alsoika - Tumblr blog

alsoika · 1 month ago

Text

I'm chewing on them both!!!!!! This put me through the pear wiggler for days now!!! I'm so emo abt them.

After the storm

A birthday present for the wonderful @alsoika ft. their Inquisitor: Kele

Words: 2.5 K

Pairing: Dorian x Inquisitor

Rating: T

Summary: It was a universal truth that everyone held their secrets a little too close to the surface. Even Solas. There had always been something there, an arrogance Dorian couldn’t quite put his finger on. And then he’d been too distracted to wonder what actually lurked behind the paint and the burlap. For months he’d heard that strange apostate potter around the rotunda and he’d never even considered that if he scratched hard enough there might be claws beneath that skin.

Dorian tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d called a possible God an unwashed hobo to his face. Hopefully that wouldn’t come back to bite him later.

AKA: Dorian and his amatus consider what the future holds for them both post-trespasser

AO3

***

“Whatever happens, I wouldn’t change the years we’ve had together for anything.”

Another flash of light cut through Kele’s hand. It was angrier now, teeth and lightning heaving him to the flagstones by the eluvian. He was back on his feet before Dorian could grab him, posture rigid, eyes set like iron. The herald. The inquisitor. Chosen and unbreakable to the world.

Only the slight waver in his lip betrayed him.

“I love you, Dorian.”

It was a gracious goodbye. Soft. Open. The sword in his other hand that would have cut Dorian less.

Tears caught on the edge of his answering laugh. An old defence, like the smile still stitched on his face. Not quite a mask. Not quite the truth either. No one needed to see the grief splitting him open, vicious as the one tearing his amatus from the inside out.

The anchor faltered, the greys of the crossroads now eerily quiet. The last moment of calm before the storm, the last moment to truly be honest. His fingers dug into Kele’s palm, a fool's hope at holding the future back. It burned as he finally found the words.

“I knew you’d break my heart you bloody bastard.”

Halamshiral reminded Dorian of home in the best and worst ways. Chittering nobles, gaudy perfumes, beautiful golds and silks covering up the blood and shit beneath. Add a few dragon motifs it would almost be the spit of it, everyone pieces in the game they didn’t have much of a choice in playing. That was unless you knew how to flip the board. Blind your opponent and take what you want while they’re reeling from the shock. It was a skill he’d picked up himself years ago, a delightful side effect of just being himself in most situations. It was a skill Kele had shown several times as well. With his answers, with blades, with dark looks that had barons and bandits alike lost for words.

He’d even managed to stop the hen pecking of the Exalted Council for more than five minutes. Maybe later they could joke about what it had taken to do so.

Later. Dorian rolled the word on his tongue. Something he would have killed for back in the crossroads. Now they have it. And he has no blasted clue what to do with it.

Kele shifted slightly on the bed, the bandaged stump of his left arm disappearing beneath the sheets. His hair was tangled ink on the pillow, the same shade as the shadows under his closed eyes. Never had he seen him sleep so soundly, even with the more and more creative ways he’d tried to wear the other man out. This couldn’t be the only way to get his head down for more than a few hours.

At least you still have time to try, he reminded himself. He’s here. With you. For as long as you stay.

Dorian adjusted himself on the chair someone had brought for him. The infirmary they’d deposited Kele in smelled like citrus and linseed oil, the walls slathered in a depressing shade of green. But at least it was quiet. Solitary. No demons or cult members waiting in the shadows with knives and claws.

Well, no more than usual when it came to either of them.

The soft light through the window carried the buzz of the council members milling about like insects outside. How long they’d been there eluded him. Hours? Days? Time seemed like such an irrelevant concept given the deluge of information that had smacked into him like a stone wall.

The memory still wept like an open wound.

Arcs of lightning, a scream. His? Kele’s? He doesn’t know. The man he loved withering under magic he couldn’t even grasp the edges of, his body literally ripped in half by the man standing over him. Armoured. Unrecognisable in his shining mien.

Dorian tugged at the thread of that last part. The one mystery still yet to be fully unraveled.

It was a universal truth that everyone held their secrets a little too close to the surface. Even Solas. There had always been something there, an arrogance Dorian couldn’t quite put his finger on. And then he’d been too distracted to wonder what actually lurked behind the paint and the burlap. For months he’d heard that strange apostate potter around the rotunda and he’d never even considered that if he scratched hard enough there might be claws beneath that skin.

