edits // heavy work in progress, age & status are per 9:44, after Trespasser
a lot of retelling boring stuff everybody knows
I am so bad at writing short summaries. Maybe later, but right now while just trying to write stuff down I get sidetracked by little things a lot.
I don't have a hatred for any kind of pairing or ship or world state, not even a dislike. I'm actually really fond of the varieties that are around and their lovely inhabitants! I'm just lining out how my personal stuff lines up. Which is not at all. It's a clusterfuck.
THE GREY WARDENS// Linnare Cousland, Lalit Amell, Nistingur Surana
WARDEN TAGALONGS// Thalin Mahariel, Ciron Cousland
KIRKWALL RESIDENTS// Carin Hawke, Miragha Tabris, Vimal Amell
THE INQUISITOR// Thyna Lavellan
MEMBERS OF THE INQUISITION// Thalin Mahariel, Sandhya Amell, Nailah Lavellan, Adrienne Trevelyan, Dejana Adaar
WORLD STATE// ORIGINS: Aeducan rules Orzammar as Queen Regnant & the Anvil of the Void got destroyed; the ferelden Circle was annulled, but some mages were saved regardless and sent to the orlesian Circle, same goes for Dagna; Redcliffe survived, more or less, Connor gets liberated without his mother sacrificing herself; the Urn stayed undefiled; the werewolves were cured & the elves lived; Avernus stays alive and gets to continue his research ethically; Loghain gets conscripted by the Grey Wardens and Anora stays at court as an advisor; Linnare handles Redcliffe, Denerim & the Nobles, Lalit handles Honnleath & Orzammar, Nistingur handles the Circle, the Dalish and Soldier's Peak; they meet up as often as possible and then their wills clash heavily;
AWAKENING: Linnare is too busy taking care of the politics in ferelden and is more than happy to let Nistingur take the opportunity to prove himself as a leader; Lalit's mind is occupied with thoughts on tracking down Morrigan but in the end accepts his role as a Grey Warden and solving the Amaranthine issue together with Nistingur, who quickly establishes that no, they will not be on even ground in this endevour and he's Lalit's commander, not friend;
DAII: @anders: hoe dont do it, oh mygod.
DAI: lel is divine solas is an ass thnya took a bath in a weird well but still doesnt deserve this shit what else is new (can u tell i got lazy even with dis? wow)
DAV: i am absolutely not dealing with veilguard holy shit ... but i might write down some rook stuff
grid
ORIGINS 9:30 | AGE 25 // “Common, what harm can an old ruin do?”
The voice of his love still rings in his ears. It won’t fade, no matter how often he hold his head under water. He said ‘no, please’, and ‘let’s tell the other, the keeper first’, but let himself get pulled along by the bright eyes and the curiosity. The laughter like chimes. How could it all turn so sour, so dead and dark? In the end Tamlen realizes, he realized that something dreadful hides these halls, behind the glass of the mirror, and he pushes Thalin away, tells him to run, flee, please, please, please my heart, don’t let me be the end of you. Thalin doesn’t want to run, he doesn’t want to go, but something in his bones pulls him away, something tells him to not look, don’t let this be a thing to remember. Breathless and full of scratches from the branches he reaches the camp of the clan, tries to tell what happened, tries to tell to go look for Tamlen, please, someone, anyone. He can’t do it himself, his legs give in. He’s scared, a primal fear.
“Please, be careful”, he mutters, before his will gives in, too.
He wakes, in the care of Merrill, and just when the group of hunters that set out to search the ruin returns. They didn’t find anything besides giant spiders and broken glass. No body. It doesn’t calm him, it feels worse. Not knowing for sure what happened to Tamlen. It will haunt him for years.
Broken to the bones by his loss, he eventually splits from the clan and roams the forests and land for a long time alone for a while. Eventually he meets another one clan and stays with them for a time, since he has nothing better to do mostly, but never feels at home and really connected to them, he just doesn’t belong.
