allthisshitisweird | Darkest Timeline AU Flashback Meme

Darkest Timeline AU Flashback Meme

DARKEST TIMELINE AU FLASHBACK MEME

Did you work out something for your character's darkest timeline AU that you love so much it would be an absolute crime not to be able to write it out for real? WHAT LUCK! This meme is here for all your flashback-from-the-future needs. It's also the place to display sad single-character vignettes, letters that were never sent to dead friends, and anything else your dastardly little heart desires. Go forth and suffer.

The contents of this meme do not count for AC. For AC, you must participate in the real logs for the event, which will take place in Cloudreach 9:48, or else continue your normal non-event RP in the present (Guardian 9:43). However, you can count log threads in this meme toward your rewards points for the month.

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"Of course," he says as he gets up and grabs two cups, filling them with water and bringing them over.

"Are you implying that you can heal while you sleep? Or are you merely tired?" Because the former is impressive if so, but Anders might just be hoping too much for special abilities among their allies.

Waver snorted as he took the cup from Anders.

"My God if I could do the first one then I'd be in an amazing place," he said, a wry undertone swimming below the surface of his words. "Although back home, the other thing you do in bed does help restore magical energy."

It took about five seconds for Waver to down all of the water in his cup, and he placed it aside quite neatly. "You mind if I smoke?"

Beleth has had enough experience in Cade-speak to let her expression slip to one of disappointment. "Cade, I'm sure they'd bring other people. Enough to secure the site. They wouldn't want...anyone else to get to it." The Inquisition, Beleth doesn't add. She avoided ever directly mentioning them when she could. It was easier that way.

"Besides," She continues, thumb rubbing against his cheek. "If anything bad happens, I'll protect you, okay?" While it's said in a joking tone, voice light, and lips turned up in a smile, she knows that she's telling the truth. Even if she can't protect him...well, anymore, she'd protect him to the fullest extent of her abilities, even so.

Cade doesn't leave Beleth's side often, but he is periodically hand-picked for certain missions: missions that involve squirreling out people who were once in his social sphere and delivering them to the Venatori. Even if he doesn't care-- and might even prefer-- if he's killed for disobedience, there's still Beleth to consider, and she is always leveraged. Fail, defect, betray us, and the elf gets it.
Whether or not she actually would is up to debate, but the point is to make him think she would, and Cade isn't known for his resistance to bullshit.

His most recent mission involved going to Orzammar, clothed as a refugee, wrapped in a way that implies he has miserable wounds (and not the signs of red lyrium) to hide. This time, he went seeking Alistair. And he found him, and he told him where Beleth is, that she needs help.

Cade is a terrible liar, but technically those aren't lies. He does know where she is, and he does believe she needs help. But even so, he has a hard time looking at Alistair without knowing what lies in wait. He knows better than to even plead that the captives be left alive, or better yet, untortured; his opinion counts for virtually nothing, and speaking up just increases the chance of worse fates befalling them.

He's quiet and fidgety as they make their way down to the foothills of the Frostbacks, ultimately not far from a region Alistair likely knows well from his travels with the Warden: they stop at a small trading post just north of Lake Calenhad, and set up camp. Because 'quiet' and 'fidgety' are not descriptors that indicate unusual behavior on Cade's part, he's hiding in plain sight. And waiting.

He doesn't sleep, of course. And when the dawn finally breaks, and they're packing up their meager camp, that's when the modest contingent of Venatori march up to them, swords and bows drawn, and order Alistair to stand down.
Cade barely reacts at all; he certainly doesn't draw his sword, and in fact barely seems to acknowledge that anything is happening at all. He's gazing pointedly away from the goings-on, perhaps watching a bird somewhere in the middle distance, frowning desolately and trying to will Alistair not to look at him.

Edited 2017-02-03 05:42 (UTC)

The dwarf getting patched up outside was proof that Taas had at least a small grip of reality.

Now he finally looks up, red eyes meeting Cyril's. There's pain in them, mixed with sorrow and hints of desperation - yet underneath it all, there's relief. Taas never wanted to put Cyril in this position - ever - but now that it was freely given as an option, he lets out a shaky breath.

