Honestly, Amayian and Leliana do make me so sad, because both see the other as substantially not the person they know they are, while they are meant to be what they have become.

And of course, they blame themselves for that failing rather than the circumstances that led them there.

Josephine: No, Inquisitor - "eating pussy" does not count as a full meal.

Inquisitor: What about if I do it with Leliana? She hasn't eaten either.

Josephine: No!

Leliana: Josie! I think I'm rather famish, personally.

You know BioWare, since you finished Veilguard, I think it’s perfectly time for you to do the very important, definitely planned, Leliana romance for Inquisition. No excuses! 🥺👉🏽👈🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽🗡️🗡️🗡️

WIP Wednesday

This piece is a constitution of the WIP uploaded the previous day. some changes were made, but overall I have aided more!

~

Above the withering gray wall of fog, the black walls of Ostwick rose like pillars of night from the snowy earth. The sounds of the seas were in Leliana’s ears—the rumbling groans of the seas as frothy white mauls crashed against its sides, lifting them high and pummeling them down in swift moments near disorienting; the whistling of ropes unlacing and growing taunt; the shouts and beats of sailors as hurried toward this task or that; the hissing of the masts and the cracking of the sails as the winds snapped them full with air. And beyond, the fog combed through the deep blue-gray waters, slow-moving fingers that trailed as lightly as a lover across their beloved’s scars. Absentmindedly, she wondered how many scars did the sea bare? And soon after that—did the stroking touch of the fog aid them in the easing of the hurt?

Perhaps it was happenstance that she had been staring at Amayian’s back when the thought came to her. 

Leliana had found him standing there before the sun slipped a ruddy finger over the horizon and across the waters, his eyes fixated northward as the thin lace of white grew thick and lumbering. The wind had been in his hair, dark wavy curls writhing as the salty air grasped and tugged, flowing like some veil of night speckled with the starlight of sea-spray. The tails of his long black coat danced lightly along the wooden panels of the ship, the sleeves drawn back past his elbows, revealing the white cotton shirt beneath, dabbled with gray from splashing water. A fine embroidery silver latticed across them, in swirling vines blossoming with forked leaves; trailing and lost as they reached the cuffed coat-arms. Standing there, frozen, with only that shifting wind grasping at his hair and his coat, one would think he was a statue with all the shades of living men. 

A thought flitted through her mind, a soft voice she had nearly forgotten. One bounded in warmth and fitted for smiles. The tones dragged scrapping daggers deep across her chest, leaving a burning ache at her heart. He always seemed like a statue, didn’t he? 

Yes, she admitted, the words a long drawl, wary to leave the iron chains confining her mind. Always wanted to draw the first watch. Amayian Trevelyan had already been an eager sort, in actions to say the least. In everything else, well…When it came to words, those seemed lost to him.

The gentle voice chimed, laughing. Remember when we tried to have him tell an Orlesian tale. 

Something close to a twitch tickled the corner of her mouth. Oh, yes. She recalled that one. A poor attempt, in truth. He had all the story-telling ability of a boulder, all stone and solid truths. Zevran had not allowed him to live it down, even if the poor boy had no idea why the ending - And then he died - was a terrible conclusion. There was no fervor in those stories, even if she could tell that he was told the story faithfully - perhaps too faithfully for her taste, but it was an amusing one still. And he had been so quiet then. Shy was not quite the right word. Detached, withdrawn, even dour. But not surly. Unfriendly, but not grumpy or mean-spirited. Perhaps when I teased him a little about a jest that soared well over his head, but there was nothing angry in his voice. Only neat confusion. Always neat, that one.

Leliana was not sure which voices spoke, the Sister or the Nightingale. The tones mangled to one, one fond, the other edged close to hardness. But the memories stirred, quiet at first before rushing like a cliff-climbing wave cast by the sea. Violet and blue skies jeweled in stars; amber flames twirling with the sudden sputters of a racing song; a lanky boy with thick curls that touched the ends of his ears but grew as time went on, almost shaggy. But neatness, despite it all—neatness in his words, in his precise, measured actions, even for a boy of nineteen.  No, Amayian Trevelyan was never mean-spirited, even when warranted. He was not much of anything, to be true—neither happy or sad, angry or shamed. When Leliana dug her fingers deep enough, hints could be caught, dragged slowly out to be examined. Most had been a glimmer of a blush tracing the outlines of faint dark freckles on olive skin, a quietness in the voice when she leaned close and fixed the positioning of his fingers as she taught him how to strum a lyre properly, where to settle it in his grasp, how to hear the wrongness of a certain plucked note. And the blush was the greatest struggle of all not to tease him. Perhaps she had feared that if she did so, he would settle—never cast away—the lyre onto the ground, thank her for the lesson, and pull away from everything Leliana had tried so hard to bring out, and return to the icy greetings that marked his tone when he first joined Enasalin and Ralia and the others. But he never did. He simply took it, knowing or unknowing what the words meant in truth. As if it was to be expected, as if he could ascertain some points that he could use. 