Dorian tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d called a possible God an unwashed hobo to his face. Hopefully that wouldn’t come back to bite him later.

The Dread Wolf. That’s what he called himself, or rather what the Dalish did. The words Kele gasped wet and desperate into Dorian’s shoulder as what remained of his arm crumbled with every step.

He slammed the memory closed after that. The pain that broke in his chest still lingered. Warm. Not entirely unfamiliar. Strange, he considered, how sometimes it felt oddly good to ache. Something Kele had opened in him, setting up camp in his mind then his heart and twisting Dorian up in knots he didn’t want to untangle from– everything he was told to avoid.

Lust was easy. Love was dangerous. It was something people of his carefully curated background were not supposed to strive for. Perhaps in another life, he didn’t. He’d have sat quietly, doing what his family wanted. Worn the mask, married some unfortunate girl so they could glower at each other from either end of an impossibly large dining table and drink through just enough trysts to produce another unlucky Pavus heir. Then the days would blur, swirling in red wine and fake smiles, everything planned down to the final blood-stained letter: the right soirees, the right coin in the right hands, the right people disappearing until he’d look in the mirror and see the Archon’s crown or his father staring back.

Even years, lifetimes later, the whole sordid affair still made his stomach turn.

A life spent banging and screaming on the inside. Anguishing but accepted, any criticism met with the same flat refute: The world is heartless. This is how we survive.

The mantra echoed in his mind on quieter nights. Cold and to the point, so very Tevene. And as it turned out, yes, the world could be heartless– inescapably so. But did he join a heartless cause? Fight a heartless fight? Touch a heartless lover?

He reached out to gently untangle Kele’s earring from his hair.

Love given without expectation– and here Dorian thought he couldn’t be surprised anymore. Nothing in the game of power and politics was ever given freely.

“I’m the magister that’s using you, that's what they’ll think.”

“Go ahead and use me then. Or are you all talk?”

Dorian laughed quietly to himself. By the Maker Kele was glorious. Back when he thought that their fearless Inquisitor simply enjoyed the taste of fire and bad decisions. He didn’t exactly expect him to stay, to fight for him, to look at him as more than whole and think about after.

After was here. After was Dorian taking his father’s place in the Magisterium. After was proving that he was his heir but not his tool.

Dorian stood up and paced to the door, rubbing the deeper pinch in his brow.

After meant leaving. But he’d be damned if it meant letting go.

Sheets rustled softly behind him.

“Going already? And here I was waiting for a proper goodbye.”

Dorian whipped around and met Kele’s tired eyes.

“Amatus.”

He closed the space between them in a decidedly ungraceful flurry of feet and hands. Kele’s skin was pale, lips dry, bones cracking with every slow movement– but awake. Here.

Kele shifted, traced his fingers through the unstyled mess of Dorian’s hair. “You look awful. Which means something really terrible really must have happened.”

His laugh caught on tears again. Warmer ones this time. “You’re such a beautiful bastard. You know that right?” he answered, catching the hand by his face.

“So I’ve been told.”

Dorian’s eyes dropped to the bandaged arm now resting between them. It was his sword arm, one that had touched him, killed for him, brushed him to sleep when SKyhold’s corridors blew especially cold.

“Does it still hurt?” He asked, his mind running fast. He could get him a prosthetic. Something strong. The best works of Tevinter technology. He did have the influence now, he just needed to send a raven to..

Kele tapped his face, cutting off his train of thought. “I’m alright,” he answered with a smirk.

“Well that sounded convincing.”

Kele rolled his eyes. “I can’t really be anything other than all right now, can I? Need to work on switching my sword hand though but at least I’m not completely ‘armless.”

The words fell with an almost audible thud on the sheets between them. Dorian dropped his forehead to his.

“I’ve seen people killed for less, amatus.”

Kele laughed, soft as sandpaper against stone, before pulling the other man into the bed next to him. He shifted until he was leaning against his chest, remaining hand gently tracing the skin of his knee. Dorian pressed his nose to the nape of his neck. He smelt of sweat, healing herbs and the ghastly fragrance of this room.

He made a note to have a larger tub sent to his room when they had the chance.

