That's true - sometimes I do. Although I find it hard to believe no one has ever called you 'sweetheart' before.
[Adasse makes sure his grip on Sorrel is firm, and loving, as they make their way back. He snorts softly, giving Sorrel a fond but exasperated look.]
You don't need to apologize, Sorrel, and you're hardly helpless. Of course you're tired - you just helped save all of us. I'd carry you like a bride in gratitude if I didn't think you'd swat me.
Of course I... [He stops, swallows, and suddenly the ceiling is just fascinating.] ...wouldn't mind that. If. You wanted to. Since you're asking.
[He likes it when Adasse shows off his strength, moreso when he does it, shall we say, directly. Of course, it's easy to make the offer to be carried when the only place it remains to be carried is less than a half-dozen meters and no one is watching.]
It's just the Veil! [He protests automatically. Of course he'd be perkier if not for the veil of course. Of course!] It was so thin, and then suddenly it got... it's complicated.
[It is, in fact, not complicated at all. But look at him blush!]
Oh well, since you're giving me what I want ... [Adasse's tone held that note of suddenly sultry teasing, because he saw that look to the ceiling, Sorrelean Ashara. He tips down, plucking Sorrel up with a arm around his waist and the other under Sorrel's knees, picking him up easily. Tucking him safely against Adasse's chest as he carries Sorrel those dozen meters.]
'It's just the Veil', he says, like helping fix holes where the demons come out is no big thing. [Adasse rolled his eyes goodnaturedly.] You're adorably modest.
I know, but you're the one I'm madly in love with, so I get to brag about you.
[But the rest of Sorrel's outraged modesty is lost in an embarrassed grumble because there's only one way to keep your balance when someone heft you like this. And that's to cling, like the maiden on a bawdy book. It's terribly vulnerable and even worse: it's thrilling. And it shuts him up, at least until the door is shut behind them.]
...You are, the only one who ever called me sweetheart. [And when— if— Adasse sets him down, Sorrel will busy himself with the meaningless work of trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his rumpled robes.] You know, when I first saw how you spoke to Cyril, I was so jealous, I wanted to drown myself in the bay.
[This said almost with a laugh. That had not been his smartest day, to be boiling over with resentment over Cyril's lovely face and the men it always attracted.]
But it's just... the way you talk, and it didn't mean anything, really. I told myself that, but then you started calling me things like that and I turned into mush. [A shrug for that, one-shouldered. What can you do?] So. So, I like it. 'Rel, I mean.
Oh, I beg to differ ... me screaming like a little girl, for one.
[He chuckles softly, kissing Sorrel once before putting him down on his feet and closing the door behind them. He tips his head to the side, before his lips curve upwards into a wry little smile.] ... I don't know how you can ever be jealous of Cyril, when you're just as gorgeous.
[He leaned in towards Sorrel and his slightly rumpled robes, kissing him once and gently.] Especially since the first time I met you, I was absolutely smitten with you, sweetheart.
[He started to strip himself down, exhaling softly.] I don't know about you, but I can't sleep ...buut I also can't stand up anymore.
[Sorrel smiled in the lee of Adasse's kiss, protest about his appearance dying on his lips when he continues int he vein of Love At first Sight. It was silly; he remembered it clearly, the little room in the Gallows, and Adasse promising to help him shower gifts over Sina's sickbed, if it would please her. The memory sobers him and Sorrel busies himself for a moment with hanging his robe up, putting aside the daytime and preparing for the night's rest.
When Adasse sighs he looks up, jolted out of mindless reverie.]
I think we've both had enough of the Beyond for a little while.
[The Fade lingers. It is, after all, the one thing it does best, in a way the dreams that take place within it do not. Memory fades, and history shifts, people grow old, grow out, and die. But the Fade lingers, green ink under newer additions. Sorrel takes Adasse by the hands and gently pulls him towards the bed.
It's with painful tenderness that he pushes his lover down into the straw-stuffed cushion, the stolen woolen blankets and gifted quilts, pieced together from their previous lives as threadbare curtains, old shirts, and scraps. Gently does he settle Adasse in, smoothing back his hands along rumpled hairlines, unhurried and reverent. When Adasse is in comfort, arranged to Sorrel's liking, he creaks back onto his feet, puts out the light, and pats Coco's soft, pink head. Sorrel walks back in the dark, on silent feet, and slides into bed so that the weight of him is pillowed across Adasse's chest, arms tucked into the warmth behind his shoulders, and draws the blankets over them, and the furs. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will get more fur for Adasse's bed if he has to go hunting with his own hands; the winter is bitter in Kirkwall, and there has been enough cold in his life already.]