Not long after the clan is getting attacked by wild beasts that aren’t really beasts but more humanoid. He hasn’t heard of something like werewolves yet, and is equally dumbfounded and scared when the first attack happens. Soon after they set up camp to tend to the wounded - and according to the clan’s keeper, Zathrian, cursed - outsiders come to them: Two elves, city elves from what he can tell and two human woman, one with the nightfall in her eyes and one with fire in her hair. One of them a Grey Warden, seeking to enforce an age old contract with the elves for aid. The keeper is quick to bring up their own issues that need to be resolved first and he also knows where to look. They needed a guide through the forest and Thalin offers himself to lead them. He has stayed with the Clan and in these woods long enough to know where they need to go even though he never dared to venture into the ruin. He isn’t sure if he would’ve to enter with them or if he even could - the memory of the ruins back then still sending shivers down his spine. But showing weakness in front of strangers, non-dalish on top of that, doesn’t seem like an option either. He’s too proud, but every step in the forgotten halls fills him with dread. Kill the wolf, get back, kill the wolf and just get back, nothing else, an easy task. But why would a wolf keep his den in a ruin like this? Sure, it’s no normal wolf, but still. Something seems off.
They fight the werewolves and eventually reach the inner sanctum, where not a wolf but a woman, a spirit of sorts, greets them and unravels the whole story for them. Despite having the look and feel of a man who wants quick solutions, the Warden agrees to bring the keeper back to the sanctum to negate the curse. Atleast they don’t have to go far, since Zathrian has come to the ruins to see if they’ve cleaned up his mess. The Warden is direct about the whole thing, doesn't dance around Zathrian to charme him into comming with them. Thalin can't keep his eyes of the exit all the while - even if the threat in these ruins seems to be of a different kind, dread still lingers in his bones.
He offers to watch the entrance and after a short hesitation the Warden agrees, but not without letting one of his companions stay behind with him. The redheaded woman smiles brightly at him, as if she was not just asked to keep an an eye on him. Later he gets to know that this kind of smile is her best weapon.
He spends some time with the Wardens and their companions, after all he’s not needed anywhere else and fighting the Blight seems like a rather good idea. He plays the ambassador for the elves and ends up talking most to Leliana and Nistingur, even though the elf doesn’t seem the talkative type, and well, he isn’t really, but there are questions they have for each other. Until this point he had thought himself to be the very disagreeable and vicious sort, but at times the intensity of the mage feels like he might be cut into little pieces with just such much as a look.
9:31-9:39 | AGE 26-34 // After the battle for Denerim he breaks off to wander around again, joined up with another clan, leaves again and so on. Nothing real, nothing satisfying, just living in the now, trying not to indulge himself in the past. Years pass with this nothingness, he doesn’t really care. What is there to care for, really? The conflict the humans have with their Templars and Mages really doesn’t interest him, even if he encounters it with increasing intensity every time he comes close to settlements, but he generally doesn’t take much interest with anything or anyone.
INQUISITION 9:40 | 35 // When he sees the breach he eventually turns his steps towards it and finds the Inquisition at its foot. He offers to join up and is taken back when he meets Leliana again. She has changed, a lot, but has he? He’s pretty convinced he hasn’t. Between training and missions he tries to talk to her, trying to find out what has changed and what stayed the same. It might be a rather selfish endeavour but he also tries to find pieces of the woman she was back then, the somewhat softer side. He also gets to meet the so-called Herald of Andraste, and until he sees him with his own eyes he really didn’t believe the humans lifted one of his people up to be their oh-so-holy saviour. But he has an effect of him, a rather unexpected one – he wants to help him, protect him. Thyna Lavellan gives him the impression of an animal being constantly aware that it’s surrounded by its predators. He tries to reason with himself that a mage doesn’t need to look like the Iron Bull to be powerful, and yet – he can’t help himself. It infuses him with worry what all these people might do to him, so the least he can do is offer a helping hand.
He stays around and with the Inquisition - he likes Thyna as a person after all and the Creators know he can use all the friends he can get - everything seems to get ripped from this child, his own heritage denounced with a simple title - what a joke. Mahariel acts as a shield at moments - he can’t be there all the time - when their soft spoken leader can’t find sharp words to fling back at things said, that don’t seem all that bad to the humans and willingly takes it upon himself, to throw back a barrage of cutting remarks - he will not let them forget what the Dalish are and that they are. Surprisingly enough he still gets along with Solas, who mostly communicated through sneers the first few months. Sera is a whole different story though - he's way too elfy for her.