“So- how’s the Council going?” Kele asked. “Please tell me it’s all miraculously sorted itself out while I’ve been asleep.”

Dorian started to unpick the tangles in his hair. “They're all still waiting for you. The dauntless Inquisitor who’s going to let everyone know which way this great force is going to topple. Gone forever or stuck under the Chantry’s heel– I’m almost glad I won’t be here to see the aftershocks.” There’s ice behind his tease. He remembered the break in Kele’s eyes when he’d found out he’d be returning to Tevinter permanently.

Kele leaned back against his shoulder. “Do you really think you can change anything? Make Tevinter something… good?”

He knew there was no malice behind the question. It’s one that had been turning around in his head like a charred boar on a spit the entire journey to Orlais.

“Good is a relative term. Better would be more accurate,” he started. “But I’m not the only one that believes the Imperium is broken, not rotten. If I have a foot in the door to actually make a change, then why not take a leaf out of your book? Plus I happen to have made a few new friends in higher places now.” His words were stronger than they were. The foundations for something worthy were there. History, Art, magic, the stones of ancient Thedas running along so many streets– maybe one day he could leave the country and not be spat at. Even if the title of wicked magister had a little panache.

He tucked an errant strand of hair back behind Kele’s ear. “But that’s all in the future. And without this being an utterly ridiculous question, how do you feel?”

Kele looked down at the remains of his arm. “Broken, but not rotten I suppose.” He traced the bandage, his eyes suddenly snapping to Dorian’s. “Wait did Solas take my arm or is it laying around somewhere?”

Dorian stiffens behind him. He’d almost forgotten his amatus had a talent for asking the most disarming question in any vaguely serious moment. “What a macabre question. You know, I didn’t think to check if it was still on the ground. I was more worried about you still being alive when we finally got to you.”

Kele’s fingers curled under Dorian’s chin. “Did I scare you?”

“I’m never scared.” Dorian rolled his eyes at Kele’s raised brow. “So yes. Obviously. And if you’ve given me any premature grey hairs I’ll never forgive you.” One day he’d tell him of the hours sitting here, raw, terrified, counting breaths, heartbeats, reminding himself– alive alive alive.

Kele twisted into his lap, rising to press a gentle kiss to the edge of Dorian’s mouth. “Just once, can it be easy?” he whispered, kissing him again, firmer. “Can we just be without having to fix the world?”

Dorian softly traced his cheek, then the vallaslin curving under his eyes– memorising. Just until he could do it again. “Fixing the world was the easy part, amatus. We had to stop Corypheus, everything else felt so small by comparison. Now we have the rest of our lives to sort out. Countries to fix, Inqusitions to break.” It was easy to yearn for days spent murdering both demons and random strangers. Back when they had one goal. Life or death. Black and white. Simple. Now those pages were filled and the blank ones were waiting. Whether they would be filled with harmonies or heresies was anyone’s guess.

Kele pressed a finger to Dorian’s lips, eyebrows drawn down. “Well, we need to stop Solas now. Last I checked, bringing down the veil would affect Tevinter as well even with a floating palace. That’s one goal isn’t it?”

Dorian’s surprised his eyebrows don’t fly off his skull. “He wants to… what?”

Kele chuckled. “I need to fill everyone in but long story very short, The Dread Wolf needs to be found. And I suppose having someone inside the Magisterium could be very helpful on that front.”

Dorian softened under him, something warmer than a blush spreading his skin. “You suppose correctly.”

Kele reclaimed his mouth, kissing and holding until everything else disintegrated around them. The crowds outside, the scorn and sneers, the roles they still had to play– gone. Just the two of them. Two mismatched shapes finding edges that fit together so perfectly.

“You’re never getting rid of me,” Kele murmured as they pull apart, eyes hazy, skin richer and hot. “Go to Tevinter or the very ends of Thedas, I’m hunting you down. I can still be your left hand even if I don’t have mine anymore.” His words exuded colour, melting away the dull shades surrounding them. Dorian squeezed his arm, ready to pull the both into the future.

Now, it didn’t feel so daunting.

“You always were.”

Dorian returned to Tevinter to take his father's place in the Magisterium. As rumors flew about the Imperium's infighting, Dorian was spoken of often as a voice of resistance against corruption. Along with Magister Maevaris Tilani, he formed a group called the Lucerni to restore and redeem Tevinter—a fight many thought hopeless.

