#and now he can follow her the way he couldn’t with maric

[qunaricatnip]

at work and all I can think about it loghain swearing a knights oath to f!cousland after she spares his life

[wild-houseplant]

Have Warden, Will Travel- chapter 5

Man, sometimes you just get onto a good thing, you know? This is evidence of my being On A Roll! Chapter 5 of HWWT for your viewing-- or not, I’m not your boss. Whole chapter’s under the cut. Hope you bunch are doing fine, and please drink your fluids!

Link in case you roll like that: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35465686/chapters/96360237

“Rhod, wait. I need to tell you something I, ah… should have told you earlier.”

Aha, there it was. It was inevitable, really; things couldn’t follow the Warden’s schedule forever. These four days of predictability and compliance had already been miraculous enough. 

Zevran made sure his wry cackle was locked down before turning to look at Alistair, who now stood with all eyes on him.

The party stopped walking, and Rhodri surveyed the man with a quirked brow. “If you’ve left it ‘til now to tell us you’re wanted in Redcliffe for some heinous crime, Alistair, your timing is very poor. The town bridge is right in front of us.”

“Wh-? No!” Alistair shook his head hard enough to make his short, styled hair flop a little. “No, absolutely not. I… erm…” He trailed off, squirming like a sinner in the Chantry.

The Warden stepped forward and rested a hand on his arm, her expression softening into solicitude. “Mmm? You seem worried. What is it? Would you like to step away with me for a moment and we can talk, just the two of us?”

Why Alistair even bothered looking the Warden in the eye was a mystery, when her own gaze was fixed squarely on his cheek. Zevran could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen her make eye contact with anyone. Still, though, Alistair did– and with a very contrite expression, too. 

“No point in keeping it private. S’not something I can hide. Anyway, we’re nearly at Redcliffe now– wait, you said that already! Argh!” He sighed exasperatedly. “Rhod. Look. Here’s the thing: I know Arl Eamon because he… raised me.”

Rhodri displayed most of her teeth as she gave the Templar a delighted, split-mouthed grin and drummed her hand on his arm. “Ah, bonus! We’ll be visiting family, then! I look forward to meeting the Arl and paying my respects to him!” She paused. “Unless, of course, you don’t get along? We can set up camp and you can wait here if you’d rather not see him.”

“N-no, I like him. But he’s not– well, he is family, I suppose, but there’s also, uhm…” Alistair’s brows were knitted enough to hold a pencil in place. “Oh, I might as well just… argh! I’m-King-Maric’s-bastard-son-and-I’m-sorry-for-not-telling-you-sooner!” 

Zevran could have eaten the ensuing dramatic silence up with a spoon– and would have, had the Warden’s immediate shrug not spiralled it all into anticlimax first. Even Leliana's fascinated look faltered.

“Yes, I thought that might be the case,” Rhodri said off-handedly, her faraway eyes missing the spectacle that was the Templar’s fish-like gaping. “You and Cailan looked so alike. Anyway, though, are you telling me this because we need to approach this in a particular way?"

"... Well, no,” he mumbled. “But it's big news and you should've known sooner. I've never told anyone before now, but it's not really something you're meant to hide at a time like this." 

Rhodri whiffled a hand airily. "Nonsense. Who your relatives are is none of my business, unless they pose a threat to my own family. You could go up to Arl Eamon and exercise royal duties in front of me and it wouldn't be my concern until it affected my people." 

Alistair’s brows almost disappeared into his hairline. "Really? You're not bothered by this at all?" 

"Ha! Why should I be? My father is a Magister's heir, and will be head of one of Tevinter's most influential families, and I'm his heir. I never felt obliged to tell anyone. Well, I suppose the earring gives it away," Rhodri tapped the snake curled around her right ear, "but even so."

A cold, clammy chill spited the sunshine and sank into Zevran's skin as he ran his eyes over her. In the space of those few moments, she looked two heads taller, a cubit broader, and her face was twice as murderous. The ice he was on with her had never felt thinner.

Alistair, eminently more baffled than perturbed, blinked hard. "Well! I wasn't expecting this sort of jolliness, to be honest. Then I s'pose we just… go on as normal, then?" 

"That's the plan, yes," Rhodri said serenely. "Unless you'd like me to start calling you 'Your Highness,' of course. Do illegitimate children have a right to rule here?"

"Doubt it." He rubbed his neck vigorously. "I certainly hope not. And definitely no ‘Your Highness.’"

The Warden nodded cheerfully. "See, then? We're just visiting family. Ah, don't be guilty, amicus!" She patted his cheek affectionately. "No trouble, hmm? Now, we must buy the Arl a present, and then we'll go and say hello, yes? Does he have an aquarium? Perhaps we could find some lovely fish."

A snort issued from the back of the group– presumably Morrigan's doing, and Zevran could have sworn he heard a small whine escape from Leliana as well. 

"... Fish? No, he hasn’t got an aquarium that I know of. We tend not to give gifts like that here." Alistair shook his head casually. "We can just come as we are."

Rhodri's mouth fell open. "What? No gifts? Not even a cake? Oh, there must be someone in town I could commission to do an Orlesian croquembouche." She waved a hand. "I don't have that sort of cash on me, so they can send the bill to my father."

Laughter erupted from the redhead and the Templar, and Rhodri pursed her lips at them. 

"Well, really," she said reproachfully. "That's not helpful at all. What, you want me to just show up to your adoptive father empty-handed? As though I thought so little of him I didn't bother to find something he liked? Preposterous."

"Well, for a start," Alistair replied through a grin, "I doubt a bakery in Redcliffe would be willing to send a bill all the way to Tevinter. They want coin in hand."

The Warden’s eyes widened.

"And it's considered better to come without gifts if it is a family visit, even if you are not family yourself," Leliana soothed. "Otherwise it looks like bribery."

"B-bribery?" she echoed weakly, staring at Leliana in horror. When Alistair confirmed this with a nod, Rhodri tipped her head back and let out a harassed sigh. 

"Come on, then, let's go. Bloody Ferelden. No gifts, my foot. How my cousins lived here, I'll never know…" She muttered a stream of Tevene, some of the content remarkably similar to Antivan obscenities, and tiredly beckoned the party to follow her into town.

Zevran could have jumped for joy. Not only was she a Northerner, she was a proud one. That was a commonality between them that made for easy rapport-building. He practically skipped his way over to the Warden's side and smiled up at her. 

"I know just how you feel, my Grey Warden,” he assured her sweetly. “We have the same gift-giving customs in Antiva. Not quite what we are used to, no?"

Rhodri stared ahead with a haunted expression, and she shook her head. "No, my friend, it certainly isn't. Bloody Ferelden…" 

§

At first glance, Redcliffe gave quite a pleasant sort of impression-- as far Fereldan places went, anyway. It wasn't a patch on Antiva City, of course, but such comparisons guaranteed wistfulness and weren’t worth the energy it took to indulge them.

No, the optimistic approach was in order here. Redcliffe was… charming. Rustic. At the very least, it wasn’t raining, and it looked like it hadn’t been raining for about three days. 

The absence of rain helped the contrived optimism along rather more than Zevran expected. It was common knowledge that the ideal place was an urban environment with warm, sunny weather. Though Redcliffe was neither urban nor warm, it was dry and comfortable. Even the architecture wasn’t half bad, with a number of the buildings boasting enormous, detailed fish carved into the wooden supports. Really, the locals had done the best they could with what they had, and of all the places Zevran had seen in Ferelden (far too many, by now), Redcliffe was definitively the least worst of them. 

Of course, first glances were often deceiving. The evidence of that could not have made itself plainer when the party was stopped at the bridge into town by a local with a bow and quiver slung over regular clothes. He had circles under his eyes dark as bruises, and moved in jerky strides as he approached them.

“I ain’t going to stop you from entering,” he said to them, his voice reedy with exhaustion, “but do you know what’s going on here?”

Ah, brasca, was it that time again already? Zevran looked around for the corner where the pleasant façade would be peeled back to reveal a revolting underbelly– one that in this case was no doubt crawling with darkspawn. 

Zevran saw Rhodri squint in confusion at the question and Maker, could she not just get on with questioning the man? It was agonising being left wondering what flavour of evil was going to gobble him up in front of a wooden fish house.

“I… assume you’re not referring to the civil war that is currently ravaging the entire nation?” she eventually asked.

The man’s face fell. “So you don’t know? Nobody out there’s heard? What're you here for, then?”

The Warden gave him a sympathetic look. “A Blight is unfolding. People ‘out there,’” she indicated the gate they had passed through, “are dying like flies because of the darkspawn. If you venture outside the village, you’ll find there’s not much of an audience left. As for us, we're here to see Arl Eamon.”

“Arl Eamon?” the man shook his head. “Oh, dear...”

“Is something the matter with the Arl?” Alistair asked urgently. 

Oh, there was always something wrong with nobility, wasn’t there? They loved to gossip to each other about their maladies while maintaining a front of immortality around the great unwashed, though it must have been quite something if even the townsfolk knew...

It wasn’t until the word ‘monsters’ reached his ears that Zevran mentally rejoined the proceedings, cursing his poorly-timed contemplations as he did. 

“They come out of the castle every night and attack the village until dawn,” the man croaked, watching them pleadingly. “We’ve no army or king to defend us, and the few of us left are waiting for death.”

“Then I'll investigate the castle,” Rhodri declared. “There must be an explanation for all this. I imagine it'll be found there.” She turned to the party. “Who will come with me?”

The man waved to get her attention. “Wait, ser. Perhaps you should speak to Bann Teagan first.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose. “The Arl’s brother is here?”

“He’s in the Chantry. I’ll take you there, if you’ll follow me?”

Rhodri inclined her head. “Very well. Lead the way then, ser, if you please.”

§

The rest of the day went by in a blur. The man called Bann Teagan had somehow roped them into joining the woefully underprepared villagers in beating back the tide of ‘evil… things’, as he had put it. The party spent long hours hurtling around the village, recruiting all and sundry into the local defence– and, more surprisingly, assisting the more vulnerable of said all and sundry as they went. The Warden didn’t turn down a single request for help, to the approval of Alistair and Leliana, and the outright scorn of Morrigan and Sten. Siblings were reunited; a frantic father missing his daughter was promised extra eyes in the search. There were even donations of cash and food here and there.

It wasn’t so much the act of helping that was so very novel. Zevran wasn’t above doing small acts of kindness, himself, where the circumstances permitted it. Performing them in the open, though, that was rather more unusual. Not that the party went about it so as to intentionally draw the attention of others. Even so, though, they seemed to do it with no thought of who could be watching, ready to exploit it. Was this sort of thing normal outside of the Crows?

… If it was, did Rhodri and the others know how lucky they were that that was the case? 

He silently decided to enjoy the freedom of pursuing such harmless pleasures for as long as the opportunity was there. Though exactly how long that would last was very much up for debate now that he had been signed up to fight village-decimating monsters, yet another of his ingenious, wry musings as the companions sat together in the Redcliffe Tavern, watching the sun dither a hand's breadth above the horizon. 

His gaze was torn from the window as he looked around and saw the buxom, redheaded waitress standing at their table, a tray balanced expertly in the palm of one hand. 

“Three pints,” she handed a half-tankard each to Zevran, Morrigan, and Alistair, “and a strawberry nectar.”

“Thank you, ser,” Rhodri accepted her drink with an appreciative nod and took a sip.

The waitress raised an eyebrow. "'Ser?' Are you trying to get into bed with me? ‘Cos I ain’t that kind of girl.”

Rhodri’s eyes widened as she choked on her nectar. 

“I-- no, what--” she spluttered between coughs. Zevran smirked and took the glass out of her hand, setting it on the table before delivering a few firm pats between her shoulder blades.

“I was being polite,” she gasped when she had her breath back. “I hadn't meant to offend, truly. My apologies, Madam.”

That earned the table a bemused smile. Morrigan rolled her eyes and pretended to be oblivious to the scene while Alistair and Zevran looked on from behind their beverages.

“Ah, I think I’ve been around Lloyd too much to know politeness when I see it,” the waitress admitted with a wry chuckle, jerking her head a little in the direction of the barkeeper. “If I didn’t need the job so badly, I’d be away from that greasy bastard faster than you can say ‘spigot.’”

The little information the woman had offered was enough to piece a backstory together, bringing with it a similar impulse to step in as Zevran had with Isabela- take her aside, teach her enough bladework to keep the worst of the trouble at bay.

He turned his gaze to Rhodri, whose face would tell him how his chances looked for indulging that little urge, and her knitted brows were all the answer he needed.

"Is the tavern owner giving you trouble, Madam?” she asked seriously, and perhaps a little too loudly, as one of the militiamen at the table close by glanced over at them. 

The waitress’ eyes widened and she shot a glimpse over her shoulder, sighing with relief to see that Lloyd was engrossed in the task of counting the money he had fleeced from them and the militiamen who were drinking nearby. 

She looked back at them, her mouth a thin line now. 

“Keep it down, would you,” she hissed. “Didn’t I just say I can’t afford to lose this job? He gropes me and pays me next to nothing, yes, but if I get the boot here, then I end up somewhere much worse. I ain’t got any other options!”

Rhodri gave a half-shrug and went to get up. “I'd best have a word with him then, teach him some basic manners--”

The waitress hastily stepped in front of her, shaking her head. “No, no, don’t. That’ll just make things worse.” She smiled pleadingly. “It’s sweet of you, but I’ll be fine.”

“He'll be fighting with us tonight,” Rhodri answered, “and I don’t tolerate that sort of filthy behaviour. In fact, I'd better go and tell him he’ll be fighting, since we haven’t spoken with him yet…”

The waitress laughed. “Lloyd? Fighting? Ooh, you've got the wrong bloke there. He’ll lock himself away in his cellar like he's done the last few nights, and– hey! Where are you going?”

Zevran gave a low chuckle. “Somehow, I do not think that will be the case this evening,” he said to her as Rhodri, who was already halfway to the bar, had a groaning Alistair in hot pursuit. Morrigan rolled her eyes and slid over to the opposite chair, turning her back to the unfolding spectacle as the Warden and the barkeep exchanged words at a volume that grew by the syllable-- on Lloyd’s part, at least.

“There’s no need for that kind of talk,” he objected, wiping his brow with the bar rag. “That’s murder!”

“It isn’t murder to say that your source of income will dry up if you don’t join the collective effort to keep them and your village alive tonight,” she replied with a shrug. 

“It is if you’re sending me into the fray when I can’t even hold a sword,” he protested. Alistair clucked his tongue, folded his arms, and shook his head at the man reprovingly.

“Then I suggest you make your way down by the Chantry to practice with the other beginners,” Rhodri pointed at the door. “And if I hear of any indecent behaviour from you, I'll see to it personally that you face disciplinary action. Off you go."

Zevran stifled a snort as he watched the barkeep throw his hands up and stomp toward the front door, barking over his shoulder, “it better be as I left it when I get back…!” 

Lloyd turned to the waitress and pointed at her.

“Bella, you’ll run the joint while I’m gone, and don’t you dare undercharge.” With that, he tramped out, slamming the door behind him as he went.

In what appeared to be a rare moment of unison, Alistair and Morrigan rolled their eyes, passing each other as Alistair returned to the table and Morrigan (“I cannot suffer a moment more of these inane dramas”) departed the tavern. 

Bella walked into the centre of the room and declared that drinks were free for the rest of the day, to the uproarious delight of the patrons. A line formed as people drained their tankards and made their way to the bar, and no-one made a single noise of impatience as Bella quietly conversed with Rhodri for a few minutes before taking her place behind the spigots.

When the Warden rejoined the table, Alistair got to his feet.

“I want a word with Bann Teagan before things get exciting,” he said to her, making sure to shoot Zevran the requisite glare as he did. “I’ll meet you outside the Chantry, all right?”

With a wave, he was out, and Rhodri and Zevran were left alone at the table– with no shields on them, no less!

Progress!

“Well, that was exciting,” Zevran murmured to her through a chuckle. 

Rhodri shook her head. “I wouldn’t care to repeat it. Poor Bella. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow, I think.” She cursed under her breath before her eyes suddenly widened. “Zevran!”

He quirked a brow at her. “Hmm? You already had my attention, my Grey Warden.”

“We must talk strategy for tonight,” she said urgently, tapping a finger on the table.

“... Strategy, you say?”

“Yes. You’re trained as an assassin, are you not? How do they fare on the battlefield? Surely you’re used to carrying out things a little more… clandestinely, yes?”

Zevran nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “This is true. We specialise in striking from stealth. I can fight against others in head-to-head combat, though a large army may make things… particularly exciting, shall we say.”

Rhodri frowned. Her eyes went on him and scanned his face so intently that a part of him wondered if the answer was written somewhere there. “We must find a way to keep you safe out there.” 

Keep him safe? Did she know who she was talking to? Oh, this was painful, and the sooner the conversation and ocular scrutiny were over, the better. He slipped on a smile and manufactured a chuckle to distract her. “I do not think you will find the answer on my right cheek, Rhodri, however beautiful it might be.”

Her eyes stopped right in his own line of vision, and as it happened, uninterrupted eye contact was even worse than face-searching. Why had he not considered that before encouraging her to look elsewhere?

After what felt like an eternity but could not have been more than a second, the contact broke and she looked away. 

“Sorry,” she said solemnly. “I was thinking hard and not focusing on where my eyes were. Would you tell me a little more about being an assassin so we can plan something out for you?”

Relief. At last, an easy topic, even if the reason behind it was…

No. Just answer the question.

His humming laugh came much more readily to him this time. “With pleasure, my Warden. Well, let me see. We assassins tend to have very limited opportunity to carry out our task, which means that much depends on the first attack.” He shrugged and added as an aside, “and it keeps the dying process from dragging out. A good clean death, as it were.”

They had spoken of clean deaths before, and he knew Rhodri’s stance on the matter. Even so, it was gratifying to see her give an approving nod. 

“Debilitating foes with poison,” he added, “or crippling their limbs makes follow-up attacks much easier. Done well, if the first stab does not end things, the second or third will.”

“You would have to know anatomy very well to make good judgements on where to strike and applying knowledge of poisons,” Rhodri said as she traced a finger around the rim of her glass. Her voice dropped a little, and he wasn’t sure if she was still talking to him as she muttered, “Dexterity, of course, excellent strength, but in short bursts… eye for distance, awareness of surroundings… mmm…” She trailed off, chewing on her lip.

Zevran said nothing. There was little to add to the list of his skills she was producing in front of him now– at least where warfare was concerned. 

“I’d put you with Alistair for that, since he can clear quite a path, and it would be well for him to have someone at his back.” Rhodri sighed. “But he needs more time to warm up to you. For now, your proximity will startle him, and that could lead to disaster.”

He snorted and conceded her point with a nod. “It would be less than ideal.” 

“If there were better spots around here to hide and we weren’t playing a numbers game, it would be less of an issue," she continued thoughtfully. 

Zevran glanced out the window, looking down over the entire village. There were a handful of bridges and large mounds that would do in a pinch, though if he were overwhelmed…

“Oh, I could try to make do, I think,” he said offhandedly. “If I fail, I suppose I only fail once.”

He chuckled as Rhodri’s eyes widened. “Ah, do not take it badly, my Warden! One does not do what I do and fear death so very greatly. You know this!"

Her brows knitted, and the remnants of his mirth died away. She looked positively livid when she did that.

“I don’t want you to die, Zevran, and I don't want you at greater risk of death than is absolutely necessary.”

Now that was a combination: a face that looked like the wearer wanted to strangle him, saying words expressing the exact opposite sentiment. It would have been hugely funny were it any less unsettling. 

“I would like you to stay very close to me this evening, then,” she said firmly, nodding at her own decision. "Ideally behind me. I'll be on the frontlines much of the time, I imagine, but my shields will keep us both quite safe." 

Zevran bit back the sceptical urge to question the choice of her own placement in all this. Sending a mage into the fray seemed akin to entering a cat in a horse race, but the Warden  looked nothing but sure of herself. He nodded quickly. 

“You won’t regret having Zevran at your back, my Warden,” he purred. “Count on it.”

Rhodri beamed and gave him one of those barely-there nudges. “Of course I won’t,” she said warmly. “I’m happy to have you with me.”

Before Zevran’s stomach could finish plummeting, Rhodri was already jerking a thumb in the direction of the door. 

“We should leave and get some practice in before sundown. I doubt my spells will hit you if you stay right behind me, but I’ll be moving and you’ll need to get used to shadowing me.”

In the corner of Zevran’s periphery, Bella had disappeared into the stockroom, and a tingling premonition declared the arrival of his opportunity to do a good little deed of his own. And, he had to admit, to take a moment’s respite from the Warden’s nerve-plucking remarks.

 “Of course. But first, please excuse me for a moment, my Warden.”

With a nod, Rhodri turned her gaze to the window, and amid the noise and studious consumption of alcohol, Zevran went unseen as he slipped away to the stockroom where Bella was rummaging in a large chest. His hand went under his shirt to unbuckle an unremarkable steel body knife strapped around his belly, and he held it by the sheath as he knocked gently on the door jamb.

“Pardon me,” he announced calmly.

Bella glanced over her shoulder and promptly turned back to her task. 

“Gents’ is the second door after this one,” she jerked her head to her right, tsking under her breath. “I could’ve sworn that bloody wrench was in this one…”

“Ah, thank you, but no, I did not come to enquire about the latrines,” he shook his head.

She paused and turned around again, appraising him warily this time. “What did you come here for, then?”

He held up his free hand. “Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. I was sitting at the table with the Grey Warden and overheard something about your… ah… predicament here under the barkeep’s employ.”

Bella looked unimpressed with this opener. “If you’ve come looking to staff a whorehouse, I ain’t interested.”

Zevran chuckled. “Ah, no. No, I do not run any such enterprise. But I have had friends in similar situations as yours.” He stepped forward and held the knife out to her, keeping the blade pointing toward him as he did. “They always benefited from having a little extra, ah… protection, shall we say.”

Her eyes darted from the blade to him; he could almost hear the cogs turning in her head as she sized them both up. Such caution was warranted, of course; why would she trust a foreign stranger? He stayed still and kept his free hand where she could see it.

After a few more moments, Bella reached out a hand and unsheathed the blade.

“You should take the rest as well,” he prompted her gently. “In a dress, I suggest strapping it to the upper leg for quick access." He drew a thumb around the top of his thigh demonstratively. “If they face you head-on, aim for the face, throat, or the space below where the ribs join, and if you can get behind them, here where the head meets the neck will end things quickly.” He jostled the belt a little as a reminder for her to take it; she did. “But if you can run, do. Knives are always a last resort, no?”

Bella kept her eye on the point of the blade. “What d’you want in return, then? I ain’t got any money to give you.” She looked up slowly. “Unless you wanted a more physical thank you?”

He held up his hands and shook his head, smiling. “No, no, there is no need for that. Just keep the knife a secret. It is no longer a concealed blade if you show it to anyone, no? Word gets out very fast, even among trusted ones.”

She placed the knife in the scabbard and nodded. “I… thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for being suspicious. We don’t get many elves in here, but you’re certainly a lot nicer than that Berwick creep.”

Zevran pursed his lips thoughtfully, reflexively dismissing the first part of the woman’s remark. “Ah, yes, the one we recruited earlier.”

Bella chuckled. “We ought to keep you and your friends around. The tavern’s a much better place to be when it’s not overrun with oddballs and pigs. Almost pleasant.”

He snorted. “Just so. I should leave, but first, you might consider concealing that blade before anyone catches you with it. I will keep watch while you do.” Without another word, he turned his back to her and stood in the doorway.

“I think the knife’s hidden now,” she announced from behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, he nodded.

“I am sure I don't know which knife you mean,” he answered through a smile that he allowed to stay with him after he left her and made for the Warden’s table. 

Rhodri did her startled little head-rattle as Zevran drew up beside her, and pulled her gaze away from the window. She smiled at him. “Shall we go?”

“Always ready, my Grey Warden.”

In a silence that bordered on comfortable, Rhodri drained the last of her drink and they stepped out into the afternoon.

[thethirdamell]

I Yield (Borders Yet To Be - Part 1)

@pinkfadespirit tagged me for WIP Wednesday so here’s what I’ve been working on instead of AO. Thank you for the tag! This is part one of who knows how many. I was thinking of making it a one-shot, but it’s getting a bit long, so I’m still undecided on how to handle it. WIP Wednesday Tags: @mikkeneko @verifiedhawke @arcanefeathers  @ushauz @wannakissrobits @degenerate-perturbation @thefluffynug @doctorhawke @nightingalerising @loneliii-aura @faux-fires and anyone who wants to share :) Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins  Rating: Explicit Tags: Romance  WC: 3246 Main Pairings (M/M): Amell / Loghain 

Summary: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” 

Sweat. Soaking his hair, his tunic, every inch of his flushed skin. His pulse was thrumming in his ears, so loud he couldn’t hear the harsh grunts he knew spilled from his lips as he took thrust after thrust. Damn him. Damn the Warden. Loghain was exhausted, every muscle trembling as he struggled to keep up with the man’s limitless stamina, his limitless mana, his limitless everything. Amell shoved him hard against the wall, and the sound that escaped him was more gasp than grunt.  