She weaves baskets like she weaves words, soft, flowing, and loves stories, all of them, all of it, telling them, listening to them, bringing some calm to the elves in this alienage - she thought Denerim’s had been bad, and well, it was, but it wasn’t better here, elves weren’t better here. It seems inescapable, so she might aswell try to lighten in up - but Merrill, when Merrill moves in the alienage she tries to change things, slowly, piece by piece, one step at a time. It’s not much, but it’s something, she’s helping, and Miragha admires her, so much. So very much.
ORIGINS (9:30) // It wasn’t even his fault, Sandhya just stayed way too close to him without him doing anything, and so Vimal and Jowan just stayed too close as well, never far from the skirt of the big sister. Admittedly Amell was the only one remotely capable so he didn’t mind all that much until everything utterly demented happened. To his luck a guest saved them both with an invitation to the world, to freedom and an eternal oath to the Grey Wardens. Another shackle but one he takes on all too gladly.
Oh he laughs, he laughes oh so much, so loud, at all of them, at himself - he doesn’t care anymore. They mean nothing to him, they never did. He spews vile at them and shredds his mask completely, forever, with the agreement to the recruiter, and everyone who dares to throw a slur his way in earshot gets to feel a chill creeping down their spine, which touches their very soul. One thing he knows for sure though - he will never touch blood magic, in fact he will spend a lot of his time, energy and efforts on learning how to break free, avoid it, how to be unobtainable by it’s grasp, how to stand against it and be an immovable object of will - he studies it just ebcause of that, he knows it’s not inherently evil, he knows it’s just a tool, but even is a sword can be used for woodcarving, it hardly ever is. And he will not bow to it, indeed, he will not bow to anyone or anything at all. He’s done with that, and will never breake his stance again.
NOTES//small delights: reading - preferably in peace without getting disturbed - and large libraries; ruining someone’s day; shade - in both senses of the word; forever laughing at templars - first when they had to let him leave, faces all stern and filled with disapproval and the urge to come after him, later, when all of them scrambled to find their precious order again; playing with fire as in letting demons believe they have something on him and then outwitting them; gathering favors, holding some measure of power over people, them owing him - he’ll never let them forget;
large regrets: pretending, letting people believe he’s something he’s not; playing the good and proper student; holding back himself/ his words to not step on anyone’s toes; literally everything he did while he was in the circle; actually slightly bonding with a templar - he meets cullen years later and has no kind words for the man - it should be mercy and kindness enough that he’s still breathing; letting Jowan get the better of him - ‘never again’, he vowes to himself, as blood drips from the open wound in his palm - he only touches blood magic in theory after that (or so he claims) and becomes a bastion of willpower(there's still something more to it thant just that);
biting fears: genuinly caring, emotional dependency; having the whole demon thing come back to him in horrible ways and getting his ass handed to him; public embarrassment; owing someone;
fun facts: aromantic homosexual; 150cm/ 5′; prodigy; harsh words, more often needlessly so - not only out of honesty; would’ve let alistair fall on his sword for him if not for morrigan’s proposal; didn’t take her offer himself because he feels like it would be in debt for his whole life to her - no matter how much she’d claimed it to be an even trade and how much he likes her as a friend; left the mabari in alistairs care; ungodly temper & arrogant beyond measure; no fun allowed™; enjoyes wealth and luxuries but doesn’t need them; “i’ll do everything to get what i want, but i’ll use my own power and none shall have control over me”;
Not already back when he had to walk the gauntlet, fresh out of the cell, accused by everyone. Eyes that wanted to pierce and rip him into tiny pieces to make up for the deaths he supposedly caused. Or worse. He knew humans weren’t kind to free mages, apostates as they called them, and their preferred punishment of quieting mages, purging any free will and creativity from their minds. But all of this, it was just simply too much. It didn’t sink in, it didn’t feel real at all.