Magister Pavus's allies said that his greatest strength lay in the lover he left in the South, but still conversed with via message crystal. Some claimed to have seen the Inquisitor on the streets of Minrathous on rare occasions, sneaking into the heart of Tevinter to aid his amatus.

#love my friends!!!!#thank you so much 💓#i have TEARS IN MY EYES

24 notes · View notes

alsoika · 1 month ago

Text

I cannot stress enough how much I love how you write Alistair. Always!!!!! Mwah cheff kiss thank you so much much, friend ❤️‍🔥

Midnight Snack

Characters: Alistair x Warden Cousland Summary: Alistair insinuates that he's got plans for him and Sorina as they share a proper bed for the first time since they began traveling together. At first it's not entirely what Sorina had in mind, but she's not complaining. A/N: Wrote this for the super duper talented @alsoika (who also sketched this art of their warden, Sorina, which lowkey inspired this fic in the first place) for their birthday! Check out their other DA and BG3 art, you won't be disappointed! Happy birthday, friend, I hope this little scene made you smile :D

It was far too late in the day, well into the night, by the time Sorina and her companions finished discussing their next moves with Teagan and a newly-awakened Arl Eamon. For a man weakened from being poisoned and then forced into a magical coma, Eamon was nevertheless a logistical and political force to be reckoned with, and he refused to rest until they had a plan nailed down.

But some of his plans and proposals were…ambitious. The first was necessary—continue gathering armies for the inevitable battles ahead. They were doing that anyway, so Sorina didn’t mind the reminder. But the second…was to make Alistair the king of Ferelden.

Sorina had never considered it a legitimate possibility before. She knew he was Maric’s son, but he was illegitimate and clearly disinterested in kingship. Yet Eamon was determined. Contrarily, for every ounce of determination Eamon possessed about the idea, Alistair possessed as much, if not more, resistance.

Sorina wasn’t yet sure of her own opinion on the matter. All she knew, watching Teagan help a still-weak Eamon return to his room, was that it sounded like there were some impossible choices to make in the not-so-distant future.

A hand on her shoulder broke through her thoughts, and she turned to see Alistair looking at her expectantly.

“Come on,” he said. “We should get some rest. I’ll take you to our room.”

Sorina arched an eyebrow. “Our room?”

The last time they had spent a night in Redcliffe Castle, they’d had separate rooms, simple ones that could be prepared with whatever staff had been left over from the undead attacks. She assumed they would be returning to those rooms now.

But Alistair’s face had a light flush as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look casual. “Yeah. I mean—with Eamon awake and the castle safe and everything, more people have returned to the castle, so the rooms got changed up. I told Teagan we could share, so…”

“Oh? How…proactive of you,” Sorina said, smirking. She could spot where his mind was headed from a mile away. It was no surprise, considering they’d spent every night sharing a tent since the night she’d cornered him and asked him if he was interested in a little late-night “sparring.” One-on-one. Without clothing. He eventually got the hint. So, yeah, why not share a room?

“Yeah, well, it happens on occasion,” he muttered. He shook his head and reached for her hand. “Come on, let’s just go, shall we?”

“Eager, aren’t we?” she teased.

“Ohoho, yes, we’re all laughing. Keep that up and I’ll have to find myself a nice corner to cry in and none of us will have any fun.”

But despite his sarcasm, he didn’t let go of her hand as he led her up the stairs and into the guest wing of the castle. As they passed through the hallway, she saw some of the doors open, with their companions milling about inside. Zevran in particular looked keenly interested in a locked jewelry case on the vanity of his room, but Alistair pulled them away before either of them could see whether Zevran would attempt to pick the locks.

The room next door was spacious and clean, better than anything Sorina had slept in since becoming a Warden, but not quite so good as home. A pang of nostalgia and sorrow threatened to pierce her heart as she eyed the wall hangings and furniture, all typical Ferelden style but reserved for a more wealthy class of folk. It wasn’t that different from the guest rooms at her home in Highever, though the heraldry here was all Redcliffe rather than the laurel wreath on a field of blue, the heraldry of the Couslands.

She wondered whether there was anything left of her home now. The last she’d seen of Castle Cousland, it was swarming with Howe’s soldiers. She had no way of knowing if it was even still standing, or if Howe had razed it to the ground.

