#hoping that the word ‘alistair’ is far enough into this post that people will be able to infer that it’s abt the cat

[ringneckedpheasant]

i wouldn’t say that my parents are ““accepting”” of my ““lifestyle”” but it’s been sooo long since my mom has asked me abt having kids and also last time i brought alistair to their house i was constantly referring to my parents as his grandma and grandpa and when i left my dad was like “come back soon alistair :-)” like. he actually enjoys it when i bring him over whereas he’s complained Literally every single time one of my siblings has brought a dog over

[mandoalorian]

Happiness [Maxwell Lorenzano x f!Reader]

Author’s note: Please heed warnings before you read. This is angst. There’s a little fluff and a few spicy moments, but at its core, this is a pretty angsty read. It’s a different interpretation of Maxwell, post WW84. Reblogs are so appreciated. I worked really hard on this and it’s not showing up in tags so if you could reblog it... it would literally mean the world to me :( <3

Summary: After the dreamstone debacle, Maxwell Lord loses custody of his son, his home, his job and all his wealth. He has nothing, and what was once the simple task of ‘living’, is suddenly proving to be extremely difficult. Until a beacon of light enters his life. He can only hope that you don’t find out who he really is.

Word count: 4000+

Rating: 18+

Warnings: depression/suicidal thoughts, PSTD/trauma implications, poverty, starvation, binge eating, allusions to sex, male masturbation, food and drink mention.

Masterlist

Max is usually pretty good at keeping himself to himself, but when he hears the commotion from outside his small shanty apartment, he cautiously stalks towards the front door and leans into the wood, gazing out the peephole. He spots you, struggling to unlock the door located on the far side of the hall. Your arms are filled with brown paper bags and an abundance of cardboard boxes circle around your feet. He hears you curse as you drop one of the paper bags. It rips, and groceries spill onto the floor with a clatter. He swallows thickly, feeling his tummy grumble at the sight of fresh fruit and colourful veg. Max hadn’t eaten a single meal this week.

He spends a few more seconds watching you struggle, before the guilt swarms over him and he feels like a creep. He does wonder if he should leave his apartment and help you out though, but eventually he decides on turning his heel and walks back to the torn leather sofa. He just knows he’ll be some kind of intrusion on you. If Max has learned one thing, it’s that he needs to stay away from other people. Otherwise, he’d just hurt them. Even if hurting them was the last thing he intended to do.

Still, he finds himself marvelling over you. He wants to go over and introduce himself. He thinks you’re absolutely stunning. Maybe it’s just because he hasn’t seen a woman (other than his ex-wife) in just short of a year, or maybe it’s something more genuine -- like the way you wear your hair or that glimmer in your eye. Once upon a time, Maxwell would’ve strolled on over to your apartment with the utmost confidence and charm, with the sole intention of winning you over and taking you back to his place. He wouldn’t dare do that now.

He stares at the wall clock, and watches as the minute leg ticks. It’s painfully slow. It’s 5:52pm, and Maxwell is just waiting until 6pm, because he knows at 6pm he can call his son, Alistair. If he tries calling a second earlier though, he is certain his ex-wife will throw a rage, claiming that he’s breaking court order. Maxwell had never been one to follow rules, but now, he didn’t have much of a choice. As he waits for the leg to strike 6, all he can really do is think about you. Truth be told, he hates that he’s thinking about you this much. He doesn't even know you.

But you’re so pretty. Your features are soft and delicate. Your clothes fit you perfectly and hug your body in all the right places. He can’t help but think what you sound like. He wonders if you’re from around here. He wonders why you moved into this particular neighbourhood, out of all the other neighbourhoods in rural D.C. He should go over and say hello at least. It would be the polite thing to do. He considers bringing over a bottle of wine to make a peace offering, but then he remembers all he has in his refrigerator is a stick of butter and a bottle of milk that has grown old and fermented. He assumes that you probably wouldn’t care for such housewarming gifts.

Maxwell calls Alistair as soon as the clock turns six. As always, Alistair is more than excited to speak to his dad, beaming brightly down the line. Alistair tells Maxwell about his step-father, and how he’d built a pool in their back garden for Ali and his mom. Max’s lips curl into a frown when he realises that his ex’s new husband is giving Alistair everything Max couldn’t. And once again, Maxwell feels like he has failed as a father.

For a short while, Alistair babbles about his day at school and how he got full marks on a pop quiz. Maxwell is as proud as punch. He has no doubt that success will one day find Alistair, he just hopes Alistair has an easier time handling it. Max can hear a faint yelling in the background of the phone call and eventually Alistair is interrupted.

“Oh-- mommy is calling me to eat dinner.” Alistair says softly, his voice suddenly growing oddly timid. Max’s stomach grumbles again at the mention of dinner.

“But we still have ten minutes left of our phone call.” Max replies matter-of-factly. He hopes Alistair can’t hear the disappointment in his voice. This isn’t his fault. He hears his ex yell again and Max can’t help but feel his face harden with disdain.

“I know, I’m sorry daddy, but I have to go.” The croak in Alistair’s voice is enough to break Maxwell’s heart. He wishes this could’ve been different. It should’ve been different.

Max knows he can’t argue though. It’s only futile. So he accepts the fact that Alistair has to leave the phone call early -- at least he was getting something to eat. Maxwell remembers when he was Alistair’s age. His mom always struggled to put food on the table because his dad would spend all the money on drinks at the local bar. Maxwell is just grateful his son isn’t starving.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Maxwell reassures before taking a shaky exhale. “I love y--”

But then, the line went dead. Max assumes that Alistair’s mom has ripped the phone from his hand and hung up. Sighing, Maxwell forces himself to stand up and walk on over to his bedroom. The bed is unmade and there are several piles of dirty laundry all over the floor. He jams open the sticky window and climbs onto the balcony, inhaling the cool evening air and lighting a cigarette. Smoking was a habit he’d gotten himself into when he was much younger, but he’d grown out of it when he’d hit limelight. Now though, it was growing back in to be a shameful addiction that he just couldn’t shake. It helped him stop feeling hunger, though.

As he flicks the orange lit ash over the edge of the balcony, his eyes catch on you again. You are standing on the street, talking to some guy. You’re laughing, and it looks like this mystery man’s hand is caressing your arm. It’s probably your boyfriend; Maxwell assumes, and the pang of jealousy in his chest turns into unadulterated sadness as he realises he was probably never going to find love again. He peers over the edge of the balcony once more as he takes a final drag of the cigarette, and he wonders if the jump would kill him.

Maxwell’s eyes begin to sting, and he climbs back into his bedroom, knocking his head on the window pane in the process.

He can’t sleep that night, and he tosses and turns in his three quarter sized bed. He could feel every spring in his mattress. What he would give to just sleep one more night in the soft, plush king sized bed he used to take for granted. He switched on his amber tinged bedside lamp and swatted away a moth that flew towards it. Maxwell stared at the ceiling and wondered if the damp had gotten worse. Even if it had, it wasn’t like Max had the courage to bring it up with the landlord.

He finds himself thinking about you again. He lived to see the way you smiled when you spoke to that guy, or the way your hair blew ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Max wraps his hand around his semi-hard cock and begins to jerk himself off. To nobody’s surprise though, he doesn’t finish -- the overwhelming feeling of revolt consuming him. He thinks he’s disgusting, and that nobody would ever want to touch him. He can’t even stand touching himself.

He falls asleep not long after that.

Max once had a pretty decent sleep schedule, going to bed at 10 and waking up at 6. But now he was up until the early hours of the morning, overthinking and hating himself. He wakes up three or four times a night from the same recurring nightmare. It’s a replay from the clear night of July ‘84, when he took over everyone’s TV screens. His doctor prescribed him therapy for it, which would probably help, but Maxwell just can’t afford it.

He wakes up to the sound of a bang on his front door. Max scrambles to his feet in a panic, checking the time on his alarm clock. It’s 2pm. And the person at the door could easily be his landlord, finally having enough and kicking him out. Max’s rent is two months overdue.

But it’s not his unforgiving landlord. It’s you. And you’re holding a fruit basket.

“Hey neighbour!” you smile pleasantly before introducing yourself to him. “I just moved in across the hall. I wasn’t sure what you’d like… but I figured everyone likes fruit!”

Maxwell stays quiet, standing there in complete disbelief. No one has shown him this amount of kindness in so long…

The prolonged silence makes you feel a little strange. He still hasn’t accepted the fruit basket, nor had he said anything. He was just… staring at you. It wasn’t a slimy gawk. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what his dark eyes were trying to tell you.

“—I’m sorry,” you continue eventually when he doesn’t speak, dropping the fruit basket by your side and turning away. “I uh— would you like me to get you something else?”

Maxwell’s eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “No!” he exclaims, opening his front door wider and taking the fruit basket from you. “I’m sorry,” he apologises. “I uh— I love fruit.”

You smile at his fluster, and you swear you notice a rosy pink blush cross his cheeks. It’s adorable.

“Oh okay, that’s good then.”

Maxwell prays you can’t hear his stomach grumble at the sight of the fresh fruit. He’s so excited to eat it all. “How can I repay you?”

You raise your eyebrows at his proposition and chuckle awkwardly. “Repay me? No no,” you laugh. “It’s just a fruit basket,”

It wasn’t just a fruit basket though. It was the only food Max had.

“I mean, you could tell me your name.”

Maxwell curses, realising he hasn’t even introduced himself. Gods— he wonders when exactly he’d lost his charm.

“Right, I’m sorry. I’m Max.” He extends his arm and offers you a handshake. You giggle, but accept.

He feels a bolt of electricity run up his arm when your fingers interlink with his, and he wonders if you can feel it too.

“Very formal Max,” you acknowledge with a smile.

Maxwell genuinely hasn’t communicated with anyone since July 1984. It’s probably about time he ditches the businessman persona, although he doesn’t realise he still uses it from time to time. Old habits die hard.

“I must say, I feel like I recognise you from somewhere.”

“No. You don’t.” Maxwell quickly snaps back and you’re afraid you struck a nerve.

There’s a longer silence and you find yourself wondering about your neighbour. He’s right in front of you and yet you can’t help but feel as though he’s some kind of enigma. Maybe it’s the crinkles in the corner of his eyes or his wry smile.

“Um…” you mumble, your gaze trailing behind him as you try and peer into his apartment. You can’t see much though. From where you stand it looks very empty… and brown. “If you weren’t busy tonight maybe you could come over and we could get to know each other. I uh-- don’t have many friends yet.” you explain shyly, nervously biting your lip.

You didn’t usually get nervous talking to new people, but there was just something about Maxwell that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His presence made butterflies flutter in your tummy and your hands feel clammy with excitement… or maybe anticipation. He stares at you blankly before clearing his throat.

“I uh-- yeah I mean-- maybe,” Maxwell shrugs cooly. “If I’m not busy.”

Pft, busy. Max hasn’t been busy since the dreamstone debacle.

“Of course,” you nod your head and smile. “Well, you’re welcome to come on over anytime.”

And then, without thinking, Maxwell replies. “And you’re welcome to come over here anytime too.”

You feel your smile grow into a grin and you reach out, placing your hand on Max’s arm. “Okay, well, it was nice meeting you.” you bite your lip.

Max’s heart stops when you touch him, and for the first time, he doesn’t flinch away. You’re holding his bicep and… he likes it. It’s not sending him into a spur of anxiety, in fact, he feels better just for finally plucking the courage to talk to you. And now you’re touching him. You’re not repulsed or disgusted… in fact, you’re smiling. You look happy, and maybe Max is happy too. Maybe. Max doesn’t even realise the small smile that’s crept upon his lips.

“Nice meeting you too.” He swallows and you wave goodbye.

He watches you walk back into your apartment, drinking in your appearance. You were wearing jeans and a sweatshirt today. It was casual… but he liked it.

Even when he finally gets back into his apartment and slumps against his front door, he’s still smiling. This feeling is so unfamiliar.

Maxwell finds himself pondering whether or not he should visit you tonight. He so desperately wanted to see you again-- see your pretty face and sparkling eyes and that perfect smile. Maybe Max could have a friend. That would be nice.

But he quickly gets scared again. He knows immediately that you’re too good for him, and that he’ll only end up hurting you. And then he’ll be left alone again. Max doesn’t know if he can survive another heartbreak.

Once again, he lights a cigarette and sits on the balcony, and wonders if the jump will kill him.

Then he realises he suddenly doesn’t want to die. At least, not yet. He wants to see you again first.

Max doesn’t even bother finishing the cigarette. He taps away the ash and climbs back inside, stripping himself of his clothes and turning on the shower. If he was going to see you tonight, he’d at least make the effort.

The soap he uses is from Dollar Tree, and it doesn’t really have a scent. It made a change from his favourite Jo Malone pomegranate fragranced soap, that’s for sure. He gets annoyed trying to squirt out the very little remenints of his shampoo bottle. Although he doesn’t have much, he’s satisfied when he comes out of the shower. He feels clean and fresh.

Maxwell rakes through his tiny collapsing wardrobe, trying to find an outfit that will make him appear somewhat presentable. He’s probably overthinking this whole thing -- after all, it isn’t exactly a date. But he still feels the strong inclination to impress you. He so desperately wants to be liked by you.

Most of his everyday wear is stained or ripped or very aged. But then he spots the small duffel bag at the bottom of his closet and he remembers he packed some of his old business wear when he moved out of his manor and into this apartment. He hadn’t looked in the duffel bag once since moving though, afraid that seeing the clothes would unleash some kind of trauma on him.

Max crosses his legs and hesitantly unzips the black bag. Inside, he finds a few fitted shirts, a few tailored pants, and one suit jacket. He even spots a belt and two patterned ties. He’s a little upset though when he can’t find the suspenders he used to wear. They were always his favourite part of his outfit.

Maxwell can’t bring himself to dress in the whole get up, but he does pick out a white button down shirt and grey pants. He tucks the shirt in, and wraps the belt through the loops in his pants, clicking it into place. Opting to look slightly more casual, Max leaves the first two buttons of his shirt undone and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows.

And for the first time in a long time, Max likes the way he looks. He wishes he had some cologne to spray, and he could definitely do with a haircut, but this is good enough.

He doesn’t want to seem desperate, so he does wait (albeit impatiently) until 8:30pm to see you. In the meantime, he eats over half of the fruit basket. He tells himself he’ll stop after an apple and an orange, but strangely enough. He can’t. He can’t stop. It just tastes so good and he’s so hungry -- so he eats until he feels sick. He wants to lie down because he really doesn’t feel too good at all, but he’s not going to pass up this opportunity to see you for anything. He feels a little cold, so he throws on his suit jacket which is grey in colour and matches the tailored pants. Max chokes down a glass of water, straightens up his posture, and knocks on your door.

He’s not waiting for long, and he’s delighted when he sees you answer the door. Your lips are painted a ruby red colour and you’re wearing your hair differently. Not only that, but you’d changed out of your sweater and jeans, and now you’re doting a knee length flowy dress. Your feet are slipped into some fuzzy looking slippers though, and Max admires the small diamond stud earrings that you don. They really bring out the colour of your eyes.

“I was hoping you’d come.” you reveal nervously, opening the door wider and looking your neighbour up and down. He looks so incredibly handsome in his change of outfit. Max feels himself blush under your gaze and he smiles.

“I just couldn’t pass this up.” he laughs nervously.

You move out the way and gesture for him to enter your apartment. Max notes that it’s roughly the same size as his, but it’s already filled with more furniture. Judging from the plentiful cardboard boxes in every corner, you hadn’t finished unpacking either. You find yourself watching Max as he takes in your front room. You take his jacket and hang it on your coat peg which stands by your front door. You definitely do recognise him from somewhere, especially seeing him in that shirt and those pants…

You shrug off your curiosity temporarily though, and take his hand, pulling him into your kitchen. Max loves the way your hand fits so perfectly into his. He doesn’t want you to pull away. And you don’t, until you reach the refrigerator.

“I have cranberry juice, tea, coffee-- no milk though, uh…” you trail off and check the cupboards. You beam when you see the bottle of champagne that your friend had gifted you. It was to celebrate moving out. You present him with it and grin. “Would you care to have a glass with me?”

Max remembers the distinct taste of the bubbles on his lips and he nods in agreement. You don’t have any fancy glasses, let alone flutes, so you pour the pale yellow liquid into two plastic tumblers. You hand one to Max and cradle your own in both of your hands.

“You should propose a toast.” you laugh jokingly.

Luckily, Maxwell has always been able to handle being put on the spot. He only takes a few seconds to come up with something.

“To new friends.” he announces with a charming smile, and clinks his cup against yours.

Max hasn’t had a drink in a long time, so it doesn’t take long for it to reside in his system and he begins to feel a bit tipsy. It’s not bad though. Maxwell is relaxed, and he’s comfortable. You bounce off each other and make each other laugh right up until the early hours of the morning. You bring out Monopoly and you’re surprised at how good he is at it. He gives you advice on buying properties and investments and it truly sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. You wonder what he does for a living.

“I didn’t say this earlier,” Max says as you pour out the last of the champagne. The alcohol has him buzzing with confidence. “But you look breathtaking, really. That dress and those earrings and your lips…”

And you don’t know what it is, but Max just makes you feel so good. “My lips?” you repeat breathlessly, gazing into his honeyed brown eyes.

Max nods wordlessly when you climb into his lap and straddle his hips. You place the palms of your hands flat against his chest and nudge your nose against his, giggling playfully. Max feels scared -- he’d never been this close to anyone in so long, let alone a beautiful woman like yourself.

Gods, he’s so handsome too. A small piece of his hair has fallen out of place and it crosses his forehead. You’re quick to brush it out of his face with your finger, and one of your hands cup his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into the warmth of your touch, humming in contentment. When he opens his eyes again, they’re noticeably shades darker.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice low like it had dropped a few octaves.

You nod desperately and your lips crash against his.

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the adrenaline but he’s an amazing kisser -- perhaps the best you’ve ever had. You roll your hips over his lap and he moans, but doesn’t break the kiss once. His large hands roam around your back and squeeze at the soft flesh of your thighs. The Monopoly game has been long discarded now, leaving only you and Max revelling in each other’s touch.

You want more. You want him. You dip your hand in between your bodies and find his belt, trying your best to undo the buckle so you can get him out of his pants. You’re certain you can feel his erection pressing against the inside of your thigh, and you’d be right in thinking he wants this too.

But what he wants the most, is to not ruin things between you both, and Max feels like that maybe this is all happening a bit too fast. He doesn’t want to reject you, and he’s afraid of hurting you, but he’s also afraid of you getting so close to him -- that you find out who he truly is, and the things he does. He doesn’t want to lose you because you make him feel so happy. For the first time in potentially years, Maxwell feels genuine happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up, not when he’s been doing so well.

So he pulls away from you breathlessly and moves your hands away from him. He holds them though, brushing his thumbs in comforting circles against your soft skin.

“I really like you,” he smiles. “And tonight has been… great. You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed myself. But I-- I really want to see you again. And do this again. And have a good time with you. I just don’t think we should-- you know--” Maxwell tries to explain. He feels bad for rejecting you. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Because trust me,” he sighs, closing his brown eyes. “I really really do. But--”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” you smile, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “I understand, and honestly, I think you’re probably right. I’ve had a good time too though.”

Maxwell can’t help but beam knowing that there’s no hard feelings between you both.

“So we can do this again?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes.” you reply, pressing a chaste yet sweet kiss to his lips.

You wiggle off his lap and Maxwell stands up. “I should head back home then,” he says. “It’s late. But maybe we can do something tomorrow?”

“I’d like that a lot.” you agree.

Max gives you one final kiss and part of you wants to ask him if he’d be willing to stay the night. You shake away the temptation and tell yourself there’d be plenty more opportunities for him to stay over. Before he leaves, you see him abruptly spin around on his heel and point his index finger towards you.

And your heart drops.

You freeze.

You think you can feel your blood run cold and the colour drain out of your face.

Because in that moment, when he points his finger at you, you recognise him.

You remember him.

You know who he is.

“I almost forgot my jacket.” Max laughs, sliding past you.

You feel like you can’t move though.

This was the man who single handedly almost destroyed the entire planet.

But how -- how could it be Maxwell Lord? He was so sweet and kind and funny. How could the man you just made out with, the man you shared a bottle of champagne with -- your own neighbour…

How could it be Maxwell Lord?

How hadn’t you noticed sooner. Hell, his name was literally Max Lorenzano.

“Goodnight.” Max tells you.

You try and force yourself to say it back but no words come out. Your throat feels dry and you’re panicking.

Max doesn’t even notice though. He’s too busy beaming with happiness when he leaves.

You aren’t sure if you’re going to see him again.

When Maxwell gets back home, he can’t rid himself of the grin that’s plastered across his lips. He sits out on the balcony and lights a cigarette, but this time, when he looks at the ground beneath you, he doesn’t wonder if the jump will kill him.

His eyebrows furrow together when he notices the florist across the road, and he wonders how much a bouquet of flowers will cost him. He wants to get you something; as a thank you for giving him a good time.

He simply can’t wait to see you again.

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[shift-shaping]

Solas/Surana Party Banter round whatever

hello. here it is again, but different this time! SIGNIFICANTLY. there's way more and it's a little bit ~angst-y~. anyway, here's the previous version, and here's a preface to this post.

-

In case you aren't aware of what my girl's Whole Deal is, she was in love with Alistair during the Blight and he sacrificed himself, which Sucked Balls for her. She wandered around in the mountains for most of the past ten years, and now she's in the Inquisition because she doesn't know what else to do with her life.

content warnings: brief mention of colorism

Lots of banter under the cut

Solas: Surana. Now that you have joined the Inquisition, what title do you prefer to use?

Surana: What title do you use?

Solas: None. But you have earned many.

Surana: 'Warden,' I guess. I don't really care.

Solas: Not 'Hero of Ferelden?'

Surana: No. Surana is fine.

.

Solas: You dislike your title?

Surana: It is inaccurate. Alistair was the real hero, and he died fighting the archdemon --I only ever did what I had to do.

Solas: Hm.

.

Solas: You do not think yourself a hero?

Eirwen: *sighs* If a man is ordered to save a child from a burning building or else be killed himself, is he really a hero? No, he is not.

Eirwen: Had I not been made a Warden, I would have been killed or made Tranquil. I did not choose to do the right thing. I was forced to.

.

Surana: Why do you keep asking me so many questions, Solas?

Solas: You are an historical anomaly. An elven mage elevated to the status of legendary hero.

(If the Inquisitor is an elf, a mage, or both:

Eirwen: Well apparently it’s not that anomalous.

Solas: Even still.)

Solas: I have seen echoes of your victories in the Fade alongside reflections of your losses. You have overcome a great deal. Do not be so quick to dismiss your own story.

Surana: Your dreams are lying to you. That legacy is not mine to claim.

Solas: I will not try to convince you otherwise, but know this: whatever bitterness you feel towards your legacy, you will gain far more accepting it than you ever would fighting its tide.

Surana: This isn't really about me, is it?

Solas: It never is.

.

[After All New, Faded for Her]

Eirwen: I’m sorry about Wisdom, Solas.

Solas: I appreciate that. Thank you.

Eirwen: It must have had a wealth of knowledge. It is a shame to lose so much for so little.

Solas: There is a difference between wisdom and knowledge.

Eirwen: Right, yes. I remember a joke about that. Would you like to hear it?

Solas: Not particularly.

Eirwen: *clears her throat* Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is knowing it does not belong in a fruit salad.

Solas: ...

Eirwen: Too soon, I suppose. Sorry.

.

Solas: Thank you, Surana.

Eirwen: I told you, Dorian and I aren’t fond of that particular vintage. And we thought you’d appreciate the earthy tones.

Solas: Thank you for that as well, I think, but that is not what I as referring to.

Eirwen: Oh?

Solas: Your joke. You… it was unexpected. But not bad at all.

Eirwen: Oh. Well, that’s about the least dirty joke I know. Want to hear one a drunken dwarf told me in the Deep Roads?

Solas: Another time, perhaps.

Eirwen: Ah, you wouldn’t like it anyway.

.

Solas: Surana. You said before that a man ordered to save a child from a burning building under threat of death would not be a hero.

Solas: I disagree.

Surana: Oh?

Solas: The man threatened with death may not see himself as particularly noble, but the child will always see him as their savior. Regardless of his motivations, he will always be a hero to the child he saved.

Surana: So no matter who or what made him do it, he is still a good person because another thinks him such?

Solas: I did not say that. 'Heroic' and 'good' are not necessarily the same.

.

Surana: So what is your point, then? That I should make people call me 'Hero' at Skyhold?

Solas: My point is that you should not feel guilty if they believe you to be someone you are not. You cannot control them, and attempts to the contrary will only serve to make you miserable.

Surana: Why do you care so much? Why does it matter to you how I feel about being called 'the Hero of Ferelden'?

Solas: It --doesn't. You are right, of course. And I meant no offense.

Surana: That's not-- I'm not offended, I'm curious. I want to know why it matters to you, a random wandering apostate, whether I call myself a hero or a bastard or a drunkard or nothing at all.

Solas: It is as I said: elven mages are rarely given the level of respect and admiration that you are. It is a shame you see no benefit in that.

Surana: Benefit? Like what, seeing my ears cut off in statues? My staff turned into a sword? My skin lightened in paintings and my relationships reduced to spectacle or seduction?

Surana: Maybe I am offended. I would love to be an anonymous apostate. I was, for a while, but I couldn't stop trying to live up to a version of me that doesn't exist, never has, and never will. The real hero is dead, and you have me instead.

Solas: You must let that be enough, Surana.

Surana: It isn't.

.

Surana: Solas, you have dreamt in all sorts of places, right?

Solas: Yes.

Surana: Have you ever --well, did you ever see the Battle of Denerim, in your dreams?

Solas: Not as you would remember it.

Surana: Of course not. But... I mean-- did you--

Solas: It is done, Surana. You cannot linger there.

Surana: How do I do that? How do I stop seeing it?

Solas: You do not. But instead of letting it weigh you down, let that pain be what pushes you forward. Focus on where you must be, and what you must do. You are needed here, now, exactly as you are, not as the person you were in Denerim. Whoever others think you are, you must go forward as who you know you are. If you lose sight of that, you are lost.

.

Surana: Solas, thank you.

Solas: For what?

Surana: You know full well what.

Solas: I try to help, when I can. The pain you carry is... familiar.

Surana: Familiar?

Solas: You feel guilt simply for being alive, as though self-flagellation will make you worthy of existence.

Surana: Self-flagellation? *dryly* You have a way with words, you know.

Solas: *just as dryly* You flatter me.

[If neither Solas nor Surana are romanced]

Surana: You deserve the flattery.

Solas: Is that a compliment, from the Hero of Ferelden herself?

Surana: I take it back. You're an ass and I hate you.

Solas: *chuckles*

.

[After Here Lies the Abyss]

Surana: I didn’t know you disliked the Wardens so much, Solas.

Solas: It was not worth mentioning.

Surana: Not until it became acceptable to criticize us, you mean.

Solas: What have the Wardens actually accomplished in terms of understanding the Blight? Do you honestly feel you understand it any better than you did before you became one?

Surana: Is that a serious question? Do I understand it better after witnessing its ravages than I did when I’d merely read about them in a book?

Solas: What did the Wardens teach you? What did you learn from them, about the Blight?

Surana: More than I will ever tell you.

Solas: *bitterly* Ah. Of course.

.

Surana: You have always been an apostate, have you not?

Solas: By your Chantry’s definition, I suppose.

Surana: My chantry? Am I the Divine now, too? *scoffs* Anyway, you have never spent time in a Circle.

Solas: No.

Surana: Then one thing I will tell you about the Wardens is this: there is no other path to freedom for many mages than to join them. You were not dragged from your home in chains because of what you are. You were not barred from dreaming, nor threatened with Tranquility when you failed to perform a difficult spell.

Solas: You should not have had to make that choice, Surana.

Surana: Yet I did, because it was the only one I had. And the Wardens are all the world has to counter the Blight. You can disagree from your tower in Skyhold or your hut in the woods or whatever, but we are working with what is available to us. Come up with a real solution and I will listen. But I’m uninterested in ignorant complaints from someone who was not there.

.

Surana: It’s not my Chantry.

Solas: Poor wording, on my part.

Surana: I don’t even like the Chantry.

Solas: Abelas. I meant no offense.

Surana: Yes, you did. Or you just don't care.

Solas: What would you have me say, Warden?

Surana: Nothing. Just be quiet.

.

Solas: Where was home to you, Surana? Before the Circle?

Surana: *sighs* An orphanage in Denerim’s alienage.

Solas: Really? Huh. In that case, I would have expected you to sound more like Sera.

(Sera, if present: What? You think all city elves sound the same?

Solas: You are from the same section of the same city. Why would you not have the same accent?)

Surana: I don’t sound like Sera because I was beaten in the Circle until I spoke 'properly.’ No offense to Sera, of course.

