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firjii · 2 years

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Words: 2,233 Fandom: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Characters: Jiran, Avad Additional Tags: Canon Related, Canon Death, Patricide, Regicide, Implied Murder, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Missing Scene, Mentions of Mass Murder, Red Raids, Carja, rated M FOR MURDER, Meridian (Horizon: Zero Dawn), Canon Divergent, Angst, ALL THE ANGST, Brief Violence, brief implied/referenced non-sexual family abuse

Summary: With Meridian under siege and loyalists scattered and distracted, Avad seizes the only opportunity left to stop Jiran.

[Exactly what it says on the tin. I wanted to write Jiran’s death scene. Semi-purple prose. Slightly canon divergent because Ersa is not included. I don’t consider this a particularly graphic story but used an M rating because, y’know, assassination]

Plain text under the cut.

The light on Avad’s face doesn’t judge. It brings neither warmth nor cold. It carries no threat or encouragement. It only watches. Avad stares back at it for a moment. Eventually, dancing threads cloud his sight, pain not far behind.

But he doesn’t hear a booming voice or a wise missive. There is only the distant cacophony of Oseram weapons, a stray explosion, kestrels too foolish or scared to abandon their empty words yet.

He draws a deep breath, but it does little good. His lungs slowly catch on something. Today, sunset stretches on forever. Is it so red because of the smoke from battle? Is it a reflection of the blood in the streets? Is it just a sandstorm scattering itself from another mesa?

He shakes the waking dream from his head and rubs his eyes. It must be done. No more delays. No more pleas. Begging for a hold or hesitation is as useful as crying out for help in a plundered, empty shell of a ruin left behind by the Old Ones.

His father is already long dead anyway. The man walking around in his body is someone else with his face and voice. He cannot come back from the lines he has crossed – and what’s far worse, not one person knows when exactly it happened. Everything is long past pity. Jiran wields a different weapon for each word spoken to him, and how ruddy they have all become.

Avad blinks. He sighs. For an instant, he is only another corpse among so many other anonymous corpses, except he is still alive. No. He is still alive, something both terrible and tormenting. It has fallen to his shoulders. But why wouldn’t it? Surely it isn’t surprise muddling his path. Surely he didn’t think he could make his way to the end of his lofty days without paying a price.

Of course it would’ve fallen to him eventually, sooner or later, when no others were left to try or were far too precious for greater plans to be wasted on this moment that no one else would remember – that no one should remember. Grief is for the innocents, not Jiran – and certainly not for the hand responsible for ending him.

One thought is not sufficient to brace for the moment, to blot out the needful deed. One thought alone would be too heinous a way to It must be weighed as the entire accounting of one life, not one individual thought amongst the accounting. There is only one singularity, and it is all the more numerous because no soul will ever know what happened in the hours leading to it – not one soul.

And after all, this is a formality – nothing more or less, which only serves to taunt Avad about the gravity of the choice anew. But it is Avad’s and only Avad’s to make. Too many have failed, and he has not blamed them. Too many have wavered at the last moment short of action – and he has not blamed them. Titans are titans for a reason, even if none dare give breath to that reason.

The solarium is vast, but today the formidable plants do little to clean the air. The herbs do little to scent the room. Every breath Avad draws is as sour and strange as the shadow that has kept him from living for as long as he can remember. His sandaled feet make little noise, but he flinches at the tiny echo of every step.

Jiran is alone, as usual for this time of day, his prostration before the last rays of light his only remaining gesture that is even a vague echo of humility. Avad blinks. Unusually, his father’s frame is calm. His worship is as fervent as ever tonight, but not frantic, not kinetic. He is nearly silent, but his mouth darts and twitches, racing through the same prayers he has uttered in vain for years. It is the only vestige left of his beliefs – and it is not much of a vestige at that.

Avad watches him longer than is needed. He uses the time to check for the dagger again. The man before him is only a man. But is the silence a trick? Has he guessed at Avad’s return? Is this a new rage to unleash in a burst when he sees fit? Is it exhaustion that might make a fight easier? Some machines are the most ferocious when the last two strikes are not yet delivered. It has been a very long time since he dared strike Avad, but perhaps today is finally the day for it again.

Or is this–

No. It cannot be the last. Avad doesn’t let the thought fully take shape. His jaw tightens. Jiran has had many chances before now and wasted all of them. He is weak, but his resolve isn’t. Avad’s cannot be either. He swallows. He leaves the dagger in its scabbard but keeps a hand close around it. Today must be the end of something.

He must not fail. He must not fail. He must not fail. The resolve lent from others drums over and over in his head. He knows what to do. It must be done. He must not fail. It must be done – but not with others’ words goading him on. He must not fail. He must not fail. He must–

Jiran gathers himself up from the polished floor.

Avad’s throat catches on the air and he immediately scolds himself. He is not a child. He is frightened. He is not a child. He is not a slave. He is not prone before a machine. He is a man before another man, no more or less. They are alone. They are equal. They can both bleed, scream, hate, die. Only chance or the Sun can unbalance the scales.

The dagger is poisoned – of course it is. It will not take a flourishing flail or a severe jab to kill Jiran. The slightest cut will do. It has been planned as such deliberately. The slightest cut will do. All loyal advisors knew to make it so. They expect bravery, not invincibility. The slightest cut will do. Hesitation will not rule the day this time because the slightest cut will do. The dagger is poisoned. Of course it is.

His bow is both slight and spastic. “Father,” he murmurs, but the word is not a word. It is not faith for an incarnate. It is not respect for a king. It is not love for a parent. It is barely a noise with barely any breath, as metallic to his tongue as the uncountable machines of the world.

Jiran turns around, slowly – too slowly.

Avad’s innards writhe and tighten so fiercely that he cannot understand how he is not bleeding.

But Jiran only sweeps a palm inward rhythmically, the sort of benign gesture that only a menace can turn into a form of torture. “Come.”

Avad’s limbs rage against the command, but he steps forward – to spite his fear, not to obey a leader. He has the dagger. He is of whole mind and body. He has position that has given him the opportunity of this moment. He has the will. Even if guards come upon them now, he has every right to be there. They would not stop him unless they saw the dagger. He has the will. He has the will. He–

“My men could not find you.” The voice is small, oiled, sickly, like a half-gutted machine removed of its weaponry but not yet its contempt to live. “They searched and searched.”

The gentle singsong makes Avad’s breath catch worse than before, hooks upon hooks keeping his lungs from behaving like someone unburdened by plotting. “I was in private meditation and prayer.”

Jiran’s face scrunches. “For the entire siege?”

“A great deed requires great prayer. A great injustice requires great beseeching of the One Who Warms All The Earth.”

“Not from the faithful.”

He must not fail. “Is it such a crime to offer more favor than what is required?”

Jiran’s hand moves in a flash – only once, but a rush of pure ferocity. Avad winces too late at the cuts from his father’s fingernails, momentarily transformed into the claws of a forgotten beast in the Forbidden West – a strange reward for a strange pact.

Jiran sneers. “Your silence is all the answer I need.”

A sickly sweat forms near Avad’s eyes – or are they tears? The day is too warm to know the difference, thank the Sun. He swallows. “Only my words speak for me. If I do not speak, it is because I have nothing to say.”

“Liar.” The ragged roar cuts deeper than the strike. Jiran jabs a finger out at the empty air. “Liar,” he whispers.

“If I have wronged you, why have you not done anything?”

Jiran squares his shoulders, a fraction calmer than a moment before. “You are a child of the Sun.”

“So are the children you made orphans to keep a steady pace of sacrifices.” No, there is no doubt now. Tears corrode riverbeds in his face like machine blood on careless flesh.

Jiran’s ears do not hear. “It is my duty to educate you before taking any drastic action.”

“I am not a child anymore, nor am I a fool. I am already well and truly educated. You see to that every passing month.”

“There is little point in illuminating your errors if you aren’t alive to see them in the light of day.” Jiran’s brow leaps and soars with every word now.

Avad’s throat rises long before he speaks. “Did the Sun not give you enough mercy to spare for others in the same way?”

Jiran’s fists beat his chest, “It is the Sun’s business to decide what the Sun wants!” Jiran’s face blooms in a rush, almost ruddier than all the sacrifices he has had charge of.

“But you are not the Sun.”

“I am your king! I am the future of the Sundom!”

“Kadaman was the future.”

“I am your father.”

“You stopped being a father when you killed your own son.”

Jiran paces a tight zigzag. “Kadaman should have been stronger. When I found him wanting, he still served our god in the end. He still served his king.”

“You’re not a king anymore.” Avad abandons his civilized speech patterns, as useless as pleas to the madman before him. “You’re nothing.”

A vein rises in Jiran’s temple. Its telltale shadow in the dusk light almost threads as far as the vast, dark rims around his unpainted eyes. “I did my duties ten times over.” His voice somehow winds its way back to quietude. “I taught Kadaman as he should have been taught. I ruled as I should have ruled. The Carja are still alive because I had the radiance to protect them.” His palms fly generously, generous benedictions to none who see them.

“Allies to none and heirs of a blight.” The knife is poisoned. He must not fail.

Jiran’s mouth twists open like a Thunderjaw’s maw and he moves in close to Avad.

Avad braces. He knows what comes next.

“Everywhere you look, the people scramble over themselves to kneel down and kiss my feet in thanks – as they should!” Jiran’s voice is far bigger than his mind. His fists pump with every syllable.

Avad’s ears sting. He must not fail. He must not. He must not – but not yet.

Jiran beats his chest. “The Carja are still strong because of my deeds. We need to be strong – for the Sun God. What are a few lives against the future of a kingdom? What’s a little blood against the balance of the world? What right do a few traitors have to call me a tyrant?”

“The Sun God didn’t put thousands to the blade or make them fight to the death.” Avad’s voice cracks on every other word. “The Sun God didn’t make children into hopeless specks of dirt to be scorched away at noon and wither alone in the night. The Sun God didn’t hunt men as if they were machines. The Sun God didn’t tell Kadaman to fail you or betray you. You did all that. Only you.”

“The weakness of others can be just as useful as a tutor’s lessons.” Jiran strides about in a hurry, his feet aimless but emphatic. His arms fly to the fading sky. “It can impart wisdom in an instant that would have otherwise taken a lifetime to grasp.” His voice softens with each passing moment, as if his thoughts calm the further out he looks from the city. “But weakness always takes the same path.” He stares out at something that Avad cannot see. “It always ends in the same place.”