Amell didn’t just have him, he dominated him. From the moment they’d started this, he’d been in complete control. Loghain couldn’t move, could barely breathe without the man’s allowance. There was so much strength in him - Loghain couldn’t call on a comparison. Not since Maric died, but Maric had never taken charge of him like this - had never ruined him like this. Amell grabbed him and turned him around, only to throw him on the floor.  

Loghain hit his knees, and stayed there, breathing hard. This was what he’d asked for - what he’d wanted - and now that he finally had it - there was nothing left but to surrender to it. Amell advanced on him, but there was nothing hurried in his stride. Like he knew Loghain would stay there, exactly where he’d left him, exactly where he wanted him. Amell had taken everything from him, and there was nothing left now but his dignity, but somehow Loghain knew Amell would take that too.

“I yield,” Loghain said, letting his sword fall from his hand.

Amell stopped. Loghain hadn’t expected him to stop. He expected to meet his end at the Warden’s sword, thrust through his heart before the whole of Ferelden. Beaten. Bested. Utterly destroyed at the hands of the man he’d spent the past year fighting with more fervor than the Blight. Amell unlatched his helmet with his shield arm, and let it clatter to the floor of the throne room.

Dragonscale echoed on the stone in the utter stillness of the Landsmeet. Amell still held his sword, and could still drive it through him. Loghain still expected him to. Amell’s eyes swept over him, a bloody shade of russet that was difficult to meet for how they seemed to see through him. He wasn’t the Regent, or the Teyrn, or the Hero of Riverdane to the Warden. He was just Loghain - and Loghain had lost. He knelt, chest heaving, one hand to the floor and the other to his knee to keep him steady, and prayed Anora would look away.

“... I accept your surrender,” Amell said.

Anora wept. Alistair raged. The Landsmeet gasped, but no one was more shocked than Loghain.

Loghain had underestimated him. He’d thought Amell like Cailan: a child wanting to play at war. He’d never been more wrong about a person. Amell unified the country where he failed, arranging his daughter’s wedding to Maric’s bastard, and winning the allegiance of the bannorn, the elves, the dwarves, the mages, and now somehow, Loghain as well.

Amell wanted him for the Grey Wardens, or perhaps simply wanted his death behind closed doors. Loghain knew enough to know the Joining was often fatal, and far less glorious than a public beheading. It seemed a fitting punishment, all things considered. Loghain respected the man for it, though Maric’s bastard disagreed.

Alistair hadn’t contained his anger to the Landsmeet. Loghain and half the palace overheard their argument when they returned. Alistair locked himself in his room, which just left Riordan and Amell to oversee his Joining. Amell sat on a table, his gloves and a selection of vials laid out beside him, reading over a tome embossed with griffon wings.

He looked no less commanding outside of battle. He had an impressively strong nose and well-defined jaw, but there was something in his eyes. Blood red, shadowed by a strong brow and further accented by high cheekbones. He cut a leaner figure in Warden leathers than he did in dragonscale, and wore the dark blues almost regally, posture strong, raven hair braided back behind one ear.

It seemed only fitting to stare. Loghain should get the measure of the man that had spared him, but Amell was hard to read. There was a strategist in there, alongside a mage, despite Amell’s reliance on sword and shield. Strange Amell hadn’t used his magic in their duel. Or perhaps smart. Perhaps it had all been for show, and Amell could have killed him with a wave of his hand, but wanted to allow him some semblance of dignity before the Landsmeet.

A strong leader couldn’t have weak allies, after all. Loghain had never thought of himself as weak before, but he knew when he’d been bested. Amell was the better soldier. The better leader. The better man. He was competent, but that competence wasn’t terribly comforting if he was just now learning the ritual Loghain was to undergo.

“Am I to understand you’ve never done this before?” Loghain guessed.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Amell said.

“Quiet,” Riordan murmured. “The Joining is complex. He needs to focus.”

“You could at least get me when you're ready,” Loghain muttered, pacing impatiently. The less time he had to think this over, the better. The thought of leaving Anora alone didn’t sit well with him. She was formidable, strong enough to endure without him, but the memory of her tears of relief at the Landsmeet haunted him. He didn't want her shedding any more, and prayed it was mercy, not malice, that had stayed Amell’s hand.

“Trust me,” Amell said without looking up from the tome.

“I don’t see I have a choice,” Loghain said.

In time, Amell set his book aside and cast his spell, blood and lyrium weaving together in the silver joining chalice. It smelled like death, a scent so sweet it was noxious, and Loghain didn’t doubt he’d meet his end at it.

Riordan retrieved the chalice. The old Orlesian still bore the scars from his imprisonment at Howe’s estate, and there was nothing but practicality in his voice when he spoke. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good. From this moment forth you are a Grey Warden.”

“I understand,” Loghain reached to take it from him when Amell stopped him. Amell's hand clasped over his own on the chalice, and felt pleasantly warm contrasted with the cold silver. It sent an involuntary shiver up his spine, and made him acutely aware it had been years since anyone had touched him.

“Wait,” Amell said.

“Change your mind?” Loghain forced a chuckle. “Should we get the guillotine?”

“Join us, brother,” Amell said, his hand still resting atop his own, and it wasn’t just warm, it was soft, his grip firm and steady through the oath. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

“My sacrifice?” Loghain fought back the urge to roll his eyes and wrench away. His pride wasn’t worth the loss of warmth, the loss of contact, the loss of compassion. Amell’s touch was like to be the last he'd ever know.

… strange that didn't seem so terrible.

“Yes,” Amell said.

“My death, you mean," Loghain cleared his throat.

“Death is just death,” Amell said. “If you die, I won't waste it.”

“See that you don’t,” Loghain drank.

Loghain lived, and that was all he could say of the matter. He was stripped of his lands and titles following his defeat, and felt smaller for it. In a strange way, he felt better for it. It was out of his hands now. His successes. His failures. They were on Amell, and Amell seemed to shoulder them well. Amell spent a great deal of time with Anora, Alistair, and Eamon, offering his advice on the state of the bannorn before he left for his fortress at Soldier’s Peak.

Loghain joined him, and all his companions. They hated him down to the last man, but Amell didn’t, or if he did, he didn’t make it obvious. He spoke with him, and ate with him, and acknowledged him the way it seemed he did the rest of his companions. The only distinction seemed to be that Amell watched him with a… unique intensity. An intensity Loghain only noticed because he watched Amell the same way. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, and honestly couldn’t say which of them had started it.

They took the North Road from Denerim towards Soldier’s Peak, and spent the night at a small town inn, where it seemed Loghain should speak with him. Set expectations for whatever there was between them. He knocked on the door to Amell’s room, one hard thump of his fist, and won a polite, "Enter."

Loghain let himself inside. The room, like all the rooms at the inn, was modest. An armchair and a couch set before a low table, where Amell sat with a selection of books and maps, his mabari at his feet. There was also a basin for bathing and a bed, both big enough for two, but Amell was alone.

That seemed strange, for a man like him. Maric had never been alone, not even when he should have been, women from all walks of life walking their way right into his bed. Rowan had suffered for it… but Loghain didn't want to think about Maric or Rowan. He wanted to think about Amell.

There was a lot to think about there. Amell besting him. Amell sparing him. Amell staring at him. His hair, free of its braid, curved to frame one side of his face and the wholly unwarranted raise of his eyebrow. Like Amell was intrigued by his visit, but there was nothing intriguing about him. He was a bitter old man who’d lost his country, his crown, and his companions all in one fell swoop.

… It seemed he should resent Amell more for that.

"Loghain," Amell said, closing the book he'd been reading. "Did you want to talk?"

Sitting seemed too presumptuous, so Loghain leaned on the armchair while he spoke, "What else could I want?"

"You tell me," Amell countered, with a strange lilt to his voice.

"I'm not here for a rematch," Loghain assured him. "Don't worry."

"I wasn't."

… Cocky.

“I passed your test,” Loghain noted, fighting back a smile and wondering why his face was so determined to settle on the expression. “Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems.”

“It seems,” Amell agreed.

“I suppose you think I'm some sort of monster,” Loghain continued. “More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently.”

“I may have to resort to magic next,” Amell said playfully.

“Oh?” Loghain raised a bemused eyebrow, his smile finally escaping. “What was all that nonsense with darkspawn blood and lyrium, then? A puppet show?"

"Something like that," Amell said mysteriously.

"It seems to me that magic has already failed," Loghain joked, though he wasn't naive enough to think the extent of Amell’s magic could fit in one little cup. "I’d recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time. Less impressive, but it gets the job done.”

Amell hummed thoughtfully, like he was considering it, before shaking his head. “The plan loses something when you’re the one suggesting it.”

“I suppose it does lack the element of surprise,” Loghain allotted.

"Sit down," Amell waved a hand at the armchair.

It was more suggestion than command, but it still disarmed him. Loghain couldn't remember the last time anyone had told him to do anything. More so, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually listened. He circled the armchair and sat. Amell smirked, like he was pleased with him for following the order, however insignificant. His eyes wandered over him, like he was sizing him, but Loghain couldn’t imagine why. Amell had already beaten him.

What other reason could the man have to stare? Loghain straightened his spine and refused to fidget for it. He knew where he stood with the Warden and he wouldn’t be intimidated by it, but Amell’s stare didn’t seem threatening. It just seemed interested. Silence stretched, and it took Loghain longer than he cared to admit to realize he was waiting for permission to speak.

“Well,” Loghain cleared his throat. “What shall we do to settle things between us, then?”

"Things?" Amell raised an eyebrow.

“Is that supposed to be coy?” Loghain guessed.

“Do you want it to be coy?” Amell asked.

… Was Amell flirting with him? He couldn’t possibly be flirting with him. He was old enough to be the man’s father. His grandfather, if he'd been more adventurous in his youth, but he hadn't. He’d loved Rowan, and then Celia - though not half as well as she deserved - and then no one. Amell had no reason to flirt with him. Loghain had spent the better part of a year trying to kill him, and there was nothing flirtatious in that.

Loghain wasn’t a flirtatious person. He’d barely flirted with his own wife, and he’d never flirted with Maric - no matter his feelings for the man. He couldn’t begin to imagine the scandal that would have come from that, even if Maric had shown any preference for men. His King? It would have been as bad as… whatever this was. Amell was his Commander. Amell was half his age. Amell was waiting for an answer, smirking a little more for every second he delayed.

“What I want is for this to be over,” Loghain said before he embarrassed himself further. “You’ve won, Warden.”

“Amell,” Amell corrected him.

“... Amell, then,” Loghain said.

“There’s nothing to settle,” Amell assured him. “I expect us to work together.”

“Is that punishment meant for me or for you?” Loghain wondered.

“Did you want to be punished?” Amell ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, a flicker of electricity playing over his fingers, but the magic seemed more static than lightning, his expression more thoughtful than threatening.

There was too much to think about there. Amell was absolutely flirting with him. Maric had told stories of the nights he’d spent with mages and their magic, and they assaulted him mercilessly the longer Amell held the spell. The short exchange felt like their duel all over again - Amell wearing down his defenses, and Loghain helpless against him.

It shouldn’t have been so appealing. It shouldn’t have been appealing at all. Loghain didn’t know anything about the man beyond his skill with a blade, but something in the roll of his fingers and the quirk of his lips seemed to suggest it was… quite a proficiency.

“I imagine you must have one in mind,” Loghain mumbled despite himself, wondering after the sensations. Pleasant, no doubt. Something that shivered across the skin. Something that wasn’t serious, and was clearly just meant to tease or torment him.

“A few,” Amell grinned.

“So just like that, we’re allies?” Loghain asked - refusing to read into that grin, that magic, those hands. Amell was just making fun of him, adding insult to the injury of his defeat with this whole exchange. “I can’t imagine it’s so simple. I don’t know what concessions you want from me. I expect my word will not satisfy you.”

“Did you want to satisfy me?” Amell countered.

“Mockery, then,” Loghain deduced. There was no other explanation. He stood, but Amell stood with him, a fast hand catching his wrist when he turned to go. It was the same hand as before - the same warmth, the same firm grip, and Maker - the magic. Amell cut off the spell with the contact, but he wasn’t quite fast enough.

Static rippled up his arm, sending a full body shiver through him. Amell had to have felt him tremble. Had to have known he was making a fool of him. They were enemies at worst, reluctant allies at best, and the thought that Amell might be after more than that was ridiculous enough as to be insulting.

“What mockery?” Amell asked.

“This,” Loghain gestured vaguely between them. “I’ve seen enough Satinalias to know when I'm being made the fool.”

“Fortune favors the foolish,” Amell said - and Maker preserve him but there was something captivating in him. Not just his eyes, but his scent, clouding his head for their closeness. He was something like blood and magic, and it spoke of the same power that had bested him at the Landsmeet and was besting him now.

“Fortune favors the brave,” Loghain corrected the proverb, feeling himself begin to sweat the longer Amell stared at him with those damn eyes, like fire, heating up his skin with all their impossible promises. “I am no fool and I will not be made one. You may have won, but I doubt it was done with sword alone. If not for your magic, I could have taken you.”

“Is that what you want?” Amell asked.

“What?”

“You want to take me?” Amell released his wrist, and caught his collar instead. His fingers barely skirted the fabric, but he might have wrenched for the effect it had on him. Loghain couldn’t focus on anything but the way his lips moved when he spoke, and the thought that they might have been softer than his hands. “You want to take my magic?”

“Damn you, Warden,” Loghain hated himself for whispering, but he couldn’t raise his voice any more than he could raise his head, tilted just slightly so the other man could reach his lips if he wanted. “What do you want from me?”

“You tell me,” Amell countered - his eyes were fixed on his lips, and the warmth of his breath spilled over them with every word. “What do you want?”

“I want you to let go of me,” Loghain lied.

Amell let go, and Loghain regretted it more than all the mistakes he’d made of late. The rest of his mistakes he’d made for Ferelden, but this one-... this was a mistake he could make for himself. It almost seemed worth the risk that Amell might be mocking him, might be too young for him, might be too much for him. Loghain cleared his throat, and took an unsteady step back. “Thank you. Goodnight, Warden.”

“Amell,” Amell corrected him.

“Amell,” Loghain repeated, and beat a hastier retreat from Amell’s room than he had from Ostagar. He took a cold bath in his own room, but he was so flushed from the exchange his skin may as well have warmed the water. This-... this was the real defeat. The real shame. Not at the Landsmeet, but here, in some backwater inn on the North Road, where he met his end not at Amell’s sword but his smirk.

Take him. Loghain couldn’t take him. One look, one touch, and he was ready to yield. The memory wouldn’t leave him, not even when he took a hand to his aching cock and beat a frantic pace against his racing heart. He hated the touch of his own hand - weathered with age and nothing like the supple youth he felt in Amell - but his release strengthened his resolve. If he didn’t even want the touch of his own hand, neither would anyone else.

[nxtheromoved]

Katriel

Temporary Bio / Stats / Verses

Synopsis

Katriel was once an elven bard and paramour of King Maric Theirin. Loghain Mac Tir revealed Katriel as an Orlesian spy to Maric, who in turn killed her without knowing that she had defected to support him. Upon her death, a spirit of love that had taken interest in Katriel assumed her memories to preserve them and eventually took her shape in the mortal realm.

Basics

Name: Katriel Nickname(s)/Alias(s): "Kat” Title(s): none Age: ageless (appears to be in her mid-late 20′s) Race: elf; spirit Birth Date: 29th of Kingsway, unknown year Birth Sign: Libra Nationality: Orlesian (formerly) Orientation: pansexual / panromantic Gender: cis woman Class: rogue / “mage” Occupation: bard (formerly) Hair: curly and falls past her shoulders; honey blonde Eyes: bright green Height: 5"5 Weight: 114 lbs Body Type: lithe; slight curves, deceptively athletic Faceclaim: Jasmine Sanders

Personality

Positive Traits: Charming, Compassionate, Diplomatic, Adaptable, Calm, Dignified, Resourceful

Neutral Traits: Cerebral, Cunning, Enigmatic, Ethereal, Practical, Private, Sensual

Negative Traits: Calculating, Cryptic, Deceptive, Indecisive, Melancholic, Opportunistic

Biography

Katriel served as a bard during the time of the Ferelden Rebellion and was hired by Severan, advisor to King Meghren, to seduce Maric Theirin and orchestrate his capture. Her manipulations led to the slaughter of half of the rebel army. Though she initially intended to follow through with her contract, she developed genuine feelings for Maric and decided to defect and rescued Maric, Rowan, and Loghain.

Katriel confronted Severan to void their contract. Severan was insistant on her fulfilling her duty, but she refused and crippled him with poison to escaped. Unfortunately, Loghain and Rowan had her followed and learned the truth of her association. Katriel knew she was followed but was willing to return to Maric, even if it meant her death. She was torn with the guilt of betraying him; she wanted to confess in person. She also realized that she may not get the chance to do so, so she left a letter for him to find that had her heartfelt confession and regrets along with details on how to defeat Severan.

Before Katriel arrived, Loghain informed Maric of Katriel's betrayal while purposefully neglecting to mention that she had defected. When Katriel came to him, he killed her in a blind rage.

Katriel may have died that day, but she was kept alive in memory by a spirit of love that had taken interest in her and the events that preceded her death. The spirit gradually took on her identity as it watched the world from the Fade. Eventually, there was little discernable from the spirit and the mortal Katriel. When Maric was trapped in the fade, Katriel crafted what she believed would be the perfect dream for him, but he recognized that he was in the Fade and abandoned the dream. She approached him afterward in the raw fade in hope to guide and protect him, and though she begged for him to stay, she also urged him to forgive himself for his death and forget about her when she realized that he could not.

The encounter had a lasting change on Katriel. She'd become too much like a mortal for the fade to be her home anymore. The waking world pulled at her more and more until she decided that she wanted to walk the earth. She travelled for years learning what it was to be mortal, and after some time, she was barely a spirit. The spirit of love cared not for her simple purpose any more. She was now who she wished to be: Katriel. She could not be as she once was, but that did not matter to her. She simply wanted to live.

Important Notes

Katriel's evolution is similar to Cole's if he is made more human. It happens "off-screen" between the events of The Calling and Dragon Age: Origins because I want her to be at a point where she couldn't be immediately recognized as a spirit by the untrained, and that's a good number of years to make this development solid. She retains some magic usage as a spirit that may make some confuse her for a mage, and that is often her cover-story. At this point, she doesn't really recognize herself as a spirit anymore. She knows what she is, yes, but she sees herself as Katriel first and foremost. Because of her decades of developing as a mortal, she understands human complexity in a way that pure spirits cannot, but she cannot see or manipulate the memories and emotions of others as some spirits (like Cole) can. Outside of basic magic, the only power she retains is the power to disappear.

Though she has some usage of magic thanks to her status as a spirit, she focuses on rogue abilities in combat as that is how she was originally trained to fight in life.

She can fit pretty much anywhere in Dragon Age in terms of setting / time period. Let’s go wild.

Not sure about other verses yet bc I haven’t written her in two years but we’ll see.

[allisondraste]

Writer’s Review

Thanks for the tag @kagetsukai.  This was a fun trip down memory lane.  My first published work was In January of 2008 and it was for Inuyasha and my most recent works have been for Fallout 4, but for the funsies of direct comparison, I chose my first Dragon Age fic (published in 2010 when I was SIXTEEN GAH) and a very unintentionally similar scene I wrote back when I started Temperance in 2019.  ;D

Rules: Post two snippets of your writing. The first should be one of the oldest examples of your work that you can find (the older the better!), and the other has to be an excerpt from something more recent. Compare the two side by side to see the difference between what your writing looks like now and how it did then.

In return I shall tag @potatocrab @laurelsofhighever @adventuresofmeghatron and anyone else who might wish to cringe at their own old writing.  As always, no pressure.  I’m just following the rules. 

I’m gonna stick this under a read more because it’s very long. 

Excerp from Hunger, a short fic for my warden Eliya Surana and Alistair. 

It sounded again. It was more recognizable this time. It was a laugh or a chuckle. It sounded human, or possibly elven to her ears. The thought of bandits waiting like tigers ready to pounce upon them and cut her throat, then Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan (if they dared). Then they'd rob the camp and leave the corpses to the darkspawn and beasts of the forest.

They thought of being decapitated didn't sit well with the red headed elf. In a rush of fear and adrenaline, she leaped forward toward whoever was laughing and charged up and electricity spell holding it to whatever she'd made contact with. She hoped to scare whatever it was into submission. She didn't understand how successful she'd been until she looked down.

She was straddling what was definitely human, definitely male, and definitely…

"HOLY CRAP IT'S YOU," she said with an embarrassed yet relieved shout as she held the spell to the man's face and it had revealed his identity. It was Alistair and she'd obviously startled him.

"No, no don't hit me! I bruise easily," he said putting his hands in front of his embarrassment flushed face.

"I'm SO sorry," she said not thinking to get up off of him in her disgruntled state, "I thought you were a bandit and you were going to cut my throat and then kill everyone else and take all of the FOOD. Why were you laughing?"

"I was… uhh… laughing… err…at… haha… you," he said in a meek manner like she'd kill him if he said it, "Though now I know to never ever ever EVER do that again EVER."

Eliya gave him a confused eyebrow raise, her pointy ears twitching slightly in a quirky involuntary manner. "At me? Why?" She wondered if it was because she was elven. Despite being accepted by the humans in the Circle, she had lived in Denerim for awhile and was quick to accuse humans of racist beliefs. She hadn't thought Alistair to be… that way after being around him for several days, but she had to question his motives.

"No, no, its not what you're thinking," The stunned boy said apologetically. Alistair obviously knew what she was getting at, "Its not because you're an elf. I swear it! I heard you rattling around and talking to yourself. I thought it was funny because I knew what you were doing. It seemed like déjà vu for me because I went through the same hunger thing. I… couldn't help it."

"Oh," Eliya said with a relieved chuckle, "That's good because I really didn't want to beat you up."

Alistair laughed but when he saw the stern expression on the girl's face he stopped. "Wait are you serious," he questioned.

Eliya looked sternly for about five more seconds but then busted into a hysterical laughter.

"We're even now," she said between laughs. And they sat there laughing at the predicament.

Excerpt from Chapter 3 of Temperance, a scene between Liss Cousland and Alistair 

The air was slightly too cold for her liking, teeth chattering as the wind nipped at her cheeks and nose.  Despite her discomfort, she found the courtyard ideal, ferns and flowers illuminated only by moonlight. She wondered how the plants survived the frost that coated them each night, the hardy little things.  Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and allowed her muscles to lose their tension.

The calm lasted only briefly, as she heard a rustle in the grass behind her and footsteps approaching.  She turned on her heels abruptly, balling her hand into a fist, and jabbing forcefully in the direction of the noise.  A man’s voice yelped in pain, and there was a thud as the figure, now in focus, fell to the ground. Liss moved to restrain the potential attacker, sitting atop him with her fist at the ready.  

“No no no!  Please don’t hit me again, I bruise easily,” the man, whose features Liss could now see more clearly, pleaded.

He was a young man with sandy hair, brown skin, and dark hazel eyes wide with shock and perhaps pain at the punch she had landed against his torso.  He did not appear to be armed, or dangerous for that matter. Then again, she knew better than to let her guard down.

“Who are you,” she demanded, fist still at the ready, “And why were you sneaking around in the courtyard?”

“My name is Alistair,” he answered nervously, “I had come outside for some air, as one does, and I noticed that someone else was out here.  I, uh…well I was hoping not to alarm you. I guess we see how well that worked out.”

“Alistair?” The name sounded familiar, and she stood up and stepped back as she realized who the young man was, “The Alistair?  King Maric’s son? The Grey Warden who helped stop the Blight? That Alistair?”

He stood up and dusted the dirt from his pants.  “The one and only.” He grimaced as he attempted to straighten up his posture, massaging the place on his abdomen where Liss’ fist had fallen. “Maker, that hurt.  Who are you, anyway? Do you always go around attacking people?”

“I’m Elissa Cousland, and I’m so, so sorry,” she laughed nervously, bringing her hands to her face to hide the embarrassment.  “I just couldn’t sleep, so I came outside for a walk. I heard footsteps, and I thought- well… I don’t know what I thought.  It’s been a long year, and I’m a little on edge.”

“I’ll say,” he said pointedly, before flashing a grin, “I think it’s safe to say we’re all a little on edge, what with the war and the Blight.  Better to punch first, ask questions later, huh?”

“I suppose,” Liss answered, still laughing at herself, “Though it’s probably not the best way to make friends.”

I did not even realize that I’d accidentally rewritten a similar scene with different characters, under slightly different circumstances.  I get a HOOT out of rereading Hunger because there are so many anachronisms and so much telling instead of showing. I think I’ve also gotten better at taking a deep point of view and letting the character lead me rather than standing at a distance from the POV character.  I’m glad to see I enjoy having Alistair tackled by cagey women for a decade now.   This was fun. 

[rxdonmyledger]

Coming home

Summary:  Sometimes you can't help it. Sometimes you want to forget. But sometimes you just need someone who you can call home.