Oh, Creators, it feels so, so good, just to lie down.
[Adasse lets himself be man-handled into bed - Sorrel taking charge has always been one of Adasse's secret thrills. Coco curls up on Sorrel's pillow because Sorrel was, as always, going to use Adasse instead to cushion his head. Adasse's long fingers didn't even pause, just immediately went to card through those thick, auburn curls.
With the furs tucked around him. Coco snorting softly next to his ear and Sorrel curled up around his waist. He closes his eyes and exhales softly.]
It's pure paradise, that's what it is. I never felt so damned tired, and I've been in at least three battles so damned far."
Oh soft. [Which is a fine comment for someone with his head pillowed directly on the firm result of Adasse's very hard work.] His Lordship demands respite from these menial labors.
[Adasse might not be able to see, but he can probably hear the smirk.]
Honestly, though. We've all been wrung out like a rag today. I'll bet anything if you went down to the mess hall tonight, you'd find a dozen or more just sitting around with tea, trying not to go back to bed. [A moment's pause.] I'd probably be down there right now, if I didn't have you.
So soft. Like you're any less soft. [Adasse muttered, dragging his fingers through Sorrel's curls.] And I'm about as close to a Lordship as you are to being a Shem.
[He can't see it, but Sorrel's hair does get tweaked.]
I wouldn't put even money on that. I am just going to know you aren't lying about that. And I'd be down there too, if we weren't Us. [He sighed, looking at the ceiling.] Sleeping is .. I don't even know if it's safe.
[Sorrel thinks a moment, trying to order his thoughts so that they are easily understood. It's all so simple when you're there, and you see how different the two sides are. How, as much as you want to know more about that strange other-world, it might want to know you better, too. Like lost twins, siblings separated by an impenetrable veil...
Dangerous thoughts.]
There's. Not really a difference between spirits and demons, the way Shemlen say there is. Just, some of them are curious, or hungry, or just want to explore, and sometimes some of them want it badly enough they'll do anything they can to get it. But say, for you... for most people... [He trails off, trying to explain it to himself, dissatisfied.] It's like, you've got to go over a wall, yeah? To get into the big house on the other side. But the wall is covered in thorns, and it's got all this slimy moss. It's hard to climb, and it's really tall so it'd be a lot of work. That's you, the big tall wall. You still touch the Fade, but it's harder to get ahold of you.
Then, there's someone like me. Mages. We're a bit of the wall with... holes, maybe? Windows? And nicely clean. Maybe more of a fence than a wall, so the Fade can see in and, when it does, that's what you'd call magic. It all comes from the Fade. So, when a spirit wants to see the world, it's not going to go after you, because you're a pain in the ass. It's going to come after me.
[That seems to make some sense. He picks his head up to look at Adasse, and in the dark he can just about make out the shape of him, a lighter shadow against the mottled grey of the pillow.]
So... it's safe, for you. Maybe less for me, but... well, it's always been that way before. So nothing's changed. Nothing to fret about, vhenan, you won't be turning up possessed on my watch.
[Adasse murmured, before he just shut himself up and listened to what Sorrel was saying. After all, he was more of an expert in the Fade than Adasse would ever be. It was fairly calming, all things considered. He wasn't overtly worried now about being taken in his sleep by his own nightmares, that was for certain. Although he did have a heavier spike of fear for Sorrel himself, and his fingers squeezed down on Sorrel a little more tightly. As if to keep him there, with him.]
... will I be able to save you, if you become possessed? [He asked quietly.] Is there some sort of Dalish ritual that protects you from being taken?
I won't be. Kirkwall is a pit, especially the Gallows, but I've been here for long enough not to just fall apart the minute a Demon shows me something...awful. Or wonderful.
[He shifts a little, sliding one hand out to put it over Adasse's, a comforting pressure.]
I don't want to lie to you... it does happen. The clan that used to camp here? Their Keeper— you hear stories. Usually, if a mage becomes possessed by something bad, it's the duty of the clan to kill the thing they turn into. [It's a terrible, yawning chasm of a thought; the idea of asking Adasse to do such a thing. But then Sorrel remembers the truth and the vice eases off his lungs. He breathes, a deep-deep sigh.] That's Beleth's job, if it ever came to that. She knows me, knows, what needs to be done. We talked about it.