Avad’s head rings like the inner circle of the city’s priests calling a chant to the day, loud and audacious.

The dagger flashes into the sunlight with blessed silence. His quiet steps are loud again in the strained and pulsing quiet. He moves in close enough to be able to hear Jiran’s breathing.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “It does.”

He has practiced and studied for weeks. His hand aims true. He moves sure and fast – but with closed eyes.

Yes, it is his task and his alone – but he cannot watch the knife do its work.

He is not his father.

#firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #horizon zero dawn

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firjii · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1206

Fandom: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion

Rating: General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim Additional Tags: arocace relationship, MartinLives!AU, PTSD, Post-Canon Fix-It, Bosmer, Older Woman/Younger Man, tense switching

Summary: Alive but not entirely well some time after the canon events of Oblivion, Martin and the HoK have settled into a quiet retirement in an attempt to heal their various traumas and support each other in ways that few other people could. Written approximately in the style of some in-game documents rather than as one specific scene.

Plain text version under the cut...

The shadows come back easier than they can be banished, but Martin knows that. He’s seen it from the start.

She’d come to Kvatch so suddenly, so randomly, so accidentally. Even seasoned soldiers would have had difficulty understanding what had happened there. By all rights, she should have died: a wood elf with more experience in running away than fighting, a sporadic archer at best, a mage who could only be called a mage because she excelled at a single spell. And some would say she was getting on a bit, even by elven standards. But she knew a great deal about potions, so she’d survived, if only because she’d been weighed down with flasks and herb pouches when she’d gone through the gate.

He’d watched her struggle after that.

With nothing else to compare such an experience to in her life, she’d veered from shock to disbelief to cockiness and everything in between. Common people had looked on her after that with fear, wondering if she’d sided against them, with or without realizing it. She’d hated their suspicion, but nothing in the rumors was beyond what she’d wondered herself. Soldiers and battlemages and bards had stared on in admiration, curious to know the specifics of the tale. She’d hated their gazes but had only rarely squirmed in discomfort. She’d fully realized that if it had been someone else, she’d be among the adoring throngs.

She’d often referred to it as a dream. Martin had lost count of how many times he’d seen the disconnect in her: wanting to be prepared, but learning in secret, furtively, often alone, all because she’d also been in denial about anything like it ever happening again. The impossible couldn’t happen twice – could it?

Martin barely made it out alive in the end – the Hero isn’t the only one who has nightmares.

But she knows this. She never once denies him his time when his eyes become gloomy and dour because a daydream has turned into a flashback or a nightmare. When he wakes in the night screaming, she simply wraps another blanket around him and holds his hand until he falls asleep again. She does it because it is no more or less than what he would do. She does it because it’s all that can be done sometimes.

More than occasionally, their nightmares synchronize on the same night. When it happens, they draw arms around each other, if only to remind each other that they’re not alone in the darkness. They’re not in another realm or another plane anymore. They’re in Mundus, on Nirn, in Cyrodiil, in the little cottage that Martin so carefully chose for them.

On those nights, they seldom fall back asleep easily. Instead they listen for the signs that they’re home: the cattle and goats murmuring amongst themselves the next valley over, the odd bark from a dog, the chickens in the backyard that Martin so painstakingly picked out for them. She’d often remarked that pets were somewhat unusual in Valenwood but that it was the first fact about human culture she’d heartily embraced. He’d thought against getting a dog – they were too much like wolves. Cats and several other small creatures made her nervous. But she was fond of birds. Chickens are just enough to keep her mind busy without being overwhelming, and she enjoys learning all the uses for eggs in Cyrodiilic cookery.

She won’t go outside any more than she needs to. Cities make her panic. Traveling, no matter how gradual and quiet, has made her faint – more than once. The sight of open fields and hills usually makes her sick.

But after awhile, she lets Martin leave for short intervals – an hour or two to speak with a farmer, an afternoon to retrieve herbs and mushrooms, a half day in a town or city. She gladly listens to his stories. He makes a point of only telling her interesting or funny or happy things. There’s no need to mention that the Imperial City is still scrambling a bit to keep things together. There’s no need to tell her that harrowing near-misses of other sorts still happen throughout Cyrodiil.

Instead, he fills her mind with jolly jokes he overheard during lunch. He remarks on the unusual wares he’s starting to see in the shops – at times a sign of reestablished trade with the far corners of the province, at others merely proof of the chaos and banditry that comes with decimated villages and ruined estates.

He also brings back a few more books every time. She appreciates all of them, from history accounts to recent political commentaries to poetry and novels. She claims to be illiterate, but he’s seen her methodically examining books often enough that he knows she simply prefers it when he narrates them for her.

She smiles, and for awhile – maybe only a moment sometimes – her shoulders aren’t quite so hunched forward, her hands don’t quite fidget about so much, her face isn’t as sickly. Her eyes dance when he comes to an exciting part in a story. She rarely speaks, but she always listens. In time, she even prompts him to re-read certain volumes.

And he always smiles to see it.

They are strangely bound together now: more than comrades, less than lovers – not that he minds – and always, always a careful balance as subtle as one strand of a spiderweb yet as steadfast as the moon cycle. Few people understand it, and even fewer can see that it will be their way of life until they die. Martin knows enough to admit that it is as unavoidable as it is fitting. And why should he want to avoid it? Why would either of them want to avoid it?

Gradually, he finds her sneaking moments at twilight for fresh, cool, sometimes rain-tinged night winds. Sometimes she doesn’t entirely cross the threshold of their home – sometimes she only opens a window – but her face feels the moonlight and open air.

And he always smiles to see it.

She cares for him as deeply as he cares for her. She’s even shown glimmers of craving him. Such it was from their first days traveling together after Kvatch. Yet she still fears too much. She still crumbles too often. She usually shudders if she is embraced, even if the attention only comes from a mild little tot seeking to admire the hero who has become the focus of so many stories.

In the ten years they have known each other, they have only shared a kiss thrice. He is content to let her lead, and if she never asks for more beyond that, she will still be perfect in his eyes.

But in time, she holds his hands when he offers them, the simple reminder of another’s presence enough to scatter the storm clouds in her eyes for awhile.

And in time, she asks him to brace her when the storm clouds consume her a little too much. Quiet times indeed, entire hours spent staring at the hearth, her face ever a melding of heaviness and exhaustion and desperate fear – but softened at the reminder that he can and happily will share her load.

And he always smiles to see it.

#firjii on ao3 #MartinLives!AU #f!HoK x Martin Septim #tes iv: oblivion

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firjii · 5 years

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Words: 2231

Fandom: Tomb Raider (Video Games), Rise Of The Tomb Raider - Fandom Rating: General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Lara Croft, Jacob (Tomb Raider) Tags: hurt/comfort, friendfic, referenced injuries, injury mention, anxiety, survivor guilt, spirituality (canon compliant) Summary: Exhausted, injured, and slightly delirious after escaping one of Trinity’s bases, Lara finally has a chance to pause and recuperate in the relative safety among Jacob’s people. As she reflects on choice and duty, she confesses some of her frustrations to Jacob.

[o hey waddup, first new fanfic in 10 months and it’s a totally random thing that absolutely no one asked for XD XD]

Plain text version under the cut.

Lara’s legs folded awkwardly and she sank onto the pallet harder than she expected to. She banged the back of her head against the shack’s timber wall in the process.

“Easy,” Jacob murmured. He clunked a cup of stew on a table and rushed over to her a little too late.

She rubbed her head, but the movement that it required of her arm made her flinch. A very stifled groan sounded deep in her throat. “It’s alright. I barely hit it. It just surprised me.”

He crouched. “Sit still. I would have checked your injuries sooner, but we could only stay in one place for so long.” Jacob checked her eyes and pulse in silence.

“Could you help if something was wrong?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.” He prompted her to move her head. “We have much of the knowledge we need, but not always the tools to do something about it.” Satisfied with the range of motion in her neck, he stood and retrieved the stew. “Here. A crossing like that would have broken any spirit. An empty stomach won’t help.”

Despite the seasoning in the stew, she ate blankly, as if forcing bland or undercooked fare into her mouth.

“You’ll need time, too.”

Lara shook her head as she took two more meager mouthfuls and meekly poked at the remains of the cup’s contents with the wooden spoon. “You saw what Trinity did. We don’t have time.”

“There’s enough left for you to get your bearings. You’re little use to anyone if you can’t even stand without swaying.”

Lara set the food aside and dug her fingernails into the shack wall. Her mouth twisted with the effort, but she stood. She squared her shoulders and straightened until she was at her full height, her frame a little lacking before Jacob.

Jacob raised an eyebrow.

Lara’s face greened. She locked her knees, but her exhaustion simply traveled up to her shoulders.

Jacob braced her as her knees failed. He guided her back down to the pallet and knelt. “When was the last time you rested?”

She propped herself against the wall. “It’s alright. Give me two or three hours. I’ll be fine.”

He moved away from her and slid onto his feet. “That’s not what I meant.”

She blinked with effort.

A ghost of a chuckle escaped him. “It’s not a difficult question.”

Something flickered and half-formed in her eyes but disappeared sooner than it had surfaced. “Your people live off the land. You worry about survival above all else, because even if you’re willing to die for your purpose, someone needs to stay alive to guard that purpose. And out here, any mistake can be your last. Sometimes the choice is between –” She swallowed with effort. “Sometimes victory doesn’t exist. Sometimes success only means cheating death another day. Some of the world calls that a harsh life, but you do what you must. And so do I.”

She frowned. Travel’s heaviness made the journey to her own question scattered, but it willed itself out of the shadows after another moment. She wasn’t sure why she was thinking about it, but now that it was here and she had a moment, she indulged herself.

Had she been speaking English? Had Jacob? Each language she knew lived in a different corner of her concentration, but with everything inside her drenched in panic or blood or sweat or grime or all of them put together, every thought had a hazy sheen protecting it. Who were these people, aside from the descendants of the Prophet’s followers? Where had they come from? What would they be now if they weren’t eking out survival here?

She sighed so hard that her torso crumpled a little. “Deserts and mountains aren’t forgiving. Armed helicopters aren’t forgiving. My hunt isn’t forgiving.” Her forehead danced as she pushed the words out.