This was not one of my best summaries, I'll admit. But we all love a sassy and cute Alistair.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or their characters/lore/story.

I hope you enjoy it. I think we all have a thing for this sweet puppy. I tried to keep my female Amell without description except for the hair, so anyone can immerse themselves in the story.  I do not ask anything but if you want to support my writing and my economic situation, I could give you my Ko-fi! Thank you in advance. Anyway, enjoy my stories!

Besides, I’m not as active as I used to be here but if you want to keep reading my stories you can find me in my AO3 account. I am currently working on a Loki x Natasha fanfic if you want to read it!

The sunset turned the sky into a purple mantle that covered Denerim. The voices of the last merchants in the market echoed in the void. It could be possible to hear a fainted reminder of the Elf Alienage.

Another day passed.

He sighed and looked at his cup of wine, twirling it so the liquid caressed the inside. He was wearing simpler clothes than he was used to, the mantle long forgotten in his wooden chest, in the room. It was a weight on his shoulders he did not want to carry. At least not when he had the opportunity to be alone.

Claiming Ferelden’s throne had never been in his mind. In his own opinion, he was the last person capable of giving orders. Or leading. Maker, he didn’t even feel capable to lead the Mabari during his Blight days. And yet, it seems that it had not been his choice. It never was. Neither was his marriage to Anora.

Anora.

He snorted as he thought of his wife, emptying the cup before filling it again. The sweet smell of wine calmed his senses and he leant against the stone banister. One of the rooms near his had the windows open and he could hear the maids talking and chuckling, trying to muffle their sounds. He smiled at it, trying to remember when everything was easier. When he was a child, running down the halls of Redcliffe, or when he was a young man, training to be a templar.

His mind wandered to his wife again. Anora. How could someone describe Anora? Well, she was ambitious. She was determined and knew how she wanted things to be done. And she knew how to have them done. She was strong and she knew how to rule a country, that was out of question. Actually, she had been doing it for years while she was married to Cailan.

Yet, he didn’t like her. They got on well in the end, after a quite…difficult start in their marriage. The idea of beheading her father was a tricky matter. Yet, in the end he had learnt plenty of qualities from her and Eamon. How to rule, how to be a tactician. He could be well-versed in war and battlefield, but she was an expert politician and she knew how to manipulate those arrogant noble people to act on Ferelden’s benefit. He had to admit that.

She was good.

They were not close friends. But they respected each other and tried to improve their relationship. They would never be lovers, they both knew that. But the alliance had been better than they had expected.

Up to this time, he was still confused with her decision. The night he had come to his chambers and asked him to marry Anora if he wanted to go on with his birthright as Maric’s son and Ferelden’s heir. He had been astonished and he remembered himself standing in the middle of the room, the fire with a glowing orange light that outlined her figure, leaning against the fireplace. Maker, it seemed her ginger hair was on fire too.

“Don’t you…don’t you love me?”

Oh, sweet Andraste. The deeply sad smile she had forced in her beautiful lips. The way her shiny eyes had gone over his own face, as if he were still a child who needed to learn more about the real world. Probably that was the most probable option.

“I’m doing this because I love you, idiot” she replied with a faint voice and a playful tone. “Do you think you’d be allowed to marry someone…well, someone like me?”

Yes, he was an idiot. An idiot in love who thought that would be enough. But sometimes, desire was not enough. And then Morrigan’s thing had come. Maker, he hated when his mind wandered to that night.

What he remembered perfectly was him going back to his own chamber, finding her sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and hugging her knees. Seeing her like that broke his heart. His mind was blank, and he just approached the bed, laying on the soft mattress, too good to be real, after years of sleeping on a bedroll or the ground. She just laid by his side and opened her arms, as she always did, welcoming him. Her whole body surrounded him, and her hands rubbed his hair the way he loved.

They had made love. Slowly. Intimately. He wanted to erase every single rest of Morrigan’s touch. And she was the only one capable of doing that. Nobody knew what would happen. Would they defeat the Archdemon? Would they survive? Or would the world immerse in a future of darkness and despair?

If they had to die, at least they would live first. Together.

At first, he had his doubts about keeping her as his…Maker, he hated that word. Mistress. She did not deserve that. He wanted to be with her, marry her. Yet, she had been terribly pragmatic as always. Even Anora agreed with the deal, claiming Cailan had his own lovers. At least she would like this one.

It was done.

The arranged marriage was made public in the Landsmeet, after she had defeated Anora’s father, punishing him for his crimes. He thought about Loghain sometimes. He had betrayed his king and fellow warriors. He had committed treason. And yet, he had been helpful and valuable to Ferelden for years. Time had passed and he sometimes considered if it was the right thing to do.

He had made a speech and promised to come back to marry Anora after fighting the Blight. Everyone had celebrated the coronation of a Theirin heir. But his mind was not on the speech or the people who listened to him. He was like a tranquil, repeating the words that had been handed to him. His eyes wandered on those surrounding him, looking for his companions.

But they were nowhere in sight. And that broke his heart. Specially when it came to her.

He was alone in this.

Yet, he didn’t blame them. His companions had followed her to the fight. She was the natural leader, a sweet-caring woman with the rage of a dragon that could sew a mouth with her magic, a simple movement of her long fingers. She loved him, and he understood it was not easy to her to watch the man she loved marrying another woman, even if their relationship was going to continue.

He sighed and heard a soft knock on his door, followed by the creaking of the wood. He didn’t turn. It was probably Helena or one of the maids with his dinner.

“Leave it on the table. I’m not that hungry now”

But a king must be strong and healthy. You must eat something.

He could hear Eamon’s and Teagan’s voice in his mind. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts while the sun started to disappear in the horizon. The night was calm and silent. And that was when he noticed.

Too silent.

He had not heard the maid leaving the room and a shiver ran down his spine. His hand left the cup of wine with deliberate movements and went for the dagger in his belt, prepared to defend himself from the threat. Even if he was not a fighter anymore, he was still skilled and prepared. Strong and fast, ready to attack.

Suddenly, a painless aura seemed to envelop his body and he discovered with fear that he couldn’t move a single inch. He tried to resist, to wriggle and escape from that magic prison. Maker’s sake, he hated that. Magic was something that kind of admired but feared, knowing he could be powerless in a battle with a mage.

Then he heard it. A chuckle.

Her chuckle.

“Alistair Theirin. I’m surprised you let me defeat you so easily” Her voice. Soft like silk sheets. Like a Sunday morning with the sun peeking through the curtains. Even in his state, without looking at her, Alistair could notice she was grinning.

“Eyra” The feeling of her magic surrounding him disappeared and he sighed, rubbing his muscles before turning.

There she was. With her light purple tattoos on her face. Her red hair framing her beautiful features and her clothes, typical of a mage. She never felt comfortable with the heavy Grey Wardens clothes. She always said they made her feel slow.

Memories hit him as if someone had punched him in the stomach. The first time he saw her when she was a mere recruit, brought by Duncan from the Circle after doing only the Maker knew what. The way they had survived, how he had hugged her when she appeared from the inside of Flemeth’s house. Camp nights, telling stories and mocking the other.

Their first kiss. Their first…Oh, sweet Maker.

Eyra approached the man with a smile and the air was cut from their lungs. Even if she kept her façade, she was as nervous as he was. It had been too many years. A long time separated from each other.

“I…I…” he stuttered, and she laughed, watching as blush crept from his neck to his cheeks before his lips twitched in that boyish smile she loved. The way she could make him nervous was unbelievable.

“You…you” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest before Alistair ran and picked her up, making her to scream. “Alistair, no!”

They twirled and laughed, not caring about anybody hearing them. They knew. Everybody knew about their king being in love with the Commander of the Grey Wardens and they did not care. Anora and him were good, so what?

“I can’t believe you are here!” he exclaimed, burying his fingers and face on her hair. She still smelled like blueberries. “Unless I fell from the balcony and I hit my head. That could be a possible reason as well”

“It seems you are the same idiot I left here” Eyra replied with a smile, nuzzling her face on his shoulder, resting her body against his. His hands went to her waist and he chuckled, the vibrations rumbling against her chest.

“C’mon. You love it”

“Just because I have no choice with you it doesn’t mean I love you”

“Ahhhhhh, you said it. You said you love me” Alistair started to pinch her and hit her with his index finger, only for her to laugh and try to escape from his strong grip.

“Maker’s breath, you’re the king of Ferelden. Behave!”

“That’s why I can allow myself to misbehave”

“You are unsufferable” She replied, and Alistair stared at her. The last sunrays made her hair shine. It was like a fire, threatening to consume him all. Her sweet smile and her lovely eyes on his own. “How you have you been here?”

“A few hours”

“What? And you didn’t come to see me?”

“I was having tea with Anora”

Alistair’s face was priceless at this information and Eyra chuckled, walking inside the room and taking off his cloak, tossing it on a chair. The man followed her like a puppy, and he moved his hands in an exaggerated manner.

“Are you telling me you went to have tea with my wife before coming to see me?” Eyra bit her lip and nodded, smiling like a child. Alistair huffed and feigned indignation. “My wife and my lover together! I can’t believe! Having tea and pastries without me”

“Don’t forget the cake, dear”

“Of course! You had cake without me! I despise you, Mage” he added with a voice that was intended to sound cruel and mischievous but failed in the attempt.

Both women had forged a bond over the years. Eyra had admitted Anora’s qualities as a queen and Anora was surprised with her work as the Commander of the Grey Wardens and her title as Arlessa of Amaranthine. When some political matters had to be discussed, Eyra usually went to Anora and the queen looked for her advice when necessary. All of this under the astonished gaze of Alistair, who could not believe it.

“Cailan had his affairs, dear” Anora had said one night they were having dinner together. “I don’t mind you having one. Especially if you truly love her. I can’t blame you and this political situation. Besides, she’s an exquisite person. A natural leader and an incredibly talented mage”

Maker, he had not only one but two pragmatical women.

“Did you even bring me a piece, at least?” Eyra pointed at the tray with her head and Alistair grinned like a child. “Andraste’s breath, I love you. Did I say that? Yes? Good”

“You love me because I brought you cake?”

“AND cheese!” Alistair exclaimed, raising his plate before taking a mouthful of food, much to Eyra’s disgust.

“Honestly, my mabari has better manners than you while eating”

“But I smell better”

“Well” Eyra scrunched her nose. “You are levelled with him”

“Hey! Don’t hurt my manly feelings, you woman!” Eyra raised her hands, smiling and took the fork to grab some food.

Time passed and both enjoyed a delightful dinner. It was summer and the balcony’s door was open, allowing the soft night breeze coming into the room. The candles lightened Eyra’s face and made her eyes shine with sparkles. Even her tattoos seemed brighter. Alistair had his chin on his hand, listening to her stories about how she had wandered around the world.

“Honestly, I thought that beast was going to bite me” she finished with a chuckle, shaking her head and taking her cup to drink. Before it took her lips, Eyra smiled sweetly at her lover’s gaze. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…I missed this. I missed you” Alistair grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one, making her giggling. His brown eyes looked at her intensely. “Did you…come here to tell something about…?

He didn’t even finish the sentence before she shook her head. Eyra already knew what the question was.  The reason why she had left Amaranthine to go all over Thedas. The reason why Alistair and the mage had been separated for years.

He knew he was pressured to have a child. An heir to the Theirin legacy. A new king or queen of Ferelden. Yet, with the taint, it was difficult. He had tried several times, even if he avoided Anora’s chambers as much as he could. Yet, it was useless. She was not pregnant.

Alistair remember their wedding night. He was nervous, sweaty, and the looks she was giving him didn’t help. He didn’t want to sleep with Anora, he wanted to sleep with Eyra. Still, his wife talked to him, trying to calm him down enough to perform his duty. And he did, with a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, my love” Eyra muttered in a mere whisper. Alistair’s eyes softened and he leant to press a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s not your fault. You will do it. If someone can, it’s you. I still remember our days in the party, from one side of Ferelden to the other, fighting darkspawns and monsters and dragon and you were the sweetest girl I’ve ever met” Eyra smiled softly, leaning against his shoulder. She loved the sound of his voice. “And you were always caring for us. Protecting us”

“And trying to stop Morrigan and you from killing each other”

“Oh, and do you remember when I felt jealous of your mabari?”

“What?” Eyra frowned and observed Alistair’s face turning crimson. Her mouth opened and she squealed. “Andraste’s breath! You were jealous of a dog!”

“No, I…did I say that? No, no. Of course not” Alistair coughed and tried to cover his blush with his cup, while Eyra held her head with her hand, grinning at him. “Okay, fine! Maybe I was a bit jealous of your dog. I mean, he could sleep with you!”

Eyra laughed heartily until tears rolled down her cheeks and her stomach hurt. Alistair had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so funny. It seems they were right”

“What? Who?”

“Leliana, Zevran, Morrigan…” she counted with her fingers and Alistair slapped his face, shaking his head.

“Maker…I’m embarrassing myself”

“Yeah, well. That’s part of your charm, I guess”

“Is that so? Well, then…” Effortlessly, he grabbed Eyra and placed her over his lap, with her legs on the sides. He nuzzled his nose against hers, smiling. “Tell me, what other charms are irresistible to you”

“I didn’t say you were irresistible”

“You don’t have to. I can see it over your beautiful puppy eyes when you look at me”

Eyra sighed when he wriggled his eyebrows, his smile always in his lips. She chuckled and put both arms around his neck, lowering her voice while biting her lip. It had been a long time since they held each other. It was like an echo of another time. Their bodies had memory and remembered every single kiss and touch. And sweet Andraste, how much they had missed it.

Alistair’s hands cupped both of her cheeks and she leant, closing her eyes and enjoying that feeling. He stared at her, mesmerized, trying to memorise every single feature of her for when she left. Unable to hold himself any longer, he leant and pressed his lips against hers, a soft, delicate, and feather-like kiss that made their heads to spin. They felt dizzy as their mouth moved in a non-spoken agreement.

“Eyra…” he muttered when they moved back, breathing each other’s air and staring at their eyes, blown with not-so-subtle lust. The mage kissed the tip of his nose and moved over his jaw, feeling Alistair’s hands gripping his waist. When she reached his earlobe and licked it, he groaned and stood up, forcing her to stand.

His brown eyes looking at her as he walked until her knees hit the massive mattress. Even if time had passed and he was no longer a warrior, Alistair was still strong and could lift her without problem. Eyra bit her lip, just to tease him and his eyes followed the movement, tongue licking his own lips. His breath was ragged, as if he had been fighting darkspawn for hours.

Eyra went to unlace her shirt but his hand, bigger than her own, stopped her.

“No, I want to do it”

She smiled and nodded, letting her arms hang by her sides, observing his movements. They were deliberated, slow, enjoying every inch of skin displayed to him. His calloused hands caressed it before replacing them with his soft lips, peppering kisses over her jaw and neck, nipping and biting. Eyra’s breath hitched and soon her upper part was bare except for her breast band. Alistair frowned and stared at the cloth.

“I still hate that”

The woman chuckled and shook her head, feeling his hands caressing her hips, circling the skin with his thumbs. Soon they moved upwards, where her breasts were craving for his attention. Alistair bit the tender skin between the neck and the shoulder, and she gasped, noticing his smile against her skin. Her hands buried in that hair she loved and pressed his body against hers.

Soon the knot that held the band together and tossed it on the floor, staring at her body with admiration. To Alistair, not even Andraste could compare to his lover. She smiled shyly, as she did the first time they slept together inside her tent.

He felt a twitch in his heart, the memory of his camp nights still fresh in his mind. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had left with the Grey Wardens, being her second-on-charge.

“Are you going to stay there all night, or will you do something?” she teased, biting her lip and wiggling her hips so the rest of her clothes fell, leaving her bare in front of him. Alistair felt his throat dry and swallowed hard. “Yet, I think it’s not fair that you are still dressed”

“No? Well, I’m the king here, and I think I might deserve having a little bit of advantage” he winked, and she punched him in the shoulder playfully before she started to undress him.

His broad chest was still tanned and strong. He had some scars here and there, the results of his time as a Grey Warden with Duncan and the travelling he had done with Eyra and the rest of the companions. He had some chest hair down his navel, where his breeches started. Alistair picked her up and placed her on the mattress, straddling her hips. He peppered his neck with kisses while his hands went to her breasts, touching and caressing them. Eyra gasped when his thumbs circled her nipples and arched her back.

“So sensitive. As always.” he grinned against her skin and lowered his head, capturing her nipple with his mouth, making her moan. “I miss those sounds. The softness of your skin…” Eyra pulled at his hair, placing her legs around his waist. His clothed length rubbed against her thigh and she felt her mind going blank. “I wonder…If I can make you come as I used to…”

Alistair’s wicked smile remained in his features as he went down her body, pressing kisses on her skin. Eyra knew where this was going, so her head hit the pillows, biting her lower lip. His hands caressed her thighs almost tenderly, peppering kisses all over the skin until his breath fanned against her folds.

“Oh, sweet Maker…I missed this”

Before Eyra had a chance to reply, he pressed his tongue against her clit, circling slowly, teasingly. His calloused fingers caressed her wet folds while his free arm forced her waist to the mattress. The mage huffed and writhed, letting small whimpers escape her throat.

“Alistair…” she muttered, grabbing and pulling his hair with both hands.

“I love when you say my name, my dear”

She moaned and tried to get free from his grip, only to be stronger. Alistair moved his head both sides, tapping and licking. Eyra screamed his name when she felt two fingers inside her, looking for that spot that made her mind go blank. In a few minutes, that man had the Commander of the Grey Wardens begging for release, which he gladly complied. The knot in her stomach tightened and her legs shook around Alistair’s head. His brown eyes observed her, not wanting to miss a single thing.

And oh, how he loved watching her come like that, eyes shut and hands gripping the sheets as if her life depended on it. Her chest moved as she tried to catch her breath and he rode her orgasm until she couldn’t take it any longer. When Alistair moved away, his chin was covered with her fluids and Eyra felt her whole body burning in shame.

“Oh, Maker. Are you blushing? The great Hero of Ferelden?”

“Stop mocking me” she replied with her muffled voice, as she had covered her face. He laughed and kissed her body, cupping her face.

“It was beautiful. You are beautiful”

Eyra Amell felt the sting of tears on her eyes and closed them when their lips touched. Her hands caressed his back, feeling his taut muscles. Soon they moved down the spine, raising goosebumps under the touch until they reached his ass, grabbing it.

“Hey!” Alistair shrieked with a smirk, making her laugh.

“Stop complaining, you love it” she replied, pecking at his nose before helping him remove his breeches. He stood there, kneeling by her side and Eyra couldn’t stop herself.

She pushed him until he fell on the mattress, his gaze following every single movement. She smirked and straddled him, rubbing her core against his length. Alistair gasped and grabbed her hips. Eyra placed her hands on his broad chest and, without taking his eyes off him, sank herself to the hilt. Slowly, intimately. The only sounds in the room where their breaths, rhythmic and ragged. Alistair groaned when he filled her completely.

“Maker…” he muttered, feeling his head dizzy at the feeling of her warm inside around him. “It’s been a long time…”

“Too long” said Eyra with a croaked voice, rocking her hips.

It took her a while to get used to it, but soon they moved at unison. Their bodies were like a puzzle that fit perfectly. The moans, the sweat, rolling down their bodies. The movements were deliberated, slow. They had all night to feel each other, taste each other. There was no need to rush.

His feet were on the mattress and his hips moved to meet her movements. They became faster, harder. Skin slapping skin, the sound echoing in the room. Moans, whimpers and soft words of love. Everything they wanted to say and couldn’t over the years. In that moment, they were no longer king and commander. They were just to lovers, as they were in their tents.

Eyra’s nails dragged lines over his shoulder and Alistair sat down, circling her body with his arms. His forehead against hers. One of his hands went to his small bundle of nerves and her body tensed. He knew she was close. She could feel it.

“C’mon, my love…oh, sweet Andraste…”

He pumped his hips faster and her body shivered while pleasure ran over her veins. She closed her eyes and Alistair kissed her, swallowing her moans. Her hands pulled his hair and he felt himself coming inside her, shuddering.

“Alistair…” she muttered with half-lidded eyes, peppering kisses over his face.

Without saying a word, they laid down and covered themselves with the mattress, caressing each other and making the other laugh. The following day they would have to remain serious and professional. And soon, she would leave again.

For now, that was not important. They had each other in their arms.

[etaeternum]

Shallows

Bond of the Grey Chapter 14: Shallows The armies prepare to return to Ferelden. Caoilainn and Alistair discuss the aftermath of Caoilainn's resignation. Isenam brings concerns to the new Warden Commander.

Writer’s note: I am just going to post everything I have on here tonight, so I apologize if it seems like spam. I keep getting side tracked and not posting and it doesn’t seem anyone is reading anyway so might as well just get it all out there. You’ll see a lot over the next few days if you’re following.

---

9:31 Dragon

“It still bothers you.” A curious Caoilainn stated to Alistair in their tent late one night. The crackling campfire outside gave light as the two laid together. Heads supported on hands propped by elbows, they faced each other. Alistair’s brow cocked at her vagueness and he smiled, waiting for her to clarify.  Lips scrunched at his humor with her ambiguous announcement and sighed. This version of Caoilainn no one else saw: sweet, kind, compassionate, exclusive to their private interactions and unlike the stern leader the rest of their group experienced. Her voice softened, and she specified, “that Maric gave you up and Eamon sent you away because of Isolde. Doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that? Bother me?” Alistair snorted and waved his hand away, brushing off the proposition with his gesture. “Of course not. I’m long past it. Doesn’t bother me one bit. Why would I let it? It’s not worth getting sad over. It’s not like I moved from one place to another against my will through my youth.”

Caoilainn giggled and stopped his rant, “yes, it is.” Brows wrinkled in empathy, inviting him to be honest. Her palm met his, applying even pressure and calling his attention. He knew her curiosity helped her avoid unpleasant memories. “Are you sure it doesn’t get to you?”

Blue eyes saw right through his facade. “Woman,” he grinned and exhaled as he shook his head. “You do things to me and you know it. All right.” In his admittance, his brows creased, and he closed his eyes. “Maybe a little, if I look deep enough.” One eye opened, inquiring if his answer satisfied her question.

Caoilainn shook her head. White teeth showed as full lips stretched, her smile stirred his insides. The sight warmed his heart, complementing the buzz of the Grey Warden bond. Alistair opened his other eye.

“Yes. It gets to me,” he frowned through his confession. His gaze traveled from Caoilainn to the tent wall behind her. “A lot. I try to rationalize it but it feels like I’m making excuses for everyone else.”

“There’s no excuse for what happened to you,” she cooed and her fingers latticed his. The motion drew his eyes back to her. “No boy deserves that.” She moved her hand and brushed his cheek, her fingers pressed along his jaw. “You know that, right?”

Alistair’s sinuses stung summoning tears, and he inhaled. He scrunched his lips and blinked. The tenderness she gave in her message, unconditional love rang through each word. It made him sad- a happy sadness that lessened the dull pain of years of bottled resentment.

****

The Queen remained quiet as they walked. Removed, despondent, she kept her eyes down and her crying silent. Empathetic weight dropped in Alistair’s chest with each step they took. He wanted to help but knew no words could mend the wound of the interaction. Wardens’ looks of panicked doubt and distrust seared into his mind. Beneath the empathy, he realized a debilitating fear. Grief had been her reason for leaving the palace. She hadn’t known how to talk to him about her pain, and he hadn’t known how to help.

None had taught him. Alistair’s pain from loss, abandonment, and neglect ignored for some greater cause his entire life. But Caoilainn had helped. She called on him to open up, helping him vocalize his hurt and anger about the events of his childhood. He hadn’t reciprocated when she needed it in return. I’m not letting that happen again, Alistair reflected in determination to take the opportunity he had now.

Alistair took her hand and continued their walk into Skyhold, past the tavern, and into the main hall. She made a small noise, her head turned toward the hallway for their room as he kept walking. He didn’t respond, instead directing her to the garden where they came from that morning. Fireflies floated through the tranquil space, fluttering blinks as dusk fell.

A stone bench tucked in a quiet corner of the garden, he ushered her to sit. Shoulders slouched, eyes swollen and red from tears, she sealed her lips in a frown and gazed at him. Alistair read the helpless disappointment in her eyes, questioning his motive for changing their route with defeated interest.

“My love,” Alistair knelt before her to match Caoilainn’s eye level. He pressed her hands between his, resting in her lap. “I didn’t know how to help you before you ran away.” Caoilainn lowered her head to break eye contact, and Alistair directed her gaze back with a gentle forefinger to her chin. “Stay with me, my Queen. And I’m not sure I know what to say now, but we’ll get through this.”

Another wave of tears filled Caoilainn’s eyes. I don’t deserve this. The message replayed, over and over regarding Alistair’s affection. She dipped her head, leaning forward. Grateful the garden offered seclusion. The utter powerlessness over her situation and reaction something she’d rather others not witness. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

At a loss for words, Alistair sat beside her. His hands rested on the bench beside him and he stared at the ground in the same direction as Caoilainn. Considering his options, what to say if anything, how to help her through this pain. “I did. Caoilainn, I am… was a Warden too, remember. I can relate to what you're feeling. It hurt to separate from the order.” He mulled over his statement, considering how to relate this back to her. “I imagine what you’re going through is even greater. No one deserves that pain.”

