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“Oh shit oh shit oh shit look out!”
A scream, followed by the crash of broken branches, followed by a groan. A familiar pattern. The fourth time this has happened in the last hour.
Ugh.
“What in the name of the Ancestors is she doing over there?” Lacklon grumbles.
“Magic, I think,” Roland responds, his honey-coated accent positively dripping with mirth.
They’ve been traveling on the road for a little over a week now, tracking Hira through the wilds of Tevinter. Lacklon would be just fine leaving her to the wolves and moving on to another job, but no he apparently has friends now and they’ve all decided to do the noble thing and chase her down to get that sodding magic circle thing back. Buncha dumbasses.
Roland shifts where he’s sitting with Lacklon against a fallen log, idly brushing against Lacklon’s shoulder. Well, maybe there are a few perks to staying.
Qwydion pokes her head out of the bush she’d fallen into, wide perpetual grin stretched across her face. “Guys! Guys! Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw you fall face-first into a bush,” Lacklon calls over, “so if that’s what you were aiming for, you know, congratulations.”
Roland nudges him with his elbow. “It was a good attempt, Qwydion.” He leaves his elbow against Lacklon’s shoulder, and Lacklon doesn’t move away.
“What’re you trying to do, anyway?” Lacklon thinks he does a pretty good job keeping his voice steady despite the butterflies in his stomach. “Because we’re trying to keep a low profile here and all the, you know, noise over there ain’t what I’d call stealthy.”
“Ah, you worry too much,” the qunari mage says, brushing the leaves off of her sleeve and striding across the clearing to where the pair are sitting. “Miri already scouted around here and there’s nothing but birds and trees for miles. I’m fine!”
Lacklon stares at the footlong branch tangled up in her horns. “Right. Fine.”
Roland chuckles and leans a bit harder into Lacklon’s arm. The butterflies dance faster. “Still no luck in replicating Hira’s spell?” the Orlesian asks.
Qwydion harrumphs and drops down next to them, trying to detach the wayward branch from the gold loop on her right horn. “I’ve got the basic principle, I think, but force magic isn’t my speciality. Making things go—“ here, she makes a pa-chooo noise “—is. It’s a different kind of energy focus, creation instead of destruction, especially trying to create a circle of pure magic I can stand on.” She pouts. “It’s tough.”
Roland chuckles again. “Do not worry. I am sure you will get it right.”
She flops over backward and twists her head up at him, grinning again. “Thanks Roland.”
“I don’t get why this is such a big deal,” Lacklon grumps. “Hira’s terrible. Stands to reason any magic she can cast is terrible, too.”
Qwydion frowns from her upside-down position. “Magic isn’t terrible. Magic isn’t good or bad, it just is. It’s who and how you use it that gives it a moral, you know, whatever.” She pauses for a moment. “But I do agree with you that Hira is terrible.”
“Regardless,” Roland says gently, “it is fascinating to watch you work.”
“Fascinating, hilarious, same thing,” Lacklon mutters under his breath.
Qwydion impishly sticks her tongue out at him.
“Perhaps we can help?” Roland casually twines his fingers with Lacklon’s, which has the effect of stopping Lacklon from continuing to poke fun at their companion. Mostly because those butterflies have decided to have the dance battle to end all dance battles in his stomach.
Damn, this guy is smooth.
“I may not know magic,” the warrior continues, as if he has no idea at all what he’s doing to Lacklon by oh-so-gently brushing the heel of Lacklon’s palm with his thumb, “but sometimes talking it out helps. And I do know something about tactics.” He lightly squeezes Lacklon’s hand once, never breaking eye contact with Qwydion.
Fucking smooth.
“Sure! Couldn’t hurt, right?” Qwydion springs up and crouches in the dirt in front of them, completely oblivious to Lacklon’s currently tenuous grip on reality. She rapidly marks out a series of glyphs and runes in the dirt as she talks. “Okay, so take elemental magic. When I pull raw magic out of the Fade, I can just tell what it wants to be, you know? Like, say, if I want to throw a lightning bolt, I find the energy that’s most, you know, lightning-ish and I pull on it and then it’s there. If I want to make a wall of fire, I focus on the area where I want that wall the happen and then pull some fire-y energy out and it becomes fire, you know? I mean, it’s a little more complicated than that, especially when you get into the more destructive stuff, but that’s essentially what it feels like.”
Roland blinks. “Have you ever—“
“I’ve never been to school for this, no, self-taught Tal Vashoth over here!” Qwydion laughs nervously. “Anywho force magic is different. You pull the threads of raw magic and then shape the energy in a specific way. Like with Hira’s spell: the raw energy is shaped into a disc and then told, you know, stay. Except,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “magic doesn’t like being told what to do like that. Especially when you’re making something semi-permanent like that disc. The energy is always trying to separate and go back to the Fade. Keeping it present is the part I keep messing up.”
