#“You should have THOUGHT before becoming a Guerrin.”

[greypetrel]

9. eye-to-eye hugs for Alyra?

Hello!

Sorry for being so late, stress from a long year caught up with me and I took a week of holiday to recuperate.

Hope it’ll be nice enough to compensate, and thanks for asking Alyra! She’s actually Yzma in her youth days. A polyamorous Yzma scared shitless by Broodmothers. Really, she went on like a train, grumbling and phased not much by anything… She saw the Broodmother and went “NOPE.” (Alistair had to grab her by the neck of her armour and physically turn her around).

Tis the prompt list.

Heart of a Poet.

9. eye-to-eye hugs

There were few things, in the palace, that could actually surprise the Empress’ Occult Advisor.

Oh, adapting had been quite the feat, and she thoroughly hated the whole of it. The fakeness, people never meaning what they want to say, from the masks down to the very lane of rose bushes, cared to the littlest budding leaves, where she was walking right now. Nature shouldn’t be confined and controlled: it was an illusion, as much as the whole of the Court.

A carefully, meticulously upkept illusion ready to burst at the first little prodding.

But as much as she hated it, she had to stay: for she knew the Eluvian maze lead her to Orlais and Val Royeaux. To what end, exactly, she couldn’t yet see, and the key to control it was nowhere to be found, or kept carefully secret in some area of the Winter Palace she hadn’t yet discovered. But it was, indeed, the perfect place to gather informations, as much as some unrest was brewing, and Kieran was happy with the library at least. Most importantly, it would have been the very last place anyone who remotely knew her would look for.

As much as she hated the Game, and frankly found the Empress a conniving opportunist that embodied all the worst a vulture stood for in popular belief, that day Morrigan was surprised.

Growing up in woods and wilds, running its paths as predator and prey, she knew when she was followed. She knew a predatory stare on her neck when she felt it, and that was one.

She never liked turning into any prey animals, it left her uneasy in her skin. She had to change the game: she turned left and right, guiding her pursuer in a secluded clearing that was outside of the palace’s windows and, conveniently, was too wide to follow a person without being seen.

She reached the small gazebo in the centre and abruptly turned around, to spot…

Nothing at all, for she was perfectly, blissfully alone with herself and her thoughts.

Weird.

A worthy predator, then, succeeding in having her fooled?

There were, indeed, two people her mind ran to. The first, she didn’t want to think of and it sent a shiver of dread and rage in equal measure down her spine. For the second, her thought ran to a day in the Frostbacks, the winter sun cutting sharp like it was today through pines and conifers, as she ran and was chased. It brought a smile on her face.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t safe to assume it was the second option.

She didn’t want to fool herself any further.

Not yet.

In any case, it was worth knowing who was chasing, right now, and why. A wounded fox -speaking of old memories- pretending to have a hurt paw and luring the bigger carnivore closer to bite its jugular better.

Yes. She could play with it.

---

The chase continued throughout the day.

It wasn’t anything much, and Morrigan couldn’t pinpoint the person who was looking at her once. Not during a long and boring lunch with the Empress and a couple of Dukes, discussing over fundings to grant to the Grand Universities and pushes towards a more open-minded attitude towards elves that were too little, not enough to settle. She couldn’t come to any better conclusions during a game of whist dragged for too long, when she got asked the usual prodding questions about her position, her role, her status, her provenience. She batted every jab with one of her own, never once believed that the laughter she caused was anything but condescending, and took pride in winning the game, under her mysterious observer’s stare.

She signalled to Kieran not to run after her, when she met him just out of the drawing room, just to be sure. She had taught him a clue for this kind of situation, after all, and the boy heeded it right away with an amused expression, skittering away before even greeting his mother, with a giggle. The reaction gave Morrigan a clue, but yet again she didn’t put much thought into it. Hope was futile, hope was dangerous. In her life, and in that environment. And knowing whom else may be to seek her out, she didn’t want to risk it. Not with him in the middle.

Shivers ran through her spines when, after that fleeting meeting with her son, the sensation of being observed stopped. It could have been casual, it could have been that she walked in paths that allowed for little hideouts. If it was whom she hoped to be, she knew the child and the child knew her. Otherwise, she feared giving him away. But she had changed in the last years, and she couldn’t help but walk to the library, where Kieran was headed for his afternoon lessons, and ask. She got answered that yes, he was at his usual spot with his teacher, they were going through some history volumes. A new teacher, the woman told, a Dalish. She could call him here, if the Arcane Advisor so wished. But the arcane advisor was, finally, content with the solution to her riddle.

The sensation got back fleetingly, for a moment when she headed back to her rooms for dinner, before disappearing again. This time, it created a sense of anticipation, a longing. So, she ordered her dinner to be brought into her apartment, and ordered for one person more. She already wove a spell over the kitchen staff in charge of handling her meals not to notice Kieran, not to notice that she never required food for just one person. It would have worked if the meal was for three people instead of two, today.

And so she waited, absentmindedly nibbling at her food as her son told her about what he had learnt today, whom he had met. He was particularly mysterious, and vague when she prodded him to get any further detail. She just knew why, but the game was that she had to pretend not to know and prod for answers. And so she did.

“I am sure that the renown teachers of Empress Celene, so keen in financing universities, would hardly stop at enlightening the minds of promising young men with just ‘the usual’.” She chided, leaning her head to the side and raising one eyebrow and, in spite of herself, smiling at said promising young man.

“I had a special teacher today, Mother.” The boy smiled back, nodding solemnly.

“Oh? And whom tis might be?”

“A wild fox, she told me.”

A twitch of her lips, and she knew. Relaxing with the final confirmation that it wasn’t anyone else, she put her mind at ease and kept on with their evening routine. Dinner, then a new spell to teach him -he was so talented already- with the subsequent questions. Brushing teeth, a story and then bedtime for the child. A kiss on his forehead, a last caress and wishing each other sweet dreams. As she gently closed the double doors that led to the bedroom her son occupied, she was alone with her thoughts.

Or well, not entirely.

“Orlais, uh?”

A dear, dear voice asked from behind her, the lilting accent embued in sarcasm. She sounded more Fereldan than she had when they first met.

“I do like witnessing history where it’s happening, when it’s happening. You should know it.” Morrigan answered, amusement creeping into her voice in a way that years ago she would never have allowed to. “How did you find me?"

“I really should know, yes.” She laughed. “A nightingale helped me.”

It didn’t matter, now. They both were changed, they both knew. Rare visits too sporadical to really see the progress in its entirety, but enough to ease them both into it, enough not to make it a surprise.

All it mattered, was that Morrigan turned to see Warden-Commander Mahariel, clad in unassuming travelling clothes in brown and green under a black cloak, casually leaning on her windowsill. She looked paler and more tired, her dusky skin had painted with a greyish hue, with dark circles under her eyes and cheekbones well defined. Her smile crinkled the white scars that the Archdemon left in its wake, and even older and more consumed by the Blight, Morrigan still found her beautiful.

She stepped towards her, straightening her spine, hands daintly kept in front of her bust and strutting a little, the becoming image of a Lady clad in burgundy velved and black musselin.

“You’ve gotten worse, I knew there was someone following since this morning.” She chided, no real bite to her words. Not even as a pretense, try as she might.

“Maybe I wanted you to find me.” Alyra answered, gracefully hopping down her perch and walking forward, eyes fixed on hers. They were still as keen as Morrigan left them.

“And yet, the only one who saw you was Kieran.”

“I wanted you to find me… Eventually.”

She stopped right in front of her, so close they were almost touching, half a smile still on her lips in a practiced game of theirs. The first kiss, when they met, was never the elf’s to give. She would come closer, signal her consent, but never step up to take it, always keep half a step, half a centimetre behind. The closing distance was always for Morrigan to fill. It took a while, back in the Blight, to understand that it wasn’t carelessness or just her wanting to aimlessly flirt, on the contrary: It was her way to ask for consent and be sure the Witch actually wanted it. It had irritated her, it still did. She loved her for it, when she humphed and moved forward, filling the distance and pressing her lips on hers.

Colder than she remembered, but still answering readily to the kiss, as her hands found her waist and dragged her closer with a satisfied sigh. There was some urgency in her movement that wasn’t just from the long separation. She grabbed her waist with a tid-bit too much strength, as if she was afraid she would disappear, her lips nibbled at hers with too much urgency, begging for her to open. Uncharacteristically.

So, Morrigan took back her head, after a while, and didn’t yield when the elf tried to pursue, grunting a little in disappointment and holding her tight and as close as she could.

“What happened?” the Witch asked, not stepping away, but knowing better thank mistaking whatever that was for just desire.

All her answer was a sigh, long and dragged, and a forehead coming to rest against hers. For a full minute, she didn’t move, staying there and just basking in her presence, finding words. Morrigan let her, hands travelling up from her shoulders to caress her hair, mindful not to disturb too much the complex game of braids she tied the auburn mass into. She wore them long, since she became the Arlessa.

“I came here to say goodbye. This is but a detour.”

Dread ran down Morrigan’s spine, at those words. She knew Wardens that witness a Blight live even less, but… Ten years alone felt too little. Ten years felt like being robbed. She looked consumed, but not that much. Her eyes, when she opened them just in front of hers, were acute and keen, as per her usual. Riordan had looked watery and far-away, caught in some thought nobody could follow. They had not the same expression, but-

“Don’t make that face.” Alyra stopped her train of thoughts, moving slightly forward to peck another kiss on her lips. Just one, reassuring, before returning forehead against forehead. “It’s not the Calling. It’s just… A desperate mission, I don’t know if I’ll return.”

“More desperate than climbing up a mountain to find the ashes of a dead woman?”

That earned a laugh, bittersweet, and another kiss.

“Tell me about this plan.” Morrigan coaxed her, right after.

They broke the hug, but kept close to each other, as Morrigan brought her in her own room and closed the doors. They made small talk as they shed some layers of clothing to get more comfortable. Alyra took away her cloak, leather vest and boots, and helped her with her corset, unlacing it with care and expertise, and helping her slipping out of the voluminous gown, petticoats and crinoline.

“If Leliana could see you.” Alyra snickered.

“Mythal help me if she ever did, I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“She’ll be furious. She doesn’t get to wear many shoes anymore.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You didn’t meet her?”

“I stay well away from anything smelling of Chantry, for… Obvious reasons.”

“Mh.”

The elf settled on the loveseat in front of the fire, ignoring the plush bed right behind it, and dragged the witch down, gently, by holding her hand, when she was done tying a dressing gown over her waist. They settled, so close that they touched, but still facing each other. Morrigan let her do, let her position herself as she was more comfortable and at ease possible. Whatever it was, it was all but clear it was important and delicate. So, as the witch sat with her legs folded under her, lying on the backrest of the couch, and the Warden in front of her, a leg spread and hooked over the other’s thighs, one arm folded to pillow her head on the backrest and the other hand absent-mindedly playing with Morrigan’s necklaces on her neck, the redhead started to speak.

“I am after a cure for the Blight.” She announced. Nothing more and nothing less than what it was, straight to the point.

“Do you have a trail?” Morrigan asked, trying not to sound too worried over it.

“Avernus’ research brought some results. Even if he keeps complaining about the methods I imposed. I brought you his notes, should you wish to give your opinion.”

“Of course.”

“Nathaniel has the command until I’m gone. If you discover something, report to him. He and Velanna will know what to do.”

“Do you trust an Howe?”

“I do.” She chuckled. “Weird, isn’t it? He is in charge until I’m gone. Vigil’s Keep stays safe for you, should you need it.”

“And thus Warden-Commander Mahariel rides alone in the sunset, to prove anyone daring say she’s just running after ghosts that ghosts can be punched in their teeth if you try hard enough.”

It elicited another laughter, louder than the previous one. She scooted closer, searching for her hand and, when she found it, twining their fingers together and squeezing, in silent gratefulness.