“‘Forgiving.’” His eyes squinted for an instant. “You confuse mistakes with tragedy.”

“They’re not always different.” She clenched and unclenched a hand several times in empty air as she searched for words. “When was I supposed to rest? When can anyone?” She waved an arm, but the gesture was pinched.

Jacob bent his head down and aimed a scowl at his boots, but he kept his silence.

“It shouldn’t be so hard to understand. Your people have made a life here. Not everyone could have done the same. Sometimes your enemy is winter. Sometimes it’s a wolf or a bear. Now it’s Trinity. But your fight never stops.”

“Hmm,” he grunted in accord. “Apparently, neither does yours.”

“You’re –” She swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re protecting here other than yourselves, but it’s something you’re all willing to die for.”

“We have no choice.”

“What makes you think I do?”

“Lara, we came here because we were forced to, and we stay because we must. You decided when and how to start your path.”

Lara closed her eyes and rubbed her face hard.

“But I –”

Lara’s eyes whipped up to him.

He took a moment to choose his words. “I don’t think you decided to be on a path to begin with.”

She shook her head weakly to herself. “Well.” The single word escaped on a single anemic chuckle. “Here we are.”

He nodded. “Here we are.”

Her jaw tightened. She nodded dejectedly. “And after all you’ve been through, I had to bring more trouble here. I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t be free if you hadn’t found me.”

“But you’re not free. None of you are. You can’t leave, even if you want to. And Trinity knows you’re here because of me.”

“This is hardly the first time someone has hunted for our secrets. They already knew. They would have come anyway.”

Lara shifted and shook her head again.

Jacob grimaced slightly. “For now, all is well enough. You should sleep.”

Lara’s mouth opened and closed mutely several times, her outward stubbornness weakening each time. She nodded and crumpled down onto the pallet, but as her full weight met with it, a jolt went through her limbs. A strangled howl left her.

Jacob guided her as she sat up. “Let me see.”

She chuckled. “If your people used money, I’d bet everything I have that you’ve seen worse. And I have – quite a lot to bet.” She pulled up the back of her shirt several inches, wincing all the while.

Jacob stared. Silence surrounded the shack. “Some of these are old.”

Lara snorted. “Old enough to not hurt anymore, but not old enough to forget.”

“And a different story behind all of them.”

“Different parts of one story.”

Jacob considered the freshest of the injuries. Three bruises nearly the size of her fist loomed near her spine. A dozen or more small lacerations, most barely closed, pocked her back. Remarkably, her ribs seemed relatively unscathed. “There’s nothing much to bandage here, praise be.”

She murmured agreement.

“But are you always this unlucky?”

Lara scoffed and pulled her shirt back down. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” She turned her head halfway around to glance at him. “If it was, I wouldn’t be awake to tell you that. Sometimes you hit your mark. Sometimes you don’t.”

Jacob nodded as his eyebrows soared. “And sometimes you shatter a rib or paralyze yourself when you misjudge a jump. They’re only bones – nothing very important, hmm?”

Lara winced at the sharp words spoken so softly from a kind throat. No, not exactly a kind one, not entirely. Earnest, exhausted, fierce – and all hiding under the same question that took shape again.

Jacob sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I am.” Her voice was pale and small.

“I don’t have enough herbs here to treat them. I’ll send someone out to gather more. For now, rest.”

Lara’s eyes became heavier with each blink, but she forced herself to remain sitting upright. “I think I stopped resting the day my father left me.”

Jacob nodded minimally. He gazed out the open door at some faraway point for a long moment. “Then sleep.”

She sat awhile longer before she gave in to her exhaustion and inched her head down onto the pillow. With a great deal more wincing and flinching, she shifted onto her side.

Jacob lingered, unmoving.

Lara stared at the corner of the shack. “How do I finish this?” Her jaw barely moved as she pushed the words out.

“Some things in life are never over. They only move into a different season.”

“But how can I fix this before that happens?”

Lara went on staring listlessly. Jacob scowled. “Who said that you needed to?”

Unsatisfied with her head’s placement on the pillow, she wedged a forearm under her face. “It’s different when there’s blood on your hands.”

“You don’t just mean Trinity.”

Her face suddenly bore signs of suppressed contortions or twitches. “Nothing is ever just one thing.” She grabbed for a shaking breath. “Everything feeds into everything else. It’s like a stream that joins a river that-”

“Stop,” he cut her off, though his voice was scarcely louder than hers. He took her free hand.

Lara frowned lightly at the gesture for an instant but didn’t pull her arm away. She sniffled.

“You can’t solve any problem in a single day – not when they’re problems like yours and mine. Trouble often comes to us easier than answers do.” His head bobbed up and down with each word. “There’s little point in pretending otherwise.”

“I wish everything was that simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about it. You shouldn’t blame yourself for not knowing what most don’t know. Many souls spend their entire lives looking for that one truth.” He swallowed somberly. “And anyone who finds it has paid dearly for it. We both know that.”

Jacob held her hand in both of his, lowered his head, and closed his eyes.

She shifted slightly to get a better look at him. “What are you doing?”

A string of noises bubbled from him – words whispered carefully and almost too softly to hear.

It was a prayer, or something very close to one – of course it was, that was only fitting given his people’s heritage – but –

It only sounded like noise. Which language was it? Her forehead knotted. She made herself still and listened. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to piece out.

Except it was. Jacob repeated the words over and over, small variations gradually overtaking the phrases.

The ideas in the scrolls and fragments she’d found poked a crack in her lull as they came flooding back to her. Truth like liquid, being born to every language, hardened fanatics repaid with generosity instead of generous vengeance–

No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t have been.

Legend and myth and history had a way of bleeding into each other. They could keep each other alive through all of mankind’s best efforts to annihilate them. The more contentious they were, the more they mirrored and mimicked each other and the vaguer the lines became, perhaps only to make it more difficult to erase anything. If just one of them was protected, the others could be salvaged – but sometimes it took many generations to recover even one piece of it. Lara had many. Jacob’s people had many, too – anyone who had endured through as much as they had wouldn’t have willingly forgotten what had forged them.

She couldn’t just sleep. She didn’t even try. Instead, she breathed and listened. Jacob’s prayer cycled around again and again, his earnestness never faltering. Yet still he only whispered – and still she couldn’t untangle the words.

It was so different from all the running. Too much running. Too much flailing. Too much clawing to hold on. One thing after another after another. Bad trailed bad. Luck chained on and on by its own devices or will until it left indentations everywhere, in everything.

What was that language.

A few rogue tears escaped and rolled down her face. Her patience was as ragged and fickle as her physical body was just now. It would all make more sense if she would just sleep – if she could sleep.

She’d managed it in subzero temperatures and howling winds with little shelter. Why was it so far beyond reach here, of all places? The valley was a climatological marvel, temperate for Russia. The air had the smell of early autumn. Lara dimly heard the sounds of life in the village as the moments passed: conversation, cooking, wood being hammered, fresh-forged metal singing as it was tempered into tools or shapes. But for all the energy that their way of life demanded for the simplest tasks, Jacob’s people had an inner stillness, as if their closeness with nature allowed their presence to augment it.

Those noises were easy to ignore. Jacob’s words weren’t, even if she didn’t know what they meant. They called out to another time and reached out to something that didn’t exist anymore – except for him, it did, as if he could drag it out of the lost depths of so much endangered culture at will. For what purpose? That wasn’t the point. It was as real as the lives that these people-of-myth had made through stubbornness, through stoic duty, through agonizing trial and error.

Her eyes finally became too heavy to prop open. Jacob’s prayer flowed on and on. Her last thought floated loose like mist rising from a lake.

Which language was it?

Did it really matter?

#firjii on ao3 #friendfic #tomb raider #rise of the tomb raider #lara croft

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firjii · 5 years

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Teen And Up Audiences [just to be on the cautious side] Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Lavellan x Solas (implied) Characters: Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus Additional Tags: brotp, coming out, friend fiction, asexual character, female lavellan, implied female lavellan/solas, supportive dorian, dorian pavus, light angst, implied trauma, Implied abuse, swearing

Summary: Unsettled by Halward Pavus's past actions and haunted by his confrontation with Dorian, Inquisitor Lavellan reflects on something she's been avoiding thinking about for a very long time. No longer able to banish some crippling feelings but barely able to articulate what she's known for years, she hesitantly entrusts a secret to Dorian. Dorian responds with some unexpected advice.

(Plain text version under the cut.)

Dorian’s finger grazed the edge of a thick, pulpy page in a tome a little too quickly.

His surprised hiss echoed surprisingly far throughout the library, the paper’s stiffness quite altogether deceptive and its bite stronger than some poor-quality wines. He glanced up as he licked the cut. In the past, the Inquisitor had gotten wide-eyed over far smaller disturbances.

But her stare out the window was steady and unbroken, as it had been for most of the day – several days, actually. He cleared his throat a little louder than was necessary. She still didn’t react. He watched her a moment longer. Her shoulders weren’t as tense as they had been at other times, but her elbows were rigid and crossed in front of her. Her hands didn’t clench and unclench as they were so often in the habit of doing, but their constant erratic twitches betrayed busy thinking.

“Something on your mind?” he lilted.

Her hands went on twitching.

“It’s just that you’ve been hounding me for weeks to learn more about runes, and truth be told, we’ve barely started yet.”

Only the drone of crows’ and ravens’ wing flaps answered him.

He closed the books on the table – but quietly. Magical study was pointless and even dangerous if the mage in question couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand.

“I never took you for a daydreamer.”

She sighed, barely.

“I know it might sound cheeky to ask, but is something wrong?”

She shifted her weight, barely.

“In my experience, quiet people are normally the most worried. It’s not that they don’t want to talk about it, they – just don’t know where to start.”

“What do they worry about?”

His brow relaxed: speech. It was a timid little rumble, but the thought was certain. She wasn’t as bad off as she could be, then. “Mm. With ordinary people, it might be anything. But with leaders, I’ve found that it’s either death or a lover’s quarrel.”

“I’m used to death.”

“Ha! I know. We all are. Saving the world is a damned bloody business.”

She didn’t react.

He stood after a long moment. “I’ve heard the chatter, you know. It’s – a little difficult to avoid, even in Skyhold. I’m seen as the worldliest fellow here apart from the Orlesian set. It’s not entirely wrong. I’m rather pleased that they came to the right conclusion about something. Did you know, some southerners consider Tevinter to be a feeble little desert with quaint little ways.” His head bobbed along with his words. He cast his eyes downward. “But I’m sorry to dash your hopes.” He shrugged. “I’m not much use with affairs of the heart.”