She cocks her head at them, hope shining in her eyes. “So…that’s where I am. Thoughts?”
Lacklon looks at Roland, who has the dazed expression of someone who just got brained by the short end of a long sword. How is it possible he even looks cute when he’s confused?
The Orlesian shakes it off after a moment. “Haha, yes,” he laughs faintly, “that does sound like a problem.”
“You have no idea what I just said, do you,” Qwydion says flatly.
“Not a clue,” he admits.
“Uuugh, why am I so bad at this?” she groans in frustration. “Is it because I’m self-taught? Other mages don’t seem to have a problem getting their point across but whenever I try it everything comes out—“
“What if you put it in something?” Lacklon muses.
Qwydion stops and stares at him, mouth open in mid-sentence. He doesn’t look but he can feel Roland staring, too. He ducks his head, heat flooding his cheeks, and mutters, “What? Nevermind.”
“No no, say that again,” the mage says, suddenly very interested.
“I just—“ he starts, then stops abruptly. This is stupid, those runes in the dirt might as well be pictures of animals for all he can tell, magic isn’t his bag and the last thing he wants is to look stupid in front of Roland.
And that’s the stupidest thing of all.
Ugh, they’ve only been whatever-this-is for a few days and already he’s acting like he’s lost his sodding mind. Get it together, Lacklon.
But when he (finally) looks over at Roland, all he sees is an encouraging smile. The most beautiful smile he’s ever oh fine what the hell.
“You said the magical energy or whatever doesn’t want to stay together, right?” he says gruffly, getting the words out as quickly as he can. “So contain it. Put it in something. ‘S what I do with my grenades.”
The glade is silent for a moment, long enough for the heat on his cheeks to spread to the tips of his ears. Stupid. Shoulda kept my—
Qwydion sweeps him off the ground, spinning him around in a hug as she cackles with glee. “Lacklon! That’s perfect! What an incredible idea, giving the energy a physical barrier might help it keep its shape, I can’t believe I— oh, I could kiss you right now!” She stops suddenly, holding him directly out in front of her with her freakish qunari strength. “Well, guess that one’s not my job,” she adds with a wicked gleam in her eye.
He has never wished he were a mage with the ability to shoot fire straight out of his eyes more than in this moment.
She laughs and puts him down on the ground, then skips back across the clearing without another word.
Lacklon mutters a string of curses under his breath involving the Ancestors, her ancestors, and the unnaturalness of magic, then turns to go practice his axe work on a stump or seven. And stops right in front of Roland.
Who says, “No, that one is my job,” and leans down to kiss him gently on the forehead.
Lacklon feels all the anger rush out of him as the butterflies return, dancing pinwheels around Roland’s fingers as they caress his cheek. “You are truly breathtaking, you know that?”
The dwarf huffs, heat at the tips of his ears for a different reason now. “Why don’t, uh…why don’t you come with me over here and tell me more about that?”
Roland grins brightly enough to outshine the sun.
—
A pleasant amount of time later, Lacklon wanders back into camp, grinning his damn fool head off. Qwydion is standing on the far side of the glade, an assortment of random bits of nature strewn around her: pieces of logs, some largish rocks, a particularly big leaf. She’s considering them, each in turn, the way he would evaluate potential threats on a battlefield. But her fierce look of concentration breaks into a sly grin the moment they make eye contact.
“Never seen you with your ponytail undone, Lacklon,” she calls over in a sing-song voice.
He immediately shoves the grin off his face and glowers at her, taking the length of red ribbon from where it’s wrapped around his wrist. “Whatever, not that big a deal,” he mutters as he ties his hair back out of his face.
She cackles.
“What’s she laughing about?”
Lacklon whirls around, hands grasping for the axe that isn’t strapped to his back before registering the form of the tall, tattooed elf behind him.
“Holy fuck, Miriam,” he snaps, “don’t sneak around like that!”
“Literally all I’ve been doing for the last six hours,” she responds, completely unconcerned.
“Welcome back, Miriam.” Roland strides calmly into the glade, not a hair out of place. “What did you find?”
Miriam’s look darkens. “The trail ends at a bandit camp.”
“Bandits?”
“I think it’s a cover,” she says, shaking her head. “It looks like a bandit camp, and maybe it used to be, but it’s too fortified now not to be something else. Plus, there’s no sign of a struggle anywhere. It’s like Hira just…walked right in.”
“So this must be those Crimson Night people she’s with, right? Why’d they take over a bandit camp?” Lacklon frowns. Something about this doesn’t smell right.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t get close enough in the daylight. But she’s there, she has to be.” Miriam balls her hands up into fists, glaring into the middle distance.
Roland gently puts a calming hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “So we go back tonight,” he says simply.
