#(Also you have full permission to impale him through his stupid body

[laurelsofhighever]

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again. 

--

CW: mild gore

The light burned low in Alistair’s room, wobbling as the hearthflames sifted moodily through the dying embers for fuel, outcompeted by the gleam of Sevuna through the large windows that overlooked the formal gardens of the Winter Palace. If he had cared to, he could have spoken the command to wake the lyrium glowstones dotted around the room, but he preferred the silence. In the brooding dark, he could look out at the frozen splendour of the grounds, with its hibernating fountains and spears of topiary, and his thoughts could chase themselves in circles at their leisure.

How could the world have tilted so far sideways in such a small span of hours? If he turned inwards deeply enough, a molten core still burned with the anger of being lied to, but the surrounding fire had been doused almost the moment Rosslyn had stepped back into the ballroom, vanishing as the realisation of his own stupidity came crashing down around him. He had lost her. Again. That she was alive, and somewhere within the labyrinthine decadence of Halamshiral, tormented him as much as it made him breathless with joy.

She was alive. But she was also out of his grasp, with no one to blame but himself. His hands flexed against the window frame as his memory spat back the things he had said to her, accusations and disbelief and the promise that he could never hate her turned around not a moment later to be flung in her face.

You aren’t who I thought you were.

And yet, how could he doubt her identity when she had taken the blow with such grace, and pinned him with the steel in her eyes as she left him to the frost. Fear had gripped him then, more tightly than the idea that she had spent two years laughing at his grief; he watched her retreating back with her gaze a haunt of tacit pain, and only the jolt from his reawakened sense of politics had kept him from going after her.

Someone had to be coercing her, and in order to sneak her into the Orlesian court under a false name, whoever it was had to be powerful. Revealing her might only put her in more danger, even without the less than favourable reaction that could be expected from Celene. Not since his soldiers, digging through the ruins of Ostagar, had presented him the battered remains of the falcon helm had he felt such a bottomless drop to his stomach, such a bleed of strength from his legs. When he had staggered back from the terrace his shock had excused him from the rest of the party, but such an early night had so far only given him a better opportunity to berate himself. He doubted sleep would come for him before morning.

A chill whispered through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes, drawing him from his reverie. Confused, he glanced to the fireplace, where the flames burned low but undisturbed, and then to the rest of the dark room. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a slight billow in one of the curtains, from a draught through a window he was sure had been locked.

One of the shadows moved.

Before he could cry out, the assassin flashed out a hand, and a glitter of sharp powder caught in his lungs, stinging his eyes and choking his breath so that instead of a shout, only a dry rasp emerged from his throat. On instinct, he snatched up the closest curtain to foil the glint of the blade lunging for his stomach and flung it out as far as he could, already thinking about the dagger he kept within easy reach on the bedside table. The tearing fabric behind him told him he had little chance to reach it. His limbs wouldn’t move as they should. He had to hurl himself across the bed, with a whirl of dark velvet in the air above, throwing pillows and anything else his hands could scrabble at for distraction, before his fingers finally closed on the dagger’s hilt and swept it up in an arc that drew sparks from the assassin’s descending blade.

He tried to shout again as he kicked out and rolled away, savouring the muffled grunt he got for the effort, but only until he managed to right himself. His strength was slipping, adrenaline giving way as the effects of the powder worked into his blood. Desperate, he staggered behind one of the many overstuffed chairs that littered the room, knowing it would do little good. The smirking porcelain mask, floating like a phantom above the assassin’s dark clothing, had blocked the path to the door.

Waiting for the drug to take its full effect.

Then something else moved in the darkness. In the heartbeat it took for the assassin to follow the flick of Alistair’s gaze, a second figure leapt out from behind the bed to collide bodily with the first. The momentum of the blow threw the assassin into the nightstand hard enough to send the water jug shattering to the floor, but not enough to knock them down. As Alistair watched, the white porcelain flashed, turned, lunged forwards – and stopped, impaled on the stranger’s blade.

Even with a blank, black mask disguising her features, Rosslyn could not be mistaken. She straightened as her opponent convulsed in one last gurgle and slid off the end of her sword, impassive but taut as a drawn bowstring, radiating a cold fury that froze Alistair worse than the draught blowing in from the window. He swallowed. If he could just get to her, reach out –

“Your Majesty!”

He turned too quickly at the crash of the door and had to catch himself on the chair to avoid collapsing completely. In the confusion as his guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, he lost sight of Rosslyn, with only a current of air at his back to follow her passing.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

He tore his gaze away, from how she pressed herself into the side of the chimney and the frantic, pleading shake of her head as their eyes met. “Uh…”

“What happened?” Morrence demanded. She had already sheathed her sword and was kneeling to examine the corpse.

“I –” Even that small attempt at speech left him coughing. His eyes watered as he tapped his throat and managed to rasp out the word assassin. “Caught me by surprise. Got lucky.”

“Hm.” His guard-commander drew a dagger from her belt and used the tip to lift the porcelain mask away from the assassin’s face. The slender features and scraggy attempt at a moustache hardly made Alistair feel better, but before he could dwell too deeply on the age difference between him and his would-be killer, he caught Morrence peering at the blood trail leading away from the body.

He shifted his weight to block her line of sight.

“Looks like he got in through the window,” one of the other guards called from across the room.

“I want someone out there now to see where he came from,” Morrence ordered. “And alert the palace guard that there’s been an attempt on His Majesty’s life. It could be whoever’s responsible wants to try for the empress as well.”

Both the look on her face and the sullen note in her voice conveyed her suspicion about Celene’s role in the whole affair, the hope – on the slim chance she wasn’t behind the attack – that the assassins creeping into the empress’ chamber were having more luck. Even more than Alistair, she had found Orlais unwelcoming. Dismissed as both a Fereldan and as someone with obvious elven ancestry, her temper had been hanging on rather a fine string ever since crossing the border.