“You’re still more use than me.”

“I very much doubt that. I-”

She turned around. Her face was immovable and stoic, but her eyes shimmered by the candlelight and lanterns.

He paled. “What happened?”

“I shouldn’t ask. I’ve seen of the others – they come for advice. You always find something to say to shut them up even though you’re bluffing. I know you are. I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

Her voice had decayed a little more with each sentence. He gathered his breath very carefully. “What choice?”

“I can’t get your father out of my head.”

“Oh? That’s a common affliction among those who meet him.”

Her jaw tightened around a tense swallow. “Are there –” She flicked her eyes about. “I-I don’t know how to say it well. Are there a lot of people like you in Tevinter?”

“Ha! Depends who you ask, really.”

“But you’re not the only one. You can’t be.”

He made himself still. “No. I’m not. Of course I’m not.”

“Women too?”

“Certainly.”

She closed her eyes and frowned tightly for an instant. “No, what I meant was – I –”

He waited. The tension was hers, not his. He could at least see that much. So he waited. He watched the words swim and dance in the mind that made her seem equally baffling and brilliant to strangers.

She took a deep breath, but the resolve that was probably meant to brace her crumbled before she finished exhaling. “Do you think it’s possible for someone to – to want and not want? In that way, I mean.”

His thoughts simultaneously accelerated and slowed. Was she saying what it sounded like she was saying? “You-”

She shook her head in quick little jerks. “I’m not a – it’s not that I don’t know what happens. I do. But that was different. That was –” Her face contorted. Dorian waited for a sob but no noise came. She recovered herself, barely. She glanced at everything and everywhere but Dorian. “That was so different. And my clan acted strangely after that – more so than before, I mean. But I think it happened because I didn’t – I don’t know, I didn’t care about that. Even before it happened, I didn’t care. And the others must’ve seen that, and-”

He raised a hand gently to silence her. “I understand.” He shook for an instant, but he stifled it. Outrage wouldn’t help her just now. “And in that case, Inquisitor, I have a favor to ask.”

She quieted her frame and waited.

“Beyond this sentence, don’t take any advice on this matter – from anyone, even me.”

Her eyes glazed a fraction. “Isn’t it worth some worry?”

“Only if you go on trying to be something that you don’t feel you are.”

Her shoulders bounced twice and she hugged herself a little tighter.

Dorian struggled to hide his cringe at seeing such angular movements. Had she been skipping meals again?

“It’s silly, I know. The world’s still in danger and there’s still so much left undone. This is the last thing I should think about. I’ll find someone eventually anyway.”

“You might. You might not. That’s all anyone can know for certain, really. ”

“Are you angry?”

“Why would I be?”

She looked away and moved for the railing. She leaned her elbows on it and tented her fingers. “I’ve met people who don’t mind which path someone takes as long as it means sharing the path with someone else.”

“Then they were wrong.”

“How can they be wrong?”

“You didn’t decide to be the way you are any more than you decided to be a mage.”

“That’s not enough for some people.”

“Well it damn well should be.” He copied her pose and stared out at nothing in particular. “Here we are again,” he grinned. Despite her somberness, a smirk tugged at the very edges of the Inquisitor’s mouth, just as he knew it always did when he said it. “Here we are, some of the brightest scholars and strongest warriors in the world, trying to save this damned shithole that’s tried to kill us Maker knows how many times. If we succeed, it shouldn’t matter who or what we are. The rest is just gossip. Remember that, Inquisitor.”

She frowned again and paled. “Ameridan almost said something like that.”

“There you are, then: two votes of confidence.”

A lull settled over them, the birds still the only company on this particular afternoon.

“But if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t think you need to worry about finding someone.”

“Why?”

Dorian casually pointed down at the empty rotunda. “I’ve seen how you are with Solas. I’ve seen how he is with you.”

She turned around suddenly and folded her arms up again. “I know. It’s not fair.” She leaned her waist against the railing. “I can’t go on thinking what I’m thinking and draw closer to someone.”

“Why not?”

A dozen sharp lines and shadows crossed her face. “But it’s not – that’s not-”

“Why…not?” He drew the words out as he smiled in earnest.

“He would never agree to something like that. No one would.”

He slowly clasped his hands together. “The one thing I’ve learned from all that I’ve seen in the world is that no two situations are alike. They might end in the same way, but they don’t always start the same. No two people are entirely alike. No two pairings are entirely alike.”

She blinked hard several times and stared over her shoulder down below. “Do you think he and I could be a – pairing?”

“That’s not for me to say. I only see what I see.”

“But you see something between us?”

He rested a palm on her hand. “You’re right. There’s not a lot I can say. There’s not a lot I can do to help.”

She swiped a rogue tear away as if jabbing a gnat off of her face. She nodded and lowered her head.

“There’s not a lot I can say because it’s none of my business. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to consider – and it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try looking if that’s what you want.”

“I wish someone would tell me what I wanted.”

“There’s a certain old piece of Tevinter wisdom. It’s been twisted to mean many things, but that doesn’t make it any less true than whatever lucky soul put it into words in the first place.”

“And what’s that?”

“‘Above all else, know thyself.’”

“I don’t think that’s something I could ever follow.”

“Knowing that you don’t know is still knowledge. It’s still more than the average damned fool in the street can understand.” He snorted. “It’s still more than I know sometimes.”

The Inquisitor shot him a frown.

“Yes, even I’m surprised that I said that,” he lilted.

They both let out patchy, quiet chuckles, the Inquisitor’s a fraction more uncertain than Dorian’s but no less sincere.

#friendfic #asexual inquisitor #dragon age fanfic #f!lavellan and dorian (brotp)#light angst #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #ace positivity #asexual character #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #sfw fanfic

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firjii · 5 years

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Writing masterpost

I’m trying to only use the “x” for ship fics or fics in which that pairing is obvious and/or is in a relationship context. If it doesn’t have the “x” between char names, assume friendfic or other. For the sake of conciseness, I’m not including tags here. PLEASE remember that a G rating doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a sweet/fluffy story - only that I felt there weren’t strong enough elements to warrant bumping the rating up. Check each fic’s tag list first because some do have triggers or implied triggers. I try to be thorough with tags.

The Hands That Heal - Zevran x f!Tabris, the slightest touch of angst but mostly just some comfort fluff, rating G / no archive warnings

Not a Compromise - Fenris x f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings

A Different Sort of Plotting - Alistair and Barkspawn, other, rating G / no archive warnings

Unwritten In Plain Sight - Fenris x implied f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Cautious Entanglement - Fenris x f!Hawke, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Know Thyself - f!Lavellan and Dorian, mild angst with a happy(ish) ending, rating G / no archive warnings

A Compendium of Documents Regarding Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, As Found Some Years After Her Formal Disbanding of the Inquisition - invented codex entries, various perspectives, mostly angst, rating G / no archive warnings

Echoed Fates - Krem, angst (I guess?) with a happy ending, rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for certain referenced/strongly implied elements

Brittle Eyes, Brittle Dreams - Solas x f!Lavellan and Telana x Ameridan, STRONG ANGST ALL THE WAY BABYYYY, rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for certain referenced/strongly implied elements

Warp and Weft - f!Lavellan and implied Alistair, humor, rating G / no archive warnings

Tokens - Solas x f!Lavellan, fluff/early relationship and mild angst with a happy ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Call and Response - Solas x f!Lavellan, fluff, rating G / no archive warnings

All Games are the Same - Dorian and Vivienne, mild angst with a happy ending, rating G / no archive warnings

Tel'abelas - f!Lavellan and a Dorian appearance, post-Trespasser Solavellan angst, rating G / no archive warnings

Forsaken - Miraak, angst, rating T and “chose not to use warnings” for mentions of battle injuries and impending death

[Original fic] The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter - low fantasy, MATURE, was initially updated weekly but I’ve been struggling to keep up with that kind of schedule since my chapters are rarely under 2k (will probably drop off to twice a month or something)

#firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #firjii on wattpad #dragon age fanfic #original fic #fantasy fic #low fantasy

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firjii · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris Characters: Zevran Arainai, The Warden Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Early Relationship, Tending Wounds, sfw, Light Angst, Comfort Fic Words: 752

Summary: Zevran helps the Warden with injuries that she’s been trying to hide.

As promised, a wee bit of veryyyyyy self-indulgent wholesome Zev. :=) but oops, for an SFW fic, I really do mention hands a lot in this one XD Plain text under the cut.

He slowly peered over his shoulder and smiled, a small but bright sort of movement. “You needn’t look so nervous. I meant exactly what I said and no more. You’d be surprised what one might learn growing up as I did. It wasn’t always – well, sometimes people were surprising. And some assassins learn a great deal about poisons and herbs. I have some useful balms that you might not have seen in a place like Denerim. You never know when a callus will get in your way, eh?”

Her eyes darted all around the tent.

He produced several tiny tins from a pouch and opened one. “Here, smell this.”

She leaned forward a fraction and sniffed. She closed her eyes and considered the concoction for a moment.

He gestured to her hands. “You’ve worn gloves for a week. That would be wise for most warriors, but your shooting has suffered for it.”

She stared down at her hands, the twitchy veins of her fists barely visible beneath the lumpy leather.

“In fact, no one has seen your hands at all in a week.”

Her gaze shot up to him.

“I conferred with our comrades. Either you enjoy those gloves a great deal or something is very wrong beneath them.”

Her shoulders compressed. Her chin trembled.

“You hide it well, but there is no shame in tending to wounds.” He outstretched a hand, palm up, neither impatient nor wavering. “An archer’s hands are worth all the gold in Tevinter and Orlais combined. They can save lives as easily as they can take them.”

She took a cavernous breath, and then another. She nodded, though it was little more than an especially visible shudder. She unclenched her fists and reached towards him.

He took them, though he did little more than hold them in place. “You’re shaking.”

She nodded in a hurry.

“Why? I already understand how you feel about flirting.” His face hardened a fraction. “I assure you on my honor, I had no intention of doing so tonight.”

Her face paled and her eyes dashed about the tent again.

“But I would also hazard a guess that you’ve thought about it.”

She glared at him, though without contempt.