Miriam shakes her head. “Just me. In the dark, I can be in and out—“
“Miriam.” Roland puts his other hand on her other shoulder, turning her to face him. She scowls, but meets his gaze. “You don’t have to do this alone. If Hira’s in there, we can get her.”
“Besides,” Lacklon says, crossing his arms, “we took out a blood mage and a dragon. Pretty sure we can handle some bandits.”
“Technically I took out the blood mage and the dragon flew away, but…” Miriam huffs. “Okay. I see your point.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Roland puts his hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Tell us about these extra fortifications.”
Miriam describes the tactical situation, sketching out in the dirt the schematic for a roughly circular camp in the middle of a large clearing, away from any helpfully placed trees. The camp’s palisade seems to have been recently fortified, and a tall watchtower at the back appears to have been built recently as well. The only obvious entrance has a maze of what Miriam calls “those shitty spiked wooden things”—Roland says “chevaux de frise,” the phrase rolling off his tongue like music—arrayed in front.
“No gate?” Lacklon asks, brow furrowed.
“Hey, guys?”
“Nope. But if they recently took it over…”
“…they might have destroyed the gate in the process,” Roland finishes. “So if we can create a distraction in the camp that lures the guards away, we might be able to sneak in through that entrance.”
“Guys?”
“Going over the top of a palisade is nasty work, though,” Lacklon grumbles. “Lotta pointy ends up there.”
Miriam taps the watchtower. “This is taller than the wall. If we can get someone up there, they could make a distraction to get everyone else in.”
“Risky, throwing a grappling hook that far could—“
“Yo, non-mage types!”
They all turn as one to see Qwydion, hands outstretched, face screwed up in concentration, focusing on a log floating about half her height off the ground. “I think I figured this spell out.”
As they watch, she raises her hands, and the oblong piece of wood lifts higher into the air. She twists her wrists, spinning it slowly in place, before lowering her palms and, gently, placing it back on the ground. She then makes gleeful eye-contact with the group. “Ha-ha! I did it!”
Miriam blinks. “Well, that could work.”
“Qwydion,” Roland starts, “we need to get someone up about twenty feet in the air to—“
She waves a hand impatiently. “Yeah yeah, I was listening to Miriam. I can do two things at once.”
“So can you use that spell to get up to the watchtower and make a distraction?”
“I don’t think I can be the one to do it,” Qwydion admits. “The level of concentration it takes to keep the spell going, plus having to cast and balance at the same time, it’s too much.”
“What happened to ‘I can do two things at once,’” Lacklon says flatly.
“Well, it depends on the two things,” she answers with a sheepish grin.
“But if you’re on the ground concentrating, you could lift someone else?” Miriam asks.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Ideally, someone small, yes?” Roland has a twinkle in his eye that Lacklon can’t quite parse.
“Sure?”
Miriam smirks. “With a low center of gravity, I’d guess.”
“Preferably, yeah.” It looks like a light goes off in Qwydion’s head. “Oh, yeah!”
They all turn and look at Lacklon.
“What?” he says uncomfortably.
Qwydion gives him her biggest, most obnoxious grin.
“What.”
“Oh come on! You’re perfect!” she says excited.
“Absolutely the fuck not, I—“
“We need someone to make a distraction,” Miriam interrupts.
“So light a sodding fire, I’m not—“
“And you yourself said throwing a hook would be too risky so—“
“Not as risky as riding a piece of fucking—“
“Lacklon.” Now Roland puts a calming hand on his shoulder, and dammit but it works a little bit. Not that Lacklon isn’t trying his hardest to glare up at him. “If we waste too much time, Hira is likely to move on. This is the best plan. And besides…” Roland bends down and kisses him on his temple. “Think of the celebration after,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over Lacklon’s ear.
Lacklon shivers. “That’s not fair.”
He feels Roland grin against his skin.
He groans, half in anticipation and half in annoyance, and finally says, “Ugh, alright, whatever.”
“Yes!” Qwydion claps in glee and grabs Lacklon’s wrist, pulling him across the clearing. “We’ve gotta practice! I haven’t quite figured out lateral motion yet, but I’m betting if you…”
He shoots a dirty look at Roland as he’s dragged away, but his muttered curses die on his lips.
Because the look Roland gives him is a different kind of dirty altogether.
Fucking butterflies.
—
“Can I just say one more time that this is a terrible idea?” Lacklon hisses.
“Yep! Good luck!” Qwydion whispers cheerfully back as she raises her hands, sending him careening into the treetops.
Lacklon has just enough time to remember how to lean into the floating piece of log with his feet before the lowest branch nearly whacks him in the face.
“Dammit Qwydion!” he whisper-yells, not daring to look down.
The faint “sorry!” he hears might as well be an owl hooting on the wind for all the good it does.
Qwydion’s spell is…less than ready for this. She’s got the up-and-down part fine, but the front-and-back part, not so much. Thus, the leaning. If he leans forward, the thing goes forward. If he leans right, it goes right. He’s not sure what happens if he leans too far, but hey, everyone else apparently decided that him falling to his death was less bad than Hira escaping so…fun! That’s fun.