(Sera, if present: More reasons to be glad I’m not like you two.)

.

Solas: I am sorry, Surana. Living in the Circle must have been difficult, and I imagine being a Warden during the Blight was no easier.

Surana: *sighs* It’s alright. You couldn’t have known.

Solas: I should have tried. I have done you a disservice, and I hope you can forgive me.

Surana: Maybe. Possibly. Did you bring any of that wine with you?

Solas: Unfortunately not.

Surana: *playfully* Then, no.

Surana: …But please, call me Eirwen.

Solas: Eirwen. Ma nuvenin.

.

[After Surana hears Cole and Solas banter for the first time]

Surana: Oh! I think I got that one, it's --oh, wait. No, that can't be it.

Cole: You were close, though.

Solas: Nearly had it.

.

[If Eirwen is romanced by an elven Inquisitor]

Solas: *playfully* For all your talk of wanting anonymity, Eirwen, you seem incapable of avoiding spectacle.

Surana: Is this about the drunken bear? I already apologized for that.

Solas: No. You and the Inquisitor. Two of the most powerful elves in Thedas, together?

Surana: Jealous?

Solas: Not for the reason you think.

Inquisitor: How could we resist?

Surana: We are both very pretty.

OR

Inquisitor: One day we will be free of all of this. Together.

Solas: For your sakes, I hope you are right.

.

[If Solas is romanced and Eirwen's personal quest is completed]

Solas: You no longer consider yourself a Grey Warden, Eirwen?

Surana: Did the Inquisitor tell you that?

Solas: Yes. You threw your badge into the Abyss.

Surana: Bit dramatic, I suppose. I was having a moment.

Solas: Evidently.

.

Surana: It almost felt traitorous, honestly.

Solas: Why? You were forced to join the Grey Wardens, were you not?

Surana: They still saved my life.

Solas: And condemned you to an early death. They bought you time, nothing more.

Surana: But time is all any of us have, isn't it?

Solas: No. You have a name, and experience, and the influence to pull the strings behind the world.

Surana: Careful. You'll make the Inquisitor jealous.

Solas: I am not attempting to flatter you. I am only telling you what you must already know: that you are more than a Warden, and always have been.

.

Surana: Where will the two of you go, once this is over?

Inquisitor: (Somewhere quiet) A place where we can be left alone.

OR (Somewhere fun) Someplace with good wine.

OR (Home) North. Where my people are.

Solas: An appealing prospect, vhenan.

Inquisitor: What about you, Eirwen?

Surana, based on the Inquisitor's answer to the previous question: (Somewhere quiet) Somewhere without so many damn demons.

OR (Somewhere fun) I was thinking Rivain. I've heard the food is excellent.

OR (Home) The Deep Roads. Where my people are.

.

[If neither Solas nor Eirwen are romanced]

Solas: Have you ever learned any elven, Eirwen?

Surana: Unfortunately not. A few words here and there, a long time ago. It wasn’t exactly taught in the Circle.

Solas: Would you like to?

Surana: I –oh. I hadn’t –um.

Solas: *chuckles* You do not have to learn.

Surana: No! I would love to. From you, I assume?

Solas: I cannot imagine you were going to learn it from Sera.

Sera, if present: I prefer real words, thanks.

.

Solas: What elven words do you recall, from your alienage?

Surana: Ah… okay. Hahren, that’s like… elder, or leader. The tree in the middle was called the vhenadahl. Lethallan is like friend, or ally, or maybe even sister?

Solas: Do you know what vhenadahl means?

Surana: It must be something about a tree.

Solas: And where is it, in the alienage?

Surana: A central place, somewhere everyone could see it.

Solas: And what is another word for the middle of something that lovers might call each other?

Surana: …Heart?

Solas: So what do you think 'vhena’ means, if 'dahl' is tree?

Surana: Uh... heart?

Solas: Yes. But also 'home.' The vhenadahl was both the home of your people, and the heart of the alienage.

Sera, if present: Just call it what it is --a big stupid tree.

.

Surana, in elven: *haltingly, mumbling* [Her early leaf’s a flower… but] –shoot.

Solas, in elven: [But only so…?]

Surana: M- it starts with an ’m’…

Solas: Take your time.

Surana: Meh- malath?

Solas: *laughs*

Surana: Is that wrong? Shit, that must be wrong.

Solas: Not wrong, per say, but perhaps premature.

Surana: What? What did I say?

Solas: Do not concern yourself with it, lethallan.

Surana: …was it dirty?

Solas: No.

Surana: …then what was it?

Solas: Patience, Eirwen.

.

Surana: I found out what ‘ma lath’ means.

Solas: I would expect nothing less from such a gifted student.

Surana: Mhm. It’s –well. I’m glad I said it, but you were right. It was premature.

Solas: I agree. Though...

Surana: Though?

Solas: *chuckles* I think this is neither the time nor place.

Surana: What is, then?

Solas: When I have you alone, Eirwen.

Surana: *laughs awkwardly* Maker's breath...

.

Sera + Surana

(If Solas has begun "teaching Eirwen elven")

Sera: So… you and Droopy ears.

Surana: Why do you call him that?

Sera: Cause he’s all –I don’t know, sad or wha'ever.

Sera: Anyway. Teaching you 'the ways of the elves,’ is he?

Surana: It’s just not a very good nickname, frankly.

Sera: Well I don’t want to know what you call him.

Surana: Certainly not droopy.

Solas, if present: *snorts*

Sera: *laughs* Ew! Keep it to yourselves, then!

.

Solas: Eirwen, I–

Solas: I am sorry we had to cut our lessons short.

Surana: It’s… I understand. We… no, you were right.

Solas: Please, Eirwen.

Surana: Perhaps, in another life, another time, we could have–

Solas: You are a bright light in a dark world. You will always be important to me, for whatever that is worth.

.

Surana: Can I ask you a question, Solas?

Solas: Of course.

Surana: It's not about me, is it?

Solas: I--

Surana: It's about trying to fight the tide.

Solas: Eirwen...

Solas: I am so, so sorry.

Surana: Telanadas, hahren.

Solas: Ma nuvenin, vhenan.

[laurelsofhighever]

Alistair x f!Cousland AU

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

--

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

With a sigh, the King of Ferelden stared down at the mask in his hands, the red dye a match to the velvet of his cloak and the rich fabric in the rest of his clothes, the royal colours of the Theirin line, and the finely tooled likeness of a mabari snarling out of the leather in an elegant snub for the rules of the Game. A king’s mask ought to be made of gold, after all, as a way to reflect his station, but that scandal would be nothing to the one he planned to cause by not wearing it over his face. Already from below, strains of soft, unobtrusive music drifted above the murmur of voices gathered in the vaulted ballroom of Halamshiral’s Winter Palace, preluding the night’s extravagance. He couldn’t delay much longer in wading into that seething, perfumed mass, however much he wanted to.

Next to him, Fergus Cousland stood arrayed in similar finery. The golden Laurels embroidered into the deep blue velvet of his doublet marked his identity as the Teyrn of Highever, and the shadowed line between his dark brows revealed that his eagerness to attend the party just about matched that of Alistair himself. He caught the king looking, saw the fidget betrayed in his fingers, and drew in a weary breath.

“These talks might be just what it takes to secure lasting peace with Orlais,” he offered, an empty repetition of Alistair’s other advisors. “It’s more than Cailan ever hoped for.”

The king’s lip curled. “You and I both know that’s not the real reason I’m here. I could have left that stuff to Élodie.”

The Arlessa of South Reach had proven a capable ambassador in the time since the end of the civil war against Loghain, using her connections in the Orlesian court to divert the potential wave of old resentments that would have sought to take advantage of Ferelden’s instability as it recovered. It was thanks to her efforts that dignitaries from every Marcher port across the Waking Sea had gathered under the auspicious gaze of Empress Celene in the hopes of formalising a network of trade throughout southern Thedas, and no doubt she was already gliding through their ranks, smoothing the way for her liege lord to grace the crowd and start all the ladies fawning.

Too used to the hopes of noble daughters tilting for a throne, he doubted much of the flattery would be genuine. The only change to the usual pursuit was the fact that Celene now numbered among the hunting party, her desire to win him for herself and Orlais all but common knowledge. At their first meeting that afternoon she had been perfectly polite, but the weight of her gaze on the back of his head as he was shown out to his own apartments had sent a shiver like the lick of cold rain down his spine, and the thought of what she would do with any kind of sovereign power over Ferelden had thoroughly put him off his lunch. There had been a time when, in the entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle and with the warning of a witch ringing in his ears, he had told Rosslyn that the idea of being dangled like bait for political advantage disgusted him. And she had understood his distaste, had reached for his hand with softness in her eyes. He had kissed her hand that night, for the first time.

A sympathetic look from Fergus dragged him out of his contemplation, but thankfully he chose not to repeat the platitudes that had taken to following the king like footprints.

It’s been over a year, almost two, Teagan had scolded. We allowed you time to mourn but you must think of what is best for this country.

Only Fergus really understood. He was the only one in the same position, a lord with a domain left unsecured by the lack of an heir, with those roundabout all but scoffing at his lack of stomach to get one. Shared pain and politics had drawn them together after the army’s return from Ostagar, and now, aside from being a staunch ally in the Landsmeet, he was one of the few Alistair could class as a true friend.

“If I could spurn my duty in this, I would,” he said now.

“But you’re a Cousland.” Humour bled into Alistair’s voice, cold and tinged with grief. “I notice Karyna chose not to come.”

Fergus let his eyes fall closed. “She… ended things between us. She said she wanted to focus on her clinic, but I think part of it was wanting to get out of my shadow, and the expectations of…” a wave of his hand “all of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had once broached the subject of changing the law to allow mages to marry, but Fergus had refused, pointing out that what Ferelden needed after a year mired in civil war was stability, not an Exalted March called down because its new king wished to flout the Maker’s supposed Word. Too many would have accused him of playing favourites, too many more who would have raged against the idea of a mage being raised above them – even if Karyna Amell herself came from a line of Marcher nobles. She might be a talented healer dedicated to her people, kind, loyal, and level-headed, but none of that mattered to those who saw any unshackled mage as a prelude to the return of ancient Tevinter.

Fergus waved away his concern and set his own mask in place, pushed back from his forehead. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they appeared at the top of the stairs, the noise level in the whole room dimmed like a door closing on the roar of a great wind. All eyes turned to follow their progress into the melee as Guard-Commander Morrence, Alistair’s right-hand and bodyguard, peeled away from her post by the door and fell into line one pace behind her charge as a dour, watchful shadow. Curtseys and coquettish giggles fluttered up to them, but Alistair ignored them in favour of searching out the form of Élodie Bryland, smiling out from the crowd. Like the rest of the Fereldan entourage, she wore her mask as an accessory rather than a second face, the emerald green of South Reach’s colours rich against her blonde hair.

He felt like a ram walking into a den of blightwolves in broad daylight. Even after so long, so many days he could no longer count them from memory, a shard of his heart stirred in the tattered remains of his chest at the unbidden thought of Rosslyn’s disdain for his current company, the tight, tiny smirk she would have worn hidden at the corner of her mouth for only him to see. Her face was beginning to blur in his mind, but the reminder only ever added more layers to the pain. The pieces flaked away one after the other like rust on a forgotten monument – the sound of her laugh, her scent, the exact shade of her eyes – and every time he noticed another detail by its absence he found himself dragged back to the ruins of Ostagar, staring across the precipice into the void all over again.

Dwelling on his loss amidst the glamour of the Orlesian court would not be wise, however, so he shook himself into courtesy as he followed along after Élodie, smiled at every breezed introduction, and let himself slip into the easy gentility that had so far served him well as king. The meandering currents of conversation carried both him and Fergus at a steady pace to the other side of the vaulted entrance hall, where his left-hand waited for them.

“Ah, there’s my favouritest sneaky person in the world,” he called out when he got close enough for his voice to carry. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

Leliana’s red hair flashed like a beacon as she turned towards him. Unlike Ferelden’s ambassador, she carried her mask on a stick in her gloved hands, and she twirled it up to cover the purse of her smile as she answered. “Your Majesty – Your Lordship. This is a grand assembly tonight, no? Little compares to the full splendour of the Winter Palace.”

“At least not in the way of architecture,” he answered genially. To be polite, he let his gaze wander the rows of gilt pillars with their garlands of blush-roses, the delicate silk streamers hanging from the crystal chandelier. Even more than Élodie, who was Orlesian by birth, Leliana fit in with the glitter, the jewels and the compliments that cut sharper than daggers, and put together, the two of them made a formidable team.

Especially when they joined forces against him.

“Your Majesty, if you will permit me, may I present Lady Ellana Pontival, younger sister to Vicomte Tremane Pontival, and Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the throne of Nevarra and the Right-Hand of the Most Holy Divine Beatrix.”

Turning his gaze to the two women, Alistair dipped his head in a customary greeting. If Leliana had set out to find the two most contrasted people in the room, then she had probably succeeded; where one lady seemed about to drown in her layers of ruffled lace and pastel silks, the other cut an austere, imposing figure in the formal uniform of a Seeker of Truth, and like the Fereldans, she went unmasked. The ever-watchful Eye of the Maker, cut through with the Sword of Mercy, peered out from a pin clasped to her shoulder, a sullen reminder that if things had been different, the King of Ferelden would have ended up a templar instead.

“With so many connections, you must be used to parties like this,” he tried. The Seeker held herself with the economy of a soldier at ease, but the pinpoint of her onyx gaze made him itch.

“Hardly,” she said, in low, rich tones. “I am here at the request of Most Holy, who appreciates the unprecedented nature of this gathering. I myself am used to less… lavish surroundings.”

“But how do you find it so far, Majesté?” interrupted Lady Ellana. “Do you find it pleasing?”

He decided not to remark on the breathy quality to her voice, nor the sidelong way she was looking at him, and shrugged. “That would depend on whether we’ll soon have any sign of those – what are they called – cannapays?”

Leliana chuckled. “I’m afraid Your Majesty’s appetite will have to be content for now.”

“I’ve never known a society where it was considered polite not to feed your guests.”

“If one is full of too much heavy food, one cannot properly enjoy the dancing,” Élodie chided, laying a hand on his arm and less amused than her counterpart at his deliberate butchery of her native language.

“Ah.” He suppressed a grimace. “Yes. That.”

The indomitable Lady Ellana pressed forward with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Are you presently engaged, Majesté? For the first dance, I mean.”

Mostly to avoid meeting Fergus’ eye, Alistair cast his gaze out over the crowd. “Oh I’m sure someone has spoken for me.”

“I myself love nothing so much as dancing – and the waltz especially.” An elegant hand rose to cover a laugh. “So charming, yet so daring, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile. “It’s not one of my preferred pastimes.” The last time he had danced, it had been his wedding day. If he had known –

Lady Ellana gasped. “How tragic! That truly is a shame.”

The Seeker’s mouth twitched.

“I understand your ascension to society was fairly recent, perhaps you only have yet to acquire a taste for it. Perhaps the right partner –”

“I think it’s more to do with other demands on my time,” he interrupted. “Like keeping my people safe and fed. Besides, I prefer being outside.”

An uncertain silence met his words, discomfort at the bite in his tone that couldn’t be answered without causing a minor diplomatic incident.

Leliana recovered first. “The night is young and His Majesty is fond of modesty. I’m sure he will have time and attention for all those who wish it once his duties to his host are fulfilled.”

“Has Her Radiance arrived yet?” Fergus asked.

With a smile, Leliana nodded and motioned for them to follow her towards the doors of the grand ballroom. Neither she nor Élodie dared break their façades to scold him for being so taciturn, so Alistair pretended not to notice their silent disapproval. The cloying mixture of perfumes and sweat wafting through the hall, the crowd of heat from so many bodies in a confined space, all of it pressed on his already sour mood, and if he had to be rude to get out of an awkward conversation, what did he care? Whispers followed with the eyes on him, words just loud enough to catch his ear before darting back into the throng like birds flitting through a summer hedgerow. The speculative edge to them made him clench his teeth. There were insinuations, appraisals and judgements, musings on his preference for comme les chiens before the words dissolved every time into peals of muffled laughter.

“It’s almost enough to make a man jealous,” Fergus huffed at his side. “They didn’t even look at me. Not one pitying glance.” Time had healed most of the injuries he had taken in the months as Howe’s prisoner during the war, but some of the damage had been too much and too long neglected for even magic to fix; his cane tapped along the polished floor with every other step.

“How about next time I hide behind you?” Alistair asked. “You can do all the talking and I’ll stand and look aloof and interesting.”

“You just want an excuse to – what is it?”

He sensed a change in pressure in the eyes on him, an intensity of regard that set itself apart from that of the fawning mass seeking his attention. After almost two years on the throne, the concept of assassinations wasn’t entirely foreign, but as he watched Morrence scan the room he saw no sudden rise in tension to say she had spotted any maniacs with giant weapons about to pounce. A shadow did perhaps flash on the edge of his vision, but as he turned it was lost among the sea of faces waiting for acquaintances, for their turn to be announced, or for their own glimpse at dog-lord royalty.

He put the feeling from his mind. Empress Celene, resplendent in the purple and gold of House Valmont, stood at the far end of the ballroom above the sunken dancefloor and watched the obeisance of the people being announced, in the same way a fisher might wait with their spear poised to strike at a promising target. Already, dozens of couples mingled beneath the bright beeswax candles staving off the autumn dark outside, their fans held up to conceal the judgements passed on every newcomer.

When Alistair’s own turn to pace the length of the gauntlet came after a few moments of waiting, she smiled behind her mask and floated down the steps to meet him on an equal level, which only meant he got to see the avaricious gleam in her eye up close as she held out her hand. As he bent his head over it, he wondered if the look was meant to be alluring, but her fingers were cool and fine-boned under his, lacking callouses from swordwork, and the only thought that ran through his mind was that even when warmed by the fire a stone remained a stone.

“Majesté,” she crooned in delicately accented Common. “Be welcome. This meeting has been long anticipated.”

He had practiced his response for an hour in the mirror. “Thank you, Radiance. It is my hope that this moment can be the first step towards a better accord between our two nations.”

“It is ours as well. Please, join us in the gallery.” She turned. “And when the dancing starts, might we suggest the company of one of our ladies-in-waiting? They are all very accomplished dancers.”

“Uh…” He risked tripping over the considerable hem of Celene’s gown to a glance upward, to where three women of equal height watched the two of them from behind identical golden masks set with amethysts.

“Is this surprise?” the empress asked him, and laughed. “How very forward to expect a more prestigious partner so early in the evening. It seems the manners of Ferelden and Orlais have yet to fully understand one another.”

“Isn’t that why we’re both here?” he replied. “Though I have to confess, my mind wandered from the thought of dancing.”

“Oh? And where did it wander to?”

He nodded to the three attendants waiting at the top of the stairs. “It must get awkward on name-days if you can’t tell them apart.”

For the next half an hour, guests continued to trickle in as the mixed company watched from above, the steady ream of announcements and introductions keeping the threat of dancing at bay, and each name was accompanied by a whispered summary of all the associated scandals recounted by the waiting-women at Alistair’s side. He found their sameness disconcerting, as if at any moment they might steal away his mask and then ask which of them was hiding it under their skirts like a bait-and-switch scam in the marketplace.

When the castellan finally folded away his list of names and bowed an exit, the closest of Celene’s women reached up with a smile as thick and false as her makeup. “There is still some time until the dancing begins, Majesté – would you like to take a turn through the rest of the rooms while we wait?”

“Why not?” He forced a smile of his own. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Perhaps the long hall?” She began to steer him away from the rest of the party. “There are so many people you should meet!”

Before he could be disappeared entirely, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to Élodie. “We’ve been offered a tour of this fabulous palace,” he explained. “I don’t think we should miss it.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the ambassador replied, and stepped up to his other side

The tour turned out to be less a way to introduce him to Orlais’ finest and more a way to show him off as an accessory. With both Morrence and Élodie as chaperones to shield him from the worst of their dainty manners, he managed to stumble through pleasantries and inane topics of conversation, and even gave his opinion on Grand Duke Gaspard’s mission to quell giants in the Deauvin Flats without tying his tongue in any knots. He told bad jokes and people tittered behind their hands. In one room he was drawn into speculation about the merits of breeding nugs.

And throughout it all, the weight of the same mysterious scrutiny from before itched across his shoulders, making his clothes too tight, too coarse against his skin. Somebody watched him, or else he was in the first stages of some illness. In a move disguised as a readjustment of the faded leather bracers at his wrists, he checked the pair of daggers hidden in his sleeves, and then eyed the extra sword buckled at Morrence’s waist. Being his bodyguard permitted her to carry weapons where he could not, but he rarely went unarmed himself and the idea of being completely defenceless struck him as foolish – and so, the compromise, with the strict understanding that Maric’s runed blade would stay sheathed except in direst need.

The feeling followed him back to the dancefloor as the castellan announced the first cotillion and a charming smile appeared before him, attached to a name and a title that he forgot instantly. When the first notes cascaded down from the court musicians he took his partner’s hand and fell into the steps to distract from his unease, the beats f the dance like the repetitions of a battle drill that kept him turning, and facing, and weaving through the room. And then the music ended. Someone thrust another woman into his path, and then another, until he was breathless and overheated from the exercise, and relieved that he had yet to trip over his own feet.

In a pause between the sets, he tried to catch Leliana’s eye in the gallery above to ask to be rescued before he could be forced towards a refreshments table. To his dismay, she was too intent on the crowd to notice, watching for advantage or threat so that he could make a show of festive enjoyment – no easy feat considering how the entire room was staring at him.

No, not the entire room.

There. The flash of shadow that had followed him all night resolved itself into a woman who turned her face away from him as soon as their gazes met. Pearls were pinned in her dark hair, and the silk of her gown flashed with the violet-green iridescence of starling feathers, dazzling enough that Alistair wondered how he had missed it before. She retreated up the stairs, trying all too hard to disappear into the crowd in a manner that deliberately kept him out of her line of sight.

“Majesté?”

His current partner had noticed his distraction. He smiled down at her, but like the needle of a compass his gaze swung back to the strange woman, whose exit had been waylaid by a man with a shock of thin, greying hair poking out from under his yellow chevalier’s feather. He bowed over the Starling’s hand, boorish and insipid, and through her reluctance she cast her gaze around the room as if seeking an excuse. Her eyes lit on Alistair again, before skittering away up to the ceiling when she caught him looking.

Gotcha.

“Will you excuse me, my lady?” he begged of the young woman on his arm. “I have to talk to my advisor. You there, Ser! I’m afraid this beauty has been bereft of a partner, if you’ll oblige me? Thank you.”

He forgot the girl as soon as he handed her off. The music started. Leliana, noticing his approach up the stairs, nodded and plucked a glass of Antivan white from the tray of a passing server, handing it to him with a subtle gesture that let him sidle close enough to not be overhead.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

“The woman in the dark colours?” She tilted her head in amusement. “Of course. She has been watching you, and does not care for the crowd flowing around her. She knows how to walk through a room of nobles but subterfuge is not her strength. And yet… there is something familiar about her. It worries me.”

For a moment, they watched from their vantage point in the gallery. The Starling moved through the room with grace enough to catch the eye, but with too much economy to fit in with the flounces of the rest of the dancers, the poise of a warrior more than a courtier. Still, the patience with which she dealt with her partner had to be admired. Alistair winced every time the old boor overstepped the bounds of propriety to tread on her toes; part of him wanted to step in between them and pull her from the line, if only to save her feet from bruising, but the strange urge didn’t stop him noticing how she cast her gaze to every corner of her room to avoid the man in front of her – every corner, except the place where he himself was standing.

“Find out who she is,” he grunted to Leliana, and pushed away from the rail.

Momentarily freed of his obligations in the dancing, he wound his way through the press of nobles, exchanging pleasantries, until he spotted Fergus resting his legs in one of the gilt-backed chairs that had been set at the edges of the room and made for him, worried about the guarded expression on his friend’s face. The reason for the scowl became apparent when the couple standing between them turned and stopped Alistair dead in his tracks.

“Ah – Your Majesty, it is good to see you. You’re looking well.” Eamon, the former Arl of Redcliffe, straightened from his bow as if the man he was addressing hadn’t been instrumental in his exile from Ferelden over two years before. He wore a mask like an Orlesian, with only the grey trim of his beard visible beneath its swirling, enamelled lines. On his arm, the once-Arlessa Isolde wore one almost identical, save for the extra decoration of feathers around the rim.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair blurted.

“We are guests of Her Radiance, of course,” Eamon replied with a blink. “I can see time has not been generous in your perspective towards me, but I would not quarrel with you here and mar Ferelden’s standing.” He swallowed. “Though it is late to say it, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Condolences?” Anger coiled in Alistair’s gut, kept at bay only by the interested stares of the people around him. Eamon had done his best to make sure he and Rosslyn were separated – had nearly succeeded – and now he dared to offer remorse?

“How are you enjoying Orlais, Your Majesty?” Isolde asked before he could storm away and blow all their diplomatic efforts.

“The weather’s nice. Please excuse me.”

Below them, the dance finished. Leliana slipped into the dispersing crowd with the ease of a master and cut the Starling from the crowd like a shepherd singling out a ram. Fergus joined him as he leaned over the rail to watch their conversation, Eamon and Isolde already forgotten, and caught the direction of his gaze.

“Has someone caught your eye?” he asked.

“No.” Alistair waved a hand. “No, it’s not like that.”

The Starling was turned away from Leliana, shrinking back as if to avoid a blow, but his left-hand could not be outmatched so easily and peered closer nonetheless. And then she drew back. Her mask flicked up with a twitch of her wrist to fully cover her face, and the Starling reached out for her elbow in an urgent gesture that conveyed as much familiarity as alarm. They knew each other. The words that passed between them were too far away to hear. Leliana paused, then nodded, and together the two of them retreated from the bright lights of the dancefloor into the shadows at the furthest corner of the room.

Fergus noticed. “Well that was strange.”

“I don’t like it. Will you be alright here?”

“For now.” He shrugged. “Holding court in the corner holds much more appeal than sweating about with people I don’t care for. A younger version of me might have tried to forget myself in one of these pretty smiles, but now…” The liquid in his glass caught the light as he tilted it for inspection.

“It’s not so easy,” Alistair agreed.

He left his friend still contemplating his drink and rounded the gallery with Morrence in tow, not straight for Leliana but angling for Élodie, who had taken up entertaining the delegates from Ostwick and made a nice middle ground. He barely registered the answers he gave to their polite enquiries as he approached. The Starling had disappeared and Leliana was wending her way towards one of the quieter hallways, where there were balconies with doors that could be minded by one’s guards to glare at any passing eavesdroppers. She flashed him a brief glance and a nod.

He thought quickly, turning to his ambassador.

“My lady, you’re looking a little warm, and I’ve neglected you.” He shot her what he hopes was a winning smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me, you’ve worked so hard, after all. Why don’t we get you some fresh air?”  

Élodie frowned at him, but nodded. “Your Majesty is very kind. I am a little flustered, now that you mention it. If you will excuse me, sers.”

Threading her hand through his arm, he hustled her away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, while she, sensing his mood, kept quiet. They met Leliana a few moments later on a trellised balcony overlooking the gardens, or as much as could be seen of them beyond the torchlight.

“Well?” he asked, almost before the door closed behind him.

“Have you two been hatching plans?”

His left-hand let the mask fall from her face, though she kept it close, fidgeting with it. “The lady… presents no danger.”

“Lady?” repeated Élodie.

“There’s no need to look so hopeful.” Alistair rolled his shoulders. “We caught someone acting suspicious. Did you find anything out? You looked like you were surprised when you found out who she was.”

“I… knew her in another life.” Leliana hesitated. “She thanked the King of Ferelden for his regard, but said she would rather not become a spectacle.”

“A disagreement with family, perhaps,” Élodie supplied.

The corner of Leliana’s mouth lifted. “I did not ask.”

Without even waiting long enough for him to draw breath, she bowed and swept back into the hall. He caught sight of Morrence, watching her go with something very like suspicion written in her features, but the expression flickered back into a blank before he could be certain.

Behind him, Élodie cleared her throat.

“It is a shame this woman is not what you hoped,” she said. “I would see you happy.”

He snorted. “I didn’t hope anything – and I was happy.”

“You could be so again, if you allowed it. You cannot fight your duty forever.”

He bit back the retort squeezing past the sudden lump in his throat. Reminding her that her own husband had died in the siege at South Reach would be rather ungallant, especially considering the genial nature of the evening so far, and he had tried hard to curb the spiteful edge to his temper over the past two years. He wanted to be better. Rosslyn would have wanted him to be better.

As the thought spiralled and led his mind towards the dark precipice that would mean yet another sleepless night, the nature of the sound inside the ballroom changed. The music died away. The thump of the castellan’s staff reached his ears, followed a moment later by the announcement of Celene’s arcane advisor, the mysterious apostate who had managed to charm her way to the centre of the Orlesian court and who now, according to some, whispered spells in the empress’ ear.

