Okay so everyone is having all of these fantasies of Delphine physically harming/killing Rachel in the finale, but I don’t think she’d ever do that. Delphine doesn’t fight with brute force.
But do you know what she would do?
She would poison her tea. And then just sit there, across from her, all crossed limbs and stony face. She would sit there and watch Rachel choking, fingers at her own throat, knuckles white clutching the edges of her desk. Grasping at the seams of her oh-so-posh clothing. She would stare her down as she slowly lost control of her motor function, as she finally resorted to begging (Delphine would suppress a soft smile there. Rachel Duncan does not beg).
Rachel would drop to the floor, and Delphine would turn primly on her heel and leave her. Leave her prone, head twisted to the side and mouth agape, spilled tea seeping hot into lush carpet. Delphine would stand stiff in the elevator, the outward picture of composure, but vibrating with more than a tinge of fear - with more than a shade of oh god what have I done - as the image of Rachel Duncan writhing and begging burns in her. Of Rachel Duncan stumbling. Of Rachel Duncan losing control of her body.
No guns. No stabbing. No force. Delphine Cormier does not fight like Sarah Manning.
Like The Son I Might Have Known (Duncan & Alistair)
And… two weeks after I had originally intended, I have finished the promised companion fic to Bring Him Home. Knowledge of the other story is not required to understand this though you should read it anyway because it’s actually probably better than this one!
Duncan had agreed to stop by the tourney held in his honor for only a few hours, to acknowledge the respect paid towards the Grey Wardens by the Chantry, and possibly to determine if any of the templars were appropriate to recruit. He had expected the templars to recruit several youngsters who had potential as Wardens.
He had not expected to spy a young templar recruit that looked similar enough to the King of Ferelden, whose side he had only left a few short weeks earlier, to cause him to stop and look again more carefully. Sure enough, though the hair was different - messily short and red rather than elaborately long and golden - the rest of the young man, from his build to his strong nose, spoke clearly of a close connection to the Theirin bloodline.
The last he had heard of Maric’s child - Alistair, he believed the name was - was the agreement that Arl Eamon would act as guardian of the lad and, in spite of his promise to Maric and Fiona, he had acquiesced - his lack of parental skills aside, the life of a Warden was a poor one for a growing child - and then had been too caught up in the hints of the upcoming Blight to check back in on the boy. Joining the templars was not a wholly unexpected decision for young Alistair to make, and Duncan wondered whether he had any of his father’s natural skill with a sword, relaxing a little at the healthy appearance of the young man.
And yet… He did not stand with the rest of the recruits, watching those participating in the tourney warm up with rapt attention. He slumped, one hand resting on his sword, as he waited by the training dummies, his countenance set with a resigned frown that seemed habitually etched onto his face.
When you hear from someone
that makes you want to reach deep inside of yourself
and make a universe for them.
One made up of everything
they have ever wanted.
Where everything is quiet and calm
So so beautiful
When they tell you not to be sorry
but you still can’t help it.
But this time not for the
scars still left
from the ways our nails dug into each other as we fell apart.
Those, the most intimate tattoos we carry
But for that universe
and how it’s just too deep inside of you
because if you reached that deep
you don’t know if you’d be able to pull yourself back out
But you just want them to know,
it may be deep
too deep for you to reach.
But it’s there.
And you’re trying to keep it safe.