Magic is the worst.
To distract himself from his imminent death by falling, Lacklon goes over the plan one more time. Qwydion’s raising him way up high above the treetops right now. Then, he’s gonna lean his way toward the watchtower. When she sees him in place from the edge of the forest, she’ll bring him down right in front of the watchtower, he’ll yell “BOO”, and everyone gets distracted so Miriam and Roland can sneak in through the front and gut Hira.
Capture. Capture Hira.
Lacklon breaks through the canopy and comes to a stop as Qwydion loses sight of the ensorcelled log. He can see for miles, the moon washing the top of the forest with silver light. It would be beautiful, if his boots weren’t strapped to a fucking piece of flying wood. Wood that is currently acting as a container for some unknown amount of force magic that apparently would rather be in the Fade than here. He’s basically standing on an armed grenade with no idea when it’s going to go off. So if he doesn’t die falling off this thing, he’ll probably die when it decides to explode.
Magic is the fucking worst.
He tentatively leans forward—and learns what too far is as he suddenly rockets over the canopy. He yelps, startling a nesting bird, and leans back. The bird watches him jerk back and forth for a few moments, until the dwarf finally rights himself, halting his momentum. He pants slightly with the exertion. Not the fear. Definitely not the fear.
“Caw,” caws the bird.
“Fuck you,” growls the dwarf.
With his chin up—guess I’m trying to impress a fucking bird now—he leans forward slightly, and begins floating toward the camp.
After a few minutes, he reaches the edge of the clearing, right above the camp. He can see a few cookfires, a small structure that must be barracks and a stable, and a number of people milling about, their armor gleaming red in the firelight. The one entrance is gateless—he can see piles of broken wood on either side of it—and the maze of…whatever it was Roland called them, freezing chevies?, outside. Dominating his eyeline, though, is the tall, roofed watchtower, torchlight and shadows the only indication that the guards are at their posts.
And none of them see him, because they’re not thinking to look for a flying dwarf in the night sky.
He carefully leans the log into position over the watchtower, then looks back to the edge of the clearing. Moments later, he feels the log gently begin to descend, a quick flash of moonlight on a gold-hooped horn the only indication that Qwydion’s in place. He grins, despite the vertigo.
Okay, this is gonna work, no sweat.
The log descends level with the roof of the watchtower. Lacklon takes in a big breath, ready to bellow at the guards, maybe knock them out of their perch, whatever it takes to make a big scene.
And that’s when everything goes to shit.
“Hey there, you stupid fucking what the FUCK are you?”
Because whatever these are up here, they’re not guards. Not dwarven guards, anyway, or elves or humans or anything else. Their eyes glow a bright, menacing red. Veins of that same shade branch over their skin, leading to shards of crimson crystal embedded in their flesh. Their armor is similarly marred, fused to their forms with that twisted crystal. And the only emotion on their warped faces is a virulent, all-consuming rage.
They roar.
Lacklon screams and leans backward, bulleting away from the watchtower. What the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK was that?
The monsters begin readying crossbows as he flies away, far enough that he can see around the curve of the palisade to where Roland and Miriam are making their way through the spiky wooden maze thing.
Shit! Shit shit shit, no, this isn’t right, something’s wrong, they can’t go in! His thoughts are whirling, spiraling like leaves in the wind. He grasps on to the only thing he can think of.
“Qwydion!” he bellows. “Call it off, we’ve gotta get out of here!”
He rights himself, halting his momentum at the edge of the clearing, and looks the fifty feet down to see the qunari poke her head out of the brush. “What are you talking about?” she hisses—loudly—up to him, as she twists her hands to bring him down so they can talk.
“They’re monsters, not guards! If Hira’s here, fuck her!” he yells back, not bothering to try and be stealthy. They’ve seen him. The mission’s fucked. No point in—
Lacklon senses, rather than hears, the crossbow bolt. He instinctively leans right, a bolt whizzing past inches from his face. Qwydion isn’t as fast; he hears her cry of pain below him.
And in the instant that she cries out, something…weird happens. The sensation is impossible to describe, but he knows it’s magic fucking something up. The log he’s floating on shudders, vibrating with…something, something different, something new. It makes him jump—or rather, makes him want to jump, but he can’t with his boots strapped to the wood. But just the act of wanting to jump makes the log raise higher in the air.
He blinks. Not laterally. Higher.
He instinctively squats, just a little, and the log…moves down, too.
Holy shit. Qwydion’s not in control at all anymore.
…I am.
Lacklon looks down at the qunari mage as she groans in pain and tries to slink back into the bushes. He looks up at the monsters on the watchtower who are readying their next round of bolts. He looks toward the front gate, seeing Roland’s distant form just steps away from the entrance to red crystal monster hell, and his heart drops.