“I’m not letting Anora bear his heir. Not the first one, at least.”

“And here I thought you two got along pretty well.”

“Oh, we do. But you know me.” She surged forward pressing herself flush against the other, lips, as per usual, just a breath away from hers. “I keep biting until I get what I want.”

“I got the idea, yes.” Morrigan smiled, not yet filling the distance.

She cupped the other’s cheek instead, the one where the scars broke the blue line of her Vallaslin, and delighting as the other closed her eyes and leaned in her touch.

“You’re not doing this for him, aren’t you?” Morrigan knew the answer: she could never see Alistair asking for anything of sort, but power changed people, years had passed since she last saw him, let alone spoke to him. And she wasn’t leaving her lover with him, if that was the price. She could forget the Eluvians for a couple of months, enough to go to Denerim and turn him into a frog for real.

Alyra, tho, snorted: not a positive reaction, but the one she wanted to see.

“I’m doing this for me. I wanted children from before I met him, and Kieran would love a younger sibling, he told me. That the father I chose will be happy as well is but a fortunate side effect.”

“You really have the heart of a poet.”

“If any of you wanted a romantic, Leliana was the right Bard, you know.”

She relaxed back again, smiling. That relaxed smile she so rarely donned, even during the Blight, and always felt like a personal victory. Morrigan should remind her that she had food brought up for her that was waiting. They could discuss details and how she could help her over dinner. But since she was there and she could, she just bent forward and kissed her again.

“Where are you headed first?”

“North.” She said, sighing. “The Anderfels.”

“Weisshaupt?”

The smile turned sly, and that was a more usual one.

“I’m sneaking in the First Warden’s private library.”

“Oh, if I could come with you.” Morrigan chortled, imagining the scene. “Has he stopped insisting for you to report?”

“I have no idea, I told Varel to toss his letters in the fireplace if he reads something on that line again. When I left, it had been a couple of months since I last heard from him. My spies didn’t find any Warden army marching our way, so I guess he put his mind at ease.” She huffed and shrugged. She started having troubles with the First Warden from soon after she became Warden-Commander and firmly refused to travel all the way up to the Anderfels to justify herself for being alive, she told her, and Morrigan had been updated on their cold war ever since.

“Or, his attention is elsewhere.”

“I have contacts to write back to Amaranthine, should the worse happens, can I ask you…?”

“I’ll write to Nathaniel, via the usual means.”

“Thank you, Mo.”

She sighed and leaned forward, resting her forehead against her shoulder.

“After Weisshaupt?” Morrigan asked, gently raising her hands to unpin the crown of braids on the back of her lover’s head. One by one, collecting them in her lap as she undid them and three braids slowly fell down.

“After that, off to some far-off entrance to the Deep Roads. Some remnants of the First Blight, I have a map. With some luck, I saw my fair share of Broodmothers and won’t have to even come closer to smell one.”

The elf shivered, and the mage knew that it wasn’t from her hands carefully guiding her braids to rest before her shoulder, tidying them neatly. She started to undo them, one by one, combing her fingers through knots and waves. They saw each other little: their duties kept them apart, and yet this little ritual became ingrained. Morrigan would undo Alyra’s hair, and then Alyra would unlatch Morrigan’s jewels, one by one, before slipping in the same bed. The little things that gave them both the illusion that whatever they had was an habit, was normal, that they had all the time in the world and not stolen moments.

“My my my, the Hero of Ferelden scared of something!” She joked, for the hundredth time.

“Hush.” Alyra swatted her, without any real effort. “Those things give me the creeps. They’re just… Wrong.”

“One could argue that no Darskpawn is exactly right.”

“One never had to dispatch two Broodmothers. One of which was talking. Those things shouldn’t talk. I don’t want to see one ever again.”

“Even if it won’t talk?”

“Can we stop talking of Broodmothers? It was supposed to be a pleasant evening.”

Morrigan laughed, sweeping the mass of hair behind her back and snaking her arms around the other woman’s neck, to hug her. It was refreshing, to give in to some tenderness and sincerity once in a while. It was refreshing, to have Alyra’s back there in her arms, sighing contently and holding her close with hands on the small of her back, nose in the crook of her neck and planting lazy kisses on the trapeze.

“Will you and Kieran be fine?”

“Worry not for us. I can take care of us.”

“I know. But let me worry.”

“Worry by writing. He’ll be happy to hear your adventures. The stories about you are his favourites.”

“He stormed me in questions, this afternoon. I fear he learnt very little about Emperor Drakon’s reign, but he knows everything about the werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, now.”

“Of course he had.”

“He’s such a good child.”

And there there was: regret. The slight hint of it that she allowed herself to show, and just with Morrigan, when all her barriers were down. She clutched her closer, the old wound they both sported closed but never really healed. She caressed her hair, in silence, offering support and the acceptance she knew the other needed, right now. There were no words to spare: they both had chosen, they both knew that it had to be this way. So, they both let it end with that, in a hug. A hug that said I’m sorry and I know and It’s ok like it is. There was time, for now, for closer expressions of affection, for finally tackling that dinner, for everything else.

“How long ere you leave?”

“Three days.”

They got, indeed, time, and there was only them in that room, warded and protected by ancient glyphs and spells. They could leave their hard shells out for a while.

[fenrisisms]

okay okay okay i’m gonna say 💕 and 👌🏻 but specifically for riva/cullen with leah & marlowe!!

mwah mwah sending u many air kisses thank u for the ask.... i am mostly gonna be focusing on riva because we both know how cullen is but <3 he gets mentions

💕 thoughts on parenting/being a parent?

i feel like cullen's gotta have some kind of complex about it right. like the templars have to give you a complex about it considering the whole marriage and kids thing is frowned upon. i feel like there's gotta be some Complex there bc when does this man Not have a complex

as for riva i truly don't know that he put a lot of thought into parenting/being a parent before like. the immediate reality that he would become one lmfao. like he's definitely heard enough stories to kind of inform An Attitude around parenting (if you're going to bring life into this world you should be prepared to love and nurture it no matter the cost) but i think he's also seen enough to know that the idea of what is best for your child is muddier waters than it would seem on the surface and that what it means to love someone and what it means to nurture someone varies from person to person and that makes parenting much much messier. i mean he travelled with alistair and morrigan aka mommy issues: the people like.

👌 do they think they are/would be a good parent?

i mean it's cullen he could hang stars in the sky for his child and he'd still find a way to do mental gymnastics to make himself a bad parent in his own eyes we all know he is forever and ever stressing about being a good dad

on the other hand riva's great hubris is he believes with 100% conviction he can BECOME good at anything and he is historically good with kids so i think he would believe with full sincerity that he could be a good parent, but as soon as it became an impending reality and not just a hypothetical question then he'd kind of have a mini crisis because he's forced to confront the fact that he doesn't actually know what it is to be a parent because he doesn't have a singular healthy parental figure to his name. like his biological parents abandoned him and all of his adoptive parental figures have kind of fallen from grace and he's spent over ten years trying to unlearn some of the nastier habits that he adopted in order to survive so i think he'd have to be like huh! i cannot pass that on to my kids so wtf do i do. and then he remembers like 80% of his friends have shit parents so he's like oh okay so i just make a list of what NOT to do and work backward from there. crisis over. and ofc he goes through all of that without saying a thing to ANYBODY because he'd rather swallow his left hand whole than have a vulnerable conversation about his emotions

i also decided while writing this that i think he actually marks isolde guerrin on the potential good role models list for the whole connor thing because i have realized some parallels and i think he is for personal reasons extremely sympathetic to her in that regard which is an interesting little character tidbit i will be devouring whole for 3-4 business days so thank u for uncovering that with this ask <3

[elfmagesurana]

Warden!Jowan AU: Redcliffe Conscription

~°••°~

Surana feels herself panicking, breathing coming on quicker at Arl Eamon's refusal to let Jowan leave the castle unmolested. The Arl, Bann Teagen, and Alistair look at her in various states of disapproval for even asking.

Surana knows for a fact now that Jowan will become Tranquil if he is sent back to Kinloch Hold. He'd told her as much when he'd been in that awful prison cell she released him from, and Irving himself had said as much when she'd asked about it in his office. She should have released him from the cell before, and told him to leave forever, hindsight is crueler than any demon.

With a heavy heart, Surana looks Jowan in the eyes before speaking.

"Then I shall recruit this mage into the Grey Wardens." She takes hold of his hand, and through muscle memory alone he brushes his thumb against her hand, calming her nerves. Jowan is her dearest friend, and she just wants him safe.

No one else accepts this outcome, especially Alistair. Surana can feel his disapproval before he even speaks.

"The Grey Wardens can't recruit criminals, Surana!" Alistair protested, Eamon gone silent and Bann Teagen looked to be in deep thought.

"Duncan recruited me, and I was sentenced to die!" Surana reminds him, hurt by his vehement refusal. He'd seen how much Jowan meant to her.

"Because of him!" Alistair shouts, and Surana jumps slightly as Alistair makes an unconscious step forward.

"Don't yell at her! You're mad at me, not her!" Jowan pipes up in defense of his friend, slightly surprising Surana. Usually the roles were reversed. He looks at her fondly. "She's my friend, and I care about her, more than anything. I'm sorry it took so long to realize that." Jowan apologizes.

"Oh Alistair, everyone deserves a second chance. The man is clearly remorseful of his actions." Leliana lightly scolds, her tone sympathetic to Jowan's situation and no doubt thinking of her own.

"Yes Alistair, do you truly hate this man so? Or has your Templar training poisoned your mind such that you cannot even conceive of anything beyond it? Would you truly let this man die?"

Alistair calms a bit at this, shamed. "I... you're right. I'm sorry Surana... Jowan. You're the leader, and I can't fault you for wanting to save your friend, Maker knows I wish I could've saved some of mine." Alistair says, quietly.

Surana feels nothing but relief, and accepts his apology. Looking to the Guerrins, Surana asks if she can count on them in the fight to come. They say yes, with Eamon recommending the group to finish using the grey warden treaties while he aims to get the Landsmeet started. Neither man make eye contact with Jowan.

With her heart lighter, Surana heads out of Redcliffe with Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan, and Jowan in tow.

--

Jowan is rendered unconscious, and Alistair is quick to check on him.

"He made it, surprisingly." Alistair said, picking Jowan up like a sack of potatoes and walking with Surana back to camp. He'd actually had to threaten a nosy Zevran not to follow them, and Alistair still felt guilty. Then felt annoyed at his guilt over threatening an assassin.

"I'm glad. And thank you again, Alistair. For letting me recruit him." Surana says, smiling up at him shyly.

Alistair blushes and looks forward. "He's your friend, and you are the leader of our little group. Doubly so after you beat up Sten. I still can't believe that worked." Alistair says, ribbing her.

Surana laughs along, happy there are no hard feelings.

--

Jowan wakes up eventually in his own tent, Surana had been taking care of him while he'd been unconscious. She smiles at him, eyes filled with something Jowan can't recognize. "What...was that? Was that the Archdemon?! We have to fight that thing?" Jowan says fearfully.

Surana nods, "Alistair said the nightmares will either get worse or you will be able to block them out eventually. as for the Archdemon, well. Between my Entropy magic and your... magic. I think we should save the Archdemon battle for Alistair, we will just support him I think. Now that you're up, we should head out. We need to head for the Brecilian Forest next."

Jowan needs help from Leliana to pack his tent back up, but he's quick to note that Alistair had to help Surana as well. A hard ball of shame sets in his stomach soon after however, knowing that he and Surana were lacking in what seemed to be things most everyone else already knew. He really hated living in the Circle.

Giving Sten a wide berth, Jowan sets his meager things into the caravan Bodahn had apparently given to them, as thanks for safe travels and good coin.

Jowan just hoped life as a Grey Warden wasn't as awful as life in the Circle.

