half agony, half hope

fourthage asked:

A nice crisp apple, please! Any DA character

faejilly answered:

youth & Erana Lavellan

Iftel left, off to travel through the clans, to learn their magic, to share his own.

None of us, Canaral and Nala and I, were allowed to go with him. We were all still bare-faced and awkward, as spindly and sharp-edged as halla colts in the fall. Iftel wasn’t any more mature, but he was Second, was magic, had a fate on his shoulders heavier than any of ours.

Brighter too, it seemed. I was mostly sure it would even out, in the end. Perhaps I was still just a little jealous. It was hard to settle, after he left, three sets of hands instead of four, the rhythm of our footsteps broken and uneven, until we all collapsed together during the stories and songs of a clear dark summer.

Nala and ‘Aral sat closer to each other each over dinner than to me, closer and closer, night after night.

They thought they were subtle.

They were not.

I was happy for them, but I didn’t know what to do with myself as the days passed. I’d never before been idle.

Only now there was nothing left to do.

Hahren Mathus got tired of my twitching around the campfires, and gave me a fussy baby to soothe.

The next day I was gifted with a pair of toddlers. Twins, Esau and Elady. (If we were engaged in a battle between them and me that night, they won.)

The next day I made sure to find him in the afternoon and tried to beg him for mercy without it being too obvious what I was doing. He laughed at me, and gave me the youngest class of scouts-to-be, who at least didn’t run away laughing every other moment. They asked a lot of questions though, and I struggled to find enough words for all of them.

The next day I got them again. Someone must have thought I wasn’t terrible? I grabbed a practice arrow, and started sketching my answers in the dirt, half-formed maps and the shapes of leaves, filling in the gaps between my sentences.

The next day there was a pile of scrapped leathers and old vellum waiting for us, a stick of soft charcoal for me to use.

I kept the charcoal with me during the day, started tracing the shapes of the camp. I scraped the skins clean over and over again, until they were so thin I could almost see my fingerprints through them when the sun was bright.

I never needed the Hahren to find me something to do again.

I practiced, and practiced, tracing my steps when I scouted, embellishing everyone’s stories when I returned to camp. I practiced until I managed to capture something of the way Nala and ‘Aral leaned together by the fires, the line of his back and the curve of her neck, and I sent it to Iftel, so he knew we were all still all right, however much we missed him.

So he knew not to take too long. It’d be a shame if they had to put off the hand-fasting because her brother got stuck somewhere during his journeying.

So he knew he was always welcome home.

#jilly writes reblog #erana lavellan #dai #dragon age #idk I have dalish feels today

faejilly reblogged

Lath'enansalen

(heart’s blessings)

so hey there. Instead of continuing/finishing any of my idk half-a-dozen posted WIPS or myriad prompt fills, I decided to write something else entirely today. Have some DAI melancholy romance! Because I love Blackwall. (Because I lack sense?)

***

Creators forgive me, I’m in love with a human.

And everyone knows.

And everyone talks about it.

It’s not as if The People don’t gossip, as if we don’t have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it’s different when it’s shem, when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words.

#erana lavellan #blackwall #dragon age #dai #f!lavellan/blackwall #jilly writes reblog #queueue

#jilly writes #erana lavellan #blackwall #dragon age #dai #f!lavellan/blackwall #obviously #I am so bad at tagging pairings I'm sorry

Lath'enansalen

(heart’s blessings)

so hey there. Instead of continuing/finishing any of my idk half-a-dozen posted WIPS or myriad prompt fills, I decided to write something else entirely today. Have some DAI melancholy romance! Because I love Blackwall. (Because I lack sense?)

***

Creators forgive me, I'm in love with a human.

And everyone knows.

And everyone talks about it.

It's not as if The People don't gossip, as if we don't have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it's different when it's shem, when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words.

faejilly reblogged

the end of the beginning

so hey. I’m trying to clear out the WIP list, and uh. Rather than finishing something, I instead found a thing that I’d NEVER POSTED. So. Net gain on goal? Zero. But look, Erana Lavellan making me sad! Irresistible. Please be sad with me.

I have always known my Blackwall is keeping something from me. The heft of it visibly weighs down even his broad shoulders. There’s a shadow behind his eyes that never fades, no matter how bright the day, how full his laugh or sweet the rare small smiles he saves for me. It is darker than usual tonight, and for all he’d asked for my company he is too quiet, staring into his drink as if it held the answers to some terrible question he is afraid to ask.