A hole in the sky, something that feels like a hole in his hand, something that grasps at things that aren’t even there. Or it might be, just beyond the breach. It felt surreal, like walking in a nightmare. And he let himself get dragged along with the flow, hearing a sea of whispers, seeing nothing but white and green, someone telling him that he could close the Breach in the sky with his hand. Why not. He tried to run away, he didn’t get far until the Seeker grabbed him again. So, why not try to close that thing, if it would change all this. He’s terrified every step of the way, doesn’t understand what’s going on. He feels his own magic tearing at his edges. It’s straining. They said he’d been asleep but he feels like he hasn’t slept in days. Unfocussed. He has to blink a lot to get clear vision and even then nothing seems clear. Red and black drown out the white, but the green stays. The smell of burned flesh. He did that. They tell him he did that. Panic, sheer horror, creep up his spine, wrap their fingers around his neck, choke him. The Seeker only knows how to move forward and not how to stop. Her steps drag him further. And then everything is drenched in green, his eyes only finding the Breach, unable to move away from the tear in the Fade.
And then they come rushing in: Demons. Fear grips him for a second and then the words of his Keeper ring ever to loud in his ears and his resolve finally overwhelms the trembling in his bones, breathing some life into him. He can’t give himself to the demons, he can’t give his panic to them either. It still doesn’t feel real but if this is a test, he might as well give it … well, at least some if not his best. The demons perish, vanish, get dragged in little fragments back into the green. And he tries to reach out to it. Really, it just feels like it’s happening on its own. He finds some threads and pulls, pulls until it feels shut, until his will to keep standing gives in. He did his part, didn’t he? The unconsciousness feels like a mercy, a reprieve from all the pressure hammering down upon him. He doesn’t want to know what will happen next, feels like he has seen enough green for a lifetime already.
He wakes up only to find something even bigger attached to him as a title: The Herald of Andraste, a prophet for the Maker, a person send by the human god, here to rescue them all, to save everyone … he doesn’t even believe in the Maker, that’s a human thing after all, a way for them to justify what they did to the elves and a lot of other things in their past, or so he thinks - he doesn’t know their stories, but he knows he’s not that prophet, even if that Maker of theirs should be real, it would be a cruel joke to send a dalish elf as his herald, as his chosen one … and all he wants to do is run away, but all these people, they depend on him, cling to him with sticky fingers and words of hope and despair that creep into his ears and mind, strangling him, making it hard to breathe and move at all and he doesn’t understand how they can so fast switch from him being their scapegoat to him being their saviour. They don’t let him move, they won’t let him get away. Eyes follow his every step. They don’t know it but their faith and their hope is crippling. He just wants to go home. He lies, out loud, to the Seeker: “Home is wherever I am.”
It’s also why Solas brings a certain serenity to his thoughts. He’s direct, intense, fixated, and his sharp edges help Thyna focus himself - if only not to get cut up by those edges. They don’t see eye to eye on all things, but many enough to call each other friends - or at least someone to regularly trade words with and mildly enjoy it. At least Thyna does and somehow he gets the impression the other elf enjoys the sound of his own voice enough to also enjoy these moments, or maybe he actually likes sharing his stories and experiences. The Dalish isn’t sure about it, but he enjoys the tales none the less. They distract him from his own.
He’s afraid, terrified, and actually trembles from time to time, but not many seem to notice. Maybe no one wants to. Leliana notices, but she mistakes it for something she felt, like with oh so many things. It’s not a bad thing, but he’s not what she needs him to be either. Only once she falls into pieces before him, throwing her grieve against him, as if he would have the answers. She doesn’t get any and they don’t see eye to eye either. He doesn’t agree with what she calls resolve, the steeled grip around her dagger. She says it’s what has to be done, but is it really that way? He questions it, she thinks he might be dooming them all. Yet, doubt blooms in her heart and refreshes the lightness of her steps, lets her remember a softness from years ago.
Varric notices, but he’s bad with these things. He knows what to say without saying anything, saying a lot of words that sound nice but without any personal investment in them. To sooth someone with words alone isn’t his forte. He was bad at it when Hawke’s sister died, his mother, with Merrill and her Keeper, her clan, when Anders betrayed their trust. He was bad at it when he had to write letters to everyone, telling them their friend would probably never return. He couldn’t find the words, actually evaded the topic, until there was no more space on the paper. One short sentence cramped into the last corner of the page. “Hawke is gone.”
