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winter 2020 gift
Jan. 6th, 2021 12:54 pmAs a child, such sights were unclear, the dream a wavering uncertainty when he awakened from its deluge. Once, he could not remember details, only that the vision had been destruction incarnate, a veritable calamity in its own right. Years later, he would find such a comparison most fitting, though what he saw never seemed to perturb him.
It was not Garlemald, certainly. Nor was it Ivalice once he'd come to set foot upon Dalmascan soil. Nor, indeed, was it Othard. His steps might have taken him far into the world beyond his home but never once did he find the place he saw in his dreams. No battle-torn lands could even come close to the incomprehensible swath of ruin. And so he visited it again, time after time, and walked its streets with little care for the carnage around him.
Never did he find it perturbing. On the contrary; once, he'd found it fascinating. But now he found the spectacle rote and unfulfilling, as unremarkable as his patrols through Gyr Abania had been months ago.
(He'd confess he found such things more entertaining, however, than his new companion's ceaseless prattling were he ever to be asked.)
The play unfolded as always, each moment akin to a passage he might have memorized in a book. Nothing ever changed. He turned down the second street as he always did, for the third, he'd found, was always blocked by falling debris. He would pass the rotunda; he would make another turn down the stairs. And it would culminate in a blanket of fire and light that would shutter his eyes and close the curtain on it all, and he would awaken without having seen the end. The true end of this tale, when the star gasped its final breath and fell to ruin.
Would it crack in half and split open like a broken rib cage? Would it simply wink out of existence, with all life following it? It was the one thing he was eager to see, though by now he assumed he would be left wanting each and every time.
This time, however, something changed.
It was at the bottom of the stairs when he took note of it, when a cluster of the robed individuals ran past. Hot on their heels was a cluster of apparitions, smudges of color at first against the sharpness of the ruin around them. Their shapes became more defined, edges of shoulders and curves of arms, weapons grasped firmly in their hands.
At the front, running headlong towards the fire, he caught a glimpse of a curtain of hair the color of night. In his hands, a bow shimmered.
A breath slipped between Zenos' teeth, hissed with delight. "You too, my friend?"
The apparition did not hear him. Over the din of terror all around them, he could hardly be surprised. The bowstring was pulled back, taut, and arrows loosened into the dark even as Zenos took another step, and another, towards him. The flames swelled; something was said to one of the other shadows clustered around him, all drowned out by the creatures that came forth to challenge his adversary. Zenos watched, eyes lit up with fervor. Beasts fell beneath the arrows, at the scrape of the tremendous blade one of his allies carried. Without a care for the harm he might come to, Zenos continued his path towards him. His mouth was pulled back in a smile that showed his teeth.
Hallucination, wishful thinking, it did not matter. This was what had been absent all this time. The hero come to fight back the dark; the hunter come for greater prey. In the midst of a great cataclysm, was it any wonder that Hydaelyn's chosen would be brought to a dying star in a feeble attempt to save it? "What do you hope to accomplish?" Each step brought him closer to their cluster, where they'd chosen to stand their ground and hobble the monsters threatening to unmake them. "Do you think you can save them? Salvage a world already torn asunder?" How much more hopeless did these events need to be?
Or was this just another step in what they'd already spoken of, those moments where the stakes are high and all hangs in the balance? Was this not the epitome of their desire?
A swell of emotion tore through his chest that threatened to crack through his ribs, overwhelming in its intensity. "This, too, we share. The ending of a star, this...this reckoning." How he had missed this, this understanding.
One by one, the beasts fell. One by one, Zenos found his way to his side. And when the last of them fell, Zenos reached out a hand.
Gustavain turned, eyes alight and flinty, looking imperceptibly into Zenos.
He awakened with an exhale, seated alone in his chamber, greeted by the dark that awaited him there. His ragged breath pierced the deafening silence, enough to draw the attention of a quiet voice that chirped, "My lord? Does something trouble you?"
The elation folded beneath the disappointed, if only for a moment. Zenos sighed, gathering himself. Fandaniel was not acknowledged, even as he tipped his head 'round the back of the throne to inspect him. "No. No, nothing troubles me," he rumbled. He pressed a hand over his mouth, sank back into his chair, and closed his eyes, effectively shutting out further inquiries before they could be voiced. The rustle of fabric signaled the other man's retreat, leaving him alone once more to his thoughts.