Perhaps he knows the answer, but can’t quite manage the question.

Or is afraid I’ll ask it, whatever it is.

I won’t.

I am careful not to consider the edges of this, his second shadow, too closely. I trust him enough to let him speak when he is ready.

Perhaps I am a little afraid, as well. It is very heavy. But he has learned to bend when the weight of it shifts, has not broken under it, whatever it is. I do not think he will, now.

Perhaps it will be easier to carry between the both of us, whenever he is willing to loosen his grip enough to share.

So I wait.

It is no hardship, after all, to be quiet with him, to be settled against him on the bench, the warmth of him solid against my side.

#Erana Lavellan #Blackwall #DAI #Dragon Age #jilly writes reblog #otp: vir bor'assan #queueue

#jilly writes #Erana Lavellan #Blackwall #DAI #Dragon Age #otp: vir bor'assan

the end of the beginning

so hey. I’m trying to clear out the WIP list, and uh. Rather than finishing something, I instead found a thing that I’d NEVER POSTED. So. Net gain on goal? Zero. But look, Erana Lavellan making me sad! Irresistible. Please be sad with me.

I have always known my Blackwall is keeping something from me. The heft of it visibly weighs down even his broad shoulders. There’s a shadow behind his eyes that never fades, no matter how bright the day, how full his laugh or sweet the rare small smiles he saves for me. It is darker than usual tonight, and for all he'd asked for my company he is too quiet, staring into his drink as if it held the answers to some terrible question he is afraid to ask.

Perhaps he knows the answer, but can't quite manage the question.

Or is afraid I'll ask it, whatever it is.

I won't.

I am careful not to consider the edges of this, his second shadow, too closely. I trust him enough to let him speak when he is ready.

Perhaps I am a little afraid, as well. It is very heavy. But he has learned to bend when the weight of it shifts, has not broken under it, whatever it is. I do not think he will, now.

Perhaps it will be easier to carry between the both of us, whenever he is willing to loosen his grip enough to share.

So I wait.

It is no hardship, after all, to be quiet with him, to be settled against him on the bench, the warmth of him solid against my side.

faejilly reblogged

fourthage asked:

A nice crisp apple, please! Any DA character

faejilly answered:

youth & Erana Lavellan

Iftel left, off to travel through the clans, to learn their magic, to share his own.

None of us, Canaral and Nala and I, were allowed to go with him. We were all still bare-faced and awkward, as spindly and sharp-edged as halla colts in the fall. Iftel wasn’t any more mature, but he was Second, was magic, had a fate on his shoulders heavier than any of ours.

Brighter too, it seemed. I was mostly sure it would even out, in the end. Perhaps I was still just a little jealous. It was hard to settle, after he left, three sets of hands instead of four, the rhythm of our footsteps broken and uneven, until we all collapsed together during the stories and songs of a clear dark summer.

Nala and ‘Aral sat closer to each other each over dinner than to me, closer and closer, night after night.

They thought they were subtle.

They were not.

I was happy for them, but I didn’t know what to do with myself as the days passed. I’d never before been idle.

Only now there was nothing left to do.

Hahren Mathus got tired of my twitching around the campfires, and gave me a fussy baby to soothe.

The next day I was gifted with a pair of toddlers. Twins, Esau and Elady. (If we were engaged in a battle between them and me that night, they won.)

The next day I made sure to find him in the afternoon and tried to beg him for mercy without it being too obvious what I was doing. He laughed at me, and gave me the youngest class of scouts-to-be, who at least didn’t run away laughing every other moment. They asked a lot of questions though, and I struggled to find enough words for all of them.

The next day I got them again. Someone must have thought I wasn’t terrible? I grabbed a practice arrow, and started sketching my answers in the dirt, half-formed maps and the shapes of leaves, filling in the gaps between my sentences.

The next day there was a pile of scrapped leathers and old vellum waiting for us, a stick of soft charcoal for me to use.

I kept the charcoal with me during the day, started tracing the shapes of the camp. I scraped the skins clean over and over again, until they were so thin I could almost see my fingerprints through them when the sun was bright.

I never needed the Hahren to find me something to do again.

I practiced, and practiced, tracing my steps when I scouted, embellishing everyone’s stories when I returned to camp. I practiced until I managed to capture something of the way Nala and ‘Aral leaned together by the fires, the line of his back and the curve of her neck, and I sent it to Iftel, so he knew we were all still all right, however much we missed him.