“Either way, it sounds like all the excitement is over for me,” Alistair huffed, flashing a brittle smile at the improving quality of his voice. “What a shame, I do so love being the centre of attention.”

“Your Majesty, this man was killed with a sword.”

He quelled the urge to glance behind him. “Was he? It all happened so fast – are you sure?”

“And yet there’s no sword in this room,” she pressed, rising from her crouch. “I still have yours right here.”

“What are you suggesting, Guard-Commander?”

Her eyes narrowed at the uncommon use of her title. “It would be a good idea to make a thorough search of these rooms in case of accomplices.”

“What? No, I don’t –” He coughed, fixed his gaze on a mountain in one of the tapestries so he wouldn’t give Rosslyn away – “That won’t be necessary, surely? Can’t you just take the body, maybe put a towel over the bloodstain?”

“Your Majesty –”

Sensing defeat, he sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day of disappointments, and someone just tried to kill me, if you didn’t notice. I really think if there’d been an accomplice they would have jumped out of the wardrobe while I was occupied.”

“You take your safety too lightly,” she protested. “At least let us get you checked over by a healer.”

“A good night’s sleep, that’s what I need.” He tried to smile again, to hide the lurch in his stomach at the idea that Rosslyn might disappear again if he gave her the opportunity.

“But –”

He held one arm out, the other firmly supported on the back of the chair. “Look at me, I’m not even injured. And whatever got thrown in my face, it’s wearing off. If you don’t take that body away right now and leave me to rest, you can be the one to tell Élodie why I spent half the night being prodded at by Wynne instead of getting my beauty sleep.”

For a long moment, he worried she would insist anyway, but at last she turned with her fingers tight around the hilt of her own sword, and he knew this particular battle was won.

“Fine,” she bit out, and nudged the assassin’s body with her boot. “With your permission, I’ll have Leliana take a closer look at this for any clues about just who might have wanted to kill you.”

“Good idea.”

“One of us has to have sense.” She sighed. “Allers, get over here and help me, would you?”

The guard still standing by the door saluted and stepped forward to take the assassin’s legs, while Morrence hefted him up beneath the shoulders. Shuffling and cursing, they hauled the body through to the next room, while Alistair kept up his smile and eased around the chair to block their view as much as he could, despite the pins-and-needles starting to shoot up his legs as the drug wore off. When the door finally clicked shut, he allowed himself to sag and turned, only to find Rosslyn leaning against the chimney, head bowed forward, a picture of exhaustion that pulled at something unpleasant deep within his chest.

“Rosslyn –”

“Thank you,” she interrupted. “For not revealing me.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” he replied, but the smile died on his lips. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if his legs were strong enough yet to cross the distance between them, or if she would even want him to. “That poison powder has a kick.”

“I remember.”

So did he. The night after they met in the mountains on his return from Orzammar, the first time he truly feared for her life, when had had so much left to tell her.

“It should wear off soon,” she said, pushing off the wall, her eyes still on the floor. “With no permanent damage.” She paused. “He would have killed you.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky you were here.”

No response. She half-turned to him as if to reply, but not far enough to meet his gaze. Instead, her eyes caught on her hands, as if she hadn’t yet noticed the assassin’s blood coating both them and the length of her sword. There lay the last piece of evidence carving away the doubt that it really was her; Talon’s blue-gold colour shone through the gore as it cut the light, the runestone in the pommel winking with power.

“There’ll be a guard outside the window soon,” she started. “I should –”

He staggered towards her. “Don’t. Please don’t go. What I said before – I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“What if I’m not who you think I am?” she replied, every word laced with sudden venom. For the first time, she looked at him, not bothering to hide the hurt within the depths of her glare.

“How could I mistake you?” he asked her, or himself. “How could I not recognise the woman who –” His throat wouldn’t work, though his mind screamed what he wanted to say. “I haven’t been able to stop wondering if it was a dream, if I really could be that much of a fool, but I was. I am. You could have let me walk away and I would have deserved it, but you didn’t, and I…” His laugh tasted bitter, and his eyes stung as he dared to edge the distance between them. “It’s crazy, right? Two years of wanting to see you again and the moment all my wishes came true I drove you away. I am so sorry, just – please, don’t go.”

Shrinking away again, she turned her eye to the tapestries, to the fire, to the blood on her hands that gleamed black in the low light, until the silence had stretched for so long it left a ringing in his ears and made his mouth dry, but he didn’t dare move. Finally, she wrapped her arms around her upper body with Talon held carefully to avoid its edge, steadying herself with a breath.

“I didn’t exactly make it difficult for you.”

Hope flared. As before, he approached her with halting steps as if she were an apparition likely to disappear, only this time he reached out to her in full knowledge that she wasn’t, that this encounter really wasn’t some Fade trick or conjuration. Her hands still held the cold of the Harvestmere night, the blood tacky against his skin, but she returned his grip with fingers that bore the callouses he remembered, the ones born from her dedication to her training, and when he breathed her name again she met his eyes with that fathomless winter grey he could spend hours studying without boredom.

“Come here,” he offered gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She followed him through to the suite’s tiled salle de lavage without complaint and watched him turn the taps. “I can manage.”

“Of course.” He tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to… well. You’ll need a new shirt, though, since that one’s got blood on it. I’ve got – I mean, do you want to borrow one?”

She froze with her hands running a cloth under a cool stream of water. Silence pooled like marsh fog between them, where the memories ran thick; once upon a time, his shirts had been her nightly attire, borrowed, and then naturalised to their new owner until her scent clung to the cloth even after he managed to steal them back, until it was the only thing he had had left of her. He shoved a hand backwards through his hair and coughed away the unpleasant rise at the back of his throat, made worse by the aftereffects of the powder.