“I apologize if I offended you, but you are hardly the sort of person to forget such things in a hurry – especially when they were spoken sincerely.”

Her mouth weakened. She looked away and gnashed her lip. Her head fell.

He released her hands and slowly pried her chin back up with a single finger until it was level with his again. “And I was sincere.” His brow danced deliberately on each syllable.

She closed her eyes for a moment, though by the time she opened them again, her tears had mostly receded before they’d been shed – mostly.

He raised a hand on each side of her face but hesitated. She leaned into them. He slowly brushed a tear away from both cheeks.

She let out a ragged breath, neither a sigh nor a sob but scarcely more than an inch away from either.

He smiled, the same small but warm movement. “May I see your hands?”

Her arms rose.

He pulled on the gloves but frowned when she winced. “What–”

The gloves had caught on something.

He pulled harder.

She cried out.

He unburdened her of the gloves, but they had taken fragments of skin with them. Nearly every corner of her hands was a raw pink – burns without scars, cuts without blood, and angry rash everywhere else, the skin perhaps too confused to know what to repair first. His gaze cycled between a dozen different thoughts, but a deep quietness settled on him above all of that. He searched for her eyes but only found two dull circles in her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She still hadn’t spoken. There was no need for words. There was no need to explain. He had seen such wounds before.

He guided her down to a cushion, a whim of a thing he’d bought only a day earlier. She folded her legs awkwardly into herself, still shaking.

He tended the skin slowly with the balm, touching it without touching it. “I’m sorry,” he uttered several more times – not always only for making her flinch. Gradually, the color returned to her face, neither ashen nor bloomed ruddy with grief.

They sat there for many moments, perhaps hours, all for the sake of healing her most precious commodity.

Well, he thought to himself, not the most precious.

#zevran arainai #zevran x f!warden #zevran x f!tabris #sfw fanfic #dragon age origins fanfic #dragon age origins #dao #comfort fic #early relationship fic #pre-relationship fic #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

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firjii · 6 years

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Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: F!Lavellan, Solas (Dragon Age), Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, Cole (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras Additional Tags: invented codex entries, background development, Inquisitor Backstory, Mild Language, brief references to canon-typical violence, Depression, Suggestions of PTSD, Epistolary, POV Varric Tethras

Summary: A non-linear epistolary story about my Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, told via invented codices.

I’ve been posting certain portions separately as they’ve gotten finished, but here’s the full text since I officially completed it and, well, why not inflict a bit of link spam when I have a legit opportunity? :D

Plain text under the cut.

[This is angsty throughout, but the darkest themes are mostly vague and open to interpretation, therefore I decided that “General” was a better rating fit than “Chose Not To Use Warnings”]

Chapter 1

Codex: Entry from a Skyhold Cook’s Journal

I asked Cole why he keeps stealing things from the kitchen. At first, he only said that it wasn’t stealing if it still went into someone’s stomach. It took me ten minutes to explain to him what theft was.

I shouldn’t really complain. He doesn’t take much, and it’s not even hearty food. He takes two-day-old bread, not the fresh sorts – or else he’ll take half-burned things. He takes honey, but only if I’ve spilled spices into it. I’ve offered him the better fare we can make, but he ignores me. He only wants the scraps.

I asked him if he wants it for himself. He asked me why he’d ever want food.

It took me a good hour of arguing to finally get it out of him. I asked who it was for. He said the Inquisitor. I asked him why he was taking scraps and spoiled honey to her. He said they were a feast in her eyes.

I’ll never forget his words: “When she’s seen death, she shivers like the wind that blows the ashes away after the fires. She remembers who they were. She sees embers. She sees the lives they might have been, and they make her forget the things she should remember instead. The only way she can stop shaking and eat is to bite into something old and stale and solid, something to remind her that the world is still solid.”

She’s got a weak stomach, then. That’s no surprise. I don’t think she enjoys killing.

I asked him what the honey was for. He said her throat’s usually raw for one reason or another.

I should tell our spymaster.

Chapter 2

Codex: A Letter in a Shaky Hand

I should’ve guessed that someone like you would know. You probably worked it out somehow as soon as they found me. Who knows what you spied on while I was asleep?

But never mind about that now. I don’t care. You’ve kept your silence well enough, whatever you know about me.

I don’t have to explain a damn thing to you, but I won’t deny it, either. Yes, it’s part of me. There shouldn’t be shame in it, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t. It wasn’t my fault, but it is my burden. There aren’t enough people in the world who understand the difference. You do, I think, so I owe you a debt: honesty.

I can’t escape it, but I’m almost not sure that I want to. It probably sounds horrible to say that, but it’s the truth. That’s as much of it as I can spare for you for now. It visits me every day. Every time I see it before me again, it reminds me of what I can’t let myself become. It reminds me of all the things I’m fighting. It reminds me that I’m not wrong. It reminds me that I’m not a traitor to my people for saying what I say. They speak the truth, but not always all of it. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to use our downfall as an excuse to ignore the crimes we commit against each other to this very day.

You asked me what I’ll do when this is over. You’ve asked me that from the day we first met. I damn well better answer you sooner or later. I don’t know. I can’t go back. I still can’t believe that I stayed as long as I did. I was unclaimed, but if you ask some among them, it’s more like I was unclaimable.

What you saw that day was a stumble, nothing more. They happen from time to time. I’m usually more careful, but it was such a scene, and there were too many people. I forgot myself. I forgot where and who I was. It was bound to happen. It’s been a long time since it came that badly. I’m glad I know that it can still be that intense. As you might say, it was instructive. I’m almost glad that it happened. My stomach will be well enough in a day or two. Don’t worry yourself about the marks. They’re old. That’s all we need to say about it.

I’ll be alright. They don’t need to hear about it. It won’t affect me. I’ll make sure it doesn’t interfere from now on. It’s like you said: it’s in the past. I thank you for being so graceful about it. I don’t know what you did, but those few moments were –

[illegible words vigorously crossed out]

I didn’t expect that from someone who loves facts as deeply as you do. I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve seen so much, but I didn’t believe you until you acted as you did that day. I’m not sure that I could have trusted the others to see me like that, and you were right: the best thing for me in those moments is quiet.

You offered to help interpret my dreams. I don’t know to what end. I know already what they mean. I only have a few of them. But if you –

[illegible]

You understand. That’s all I need to say for now.

– correspondence from Inquisitor Lavellan to Solas, carefully folded and hidden in an ancient tome in Skyhold’s rotunda

Chapter 3

Codex: A Letter to Sister Nightingale Regarding Inquisitor Lavellan’s Unusual Constitution

It is most strange: she flinches so easily at small noises as if they were part of war’s deafening din. She sometimes flies into a blind panic at the sight of fire. Throngs of people can agitate her, even if they consist entirely of her closest friends in the Inquisition.

But she rarely reacts to pain in the ways that most people would.

I’m certain that she feels it. I have seen her bleeding like a stuck pig. I have seen her face turn ashen from a dislocated shoulder. I have seen her tremble so much that she fainted (in fact, this is something that all in the Inquisition must be advised to watch for, regardless of the implications that such a fact might provoke). She weeps fiercely from ache and wound alike, but silently, and often only in seclusion. All told, I suspect that she has seen far more of injuries than any one person deserves in this life.

Despite her relative youth (especially for an elf), she almost displays signs of a long-healed stroke – almost. I cannot confirm or deny it, but some of her lackings suggest a peculiar hemorrhage of that sort, albeit clearly something that she recovered from very well as she has no great encumbering loss to show for it. Nevertheless, they are distinct details which are rarely connected to other ailments or injuries. Yet she cannot remember (or cannot admit) any such incident.

As to her – well, I cannot share such details, chiefly because she herself refuses to elaborate on most of them. Suffice it to say that both the conclusion and the actions leading to it still pain her, though for different reasons. As a surgeon, I will attest that there is no immediate urgency or danger. I merely wonder how someone like her – her manner leads me to believe that she has surely always been sensitive in more than one way, perhaps even delicate – endured through it and managed not to succumb to despair. To have a grievous loss be the result of an already grievous offense would make lesser souls willingly hurtle themselves into the Void.

On that note, the scars you spoke of are quite suspicious. It’s true, they may be ordinary wounds, but that kind of coincidence would be unlikely. There is something strangely persistent and repetitive about some of them. They pose no bodily hindrance that I can see, but she acts strangely if questioned about them. I suggest leaving the topic dormant, but it would be wise to note if any new injuries of a similar sort appear at any time.

I have yet to see her howl in pain. Perhaps this is something that the Dalish teach their children – although it would not be altogether logical in her case since she has freely admitted that her umarked face is precisely because of her clan’s awareness of her intolerance to pain.

Perhaps she simply taught herself how to muffle her cries. Perhaps need forced her to learn the habit. In any case, do not assume that her silence is indifference to agony. If anything, she feels it far more acutely than the rest of us.

I sometimes wish that I could do something other than dull her senses for a few hours. I am now firmly convinced that such herbs and potions do nothing whatsoever for her mind.

– an unnamed Inquisition field surgeon

Chapter 4

Codex: On Literacy - A Report Regarding Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, As Related by Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

She could count the beats of a butterfly’s wings if it suited her. She could memorize the patter of a lame man’s limp and imitate it with her own stride. She could breathe so silently that the most skittish of wild beasts scarcely noticed her presence.

But she could not learn Elven.

It puzzled me from the first early days when she could speak. Certainly she knew the words we use most often in clan life, and she always hid her confusion well. Yet she simply couldn’t understand it. She is a fine scholar, though doubtless she has made some in your Inquisition believe otherwise since she has a habit of dwelling on her weaknesses. She has a strong ear for animal calls and music, and she could always remember our campfire stories better than those whose position was defined by storytelling.

But she could never grasp our own language in the way that others in the clan could. No amount of my efforts seemed to help for her written or spoken attempts. It may seem strange to you that someone who did not grow up hearing Common the majority of the time somehow became more fluent in it than her people’s native tongue, but this is a true and fair accounting of your Inquisitor, as requested.

In time, I chose to allow her to focus on other studies. Elves may live longer than the other races, but that does not mean that we treat time as less precious than it truly is. Magic is far more important to control than mere speech, after all. Others in the clan sometimes resented her for forcing them to speak the humans’ language – but in truth, she expected very little of them. She spoke to some people as rarely as possible. In fact, she was never very talkative at all. For a time, her parents even wondered if she was deaf or mute.