He makes a decision.
With a battlecry his berserker ancestors would’ve been proud of, Lacklon careens upward toward the watchtower, his arms outstretched. He slams into one of the guards, grabbing hold of his—its?—legs as he punches through the tower ceiling, wooden shrapnel flying everywhere. The creature snarls in surprise, flailing with its too-long limbs. Lacklon just yells at it, reaching the apex of his climb and shoving it off the log into the open air below.
It lands in the center of the camp with a sickening crunch. All eyes are now on the dwarf in the sky.
Good, he thinks grimly as the camp erupts into chaos.
Another crossbow bolt whizzes past his head, and he turns to glare at the remaining monster in the watchtower. “You’re next, fucker!” he yells, turning the log back down towards it. He picks up speed, dodging yet another bolt. The monster drops the crossbow, roaring and planting its feet.
Ready for me this time, huh? Eat wood, shithead.
At the last second, Lacklon pulls up, twisting his hips and using the momentum to slam the end of the log into the monster’s head. It stumbles backward, falling over the palisade. Lacklon floats forward just in time to see a fireball explode where the monster landed outside the wall. “That’s for shooting me in the arm, you jerk!” he hears Qwydion yell.
He hears shouting behind him and pivots around, descending into the camp proper. He can see now that what he thought was firelight reflecting red off of steel armor is actually more of that crystal. Embedded in every single figure in the camp.
They’re all monsters. All of them.
He sets his jaw as he dives, instinctively turning his body to lead with his shoulder. The majority of the armor-clad monsters are focused on him, yelling and waving their weapons. Two, though, have run over to the stable and are pulling the wide doors open.
Why are—
A carriage bursts out of the stable, two horses straining at their harnesses as they’re whipped forward by a hulking figure streaked with red crystal in the driver’s seat. Through the carriage window, Lacklon catches the barest glimpse of blue fabric draped over slender shoulders.
Hira. Fuck!
He swoops over the heads of the horde of monsters, just barely avoiding the tips of their swords and spears, speeding toward the carriage as it races right at him. He just barely catches the edge of it, and suddenly he’s flying in the opposite direction, hanging on by his fingertips with his log-strapped legs straight out behind him. He looks like nothing so much as a very angry flag.
Which is of course when he spots Roland and Miriam, crouching just inside the broken gate, wide-eyed at the chaos around them. He has just enough time to bellow “Hira!” as the carriage races past.
As if on instinct, Miriam springs out of her crouch, kicking off the base of the palisade to catch onto Lacklon’s log. He grunts as the added drag strains his already tenuous grip, and he readjusts his hold on the railing just as an explosion rocks the carriage. Charred bits of wood rain down as the carriage races through the remains of the wooden spike maze.
Lacklon grunts again as Miriam begins climbing up him. “Hira?” she yells in his ear as she grabs onto the carriage herself. He just grits his teeth and nods, coughing through the cloud of smoke and debris. She flips up onto the top of the carriage, out of sight.
No, I’m good, don’t try and help me up too, he grouses to himself, silently cursing long-limbed elves. The carriage jolts as he tries to pull his body up. His head whips back for a moment, giving him a brief glance back at the gate to the camp. Through the smoke and charred remains of the wooden spike maze, he can see Roland, his shield raised.
Surrounded by red crystal monsters.
Letting go of the carriage isn’t even a conscious decision. He’s speeding back on the floating log instantly, the carriage forgotten, Hira a distant memory. He grits his teeth as smoke billows around him, Roland’s form briefly vanishing in the haze.
Lacklon leans further forwards. The seconds that Roland is out of his sight stretch on forever.
He bursts through the edge of the smoke plume, cinders trailing in his wake. A dozen of those red crystal monsters surround Roland on all sides. The warrior is brilliant, blocking their blows with sword and shield in a whirl of sound and fury. And it won’t be enough. There’re too many.
Lacklon yells, swooping as low to the ground as he can, as fast as he can. He hurtles toward the melee, searching for an opening, watching as they shift around Roland to—
There.
Lacklon punches through a gap between two of them, his thick shoulders shoving them out of the way. He locks eyes with Roland, the tall warrior’s mouth open in shock. Lacklon bends down, losing no speed as he sweeps Roland up into his arms. For the briefest of moments, time stops.
“Lacklon…” Roland breathes heavily, blood running down one cheek. His eyes are wide in fear, in surprise, in…something Lacklon doesn’t want to name right now.
“Hi,” Lacklon says, out of breath for other reasons. Roland’s weight is heavy in his arms, comfortable. He crushes his lips to Roland’s.
Time restarts as Lacklon takes them straight up into the sky, still locked in that kiss.
When Lacklon finally pulls back, Roland brings his hand up to Lacklon’s cheek to brush off a hot tear. “I am okay,” he says, smiling softly.