“You don’t have to if you’d rather keep that one – it is quite nice, now that I’m looking – not that I’m looking – but it’s really the least I can do after the whole saving-my-life thing.”

“I’ll take the offer,” she told him with perhaps a shade of her familiar wry amusement. “Thank you.”

“Great! I’ll, uh… leave you to it, then.”

When she emerged from the washroom a little while later, he had stoked the fire and lit the glowstones, and found a spare blanket to soak up the bloodstain on the floor. He startled from his rummage through his drawers for a shirt to find her still rubbing at imaginary specks of blood in Talon’s hilt, the intense concentration in what he could see of her face throwing him back to old nights on campaign, when they would sit knee to knee, cleaning their equipment as an excuse to spend time in each other’s company.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked when she caught his expression, finally satisfied enough to sheathe the sword and throw the cloth onto the corner of the bedside table.

He turned away to hide the flush of heat up his neck. “Nothing, I just recognise that look on your face.”

“I don’t have a look on my face.” But she touched her fingers to the mask nonetheless, as if to check it was still there.

“If you say so,” he answered, grinning, and held out his least wrinkled shirt. “Here, this one shouldn’t smell too bad.”

The corner of her mouth ticked upward as she took the garment from him, but it faded into uncertainty when she glanced between it and the tunic she already wore. With an apologetic look over her shoulder she turned away, hiding herself from him as she started on the fastenings that kept the mask over her face. He tried not to let the action sting. Two years before, he might have helped her change – or hindered her, if they had time – and more than anything else so far this evening, the idea that she might not be comfortable in his presence cut deep, reminded him just how far the gulf between them had grown. He ought to respect her privacy, and tried to, but as she drew the tunic over her head the swish of the fabric caught his eye, and the sight of her held it.

Her scars were the same. The white starbust on her left shoulder from the crossbow bolt he had pulled out with his own hands on the night they first stumbled into each other; the small leaf-shaped depression below her ribs where Loghain’s sword had pierced her back. He knew them, by sight and touch and tongue, but the canvas upon which they were painted now sent a lance through his chest. What had she suffered to become so thin? How did she still endure, when he could count her ribs and see every strand of wasted muscle working beneath her skin? He had added to that pain. His gut churned with the guilt of it.

Before he was aware of moving, he had crossed the space and wrapped his arms around her waist almost before the new shirt had settled, burying his face into her neck and hating how she tensed.

“Alistair…”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m sorry for everything. Everything you’ve been through. Everything I couldn’t protect you from.”

She drew in a breath and let it go, laid her fingers over his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“The things I said tonight were,” he insisted. “You deserved better. All those vile things – it was unforgivable.”

“And yet you appear to be asking forgiveness.”

She broke his embrace, just enough to turn in his arms, and this time as she looked up at him, without darkness or resined paper to hide her features, he forgot to breathe. The familiar, teasing curl of her mouth drew him in, but he stopped, and brushed a hand along her cheek instead. How many times had he wished for just one more look, bargained his entire kingdom to the dark for one more moment to admire the straight line of her nose, her high cheeks, the way her fine lashes fanned against her skin and perfectly framed her eyes?

“Alistair?” she prompted.

“What?”

“You were staring.”

“Oh! Well…” He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “The clockwork’s a little rusty – you know how it is. I forget to wind it up. Ah.” He swallowed, dared to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ll forgive me for that, too? I remember you being very forgiving.”

She chuckled. “Do you?”

“Very clearly. You’re the most merciful person in Thedas.”  

For an instant, he watched a retort dance on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back and dropped her gaze to the middle of his chest, and he started forward to ask what he’d done wrong.

“You left me,” she said, before he could open his mouth. “On the morning of the battle I woke up and you weren’t there. Why?”

He flinched away from the quiet, even tone of her voice, as if she had shouted instead. There was no answer he could give beyond an admission of cowardice, nothing that would excuse it.

“I have regretted that every day,” he told her. “I couldn’t face that being the last time I would see you, I was terrified I’d change my mind. I wondered, after, if that was why…”

“You think I went and faced the Nightmare out of spite?” she checked.

“No! I mean… Sometimes. In the beginning, I was so angry, but you would never stand by while you could help. I should have known better than to try and make you.” His memories from those early weeks without her existed in a haze of vitriolic self-destruction, recalled only as flashes where he cast blame at anyone who dared come near him, until even Cuno was banished to the kennels after pacing one too many times from room to room, searching for the mistress who had not come home. He had begged the mages to help him, to offer him some hope that she lived, and now before him stood the proof that he should have tried harder.

Cool fingers laced tentatively with his. “I should have let Morrence lead the cavalry.”

“You saved us all,” he insisted, but sighed and looked away, because the wound still throbbed. “And you deserved more from me.”

“I promised you I would stay behind.”

“Shhhh…” Weary to his bones, he pressed a kiss against her forehead. “It’s alright. You’re here. And I should have known that not even death could ever stop you. It probably took one look at that glare of yours and decided to turn tail.”

The comment earned a brief, wet chuckle as he pulled her close, and left in its wake a more comfortable silence than those that had gone before, a relief and a comfort, taming the shadowy beast that since Ostagar had clawed its way through his mind and body both. That Rosslyn now clung to him too opened a new, bright kind of pain beneath his ribs, clean and healing where before his wounds had festered. He never wanted to let her go.

“I did everything I could to get back to you,” she said after a long moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner.”

“It’s alright,” he whispered, with another kiss to her forehead as if reassuring nothing more than a bad dream. “It’s alright.”