[Adasse did let out a sigh of relief, resting his fingers at the nape of Sorrel's neck, the other curling around Sorrel's hand.]
Merrill's clan ... we had heard horrible things had happened there. [He's quiet for a long moment, before he shakes his head slightly.] I'll have to toss up a prayer to someone up there that it never comes to that. I think that would kill Beleth and I.
There's that mage, you know. The one who blew up hightown, Anders? He used to be possessed, I think. They fixed him.
[It's the only solution Sorrel knows. And the quiet, tense upset in Adasse's voice has him suddenly desperate, scrambling for an answer.]
I'd rather die than be let to be some kind of... monster. Hurting people. [Hurting other elves, he means. It's not hard to imagine a scenario in which Sorrel might be tempted by a demon's ability to hurt humans.] But let's not borrow trouble, love. It won't happen. Not tonight, not any other night.
... yeah all right listen. I've got no problem with Anders, but I really hope you don't go that route, love.
[He pauses himself, before he lets out a quiet sigh, and gently strokes Sorrel's hand once more.] You're right. I'm just being a worrying pisher, because I've had a worrying kind of day.
[Fingers stroked down Sorrel's cheek.] Hey, tell me one of your legends, then. I love to listen to you talk about the Dalish.
Well, I could explode a chantry. [This said in tones of I could go for a sandwich, with teasing evident. He's not a big fan of chantries, it is a fact known.] ...But, it's probably not worth the trouble.
[To put it mildly.]
...Well... Alright, let me think. What kind of legend?
[Wait wait, he has a good one.]
Long ago, when the world was new, Dirth'amen wished to keep his secrets apart from the People, because they were all yet as young as babes in arms, and he knew none he could trust. So he went into the forest and told his secrets in parts to the animals there, like burying a treasure where no one could find it. He whispered small secrets to the birds, told larger ones to the hares, still larger to the foxes, and the biggest secrets he gave to the bears, and then he went away again.
But while Dirth'amen was away, the birds traded all their secrets to the dwarves in exchange for gold and gems, and the hares shouted their secrets to the treetops, so that they were spoilt. The Foxes were more cunning, and went to Andruil to trade what they knew for wings that they might fly. Only the bears kept their secrets, and slept with them held close in the caverns all through the winter.
When Dirt'amen returned, he saw what had been done and was very angry. He snatched the wings from all the foxes, silenced the voices of every hare, and made every bird a pauper. But the bears he honored, because they had been steadfast, and gave them the gift of great strength to match their great size. If you kill a bear, you must pray to Dirth'amen, because its strength is holy, and it still knows those old secrets, kept safe in the dark.
I'd rather you Not, thanks. [Adasse's tone is dry, and a little flat. He was raised in Kirkwall, after all. That Chantry exploding was pretty much one of the most horrific things he survived through.]
[He did listen to the story aptly though, and let out a quiet huff.] Considering how many bears the Inquisition has killed out in the Hinterlands, I have the feeling we ought to start praying right now.
I think it's a bit too late for those bears. [Sorrel chokes on his laugh.] But there's this whole prayer you're supposed to say, and you have to skin it in this specific order and all. I'd bet anything Cyril still does it whenever he takes meat out in the field, even only in his head.
They're stories, but... they're our stories. Even if they never happened that way, or never happened at all, we make them real by treating them as real.
Those poor old bears. [Adasse sighed dramatically, before he shook his head slightly.] Proper respect is a lot of work, isn't it? However, I understand the power of good stories. That's what made me want to read, when I was little.
[He's grinning, in the dark, but Sorrel cedes the field with a sigh of his own as he settles in more fully against Adasse's chest. It's so peaceful, like this, with his heartbeat and the sound of breath under one ear, and warm practically everywhere else.]
A nice one? [He's had enough of terrible, bloody things, for today.] I'll trade you for a kiss...
What kind of story do you want to hear? A Fereldan story? Those tend to come with much nicer endings than Kirkwall ones. [He hummed softly.] And is the kind of kiss I get defined by how good of a story it actually is?
Wouldn't mind a Ferelden story. I've really come to appreciate Ferelden things, lately.
[Such as, they have produced some pretty alright elves, for example.]
Hmmm....Yes. That's how this trade works, exactly. And! And, if it's a terrible story, instead of receiving any at all, you'll have to give them. Pay off your debt, like.
Then I'll tell you a story from the Avvar that I heard on my mother's knee.
[He slipped his hands through Sorrel's hair, his voice soft.]