Alistair seemed oblivious to her sudden quiet. He pulled off the majority of his armor and wasted no time flopping backward onto the bed with a big, contented sigh.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed this nice,” he said, stretching out across the width of it, his armored legs and feet hanging over the side. “It’s been nothing but bedrolls, bad bunks, and bed bugs for the last year or more.”

Sorina reached for the buckles of her own armor, smiling a little, grateful for the distraction. “Even when you were at the monastery?”

“Especially then. Nothing but bad bunks all the way through.” He paused. “Now that I think about it, maybe I’ve never had the luxury of a bed this nice.”

He propped himself up on one elbow and shot Sorina a sly grin. “I know for a fact I’ve never shared a bed with company as charming and gorgeous as you, though. Lucky me.”

Sorina rolled her eyes, unbuckling the last of her armor straps and pulling the plate metal away from her body. “Say that again when I’m not in a silverite case of heavy armor. Maybe I’ll believe you.”

“I think you look gorgeous in and out of the armor, honestly.”

The compliment was disarming in its easy, genuine quality, more so than in its speed. There was a hint of warmth and flirtatiousness in his tone, a mischievous glint in his eye, but he was sincere. He was always sincere when he was dishing out compliments like that.

Sorina couldn’t help but soften. She went over to the bed, gesturing for him to sit up, and bent to kiss him. “You’re sweet,” she murmured, drawing away. She took a couple of steps back and started working on removing the greaves and bracers of her armor, raising her eyebrows playfully at his pouting expression. “Saving all your spice for later?”

He grinned. “Oh, just you wait, I have plans for tonight that would make a bard blush.”

“Oh?” Sorina cocked her head to one side. She didn’t fully believe him. “Zevran wouldn’t have happened to help you with any of those plans, would he? I overheard him attempting to give you advice the other day.”

The grin disappeared, replaced with an offended flush. “No! Well—” He paused and then quickly shook his head. “No, that doesn’t count. No. I don’t need advice from Zevran, thanks.”

She crossed her arms, smirking. “You sure? He has the experience and plenty of good ideas. He’s right next door if you want me to ask hi—”

Alistair grimaced and held up a hand. “Please, let’s not bring Zevran between us. Physically or metaphorically. My heart can’t take it.”

Sorina grinned. “Physically? Or metaphorically?”

“Both.”

“What if I’m between you and Zevran instead?”

“That’s—not—” He stammered and then cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sorina just laughed. “You are the worst.”

“But you love me,” she said simply, returning to the bed now clad in nothing but her shirt and trousers. She climbed onto the mattress and pulled his hand away from his face, then took his chin and turned him toward her for another kiss. “Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

He relented easily with a soft little sigh. “That I do,” he murmured. He turned and pressed in closer for a deeper, longer kiss before, at last, a little breathless, Sorina pressed a hand on his chest to put space between them.

“So what are these plans, then?” she asked.

“Well…” Alistair gave her an impish smile. “Since we’re here and Eamon is better, we should take advantage of his goodwill. We have this nice, big bed, you know, and we could…” He trailed off, eyeing her to make sure she was still keeping up, still curious.

She played along, skimming her fingers up the taut muscle of his arm. “We could…?”

“We could…raid the larder for some midnight snacks.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I know where they keep the good cheese.”

She blinked, utterly not expecting that answer, and then burst into quick laughter. She ought to have known.

The tension in his body from her earlier teasing relaxed in an instant, a ready smile on his lips at her laughter. Despite his several talents, this man was never more at ease, never more contented, than when he was making someone else smile.

“Okay,” she said. “But what about the good wine? Good cheese deserves good wine, yeah?”

“I’m sure we can manage that. I thought I spied Leliana and Zevran earlier with a couple bottles each, which means the wine cellar locks have probably already been picked.” He bent to remove the armor from his legs, tossing the pieces haphazardly on the floor. “Any other requests, my lady?”

She leaned back on one hand, an amused smile playing on her lips. “Some fruit would be nice. Are we eating it here?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head. “Nah. It’ll be like a date. Sort of.”

He straightened with a grin, all of his armor officially scattered about the room. “Exactly! Look at you, so smart. That’s why you’re in charge.”

“Alistair.” She patted his cheek, a bit like she would pat her mabari. “Wine. Cheese. Sometime before I fall asleep, please?”