So he knew not to take too long. It’d be a shame if they had to put off the hand-fasting because her brother got stuck somewhere during his journeying.

So he knew he was always welcome home.

#erana lavellan #dai #dragon age #jilly writes reblog #queueue

#jilly writes #erana lavellan #dai #dragon age #fourthage #jilly answers

fourthage asked:

A nice crisp apple, please! Any DA character

youth & Erana Lavellan

Iftel left, off to travel through the clans, to learn their magic, to share his own.

None of us, Canaral and Nala and I, were allowed to go with him. We were all still bare-faced and awkward, as spindly and sharp-edged as halla colts in the fall. Iftel wasn’t any more mature, but he was Second, was magic, had a fate on his shoulders heavier than any of ours.

Brighter too, it seemed. I was mostly sure it would even out, in the end. Perhaps I was still just a little jealous. It was hard to settle, after he left, three sets of hands instead of four, the rhythm of our footsteps broken and uneven, until we all collapsed together during the stories and songs of a clear dark summer.

Nala and ‘Aral sat closer to each other each over dinner than to me, closer and closer, night after night.

They thought they were subtle.

They were not.

I was happy for them, but I didn’t know what to do with myself as the days passed. I’d never before been idle.

Only now there was nothing left to do.

Hahren Mathus got tired of my twitching around the campfires, and gave me a fussy baby to soothe.

The next day I was gifted with a pair of toddlers. Twins, Esau and Elady. (If we were engaged in a battle between them and me that night, they won.)

The next day I made sure to find him in the afternoon and tried to beg him for mercy without it being too obvious what I was doing. He laughed at me, and gave me the youngest class of scouts-to-be, who at least didn’t run away laughing every other moment. They asked a lot of questions though, and I struggled to find enough words for all of them.

The next day I got them again. Someone must have thought I wasn’t terrible? I grabbed a practice arrow, and started sketching my answers in the dirt, half-formed maps and the shapes of leaves, filling in the gaps between my sentences.

The next day there was a pile of scrapped leathers and old vellum waiting for us, a stick of soft charcoal for me to use.

I kept the charcoal with me during the day, started tracing the shapes of the camp. I scraped the skins clean over and over again, until they were so thin I could almost see my fingerprints through them when the sun was bright.

I never needed the Hahren to find me something to do again.

I practiced, and practiced, tracing my steps when I scouted, embellishing everyone’s stories when I returned to camp. I practiced until I managed to capture something of the way Nala and ‘Aral leaned together by the fires, the line of his back and the curve of her neck, and I sent it to Iftel, so he knew we were all still all right, however much we missed him.

So he knew not to take too long. It’d be a shame if they had to put off the hand-fasting because her brother got stuck somewhere during his journeying.

So he knew he was always welcome home.

#evilsapphyre #erana lavellan #otp: vir bor'assan #dragon age #dai #blackwall #feel free to send me impertinent questions my darlings!#shadowhunters or OCs or whatever #tmi tuesday #tho that answer isn't terribly tmi now is it?#jilly answers

evilsapphyre asked:

TMI Tues: Pick an OC. What was the moment when they first realized they were in love with their current SO? How did that realization make them feel?

AH

All your Shae stuff is giving me Blackwell feels, so.

Erana realized she was in love with Blackwalll when, despite the fact that they had neither of them talked about whatever was happening between them, about anything they may or may not be feeling, that they’d barely ever even touched, that they’d done nothing more than talk innocently and in public together, (except maybe for the carrying her out of a blizzard thing but she was only sort of conscious for that part), DESPITE everything that had not happened between them...

Blackwall was clearly agonizing over breaking off the relationship that wasn’t even a relationship, and he’d been so careful to wait until she’d recovered from Haven to do it, and he was so obviously trying to protect her even as he said he wasn’t.

And she went oh.

He’s being an idiot but he’s my idiot I want to keep him forever.

faejilly reblogged

dirth’ena lath: knowledge that leads to love (aka a WIP/excerpt of some Erana Lavellen/Blackwall fluff to honor #Lavellan Appreciation Day)

“My, lady.” There’s a pause between the words, short but noticeable, and I lean back to see, enjoying the stretch of spine and shoulders as my body curves, and even though my view is upside-down, and he’s just inside my rooms, not quite out onto the balcony and thus caught in the shadows of the archway, I can still make out his wince.