“No doubt people will want us introduced,” he muttered.

Élodie nodded. “We should not keep Her Radiance waiting.”

Just inside the doors, however, he stopped. Even from across the room the Starling drew his gaze with the furtiveness of her movements, the deliberate indifference with which she moved against the flow of people, and his patience ebbed.

He touched Morrence’s elbow, leaning close. “Do you see her?”

“Aye. I want a chat with that one.”

“Get her out to the terrace garden and make sure she’s alone. Hopefully it’s cold enough outside that any interested bystanders will be discouraged.” He sighed. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

“I shouldn’t leave your side. The danger to you –”

“What if she’s a danger?” he pressed. “What if Leliana’s wrong? Something is going on here, and I won’t be kept beyond the chain – or don’t you think she was acting strangely before?”

At that, his right-hand let slip a curse. “I’d still be leaving you in a nest of snakes.”

“I’ll be alright.” The hilts of his concealed daggers sat snug against his wrists.

“Fine – but if you die, I get to kill you for it.”

Nobody commented on his lack of a bodyguard when he once more joined Celene and her waiting-women at the head of the room. Morrigan, her advisor, spoke Common like a Fereldan, but she had clearly spent enough time in Orlais to learn the dismissive nature of their manners. For a long moment, Alistair was distracted by a nagging familiarity he could not place, until the witch rose from her curtsey and turned a pair of piercing yellow eyes on him. The breath stopped in his lungs. His hands clenched into fists. Even the smirk was recognisable, catlike and secretive, and the instant it appeared he was shunted back to a campfire in a glade under a star-strewn sky, and mocking laughter in his ears.

“You’re Flemeth’s daughter,” he said.

The smile froze. “I did hear you encountered my mother – during the war, was it not? What did she tell you of me?”

“Only that you didn’t like living in the Korcari Wilds.”

“She resented my wanting to make something of myself outside of her influence.” She drew herself up for better display of her plum-red gown, the gold links around her throat. “And now here I am.”

“I can see the appeal,” he offered, to laughs from those gathered around them.

Celene clapped her hands. “Ah, this is delightful. You must have many things to talk about, given you share a homeland.” Her head dipped in what Alistair presumed was amusement. “Though we must ask that Your Majesty does not steal her away from us! No promises of Ferelden’s new leniency towards mages, if you please.”

He made sure to chuckle along, schooling himself not to look round to see whether Morrence had caught the Starling yet. All he could do was wait for a break in conversation and make excuses to be allowed away for some air.

When his chance finally came, a brief interlude during an influx of new people wanting introductions, he slipped through the crowd and met his right-hand at the door to the terrace. The fresh, cold scent of the night washed in, frost and damp earth, and beyond the lighted windows a dark figure stood at the balustrade that separated the garden from the sheer drop to the ground below.

“She’s waiting for you,” Morrence said.

“Any trouble?”

“Only until I threatened to draw attention to her,” came the reply. “And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Good luck.”

He steadied himself with a breath as he stepped into the open air, a pause in which he studied the woman so invested in not being noticed. She faced away from him, hunched over as if still trying to make herself invisible, picked out by a rime of moonlight that glowed in her hair and reflected in the pearl beading on her skirts, rippled along the silk gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. Her head turned as he approached. Breath fogged silver in the night but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders and he felt it draw him along a knife’s edge as he realised too late how it might appear, a king ordering a woman to wait for him beyond earshot. A jab of self-disgust coiled in his stomach.

And yet, like Leliana said, there was something familiar about her.

He cleared his throat, set his hands behind his back. “You won’t come to any harm here, not from me.”

The Starling only flinched further away from him.

“Who are you?”

He waited, patient, until it became clear he wouldn’t simply give up and leave. The Starling’s fists bunched against the stone of the balustrade, and her shoulders heaved with a deep, almost panicky breath.

“Désolée, Majesté, le Marchandesse est –”

“In Orlesian, then,” he answered. “What’s your name?”

She paused. The line of her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’m afraid… the only name I can give you is Laurienne, Majesté. Laurienne de Savrenne.”

“Laurienne.” He risked a step closer, and she angled even further away from him, determined to hide her face even behind the mask. “You know, it’s strange – most people here tonight have been falling over themselves trying to catch my attention, but not you. You’ve tried very hard to remain unnoticed, not just by me, but by my guards and entourage as well. Why?”

“I might point out that of all those who wanted the king’s attention, I am the only one to have it bestowed.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps that was my plan.”

The sharp mockery ignited his temper. What was this but yet another sly courtier throwing jests at his expense? All night he had been nice, he had smiled, danced, dressed himself up in pretty words so the nobility would chase him for something he didn’t even want to give, and now he couldn’t even get one straight answer when he asked for it.

“A lot of people think I’m a fool,” he bit out. “It might come in handy sometimes but I assure you I’m smarter than I look, and I don’t appreciate being messed about, especially not after such a long day.”

“I’m…” Was that a fraction of a move towards him? Her head dipped towards her hands, and her eyes pressed shut. “I’m not here under my own power. In truth, Majesté, my debtor bid me come, but did not say you would be here as well.” A distinct note of bitterness entered her voice. “No doubt the thought of us meeting amused her.”

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She fell utterly still. “Do you know me?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No.”

“But you are hiding something.”

At that, she scoffed, and again that frustrating tingle of familiarity, though it was gone too quickly for him to examine. “We are in Orlais, are we not? Everyone is hiding something. I am no different to any other noblewoman, we are all the same. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His heart stuttered. His mind conjured a sweep of raven hair, the scent of jasmine, warm lips soft against his. “There are exceptions.”

“Is it the exception you were trying to find tonight?” The Starling’s tone rang cold. “All evening you have danced with one after another and tossed them aside afterwards like a wine-taster who finishes his sip and spits the rest away. How delightful the passage of your days must be to never want for such company.”

“How dare you.” He stepped closer. “What do you know about what my days are like – or what it’s like being passed around by all those magpies in there who only care about the shiny crown I could get for them? It’s all, ‘remember it’s your duty, Alistair’ and ‘just pick one and get it over with’. If I could even have one night where I could complain about it, or – or say no – that would be something, but everyone seems to think I should be flattered by all those people pawing at me and never giving me a moment to myself!”

He paused for breath. The tirade had winded him, as much for the emotion it let loose as for the wild gestures flung out with the words. The Starling had remained still, taking the onslaught like a tree against a howling wind, though now only fatigue was left in him she shrank as if he’d struck her a physical blow.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, horrified. “I wasn’t angry at you, it’s just…” What words could he say? “I wouldn’t expect you to understand – but don’t worry. You can go. Do as you wish, my guard won’t detain you any further.”

Still she didn’t move. Cursing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned for the door. He needed sleep, he needed –

“I understand better than you would think.”

Her voice. Common, not Orlesian. The quiet servility deepened into a clarion note – it stirred his heart from its withered slumber, called it like a dog to heel. Her voice. With pulse thundering, with hope and disbelief and horror wadded into a tight ball in his throat, he looked back.

The Starling no longer shrank into herself but stood tall in defiance of the cold, her shoulders thrown back, chin lifted, in the attitude of a general. He drank in the arch of her throat, the pale skin that gleamed like marble under Satina’s light, the shine of raven-black hair gathered in an Orlesian knot at the back of her head, all details he had ignored before because it was impossible. When he didn’t move, her head tilted, and he recognised the sorrow in the gesture, the self-deprecation in the curve of her mouth.

“The man I love is at this ball tonight,” she told him. “He’s the centre of attention, but I’ve had to watch and do nothing while everyone covets what I cannot touch.”

Her voice.

“Why not?” His tongue fumbled the words through the fog in his brain, the steps he took back towards her shaky and numb, desperate, his chest constricted trying to hold his breath in case it broke the spell somehow cast around him. “Why hide?”

“I owe a debt. Until it’s paid, I can’t – my life is not my own and I have to pay it back. Besides,” she added, with a new wobble in her voice, “what would I say? He – everyone thinks I’m dead.”

They stood so close now he could have reached out to touch her hand, but he hesitated, worried that that, at last, would make her disappear and prove him mad. She was shaking; her fingers had raked lines in the frost on the stone as she clenched them into fists.

“But you’re not dead. You’re –”

Their breath mingled heavy under the moonlight as he leaned in, his hand braving night-chilled skin where her glove had fallen to her wrist, and finally she turned into him, drawn, like him, and while he closed his eyes seeking in vain for the familiar scent of jasmine and sweetgrass, the weight under his fingertips and the stulted breath that left her lips made her solid, and all that was left was to beg her to say something, to let him hear her voice again.

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” came the whisper, so full of doubt.

“Never –” He caught the side of her face, pressed a kiss to her temple though the rim of her mask cut into his lips. “Never.”

“I – I thought you’d hate me.”

The absurdity of it made him giggle even as he shook his head in denial. He stroked her hair. Kissed her again. And then, because it was too much to have such certainty without proof he pulled back, searching for the ribbons that secured her mask in place, her pulse flying under his fingers as he worked at the knots. When the mask finally came free, he pushed it up over her forehead – and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes that were the grey of cracked ice on a winter sea.

[ironmandeficiency]

rain clouds

pairing: maxwell lord / reader

word count: 2813

summary: i don’t even know what to say abt this one except it’s filled with yearning

a/n: this was gonna be super soft and happy but then it got soft and sad and then soft and happy again. posting from mobile yet again. tbh idek if this makes a lick of sense, we will see

warnings: mentions of shitty parents (maxwell’s dad & alistair’s mom), hints at child neglect & cps, anxious max, don't worry it gets fluffy

maxwell lord hasn’t had a day off since he founded black gold cooperative. that business was his baby long before he had a living baby with his ex wife, and loved both just as much. there was no such thing as a “sick day” to max; any day spent sleeping or healing is a day lost in the pursuit of greatness, the pilgrimage to the top of the corporate food chain. the only one he would ever make an exception for is alistair, and even then work would sometimes interrupt.

there was a time, almost too long ago for him to vividly remember, where maxwell did more than work. when he actually got his hands dirty in something that didn’t have anything to do with corporate schemes, and laughed with genuine glee more often than scowled. it was a long time ago now, and no one would ever believe it if they were told that maxwell lord ever got dirty with, well, dirt.

“come on! you gotta try this, it’s great!” the memories of his only friend have become worn with constant reminiscing, his mind unsure as to what’s real and what he imagined to fill in the gaps left by age and new priorities.

maxwell had found a secluded section of the park down the street from the apartment you both lived in, one safe from the eyes of bullies and adults alike. his feet were bare as the day he was born while making leaps and bounds in the abundant mud puddles from yesterday’s rain. he did his best to not let what little joy he found be dwindled by circumstance — his shitty father and reticent mother and the lingering ghost of poverty — the way others lost theirs. max believed himself different than that and carried himself as such no matter what others said.

you were still on the sidewalk, watching your best friend with awe and curiosity. the idea of traipsing through mud barefooted was exhilarating, but you knew that if your clothes got dirty, your mother would hang you out to dry alongside the clothes you were wearing. how did it feel to have the mud between your toes, the rainwater soaking into your skin? you didn’t remember, but you would like to.

to be honest, maxwell didn’t expect you to join him. he didn’t think you would ever try to break out of the box of propriety your family shoved you in, not now or ever. but the next thing he knew, he heard another set of feet splashing around in the puddles he had just vacated, making a path to where he stood. a playful shriek he knew as yours rang through the air and he immediately turned to you, wanting to see your face as you enjoyed yourself for the first time in a long time. “maxwell, this is wonderful! why didn’t you get me to do this earlier?”

you never looked more beautiful to him than when the afternoon sun shone on you, your smile bright and laughter clear and joyous. you were free as lady liberty, splashing around like there wasn’t a single other thing you had to do. then you take his hand and max swears that he’s seeing stars. before you know it, you’re dancing in the mud to the song of the birds in the trees. is it just max’s imagination, or do you tell him you love him?

your lips are on his and it’s magic. his shirt is being gripped in tight fists and his hands are magnetized to your waist, holding each other tight enough to need a crowbar to separate you. there’s nowhere he would rather be than back there with you…

but it’s been far too many years since he’s seen or heard from you, there’s no telling if you’re even in the country still at this point. it took a long time for him to not dolefully gaze at every door you could walk through once he left for college, hoping to see that radiant smile and hear you say his name so reverently.

but these days, reverence is the last thing maxwell thinks he deserves, not after the dreamstone debacle. hell, he isn’t even completely convinced that he can adequately take care of alistair despite the low standards his father and his ex-wife have presented him with. despite these doubts (and the perplexing way that everyone acted as if he never almost took over the world), he was just given full custody of alistair when the school called cps on his ex-wife for neglect. it was a terrible way to get a second chance at doing right by his son, but it’s a second chance nonetheless.

after seeing sense and liquidating black gold while he still could get something to survive with, he and alistair found a two bedroom apartment in a nice part of town. it was miniscule compared to what he had but it was a sight more than what he could have ended up with. besides, max had no time to be frivolous when he had his son to protect.

back to the grindstone he went. he knew that people would recognize him if he kept his current appearance and name, so he retired the lord name and decided on another fresh start. he slowly adjusted to using lorenzano after so many years rejecting it, got the blond removed from his hair. he found a job in financial advisory, and ironically enough, he was damn good at it. he knows what he’s doing when it comes to money that isn’t his, who’d have thought?

he actually knew a couple people from work that he almost considered friends. honestly he wasn’t sure what that word meant anymore, didn’t remember the feelings that were supposed to be associated with having them. but it was enough, truly more than enough; because this progress meant that he was dragging himself out of the grave he dug, because he was taking care of his son first and foremost.

alistair was put into a new school; nothing fancy, just the nicer public school that was a pleasing midpoint between work and their apartment. the first day he attended, alistair came home with so many good stories about the friends he made and the games they played at recess. within a few months he had been contacted by his teacher who had nothing but praise for little alistair lorenzano. his little boy was excelling and max couldn’t have been more proud than he was during that phone call. seconds after he hung up, he found alistair in his bedroom and wrapped him in a massive hug, making sure to emphasize the fact that max was proud of his son.

and then there was his neighbor. they lived across the hall from him and max would only catch the tail end of their arrivals and departures to their apartment. he did think it was rather odd, their strangely adept ability at avoiding him. if he didn’t know any better he’d think it was on purpose.

it wasn't intentional — not quite.

you had been avoiding your neighbor, but it had nothing to do with the oil commercials or dreamstone debacle — your new neighbor made you sad. the feeling would hit every time you saw him. his mere presence dusted off long-worn and cherished memories of a time where the sun felt warmer on your skin, where smiles came easier than heartache.

it took a long while before you realized why: it was because this mystery man reminded you of a love long lost to the dagger of circumstance. something about his walk, or maybe his hands during the times you’d see him open his apartment door, reminded you of what an older maxwell lorenzano could have been. the section of your heart that housed your thoughts of maxwell had been wrapped in caution tape with every hazard sign known to man flashing around it for many years, not wanting to venture there for more than a few moments in fear of hurting yourself even more.

if only you realized it was really max that you were so adamantly avoiding.

three months went by of max wondering why he still has yet to meet his neighbor. not that it was imperative to his daily survival, but his curiosity was all but tearing him apart at the seams. he didn’t know what else to do; yes he wanted to know his neighbor, but how did he go about that when they never saw each other?

“just knock on their door, daddy. be their friend, like you tell me to do when i go to school.” the childlike innocence alistair speaks with betrays the actual feasibility of the idea. maxwell was overthinking everything! people talked to their neighbors all the time! this could just be a simple “hey are you doing okay?” and the chips would fall where they may.

maxwell ruffles his son’s hair affectionately, pulling him into a small hug. “you know what? that’s exactly what i’m gonna do. thanks buddy, i’ll be right back.” it’s only across the hall, max isn’t gonna be gone long.

it’s been years since he’s done anything this casually daring. everything he did for decades was all high risk yielding high reward. talking to his neighbor should seem simple in comparison — it presented no drastic consequence if it went belly up, he almost never saw his neighbor anyway. that wouldn’t change after he finally sated his curiosity, certainly not.

once alistair’s homework is finished and is entranced by the television, maxwell decides to head next door, being sure that the house keys are in his pocket before shutting the door. he probably should have thought it out more than he did — he had no idea about his neighbor’s work schedule or if they had kids or a spouse, if they were a serial killer or an introvert. or even worse, if they happened to be someone who remembers everything he’s done. that would be his luck, his first true attempt at making a friend being thwarted with the magnitude of his past sins.

he doesn’t hear his own front door open, alistair’s head poking out to watch his dad. “knock, daddy!” he whisper-shouts and nearly shakes maxwell out of his skin. the little boy laughs at his dad’s startled expression before nodding and shutting the door back.

max went to knock but realized with his knuckles only an inch from the wood that his hands were peculiarly slippery. when did maxwell’s hands get so clammy? there was nothing to be nervous about. he was just going to attempt to make a friend, like his son simplified.

but the thing is, maxwell knows that it’s been decades since he’s had a friend. the last time someone outside of his son was kind to him not for the zeroes he wrote in checkbooks was you, and sometimes he even doubted that you were real. there are hazy memories of him as a teen that splashed in mud puddles and kissed a being of pure sunshine with the innocence of youth. he hopes they’re real, for his sake and for the sunshine he romped around the park with. maybe memories of him are keeping you sane the way your memory did for him.

as his thoughts spiraled, maxwell lost his nerve. with a heaping dose of irrationality, he didn’t want to disappoint whoever was on the other side of the door. turns out, there was no one on the other side.

“excuse me, did you need something?”

your first instinct when seeing a man almost knocking on your apartment door, on a normal day, was not to be so polite. but you were having a strangely good day and there was no reason to bring down the positive energy with an abrasive attitude. plus, the man looked so conflicted. he seemed to need a friend.

“i, uh, live across the hall, have been for a few months and never got to meet you.” a small gesture to the side shifted your attention to the door across from yours — and the little boy who had the door cracked just enough to see the interaction between you and who you think must be his dad.

this man’s voice, something about it was familiar. he moved from in front of your door and extended his hand towards you in an effort for a decent introduction. “i’m maxwell lor-lorenzano.”

maxwell lorenzano. you never would have thought that out of all the people to have graced this apartment building, he would be one. his hands were still softly strong and shoulders still broad. his eyes were still the same striking shade of brown, but there was a lot more pain there, a lot of experience that was clearly pushing him down by his shoulders and into the depths of anguish. yet there he was, keeping his head above water and still being kind. this truly was your max.

you take his hand with a soft smile, squeezing it gently as you give your name. “it’s been a long time, max.”

max couldn’t believe it. after all these years, it was you.

you had moved in across the street from him in his early teenage years and had become acquainted when walking to school and home. the two of you trekked through high school together, ignoring the cruelty of classmates and focusing on getting to the future, to freedom. hope of being friends after high school was abundant in the beginning, but soon your paths sent you further and further away from each other and towards a future neither of you were sure you wanted without the other.

“it really has been a while. i- i uh,” he could barely string a sentence together anymore. his shock and joy of seeing you again had his brain melting into goo and his tongue an almost immovable weight. “i missed you.” the blood rushed to your face the way it always did when you were with max. even when stuttering over his words and a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, he was still charming.

max noticed your attire and the wet umbrella in hand and was immediately taken back to that day spent in the park after it rained, when he . the sunshine on his skin, your smile that never failed to take his breath away…

a soft smile was on max’s lips but his eyes were somewhere else. “max? is everything okay?”

“do you remember the day we went to the park, when we splashed in the puddles and-“

“and when i kissed you? i could never forget if i tried.”

you really did kiss him! it made him want to do it again, as many times as you would let him. but that brought one little stipulation with it: alistair.

what would you say when you found out he had a son?

before max’s thoughts could dampen your reunion, you continued, and with every word, you solidified your place in his heart. “maybe we could do that again some time, just like we used to. and you could bring your son too, if you’d like.” you were jumping out on a limb by assuming that the little boy was his son, but with the apparent protectiveness max displayed around him when you see them together, what else could he be?

“that sounds so fun! can we, dad?” alistair made his presence known by pummeling into max’s legs, nearly knocking him over with an excited hug. you grinned at the affection, watching max’s eyes fill with warmth as he gazed at his son. “i don’t see why not. just change into some play clothes and get your raincoat from the hall closet.”

alistair shoots with glee and is immediately running back to the apartment, excited to change clothes and play in the rain. you watch max’s eyes as they light up at alistair’s happiness, that flicker reminding of you of when you were younger and the world was kinder to you both.

here was your second chance with max, another opportunity to be with someone who never stopped loving you even as the seasons changed and the zeroes increased. “i’ll let you guys get changed, come knock when you’re ready to go.”

feeling an uptick in bravery, max placed a quick peck to your cheek before he turned toward his apartment. “will do, see you in a few.” the risk he took was well worth seeing you grow bashful at the affection, eyes flitting to your shoes before back at him, a soft smile across your lips. you watched him walk away before going back into your apartment, waiting for the rest of your life to begin at the rapping of knuckles on solid oak.

maxwell lord taglist & others: @phoenixhalliwell @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @obirain @themarcusmoreno @captainrexstan @battletales @stardustsunrisekisses @senator-nahberries @max--phillips @jedi-mando @veracruz-djarin @andysficrecs @purelypascal @whovianwar @iv7867 @kaermorons @princess76179 @pedropasscals

[jicklet]

Writing tag game

20 questions, writing edition

I was tagged by @the-magnificunt​ ! Time to remember I write things occasionally :’D

How many works do you have on AO3?

24, which is way more than I thought I did. So that’s neat.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

Proud to report that I have now found the statistics page! 56,855

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

One Day at a Time

She-Ra

The Royal Romance

It Lives In The Woods

Dragon Age

Mass Effect

There is also a ff.net account out there with some oldddddd ATLA and Teen Titans stuff, and some cracktastic HP stuff on Fictionalley ? Was that the site? 

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Not an exclamation mark, but a colon. (ODAAT) Still Keep Pleasant Dreams (ODAAT) Secrets (TRR) The King and I (TRR) I Guess I Care About You, and Other Choices We Keep Making (She-ra)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to! But I’m about as good as responding to anything else, which is to say it depends on the way the wind is blowing.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Borrowed Time, Dragon Age fic where Alistair comes back to Warden’s Keep having started hearing the calling, and my warden Kara says she’s going with him. It’s about as lighthearted as I can make it, considering the subject matter.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I Guess I Care About You. I was smiling while I was writing it, they earned that ending. ♥

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Hmm not really.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Nothing so far, knock on wood! 

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Hahahaaaaa~ Yep, I’ve written some! Mostly Seamista. I like bossy women and men who are starry eyed over that, and a lot of silliness.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hopefully not? I don’t know who would.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, might be fun? No idea how that even works though.

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Beast Boy/Raven, though I haven’t written for them in years. My favorite to write for is Maxwell Beaumont + Riley from TRR, they’re both so fun and so into each other.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have an ODAAT ficlet that starts with some cute flirting and gets into Schneider’s feelings about age, and there’s some stuff there I really like enough to keep poking at it, but it’s been so hard to make it feel natural and I don’t really know where it’s going. Also I just have..... giant Mass Effect documents that I have posted none of because nothing feels finished. :’)

What are your writing strengths?

Hmm, I wanna say humor and characters just enjoying each others’ company.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I’m trying to work on being more subtle, I usually write pretty literally and I’m slowly learning you can imply things, or have an unreliable narrator. My stuff would also probably be improved if anything ever had a plot, but I just have never cared about plot and it’s hard to start.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Oh, I have opinions on this! So the thing is, most of your audience isn’t going to know the language either, and long paragraph or dialogue is just going to lose people. And if you’re not a native speaker, you’re usually not going to know the context to fake like you are. IMO it’s best handled basically like it is in movies or comics:

If the meaning actually matters, just write it in the fic’s main language and clarify the character is speaking something else. (Penelope switched to Spanish to mutter under her breath, “This dumbass is lucky he’s handsome.” ”What?” ”Nothing!”)

If your POV character understands the language and the words aren’t important, only the tone, throw in a short phrase with a description of how the character is acting. The meaning can be a bonus if people understand it. (Penelope rolled her eyes. “Este cabrón.”) 

The putting translation notes at the bottom thing is usually good too, but again you don’t normally want to be pulling your reader out of the scene.

And if your POV character doesn’t even understand the language another character is speaking... they’re not going to catch the words. I know some Spanish, and when people are talking I can catch a few at best and hope to understand the context. (Penelope rolled her eyes and muttered something Schneider was able to translate into “this [something?] is lucky he’s handsome.”)

(See, the last one is the one I would go with, because I’m not confident I’m using cabrón right.)

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Very very first fic before I even knew what fic was.... Spider-man. Specifically, the very first Toby McGuire spidey movie. :’D

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

The one I re-read most is Secrets, and my favorite there is still Colors and Light. It’s funny and sweet and sappy. (Secrets also definitely has a quality improvement curve, so the ones I wrote later are less rough than the start.)

Tagging: @actuallylorelaigilmore @shadoedseptmbr @ljandersen @breaumonts @alysurr with low pressure! especially if you’ve already done it recently and I missed it.  (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞

[baejax-the-great]

5 Favorites

Thank you for the tags @pedlimwen and @noire-pandora!

I’ll tag forward @luzial @midnightprelude @juliafied @swaps55 @asaara-writes

If there are rules to this, I’m ignoring them in favor of posting 5 favorite sections from relatively recently posted writing. If you are thinking, “I haven’t written 5 different works!” 1. Congratulations on your commendable focus to your WIPs, please lend me some of it and 2. I’m pretty sure you can pick 5 sections from the same work.

1. From Serenity (Fenris x Hawke):

“I heard the funniest joke today,” she announced, feet barely over his threshold. “I was in the Lowtown markets, by that stall that sells those Antivan pancakes. As an aside, are the Antivans known for pancakes? It hardly seems like a cultural tradition. Fish stew, those little grape leaf things, olives—those are Antivan. Do you think the owner of that stall never learned to cook anything else back home and just decided to make the most of it when he got here? Ferdo, I think his name is. Have you ever bought one of his pancakes?”

Hawke’s words too quickly became background noise to his work, but when he finally parsed the question, Varric grunted an affirmative. Hot food was hot food, and Varric liked the weird, spicy sauce Ferdo put on it. Maybe she was right, though, and it was only there to mask the incompetence. Fuck if he knew. It never made him sick and it was exactly what it claimed to be. Good enough.

She took a date from his bowl, plucking out the seed before popping it into her mouth. “Maybe I should try one, then,” she mused, “May I have some?”

She didn’t wait for his next grunt, uncorking the bottle that was holding down his earnings reports and pouring herself a glass of wine. Varric flipped through his letters, he was certain he’d just had the one from the beet farm talking about the season’s yields. By the sound of it, Hawke had flopped into the chair across from him.

“So I was by that stall, and Gordon was there, you know, that idiot sailor who got himself punched silly last week when he tried to cheat Bran’s crew with some phony whisky. Still has some teeth left after that, and I guess he’s dead set on losing all of them.”

Varric found the letter and copied the numbers while Hawke told him about Gordon’s myriad problems. As long as Varric wasn’t expected to help her fix any of them, that was all fine. He was full up on friends with poor decision-making skills and poorer coin purses. The last pirate he befriended disappointed him bitterly, and he wasn’t ready to forgive them as a lot. He signed his last document with a flourish and realized Hawke had been silent for at least thirty seconds. He tried to remember what she’d last said to him. “Wait, what? Was any of that a joke?”

2. From The Depth of Fear (Bethany x Alistair):

“Why?” she sneered, stabbing at her dinner, “It’s not your fault Loghain threw the battle at Ostagar and left my home to rot. Or that two Wardens weren’t enough to save the entire South.”

Alistair flinched, though he couldn’t say why. It really hadn’t been their fault, as far as he could see. A bit late on the beacon, sure, but that didn’t matter when the rest of the army had already fled the field. And he had killed Loghain for that, among other things, so justice was served, he supposed. Not that justice brought anyone back who was lost. Somehow, watching her attack her meal with the sort of gusto he’d seen her apply to melting an ogre, he still felt a pang of guilt. “We could have been faster at finding the Archdemon I guess.”

She held a forkful of potatoes aloft while parsing his words, her expression softening into recognition.  “Maker, you’re him? That Alistair. The other Warden. With the Hero.”

Alistair nodded, poking at his beans. “That’s my preferred title, you know. That Alistair, the Other Warden. Snappy. Gets the point across.”

3. From First Contact (Garrus x Shepard):

“Shepard, I’ve always wanted to ask…”

She took a deep breath and smiled. It was only a matter of time. “You can touch it.”

