#mahariel

pinacoladamatata:

“Weren’t you supposed to helping master Ilen today? What are you doing out here with me?”

“I wanted to spend time with you, of course.”

“I… thought that might be the case. I’m glad.”

(unfinished) redraw of my 2018 piece. Found this in my drafts after my hard drive died, this is as far as it gotbut i’m glad i found it at least. 2022 and Tamlen still breaks my heart

After the stressful last week and before my 3 days of hell incoming at the shop, I allowed myself a little sketch of Zevran and my Warden, Elrik, my sweet bi disaster little warrior. Little kiss just after waking up !

(Zevran’s tattoos are backwards but shhhh, you see nothing).

Special Prints Giveaway !

… On my T/witter haha, sorry, but if you’re interested, you could find me at : junie_junette (on T/witter then !).

And if you’re curious, All my prints are available on my shop : juniejunette (DOT) storenvy (DOT ) com

Thanks a lot for your support ! Don’t hesitate to share !

Little sketch of my Mahariel and Tamlen! Epic long au in my head where they both become grey wardens and are in love

[ID: A pencil sketch of a Mahariel and Tamlen from dragon age origins. Vhelas Mahariel is an elf with short cropped black hair and strong black facial tattoos. He is wearing a too-big shirt and several earrings and laughing with his eyes closed at something Tamlen said. Tamlen is an elf with light, short hair and face tattoos curling towards his mouth. He is looking at Vhelas and saying something with a smile. End ID.]

aloe, elfroot, and the flood. 2k words, pre-relationship zevran x mahariel

The Western forests of Ferelden were not like the forests he’d grown up with. Comprised of grassy lowlands parceled out by shemlen nobles, the Bannorn was opposite the Brecilian in every sense.

Which was how he’d wound up here: miserably lost, resting on a fallen log while his feet ached. He’d been walking for hours.

There’d been a time, growing up, when these restless moods would take hold of him. He’d come to recognize their arrival by the pressure in his chest and the urge to cry at nothing. These moods needed to be quickly subdued or they’d stick like burrs—so he would run.

He would leave the safety of camp and flee into the woods, and keep going until the feeling passed. And it worked, most of the time.

Ah, but they’d never lasted so long before, had they? And Tamlen had always been there to catch up with him. To walk back together.

The thought brought another surge of hurt.

Months had passed and he still missed Tamlen sharply, urgently, as if he’d just lost him. He could barely remember the funeral, feverish with Blight as he had been. He longed to see him, ached for his steady comfort and friendly advice.

But Tamlen was dead. And those days were gone. No one had told him how quick and violent their end would be.

Hamal forced a slow breath through his lungs.

Paralyzed by the sunlight and his own thoughts, he sat and waited in the shade.

 .

He’d expected Morrigan to find him, as she had that first night after Ostagar.

Freshly reeling from battle, he’d made a final desperate bid to return to his clan. At the time he’d imagined it was still possible to catch up to them—a foolish thought, he now realized—and she’d all but dragged him back to Alistair, where the young man’s wounded gaze had convinced him to stay.

Ironically, she’d earned some of his trust back then. He appreciated her lack of pretense.

It wasn’t Morrigan who found him, though.

Hamal kept his eyes fixed on an empty patch of grass, pretending not to notice. Even when the man moved toward him, he had reason enough to believe he wasn’t in danger; after all, Zevran had been given plenty of opportunities to kill him over the past few weeks. If he’d wanted to, he would’ve done so already.

Probably.

“Warden Mahariel!” the assassin greeted. “What a remarkable coincidence meeting you here!”

Hearing his cheery words, Hamal raised a brow and looked up at him.

In the short time he’d known him, Hamal had formed only a vague impression of Zevran in his mind.

The man was a walking contradiction; a performer with rehearsed lines—but when no audience was watching he was quiet and subdued as a shade. He’d acclimated to their travels quickly and without complaint, all but vanishing into the daily routine, much like he’d always been there.

Suspicious. Deliberate. Afraid of nothing. Hamal knew that the only reason he had spotted him was because the man had allowed it. That was only fair; after all, the only reason Zevran had found him was because he’d allowed himself to be found.

A fact he was already regretting.

Zevran’s opening words felt hollow; his smile just another performance Hamal wasn’t interested in.

