spicyshimmy:frikadeller:Autumn is coming.Merrill would’ve been spring; Isabela was all summer.

spicyshimmy:frikadeller:Autumn is coming.Merrill would’ve been spring; Isabela was all summer. Aveline was the hard edge and the blow of winter, but Anders was the falling leaf, light on the air, buffeted by wind. To the untrained eye, it might look like one lost feather trying, on its own, to fly. But even the pauldrons he’d sewn for himself years ago hadn’t been the wings he was looking for. ‘Now what do you suppose he’s thinking about, Hawke?’ Varric asked. ‘Composing a short story, are you?’ Hawke replied. ‘I’d think you’ve been inside his head more than I have. …What do you suppose he’s thinking about, Varric?’‘Falling leaves,’ Varric said. ‘Fluffy kittens,’ Hawke replied. ‘Burning towers.’‘Ropes made of senior enchanters’ voluminous smallclothes.’ ‘Deep water.’‘Deep Roads.’ ‘Fireballs.’‘My balls.’‘Dusty taprooms and abandoned barns,’ Varric said. ‘Electricity tricks. Lost opportunities. Last chances. Maybe, even, the look in your eyes when you think I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking about.’‘I’m easy, Varric,’ Hawke replied. ‘I only ever think about one thing.’ ‘You only ever think with one thing.’ Varric sighed. ‘And there’s a difference.’Bandages worn fine and soft and thin with time. Dry grass and brittle branches like broken bones. The tops of the trees reaching to the sky. Over and over, they followed their cycles, bark paling and peeling with frost, until the sun stayed longer above the dappled leaves. The ache of what came from down below stretched taut against what called from above. The peace, the prayer, and the whorls in the tree-trunk. The sound the leaves made, whispers of regret and gratitude, sorrow and joy, when they fell. A few of them stuck between the feathers, until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore. *His eyes didn’t have to be open to feel the sunlight, a strong oak between his shoulders like Hawke’s chest at his back, and the grip of Varric’s big hand as he shook him awake. ‘Blondie,’ he’d say, ‘it’s time to keep moving.’ And the breeze picked up, scattering dry leaves in brief flight, skittering higher and higher above the ground. He’d been dreaming, he thought. But he couldn’t remember what it was about—and anyway, he was awake again now.  -- source link

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