“Oh, uh…”

“My hair, right? Aliens always want to touch human hair.” Tali had asked weeks ago. Liara had asked back on the SR-1. Wrex had simply gone for it one day with a terrified crewmate who asked to be transferred later. But Garrus had shown remarkable self-control that led to Shepard wondering if he had secretly asked Kaidan back in the day. Kaidan’s hair might have been better, honestly. He had more of it than Shepard did. Still, the thought almost stung.  

“Yeah, in C-SEC we actually had to make a public service campaign to stop people from touching humans. The Drell got it in their heads that touching human hair was good luck. We had posters around reminding them it was technically assault.”

Shepard laughed, trying to imagine what that poster must have looked like. Various aliens grabbing at terrified and offended humans, probably. Touching humans: Not even once. “That is what you were going to ask, though, right?”

His mandibles flexed out and back in. “Well… yeah…”

“You can cop a feel, Vakarian.” She raised an eyebrow. “But only if I can touch yours.”

4. All of TEOS, but sure I’ll pick these lines today:

Zevran put a hand on his back.

“What a terrible burden to realize you are attracted to your wife.”

Alistair shot him a dark look. It was a burden. And a mistake. It was all a lot easier when he thought she’d be some scary warmongering shrew.

“You’re allowed to love her, Alistair. There aren’t any rules against it.”

“I wouldn’t even know how,” he muttered, pushing himself away from the window.

5. And I guess this from Red (Fenris x Hawke):

It was easy to convince himself to keep drinking against the red glow of his fingers. He never thought he could feel a deeper loathing for his own skin, a deeper sense of betrayal or fear or disgust. He’d long come to find a gentle neutrality toward the markings. They made him a weapon, but he was master to himself. They’d sent him on a path, and somewhere along the way he had controlled the destination. And it had been good, so good. To once again lose everything—his past and now his future— to pretty marks etched artistically into his flesh… he could almost hear Danarius laughing.

So he turned his gaze to Hawke. An hour ago he had steeled himself to never see her again. If he’d gotten on his horse faster, urged her into a canter, he would have done it. Left her behind and faced his fate. But she—she always saw a path where he didn’t. She offered him a future, and he wanted it so badly.  Lasts be damned, he kissed her. Hard. Red hand on the bottle and white hand in her hair. He should have known that she’d find hope in this, their most hopeless situation yet. She tasted of hope; she exhaled it in every breath. He kissed her like it was the first time and they had all the time in the world to get it right. And then he kissed her again because he could, right now he still could, and right now was everything.

Hawke pulled away first, and he dropped his head against her shoulder.

“Next time we have a problem, we sort it out together,” she said, “I don’t join the Inquisition, and you don’t ride off to die alone when you get a spot of rash.”  

“I promise,” he drawled into her neck.

[abigailsfictionalothers-archive]

Never Going Anywhere Again - A.K.A. The Engagement Fic - Alistair x Wallace

A/N: I've finally got it down! It took me forever because I wanted it to be perfect, and I am very, very happy with this one. Sorry if it has any technical mistakes though, I get a bit giddy reading it and may have skipped over some stuff in my excitement, haha. For those that haven't seen, my pinned post is the official announcement for this, and I'll be adding this fic to it, so go check that out as well for more details. As always, I hope you all enjoy! I know I'm over the moon over this :)

Warnings: Discussions of marriage? Obviously. If you need anything tagged that I didn't cover let me know!