--

Jowan didn't live many of his years outside of the Circle, but he was pretty sure that trees hadn't been attacking people constantly.

Morrigan had called them Sylvans, like they were normal. Jowan had tried casting a Flame Blast, but when it proceeded to do nothing but set them all on fire, he hid until the fight was over.

Sten had been livid, and Surana had to defend him by saying that it was his first battle. Which was true, but trees were attacking and that more than anything had scared him. Sten scared Jowan, not because of the Qunari thing but because of the way he looked at him. Like Jowan was the scariest person in the group, besides Wynne who he gave the same look to. Jowan would have chalked it up to them being mages except he was just plain nervous around Morrigan same as everyone, and looked at Surana with deference.

So Jowan had no clue what Sten's problem was, specifically, but until then Jowan would not get near him to find out.

--

Surana will admit, Jowan running scared wasn't a good look, especially as they were just trees. Apparently sometimes trees just began killing sprees but either way Jowan needed to be able to fight. Not necessarily be the best at combat, but at least do something.

Except blood magic, everyone got all up in arms about that apparently.

[darlingrutherford]

Happy (almost) Halloween, everyone! 👻

What better way to celebrate the spooky holiday than with a little vampire!au spicy time? 👀 I know it's been some time since I put out some writing, hopefully this will help~ I'm definitely feeling a lot about this au so who knows, maybe there will be more to come down the road! ❤️ In the meantime, if you're 18+, enjoy! (Otherwise, keep scrolling.)

Compulsory Diversions | Cross-posted on Ao3 | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | DA Vampire!AU | Explicit - sex, biting, blood | 18+ only, please!

Redcliffe castle was dark and dreary, even during the day. Though the entrance and most front facing areas were bright and welcoming, Lana had quickly learned it was mainly for appearance's sake. The vast majority of the castle had curtains drawn during the daytime, blocking out most of the sun save for the bits that broke through the cracks of heavy fabric defenses like fire glowing from outside.

The sun didn't hurt them, at least not in the ways stories of old described it. Alistair hadn't burst into flames, he hadn't faded into a pile of dust the first time he walked into the library in the early afternoon and hadn't been able to avoid the bright, warm beams of sunlight Lana had let in upon drawing the curtains before she knew he was behind her.

‘Serves me right for trying to sneak up on you,’ he had chuckled at the time. Weakness that increased the longer exposed, headaches, nausea. Not bad when compared to what Lana had expected when she had yelled and shoved him away from the light, even though by all means it should have been too late to avoid becoming an ashy mess. Still, after watching Alistair nurse a grueling headache after one afternoon of following Lana around in the gardens, she understood why they kept the curtains closed.

Lana's bare feet made no sound as she walked the stone halls. Bronze chamberstick in hand, she kept the lit candle close to her to light the way. It was early evening. Dusk had begun to fall outside and the bits of sunlight that seeped through the cracks in the curtains had begun to turn into a blue haze, all but fading away.

Her legs came to stop as Lana looked around the hall. Old paintings covered the walls, tapestries with the Guerrin family crest that she could have sworn she had passed earlier. The castle was like a maze; it wasn't the first time she had taken a wrong turn in all the time she had been living there. She grasped the side of her robe, pulling it tight around her and the layered light, cream colored fabric of her dressing gown. ‘I'll just walk around for a few minutes, then get dressed,’ she had originally thought. Easier said than done, she supposed, sighing quietly at how easily she had gotten lost. Lana perked up as her ear was drawn towards the sound of something shuffling in the dark. The candles on the walls had yet to be lit for the night, and she strained to see anything other than what her candle allowed. Then, suddenly, there was a light gust of wind, and a hand muffling her startled yell as she was pulled into an empty alcove.

“You're straying too close to Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde’s wing.” Alistair's voice murmured against Lana's ear. She let out a breath of relief against his hand before he slipped it from her lips. “Sorry to grab you like that, only… You're a bit jumpy. I figured you'd yell either way, sooo…”

“No, no, you're probably right.” Lana could barely see Alistair in the dark. She had dropped the candle when he had first grabbed her. Its light extinguished and the sun fading more quickly than ever had left the hall nearly pitch black.

“Are you okay?” Lana shivered as she felt Alistair place his hand on her shoulder, sliding it slowly down her arm over the fabric of her robe. “Your heart is beating fast.”

‘Of course it's beating quickly - I live with vampires, it's your feeding day, and you have me pinned against the wall in my negligee,’ she thought to herself. Her voice when she spoke aloud, however, was not as confident.

“Oh, um. I'm - I'm fine, Alistair. Thank you.”

“You sure?” He trailed the tips of his fingers down the side of her cheek, feeling the heat flush from her skin. Her breath quickened as his fingers trailed down her neck, all too aware of how he seemed focused on a particular vein as if he were testing it for ripeness. “When I woke and found you missing, I worried.”

“Difficult when your meal has legs, isn't it?” Alistair chuckled at her quip. Lana smiled and settled into his touch, pressing her neck comfortably against his palm. “I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit.”

“If you needed to stretch your legs out, all you have to do is ask.”

Lana let out a surprised breath as her feet left the cold floor. Her legs instinctively wrapped around Alistair's middle as his lips pressed to hers. Her back thudded against the stone wall, blood already pumping with the feel of his hands slowly pushing her nightgown up. Lana always felt tiny in Alistair's arms. She was unsure if it had anything to do with his condition, but, Maker, he did indeed stretch her legs when she had them wrapped around him. Lana slipped her hands under his linen shirt, feeling the magnificent way he inhaled when she skated her fingers up his muscled abdomen. She loved how his build was still soft to the touch on the surface, yet also strong and steady not far beneath, just like him.

Alistair's hand had settled firmly on one of her smooth lower cheeks, gripping it with glee as his other slipped from her dressing gown to pull at the lacing that kept the top more modest. He deftly unknotted it, an easy task for sure as she hadn't expected to be in her sleepwear for so long when first she left their room. Alistair dipped his head down to kiss the top of her breasts that then poked out from the soft fabric, fully intending on giving them much needed care when his attention was suddenly pulled to her hands that were somewhat frantically pulling at the lacing of his trousers.

“Bit impatient, are we, my dear?” Alistair's grin went slack, his mouth hanging open as Lana plunged her hand into the front of his trousers and took his cock in hand. It grew quickly in her grasp, almost painfully pressing against her belly at an angle as the two of them all but melded their skin together. Their kisses became wet and desperate, breath hot as Alistair panted from her steady touch as her hand gripped and stroked him. His hand slipped back beneath her nightgown and rough callused fingers began coaxing wetness from her heat one, then two, at a time. Lana's hips began to follow a rhythm with Alistair's hand, rocking against his thrusting fingers while her hand seemed to follow a dance of its own. When he could feel the moisture dripping to his palm, Alistair pulled his fingers from her despite her begging whimpers. His kisses slowed, becoming more purposeful, yet the heaviness of them remained. His hand replaced Lana's, transferring the slick from his hand to his cock before shifting her up higher against the wall and sliding into her.

Alistair all but covered her mouth with his own when it happened. He had been with Lana enough times by then to know there was no quieting her - not usually something he worried about, but, being in the hallway, empty as it was, well… He supposed swallowing her initial loud, wailing moan she was always apt to upon them joining would be easier than explaining to Eamon why here, why her.

Here could never be explained well. He had seen her, smelled her, wanted her. Of course he had thought about going back to their room, but then her pulse had quickened beneath his fingers, and she had pressed her neck right into his hand, fully aware of everything he had in store for her, and he couldn't find himself willing to wait another moment. So, here it was - up against a wall, in a dark alcove, before everyone else was up for the night.

As for why her... why shouldn't it be her? Maker, but the way she moaned when he was in her. Even when she did her best to time it with their kisses, trying to drown the sound of them in his mouth, against his tongue, even the vibrations of it made Alistair weak in the knees. She was perfect, from the way she spoke, the way she loved, how she made love to him, even up against a wall. Her hands balled into fists at his shoulders, gripping the linen of his shirt so tight even though she knew well he would never drop her. Still, she held to him for dear life as he thrust into her, rolling her hips against the length of him as he filled and stretched her and she kept begging for more.

“Do it now,” she whimpered against his lips. Something deep within Alistair stirred awake when she said it. Like an animal deep within, waiting for that permission, with eyes flying wide open once it was given, ready to pounce and devour.

“Right now?” He wanted to be sure, always, even as he began salivating at the very thought. Normally they waited until later, until she had time to ready and do whatever she wanted to do with her night before it was done. She had been awake for less than an hour, he was certain. Still, that slinking, dark animal inside of him glared and growled at Alistair from within when he asked, “You don't want to wait?”

Lana shook her head fervently. She was biting her lip hard, trying to keep quiet but only succeeding at lessening them to high pitch whimpers in the back of her throat.

“I want all of you, and I want you to have all of me, now.”

Twice was plenty confirmation for him. Alistair brushed Lana's long, copper braid to the other side of her neck. His hips slowed to still for the moment, taking his time as he ran his fingers again down that vein on her neck he had been focusing on earlier. Lana's head tilted to the side as if by learned habit, the back of her head resting against the cold stone of the wall. Alistair leaned forward, running the tip of his nose affectionately along the soft skin of her neck. He could feel her neck contract as she swallowed, the way her hips wiggled impatiently. It was hardly fair to tease one's food, he supposed, so he turned his mouth parallel with her neck, extended his fangs, and bit.

There was never any yell that accompanied it, never was, never had been. A pain that strangely felt good, was how she had described it to him - drastically different from the pain of being changed, he was extremely thankful for that. Just a bit of lovely pain, and then… There it was: the venom, as he had called it in the past. Lana could feel it seeping into her the moment he pierced her skin, and it was intoxicating. It was no wonder one rarely heard tale of the victims of vampires fighting back. The venom insisted, compelled her to stay, to enjoy - and, oh, sweet Maker, did she enjoy it. The world around her slipped away, leaving behind everything but the feel of pleasure. The initial pain of the bite - enjoyable as it had been - remained hardly as a memory, overshadowed and overwhelmed as it turned to absolute bliss below her jaw. She could still feel him in her, the way his cock more than filled her generously, any whimpers from her from the stretch of him turning into mewls and moans that begged for more as his hips began thrusting again.

Alistair wouldn't even have to touch her to get her to come while the venom ran rampant through her blood, a fact he knew well by then. He pressed Lana fully against the stone wall, thrusting his cock repeatedly into her as he slowly and carefully focused on draining just enough from her - enough to sustain him, but little enough that she would feel fine in the morning. Oh, but she tasted divine, she always did. A small trickle of blood escaped his lips as he failed to suppress a smile when he realized what she had been eating that week - pears, and lots of them, by the sultry taste of her blood. She had listened to him, when he had mused to her how her blood was shaped by what she ate, how her eating pears here and there had made him hum salaciously the last time he had dined at her flesh. He quickly forced himself to stifle his grin, refusing to waste one single drop of the gift she gave him every other week.

Pulling at the shoulder of her smooth nightgown Alistair tugged it down, chasing the blood as it dropped down to her breast. He ran his tongue down her skin, nipping gently at her nipple as he reached it before quickly licking his way back up to her neck. Lana gasped as he sucked at her. Her hands slipped into his hair, gripping at the back of his head as the rocking of her hips became heavy and erratic. She retracted a hand to her mouth, shoving her palm over her lips to stifle her loud cries as she began twitching and shaking in his arms as waves of pleasure washed over her while he thrusted through her orgasm. And then his came rushing in just behind hers, coaxed on by the spasming and tightening of her delightful heat around him. His hand replaced his mouth on her neck, stopping the bleeding as he grit his teeth and groaned heavily in his throat as his cock throbbed and emptied inside of her warmth.