“But what if I do?” The sudden lift of her head to his, the intense stare, shiny from soft sobs startled him. “What if this is punishment from the Maker?” Brows lifted, pleading. “For what I’ve done to you, Alistair. Our marriage.”

Oh. This is unexpected. His response delayed from surprise. Caoilainn had always prayed to Andraste and the Maker, but her pragmatism often distorted religious doctrine.

The fireflies bellies flickered in the growing darkness. Crickets chirping accentuated stillness. The silence loomed over Caoilainn, waiting for Alistair’s reply. He agrees. Her conclusion arose from anxiety and shame, and sparked the urge to flee, to escape his love given so selflessly. He will always hold this over me. Ego tarnished by her crimes against their marriage lent to dread. Though he had yet to give evidence of her fear, she imagined every argument would invite another chance for passive reminders of her guilt. And now she had nowhere to run. Abandonment of the Wardens robbed her of sanctum, freedom from the disgrace she wrought upon herself left wanting.

Alistair observed Caoilainn’s internal isolation; downcast eyes and a deepening frown, her habit of harboring anxious thoughts led her astray time and time again. Despite his unclear feelings about the topic she addressed, he called her from dissociation with a soft hum as he took her hand. “You do have a point,” he made nonchalant shrug; she closed her eyes. “Or maybe, this a natural reaction to having an unnatural element like the taint removed from your blood and your recompense for what you did is between you and me.” A leg swung over the bench, he spoke to her directly. “You were close to them and the bond, for a long time. We knew it would be difficult.”

Chin down, she glanced his direction from under long lashes. “Can I be honest?”

“That’s still part of our agreement,” he grinned, inviting her to continue.

“I don't know if I did the right thing. The pain on their faces…” She trailed off, recalling the looks of her Wardens. “I’m certain our cure affected the bond. I abandoned them.”

You abandoned me for years. The resentful thought came and went. He put the thought aside. “We had no way of knowing this would happen. No one’s ever done this before.”

“Actually,” she lifted an eyebrow, then swung her leg over the bench to mirror his. “I've heard it's happened before. By word of mouth. Just once, but I couldn't find a name.” Caoilainn shook her head, sighing. “... It doesn't matter. It worked and we’re cured.” An optimistic smile pulled soft lips, considering the potential of this new horizon.  

Hope prevailed through sadness, Caoilainn’s meager grin lifted Alistair’s heart. “And the order will continue to rebuild. It's what you've taught them.”

She released a large exhale. “I hope so,” she followed the murmur with a fear, “I hope Nate isn’t above asking for your help.”

Cringing at the name, Alistair frowned. “Howe forgets I was a Warden before all of you.” Denied anger held at the man dampened the pleasant moment. Eager to lighten the mood, he reflected on an amusing memory. “You know, I imagined he made that elf girl his Lieutenant when I thought I lost you. The girl who called me an arsehole before the battle. It was horrible.”

Caoilainn chuckled, turning her head as she rose from the bench. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not an idiot.” She grabbed Alistair’s hand, having noticed Alistair’s discomfort talking about the subject of Nathaniel Howe. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

Alistair hummed agreement and stood to join her. Irritation around the subject of Nathaniel Howe grew with her suggestion, but he was grateful for the option. “Have you considered when we’ll leave for Ferelden?”

Lit braziers brightened darkness. The royal couple discussed their departure, determining they had already overstayed their welcome at Skyhold. Lacking a reason to stay longer, they decided together to depart in two days, giving the Ferelden and Highever armies enough notice. Upon leaving the garden they sent for advisors, shared their plans, and returned to their room. *****

The upheaval of the Warden encampment settled into the evening. Encircled by soldiers saluting their new Warden Commander, an exhausted Nathaniel clambered to give final orders and bring the day to an end. Wandering thoughts of resting in his new bed, the cot of the Warden Commander’s tent, with the Huntress tugged the back of his mind.

But first, Nathaniel met with his Lieutenants to give directions for the next morning. Nervous but determined, Nate stood on one side of the table in the Commander’s tent, the Lieutenants stood at the other. Summoning over a decade of experience serving the Wardens, he imitated what he had witnessed of previous commanders.

Hands clasped behind his back, Nathaniel nodded to Isenam. “Senior Warden Vhirnen has been appointed as Lieutenant.” Nods reciprocated from the line of Lieutenants and a few sideways glances made their way to Isenam. Certain they suspected Isenam and Nathaniel’s prior knowledge of Caoilainn’s resignation, Nathaniel brought up his next item. “Our help is no longer needed by the Inquisition,” he disclosed information he might not have known if not for Hale. Caoilainn may not have thought to tell him otherwise before she separated her ties with the order in the most permanent way fathomable. “We will pack at dawn and begin our trek back to Vigil’s Keep.”

A few ‘ Yes, Commanders,’ followed his directions. One lieutenant, a mage, lit a candle in its holder on the table. The waning daylight fell to dusk around the encampment. Plans laid for their trip, including rest sites and meals, the Lieutenants agreed to the marching orders and dispersed for the evening; excluding Isenam, who stayed behind across from the Commander’s table. A few years younger than Nate, the lean elven man served as a scout under Nathaniel soon after the Wardens’ encounter with the Architect. Isenam became a trusted colleague whose commitment to the order matched Nathaniel’s. The elf’s blond hair pulled back in a ponytail emphasized the severity of his frown.

“What do you need?” Nathaniel inquired, brows wrinkled in puzzled annoyance. Pressures of responsibility as Warden Commander limited his patience to guess what kept Isenam after the meeting.

“Did you know Warden Commander Cousland would step down?” Skipping pleasantries and hindrances to their discussion, Isenam brought his concern to the forefront. Regarding professional matters, he knew Nathaniel would tolerate his forwardness.

“Yes,” Nate answered, uninterested in lying and unmotivated to divulge more than necessary. “Is that all?”

Weight shifted on his feet, Isenam gathered composure before speaking further. His hands remained behind his back, posture held for professionalism. “I have a concern about a personal matter of yours, Warden Commander, if I may share.”

Eyes squinted, scanning the shadowed outline of the scout before him with curiosity. A friend of sorts, Isenam’s guidance had always been valued by Nathaniel though it had never regarded personal matters in the past. “I suppose. What is it?”

“Your relationship with the Lavellan girl. I’d recommend you end it. It’s unwise for a Commander to bed a Junior Warden.” Isenam’s straightforwardness overcame Nate’s equanimity.

The Warden Commander coughed mid-breath, fist rising to mouth as he cleared his throat and caught air. “Oh,” he paused, breathing, looking away from Isenam’s all to knowing eyes watching Nate’s coughing fit with disinterest. “Is it that obvious?” Unwilling to sacrifice integrity, Nathaniel replied with a concern. He’s right. It’s also unwise for the Warden Commander to bed a Lieutenant. His resentment of Caoilainn’s flexibility with rules applying only to herself.

“The other scouts have figured it out,” the elf replied. “But it would be best to stop before the whole army knows.”

Nathaniel pondered the information, comforted by Hale’s confidence of their secret and unsurprised the scouting team discovered the truth. But even as Warden Commander, he deserved privacy from others’ prying eyes. Caoilainn did it. “It's no one's business but mine and Hale’s.”

Isenam’s head shook slowly. “You set precedent as Commander. You did as Lieutenant and now that’s tenfold.” Lips tight, almost an apology for the news he delivered, Isenam watched warily for Nathaniel’s reaction.

Damn it. The undeniable truth of Isenam’s statements stung. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will keep that in mind.” Nathaniel's dismissal of Isenam from the Warden Commander's tent followed the noncommittal answer.

Alone, Nathaniel gathered his thoughts. Night had fallen, he finished lighting the candles inside. Warden Commander. Slow acceptance of his new title crept in as he gazed around the tent; it stood at least four times the size of his previous quarters. She must have sent someone to gather her things. No sign of the former Commander remained. From her trunk of belongings to her bed sheets, all that remained belonged to the acting Commander of the Grey. A cot and a table covered in maps and letters held with weights to keep from moving. He sent for some Junior Wardens to grab his things from his tent.

Candles flickered in votive holders, brightening the dusky evening setting to night. With a gruff sigh, Nate dragged his feet to remove his boots, grateful for the hide rug that spread across the ground, preventing his socks from becoming damp from icy grass. More shadows formed from the increase in candlelight and projected along a larger canvas of the wall; space provoked passive reminders of his new responsibilities.

The Junior Wardens delivered his things a moment later. His trunk took up the space Caoilainn’s had previously. He sighed when he realized his linens only covered half the space of the cot and made a mental note to locate new bedclothes somewhere in the encampment before they set up camp the following evening.

Knees bent, he sat on the bed. Sluggish movements removed his gambeson, staring at the ground ahead of him. What will I say to Hale? The question of his impasse had a moment to linger, resonating with his discontent.

“Wanna celebrate?” Hale chirped from just inside the doorway, having snuck in undetected. “I picked some liquor off… well, don’t matter where I got it.” A small grin pulled red lips.

She wears make-up. In the argent candlelight, Nate realized the rouge tint to her smirk, a characteristic of Hale that Nate seemed to overlook in the months he knew her. Matted color had found its way to his clothes, lips, sheets and shaft and he had never noticed the unusual fact of the Huntress. He recalled mornings of waking to the soft, pink skin of the lovely creature's parted lips touching his chest as she laid on him and noticed the contrast to the stark color he saw now. Like the kohl shadow to her eyes defining the prominent green of her irises, usually removed by sweat in their evening activities, leaving circles under her eyes that she cleaned when she woke.

“Not tonight.” An absent-minded mumble replied, the weight of dread on his chest growing. “Huntress, I’m not-”

She sidled to him, straddling his knees with straight legs. Long fingers, rough from her drawstring framed an ear as her head lowered to the other. Breathy words poured, tickling his ear. “I wanna welcome the new Commander right.”

Nathaniel leaned his head away from Hale and stood. Disgruntled and dismayed, he shook his head. “No, Hale.” He prepared to speak words he knew would hurt them both. “We can’t keep seeing each other like this.”

The impact of his declaration landed, and she stepped back. Confused, irritated, Hale’s face twisted with disappointment. “But why?” The simple question prefaced the dramatic expansion of her chest with an inhale; critical eyes watched him as she waited for a response.

“Because I’m Warden Commander. We won’t be able to hide this anymore.” He kept his voice trained and low, balanced even though his heart wrenched.

“Fuck what anyone thinks!” She barked. Unfiltered words joined pooling angry tears. Frantic and fearful pain swept across Hale, her heart raced and her body grew hot. “Since when do you care?”

I don’t. Experience built practicality and often opposed prudence. But here, this new role required judiciousness; standards he set and modeled as the Warden Commander. “I have to care now.”

“Bollocks! Like shite you do,” she cried out. The uncomfortable sensation isolated at her heart, driving through like a needle. Her voice broke with the harshness of her words, resounding from distress “The bloody Bitch Queen Commander did whatever shite she wanted and you can do the same.”

Nate’s nostrils hissed on the exhale, unapproving of Hale insulting Caoilainn and reasoning he couldn’t refute. “I’m not Caoilainn…. Hale, I’m old enough to be your father.” He voiced insecurity; Nathaniel’s discomfort around this dynamic never settled in their time together.

“You know I don’t care 'bout that. Nate, please…,” she whined, crying as a few hot tears slid down her cheeks.

The urge to wipe away her sadness pulled him, but he resisted. It will only make this worse. If the Huntress needed contact, she had other options, and he reminded her. His reluctant reply offered meager condolence. “You’ll be fine, Huntress. You still have Damia.” He blinked, holding his eyes closed for a long second, cooling them from teary burning.

“But Nate… I don't… I don't love Damia." Resisting the pang of hopelessness, Hale’s distraught pout puffed full lips. Elbow bent, she wiped an eye with the blade edge of her drawing hand before pushing tears away from the other cheek. Her hand wrapped around her neck. “I sodding love you.”

I know. “Don’t. That will only make this harder.” For both of us. Gulping remorse, swallowing the innate wrongness of his next declaration, Nate continued, “I don't feel the same.” Liar.

“You… I can’t… yer fucking sick, mate.” She gave a wry laugh; lip curling with disgust as her face burned with embarrassment. Ire replaced sorrow; Hale’s inner fears of Nathaniel's interest in her spit like acid. “Guess you got yer revenge, huh? She made you Commander and you don’t need me anymore, innit? Noble son of a bitch-”

“Stop!” He snapped the order and took a deep breath. Pride hurt by her shallow insults, Nate indulged his defensiveness. “I warned you, Hale. I said I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did!” She blurted with frustration and glared at the tent wall. The words fell on their own in spite of her humiliation, and her arms crossed over her chest. Makeup smeared around her eyes; her hair tucked behind her ear.

“Huntress…,” I love you. But he couldn’t muster the reply. He watched her body quiver, tears dropping in steady lines. Silent, lip protruding, the lovely creature didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. “I think you should leave.” This hurts me too.

Hale’s head shook, admitting defeat, knowing his logic would negate all her appeals. The Huntress’s hurt and anger boiled but she didn’t reply, glowering instead. After another breath in, she growled and left Nathaniel’s quarters; he watched, chest pounding with regret each second she was gone.

Rushed and lengthy steps took her back to the scout encampment. She spoke to no one as she entered her tent. Scouts’ questioning glances passed from one another as they heard Hale rummaging. She emerged a few minutes later with a pack of belongings. Hair disheveled and cheeks stained with tears, she looked at the friends sitting around the campfire, relaxing under the starry night sky before their march the next day. The puzzled looks contributed more to the ache of her heart.

“Hale, what-” Damia asked, brow cocked with confusion.

“I’m staying here,” she whimpered, not waiting for a reply as brisk steps took her toward Skyhold.

[jchb32273]