Tagging: @sacredempressnatlyia @imagine-your-love-story @shinypeony (if anyone else would like to be tagged in future works, let me know, or if you would no longer like to be tagged, let me know!)

~~~

"I'm glad you're taking the chance to get out. How are the negotiations with Nevarra going?" I walked alongside Alistair as we made our way out to the castle gardens. It was difficult to maintain an air of professionalism with him, especially when he was finally taking a break from his responsibilities, but I certainly wasn't about to risk our secret by slipping up.

"Decently. I was actually hoping to ask for your input, would you mind if I ran something by you this evening?" It wasn't hard to tell that it was difficult for him, too.

"You need only ask. And what about the new recruits for the king's guard? I heard there were quite a few of them, do you have any idea how that's going?"

"I was actually meaning to ask, do think there's any way you could get out to the training yard in the next couple of days, show them a thing or two? Last I heard, they could use some help."

"Of course, I'd be happy to. I'll set aside a day for it."

"Thank you. Your help is invaluable."

Being me, of course the compliment threw me off, and I did my best to deflect it in an attempt to shake off my embarrassment, "It's good that you're getting out for a bit, staying holed up inside that castle for too long isn't good for you."

He sighed softly, "I know. I would more if I could."

I immediately regretted my comment. The last thing he needed was me pointing out his lack of freedom, "I'm sorry to have-"

"No, it's alright. You're the one that helps me get out, after all. I should be thanking you for that."

"You thank me far too much-" We'd had this conversation a million times - he'd tell me how he couldn't do this without me, and I'd tell him all the reasons that wasn't true. This time, before I could even begin, he grabbed my hand and entwined his fingers with mine.

"Um, Alistair?" I was extremely confused. We weren't even close to being clear of the public eye yet, anyone could stumble upon and see us - and this was something we most certainly never did in public.

"Humor me?" On any other day I would have shrugged him off, told him he could hold my hand later, but there was something about the way his voice begged and his eyes pleaded with me that had me caving.

"Fine, but I don't want to have to be the one making excuses if we get caught!"

He sighed heavily, "I don't want to make excuses."

"It's your idea! It's only fair that you be the one to handle it!"

"That's not what I- never mind. Come on, there's something I wanted to show you." I ignored his deflection, I did it all the time after all, and followed after him anxiously as he dragged me along, constantly looking around for anyone that could spot our careless mistake.

The farther out from the main building we got, the more I relaxed, but the further we walked through the garden, the more perplexed I became. I knew that look on his face well enough to know that he was on a mission, and had a destination in mind. It's a good look on him. Still, I couldn't fathom what he was so determined to show me.

Until we rounded the corner into a secluded area of the rose garden. This wasn't an area I visit often, but I appreciate it's beauty nonetheless - surrounded by tall hedges, it makes a beautiful sanctuary for any weary soul, and the stone bench in its center is beautifully engraved with classic Ferelden designs. However, my curiosity was peaked by the vase sitting on top of it, filled with... blue roses?

"Al, what is this?"

"Blue roses? I had the gardeners cut and dye some of the best ones that came in, I thought you'd enjoy a mix of two of your favorite things. You do, don't you?"

"Of course I do, they're magnificent! But why? That sounds like a bit of trouble all for no reason!" I was absolutely floored by the gesture. Dyed flowers have always been a rare commodity in Ferelden, typically more of an Orlesian practice. I couldn't understand why he'd go to such lengths.

"It's not for no reason. I-" He stopped and sighed once more, finally letting go of my hand, electing to pace for a moment. I gave him the time, recognizing that he needed to collect his thoughts, even though my curiosity was burning.

In time, he grabbed one of the roses, and held it out to me timidly. I took it, gently, and let him lead me to sit down on the bench with him.

With a deep breath, he began, "I told you earlier I don't want to make excuses anymore. That's true. I really, really don't. I'd like to hold your hand in public, and not be terrified of the repercussions. Every time I have to call you 'my dear friend and wartime companion' I feel near sick to my stomach. It doesn't feel right, hiding you. Every day, I wake up, grateful to have you with me, and then immediately bitter that there are conditions to having you here. I just... I can't do this like this anymore."

My throat ran dry then. I was starting to have some idea of where this was going, but the hope was almost unbearable. I didn't want to believe. "So what are you trying to say?"

"I know why we do this this way. It's all for good reason, and in so many ways, I'm so glad we've had this time away from all the judgement. But the agony isn't worth it anymore. I couldn't do any of this without you - stop it with that look right now - you are quite literally invaluable to both the running of this country and my sanity. I run everything I do by you. You have a more personal relationship with the common people than I've been allowed in years, you help them, just because you can. You're extraordinary, and you deserve recognition for your part. Darling, I-"

He stopped for just a moment, shifting off of the bench and onto his knee on front of me, grabbing my hand again, "What I mean to say is I want to be honest with the world, and I want you to be the Queen of Ferelden. I want you to marry me."

It was all I could do to keep my composure to press my hand, still holding a rose, to my chest, and to squeeze my eyes closed, tightly. I wasn't sure what my raw reaction would be if I didn't, but I knew it was the only thing I could do to keep it contained.

I heard his voice even more clearly when he spoke again, like the only sense that was turned on was my hearing, "No pressure, of course, if that's not what you want, I know it's a lot, and I know you see me terribly upset over my position every day, so I'm sure it doesn't exactly sound appealing, but I just think that together-" His words faded with the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

What is he thinking this will be a disaster this can't happen oh by the Maker what is he-

"Yes, Al."

"Pardon?"

"Yes, Alistair. My answer is yes. I'll marry you."

I opened my eyes then, and his slack-jawed look was almost enough to have me laughing, had I not been shaking uncontrollably.

"Yeah, Al. I don't want to hide you anymore either." I spoke in a whisper.

It was his laugh that broke the silence, joyful, and perhaps my favorite sound in the world. I almost didn't register it when he swept me into a hug. I didn't really know what else to do other than cling to him like a lifeline.

"So I got this right then? I did it right?"

My laugh was weak, "Yes, love, this was perfect."

He pulled away, pressing his forehead to mine, "You're sure? You really want this?"

Despite my shock, all I could think was that this seemed so obvious. We had been through so much, where else was there to go from here? I knew it would be hard, of course, but for him? I was quite sure I could brave just about anything.

"Yeah. I'm never going anywhere ever again."

[enchanted-prose]

#15 Friar’s Lantern

number fifteen: burger king foot lettuce

yay! 200th post!

Word count: 5,705

Characters: Roden, Regar (Original character), the Faola (original character),  Ulspierre (stinky peter pan boy, original character), Merry (original character)

Notes: my beta and ffnet readers loved this chapter and i loved writing it :,)

Enjoy!

The constant drumming of horse hooves was enough of a warning; everyone cleared the streets at the sight of the king’s soldiers marching to lower Drylliad.

Jaron had survived worse than a kick to the leg, and he would survive this attack. Even if the Faola hadn’t intended to kill him, any attempt on the king’s life was considered an act of treason. It was Roden’s calling to see that the perpetrator was captured.

Doors rattled shut. Roden pulled his helmet visor over his eyes; the buildings were becoming less structured, and the alleys were crammed with people trying to stay out of the law’s way.

He didn’t blame the urchins quaking in fear.

Carthyan knights were a fearful sight.

“Lord Thomas Row dispatched members of his army,” said Lieutenant Alistair, his voice muffled by his helmet. “His orders were to sweep the city looking for Regar, just in case we fail to find him.”

Roden shook his head, “I know where Regar will be.”

He’d fought the Faola before, only to turn around and fight with the Faola deep in the Vaults. Roden was sure that he’d find Regar there. The Vaults made for an easy escape, and an easy trap if used correctly.

The Vaults was the Faola’s domain.

Drops of dark liquid stained the cobblestones, and pieces of rotting food had been thrown about. A cart lay on its side. Windows were shut against the cool, twilight air.

“Stay on your guard!” Roden barked as he dismounted.

No matter how many times he wore his full suit of armor, he’d never get used to the jarring sound his boots made when they hit stone.

It was even worse when followed by twelve other pairs of armored knights repeating the same motion.

The entrance to the Vaults gaped at him, eerily similar to how the gates to the Devils’ lair were painted. No messages were hammered to the wooden posts beside the door-less hallway. No words begging for the weary traveler to turn back and find shelter in a safer place.

Stairs descended into hazy blackness, and for a moment, Roden swore he saw movement. He’d been surrounded with night-dark rain the last time he’d come to the Vaults. It was strange to return with a band of his men and a series of torches.

Though there were no messages of certain death, there was a chipped saber discarded a few steps down.

With a wave of his hand, a pair of men rushed forwards, carrying torches larger than a man’s head. There were signs of a recent struggle; bloody trails left by clawing fingers, a series of dusty footprints.

Roden held up his fist as he descended into the first level of the Vaults.

“Captain,” called one of the torch bearers. “We won’t be alone.”

And he was right. The light from the torches were met with the bright beams from mining lamps. Whispers hissed through the air, growing louder and louder with each comment.

“Keep the torches,” Roden ordered. “Use them as weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first room was packed with men and women, both masked and unmasked. They lounged in corners and hung from beams. The Faola were too relaxed. Barrels lined the far wall, and mining lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. Stagnant puddles glimmered. A large man was wrestling a patched bandit. He was speaking in tones too soft to be heard.

Roden was the first to step into the room, he kept his sword extended.

A handful of Faola burst into motion, shoving themselves into a circle in the middle of the room. The others jumped to their feet, swords and daggers drawn. A figure swung down from the ceiling.

He recognized a boy with flaming red hair.

“We understand that there’s been a, ah, situation,” said the boy. He bowed. “We have no quarrel with you, captain, we’re simply peacefully gathering.”

“State your name and business,” Roden countered, stepping aside to let his fellow knights flood the chamber.

“Ulspierre, and my friends and I are here to stage an intervention for a mutual friend. You’re a decent man, Captain Harlowe. My sister speaks highly of you.”

“Cut it with the words, Ulspierre. This goes beyond you.”

Sister. Roden scowled, there’d been a few sisters in the past.

Red hair, hanging around the Vaults. Participating with the Faola.

Ah, Ulspierre was Ayvar’s brother.

A drop of water hit the stone floor, and several more Faola prepared for a fight. Roden tipped his visor up, staring Ulspierre down. It was a simple exchange, a fugitive for peace. Roden wanted the Faola who attacked Jaron, Ulspierre probably didn’t want to die.

It would’ve been easy if Ulspierre gave the Faola up.

“There was an attack on the king,” Roden boomed, taking pride as a few of the Faola flinched. “We know the culprit, and we know he’s involved with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ulspierre scratched the back of his head.

“I didn’t come to-!”

“-Play games, I know. Quite rare, people typically come here to do just that. I know me an’ my Faola friends did.”

Roden kept a firm grip on his temper. There were more of the Faola than his knights, and he didn’t want to cause unnecessary endangerment. Ulspierre wanted to be recognized for helping catch Jaron’s attacker, he’d back down once he got what he wanted.

Or at least that’s what Roden hoped would happen.

A few more of the Faola jumped to a fighting stance, only to be met with the sounds of drawing swords. Ulspierre yawned, and sauntered over to one of the barrels. He spun around, revealing a plain chalice, and pried off a barrel lid. Roden grunted. The Faola hadn't moved, and neither had his soldiers. Ulspierre dipped the chalice in the barrel after he'd filled it with amber liquid.

The front room had been converted during the short time Roden had been away. There were shelves with boxes, shelves with bottles.

Though there weren't nearly as many Faola as he'd seen during the first attack on Feall, there was enough to make up a substantial gang. Roden wondered just how much he'd missed in ignoring the Faola's movements.

"Hand over the Faola," Roden ordered again. "I know you have him."

The sheer lack of respect Ulspierre demonstrated in sipping from his chalice plucked at Roden's fragile grip on his temper. Ulspierre shook his head, "Captain, dear captain, this is about networking. Have you heard the term 'pick your battles'? I'd be surprised if you didn't, you seem like the man who needs that tattooed on his arm."

There was only one mark on Roden's arm that served as a reminder of something.

It still stung him at times.

He said nothing as Ulspierre took another drink. The Faola in the middle shifted; somebody's foot hit somebody else's leg,  and the harsh sound of a fist hitting a face cracked through the room.

"I'm not an idiot, Ulspierre," Roden explained. "I'd rather not get my boots stained with blood."

"What a coincidence! Neither would I!"

However, he made no move to give up the Faola.

Roden's gaze flicked about the chamber, compiling as many details as he could. There was a large figure in the middle of the Faola. Each of the barrels were scuffed, as if they'd been moved recently. More than half of the Faola had been caught without their masks on.

Perhaps they truly hadn't been planning on a rogue gang member attacking the king.

Somebody shifted, and every blade started at the sound. A fight was brewing in the air.

It would need to be stopped before it began.

"Tell me-," Roden began again.

"Listen to me!" Ulspierre burst, tossing the chalice aside. "It is the same as it was before! We didn't give names before, we don't know who attacked your king. I do know that he's gotten my sister thrown into a tower, and he's almost gotten us killed by you. Right now."

"Give me the attacker!"

Ulspierre drew a short, crooked blade, "Release us and my sister! We take from those who have too much! We never intended to kill anyone!"

Too many times had he lost his temper and taken it out during a sparring session. But this was different, it wasn't a sparring session.

This would soon expand into a matter of life or death.

Roden had too many plans to die at the hand of a bandit.

He could try once again. He could try to mend things before blood spilled. "You won't be touched if you comply, Ulspierre, I promise you that. We’ll forgive your involvement in the attack.”

“Not true,” Ulspierre shrugged. “We had no idea about any attack, your king is good to us, we have no reason to kill him. We’ve been here shuffling barrels all afternoon.”

“Then tell me where your friend is, Ulspierre, and we won’t have any trouble.”

“See, my friend isn’t exactly my responsibility at the moment, he belongs to somebody else.”

“He’s not exactly your friend then, isn’t he?” Roden countered, taking a step towards Ulspierre and the circle of Faola.

Ulspierre’s gloved hands shot up, “It’s my life, sir knight, my choices.”

“No, not just your life. The king was attacked and if you won’t tell me where your patched acquaintance is-,”

The room went completely silent as Roden lunged forward, his blade less than an inch from Ulspierre’s neck.

“-I will have everyone in this room arrested on charges of high treason.”

He was close enough to Ulspierre to see the fear leaping from his eyes. Ulspierre cleared his throat, “Commander! Somebody would like to discuss your methods?”

Roden took a step back as the circle of Faola dispersed, revealing a scarlet haired bull of a man holding a patched Faola by the neck. The Faola weakly slapped at Regar’s grip before going limp.

Commander Regar nodded his head, “I appreciate that King Jaron sent help.”

“Seems you handled the situation on your own,” Roden lowered his sword to keep his arm from tiring, but took care to keep it in view.

He knew he should’ve been relieved that Regar was safe, but a nagging at the back of his mind couldn’t let him accept that this was right. Roden could justify leaving the Faola alone by claiming he couldn’t see them while they redistributed stolen wealth.

But to ignore an attack on the king was too much.

As Roden grew more involved with the Faola, he was realizing that there was an entire rogue kingdom under his nose.

“The attack was much more, ah, personal than you’d expect. My apologies.”

Personal? He didn’t mean to frown as he considered the weight of Regar’s words. The Faola’s attack was based out of revenge; Regar’s tone confirmed that.

And it seemed that Regar knew much more than he showed.

“This bandit is an enemy to the crown,” Roden explained, gesturing to the head locked Faola. “He will be taken and-“

Regar shook his head, “We do things differently in the streets, sir.”

“An act of treason is-“

“I caught the attacker, who swung a sword at me, and it’s my privilege to decide punishment. The rules are different, here. Had you caught the man first, you’d have the responsibility of choosing his fate. But you didn’t, and as one of the victims, I have a say in how this ends.”

Dozens of glittering bandits’ eyes turned to Roden and his men. He knew they wouldn’t hesitate to slit throats if Regar’s demands were challenged.

“The death penalty requires a unanimous vote,” Roden growled. “A vote from a respectable crowd, not a hoard of thieves.”

The Faola began squirming again at the mention of death, only to receive a hard shake from Regar as warning.

Ulspierre wiped away an imaginary tear, “Patchy here is a friend of mine, I’d hate to see his head severed from his body.”

“I had a completely different punishment in mind,” Regar snapped. He pointed a meaty finger at Roden, “You’re an honorable man, can you respect the ancient law?”

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blow for blow.

The knights all looked to Roden; they’d fight to the death if he ordered them to. The Faola all stared, and Regar’s patched prisoner stole a glance.

His eyes carried a graveyard’s color.

Roden stood a little straighter, “I hold rank here. The Faola landed a blow, but the punishment for treason can only be sanctioned by the king.”

“Take the bastard’s mask off,” Ulspierre perched on a barrel. “That would put a fat target on his back.”

Regar threw the patched Faola to the floor, and drew his sword. The other Faola slid into a ring. Each one kept a sharp eye on Roden’s men.

The Faola held his hands over the back of his head, curling up like a child. A pang of almost guilt punched through Roden’s ribs. He remembered being the lost thief at the end of a sword, just hoping somebody had the compassion to bring him to the good path.

He’d watch Regar’s every move.

Treason didn’t merit dying in the Vaults like an animal.

“If you’d be so kind as to step out of the circle, captain,” Regar bowed, and drew a dagger from his belt.

“I’ll be watching, Regar.”

Ulspierre stood on his barrel, chalice in hand again, “Take the mask off, commander! Turn him over to the crown when you’re done!”

The Faola curled even further around himself as Ulspierre’s demands to unmask him grew louder and louder. Roden’s knights kept a firm gaze on as many masked men as they could; Roden never stopped watching Regar.

A fit of laughter erupted from the circle as the Faola made one last attempt to escape. He threw himself at the feet of his fellow bandits, only to be dragged back into the circle.

Roden frowned.

“I am not who they say I am, but I cannot let this grievance pass,” Regar announced, reversing his dagger grip. He took the Faola by the collar of his tunic. “You best be grateful I’m dealing with you, and not the king.”

If it weren’t for Ulspierre’s childish laugh ringing through the room, Roden was certain the judgement would’ve been made in silence. The Faola began jostling Roden’s knights, calling to unmask their fallen friend.

However, Regar had a different plan. His words were lost on the jeering crowd; Roden strained to hear.

His attempts were futile.

A million thoughts crossed Roden’s mind. He instantly regretted allowing Regar to hold that much power over a bandit. A bandit who likely wasn’t much older than some of the pages running around the castle.

It would be too easy for Regar to slit the Faola’s throat.

Something wet splashed Roden’s nose. He didn’t have to feel it to know what it was and who it had been intended for. Those who weren’t wearing their masks had taken to spitting on Regar’s victim.

He didn’t need to see the Faola’s face to know what he felt. The mask saved him from further humiliation.

Regar sliced through both of the Faola’s sleeves, and pushed him to the ground.

It was a simple motion that carried the weight of the sky. Regar hadn’t unmasked the Faola.

He’d separated him from the group.

Those sleeves would forever bear the mark of a disowned bandit. The patched Faola could never return to his family of thieves. Not here in Drylliad.

Exile was always a cruel fate, but it was better than facing charges for treason.

“I’ve taken what’s due,” Regar roared over the crowd. “So help me Saints, I run into you running with bandits again, I’ll-!”

His threat was lost as Ulspierre shouted an order. “Chase him down! Treat a stray the way they’re meant to be treated!”

The Faola struggled to keep his sleeves up as he crawled away from the spitting bandits. Crawling, with the dignity of a drowned mouse. He rolled away from a boot, only to be met with another. A metallic ring cut through the musty air; Regar was shoving several masked bandits. Ulspierre stood atop his barrel, twitching his finger to an imaginary tune.

A knight threw back his hand, knocking over a member of the mob.

Roden glanced back to the fallen Faola, who’d curled up around himself again.

He thought of Brat, Beetle, and Roach. They’d be dead if not for the Faola. It was a favor to somebody who’d once saved his life when faced with the scum of the Vaults.

“Hold the line!” Roden barked, swinging his sword at anything soft as he stepped over the Faola.

A masked bandit slashed a knife across Roden’s armored shoulder. The teeth-grinding sound of metal sliding across metal was becoming all too common. Ulspierre threw his chalice at one of the knights, and then flung himself into the fight.

The patched Faola had drawn a dagger, and was swiping at the mob from his place on the ground. Roden reached down, picked the Faola up by the neck of his tunic, and shoved him in Regar’s direction.

Jaron wouldn’t be happy reading Roden’s report on this misadventure.

He should’ve taken the Faola into custody and played by the rulebook.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Roden forced his way forwards, calling for his men to follow suit. Their armor would hold up long enough for an escape. All they needed to do was race back up the Vaults’ stairs and into daylight; they’d have better reinforcements then.

Regar tossed the Faola over his back, grabbed an attacking bandit with his other hand, and hurled the bandit into the crowd.

“Up the stairs!” Regar bellowed, now using a captured bandit as a human shield.

Planting his feet at the base of the stairs, Roden stared down the fury before him. He shoved armored soldiers up the stairway and kicked at the masked Faola who were trying to follow.

Battle was chaos, but there was still order. There was still a requirement that needed to be met; somebody needed to win.

There was no order in the Vaults, only Ulspierre giving orders between drunken laughs.

It was too much like the pirates. Too much like Devlin selecting who lived and who died because he was bored. Regar ducked below the stairway entrance, allowing the patched Faola to slide down his back like an eel.

Blood thrummed in Roden’s ears, roaring over the sounds of fists hitting faces. His gauntlets pinched his skin as he tightened his grip on his sword.

He had the power to end it. To end the madness in this level of the Vaults.

He could slice his way down, taking as many mad bandits down with him as he could.

Roden braced himself to charge forward, reason fleeing from his mind. It was peaceful without that call to logic. Without that drive to continue.

All he knew was that he had the strength to-

A pair of gloved hands slipped below his breastplate, dragging him back. The Faola continued yanking him up the stairs, yelling something down to him. Roden turned on his heels, took the Faola by his skinny upper arm, and dashed out of the Vaults.

The Faola slapped at Roden’s hands as they burst out of the dark stairway. Knights, soldiers, and mercenaries surrounded the stairway entrance with weapons at the ready. The patched Faola froze.

“Commander Regar, Captain Harlowe,” Lord Row waved his hand. Beside him sat King Oberson, who looked like he was going to be sick.

Regar stole a glance at the Faola, who nodded.

Roden knew he was seeing a secret conversation. He moved to put his sword to the Faola’s throat, but at the same time, Regar stumbled forward and latched onto Roden’s shoulder.

“Let me go!” Roden shouted over the clatter of his armor. He wasn’t a fool, he knew- he-

“Apologies, Captain Harlowe!” Regar burst, almost pulling Roden to the ground as he reached for Roden’s hand.

All he saw were fragments of an image. Regar was a mountain of a man, and he’d dragged down several knights with him. The Faola had been hiding behind him. His patched cloak fluttered in the dusk breeze.

The Faola had vanished into the Vaults by the time Roden regained his footing, likely to never be seen again.

“What in the Devils’ name was that!?” Roden roared, red seeping at the corner of his vision. “How did you let him go!?”

Punishment had been served, yes, but letting go of a man who’d committed treason wasn’t an easy mistake to make up for.

Regar coughed, “Don’t yell at me, boy.”

Boy? Boy?

He’d heard it over and over. Older soldiers claiming they didn’t have to listen to Roden because sometimes he cut himself while shaving. Claiming they’d seen it all.

He’d lost a bandit who’d overpowered the king with a swift kick to the leg.

Roden had failed at protecting Jaron, and though he’d survive, future attackers wouldn’t be so kind.

Unfortunately for Regar, Roden had enough.

“Alistair!” Roden barked, his voice taking a sharp edge. “You will accompany Commander Regar to the dungeons on allegations of treason, his fate will be decided by the king.”

Row looked shocked, “Captain-!”

“You others, escort Lord Row and King Oberson to safety,” Roden continued over Row’s complaints. “There’s a dangerous man looking for blood.”

A group of knights on horses hit their fists over their hearts, and circled around Oberson and Row. Alistair and his men were almost a little too relaxed as they guided Regar through the crowd.

The rest of the soldiers were under strict orders to search for the Faola with torn sleeves.

However, Roden was no fool. He knew the bandit was long gone.

He was tired.

The goose chase would keep him free to find more pleasurable entanglements for a few hours.

Too much responsibility, not enough results.

--------------------------------------------------

The dancing crowd crammed into the Dragon’s Keep was too enticing. People piled in, and the brash sound of pipes and a lute careened through the air. A familiar dark coat pushed into the crowd.

So, Tobias wasn’t able to keep still either.

Roden watched him shove his way through the doors. A part of him knew he needed to stand beside Tobias and keep him from getting his teeth knocked out. A part of him knew he needed to return to the castle and explain how he’d lost the Faola.

But he didn’t move.

His armor, though abandoned at the nearest garrison, still weighed down his arms. Still clung to his shoulders. He’d failed at keeping Jaron safe, and now he was willingly letting Tobias walk into a tavern filled to the brim with all sorts of people.

No, no, Roden couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Tobias try to blend in and end up crying over a limping frog.

There were too many things to worry about. He stepped forward, forcing himself to continue moving despite wanting to stay still. For Tobias, for Tobias.

Can’t let him get his eye blackened. Can’t-

Cool fingers tucked over the lip of his breastplate, freezing against his burning skin. Roden scowled at the immovable figure before him as best as he could. A splash of blue kept her curls off her neck; he’d cut that scarf himself.

“I didn’t realize my biting wit hurt you to the point of staying away from the Dragon’s Keep,” Merry wrinkled her nose. The left side of her face was covered in red welts.

“Merry, I didn’t-,” he began, freezing in his tracks.

She shook her head, and held up a basket, “It’s alright, I was actually coming to see you. You missed out on tarts the last few days. I, ah, I heard about what happened in the Vaults. Regar’s men are loud drunks.”

His ears burned. He hadn’t realized word of his failure escaped that quickly, “Tobias went in, I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Bad idea, you might be prepared for a battle, but Regar’s men won’t play fair,” Merry tucked her basket in the crook of her arm. “Come on, I had every intention of walking across the city, now you get to come with me.”

Her hand pressed against the small of his back.

“Stop pushing, I’m not your ward,” Roden grunted, and he draped his arm over her shoulders.

“Ah, but I am your friend,” she corrected.

Friend.

There was an unspoken agreement Roden shared with Merry. It came in the form of sharing tarts and poorly made scarves. It came in the form of stopping by every few days to make sure the other hadn’t gotten their head stuck between stair railing again.

In reality, the head sticking incident had been completely Merry’s fault, but if it happened once, it was all too likely that it would happen again.

“Who hit you?” asked Roden as he slipped the basket off of Merry’s arm and into his hand.

She cracked a smile, “So my face is still there, glad to hear that.”

Roden frowned, ready to ask again. He steered her out of the path of an older woman and her several escorts. “I’ll hold you down till you tell me.”

“Nobody hit me, I promise.”

“I’m not an idiot, Merry.”

“It’s embarrassing!” She threw her hands up. “I slept in this morning and today’s fish day, and the other barmaids got to run their errands, but I had to get the nasty crawfish from the river. They were trying to escape and I didn’t want them to pinch me, which made me run into a door frame. Is that what you want to know? Do you like embarrassing me?”

“Is the doorframe injured? I know how hard your head is.”

She stuck out her tongue, “I’d rather have a fat head than cabbage curls like you.”

Hold on, hold on. Roden tilted his head from side to side, unable to ignore the harsh reality of his shortcomings. He’d let the Faola get away because he’d foolishly trusted Regar, and now Regar was holed up in a dungeon for choosing to exile the Faola rather than slit his throat.

It was wrong to fight the smile swelling in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel at ease.

Ease was for those who didn’t have an obligation to put the lives of others in front of their own.

The hand at the base of his spine tightened. “Captain?”

“Yes, Murry?”

“It’s Merry,” her frown was too deep to be genuine.

“Murky?”

“Merry!”

“Mucky!?” Roden rolled his shoulders back. “I could’ve sworn it was Merry, why didn’t you tell me I was saying it wrong?”

“Roden! We’re not children!”

“You started it,” he countered. “Mucky.”

Her fist was too small to do any damage, but Roden appreciated that she’d thought her punch could overpower him. He hid his chuckle with a cough.

This was wrong. She was a friend, not a distraction. He was avoiding the inevitable. Avoiding telling Jaron that the Faola had been too slippery, and had gotten away. His head was throbbing.

Why did she have to look at him? Turn away Merry, nothing to see here!

He was a fool to have left his armor at the garrison. It wasn’t fair, he’d forgotten to bring his mask and helmet today. Roden scowled at the stray cat that dashed across the street. It slipped across the wet stones, and vanished from view.

The Saints cursed him in making him the size of a bear. Bears couldn’t run and hide.

“Did you know you’re much more likely to catch a friar’s lantern in Carthya than in any other place?” The warmth of Merry’s hand at his back vanished; she was beckoning to him, asking him to cross the street and look at the Roving River below.

Roden stared at her extended hand.

It was an invitation, not an order. He caught himself reaching forward and drew back into himself. “I don’t- I don’t know what that is.”

Her hand stayed, still inviting. “It’s a golden light, swinging in the wind. They’re elusive, some say they’re carried by Death himself. He loves his games, as you know, and takes the form of a friar.

“He calls you through a haze, promising your deepest desires. Ones you didn’t know you had yourself. If you can follow him and catch the lantern, you’ve won the game and won the reward. But nobody believes you. The friar’s lantern takes and takes, it’s hard to consider it ever giving.”

Take her hand. She’s a friend, not a hidden Faola hoping to cut off an arm. Roden reached out again.

Lights danced across the bridge’s wet stones, mimicking their partners glinting off of the Roving River’s bubbling surface.

Merry’s little tale hid too much; the friar’s lantern was an unreachable thing to those who couldn’t soldier through twisting games made of mist.

She twirled towards him the second their fingers brushed together. Roden set the basket of pastries down, and set his hand at her back. The moon would be their music.

“What’s your lantern, Lion Boy?”

“Is it wrong if I don’t know?” Roden felt his brows knit together. “I don’t know if I have a lantern. What’s yours?”

A wicked smile cut across her impish face, “I’d be drawn and quartered before anyone knew my lantern.”

“It’s that serious?”

“You wouldn’t quite understand.”

“Try me.”

Merry only shook her head, there’d be no answer tonight. Did he even want to know what her lantern was?

He watched her struggle to maintain eye contact. Merry’s hand in his was too tense, too afraid of being caged. She stepped forward as he stepped back. Step to the side, step forward. Side, back, side, forward. Squeeze in a cowardly turn.

“I don’t want to be held back,” Merry blurted. “I’m not anybody’s toy. I’m not a pawn.”

“You’re not a toy.”

Had the moment been wild and open, Roden would’ve called for Mott to watch. He’d seen Mott turn Jaron’s words around too many times, and now Roden was doing the same.

Silence hung on the summer air a little too long. Roden cracked a smug grin, “You’re my friend, Merry. I’d rather push you forward than hold you back.”

It was Merry’s fault that their timid dance ended. She threw her arms around Roden’s neck, nearly knocking him off balance. They were friends. There was nothing wrong with embracing her back.

“You’re a good person. Too good,” she wiped her nose. “But your ankles are too small and now I’m uncomfortable. Good people can’t have small ankles.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, and rocked from side to side. Avoiding the bear in the room was a skill Roden had perfected. He knew when other people used it too. Unfortunately, Merry wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

“And I take it you have tree trunk ankles?” Roden leaned against the bridge wall, a little more aware of the night breeze than before.

“Do you want to see?”

Comparing ankles wasn’t exactly what Roden expected out of his night. He reached forward, and pinched Merry’s round cheek, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to say no.”

“Is it because your ankles are too small?” Merry swatted at his hand.

“That’s too much of a secret to tell.”

“Ah, I figured out my lantern.”

“Don’t tell me it’s to see-“

“It’s to see your ankles.”

“By the Saints,” Roden snatched Merry’s elbows and pulled her closer to him. “You need to see a priest.”

Merry clasped her hands together and looked to the sky, “Holy ancestors, forgive my lust for Captain Roden Harlowe’s needle thin ankles.”

It was too hard not to crack a smile. Roden shook his head; he knew fully well that his ankles were at least twice the size of Merry’s. She held onto his forearms, and Roden wondered if she was seriously considering forcing both of them over the bridge’s edge.

His fool’s paradise shattered when Merry’s thumb brushed over the pirate brand on his arm. Though the fabric of his shirt hid it from view, it was impossible to miss when touched. Merry’s eyes went wide.

Was this the way he looked when he’d touched the scar on her shoulder?

Roden straightened, unsure of what to say. Fire burned across his face. The pirate brand served as a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen. It was a testament to the lengths he was willing to go when he cared enough.

“I think I was wrong about you,” Merry trailed her finger over the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you would understand the stories I have to tell.”

It was then that he realized just how old Merry’s eyes were when she wasn’t sparkling with laughter. A weary traveler, constantly fleeing an enemy.

Or perhaps constantly tracking a friar’s lantern.

“The scar on your shoulder,” Roden murmured.

She shrugged, “I didn’t lie when I said I earned that one from rock hopping.”

“You said there were others.”

He’d never seen such a bitter smile. Merry waved her hand, “It’s not important.”

Kind words weren’t something Roden knew well for a very long time. He’d known curses and cruelty for too long, but he’d been taught tenderness. Taught by Harlowe and Nila.

Roden tugged on one of Merry’s stray curls, “It’s important to me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t speak to you?” He tilted his head. “I like you. Are you going to shove me off a bridge, Mucky?”

Merry pinched his chin, “No, I’ll do something much worse than that.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“But you should be.”

Roden lunged forward, catching Merry by the waist to toss her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest.

Carrying her on his shoulder was better than searching those travel-worn smiles and false laughing eyes for answers that would never be given freely. He didn’t want her to know that she held too much power over him.

He’d managed to let go of his failure with the Faola for just a moment.

A moment filled with ghostly lanterns and a moon dance.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 69

Obligatory pun - Nice.

Now that I have that out of my system and can therefore stop making horridly adolescent puns about it, this really is a pretty important chapter.  We finally see what is going to become of Else!

This is also a particularly long chapter - 4500 words, probably my longest to date.  Happy Insert Winter Holiday, Everyone!

I seriously considered splitting it (you can probably figure out where the break would be), but cooler heads prevailed (namely, @satan-parisienne, my beloved beta/sister/IRL!Tyche, and @baelpenrose, my constant source of mutual squeeing).

This is being queued up on December 23, to post on December 24.  I still hope to have a chapter to post next week, especially since what I have is so thematically appropriate for the date ;)

After Grey’s revelation of our timetable, the Council decided that negotiations with Else would take place within twenty-four hours.  To his credit, Eino promised to deliver the lexicon, but admitted that there would not be time for the precisely worded questions to be drafted and approved.  Since we also didn’t have time for Grey to locate another person who had spoken directly with Else, the questions were ultimately unnecessary – I had been making up questions on the fly for Else to this point, so I had no problem continuing to do so.

Once Xiomara closed the channel on our end, I tried to stand.  Almost immediately, my traitorous knees objected and I was only saved from hitting the floor by Xio’s quick reflexes.  “You’ve been on bed rest for the last three weeks, take it slow, dumbass,” she grumbled.

I forced myself into a standing position, propped up on the bed. “I have to talk to Conor and Maverick, and I’m sick of seeing the inside of this bay. Either get me the closest thing we have to a wheelchair, or I’m going to crawl to my quarters.”

“You do realize that even the Ark has backless hospital gowns? Everyone on the Ark would see you practically naked.”

I grabbed her shirt, and my pride was mollified when she leaned forward and gave me the illusion that I pulled her down. “Either get me a moving chair, or I will crawl down the corridor. Naked.”

With a barely-suppressed chuckle, she helped me into some clothes and onto a transport in the corridor. “While we are on our way, I’ll go ahead and give you the rundown of everyone you are going to ask about.  Derek and Sam came out of everything mostly unscathed.  They’re a little more jittery than usual, but that’s honestly to be expected.  Alistair is grumpy as hell from being flat on his back for so long, but once he was notified you were awake, he limited his bitching to the sheets, the mattress, and the lack of exercise.  Charly is awake and alert, but tired and nervous… dropping by to see her would probably be a good idea, honestly.  Grandma Kim is Grandma Kim and taking everything in stride.  Zach is completely undaunted and unimpressed.”

The slouch I had been suppressing made itself apparent in the wake of my relief. “So, everyone is okay?”

“Well, Hannah and Thor are still asleep, but they’ve been upgraded from comatose to just ‘asleep’.  Nixe is breathing on her own, the new lungs are working fine.”

My breath left my body suddenly. “No brain-damage?”

“Not comparatively, no.”