Alistair pressed his temple to Lana's while his mouth slowly slid open to pant. He wanted to kiss her, to show her love and appreciation after all she had given him. Knowing that the taste of copper and all that was hers was all she would taste on him, though, he settled on a long kiss at the side of her cheek - he'd make up for it later.

Lana's legs would be too weak to walk after all that; she had tried once after a feeding, and although Alistair did find her wobbling to be endearing, there were much easier ways to get her back to bed. He set her on her feet for only a moment, just long enough to slip everything back where it belonged and to tie up everything so it would stay that way. Then he whisked her off of her feet, and Lana instantly curled against his broad chest as he carried her back to their room.

Cleanup was easy - Alistair never went overboard when it came to feeding, not like he had seen some vampires get with their prey, especially ones they had no intention of caring for afterwards. A warm, wet washcloth took care of any drying blood, including the bit he had left behind on her cheek from his kiss. Salve was placed on the bite at her neck, to help keep them from reopening and to keep them clean while she slept.

Lana was asleep before he started any of this, of course. The loss of blood on its own was enough to make one want to get a few hours of sleep at least, and she was always out like a light by the time he placed her head on a pillow. Alistair was unsure if she knew everything he did for her after each feeding, but it didn't matter. It was the least he could do for the woman who willingly gave her everything to him. Maker, but he knew how lucky he was. He crawled into bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, intent on holding her and savoring the taste of her until she awoke.

[wyrdsistersofthedas]

hey! i’ve recently been discussing royal succession in ferelden and would love to hear your thoughts (if you want to)! we wondered who would be the next ruler if/when alistair and/or anora died without issue. if cousland was co-ruler then any future children of fergus’ would probably be in line but otherwise the only obvious candidates (to us) are eamon and teagan who also have no viable heirs. who else do you think would be in line and what process might be used to negotiate this do you think?

Successions: The Royals Heir-less 

Sure!  What a juicy topic!  Thanks for the ask!   

We agree that Fergus Cousland or Teagan Guerrin would be the most likely candidates for the throne.  Or rather their heirs would be…if they had any.  Both families have considerable popular support among everyday Fereldans.  They have overcome adversity and tragedy, handling themselves well during the Ferelden Civil War, the Fifth Blight, and the reconstruction afterward becoming leaders the people of Ferelden could look to for a new monarch.

Heirs Apparent

The Guerrins are probably in the best position to become the next rulers of Ferelden, if Alistair or Anora were to die without an heir.  Eamon has enough political acumen to swing support towards the Guerrins, they are closely associated with the throne due to Rowan’s marriage to Maric, Eamon’s potential chancellorship, and Teagan’s service as Ferelden’s ambassador and both Alistair and Anora’s trusted emissary.  Although he seems better suited to such roles than ruling (especially since he rarely is in his arling to govern it), if Teagan had children, we don’t doubt that Alistair or Anora might name them as heirs to the throne.

Even without being married to the current monarch, the Couslands would also be viable candidates for the throne.  They are an ancient family, well versed in governance, politics, and war.  Their teyrnir is second in wealth and power only to the throne itself, and the Couslands have considerable popular support in the Landsmeet.  They are extremely sympathetic, especially given the horrors they endured in the Ferelden Civil War, and they wouldn’t have the whispers that seem to follow Eamon about his ambitions for power, whether they are true or not.  If Fergus had another child or children, and they displayed talent and a good head for leadership, we could see a Cousland being named heir to the throne even if a Cousland Warden was not married to Alistair or Anora.

An Intriguing Mess

Anora or Alistiair choosing an heir, however, is only part of the story.  In reality, whoever was named would have to gain the support of the Landsmeet, and that is likely going to be tricky given the political climate of Ferelden post Inquisition.

The Landsmeet has been a governing body in Ferelden longer than there has been a Ferelden:

[Side note of holy shit here: The Landsmeet is older than the Chantry or the Tevinter Imperium!  It dates back to the first few hundred years after humans arrived in Ferelden.  It is unlikely that the Alamarri, fleeing from a demon or a shadow goddess or whatever, just spontaneously came up with a political forum to settle disputes.  More than likely it is a system they learned from the dwarves or the elves.  Intriguing, but I better wait to examine this subject more in a different post.]  

So ultimately there is no monarchy in Ferelden unless the Landsmeet consent to be governed.  Any potential heir of Anora or Alistair would have to convince the nobles of Ferelden that they are the best suited to rule, and Arl Eamon and Anora had some pretty dire predictions [3:30 minutes in] if the nobles couldn’t come to a consensus on the succession.  

(This is me, Morta, trying to hear as many dialogue options at one time in both videos.   They are not my usual choices, but they are revealing about Ferelden politics and the people involved in it.)

Ferelden’s monarchy only exists if the nobles work together long enough to support said ruler in order to field a united front against threats and to provide for the common welfare.  And the Landsmeet has wielded its power in the past to depose monarchs the assembly felt had lost the legitimacy to rule.  Even after all of his conquering, diplomacies, and dragon blood drinking, the Landsmeet pretty much said they would go back to warring teynirs if Calenhad didn’t abdicate, leaving his kingdom to his regent queen and their unborn son.  If the Landsmeet can force Calenhad into exile, then they can deny anyone they don’t approve of the crown.  

And they just might do it again.  400 years after ousting Calenhad, the Landsmeet seems a little disgruntled by the state of affairs in Ferelden if Anora or Alistair are ruling alone or with a Cousland consort:

The Orlesian saber-rattling part of this problem has seemingly cleared itself up, what with the Inquisition helping to negotiate a pathway to a peace treaty, but all of that could fall to pieces if things don’t go well in the future for either country.

It is interesting to note that neither Anora nor Alistair’s support is so strong (unless they are ruling together) as to make their reign unassailable, and it may not take their deaths to cause a succession crisis.  

Given that we are 10+ years out from Origins, stabilizing their reign really should be Anora and Alistair’s priority.  Clearing up the succession question would certainly go a ways towards steadying the country.  If an heir everyone can agree on isn’t found, Ferelden faces potential collapse.  Successions matter!  Look pretty much anywhere in real history and you find that shit tends to hit fans when transitions of power are shaky.

In real life, unclear successions and/or weakened rule often result in civil wars, invasions, and even pretenders to throne showing up to challenge the legitimacy of the current monarch.  If you think the last is an exaggeration, note the rumors of another Theirin heir out there somewhere [6 minutes in] as far back as Origins.  Such talk could be exploited to weaken the legitimacy of Anora or Alistair’s rule.  It is even possible that rivals nations, like Orlais, could support the story pretender to the throne in order to gain a puppet ruler they could then manipulate as they wished.  

Not a pretty picture for Ferelden (although the story telling opportunities are rather delicious).  It would be better for Ferelden, and especially the nobles in the landsmeet, to have several years to get to know Alistair or Anora’s heir before the succession takes place.  

The Shape of Things to Come

So why hasn’t someone been named yet?  Well, according to Josephine, most of Ferelden’s noble families are in pretty bad shape.  It isn’t just the Couslands and Guerrins who are rebuilding their family and holdings.  Pretty much all of Ferelden’s nobility is in a state of flux:

-The Kendells and Wulff families are either dead or have completely delegitimize themselves with their actions in Origins and Inquisition.  

-The Brylands might be a reasonable choice, but some might see them as too connected to Orlais and the Howes to be real contenders (and Habren has serial killer in the making written all over her).  

-The Eremons are the only other noble family anyone would have a chance of remembering from Origins, but we don’t hear anything about Alfstanna in Inquisition so we don’t know the state of their family.

Pretty much all of the rest of Ferelden’s nobles are too minor to really have a chance at being named in the succession.  They don’t have enough political, economic, or popular support to make them viable options.  (And most of us wouldn’t have a clue of who they are even after playing all the games!)

It is also very plausible at this point that Alistair and Anora haven’t completely given up hope of having a child of their own.  We here at the Wyrd Sisters will admit to having our own headcanon of beautiful babies born to the monarch of our choice (complete with names, birthdays, astrological signs, MBTI, face claims, future marriage prospects, etc.), but we are also trying to prepare ourselves for the very real possibility of being disappointed.  

It is still possible that Bioware will give fans an actual, biological heir for Alistair or Anora…but we also recognize how tricky that would be to pull off.  Consider how many possible heir scenarios there are that the writers at Bioware would have to account for in order to satisfy all of the world states that are possible in the Keep.  

But taking the choice completely out of the player’s hands also seems like a pretty bad idea since so many of us care a lot about Ferelden’s ruling family.  It may be nigh impossible for Bioware to satisfy all of our visions for the future of Ferelden, but they sure as shit ought to try!  So what could they do that might result is less fan rage and tears (ours included)?

Give future protagonists a role to play in the succession.

Choices

While we don’t expect to see a succession crisis exactly like Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts again, there are a lot of story possibilities to explore if a future player character is given a voice in choosing Ferelden’s next ruler.  We are all pretty damn emotionally invested in Ferelden, we know that Dread Wolfy trouble is on the horizon, and that the chances of events taking place in Northern Thedas having an impact on the southern kingdoms is high (especially since Orlais is far from stable and Nevarra is one dead old guy away from dynastic disputes too).  Would fans be more or less likely to accept whatever state of affairs Ferelden is in if we have a hand in shaping it?  We think more given how we all tend to react to such things.

So what kind of stories could a new protagonist involve themselves in?  There are all sorts of interesting possibilities:

-Some sort of Dark Ritual, part 2 for Alistair or Anora and their consort of choice?-Support one of the remaining noble Ferelden families in a bid for the throne?-Support an elven coup to topple the kingdom and claim Ferelden as a new homeland?-Support another “Lost” Theirin suddenly showing up to make a claim?-Kieran?  (Morrigan would kill us!)-Titans Rule!-The Imperium Strikes Back?-Varric rules everything? (Varric: “Well, shit!”)-Orlais is back, but promises to be nice this time?-Allow the common people to throw down the nobility and monarchy and install an autonomous collective in its place?!

…Okay, so some of those are far fetched and even harder to pull off than Bioware’s current world states, but you have to admit that the storytelling possibilities are endless.  Our point is that allowing players to have a say in Ferelden’s future will soften any potential disappointments while also getting us invested in whatever comes next for our darling Dog Lords.  

But tell us your thoughts on the matter, @chralotte .  We’d be happy to weigh in other people’s theories on such matters, so be sure to respond with your ideas!  

-MM

[shannaraisles]

A Rose By Any Name - Chapter 2

In which the princess of Antiva arrives in Denerim, and learns exactly why she’s there. Banner created by the fabulous @kagetsukai!

[Read on AO3] or [From the beginning]

Chapter 2

"If you would just step this way, your highness ..."

Princess Felicita Amelia Braulia Salome of Antiva ignored the seneschal trying to usher her out of the courtyard, taking a moment to lower her hood and look around the gray walls of the royal palace of Denerim.

It was not what she had been told to expect; indeed, it far surpassed her father's dubious descriptions. He had painted Ferelden as a miserable, cold sort of place, where there was little joy to be found and less color. As the eighth daughter of his line - and four more still to be found a place for, if they didn’t kill each other vying for the succession - he could not afford to be picky, and the plutocracy of the merchants had agreed that placing an Antivan princess on the throne of Ferelden might do very nicely, for all its shortcomings. They, too, had warned her that the southern country was a drab place, lacking in the refinements she was accustomed to; some had even gone so far as to suggest Ferelden was lacking in basic good manners.