Fictober 2019 - Day 11

Fanfiction - Dragon Age AO3 Link

It’s Not Always Like This

~~~~~

[16:30] Hey, love… I hate to break it to you, but Maric has asked if I can stay late again to help him out with this project. I promise I’ll make it up to you soon!

                   Again? But this is the fifth time this has happened! [16:32]

[16:33] I know, I know! It’s just that… Maric has actually been rather civil lately. He and Cailan need my help and the job experience will be good on my resume.

        Won’t you just be joining his company upon graduation? [16:34]

[16:35] I don’t know. Yes, it makes the most sense… but I don’t think this is where I want to be for the rest of my life. I want to keep my options open.

             I wonder if he is really doing this just to keep us apart. [16:37]

[16:37] Kylara, sweetie, that really isn’t fair. I know we’ve had reasons to think that in the past, but I think he might finally be coming around to the idea of us as a couple.

                     Fine. Whatever. Just… text me once you are free. [16:39]

[16:40] Kylara, I do miss you. I promise we will get together again!

He waited for a few minutes, but there was no response. No ellipses indicating she was typing. He sighed and closed the text app and slid his phone back into his pocket. I suppose I can understand her point. Maric has tried to keep us apart, but he hasn’t said one word against it lately. This is also a very important contract for his company. If we can just solve this client’s problem… then I will be free! I will need to do something really special for her to make up for all the times I’ve had to cancel.

“You look like you are thinking some deep thoughts there, bro,” Cailan said as he walked into the tiny office that Alistair was currently using. He leaned against the wall. “Is it about the project? Because any brilliant ideas you might have…”

Alistair just sighed.

“Ah, I get it… You miss your girlfriend. Had to break another date today?”

“How does Josephine deal with it?” Alistair asked. “You are vice-president… You are right under Maric. This must happen to you all the time.”

Cailan chuckled. “In her typical fashion. She goes out and spends my money.”

Alistair stared at Cailan. “And you are okay with that?”

“She is my fiancée and she knows I love her, but she understands that what I do with him is very important. She also knows that once we are married, dad will give me a little more leniency to hire my own help, which will free up my hours for her.” Cailan smiled, then asked, “So? Do you think your girlfriend is the one? Will your wedding shortly follow mine?”

“Cailan, we have only known each other for five months! I’d say it’s a little soon to be talking about weddings!”

“Do you love her?”

“I-I care for her. Quite a lot. She is special to me and…”

“You haven’t actually said it to her yet?”

“I… no. No, I haven’t said I love her. I’m not sure if it is the right time yet. There is a part of me that really wants to, but I am afraid it might…”

“Might what? Scare her away?” Cailan folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think that is likely. I’ve only met her a few times, but she doesn’t strike me as the type to be afraid of love or commitment. In fact, I’d say she is the opposite. I think that she craves it, as much as you do. If you don’t tell her soon, she might think you are just stringing her along. Especially since you’ve had to cancel dates lately.”

Alistair frowned. “Only because I’ve been here helping you and Ma- father.”

“Still having trouble calling him ‘dad’ or ‘father’, huh?”

“You’ve had him for your whole life. I’ve only known him for a mere fraction of that!”

“No need to bite my head off, I agree with you. Had I been in your shoes, I’d probably be the same.”

I appreciate the sentiment, but I doubt it. You are a people-pleaser Cailan. You would have still called him father even if he hadn’t been there for you. Alistair sighed.

Just then, the intercom buzzed on Alistair’s desk and Maric’s voice spoke. “Alistair, Cailan, I think we might have found a breakthrough. Come into my office at once please.”

“Back to the grind, eh, bro?” Cailan stopped his leaning and stood up straight. “Look, before we go in there, I’ll give you some quick advice. If you love her – and I think you really do – tell her. I’m sure that you’ll have some free time soon. Why don’t you plan a romantic dinner for two this weekend? Even if we aren’t finished with this project, I am sure I can ask dad to give you a small break. He’s not completely heartless, you know.”

“We’ll see.” Alistair got up from his chair and smiled at his half-brother. “Thanks, Cailan.”

Despite Maric’s so-called ‘breakthrough’, Alistair didn’t stumble into his condo until 1 am. Glad I have no classes tomorrow… I’d never be able to focus. He yawned. As it is, don’t know how much I’ll be able to help Maric and Cailan in a few hours! He wants me back at the office at six! Maker, I am so tired!

He pulled off the suit he’d been required to wear to the office and lay it as carefully as he could manage across his dresser to keep it from getting too wrinkled. As he was laying his jacket down, his phone fell out of the inner pocket.

Should I text Kylara? No… it is late and she’ll be sleeping. Cailan is right though. I need to do something to make up for all the dates I’ve had to cancel. I still don’t know who sent her all those stupid fake tabloids. I don’t want her to start thinking again that I don’t care for her!

Before sleep could claim him, he briefly checked that Winston was okay out on the patio. His heated doghouse seemed to be keeping him warm enough, despite the chilly winter temperature outside. Alistair then staggered back into his bedroom and passed out on his bed.

10:30 am, and Alistair was barely awake at his desk. He’d nodded off again when Cailan knocked on the doorjamb.

“Dude, you really need some coffee, don’t you?”

Alistair’s eyes snapped open. “Coffee? Mmph, yeah. Sounds good.”

Cailan sighed and shook his head. “Annnd, maybe a bit of fresh air too? Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Think so?” Alistair mumbled.

“Okay, listen. Dad is on a phone call right now with the client. You’ve got maaaybe a half-hour. Go and get yourself some coffee and breakfast. Just hurry back, all right?”

“Sure. Thanks, Cailan,” Alistair said with a yawn. “’Preciate it.”

He stepped out of Maric’s building and on the corner he saw a chain coffee store. Not caring who made the drink, as long as it was hot, strong, and caffeinated, he crossed the street and headed into the shop.

A few minutes later he was sitting at a table inside the store, sipping a large hazelnut coffee with milk and two sugars, and nibbling on a ham, egg, and cheese sandwich. Feeling a bit more alert, he looked around the store. It was then he noticed the cut-out hearts and flowers hanging throughout the store.

Maker’s Breath! All Hearts Day is tomorrow! How could I forget!! Oh, I really hope Maric won’t need me! I need to make plans to do something special for Kylara… and stat!

Then he noticed a flower shop across from the coffee store. He quickly wolfed down the rest of his sandwich, put a lid on his coffee and ran over to the florist.

The heady scent of hot-house roses hit his nose as soon as he entered the store. He definitely wanted to get Kylara some of those, but he also wanted some extra flowers added to say other meaningful things – that for the moment – he couldn’t say in person.

By the time he left, he had a large arrangement of purple hyacinth (to say he was sorry), violets (to represent his loyalty, devotion and faithfulness), pink carnations (to say he thought she was sweet and lovely), lilacs (to represent his first emotions of love), red tulips (a declaration of love), and lastly yarrow and red roses (also to represent love). He wasn’t sure if she knew the meanings of all the flowers, but since she had been working with Cullen in the school greenhouses, he hoped she might.

He paid and scheduled the flowers to be delivered this evening to her dorm, then quickly picked a card to go with them. He knew he was no poet laureate, but hoped she would like his little verse.

                             I am sorry that I have been so busy

                       Seems our lives have been in quite a tizzy

                           But I promise it’s not always like this 

                                    It is you that I really miss

                             And as a way for me to apologize

                           I decided to get you a nice surprise

                                I bought this lovely bouquet

                            Just for you… for All Heart’s Day

                            I am also planning a special treat

                        We will go out and get something to eat

                            Then later I plan to treat you right

                          I am asking you to stay for the night

                   I want our relationship to become much more

                            Because it is you that I truly adore.

Once that was all done, he gave a quick glance at his watch. His half-hour was nearly up, so he thanked the florist and then quickly headed back to Maric’s office.

He was just about to sit back down at his desk when Cailan quickly walked in. “Great news! It seems all our hard work last night paid off! The problem is solved and the client has given dad the go-ahead to start production next month!”

“Will I be required to come back then?”

“Maybe. He said might need you for some of the more technical oriented stuff, but for now, he wants to go back and focus on your studies. He also said we are both free for the rest of today and for the weekend!”

“Really?” Alistair’s whole day just got a lot brighter, and he grinned. “That is great because I need to find dinner reservations for tomorrow right away! You probably should too!”

“No, I’ll probably just stay home and cook for Josephine. But you go on and have fun tomorrow. You’ve earned it for sure.”

Alistair quickly walked over and gave Cailan a brief hug. “Thanks, Cailan. For all your advice. I’m going to treat Kylara to a real special night tomorrow.”

Cailan smiled and said, “You do that. I know dad still has some doubts, but I like her. I think she is a really sweet girl. If you get the chance, please tell her I say ‘hello’, all right?”

“I will.” Alistair then grabbed his half-finished coffee and left the office, whistling a happy tune.

Several minutes later, Maric walked into the tiny office.

“He is still seeing that girl, hmm?”

Cailan sighed. “Why do you dislike her, dad? I think she’s kind and sweet… and he really seems happy with her.”

“We have an image to uphold as Theirins, Cailan. We are important people here in Denerim, and Alistair should know this. She isn’t right for him. He should be looking at marrying up, just as you have.”

“He’s still a bit young dad. Things could change.”

Maric didn’t reply. He sighed inwardly and thought, things better change on their own and soon… or I may have to force it myself.

[poweredbycoffeeandwine]

12 Days of Christmas (9/12)

I set this day aside for me. I have been plotting this pairing for a while now, and I am still unsure about how often I will write this pairing. (or if ever again) Well, here goes nothing. My mystery pairing and a Christmas party. 

***

Aiming too High - Tigraine Cousland x Alistair Theirin - Dragon Age AU - Fluffy goodness - 1,907 words

***

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it would have been best for him to remain an unwanted orphan. Getting pulled into the glitzy, glamorous world of Maric Theirin, his father and King of Ferelden, had marvelous opportunity; but, the moments like this left a bad taste in his mouth. Here he was, dressed up in fine clothing and being fawned over by vapid lords and ladies, yet all he could think about was how the money spent to make his attire could have gone to fund repairs in the alienage, and how much food these nobles would waste tonight. The whispers might be right after all, ‘You could take the boy out of the stable, but you couldn’t take the stable out of the boy.’

Sure, he had fine manners and a proper education, Maric had seen to that; but, he would never be able to turn a blind eye to the injustice and suffering of others. His lot was not much different once, he was only where he was now due to an accident of birth. After Queen Rowan passed, his life changed drastically. Her dying command was for his elevation. She convinced her husband and brother that no child should be misused as he had been. A shame he would never get to thank her properly, it would have been nice to have a mother.

It had been years since that day, and while he still had no intentions on the throne, he hoped to make changes for the better. Prayed that Calian would see him as competent, and able advisor, he’d do a better job than Eamon. That man was severely out of touch with reality, couldn’t understand those oppressed. Alistair Theirin may be a Prince of Ferelden now, but he had once been less than nothing. He would never forget his beginnings, those who noticed him when he had not been worth their time.

The bard continued to play beautiful music to accompany the King’s Firstfall Masquerade Celebration. Decorations and ladies alike twinkled, catching the light from torches burning in the Great Hall. He had done his duty and danced with every eligible, but not too important, daughter Maric lined up for him. He was charming, delightful, and bored out of his mind. Nathaniel Howe teased kindly about his father wielding him like a marriageable conquest before he too was shoved onto the dance floor by his mother.

He was in the middle of a turn on the floor with Mistress Somebody-or-Other from the Bann of Elsewhere when it happened. He’d waited all night for Teyrn Cousland and his family to be announced, though he had attempted to not seem too obvious. Calian needled him about his supposed obsession with Tigraine Cousland. He denied it emphatically because a union with her was aiming too high for the bastard son of the king, but he would never pass up an chance to spend time with her.

The only daughter of Bryce Cousland had been wild, impetuous, untamable, and she befriended a stable boy, damn the gossip. Their last meeting had been at least three years ago now, and he’d read every book, seen every play she mentioned. He was ready to compare notes and listen to everything she had to offer. If he could make her laugh, he would consider this night to be a success.

He tried his hardest to steer his partner in the direction of the entrance, but she would not have it. As frequently as she mentioned how dashing Calian looked, he wished he could waltz her in his direction and be done with her. With each movement he searched for his friend, she would be 19 or so now, her hair was dark, her eyes a sunlight forest, but he could not place her anywhere in the crowd. The song ended, he led Lady Calian-Worshiper back to her entourage. He thanked her for the dance, hardly waited for her response, before turning and wading through the throng of people.

She wasn’t anywhere in sight. The Maker damn his luck, she was likely already hiding in a library or out in the garden despite the cold already setting in. She wasn’t one for parties, hated the attention she garnered just for being the daughter of a Teyrn.

He made ready to depart, to search for her until morning if need be when a young lady stepped next to him. The bodice of her dress a deep green, shimmering gold vines spread outward, but the sleeves caused him to take a second look. Her arms looked bare, yet the green and gold leaves twinned around the sheer fabric. Her mask a golden intricate work boasting more leafs, jewels in strategic places-the corners of her eyes, along the brow line and antlers stabbing proudly upward. The lady looked like a woodland goddess.  She faced the same direction as him, her full cream colored skirt brushing against his legs, scanning the crowd as if she too was looking for someone. “I believe I am next on your dance card, your Highness.”

“Why, yes, of course,” he replied coolly, inwardly cursing his delayed escape. “I would be honored to lead you in this dance.”

She took his hand delicately, and followed him out to the ballroom floor. He was still looking about, remembering his goal when the stringed instruments began a slow tune. His newest partner stifled a laugh, and for a moment he felt bad for ignoring her. “You seem to be very interested in the people of the court, your Highness. Is something the matter?”

“No, I apologize. I have such terrible manners. I was raised by dogs you know.”

“I had heard rumors, but one never can be certain with gossip.” Her voice took on a playful aire, one he was sure he’d heard before.

Taking a closer look at the maiden in his arms he looked past the gold plated mask and noticed the striking color of her eyes. Deep, glittering hazel eyes. They were full of wisdom, laughter, and looked as though they were holding a secret. He’d been staring too long, she probably suspected he was slow now, clearing his throat he focused on the lovely girl in front of him, “To be honest, my lady, I am looking for someone. A friend I have not seen in some time.”

She turned then, as if helping him seek his lost companion. Her elegant profile, coloring, the curve of her mouth all spoke of familiarity to him, but he could not place her. Surely he had encountered her at one of the King’s many gatherings, that was all. “I wonder if I could assist you? Would you tell me the name of your friend, or is it a mystery?” She smiled again giving him an overwhelming feeling that he’d seen this particular woman smile just this way.

“I am looking for Tigraine Cousland, do you know her?” he attempted, feeling himself foolish for playing along.

“Lady Cousland, surely she is hiding away. I hear she despises company.”

“I beg your pardon, but she despises nothing. It is true she cares little for extravagant showings such as this, but she is kind and generous. I was hoping to greet her before she became distracted with a large, dusty tome.”

The young lady laughed again, traced her hand from where it had been resting at his elbow up to his shoulder giving it a squeeze, “I meant no offense, your Highness. Perhaps I should let you find her before she finds another stable boy to befriend. Though I doubt she would find one so willing to defend her honor as you just did.”

“How did you...” his hands clenched at the small of her back, fingers gripping the her corset. A small part of his mind realizing he should let go, the placement unseemly, another part registering the soft feel of the satin laces.

“A friend so kind as to insist she was funny, perfect, brilliant, and more than worth the time of the first haughty boy who snubbed her. He called me “horse girl!’ Do you remember?”

“Rainie? Is it really you?” he wondered aloud, sounding more the fool than he’d even been in his life. Here he was looking for his friend, and she’d been scant inches from him for an entire dance!

“Oh, my sweet, Alistair, you haven’t changed a bit. Though you are looking quite fetching in the trappings of a royal, I much prefer you covered in straw.”

He lifted her then, spinning her in a circle, not caring for the glares and shocked gasps of the court. “Maker, you have changed so much. I didn’t even recognize you!”

The song came to an end, and Alistair hadn’t moved, still holding her closely despite her full skirts, much closer than would be proper had he been thinking clearly. He couldn’t force himself to move knowing that someone new would be waiting for him at the edge of the dance floor. “Yes, I’m a far cry from the gangly 16-year-old horse girl. Mother even got me into a proper gown. Can you believe she let me wear something so fanciful? I was sure she would pick something more...” she gestured out towards the other ladies all wearing similar, safe choices.

This time she led him off the floor, and he followed like a love struck puppy. The dress was lovely, enchanting forest goddess indeed. The small jewels sprinkled on it caught the light in the most becoming way, she looked like a fantasy come true. “Yes, that must be it,” he replied thickly swallowing the lump forming in his throat, “the dress. If you’d been in torn trousers, streaked in dirt I would have known it was you on the spot.”

She laughed, the sound just as wonderful as he remembered, and though she looked different, ashamed at his forward thoughts, more womanly, she was still the same and he was glad of it. A nearby woman coughed lightly and when she had his attention declared herself his next partner. Tigraine did not miss a beat, she removed her ornate mask, smiled kindly at the stranger and sweetly refused her, “I am sorry, but you must be mistaken. Prince Alistair is on my dance card for the remainder of the evening.”

The woman began to huff in disbelief but his companion continued, broaching no argument, “King Maric promised father I would have him to myself for the rest of the ball. I do not believe you would wish to cause the displeasure of Teyrn Cousland or His Majesty King Maric, now would you?”

Tigraine stood her ground, playing the spoiled daughter of a nobleman, looking breathtaking and the picture of innocence when the woman muttered her apologies and walked away. Once they were alone again, she giggled pressing her fingers to her upturned mouth, eyes burning with mischief, “Blessed Andraste, it looks like our evening was just freed up.”

She grabbed his hand and directed him towards the castle proper, tucking her arm securely in his while whispering plans about fetching kitchen supplies and hiding the rest of the night away in the library with just him and books for company. The only clear thought he had, as she stole his heart without knowing it, was that he would follow this woman anywhere she wanted to take him, even if he was aiming for the stars.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 22 - Talons and Briars

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fifth day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon

The army made good time. Even after only four days into the march towards Redcliffe, the discipline instilled in the new recruits at the camp in Aeylesbide, and the technique of leapfrogging troops to give each squad a rest during the day, meant they were already approaching Lothering. It was no small feat, given that the soldiers also travelled with the king’s train and all their supplies. Most of the petty nobles had disappeared, of course, frightened away by the prospect of real war even as they promised Cailan their militias, equipment, and any other help he might need in the fight against Loghain. Even the hangers-on from Deerswall had retreated back to their strongholds, Franderel to watch the sea lanes on the Storm Coast and Auldubard and Loren to settle in against the threat of Ser Cauthrien’s growing army and any retribution from Howe. That left only Rosslyn, Eamon, and the king himself to command their force of nearly five thousand.

Alistair stabbed his signature onto the end of the document he was reading, so hard the nib tore through the paper, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At his side, the lyrium glowstone he had unwrapped to fend off the oncoming night illuminated the dozen or so reports he still had to finish. It wasn’t enough. He had been trying to forget all day, and the day before, but it turned out not even hours of hard marching and a stack of paperwork as tall as his forearm could stop the misery looming in his mind like a flock of circling crows.

He should have known. Sooner or later, it would have happened, and he was a fool for thinking otherwise, for getting his hopes up and thinking they would treat him like an equal. Eamon had always thought him a nuisance, a stain on his sister’s memory; to Cailan, he was a pet, a new toy to be dressed up and taught how to walk for all the world to marvel at; and Rosslyn – well. There was no doubt anymore what Rosslyn thought of him.

Her words only echoed louder in his head.

The war meeting had been Cailan’s way to try and persuade his advisors to let him face Cauthrien head-on, without waiting to go to Redcliffe, and quickly it had become a battlefield of its own. They had no iron-clad plan, after all, so why not go forth and meet her, draw her out and end the war before the wheat had finished ripening? Despite his own misgivings, Alistair had kept his peace while the Teyrna of Highever and the Arl of Redcliffe both tried to dissuade him from such a rash action.

“It’s what Loghain wants. Cauthrien has the advantage of numbers, and if we go charging in she will have the field advantage as well,” Eamon had insisted.

“Such pessimism!” the king had scoffed. “I would have thought you would put more faith in me, Uncle.”

“Think, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn had enjoined, with eyes ringed by shadows and a scowl that deepened with every passing minute. “If you die or get captured, then we will all face charges of treason, and Ferelden will remain in the hands of a madman.” She had hesitated, eyes boring into the map. “Patience can taste bitter. I know. But we can’t afford to be rash. Ferelden will be no better off if we rush in without a plan and lose you.”

For an instant, it almost seemed the words would work, but then Cailan had drawn himself up, stiffening in his golden armour, and Alistair had seen the coming blow like the strike of a shield against a practice dummy.

“It appears,” Cailan had growled, “you are all intent on treating me like an imbecile, as if I do not carry King Maric’s blood in my veins.”

“Your Majesty –”

“You both forget, I have named an heir, and –”

“Mo chreach, Cailan!” Rosslyn had shouted. “Open your eyes! An illegitimate half-brother brought up from the guardhouse less than a fortnight ago is your rightful successor only so long as you say he is, and how long do you think the Bannorn will follow him once you become Loghain’s puppet?” Her voice had dropped. She had leaned across the table and bored her glare right between Cailan’s eyes, the rest of the world dismissed.

“Blind optimism will not win this,” she had ground out. “And I am not having this argument again. This time, you will follow the plan and you will go to Redcliffe, where you will be safe, and you will let me carry out the task with which I have been charged without interference.”

Alistair sucked in a breath and shook himself from the memory, trying to refocus on the words on the paper in front of him. It was one of the logistics reports he had asked the quartermaster to redirect to him days ago, knowing that otherwise it would have appeared at the top of Rosslyn’s already heavy workload. Filling it out gave him a vindictive sense of accomplishment, as if he could gloat about still being an honourable person and doing her a favour, despite what she had said, despite the way she spat the words without a thought.

He had little memory of what had happened after her outburst. His ears had been ringing too loudly to hear Eamon’s reprimand, or Cailan’s bewilderment, and he had kept his sight fixed downward, burning a hole into Lothering’s dot on the map to try and rein in the sting at the corner of his eyes, the scald of his rage at the back of his throat. When the meeting ended, he had looked up once and found her staring at him with horror slack across her features, but he had left before she could say another word to him, and had been avoiding her ever since. He should have known. He should have listened to Isolde. The thought did not bring him comfort, but then he hadn’t expected the pain of rejection to be quite so sharp in the first place.

A shadow fell across the entrance to his tent. She stood there, with another stack of papers in her hand, as if summoned by his thoughts.

“Alistair?”

“It’s ‘Your Highness’ now, I understand – at least, as long as Cailan says it is.”

Her flinch sent a surge of vicious satisfaction through his chest.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Your Highness. Forgive me.”

His jaw clenched tighter. He did not look up. How dare she be so meek and mild when he wanted her to shout, wanted her to scream so he could scream right back? Where was all the sneering condescension, that haughty noble superiority that she had displayed time and time again when talking of duty, and honour, and commoners knowing their place in the world?  

“I… There are some inventories here that were misdirected… where would you like me to put them?”

Still with his eyes on the report in front of him, Alistair pointed with his pen to the only clear space available on the lid of his trunk, next to where he had left the treatises Brantis the chamberlain had told him to study, which he had no intention of reading. She nodded once and followed his direction without saying a word, her timid, shuffling steps so different from her usual confident stride that he couldn’t help but stare once her back was turned, to check it really was Rosslyn standing in front of him and not some imposter under a glamour.

Dust from the road dulled the shine of her boots, and the hunched shoulders of her long blue coat, and he noticed a single piece of straw clinging to the curtain of her dark hair. She must have come straight from the stables after exercises with the cavalry, but she could have sent a servant with the papers, if she wanted. A tiny wriggle of guilt took root in the cracks of his anger, but he ripped it out with an inward snarl, and when she carefully placed her documents on the trunk, he focussed on dipping his pen in the inkpot so she would not catch him looking.

She paused. He kept his eyes down, stubborn, but his ears strained to catch every one of her movements, betrayed by the tap of a fingertip against the paper, the smallest rustle of cloth, and the heavy, halting breath she sucked in to steady herself. The scratch of his pen on the paper tapered off mid-word.

“I wanted to apologise,” she said. “For… the other day. At the meeting.” Another steeling breath, turned away so he couldn’t see her expression. “What I said was… it wasn’t a reflection of you, or how I think of you, and – I suppose – I wasn’t thinking at all, really. I just…” She swallowed and finally faced him, straightening her spine as if she were a recruit coming to attention before the drill sergeant. “I’m sorry.”

Silence pooled between them.

After a moment, Alistair noticed he had stopped writing and set his pen to the paper again, though the words he set down might have been ancient Tevene for all the attention he paid them. Rosslyn stood like a statue, her tension a palpable thing in the air as she waited for him to say something. How many times had that been him? Isolde had delighted in ordering him before her, making him stand in the middle of the room so she could stare her disapproval down at him. And Maric… he remembered again that winter’s day when his father had pushed past him like he was an ordinary servant, like he was nothing at all. He wanted Rosslyn to know what that felt like to have that silence wielded like a weapon. He wanted it to hurt.

She, however, was too proud for such a tactic. Her hands curled into fists at her sides when he continued to ignore her, and he heard the soft crinkle of her coat as she bowed formally to him.

“If that is all, then, Your Highness, I’ll wish you goodnight,” she murmured, voice thick with finality as she turned on her heel to go.

Damn.

“Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”

She paused in the entryway, puzzled. “What?”

“What you said the other day.”

“I…” She shook her head. “Cailan… doesn’t live in the real world. He thinks everyone is as noble as him, and that if he says something with a smile, the world will do what he wants, just like it always has. But people can only be what they are, and they can’t go against their natures.”

“I see.”

The look of horror she had worn at the meeting reappeared. “No! That’s not how I meant to say it.”

“But it is what you meant,” Alistair pushed. “No need to get into more detail – it explains so much.”

“About what?”

“How you see other people,” he answered, returning his pen to the tray next to the inkpot. “Or rather, how you see – what was it? Oh yes, people who ‘seek power above what is theirs to claim.’ Does that ring a bell?” He grinned, a feral gesture with no warmth. “Tell me, do you only think of Loghain as a ‘jumped-up peasant’, or am I included in that category as well?”

He remembered the words so clearly, the way they tore from her lips as she condemned the action at South Reach, but watching her expression now, he could tell she didn’t remember at all. Somehow that was worse.

“What are you talking…” Rosslyn paused, her mouth forming a little ‘o’ of recognition. “Alistair, you’re not –”

“Does it make it better or worse that I have a blood connection to someone who, in my experience, was never as great as everyone else seems to think he was?” He stood, no longer able to contain the agitation in his limbs. “I’ve been trying to work that one out for years. Always on my own, of course. Can’t have the royal bastard asking too many questions, after all. Not if he wants to avoid a knife in his back.”

“I never meant…”

“But you know, the thing is, I never expected that knife to come from you, or that you’d be so good at twisting it. The look on your face when Cailan told everyone who I was, was it disgust? Because I couldn’t quite tell. It certainly wasn’t surprise.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, squaring up to him at last. “Do you think anyone at that assembly was surprised to find out you and Cailan share blood?” Another shake of her head. “Some might have questioned that he acknowledged the connection so openly, maybe, but not that it exists.”

“Oh, and that clarification makes all the difference!”