He clashes with Cassandra on a regular basis, until he accepts her faith as unquestionable. He grits his teeth and glares at her when she calls him Herald or introduces him as such. He isn’t what she wants him to be, but he will help and that has to be enough. Over time, mutual respect and acceptance grows. They begin to be easier on each other. Cassandra stops calling him Herald in favour of Inquisitor and they stop talking about him being something holy. They don’t stop talking about faith in general or hers. It becomes somewhat academic for him.
Sera is like a wildfire, a flame constantly in motion, constantly burning on full power, flickering only sometimes. She’s the now to the past Solas embodies. Thyna enjoys her company, even if she stared at him weirdly at first. “Aaaand you’re an elf.” lingers for some time in his mind - it left him puzzled but he didn’t dig deeper. It feels like an awkward topic. They talk about unimportant things, light things that don’t weigh down upon him. He brings her dripping pieces of honeycombs, teaches her how to get them on her own. She brings him peace despite being chaos to most. People start talking, and no one is quicker to shut them up than Sera. And he’s glad that for once he doesn’t have to waste his breath, since so many of them fall on deaf ears.
Dorian hides behind himself. Prancing around, flaunting his high self-esteem, when in truth his wit and charm - well, they are not pure façade, they are part of him, but with them and blowing them up to insane proportions, taking nothing serious and at face value, he hides away other facets of himself. Things he doesn’t want anyone to know or see, even if some suspect them. The Inquisitor gets to see a glimpse of them after Dorian returns from talking to his father. A moment lingers between them, without a word spoken, and Thyna feels strangely relieved when Dorian breaks the eye-contact first, deflecting once again with humour what is really going on in his head. Thyna doesn’t mind this time, only later he feels a wave of regret washing over him. It felt like Dorian wanted to say or do something … important, and now he may never know - he feels guilty over the relief he felt.
They misunderstand each other, miss the point between them. One is too sincere, too serious, the other one can’t get an earnest sentence over his lips even if his life would depend on it. It might not be his life in this case, but it lets them drift awkwardly apart for a time.
After a while he unconsciously calls the Inquisitor his friend, and as true as that might be, his eyes follow the man in a way he knows all too well, and his mind wanders from time to time. He seems to like spending time with Dorian, but never shares a bottle with him. Most of the time Thyna leaves, sometimes he stays. They share a quiet company in these moments, when he reads and Dorian pretends to. More often than he’d care to admit to himself he’s stealing glances, fantasising about what would happen if he’d reach out, gently caressing the skin, digging his fingers into the seemingly soft hair, pulling them closer, demanding a kiss and - ah, yes, the point where he forces himself to snap out of it, reached already oh-so-often before. He wonders if it’s just desire or more. He doesn’t want it to be more, this lingering feeling, which seems to wrap itself harder around his chest with each passing day.
The Inquisitor on the other hand doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to change. His smile is soft, gentle, when their eyes meet, but Dorian can’t make heads or tails out of it. In his mind, he obsesses over it. Is it different from the one he shares with Solas? Sera? Josephine? In the silence between him and that boy, Cole? What if it isn’t? What would it even mean if it is? What exactly is he hoping for here? Why is he hoping at all? He knows he shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t hope for anything. He knows this. Even if … Maker, he wants the smile to be different so badly and at the same time not. He finds himself wondering what happened to the man that would’ve just walked up to the Inquisitor and asked him to sleep with him. In the end he walks up to Bull and asks him.
[Tresspasser aka 2 years laters]
[Gross ugly sobbing]
“We thought you knew.”
The sentence hits him like a fist in the gut, pushes all air out of him and wide eyed he stares at the Viddasala, unable to come up with a response. Cold agony grips him mercilessly, makes him shiver. The heartbroken “What?” from Cassandra behind him doesn’t help.
Betrayal. He bites his tongue, literally, only not to cry. ‘Silly, how could such simple pain be enough to pull the water from your eyes? Cry-baby. Get a grip on yourself, you can’t fall apart here. Not now.’ – Clearly it’s not the well whispering things to him, but him berating himself. He’s sick and tired of being used, dragged along and playing to the whims of something or someone else.
This is his breaking point.
It’s pretty ridiculous that it took him this long, or that’s at least how he feels. He watches the Qunari leave, not ready to run right after them, maybe they also expect him to turn back now that he knows the truth.