Even mountains had a heart, once. When the world was young, Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of Belenas, the mountain that lies at the center of the world, from which he could see all the corners of earth and sky. And he saw strong men become weak, brave men grow cowardly, and wise men turn foolish for love.
Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart, by taking it out and hiding it where no soul would ever dare search for it. He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen, the Frostbacks, to guard it.
But without his heart, the Mountain-Father grew cruel. His chest was filled with bitter mountain winds that shrieked and howled like lost souls. Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. He sent avalanches and earthquakes to torment the tribes of men. Gods and men rose against him, calling him a tyrant, but with no heart, Korth could not be slain. Soon there were no heroes left, either among men or gods, who would dare challenge Korth.
The Lady of the Skies sent the best of her children—the swiftest, the cleverest, and strongest fliers—to scour the mountains for the missing heart, and for a year and a day they searched. But sparrow and raven, vulture and eagle, swift and albatross returned to her with nothing.
Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief's heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping along the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway.
The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god's terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened.
When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth's chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles.
[Sorrel lies quiet under Adasse's hands, listening. Eventually he closes his eyes, not thinking beyond the sound of Adasse's voice and the gentle, pleasurable pressure of fingertips against his scalp. As Adasse winds towards the end of his story, Sorrel sits up a little, slides up on knees and elbow and kisses the last word right off Adasse's lips.]
Are the Avaar from Ferelden, now?
[He doubts the veracity of your story, sir. Still.]
If you believe the Avvar, the Fereldans took all the land from them in the first place.
[Adasse smiled at that kiss, before he rolled his eyes.]
I thought you really wouldn't want to hear about the shem. Although I did hear a really good story about the Hero of Fereldan and the Dalish living in the Breccilin forest.
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[Adasse makes sure his grip on Sorrel is firm, and loving, as they make their way back. He snorts softly, giving Sorrel a fond but exasperated look.]
You don't need to apologize, Sorrel, and you're hardly helpless. Of course you're tired - you just helped save all of us. I'd carry you like a bride in gratitude if I didn't think you'd swat me.
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[He likes it when Adasse shows off his strength, moreso when he does it, shall we say, directly. Of course, it's easy to make the offer to be carried when the only place it remains to be carried is less than a half-dozen meters and no one is watching.]
It's just the Veil! [He protests automatically. Of course he'd be perkier if not for the veil of course. Of course!] It was so thin, and then suddenly it got... it's complicated.
[It is, in fact, not complicated at all. But look at him blush!]
...Anyhow I wasn't the only one who helped.
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'It's just the Veil', he says, like helping fix holes where the demons come out is no big thing. [Adasse rolled his eyes goodnaturedly.] You're adorably modest.
I know, but you're the one I'm madly in love with, so I get to brag about you.
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[But the rest of Sorrel's outraged modesty is lost in an embarrassed grumble because there's only one way to keep your balance when someone heft you like this. And that's to cling, like the maiden on a bawdy book. It's terribly vulnerable and even worse: it's thrilling. And it shuts him up, at least until the door is shut behind them.]
...You are, the only one who ever called me sweetheart. [And when— if— Adasse sets him down, Sorrel will busy himself with the meaningless work of trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his rumpled robes.] You know, when I first saw how you spoke to Cyril, I was so jealous, I wanted to drown myself in the bay.
[This said almost with a laugh. That had not been his smartest day, to be boiling over with resentment over Cyril's lovely face and the men it always attracted.]
But it's just... the way you talk, and it didn't mean anything, really. I told myself that, but then you started calling me things like that and I turned into mush. [A shrug for that, one-shouldered. What can you do?] So. So, I like it. 'Rel, I mean.
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[He chuckles softly, kissing Sorrel once before putting him down on his feet and closing the door behind them. He tips his head to the side, before his lips curve upwards into a wry little smile.] ... I don't know how you can ever be jealous of Cyril, when you're just as gorgeous.
[He leaned in towards Sorrel and his slightly rumpled robes, kissing him once and gently.] Especially since the first time I met you, I was absolutely smitten with you, sweetheart.
[He started to strip himself down, exhaling softly.] I don't know about you, but I can't sleep ...buut I also can't stand up anymore.
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When Adasse sighs he looks up, jolted out of mindless reverie.]
I think we've both had enough of the Beyond for a little while.
[The Fade lingers. It is, after all, the one thing it does best, in a way the dreams that take place within it do not. Memory fades, and history shifts, people grow old, grow out, and die. But the Fade lingers, green ink under newer additions. Sorrel takes Adasse by the hands and gently pulls him towards the bed.