Thus she grew to think of her surroundings and the people within it, ever wary of offending. If given a chance to explain herself, she will admit that she often gathered her own herbs and fruits and attempted hunting in her own way so that she could avoid being harassed by certain hard people in the clan who insisted on tormenting her despite my reprimands. However you choose to use her talents, you must not bother her with questions about something which she is ignorant of through no one’s fault, including hers.

You need not worry about her knowledge of written Common. She can read it well enough, although elaborate handwriting may prove a struggle sometimes. I suggest using your considerable resources to obtain literate messengers who can read formal letters aloud, or else simply allow your Ambassador Montilyet to summarize them for her.

-Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Chapter 5

Codex: A Letter to Leliana

Everyone keeps asking if I’m cold. I’m not, but I can’t stop shaking. It must confuse them. I don’t care about the climate. I enjoyed snow until now.

It’s everywhere. You can’t hike about for more than half a mile before you find more of it. It’s so warm near it. The glow is more than a glow. It seems like a heartbeat sometimes. I’m not a dwarf and I’ll never have stone sense, but this is too obvious to deny and too invasive to ignore. There are ripples in the air near it, and there are tendrils that move about like lightning, only much slower. It seems like they’re speaking, but I can’t hear anything.

The others don’t react, but I’m sure it’s not in my mind. Cole overheard my thoughts when we first arrived here and he seems as nervous as I am, but he doesn’t say much about it. Cassandra tries hard to help me, but her soldiering skills only reach so far when the fighting’s done, and she knows that. She’s careful to watch me eat. Everyone tells me I haven’t eaten as much as I should when I’m upset. That might be true, but how can I think about food when all I can see are those –

Dorian only remarked on the dangers of lyrium. He’s hardly spoken of it beyond that. But I know what I’m feeling. It’s not the sort of thing you can wish away.

We claimed Suledin Keep easily enough – not that it was easy, but we’ve faced steeper odds. Imshael was difficult, but that’s not what worries me. He did exactly what his nature demanded. He’s not the one who started it.

We shouldn’t keep a presence there. Something’s still not right in that place. Corypheus is powerful, but I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of Emprise.

It can’t be mended. Everything’s wrong here. I wonder if this was what the last Blight felt like. Emprise was beautiful once, that much is clear. Maybe it still is. My thoughts wander so far sometimes. I haven’t dreamt as I should for years now, and this place seems to be shifting that balance. But everything here is sick now. It’s as sickly as the villagers who – [illegible]

I’m sorry for the scrawling. I lost control of my hand just now. My stomach will always remember what I saw here. You’ll read the agents’ reports soon enough. A few of the captives who weren’t altered have agreed to come back with us to Skyhold to confirm what happened – not that we need much proof. Red lyrium doesn’t appear like this on its own.

Please don’t make me explain it in person. I can’t do it. This time is different. I cherish your friendship, but there’s no advice you can give me. There’s only ice and ruin here.

– Inquisitor Lavellan

Chapter 6

Codex: Transcript of a Young Cook’s Helper in a Tavern

I was tired and I couldn’t think straight, but business is business and there wasn’t anyone else there to do it. It was already a warm day, but the stoves were burning hotter than usual. I could barely breathe in that place anyway. There’s not enough air in the best of times, even with the shutters open. But no one complains if it means somewhere warm in winter.

I was nervous, too. It doesn’t take much for Cook to clip me somewhere. I’m a bungler, and I know it. But Maker! All those scouts. All those Chantry folk, except they didn’t act like Chantry folk. They were too cheerful. I didn’t understand why. Soldiers don’t have a reason to be cheerful.

I didn’t even see the Inquisitor at first. She wasn’t in uniform. Maker, the scouts were in fancier dress than her! Not that she wasn’t well-dressed, but she didn’t look like – well, what does an Inquisitor look like? She didn’t have the Inquisition emblem on any of her gear – not even a brooch. I s’pose that only makes sense. Why put a target on your leader’s chest, eh?

She didn’t say a word. She barely looked at anyone. She traced dings and gashes in a table while she waited for her food. If she hadn’t been nodding when her fellows talked to her, I’d have thought her deaf or dumb, or both. She didn’t act like a leader. She didn’t even act like an equal. Swear to Andraste, she squirmed every time someone bumped her. She blushed when I caught someone calling her Inquisitor. But she wasn’t angry, either. She was patient, or at least better at keeping her annoyances to herself. I thought she was just dour. But what dour leader has happy agents, eh?

Anyway, I didn’t have much time to think on it. I was rushing around to feed all these extra folk. I don’t know where we found the food to do it, but we did it. But it was such a scurry! I barely had time to set food on tables before I had to go back again and again. I don’t know how many times I did it. It must’ve been dozens.

I had a dizzy spell. I didn’t see it coming, it came that fast. I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed, except I spilled one of the plates I was carrying on my arm. It was something with butter sauce. Butter burns are the worst kind. I screamed and fell. By the time I was on the floor, I’d spilled even more of the sauce. I screamed again.

And Maker’s breath, do you know who came over and stopped my head from banging on the floor? Not the cook, not the Chantry sisters, not the mages. The Inquisitor.

No one asked her to. No one told her to. She didn’t even hesitate. She just scrambled over like a horse. She didn’t make me stand up, either. She let me stay there until the dizziness passed. Cook heard all the noise and came out to yell at me, but the Inquisitor waved her away. No, she didn’t just wave her away, she screamed at her. Proper screaming. She picked me up and put me on a bench like I was no more trouble to carry than a baby. She knew what to do about the burn, too. She even gave me a potion before she left – she said it’d help the burn heal sooner. It did.

Now listen here. My mother was an elf, Maker rest her soul. She barely lived long enough to get me out of nursing age. There are other elf-bloodeds in this village – they just won’t admit it. They took me in as one of their own, and I know I’m lucky. But I’ve never met a kind elf. The alienages sound horrible and the Dalish sound fierce. But the only fierceness the Inquisitor had was against meanness in other people. She wouldn’t have known I was her kin. I look human – I’m just a bit short.

If she’s really the one running the Inquisition, I just wonder – what could the world be like if other folk acted like her?

Chapter 7

Codex: Correspondence Between Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and Varric Tethras

Varric,

I need a favor and I’m unsure who else to ask. For whatever reason, our Inquisitor trusts you, so maybe you will succeed where others have failed. I’ve merely been asking her about her life. Understanding where someone came from is important, no? But she gets quite upset (or simply ignores me) whenever I ask after a certain name. That name. She claims that she never chose one, but I have my doubts. Leliana has been very standoffish about it, too.

-Cassandra

Cassandra,

‘Succeed where others have failed’? Do you realize what that sounds like? Can you imagine what Mouse would say if she knew you’d said that? Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I should take note of that and remember it the next time you ask me to go ass-deep into danger when you could choose from half a dozen others instead.

Leliana’s right. As hard as it is to believe, there are some things a spymaster won’t do, even for her own side. For the last time, stop being so pushy. You’re not an interrogator anymore and Mouse isn’t your prisoner. It’s none of your business anyway. If she wants to talk about it, she will, but you can’t force her to do anything before she’s good and ready for it. I know better by now, and so should you.

And what does it matter? She has enough to worry about without you nagging her about something she doesn’t want to think about. Maker knows I wouldn’t, and I’m not even a woman. Don’t run out on brittle ice on a lake and be surprised when it breaks under your feet.

Back in Kirkwall, Aveline tried to ask Fenris a similar question. He didn’t want to answer it either. With all that’s wrong in the world, what the hell difference does a name make?

-Varric

Varric,

It matters because no one can endure that kind of anguish alone forever. It matters because it will help her talk about it. It matters because when I’ve heard her cry out in the night, she doesn’t scream for the person who should have brought her happiness. She keens against her tormentors instead.

-Cassandra

Cassandra,

I’d laugh, except there’s nothing funny about it. ‘Tormentors’? Is that really what you’d call them? I won’t even waste time on all the reasons why that was a shitty way to put it. Just stare at the word for awhile and come to your own conclusions.

Has it occurred to you that she might not remember everything? The surgeon told you in no uncertain terms: he thinks she had a stroke. I agree. I’ve met people who had them. Mouse is lucky that it hasn’t affected her more than it did. You can’t hear it in her speech and her movements look damn well close to normal if she’s carrying weapons. She does have her moments, but Maker knows she tries. And usually, she succeeds. End of story. She didn’t let it get in her way any more than we let our troubles get in our way.

But we don’t know what really happened. No one does. From what I understand about it, that’s one hell of a complication. Between wanting to block out what led to it and barely staying in one piece after that, she’s allowed a little peace from conversation about it. She has enough to worry about. And something tells me that she’s always been worried about a lot. You saw the letter from her Keeper. I’ll never understand how the world chooses who it wants to trample. But she doesn’t let that bother her, either – not that I’ve seen or that she’ll admit to, anyway.

So in no uncertain terms, my dear Seeker: BACK OFF. Mouse isn’t alone. I know what you meant, but it’s not true, and she knows that. I’ve told her that and I think she believed me. She knows where to find you if she changes her mind. She knows we’re here if she needs us. ‘Friend’ and ‘force’ start with the same letter, but they can never mean the same thing.

-Varric

Chapter 8

Codex: Personal Notes in a Frustrated Hand

I don’t understand it. It’s as if she doesn’t take pride in being a mage. It’s as if she doesn’t realize what a threat it can be to her own existence. Magic is as natural to her as breath is to me, but she neither boasts about it nor hides it. If anyone asks her a serious question about a spell or a ward, she answers equally seriously in turn, as if she doesn’t realize that she’s been an exotic oddity all the while.

I’ve tried asking her about Dalish life. She hasn’t once corrected me when I make an assertion, but she also refuses to elaborate. Perhaps that’s only the Dalish way, though. Our scholars don’t know everything, after all.

Even so, she hasn’t called a human a shem even once. She shares meals with them, confides in them, even has lengthy discussions with Mother Giselle when the garden is quiet. She banters with dwarves. She acts like that Qunari wall of a man is no different than one of her fellows. She treats city elves as well as some people treat their own blood relatives. And contrary to popular belief, she is not frightened of or daunted by beards – merely a little intrigued by Warden Blackwall’s.