Yet this description did not mesh with the country as she had seen it thus far. Amaranthine had certainly been a sallow sort of place, but justifiably so - they were still rebuilding after the catastrophic darkspawn attack after the end of the Blight. Even so, the people there had been smiling about their work, eager to take a look at the nobles who disembarked. Word had reached them well in advance that these ladies of Antiva, Nevarra, and the Free Marches were prospective queens, and the welcome they had given was warm, indeed. As for a land that lacked color, well ... Felicita had seen green fields beneath snow, blue skies, bright clothing. She had seen dried flowers in red and white and deep purple, familiar and unfamiliar to her Antivan eyes, and in some places, fresh growing by the side of the road, even here at the waning end of winter. Far from misery, she had witnessed cheerful good nature at the inns and noble homes opened for herself and her party to stay at on their journey from the port city. These people were fiercely proud of their land and heritage, possessed of a deep love for their king, whose history as both a bastard and a hero were points they elucidated on with equal pleasure. Indeed, as soon they identified that she was from Antiva, not Orlais, the people she had met had gone out of their way to sell their King Alistair's finer points to her.

Admittedly, she had not known until her ship had docked at Amaranthine that this was to be a competition of sorts. It had been a surprise to note that her traveling companions to Denerim were Ladies Callista Damaris of Nevarra, Ceridwyn Ardvale of Kirkwall, Leona Charing of Starkhaven, and Amandine Orrick of Tantervale, all of whom had also been invited by Arl Eamon Guerrin to attend upon King Alistair of Ferelden for a full month in the hope of being asked to become his queen. Felicita could foresee all sorts of problems in the days ahead, especially given the gossip that had been filtering through to them. They five were not the only ladies invited to Denerim for this bride-finding event, it seemed; they were simply the five who necessity dictated should arrive at the same port at the same time. There were, apparently, five others to contend with, also.

Of the ladies she traveled with, however, Felicita saw only two as potential problems - Callista was of the numerous Pentaghast clan, but her lack of that name made her all the more ambitious to snag a crown of her own if she possibly could; and Amandine was a picture perfect proposition for the king ahead of them, hiding her own ambitions behind sweet manners and an easy wit. Ceridwyn clearly already had her cap set toward the Teryn of Highever, who had met them in the port city to escort the group to Denerim, and despite himself, he was clearly flattered to be the beneficiary of the vivacious redhead's attentions. As for Leona, well ... that girl would be happier in a Chantry, anyone could see that. She said and did all the right things, but her fervor for Andraste's teachings were a little too much for anyone who wasn't expecting the zeal to erupt from such a pretty face. Felicita herself was not entirely sure she wanted to be a part of this rather demeaning display of women squabbling over an eligible man, however high his rank, but her father had spoken well of King Alistair. She was prepared to wait, and use her own judgment as to how closely she would fight this battle.

But here she was, in this gray country that was looking forward to the first flush of spring, and despite everything she had been told, she found she rather liked it. It was wholly different to Antiva City, but no lesser for that difference. Her soft amberite eyes scanned the thick glass windows above her, hesitating for a moment on the sight of someone male looking down at her.

"Your highness?"

Blinking out of her contemplation of that indecipherable face high above, Felicita turned her attention back to the seneschal, finally accepting his invitation to enter the palace as she laid her hand over his own.

"Thank you, my lord."

She smiled warmly as he escorted her into a drafty vestibule hung with heraldic tapestries depicting the dual mabari of both Ferelden itself and the royal house, crimson against gold. The floor was gray stone but clean, a sturdy reed mat laid out for visitors to scrape the mud from their boots before advancing further into the castle itself. The seneschal lead her into the next room, a wide antechamber dominated by a large double door, and two flights of steps leading upward on either side of it. The space was bustling with servants and nobles, deep in preparation for the feast that evening; a feast that was as much to welcome the arrival of the various ladies as it was to mark Wintersend. Again, the walls were hung with bright tapestries, this time an array of heraldic devices, most notably those of Highever and the Couslands, and of Amaranthine and Denerim and, perhaps surprisingly, the Grey Wardens. Though the gray stone of the walls lent a chill to the air, the effect was warmed by the thick rugs that covered the floor and the steps leading upward. Felicita felt no hesitation in removing her gloves as the seneschal left her side, her eyes turning to the rotund gentleman in bright purple hose and deep green doublet who approached her.

"Ah, Don Carmello?" she asked, recognising him from her father's description. White beard, black eyebrows, deceptively friendly smile. That was definitely him.

The Antivan ambassador bowed low, his gaze sparkling cheerfully as he let forth his greeting in the familiar rolling syllables of the language they both shared, kissing her hand more as though she were a favored grandchild than a princess of his country.

"In Common, if you please, ambassador," Felicita interrupted him gently. "We should not be so rude as to conceal our thoughts from the ears of those who are here to watch over us. We are guests, not enemies."

The ambassador frowned, glancing at the bustle of humans and elves all around them. "Ah, your highness," he said in a wary tone, careful to choose his words now he was under orders to speak in a language everyone here understood. "Your father, the king, was most concerned that you should have some means to communicate without fear of being overheard."

"And why is that?" Felicita asked in an innocent tone. "I have no secrets. My father's inability to tell me that my invitation was to take part in a competition, however, would suggest that he has a few secrets of his own."

"Nonetheless, princesa, my orders ..."

Felicita turned to face him fully, uncaring that others could hear plainly. "Ambassador, if you insist upon speaking in Antivan, you must become accustomed to hearing me state in Common every word you say," she informed him. "We are guests in this land, not spies, and not enemies. I will not be so rude to my hosts, nor will I allow you to do the same."

Carmello stuttered for a moment, but Felicita was used to the Antivan way. Women were theoretically to be seen and not heard, pieces of mobile beauty to be pampered and sweetened and considered uneducated. The reality was that many Antivan women were highly educated, and often doing the work of their entire household. But still the pretty ideal persisted, especially in those men who had been away from home for a while. She held his gaze steadily, sweetening her expression with a small smile. And he gave in, sighing and muttering in Antivan about spoiled princesses.

Felicita laughed politely as he gestured for her to accompany him up the left-hand flight of stairs. "Ambassador, I still understand Antivan," she reminded him in amusement. "I did not suddenly become Ferelden by virtue of extending a simple courtesy to these people."

"Ah, forgive me, your highness." Carmello cleared his throat, apparently changing his preferred approach. He'd been away from Antiva too long. "You are to be quartered among the other ladies. This palace is laid out unusually - there is an entire floor dedicated to the comfort of guests, above the royal quarters."

"I see." She nodded as they walked. "What can you tell me of this arrangement, ambassador? I know only what little my father told me, and scant detail from the other ladies I found myself traveling with."

"Your highness, this is an unusual occasion," Carmello explained as they mounted the stairs, steering the way to the next flight upward that would take them to the guest quarters. "The nobility of Ferelden have lost patience with their King. As a Grey Warden, there is a risk that he will never produce a child at all, yet the longer he waits to wed, the greater that risk becomes. The Landsmeet - the gathering of banns and arls - have set his wedding date already. King Alistair will wed on Summerday."

"If they have set his date, why have they not also chosen his bride?" Felicita asked, more curious than offended. It seemed reasonable enough to put this kind of pressure on a King who had already had ten years to secure his line and had done nothing to prevent civil war upon his death.

"King Alistair is a very popular man among the common people," the ambassador explained to her. "He is one of their heroes, one of the Grey Wardens who ended the Blight; a man who bears the stigma of illegitimacy, and yet became their king. He has a bad habit of looking them in the eye when he speaks to them, as well. If it were to become known that he was being forced into a marriage, the people would rise to prevent it, most are certain. As it is, he has agreed to this arrangement - that he will choose, by the first day of Drakonis, which lady of birth he will wed."

"And if he does not choose?" the princess asked, glancing at the man beside her sharply.

Carmello winced. "The Landsmeet will choose for him," he sighed. It was a good arrangement, but he'd met the king on more than one occasion. It wasn't a fair arrangement for that man. "With a civil war only ten years in the past, the issue of succession is a hotly debated point."

"I see." Felicita nodded thoughtfully as they came to a halt. "Then Mama's cryptic comments about seeing me soon were not her attempt to cheer me into embarking upon the journey with a light heart."

The ambassador had the decency to look discomforted. "Alas, no, your highness," he admitted. "The invitations for the wedding have already been sent. The, ah, the name of the bride will, of course, be announced on the first day of Drakonis."

Felicita felt her usually warm expression settle into something that was decidedly put out. This was not the situation she had been allowed to believe she was walking into. A bride-finding competition, where the groom was not entirely willing, and the wedding date already set ... this was a small nightmare in the making.

"This ... contest," she said carefully. "Would I be right in thinking it is not the king's idea?"

"Sí, princesa," he agreed, seemingly more comfortable to admit to this than to the rest of it. "Arl Eamon Guerrin is the king's chief advisor. He has been pressing for a marriage for quite some years now, and it is known that he favors Orlais."

Felicita snorted, hastily turning the unladylike sound into a delicate cough. "Even I know, Don Carmello, that Ferelden will never stomach an Orlesian queen," she pointed out, surprised and a little pleased to note the smile that blossomed suddenly on the face of the elven servant stepping past them as she spoke. "Come, show me where I am to be quartered, and tell me about this ridiculous situation in greater detail."

"Of course, your highness."

The ambassador lead her from the staircase through an imposing door, into a wide corridor from which other doors lead. The rug runner on the floor was a deep shade of crimson, bordered in gold thread that glittered in the light of the torches illuminating the dark space. Some kind of incense was burning to fragrance the passageway, no doubt as a fop to those of the ladies who objected to the smell of honest sweat and the vague hint of musky mabari that clung to everything in this city. Felicita could hear voices behind some of those doors, yet there was a louder collection of feminine voices where the passageway opened far ahead. She glanced curiously at the ambassador.

"A common area, your highness," he explained, drawing to a halt beside a door that had been hung with the Antivan royal crest, no doubt to make it easier for her to find her resting place while she was here. "I believe it was thought that the princesses and ladies of rank would like a place where they might engage in traditionally feminine pastimes in relative privacy, and to build social ties with one another."

Felicita raised her brow, biting down on her smile as she passed through the door beside him. "A man made that decision, yes?" she asked, raising her hands to undo the clasp of her cloak.

Carmello chuckled lightly, knowing exactly what she was thinking. "Indeed. Arl Eamon does not appear to understand people so very much."

With the door closed behind him, Felicita finally laughed at the prospect of being expected to make nice with nine other women for an entire month, while all of them were vying for the matrimonial advantage of being Queen of Ferelden. It was utterly ridiculous. This arl was a fool if he thought there would be no unpleasantness simply because they were all women of rank. Noblewomen could be vicious when cornered. It would actually be easier to handle if they could draw knives and fight it out like men, but sadly the noble ranks didn't like to encourage their ladies to learn useful skills. Well, most countries' noble ranks did not. She could name at least two other women in this little contest who could likely draw a blade with confidence.

Still, perhaps the arl had thought that the noble ladies invited would prefer not to go to bed at ridiculous hours if they were not at the king's beck and call. The room Carmello had brought her to was spacious, certainly, but it was definitely a bedchamber. A wide hearth dominated one wall, the fire crackling in the grate more than welcome in the chill of the winter. The warm cast of firelight complimented the weaker spill of winter sunlight through the thick glass that filled the window between leads, illuminating the arm chairs that had been placed about the hearth. The bed, of course, dominated the room. Not a four-posted monstrosity, nor a dark-wooded maw; it was carved of pleasant oak, sturdy and simple, laid with soft linens and thick blankets, a bright quilt turned back to reveal the Theirin crest on the uppermost blanket. Felicita bit her lip as she fought to hide her smile, imagining the reaction of certain of her traveling companions at the thought of sleeping underneath the family crest of the man they hoped to marry. Scandalous.

"Oh ... please be seated, ambassador," she said belatedly, gesturing toward the armchairs by the fire as she removed her cloak, laying it over the folded quilt at the end of the bed. Her own chest had already been brought in, and judging by the sounds coming from beyond the door set the wall opposite the hearth, a maid was busily hanging her gowns and preparing to order a bath.

Carmello waited politely until she took a seat herself before easing himself down into one of the armchairs comfortably, letting out a low sigh of relief. "I, myself, am not quartered in the palace proper," he told her, "but should you need me at any hour, do not hesitate to send a message. My purpose here is to ease your way, your highness."