They stared at each other. Disbelief warred with the fury on Rosslyn’s face, her lip curling in the beginning of a sneer that intended nothing but malice. The desk and the four feet of ground that separated them yawned like a chasm, cut deep with the secrets, the misunderstandings, all the uncertainty that had shadowed them since the aftermath of West Roth, in the infirmary, when he had reached out to touch her and she had shied away.

“Nobody has ever dared talk to me like that,” she snarled.

“Go below stairs, you’d get used to it soon enough.”

“Is this… is this the reason you’ve been avoiding me?” she hissed. “You think I’d object to you because of who your mother was?”

A bark of cold laughter leapt from Alistair’s throat. “I’ve been avoiding you?” he repeated. “You’re the one who won’t say two words to me – won’t even look me in the face! And now at least I know why – low-born, illegitimate half-brothers of kings are fine, but only if they remember their place. Isn’t that about the gist of it?”

It was Rosslyn’s turn to laugh. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response!”

“What a surprise! Well then, Your Ladyship, what exactly is your problem with me?” He stalked around the desk to face her properly. “What in the world could possibly make you despise me so much that you won’t even talk to me?”

“You think I…?” The words stuck in her throat, no matter that she tried to shake them loose. She turned away, then back again, her mouth working without sound, her gaze skittering over him and away as if he were a bright light that burned her eyes, until at last she collected herself, and that dratted noble’s mask slipped down over her expression, and she made to step away.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

He pressed forward. “What doesn’t?”

“Just leave it alone –”

“Tell me –”

“No.”

“I order you to tell me!”

“Do you think me stupid?” Her limbs shook, chest heaving with the effort of keeping the flood in check now the dam had burst, now that he had prodded one too many times. “I worked out what you were – ages ago – right after the battle – but I didn’t bring it up because I know you don’t like to talk about your past, because it would have been ill-bred to pry, and I thought – I hoped you would trust me enough to tell me yourself.” A bitter chuckle bubbled up her from her chest, reined in only by the way her arms tightened around her stomach.

“Obviously I was mistaken. But why should I be surprised? You hate the nobility so much, it’s more of a wonder why you ever condescended to talk to me in the first place.”

Alistair rocked backwards at the venom in her words. She knew. She knew and she thought…

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh don’t play the fool now,” she spat, advancing. “You’re not that good at it even though you spend so much time practicing. You’ve made it perfectly clear you think all nobles are tyrants, that we’re all spiteful and petty and only interested in having others break sweat for our comfort, sitting at the top end of the table. And here you stand, complaining about your privileges – but how many people hold their lives in your hands, hm? How many people will die if you make the wrong choice?”

“Rosslyn –”

“I’m not finished.”

His mouth clicked shut.

“You don’t know the first thing. How dare you judge me? Do you think I give a damn that Loghain was born in a barn? Do you think it matters? Thousands have lost their homes, their loved ones, their lives – because that son of a pig decided to grab power for himself rather than honour the bounds of the law. He had my family murdered because he wanted all bars to that power out of the way, and now his lapdog Howe is running loose slavering at the mouth because Loghain promised he would get away with it!

“And I should be stopping them. My family is dead. My father decided it was worth sacrificing an entire army in exchange for my life, and what do I do with it, according to you, except sit here sneering at your parentage while my people cower at the mercy of a madman, starving and worse.”

“I didn’t –”

“I DON’T CARE!” she screamed. “I don’t care what you think – I don’t have time to care what you think! What are you to me? How dare you stand there and judge me, as if I don’t know exactly what I am, or – or just how much everybody who looks at me wishes they saw my parents standing in my place. As if – it –”

She deflated then, folding in on herself as she clutched for the silver seal ring that had been passed to her for safekeeping, that didn’t fit her finger. Her gaze slipped from Alistair’s even as he reached for her, the silence between them roaring so loud he almost missed the choke from the tears held stubbornly back in her eyes. Yet even so she was drawing up, pulling away, smoothing into the posture and poise of the noble façade that would remain, untouched, even as the soul beneath it shattered like glass.

“Your Highness must excuse me…”

“Rosslyn, wait.”

His hand found hers. Her skin was cold, her battle rage spent. At the slightest tug, she went unresisting into his arms and he embraced her, tucking her away from the world and from his own selfish, sulking refusal to see how close she had been to breaking all along.

“It’s not your fault,” he breathed into her hair. “It’s not. None of this is your fault.”

Hesitantly, still fighting for control against the tide that threatened to swallow her whole, her hands slid around his waist to fist in the back of his shirt. When she mastered herself enough to speak, the words quavered against his neck.

“They – they’re all gone.”

“I know.”

“It’s just me.”

“I’m here.”

“I have no idea what to do but I – I can’t ask them because I’m the only one left.”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, and wound his fingers into her hair.

“But it was me,” she protested, trying to pull away. “I took the cavalry and – and left Highever unprotected. I wanted to go to war – I didn’t want to be left behind. If I hadn’t – and then he told me to – but if I’d just –”

Words failed. Tears welled to choke her voice and all Alistair could do was hold her as she sobbed. Noble that she was, she made no sound apart from the harsh suck of her breath as her lungs did their best to burst, but she clung to him like an anchor nonetheless, and he stood there, and let her. Distant memories played in the shadows of his mind, nights when his mother would soothe away his childish hurts with a few well-spoken words, and he tried his best to remember them, to speak them into her hair. It was a clumsy attempt. So he held tight as each shake of her shoulders sent a rasp of broken glass against his conscience, an indictment of all his failings. He should have noticed. He should have tried harder. He should have listened to Teagan.

Gradually, the tears subsided into shuddered breaths, and then into the damp puff of breath against his cheek. Rosslyn’s grip loosened on his shirt as she relaxed into the hug, exhausted. He became aware of little things, the warm press of her weight against his chest, the tickle of her hair, the straight line of her nose cutting into the crook of his shoulder. A scent of sweat and sweetgrass and horses that he would treasure as long as he could remember it. Close as she was, surely she could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath his ribs.

“I lied, y-you know.”

“Uh…” Unknown panic crowded in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “About what?”

Her shoulders tensed again. “I… I do care what you think. I c-can’t bear the idea that you would think b-badly of me.”

Feeling the threat of tears once more, he wrapped his arms tighter around her shoulders and cradled the back of her head, anything to reassure her with touch what seemed so hard to say.

“I don’t,” he told her. “Maker’s breath, I’ve made a mess of this, but I don’t think badly of you – I don’t.”

With a wet chuckle, she pulled back, just enough to stand on her own feet, and made no complaint when his hands slid from her shoulders to settle at her waist.

“Even after this?” she checked, brushing her thumb over the tear-stained cloth of his collar. “I got your shirt all wet.”

“Whaaaat, this? This is nothing,” he assured her, craning down to examine the damage. “Once when I was still in Redcliffe the blacksmith’s boy spilled Barkers potion on my shirt – and that was when I only had one shirt.” His nose wrinkled, remembering how the noxious odour of spindleweed had lingered for weeks.

“On purpose?”

“No,” he answered slowly, colouring at the unexpected sharpness in her tone. “At least, I don’t think it was. One of the arl’s horses was sick and it didn’t like taking medicine.”

“Hm.”

“Um… do you want to sit for a bit?” he asked. “You know, get your bearings back?”

She coloured a little, as if only just noticing that they were still wrapped together in a position some might consider compromising, but nodded. “Thank you.”

“Here.”

Taking her by the hands, he led her towards the back of his tent, where a couch had been set up for some purpose unknown to him. At the time, he had argued for a full half an hour with Brantis about the absurdity of bringing such a bulky item on a war march, but as he left Rosslyn to sink into the plush cushions and went rummaging for a bottle of something to steady her nerves, he was glad for once that, on matters of protocol at least, the old chamberlain was stubborn as a mule in a rainstorm.

“Here,” he said, returning with a large glass of apple brandy. “This should help.”

She wiped the last of the salt from her cheeks and took the drink, smiling a little when their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”

“No, wait –”

But she had already knocked it back. The amber liquid stung her face radish pink as it burned its way down her throat, the start of a coughing fit that only deepened the new, fetching tone of her skin.

“You were supposed to sip that,” Alistair chuckled as he rubbed circles between her shoulders to better help it settle.

“Hah – I noticed.” Did she lean just a little bit closer to him?

“More?”

“Please,” she replied, turning to hold up the glass so he could pour again, and then one for himself. “Ugh, what you must think of me…”

I really want to kiss you.

He tore his gaze from her lips with a cough, laying the thought aside with the bottle before slouching backwards on the couch as if every nerve in his body weren’t jangling in response to the inches of empty space that separated him from Rosslyn Cousland.

“I promise it’s nothing too terrible,” he joked.

She shot him a wry glance. “That’s sweet of you to say.” Already the crumbled walls of her resolve were building again – he could see it in her eyes, the distracted stroke of her fingers along the side of her glass, the way her embarrassment for her outburst was trying to squeeze all the emotions back out of sight, to put the mask back in place, to carry on as before.

“What was your father like?” he asked, before he had fully formed the idea to speak. “I mean, I was just thinking it might help to, you know… talk about it. Them. If you wanted. If you think I’m intruding then I completely understand that it’s a stupid suggestion, and I’ll just save us both a lot of trouble and just stop… talking…”

It took a moment to process the fact that she had slipped her hand over his, that her expression when she looked at him brimmed with a sort of shy tenderness he had never seen her wear before.

“My mother always had fresh flowers,” she said. “Whenever my father left the castle to see to the estate, or on business, he would always bring back flowers for her.”

Warmth spread through Alistair’s chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “What kind of flowers?”

The flowers turned into fruit pies, and from there into dogs, then griffons, then dragons and foreign, far off places that might be worth the travel one day. At some point, they ended up pressed close, leaning into each other while their fingers trailed imaginary shapes across each other’s knuckles and the level in the brandy bottle slowly diminished. Rosslyn kicked off her boots and tucked her legs up to better snuggle against Alistair’s side, nodding now that tipsiness was succumbing to drowsiness and the idle play of fingers through her hair.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she asked into the silence.

On the back of her neck, the fingers stilled, contemplative when she didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Before all this, it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient – a secret kept because I might be a threat to Cailan’s rule. I’d never talked about it to anyone, and everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me.”

“Which did you think I would do?” There was no censure in the question, but the wound was still raw, uncomfortable.

“I wanted you to know,” he pressed. “But I didn’t know how to say it. And I suppose… I was scared things would change.”

She shifted to better see his expression. “Things did change – but you’re still the same person.” She frowned. “You’re not keeping any other secrets are you?”

“Beside my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair?” he teased. “Nope. Just the prince thing. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed,” she replied, turning to gaze down at their laced fingers. There was that tender smile again, just creeping into the corner of her mouth.

“Hey, if it makes things less awkward, we could always go back to pretending I’m some nobody who just got too lucky to die on the battlefield,” he offered, before he could stop himself.

The smile disappeared. “If we did, what would that make me?”

“The reason I’d say I’m lucky.”

She stared. In the low light, her pupils expanded, swallowing the ice-grey of her irises until all that was left was a dark ring the colour of a distant storm. She wavered, a held breath poised on her tongue, but the moment passed, and Alistair sighed as she dropped her gaze and nudged closer to settle back against his shoulder.

“You’re probably one of the few people who thinks that right now,” she muttered.

“Is this about the messenger – the one who came on Summerday?” he asked.

A slow nod.

“What, uh, happened? If it’s alright to ask.” He heard her slow intake of breath as her grip tightened on his fingers.

“The scouts I sent back to Highever are all dead,” she told him. “They tried to attack the castle, but Howe caught them. The ones that escaped made it to a farmstead, but they were followed, and the rest made a stand so the message would reach me, and it did, but I don’t know what happened to the ones who stayed behind.”

“I saw the castle walls,” Alistair said. “Nothing short of a trebuchet could get through them. Why did they –?”

“They were trying to rescue my brother. There are rumours he’s still alive.” Her whole body tensed, her hold on his hand clammy now as she tried not to start crying again.

“Is there any chance they’re not just rumours?” he asked, as gently as he could. If there was reason to hope, then…

“No.” She growled it, staring at something he couldn’t see. “Fergus died at Glenlough. My father saw him fall. I… I can’t believe otherwise. I can’t. After what I saw there, better he is dead than Howe’s plaything. I hope they’re all dead.”

The admission shook her. She didn’t resist when Alistair let go of her hand and turned to pull her more fully against him, lending her his warmth and his strength as best he could. This time, she didn’t hesitate to slide her arm up around his neck.

“What’s this?” she asked after a moment, tilting her head to better see the pendant that lay against his collarbone where her movement brushed his shirt aside. “It looks old.”

“It was my mother’s,” he said. “It’s all I have of hers.”

“You were young when she died?”

He nodded. “I can’t remember her face. It’s like every time I try, a little bit of the memory flakes away. It’s all just blurs and warm, fuzzy feelings now.”

“You must miss her.”

Another nod. “Sometimes I wonder what she’d make of all this. There are so many things I’d ask her… about my father, and what she’d think of me being a prince. If she ever even wanted any of it for me.”

They fell silent again, content to savour this newfound closeness and listen to the quiet of the drizzle pattering on the tent roof.

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Rosslyn asked after a while. “Being a prince, that is.”

“Weelllllll,” he replied, drawing the word out. “The food’s definitely better – believe it or not, but you can get sick of boiling everything – and I must be doing something right to be lounging against feather cushions with a beautiful woman in my arms.” He wiggled his eyebrows, which made her chuckle.

“Beautiful, is it?” she teased. “Underneath all these mudstains and wrinkled clothes, you mean?”

He poked her gently in the ribs. “Oh hush, you know exactly what I mean. You’re ravishing, resourceful, radiant, uh…”

“Have you run out of words beginning with ‘R’?”

“Why, Your Ladyship, you wound me.” He pouted. “Here I am, trying to shower you with compliments, and all you do is mock!”

With a mischievous tilt to her lips, she stretched up so her face, bright with blushing, rested a scant few inches from his own.

“Ridiculous,” she said, making a point to roll the ‘R’.

Her breath puffed against his lips, and it brought his attention tumbling down to hers. They looked so soft as they parted wider, like in his dreams, and he couldn’t help but be drawn forward. Fingers brushed against the back of his neck, responding, and his own curled at her waist, consciously light, restrained, yet delighting in the warmth of the body leaning up to meet him.

Outside, the guard on watch clanked past, calling out a low greeting to someone he knew, and the intrusion was enough to startle them into remembering that the world beyond the tent still existed. Rosslyn turned away, tucking her dark hair behind one ear, her lopsided smirk clamped between her teeth to stop it spreading into something more dangerous.

Her hands fell into her lap. “I should go.”

“I… yes. Of course, you’re right. It’s getting pretty late.”

Alistair scrambled to his feet and followed her outside in a daze. They didn’t quite touch, but the tension between them no longer stagnated, as if their argument had been a storm to sluice the air and wash their feelings clean. His heart already beat louder with hope, and with the demand to touch her again, to have her pressed close enough to smell her hair, to feel her breath over his skin and be reassured that after all the uncertainty, she wouldn’t want to go back to being just friends either.

She peered out at the rain. He was tempted to invite her to stay so she wouldn’t get wet, but she would have declined.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked instead.

“We have another meeting with Cailan,” she reminded him. “I’d be grateful for some moral support, if you’d care to give it – I still don’t have a solid plan for Cauthrien. Some Commander-in-Chief I’m turning out to be.”

“Hey, you’ll figure it out,” he reassured her, breath catching when she leaned into the hand he placed on her shoulder. “Then when it’s all over we’ll be celebrating in Lothering with spit-roast pork and Cailan’s best cask ale before you know it.”

She chuckled. “Just don’t lay out a spread until after we win, or with our luck Cauthrien will just swoop in and steal it all from under our noses.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Swooping is…”

“Alistair?”

He rubbed his chin, frowning. “Do you know, I might have an idea.”

“For Cauthrien?” she checked.

“Mhmm. I don’t know if it would – it would need some work.”

“Do I get to know about this secret grand plan?” Rosslyn asked, one fine eyebrow raised.

He looked down at her, distracted from his racing mind. “Well, you can’t expect me to tell you all my secrets, can I?”

“You told me not half an hour ago that you haven’t got any more secrets,” she pointed out.

“Ha, you’re right. I did say that,” he answered. “You got me. Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll think of some more for you to pry out of me.”

“I can be nice,” she smirked.

Neither of them moved. Camp life, muted by the late hour and the weather, murmured around them regardless, a dull reminder that come sunrise, they would be at war again, getting ready to send men to their deaths for a cause they hoped was worth the price.

“I should thank you,” Rosslyn said as she turned to find her way back to her own pavilion. “For listening. I’d gotten so used to knowing my family was gone I forgot why I missed them.”

“Anytime,” he replied. On a sudden spur of daring, he made to reach for her hand, simply to squeeze it for reassurance or maybe to kiss her knuckles in the courtly manner Cailan managed so effortlessly, but at that moment he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Eamon strolling past the next line of tents on some errand of his own, and caution urged him to halt the movement, though he didn’t quite know why.

“I suppose this is goodnight then?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she replied. “Goodnight… my prince.”

He smirked and bowed formally to her. “Sleep well, dear lady.”

The colour that bloomed on her face was worth the bravery. As she turned and strode away to find her rest, failing to hide the giddiness of her smile, Alistair stood in the rain and felt his heart follow her, pinned by the tide of white light thrumming through his veins, and – he realised later, as he was climbing into bed – by the confident sway of her hips as she marched.

[elevanetheirin]

Chapter 4 of A Bitter Pill

Who I am sfw,1817 words Characters: Alistair Theirin, Teagan Guerrin, Eamon Guerrin, Varric Tethras, Merra Surana

 The next morning Merra woke to the sounds of a bustling palace. The previous day she’d hardly seen anyone. It had been odd to be honest, it had been eerily similar to during the Blight when most of the occupants had fled the on coming darkspawn. That morning however there was no mistaking the sounds of the servants working feverishly.

She’d just finished dressing in what had become her regular attire since walking out of the Warden keep, an altered version of the Warden mage armor. Altered enough that no one would have guessed she were a mage and no longer the Warden blue. There was a gentle knock on the door. Merra expected to see a servant standing in the door way, instead there stood Teagan, the grin split his face so wide Merra wondered if it hurt.

“Merra! Thank the Maker!” Teagan greeted her with a hug she hadn’t expected. “I am so glad you’ve come back. Alistair hasn’t been the same since he returned from seeing you at Amaranthine, and then you had disappeared. I swear to Andraste I thought he was going to run off and search for you.”

All this he’d managed to blurt out before closing the door.

“It’s nice to see you too Teagan.” Merra chuckled. The man never ceased to amaze her at how open he was and accepting compared to his brother.

The two friends sat down and caught up on how things had been. Alistair it seemed had become inconsolable and quite melancholy since she’d left him in the Anderfels. She was as surprised as Teagan had been that the King hadn’t just left, at least based on what the Arl was saying. Merra felt that she needed to explain to Teagan that she had no intention of staying indefinitely in Denerim, the man was under the illusion that she’d come to what? Be Alistair’s mistress despite having said she wouldn’t years ago? Merra wasn’t sure, although with Teagan he probably would have advocated for marriage not despite Eamon but probably to spite his older brother.

Teagan became Merra’s only confidante in her plan to cure her blight and as far as she knew he’d always kept that secret. Someone had to know, because someone was going to have to pick up the pieces of Alistair’s heart if she couldn’t find a way to make sure his life without her was a happy one.

The Palace continued to go through vast alterations over the next week. Alistair had the banners hung for the first time since he’d become King making the decision to alternate them with Grey Warden banners. It was a nice gesture but Merra shuddered every time she passed them in the halls. Alistair would always be proud of being a Warden, he never understood how much Merra despised it even though he too wanted to cure the inevitable Calling from the Blighted blood she now carried. If her theory was correct, Alistair never would have his Calling.

The cosmetic changes weren’t the only ones going on in the Denerim Palace. Merra learned that Alistair’s disposition really had been that bad while she was away. Servants were afraid of him, not that he beat them, but he yelled a lot and randomly. He would be in a mood and pass one in the hall randomly screaming at them to get to work. Most had started to avoid him all together unless they had no choice. Alistair in turned preferred to be alone and from what she could gather if he didn’t have to be sitting on the throne wearing the crown that weighed him down with despair Alistair would be found in his suite sitting at his desk staring at nothing, or sleeping.

Meanwhile the couple were nearly inseparable when Alistair wasn’t holding court, which was every day. There was always someone needing something, or wanting him to settle some dispute.  He was the King after all and it was a job. Merra didn’t resent his duties, she did however now regret making him King, even if it was what was best for Ferelden it seemed to be taking its toll on Alistair.

Gone was the sweet goofy Alistair, in his place was a man who was burdened down with responsibility he’d never wanted, although visibly happier, and with a happier disposition now that she was here. Alistair wasn’t as kind as he had been. Something about him was different and Merra didn’t like it at all. She wondered often how many of those changes would have happened anyway and how many of them could be laid at her feet for the choices she had made. She loved him still, and always will, there was more to him than being the clown in all things, but she missed the Alistair she’d known.

 “Just hold up a minute there Sparrow.” Varric Interrupted Merra’s story telling, “so no one had any issues with you just showing up and shacking up with the King?”

“Varric, would you let me finish? For a storyteller you certainly are bad at listening to the whole story before asking questions.” Merra laughed, she could tell Varric was getting interested in the story and now she really was worried he’d write a book.

Varric put his hands up, “Fine, you’re right continue.” He gestured with a flourish.

 There were whispers among the palace’s residents. Several of the older servants made comments that later would make more sense to Merra. “He’s more like Maric than I had thought.” Or similar was often overheard. They however didn’t truly seem to mind, they preferred the King with Merra to the King without her and often told her so. There were also those who despised her and avoided her for one reason or another. She was a mage and an elf and regardless of the fact that she had helped end the recent Blight it hadn’t taken long for some people to forget that. She’d known it would happen, she just didn’t realize that 3 years after the Blight and people were already preferring she go back to the tower where she belonged, or the Alienage, anything to get her away from them.

Merra had been back in Denerim about a week when it happened. The storm could be heard from outside the gates all the way into the palace halls. Alistair was holding court, some discussion about the Alienage rebuilding, but Merra was out in the garden, which probably was why she heard it loud and clear. It’s not like Eamon was attempting in the least to keep his voice down.

“WHERE IS SHE! WHERE IS THAT ELF!” the word elf coming out like a curse.

Merra didn’t rush towards the front hall, she took her time. She’d known this was coming and she’d actually prepared for it. Eamon wasn’t the threat he saw himself to be and it was time someone put him in his place. His stomping foot falls could be heard echoing off the walls as he came towards her. He rounded the corner near his office just as she reached his door.

Eamon flung the door open and screamed at her. “Inside NOW!”

The former Arl of Redcliffe had been in the Bannorn and had apparently heard that the King of Ferelden had been spending his nights in the suite of the Hero of the Fifth Blight. A smile flitted across Merra’s face as she followed Eamon inside. Oh, this is going to be good she thought to herself.

Before the door was even closed Eamon began his rant.

“How dare you! How dare you come here and seduce Alistair. Who do you think you are? You are an elf and a mage. I will not have you destroy everything I have worked for to keep Calenhad’s descendants on the throne! You will leave and you will leave this instant. I will not have an elven WHORE...”

Merra reached for the dagger she kept on her hip, now out of habit but it was there for fighting at close range, when a darkspawn got too close, and flung it at Eamon, it stuck directly beside his hand and into the desk. The former Arl sputtered and stared at her incredulously.

“ENOUGH! First of all, Eamon”, she spit his name out like venom, “You will not speak to me like that, not now not ever. I don’t care who you think you are but it’s time you remembered your place as well as who I am.”

Shock spread across his face, he honestly looked as though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“If it were not for this ‘elven whore’ you would be dead, your son would be an abomination and Ferelden would be swallowed up by the blight while being in the throes of a civil war, and you will treat me with the respect that not only I deserve but with the respect you would treat the Divine. Or so help me Eamon you will regret it. I will have what I came here for and you cannot stop me. If you force me to leave, oh, I will leave but I will take your precious Calenhad bloodline with me and you know I can do it. I will leave you with nothing. Ferelden will be out one King and you will be standing here with all the blame on your own shoulders. Until I leave here you will not speak to me again. You will treat Alistair like you approve of this situation. As a matter of fact, you will tell him outright that you are happy I am here. If it will be better for you, you may leave until I am gone. Otherwise you will do as I have told you or I swear to the Maker, Andraste, the Creators and anyone else I will make your life miserable and Alistair and I will leave here and never look back. Do we understand each other?”

Merra didn’t even wait for a reply, she snatched her dagger out of the desk top deftly returning it to it’s sheath. She threw open the door and, in the hallway, stood Teagan. He began to clap, smiling from ear to ear. It was abundantly clear in that moment that Teagan, while respectful of Eamon, did not approve of his brothers’ beliefs.

Running footsteps proceeded the King as he came around the corner yelling, “Where is Eamon? I will not have it!”

Merra smiled at Alistair and placed a hand on his arm. “Eamon is fine now, everything will be fine Alistair. Don’t worry about it.”

Merra shook with anger and fear. She’d always been the one who’d listened and watched, rarely did she speak up the only other occasion she had found to do so was the day she’d met Loghain at the Landsmeet.

[enricodandolo]

Amfortas! Die Wunde

Die Wunde sah ich bluten, nun blutet sie in mir! Hier - hier! Nein! Nein! Nicht die Wunde ist es. Fließe ihr Blut in Strömen dahin! Hier! Hier im Herzen der Brand! Das Sehnen, das furchtbare Sehnen, das alle Sinne mir fasst und zwingt! Oh! - Qual der Liebe! Wie alles schauert, bebt und zuckt in sündigem Verlangen!

 I saw the wound  bleeding: now it bleeds in me! Here – here! No, no! It is not the  wound. Flow in streams, my  blood, from it! Here! Here in my heart  is the flame! The longing, the terrible longing which seizes and grips  all my senses! O torment of love! How all trembles, quakes,  and quivers in sinful desire!

 (R. Wagner, Parsifal,  act II)

  Marian had always known she was broken.

The Beast had been there, burrowing inside her heart, as long as she could recall. Always there, hideous to behold, a demon of her very own. She could hear its whispers when her eyes slipped, soft and comforting to the drumroll of her heart. She could feel it tugging at her insides, dragging out her every organ until she was a hollow vessel for its awful desire. She could feel it burning away at her, searing sweet and hot inside her nethers whenever skin brushed innocently against skin.

It had always been there, a parasite bent on controlling her, on making her its creature, as vile and abhorrent as the Beast itself. And every day, she did battle with it.

She wasn’t winning the war. But she hadn’t lost a battle yet, and that was all that mattered.

When she first learned of the Beast, she’d been a kindergartener. She doesn’t remember how, exactly—she remembers autumn sunlight warm in her hair, colourful crayons. Just quietly drawing, humming to herself, for once giving the teacher some peace. She must have worked on that drawing a long time, she remembers that—remembers her pride when she showed it to the teacher, the two pretty brides in white gowns, smiling hand in hand.

The teacher had laughed, quietly to herself, and gone to her knee. Told her that it was a very sweet painting, but it wasn’t quite right, was it? Perhaps she’d like to add a nice groom for each of them, a handsome prince? She’d understand once she got older.

So by the time mother picked her up that day, little Marian had scrunched up the drawing and thrown it away.