#jilly writes reblog #erana lavellan #blackwall #otp: vir bor'assan #dragon age #dai

also on [AO3] as sweet dreams, as it no longer fits into the current iteration of my perennial dirth’ena lath WIP.

#erana lavellan #dragon age #dai #servantofclio #jilly answers

servantofclio asked:

I'm going to skip the symbols, but "old best friend" and "favorite teacher" for Erana?

✻ for an old best friend headcanon

Canaral, oh Canaral. She was friends with her cousins as well as family, she and Nala and Iftel and Canaral running around together ever since they all could toddle, but Canaral.

He was the second youngest of eight, while Erana was an only child, her older sister Shilani having died when she was too young to remember anything beyond a faint fuzz of pale hair and maybe a hint of a laugh. She worries that even that isn’t real, that it’s just the things her parents told her often enough to make her think she remembers them... she’s never quite sure.

Instead there was always Canaral, loud when she was quiet, charming while she observed, sharp where she was soft, gentle when she was cruel, and he could always, always, make her laugh.

And when they were young they got in a fight with a rather precariously perched hawthorn tree and lost. (They were trying to get a treat for the halla, but rain! mudslide! bad luck! THORNS EVERYWHERE!) They both got a multitude of small scars that never quite faded, and Erana damaged her ear while Canaral scratched his eye.

Erana kept her ear hidden, for all the scar and the small notch in it were barely noticeable to anyone besides her. She felt it was displaying a weakness that could be taken advantage of, however, as it did damage her hearing.

Canaral, on the other hand, emphasized the thick white line across his eye as much as possible, using eye make-up when at camp, keeping an eye-patch for dealing with shem’len or attending any sort of multiple Clan event/meeting. (He claimed the women liked the eye-patch. And the men. He probably wouldn’t have had any trouble seducing his way through half the Dalish population of Thedas even without it... but he never actually did such a thing, for all he joked about it. He and Nala were hand-fasted as soon as they could convince their parents and their First that the were old enough.)

Um. I’m wandering all over the place, sorry. He was charming and sneaky and was disturbingly good in a close-up knife fight, so he would go out looking for trouble while Erana watched his back and smiled innocently at anyone who glanced their way... and maybe shot them if they got too curious.

She doesn’t talk about him at all during Inquisition. He was at the Conclave, helping her escort/guard Iftel (their Second), and the loss of both of them hurt too much to let herself share them with anyone for a long time.

♘ for a favorite teacher headcanon

Iftel was always kind-of the Mom Friend(tm) even at, idk, eight, so he was almost as much a mentor as a cousin as a friend? He did occasionally indulge in trouble though.

Hahren Mathus, who was old and grumpy and knew all the best stories, and if you were quiet enough for long enough you could see him smile as the fire died down in the evening.

faejilly reblogged

elfyourmother asked:

nsfw prompt: 16 for the ship of your choice

faejilly answered:

sleepy morning kisses that accidentally turn intense + Inktober #31: Final

Erana Lavellan/Blackwall… sad and sleepy morning kisses count, right?

It was still dark, the barest shivers of grey just starting to show through the windows, though it was still dark and cozy inside the room. He was always careful not to think about that too closely; the top of a tower on top of a fortress on top of a mountain and it was always warm. There were odd whistling breezes in hallways half-buried in the rock below them, but here, this, wide and open and ringed with windows and balconies, here there was never a draft.

Skyhold liked its Mistress.

Skyhold had excellent taste.

#erana lavellan #blackwall #dai #dragon age #jilly writes reblog #otp: vir bor'assan #nsfw #queueue

faejilly reblogged

Inktober #19

Prompt: Nature Some relatively early Blackwall/Erana Lavellan fluff

I don’t hear him coming up the path, but I recognize the shift of light out of the corner of my eye, the weight of a shadow too broad and deep to belong to anyone but him.

I cannot help but smile, though we are new and fragile enough I am caught in a conflicting urge to duck my head to hide it, or to turn and fling myself out of my perch and into his arms.

He’s remarkably good at catching unexpected ladies throwing themselves at him.

Though I’m not sure how unexpected a drunken Sera or my own besotted greetings could ever actually be… he knows us both quite well, after all.

I seem to have chosen the ducked head by default, as he stops at the base of the tree, one hand pressed to the trunk as he looks up towards me.

He’s on my left-side.