Settling her skirts comfortably, Felicita leaned back in her chair. "Tell me what I am to expect from these weeks ahead of me, ambassador," she answered, her momentary levity set aside in favor of thoughtful discussion. "How, exactly, the king is expected to woo ten women in the course of a single month."

Carmello sighed, shaking his head. He, too, thought it was an ambitious plan of the arl's, but it was clear that Arl Eamon believed he could sway his king toward a wife perhaps already chosen.

"In truth, your highness, I am uncertain quite how he is to make such a choice," he admitted. "The full detail of the month has not yet been decided. I believe the king has insisted upon being allowed to make his own decisions for some few days as to the entertainments and so on, but has yet to confirm those decisions."

That was encouraging, at least. It appeared that King Alistair was not the weak king some suspected he was, though Felicita had not truly believed him weak to begin with. He had killed an archdemon before taking the crown; he had resisted marriage for a full decade, and drawn his people slowly out of the depression left over them by the Blight. Even the eruption of the mage-templar conflict within his borders had not overwhelmed him. She tapped her fingertip against her lower lip as Carmello went on.

"There is, of course, the Wintersend feast this evening," the ambassador told her. "I am told there will be dancing, though it will undoubtedly depend upon the arl's whim. There are days set aside throughout the month for the king to spend with each lady - the names were drawn by lot, to prevent rank or partiality on the part of the arl from weighting the dice, so to speak."

"That does make sense," the princess mused, glancing up as an elven servant-girl slipped from the chamber briefly, took one look at them sat together, and abruptly skipped straight back into what she assumed was the dressing chamber. She smiled faintly, making a mental note to reassure the girl that she had not been intruding. "In that case, I should imagine I will have at least a week, if not longer, to observe the king and come to my own conclusions?"

"Certainly, your highness," Carmello assured her warmly. "The day set aside for your accompanying the king is the thirteenth. Of course, before then, you will have ample opportunity to at least form your own opinion of him. A theater troupe has been invited to perform at the palace; there is an evening planned to celebrate the different cultures of the ladies attending the ..." He groped for the right word.

"Meat market," Felicita provided in a wry tone. She was definitely not impressed with the fact that she had been sent to partake in a competition for the hand of a man who apparently didn't want to get married in the first place.

"I would not say that, princesa," Carmello said, attempting to placate her.

"Ambassador, these ladies are here seeking a crown," she pointed out to him in a weary tone. "Were it only the crown as the prize, perhaps I would choose to engage in such sport. But the crown is worn by a man who has shown no interest in marrying for ten years, and does so now only because his noble ranks will rebel against him otherwise. This is a troubled land, and I feel sure it has a troubled king. What they want is a queen; what he needs is a wife. And I will not engage in deceptions simply to be named queen. I will do my duty, I will play my role, but I will not actively seek to become Queen of Ferelden unless I see more in the man than his troubles and his crown."

Don Carmello stared at her for a long moment, his mouth working silently as he made a valiant effort to draw this display of spirit together with the picture King Fulgeno had painted of an obedient daughter who showed no inclination to fight for her right to rule and would be better suited to a life away from the political machinations of Antiva.

"Then, your highness, I will hope that the man behind the crown earns your interest and your respect," he said finally. "King Alistair is a good man. A little impulsive, perhaps; certainly not as well bred as many of his court, but his manners do not suffer for that. He is a little overwhelmed by his duties, I would venture to say, yet he expresses himself well, and his people are very fond of him. Still, the life of a lone monarch is an isolated one. If I may be so bold ... he would be lucky to have you as his wife. And Ferelden would be blessed to have you for their queen."

Felicita smiled her public smile, her fingertip pressing into her lower lip as she eyed the ambassador. "I think you are attempting to both humor and encourage me, Don Carmello," she accused in a gentle tone, "but I thank you for it. It promises to be a long month."

"And soon to begin," Carmello agreed, rising to his feet to bow to her. "I will leave you to your preparations, your highness. Please, allow me to welcome you to Ferelden once again."

"Thank you, ambassador. I will see you this evening."

"Princesa."

The ambassador bowed once again, letting himself out through the door. Felicita sighed at the sound of a particularly strident voice in the corridor outside, broad Orlesian tones expressing displeasure at a volume that was quickly shut out as the door drew closed in his wake. A full month living in close proximity with nine other women, all of whom were eager for a crown. She was going to have to check her belongings daily.

"Just like home," she mused, rolling her eyes as she rose to her feet, moving to look out through the window at the gray winter sky. There was the possibility, of course, that no one here was going to be actively trying to kill her, but even so ... Hands folded at her waist, she turned her head toward the dressing chamber. "You may come out now."

A pinched face came into view, worry dominant in the slanted eyes that looked over at her as the elven servant bobbed several curtsies in the doorway between the bedchamber and dressing room.

"Begging your pardon, my lad- ... your highness, I mean," she apologized. "I meant no offense."

Felicita smiled at the girl. "And you gave none," she assured her. "Are you to be my assistant while I am here?"

The elf nodded, a half smile of her own flickering proudly on her face. "Aye, mil- ma'am. Marta said to make sure you know that if you don't want an elf, she can send someone else in my place."

"Nonsense," the princess said easily. After all, though elves were still second-class citizens in Antiva, they seemed to hold higher respect simply for existing there than they did in other lands. Her smile gentled as she spoke again. "What is your name?"

"Andra, your highness." Another curtsy, this time with her hands thrust firmly at her back. Clearly Marta - who must be in charge of the ladies-maids - was formidable enough to have drilled them ruthlessly.

"Well then, Andra, it is a pleasure to meet you." Felicita felt almost embarrassed by the grateful smile on the girl's face as she bobbed yet another curtsy. What was life like for elves here if a simple polite greeting could be taken with such warmth? "It has been a very long journey. Would it be possible to take a bath before I must dress to impress the king and his guests, do you suppose?"

Andra nodded quickly. "Oh, yes, mi- your highness," she said, stumbling over the high rank of the lady she had been assigned to. "I'll order the water in, and fetch everything you'll need. Will you be wanting to wash your hair?"

"Do you think we can dry it in time?" Felicita heard herself ask, trying not to show her amusement at the eagerness the girl showed her.

"Oh, certainly, your highness," Andra insisted, evidently confident of her skills, even if this Marta was not. "We'll use hot combs and warm towels. You'll be dry in no time, I promise you."

"Then I should very much like to wash my hair," Felicita told her, unable to keep the relief from her voice. A chance to wash all the filth of travel from every part of herself was the best means she could think of for preparing herself for what was coming.

"Very good, your highness."

As Andra curtsied yet again and slipped from the room to organize a bath for the princess of Antiva, Felicita turned back to the window with another low sigh, wincing at the shriek from the chamber opposite her own as the inhabitant made some discovery not to her liking. Yes, the month ahead promised to be long, indeed. She felt a pang of sympathy for King Alistair, being set up as little more than a crown and a prize for the most suitable lady invited to this rather humiliating display. Still, she was here, and for her father's sake she would behave as a princess should. For her own sake, however, she would bide her time and come to her own decision. Andraste's blood, there must be something in this king, this man, that would welcome a companion for his years. Perhaps she would find an appropriate wife for him among these other ladies; coach her into a position of success.

Perhaps this month of being on display would not be so bad, after all.

[annemayfair]

Innocent Conscience Fears Nothing

@picchar HAPPY BIRTH-DAY FRIEND

Word count: 3,653

“Drink this up,” the healer commanded, putting a cup to Oran’s lips. “This will hurt, but we have to take the arrows out.”

Oran nodded silently, grabbing the armrests of the chair. The healer tipped the cup, and the healing potion started to flow down his throat. He felt invigorated, but only for a moment – the second healer, who sat on a low stool next to Oran, put one hand on his shoulder, and with the other started pushing the first arrow through his side.

The pain was immense, and Oran gritted his teeth to attempt to silence the scream. His torso shook as the tip of the arrow cut through his flesh, and he prayed that perhaps the arrows that were barely stuck underneath his skin in his back could be pulled out backwards, not forwards.

When the arrowhead pierced his skin just below his navel, Oran felt blood come up to his mouth. A towel wiped away the liquid that started coming out from his tightly pressed lips, and the potion once again was shoved down his throat. A healing spell also grazed his skin, fixing the torn guts and the messed stomach.

“One out, ser,” the healer said, pulling the potion away from Oran’s lips. “Eight more remaining.”

“Fucking amazing,” Oran grunted, moving forward to rest his elbows on his knees, feeling the remaining metal inside him pierce more of his muscles and tissues. He groaned and hit his knee with his fist, trying to tame the pain.

The tent where he was being tended to was hot with many braziers burning away incense that masked a maddening mixture of smells – of his sweat and blood and bowels, the scent of magic potions and anti-poisons he was being treated with. The battle ended a full day ago, but the healers only managed to treat minor wounds of sword slashes, moving onto the arrows in his sides and back. The gash that split his stomach open was still there, with less blood coming out, but still bleeding. The healers kept him alive although Oran wasn’t sure he wished to live much longer in this much pain.

Of various kinds.

The guards that stood outside Oran’s tent saluted loudly, and Rahlen entered with a concerned look on his face. The healers quickly shoved another cup of health potion into Oran’s mouth, and this one tasted sickeningly of ice. As his insides froze, the healers bowed to the Prince, and scurried away. Rahlen watched them leave with his head tilted, then turned to his cousin.

“You don’t look well, Oran,” he said calmly, putting his hands behind his back. “I hope your treatment shall end soon with success.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Oran replied, wiping his mouth with a towel.

Rahlen’s shoulders shivered. The only times the Guerrins called him by titles was when they were sulking. Or hurt. Oran seemed to be going through both of those sensations, but that was to be expected. The man nearly died on the battlefield.

“The battle had been a huge victory for Ferelden,” Rahlen continued, making one step closer to Oran. “Your valiant fighting is what secured the defeat of Jelynn’s soldiers. It would have been impossible if you hadn’t dealt with the blood mages she summoned, and it pains me deeply that the intelligence provided missed such an important addition to her forces.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Oran nodded without lifting his eyes at the Prince. “I may only hope that such mistakes aren’t made in the future.”

This wasn’t good. Both men knew it. The hot air inside the tent was as thick as butter, and Rahlen’s head swirled with words he wanted to speak, with emotions he wanted to express. But how could he do it? Oran looked at him as if he looked at a stranger, almost no recognition of Rahlen’s persona in his eyes. His face was stone cold, professional, polite. Oran wasn’t sulking. He truly was hurting.

“Oran,” Rahlen started after clearing his throat. “I believe I owe you an explanation of the events that have transpired several days ago. I must-”

“Your Majesty,” Oran interrupted him, raising his hand in the air. “I believe that nothing of your personal agenda is a topic that shall be discussed with me. There is no explanation to be had, as I doubt whatever it is you are speaking of concerns me directly.”

Lost, Rahlen opened and closed his mouth, staring down at sitting Oran. The man seemed to be as serious as ever. He watched Oran take a drink from his cup and his face contorted in disgust.

“Oran,” the prince repeated. “If I only could have imagined…”

“But you didn’t,” Oran interrupted him again. “Of course you fucking didn’t.”

His voice was bitter and dry. Rahlen took one more step towards his cousin.

“With all fairness,” he wondered if he tried to convince his cousin or himself, “when I had arrived at the pub, I offered to leave. It was you who insisted I stayed, and you did not insist you go with us to the ruins.”

“I would have insisted if I fucking knew you’d whip out your dick the moment you two are alone!” Oran yelled, jumping onto his feet from his chair.