Behind his hand, Zenos could not help but smile.
I.
Isabela would point out the obvious, he thinks, when she deems to snicker near his ear as she makes a passing comment about their leader's backside. "Don't scowl so, sweet thing," she practically purrs, and Fenris hates the shiver that dances up his spine. "I'm only speaking the truth."
With a roll of his eyes, he looks back at her. "I am not oggling Hawke," he grumbles.
"Oh, come on. Who isn't oggling her? Look at those fantastic hips." He does not, in fact, look at those (admittedly) fantastic hips. Just like he doesn't look at Isabela's as she skips ahead to drape an arm around the mage's waist and tug Hawke along with her. He frowns at her back as she walks, knowing full well that the smirk she flings at him from over her shoulder is a warning for more to come.
Varric chuckles beside him and Fenris huffs out a breath. "I didn't ask for your opinion, dwarf."
"You never have to, broody."
Ugh. Rogues.
II.
"So, Fenris," Isabela drawls, golden gaze fixing on her partner across the table.
Hawke eyes her from over the rim of her tankard, one eyebrow raised. "What about him?"
The pirate settles her arms on the table, propping her bosom up just so, daring Marian to slide her gaze downwards. When she doesn't fall for the ruse, Isabela tsks beneath her breath. "You know what. Those eyes, that physique. Those markings..."
"Those markings hurt him, 'bela," Hawke points out. "I don't think he considers them assets."
"You're even starting to sound like him," she tuts right back. "Come on, sweet thing. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Who wouldn't want to go for a romp with someone like Fenris? Give the man a little bit of liquor, ignore the cold exterior, and he's probably perfect. Loyal, strong, graceful... He's everything any typical woman would want.
A woman like Hawke, perhaps.
Marian touches the tip of her knuckle to the bottom of Isabela's chin, getting her attention. She smiles. "Why would I when I have you?"
Isabela smirks, grabbing her partner's wrist and tugging her up from the table. "Everyone has fantasies, you know," she whispers silkily, arm wrapping around Hawke's waist.
And when you realize you don't want a pirate, I want to know that you'll be happy.
Lips crush together, impossible to tell who initiated first, and then it's just a tangle of hands and smiles as they work their way upstairs and to the bedroom, where they know they won't be disturbed.
III.
Fenris' brands do not awaken under Hawke's touch, as much as he expects them to. He can feel the prickle of their power beneath her hands just as surely as he can feel the instinct to flinch away, but this is a practice they go through often enough that he's learned to hold still and let her work. Her hands are warm, barely touching his body as she works her magic over the wounds in his side. Skin and muscle knit together beneath her magic, the kinder side of the curse that mages have. Even still, every pass of warmth reminds him of crueler times, of a hand that offered false care and harsher punishments. Each time her magic touches him, his body waits for the inevitable backlash of power, for pain he knows will surely come.
Time and time again, she proves him wrong.
"There, that's good," she says, withdrawing. Pain has given way to a dull ache and there are still marks on his skin as Hawke pulls out a health potion and hands it to him. "This will fix the rest."
"Thank you," he says, his tone muted behind the lip of the bottle she's given him. With a nod, she settles near his side in the alleyway, shadows keeping their location hidden for the moment. The moon has slipped behind the clouds, small aid at a time like this.
Hawke smiles when she speaks but he can see there's no mirth behind it. "I'm sorry you always seem to get hurt when we're out at night. I swear I'm not cursed." It's a mild joke, one that doesn't bring laughter from either of them.
"I blame the fools of this city, not you," he says and it's the truth. "You cannot help the idiocy of those who believe every person who passes through Lowtown and Hightown should be beaten and robbed." He shakes his head. "But perhaps one day you will not be so quick to leap into an argument that isn't your own?"
She laughs and stands, turning to offer him her hand. "Do you really think that will happen, Fenris?"
His smile is brief and wry but, Maker, does it make her heart ache. He takes her hand. "Not a chance."
