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red sky at night

Summary:

The village of Honnleath is a world away from everything Dorian is used to, as though it's been stuck in time or abandoned by it—he really can't say which. It's steeped in myth and mystery, though none so intriguing as the quiet, reclusive veteran that always seems so far away, even when they're sharing the same small stretch of the shore.

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or: the one where Dorian is an author, come to Honnleath to research his next story, and Cullen is a veteran struggling to keep afloat in the small village he grew up in. both out of their depth and their element, they turn unintentionally to each other.

Notes:

I'm excited to finally be able to start sharing this one with you guys. it's been in the works for a while but it took a minute for me to strike the right tone for it. I think I have, and I've gotten a good start on it, so here it is.

I've got the first six chapters and the ending fully planned, but everything in between is still a bit in the air. I know what events I want to happen and what beats to hit, but haven't yet put all those parts in their places. I think it'll all come together nicely, though.

as an fyi, my snorefest day job is a lot more energy-consuming than it was when I was writing two if by chance, so I can't make any commitments to how frequently I'll update at this point. I'm going to aim for "weekly" but please understand if it occasionally stretches on a bit longer than that.

also, for the sake of narrative and atmosphere and "it just works better this way," I'm pulling the AU card in terms of where cities mentioned are located in relation to each other, compared to canon.

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if you're the sort who likes to listen to music while you read for maximum feelings potential, listen to this mix that commanderruthernerd aka my best bro for life made to accompany this story. it's perfectly on point, tbh!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The only way to reach Honnleath from Denerim is by boat, and not a large, comfortable passenger ferry, either. Rather, with a decent fistful of cash, one can buy passage across the Waking Sea in small boats owned by men who made their living in such a manner. Clearly no one from the city is interested in visiting this sleepy, distant fishing village. Or perhaps it's the other way around, and the locals do their best to make interlopers think twice, Dorian thinks dryly as he disembarks from the vessel.

The trip has been miserable—cold, windy, and wet, leaving his hair flattened, his clothes soaked, and his skin permanently chilled in all likelihood. He'd felt close to retching more than few times but mercifully he'd been able to maintain that last shred of dignity.

Regardless, as he shuffles with careful steps down the slick wooden dock, he immediately regrets the decision to set his novel in this place. Were it not for the sizeable advance transferred to his account a week prior, he'd turn tail and swim back to the city if need be. But such is the mess he's gotten himself into with his wildly successful debut novel: a subsequent multi-book contract and the need for an even more successful sophomore attempt.

The premise is good. Promising. A bit of local folklore, unbeknownst to anyone unfamiliar with the village, edged with the thrill lent by the spectres of magic and demons and whatever manner of things that go bump in the night. Magical realism, as the industry's calling it these days. It will be simple enough to construct, but before he can even begin to put pen to paper, as it were, some local reconnaissance is necessary. And more than that, he needs the immersion; it won't do to write such a thing from the modern, minimalist office in his loft, which feels more than a few worlds away now that he's reached dry land again.

He has an open reservation at the sole bed and breakfast in the village, and knows immediately upon disembarking that there's no hope of a taxi or a car hire so he's left with no choice but to walk. He checks his mobile reflexively, expecting at least a few different notifications waiting for him but, rather unsurprisingly, there's zero reception to be had so he pockets it and sets off.

There are, mercifully, signs pointing him in the right direction. He skirts the western edge of the heart of the village, with his brown calf leather duffel slung across his chest, and after a few blocks it becomes rather apparent just how much he sticks out from the locals—with his waxed leather jacket, his slim jeans that once bore a price tag in the triple digits, his myriad gold jewellery, his tattoo, and so on.

So much for any sort of undercover reconnaissance, then.

His walk leads him up a hill steep enough to leave him reaching for his next breaths by the time he crests it. There are no sidewalks to speak of, save for strips of gravel on either side of the single-lane road, though he's yet to see a car of any sort since leaving the harbour. "Does no one ever leave this bloody place?" he mutters to himself, turning around in the middle of the road to look back in the direction from which he's come.

It's rather picturesque, the view from the hill, in the way it encompasses the small boats dotting the harbour, the white chalk cliffs that began to jut out from the black sand and rock coastline towards the east, and the village nestled in between. A low, thin fog has settled in at his heels, blanketing it all in mist, and if he didn't disbelieve so fervently in the supernatural, he might let himself be guiled into thinking that all the myths and folk stories about this place are true.

After another few minutes' walk, he comes to the bed and breakfast. It's set in a large house, three stories, shaped like a grey brick cube topped with a gabled roof. Five star, modern accommodations it is not, but with the shrubbery and moderately-tended garden out front, it's charming in its way. 

He barely gets a word in as he checks in with the portly woman at the front desk, named Margaret, which is a rare thing for him. It suits him now, though, because he's tired.

And wet; still very wet.