It's with painful tenderness that he pushes his lover down into the straw-stuffed cushion, the stolen woolen blankets and gifted quilts, pieced together from their previous lives as threadbare curtains, old shirts, and scraps. Gently does he settle Adasse in, smoothing back his hands along rumpled hairlines, unhurried and reverent. When Adasse is in comfort, arranged to Sorrel's liking, he creaks back onto his feet, puts out the light, and pats Coco's soft, pink head. Sorrel walks back in the dark, on silent feet, and slides into bed so that the weight of him is pillowed across Adasse's chest, arms tucked into the warmth behind his shoulders, and draws the blankets over them, and the furs. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will get more fur for Adasse's bed if he has to go hunting with his own hands; the winter is bitter in Kirkwall, and there has been enough cold in his life already.]
Oh, Creators, it feels so, so good, just to lie down.
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With the furs tucked around him. Coco snorting softly next to his ear and Sorrel curled up around his waist. He closes his eyes and exhales softly.]
It's pure paradise, that's what it is. I never felt so damned tired, and I've been in at least three battles so damned far."
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[Adasse might not be able to see, but he can probably hear the smirk.]
Honestly, though. We've all been wrung out like a rag today. I'll bet anything if you went down to the mess hall tonight, you'd find a dozen or more just sitting around with tea, trying not to go back to bed. [A moment's pause.] I'd probably be down there right now, if I didn't have you.
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[He can't see it, but Sorrel's hair does get tweaked.]
I wouldn't put even money on that. I am just going to know you aren't lying about that. And I'd be down there too, if we weren't Us. [He sighed, looking at the ceiling.] Sleeping is .. I don't even know if it's safe.
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[Sorrel thinks a moment, trying to order his thoughts so that they are easily understood. It's all so simple when you're there, and you see how different the two sides are. How, as much as you want to know more about that strange other-world, it might want to know you better, too. Like lost twins, siblings separated by an impenetrable veil...
Dangerous thoughts.]
There's. Not really a difference between spirits and demons, the way Shemlen say there is. Just, some of them are curious, or hungry, or just want to explore, and sometimes some of them want it badly enough they'll do anything they can to get it. But say, for you... for most people... [He trails off, trying to explain it to himself, dissatisfied.] It's like, you've got to go over a wall, yeah? To get into the big house on the other side. But the wall is covered in thorns, and it's got all this slimy moss. It's hard to climb, and it's really tall so it'd be a lot of work. That's you, the big tall wall. You still touch the Fade, but it's harder to get ahold of you.
Then, there's someone like me. Mages. We're a bit of the wall with... holes, maybe? Windows? And nicely clean. Maybe more of a fence than a wall, so the Fade can see in and, when it does, that's what you'd call magic. It all comes from the Fade. So, when a spirit wants to see the world, it's not going to go after you, because you're a pain in the ass. It's going to come after me.
[That seems to make some sense. He picks his head up to look at Adasse, and in the dark he can just about make out the shape of him, a lighter shadow against the mottled grey of the pillow.]
So... it's safe, for you. Maybe less for me, but... well, it's always been that way before. So nothing's changed. Nothing to fret about, vhenan, you won't be turning up possessed on my watch.
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[Adasse murmured, before he just shut himself up and listened to what Sorrel was saying. After all, he was more of an expert in the Fade than Adasse would ever be. It was fairly calming, all things considered. He wasn't overtly worried now about being taken in his sleep by his own nightmares, that was for certain. Although he did have a heavier spike of fear for Sorrel himself, and his fingers squeezed down on Sorrel a little more tightly. As if to keep him there, with him.]
... will I be able to save you, if you become possessed? [He asked quietly.] Is there some sort of Dalish ritual that protects you from being taken?
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[He shifts a little, sliding one hand out to put it over Adasse's, a comforting pressure.]
I don't want to lie to you... it does happen. The clan that used to camp here? Their Keeper— you hear stories. Usually, if a mage becomes possessed by something bad, it's the duty of the clan to kill the thing they turn into. [It's a terrible, yawning chasm of a thought; the idea of asking Adasse to do such a thing. But then Sorrel remembers the truth and the vice eases off his lungs. He breathes, a deep-deep sigh.] That's Beleth's job, if it ever came to that. She knows me, knows, what needs to be done. We talked about it.