I have never had to ask, still haven’t told him all the details of my injury, of my past, of Canaral, but he always knows to smile at me from my left, to plant his feet and guard on my right. It soothes an ache in my chest I cannot explain, makes the hollow echo to my side on my bad days seems smaller, quieter.

He makes so many things easier.

I shift my weight and slide, a skittering of bark falling around me as I go; he leans back, but his arm is still firmly braced when I land on my feet. Trusting my aim, vhenan? I lean back against the trunk to smile at him, close enough to touch.

Close enough to kiss.

He recognizes the invitation and leans in, his free hand lifting to trace his fingers along my jaw, into my hair, and I close my eyes as our lips meet, as I gift him the small lift of pleasure that hums from my throat into his mouth with my breath, my tongue, and I am pressed firmly against the bark, the breadth of his chest a pleasure pressed to mine, the hint of sap and fresh wood still lingering around us from my slide.

He pulls back even as my fingers slide through his hair, and his forehead is a solid weight against my own, his breath warm against my face, and I am not sure if I’m more pleased by his greeting or regretful that it ended.

“To what do I owe this lovely visit?” I cannot stop smilling, but I do not mind however ridiculous I may look, because I can feel him smiling back.

“Do you know, my lady, I have entirely forgotten?”

“Truly?” The delight bubbles up in my throat, too bright and shining to let go, even to sound the laugh I can feel trembling in my chest. “Then perhaps you should kiss me again, see if you remember.”

He laughs, that low rumbling chuckle I can feel through my chest, my stomach, and my eyes close again to savor the sensation. I can feel the shift of his head, his voice warm as it ghosts across my cheek, a whisper just for my good ear. “I feel that would have entirely the opposite result.”

I sigh, mock disappointment, but then he kisses the edge of my ear, pushes even closer to reach my neck, warm and ghosting breath, the barest brush of lips, and I lift my chin to bring him closer, curl my fingers through his hair to hold him tighter, and forget everything in the world beyond the circle of his arms and the warmth of his mouth against my skin.

Until Sera’s sharp laugh sounds, and the weight of his head settles against my shoulder with a sigh. “Sorry Beardy,” she does actually sound slightly regretful. I hadn’t know she could do that. “But dinner’s ready, innit?”

“Right,” Blackwall mutters against my skin, and I have to swallow the unexpected return of the urge to giggle at the sensation. “That’s what I was supposed to tell you.”

I do giggle at that, just a little, and he raises his head, and I stop as I meet his eyes, feel my smile settle into something smaller, warmer. I could drown in his eyes, heat and shadows and sorrow and such a trembling impossible sliver of hope. I kiss him one more time, as softly as I can, and push gently at his shoulders. “We’ll only get interrupted by the patrol again anyways.”

He grunts, but there’s a smile hiding there, half hidden by his beard, and I am content as he offers me his arm and we turn back towards camp. Even with Sera skipping and snickering behind us.

#Erana Lavellan #Blackwall #otp: vir bor'assan #Dragon Age #DAI #jilly writes reblog #queueue

faejilly reblogged

Inktober #10

prompt: honor Erana Lavellan/Blackwall

I do not think of him as shem’len. I never have. Perhaps, at first, I thought only Warden… they do work so very hard to keep themselves separate. But when I no longer first thought Warden, it was Blackwall that he became, never shem.

Sera’s more a shem than he is… she’s assuredly proud of that.

It is not that he speaks well of The People, differently than his kind. He has made his fair share of thoughtless comments, but each and every time he watched, he saw, he apologized.

A human. For not knowing what to say to an elf.

But even those apologies are brief. Not eloquent, but always sincere. He barely speaks of himself at all, and if I was to take him at his word there would be very little to notice of him.

He says he is nothing special, but Wardens don’t have to fight demons and he does. Never a flinch, never a doubt. It may not be easy to always stand between the monsters and this fledgeling Inquisition, but he makes it clear it was a simple choice.

He certainly is as ignorant as I am as to how the Veil functions, how to fix a tear to the Beyond. But still he stays. Even before he knew I was the “Herald” herself. Even before he knew anything about me beyond elf, he tried to protect me.

I’ve been a shield between danger and those I needed to protect.

I’d never expected anyone not Dalish to do the same for me.

He says not to trust him, but despite the weight of that shadow on his shoulders, how can I not? When every moment I see him helping everyone around him, training our recruits, offering a hand…

He doesn’t flinch from the glow in my eyes, my hand. Every brush of his fingers against an arm or glove is so kind, and careful. He says he doesn’t deserve to be here, doesn’t deserve my respect, but how can I believe that? Every action he takes shows I should hold him closer, not push him away.

