscles a chance to relax. But she was impatient to get to bed, to feel Josephine’s embrace after so long without.

After quickly stripping down to just a clean sleep shirt, she all but ran forward to collapse onto her bed. Nuzzling into the sheets before moving to settle in Josephine’s lap, she allowed herself a deep breath of her lover’s scent.

“Did you have an easy journey back?” Josephine asked softly, putting her book away and blowing out the candle before threading her fingers through Trea’s hair.

“It was fine. Just long,” Trea hummed and wrapped her arms around Josephine’s waist. “You didn’t have to stay up for me. I know it’s late,”

“I missed you,” Josephine said simply and leaned down to press a soft kiss to Trea’s lips. “It might also have been a bit selfish. I wanted yours to be the last face I saw before I fell asleep,”

@thevikingwoman @honestly-wilde @talesfromthefade Thank you both so much!! Have a little angsty melancholy a la Solavellan ❤️

~~~

Catching a glimpse of moonlight reflecting opalescent, he finally found her. Halesta was sitting on the cliff at the edge of the camp, staring at the sky as though listening intently. As he approached, Solas saw she was chewing her nails with vehemence. Obviously, she was still processing the... events of the day.

Coming to a stop behind her, he stood patiently. It was beyond doubt that she heard his footsteps, recognizing the rhythm of his steps, measuring the length of his stride. Her consciousness was uncanny. And there was something regal about the way she made him wait for acknowledgement, a show of dominance.... He rather liked it. Halesta looked up at him abruptly, in an aching, almost haunted manner. 

"My fucking father," She breathed, searching his face, "He was your 'source' on me?"

Solas nodded, dumb, the rise of panic in his throat nearly suffocating. He was surprised when she reached up for his hand, pulling him down to sit beside her. More surprised still when she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. He could feel her pulse just beneath her skin, fast and a little thready. His own breath was short and shallow, fear still heavy in his lungs. Surely she was angry with him: Eanellas reported to him, was one of his closest generals. Still, she kept him waiting for the blow to land.

Sighing, she pulled away a moment, glancing into his eyes. This is it, his breath caught. But she didn't say anything; merely leaned back against him with that same, hallow face. His hands shook, desperate to smooth her hair, to touch her at all. He didn't dare. 

"The sky's looking awfully dazed."

Hesitating, confused, "What do you mean?" 

"I don't know. Something about the clouds. They're wandering aimlessly, like lost souls."

"That is," Uncertain, "Poetic."

She breathed a laugh, and he thought there was a hint of sincerity to the sound. Something in his stomach fluttered at the sound.

"Maybe I'm projecting," Wistfully, returning to bitting at her fingers, "I could've gone my whole life without seeing him. Now that I have...I feel like I've lost my footing."

A long pause, but the nervous words bubbled up his throat unbidden.

"Halesta—"

"I'm not mad at you, Solas," 

"But, Eanellas—"

"—Is the one who betrayed me this time," Tender fondness in her voice, "Not you. You were just playing your hand. And cleverly, I might add."

"Ir abelas, Vhenas."

"Stop that," Stern, but he can hear the smile in her voice, "Just hold me or something, I'm cold."

Two in one again this week, but they go hand in hand since my prompt from @talesfromthefade/@4vrafangirl was marcid, meaning incredibly exhausted. I also made a little challenge for myself this week, so according to wordcounter.net this fill is exactly 1000 words. Ghilanel/Solas, slightly sad but mostly fluff, G, post-Adamant. For @dadrunkwriting!!

He finds her, of all places, in Skyhold’s prison, or rather in the unstable conglomeration of bricks and boards they call the prison. It’s not fit for any prisoner no matter how despised and certainly not for the Inquisitor, but there she sits, legs crossed under her and her back against one of the more solid parts of the stone wall. Solas seeks a place where the creak of old wood will give him away to avoid startling her. He finds it and sees her head turn in the dark. In here, the only natural light is what’s reflected from the snow and ice outside and tonight is particular dim. It makes the Anchor seem that much brighter, though right now its magic seems calm.

“Ghilanel. We’re closer now to dawn than sunset. Surely you must be tired.” He approaches until he’s standing across from her. Still in the leathers she favors in the fortress; has sleep even crossed her mind? She tilts her head back and peers up at him and he wonders if she’ll deny the exhaustion that carved in her face.

