I can relate to Yvain on a personal level because when I realize I’ve wronged someone, I, too, throw myself into a fit of madness, rip off all of my clothes, and live nude in the forest for several years.
Here, some Yvaine/Cullen pining, because I’ve missed these two and I need to write more for them. 1.5k.
He shouldn’t be doing this. She’s the Inquisitor, perhaps even Andraste’s Chosen, if some are to be believed, and he’s a half-broken lyrium addict who hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in more than a year. She’s surviving ambushes and rearranging countries; he’s sitting behind a desk ordering her to go no, there, because there is a better place for her to put her life at risk. The truth is that too often, there are no better places. Even if he knows that she’ll likely emerge victorious with some quip or other, ruffled but smiling… Most nights that allows him to live with himself. Not always, especially when the pain’s bad and he’s just watched her ride off to somewhere like the Makerforsaken Wastes. He’s seen her in a fight - she’s no sheltered Circle mage - but there are rare times he imagines what she must be doing out there, remembers some of her worst reports and thinks that more than enough people have died under his watch, and Maker, not one more. Not this one.
He remembers asking for a report when she was on an extended mission and receiving a piece of parchment from a raven. He’d opened it to see Pavus’ overly flourished handwriting instead of the familiar spidery scrawl, and thought -
Not to worry, it had begun, she’s just broken her writing arm and the healing’s taking some time, and then it had launched into a recounting of the week’s events. He’d snorted in bitter amusement, making Leliana look up. Not to worry.
He may well be unworthy of a command post, and he’s not entirely sure he deserves her friendship, even if she’s insisted on giving it. He’s certainly unworthy of asking her if she might consider -
He takes those thoughts and shoves them aside, even when he wants to put his face in his hands and ask himself what the bloody Void he thinks he’s doing.
He shouldn’t be doing this. That’s what he thinks as he walks across the gardens and spots a blonde-haired figure there, on her tiptoes, craning her neck to look up at the largest oak.
She turns at the sound of his steps, and smiles. “Good morning.”