He trailed the declaration down the side of her face, his lips brushing over the lid of an eye, her cheek, the very corner of her mouth, while her hands curled slowly into his waist and the back of his neck. At the last, she turned her head and his mouth found hers of its own accord, instinct more than effort that sent sparks to the tips of his still-numb fingers.

“Say you’ll stay with me,” he breathed, not daring to pull away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and leaned forward again.

“Wait, does that mean you won’t stay or you won’t go?”

The sound of her laugh made him giddy as she pushed into him, rising onto her toes so the arms around his neck could pull him into a deeper kiss. Any caution urged by the overwhelming shadows still ranged against them fell to the press of her body against his, the beat of her pulse under his thumb and the whimper that slipped her throat as his hands wandered.

And yet even here in such a perfect moment, responsibility nagged at him. The gaudy porcelain clockwork on the mantelpiece chimed the early hour and drew them apart, flushed and breathing heavily and still joined by the gentle brush of fingers over each other’s skin. He had meetings to attend in the morning, and Élodie’s wrath to face if he spent them trying to hide yawns behind his hand.

“We should go to bed,” he murmured, with a rush of longing and doubt so strong his head spun. “To sleep! Not for anything nefarious. I mean –”

Breaking into a smile, she stopped him with a swift kiss. “You’ve never been nefarious in your life.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You should know… I don’t sleep much these days,” she admitted. “Not since I came back.”

He stroked his thumb over her cheek, at a loss for how to comfort her. He didn’t want to pry.

“Don’t worry about it. Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.”

“You say the nicest things,” he replied, to cover, and brought the back of her hand to his lips.

In the few paces to the ridiculously ornate canopy bed, his heart thundered, stalling his breath with memories of the nights he had spent wrapped up with Rosslyn nestled against him, and after, even more nights when the place at his side lay cold and empty. He bit down on the urge to tell her sleep would likely elude him too, for fear of waking to that nightmare again, even as his heart ached with the stilted atmosphere between them, the experiences that had pushed them apart. His body responded to hers in a way it hadn’t for longer than he cared to think, automatically and carelessly, but reaching for her now felt like reaching across a tidal strait too deep to swim, close enough to hear her voice and see her waiting on the far shore but unable to cross the gap. But he would not push. The day he had spent with her in the meadow high in the Frostbacks loomed in his mind, when she had told him of her lacking desire and the fear that to others it would not matter, and the promise he had made to never be that person to her which still held true.

It didn’t mean he had to be tired of kissing her. They had two years to make up. Every line of muscle yearned towards her as he turned and found her still behind him, not an apparition, her hand warm in his and her breath soft and sweet across his face. He felt her smile as he leaned down to her, and then the jolt in his blood when the tip of her tongue darted out over his bottom lip.

“Does that convince you I’m really here?” she teased.

He bumped his nose against hers. “Just about.”

Humming her satisfaction at the response, she left him to sit on the edge of the bed, smirking as she lifted one leg across the other. “What, you don’t expect me to go to bed in boots, do you?” she asked when she noticed his frown. “I’ll get mud all over the sheets.”

“As much as I’d love to explain that one to the servants…” He shrugged as he knelt and waved her hands away from the buckles. “Let me do that.”

“I’m perfectly capable –”

“I want to see if you’re wearing embarrassing socks.”

The brief chuckle earned by the remark drew his eyes upwards. Rosslyn watched him, her head tilted in a wistfulness that reached down through her fingers as she twined them into his hair.

“You’re staring again,” she noted.

He turned to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Must be the view.”

“Hm. Get back to it, Your Majesty.”

Smirking, he did as he was told and set to the straps, content to go slowly, working his way down her calf. The boot slipped off her foot with a minor tug, accompanied by a sigh from above. She had lain back to gaze at the canopy of the bed while he worked, entirely at ease, and the normality of the whole scene eased a sigh between his lips.

“I’m disappointed in these socks,” he informed her as he started on the second boot.

An answering hum of laughter. “I will endeavour to do better next time.”

“Good.” He stayed on the floor a moment longer, kneading his thumb along the lines of hard muscle between ankle and knee until she relaxed under his touch. When he finally moved to join her on the bed, her head lay propped on one arm, her eyes warm as he settled at her side and laced his fingers into her free hand.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what would make it all better?”

The corner of her mouth tugged into a smile as she untucked her arm from behind her head and rose onto one elbow, closer to him, and his eyes fluttered shut with the gentle fingertips she traced along his jaw.

“Just this,” she murmured, and tilted forward to kiss him, long and sweet.

When she finally pulled away, the lack of her froze his skin as if he had turned from a campfire on a cold night. He followed after her, pressing his forehead to hers and curling his hand around the precious shell of her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She paused. “This beard, however…”

He jerked his head back, one hand already flying to his chin. “What’s wrong with my extremely manly beard?” he demanded.

Laughing, she scooted around him so her legs no longer dangled off the edge of the mattress and did not answer, preoccupied instead with unbuckling Talon from her waist. He noticed she laid it still within easy reach as she peeled back the covers, but he pushed down the twist of pain caused by the implication in favour of a more pressing matter. He followed her up the bed.

“Teagan says it makes me look distinguished, you know.”

“Teagan’s never had to kiss you with it,” she retorted. “Or at least I hope not.”

He frowned as he settled next to her under the covers, on his side with his chest tight and heart dancing for her closeness. Their legs tangled together. As his hand found its old place on her hip, it awoke every forgotten habit his mind had sealed away, like a limb released from a tourniquet and allowed to move again, and when her arm slipped up to rest in a loose embrace, a sigh painting her lips, he never wanted to move again.

“I haven’t kissed Teagan,” he told her. “I haven’t kissed anyone.”

Damn those grey eyes. The intensity in them could turn a charging horse, or reduce a hardened criminal to gibbered pleading, and Alistair doubted he turned away fast enough to hide the well of loneliness that had eaten away at him for so long – perhaps stoppered now, in her presence, but still aching like the echo in an empty cave. Her touch burned on the side of his face as she sought to comfort him.