But if the other man was affected by his stubborn silence, he did not show it. In fact, he was encouraged, somehow, to come sit beside him—an act which startled him so much he nearly jumped in his seat.

Zevran froze for an instant, and then took care to sit as far from him as possible.

“You are very sunburnt,” Zevran observed after a moment.

Hamal carefully touched his face. His skin was hot and painful, but truly, he hadn’t noticed until now.

Zevran hoisted a rucksack over his shoulder, dropping it onto the ground between them.

“No worries,” he said, pulling the drawstring to open it. “I’ve come prepared.”

He quickly produced a small jar of aloe and elfroot paste. His bag seemed to contain bandages, poultices, rations, blankets, all sorts of purposeful items. Creators! Had he expected to find him half-dead? The thought was overwhelming.

Hamal held up a hand as Zevran moved towards him.

“No-”

Again, Zevran paused. Setting the jar between them, he closed the pack and regarded him in silence.

“Sorry, I’m—I wasn’t expecting company,” Hamal explained.

Indeed, the word had come out sharp, a knee-jerk reaction—but to what? No, don’t touch me. No, don’t come near.

With a deep breath, he resigned himself and picked up the jar.

“Thank you.”

Zevran nodded at him. “You are very welcome.”

It struck Hamal that this was the first conversation they’d had alone since the day of the ambush—and a piss-poor conversation so far, he had to admit.

Far too aware of Zevran’s brown eyes taking him in, Hamal began applying the paste to his burns. He worked methodically, covering his cheekbones and forehead, his ears and even the part in his hair.

The scent reminded him of Ashalle. He remembered her dabbing the very same concoction on him as a child.

“That’s better, I imagine,” Zevran said gently, once Hamal had replaced the lid on the jar. “If I may ask… why did you come here?”

Hamal looked at him.

“You left without warning,” Zevran continued. “No food, no supplies, you are not even armed. This region, I understand, is embroiled in a civil war, not to mention a Blight. You are a man alone, and a Dalish elf at that. Forgive me,” he said very firmly, “Forgive me, but it is inviting all sorts of trouble, no?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” Hamal said, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to argue. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Was not feeling well?” Zevran asked.

“I felt…”

Hamal let out a sigh, finding it impossible to explain.

“I don’t know. I felt wrong. Like I was crawling out of my skin. I just wanted to be alone. So…”

“You left,” Zevran said.

“I left.”

Hamal bent forward, hugging his knees, messy braids hanging low. After a moment he risked a glance at Zevran.

The man was quiet, looking at him with both concern and curiosity.

“You came after me?” Hamal asked.

“I did not come here to make you do anything against your will,” Zevran said softly.

All around them, the sinking sun cast long and moody shadows, tinted deep blue.

“What if I do not wish to go back?” Hamal asked. “What if I ask you to leave?”

“Then I suppose it’s just a question of what I should tell the others.” Zevran looked away with a shrug. “But it’ll have to be good; both to ensure that no one comes looking for you, and to clear me of any suspicion.”

Hamal let out a hint of a laugh at that—short, bitter, but a laugh all the same. The sound surprised him as much as it did Zevran.

He had not expected such a practical response.

“No need,” Hamal said finally. “We should go back I suppose.”

“If you say so,” Zevran said with a smile. “May I suggest that we eat first? I am famished.”

Wrapped parcels of bread and jam appeared from his pack. Stale and crusty bread, and smoked fish, too, all wrapped in a plain cloth.

Hamal waited for Zevran to take a bite of everything—which he did openly, his every move obvious, as if reading his mind. Still unconvinced, Hamal picked up a portion of bread and held it out to him. Zevran took it from him slowly, and ate it with a knowing smile.

Alright.

Avoiding his eyes, Hamal took the next bite for himself.

Strange, that he would come to share a meal with a man who had just weeks ago tried to kill him. Life meandered through such strange and lonely paths. But the food was welcome nourishment, and the fact that Zevran pursued no further conversation was also appreciated.

 .

He felt marginally better once they set off.

He had food in his belly and the sun had vanished below the horizon. To his surprise, Zevran had brought his bow and arrows along, and he felt far more secure with them in hand.

“Ah, thank you,” he said, accepting them with only a tinge of guilt. “Ma serannas.”

“¿De que?” Zevran replied.

Hamal looked at him, perplexed.