Even when he tries to push away himself, it is so clearly because he thinks I need to be protected from him that it is difficult not to trust him the more for it.

I am a besotted fool, clearly, but Blackwall will never be shem’len.

Lethallin, though I think he knows enough of the weight of that word between me and Solas to bolt if he heard me say it.

Vhenan would be safer for him, for all it is too dangerous for me.

My heart, given to a man who doesn’t know what it means. Who probably never could, even if I could make him listen as I told him.

I cannot regret the gift, nonetheless.

Even if he never trusts himself enough to take it.

#Dragon Age #DAI #Erana Lavellan #otp: vir bor'assan #jilly writes reblog #queueue

faejilly reblogged

Inktober #8

Prompt: Impasse. A continuation of Asti a Vala Femundis, my Dorian Pavus & Erana Lavellan friendship fic. (This would be a bit where things go wrong.)

It was remarkable, the way the Herald could smile with just her eyes, a hint of brown warm beneath the shifting green echo of the Mark in her hand, a softening across her face, in her voice, even if her lips seldom curved in anything one could recognize as affection or amusement.

It was remarkable how quickly it all disappeared, how gracefully she stepped back and he recognized he did not know how far she was willing and able to go, or if he’d be able to stop her.

#erana lavellan #dorian pavus #dragon age #dai #fictober #jilly writes reblog #queueue

also on AO3

faejilly reblogged

Inktober Day #2

On Day 3, whatever, I’ll get caught up eventually. Probably. :D ANYWAYS.

I’m very sorry in advance, this is not at all what I was planning on subjecting you all to, but it decided it wanted to get finished today, so who was I to argue?

Prompt: barefoot / “sleepy” sex. This is a DAI Post-Trespasser Epilogue, a sequel to this: http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/128963341418; it is after Erana Lavellan has heard from The Grey Wardens that Thom Rainier is gone. (Thom is not in this. Sorry Thom. This is mostly about failing to deal with the fact that Thom is not in this.)

The sky is green

I am lucid enough to know what that means, but I ignore it.

Pretend not to know, with all my heart. Pretend, pretend, never wake up.

I stretch, and hiss, almost a growl, almost a purr, ignoring the sharp prickle of claws between my ribs, and let myself run.

It has been long, longer than I am willing to consider, since I had a good run. I used to hunt when I had the free time; for the next view to sketch, if not herbs that needed re-stocking or a beast that needed tracking, and while I could cover a lot of ground while stalking, cross a lot of stone or bark while climbing, it was not the same.

It was never so free.

I’ve slowed some over time, age and the change in balance from one missing hand shifting everything else to follow.

But now, for the first time in years, I am nothing careful, nothing considering, only the air rushing past and a push for more.

My eyes burn and I lengthen my stride, the earth solid beneath my feet, wild grasses and flowers short enough not to catch against my legs, just a whisper against my ankles now and then.

Everything is green.

I roll my shoulders, shake out my hand, not green, not anymore, and try to run even faster, ‘til my heart beats so hard I can’t feel anything else, a blur of ground and heavy breaths and air gone sharp and cold as mountains rise and

No.

Please, not here.

I cannot.

Not yet.

Not ever.

#jilly writes reblog #erana lavellan #solas #solavellan #f!lavellan/blackwall #dragon age #dai #nsfw #queueue

now on AO3

faejilly reblogged

Inktober Day #3

prompt: warmth

Dorian & Erana Lavellan (I’m totes cheating you guys, I did not write this today. But I finished it today so whatever, my fictober is Clean-Up-Month apparently.) Sequel to: http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/124795828438 Dorian-comes-to-Haven ficlet that I suppose I really should get over on AO3 at some point? Maybe. Probably not today tho.

She doesn’t smile enough, the Herald. Now that he knows she’s got a smile, it is tragic how seldom she lets one escape from her.

Seems like such a waste. She is always so serious, with her so called Council suspicious and trusting and desperate in turn, making her smooth their feathers.

As if she didn’t have enough to do.

As if he didn’t have enough to do, trying to figure out the hole in the sky. Shouldn’t have to worry about feathers.

Figurative or literal; those long dark black ones occasionally left behind by the Spymistress’ messengers make his nose itch.

The Herald seems to like the creatures.

Dorian resists the urge to shudder.