“You really don’t like the beard?” he checked, before she could speak.

“You mean these boar bristles?” she asked gently. She stroked her fingers along the edge of his jaw and the unexpected shiver it sent down his back made him want her to do it again. “The overall effect has… a certain charm. Perhaps it’ll grow on me.”

“I certainly hope not! The beard can stay on my face, thank you – but I’ll let you borrow it whenever you like.” He pulled her close, forgetting his earlier caution in her giggle as he held her face and rubbed his stubbled cheeks all over hers as if he were a cat, kissing where his lips brushed skin, until her hands twisted into his hair and they had turned so she was beneath him, wrapped in his embrace with her hair coming loose from its pins across the pillow. She bared her neck to him and he obliged, rediscovering the trail that led along her pulse as her breath turned to gasps and her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

But she wasn’t free, not yet. Even as he nipped at her skin and soothed the bite with his tongue, she drew his head up to bring his mouth to hers again, seeking comfort, the frayed ends of their connection severed at Ostagar. He embraced her tighter and at the sound of her name she turned his head and kissed along the exposed length of his neck, the juncture of his shoulder. Eventually they lay wrapped together like tree roots, quiet, lost and found without the need for words.

“Staying here won’t affect your mission, will it?” he asked when he again trusted himself to speak. “You won’t get in trouble?”

Silent, Rosslyn shook her head.

“Tell me about it.” He pulled back. “I want to help, whatever it is.”

“Alistair…”

“I’m serious.”

Defeated, she huffed and pushed him onto his back before tucking herself down against his chest, shuffling until she got comfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he replied. “Who’s behind it? Not just anyone could keep you on such a tight leash.”

She tensed. “It’s Flemeth.”

“You mean –” The nerves at the ends of his fingers tingled like they had been dipped in hot water after coming in from the snow. “Flemeth Flemeth?”

“She’s the one who pulled me from the Fade. If not for her, I’d still be there.”

The reminder settled like lead in Alistair’s stomach. He curled his arm more snugly about her waist, as if that alone might keep her from being dragged back into the formless world beyond the Veil, to face demons and who knew what else. To turn his mind from the image, he set it the task of wondering what an all-powerful swamp witch might want with the glitter of the Orlesian royal court.

“It’s something to do with Morrigan, isn’t it?”

Rosslyn glanced to him. “You know about her?”

“I met her this evening,” he said. “Very like her mother, though I don’t think I’d dare say that to her face.”

“She has possession of an artefact, an enchanted mirror that acts as a portal to… somewhere, or something. Some ancient elven magic. Flemeth asked me to destroy the mirror before Morrigan can work out how to use it.”

“I wondered why Celene was bothering to keep the templars off her,” he mused. “Ancient magic the world has never seen could be powerful in the wrong hands.”

She hummed her agreement. “And as far as Ferelden is concerned, you can’t get much worse than Orlais.”

“No, you can’t. No wonder you didn’t want to be found out.” Discovering the supposedly dead Queen of Ferelden sneaking about the halls attempting to thwart the schemes of a political adversary would have lit a flame to the waiting pyre of Orlais’ warmongering nobles – could still, if Rosslyn were caught. Celene had made her intentions towards the Fereldan Crown very clear, first by housing Alistair in the Emperor’s apartments under the guise of having nowhere else fit for his entourage, and then by having him attend her and her proxies all evening, her charm a militant campaign of flattery he had no doubt could turn sour the moment she found herself upstaged. And that was without the threat of an ancient weapon held like a knife above the heads of his people.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rosslyn mumbled into his side.

“Not so much of a rare occurrence these days,” he told her. “Kings who are fools don’t tend to last long.”

She pushed herself up onto an elbow and turned to face him properly, palm flat against his chest. “You were never a fool.”

Celene posed a threat. He had no explanation for Rosslyn’s presence, and no way to protect her should the empress discover her purpose in Halamshiral. If she did not succeed, Flemeth might not release her, and Ferelden might suffer an Occupation more ruthless than the last. And yet…

“You do know I’m not letting you go again, right?” he asked though the sting at the corner of his eyes. “You’ll have to stay with me forever, and we’ll have to stay here in this bed because I never want another moment without you.”

Quiet, she leaned forward to stroke his cheek. “There are worse fates.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Glad we sorted that.”

There was a long silence as she curled into his side again, punctuated only by the command for the glowstone to dim. In place of words, their hands found each other in the darkness and chased random patterns from fingertip to wrist in slow arcs, reassuring touches that gave a focus beyond the disinclination for sleep. For Alistair, it was the lingering fear that Rosslyn might vanish as soon as he closed his eyes, the desire to savour having her warm and heavy against him. They had a whole lifetime for sleep, endless days where he wouldn’t wake and have to steel himself to brave the emptiness on the other side of the bed. At least, so he hoped, if she wanted it too.

[claralisette]

Clary Listens to Girl in Red

“Clary, Duck!”

Clary hit the floor as soon as her name left Izzy’s lips. She knew what was coming. A crack, and Izzy’s whip obliterated a demon that had been about to land on Clary from the rafters. Clary recovered, quickly, jumping to her feet and impaling the other demon in front of her. It screamed, a horrible sound, and disintegrated into a pool of ash.

It was suddenly quiet again, and Clary could hear the sounds of cars on the street behind them, and the sound of Izzy breathing slightly heavier after that encounter. Clary turned to look at Izzy, expecting her to be three feet away like she was a minute ago. So when she turned, they were nose to nose. Clary inhaled in surprise.