“Oh, very. Incredibly exhausted, actually. I was just considering that phrase when you came in, wondering if anyone knows what it’s really like to be more tired than you believed possible. Exhausted in a way that’s beyond credibility.” Her words are gently slurred and she’s babbling in a way that would be charming if it weren’t clearly an effort to keep herself awake. 

Solas crouches, offers her his hands, and she slides her left hand between his. It’s cold, of course, and the tingle of the Anchor’s particular magic makes him shiver. “Is this what keeps you up? Does it hurt?”

She hums affirmatively before speaking. “It kept me from falling asleep but it’s been all right for a while now. Now it’s just…” Ghilanel goes quiet, her gaze rolling up to the ceiling, and he tightens his hand around hers. “You’ll think it’s silly, Solas.”

“Never, vhenan.”

“I can’t bear the dreams. I’m sure it sounds absurd to you but I lack your skills, among others.” Her laugh is humorless but his heart aches to hear it. “Ever since we returned from Adamant. I know it’s not possible, that… that whatever happened to the Champion, there’s no way he’s coming into my dreams, but it’s all I dream of.” She lowers her gaze again, locking eyes with him. “Unless you think it might be possible? The Anchor, you said it gives me access to the Fade in ways someone who isn’t a mage simply shouldn’t have. Do you suppose it might work both ways? That someone in the Fade, intent on finding me, might be able to do so?”

“It’s only something usually considered in the context of demons seeking a body to possess in this world but they do seek out their victims. However,” he continues as her eyes widen and her breath stops, “Hawke was not himself a mage so I suspect his ability to communicate through the Veil would be minimal at best.” And that was assuming the man still lived, something Solas doubted but admitting that would serve no one right now. “I believe this is something much more mundane. They are nightmares, the result of what you experienced but nothing more threatening than that.”

“That’s the thing, he’s not threatening. He’s just lost.” Her voice is soft, almost nothing to it but the breath he can see before her face as she speaks. “Lost and sad and desperate, calling out for me, Varric, Anders, even for Justice. It would be easier if he were angry, but this is as though his task is finished and he’s still abandoned there. He did what he was supposed to but still got left alone in the end.” 

As she speaks, her chin lowers toward her chest and Solas has never been so glad for the camouflage of darkness. He takes a long moment to swallow the words trying to climb their way out of him then brushes his free hand against her cheek and through her hair. “Not every hero is bereft in the end, vhenan. You will not be left alone with your nightmares. You need not even be alone with them now. If you wanted, I could help.” A change of subject, a pivot away from the fact that he cannot promise to be the one who will stay when all this is done. For now, everything he can offer is hers.

She’s quick to shake her head, though she does lean into his touch. “No, no, I think now I should be able to fall asleep. I’m tired enough, at least.” Ghilanel wears a sloppy smile when she lifts her head, then offers him her other hand. “Though if you wanted, I would appreciate it if you’d come upstairs with me. Just to sleep, just so I don’t have to fall asleep alone. I don’t know if it will help with the dreams but it can’t hurt.”

Solas takes her other hand in his and braces himself, tugging to encourage her to stand up. She moves slowly like a drunk, stiff from sitting in the cold and unstable in her exhaustion, but she leans against him immediately once she’s on her feet. “Certainly. If nothing else, I’ll light the fire, warm the room to help.”

“You’ll wave your hand, so generous,” she replies with a genuine laugh as they start up the stairs, still hand in hand. “Unless you intend to start it without magic in which case I won’t be able to sleep because I want to watch.”

“If you insist, I can certainly try.” And succeed almost as quickly as starting the fire with magic, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“No. I’d rather have you close.” Ghilanel stops at the top of the stairs, just before the door to let them back into the courtyard. “And you’ll stay till I wake up?”

Title: Pairing: Drysi Amell x LoghainRating: TWord Count: 631Warnings/Tags: Warden Amell, Loghain Mac Tir, They might be a bit tipsyCC: @dadrunkwriting

I really wanted an excuse to write this pairing, they don’t last long but Loghain was the best thing for Drysi after the Blight. I hope you enjoy this!

Wind and Snow rattled the shutters of the barren cottage, as her icy eyes tried to watch for figures in the snow. They were in the heart of Avaar territory, and they knew the weather on the mountain better then she or her companion did. Drysi shivered pulling her shoulders tight. The horses, had a permanent warming glyph to make it through the storm. But that meant no fire, and only warming runes and furs in here.“Drysi” Turning away from the shutters she met with warm silver eyes, watching her companion drink maker knew what it was.