“You’re welcome,” Zevran clarified. “You share so much of your own tongue with us, I thought I’d return the favor.”

Hamal nodded, accepting the explanation.

“Besides,” Zevran continued with an indulgent smile, “it comforts me to speak it, though no one understands it here but me. I suppose it reminds me that my home is still out there: Over the mountains and past the sea, full of beautiful flowers and bothersome Antivans just like myself.”

“You miss it?” Hamal asked. He rubbed at his ears, annoyed at how the sunburn poultice had dried—green and chalky. He imagined he looked like a statue, all covered in moss.

“I do,” Zevran admitted. “I miss the warmth. Ferelden is much too cold for my sensibilities.”

“It is summer-time,” Hamal said after a moment’s thought.

“So people keep telling me!” Zevran let out an exaggerated sigh. “Believe it or not, this is like winter in Antiva. Particularly near the coast—that’s whereI’mfrom, you see,” he said with a smile. “Antiva City. Crowded, humid, and not a speck of frost in sight. Ah, it is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City…”

His voice took on a wistful edge, trailing off into memory.

The moment was so genuine that Hamal stopped mid-stride to look at him, knowing that Zevran was picturing vivid sights of home deep in his mind’s eye; looking with the heart at something other than the trees.

Then the look ended and those brown eyes snapped to him—wary and alert. Perhaps it had not been his intention to wander.

“Are you from anywhere comparable?” Zevran asked, changing the subject with a flourishing wave.

Hamal shook his head. “My people have no cities left,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Zevran said. “The wandering life of the Dalish. Well then, if no hometown; what is your clan’s name?”

The question brought another sharp stab of loss. It left him a bit breathless before he could answer.

“Sabrae,” he said softly.

“What is it like?” Zevran pressed. “Where do you travel? How many people?”

Hamal frowned.

Though it seemed Zevran was trying to make conversation, perhaps even comfort him by giving him a chance to talk about his home, the deep shadow of suspicion quickly crept in.

“I don’t feel comfortable telling you.”

“Apologies.” Zevran inclined his head, holding a hand to his chest—an apologetic gesture that was almost a bow. “I overstepped. However, it does sound grand. Truly! I am jealous-”

“Fuck’s sake,” Hamal said before he could stop himself. From one moment to the next, he’d swung from deep sadness, to anger.

Zevran looked at him, surprised.

“Don’t do that,” Hamal told him, walking up beside him.  “Don’t… apologize, or bow, or tiptoe. And especially do not be jealous of me. Youdo not know me.”

He waited another moment, before faltering under Zevran’s troubled stare and walking away.

“Well,” Zevran called after him. “That matter can be remedied.”

He kept walking. What was he thinking, asking all sorts of questions without knowing a single thing about him?

Hamal thought about it, and had just decided he did not feel bad about snapping at Zevran, when an unfamiliar sound boomed across the valley.

They both looked around for the source of the noise.

“What is that?” Hamal asked.

The sound grew and strengthened into a roar that filled the air. To his ears, it sounded almost like a distant rockslide, but that didn’t seem right either…

“We need to find higher ground,” Zevran said suddenly. “Quickly.”

Without waiting he turned and headed for the nearest hill. Hamal followed him, his already frayed nerves flooding his system with adrenaline, putting words out of his reach.

Even once they’d climbed high enough to see the flooding, he could think of nothing to say.

The sight was peculiar to him. Were it not for the full moon, they wouldn’t have been able to see the floodwaters at all.

Water poured out into the valley. He had no idea where so much water had come from, or if they were in danger, or what had occurred. The water was distant enough to be no immediate threat to them, but it stretched out in the direction they had been heading, and seemed to be rising.

“A dam burst…” Zevran said, then he made a sharp intake of breath. “There is a village there! I am sure of it. I passed near it while looking for you.”

Hamal sank to his knees. Zevran’s words gripped him with a cold horror before he even realized he was on the ground.

The night filled to the brim with the sound of rushing water and the distant cry of birds fleeing to the starry skies. Beside him, Zevran’s breathing, quick and shallow.

All he could think was all those people, all those people—and a resurgence of his own grief, and Zevran’s lack of home—and the vague, yet certain, sense that it was not just his world that had become undone, but the entire world at large that was coming to an end.

Warden Favian Mahariel