“Are you hurt?” Izzy asked, unbothered. She checked Clary over, while Clary silently stood there, internally trying not to panic whenever Izzy touched her, gently patting her arms, back, and waist. Oh, god, why now? She normally didn’t get like this when they were on a mission. Only when they were hanging out, just chilling, did she let herself, feel….

“Izzy?” Clary said, carefully making sure her feelings were kept out of her voice, “Maybe we should get going. There might be more.”

Izzy, apparently finished making sure New York’s newest Shadowhunter was in one piece, leaned back and flashed her trademark smile. Clary’s heart fluttered, but she was beyond used to that by now. Isabelle’s smile was adorable, sexy, and catching. Clary grinned back.

“We could take them even if there were more.” Izzy said, pulling her long dark hair out of the ponytail that held it.

“That’s true.” Clary said. She headed to the mouth of the alley they had been fighting in, and checked the street. Everything was normal. People had no idea that they could have been eaten by a Shax demon. However, with this street being lined with pubs, and full of drunk party girls and guys, no one really would have noticed anyway.  Clary sheathed her twin daggers. She was relieved they hadn’t been seen; they weren’t even glamoured to be invisible right now. The demons had been following them, and caught them almost by surprise. Almost.

“Hey, Clary, let’s go in there.” Izzy said, pointing at a newer bar.

“Izzy, we’re on duty,” Clary said, shaking her head. Izzy laughed.

“We were on duty, but…” Izzy pointed to a church clock tower in the distance. 2am. Their shift was over. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” Izzy said, dragging Clary out of the shadows and onto the street. Clary smiled. She let Izzy lead her towards the club. There was a line, but Izzy walked right past it. Clary reached up and pulled her red hair out of it’s ponytail, letting it fall down in messy waves. Being a shadowhunter had its perks, and being with Izzy meant that they could flirt their way into any place they wanted.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clary noted the gazes of boys, looking at the two girls. Clary knew what they saw. Two hot girls dressed all in black… and considering she was wearing Izzy’s clothes again (at Izzy’s insistence), they were dressed not only for hunting demons, but also for clubbing.

Izzy barely smiled at the bouncer and he let them in immediately. She smirked at Clary, and Clary knew what she was thinking. That humans were so stupid. Clary had lived as a normal girl, too, until a few years ago, when she turned Eighteen, and her father had tried to take over the world.

They headed straight to the bar. Clary let Izzy order, while she scanned the room. She barely had to concentrate to peel away any glamours that were there. A few vampires were hanging out in the corner. Two werewolves flirting with girls. No one else from the Shadow world. No demons.

“Here.” Izzy thrust a drink into her hand, and Clary rolled her eyes. She drank it, though, and the shots Izzy ordered after that. Why not, right? She didn’t have to be up early tomorrow, and she liked spending time with Izzy…

“Let’s go dance!” Izzy grabbed Clary’s hand brown eyes sparkling as she led Clary to the dance floor, and Clary followed, her head much lighter feeling than when they had entered. Being with Izzy was so easy. She was so chill, so fun, and even though Clary didn’t really like clubbing that much, she liked dancing with Izzy. Or rather, swaying back and forth while watching Izzy dance.

Clary grinned at her best friend and parabatai. Then suddenly, Izzy was much closer, her face inches from Clary’s, hands on Clary’s waist in a way that was different from earlier. What was going on- And then she felt a presence behind her. Ah. Izzy Spun, so that Clary was away from whomever had just tried to touch her. There was a man, of course, but he seemed to be doubled over in pain. Izzy probably hit him. Nice.

His friends were looking though, confused. Clary looked back at Izzy, who smirked at her and leaned in. Wait a minute-

Izzy kissed her, her lips soft, and Clary was sure her brain checked out of the building. She wrapped her hands around Izzy’s torso, a soft sigh escaping her lips without her permission. One of Izzy’s hands tangled in her hair, and Clary pulled Izzy closer, her hand slipping down to grab Izzy’s ass.

It was at that point that Clary wondered if Izzy knew that Clary had feelings for her. Izzy wasn’t stupid, but Clary was sure that Izzy had no idea. If she had no idea before though, she would now, wouldn’t she? Oh. Shit. She would, wouldn’t she?

Izzy pulled away, only to lean in and whisper in Clary’s ear. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Fairchild?” She said.

“Uhh, maybe?” Clary said. Her brain still wasn’t really working properly. Izzy had kissed her, and It was everything she imagined. Izzy laughed softly, and pulled away. Clary thought that maybe she might be mad, until she saw Izzy’s face. She was smirking, but there was something else. Izzy nodded towards the door, and Clary nodded.

When they were outside, Clary took a deep breath. Her head was already feeling better. Izzy led the way back to the alley they had been fighting in earlier.

“Portal. My room. Now.” Izzy said, pointing at the graffitied alley wall. Clary took her stele out of her pocket and obeyed, drawing the portal rune on the wall. And entire section of the wall turned molten, shining and shimmering. Clary barely had time to think of the Izzy’s room before Izzy shoved her into the portal, hard.

Clary fell out of the portal, onto Izzy’s bed. Izzy was already there, the portal gone. Izzy swept over to the door and locked it. Clary sat up. Oh man, was Izzy mad at her? Izzy, however, didn’t look mad.

“Izzy, what-“ Clary said, as Izzy crossed the room back over to her and pressed her lips to Clary’s again. Clary couldn’t even make a noise of surprise, because Izzy had pushed her down and climbed on top of her in the same moment.

“Clary” Izzy moaned against her lips. Clary gasped. Izzy moved her face to Clary’s ear again. “Do you have a crush on me?” She asked, her hands undoing the buttons on the front of Clary’s dress, stroking her hair, her waist, her leg…

“Yes…” Clary said unable to concentrate. She knew Izzy’s dress had a zipper in the back- ah, there it was. She pushed the fabric aside, one hand staying on Izzy’s back, the other one exploring the rest of her body.