“What is it Loghain?” she fought to keep the cold out of her voice, pulling the bare fur around her tighter in a vain attempt to ward off the shiver that still came.

“Come away from the windows, nothing is going to try and move in this storm.” He paused seeming to listen. “I’ll wager we have another day of this.” She gave a weak smile. What was the saying? Ferelden bred hard men and harder women who could feel the storms.

Loghain…he was well safe. She wasn’t even sure if that was the word. Despite everything, he pushed her to improve herself and to develop the arcane warrior tradition she had found. It was helping, keeping the emptiness at bay, and he brought a warmth and understanding. He hadn’t judged her for her actions at Fort Drakon.

Worrying the edge of the furs, her mind raced, they had already laid together and decided anything that happened on this trip and presumably on the way back to Ferelden stayed between the two of them. With a huff of frustration at her mind, she meandered over to the bedrolls. First came her boots, the heavy grimoire, her staff sling. Piece by piece until she was just in a heavy tunic and breeches.

It was simple just laying up against him while their armor sat on two of the warming runes and the rest were in the bedrolls. He wrapped his arms around her. No words about how hard it was when this should be easy, no judgment. She tugged the blankets up and he just chuckled and she could hear his grin. Setting the bottle of alcohol in front of her. He brought his feet up pressing them to her back.“AHHH! Maker take your arse! Loghain Mac Tir!” She snarled trying to wiggle away from him. “You Ferelden dog loving salt licking shit! Quit Touching me!” she demanded trying not to join him in his laughing.

“Problem Commander?” He teased as she eventually managed to turn around and face him. His eyes were beautiful dancing with almost a boyish mischief. She huffed trying her best to glare at him. It was little things like this, that had her forgetting why everything hurt.

“Why in Andraste’s holy fire are your feet so cold!” she tried to growl but it was more a squeak, she wasn’t mad just cold, and wanting to laugh with him as he pulled his feet away, and brought her closer.

“Apologises, they have always been rather cold.” he sounded like he wanted to shrug. She wasn’t sure but she just burrowed close while he continued to drink. “Want some?” She peeked up to see him offering the bottle.

@apostatetabris specifically requested Ilora Hawke, so I wrote something about 12-year-old Hawke and 7-year-old Carver. I really like Carver. Someday I’ll actually write about him as a grown up ^^;

Ilora was bent, fingers in the dirt of the garden behind her family’s cottage, when she heard the footsteps. She looked up just in time to see Carver dash past her, running like a shot into the nearby woods.

“Carver?” She jumped to her feet, wiping the dirt off on her rough skirt. “Carver!”

She took off after him. She didn’t see him once she was in the woods, and she sighed, slapping her hands together as she looked around. How was a seven-year-old so fast?

But she didn’t have to search long. A loud thwack! thwack! rose up from deeper in the woods. Ilora shook her head, gathered up her skirts, and ran toward the sound.

Sure enough, she found her brother attacking a tree with a large stick. He hit the side of the tree over and over again—thwack! thwack!—so hard that he jolted back with each blow. Ilora was surprised the stick hadn’t broken. She took a step forward.

“Hey. Hey. What’s wrong?”

He paused, then turned around. Tears streamed from his eyes and snot streamed out of his nose. He sniffed and roughly wiped his face.

“Nothing,” he said, glaring.

“You’re just angry with that tree, then?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

Carver turned his glare from her to the ground. “Papa said…”

“Papa said what?”

He looked up, face red and scrunched. “Papa said I couldn’t come practice with him and Bethany.” Then he burst into fresh tears.

Ilora crossed the space and wrapped her arms around him. He dropped the stick and buried his face in her skirts as he cried. She patted him on the back.

“Listen. It can’t be that bad,” she said.

“Yes it can!” His voice was muffled.

“You know why you’re not allowed to practice with Papa and Bethany.”

“…cuz they’re learning magic…” he mumbled.

“That’s right. They’re not trying to leave you out.”

“But it’s not fair!”

Ilora rolled her eyes heavenward as her brother cried harder into her skirt.

“Hey.” She gave him another pat on the back, this time to get his attention. “Come work in the garden with me.”

“That’s boring.”

“I’ll teach you a new move if you help me.”

Carver looked up. “Really?”

“Of course. Come on.”