Thyna takes another deep flat breath, Cassandra moving behind him. He turns around before she can reach for him and hears cruel words spill out of his mouth. “I’m killing him myself.” Surprise in the faces of his friends, questions on the Seeker’s face, doubt in Sera’s eyes, suspicious silence from Nailah. He can’t stand looking at them longer, turns around and follows the Qunari through yet another mirror.
His resolve isn’t as strong as he thinks it is. The hurt is too fresh, too brutal. Maybe if it had time to fester, to sink in - maybe then, maybe then he would be as cold and steeled as he wants to be.
He isn’t.
Not when he hears the voice of his once friend echoing in his ears, finally sets eyes upon this hunted agent of Fen’Harel. He doesn’t really register that the Viddasala turns to stone, he just wants to run up to Solas, grab him and ask why. Just why.
He trusted him enough with other things – probably only things that suited him and his goals, a nagging thought adds – why not with this, but pain stops him in his tracks, courses violently through his body, piercing his nerves from his left hand. He falls to his knees, both hands for a brief moment halting his fall further, his whole body shaking, and his left arm gives out, having him fall to his elbow, grabbing his hurting wrist with the other hand, pressing his head against his left forearm, trembling, fighting for control. If not over the Anker over his pain at least.
Then, panic, as the fear of Solas just leaving surges into his mind. Thyna snaps his head up, eyes wide and fearful, only to see the other elf move in calm steps towards him. Another surge of pain forces his eyes shut, and then it suddenly fades away.
“That should give us more time. I suspect you have questions.”
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’, are the words that lie on Thyna’s tongue, but his teeth are still gritted together from the pain. The voices stir and ring almost violently in his ears, and again he has to close his eyes, this time to gather focus, to drown them out. What has them so in alert?
“I came to find you.”, finally drops out of his mouth and he slowly opens and raises his eyes.
He wants to continue, to explain, but Solas cuts him off: “I know. The Qunari sought an agent of Fen’Harel. I am no one’s agent but my own. I fear that the truth is much simpler and much worse, than they believed.”
So many words. He has always been good with them and the melodic way they dance of his tongue. Even now he’s calm enough to give them such meaning and time to be said. It feels annoying, and at the same time Thyna feels childish for feeling annoyed, while everything slowly falls into place.
“You’re… Fen’Harel.”
His voice sounds dry, drained, even to his own ears, and so dull compared to the melody spoken before. He can’t match him. How could he?
“I was Solas first. ‘Fen’Harel’ came later … An insult I took as a badge of pride.” Creators, how can he be so calm? How did I miss this voice so much? How can I stop myself from breaking into tears right here and now? “The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies. Not unlike ‘Inquisitor’, I suppose.”
[EXCESSIVLY SAD AND DEPRESSIVE STUFF after trespasser]
Nailah knows she’s doing something terrible by leaving, but she can’t stay. It only makes her mad – her helplessness that is. She couldn’t protect him, she failed, and she doesn’t know what to do now, but even she knows that yelling won’t help, but she wants to. She really wants to yell. None of this is fair, none of this is right. Why. She doesn’t even know at which deity to yell at for this misfortune. No, that’s not true either. She knows, at whom to yell, but it’s hardly a god. Their gods are dead. She never was the pious sort, but it was still part of her, part of the way she grew up and lived in this world. She wishes so much to have been there. To be able to punch that egg-headed ass. That fool, idiot. Why. She grits her teeth and fights down the tears. After all, she too was fond of the man, trusted him to an extent and trusted that he had a reason for leaving. Not something so incredibly dumb.
Thyna's arm hurts from time to time. Phantom pain they call it. They say it’s normal, someone says “You’ll get used to it!” followed by “At least you are alive.” - They don’t know how terrifying it is to wake up in the middle of the night, searing pain flaring up so brightly he can actually see the green in the pitch black room, reaching out for his arm just to find nothing there. The pain doesn’t care, the pain doesn’t stop. At least he was able to clench his hand into a fist and punch the pillow before. Now he doesn’t even have that. He start using his other hand for that and exchanges the pillow for the bedpost, and it helps, a bit. Bloody scrapes and dark circles around his eyes tell the story of sleepless nights.