Maybe she is part bird herself? He’s vaguely surprised the dwarf hasn’t run away with that comparison before now, considering his tendency towards ridiculous nicknames. It seems quite clear a comparison to Dorian. There is something about the way she can stare, such focus in bright steady eyes, a tendency to perch and watch… some sort of kestrel, perhaps, hovering and waiting to see what the rest of them will do, before she risks her own final, deadly dive.

She’s quieter than the Nightingale’s winged compatriots, at least. No squawking. Or if she does squawk, she keeps it very much to herself. Sometimes her eyes narrow when she’s watching her advisors squabble though, and he thinks she wants to peck.

But she never does.

She still doesn’t smile either.

He should do something about that.

He wonders if there’s anywhere in this Maker-forsaken wasteland of snow and rock to find a decent bottle of wine.

Or wait, no, he has a much better idea.

It will require getting up early, though.

Maybe it would be easier just to stay up until the time is right?

Much better plan, he does have that crate of books the Chancellor oh-so-reluctantly surrendered from the basement to go through.

He grins, and goes in search of a bottle of wine as well. Couldn’t hurt, if he manages to find one. Somehow. Help keep him warm while he’s reading.

He almost forgets, almost loses track of time, caught between the pages of a terrible translation that nonetheless has more references to the text of Awiergius’ original work than he’s seen in years…

But then he realizes the light has changed, a grey tinge sneaking around the edges of his vision that isn’t a wash of exhaustion but rather that dim reflection on snow and clouds before the sun has quite risen.

It’s time.

She opens her door quickly enough after he knocks, tugging on the hem of her jacket, so quickly it’s apparent she was already dressed before he arrived. Her head tilts, sharp and wary, kestrel indeed, I was right, “Dorian?”

“Do you have many northern admirers likely to brave the cold and invite you to breakfast?”

“I suppose not.” She blinks, a lift of eyebrows that is clearly amused, but not quite the smile he seeks. “I did not think you were familiar with the idea of mornings?”

“Only when it’s really very late rather than early, my dear.”

She coughs, and there, the barest twitch of her mouth. Good. He offers her the widest deepest bow he can manage without letting the wind sneak up his sleeves, and grins as he stands tall to see a silent laugh caught in her eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He turns, gestures with his arm to have her step out and walk beside him. “Or is it just that anything seems ridiculous when there’s no sunlight yet to warm a fellow?”

“You may have a point.” Her face is still at ease, her eyes bright, not still and cool as they become once the rest of Haven is staring at her. “But you can’t let a lack of sunlight stop you entirely.”

“I could!” He lets his voice rise, resists the urge to place his hand on his heart and stagger. “Imagine it, a vacation in a nice warm arm-chair doing absolutely nothing until the weather stops being so dramatic”

“But you won’t.”

He shrugs. Of course he won’t, but very few people have ever bothered to notice that. Most of whom are worse than dead, now. Except her. “Maybe tomorrow.”

She shakes her head, her steps steadily crunching through the crust the snow reforms each night. It’s comfortable, the silence she can draw around herself, implacable yet soft.

Right as she’s about to step up towards the tavern, he waves her sideways, and her eyebrows lift as she follows around the corner and up behind the ovens, to a tiny table with two stools pushed against the brick chimney.

Her head tilts at the sight, a shift of her hair keeping the right side of her head shadowed, as always. She always keeps him on her left side. Keeps everyone except Solas on her left side; he wonders if anyone else has noticed. “A winter picnic?”

“I’ll keep it brief, I promise.” He shudders at the very thought of lingering, delighted by the huff of air that escapes her, not particularly close to a snort of laughter but clearly related nonetheless. “This way.”

He tilts his head, though he knows his gesture is nothing like as compelling as her own, and slips inside. They stop, and he watches as her eyes close, and she breathes, just breathes, and there at last her shoulders ease and her mouth curves, and she smiles at yeast and heat and the beginnings of bread.

Such a simple joy.

It is nice in here. Not quite as good a smell as cracking open a new crate of books, but he’ll accept that maybe not everyone would agree with his priorities. He waves, and the baker he’d talked to the day before smiles, and slides a small basket his way, the contents already wrapped and covered in a faded checked cloth.

He waits until she opens her eyes, then slips them both back outside to perch and eat their hot rolls and lean against warm bricks and complain some more about the cold.

All right, he’s the only one complaining about the cold, but her eyes are bright as he does, and her smile doesn’t ever completely go away.