I’ve even seen her lingering before altars. I haven’t dared to approach her in those moments, of course, but it is quite a spectacle: a Dalish elf with no vallaslin and – so it would seem – Andrastian beliefs. Where’s her resentment about being a descendant of an oppressed people? Where’s her outrage about the Chantry’s treatment of mages in the civilized parts of the world? Even I will admit to their severity, Maker rest my soul.

Where’s her vigor? Perhaps it all resides in her magic.

She’s not an elf – not really. It’s ridiculous. She goes around with her bare face as if there’s nothing she was denied. What kind of self-respecting Dalish doesn’t choose marks? What kind of traitor like that would’ve been sent to the Conclave? It’s almost as if the Dalish knew what would happen and wanted to be rid of one of the weaker strands in their weave.

– a page from the journal of an undisclosed University of Orlais student specializing in cultural studies

Chapter 9

Codex: From an Unpublished Anonymous Manuscript Written Twenty Years After the Exalted Council

The Inquisitor was said to have had more than one family.

True enough, she was raised among her own people, but her parents were exiled for some unknown reason while she was still a small child. Part of their punishment was that they leave their daughter behind, evidently for the good of the clan as her magic had already manifested and the Lavellans were in need of strong mage potential.

Curiously by Dalish standards, she and some others in her clan were apparently discouraged from fraternizing too closely with each other. One theory simply poses the notion that her shy tendencies might have been seen by her elders as tenderness exceeding common standards, or perhaps that she was not intelligent enough to understand such inevitable events. Another – the one supported by Mistress Lavellan herself – is that despite the Dalish tendency to shuffle people between clans to prevent inbreeding, perhaps she actually had other siblings or half-siblings. Still other rumors – of a more unsettling nature – can be inferred on close examination of some correspondences.

The dynamics of her clan – or, rather, their dynamics towards her – at the time of her life were universally acknowledged as unusual, if not difficult. This was in no small part because of her neutrality with regards to other races and cultures, even by Clan Lavellan standards. While no document has ever been found to suggest that they ever disproved of her openness and diplomacy during the Inquisition, it has been strongly suggested that this somehow factored into her decision to not return to her people had they survived.

Though a retreating sort, she was said to have made fast friends with many people in the Inquisition. It would therefore not be an unreasonable stretch of the truth to go as far as saying that the Inquisition was perhaps her true family. One would be hard pressed to find an unflattering or angry description of her by one of her companions. It is even said that she eventually took to calling Varric Tethras ‘Uncle,’ likely the truth given that figure’s general conviviality towards the world at large.

It is said that when she disbanded the Inquisition, she was not dispirited about the organization’s troubles (those had become patently obvious to her by that time and the result was inevitable, however uncomfortable) as much as the prospect of watching her second, adopted family disintegrate or disperse. Indeed, while every companion and advisor thrived outside of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor was in frequent communication with all of them, she was said to have acted as if in mourning for various reasons following the disbanding.

Chapter 10

Codex: A Few Requests Put Forth to the Inquisition’s Advisors

As much as our dear leader enjoys all of your company, there are some things that just need to be said – and the Inquisitor isn’t very good at directness, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Leliana, for Maker’s sake, ease up on offering to threaten people. I’m not questioning your skills or your methods. There are times when there’s really no other way, and it’ll always be part of a spymaster’s job. Fine. Do what you need to do to keep us safe and informed. But please don’t talk about it to Mouse. If you have to do something, do it quietly. Don’t tell her. She won’t want to know. I’ve seen her stay awake all night just because she was re-thinking something that you casually mentioned to her a few weeks earlier. She’s realistic. She knows that death and war are inseparable. But she also tends to take sport in blaming herself. It helps no one and hinders everyone.

Josephine, please stop bombarding Mouse with cultural lessons as soon avs she comes back from a mission. She’s curious and a quicker study than she looks. I think she even enjoys it since it’s a change of pace from fighting. But she also overspends herself. A lot. She’s just too timid to admit it. Teaching her about the world is well and good, but at least consider breaking the lessons up into more manageable afternoons. Don’t try to intensively teach her Orlesian and make her memorize royal lineages in the same day.

Cullen, stop moping about how we didn’t get the Templars. Fiona’s a powerful ally and there hasn’t been a single truly dangerous incident with the mages since we took them in. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Each and every one of them are every bit as much a refugee as Fereldan humans are right now. Half of them just want to be left alone. It’s not always about power. Mouse is stronger with magic than she’ll admit, but she keeps it quiet for a reason. She doesn’t like to feel powerful. I think you can say the same about a lot of our magically-inclined allies.

And as for all of you – look, whatever you do, don’t rush her…about anything. I don’t much understand it myself, but I don’t need to. It’s how things are. If one of my second cousins used to cut a hole in a frozen lake in winter and make his ass purple from the cold just to make him forget his arthritis for awhile, it’s not that strange if our Inquisitor likes to take things slowly. As long as it doesn’t hobble her in a fight, it shouldn’t matter.

– Varric

Chapter 11

Codex: A Letter from Leliana

Inquisitor,

I am pleased to inform you that seven farmers in Crestwood have agreed to your proposal. They hope to settle in the hallas by the end of the month. They were initially hesitant when we explained that they are independent creatures who tend to resent being penned in, but we assured them that this also means that they sometimes only need minimal herding attention and will manage themselves given the right conditions.

I was also delighted to hear that the blind halla taken along as a testimony for all to consider has chosen to bond with a young boy. The child is deaf, but his stillness apparently caught the halla’s attention, just as the halla’s graceful movements caught the boy’s liking.

I’m afraid that we could not find even more willing participants at this stage, but some families fled weeks ago, and others are still occupied with rebuilding their homes and making arrangements for the missing people recovered from the lake. I suspect that more will come forward in time.

Chapter 12

Codex: A Worn Page Filled With Random Phrases

Trees. Cottonwoods?

Cherries. Don’t know who got them or where they came from.

Laughter. They all had different laughs. Why do I remember them?

Warmth. It was a hot day. But my face was also flushed? Can’t remember.

Screams. Mine? Not a lot. I needed my breath for other things.

White. Gray pulsing stars every time I tried to focus my eyes. They throbbed so hard. I couldn’t see anything after awhile.

The laughter stopped. There was a fly. It was so loud. It felt like it was there for hours. It wouldn’t leave me alone. But I couldn’t move to wave it away. I was tired.

I wept. I was so thirsty. There was a river, but I couldn’t walk to get to it. I told myself to move, but I couldn't. I don't know why.

I crawled part of the way back to the camp. I made myself stand up and walk the rest of the way when sunset came. Got back to my tent at midnight or so. I was sunburned. I hadn’t noticed the sun.

Someone scolded me about a fray in my shirt but gave me clean breeches without question.

Varric you prick, this was a stupid idea.

– from a small journal well-hidden in the Inquisitor’s quarters

Chapter 13

Codex: A Letter in an Unusually Formal Hand

We can’t know what will happen tonight, tomorrow, or next week. We don’t know what Corypheus will try to do to end the Inquisition – or the world.

I understand that a will isn’t worth much without any possessions to distribute, but I’m told that some people use them as an opportunity to give last messages to family and loved ones. Many of you know what I think of you, but in case you don’t, I’ll take this one chance I have left to say the unsaid.

Leliana – you frighten me. You really do. But we’ve trusted our lives to you so many times and you haven’t led us astray yet. I don’t see how that will ever change. Some think that your fierceness is unseemly. I think it’s marvelous. You’re the only person who might really have the will to change the Chantry. I wish you the best of luck.

Josephine – thank you for tolerating my whims about food. I know I have expensive and strange tastes (even by the wealthy’s standards), but you can’t imagine how much it’s helped for me to eat something agreeable when I’m too upset to stomach other fare. It’s a greater kindness than you’ll ever realize.

Cullen – I won’t waste time reassuring you about the future. It would sound hollow. You already know what you need to do. Remember what I said. Don’t give up on something just because it’s difficult. You’ve made it this far. I don’t doubt that you’ll make even more strides.

Cassandra – Thank you for not hiding your battle scars. I know that won’t sound like much, but seeing them every day made me realize that admitting to my own isn’t as dreadful as I’d been told before now. I’m not sure what else I should tell someone who has been as determined as you are. You say that your faith is your strength as much as your weakness, but I don’t think it’s either. If it guides you to question as much as it pushes you to action, it’s worth protecting.

Dorian – you made me realize something that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about before now. I hadn’t thought it possible, especially given…well, you know what. We hardly have the same story, but we were both forced to be what we weren’t. You’ve shown me that my nature and my desires don’t have to contradict each other. You were the first to notice when I spent more time than was needed with Solas. Your reaction was nothing short of graceful. For that, you will always have my thanks.

Bull – I can’t believe you tricked me into killing a high dragon. Ten times, in fact. I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten the Sandy Howler, but you saw how it was. At least Hakkon is gone. Thank you for your courage in the face of great and small struggles. Some people might have called you insane. Damned right you are, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cole – I needn’t dedicate any space on the page since you already know my thoughts, but allow me a moment to indulge myself anyway. The others don’t understand you, but you should never let that discourage you. What you do and who you are is important. You’re doing exactly as you should. I never doubted your motives. We’re kindreds, you and I, and that’s sterner stuff than any words we might speak.

Sera – life always needs more arrows. I can’t pretend we’ve always gotten along, but your energy always reminded me to keep trying, striving, daring. Those are all things I’d forgotten how to do before the Conclave. Always question – but also always remember that there’s usually more than one way to solve a problem.

Vivienne – I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more to help your dear Bastien. You showed so much concern for me and I couldn’t even find the wyvern heart in time to save him. Friendships don’t always get the rewards they are owing, and I’m sorry that ours is one of those.

Blackwall – I hope you’ll forgive yourself someday soon. What you did doesn’t matter half as much as what you’re doing. By your deeds as much as my decree, you’re not that man anymore. Learn from your mistakes. Remember them if you must. But never use them as an excuse to hide. Only the truly wicked should hide. Only those who embrace their wrongs deserve to look over their shoulders more often than they watch their feet on the path ahead of them.

Varric – you’re one of the only people in the Inquisition who didn’t make me grind my teeth every ten minutes. You knew when to persist and when to leave me be. You noticed things far sooner than most of the others. I don’t need to tell you what to do. Don’t let them weep for me. Whether good or bad, don’t let them say I was something I wasn’t. Just tell Maryden to play my favorite song. She’ll know which one.