Sera tends to the wounds, a slight furrow between her brows every time the red is fresher than the evening before, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t judge. She’s more afraid that she doesn’t help, can’t help. The disinfectant stings, but it hardly makes his lips twitch. He’s worried that he’s a burden, says he will be fine, even alone. She won’t have any of it. He’s her friend and before all this, before everything went to shit, he wanted to be a Jenny, run rooftops with her. She will not give up on that so easily, on him. Even if he has forgotten, she hasn’t forgotten the life her friend once carried in his eyes, and, in time, she will remind him. She can’t stay every day, every night, she would go crazy for sure. She has things to do, friends to help, a lover to greet with soft kisses and warm embraces, but she won’t leave completely. No one has come to claim Skyhold yet. She fears for the day they might, a day when she might not be there to slam the gate shut in their faces. They don’t deserve this place, don’t deserve to drive the Inquisitor away.
He was better, he was better, he was better. There was a time when he could smile brightly, even after all the claws and hooks in his soul, feeling like they were ripping his skin, trying to shred him to pieces. And yet, still, he found a way to not only smile but shed these things, shake them lose and forget. Maybe Cole has had a hand in that after all. His aching, his hurting. He was better. He’s not anymore. The ache in his bones feels deeper than that, the tremors in his very being. The shaking won’t stop, the tears stopped once he was too tired and he constantly is. His mind feels empty and at the same time racing, hollow and full of emotions. Wanting to scream but feeling like drowning, even though he seems to be on fire. He just wants it all to be a bad dream, to wake up, to go downstairs and ask the man painting colourful swirls on the wall again if the fade could really be this cruel, if a demon could’ve snuck into his dream and twisted it into this soul wrenching abyss.
He finds himself standing in the round room, the whole tower empty except for his own presence. Not only is it night, but most have left Skyhold since the Inquisition is no more. While he listens to the silence he can swear he's hearing Leliana’s voice drifting down from up above, issuing orders to her people, Dorian critiquing another set of books he specifically asked for, soft murmurs from all around, life in the halls, chatter, laughter, whispers, infuriated screams from outside. Soft bare footsteps from his right, a pause and then – the door slams shut behind him, dragged by the wind alone, shattering the silence and the illusion of a past reality. Thyna feels like he should be startled, shocked, maybe a bit alert, afraid, but none of these things set in. Just weariness when it comes to reality, a bitter laugh in his throat. He’s so tired.
Cole doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to help. The hurt is in every inch of his friend. It would be easier if he could just forget, but there is no start or no end to the hurt. It resonates in every fibre of Thyna’s being, firmly logged into place, an immovable object. He wouldn’t like forgetting everything, not knowing who Solas is when meeting him again, completely forgetting that part of his own softness. The moments when listening to the man talk that brought an ephemeral peace to him, when lacing their finger together seemed like the most unobtainable and most craved dream, wish. He never dared to reach out and the soft ache was something he carried. It wasn’t that bad back then, it was a longing, nothing Cole hadn’t seen before, nothing Cole felt like taking away. But now, now he wishes he had. Maybe all of this wouldn’t had turned out like this. He shouldn’t care so much, he should be more detached, he should just help - he knows that. But he just can’t. It feels wrong tearing that much from Thyna.
He lets his hair grow out - nothing else to do with it really. He could still shave the lower part, yes, but it feels weird, looks weird, without the braids and he can’t braid them any longer. He can’t do it with one hand. Sera tried, she did, but, well, it didn’t quite look the same, to say the least. Josie braided his hair sometimes, telling him about her day and everything the nobles were hurling at her. It made him smile. No matter how much she bickered and ranted, she clearly loved these things. Those were somehow intimate moments, when she sometimes would stop in the middle of her sentence and wrap her arms around him, saying nothing else, leaning her head against his shoulder. He always felt as if an “I’m so sorry” would be coming any second, but it never left her lips. She didn’t want to pity him, thanking him also felt wrong. He didn’t do it to be thanked for it.
biting fears: abandonment, betrayal; not being able to help, being useless; disappointing people, not being enough, being left alone; demanding too much attention, depending too much on others; fun facts: demiromantic ace; 162cm/ 5′ 4″; precious cinnamonroll, too good, too pure; never did anything wrong in his life; doesn’t deserve dis shit; floofball of anxiety; feels like his heart ist bursting 90% of the time; “i am tired.”
[9:54]