  She doesn’t remember the names of her friends at elementary school, but she does remember the looks they gave her. She’s not sure how it started, or when—only knows that they, too, had noticed the Beast, and were afraid of it. She remembers the frowns, then the mocking comments, the snide jokes. You’re such a weirdo, Marian. She laughed it off, all of it, and made sure the comments stopped. There was no language ten-year-old boys understood as well as a sliver of a ten-year-old girl biting, scratching and kicking. What she lacked in size, she more than made up for in viciousness.

Sometimes, even years later, the teasing would return—some chance gesture, some overly intense look, some ill-considered choice of words, the Beast churning within her. This is so you, Marian. Part of her wanted to scream, no, no, it wasn’t, she was fine and normal. Instead, she smiled, and laughed it off, and changed the subject, while inside her the Beast chuckled.

  Her first boyfriend—Devan? Dennan? something like that—was a sweet kid. They were twelve, maybe thirteen, and they were on the school football team together. Marian barely remembers his face, but she does remember a shock of hair the colour of an overripe carrot. She’d caught him staring at her, turning red whenever she noticed, and one day he’d stammered out something about getting burgers to her boots.

She froze.

There was no word for the nausea that came over her in the long seconds that followed. The Beast roared. Every fibre of her being screamed for her to run, to fight.

She bit her tongue and said yes.

  After Dennan (Devan?) there was Maric, and Aydin, and Huon, and—she doesn’t remember. They pass by in a blur in her memories, none lasting longer than a couple months—her mother took to referring to them as “interchangeable Edwins” at some point. She could not give them what they want, try as she might.

She did get better, though, training herself to accept their affections. When they tried to kiss her, she no longer recoiled. One of them—she can’t quite recall his name—she let fuck her. A few minutes of staring up at the ceiling while he pumped away at her, hands here, mouth there, penis there again. I’m enjoying this, she told herself, a mantra to drown out the Beast.

She’d close her eyes, and the boys before or inside her would change, soften, sweeten, and every time the Beast would drive her closer towards the edge before she could tear open her eyes, gasp out, reassert herself. I’m enjoying this. This is normal. Then why did she hate herself so?

  She could not deny the effects the Beast had on her body, but she’d be damned (literally) if she didn’t fight them.

By the time she was sixteen, Marian had self-discipline down to a science. She played in three sports teams after school. In between training sessions, she ran, for hours at a time with no regard for storm or strain. The exertion numbed her senses, burnt away whatever energy she might otherwise have spent self-abusing, or worse. When that wasn’t enough, she drank, smoked, had sex—whatever it took to distract herself, to keep the Beast in check for another hour. She wasn’t quite flogging herself like a penitent Chantry sister, but she’d developed a habit of subtly digging her nails into her skin or scratching herself whenever she caught herself paying tribute to the Beast within her. The pain usually dispelled whatever foul notions it had implanted in her before long.

Besides, a little blood was a small price to pay.

  She had never believed in the Maker’s grace. What kind of benevolent god would make her like this, broken from the start, and make her live with these desires?

And yet, in the dark of night, when she sank her teeth into her pillow to keep from screaming out, she prayed. Prayed for strength to fight the Beast, prayed for release, prayed for death.

  She didn’t wait for the recruiting officer’s sales pitch before asking for the enlistment papers. It was her seventeenth birthday.

Explaining her decision was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and it took her weeks until she finally confessed what she had done. She knelt in the study, mumbling something unsatisfactory, watching the tears and trying not to break down herself. It was the eve of father’s funeral.

She tried to make excuses, but of course she couldn’t take this away from them. None of them deserved this, it wasn’t their fault she was broken. They accompanied her to the station. She was in tears, and Marian wanted nothing more than to give in to the Beast right there and then.

She had to get away from her, she reminded herself. That was all that mattered. She smiled, waved, and got on the train.

  Ostagar is madness, a conflagration of waking nightmares. The tastes of blood, vomit and mud, the smells of gore, decay and taint—all blend together in her memories. For the first time in her life, though, her dreams are, if not pleasant, at least free of the Beast’s illusions. She dreams of her still, she suspects she always will, but it is the darkspawn disease that now distorts her dream-image, not Marian’s own horrid hunger.

She tries to imagine her own fall, struck down by a tainted musket ball or blade. She doesn’t much care for king and country, but she can’t think of anything sweeter and more fitting than to die for her despite the Beast.

  She does not get her wish. When the line collapses, she flees north, possessed only by the atavistic urge to protect what is (not, never can be) hers. The moment she sees her again, the Beast she thought defeated is back, and when she embraces her, she can scarce tear herself away again. Templars and demons, soldiers and darkspawn—none of it matters for those few, blissful moments that would earn her hatred and revulsion on top of everlasting damnation if the Beast had its way.

She is warm, and firm. There is nothing they cannot do.

  Ringing in her ears.

Lead. Iron. Gun oil under her fingernails, mixing with blood.

Grey sky, grey land, grey ogre speckled red.

Her ears—

She stumbles over, like one who walks across a room in a shuttered house naked and unwatched. She kneels.

She stares blankly. Takes her hand. Cold. She wants to kiss her even now.

The Beast chuckles darkly. Tip of the hat, bow and curtain. It departs. She has won. She is free.

“… Bethany?”

  Nun banne das Bangen, holder Tod, sehnend verlangter Liebestod! In deinen Armen, dir geweiht, urheilig Erwarmen, von Erwachens Not befreit!

 Now banish dread, sweet death, yearned for, longed for death-in-love! In your arms, consecrated to you, sacred elemental quickening force, free from the peril of waking! 

(R. Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, act II)

[tears-and-lilies]

Chapter 1 - The night it went from bad to awful

The first chapter! I did it! :D

(CW: blood, stabbing, beheading, death, suicide mention, minors involved but they are safe - for now)

Marice was an inspiring lady, her courage immense. Clad in dark blue, she almost blended in with the night. It was the perfect disguise. Naturally, her two guards had followed her example. Glorien only wore a thin cloak as camouflage above his own attire, but his black hair hided his head just as much, or at least so he hoped. He shivered. Winter nights in Koia were cold when the citizens were used to soft weather under winter’s sun.

‘A carriage is waiting for us outside of the city walls’, Marice said.

Glorien nodded. He would flee to his mother’s estates in the south and hide until the war was over. That is- if his brother won. If Felicen lost and died… He didn’t want to know. At this point, Felicen was all he had. But he was strong, he wouldn’t die. He would win against the troops of the Emperor, and meet Glorien at their mother’s house. They walked through the streets, calmly but alert. It was best not to attract any attention. They halted at a small bakery at the corner of the street. A boy of sixteen years old suddenly appeared from around the corner. He was Marice’s son, and Glorien’s best friend.

‘It’s safe up ahead, but I wonder where the guards of a moment ago went then’, he said.

‘Thank you,’ Marice whispered, ‘keep an eye on that, if you can. We’ll see you behind the bath house.’ She patted her son on the head and he went ahead, disappearing again into the night. Marice, Glorien and the guards waited a while and then moved too.

As they walked, Glorien looked at the woman. He was so grateful for all she’d done, and for what she was doing now. When he ran away from home, to escape the Emperor’s men who guarded him, he had never felt so lost. Months of living alone in the house, running his father’s household on his own had felt rather… lonely. He was glad Marice wanted to help him. He was glad that, even if he left his home, he was never truly alone.

‘Marice?’, he whispered.

‘Yes?’

Glorien smiled as widely as he could. ‘Thank you for everything.’

The woman looked back at him. Her lips began forming a smile, but they stopped midway. Her eyes widened. ‘They’re here!’

Her guards turned around, but it was too late. One of them fell to the ground, already without a head. The other screamed and sank to his knees.

‘Lady Marice’, a guard with the Imperial white cloak growled, ‘You can come with us. I advise you not to resist, or you will end up like your men.’

Three other guards walked up to them, sword in hand, surrounding Marice and Glorien. ‘Is it him?’, one of them asked, looking at Glorien.

‘Yes, definitely him. That’s the little son of that monster’, another replied.

Glorien froze. What now? If they ran, the guards would slice them.

Marice placed herself in front of Glorien. ‘Please. Please! He’s only seventeen! He’s no danger to the Empire!’

‘Lady, if you’re going to resist, you’ll leave me no choice’, the first guard said while he raised his sword. ‘I’ll have to consider you a traitor. During war times, we kill traitors. Sir Loui’s orders.’ He smiled apologetically.

Marice groaned as the guard drove his sword though her stomach, and screeched when he pulled it out. The sound pierced though Glorien’s heart, and as if a survival instinct was activated his legs moved. He duck underneath a sword, almost tumbling forward in the process, got his balance back and ran. When he heard a heavy thud, he glanced quickly back over his shoulder. Blood gushed out of Marice’s neck, colouring the stones of the street. He didn’t see her head. His vision blurred and he focused on the road before him.

He was quite fit. But never had he ever thought he could run this fast. Wind whistled around his ears, the sound was just as high as Marice’s scream had been. The sting of it was everywhere, in his legs, in his lungs, in his eyes, in his head. He didn’t even know where he was going as long as he was running and running and running and-

Suddenly, he was before the bath house. He was standing still- why had he stopped? His name, someone was calling him. He turned around and two hands grabbed him by the shoulders.

‘Glorien! What happened?! Where is mama?!’

Glorien opened his mouth to answer his friend, but he couldn’t remember the words. His cheeks were wet. Somewhere along the way he seemed to have lost his cloak. He shivered.

His friend let go of him and pulled at his own hair. ‘No!’, he cried. ‘No. No. No. NO!’

Glorien felt a pang in his heart. He felt he needed to comfort him, but he had to flee. Flee, so the guards wouldn’t bring him to the palace, so he wouldn’t be punished.

But he didn’t move. Why? He couldn’t do anything for his friend.

Because of you, his mother is dead. Everyone you know will die.

He didn’t want to think that, but he knew it was true. His own mother died two years ago. His brother Mirifen was dead. His father had killed himself. He and Felicen were sentenced to be punished for the deeds of their father, to be tortured to death. His father had escaped this exact punishment by committing suicide after battle. And Glorien was left alone, had ran away from home when he heard the news. So he was on the run. You have to run. And finally he ran, away from his friend, into the night.

tag: @whumpfigure

[angeltriestoblog]

Sophomore year recap, vol. 1

Funny how I only ever go on this blog to give sporadic life updates, which are honestly just lengthier versions of what goes on my Instagram dump. But, I'd hate to let this practice die—plus, I love to write, so it continues for another year. I recently wrapped up my first semester of sophomore year—yet another testament to how fast time flies by—and it's safe to presume that it was the most rewarding chapter of my stay in Ateneo, thus far. I admit I did spend most of my freshman year in my comfort zone (while still managing to make my fair share of rookie mistakes, go me!). Although I don't completely blame myself for not being able to adjust from the get-go, I do admit that my life would have been much easier if I didn't take so long to warm up to the idea of embracing change and taking risks. Upon realizing this, there was a certain pressure that came with it to make up for lost time and try to do as much I could before my body eventually gives out.

For starters, I became more active in the three organizations I am a member of, all of which demanded so much of my energy, and pushed my brain power and time management skills to the test, but were very fulfilling to be in nonetheless. (A little note from Editing Angel: This is where this post starts to look a little bit like a LinkedIn profile.)

I signed up to be a part of the Sanggunian, the student government of the University, under the Commission on Mental Health, since I am an advocate for challenging the stigma that surrounds this issue, as well as providing the proper support to those who need it. I was eventually put under Secretariat, where I was in charge of the databases and documents, taking minutes of the meeting, and updating attendance and post trackers. Although it wasn't the department I had originally planned on getting into, I did enjoy learning about the more technical side of the team and took pride in the fact that I was able to put some of the lessons I learned in ITM over intersession to good use. And by that I mean conditional formatting, but whatever ok!

But, at some point the forces of the universe decided to pull some strings and bring me to my first choice: Humans of Ateneo (HOA), a page that aims to share stories of those within the Ateneo community with the hopes of inspiring others. To this day, I work there as a literary editor, who is basically in charge of transcribing recordings of interviews and turning them into the text posts our audience sees on their Facebook timelines. I love what I do right now, because not only do I feel endlessly inspired by each story of resilience I encounter, but also fulfilled since I am partly responsible for getting that story out there for the rest of the world to see. But, I guess it wouldn't be entirely wrong to say that my favorite story so far has to be Mayor Vico Sotto's, especially because HOA Core (minus Marice, and plus Yanna) and I travelled all the way to Pasig City Hall to hear it from him in the flesh. I can confirm that he is definitely more good-looking in person, that he establishes eye contact when he speaks, and that he is one of the most insightful and substantial human beings I've ever met.

Since being a part of the team, I have also had access to opportunities both within the sub-commission and Sanggu, as a whole. I've been given leadership positions that allowed me to step up to the plate, one of which was directing a video we launched in celebration of World Mental Health Day. My co-project head Bel and I had to conceptualize it from scratch based solely on a spoken word poem given to us, and plan and plot its shooting over the course of one week—definitely a feat given our conflicts in schedule, and the unpredictable weather. Next year, I'll be pretty hands-on when it comes to manning the Peer Support Group of our commission, as I have been assigned as a member of the core team, so that's definitely something to watch out for.

I've attended active listening workshops to help me be better in tending to the needs of others: by either providing them with a newfound support system, or sharing sound advice. I was a part of the sub-core team behind Humans of Ateneo: IRL, where prestigious alumni were invited to speak on their journeys, much like three HOA posts come to life. I also ended up emceeing a freshman drug talk all by myself, because I was only informed at the very last minute that my co-host had other commitments to attend to. I remember practically shaking from the nerves and squealing right in front of the speakers that day, but I managed to pull through with more confidence and less awkward finger guns than I thought possible.

I think this is the org where I took the most initiative and was therefore the busiest, but I didn't mind at all because I was surrounded by such wonderful people. I met most of my team over intersession during a workshop that I wasn't even wholeheartedly willing to attend (because it coincided with what was my last chance to catch Ben&Ben live on their Limasawa Street tour), and thus wasn't expecting much out of. But, we meshed so well together almost instantly as we opened up to one another about experiences and secrets we only would have shared to our closest friends. The acceptance and belongingness was palpable from that point on, and it continues to manifest in how strong our bond is right now.

Aside from that, I got in The GUIDON, the University's student publication, as a Features writer. This is going to sound like such a humble brag, but I honestly didn't expect to be accepted. I'm well aware of how rigorous the week-long application process is, I got the news from friends who failed to make the cut and even saw it for myself during the general assembly they held specifically for applicants. I remember checking my e-mail and being greeted by a list of requirements I needed to accomplish for both of the staffs I applied for: mock articles, interviews, live tweets that all needed to show my unique writing style and authentic take on issues both in and outside the four walls of the campus, that were so overwhelming in scope that I had to call up a friend just to yell in her ear for 10 straight minutes. For the next few days after, tears were shed, friends were ghosted, drafts were created then scrapped, fished out of the Recently Deleted folder, and revised in an endless and vicious cycle—I don't think I had ever written as eloquently, gone as long without checking my phone, or listened to only one playlist on loop for literal days prior to those moments, and yet I was still very unsure of my chances because I knew I was up against some tough competition: veteran staffers of high school publications, and liberal arts majors who looked like they had more personality in their thumbs than I did in my entire body. I remember beating myself up for backing out of my second choice (hi Vantage), which would significantly decrease my chances of getting in. It's just that I knew I was incapable of submitting anything that wasn't half-assed at that point, and I couldn't bear to show them anything that I myself could not give an Angel Seal of Approval.

Thankfully, all of my hard work paid off eventually. Only two days after I had submitted the folder containing my requirements to the respective editor, I was working on a paper in a cafe (the table adjacent to the door of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Robinsons Galleria, to be very exact) when I received the acceptance letter in my inbox. I burst into tears, crumpled to the floor, and replied with the most articulate response I could muster: “SKLDFJSDLKFJSDLKFJSDLFJSLFSDKJ THANK YOU SO MUCH I am literally crying in the middle of this coffee shop.... thank you.... so much....”

As of this writing, I've published two articles under Features: one about the ghosting phenomenon that remains prevalent in romantic relationships, and another about the experiences of Ateneans with autism spectrum disorder. My job honestly feels like both work and a vacation at the same time, because it allows me to talk about a diverse set of topics with interesting people who are experts in the field, while doing what I feel like I'm best at. But, since a part of me will always consider Vantage my TOTGA, I took on some extra work for them and wrote a film review on "G!", a movie that came out as part of the Pista ng Pelikulang Pilipino earlier this year, which has proven itself to be the worst I've seen in my entire life for reasons I cannot even begin to explain. I didn't necessarily have high expectations of it upon seeing the trailer, but I hyped myself up for it nevertheless. I even bought tickets for me and my friend Christine online because I was afraid that they would be sold out, and we dashed out of our MSYS classroom as soon as our professor said goodbye to book a Grab and hurry to SM North EDSA to make it to our screening... only to barge in the theater and see that we were the only two people in the cinema. I mean, there was one couple in the far corner, but they didn't look very present. In addition to that, I did a food review on a JSEC stall called Chopsticks. I honestly think that food is the most challenging topic to write about, because it's hard to convey how something tastes. When someone asks me to describe the viand I'm eating, I often end up just giving them a spoonful so they can see for themselves. But, I hopped on it anyway, because how could I even say no to sampling an entire menu of Chinese food for free? Several plates of dimsum and chicken later, I gave them a well-deserved five star rating and consider myself as a frequent diner. The experience was made extra fun since I was able to chat with the owner of the business, and my photographer who turned out to be someone I followed on Instagram way back in 2015 and admired for how clean and curated her feed was! (Hi, Kim and Alexis hehe)

As if all of the things mentioned above weren't already enough, I also covered a talk on the future of scientists in the Philippines (which I also have an article on—this goes to show just how diverse the scope of my work can get), attended workshops on feature writing and the relation of journalism and mental health, participated in a rally against professors involved in sexual harassment cases in the Ateneo (pretty badass behavior, if you ask me!), and became a facilitator for a high school publication in this event called Point One. I guess I have The GUIDON to thank for my lack of writer's block: they've managed to keep my brain running on hyperdrive, and my creative juices flowing more than they ever have before.

Last but not the least, of course I chose to stay in my home organization, ACTM. Although I didn’t run for any position or apply to be a part of the Leaders Core (yet), I did my best to make myself visible and show my support in any of the events we participated in or projects that we spearheaded. I signed up as a part of the logistics subcore for the annual Prepcourse, where I helped out with set design and ran some errands for officers in the different booths they manned throughout that day. I honestly have a soft spot for the project, since I remember that the first time I felt genuinely happy during freshman year was during my own Prepcourse (Orsem didn't really do it for me, sorry friends) so even though I missed the chance to be a facilitator, I still wanted to be a part of the event in some way. I also hung out with blockmates and friends all throughout Tambay Week, supported our candidates for Mr. and Ms. SOM, as well as our dance team for RIB eliminations, and dressed up as Kim Possible for the annual Halloween party we held—I was even able to go with Ron Stoppable, thanks to my friend Iverson, who dressed up as him as a surprise.

Although the obvious highlight of my stay in ACTM so far has to be attending LEAP, a three-day leadership training seminar in Iba, Zambales. I remember this particular moment where I was wandering around the beachfront, lowkey frolicking in the water, while my groupmates were playing capture the flag. (In my defense, I was never the physically adept type of person, and knew I'd be helping my team out more if I stayed out of the playing area and cheered on them from the sidelines. But, anyway, I digress.) I could see the golden flecks of sunlight glistening on the waves, and the froth from the seawater hitting my toes, and when I looked back beyond the shore, I saw my friends having fun, running back and forth across the sand. As cliche as it sounds, I couldn't help but mutter to myself, "Wow."

Because at that time last year, I clearly remember being slumped on my couch, scrolling through one LEAP-related IG story after another, feeling this sense of FOMO that I didn't know how to deal with. On one hand, I hated that I wasn't part of something that looked equal parts fun and value-adding, but at the same time, I knew that if I were there, I'd be sticking out like a sore thumb and suffering all the more because I was at the point where social interaction had become physically painful for me. Maybe that's why this LEAP was extra special to me: besides all of the great people I met and the insights I picked up along the way, it served as a reminder of how far I've come, and how much farther I have to go during the rest of my stay in college.

(That honestly would have been the perfect way to end this post, but I have so much more I have to cover. How anti-climactic.)

Aside from my newfound love for organization life, I gained a lot of new friends and strengthened the ties I have with old ones. Back then, I was very selective of those I talked to and let in my circle: I let first impressions get the best of me, or allowed shyness to take center stage every time there was a chance to meet new people. Now, I'm close to both blockmates and batchmates: I go to their birthday celebrations, support events that they're a part of, hang out in their condo units to binge on fastfood, or sometimes just sit on the Matteo Steps with them in the middle of doing requirements to vent for 10 minutes before begrudgingly returning to our tables.

I miraculously also had time to sneak in some pretty fun stuff in my schedule despite my workload. Although I wasn’t able to prioritize making content for this blog, I got my writing on the national paper! It was in the first semester of my freshman year when I heard about Inquirer Youngblood from my English professor. Apparently, they accept essays about any topic under the sun from anyone aged 29 and below. Since I felt there would be no harm in trying, I crafted this little piece that aimed to show a different side of being an only child, as opposed to the “spoiled and entitled” stereotype that is usually stuck on us. I didn’t get my hopes up so as to not be disappointed, so when a couple of days had passed and my article wasn’t showing up on print, I gave up and moved on. Good thing my friend Bea sent me a photo of the September 8 issue of the newspaper (coincidentally the same day I got accepted into The GUIDON!), or else I wouldn’t have seen that I got published. I admit that even though writing is all I’ve ever really known since I was young, I’m not a hundred percent confident in my skill, nor do I always see the purpose behind what I do. But, it’s instances like that, that remind me of why I keep at it.

Another capital-G Great thing that happened was getting tickets to the UAAP men’s basketball championship game! As someone who made Ateneo her dream school at age five because of how much she loved the Blue Eagles, witnessing them end the season with a sweep and a championship was everything to me. And getting to do so with my closest friends in my block just made the experience even better than it was. Also, seeing Renzo Subido play in person—all my friends can attest to the fact that I was facing a huge moral dilemma mid-game, because every time he made a basket, I would end up cheering for him. (With a face like that, how could I not though)

I even found my way back in the gig scene after a long hiatus, with no less than Ang Bandang Shirley, Over October, and Munimuni welcoming me back with open arms. I had got tickets on a whim with my friend from my days as a full-on K-Pop stan, Reanna, even though it was the weekend before a big Accounting exam, if I remember correctly. But, I have no regrets: I have a feeling that very few moments in life can make me feel the way I did when Umaapaw (one of my favorite songs in the world) was being played right in front of me. Surprisingly, I didn't cry when that happened—same for Wait and Sa Hindi Pag-alala, but then again maybe I was too dazed to process what was going on.

I saw Ben&Ben just a week ago, which served as the perfect way to cap off this stressful semester. The last time I saw them was way back in October 2018: conflicts in schedule due to prior commitments, or location issues kept getting in the way that it's like they had to take matters into their own hands and head on over to Ateneo just so I could see them again. Although they didn't perform my favorite song, I can't exactly say that I was disappointed because nothing really beats the feeling of seeing them and singing along to tracks that have served as the soundtrack of my life, and are practically etched on my heart. (I am actually tearing up just writing this paragraph god am I emo! I miss them already, wow! Just wanna hear Araw-Araw live, what do I do about this!)

I also managed to finish all 10 seasons of Friends despite my irregular viewing patterns—I started it during our trip to the States before the school year began, and constantly teetered between watching one or two episodes as a reward for finishing a reading due the next day and binging one season during rare weekends that do not require working on deliverables but honestly could have been used to get ahead in lessons. This is a pretty big deal, considering that I have the attention span of a sleep-deprived cockroach and haven't finished a single White People Show since... well, Austin & Ally back in 2017 (which I actually marathoned on Dailymotion, but that's a story for another day). But, I guess there's just something special about this group of pals going through the motions of their everyday lives in the eccentric, sometimes borderline stupid ways that only they can, because I admit: the emotional investment was and is very, very real! I personally identify myself as a Chandler-Rachel hybrid now (thank you, Iverson), try to see which character the people I meet are like most out of fun, and argue to no end with anyone who ever claims that Ross and Rachel (1) were on a break, and (2) are endgame.

Most importantly, I was able to do all of this and still clinch a spot on the Dean's List. I started this semester on an optimistic note: I found all of my subjects interesting, and the professors who taught them, engaging. I'd even make notes on the readings the day before they were to be discussed in class, complete with pops of color here and there courtesy of my fineliner pens and Stabilo highlighters. But, once I reached the halfway point, my motivation started waning. Papers and quizzes, oral exams and video projects were thrown in my direction at breakneck speed: I often found myself cramming output for the sake of having something to submit, and not even having the time to look at readings due for discussion the following day. It came to a point where I thought of shifting out, because I felt I wasn't doing well enough in my majors to justify my stay. Sounds pretty stupid when I look back at it, I guess I simply mistook extreme stress and fatigue with falling out of love with the only program that I ever wanted to get in when I was applying for Ateneo. Thank God I didn't give up though, or else I wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of my labor right now. I honestly wasn't expecting stellar grades, considering the number of extracurricular commitments I took on, but now that they're there, I'm not complaining at all! Shoutout to my favorite professors of the semester: Mam Vaswani, who taught me that there is always room for improvement even in my own area of expertise; Sir Atienza, who made lectures feel like casual kwentuhans (or sometimes even chillnumans); and Sir Rebato, who broke the world record for longest patience in the world.

I guess it's safe to say that I am the happiest and most content I have been in a while, and although I am afraid of jinxing it, I feel like it's only gonna go upward from here. I am beyond excited to see where the new year and semester take me, because I know I'll do my part in making sure it's even better and brighter than this one. If you read up to this point, you deserve a pat on the back! Maybe you only scrolled to this point to see if there were any pictures with your face on them, but who cares! It adds to my website traffic, so thank you, happy holidays, and I wish you nothing but love and light always!

[actual-lich-queen]

Queen of Cups Chapter 2: “Where there’s tea there’s hope.” -- Sir Arthur Pinero 

News of the Ferelden Circle’s rebellion has finally reached Denerim and the Adalen family makes a choice for the good of the alienage. The writer’s pickiness about tea preparation is also reveled.

Chapter 1 Here

A week passed. Mary was slowly fitting back into life in the alienage. Ayla enjoyed having a sister again. She was sure that eventually the newness would wear off and they’d have to work through the knotty bits of being family. But that was it though, family. It had always been worth the work.

Ayla thought about how Mary wove the lavender stems with ribbon to make the sachets as she stood on the corner selling them. Mary’s fingers had been clumsy and the first few had been unusable, but Mary had a single-mindedness that drove her to practice weaving until the sachets she produced had been sellable. Ayla was still much faster, but Mary would catch up in time. They had that now, time.