Solas – banal nadas. Ar lath ma.

-from an envelope covered with illustrations of various heraldry evidently drawn by the Inquisitor herself

#bae lavellan #invented codex #dragon age inquisition #dragon age oc backstory #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age fanfiction #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

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firjii · 6 years

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Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: F!Lavellan Additional Tags: invented codex entries, background development, Inquisitor Backstory, Mild Language

Summary [this chapter only]: Unsure how to say goodbye if Corypheus defeated her, the Inquisitor evidently wrote her thoughts down to her companions and advisors, to be read after her death if and when the need arose.

This is the last installment of my epistolary experiment since my stupid turtle brain didn’t otherwise let me write about Bae for some inexplicable reason XD XD.

Plain text version under the cut

Codex: A Letter in an Unusually Formal Hand

We can’t know what will happen tonight, tomorrow, or next week. We don’t know what Corypheus will try to do to end the Inquisition – or the world. I understand that a will isn’t worth much without any possessions to distribute, but I’m told that some people use them as an opportunity to give last messages to family and loved ones. Many of you know what I think of you, but in case you don’t, I’ll take this one chance I have left to say the unsaid.

Solas – banal nadas. Ar lath ma.

-from an envelope covered with illustrations of various heraldry evidently drawn by the Inquisitor herself

#epistolary #dragon age inquisition fanfic #bae lavellan #invented codex #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

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firjii · 6 years

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Words: 1810

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: fenris x f!hawke Additional Tags: writing a love letter, nervous Fenris, literacy struggles, mild angst, happy ending, early relationship Summary: Still struggling to articulate his feelings for Hawke in the midst of his newfound literacy, a perfectionist Fenris labors over writing her an affectionate letter as indirect thanks for her tireless efforts to teach him.

[Probably not technically a very accurate depiction, so sue me xD. This is bearing in mind that Fenris already has some literacy at the time of this story and that his problems stem more from articulating his feelings than actual language mechanics/literacy problems. Since he’s usually very formal when communicating with anyone and also strikes me as a perfectionist, I can imagine what trouble he would have when it came to anything resembling a love letter. I just wanted to see what the dorky, G-rated version of this might look like.]

Plain text version under the cut.

His eyes glimmer in the candlelight. His chin twitches twice. He swallows. No. This will not get the better of him. He has endured torture. He has endured torment. He has endured the unspeakable. He will not let this outwit him. He owes her this much, at least.

Even so, he peers down at the parchment again. His fingers, stained dark with ink, toy the blank margin, now a little buckled and ripply with sweat from his hands. Foolishness. He’d assumed that he could achieve his goal on the first attempt.

He squints at the paper, his eyes bleary from both the late hour and his efforts:

It would seem that I am less fettered now. My past remains and I can never wish it away, but you have shown me that –

He stops before reading the rest. There isn’t much more on the page, after all. The problem isn’t the words. They are both legible and free of errors. But their meanings are empty. They are worthless – because what has she shown him? How can he summarize it? He has learned to read so many words now, but all of them fail him for this task.

He hesitates. The last four attempts weren’t half as eloquent, yet –

No. It won’t do. He crumples the paper up tightly. He tosses it long and far. It lands with a tiny patter amid other scraps and crumpled pages.

It’s his twelfth attempt, and he’s scarcely any closer to completing the task. He sighs. His elbows reach far over the table as he quietly places his head in his hands. Perhaps it simply cannot be done in one sitting, or even one night. Perhaps it needs more thought in any case. From what he’s gleaned from Varric, few letters such as this one are created quickly or easily.

It must be perfect. She hasn’t seen much of his writing yet. He’s been careful to follow her direction as closely as possible, but he hasn’t idly written his thoughts down – not in her presence, anyway. Speech can be parsed out, even nuanced. Written words are more decisive. They must be the right ones. He will not accept any less, and neither should she. She has tried so hard to show him what freedom can mean. He must show her that he understands that.

But he barely understands the meaning behind the few precious words that he wishes to say. There are only three of them, but they somehow seem to mean more than entire books – and even though he knows how to write them, he hesitates to declare them for the world to see. Perhaps he isn’t ready. Perhaps he misunderstands the meaning behind them, even if he does know how to spell them. Perhaps it isn’t his place to mention them at all.

She doesn’t know. Of course not. How could she? They’ve come so far, and yet she still knows so little. But it isn’t her fault. That’s how he intended it. That choice is his to bear, not hers. He won’t make her decide. It would be above and beyond what even she would be willing to do – and yet there is very little he’s seen her be unwilling to do for a friend. And he – he is so much more than a friend to her now, just as she is to him.

Offering twice to stop for a meal, offering to carry his share of the spoils when he’s injured, offering to stay with him in his home when he’s unhappy about something but never once demanding that he explain himself – she freely gives so much, but never as a debting game. Among her friends, she never hides a trick within a favor. Aid is aid and justice is justice.

He always knew what a reprieve was – barely. It often only loomed in the distance. It was always a dream over too quickly after too short a night of sleep, or else simply a reward denied because of a misstep: too slow of a kill, too brief of an intimidating stare, too halfhearted an attempt to please or obey.

But Hawke shows him other things, and none of them are as petty as a reprieve. Perhaps it’s only because of their reading lessons together, so brief each time yet so effective. Perhaps he’s only more aware of the world because now he can see just how many words exist, even in mere city records or hasty notes passed between bandit merchants.

He hasn’t told her. Of course not. How could he? She might laugh, although it’s hardly a secret. The very first words he memorized – the first ones he was able to write down in his shaky but ruthlessly determined hand – were, of course, free, yes, and no. But soon after that, always alone, he labored to learn her name. The letters often danced out onto the parchment in the wrong order, their sounds seemingly tricksters in written form who were specially crafted with the sole purpose of taunting him. Their meaning is as difficult to find for him as magnanimity in a magister. He can learn them but rarely remembers them.

Despite his progress, rapid by all accounts – especially for someone whose first language wasn’t Common – her name has eluded him somehow. He’s a quicker reader than writer, but Varric and Hawke have both assured him that the skills will eventually balance each other out.

Given enough time, he can already copy down dictation – he knows the meanings and intent of the words, after all. He’d made sure of that. He’d kept himself awake countless nights on the long journey to Kirkwall. He’d forced himself to listen to others’ drunken ramblings, merchants’ dull trade discussions, soldiers’ guttermouthed slang, anything at all to speed his comprehension along. He can imitate three accents, though the words feel clothy in his mouth sometimes when he tries.

But speech is different. Barring blood magic or other cheating, thoughts are private. They can be stifled, or even forgotten. Speech can be rephrased if misunderstood or denied if it offends someone. Words on a page – they are undeniable so long as they’re kept away from embers. They needed to be measured, calculated, judged. Moreover, they needed to be fitting. The words need to be suitable and the quality of the lettering needs to match them. A hurried missive or an insult can be scrawled – in fact, he takes unexpected and distinct pleasure in doing so. But this is different. It needs elegance.

It has been peculiar to him so far. He’d always known what a book was, what secrets written instructions could hold, what explosively damaging potential each word could have on the page – and yet to understand what was actually there is still another matter.

To be able to read them is hardly like teaching communication to a toddler. He is already far more articulate than most people he’s ever met, and surely more so than all but a handful in Kirkwall. Verbally, he can sound as educated and high-born as he wishes. He knows more words than some Chantry scholars seem to, and in more than one tongue. But the idea that thoughts can be forever frozen from a certain moment, a certain motivation – it is still sometimes as unfathomable as the idea of Hawke only using her magic for good.

He can write his own name (though Hawke almost constantly chides him thus far for forgetting to capitalize it, a practice which uniquely baffles him when referring to himself). He can usually even guess at others’ names by their sounds, even if they’re unfamiliar names. But whenever he’s tried to write Hawke’s name, it’s as if his mind develops a stutter.

He’s told himself time and again that her name is like a bird, only slightly different. But Hawke isn’t like a hawk at all. She’s too fierce and too graceful. She’s a wolf, silent but for the moments when she must speak. She only moves to action when she must. She only takes life when she must – and even then, she seldom finds pleasure in it.

He blinks. His face, bleary and a little pink from a few renegade tears, suddenly emerges from his hands. An idea: just a flicker, but perhaps enough. His hand shakily clutches the charcoal as his wrist awkwardly curls around on the last scrap of parchment on the desk:

We came to Kirkwall for different reasons, but monsters and magisters both carry death with them wherever their shadows touch the earth. Death itself is just, even if the reasons for it are not. But we both chose life, and we have run long enough. Life is not always a chase. There are moments of rest. There can even be moments of ease. You have shown me their importance. I did not think to look for them before now. I did not think that the world had enough room for them.

He stops. There it is. There are only a few steps left to take on this long path, and now his feet are tired.

His shoulders slump wearily even as he clenches his fists. He puts the charcoal down. He glances at the parchment. It has fairly few smudges. It will do, but he must switch tactics all the same. These next words must stand firm and tall, like a weapon forged with the same lyrium forced into his flesh. Above all else, these words must matter. They must be unflinching, even if their meaning is also kind.

He reaches for the last quill on the desk and dabs it carefully into the inkpot, but his hand cramps uncertainly and hovers several inches above the page.

No, he cannot say it. She doesn’t deserve his idle fumbling any more than he deserves her. For an instant, his chin constricts more tightly than his fingers.

The candle flickers and winks, the wax scarcely more than a hot pool of ignited liquid now. The flame soon disappears. He sits in the dim moonlight, unfazed. After a moment, the pale glow from the sky calms him, focuses him, reassures him. It reminds him of her. It reminds him that –

He smiles, a small and slight gesture but no less sincere than a wide grin. It rises from him, irrepressible and tenacious. Yes, that will do: still three words, but one of the only kind phrases he can remember from Tevinter – one of the only phrases he will always hope to remember. Scores of slaves utter it every day as a sign of desperate submission, but he has found another meaning in it. She helped him find it.

His quill finally touches the parchment:

I am yours, Hawke.

He rests the quill down and stares at the paper in the dim light. His eyes close.

“I am yours,” he whispers.

#fenhawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris writes a letter to hawke but gets frustrated af because he still doesn't think he's good enough for her #firjii writes #firjii on ao3 #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age 2 fanfic #dragon age ii fic #sfw dragon age fanfic

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