The arrows that still were stuck inside him swayed around, propelled by Oran’s movement. The open gap inside his stomach splattered blood and lining onto the floor, but the Guerrin did not feel that. He did not see Rahlen’s shocked expression as he saw his cousin’s insides escape his body, one bit at a time. Anger and wrath that boiled inside Oran made the pain go away like no potion ever did.

Rahlen took that silently before attempting to defend himself again:

“Oran, calm down,” he tried to touch his cousin’s shoulder, but his hand was smacked away hard. Rahlen furrowed his brows. “You are being sensitive.”

“Am I?” Oran asked with his teeth bared so much Rahlen could see his gums. “Then how do you explain yourself at all? Just because I was being polite and did not shove a cousin whom I hadn’t seen in years, you think what you did was what, normal? It was okay? What fucking shit sits in your rotten head that you think you’re in the right here?”

Bits of blood and spit landed on Rahlen’s outfit, pale blue now staining with red. But now Rahlen was getting angry, too.

“If you really wanted her, you should have done something, cousin dear!” He raised his voice as well. “Nothing good comes to those who wait for gifts to simply fall into their lap from the sky! If you truly wanted Fenlin, and I mean it, you should have shoved me out from that pub, and never let me near her again!”

“I did what I thought I shall do!” Oran nearly yelled, but only growling escaped his chest. “I set up a date, I prepared a gift, I fucking had a music band, with harps and shit, hide in the basement for the right moment! And even if Fenlin did not catch what the fuck was up with me, how could you do this to me, cousin?”

Oran’s face shifted expression from anger and wrath to sadness and disappointment. His shoulders and chest moved in tact with his hastened breathing, his neck’s veins bulging from stress and pain. Guerrin’s face was as red as Theirin’s was pale. Rahlen bit his lip, trying to come up with an appropriate argument.

“Out of all people in the world,” Oran continued, his chest falling deeper and deeper. “Out of all people in this world, I did not expect this kind of… dishonesty, this kind of disrespect and betrayal from my own family, Rahlen. I never expected any of this shit from you.”

There was a wet sound of ripping, and with a meek gasp Oran sank back onto his chair. His pants and bandages around his previously closed wounds reddened as blood soaked them through. Rahlen wanted to help Oran, but once again he was refused:

“Don’t touch me.”

“You should have just said no.”

Rahlen stood his ground, his head clear as it has ever been. Oran’s helpless flailing, accompanied by profanity, came from frustration at his own mistakes, no doubt. And if they were to remain a family, if the Theirins and the Guerrins were to continue together as the force that kept Ferelden whole, the sooner Oran accepted his fault, the better.

“It was as simple as that,” shrugged Rahlen, filling up Oran’s empty cup he had dropped with more of the health potion. He held it out at full arm’s length and waited for his cousin to take it. “You need to learn how to say “no”, cousin dear, and your life will become a lot easier.”

Oran stared back at Rahlen with such a deep hatred in his eyes that Rahlen felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. This was the look he had seen in aunt Nathyara when she was forced to negotiate with Queen-Dowager Anora. This was the look of his mother when she spoke of Arl Rendon Howe. This was the look of his father when he spoke of Loghain Mac Tir.

And now his own cousin’s eyes returned the same emotion on him.

“How can I tell you “no”, cousin dear,” Oran took the cup, but his voice was pure poison, “when none of us are supposed to?”

That took Rahlen by surprise. His face smoothed out in disbelief as he returned the gaze to Oran:

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing at all, Your Majesty,” Guerrin’s face fell dead and emotionless as the healers came back to the tent, carrying more potions and clean bandages. Rahlen turned around as they started laying out their tools and preparing for another round of trying to keep Oran alive. One of the healers, a man with braided auburn hair, gasped in horror when he saw Oran’s reopened wounds and the lining on the floor that had fallen from his stomach.

Rahlen nodded with the slightest bow of his torso, for the healers to pick up that their conversation was finished. He exited the tent, feeling Oran’s eyes glued to the back of his head. The camp outside buzzed with life as soldiers counted the prisoners and fixed their weapon and armor. March towards Dartmoor Hold was yet to commence, but the forces were halted by Oran’s injuries. Rahlen wondered if taking command would undermine whatever respect his cousin has for him.

Fenlin approached Rahlen from the side, Potato snoozing in her hands. She looked worried, and sad, and a thousand more things. As they stepped to the side, watching the men carry their duties, she asked Rahlen:

“Is he okay?”

Fenlin, good, kind Fenlin. Rahlen wrapped his hand around her waist and drew her in for a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the aroma of her hair.

“He will be,” he assured her. “Oran just needs time.”

 Three weeks later, Rahlen and Oran met again, but this time in even worse environment. They entered the Landsmeet room, with dozens of questioning and judging eyes upon them. The King and Queen sat on their thrones on a podium at the end of the hall, and Gilbert with Duncan and Eleanor leading the table. All three stared at Rahlen and Oran in unified inquiry.

“By the grace of our Maker, and His bride, the ever-graceful prophet Andraste, I greet thee,” Oran bowed in a formal introduction.

“By the blessing of our Maker, the Light in the shadow, I greet thee,” Rahlen continued.

They both noted changes in each other’s appearance. If Rahlen seemed relaxed still, maybe even happy, the air around Oran started to remind painfully of Gilbert. Perhaps it was his hunched posture as he still waited for the last wounds to heal, or perhaps his moody face was to blame. But the Landsmeet wouldn’t wait.

“Bann Oran Guerrin,” a bann with swirly braids around her head asked from the gallery, “how shall you explain what had happened at Dartmoor?”

Oran bowed to the gallery before answering:

“A victory had been claimed in the honor of the crown,” he gestured towards Alistair and Rythlen, who listened carefully. “Bann Jelynn, half of whose bannorn had been tainted after the Blight, sought to annex the neighboring Voytern bannorn, which, as all of you known, has been lord-less since the passing of childless bann Wilhelm.”

Rahlen waited for Oran to finish his speech and couldn’t ignore how his own siblings inspected him. They were displeased with him. Gilbert, on the other hand, kept his face neutral and almost friendly, like he always did. And it disturbed Rahlen more than any stares his siblings could give him.

“The Bann had hired four thousand mercenaries and two thousand legionnaires from Tevinter Legion,” Oran continued. “After the battle had ensued, our forces managed to take over Dartmoor supporters despite the two-thousand men advantage.”

“Bann Oran, is it true that you set a dragon upon Bann Jelynn’s men?” A man with grey beard asked.

Rahlen wanted to take the blame for Fenlin’s decision, which he hadn’t protested, but Oran replied quicker:

“No contest, my lord.”

Rahlen stared at Oran in disbelief as a wave of whispers came from the gallery and the table in front of them. Oran’s face was set in stone, not a single muscle moving, and it made the usually happy and open Oran seem like a dead man.

“Bann Oran,” Duncan lifted his hand. “Bann Oran, what is your justification for an action so vile?”

“Your Majesty,” Oran bowed before answering, “nothing so upholds the laws as the punishment of persons whose rank is as great as their crime. After Bann Jelynn sent assassins after two of my captains, I felt it were a measure equal in retaliation.”

“Equal in retaliation?” Gilbert furrowed his brows. “Oran, it was a dragon.”

“The dragon served merely as a distraction tactic, and a fear factor for our enemies,” Oran defended the issue. “The dragon could not be ever persuaded to take action in actual battle, so it never did. After frying up a bunch of pigeons, it took off and away, but our enemies have been stricken with fear of her return. Their panic allowed us to make them forget of their numerical advantage.”

Rahlen swallowed hard as Oran smoothly weaved the lies about why their arrival on the back of the dragon was a positive thing. He was sure that Oran wouldn’t mention stable page boys who got trampled to death, and a few others who got injured in panic that set in the Royal camp as a freaking dragon flew over it.

“If I may…” Rahlen started, but immediately his voice drowned in another.

“Yes, but setting a dragon against our own people, despite them being temporary enemies, is a lot,” King Alistair spoke up and all heads turned to him.

“With all respect, Your Majesty, to mislead a rival is permissible in times of unrest,” Oran bowed even deeper, his expression never changing. “One must use all means necessary to win.”

“That’s a tactic that leads men to dark paths,” Queen Rythlen took initiative. “It always had in the past, and it will do so in the future. If you had been able to, would you abstain from summoning a dragon?”

Oran waited for a brief moment.

“No contest, Your Majesty.”

The Landsmeet hall blew up in angered yells and a low rumble became a loud noise. In shock, Rahlen looked at the Oran, hoping his cousin would look back at him, but he remained unmoving. With his jaws clenched tightly, Oran was preparing to face whatever the nobles would throw at him.

“Bann Oran, your behavior was unacceptable…”

“No contest.”

“Bann Oran, I reject your assessments of tactics and the enemy forces…”

“No contest.”

“Bann Oran, don’t you think that your actions have harmed…”

“No contest.”

Oran took blow by blow, and every attempt of Rahlen to raise his voice ended up with nothing. He angrily motioned for Duncan or Eleanor take stand so he could speak, but they seemed to ignore him as well. As the displeased nobles quieted down, both the king and the queen demanded for Gilbert to explain his brother’s actions:

“Arl Gilbert,” King Alistair started. “I know that you must feel strongly about the events of the Dartmoor incident, but it seems that your brother is adamant on not releasing any additional information that would allow us to judge the measure of his punishment.”

“Arl Gilbert,” Queen Rythlen continued, spreading the folds of her dress. “It also must be noted that you employ the policy of secrecy being the first essential in affairs of state, but at this time there could be no secrets as to my son’s involvement with the death of Bann Jelynn’s family.”

“And the Dalish Ambassador,” King Alistair added. “I believe it was her dragon.”

Oran pleaded Gilbert with his eyes to not stand up, to do nothing, but he could not tell his brother what to do. Gilbert stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, and turned and bowed to the entire Landsmeet.

“My lords and my ladies,” he started, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Your Majesty, the King. Your Majesty, the Queen. I am but a simple not-treasurer of this kingdom, as I always have been, but events at the Dartmoor have revealed many troubles within our own spy network, and within the Royal family.”

Oran tightly shut his eyes, whispering “Motherfucker” under his breath. Only Rahlen heard it, and only Rahlen heard the addition: “Sorry, mother”.

“The underdeveloped and ignored spy network of Ferelden had failed to anticipate or intercept the foul libels and pasquinades that damaged the good reputation of the Dalish Ambassador, one Fenlin Lavellan.”

The crowd listened intently, and Rahlen’s heart sank. Gilbert brought Fenlin into this.

“The Ambassador was,” Gilbert clearly and obviously looked at Rahlen, “persuaded that the use of her dragon against the enemy’s forces would bring her into good graces of Denerim and Ferelden’s people. Which is what caused the regrettable end of Bann Jelynn, her husband Tabard, and their three children.”

Oran swallowed hard.

“No more, brother,” he said loudly.

“And it was none other than Prince Rahlen Theirin who displayed the lack of self-control and discipline as he time and again failed to advise the Ambassador otherwise,” Gilbert pressed on, his eyes fixed on Rahlen’s face. “He displayed disobedience as he entered the command on his own, secured a position for himself in the ambush battalion, and when the battle turned foul, nearly had my brother killed as the prince himself rushed to save the Ambassador, who should never had been on the battlefield in the first place.”

“Gilbert!” Rahlen lost his temper. “You’re the one who told us take the dragon! You insisted we do it to catch Oran before the battle started!”

“I did not push you to do anything,” Gilbert banged his cane against the floor to silence the roar of the crowd. “I merely stated that you would catch my brother before the battle if you took the dragon. And I also stated, multiple times, that there was no hurry in telling him…”

“Gilbert!” Yelled Oran.

It was a menacing, guttural yell that threatened that the very next moment, Oran would come at Gilbert with fists swinging and pummeling. Everyone begrudgingly stared at Oran, including the royal couple.

“…whatever it is what you wanted to tell him,” Gilbert finished. “That is my perspective, Your Majesty.”