"I was never afraid of dying. I thought I'd go down in battle... or maybe after drinking too much. Fuck, maybe getting stabbed in my sleep. I never expected old age for me, but this..." The qunari's voice breaks slightly, and he looks utterly lost for such a large, powerful person.

"Will death stop this? Please, kadan. Don't let me become some kind of undead monster. I'm not a mage, I don't know how this shit works...!" Taas sounds a little desperate at the end. Who knew what came after death? There was no Maker, that was for sure.

"I won't," Cyril says and signs the words. His hand movements are strong, final. "Let me protect you from that."

The word 'protect' makes a weird pain linger in his chest. If Taas hadn't been so set on protecting him, this wouldn't have happened at all.

"I'll make sure you find as peaceful a death as possible."

Alistair isn't—well, sometimes he is stupid. But he isn't trusting. His moments of stupidity never result from failing to suspect that someone shifty is going to shiftily betray him. It wasn't the case when he was twenty, watching Morrigan and Zevran and Sten and Shale out of the corners of his eyes, yes all at once, one eye corner for every likely cause of death. And it's definitely not the case now.

In short: there was no way on the Maker's muddy earth that Alistair was going to walk out of Orzammar with a known traitor, alone, in an attempt to rescue— again alone—another known traitor.

So they're being followed, at some unseen distance, by a handful of people Alistair does trust. It's still stupid, of course, but the stupidity is in the desperation-born gamble. Maybe they can turn the tables, maybe they can trap the trappers, maybe whatever they can learn from following Cade will be worth it. Maybe. Alistair spends the night wide awake, too, waiting for an ambush that doesn't come, his sending crystal a silent open line to the scouts holed up on the trail behind them. In the early dawn he steps away to piss and murmurs for them to go ahead, scout the trail ahead, and try to get in a few minutes of sleep before they catch up to them. Maybe Cade plans to take him all the way to the coast.

—or not. Alistair is rolling up the canvas from the tent when the Venatori march into view. He stares at them—counting blades and bows—while he slowly bundles it and sets it down to pick up his sword and shield instead.

"Wow. I'm shocked," he says flatly. He is not shocked. But there's a brittle undercurrent to the sarcasm that suggests he's hurt anyway, which is another stupid thing. How dare this person who was clearly going to stab him in the back actually stab him in the back. Morrigan and Zevran and Sten and Shale never did.

While he's being stupidly hurt, though, he's doing slightly less stupid calculations: how many he can take down before they disarm him, how many that leaves alive, how many of his own people will die if they do come to his rescue when he's already bound and can't help them fight. The answer to that last question is one, probably. And that's one and one half too many, as far as he's concerned. However good he's gotten at the mathematics of war, he's never been great at estimating his own value.

"Are you shocked?" he's asking Cade in the meantime, with one quick sideways glance to confirm it before he returns to glaring at the Venatori. "No? I'm shocked again."

He keeps his sword ready. If they want him, they're going to have to come over here and disarm him like men, and probably endure a bit of kicking and elbowing after that. With his shield hand he yanks the sending crystal hanging around his neck so the chain breaks, then drops it onto the rocky ground.

"It's all right," he says—not to Cade, to whoever might still be listening on the other end of the crystals' connection—and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

Cade makes only the briefest eye contact when Alistair addresses him, but he doesn't react, just looks back away again. He's not fidgeting anymore; now he just looks like a husk, his anxiety having fled him along with the rest of everything else that makes him a person.
It's better this way. Dissociating is the only way Cade gets any peace now, and it has never been more necessary than in the moment his friend is being arrested because of him.

It feels like he's breaking apart inside and it's more painful than the corruption of the lyrium burning in his veins. Taas isn't sure what it really means until he feels wetness traveling down his cheek.

He had not cried since Zevran disappeared, and this time it was almost as painful. There's no big sobs and no loudness to it, just tears traveling down his face. "...thank you."

He doesn't want to go; he doesn't want Cyril to be alone... or Sina and Lucci. Korrin. However, the promise to end this torture feels like salvation. Mercy.

"Alright."

