The first of ten or so little drabbles - some short, some longer. Will upload the rest throughout the week.


Athenril/Bethany. 276 words.

Slight AU where Athenril kept in touch with Hawke after their year of servitude.


Anders had blown up the Chantry.

Anders had blown up the Chantry.

The thought raced through her mind, the full weight of all its implications just barely registering through the haze. Anders had blown up the Chantry.

It was a shit storm in the streets. A thick black cloud of dust and smoke, and the scramble of people and the gurgle of screams. There was looting. There was definitely crying. She stepped over a crumpled body, an axe protruding crudely from the back of its shoulder. Apparently, there was killing too.

Athenril walked through the dust, keeping her shoulder to the building and letting her memory guide her as she inched by. It felt like an invasion. There was no one to fight, but it felt like it. She kept a dagger readily clutched at her hip as a precaution.

She was heading for the Circle. It was where her feet were taking her. The moment the blow came, shaking the ground and turning the sky grey with smoke and debris . . . Her first thought had been to check on Bethany. It seemed strange and silly, but not outwardly wrong. Somehow in this mess, it made a whole lot of sense. More sense than any of the chaos erupting around her. She had to make sure she was okay.

Hawke would be fine - and busy with her motley little gang. Her crew would be fine. Even Kirkwall, when the flames were doused and the fanatics stopped and the looters sated, would be fine.

But who would check on Bethany? It had to be her.

And until then, she could really care less about the burning Chantry.