He turned to face the King and the Queen, whose faced displayed disappointment and worry. They exchanged looks as Gilbert continued:

“My brother, who nearly died on the battlefield, is taking all of the responsibility on himself so that Prince Rahlen’s reputation within the army or the bannorn is not stained. That is why he is prompting to provoke the harshest punishment for himself, and will thoroughly insist the Prince did nothing wrong.”

The King and the Queen seemed devastated. Rahlen’s heart couldn’t handle it much longer, so he spoke up again.

“It is true,” he said. “All of it. It is my fault, and I am ready to accept consequences of my actions and decisions.”

Silence fell onto the Landsmeet hall.

“Arl Gilbert,” Rythlen spoke to him directly, her face pained by what she had just heard. “What punishment would you issue for Rahlen and Oran?”

Gilbert swayed in his spot, shifting the weight from the cane onto his back.

“No contest, Your Majesty.”

In thirty minutes time, Oran had been dishonorably discharged from the army positions and prohibited from participating in any military endeavors. Rahlen, despite how much he protested, despite his claims he could prove nothing of what happened shall be blamed on Oran, was ignored. His parents didn’t give him another look until the Landsmeet was over.

As the nobles poured out from the hall, Rahlen found Oran and Fenlin conversing quietly to the side. She seemed agitated, nervous, and her face was painted with utmost despair. Oran still had his dead face on. Rahlen bumped into few of the nobles on his way, and saw Oran bow low to Fenlin, dismissing her attempt to hug him, and walk away. She turned to him, eyes on the verge of tears, and Rahlen hurried towards her, not bothering to apologize to those he elbowed on the way.

“What did he say?” He inquired, catching Fenlin into his hands. “Maker, Fenlin, what did he say to you?”

“That he’s not angry,” she said back to him. “That he’ll visit when he can. Rahlen, have we broken him?”

She lifted her head to stare at him, her voice almost crying.

“Have I broken him?”

“No,” Rahlen hugged her tightly. “No, you didn’t. Nobody did.”

But that wasn’t true. And that didn’t matter.

[ponticle]

11pm [12 Hours to Solve This Anderstair Challenge]

Anders x Alistair, Modern AU, Coffee Shop Universe

[Challenge Masterpost]

[Read it on Ao3]

Chapter Summary:  Alistair and Anders board the plane and get settled in. Anders remembers meeting Alistair's family at the beginning of their relationship.

“So let's say… for the sake of argument—that I could uproot everything and move back to Boston with you…” he posits, “what would that look like?”

We’ve finished our drinks and are waiting to board. There is a special kind of anxiety that airports breed. The closer it gets to departure, the more everyone becomes a vulture. Gradually, the passengers crowd the gate crew. It happens no matter how many times they request that everyone ‘remain comfortably seated’ in the boarding area.

“I don’t know, Al,” I mumble as we gather our things. “I want you to feel fulfilled and autonomous.”

“I know that… I just mean… would we live in our old apartment?” he asks. He’s smiling at me. It occurs to me that he doesn’t mean this as a serious suggestion—he just wants to dream.

“Oh… well, I think we should,” I say. “I think we should try to find carbon copies of our old furniture too—except I want a nicer mattress: a king-size!”

He laughs, “Me too… I want you to have plenty of room to throw me around.” He growls into my ear.

We’ve begun to sway. People are crowding us on all sides as the gate crew do their final checks.

“We’d like to invite those passengers seated in our premium cabin to board at this time,” says the attendant.

We take three steps forward to the head of the line and smile as we check in.

When I see the chairs, my heart flutters. “Oh my god,” I gasp.

Alistair hears me and laughs. I guess he’s flown first class before. On this west-east flight, there are 8 seats in the first class cabin, each one appears to have the capability of lying flat. They have TVs on movable arms. I’m so excited I could scream.

As I settle in, a flight attendant asks us if we want anything. I’m on the inside, near the window, so she asks Alistair first.

He turns to me and says, at full volume, “Honey, do you want anything?”

It makes my entire face turn pink—I can feel it.

The flight attendant smiles at us. Her name tag reads Ashley.

“Maybe a glass of wine? Do you have Merlot?” I ask.

She nods.

“Same,” says Alistair. He holds my hand on the console between us. He’s doing it for me. It’s a statement. I love him so much it hurts.

“You never call me ‘honey’,” I whisper, when she’s out of earshot.

“Yeah, well… I don’t want her to think we’re business associates,” he admits.

“Why would that matter?” I ask, laughing.

“It wouldn’t—but I love you,” he says. He’s just staring in my eyes—like he’s never seen anyone he likes so much. It’s alarming in its simplicity.

By the time she brings our wine glasses—stemless, since we’re in a plane—I haven’t stopped looking at Alistair like an idiot. It hurts to like him this much. That used to horrify me, but now I think it’s the best thing that has ever happened.

“Have you flown much lately?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, sipping his wine, “I attend a lot of conferences.”

“That’s neat…” I look out the window at the gate crew completing their final checks. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah… I usually do…” He smiles at something in the distance—a memory, maybe. “I met this really hot engineer on my last flight,” he laughs.

“What did he look like?” I ask.

His eyes widen in feigned outrage, “Um… she was a woman…” He laughs, “God, Anders… you don’t think women can be engineers?”

I blush. “I just thought you liked men better…” It’s a stupid thing to say. I don’t think he has a preference at all. At least—we’ve never discussed that particular thing. I’m just trying to get out of seeming sexist.

“I don’t,” he says seriously.

“Really?”

“Yeah… I usually find myself more attracted to women…speaking statistically, I guess...” he clears his throat. “But I’m not attracted to anyone like I’m attracted to you.”

The captain turns on the fasten seatbelt sign and we settle in. The cabin lighting lowers for our trip back to Boston. The crew announce that it’s 72 in Los Angeles and will be 6 in Boston.

Perfect.

“Has it been snowing much in New York?” I ask.

“Some… not as much as it has at home, I bet,” he answers.

“At home?” I parrot.

He blushes and leans his head onto mine across the armrest. “It still feels like home to me.”

We smile at each other peripherally.

“Do you still live in our apartment?” he asks.

“You thought I’d move?”

He shrugs.

“Yes… I still live there…” I pull back so I can look at him and put my hand on one of his knees. “I moved all the furniture around, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I saw you sitting in every chair…”

“Well, can we put it back?” he asks.

This is the first time he’s said something that makes it seem like he’s going to stay. It flusters me a little.

“I guess… I mean… if you’re moving back.”

He swallows a too-big gulp of wine.

“I’m not saying that to pressure you,” I explain. “I’m just not sure I can take this… planning and whatnot… if you’re not going to stay.”

“Andy,” he leans in toward my face. “I love you. I don’t want to spend any more time fucking this up.”

I bite my lip. I hope this means what I think it means.

“I want to come back…” he says. “I just have to figure out my work situation.”

My heart sinks. He’s a clinical director now. Those jobs are few and far between.

“...but I promise you, I’m going to figure it out—somehow,” he adds.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He sounds so sure.

“Then yes… we can move the furniture back.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek. At that exact second, Ashley, the flight attendant from earlier, giggles and leans in.

“I’m so sorry to be a weirdo,” she begins, “but you are like the nicest couple I’ve seen in so long.”

We blush.

“How long have you been together?” she asks.

It’s a hard question, but Alistair has a clever answer ready, it seems.

“If it were up to me, it would have been since the second we met.”

Dear god… is this real life?

She smiles and continues through the cabin.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” he says suddenly.

I nod, “Yeah… the beginning feels like a lifetime ago…”

He laughs suddenly. “Remember when you met my Aunt and Uncle?”

“Oh my god… how could I forget? It was when we were new… like… really new.”

Several Years Ago

The Guerrin family house is austere. Standing on the front lawn, I feel like a gnat. It’s almost worse than the Hawke estate. Alistair and I close the doors of his car and put our hands in our pockets at the same time. He’s stressed and I’m absorbing it.

“Hello!” a woman with a thick French accent greets us at the door. She looks young enough to be his sister.

“Hi, Isolde,” he says. He kisses her cheeks three times: left, right, then left again.

She smiles and then pulls me in to do the same strange kissing ritual. I fumble my way through it without any grace.

“This is my boyfriend, Anders,” he offers.

We’re still new so I like hearing him call me that. We’ve only been together two months, but it feels serious.

“Hi,” I smile.

She looks at me like I’m adequate, which I think is high praise, coming from her. I can’t really imagine a scenario where I’m accepted like this. I haven’t spoken to my own parents in a decade—since I came out.

We are ushered into an unbelievable foyer with clear sight-lines into the backyard. There’s a man with graying hair overseeing a grill on the back patio. He waves when he sees us.

“That’s my uncle,” says Alistair. He pulls me by the hand until we’re again outside, on the opposite end of the house.

“Eamon,” he calls, smiling brightly, “this is my boyfriend, Anders.”

There’s that title again.

“Hi, I’m so glad to meet you,” I offer. “Alistair has told me so much about you.” That’s a lie—I’ve had no details to speak of.

“Thank you, Anders,” he says, shaking my hand. “Alistair hasn’t told us nearly enough about you… but anyone he cares about enough to bring to the house is a friend of ours.”

It’s all very cordial, but I have a feeling there’s something lurking—something that could get ugly fast.

All the way through dinner, though, nothing surfaces… it isn’t until we’re heading off to bed that Eamon catches me by the crook of the arm. Alistair is in the kitchen, helping Isolde with something. There’s no way he can hear me unless I scream, so I just turn and try not to pass out. I feel like I’m about to be interrogated.

“Anders,” Eamon begins, “I would be a fool to ask why Alistair is interested in you…”

That’s a curious beginning. I can’t imagine where it’s going, so I stay silent.

“You’re obviously very intelligent and compelling…” he continues.

I don’t want to nod, because it will seem like I’m conceited, but I want to do something to acknowledge that I’ve heard him. I settle on this weird noise that gurgles up from my throat. It only succeeds in confusing the issue.

“Nevertheless,” he clears his throat. “I would be remiss if I did not warn you—Alistair is fragile… after what happened with whats-his-name.”

He means Cullen, of course. Apparently everyone knows. When Alistair told me the story a month ago, I didn’t realize how it permeated his whole life.

“He spent a lot of years imagining a future that was never really going to be there,” concludes Eamon.

I know what he means. Alistair told me that he’d spent a decade hoping and wishing and dreaming. It still hurts to think about. It’s fresh.

“I understand,” I manage.

He smiles broadly, “Then I trust we understand each other?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

I nod, but I’m not sure what he thinks he’s accomplished. Does he think this precludes the possibility of a breakup in the future? Family members rarely have any control over that sort of thing. The people involved barely do.

He ushers me into the kitchen where I collect Alistair. We spend the rest of the night fooling around in his childhood bedroom and I vow never to tell him the details of my conversation with his uncle. Despite my trepidation, everything proceeds beautifully for the rest of the weekend and they invite me to join them at their summer place the following season… an invitation I never get a chance to accept.

 Presently

“You never told me about that conversation,” says Alistair. His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“I didn’t think it would be good for anyone,” I say.

“Well, you could have told me… it would have made me feel better when we eventually did break up…” he argues. “When I told them, I thought Eamon was going to kill me,” says Alistair. “Little did I know, he was just angry at you.”

I drink another too-big gulp of wine and almost choke. “I promised I’d treat you better…”

“You didn’t really promise that,” says Alistair. He’s smirking, even though this conversation sucks.

“Not in so many words… but the implication was there…”

He shrugs. “I guess… but you did treat me better… I fucked everything up…”

“I should have forgiven you,” I argue.

“No… there's no ‘should’ in this sort of thing,” he says.

I shrug.

His eyes suddenly light up, “I think they’re going to be really happy if we tell them we’re back together.”

“Are we?” I ask suddenly. “Back together?”

“We’re trying to be.”