Cyril had been prepared for Taas to say yes. He knew it was the most logical step to take and that they both needed Taas to have some bit of control of his death, but it still felt like a cold stone dropping in his stomach.

It didn't help that they were talking while Taas was crying. More than anything, Cyril wanted to go to him, to touch him, to offer him some kind of physical comfort but he stayed where he was standing. He nodded once, accepting the agreement.

"Did you want to do it today?" he asked. His voice, hands, and face were steadily controlled. He can't break down in front of Taas. He can't make any of this about him. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to try to hang on a bit longer." Cyril wouldn't judge him if that was the case, people usually wanted to live as long as possible.

He leans his head back against the wall with a tired sigh. "I don't know, kadan. Today I know who you are. Tomorrow I might not, and then you'll risk getting hurt."

Maybe it would be easier for Cyril to take him down while fighting, though maybe it would feel better for them both. Taas knew how dangerous he was, though. He'd rather go peacefully.

"We don't have the luxury to waffle on these things, I suppose. Right now I have enough mind to resist the song, but I'm also a big man. You can't dispose of my body by yourself." Perhaps they should wait until they had more hands for that. At the same time...

"...but I might lose my nerve before then."

Slowly, stiffly and pained the qunari stands up on his feet, grunting at the movement pulls on his crystal-edged wounds.

Cyril nodded again, accepting that. He did move forward this time, though, when Taas started to move. He stopped himself before actually reaching out.

"Let's go somewhere more open then," he said. "Somewhere it wouldn't take a lot of effort to move you to a funeral pyre. I can record any last messages you have too." It was strange how calmly he could talk about this. He could feel a break down coming, but he would hold off until Taas was taken care of.

It was easy to think of this in steps. Step one was to get Taas somewhere that would be comfortable and the easiest for everyone involved. Step two would be to say good bye. That would be difficult but not nearly as much as step three, which would involve arrows and being very careful with his aim.

The last remnants of the smile on Jamie's face vanishes, replaced with a more somber expression.

"Aye. It has."

There's days where it seems like it's been longer than just a while - days where it feels like it's always been this way and that will never change. But Jamie's not a quitter either, and if they can't turn it around, at least he won't go down without a fight.

"Think you might know what I'm going to say, though. Seems to me you'll need people who're able to be mobile, to go somewhere and be in and and out before the enemy knows what's hit them. Raids, small strikes, the odd ambush when you need it...I can do all those things. Some of them I've been doing since I was old enough to fight. That's not changed."

"Yes," Harry responds easily. He is tired of feeling useless and he's been careful to learn how to use a staff and now that he feels a bit more confident in it he wants to fight, to do something.

Right. That's great then. There's a weird, inane sense of deja vu, maybe from the first time Alistair tried to talk to Cade in the monastery and got only silence. In revenge Alistair does the worst thing he can think of, as far as Cade goes, which is ignoring him altogether. He doesn't give him another glance before the Venatori close in, he doesn't look to see if he's safe during the scuffling, he doesn't ask for help when he's finally pinned down with someone's knee in his spine. If he gets his way he'll never have to look at the pathetic two-faced little zealot again, and so on, and so forth.

***

He doesn't get his way.

Sometime later, sore and rattled and breathing through only one nostril because the other is clogged with blood—Venatori prison hint, the interrogators don't appreciate flirting in lieu of actual answers—he looks up from where he's sprawled out against the stone wall of his temporary cell and finds Cade there. With Beleth. He'd been prepared to continue his current tactic of infuriating everyone by acting thrilled (sarcastically) to be enjoying their hospitality, but the smirk drops straight off his face, slides briefly through shock, and settles into a glare.

"You look well," he says to her. It is the precise opposite of a compliment. And maybe it isn't true. Maybe she looks awful. But she doesn't look imprisoned, tortured, or dead, so he'll be keeping this snarl, thank you.

[ Drop things here if you want! ]

He doesn't look great. But he's alive, which is better than can be said for many.