He takes his key and thanks Margaret as graciously as he can manage, and convinces her that yes, he can find his room on the third floor just fine on his own. The lift is broken, because of course it would be, though after seeing how old it is, he's not exactly disappointed with taking the stairs.

His room is small; the door barely clears the foot of the bed when he opens it, and were his arms just a little longer, he's rather sure he could reach across the width of it. But it has a desk as he'd requested when he made the booking, two large windows in the corner near the head of the bed, and it smells like lavender, so it will all do quite nicely.

He drops his duffle onto the bed, and crawls onto it to look through the windows. The one above the pillows looks out onto the same view as before of the village and the harbour, and the one to his left looks out onto gentle hills blanketed in verdant grass. It's entirely untouched, the view from that window, except for a small white house with a rust brick roof that sits atop one of the smaller hills.

Dorian finds himself smiling as he pulls back from the window and gets off the bed. Despite the hellish trip to get here, Honnleath is shaping up to be very quaint. Within a week he's sure to be tearing his own hair out for want of his modern comforts at home, but for the moment, he feels optimistic.

A deep yawn takes him then and he can't even be bothered to stifle it. Exploration of the village and its surrounds will have to wait until the morning. Right now, he's going to shower and sleep as long as he possibly can.

 

In the morning, Dorian takes a cup of tea in the dining room of the bed and breakfast. He'd rather have coffee, more out of reflex than preference—rare is the morning that's started without coffee, for him—but there isn't any on offer. At least it's a strong tea. He helps himself to a scone slathered in strawberry jam well, because they smell divine. "Both made in house," Margaret reminds him as she passes by. It's not brunch at one of the trendy cafes in Denerim, by any stretch, but he pockets a scone for the road all the same.

Honnleath has dried out overnight and when he steps out into the sunny morning, he feels renewed. He heads back towards the village the same way that he came the night before and it all looks so different now, blanketed in warm light instead of stifled by low, thick clouds. Even that little house up on the hill to the west looks a brighter shade of white. The sea stretches out beyond the village to the north and it's a pretty pale grey-green, sparkling even from this far away; nothing at all like the vast, oppressive slate grey monster he'd seen it as yesterday while his stomach was still roiling from the boat ride. It's faint, but he can smell the brine from here.

He bypasses the village again, wrapping around its edge to the west and heading for the shoreline. He wants to walk the entirety of the town, from corner to corner and back again, to familiarise himself with it, to get a feel for its rhythms and patterns. He has a notepad and his phone in the back pocket of his jeans to document whatever inspiration he can find, and he's not returning to the bed and breakfast until he's come up with a suitable starting point for his first draft, he's decided.

Up close, the sand of the shoreline is really more a mottled charcoal than a true black, now that he can see smooth, round, white rocks dotted across it. The waves are gentle and the tide is low at this hour but it looks dramatic even so, against the dark shore. The scent of salt on the air is stronger, sharper this close to the water but it doesn't feel acrid in Dorian's nose the way it did yesterday, from the boat. It's pleasant now, and he's sure that's a trick of his mood. The sun, probably, or the restful sleep he had. Maybe the scone from breakfast, even.

He walks along the top of the beach, his pace slow and the heels of his boots leaving deep, solid imprints in the damp sand. The harbour in the east looms closer, with its small collection of boats bobbing gently in the water. And then he sees a man sitting on a log. It's set out on the outcrop of rock that extends beyond the sand, near enough to the waterline that when the tide comes in, the whole thing must get swallowed up. As Dorian comes closer, he can make out more detail—the man is hunched over and compact, arms wrapped around his knees like a child, fingers gripping into the sleeves of his thick knit cardigan, and he's staring rather intently at something near his feet.

A bit of an odd sight, but he suits the landscape. It's hard to tell how old he is, for the large collar covering most of his face, but Dorian's mind wastes no time in deciding he's a weathered seafarer, too old to man his boat, too used to life on the water to do anything else. Instinctively, Dorian's hand reaches for his phone but he pauses before pulling it completely from his back pocket. It doesn't feel right to take a picture, as if the moment is too personal somehow, but… it is a good moment, for the novel. What if the man were to look up just as Dorian was aiming his phone at him? Mortifying.

But maybe he can just…

He takes out his phone and opens the camera, trying to frame a shot that includes the man without it being of him exclusively. He ends up with a picture of the beach, a handful of boats bleeding in from the right, and the man and his log in the left corner.

With his phone now in his hand, Dorian's taken by the impulse to check for notifications. It's only the second day away from Denerim and on the one hand, he's rather impressed that this is the first he's thought to look at his phone since disembarking from the boat the day before. On the other, however, he realises that he'd been asleep for the majority of that time.

Small victories, at any rate.

He's expecting an email from Mae, or a missed call from Felix. And he's hoping for a text from Rilienus. He hates that he does, but there it is. It isn't even within the bounds of their usual relationship to send texts on a whim, to see how the other's doing, not when there isn't the implied promise of a fuck at the end of it all. 

Perhaps this distance from his life will be good for more than just his novel.