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*** Isera Lavellan/Evariste Lemarque ***
“Do you ever want to return to the Dales?” Isera asks. The question is soft, almost whispered, though their only witnesses are the stars above and the distant lights of pilgrim campfires spread out across the mountainside. “To not be… here, among all these people? Never alone, never yourself?”
Evariste lifts his chin from her shoulder. Out here, on her balcony so far above the churning masses preparing to march back to his homeland for the Exalted Council, they have the illusion of privacy. Here, there is nothing but the far-off line of sky kissing earth, the faint shimmer of galaxies shining gently on them, and the cool, crisp spring winds rolling in off the Frostbacks. A fire still burns in her hearth, its comfort warming their backs in contrast.
The faintest flicker of Fairbanks surfaces in his mind, shakes off the haze of contented sleep like a cat stretching after a sun-drenched nap, and whispers in his ear.
“I always want to return to the Dales,” he answers truthfully. “There is a peace there, a history soaked into the very bones of the earth—good and bad.” His fingers trace the curling branches of vallaslin peeking around the edge of her court gown, the crimes of his ancestors a flicker between them, long discussed and handled. “It is a place unlike any other in Thedas.”
“But,” he continues, bringing the back of her hand to his lips, “the Dales are no longer my home, mon coeur.” The kiss he brushes over her skin is softer than the moonlight gleaming on her curls, painting her cheeks with pearl and precious gems. “You are.”***
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A Portrait of Her Inquisitorialness, Isera Lavellan, in the year of our Lady 9:41 Dragon.
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The first horn blast that echoed up the mountain pass woke Cullen from a fitful sleep. The second had him stumbling to his feet, thundering down the stairs.
By the time the third blast sounded, he was puffing his way through the Main Hall in time to see her dismount a horse easily a head taller that she was. Without stopping to acknowledge the knowing smile Cassandra flashed him, or the way Varric held out his hand to Dorian as if waiting for a sack of coins, Cullen wrapped his arms around Isera and pulled her back against his chest, burying his face in her hair.
"I missed you terribly," he murmured, a smile finally forming on his face.
She laughed, something low, promising, and probably sarcastic tumbling from her lips as she twisted around, trying to kiss him.
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this is it, people, this is end-game right here. i wrote a small snippet when i originally posted this on tumblr:
Getting married under the nose of the Chantry in the Winter Palace should have been impossible, given Divine Victoria and her legion of spying ravens, but with a moment of grace— and a timely gift from a certain Magister— Isera and Cullen found a well-earned bit of peace on the grounds of Halamshiral.
which, if you've played trespasser, was just enough peace to break their hearts.
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Ethelan Lavellan, Huntsmaster of Clan Lavellan, brother of Inquisitor Isera Lavellan, and professional flirtatious disaster
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Marian Hawke, recent star of the breakout hit, Tale of the Champion, poses for our cameras on location at Tethras Studios
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I'll have to eventually write a drabble for this, but for now, it's a mixture of the red carpet scene and a little foreshadowing from Chapter 4.
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A young Marian Hawke stares at her portrait painter in the early days of her acting career.
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From Chapter 2:
When he heard the click of the car door opening, Fenris turned, tugging at his cuffs as Hawke stepped out. When he raised his eyes and met hers, he felt the air whoosh out of his lungs.
Maker, but she was devastating.
Those blue-green Amell eyes were ringed in black and silver, a subtle shimmer above long, dark lashes. Her mouth was a generous slash of deep red, curved up on one side as she looked him over. A swath of the same color covered her from shoulders to heel, save for a slit on the side that flashed a staggering amount of thigh as she strode toward him.
Cheers erupted around them as he remembered to hold out his arm in time and he felt her fingers close over his elbow. Fenris couldn’t stop himself from leaning over as they began walking towards the door and kissing her cheek, taking the chance to whisper in her ear that she looked stunning.
“Well,” she smirked, waggling her fingers at a group of girls near the roped-off area. “One of us had to, yes?”
It took a second for him to realize she was teasing, and when he did, he couldn’t stop the smile-- he could even forgive the fact that said smile caused several cameras in the vicinity to flash as they photographed the two of them. He’d been so worried that he’d lost this, the easy way they collided with each other. And if things went half as well as he wanted them to, they’d be snarking at each other long after this affair was an entertainment headline and a pleasant memory. Relief filled his heart, elbowing aside the worries that had eaten away at him, at least for a while.
When his fingers ghosted over the small of her back, whatever he’d been about to say was lost in the fact that he could feel her bare skin instead of the lace he'd expected. Under the pretense of looking back to see Varric exiting the car, Fenris glanced and saw just how low Hawke’s dress was cut— he'd assumed from the fabric covering her arms and chest, she'd chosen a modest dress. But it curved down, enticing and suggestive, to show the strong, muscled planes of her back. Accenting the open skin was a single silver teardrop and chain, tracing her spine from the nape of her neck to dip of her waist.
His mouth went dry as the cheers followed them through the doors.
Maker help him.
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For a moment, Hawke fiercely wished she were an artist. The scene in front of her was too… every word she could think of— beautiful, elegant, breathtaking— was trite, a pale description of perfection. His back was deliciously bare, all sun-dark skin and silver lyrium swirls, and his hair was getting long enough to brush the top of his shoulders. The bench of her years-unused piano sat near the window facing the small plot of land attached to the Amell estate, where a sunbeam was lucky enough to grace his shoulders, gleaming and gentle and soft. Those long fingers— capable of holding a sword, of winding through her hair, of driving her mad— danced over the keys, stringing notes together that wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
Her snooty, arrogant hellbeast of a cat lay across the top of it, one paw draped lazily over the side, tail swishing as he purred.
“Going to stand there long, Hawke?” Fenris murmured, the tune he was wrenching out of the instrument gentling, lighter notes playing tag with the emotional thrum of the bass.
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Valira Surana, a sketch done by her lover, 9:31 Dragon
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Isera Lavellan and Ethelan Lavellan