Starters in the comments below! If I owe you a tattoo thread, those may be a little slow coming. HMU on plurk or discord if you'd like to plan something out. ❤

Edited 2017-02-04 09:11 (UTC)

Beleth does look well. She looks like she's being fed decent meals regularly, her clothes are (relatively) new and clean, hair washed and brushed. She's not only not imprisoned, she's living a comfortable life. It is a stark difference from the perpetually stressed and underfed woman who'd worn this skin three years ago--not even counting the vallaslin missing from her face.

Though, if it's any comfort to Alistair, she's currently looking very genuinely distressed.

"Oh, Alistair." She puts a hand against a cell bar, peering down at him. "I can't believe this. This is--this is just awful. Did they--are you bleeding?" She fishes around in her pocket to pull out a handkerchief, and skinny elf arms that haven't wielded a weapon in years prove valuable for shimmying her hand between the bars to hand it to him.

She glances at Cade, and gestures towards the door. "Tell me if anyone's coming." Then back to Alistair. "Maker's breath. Just hang in there, alright? I'll--I'll try talking to someone. I'm sure I can arrange something." She's already thinking of who owes her favors, who would like her to owe favors, where she could get Alistair a place. He's a Grey Warden, which will be hard to get them to let go of, but surely something can be done. Someone bribed or blackmailed or otherwise convinced. It was Tevinter, laws only applied to the unfortunate idiots who couldn't get around them

He passes alright for a Vint.

When the Disciples first came to Haven, some distant ancestor brought his long nose, his dark eyes. These past years, he's learned to mimic their manner of speech, to add a slight arrogant lift to his stride. It places him within the middling ranks of soporati; a merchant, perhaps, far from home.

Maybe it’s the red, maybe it's just the malaise that's hung over him like a shroud. Whatever the reason, he's slower than he should be to notice that he's been made.

He's not long onto two legs before the first suit of armor peels off the corner to follow, joined shortly by a woman with a snake-headed staff. The templar's too close to chance flight: a moment too slow, and they'd knock him out of the sky. But this is a better part of town, they won't risk a confrontation until they know they can put him down fast.

There’s an open door ahead, leading into an indoor market. His pace quickens as he turns abruptly inside. He can’t afford to run outright, but maybe he can lose them long enough to disappear. The crowd buzzes thick with people, slow to clear a path for the oncoming guards. Alan dips sideways beside a stall, pretends to inspect a little tray of Nevarran jewels.

There’s a mirror at eye level. It's enough to keep a watch to his back — but a flash of purple eyes is the last thing he expects to see.

Most familiar faces lead to uncomfortable situations, these days. Well, relatively uncomfortable for her. Uncomfortable in that they keep yelling, but not uncomfortable as in 'chained up and imprisoned or otherwise inconvenienced'. Which...is usually the uncomfortable situation for the other person.

Running into someone while shopping? Definitely not a usual situation. And definitely not when that someone is a shapeshifter she hasn't seen for...a very long time. But there's no mistaking the curly dark hair, distinctive nose and long eyelashes. She stares at him, eyes wide in shock, before she hears the bustling of people in pursuit.

Beleth has spent a long time and a portion of her soul working to ensure her safety, to enjoy privileges like seeing the sky and sleeping in a bed. Alan would ruin all of the work in an instant, and see her back in a cell. But it's one thing to compromise herself to stay afloat. It's another to hold someone underwater so she can breath.

She moves quickly, leaning against the stall and grabbing Alan by the shirt, pulling him close to her. Like, really close. Uncomfortably close. Then wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Don't turn around." She hisses, like she really needs to tell him that. When the pursuers come crashing by, Beleth undergoes a magical girl transformation, except instead of anything cool, she's suddenly a giggly, flustered young woman, all batted eyelashes and coy smiles, as they call to her, and she responds in Tevine. Alan, apparently, looks a great deal different when he has an elf wrapped around him, because it doesn't take long before they trundle off.

Beleth holds her position for several long breaths, before she finally lets go, and takes the steps necessary to put them into a comfortable level of distance.

"What, in all of Thedas," She hisses, peeking around the corners of the stall. "Are you doing here?"

She’d always been the quick thinker.

Beleth's on him before he truly catches what’s happening, and his chest tightens, spikes with a sudden heat. He can’t tell whether it’s shock, or fear, or something else entire; it all just tastes like iron in his throat. But he leans into the act. Slings a grasping hand around her waist, breathes out and presses his face to her neck.