Isabela would point out the obvious, he thinks, when she deems to snicker near his ear as she makes a passing comment about their leader's backside. "Don't scowl so, sweet thing," she practically purrs, and Fenris hates the shiver that dances up his spine. "I'm only speaking the truth."
With a roll of his eyes, he looks back at her. "I am not oggling Hawke," he grumbles.
"Oh, come on. Who isn't oggling her? Look at those fantastic hips." He does not, in fact, look at those (admittedly) fantastic hips. Just like he doesn't look at Isabela's as she skips ahead to drape an arm around the mage's waist and tug Hawke along with her. He frowns at her back as she walks, knowing full well that the smirk she flings at him from over her shoulder is a warning for more to come.
Varric chuckles beside him and Fenris huffs out a breath. "I didn't ask for your opinion, dwarf."
"You never have to, broody."
Ugh. Rogues.
II.
"So, Fenris," Isabela drawls, golden gaze fixing on her partner across the table.
Hawke eyes her from over the rim of her tankard, one eyebrow raised. "What about him?"
The pirate settles her arms on the table, propping her bosom up just so, daring Marian to slide her gaze downwards. When she doesn't fall for the ruse, Isabela tsks beneath her breath. "You know what. Those eyes, that physique. Those markings..."
"Those markings hurt him, 'bela," Hawke points out. "I don't think he considers them assets."
"You're even starting to sound like him," she tuts right back. "Come on, sweet thing. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Who wouldn't want to go for a romp with someone like Fenris? Give the man a little bit of liquor, ignore the cold exterior, and he's probably perfect. Loyal, strong, graceful... He's everything any typical woman would want.
A woman like Hawke, perhaps.
Marian touches the tip of her knuckle to the bottom of Isabela's chin, getting her attention. She smiles. "Why would I when I have you?"
Isabela smirks, grabbing her partner's wrist and tugging her up from the table. "Everyone has fantasies, you know," she whispers silkily, arm wrapping around Hawke's waist.
And when you realize you don't want a pirate, I want to know that you'll be happy.
Lips crush together, impossible to tell who initiated first, and then it's just a tangle of hands and smiles as they work their way upstairs and to the bedroom, where they know they won't be disturbed.
III.
Fenris' brands do not awaken under Hawke's touch, as much as he expects them to. He can feel the prickle of their power beneath her hands just as surely as he can feel the instinct to flinch away, but this is a practice they go through often enough that he's learned to hold still and let her work. Her hands are warm, barely touching his body as she works her magic over the wounds in his side. Skin and muscle knit together beneath her magic, the kinder side of the curse that mages have. Even still, every pass of warmth reminds him of crueler times, of a hand that offered false care and harsher punishments. Each time her magic touches him, his body waits for the inevitable backlash of power, for pain he knows will surely come.
Time and time again, she proves him wrong.
"There, that's good," she says, withdrawing. Pain has given way to a dull ache and there are still marks on his skin as Hawke pulls out a health potion and hands it to him. "This will fix the rest."
"Thank you," he says, his tone muted behind the lip of the bottle she's given him. With a nod, she settles near his side in the alleyway, shadows keeping their location hidden for the moment. The moon has slipped behind the clouds, small aid at a time like this.
Hawke smiles when she speaks but he can see there's no mirth behind it. "I'm sorry you always seem to get hurt when we're out at night. I swear I'm not cursed." It's a mild joke, one that doesn't bring laughter from either of them.
"I blame the fools of this city, not you," he says and it's the truth. "You cannot help the idiocy of those who believe every person who passes through Lowtown and Hightown should be beaten and robbed." He shakes his head. "But perhaps one day you will not be so quick to leap into an argument that isn't your own?"
She laughs and stands, turning to offer him her hand. "Do you really think that will happen, Fenris?"
His smile is brief and wry but, Maker, does it make her heart ache. He takes her hand. "Not a chance."
Title: That Which is Most Base
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Hawke, Isabela, Fenris, Anders, the Arishok, Meredith.
Pairings: Hawke/Isabela
Rating: PG-13 for gore.
Summary: The beginnings of madness.
( A fight to the death )
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Hawke, Isabela, Fenris, Anders, the Arishok, Meredith.
Pairings: Hawke/Isabela
Rating: PG-13 for gore.
Summary: The beginnings of madness.
( A fight to the death )