Good. Allowing myself to take in the condition of the real Ark, several things caught my eye. “Xio….”

She grinned and shook her head, locks flying. “Ah. You saw the trees.” I nodded dumbly, speechless. “As soon as they were approved to get out of bed, Derek and Sam started pestering Conor to start setting up the trees for Insert Winter Holiday.  Apparently, they were behind schedule, and Derek was very upset about that.”

“And they’re already done?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “They just started yesterday.   Even with both of your boyfriends helping, they still have at least two more days to finish.”

“They’re already decorated,” I murmured.

“Sam was bored while he was on bed rest,” she shrugged. “So there are a lot of really intricate bows to put on all the trees.”

“Awesome,” I gushed enthusiastically. “I love trees that are over-decorated.” When she quirked an eyebrow at me, I rushed to reassure her. “No, I’m serious. The more heavily decorated the better. I know not all cultures do trees for winter holidays, but if there are trees, I love seeing them absolutely covered.” Truth be told, the decorations were helping dismiss some of the melancholy that came from knowing that I almost missed Insert Winter Holiday in everything that was going on. I shook my head to clear the thoughts. “So, I’m going to guess the trees are the reason we are most certainly not headed toward my quarters.”

With a blinding grin, she shook her head. “Nope. They should be somewhere on Level Eleven. That’s where we’re going.”

Soon enough, we stumbled upon an energetic argument between Maverick and Derek. “But this side looks nicer!”

“That’s not how it was placed last year.  The same side should show. That’s why Sam put more bows on the correct side.”

“How can you even tell!?”

Conor was standing back, smiling like he was watching the cutest thing he had ever seen.  When he glanced up and saw me, the smile vanished and he promptly reached between them to point in my direction. “Looks like our girl is up and around.”

Astonishingly, Derek beat them both to me and reached to tap my hand three times in succession, dropping his hand to his side each time.  My heart swelled with emotion, realizing that he essentially just gave me a bone-crushing hug. “Yeah, I’m okay, Derek. Just tired and a little weak.”

I braced myself for a much more physical greeting, but was saved when Conor and Maverick stopped dead in their tracks and backed up slightly.  In their rush to make sure I was okay, it looked like they tripped the proximity alert in Derek’s implant. “Did you do that on purpose?” I asked in hushed tones.

Without looking up, Derek flashed me a knocking gesture, positioned between his body and mine so the other two couldn’t see it. “They get carried away, and if you didn’t walk down here, they may hurt you by accident.” A brief pause. “Besides, they were in quarantine with you. I haven’t seen you since you brought me your blanket.”

“I missed you, too.  And Sam. Looks like he was busy, by the way.”

“You have no idea. Zach was practically buried under Sam’s bows. I got lucky. Mac kept trying to play with them and accidentally tore one to pieces. After that, Sam stopped piling them on my bed.”

“If you see him before I do, let him know the bows are beautiful.”

“Duh. Sam makes the best bows. But I’ll tell him you said that.” With that, he stepped around to the other side of the transport so my partners could approach, with a warning to them about being gentle and not breaking me.  Xiomara was practically vibrating in her seat from suppressed laughter at this point.

“Hey, you two,” I said softly as they gently checked me over before giving a very restrained double-hug. I took a moment to just breathe them in before breaking the news. “Trees look great – are there more this year?”

Conor nodded, shoving a hand through his shaggy hair. “We started cultivating them last year, so they would all be about the same size.  As soon as we were given permission to get up and about, I figured everyone could use the cheer.”

With a heavy sigh, I nodded my head. “You know how I feel about throwing food at people to help recover from a crisis.”

Maverick nodded solemnly. “But, last year when Insert Winter Holiday happened, there wasn’t a crisis, was there?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Xiomara beat me to it. “No, there really wasn’t, unless you count all of us being abducted for our own good.  Which makes this more a need to feel normal than anything else.”

“That was kind of the point last year,” I grumbled.

“And it worked,” she reassured me. “Just like it will work this year.” With that, she issued a very pointed look, silently reminding me why we were here.

Taking a deep breath, I turned back to Conor and Maverick.  “The reason everyone feels better is because Else is dying.”  Both of the looked confused, so I clarified. “They are killing themselves in an effort to stop hurting us.  They aren’t eating, and they aren’t spreading.  If something doesn’t change, they’ll be extinct in less than two weeks.”

“This is bad,” Maverick stated uncertainly, looking between the rest of us for confirmation.

“It is,” I nodded. “Because they are sentient species, we can’t just let them die off without trying to help. And,” I held up a hand to prevent the inevitable questions and objections, “I don’t mean just letting them go back to making us sick.  Xio and I talked to the Council, there are two solid options on the table as far as relocation – a dying planet or a nebula. The trick is, Else has to agree to whatever is decided.”

“And if they don’t?” Conor asked in the calm tone he always used when he knew he didn’t have all the information.

“If they don’t agree to anything, and keep dying off, we think there is a chance that they will drop below some kind of threshold for sapience.  In that event, it’s mostly likely that they would forget to restrain themselves, start multiplying and spreading again.”

“So, they would dip below sentience and pop back up?” Conor tilted his head skeptically. “I’m not getting something.  Usually, the plants I cultivate don’t end up with feelings and the impulse control of toddler.”

“To begin with, we don’t know how sick we got before they developed that level of intelligence,” I pointed out. “Second… if they do evolve back into sentient status, there is no guarantee they would be the same – version, for lack of a better term.  Different neural connections are what give us our own personalities… this Else wants to help us. What if the next one doesn’t? Worse, what if it wants to actively hurt us due to some primordial memory?”

“Better the devil you know,” Maverick murmured.

I sagged in resignation at what I had to tell them next. “Pretty much.  Which means humanity needs to negotiate with Else to figure out a solution both sides can live with.” Closing my eyes as tightly as possible, I braced for the torrent of words that would inevitably come.

Instead, I got two beats of silence and Maverick speaking softly. “Is there anyone who can do this instead? Anyone at all?”

“Not that Grey has been able to locate,” Xiomara responded over my shoulder as I cracked an eyelid.

What I saw was a clearly upset Conor biting his lips and holding Maverick’s hand, which was resting on the taller man’s bicep.  “Conor?” I asked slowly. “Are you angry?”

He took two deep breaths before answering. “Yeah,” he finally sighed, tension dropping from his body. “But at the situation, which I can’t do anything about.” Gently, he put both his hands on my shoulders and rubbed my arms lightly. “How soon does this need to be done? Is there more time to find someone who isn’t you?”

“No one knows at what point Else will basically devolve into just another bacterial infection,” I admitted. “So, we want to do this as soon as possible, and regardless of the option chosen, as soon as an agreement is reached, they’ll be placed in coldsleep in the interim to prevent further degradation of us or them.”

“You’re being cagey.” Both he and Maverick pinned me with very pointed looks. “That’s never a good sign.”

“No more than twenty-four hours.”

More deep breaths as he stepped away, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his neck as he paced in a small circle.  “That should be enough time to get the rest of the trees up, as long as we just let Derek call the shots on placement. Mav, can you manage to do that?”

He shuddered. “I may need to just find something else to do.   I can only handle so much.”

Conor nodded. “Right then.  You keep our bonnie lass company while they get her ready, let me know when they plan to start. I’ll be there, even if I have to tell Zach and Derek to just – I dunno, space the damned trees out an airlock.”

“Conor, you don’t – “

Two long strides and he was back in front of me, stroking my hair. “Love. I’ve mucked up in a big way lately, letting myself be too afraid and not being there like I should be.  ‘S not fair to you, ‘s not fair to Mav being pulled like that.  I understand if you don’t want me in there, with the way I’ve been acting, but otherwise? I’ll be parked by your berth til we land this lady on the colony if I have to be.”

With a sniffle, I nodded my head silently. Xiomara was not as convinced. “Conor, if you lash out one more time, I will take you into custody, do you understand?  I could not believe that you raised your voice the way you did before – you are one of the kindest people I know.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He managed to sound only slightly embarrassed by his previous behavior.

Wiping my eyes, I straightened the best I could. “Okay. I need to head back to the med bay – I’m exhausted. Maverick, ride back with me?”

“You got it, Sophie.” With that, he hopped in behind me in the transport

Twelve hours and a nap later, I was in my all-too-familiar berth in medical, being hooked up to an infusion drip for medication.  By grace alone, there was no need to hook me up to any wires like there would have been on Earth – they could monitor my brain and cardiac activity with scans instead.  “No sedation if I get mad again, okay?” I demanded sternly. “I need to be clear-headed for this.”

“I make no promises,” Grey replied in a very similar tone to when they observed that my plants had grown. “If your heart rate becomes dangerous, or you show signs of an anxiety or panic attack, I will sedate you for your own sake.”

Ugh. Grey was back to being logical. “Can I at least request the minimum effective dose, nothing more?”

One dark eyebrow arched. You are on thin ice, it screamed. “That is acceptable, provided it does not endanger your health.”

Before I could do more than scowl, the door hissed open to reveal a daunting number of people. In addition to the entire Council, I saw Tyche, Antoine, Alistair of all people, Zach and Derek.  Bringing up the rear was Conor, who quickly darted over to my far side, beside Maverick.  Tyche and Antoine took up their now-usual positions on my other side, with my sister’s grey eyes colder than I had ever seen them, daring the Council to try to make her move.

They better have Archimedes’s lever if they plan to try that, I mused. Gently resting a hand on her arm in solidarity, I turned to face the breathless man who just sat on my opposite side. “You made it,” I whispered.

“Told ya I would,” he grinned. “Can’t abandon you and Mav to do this alone.” He glanced up and his brows instantly furrowed. “Why’s the Council here?”

Maverick tackled that one, having been present for the initial explanation. “In case any solutions are suggested by Else that weren’t already covered by the Council, but have merit.”

“Okay… How’re they supposed to know what is discussed, exactly? Noah can only get vague hints, can’t they?”

Grimacing, I rocked my head side to side in hesitancy. “Yes and no? They know the lyrics to songs that are stuck in my head, sometimes.  Or at least understand the concepts enough to make it seem like he does.  We are going to try having me stop and repeat, slowly and emphatically, what Else is suggesting if they go off script.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ve – I may have been given executive authority in an emergency,” I admitted.

Conor whistled through his teeth. “Sophie. That’s – that’s a lot of pressure.”

“No shit,” I muttered before turning to everyone else standing in the room. “Okay, is this my entire watch party, or are we still waiting?”

Simon spoke up – he was getting better at that. “This is everyone. And a few extras, but I am not going to be the one arguing with your family, especially since the majority agreed to stay out of your way.” He coughed and rubbed his neck before explaining the obvious exceptions. “Tyche and Antoine are claiming official capacity.”

My sister held her head high, chin out – if there was an encyclopedia entry for not gonna budge, that profile was probably the photo next to it.  “Should something happen, the responsibility would fall on me to identify candidates for her replacement to suggest to the Council. Since I would rather not, I am staying to observe and ensure it doesn’t come to that.”

Before Antoine could do more than straighten his spine, Grey spoke up. “Mr. Costa is a medical professional, and I have requested him be present, in that capacity, for this procedure.”

Eino attempted a token argument. “Councillor Hodenson, you are a doctor. Can you not – “

“I have a doctorate. Three, actually: biochemistry, genetics, and molecular chemistry.  None of that replaces practical training, which Mr. Costa possesses and I do not.”

The educator’s hands went up, mollified. “I stand corrected. Objection withdrawn.”

“Okay, can we please get on with this before I have fourth thoughts?” Second and third were out the window at this point – I had been lying in the berth with nothing else to do but worry for nine hours at this point.

“Any further objections or inquiries from the Council before we proceed?” Grey asked drily.  When only silence followed, they nodded. “Per my reports, Else can currently only communicate when a person is in a REM state. Our previous attempt involved Sophia being lucid during this process, to great effect.  However, I believe that her complete immobility is what caused the difficulty in relaying information back to Miys.  I have adjusted the medication to allow for voluntary muscle control in order to allow her to hopefully subvocalize while relaying information, as this has shown to provide accurate communication with Miys.  Sophia is already aware, but to ensure there are no surprises, a spinal block will be placed in order to limit motion to head and jaw. This is only to prevent flailing and potential injury to Sophia.”

Tyche and Conor both turned toward me with wide-eyed stares. I just nodded. “We’ve tested it a couple times to make sure I could still talk.  It’s the same way Noah kept me from hurting myself further when I came aboard, originally.” Unspoken was the fact that being held down freaked me the fuck out, whereas I had found the spinal block did not do the same thing when I knew to expect it.  In theory, dream-me would never notice the difference.

Grey continued. “Miys will begin transmitting Eino’s lexicon into Sophia’s lingual implant.  Sophia, please recite the lexicon once it starts transmitting.  This will allow us to monitor communication, both from us to your implant and from you to Miys.” They looked around the room. “It is essential that no one speak unless absolutely essential that they do so.  Sophia will perceive this as being whispered, and it is imperative that she hear the lexicon accurately.”

“I love you,” I whispered to the four sitting around my bed, before I started reciting a list of words.  True to Eino’s promise, his team had put together a much more concise recording, one which looped back to the beginning.  Within thirty minutes, I had completed the entire list twice: once completely out loud, once seeming to trail off as the sedation took effect. The spinal block gave a similar sensation to being weighed down by a heavy blanket, making it more therapeutic than nerve-wracking, and only encouraging the sedatives.  When I stopped speaking aloud, Grey nodded to confirm that I was still subvocalizing effectively.  Not long after that, my eyes drifted closed.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing in the familiar dream-Ark, still reciting the lexicon. So far, so good. I wanted badly to call out and check on Else, but determinedly stuck to the script.  Tears of concern flowed down my cheeks as I completed repetition after repetition. Were we too late? Was the threshold closer than we expected?

Threshold. Late threshold.

“Else!” I cried in relief. “Are we too late?”

Threshold further.

“The threshold is further away? Is that what you mean?”

We mean threshold further away.

Belatedly, I remembered I needed to supplement the lexicon with my questions. “That would be a yes. Thank goodness.  I was worried you would be – no longer here.”

We are here.

“We know what you are doing.  You don’t have to kill yourself. We don’t want you to go extinct. We want you to live, just like you want us to survive. I’ve been sent to discuss options. Most likely relocation, like we talked about before.”

We do want you to live. What are the options?

There we go. Much more coherent.  I sat cross-legged on the floor, craning my neck around. “Is there any chance you can try to… manifest or create something for me to look at? I keep trying to see you, just out of habit, and it would be easier if I had something specific to look at.”

I will try.

Slowly, a fuzzy yellow blob came into focus on the floor in front of me. It was about the size I associated with a corgi, but bright yellow.  I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my face as it slowly drew on grass-green eyes and too many stubby appendages.

Else looked – cute, for lack of a better term.  Like an oversized, fuzzy, cartoon caterpillar

“That works,” I laughed.

I tried to manifest as non-threatening as possible.

“I think you nailed it.” I couldn’t help wondering if this was what Else would look like as a larger being. One could only hope. “The people on my ship have asked me to negotiate with you.  They are monitoring the best they can what I am saying, but there are going to be times that I need to repeat something to be absolutely sure. When that happens, I am going to do this – “ I touched my ear with my hand. “That way it is clear – to me – that I am repeating it for my shipmates, okay?”

Okay.

Still going well.  “Like I said earlier, we know you have stopped feeding, and stopped reproducing.  There is a serious chance that you won’t be sentient anymore… you won’t be you.”

I don’t want to hurt anyone.

“But… Else. If you stop being you, you won’t remember that you don’t want to hurt anyone.  What is the first thing you remember?”

Hungry.

“Exactly,” I pointed out. “You’ll just be hungry, again.  We want you to stay who you are now – intelligent, with feelings, and able to communicate with us.  And we hope to help you with that.”

Help how.

“Well, you and I already talked last time about taking you to a nebula, or to an iron rich planet with no atmosphere.  We can even place beacons to let others know you live there, so maybe a species who doesn’t depend on iron to survive can find you.”

We really like humans.

I sighed. Of course they did. “The problem there is that we need the iron you eat so that we can function properly, just like you need it.  Even if you die faster without it, we can still die without constant transfusions.” I focused on what it was like being in medical, sick and scared, connected around the clock to a machine that basically fed Else. “Humans cannot thrive like that. But you can thrive without us.”

I was one-third my current population when I realized I was hungry.

That stopped me dead in my tracks. “Wait. Did you just tell me the threshold for you to be sapient?”

Yes.

Breathless, I reached up to touch my ear and focused as hard as I could. “Whoever is speaking in fractions out there, I owe you dinner.” I repeated it several times in a whisper, praying it made it through clearly. Finally, I turned back to Else.  “The information you just gave us creates more options, Else.  We can ensure you survive.” I stood and started pacing around the now-wiggling caterpillar.  “If we remove you from our bodies, can you survive in a culture?”

Yes. There are several of me in cultures now.

Right.  Grey’s tests. “If we removed you, placed you in cultures, would you promise to stay in the cultures and start reproducing again?”

I can, yes.

“Next step: Half of you in a nebula, to guarantee you would survive, and half on a planet?  You could potentially be like Miys, and develop more individuals of your species without risking your sentience.”

Thirds.

“Not thirds, halves.” It seemed confused by the change in fractions.

Nebula, planet, Ark. Thirds.

Not as confused as I thought, apparently. “You want us to keep part of you on the Ark!?” I asked incredulously.

All options. One-third of me in a nebula, ensure survival.  One-third on a planet, meet a new species.  One-third on Ark, in culture, stay with humans. Absurdly, it wiggled even more, as though excited at the idea.

I repeated the proposal back to the Council and Miys, again praying they heard me.  After several minutes of hoping in vain, I received nothing.  Knowing that much more time was passing for them, if I hadn’t had a response by now, it wasn’t coming.

“I need to think this through,” I said aloud. “The Council agreed to taking you to a nebula OR a barren world… surely they would agree to both of those, no problem…. But they didn’t agree to you staying on the Ark, except in coldsleep.” I changed direction and paced clockwise this time.  “They – we – also had no idea that you would be willing to stay in a culture, like some fish in an aquarium.”

Aquarium. I like that. Can I stay in an aquarium instead?

“On the scale we are talking, it’s basically the same thing, but please don’t push your luck,” I scowled at the wide-eyed caterpillar.  That thing was just too fucking cute, which was decidedly not helping me.

Executive authority. Executive authority.  I had the power to make this decision, but probably because they knew I would agonize over it. With a groan, I stopped in my tracks. “Else, if we let part of you stay on the ship, we need a guarantee of good behavior.  Meaning, if you infect us again, you have to agree that we are taking that entire third of you to the nearest nebula or planet. Do you understand that?”

The caterpillar fucking bounced, like it was happy. Yes, I understand. And I agree to those terms.

I was going to regret this. I just knew it. Huge mistake.

“Welcome to the Ark, Else.”

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[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Kait!

You have been accepted for the role of ANNALISE FAWLEY! We loved your thoughts on the very Hufflepuff nature of Annalise’s loyalty-fueled treachery and all the details you gave of her “normal” life before she lost her sister, and can’t wait to see all the trouble she’s going to cause for the Order. We’re so excited to have you join us!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME & PRONOUNS: Kait, she/hers

AGE: 25+

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m returning to in-person work after 3+ months of WFH, so I can’t say with absolute certainty what my activity will be, but I’ll definitely be able to post every couple of days at least!

ANYTHING ELSE: No triggers. I have a bit of rp experience, in a similarly character-focused, literate marauders rp.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Annalise Fawley

AGE: 23

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: female, she/hers, identifies as straight

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Hufflepuff

ANY CHANGES: Nope!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Everyone knows Annalise—she’s one of the many Fawley cousins, a cheerful former Hufflepuff, a familiar face at pureblood soirees. But not all that many people really know her. Very few know that she’s good at sketching but definitely can’t paint. Or that she’s an excellent liar, even if she almost never uses that skill. That she often feels shy when she has to meet new people. That she doesn’t have a temper, but she does hold grudges like nobody’s business.

A relatively private person, Annalise has always been content to live a simple life, compared to many other pureblood women. She’s happy with her flat and her job and her friends. She adores her sprawling family— anywhere she turns, she can find a familiar face. And she delights in the social whirl of pureblood society— the beautiful dresses and jewels, the gossip, the parties. The fact that she’s never at the centre of that whirlwind is perfectly fine with her.

A sociable extrovert with a touch of shyness, Annalise craves interaction but isn’t always great at making new acquaintances, and her shyness can sometimes make her seem standoffish to strangers. She’s certainly capable of saying the right things—her mother raised her well and she can handle whatever social situations she needs to—you can’t survive long in pureblood society if you don’t know how to hide your thoughts and say the right words. But Annalise has always been most comfortable around people she knows well. And there’s no one closer or more important than family.

While at Hogwarts, Annalise had been sorted into Hufflepuff house, and it had been an absolutely perfect fit. She has always been patient and hard-working; though far from a prodigy in any of her classes, she managed to earn consistently good grades simply by putting the time and the work in applying herself. This has continued into her adult life. Not coming from money, she has worked since finishing school, and even though she’s jumped jobs a few times as she tries to figure out what she wants to do, she’s never had a bad word from an employer.

And of course, loyalty. The Fawleys as a whole tended to value loyalty, especially to family, and Anna was no exception. She never snitched on her sister for stealing a cookie when they were little, never dated a friend’s ex, and she’s always said that she would kill for her family. It had been meant as a figure of speech… but, well…

These traits are the sort that normally define people from her house as cut-and-dry good; there’s a reason Hufflepuff boasts the fewest dark witches and wizards of any house, after all. But after Leina’s death, every one of those values honed in on finding justice for her sister. Annalise has always believed that those in the wrong should be punished, and since she obviously can’t rely on the Ministry to avenge her sister’s death, there was only one choice: become a Death Eater, and make those responsible pay.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Annalise Fawley was the younger of two daughters. Or, she is the younger. She’s not quite sure. Are you still a younger sister, if the elder has died?

Leina Nott, nee Fawley, had been a year older than Annalise, but when they were small they’d always claimed they were twins. Though there was a difference in height, they had looked similar enough that a stranger probably would have believed them. But more than in appearance, they were as close as twins. The age difference was near enough that Leina didn’t remember a time when Anna hadn’t been around, and when they weren’t visiting the many Fawley cousins scattered around the country, they mainly had each other for company.

The sisters grew apart somewhat as they grew older; Leina having had a year’s head start at Hogwarts, and Annalise being sorted into a different house, meant they didn’t spend quite as much time together as they once had. But they were still close, even if they disagreed at times. Not very long after finishing Hogwarts, Leina became engaged to Josiah Nott. Annalise never quite understood her sister’s decision to marry him; yes, he was wealthy and well-connected, but he wasn’t exactly likeable—not to mention he was so much older than them! But Leina seemed happy enough, and even more so after her son Theodore was born.

The match had been quite a coup for Leina; though the Fawleys were a perfectly respectable family, part of the Sacred 28, and automatic invitees to all the best parties, they weren’t from money. Their branch of the Fawley family tree was one of the less important ones—Annalise’s father Alistair had been the younger son of a younger son several times over, so they’d never had the opulent wealth of many of their peers. But they’d never quite lived in poverty, either. The one thing that the Fawleys were rich in was connections, and through a combination of Hufflepuff work ethic and a touch of nepotism, Alistair worked his way to a high-ranking position at the Ministry, and was able to keep his family comfortably sheltered and clothed and fed. He always made it clear to his daughters that there was nothing shameful about hard work, and he lived that example as he climbed through the ranks.

Annalise’s mother, Calliope, left her own job at the Ministry once her husband began to advance and their daughters were born. She needed the time when she was raising two children—the Fawleys were never quite in a position where they could afford help. These days, though, she has an awful lot of time on her hands. Enough time to have absolutely devoted herself to arranging Leina’s marriage and planning her wedding, and more recently, fussing over her grandson, and pushing prospective husbands in the direction of her younger daughter.

Leina’s murder hit the whole family hard. Family was everything to the Fawleys, and with her death, their family was broken. Alistair has thrown himself into his work, while Calliope has been focusing all her attention on caring for Leina’s child, Theo (and though she’d never say so much to her mother, Annalise hopes it stays that way; she does not have time right now to fend off her mother’s matchmaking.)

Annalise, of course, has been busy. After the initial shock, it wasn’t sadness threatening to overwhelm her; it was anger. These people, these self-proclaimed do-gooders, they’d broken into Leina’s own home and murdered her. Because she’d been in the way. They’d taken her sister’s life and shattered her family, and she was going to make them pay. She was going to burn the Order of the Phoenix to the ground for what they’d done.

OCCUPATION:

For the Fawley girls, there were two options: earn a living, or marry money. Though her parents certainly expect her to marry a pureblood wizard sooner rather than later, they haven’t pressured Annalise too much about this; Leina had made such a good match, after all, that it bought her some leeway. She certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea of marrying well, but she also wanted to actually like the person she married.

So, while her sister opted to marry up, Annalise chose the employment option. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and she was not afraid of hard work. After finishing Hogwarts, she moved through several different jobs, helped here and there by a recommendation from a Fawley relative. She was an assistant for a while, spent a bit of time in the Ministry, and passed one very unpleasant summer waiting tables.

For the past year or so, she’s worked at Twilfitt and Tattings in Diagon Alley. It’s a perfect job: decent wages and commissions, hours that don’t conflict with her social life, and a generous discount on robes (a very useful perk when you don’t have a bottomless Gringotts vault to spend on new dress robes for every party). When she first started, she mostly just worked the cash register, but she’s picked up more responsibilities over time, and has recently started design work as well.

Working in a high-end boutique means that she has very steady contact with all the well-to-do of the wizarding world. As she pointed out when she approached the Order—who knew what sort of conversations she might overhear? And, of course, the revolving parade of customers will make it easy for her to smuggle information back to the Dark Lord, too.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Annalise is filled with grief for her poor sister’s untimely death. She knows that her brother-in-law is almost certainly a Death Eater, and he put Leina in danger by conducting Death Eater business in their home—and now her nephew is left without a mother. She’s determined to help the Order stop the carnage before anyone else can be hurt in the crossfire. And, with her pureblood connections and her job in one of the most upscale stores in Diagon Alley, she is a definite asset to the Order.

As far as the Order is concerned, that is.

Annalise is a wolf in sheep’s clothing—and she makes a very convincing sheep. Wide green eyes filled with tears, insisting that it was that bastard Josiah’s fault that Leina died—that she wanted to help end the war before any other innocent lives were lost. There’s a chance some people might be suspicious, but she is pretty certain most people couldn’t fail to be convinced. Especially when it’s mostly true. She did blame Josiah, for putting her sister in danger in the first place, for not being more careful, for not protecting her. And she did want the war over before anyone else she cared about was murdered. The part she didn’t add was that it was the Order, not the Death Eaters, that she was determined to stop at any cost.

As far as Annalise is concerned, it’s not even that risky a plan. Certainly these cowards are capable of murder—her sister’s grave is testament to that. But she is confident in her ability to convince the Order her intentions are good. She’s always been an excellent liar, after all, able to think quickly on her feet. Yes, she will be the perfect spy, and by the time she’s finished with them, every single one of these courageous and honourable cowards will be dead.

Though her grief and anger are driving her to waste no time in burning the Order to the ground, Annalise has always been a patient woman, and her anger has always been the sort that burns cold and slow. She’s playing a long game, and she can’t get caught before she has found a way to destroy every single one of these people. The Dark Lord doesn’t expect daily intel, or trivial hints about the Order’s day-to-day operations—certainly she is to pass on what information she can without getting caught, but her focus is on rising through the ranks until she can learn valuable information. The type of information that will bring this entire organization to its knees.

SURVIVAL:

So far? She’s survived by not being involved. But her sister wasn’t involved, either, and now she’s dead.

The Order isn’t as ruthless as the Dark Lord and his followers, but Annalise is still going to have to tread very carefully. They clearly are willing to kill, after all. She can’t pass over information that might expose her as a spy—only things that most people in the Order know, or information that she comes across by snooping, that can’t be traced to her. But letting the Dark Lord down could be dangerous, too.

Everything about her position is dangerous; quite aside from the risk of discovery, she could be killed by a Death Eater as easily as anyone else in the Order, since only a handful know she is one of them. And if the worst happens and she’s found out, there’s no telling how much help will come. Though Annalise would never have described herself as a reckless person before, she probably wouldn’t have said that she was overly cautious, either—but she’s going to have to be, now.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Family is the most important relationship, as far as Annalise is concerned. Her parents have both been devastated by Leina’s death, but like Anna, neither are wallowing in it. Her father, always one to lean on the side of emotional unavailability, has retreated into his work, while her mother is devoting herself to caring for her motherless grandson. The three of them don’t really talk to each other anymore—her family has been shattered.

After an initial retreat from public life to mourn her sister and plan her revenge, Annalise has returned to socializing and attending parties. Though most of her thoughts and energy are now devoted to destroying her sister’s killers, the social scene is a good distraction at times when she just can’t take it. An extrovert who is prone to shyness, she’s rarely had close friends outside of her family, so the friendships she’s maintaining are relatively shallow—but it’s easier that way.

Joining the Order gave her a few shocks—in terms of how many people she recognized. The number of purebloods from good families is astonishing. Vanity, Greengrass, Selwyn and Macmillan—these are names she knows, faces she’s seen at parties. The Yaxleys—she knows they are Death Eaters, so what in hell is Branwen doing here? Could she be on the same page as Annalise, or has she actually fallen for the Order’s bullshit?

And the McKinnons—they might not have been quite high society, but she’s still surprised to learn of their involvement. The fact that Marlene is using her family’s house for the Order—that she has werewolves camped right outside—does she not see that she’s putting her family in danger? It’s so selfish! And Alaric—she’d known him at school, they’d been in the same house, and she knew her parents had tried to arrange a match between them. She probably dodged a bludger, there. Learning that he was working with the Order was disappointing—but at least he’s not actually one of them.

Frank Longbottom is a distant cousin, and it’s dreadful to know that there is family here. Does he just not care that they killed Leina? But she’s willing to use that connection to her advantage. After all, the entire extended family shares one value in common: family is important. So of course he’ll look out for her.

She doesn’t recognize Peter Pettigrew or Severus Snape. The names are vaguely familiar, since they were only a few years below her at school, but they’re not even a blip on her radar. The fact that the Dark Lord has other spies in the Order is not known to her—and she certainly wouldn’t have picked Pettigrew as one of them.

At present, she doesn’t know that Lily Evans was the person responsible for her sister’s death. If that fact is revealed to her, it’s going to take all her self-control and willpower to keep her cover and not avenge her sister on the spot.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: No ships in particular, just chemistry. Honestly, Annalise growing close to anyone in the Order (romantically or platonically) would be fascinating, since she’s only there to see them all dead!

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Annalise did not come from money, but her family was never poor, either. She is a woman in a patriarchal society, but she is a woman from a well-connected and respectable family. Her bloodline is pure, going back at least a dozen generations. Annalise’s position is unquestionably one of privilege—not extreme luxury and decadence perhaps, but certainly privileged enough that she’s been able to opt out of caring about the war until now. She is aware of her privilege to some degree—knows the value of her connections and status—but she doesn’t really think about it.

While she’s dimly aware of her privilege, she has no concept at all of her biases. She really would consider herself among the more progressive of purebloods. She works for a living, after all, and while she’s never been moved to fight for Muggleborns rights, she’s never actively fought against them either. It’s not like she supports the Dark Lord’s ideology, after all. And while she certainly thinks that any sort of contact with the Muggle world is to be entirely avoided, she’s never felt the urge to go around murdering them for fun.

Certainly she looks down somewhat on Muggleborns, and half-bloods to a lesser extent, but that’s not a bias—it’s just a fact that purebloods are superior. It’s nothing personal! She had plenty of half-blood friends in Hufflepuff, after all. It’s just the way it is. Sure, there are some half-bloods who exceed expectations, but they’re the exception, not the rule. As for certain Muggleborns—well, Annalise has always privately believed that the more talented of that lot probably have some magical blood in their history. Honest-to-goodness talent can’t just spring up out of nowhere.

In the same vein, half-breeds are dangerous and have no business socializing with regular folk. That isn’t bias. It’s fact. Werewolves—they’re wolves! The fact that there is one of their kind in the Order—well, it’s just another nail in the Order’s coffin, as far as she’s concerned.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? The amount of attention and detail that has gone into this rp is incredible. I’m all about worldbuilding and the world you’ve created here is fascinating! I also just love Annalise’s bio—she’s a loyal, hard-working, and patient Hufflepuff, who is channelling that loyalty and hard work and patience into burning the Order to the ground. She’s not fuelled by lust for power or pureblood idealism—this is personal. That’s the most Hufflepuff way to go dark, and I’m here for it. I’m so interested to see how she’ll balance the need to stay under the radar and out of suspicion, with the need to advance and gain access to more information—as well as how she’ll cope as she gets to know people in the Order better. It’s easier to hate all of them when she doesn’t actually know any of them.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL): I’d definitely like to see information that Annalise passes on, be put to use against the Order. Also, plots that will challenge her and put her in difficult situations—for example, if a Death Eater is taken hostage by the Order, will she be able to risk setting them free?

ANYTHING ELSE? Just that this group looks so great, and I hope you like my app!

[darlingrutherford]

Once Upon a Time in Thedas update!

You can all thank @schoute not only for that amazing piece of Lanistair art the other day, but also for singlehandedly turning my heart into pure fluffy nonsense and helping me finish up the next chapter of my DA Cinderella AU. Without further delay, here’s chapter four of Once Upon a Time in Thedas! (Under the cut)

Trigger warnings for this series for mentions and scenes of mental/physical abuse.

Once Upon a Time in Thedas - Chapter Four | Cross-posted on Ao3 | DA Cinderella!AU with alternate world canon | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | Fairly PG-13 for this chapter |

     Lana was floating on a cloud. She had felt that way since the previous night, falling asleep with a dreamy smile on her face and waking up with it still present. She couldn't get the ball out of her head, least of all Alistair. She knew it wouldn't do well for her to dwell on the memory of him and the time they had spent together, but she couldn't help it. She could still feel his hand on her waist, hear his laughter and smooth voice. Maker, she had never seen anyone look at her the way he had, as if no one else at the ball had existed and she were worthy of his attention. And the feeling of his hands. His touch had been so soft. When had anyone touched her that way before? As she swept the floor, Lana swayed side to side, humming to herself as she imagined the two of them on the dancefloor, together once more. Would he be there again that night? Would he want to dance with her again? She barely knew him, and yet she knew she would give anything to dance closely with him again, if only for one more night. 