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[Adasse did let out a sigh of relief, resting his fingers at the nape of Sorrel's neck, the other curling around Sorrel's hand.]
Merrill's clan ... we had heard horrible things had happened there. [He's quiet for a long moment, before he shakes his head slightly.] I'll have to toss up a prayer to someone up there that it never comes to that. I think that would kill Beleth and I.
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[It's the only solution Sorrel knows. And the quiet, tense upset in Adasse's voice has him suddenly desperate, scrambling for an answer.]
I'd rather die than be let to be some kind of... monster. Hurting people. [Hurting other elves, he means. It's not hard to imagine a scenario in which Sorrel might be tempted by a demon's ability to hurt humans.] But let's not borrow trouble, love. It won't happen. Not tonight, not any other night.
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[He pauses himself, before he lets out a quiet sigh, and gently strokes Sorrel's hand once more.] You're right. I'm just being a worrying pisher, because I've had a worrying kind of day.
[Fingers stroked down Sorrel's cheek.] Hey, tell me one of your legends, then. I love to listen to you talk about the Dalish.
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[To put it mildly.]
...Well... Alright, let me think. What kind of legend?
[Wait wait, he has a good one.]
Long ago, when the world was new, Dirth'amen wished to keep his secrets apart from the People, because they were all yet as young as babes in arms, and he knew none he could trust. So he went into the forest and told his secrets in parts to the animals there, like burying a treasure where no one could find it. He whispered small secrets to the birds, told larger ones to the hares, still larger to the foxes, and the biggest secrets he gave to the bears, and then he went away again.
But while Dirth'amen was away, the birds traded all their secrets to the dwarves in exchange for gold and gems, and the hares shouted their secrets to the treetops, so that they were spoilt. The Foxes were more cunning, and went to Andruil to trade what they knew for wings that they might fly. Only the bears kept their secrets, and slept with them held close in the caverns all through the winter.
When Dirt'amen returned, he saw what had been done and was very angry. He snatched the wings from all the foxes, silenced the voices of every hare, and made every bird a pauper. But the bears he honored, because they had been steadfast, and gave them the gift of great strength to match their great size. If you kill a bear, you must pray to Dirth'amen, because its strength is holy, and it still knows those old secrets, kept safe in the dark.
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[He did listen to the story aptly though, and let out a quiet huff.] Considering how many bears the Inquisition has killed out in the Hinterlands, I have the feeling we ought to start praying right now.
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They're stories, but... they're our stories. Even if they never happened that way, or never happened at all, we make them real by treating them as real.
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[He's grinning, in the dark, but Sorrel cedes the field with a sigh of his own as he settles in more fully against Adasse's chest. It's so peaceful, like this, with his heartbeat and the sound of breath under one ear, and warm practically everywhere else.]
A nice one? [He's had enough of terrible, bloody things, for today.] I'll trade you for a kiss...
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[Such as, they have produced some pretty alright elves, for example.]
Hmmm....Yes. That's how this trade works, exactly. And! And, if it's a terrible story, instead of receiving any at all, you'll have to give them. Pay off your debt, like.
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[He slipped his hands through Sorrel's hair, his voice soft.]
Even mountains had a heart, once. When the world was young, Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of Belenas, the mountain that lies at the center of the world, from which he could see all the corners of earth and sky. And he saw strong men become weak, brave men grow cowardly, and wise men turn foolish for love.
Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart, by taking it out and hiding it where no soul would ever dare search for it. He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen, the Frostbacks, to guard it.
But without his heart, the Mountain-Father grew cruel. His chest was filled with bitter mountain winds that shrieked and howled like lost souls. Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. He sent avalanches and earthquakes to torment the tribes of men. Gods and men rose against him, calling him a tyrant, but with no heart, Korth could not be slain. Soon there were no heroes left, either among men or gods, who would dare challenge Korth.
The Lady of the Skies sent the best of her children—the swiftest, the cleverest, and strongest fliers—to scour the mountains for the missing heart, and for a year and a day they searched. But sparrow and raven, vulture and eagle, swift and albatross returned to her with nothing.
Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief's heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping along the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway.
The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god's terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened.
When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth's chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles.
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Are the Avaar from Ferelden, now?
[He doubts the veracity of your story, sir. Still.]
I never knew.
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[Adasse smiled at that kiss, before he rolled his eyes.]
I thought you really wouldn't want to hear about the shem. Although I did hear a really good story about the Hero of Fereldan and the Dalish living in the Breccilin forest.
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