“You are now,” Lacklon replies roughly, leaning into Roland’s touch.
Roland chuckles. It’s only then he seems to realize how far they are off the ground, and he gives a very un-warriorlike squeak. He throws an arm around Lacklon’s neck, hanging on for dear life.
Lacklon laughs, hugging him closer. He fully expects Roland’s next words to be something like for the love of the Maker put me down, but instead, Roland gasps out, “They’re red templars.”
Lacklon’s eyes go wide. He’d heard stories of the nonsense that went on in the south with rebel mages and mad templars during the Inquisition, but… “Those monsters? Are templars?” he asks.
Roland nods.
Lacklon snorts. “If half the rumors I’ve heard are true…well, fuck that noise, we’re getting out of here.”
He rotates his hips in the vague direction he thinks Qwydion might be on the other side of the palisade, but he stops when Roland gently tugs on his lapel.
Lacklon groans. “Really?”
“They’re too dangerous,” Roland answers, giving him a half smile.
Lacklon shakes his head, blowing out his breath. He hates playing hero. There’s never any profit in it, only problems. Look at what happened when they went back to rescue Hira: a crazy magister, a giant dragon, and oh yeah Hira turned out to be the bad guy anyway. And normal templars are bad enough, but crazy templars fused with red lyrium?
He looks back down at Roland and gets lost in his eyes a moment.
Seriously, fuck these butterflies.
“Fine,” he grunts. Roland gives him a look of gratitude before burying his face in Lacklon’s neck.
Lacklon’s mind whirls. He looks back down toward the dozen-or-so monsters—templars—who are looking into the sky, confused at the flight of their prey. There’s too many to take on, not with their strength and our numbers. I need something big, something powerful. Something like an explosion.
He frowns. In the scramble to track Hira, he hasn’t had a chance to replace the grenades he’d used—well, that Roland had used—back in Nessum. He can’t…
(Magic doesn’t like being told what to do like that. Especially when you’re making something semi-permanent like that disc.)
Lacklon looks down at his feet, and grins.
He pivots the log towards the watchtower. He gives Roland a gentle kiss on the forehead and puts him down on the platform. “Be right back,” he winks.
“What—“ Roland begins to say, but Lacklon speeds off, Roland’s voice fading into the rush of air past his ears.
(The energy is always trying to separate and go back to the Fade. Keeping it present is the part I keep messing up.)
He’s not enjoying this. He’s not. His feet belong on the ground like a normal dwarf, not some sodding mage. But against his own better judgement, he’s actually learned a little bit over the last day of pretending to be some sort of featherless fucking bird.
Plus, he’s really good at calculating trajectories.
Lacklon does a lazy loop around the camp, taunting the red templars and trying to corral as many of them into as small an area as possible. Then, he speeds up.
(What if you put it in something?)
He whips around the camp, high in the air, putting the group of templars between him and the watchtower. The arc has to be perfect. He’s only gonna get one shot at this, and if he makes a mistake, he’ll be a stain on the forest floor.
But Lacklon doesn’t make mistakes.
(‘S what I do with my grenades.)
He dips down toward the templars, close enough that he can see the shine of the red lyrium in their terrifying eyes. Then, shooting straight up toward the watchtower, he bends down and unties his boots from the log. “Eat wood, fuckers!” he yells, making sure they’re all focused on him.
He kicks off.
As his legs crouch down to spring upward, the log responds by reversing direction to move downward, fast—right at the crowd of red templars. Once his feet are airborne, whatever connection there had been between him and the log is lost, and it rockets down on its last given path. Lacklon, on the other hand, flies up through the air, his speed due more to momentum from the log than any power from his legs.
Lacklon’s accounted for this in his own trajectory. He’s soaring upward over the camp, headed for the watchtower platform, but he’s a little short.
That’s when the log impacts the ground and explodes.
He’d figured that, given how difficult it was for Qwydion to contain the force magic inside the log in the first place, the comparison to an armed grenade was apt. And how do you make an armed grenade ignite? Throw it at the ground.
The force shockwave explodes from the point of impact, pushing Lacklon further into the air. He’s accounted for this in his trajectory, too.
What he hasn’t accounted for is just how strong the shockwave is.
Instead of a gentle arc onto the platform, he hurtles toward it. He has the briefest of moments to watch Roland’s face go from amazement to surprise to horror as he speeds right at him.
Thankfully, his boyf...whatever-he-is plants his big feet and squares his broad shoulders at the last moment so that, instead of Lacklon’s force catapulting them both into the forest beyond, they merely tumble together across the platform before stopping right at the edge of the palisade.
There is a moment of blissful silence before Lacklon bursts into laughter. He buries his face in Roland’s chest from his position mostly on top of the tall warrior, their limbs tangled together in a not-unpleasant way. After a moment, he can feel Roland’s own laughter reverberating through his chest, and they lay like that on the watchtower platform for some minutes, laughing in the moonlight as it shines through the broken roof.
