PROLOGUE
((Author's note: Pretty sure most of ya'll thought I was a one-and-doner. Nope. Mari is back and better than ever with another DA:I kink meme fill. TW for BDSM, dub-con, etc., it's pretty rough to be honest ^^'' such is the life of a closet perv.
ANYWAY! Hope ya'll enjoy, please send more prompts (the more specific the better!) my way, I must hone my smutting abilities. Reminder that I don't read the comments so if you've got feedback you gotta PM it to me!
And final note: The Lavellan I'm using is never named but modeled after my own. If her look isn't your headcanon or cup a' tea… I guess you can find and replace your own adjectives hahaha ^^))
Outside, there is dim light; lantern-like and innocent. The camp is small and faintly glowing, a single ember in the dead fire pit of the forest; above, the ether seems to churn, wisps of thin, fog-like clouds misting through the starscape. The night breathes. It seems to swallow that which it cannot extinguish; it is searching and amiss.
Inside the aravel: a communion old as myth. The air appears like water, clear but thick, and rippled with faint filaments of green light. Like water, it is hard for the complainants to breathe.
They are nervous. By all accounts they should be. Communication with gods is an oft-fatal thing, and that's the case with the good ones. The diabolic figure, shadow of their pantheon, is another beast altogether. Specifically it is a wolf, and like a wolf it doesn't know fairness or mercy: it just knows desire. Fen'Harel knows what it wants and cares little about what others do.
"And you understand my help does not come free," the wolf says, low and predatory.
It is circling. Its eyes are void-white slits and its pelt is the green of the Fade or of afflicted storm magic; it ripples and distorts the heavy atmosphere, its voice both resonant and dim. It walks a special border. The two Dalish elves will swear till the day they die (would swear—no one in their right minds would confess to consorting with the Dread Wolf) that they saw Him, before them, clear as day: but they will never rid themselves of that lingering impression of a hallucination or a fever dream. Dark conjuration, maybe.
"W-we know, Fen'Harel," murmurs the woman, trying to find a tone that is neither meek nor insolent. "We do not know what we have to offer, but we'll pay anything—anything! We just need our son back. He was so young. Too young."
"Your son will return to you," replies the god. "And in return—" the projection flicks its tail at the cradle where the couple's infant slept. "—you will give me the new thing."
The pair looks at each other, searching: there is no easy way to choose which child you will surrender to the maws of the abyss, but there is an abject criteria, elegant in its apex objectivity. The boy has been around longer. He can speak. Walk. He is an elf; a person. He is tangled in their lives. Their daughter is new; their love is unconditional but it is only now beginning to bud.
And their assessment has a footnote. Fen'Harel has no use for a dead baby girl. She will undeniably live, though to what end the two prefer not to ponder too long. They will have two living children. They will not have to worry over their daughter, who has already shown to be touched by the Fade, being detected by Templars; they can avoid human incursion.
When thought about like so, it is hard to deny that there is a right and a wrong choice. Or so they tell themselves.
The man speaks up as the pair's gaze is cut. "It's a deal."
The wolf grins. The effect is as intended.
A silent blinding burst of radiance; then the body on the table sits up.
"Mama?"
The couple falls into tears. To Fen'Harel it toes pathetic, but then again, most of mortal existence toes pathetic, or steps squarely into it. He pays them no mind as he pads over to the cradle where his new acquisition lies, peering once over the side at her vibrant-dark skin, and bright blonde shock of hair, while the hysterics of a reunited family continue brightly behind him.
Roused by the noise the child awakes. Her eyes, blue and pensive, meet his. She says nothing. Does nothing. Her face is blank and unafraid. He blinks once and then he is gone; slipping through the aravel as if it is nothing, and pacing away into the deep bottlebrush forest, leaving behind parents who will forget their deal with the demon for now; and tomorrow morning wonder why their sacrificial lamb remains.
They will wonder for twenty more years.