These days the scents all muddle, shut beneath so much rock and burning dust. Still, some small part of him wants to believe he recognizes it. The pale green thread of her.

She pushes back and his expression twists, torn between gratitude and something uglier. He’d heard the word on Beleth, of course he had. But it’s one thing to imagine what a traitor might look like, some blurry imitation of a shape. It’s another to see one now, wearing the skin of a friend.

The blood writing —

"Shopping," He murmurs, and steps forward to offer her an arm, as though a gentlemanly sweetheart. Something in his side tears as he does, and he struggles to hide a wince. The bandage should hold for a while, but nothing ever seems to heal any more. Never all the way. "I'm nearly down the list. Moonstones, you think? Or amethyst."

Edited 2017-02-04 10:24 (UTC)

The offer his arm entails comes with an entirely different risk for her. She wants to trust him, trust that after she helped him, he wouldn't turn around to stab her in the back (she's not stabbing anyone in the back, however much they call her traitor. She tells herself this often).

But he is--was her friend. At one point. She wants, desperately, to be able to trust him. To have one of those familiar faces not look at her with contempt.

She rests her hand on his arm.

"You're hilarious." She mutters to him dryly, before her expression shifts to worry, glancing him over. "Shopping has become hazardous, of late, it seems. What kind of shopping were you doing to get a Red Templar on your tail?" Ha ha, get it? Because. Shapeshifter. She takes a moment to admire her comedic genius, before she remembers that the mention of a Red Templar calls for a quick scan of the area, to make sure her own shadow hadn't come found her, yet. Is he off on a task of his own, or did she just manage to lose him? She doesn't know.

"And how hurt are you? Dying in the middle of the market is hideously tacky."

Taas holds out a hand to stop Cyril from coming any closer, even if the elf didn't. Always so smart, his kadan. Watching his lover with a longing look, Taas can't help but wonder how long it had been since he had felt Cyril's skin against his own.

It felt like a lifetime.

"Perhaps somewhere with a breeze." If it was any other place, any other time, he would have wanted to see the sky. Now that only brought painful memories.

He starts to slowly move towards the door, reaching out to touch the door handle with a slightly shaky hand. Taas wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the knowledge of what they were about to do.

"Do you think I'll see Zevran there?" If he did, they could wait for Cyril together. Hopefully for many, many years - or however the fuck that stuff worked.

Cyril nods and then gathers his things so they can head out of the underground. He had to admit he'd probably feel better doing this outside too. The walk would be a bit longer than he'd like but he could focus on walking and keeping people clear.

The question made him pause a bit. He was never sure how he felt about the idea of after life.

"Maybe," he said after a moment. Thinking of the ten who had disappeared left him feeling a dull ache in his chest. He touched the necklace he wore that had his piece of the dragon tooth and Sam's silver ring. Zevran and Sam had disappeared in that group and Cyril couldn't help but think of the mage. He rarely talked about Sam but the fact that he still wore his rings - one on the necklace, one on his finger - showed he wasn't fully over the loss.

"If he is, that means Sam is there too. Look out for them both?"

He gives a slight smile at that. Taas isn't sure what happened after death, but it was nice to imagine that maybe he'll meet the people they had lost again. Maybe somewhere in the Fade. "I will," he says, and he means it. Protecting people was what he had wanted to do as Taashath, and he'd continue that if he could.

He walks with Cyril until they reach a decent place outside. It was a bit cold, and the change causes the song to warp into a crescendo for a moment. He has to stop and grasp his head, growling low in both pain and anger.

Death would be peace. Ataash varin kata.

"Kadan... I..." Taas takes a deep breath and sighs. "Take this." He pulls on the necklace at his belt, strung there after the crystals started to spread. Taas didn't want the two pieces of the quarter-split dragon tooth to somehow get infected, and the cord easily came off into his hand.

He holds it out to Cyril with a broken smile. "I don't want it to burn."

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Page 11 of 15

Darkest Timeline AU Flashback Meme

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Very Recently

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alistair

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BELETH

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