After a while, Lacklon gets it together enough to say, “I can’t believe that worked! And they’re—“ he peers over the platform to see a distinct lack of movement in the camp, aside from the bits of gory crystal slowly sliding down the inner palisade “—yep, they’re all dead! Fuck yeah.”
Roland draws him into a deep kiss. When he finally pulls back, he brushes Lacklon’s cheek, eyes shining. “Have I told you lately how breathtaking you are?”
Breathing heavily, Lacklon grins and says, “I may have heard that, yeah.”
“Hey! Anyone left alive in here?” Qwydion’s shout interrupts whatever might’ve happened next, and Lacklon groans into Roland’s chest.
“Do we have to answer?” Lacklon whispers, eyes pleading.
Roland just grins. “Up here, Qwydion!” he yells, never breaking eye contact with Lacklon.
“What happened to that celebration you promised me,” Lacklon grumbles.
Roland just gives him a look.
However Lacklon’s stomach might’ve felt flying, tumbling, carving through the air over the last half-hour is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the way that Roland’s look sets the butterflies inside him dancing.
——
“But what did it feel like? Was there a tingling? A tugging? A voice in your head?” Qwydion stops, holding a severed arm in her hand. “Please tell me you didn’t hear a voice in your head.”
“I didn’t hear a voice in my head,” Lacklon responds grumpily, avoiding touching the red lyrium on the torso he’s holding as he tosses it.
With no real options, but also a fear of leaving the red lyrium to scavengers, the three of them have taken to burning the templars on a makeshift pyre in the center of the camp. Lacklon’s counted enough pieces to make seventeen-and-a-half bodies so far, between the various blown-off limbs and bits of viscera. Turns out, trapping force magic in a log makes a pretty decent grenade.
“But then what did you feel?”
Trapping force magic in a log also makes qunari mages super fucking inquisitive.
“I don’t know what I felt, Qwydion,” Lacklon says, trying to channel his annoyance away from his spooked friend and into the piece of…leg? arm? Nope, that’s a knee, definitely a leg, he throws on the pyre. “When you got hit, I felt…something, and then the log responded when I tried to jump off of it. Everything after that was mostly just instinct.”
Qwydion snorts. “Usually instincts require either prior experience or innate ability. Are you telling me you’ve flown a hovering board in a past life?”
“This is heavy,” Roland says as he approaches, dragging a full torso with arms attached—the last half Lacklon was hoping for, bringing the count to a full eighteen. Lacklon helps him pitch it onto the pyre while glowering at Qwydion.
“Look, Qwydion, I don’t know what to tell you,” he says through gritted teeth. “It wasn’t a conscious thing. I just…flew it, alright? Don’t make a big deal about it.”
“Don’t make a big deal about it?” she goggles at him. “Don’t make a big deal? You’re not a mage and you controlled a spell I barely understand! And on top of that, you’re a dwarf. That spell should’ve fizzled the moment I lost concentration on it, but it attached itself to you. You shouldn’t have been able to do anything you just did!“
The unease must show on Lacklon’s face, because Roland puts a calming hand on Qwydion’s arm. “The mechanics of what happened are not important right now, Qwydion. What matters is it worked, and it did more than you thought it could.” He gestures at the pile of burning gore and smirks. “Not bad for a self-taught Tal Vashoth, non?”
Qwydion laughs and turns to face the pyre, while Lacklon mouths a thank you at the grinning warrior. “It was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” she says, preening a bit.
Lacklon glances toward the camp’s entrance. The remains of the chevaux de frise—he had had Roland remind him of their actual name, the pleasure of hearing the phrase on Roland’s tongue only a bit of an ulterior motive—are only smolders and embers now, though the path that the cart cut through them is still noticeable. Looking back at Roland, the crinkles around his eyes as he talks to Qwydion, the twist in his grin when he sees Lacklon looking…
Lacklon doesn’t regret letting go of the cart. But he’s worried about Miriam anyway.
Getting soft, dwarf.
“We’d better get going if we’re going to find Miriam before your Maker comes back,” he grumbles, Qwydion and Roland turning to look at him.
Qwydion blinks, and then smirks. “You know, I think it’s been long enough that we probably don’t need to.”
“Awfully grim there, don’t you think?” Lacklon says. “I doubt Hira finished Miriam off that quickly. Worst case scenario is she’s bleeding out somewhere in the forest. Shouldn’t be too hard to find her, though, given how that cart was tearing through the underbrush.”
“Yes, she probably will not be too difficult to find,” Roland agrees with a twinkle in his eye.
Lacklon’s still learning how to read Roland’s expressions—something he’s surprised to note he’d be happy to spend a lifetime doing—so he’s not totally sure, but given earlier, he thinks that twinkle means…mischief?