Izzy’s hands disappeared for a second, taking the top of her dress off. Clary realized that Izzy hadn’t been wearing a bra, again. She was always Jealous that Izzy’s boobs were small enough to get away with that. Clary pushed Izzy’s dress down farther.

Izzy undid Clary’s bra, immediately playing with Clary’s nipple. “Izzy,” Clary gasped, as Izzy kissed her neck. Clary wanted to touch her, but Izzy was in control, and she wasn’t going to let Clary touch her.

“You’re so freaking beautiful, Clary, oh my god,” Izzy said. “I like you so much-“ She buried her face in Clary’s chest, kissing her. Clary felt like she was on fire. She needed more.

“Izzy please,” Clary said.

“Mmmm” Was the only response she got, which was not good enough.  Time to put hat shadowhunter training to good use, then. With one swift movement, Clary wrapped her legs around Izzy and flipped them over, so that she was on top. She grabbed Izzy’s hand, moving it towards where she needed it, wanted it the most.

Izzy laughed, but she moved aside the fabric if Clary’s underwear, teasing her clit. “Impatient, are we?” She asked.

“Isabelle, you have no idea-“ Clary said, kissing Izzy again. She gently pushed her tongue into Izzy’s mouth, and Izzy let her with a moan

“No idea what-“ Izzy started to ask, but gasped when Clary ran her hand up Izzy’s thigh, and up the skirt of her dress.

“No idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Clary said. Preoccupied with how wet Izzy was. She dragged her finger over Izzy’s underwear, before pushing it aside and slipping a finger inside of Izzy, her thumb finding Izzy’s clit.

“Fuck Clary,” was the response she got. Not good enough. Clary slipped another finger in, playing with her. She curled her fingers forward, searching for that spot…

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Clary asked.

She was expecting a response, but she did not expect Izzy to cry out, grabbing Clary and pulling her closer, as she came. Clary couldn’t help but smile. Izzy was so beautiful, so gorgeous. “Clary, how do you know how to do that?” Izzy gasped, pulling her down and kissing her. Clary just smirked at her. She was not about to explain that.

“It’s a secret,” Clary said.

“Come her and sit on my face then, sweetheart.” Izzy said. Clary felt her stomach flip.

“W-what?” She said. Isabelle dug her fingers into Clary’s thighs, pulling her forward. Clary obeyed.

“Too tired to get up,” Izzy said, not even bothering to take Clary’s underwear off.

“Oh god, Isabelle,” Clary moaned, as Izzy’s tongue fucking caressed her clit. Clary couldn’t help it, her hips moved of their own accord, and she felt Izzy’s resulting moan reverberate through her. Oh god. And then Izzy’s tongue swirled around her clit and Clary came, Isabelle’s name escaping her lips as a whine.

Izzy’s hands rubbed the back of her legs as Clary sat up, and then slid down to lay beside Izzy, who pulled her close and kissed her.

“Damn, Clary, you should have told me ages ago.” Izzy said after a while, stroking Clary’s hair. Clary didn’t even bother with a response, mostly because she was falling asleep. “Clary?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you need a nude model anytime soon for your mundane school?” Izzy asked, sounding too innocent.

“Izzy if you want me to draw you, all you have to do is ask.” Clary said, smiling, drifting off to sleep in Izzy’s arms.

[surfacolyte]

Diary of Norelle Rhia, part LXIII

Dear Diary,

I'm sorry I've been quiet for such a while. A lot of things have happened and I really haven't had the time to write anything. First of all. Thank you, holy God-Emperor for saving us and letting us be victorious. It is in your light that we are thankful to be fighting.

First things first, I'm so sorry guys that you don't get to read this, for I am still alive. Well, I'm not sorry that I  am alive, that's for sure, but I may never be able to say out loud such beautiful and horrible things I've written in this book. I am so happy that all of you made it too, though Cai, Arman and Yi... You were this close to getting your ass kicked by me.

Cai, pretty one, be glad it was only your leg. Or actually foot. Also thank the Emperor it was tied up when we ended up in that fertilizer tank.

Arman, when you were impaled by James I was infuriated. You didn't see it but me and Arzali killed the fucker. I blasted the bastard with many bolts and even more lasers and lil' bro finished him. Thank the Emperor you survived.

Yi, you...you little fucker... When you flew back when James went out with a bang I was sure you were dead. You didn't move, didn't make a sound... But you stayed alive. I can't express in words how happy I am right now to know that you survived. I've grown to love you as a brother and I'd really hate to see you go. Besides, as you would have read in the letter for you if I were to die, there is someone waiting for you somewhere. It would be very rude of you not to go find that lady.

So, what happened during the fight... My hunch was right: I ended up kicking Arzali's ass, literally. He went in through the air ventilation system and when he said he couldn't fit, I kicked him down there. You need to know that Arzali, like his brother, is a slender man, though taller, so it wasn't like I was going to fit a skull through a straw. He went in stealthily, while the rest of us and our men stormed in killing hundreds of cultists.

When we reached the elevator shafts we got a report from Arzali. Apparently he was in the room below and the cultists and knights were expecting us. Yi had given Arman the permission to lead us, since he would most likely have been chopping of some witch heads. Arman asked Arzali to do a diversion and that he did... by blowing up the whole room to smithereens. When we got down everyone was dead and except for lil' bro. He had grown vertically though in this time for a quite a bit and he looked like he had received a second growth spurt and taken all his mass and elongated it with the body distributing it in all places. Even Qiang isn't this thin! Reminds me of Rhaban... in the sense that Arzali decided to go in completely other direction with his mutation.