The cold voice traced a dagger along her spine, slow, methodical. To use what? To serve. And when service did finally come, what did he do? He fled, like some coward. There was no mockingness in that tone from the Nightingale—from Leliana’s self—but merely the truth. Amayian had been so…eager…to follow whatever Enasalin or the others gave him requests to be complete. But when Leliana had needed him, truly needed him, she saw for a moment hesitation, and soon after the confusion in that hesitation, in those guileless eyes that were as smooth and clear as glass in a mirror. And then he turned, and ran. Ran from Leliana. Ran from Enasalin. 

Her hand drifted for a moment to her stomach, felt the cold of her chainmail despite the leather gloves, reaching out to her—the grief and the pain of childbirth. Her children. Their children. Born from a foolish moment of weakness, on both of their parts. At times, she wondered if she used him…

Just like Marjolaine. 

Leliana closed her eyes, drew her stomach-resting hand into a fist, and for a moment felt a coil of shame in her heart, clogging her throat. She remembered those nights well enough, the fear in her heart when she saw the bloody ruin of his back from where the dragonling’s claws racked him from near his neck down the length, all torn flesh and pulsing blood, strips of scarlet and peeled pink and white across deep olive skin. She remembered the azure glow of Wynne’s magic, the trickles of sweat crawling down her temple, falling between the deeply creased furrow of her eyebrows. She remembered the shallow breaths of his shoulders and chest, the slickness of his hair drenched in sweat, the small lines as flashes of pain crawled over his features. And the heat. She remembered the heat, worse of all. Living fire was his skin, scorching the palm of Leliana’s skin that she nearly feared her skin would slough off and leave her bones cracked and shattered. For days and nights she sat by his side, offering him to drink, feeding him only the smallest pieces of meat and bread that he could keep down, all while the pain slithered across features, as if a thousand arrows struck him over and over again. 

But in time, the pain receded and the strength returned to him, slowly and surely. A truly slow progress, but progress nevertheless. And I never once left his side. The anger striked out with the hissing snap of a viper. Leliana gave him water to drink and food he could keep down, tiny chunks of bread softened in carrot and vegetable soup, sprinkled with small slivers of meat hunted by Sten—and Sten had seemed more determined than in any hunt to find something for him to eat. The softie. Still, she stayed by his side, when only fears could give her comfort as no other words could. 

And how angry she had been when she had awoken one night to see him sitting up from his bed roll, staring down at her with those quiet fiery eyes, a warm copper, the soft fire of a hearth within the white storm of winter. And he had apologized for waking her, and that her nose crinkled and she would release a small whenever he shifted away from her cuddles. And though anger stirred twisted in her heart, relief swarmed her limbs like swelling streams of music, light and warm and leaping. And my arms had wrapped around him. Words were spoken too, bitter and cracking with the lingering fear scratching at her throat and wettening her eyes. But Leliana could not recall the exact words, all gray blurs and distant murmurs in her mind. The only thing she could recall, between those long stretches of mist, was her lips against his face, leaving countless kisses upon his skin, and his questions of, “Were you harmed?”

Always concerned for others, she thought, lips thinning even as a flicker of a smile threatened to break across her face. And when I asked if he was okay, all that concern melted out of him, filled with excuses. That the wounds would heal—they always do. Or the pain has receded to a small thrumming along his back, but he can still fight if need be. Whatever was required for us. But never for him. And still, he drew her in, and things sped beyond either of their controls, fueled by the worries in their hearts. He had been unaware, inexperienced, but always ready to learn. Whenever there was a task ahead, all things were fixated upon that alone. And it had Amayian who pressed eagerly against her body, slipping Leliana slipped on his lap, cradling his face in her hands, rubbing at the line of his cheekbones, capturing the sculpture of his features with her fingers and palms. And she recalled his words, slicing like an arrow piercing the air, unlike any other. Allow me to ease your worry. 

Me: Amayian and Leliana would be very cute in Origins.

Also me: Me overthinks the moral dilemma in which Leliana would feels about Amayian, thinking she used him just like his family during their relationship, while also getting accidentally impregnated by Amayian.

Work in Progress

Leliana had found him standing there before the sun slipped a ruddy finger over the horizon and across the waters, his eyes fixated northward as the thin lace of white grew thick and lumbering. The wind had been in his hair, dark wavy curls writhing as the salty air grasped and tugged, flowing like some veil of night speckled with the starlight of sea-spray. The tails of his long black coat danced lightly along the wooden panels of the ship, the sleeves drawn back past his elbows, revealing the white cotton shirt beneath, dabbled with gray from splashing water. A fine embroidery silver latticed across them, in swirling vines blossoming with forked leaves; trailing and lost as they reached the cuffed coat-arms. Standing there, frozen, with only that shifting wind grasping at his hair and his coat, one would think he was a statue with all the shades of living men. 