He stood up instantly. “You got it. I’ll see what I can do.” He gave her a salute, the standard closed fist over his chest that Ferelden soldiers and Chantry templars tended to use. “One wine-and-cheese plate coming right up. Don’t go anywhere.”

She shook her head as he disappeared back out into the corridor, then flopped back onto the bed herself. It was a good, soft bed…

A half hour later, they were both in the bed, Sorina at the head propped up against a mountain of pillows, her legs curled comfortably in front of her, and Alistair stretched out at the foot, kicking one foot idly over the edge of the mattress. Between and beside them, Alistair had prepared a few plates of cheese, fruit, and bread. He had managed to snag a bottle of wine marked with a decent year, which was now half empty as it sat with Sorina’s topped-off wineglass on the nightstand. Alistair’s glass was safely on the floor, where he could easily reach it.

Sorina had to admit, this was…unexpectedly nice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d just curled up in bed with some snacks and someone to talk to. Camp didn’t count. A conversation while sitting watch just wasn’t the same, and the food wasn’t nearly so good as what an Arl kept stocked for his family, even in the middle of a crisis. And with Alistair, everything was easy. The conversation, the relaxation, enjoying the food and the wine…for a moment, she could pretend that everything could be like this forever.

But Eamon’s remarks earlier still troubled her, and she couldn’t put a finger on why.

“You know,” Alistair said, “when I was a kid, this sort of thing was something I’d dream about.”

Sorina lifted an eyebrow. “Eating cheese in bed? Seriously?”

“What can I say, I’m a simple man,” he said, grinning. “But no, I meant…having a room to myself, for one. I slept in the stables mostly while I was growing up here. Getting to eat whenever I wanted, whatever I wanted, for another. Having someone to talk to at night, when I couldn’t sleep. That’s…that’s more of what I meant.”

Sorina said nothing. Despite the harsh training she had put herself through since youth, constantly striving to be better, stronger, tougher, to beat her older brother in combat and earn a place fighting at her father’s side, even if it was just to fight off bandits on their land, she couldn’t deny her childhood was idyllic compared to his. At the very least, she’d never spent a full night in a stable while growing up. She’d never had to question whether she’d eat that day.

Alistair shifted so that he was on his back, one arm bent and tucked beneath his head. “This is nice. Peaceful. Makes you think there isn’t a whole world of darkspawn out there waiting for us.” He picked up a crumble of cheese and held it up, examining it idly, though she could tell he wasn’t really looking at it. “It would be nice to have more nights like this, instead of…you know…”

“Sleeping on the cold, hard ground in the middle of nowhere?” Sorina offered.

“Yeah.” After another second of thought, he popped the crumble of cheese in his mouth and went back to staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, one foot gently swinging off the edge of the bed.

Sorina reached for her glass and took a slow sip of wine. She debated whether she should say anything related to this idea, but then decided, why not? It wasn’t like they’d make these decisions tomorrow.

She set the glass back on the nightstand. “You could have plenty of nights like this…if you were king.” He paused mid-chew and shot her a baffled look, but she just shrugged. “Eamon wants you to be king. It’s not a bad idea.”

“Uh, yeah, it kind of is,” he said. He swallowed his bite of cheese and sat up. “I’d be a terrible king, and we both know it.”

“You don’t know that, actually, and besides,” she pointed out, “you’d have complete access to the best bed ever and plenty of snacks for midnight picnics in bed. Who’s going to tell you no?”

That made him chuckle. “All right, fair point, but all the rest…” He shook his head. “And besides, this wouldn’t be nearly as fun with anyone else. You think I’d steal the good cheese for Leliana? Or Zevran?”

“Wouldn’t be stealing if you own it as king,” she said, popping a couple of grapes into her mouth.

“You are so missing the point here.” He set his plate, nearly empty now, on the floor beside his wine glass and scooted a bit closer to her. “It wouldn’t be the same if it were anyone other than you. You’re what makes all of this special, Sorina.”

She continued to pick nonchalantly at the food on her plate, carefully selecting her next bite. “Well, I’ll just have to find ways to visit your royal bedroom, then.”

He scoffed. “Visit? Like you’re just a guest? No way, if I’m king, then half of that castle is yours by default.”