After getting up, Arzali told us that the heck of a lotta psychers that were supposed to be there had gone to the lower levels of the building. They were indeed there having a coven... or doing some magic mumbo jumbo in a circle in the middle of highly warp sensitive and dangerous crystals. You know, the kind if you damage them, all hell breaks loose. We started to fight them but then the little ceiling crawling with came flying to us. Yes, he had grown some wings and was cackling all the way and doing his magic. Multiple sets of them infact and he burned me. Luckily Kûrush had lend me his melta riffle so I answered fire with fire and as his skull fell to the ground, still laughing, I was happy to know he was dead. As we fought the psychers we managed not to hit the crystals but the gravity did fail us and decided to move it's centre point somewhere on the wall. Arman fell to the newly established ground and shouted me to throw a psyk-out grenade into a rift in the middle of the now ex-circle. There were psychers flying all around because of the gravity shift as I threw the grenade in the rift.

Fun fact: when the warp and anti-warp collide, it's not pretty.

Eventually the freaking rift closed and the gravity returned. Mind you, even if one is hanging on a crystal when gravity goes haywire, it might not help when the floor returns to where it used to be. Plus that doesn't really help when the self-destruction protocol is activated. Most of the people evacuated but we and eight brave soldiers decided to pursue the enemy. They had one of the relics at their disposal and we weren't going to let them leave with it. After all that was what we came after.

By the way, never use warp based portals. We ended up travelling for two days and ended up on a space ship near Theia's orbit. To be more precise we ended up in that fertilizer tank. Well, a pool actually. Cai had gotten his leg cut off during the battle before entering through the portal and, well, the rest I already explained. We were apparently in the middle of a fire fight, on an enemy ship, most definitely a cruiser. Long story short: we fought people and a daemon and opened the door to the invading Astartes. Bronze Dragons, you are amazing!

After that some inquisitorial forces from Hereticus and Xenos arrived. Emperor, I cannot thank you enough that Nalini was one of the people raiding the ship. She said that she shouldn't have been surprised to see us there. We tried to find the artifact, The Eye of Unbreakable Will, and found it, as well as the hologram of the witch bitch. She said that we would be free to take it for she had no use for it anymore. Yi, I'm afraid that your fancy trick with the shovel and holding the artifact was rather unnecessary in that sense but it was very good of you to be careful.

After that James showed up with some enemy astartes. We beat the crap out of them and Yi was constantly being shot by James. I'm pretty sure he didn't hit him all the time but Yi took some damage still. Arman got impaled by James as I already told and James Bures is now very, very dead, thank you Arzali for that. We set explosives to the ships munitorum and got out of there as fast as we could. The only ones still standing from our team were me and Kûrush. Arman impaled, Yi burnt because of an explosion, Arzali fainted because he tried to regenerate himself, and Cai had a missing leg. He got a spare one but a quick prosthesis isn't the best quality one. Nalini instructed us on sending messages and getting the heck out of there. She came with us but the bronze dragons said they would stay there right into the very end. They went to the Emperor and prevented a weapon made out of those crystals from doing harm to Theia. Go with peace, good men, He will gladly receive you.

After we came back on Theia we sent a message to the whole sector about the xenosrace the witch bitch represents, Nedassi, that according to the Inquisitor were coming back to the sector. They had been waiting somewhere in Revadi's Nebula and for instance Nalini had been fighting them all along. I understand the secrecy of it all, those creatures are highly dangerous and if word got out of their existence, a massive panic would ensue throughout the sector. We have enough to do with the Brakani and other shit in here so not everyone needs to know of the horrors of space.

After I got some shut eye, I met Qiang. Thank the Emperor he was alright! The juniors had been kicking up the reserves for battle ships. I need to remember to thank Nanami for that decision. A very safe place to be during a time like this. You should have seen all the kisses I gave on his face, even on his ears. Qiang, I'm overjoyed that you are alive and well! And, well, long story short: I'm engaged now. I wish I could tell mother and father but there is still much work to be done and I'm not sure if it would be safe for them. I would have never believed if someone would have told me two years ago that I was going to marry a smuggler from another planet... and not technically a planet but a space station.

I'm not sure if I should write anymore. It's bad enough if one of the boys finds this, blessed be they for their being alive, but I've said some things in here I've never told them face to face. I don't remember if I ever made a proper list of the people that have gone away so I'd like to write something about them as well.

Angus, you warrior, you psycher, you lost three of your limbs and died when we fell down on the little ship. I lost my arm, you lost your life. You were always the brash one.

Omar, our cynical doctor. You were cut in half by Rhaban and Arzali's uncle Hubert. You were so full of hate and I still can't imagine you without your bear face. You deserved better.

Rhaban, my rat brother. You didn't die, Emperor bless you, but you almost lost yourself. I know your mind has gone weird but still you are there. You were the sweet talker of the group and still are our anchor on Uzan.

Deynor, my lord. Even an upper class person can be too hasty. I'll never forget how you shot a bolt through the archeotech device. That was just stupid. But then you went to command your special troops. I hope you've found happiness with them.

James, my brother from Yiken, the traitor. I used to want to save you but now I'm only glad that you're gone. There's no room for you in my heart, hasn't been for a long time. Your death makes both your family and mine much more safe.

Chiro, you eccentric little creature. I wanted to understand you. I wanted to get to the bottom of what you thought of the world. I'm sorry I never could. Then you idiot ran away and eventually got your head chopped off by some bounty hunters. I'm glad though that you stayed true to the Mechanicus to the very end.

To these words I'll end my diary. There is still a lot of work to be done on the sector but we will rebuild. It has been an honour to serve the Inquisition and it will be in the future as well. This is Norelle Rhia, acolyte of Ordo Xenos, the last original one of the team and may the Emperor bless you wherever you are.

For our Imperium.

For our families.

For our love.

- Norelle