A thought flitted through her mind, a soft voice she had nearly forgotten. One bounded in warmth and fitted for smiles. The tones dragged scrapping daggers deep across her chest, leaving a burning ache at her heart. He always seemed like a statue, didn’t he? 

Yes, she admitted, the words a long drawl, wary to leave the iron chains confining her mind. Always wanted to draw the first watch. Amayian Trevelyan had already been an eager sort, in actions to say the least. In everything else, well…When it came to words, those seemed lost to him.

The gentle voice chimed, laughing. Remember when we tried to have him tell an Orlesian tale. 

Something close to a twitch tickled the corner of her mouth. Oh, yes. She recalled that one. A poor attempt, in truth. He had all the story-telling ability of a boulder, all stone and truths. Zevran had not allowed him to live it down, even if the poor boy had no idea why the ending - And then he died - was a terrible conclusion. There was no fervor in those stories, even if she could tell that he was told the story faithfully - perhaps too faithfully for her taste, but it was an amusing one still. And he had been so quiet then. Shy was not quite the right word. Detached, withdrawn, even dour. But not surly. Unfriendly, but not grumpy or mean-spirited. Perhaps when I teased him a little about a jest that soared well over his head, but there was nothing angry in his voice. Only neat confusion. Always neat, that one.

Leliana was not sure which voices spoke, the Sister or the Nightingale. The tones mangled to one, one fond, the other edged close to hardness. But the memories stirred, quiet at first before rushing like a cliff-climbing wave cast by the sea. Violet and blue skies jeweled in stars; amber flames twirling with the sudden sputters of a racing song; a lanky boy with thick curls that touched the ends of his ears but grew as time went on, almost shaggy. But neatness, despite it all—neatness in his words, in his precise, measured actions, even for a boy of nineteen.  No, Amayian Trevelyan was never mean-spirited, even when warranted. He was not much of anything, to be true—neither happy or sad, angry or shamed. When Leliana dug her fingers deep enough, hints could be caught, dragged slowly out to be examined. Most had been a glimmer of a blush tracing the outlines of faint dark freckles on olive skin, a quietness in the voice when she leaned close and fixed the positioning of his fingers as she taught him how to strum a lyre properly, where to settle it in his grasp, how to hear the wrongness of a certain plucked note. And the blush was the greatest struggle of all not to tease him. Perhaps she had feared that if she did so, he would settle—never cast away—the lyre onto the ground, thank her for the lesson, and pull away from everything Leliana had tried so hard to bring out, and return to the icy greetings that marked his tone when he first joined Enasalin and Ralia and the others. But he never did. He simply took it, knowing or unknowing what the words meant in truth. As if it was to be expected, as if he could ascertain some points that he could use. The cold voice traced a dagger along her spine, slow, methodical. To use what? To serve. And when service did finally come, what did he do? He fled, like some coward. There was no mockingness in that tone from the Nightingale—from Leliana’s self—but merely the truth. Amayian had been so…eager…to follow whatever Enasalin or the others had him to do. But when Leliana had needed him, truly needed him, she saw for a moment hesitation, and soon after the confusion in that hesitation, in those guileless eyes that were as smooth and clear as glass in a mirror. And then he turned, and ran. Ran from Leliana. Ran from Enasalin.

Six Sentence Sunday (But it's technically Monday..)

Listen, I know I'm late with this - but that was because I was resting from fighting the great beasts known as dual monitor stands the previous night and I think I had injured my hands along the way for a bit, lol.

In any case, I was tagged by the wonderful and lovely @aymayzing for this. Thank you so much for the tag.

This is a currently work-in-progress fanfic where Leliana and Amayian go to Ostwick to treat with House Trevelyan in regards to receiving their support for the Inquisition (and the potential drama of seeing Amayian's abusers in the flesh - though they aren't mentioned in this piece yet).

Thank you so much for the tag and I'm so sorry I was late with this.

I'm tagging back @aymayzing, but also @this-is-something-idk-what, @lordwoolselytaxservices, @noeldressari, @bigfan-fanfic, and @thebookworm0001

You know if I wasn’t so much of a coward (aka had I thought about it when I first met Amayian), I could had made the Warden, Leliana, and Amayian in a poly, or made the Warden Amayian’s bisexual awakening, with all the conflicted troubles that would cause. Perhaps I will still do that. Who knows.

The great thing about having Amayian romance Leliana (or technically, the other way around in reality) in Origins is the fact that Leliana, while absolutely endearing and adorable, has some interesting flirts that would fly over Amayian's head.

Alexandra: I’m going to beat them up.

Leliana, grasping her hands and kissing her knuckles: Don’t harm these beautiful hands on such fools.

(They haven’t kissed yet)