Is this what love feels like? 

Her heart fluttered as the question crossed her mind. Red rushed to her cheeks, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth as she floated with the broom. Her feet mirrored his, following the pattern of one of the slower songs they had danced to. If she closed her eyes, it was almost as if she were there…

“How can you expect to see what you're sweeping when your eyes are closed!”

Lana was jarred out of her daydream, reality crashing into her as her mother smacked her ear. She tried to control her wincing as her ear stung, quickly returning her gaze to the floor as she swept faster.

“Sorry, mother,” she said quickly. Her mother huffed, mumbling under her breath as she returned to her work in the kitchen. Lana hummed no more, but the smile slowly crept back as she swept, as the feeling of Alistair's hands on hers returned and led the way.

     That evening Leliana returned once more, once the sun had long since set and Lana's parents had gone to sleep. This time Lana was ready, waiting at the window for the moment Leliana’s silhouette appeared in the garden. 

“You're awfully eager to return, aren't you?” Leliana teased as Lana quietly climbed out her window and carefully closed it behind her. Lana smiled eagerly as she followed Leliana, waiting until they were away from the house before she spoke.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day,” she said, her voice still a whisper despite how far they had walked into the woods. Leliana led her to the same spot as before, and Lana eagerly changed into the blue dress and golden slippers. 

“You danced with that tall man for some time,” Leliana said with a knowing grin. Lana blushed at the mention of Alistair, her heart pounding eagerly. “Is he being kind to you? Sometimes nobility can be a bit pushy.”

“I’m not so sure he’s a noble,” Lana said. Leliana had moved to her back, undoing her braid and resetting it into one looser that ran towards her back. She twisted the hair at the sides, weaving it through the braid. 

“No?” Leliana smiled as she finished with Lana’s hair before looping her arm with hers and starting off towards the main road.

“He made jokes about some of the nobility quietly a few times. I’m not sure if that’s something lords do?”

“Is that what you two were giggling about?”

“He is awfully funny,” Lana said. She barely paid attention to everything they passed on the way to the palace this time, too engrossed in her thoughts about Alistair and her excitement of seeing him again. “I hope he’ll be there again tonight. Do you think he will be?”

“I’d be very surprised if he wasn’t,” Leliana said. If Lana didn’t know any better, she would have thought the way Leliana spoke about Alistair sounded almost teasing, as if she knew him. Still, Lana supposed, Leliana was a Sister of the Chantry. She must have known a great many people.

As the two of them walked up the great steps into the palace and inside, Lana looked around the hall, observing everyone. All the ladies seemed to be in dresses and gowns more extravagant than the night before, some glittering with gems while others had intricate embroidery hand stitched to expensive fabrics. One of the women walked by, wearing a gown gold in color with shimmering lace and a skirt that dragged on the ground. Lana felt the judging glance as the woman looked Lana over from head to toe, apparently recognizing her dress from the night before. The woman smirked with a huff and a proudly tilted chin as she walked by. Leliana patted Lana on the shoulder, giving her a quick wave before slipping off into the crowds. As Lana began looking around, she jumped as she heard a loud bark from a door near the back of the hall. Quite a few guests jumped out of the way of something Lana couldn’t see, until a great grey body running on four legs found its way through the crowd and stopped suddenly at her feet. Lana had never seen a mabari in person until then, however she had read about them in books and quickly recognized the face of an intelligent creature pining for attention as it barked up at her.

“Hello there,” Lana said sweetly. The mabari was massive, with its nose parallel to Lana’s chest. She reached out, petting the dog on his head. The dog eagerly pushed his nose up against her hand before directing her hand behind his ear.

“He’s obsessed with ear scratches.”

Lana looked up, her heart pounding as she found Alistair walking towards her with a huge smile on his face. He had completely stepped around the woman from before and a group of others, and for a moment Lana wondered why they all looked so perturbed. 

“Is he?” Lana’s voice practically cooed as she looked back at the dog, curling her fingers and scratching behind his ear as his tongue flopped out excitedly.

“He’ll never let you leave now,” Alistair chuckled. “Not many of the guests enjoy when he crashes the party.”

“Well, they don’t know what they’re missing, do they?”

Alistair smiled as Lana gave Bryn another pat on his nose before the dog took off towards the other doorway. 

“I had almost thought you weren't coming,” he admitted. Maker, but he couldn’t stop smiling now that she was there. The night so far had been so dull without her. Even something as simple as hearing her voice was enough to raise his spirits and calm his racing mind. 

“After last night, how could I not?” Lana responded with a bright smile, looking up at Alistair with warmth in her eyes. 

“You left so quickly, I wasn't sure… Did I say something wrong?”

“No! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… I, well… Had a curfew,” she said quickly. She didn't want to lie, but, ‘My parents don't want me here. Or out of the house, at all,’ was difficult to say. At least it wasn't a complete lie.

“Well, that's a relief,” Alistair said, visibly relaxing as he breathed out the words. “You've only just arrived… Do you want to… Eat something? Have a drink? Dance again -”

“Dance! Yes, that would…” Lana paused to clear her throat, blushing at her own eagerness that had caused her to interrupt him. “I would love to dance with you again.”

“After our practice last night, I think I may step on your toes fewer times than before, but I make no promises.”

Lana was on a cloud again, and this time, Alistair was with her. Everyone else in the hall seemed to fade away as they danced together. Alistair held her closer than the night before, never taking his eyes off of her as they talked, and laughed, and danced as one. More than once Alistair caught Lana humming along to the music, sometimes caught up in a song of her own, and each time he felt his heart fill more and more for this woman who had wandered into his life. As far as Alistair knew she was still blissfully unaware that he had recently been crowned King, and for the moment he was happy to keep it that way. For now, the woman who had more than once rested her head against his chest as they swayed to the slower songs only to straighten with a furious blush when she noticed, she was doing it because she felt comfortable, with him. With Alistair, not the King. Not the man people had been clamoring to speak to only for the hope of becoming his Queen. Somehow, miraculously, they had found one another, and he knew he couldn't let her slip away again.

“You'll be sick of dancing with me by the end of the night,” he joked as yet another song ended.

“I don't think that's possible,” Lana replied. Pink covered her cheeks, flushing towards her ears as she blushed. As another song began, Lana waited for Alistair to lead, tilting her head curiously as he paused.

“Come with me,” he said quietly with a grin. His hand left her waist, though his other gently squeezed her hand as his fingers laced with hers. Lana followed him as he led her off the dancefloor, weaving through the crowds.

“Where are we going?” Lana asked. Her heart was pounding as she bit her lip, her smile growing as he looked back at her.

“I wanted to show you something,” Alistair explained as he gently pulled her to the side. Lana followed him along the side of the hall and out a set of doors that led to a balcony. Outside it was much quieter, the sound of music and merriment drifting in from the hall inside. The night air was cool, wrapping around Lana and causing her skin to prickle. She paid no mind to the cold as she gripped the stone railing, her eyes fixed on the view of the palace courtyards and Denerim beyond, all seemingly peaceful in the light glow of torches. 

“It's beautiful out here,” she breathed in awe. She had never seen the city like this from such a height, all the stars in the night sky twinkling down on them. Each night of the ball seemed like such a dream to her. She took her time, gazing out at the world in front of her, storing it in her mind for another day when she would need it most. 

Alistair watched her, smiling at the way she looked at the world as if it were her first time seeing anything like it. The way she looked at everything was so innocent. Anyone else may have glanced at the view and turned away, but she was in awe of even the smallest things. Lana turned to look at Alistair, smiling as she found him watching her. 

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Yes. Well… Not exactly,” he admitted. He smiled sheepishly as he scratched just behind his ear, his eyes wandering to the stone railing as he tried to find his words. “I… Well, you see, I… And you are so…” He trailed off, huffing slightly as he tried to focus. Maker, but this was more difficult than he had thought it would be. He looked over to the side, regarding a cluster of climbing roses that had reached the railing. He smiled, carefully picking one of the red roses from the branches. Twirling it in front of him for a moment, he finally found what he wanted to say.

“Denerim is large. There are so many people, but… It can be a bit empty. Ever since I came here from Redcliffe, I've had to strain to find anything that stands out from the rest. But, beautiful things seem to hide in plain sight, I suppose. Like this rose. Or… You.”

“Me?” Lana said it quietly, unsure if she should be shocked, flattered, or if he was out of his mind. She flushed from ear to ear as he offered the rose to her with a smile, feeling something akin to electricity run through her as their fingers brushed. 

“I don't know if I should be upset, or thrilled that you don't seem to know how beautiful you are,” Alistair chuckled nervously. “But… If I don't tell you now, someone else is bound to, and I can't… I don't want to miss my chance… May I kiss you, Lana?”

“You want to kiss me?” Lana repeated in disbelief. She could feel heat rush to her face as he nodded and stepped closer to her. His hand wrapped around hers that held the rose as he leaned low. Lana's free hand raised to meet his arm as he steadied her, her grip tight as his lips met hers. Maker, but it was as if fireworks had set off in her mind. His touch was so gentle, so warm. 

“Maker, I'm sorry,” Alistair mumbled quickly when he gently pulled away, and Lana quickly wiped away the tear that had fallen from her eye without her even noticing. 

“No, please, it's not - it's a good thing, I think,” she said quietly. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Against her better judgement, ignoring the warning bells in her mind, she couldn't help herself. She found herself pressing onto the balls of her feet, stretching to get as close to him as possible, and Alistair eagerly met her the rest of the way. His kiss was like air. Each time their lips parted for a moment she would press back, and he in turn, each melding to the other as her lips quivered and his heart threatened to burst from his chest. 

“Your Majesty! A word?”

Lana thought little of the words at first. Then, as Alistair begrudgingly pulled away from her, horror set in to her gut as he turned to face the man who had called for the King. Alistair gave Lana a regretful smile, taking her look of shock for general embarrassment from being caught kissing than anything else.

“I'll just be a moment. Don't go anywhere, please,” he said, bringing the back of her hand to his mouth and giving a much longer, warm kiss to it than the previous night. As Alistair walked to the other end of the long balcony to speak to the man, panic took over Lana. He was the King. Maker, but he had made that joke about sharing the same name - she had taken it only as such, a joke. She had just kissed the King of Ferelden.

“You need to spend time with the other noble ladies you have yet to speak to,” Eamon was muttering in a low voice. “You cannot expect to find the next Queen of Ferelden if you spend all your time with one elf.”

“Yes, it would be a shame if I spent the entire evening with someone I connected with, wouldn't it?” Alistair responded sarcastically. “I know you have your list, but this woman is perfect. You should meet her -”

Alistair held his hand out to gesture towards Lana, turning his head and stopping mid sentence as he saw her dashing back into the hall. Not wanting to lose her for one more night, Alistair took off after her, leaving Eamon behind as he shouted after him. Alistair had difficulty getting through the hall, groups of lords and ladies both blocking his path as they vied for his attention. Each time, Alistair would profusely apologize as he ran around each group, trying to keep his eyes on Lana as she grew further and further away. 

Lana's heart was pounding. Her watering eyes made it difficult to see as she tried to best remember how to get out of the palace. Maker, she was an idiot, thinking she could sneak out and have nothing bad happen. Her parents may not have caught her, but she had fooled royalty, tricked him into caring for her even in the slightest when she wasn’t fit for anyone. Surely that would carry a grand punishment on its own. 

“Stupid, stupid Lana,” she muttered with a quivering voice. Tears fell as she ran, her skin prickling as the cool night air met her. Her feet carried her quickly down the steps that led to the courtyard. She had nearly reached the bottom when she tripped, catching her ankle with her other foot. She cried out as she tumbled down a few steps and landed on the ground. 

“Maker, my shoe,” she groaned as she got up. She began taking a step towards the stairs to retrieve the shoe that had slipped off in her fall, but the sound of Alistair yelling her name from just beyond the doors at the top made her stop. One shoe on her foot, she slipped through the gates and ran into the night. 

By the time Alistair reached outside, Lana was nowhere to be seen. His heart sunk, confusion setting in for the second night in a row. He walked down the steps as something gold caught his eye, crouching as he picked up the small shoe. He stared at it in silence. Had it been something he said? Had he kissed her too soon? She had seemed to be enjoying it, had she only been being kind when she kissed him back? She hadn't seem to know the first night that he was the King, had it shocked her too much? He held the shoe close to him as he stood, taking one last look around, and praying to the Maker for her return the following night before heading inside.

Lana didn't stop running until she returned home. Out of breath, she removed the shoe and dress before stashing it in the brush near the tree her and Sister Leliana often spoke near - her parents would not venture near there, opting to stay inside as it had been so cold as of late. She would see Sister Leliana the following morning for her lessons, and return it to her then. Climbing quietly through her window, Lana slipped on her nightgown and threw herself beneath her covers. She curled into a ball, hugging her knees as she cried. Maker, but what a fool she had been. She had made a fool of Alistair as well - the King. Both of these nights he had been at her side, not knowing how unworthy she would be of the title of Queen. He had wasted all this time with her when he could have been finding the perfect woman for him. No matter who he had been, it would have been a fairytale to expect her life to change after three nights. She had gotten wrapped up in the fancy of it, of being looked upon so favorably by his beautiful eyes. How could she possibly face him again after that night? Tomorrow would be like any other day: just her, her parents, her curse…

“Maker, forgive me,” she whispered to the dark. 

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Everything Money Can Buy (3/12)

Summary: The Greatest Store in the World AU. When misfortune strikes and leaves Emma Swan and her son homeless just before Christmas, the ever-resourceful Emma has a ready solution. They’ll move into Mills Department Store, a place they can only dream of affording to buy from. It’s not easy, having to deal with a perpetually grumpy doorman, a nasty assistant manager, and an extremely suspect Santa, but Emma and Henry soon learn that the kindness of strangers is something money can’t buy.

Swan Believer centric, with eventual Swan Queen and background Rumbelle and Dwarf Star.

Rated: G

=====

[One] [Two] [AO3]

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Three

The first thing to do, of course, was to navigate Gold. They loitered on the corner for a while trying to catch a time when he wasn’t watching to sneak inside, but since he was a doorman and his entire purpose was to open the doors, that was going to be easier said than done. In the end, Emma decided that taking refuge in audacity was going to be their best course of action, and she marched smartly up to the doors, Henry in tow.

Gold looked at them, one eyebrow quirked.

“You’re a little heavily laden for a shopping trip, don’t you think?”

Emma shrugged, trying to keep her manner as blasé as possible. “We might be buying a lot of things. Save the environment, bring your own bags, you know the kind of thing.”

Gold didn’t believe a word she was saying, that was quite clear, but then some other customers, ones who looked far more like they were going into the store for legitimate reasons, came along, and he was distracted by opening the doors for them. Emma noticed that he was limping a little as he walked, and she wondered if he’d always done or if this was a recent injury.

She shook the thought away from her head; they needed to get inside, and they needed Gold to let them in, and he currently wasn’t doing because he thought that, laden down with very large bags as they were, the two of them were potential shoplifters. Emma could quite see where he was coming from, but she couldn’t exactly explain their circumstances to him in an effort to get him on side. Stealing from the shop was one thing. Living in it was quite another, even if they weren’t taking anything that wouldn’t be thrown out anyway.

“So, what are you looking for today?” Gold asked, the polite tone at odds with his suspicious eyes.

“Christmas presents, of course,” Henry said. “What’s everyone else looking for at this time of year?”

Gold didn’t have a ready response to that one, and Emma smiled to herself. Maybe if she and Henry tag-teamed then they’d be able to wear him down.

The door opened from the inside and Gold went to grab it as the woman from the customer service desk rushed out, skittering a little in her sky-high heels on the wet steps. The frost overnight had been thick and heavy, and although the steps had been thoroughly salted, the melted ice was still slippery. Gold threw out his arms to catch her before she could trip, and she blushed.

“Thank you, Mr Gold.”

“You’re welcome, Miss French. You shouldn’t be running about in those things; they’re lethal.”

“I know, I know, but I’ll be lost in the crowd otherwise. I’d get trampled underfoot. And I’ve told you, you can call me Belle.”

“Very well, Belle. As long as you call me Alistair.”

Belle smiled. “Alistair.”

It was at that moment that they both seemed to realise that Gold still had his arms around her from where he’d broken her fall and they sprang apart as if they’d been stung, brushing themselves down and attempting to look professional once more. Belle’s face was beet red by this point, and she looked around, saw that Emma and Henry were watching the proceedings with interest, and turned back to Gold with a cough.

“I, erm, I just came out to give you these, actually.” She held up what looked like a couple of teabags. “You just scrunch them up like this and they get warm, you see. I thought you could put them in your gloves. It’s so cold today. I know it won’t do much for your ankle, but at least your hands won’t freeze.”

“Oh.” It was Gold’s turn to go pink around the ears now. “Thank you, Miss French. I mean, Belle.”

He slipped the handwarmers into his gloves and flexed his hands a couple of times. “Yes, that’s much better.”

Belle darted in and pressed a peck of a kiss against his cheek, the movement so sudden that one could have been forgiven for thinking that it hadn’t happened at all.

“Merry Christmas, Alistair.”

She turned to go back inside, and Gold went to get the door for her, at which point she saw that Emma and Henry were still standing around outside the shop.

“I do beg your pardon,” she said. “Distracting the doorman and blocking the doorway. After you, please.”

There was nothing that Gold could do to stop them this time, having been practically invited in, and Emma gave Belle a wide smile and Gold a triumphant nod.

“Thank you very much.”

They hurried inside and slipped up the sweeping staircase in the foyer before Belle could speak to them again. Emma peered through the balustrade, watching as the other woman went back to stand behind the customer services desk again. There was such a sweet little smile on her face; the few moments she’d spent outside with Gold had obviously been the highlight in a day of dealing with irate and overprivileged customers. Emma had lived long enough in a cruel world to know that love was a strange and fickle thing, but she wasn’t so jaded that she couldn’t see the beginnings of a grand romance when they were playing out right in front of her; for Gold definitely returned those feelings.

“Mum?” Henry tugged at her sleeve. “Where are we going now?”

She left Belle to her own devices and stood up again, dragging their bags to the top of the stairs.

“Like I said. We’re going camping. Actually, first of all we’re going to stationery. Find me some pens and tester post-its, Henry, I’ve had a brilliant idea.”

Henry duly raced on ahead to get the requested items, and Emma hoped that continuing to be audacious would work for them in the long run. Since this was going to be their permanent home over the Christmas period, they should probably settle in as much as they could.

Henry ran back through the shoppers with a Sharpie and a tester pad, and Emma tore off a few sheets, writing in neat block capitals “DISPLAY ONLY, THIS ITEM IS NOT FOR SALE” on all of them before sending Henry to return the pad and pen to their rightful places.

“And now,” she said when Henry came back, “we camp.”

They took the bags down to the basement, where the camping, outdoors and luggage department was housed, finding the department blessedly quieter than the rest of the store. No one in their right mind bought a tent and other sundry camping equipment in the middle of December. They almost had the entire department to themselves, aside from some people looking at high-end luggage in the corner, talking to the sales assistant about their plans to spend Christmas skiing in the Pyrenees. It was all right for some.

Now at a slight degree more leisure, Emma poked around the display tents until she found one that looked like a good bet, in the far corner of the store and covered in camouflage netting. The display stand next to it said that it was the perfect hide for bird and animal watching, but Emma didn’t care about such things. What she cared about was the fact that it was out of the way and that hopefully, the shop assistants wouldn’t think to come this far back into the tent section with any regularity. She bent down and shoved the bags inside the opening, ushering Henry in after them.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Are we going to stay here?”

“Seems like as good a place as any. I mean look – we’ve even got ready-made beds.” The tent had been set up with airbeds and sleeping bags, and although the little gas stove obviously wouldn’t work, the heavy-duty battery powered lanterns would, meaning that they didn’t need to worry about when the store lights went out at the end of the day.

Henry nodded his agreement. “Yeah, I think it’s good. So, what are the post-it notes for?”

“Well, as Gold said, we are rather heavily laden for a shopping trip. So, in order to look a little more inconspicuous, we’re going to have to dump the bags. Where better to hide a walking stick than among other walking sticks? Hide the luggage in the camping section. It won’t look too out of place.”

That was a blatant lie; their holdalls were several years old, worn and patched in so many places that hardly any of the original fabric remained, and the suitcase covered in stickers from their travels all over the country. Against the sleek new luggage in the department, theirs stuck out like a sore thumb, but it was better than nothing. She piled the bags in one corner of the tent that they had earmarked as theirs and stuck the notes all over it. Whilst they didn’t exactly look official, Emma knew from experience that polite people, like most of the ones who shopped at Mills, would generally always respect signs, even if they looked somewhat amateurish.

And no one would want to buy their luggage anyway.

“Right.” She sat back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. “Shall we go and browse, Henry, like all serious shoppers?”

Henry just looked at her in admiration. “You know Mum, I think you have the best plans.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I still don’t think that we’re going to get away with living in the store though,” he added as they made their way back up the escalators towards the main foyer. Emma glanced around to check that the coast was clear; Belle was tied up with a rather angry-looking customer at the desk and wouldn’t notice them go past. Emma began to rethink her previous assertion that most of the people that shopped at Mills were polite. It seemed that gaining money seemed to bring with it an equal loss of manners.

Her theory was proved spectacularly right just a moment later when, still absorbed by people watching in the foyer, she managed to collide with someone who was coming down the stairs at a run.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

The woman, sharp-suited and exuding efficiency from every pore, reminded Emma a little of Zelena, and immediately her hackles were raised.

“Since I was standing pretty much still and you were the one running down the stairs, maybe you’re the one who should watch where they’re going.”

The woman seemed taken aback for a moment, as if she wasn’t used to people questioning her, and Emma felt a little smile quirk up at the corner of her mouth. On the one hand, getting into a fight with another customer was definitely a way to firstly be noticed and secondly be kicked out of the store with no way of getting back to their stowed luggage, but on the other hand, Emma had not had a very good day and she was looking for someone, or something, to take it out on.

The other woman’s mouth pulled up in a sneer.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so caught up in gawping like a fish, you wouldn’t be blocking the staircase. Someone should have a word with Gold about keeping the riff-raff out.” Her eyes tracked Emma from top to toe and back again, and Emma found herself doing the same. She wondered if the woman worked here and would need to be kept an eye out for like Zelena; she wasn’t wearing a coat, so it seemed likely that she wasn’t a shopper, but she also wasn’t wearing a name tag.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, meeting the woman’s eyes, unable to back down from the challenge. “Maybe they should.”

They stayed in silence for a moment, just staring each other down, but there was something in the air that wasn’t just the charged tension of an argument. This woman wasn’t used to being questioned, but she had respect for her challenger, and Emma in turn had respect for that. For the briefest of moments, the sneer turned into a genuine little smile, but then the condescending manner was back.

“Enjoy your shopping trip. If you can afford anything more than pressing your nose up against the display cases. Please don’t do that, though. The cleaners work so hard to get the smudges out every morning.”

Emma raised an eyebrow as the woman stalked on past, and turned to Henry, who was watching her with an expression that was far too shrewd for any ten-year-old to be wearing.

“Rude, huh?”

“Yeah.” Henry wasn’t buying it. “I couldn’t tell if you wanted to punch her or kiss her.”

“Henry!”

“I’m just saying. It was like something out of a film. You know, when the couple who’ve been fighting the entire time stop arguing and just kiss at the end.”

“I need to stop taking you to the cinema.” Emma shook her head in disbelief. “Or at least, find a way to make sure we only see kid-friendly films.” She’d learned to sneak into the cinema without paying from an ex-boyfriend, but it came with the disadvantage of never knowing what you were going to be seeing until you got there. The number of times that they’d crawled into a hiding space only for Emma to turn them straight back around when the film turned out to be completely unsuitable for a ten-year-old was ridiculous. Who showed that kind of film at ten in the morning, for crying out loud?

Henry continued to have a knowing smirk on his face all the way up to the tearoom. Emma wasn’t quite sure why she’d taken them in the direction of the tearoom since they certainly couldn’t afford to have tea there until after everyone else had gone home. Perhaps it was out of a desire to keep moving, and the tearoom being on the top floor of the building, it was naturally the place that they stopped in since there was no further to go. Although, the place didn’t look like its normal haven of genteel tranquillity. There was a rather longer queue than normal, and the waitresses were looking much more harassed than usual.

With a twist of guilt in her stomach, Emma remembered the broken microwave from the previous night, and she and Henry looked at each other, grimacing. They inched their way around the edge of the tearoom, getting as close to the kitchen area as they could. One of the waitresses was holding the broken plug with an utterly forlorn look on her face as a maintenance man in dark blue overalls unscrewed the socket from the wall.

“I swear it wasn’t me this time, Leroy,” the waitress was saying. “I know I’m always the one to break these things, and I know I don’t know how I do it – the coffee machine exploding was as inexplicable to me as it was to everyone else – but this one really wasn’t me. It was broken when I got here this morning, I swear.”

“It’s ok, Astrid.” The maintenance man finished with the socket and took the plug from the waitress’s hands, beginning to fit a new fuse into it. “I believe you.”

“You’re the only one,” she lamented. “Sometimes I think trouble just follows me around.”

“That’s ok,” the maintenance man – Leroy, evidently – said. “If trouble follows you around, I’ll just follow the trouble around.”

“Oh Leroy… You can’t keep cleaning up after me.”

Leroy shrugged. “It’s no bother. It means I get to spend time with you.”

The waitress gave a shy little giggle, and Emma smiled. As horrible as she felt that someone else had got the blame for breaking the microwave, at least it seemed to have brought two people together, and Leroy the maintenance man and Astrid the clumsy waitress who made coffee machines explode seemed to be getting on with their tentative romance a lot more easily than Belle and Gold were getting on with theirs.

Well, it was the season for it after all. Mistletoe and goodwill everywhere. And hey, it was free entertainment. Emma shrugged. It was amazing what you saw when you looked closely.

Now, why did her mind keep coming back to the woman they’d bumped into on the stairs?

[mattzerella-sticks]

Now Posted!

Eros & Trouble (M, 30.5 k, 5/5 Dean Winchester/Castiel, AU - Gods & Goddesses) for the @destielharlequinchallenge

Dean Winchester was your average bartender, save for the fact that he’s an orphan with a seriously bad penchant of falling in love with the worst men possible. Time after time, broken heart after broken heart, normal people would give up on ever finding their soulmate. But not Dean; he still holds onto hope that he will meet the man of his dreams. And the Adonis with the blue eyes could be him, even if he wears such a creepy trench coat. He should have known his heart would lead him to nothing but trouble…

Cas - or Eros, as he’s better known - drags Dean into a world he never knew existed but has lived alongside his own for longer than he ever realized. He meets the refugees of Olympus, cast out after the Fates banished them, and learns not only about the lives of the homeless Olympians but also his own heritage. They keep telling Dean he has the power to save them all, but all his life he never had the power to control anything. His heart is even more powerful than his will, still pining after the man who uprooted his comfortable ignorance. Then again… could it be Dean Winchester’s heart that is the key to saving them all?

A little taste of what’s in store:

        “Two Harvey Wallbangers… I got two – yep, here you go.” Dean hands the two glasses over to the woman in the pinstripe suit. She grabs it with a smile, the sweet fiver sticking out of the tip jar. He pushes it in deeper, moving on to collect another order from the guy with a man-bun and tattoos up his arms. It’s a busy night, but Dean thrives in front of a crowd. Better than his partner for the evening. Gordon fumbles with the bottles and snarls when a customer says more than five words to him. Alistair promised Dean he’d get the hang of it soon. It’s been five months and he still hates sharing his tips with the other man.

        On nights like these the orders blend together, and nothing really sticks out about the drinkers who wanted them; until a deep voice asks for vodka. Dean would have asked if he wanted it ‘on the rocks’ if he didn’t suspect the man already smuggling some in his throat. He turns to address the customer, and freezes. Their eyes lock, and it feels like Cupid himself pierced his heart.

        His eyes are an unnatural shade of blue. Dean cycles through all the different ‘blue’ things he could use to compare it to and landed on the Curaçao resting on the high shelf behind him. Both are electric and enticing. Moving past the eyes, Dean takes in the rest of his features. Chiseled jaw blanketed by a shadow that looks more like a nine o’clock than a five o’clock. Lips just the right amount of chapped, inviting and asking to be wet. Dark, messy hair he wants to make worse by running his own fingers through it. Tanned skin better suited for the coast than Middle America, especially in winter. He’d say more about his body if there weren’t a frumpy trench coat in the way.

        It didn’t matter though. Between the seconds where the man asked him for the vodka and when Dean nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady, he fell in love.

        Lucky for him the vodka was within arms reach. Dean pours two fingers into a glass and slides it across the bar. When the customer goes to reach for it, he stops short and keeps him from it.

        The man raises a brow.

        Dean smirks. “Company policy. I need to know every customers’ name and relationship status before I serve them.”

        His line earns itself a smile and chuckle; the man’s eyes dip down then flit back up to meet Dean’s. “Really?”

        “Yeah,” Dean sighs, “If I don’t get it I’m liable to be fired…” He bats his eyelashes, putting on his best pout.

        “That would be a shame… and I do want my drink…” He sighs, feigning exasperation. “My name is Cas and – currently – I happen to be seeing someone.”

        Dean’s grin falters, but doesn’t fade. His fingers curl possessively around the glass. “Is that so?”

        “Yes,” Cas nods, “Right now, across the counter.” He winks, butterflies swarming in Dean’s stomach. His nerves unclench themselves at Cas’s joke, grip loosening on the drink. Cas takes it from him, sipping at it. “So, now that you know my name…”

        “Dean,” he says holding his now free hand in front of him, “At your service.”

        Cas grabs it, lightning sparking at the touch. “I hope so.”

        After that, Dean never strayed too far from Cas’s orbit. Throughout the remainder of his shift, Cas is his focus. Whenever he could, Dean would lean across the bar and steal a few seconds of the other man’s time. Cas gives it gladly, even emptying his glass in a single gulp to keep Dean by him longer. After pouring his tenth glass of vodka, he was worried.

        “I can handle my liquor better than you’d think,” Cas tells him, “But it’s sweet that you asked.”

        “So you’re…”

        “Conscious and able to make sound decisions,” he says, smirking, “If you were wondering?”

        He was; his blush floods over his face, wiping away his freckles. Dean stutters out a joke and tends to a group of women who whined for more refills. And like he has every time Dean serves another customer, Cas’s intense gaze follows him. Used to performing with eyes on him, it’s rare for Dean to trip up. But his goal of impressing the other man goes unfulfilled as his hands revolt and he fares no better than Gordon.

        Dean nearly spills a Malibu Sunrise on an old man when he notices Cas stand. He races over, ignoring at least three different calls for drinks. “You going?”

        “Not far,” Cas says, “When do you get off shift?”

        Glancing at the clock, Dean notices the long hand on the nine. “Fifteen.”

        “I’ll be outside.”

        “You sure?” He looks to the window, at the snow falling steadily to the ground. “Don’t want anything to freeze and fall off…”

        “I don’t get cold,” Cas shrugs, “I’ll be outside.”

        Cas tries to leave, but Dean grabs him by his arm. “Wait – where?”

        “You’ll know.” He slips out of his grasp and exits. Another man grabs his seat as soon as he’s taken two steps away, waving a ten in his face and asking for an Aperol Spritz. Dean snatches it from him, along with the money from the others, churning out their orders so he can leave. He spies Bela sneaking out the back room and barks her name out. Handing her his apron, Dean escapes.

        Stopping at his locker, Dean grabs his jacket and tugs it on. The brown leather, the only thing his dad left him in the will besides his car, fit snugly across his shoulders. He zips it tight to keep the warmth in, hoping it staves the chill off long enough so he doesn’t shudder when talking with Cas. When it happens, he wants it to be from his breath ghosting across his ear as he whispers. Or by their fingers tangling together as Dean leads him to his Baby. Clearing his mind of those thoughts, Dean shuts his locker door and exits.

        He wishes Cas told him where he’d wait. Searching through the half-filled parking lot, Dean couldn’t find the rumpled trench coat that’s become so familiar, so quickly. Still, he doesn’t believe Cas just left. His heart squeezes as if ensnared, and the person on the other end pulls him where he needs to be.

        Legs take him towards his Baby, where Cas waits. He admires her sleek, black frame; hand sliding over the hood. Dean walks to the other side, dimples showing under the streetlights. “Hey.”

        “Hello, Dean.”

        He taps at Baby’s hood. “You like her?”

        “She’s an impressive chariot,” Cas tells him, “Yours?”

        Dean nods. “What gave it away?”

        Cas shrugs. “A feeling I had…” He drags his hand away, meeting Dean’s gaze from across Baby. Like before in the bar, thunder rolls across his body and he gets drunk on his eyes alone. A wind cuts across the parking lot, but he doesn’t mind. His body warms itself from the intense power burning within Cas. “So,” Cas continues, “do you want to draw this out or are you going to come over here?”

        Dean huffs out a laugh; Cas’s boldness makes him giddy. “Don’t want to save it for the bedroom?”

        “I fear if I don’t have a taste I’ll starve before we make it there.”

        Rolling his eyes, Dean concedes. He ambles around his car, tracing her lines on his way to Cas. Dean keeps an inch of space between them when he stops. Now away from the counter, he drags his eyes down Cas’s body. Underneath the surprisingly open trench coat is a sapphire blue tie. It matches the suit color, and Dean wonders if the man owns any other shade other than blue. He brushes the thought aside, since it works so well for the other man. Reaching the end of his journey, Dean expects nothing special past the very obvious bulge nestled in his pants. When he reaches his feet, however, Dean pauses.

        “Why the fuck aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

        Two fingers brush against his forehead, and Cas’s answer doesn’t matter. Dean falls unconscious.

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fereldan Politics, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels,  Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary: Eamon faces the consequences of his actions, and Cailan reflects.

--

Nineteenth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

The trial began an hour before noon. The guildhall had been cleared on the order of the king, and the guildmaster had reordered what furniture there was into a more suitable arrangement: the largest, most ornate chair she could find at the far end opposite the doors for Cailan himself, a set of smaller to his left and right for officials and the few nobles in attendance – Alistair, Rosslyn, Ferrenly, Loren, Franderel; and plenty of space remained in the middle of the room for the accused to feel isolated. Rain pattered on the roof as the large double doors groaned open to admit Arl Eamon, not in shackles, but still flanked very closely by the two guards who walked behind him. Such banal duty ought to be beneath Captains Morrence and Mhairi, but Cousland Blue flared next to royal Red all the same, the pair of them having decided that the honour of watching Eamon fall should belong to no one else but them.

Cailan, dressed with utmost formality in red velvet and a trimmed mantle of finely tooled leather, shifted in his seat as Eamon bowed, ignoring the scratch of the scribe in the corner, and cleared his throat. “This judgement is convened today to answer charges against Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, who stands accused of acts amounting to treason. Ser Brantis, if you would read out the specifics.”

The old chamberlain did not rise from his seat. The summer’s campaign had taken its toll on him, leaving his hair thinner than ever and pitching his voice at a faint nasally wheeze that every now and then broke out into a cough. Every one of Cailan’s attempts to ease him into retirement at Redcliffe had been brushed aside with an efficient exasperation perfected over almost three decades of royal service. After all, he had argued, nobody had a finer understanding of the law than him, and he did not need stout legs to exercise it.