“Oh, am I to be Queen of Ferelden, then?” She snorted. “Bit of a stretch.”

Her, a queen? Wearing all those dresses? She’d love to see how a royal crown would look on her shorn head. The court at Denerim would hate her, probably. And she wasn’t much fond of them, either.

But Alistair didn’t seem to share her view. He shrugged. “Sure, why not be queen? I’m sure you marrying me and taking over as queen would make everyone happy. The crown would look better on you anyway.”

She doubted it, but she couldn’t resist teasing, “Alistair, is that a proposal I hear? Are you hiding a ring in your pockets anywhere?”

He blanched. “Wha—no, of course not, that—that was a joke, I was joking, please don’t take that seriously. You can marry anyone in Thedas easily, you can do far better than me, I’m sure.”

She grinned and leaned her weight on one hand. “I don’t know…better than the king of Ferelden?”

He groaned. “I don’t actually want to be—all right, fine, I walked right into that one.” He crossed his legs and leaned in, leveling a dry look at her. “I’m serious, Sorina. You’re impressive and, frankly, intimidating enough to win the hand of any monarch in Thedas. No one is going to tell you no.” Then, suddenly, with a grin, he added, “In fact, you know, I hear Empress Celene is still single.”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. That—” she emphasized the word by pressing her foot into his shoulder and pushing him back, “is the kind of anti-Ferelden sentiment that gets you put on Loghain’s hit list, Alistair. An Orlesian, really?”

He rubbed his shoulder where her heel had dug in. “We were on Loghain’s hit list already. Or did you forget how we met Zevran?”

“Mm, true.” She tossed one last bite of bread and cheese into her mouth before setting her plate on the nightstand and dusting off her hands. As she chewed, she muttered, “…can’t believe you’d sell me off to Celene before marrying me yourself…”

He grimaced. “Whoa, hey, I never said—I was kidding!” He paused, studying her as she picked little nearly-invisible crumbs from her shirt and tossed them away. “Although…I dunno. Would you…want to…marry me? Not now, of course,” he rushed to add, putting up his hands. “In the future, maybe. Hypothetically. Assuming we survive everything and…you haven’t tired of me by the end of it all.”

She looked up, surprised. There was that sincerity again, rather than his usual humor and sarcasm. He looked like he’d be sick, waiting for her answer, his tentatively casual tone belying the tension in his shoulders.

She wished she had an answer for him. She’d spent the last couple of years dodging questions about her marriage entirely, from her parents, from Howe of all people, from others. It wasn’t something that interested her. She wanted to be a warrior, someone who stayed active, on the go, always where the action was. Not somebody’s stay-at-home wife.

But then again, the situation had changed. Marrying Alistair, assuming they both survived, would look very different than marrying any other noble boy. If he were king, she’d be queen—and frankly, that was terrifying—but if he wasn’t, and they were just Wardens…

“Hmm.” She gave it another few seconds of thought before allowing a tiny smile to pass over her lips. She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. “I dunno. Ask me again when this is all over.”

He stared at her. “Ask you…again.”

“Ask me again,” she repeated. It wasn’t a yes. And it wasn’t a no. He was smart. He’d figure it out.

It took him a second, but then a slow, hopeful grin lit up his features. Then he cleared his throat, clearly trying to rein it all in and stay focused. “Right. Noted. I won’t forget.”

“Good. Now…” She took hold of his shirt and pulled her to him, leaning back against the pillows and forcing him to shift so that he was no longer sitting in front of her, but hovering over her, his knees on either side of her body. She grinned up at him, enjoying the flush on his cheeks from their new, close proximity. “Tell me about these actual plans of yours…and I’ll see what I can do about them.”

He gave a slightly nervous chuckle and then cleared his throat again. “Well…I was hoping to have you as dessert, if that tells you anything.” He grinned, waiting for her to get it.

She paused. She got it, but…all that, the cheese, the wine, the midnight picnic idea…was a lead-up to a punchline? She sighed and shook her head, smirking, far too fond of her ridiculous Warden lover. He was, affectionately, an idiot, and she couldn’t help but love him.

She settled into the pillows, reaching for the hem of his shirt to take it off him. “It’s a start. Now tell me more.”

#love my friends to bits part 3 jfdjdhhdj #its only fair i curse them with my blorbos since they got me into dragon age 🥰

16 notes · View notes