Wait, what—
“I’m touched to know that you care, Lacklon,” comes a voice from directly behind him.
Lacklon screams and jumps, his axe instantly coming around and colliding with the crossed daggers of a bloodied, grinning Miriam.
“Holy fucking fuck, elf!” Lacklon snarls, dropping the axehead down in recognition. “Fucking just…stop fucking doing that!”
Miriam just smirks, then grimaces in pain as she lowers her daggers.
Qwydion is on her immediately, healing spell already on her fingertips. “Please tell me she looks as bad as you do,” the qunari says with worry in her voice.
Miriam shakes her head. “Don’t know. Didn’t get that far before her driver pitched me off.” She looks at Roland. “I think he was a—“
“—red templar, yes,” Roland nods solemnly. “All of them were.”
“‘Were,’” she echoes, noticing the pyre. “Impressive.”
Qwydion, still tending to Miriam’s wounds, gives a grin that takes a long moment to reach her eyes, and nods at Lacklon. “Thank Lacklon. He turned the floating log into a grenade and blew them apart! It was incredible, the force required…” She continues babbling as her spell knits together Miriam’s skin, while Miriam locks eyes with Lacklon and gives him a half-grin.
“Sounds like we should add that spell to our regular bag of tricks,” she says with amusement once Qwydion pauses for breath.
Lacklon snorts. “Your bag of tricks maybe. I’ve flown enough pieces of lumber for one lifetime, thanks.”
“Aw, really?” Qwydion pouts. “But you were so brilliant!”
Roland chuckles and places a hand on Lacklon’s shoulder. “‘Brilliant’ doesn’t begin to describe it.”
Lacklon leans into Roland’s touch, consciously unconscious of his movement.
Miriam’s face gets serious. “Well, we might need something like that down the road. Hira got away again. And if she’s knowingly working with red templars…” She trails off, shoulders slumping.
“We will get her, Miriam,” Roland says quietly.
The shadow that passes over the others’ faces sends a shiver straight down Lacklon’s spine. Whatever happened with red templars down south…well, he’s fine not knowing.
“Damn right we’ll get her, and that sodding circle thing, too,” he grumbles.
They begin making their way out, silently agreeing that smoldering red lyrium makes a poor campsite. Qwydion continues jabbering away at Miriam, who seems grateful for the distraction. She even cracks a smile as the mage, arms akimbo and gesturing wildly, describes what she missed.
Roland slides his hand down to lace his fingers with Lacklon’s as they trail behind. “I must say, given the number of near-death experiences we have enjoyed in the last few weeks, this one is certainly the most…educational.”
Lacklon chuckles in spite of himself, enjoying the way the butterflies trill at the feeling of Roland’s hand once again in his. “Really. How do you figure?”
“Well, we know so much now that we did not know before,” Roland says as slows a bit, lengthening the distance between them and the other two. “For example, Qwydion learned a new spell. Miriam learned her former lover is in league with red templars. You learned how to fly. And I,” he grins sidelong down at Lacklon, who wills himself not to blush, “got to learn what it is like to be rescued by a handsome papillon.”
“Um,” Lacklon stutters, trying and completely failing to keep his usual stoic composure.
Roland’s grin softens to a small smile, as he bends down to kiss Lacklon once again. He takes his time with this one, no urgency, just softness and warmth. When he breaks away, he presses his forehead to Lacklon’s and whispers. “Thank you.”
Lacklon inhales deeply, letting himself be surrounded by Roland, all of Roland, in this moment. The fear of the last hour melts away, replaced only by a feeling as soft as a butterfly’s touch. “Just…try not to get surrounded like that again, okay?” he says roughly, squeezing Roland’s hand.
Roland bends slightly, bringing Lacklon’s fingers up to give them a tender kiss. “Of course.” They both know it’s a lie, it has to be in this line of work, but for this one moment…it’s enough.
They turn to follow Miriam and Qwydion out, hands still clasped. Roland leans into Lacklon’s shoulder as they walk.
“You know, of the many things that we did not know at the beginning of this day, you were already right about one thing,” Roland says lightly.
“What?”
“Hira is terrible.”
Lacklon’s echoing laugh takes flight over the walls of the palisade, into the forest beyond.
—
The violent turbulence of the carriage ride has long since slowed to a gentle rocking before the woman in blue lets out a breath. Her grip on the small leather satchel eases ever-so-slightly as she feels the curve of the golden band inside through its folds.
She glances out the window into the early, grey light, watching how it catches the dew dripping from the leaves around their path. She used to love this time of day, when the whole world is still, a hitch in the air like a cliff-diver before a jump. She remembers rolling over in a soft bed, the grey light filtering in through the window, catching the fluttering of wings on the sill and the metal clasp on Miriam’s necklace as she—
The woman shakes her head, willing the memory away. That is the past. That is a life now gone.
All that remains for her is the future.