Their mother had been teaching Mary simple stitches too. In fact, both were at home right now making a go at the clothes from the orphanage. Rosha had volunteered to patch what they could, Mary needed practice and the kids could use shirts with a few less holes. Mary and mamae still didn’t quite fit together. They were both trying, and as long as they did, time would change that too. The future seemed full of things to look forward to for Ayla.

Her head was swirling with hope all day, and it must have brought her luck. Everyone seemed to want to buy a sachet from the dreamy-eyed flower girl today. Ayla’s evening trek back to the alienage was with an empty basket and a full purse.

She was in a good mood when she opened the door to the hovel to find Hahren Shianni sitting with Mary and Rosha at their table.

“Lethallan.” Rosha stood. Ayla could tell from the look on her face that whatever Shianni was there for, it wasn’t good news.

“Ayla,” Shianni turned towards the door, “How have you been? I spoke with Sammen earlier today. He said the street performance racket was going well.”

“I have been well, thank you hahren.” Ayla set down her basket and joined the group at the table, “What brings you here?”

“News of the rebellion reached the palace.” Mary answered, her face pale.

“King Alistair supports the mages.” Shianni said in a voice that indicated it wasn’t the first time, “And you will be safe here, but the templars have also rebelled from the Chantry and are hunting down mages. Unsanctioned.”

“So what does that mean for Mary?” Ayla asked, reaching under the table to take her sister’s hands.

“It means we’ll all watch out for her.” Shianni stated like an immutable fact. Rosha and Ayla exchanged glances. The alienage was a tight knit community that looked out for each other, but they both knew there was always someone looking to make a coin, despite Shianni’s sometimes militant optimism.

“And the palace is okay with this?” Ayla was nervous, “It’s one thing to support the mages, it’s another to go against the templars. In Denerim. In the alienage.”

“I’ll make them support it.” Shianni responded, “King Alistair has been mostly reasonable and Queen Cousland can hammer any dissenting nobles into shape.”

“I could just go.” Mary’s voice was small and quiet, “That would be less trouble for everyone.”

“We should seek one of the clans.” Rosha said, “Not all of them expel extra mages. I would have done it 28 years ago had I known then. I’m sure we could find one to take us.”

“What about Ayla?” Mary asked.

“I’ll go too.” Ayla smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way, “We’re family.”

“You don’t have to go.” Shianni tried to reiterate, “We can protect you here.”

“If we go to the Dalish, it’s only me who’ll be put out. Not the entire alienage.” Ayla countered.

“Everyone has been so good to me and my family since I came here.” Rosha added, “I can’t ask them to fight the templars for us, everyone has already lost so much. It is too much to ask.”

“But you don’t need to ask, Rosha.” Shianni was getting irritated, “That’s what separates us from the shems and flat-ears.”

Anger flashed in Rosha’s eyes and Ayla looked at Mary nervously. She was aware that they both qualified as ‘shems’ and ‘flat-ears’ respectively. Hahren Shianni could be too idealistic to see reality at times, it had been a strength and a fault.

“I appreciate it, Shianni, I really do.” Rosha clipped, “But it is too much. We will seek the Dalish. Thank you for the warning. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Ah...no.” Shianni stood, “Thank you. Soris is probably waiting for me to eat. I should go.”

“It was good to see you, Hahren.” Ayla stood to show Shianni out, “I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t convince you to stay.” Shianni replied, standing in the door, “But I understand how your predicament is more...perilous than most. I should have thought of that before I let my mouth run.”

“It’s alright.” Ayla lowered her voice so only Shianni could hear, “I’m actually glad you separate me and my sister from the shems and flat-ears.”

“I used to help change your diapers.” Shianni gave Ayla a hug, “How could I see you as anything but family?”

“Thank you.” Ayla hugged her back.

“Safe journeys wherever the road takes you.” She smiled, “And remember you’ll have a home here as long as I’m around.”

“And to you.” Ayla stepped back, “The mage rebellion won’t make things easy here.”

“Don’t I know it.” Shianni laughed, “But surviving is what we’re good at. If Orlais, Maric, Cailin, Loghain, the purge, the plague, the slavers, the blight, and the Battle of Denerim couldn’t take us down. The rebellion doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Not against you, hahren.” Ayla smiled, waving as Shianni disappeared down the street. She closed the door and turned to her family.

“Mother, do you even know how to find the Dalish?” Mary asked.

“They’re not as secretive as they were before the blight.” Rosha had already gotten up from the table and was packing, “At least the more friendly clans. I heard that some of them have even been making contact with the alienages. If we head south towards Denerim it shouldn’t be too hard to find them.”

“Would they really accept me?” Mary folded laundry, restarting the same handkerchief several times before it was square.

“It’ll be safer than staying here. The clans are used to dealing with templars.” Rosha answered.

“And Ayla?” Mary asked for the second time. Rosha’s busy hands stilled and she looked over, unsure, at her youngest.

“They’ll accept me or they won’t.” Ayla shrugged and moved to help with the packing, “I could always settle nearby so you can visit. Find a nice farm-boy. Have too many children.”

“Ayla-” Rosha started.

“Mamae.” Ayla said gently, “One problem at a time. First we make sure Mary’s safe. Then we’ll see what comes next.”

“Ma serannas, da’lan.” Rosha sighed, “My mind is running in circles.”

“I’m sorry, this is my fault. I should never have come home.” Mary croaked, she had begun crying.

“Oh no, no lethallan.” Rosha rose and moved to where Mary was sitting and embraced her, “It is not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t been a mage…” Mary sniffed through tears.

“You wouldn’t be you. Your magic is a gift.” Rosha whispered.

“It is a curse from th-the M-Maker.” Mary was bawling now, “I was m-made wr-wrong.”

“No,” Rosha cupped Mary’s cheeks in her hands and gazed with love in her eyes, “You are my daughter. My precious one. You are a gift from the creators.”

Mary was crying too hard to make any further arguments. Rosha held her daughter and rocked her gently, humming off-key lullabies. Ayla continued packing as quietly as she could, organizing the details of their flight in her mind, giving her sister and mamae as much privacy as could be afforded in the one-room home.

After sometime passed, Mary gave a loud, ugly sniffle and smiled at her mother. Rosha, in turn, smoothed Mary’s hair and kissed the last of her tears off her face.

“Mother!” Mary giggled, struggling to get away from the quasi-mortifying expression of maternal love.

“What?” Rosha gave an all-too-innocent look and redoubling her efforts, “I have a lot of embarrassing mamae moments to catch up on.”

“Oh! Me too!” Ayla wrapped Mary in her arms and started kissing her other cheek, “I’ve got a lot of annoying little sister time to make up for.”

“Ah! No! Stop!” Mary was laughing, “Don’t we have to finish packing? When did you want to leave, mother?”

“We should go as soon as possible. The longer we linger the more of a chance trouble has to catch up with us.” Rosha stood and straightened her dress.

“Do you have any other outstanding laundry, mamae?” Ayla asked, “And I’ll need to let Sammen know so he can cancel on Arl Bryland, or find another dancer. If we’re quick we can get to Alarith’s for supplies and be gone by morning.”

“Can I go with you to see Sammen?” Mary asked, roses in her cheeks.

“Of course.” Ayla said with a sly smirk.

“Don’t worry about the washing, I’ll hand off what I’ve got to widow Baern. She could always use the extra coin.” Rosha nodded, “I’ll go see her when I finish here, you two go see Sammen and get what supplies we need from Alarith’s.”

“Aye, Mamae.” Ayla took Mary’s hand, “Come on, if we’re quick I’ll have time to make Sammen’s da his last cup of good tea while you two make goo-goo eyes at each other.”

“I do not make ‘goo-goo eyes’.” Mary huffed as she followed her sister out of the house.

“Right, what would you call it then?” Ayla grinned, “Because you certainly don’t look at me or mamae that way.”

“Ugh.” Mary stuck her tongue out, “First of all, you’re my sister. Second of all, you don’t have Sammen’s cute dimples. Thirdly it is vultus domini caritate not ‘goo-goo eyes’.”

“Vole-thus do-mini cari-what?” Ayla’s face screwed up in confusion as they walked through the alienage streets towards Sammen’s house.

“Vultus domini caritate.” Mary repeated, “It’s Tevene. It means the feeling of first falling in love worn on your face.”

“You mean goo-goo eyes.” Ayla rolled her eyes.

“I. do. Not. make. Goo-goo eyes.” Mary emphasized, crossing her arms.

“Alright, alright. Fine.” Ayla conceded, “You make fancy Tevinter goo-goo eyes.”

“Vultus domini caritate.” Mary corrected.

“Vultus domini caritate.” Ayla repeated, correctly this time, “Oh look. We’re here. Now you can practice your vultus domini caritate.”

“I’m going to regret teaching you that, aren’t I?”

“Probably.” Ayla grinned as she knocked on the door.

“Hang on!” A muffled voice came from inside. There was a thump and the sound of footsteps. Moments later the door was thrown wide open to reveal Sammen.

“Mary!” Sammen cracked a grin from ear to ear.

“Hi, Sammen.” Mary giggled, vultus domini caritate all over her face.

“Hey, I��m here too.” Ayla joked, lightly punching Sammen on the arm before breezing past him into the house.

“Oh, hi Ayla.” Sammen said sheepishly.

“Good evening Mr. Alberts.” Ayla hugged an old elf wrapped in blankets sitting by the fire, “Would you like some tea?”

Mr. Alberts smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

“Has Sammen introduced you to my sister yet?” Ayla asked as she put water on to boil. Mr. Alberts nodded and waggled his eyebrows.

“That’s what I said.” Ayla laughed, “Are you two coming in or are you going to stand in the door all night?”

“Oh. Right!” Sammen was suddenly aware he hadn’t moved, “Would you like to come in, Mary?”

“Thank you, Sammen.” Mary gave a shy smile.

The fact that Mary’s hand found Sammen’s as they walked towards the fire and settled themselves in did not go unnoticed by Ayla.

“What brings you here at this hour?” Sammen asked.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.” Ayla retrieved Mr. Alberts’s teapot from the cupboard as well as the little clay pot where he kept his tea. The kettle on the fire was rumbling with the sounds of water pre-boil, “News of the circle rebellion’s made it this far. Hahren Shianni came by earlier this evening to let us know the templars have rebelled too and are hunting down mages.”

“Are you going to be alright, Mary?” Sammen placed a concerned arm around Mary’s waist.

“Mother is taking us to find the Dalish.” Mary gave Sammen a sad smile, “She says I’ll be safer there, and that the clans have experience evading the templars.”

“Are you...coming back?” Sammen ventured.

“I...I don’t know.” Mary flung herself at Sammen, wrapping him tight in her arms.

“They can’t fight forever.” Ayla offered gently. The kettle had gone silent, signalling the water was on the edge of boiling. She removed it from the fire and poured a measure of water into the teapot to warm it while she readied the tea leaves.

“Right!” Sammen said as bravely as he could, rubbing Mary’s shoulder, “You’ll come back once it’s all over. Funny stories about hunting in the woods and your face all decorated with one of them vallaslin thingies.”

Mary looked up at Sammen and made a face.

“It won’t be long, you’ll see.” He laughed.

“It’ll be an adventure.” Ayla added, pouring the warming water out of the teapot and inserting the tea leaves in their strainer before pouring the rest of the kettle over top, “A story to bore your children with someday.”

“Parts will certainly be like that.” Mary’s smile was brave and sad, “I guess I can look forward to that.”

“See? Dreaming of the stars.” Sammen smiled at her.

“We will probably see plenty of those.” Ayla gathered a mismatched collection of cups and poured the tea when it had reached the perfect golden color before getting the tinge of brown that would signify over-steeping, “There you are, Mr. Alberts, last cup of decent tea you’ll have until we get back.”

Mr. Alberts took the cup and smiled. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before taking the first sip. There was a moment, and then he sighed in satisfaction. It was a decent cup of tea.

“Okay, don’t leave me out.” Sammen reached for his own cup, grabbing one for Mary, “I have to drink what I make too.”

“Is it really that bad?” Mary accepted the cup handed her.

“Yes.” Sammen and Ayla said together. Mr. Alberts was nodding emphatically.

“There’s a reason I’ve never made any for you.” Enjoyment spreading across Sammen’s face as he drank his tea.

“I’m - I’m afraid to say that I’m curious now.” Mary raised a brow.

“I’d say it was something else to look forward to,” Sammen’s lips curled into a self-conscious smirk, “But you really, really shouldn’t look forward to it.”

“I’ll just settle for looking forward to seeing you again, then.” Mary placed a shy kiss on Sammen’s cheek. This had the immediate effect of turning Sammen a rather violent shade of scarlet.

“Awww, so cute!” Ayla teased, eyes sparkling. Mr. Alberts made kissing noises with his lips.

“Mary.” Sammen whined, “Not in front of them.”

“Sorry.” Mary kissed him again, “I just can’t help myself.”

Ayla and Mr. Alberts just sat in silence, their smiles saying everything their voices didn’t.

“Maker help me.” Sammen whimpered.

Topics eventually moved on from embarrassing young love as the friends emptied the teapot cup by cup and story by story. But there will never be enough tea for all the stories that can be told. Eventually the time came for Ayla and Mary to make their final goodbyes.

“Goodbye, Sammen.” Ayla hugged her best friend tight, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. She breathed him in, trying to burn everything about this moment in her memory. It shouldn’t be goodbye forever, but somehow...it felt like it was going to be.

“You’ll be back.” He whispered, “Don’t make me come after you.”

“You would too, wouldn’t you.” She let go and smiled.

“Never doubt it.” Sammen smiled back, hugging her again.

Mary gave a delicate cough.

“I’ll just...give you two a moment.” Ayla let go of Sammen and started on the way to Alarith’s. 

She managed to make it to the store and was on the way home before Mary’s running footsteps caught up with her. Ayla looked at her sister’s face, red and puffy from crying. 

“Vultus domini caritate.“ Ayla whispered as she caught Mary’s arm with her own. Mary laughed despite herself.

When they reached home, the found Rosha had finished packing, everything was ready. Ayla looked around the small shack that had been home for her whole life. She could feel the pain, but it was a long way off still, there wasn’t enough time for it to be real yet. There would be a lot of crying in her future.

For now though, she sighed and took the pack Rosha handed her. There was only one moon in the sky tonight, it seemed to reflect the melancholy Ayla felt as the Adalens left the alienage for what felt like the last time.

Author’s Notes:

I didn’t find a resource for Tevene as detailed as Project Elvhen, so I’ve substituted Latin. The translation is literally “the look of love”. I’ve headcanon’d here that mages use Tevene a bit like Regency era England used French: incorrectly and to make themselves look smart.

Why Tevene? With mages having the most freedom there I headcanon that most of the good academic articles and original sources are in Tevene. Since tower mages apparently have nothing to do but study magic until they die (unless a blight pops up), they’ve probably read a lot of Tevene. Censored by the Chantry, of course.

The tea making instructions are specific to Oolong tea (or any yellow* tea for that matter).

Alberts is again a deliberate name choice here. The alienage origin in DA:O specifies that the the elves were sold as slaves from the alienage during the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. Albert is a French Orlesian name, so at one point in the family history, the Alberts belonged to an Albert. And now you know something upsetting about American lastnames that end with an ‘s’.

*Yellow is the fermentation** step between green and black. I’m sure there’s a word for it in English, but I don’t know it. I learned to be picky about tea in Chinese it’s a literal translation.

**Fermentation is another incorrect literal translation.

Next Chapters: 3, 4, 5

[allisondraste]

Temperance (10/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary:  Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:  Young Nathaniel begins to realize some things about Liss, but it wouldn't be a party if good old dad didn't mess everything up.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Highever, 9:18 Dragon

The sun beat down upon Highever from a cloudless sky, uncharacteristically hot and unrelenting for the typically mild Fereldan summer. Men and women, children, and animals accustomed to cooler weather walked about sluggishly, hoping for any sort of reprieve.  Nathaniel wiped away the beads of sweat that formed on forehead as he sat on a grassy hill that overlooked a small pond where the other children played. He didn’t actually mind the heat.

The heat wasn’t the only thing unusual about this particular summer, as everyone at Castle Cousland busied themselves with preparation for the arrival of King Maric and Teyrn Loghain.  From what Nathaniel could gather it was to be an important meeting of powerful people that would also include several feasts, music, and other festivities. Prince Cailan and Lady Anora were to accompany them.  

For days, Liss prattled on and on and on about getting to see the Prince and his betrothed in an almost breathless way,  eyes glittering with excitement. Nathaniel wasn’t certain she actually knew what it meant to be betrothed outside the pages of her stories.  She’d read countless tales of young maidens and their arranged marriages to handsome knights with polished silverite armor and crooked smiles.  He had, after all, listened to her recount the stories at great length. He knew her favorite characters and why they were her favorites. She’d even shown him drawings she’d made of a tall, muscular-looking woman who wielded a broadsword.  According to Fergus, she’d even begun to write her own story, filling pages upon pages of a journal but never willing to talk about what she was writing. He annoyed her about it nearly every day, and nearly every day she awarded him with a scowl and a firm punch in the arm.  It was clearly very private, and Nathaniel pretended to not even know it existed.

As he sat upon the hill, watching her splash around with Delilah and Thomas, who Father had permitted to join him in Highever this year, as well as the servant girl Liss’ parents did not like her to play with, he would have done just about anything to have her tell him the same story for the fifteenth time.  It was lonely on the hill, but he definitely could not join them in the water. Delilah or Thomas might tell Father, or worse, Father might see. He still did not understand why he wasn’t supposed to spend time with Liss. He didn’t expect he ever would. Father rarely explained his rules, but Nathaniel trusted that he knew what was best.

“How did I know I’d find you sitting here by yourself,” a voice rang out from behind him, followed by a chuckle.  It was Fergus who joined him. He was basically a man now, taller than ever with a deep voice and the beginnings of a beard.

“It’s kind of my thing,” Nathaniel answered with a sigh.  He didn’t want it to be his “thing.”

“I’ve seen you have a good time, Nate,” Fergus stated bluntly as he sat down on the grass beside him, “Just never when your old man is here.  What’s up with that?”

“Nothing,” Nathaniel snapped, darting his head toward the other boy who only smiled in return.

“My sister says your father doesn’t like that you two are friends.” Fergus plucked at some blades of grass at his side, tearing them between his fingers. “Is that true, or is she just making things up, again?”

“It’s true.” Nathaniel returned his gaze to the pond, his chest tightening as he watched Liss wrap her arms around Thomas in an attempt to pull him under the water, as she held Delilah’s hands, and as she kissed Rila’s cheek. “ I don’t know why.”

“I think I do.”

“Really?”

Fergus nodded grimly.  “I overheard your father talking to mine.  Something about wanting to arrange for my sister to marry your brother.”

“Like a betrothal,” Nathaniel huffed, “Liss will love that.”

“Father wouldn’t have it, said that Couslands do not treat their children like property, and that he would not decide Liss’ future for her.”  He shook his head and laughed. “There was some angry shouting, and then your father stormed out of the room.”

“My father does a lot of angry shouting and storming out of rooms,” Nathaniel took a deep breath, and stared at the ground, unable to look back out at the pond or up to Fergus. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me being close to Liss.”

Fergus tried and failed to contain a laugh, so he ended up half-snorting as he slapped Nathaniel roughly on the back. “Well, if Liss fell in love with you, that’d get in the way of her marrying little Tom one of these days, now wouldn’t it?”

“Me? And Liss?” Nathaniel’s voice cracked as he spoke, causing him to squeak.  It’d been doing that a lot lately, and it was not helping him to sound serious or like anything other than some kind of awkward bird. He narrowed his eyes. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, and you say a lot of stupid things.”

Fergus fell backward, cackling and holding his sides.  Had Liss not been otherwise occupied she would have punched him to make him stop, but Nathaniel preferred to wait him out. Especially since any time he opened his mouth there was a potential to incite more obnoxious laughter. “Sorry Nate,” he said between laughs, “I know you can’t help your voice but…” he trailed off, “Hey, at least by next summer, you’ll sound completely different.”

“Whatever.”

“You can impress my sister with your deep, manly voice.”  He elbowed Nathaniel in the arm. “Hmm?”

“It’s not like that, Fergus,” Nathaniel protested. “We’re just friends.  We’ll always just be friends.”

“Right, right, whatever you say,” Fergus threw his hands up, “But you sure put up with a lot of my sister’s nonsense to just be a friend.”

“I don’t put up with anything.” Nathaniel let his annoyance show in his voice, “I like Liss’ ‘nonsense.’ It’s-.” He paused, realizing the initial end of that sentence proved Fergus’ point.

A devious grin stretched across the older boy’s face, one so similar to Liss’ that Nathaniel couldn’t hate it.  “What were you going to say? Were you going to say that you think it’s cute?”

“No.”

“You were,” Fergus shouted, “Hah! I knew it!”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes and ignored Fergus’ teasing.  Did he like Liss in a different way than just friends? Was that why watching her spend time with the others when he couldn’t join made his chest hurt. He wasn’t used to feeling so angry or resentful toward his sister and brother, but ever since they arrived, he wanted nothing more than for them to go home.  Now, with what Fergus overheard about Thomas, he wished it even more.

He watched as Liss climbed out of the pond, dripping from head to toe, quickly averting his eyes to the ground when he realized the linens in which she swam had become translucent in the water. He’d gone swimming with her before. This was nothing new to see, but it seemed impolite now.  His heart climbed into his throat as he saw her walking in his direction from the corner of his eye. Fergus was still talking about her, and Nathaniel panicked.

“She’s coming, shut up,” he said slapping Fergus on the arm.  Fergus looked at his sister and then back at Nathaniel, eyes sparkling with amusement. He took a breath, and opened his mouth to speak again, but Nathaniel covered it with his hand. “Shut. Up.”

Fergus raised his hands in a truce, eyes still smiling, and Nathaniel uncovered his mouth, but continued to glare at him with the most threatening expression he could muster. Not that it would stop the much larger boy from embarrassing him.  There was no force in Thedas that would do that.

“You two are missing out on the fun,” Liss said cheerfully, plopping down on the ground beside Nathaniel.  Cool water droplets bounced from her hair with the movement, sprinkling onto his skin.

“Don’t be silly, Sis.” Fergus’ voice was full of irony. “Nathaniel doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“Be nice.” Liss leaned over and around Nathaniel to smack her brother on the head. “You okay, Nate?” Her hand fell on Nathaniel’s shoulder and he looked up at her even though he knew he shouldn’t. His heart immediately skipped a beat and he wanted to bury his head in the dirt.  He’d never thought about her like that before. Why now? Clearly this was Fergus’ doing for mentioning it.

He just nodded and Liss gave him a disbelieving look.  She’d known him long enough to know better.

“I,” she announced, poking his cheek and letting her finger rest there, “Don’t believe you.”

His face burned hot, and he wasn’t sure if it was the actual heat or the insufferable shame he felt just being so near her now.  He turned his eyes to look at Fergus who looked as if he were about to burst, then lightly swatted Liss’ hand away. It was absent minded, an attempt to alleviate the embarrassment boiling up in him, but he knew what it meant to her.

Nathaniel forced himself to meet her gaze, and to see the hurt expression on her face as she pulled away from him. “Liss, I - ,”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she stated tersely, standing up and stomping away, back down to the pond where the others greeted her fondly.   He brought his hands to his face and shook his head, falling back into the grass.

“That went well,” Fergus teased.“Tell me again how you don’t like my sister.  I’m waiting.”

“Piss off,” Nathaniel muttered, voice muffled by his hands.

Nathaniel had the remainder of the afternoon and evening to ruminate. Despite Fergus forcing him to distraction by dragging him to the kennels, he couldn’t seem to get Liss off his mind. He still was not quite sure what to make of anything that happened. He had only known her for a few years, but it was impossible to remember a time when she hadn’t been a major part of his life. He honestly didn’t care to. There had been so few people who took such a vested interest in him, who truly cared.  For all that he preferred solitude, he enjoyed her company more. Even when he said he wanted to be alone, it did not apply to her. He loved her, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that.

However, the new set of feelings that had smacked him this summer made him uncomfortable. He was afraid to admit to those because that meant that things between he and Liss could never be the same again.  He would never be able to look at her without feeling like he was suffocating, without his chest aching. And, if what Fergus said had any truth to it, and he figured it did knowing Father, he would always feel that way.  He would never be allowed to act on it. Ever.

With a mournful sigh, he flung himself down on his bed.  It was still early for sleep, but if he lay there long enough, it wouldn’t be.   He could drift off and not think about Liss and how pretty she was, or how she smelled nice, or how she smiled when she talked about her favorite books.  He also wouldn’t have to think about the hurt in her eyes when he brushed her off earlier. He would have dreamless sleep and think absolutely nothing about Elissa Cousland or how she made him want to die.  Maybe it was just a fever and he’d wake up with the tangled ball of emotions inside him gone. He rolled his eyes at himself. Unlikely.

A rapid succession of knocks at his door jolted him from his bed and he rushed to answer it.  Unfastening the lock he reached for the handle but the door burst open before he even touched it, and he took a step backward to keep it from hitting him in the nose.  Liss barged into the room and shut the door behind her, leaning against it. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears that continued to fall, and she was sniffling, trying to catch her breath.

“Liss, what’s -.” She fell forward into his arms, catching him off guard.  All the shame and embarrassment from earlier fizzled away, replaced by overwhelming concern.  He hugged her to him tightly, unsure what else he could do.

“I’m sorry to...to bother you,” she said through sobs and sniffles,”You probably don’t want me here.”

“No, it’s fine,” he reassured her, “What’s wrong?”

“After we finished swimming, Rila and I wanted to show Delilah and Thomas our spot in the garden.  You know the one?” She looked up at Nathaniel desperately, and he shook his head. He knew the one.  “While we were there, your father came to look for your brother and sister, I don’t know why - something about introducing them to some important people at dinner... “ She trailed off, tears still streaking down her face.

Nathaniel’s heart dropped like lead into his stomach.  He had an idea where this story was going, and it made him sick.  He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her out and away from him so he could look at her directly. “What did my father do, Liss?”

A look of anguish crossed her delicate features and she shook with sobs again.  He’d never seen her like this before. “He saw Rila, and he got really angry. She didn’t even do anything, but he was just so angry.  He called her a ‘knife-ear’ and told me and the others we had no business playing with ‘filth.’

“Rila ran off, and I went to find her once your Father left, but she wouldn’t listen.  She told me she hated me and never wanted to talk to me again. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nathaniel grasped her shoulders more firmly, “She is your friend and you couldn’t have known this would happen.”

She pulled back. “But I did!  Mama and Papa have told me tons of times, but I just didn’t listen.  I’m stupid. I’m a stupid, dumb person who never listens.” She tapped her forehead repeatedly with the heel of her hand.  “Rila is never going to be my friend again.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, almost in a whisper, and she wrapped her arms around him again.  Her hair was still damp and smelled like the outside air. He wished he knew what to say, that he was good at consoling people, but that was not a strength of his.  He wondered why she sought him out instead of her parents, instead of Fergus.

“I get it now.”  Liss’ expression hardened as she pulled away again, and she offered him a definitive nod.  “I know why you are different when he’s here. I didn’t before, not really, but I do now.”

“Father is…” He sighed. “Difficult.”

“I hate him,” Liss snapped, unapologetically.

“Sometimes... I think I might, too.”  He laughed bitterly and walked to sit on the edge of his bed. “But he’s my father, and I have to respect his wishes.”

It was staggering to think that he might hate his own father, let alone admit it out loud.  Liss walked over and sat beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to.  He understood the gesture well enough. He offered her his hand and she laced her fingers through his, squeezing tightly.

They sat there for several moments in heavy silence until footsteps and the voices of men were heard down the hallway.

“Rendon, I assure you Nathaniel is not having an undue influence on Elissa,” Bryce’s voice urged, “And I certainly doubt she’s in his room right now.”  He had spoken so loudly on purpose. It was a warning.

Liss and Nathaniel both startled, and they looked at each other with widened eyes, conveying their plan without any words.  She drew a finger to her lips and slid down to the floor, crawling under the bed. He hurried to busy himself, taking a book from the shelf, rushing to his desk an pretending to be intently focused on the dusty tome that was almost certainly about Mabari.

There was a gentle knock at the door. “It’s open,” Nathaniel shouted, his heart pounding in his chest.

Bryce entered first, followed by Father, who looked around the room suspiciously.  “See,” he said in the same cheerful tone Liss always used. “She’s not here.” He winked at Nathaniel discreetly.

“Yes, well.” His father approached the desk, boots clicking against the stone floor.  He placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder with enough pressure that it was uncomfortable. “One can never be certain with this one.  He is always up to something.”

“Nathaniel has always been on his best behavior with us,” Bryce’s voice was happy, but his eyes looked sad.

“I am sure he is.”  He released Nathaniel’s arm and walked out of the room.  Bryce lingered behind for a moment, offering an apologetic expression before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Liss crawled out from under the bed and stood, more shyly than he had ever seen her, in the center of the room.  She had the same expression her father had worn.

“I should probably go.” She motioned toward the door with her thumb. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, too.”

Nathaniel wanted to ask her to stay, to say that he didn’t care what Father thought, that it was worth the risk because she was the only friend he had ever really had.  But he didn’t. He just hung his head and watched as she left his room, closing the door gently behind her.