“The accusation against Arl Eamon Guerrin is on three counts,” he announced now, the scroll shaking in his hand. “First, that he did in full knowledge of his actions intercept and waylay royal correspondence. Second, that he did lie on multiple occasions to a member of the royal family about the aforementioned interference. And third, that he did withhold information from the Crown pertaining to State affairs in order to promote his own interests. Such acts, should my lord be found guilty, would together constitute an act of treason, with the punishment to be determined by His Majesty, in attendance.”

An uneasy silence descended over the hall, all eyes on the king, all breaths held for his response.

“Well, Arl Eamon, what do you say to this?” His voice, usually so light, fell like a stone into a still pool.

Eamon lifted his chin. “I have a right to know my accusers.”

“You know very well who we are,” Rosslyn snapped from her place on Cailan’s right. “Answer the question.”

“Peace, Your Ladyship. We are waiting, Uncle.”

Glancing at his audience, the old arl rolled his answer over his tongue, his cheeks sucked in sapped bellows beneath the neatly groomed length of his beard. “All I have ever done has been done for the benefit of Ferelden,” he declared. “Whether that be shedding blood in the rebellion that ended the Orlesian occupation of this country, or through the use of diplomatic skill to prevent bloodshed in the first place.”

“Your record on that count is somewhat less than perfect, my lord,” the king answered coldly. “Given the current political climate. Is this a denial?”

Eamon bristled. “Berate me if you must, but I am no traitor.”

Silence again. Someone shifted on their feet, uncomfortable, and still the rain came down upon the roof. Cailan sat in his chair with the cornflower blue of his eyes hardened on the defiance seething in the man before him. The outcome of the trial was more formality than anything; he already knew the story, and the parts of all the players.

“We will hear the evidence, and decide,” he said at last, and turned away. “Ser Brantis, the witnesses, please.”

The chamberlain nodded and called the first name on his scroll, and looked up as Eamon’s valet appeared in the escort of another guard, wringing his hands and refusing to look at his master as he came to stand before the king. Cailan opened his mouth, but the man pre-empted him. Stuttering, he spilled testimony about conferences overheard between Eamon and the king of Orzammar that discussed ‘progress’ with an unnamed venture where the names of both the dwarf princess and the human prince were dropped; he recounted a time he witnessed Alistair put a letter directly into Eamon’s hand for inclusion with the post, only to have the arl tuck it away in a desk drawer once the Prince was out of sight; he even mentioned the keenness with which his master praised His Highness’ decision to take lessons in the Shaperate, and plotted excuses to first meet with him and Valesh Aeducan and then leave them alone together.

“It was not my place to ask,” he wailed. “Bt it was clear he was trying to engineer a match between them. I offer this testimony now to try and repair the damage wrought in part through my ignorance, to a most honourable lady.” He offered a trembling bow to Rosslyn, who gracefully returned the gesture with a nod.

“Tell me what happened on the final morning before your departure,” Cailan ordered.

The man shot a worried glance at Eamon, but despite the twist of his lip, the arl remained stoic and only waited for his judgement.

“The tradition in Orzammar is for a servant to sleep outside their master’s chambers, you understand,” he began. “I was woken early by his Highness storming into my lord’s quarters, but he ignored my protest. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury, and with Warden Commander Duncan behind him – with that way Grey Wardens tend to have about them – all I could do was follow. His Highness demanded to know the whereabouts of the letters from Her Ladyship, and then threatened to have his guard search the place when my lord did not answer. My lord then took two stacks of paper from his desk, and from the look on His Highness’ face, they were what he was looking for.”

“Did His Highness confront Arl Eamon about his possession of these letters?” Cailan asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And?”

“He… he called His Highness selfish and foolish, Your Majesty.” The valet gulped. “And spoke openly about separating His Highness and Her Ladyship in favour of… other matches.”

Alistair glanced at Rosslyn. She had taken hold of his hand during the questioning, heedless of the eyes already upon her, squeezing his fingers so tightly he felt the tendons shifting beneath her skin. Her resolve remained undaunted in the set of her jaw, but the scrutiny of so many interested parties grated on her, the intimacies of their relationship pared away and batted about as evidence to be quarrelled over, like dogs fighting for bones, and then fed into the rumour-mill for the gossips to thread and weave into whatever tapestry they liked. The letters, after all, sat at the heart of the matter. Eamon’s true condemnation lay within their lines, buried among private hopes and despairs that could too easily be turned against them.

“I have the letters,” he declared now, stepping forward out of her reach and missing the grip of her hand. His other held the evidence aloft for the watchers to see. “Her Ladyship’s last, in her own hand sent with Warden Commander Duncan, speaks of having received no correspondence from me for months prior to the letter’s date, when in fact I wrote many, and asked a number of my contingent to see them delivered to the messengers.”

“You may read it out, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn supplied, as the unassuming slip of paper was pressed into Cailan’s hands. “The beginning of the second paragraph deals with the current concern.”

The king’s gaze lingered on her for a moment of sympathy as he unfolded it. “Dated on the ninth of Harvestmere, and it is in Her Ladyship’s hand. The first paragraph recounts the fall of South Reach. The second… This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. This messenger was Warden Commander Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His Wardens happened to be passing through the Southron Hills tracking a party of darkspawn and heard what happened at South Reach.”

Cailan refolded the letter. With the scribe’s pen still scratching out the moments, he shifted in his chair so he could lean his chin on his fist, his frown directed at a whorl in one of the floorplanks at his feet.

“The evidence is damning,” he said at last. “However, before I pass judgement, I wish to know the motive. Why would one who supposedly values loyalty to the Crown above all things go to such lengths to undermine its authority?”  His voice rose with every word, outrage matched by incredulity. “What could be gained from making the private affairs of two people the subject of sport? Am I to declare war on King Bhelen in retaliation for meddling in the affairs of Ferelden’s crown? Answer, my lord Eamon. Those were not rhetorical questions.”  

Faced with the king’s true, righteous fury, Eamon at last let his mask of indifference drop. He hung his head, lacking the contrition of a true apology, but enough to admit defeat. “I accept all responsibility for this matter,” he said. “I proposed the matter to King Bhelen, and he took the understanding that Your Majesty endorsed our actions. No reprisal is necessary for his part.”

“In that, at least, you retain your honour,” Cailan allowed, sighing in relief. “But it still doesn’t answer why.”

“I thought the two of them a poor match,” came the slow reply.

Rosslyn advanced. “And what right does an arl have to determine suitability between a teyrna and a prince who bear no relation to him?”

“Your Ladyship –” Cailan warned, but Eamon was already snarling back.

“The right of a king’s advisor with enough experience to foresee and want to avert disaster. Forgive my candour, Your Ladyship, but you have proven yourself to be rash, even brutal in your approach, and such wildness ought not to be left unchecked. His Highness is easily led –”

“Now wait just a –”

“– and when I saw your undue influence over him I sought to stop it, to save him from the bull-headed determination of a child entirely too used to getting her own way in everything, who came into power –”

“Enough!” Teagan was standing. He had stayed silent as the court revealed the evidence against his brother piece by piece, but now the wan surprise had fled in favour of anger as he stared down the man he had toddled after as a young child. “Eamon, you go too far.”

“No,” Rosslyn interrupted in a light voice, as full of promise as the first breath of winter. “It’s good to finally hear the truth. My lord is all concern for the wellbeing of his country and his charge, naturally. I’m sure it’s merely coincidence that had his interference succeeded, he would have benefitted from a very lucrative trade deal with an untapped foreign power, and would have in the same blow regained his usurped place as His Majesty’s closest advisor. How much more difficult it would have been for Prince Alistair to voice his disagreement, trapped under a mountain with a new wife to anchor him there.” She flashed a feral smile. “And of course, there is the threat of an independent Highever, loyal not to the crown but to the teyrna who has shed blood for them, who herself has too much of the Clayne in her to ever submit to any authority but her own. What better way to deal with her than ambush her into a marriage of convenience that would secure power in the north and condemn the actions of a traitor?”

Eamon glared at her.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, an easy stance to betray the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Of course, such considerations never entered my lord’s head. His thoughts are only for Ferelden, after all.”

“As they always will be,” he growled.

As the pair stared each other down, Loren whispered to Franderel behind his hand, and others in the room craned forward, eager to see what would happen next, noting how Alistair moved closer to Rosslyn, as if to shield her from the ire cast in her direction.  

“At this stage, isn’t motive a moot point?” he called across the silence. “Arl Eamon has confessed – to everything.”

Nodding, Cailan sat forward and steepled his fingers, deep lines creased between his eyes. When he began to speak, his voice barely rose above a mumble, as if he had forgotten everyone else around him. “Once, l would have thought my uncle incapable of such manipulation, but this action does have precedent.” His gaze shot to Eamon. “I should have checked you before when I caught your meddling in my affairs, and perhaps we might not have come to this. But it is treason, for all the worst effects have been avoided. The punishment for that is death.” He sighed. “Arl Eamon, if that were the ruling, would you accept it?”

The old man steadied himself. “So long as my wife and son do not share that fate – they had no part in this.”

“Connor is safe in the Storm Giant’s court, and Isolde is not on trial. Ser Brantis?”

“Mitigation relies on intent, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain replied in his reedy voice. “And it is clear there was intent here to unduly influence those outside his guardianship.”

“I am left with a difficult choice, then. A man with decades of loyal service to his name, and an example to make of him.” Cailan sat back. “However, I am not the injured party. Brother, Your Ladyship, what do you have to say?”

Startled at being addressed, the pair glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the strength of their gazes, and the small, soft curve of a smile for reassurance. Rosslyn touched Alistair’s arm.

“He should be punished according to the law,” she said. “And yet, whatever remains of his life, I would have him spend every day contemplating that whatever his intentions, his actions amounted to nothing. He lied baldfaced to all of us for months, and all he has to show for it is this. I will defer to your Majesty.”

“So will I,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll always hate myself for not doing more to expose what was going on, but now we’re here, and everyone knows.” He turned and took Rosslyn’s hand, raising it to his lips. “I have all I need.”

Such a public display of affection was unexpected. Cailan looked away and rubbed at his lip, and for a moment, silence fell once more.  

Then Teagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

“Always, uncle.”

“A wise king shows mercy when it is due, and there has been enough killing. Both His Highness and Her Ladyship have advocated for my brother to live – with his guilt, and the knowledge he has lost your respect.”

“We have nowhere to hold him,” the king pointed out.

Teagan shook his head. “Not imprisonment. Exile.”

“Exile is a legal equivalent of death,” Brantis mused. “Estates and titles are passed as normal to the next of kin, unless the entire line is barred – and Your Majesty has already said that will not be the case here.”

“A death that is not a death,” Cailan repeated slowly. “Very well. Arl Eamon, given the weight of evidence against you, and your own testimony, you are found guilty of all charges. Be assured, your long years of service to my father are the only reason the sentence is not a summary execution.” He stood. “You will be escorted to Redcliffe and there given a month to set your affairs in order, and by Wintersend, you will be beyond the borders of Ferelden, never to return under promise of death. Do you understand?”  

The look Eamon narrowed at him had yet to relinquish its defiance. “You’re more like your mother than I realised,” he offered. “Maric would have acted more impulsively, as he did with everything.”  

“Get him out of my sight.”

As one, the two guard-captains saluted and took an elbow each to haul the disgraced arl from the room. Even before they made it through the door, Cailan was moving, slipping away with surprising quiet for a man so used to being the centre of attention, making the side door before Brantis finished rising from his chair. Alistair watched him go with a frown, wanting to follow but distracted by the hand that settled on his arm, the comforting warmth radiating from it. Rosslyn leaned into him, the concern in her grey eyes revealing that she, too, had noticed the parting glare Eamon had shot his way when he mentioned Maric’s name.

“It’s over,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell if it was a question.

He tucked an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, pleased when she dropped her head against his shoulder. “It’s over,” he agreed. “You were incredible.”

“I couldn’t let him stand there and insist he did it for the greater good.”

“I should go after Cailan,” he murmured, without moving.

A sigh. “And I still need to organise the preparations for tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.”

“That does sound tempting.” He chuckled. “We could sneak away…?”

“No,” she replied, in the same amused, drawn out syllable she used when she caught her dog eyeing a plate of food that wasn’t his. “Duty first. Otherwise Eamon would have been right.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.” He pulled back to make sure she could see his pout, and couldn’t help brushing a hand along her cheek. “You make too much sense and I love you too much to argue. But no more hiding.”

She stilled his fingers so she could turn a kiss onto his palm. “None at all. I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she walked away, and after a moment more watching her, he tore his thoughts guiltily away from the lithe sweep of her legs and went in search of his half-brother. He ignored the chatter in the hall, Franderel’s congratulations and Loren’s platitudes, breathing a relieved sigh when he made it into the deserted side corridor that wormed its way through the recesses of the guildhall.  The vestibule where Cailan had donned his formal clothes was empty of all but his valet, who tutted over the haphazard way the king had scuffed the leather and crumpled the goldwork in his hastily discarded mantle.

The valet bowed. “The king has gone to the yard, Your Highness, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you, Villers. Did he, uh, take his greatsword with him?”

“I was otherwise occupied, Your Highness,” came the reply, with a meaningful nod to the mantle.

“Of course, that’s probably –”

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see a young man not much older than him in a plain suit of mail, holding out a waxed paper package.

“The report you asked for, Ser,” the messenger said. “I would’ve had it to you sooner, but the trial –”

“I’ll take it now,” he said, holding out his hand.

And that was how the rest of his day started. Two more messengers found him in his office before he had finished going through the first report, one with a requisition form, and the other with an update from the quartermaster, and he pored over his desk until the fading light forced him to stand and retrieve the glowstone from over the fire. Someone else knocked on his door, but before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the guard turned the handle to admit a servant carrying a tray.

“Teyrna Rosslyn said if you hadn’t eaten, I was to bring you some lunch,” he explained, as Alistair’s stomach rumbled. He spotted bread fresh from the oven, two apples, and a round of the soft goat’s cheese laid down the previous spring. “She also said to say yes, she’s remembered to eat, too. She sends apologies, but there’s been an injury among the archery stands, and her assistance is needed.”

The gesture warmed him more than the pot of herbal tea the servant left with the rest of the fare. He picked at it for the rest of the afternoon, only a little sorry for the crumbs he spilled over the papers, until at last, with Ferrenly’s clockwork striking the fifth hour, his door burst open once again and Cailan wandered over the threshold. Mud still caked his boots, his hair frayed loose from the braids at his temples, and he had stripped down to a plain linen shirt and simple coat to keep out the chill. Eyeing him as he sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, Alistair rose from the desk, shuffled his papers, and called for Lloyd to see them to the right people, before crossing to the dresser in the corner where Ferrenly kept his stash of brandy.

“Ho! Now there’s a good idea.”

“It’s been a long day,” Alistair offered, along with a full glass, and sat down opposite in the opposite armchair.

Cailan snorted. “Truth be told, this whole business has left me rather wrong-footed.”

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

What else could he say? After the revelation that Eamon had been hiding his letters, and the fraught escape from Orzammar, he had spent the hours between fighting demons and organising an army in introspection, where he recounted every slight of his childhood. The new understanding had soured him, leaving little energy to spare to feel anything more than relief. Rosslyn was safe, and he was free.

But Cailan was shaking his head, his eyes lost on the fire. “My problems with my uncle began long before this. If not for him, this war might never have happened.” A wry smile tilted in Alistair’s direction. “Did you never wonder where Loghain got the idea that I would forsake Anora? It’s a little ironic that if not for the commotion he caused, I would never have considered it at all.”

“What will you do now?” Now that Rosslyn turned you down flat, he did not add.  

The fire cracked. Instead of answering, Cailan sighed and took a long pull of the brandy, grimacing at the burn as he swallowed. It felt odd to ask such a casual question at all, given that not even a year ago, Alistair might have been cuffed around the ear for deigning to even sit in the king’s presence. He couldn’t tell if it was the low light or the cold outside, or even just the wear of the day’s events that dulled the edge of formality that always stood between him and the king, but the air felt open, easier to breathe, and Cailan himself cut a sympathetic figure, haggard and drawn and removed of all the trappings of his station. Like he was just another person, like an equal.

Like family, he thought, and dropped his gaze to his drink.

“I don’t know what I will do,” his brother murmured. “Truly. My feelings for Anora are… well. There is love there, of a sort, but our fathers always meant us for each other, and now I cannot help but wonder how much of my affection arose because it was easier to craft those feelings than forge my own path. You can make a man envious of choosing, you know,” he added, with the ghost of a rakish smile that faded quickly. “I have not been the best husband, over the years, but with time and distance…”

Alistair waited and Cailan drained his glass.

“I was not ready to marry when I did. I barely remember any of that month Father died. He wasn’t old. And suddenly there I was with a kingdom and voices in my ears telling me to lay aside my grief to do what they said he would have wanted, and before I knew it, the deed was done and my life was no longer my own. On two fronts.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable squirm of sympathy stirred in his chest, but he had little else to offer. When Teagan had told him about Maric’s disappearance, the hope that his wrecked ship might still be found and Ferelden’s hero saved, he had been stung by a feeling that wasn’t quite grief but which ached all the same. His distant dreams of one day being acknowledged for his merit had vanished like smoke in the wind, but he had still had the training yard, his duties as a knight, and Teagan’s respect. Nobody had ever had any higher expectations for him.

Cailan swatted away the apology, and regarded him closely. “I wanted better for you, you know,” he confessed. “It’s why I did not simply order you and the Aeducan princess together. When Eamon suggested it, I remained adamant that it must be your choice, freely made. If I had known the steps he would take to engineer such a choice…” A curse escaped his lips. “I am sorry, brother, for everything I’ve done.”

They lapsed into silence. Thoughts swirled in Alistair’s head, each buzzing with their own insistence like flies on a hot day. It had never occurred to him to ask what Maric was like, either as a person or as a father, because until that moment nobody had ever spoken if him as anything less than a figurehead, an idol so remote he could never be truly real. How much of that remoteness had been crafted by Eamon, so that he would never ask for more than the scraps he was given? How much, in the end, had the old arl taken? As a child, the possibility of another life had never occurred to him; he had assumed his lot was that of all bastards, once he was old enough to understand the concept. It was only years later under Teagan’s guidance that that belief began to erode away, but even then he hadn’t wondered how things might have been different if he had been acknowledged from the beginning. He could see parties, galas, grand hunts in his mind’s eye, and hours of lessons in statecraft and history, so readily handed to him he would find them boring. He would have met other noble children, played with them, learned how to rule. He might have gone to Highever, would have met…

“Where would Rosslyn have been in all of this?” The question was rude, but thought of her woke a shade of jealousy in him, something big and dark and prowling that hovered around the image of her like a guard dog by its master’s gate, regardless that she didn’t need it of him. “You said you wouldn’t have made me marry Valesh, but what about her?”

His suspicion must have leaked into his voice, or else the question was just insulting. Cailan gave him a long, flat look.

“I would never have forced her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“She is happier with you,” his brother snapped, and sagged. “It’s a relief to see her so.” For a moment, his eyes glazed beneath his frown, thoughts far away, and something clicked in Alistair’s mind.

“How bad did it get over the summer?”

“Bad.”

He remembered, from her letters, I must really be low if even His majesty has noticed. Perhaps exile was too light a punishment after all.  

“You really do love her, don’t you?” A note of wonder crept into Cailan’s voice, matched by the speculative, almost wistful tilt of his head.

The words to reply stuck in Alistair’s throat, his muscles tensed without quite knowing why. Shortly, the answer was yes, but such a small word could hardly encompass the way his chest tightened whenever Rosslyn smiled at him, the calm when he touched her, the singing in his blood on their first night back, when he had kissed her neck and drawn that lovely, desperate noise from her tongue…

“I…”

“Good,” Cailan chuffed, as he poured them both another drink. “Because if you only wanted to bed her, I’d have had to send you away to Kirkwall in disgrace.”

“What? I don’t want – I mean –” A glass was pressed into his hand. “Maker’s breath, please tell me we won’t be talking about this.”

His brother only smirked. “So you haven’t made it that far, then?”

“Cailan, you asked her to marry you. Don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate to talk about – about that?”

He hated how high his voice went, but that spark of anger got lost under the certainty that Rosslyn would not want them discussing the subject – discussing her – in such base terms. After the conversation they had shared in the meadow, he wanted to be worthy of the trust she placed in him, even if it meant losing whatever strange rapport he found himself building with his only living relative. He braced himself for whatever lurked behind the soft pity in Cailan’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the door opened and a clatter of claws signalled Rosslyn’s arrival, with Cuno at her heels.

“There you are!” he cried, rising to greet her. He hoped his blush could be blamed on the alcohol, that she hadn’t been waiting in the hallway and overheard. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, but I’m not drenched today,” she replied. “Which is an improvement. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“You know the sky won’t split open if you call me by my name.”

“Even so.” A smile touched her features as she watched Alistair chafe her fingers between his own. “I’m not staying – I met Lady Raina in the hall and promised to tell you dinner won’t be long.”

“You should at least warm up a little before you go,” he insisted.

She let herself be pulled closer, smiled at the tender hand settling against her waist.

“There are only two chairs,” she pointed out.

Cailan winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair can sit in my lap if he likes.”

“What?”

Rosslyn laughed. “I’ll spare you both the chivalry, I think. There’s a fire in my room, I’ll be warm enough.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused, her gaze darted to his mouth, a still-cold hand at his jaw. “I’ll see you later. And Your Majesty – you may want to get changed, since I hear Lady Raina has made a special effort for our last night.”

“I am rather dishevelled, aren’t I?” Cailan allowed, glancing down at his bare shirt and muddy boots.

Alistair wished him gone. Between one thing and another, he had barely seen Rosslyn all day, and never then alone. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her fingers laced in his hair as he warmed her up head to toe. He wondered if, without their audience, she could have been coaxed towards the hearth, and down into his lap, to let him lay more of those gentle, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. In the morning, they would push onward into territory controlled by Howe, and after that, only long days of marching and battle awaited, with no time for softer, quiet moments. Everyone sensed the nearing end to the war, but Loghain would never truly be brought to bay until Highever could be retaken to cut off his escape, and she had the scent in her nose like a hound on the hunt, implacable. It was his job to make sure she survived.

“See you at dinner,” he murmured, because there was nothing else to do. Her touch lingered against his skin for a moment, but then she was gone. He only realised he was still stood in the doorway, staring after her, when Cailan grunted and hauled himself up from his seat. The king drained his glass and set it on the desk.

“That’s my signal to move, as well. I’ll see you at dinner, and –” He hesitated as he stepped close, but shook off whatever reservation lurked in his mind and laid a broad hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “This is a strange situation in which we find ourselves, with… one thing and another. I will not pry, but if you ever wish for advice from a married man – even one whose marriage started a war – you will always have my ear.” He offered a brief smile. “We are brothers, after all. I think of you as such.”

“I’ll… Thank you.” Alistair faltered, struck by a sudden wave of affection for the man he had spent most of his life resenting. He wanted to repay the sincerity, but didn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know about – about marriage. Isn’t that something I should talk to Rosslyn about, first? I don’t even know if she wants…” His mind flashed to an image, hazy and indistinct, of Rosslyn, smiling, with white flowers woven into her hair, and his heart stuttered.

“There is time,” came the steady reply. “We’ve a war to win first, after all. I was, uh, thinking along slightly different lines, actually. To… get things, uh, moving along, if you…”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Well –” Cailan’s face blotched crimson. “It’s not like Teagan would be much help! And there’s ways – not at all like the boasts in the guardhouse – and you… you both should –”

“There’s a book!” Alistair squeaked, if only to make him stop. Please, please let her not be listening outside the door.

“What?”

“It was on the shelves of my room in Orzammar. I was curious.” When he had first found it, he had thought it a mistake, but saying something would have meant admitting he had peeked inside, and by the time that embarrassment had worn off, his squeamishness had given way to a certain kind of fascination. “It’s very thorough and… it has diagrams.”

Understanding dawned on Cailan’s face, delight mixed with no small amount of relief. “You still have it. You stole it!”

“After I found out what was going on, I wanted to be petty,” he admitted. No doubt the book had been placed there to encourage his infatuation in an entirely different direction, and by the point of leaving, he’d had hope again. “It seemed like the best way.”

“Well,” Cailan tried. “Huh. And here I thought you got up to no mischief at all. Has she seen it?”

“She – she doesn’t know about it. Yet. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know what she’d say.” I always thought people were exaggerating, she had told him, like it was a game and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“As much as they like to make us think otherwise, women cannot read our minds. Talk to her, let her know what you’re thinking, so you can both be happy.”

There was so much fraught behind that simple advice, subjects that weren’t Cailan’s business, despite the sincerity in his eyes. Alistair had no plans to confess his conversation with Rosslyn in the meadow, or the interrupted one in her room when they had stood so close and she had leaned closer into him still, but overlaid with that sweetness was the shadow of fear that his wanting would go too far.

“What if I ruin everything?”

“Brother…” Cailan sighed. “She loves you. There’s no better place to start than that.”

[ladymdc]

Wandering in the Dark

Well, I finished it.

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford x F!mage Trevelyan (Noir AU/dark future/1930s) Rating: Explicit (for occasional smut, like 3 instances) Word Count: ~75,500 Chapters: 19/19 Summary: In a world on the verge of collapse, C.S. Rutherford did what he could to survive, at least until a routine case led him down a path he never expected to cross, and a dame with dark verdant eyes and a sharp wit strode into his office.

With nothing as it seemed, including her, perhaps it all wasn’t as hopeless as he thought.

Read it from the beginning - here & I have included CH.1 under the cut for funsies. ((For those who have been keeping up with it, I’ve included a direct link to the CH18 & I’m sure you can find the final chapter from there :D))

Special thanks to the following people: @laraslandlockedblues​, @windysuspirations​, @kawakaeguri​, @machatnoir​, @softlyue, @fadetastic​, @laurelsofhighever​, & @mssaboteur​ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ I may not talk to all of them every day or at all anymore, but I wanted to say thanks for supporting/encouraging me in some way at some point in this journey. I sincerely couldn’t have done this without you. 

The Resistance was irretrievably over; everything that could have been done had been done. He had never thought they would succeed, only a fool would believe they could, but he had never thought he would live to see the day the last Theirin was wiped from the face of Thedas.

This wasn’t the first time such rumors circulated, but it would be the last. Front and center on today’s paper was undeniable proof. The Theirin family crest affixed to the lapel of Amladaris’ suit jacket was a subtle but devastating blow to anyone still clinging to hope the Golden Age would someday return.

It had been over a decade since he last saw Alistair, but the loss stung no less for it. Perhaps even more so knowing the last words spoken to the man he once called a Brother were venomous and full of resentment. Now, there would never be an opportunity to correct that wrong, but it wasn’t like he had been going out of his way in an attempt to do so anyway. All that was left was to hope Alistair’s death was quick and painless. Though based on the sinister curl of Amladaris’ lip, it was anything but.

The thought did nothing for the migraine that had been plaguing him all morning. In addition to the throbbing tendrils taking root deep in his skull, there was also a slight halo around objects, a shimmery haze that wasn’t precisely seeing double but close enough to be an annoyance. It was one of those post-lyrium side effects he’d long since come to terms with. Once the coup took place, it was either risk injecting a tainted dose or quit.

It was an easy decision.

Automatically, he popped some aspirin into his mouth, swallowed it dry and reached for a cigarette. He tapped it twice on the desk and tucked it into the corner of his mouth before he brought the cupped lighter up, despising the slight tremor of his hands. He smoked in long, steady pulls. Repeatedly, his gaze dropped to the newspaper before him then at his watch to read the time as if it would somehow make it move faster. Eventually, the pounding in his head subsided only to be replaced by the telltale click-clack of high heels.

His interest was instantly piqued, and it had nothing to do with the shapely silhouette he could discern through the frosted glass. A lot could be determined by someone’s gait. The speed and force of their steps and the sounds it produced could indicate a wide array of emotions. This client didn’t possess the terrible wrath of a woman wronged nor the hesitant curiosity of one who suspects. She appeared to exude an air of calm indifference. A rare thing in a world gripped by fear and ruin.

Then, without one iota of hesitation, the door opened.

The woman was beautiful; her wavy, brunette hair smooth and shining. Her full lips an agreeable shade of ruby red. Her dark verdant eyes boldly held his gaze. Something flashed in their depths, green and bright, but then she blinked, and it was gone. One corner of her mouth lifted lazily.

“Rutherford.”

He could feel a sudden heat on the back of his neck at the way his name rolled off her tongue but was determined to pretend it wasn’t there. Her accent was Marcher, mixed with something else he couldn’t quite place.

She shut the door and took a seat in one of the two intentionally uncomfortable, wooden chairs before him. The woman looked at him expectantly.

Rutherford cleared his throat and mashed his cigarette into Amladaris’ left eye. “It seems I’m at a disadvantage, Miss—“

The marginal quirk of her lip became almost amused. “Trevelyan.”

His gut locked up; bile burned in his throat. Rutherford pressed his finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes. Trying to stamp out the visions swimming through his mind. It had been three years since Lord Protector Sethius Amladaris took control, and not a day went by that he was reminded of his unknowing role in the coup.

Having the propensity to keep his head down and work, he took notice something was off much too late. By the time Hawke stormed into his office to scream scathing accusations of his involvement, the damage had already been done. Lyrium tainted with Red had been injected into a majority of their ranks at evening rations. Red not only warped the mind but after the first hit, there was no turning back for without it there was only death. With only one source for the terrible substance available, turning the Order against country and crown was simple.

Only those with rank were given a choice. General Trevelyan was the first to refuse. Rutherford, the second. The difference, however, was only he lived because by way of answer, Rutherford put a bullet between Major General Stannard’s Red-tainted eyes.

Meeting the late General Trevelyan’s daughter’s inquisitive stare, he scraped his bottom teeth over his top lip where the scar from escaping the ordeal was. There was a brief flash of prickling numbness. He immediately regretted drawing attention to it as her eyes briefly roamed over his mouth. The room suddenly felt far too warm. It would be easier not to make eye contact, but it would be cowardly to look away.

Rutherford yanked on the knot of his tie to loosen it. “Why are you here?” It came out much harsher than he would have liked.

She ignored the outburst. “I have use of someone with your talents.”

“Talents?” He scoffed, fishing out another cigarette. The dregs of his migraine were flaring up with force.

“Yes, talents,” she insisted.

Twice, he tapped the cigarette on the desk. “And what might those be?” As far as he was aware, failure and survival were his only ‘talents.’ He had an odd propensity for both.

“We both know why you keep checking your watch.”

Despite the seriousness of her insinuation, he couldn’t help smiling. “And what makes you think you know anything about me?” He asked before fitting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

“Are you sure you want to play this game?” she asked, plucking off some unnoticeable piece of offense from her charcoal grey skirt before returning her dark green eyes to his amber. “Because I do know everything about you.”

Rutherford leaned back in the chair and crossed ankle over knee. “Please.” He blew his smoke out defiantly. “Do tell.”

She smiled tolerantly though his cigarette smoke. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford, the second eldest child of four. Mia, the eldest, your brother Branson, and Rosalie the youngest. You joined the Royal Order the day you turned eighteen. At twenty, you took your first lyrium dose, and your parents died that same year as the Blight ran rampant through the countryside. Then came Kinloch—”

“Enough,” he gritted out. A breath hissed out of him, and he turned his head to avoid her piercing gaze. It took a while before he noticed the dull ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth as he glared at the newspaper displaying the result of his most devastating failure.

“He’s alive you know,” she said, tipping her chin toward the paper.

“No shit.”

Trevelyan made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Don’t be thick.”

“I’m not. I—“ He sat up a little straighter when Trevelyan suddenly stood but didn’t rise as he should have.

“You are,” she insisted as she braced one arm on the desk and leaned over. Her long, flowing locks fell over her shoulder. The scent of her, sweet and floral with notes of something akin to spring rains, wafted his direction. Briefly, it overpowered the smoke thick in the air around him. Rutherford was momentarily struck a little dumb by it.

The motion of her hair drew his attention away from her face toward… other assets. The neckline of her white blouse cut dangerously low and there was little for him to do but glare at her when she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. He knew what she was doing, and he hated it worked so easily, especially because he jumped a little when the silk of her glove brushed his fingers.

Smirking, Trevelyan placed his cigarette between her lips and tucked something into his hand. The metal was warm, and he errantly wondered how warm she’d feel, but then his thumb reflexively ran along the familiar grooves.

His stomach bottomed out. “This could be any coin,” he snapped, holding the silver and gold coin between finger and thumb for emphasis.

“It could,” she agreed. “But it isn’t. Did you know you’re bleeding?” With the cigarette pointing down and held between thumb and middle finger, she touched the very tip of her nose.

Rutherford scrambled to find a handkerchief, but his shirt was already ruined. While he attempted to clean himself up and staunch the flow, she took one long drag and held the cigarette back out to him. He hesitated to take it, distracted by the bright red imprint of her lips upon it.

After a moment of inaction, she leaned forward and placed it between his slightly parted lips and a quiet thrill ran through him at her forwardness. The faint taste of her only served to agitate him further, and she knew it.

That semi-amused curve to her mouth was back. “I can always find someone else, so come along or don’t, it matters not to me. Either way you have your luck back. Perhaps that’s all that’s been missing all these years.” At that she buttoned a single button on her jacket, further accentuating the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, and departed.

The woman never even hinted at what she wanted from him. Like the eye of storm, she was serene and a tad refreshing, but then left chaos and destruction in her wake. His mind was positivity reeling at what she vaguely suggested as he was left with far too many questions and not a single answer.

Rutherford owed Alistair his life. If it weren’t for the Wardens, he would have rotted in Kinloch. At the time, he felt there was nothing to thank them for. The mistakes he made were too grave, the horrors endured too fresh, and his wounds still weeping. Time healed the latter. The former two points, however… Well, they never left, and only more had been added over time. But if there was a way for him to take something he fucked up and make it right, he shouldn’t still be sitting there.

He snuffed the cigarette out on Amladaris’ right eye. There were few things he needed to grab, all within reach. Smokes, lighter, jacket and his emergency bag which contained an assortment of necessities and a good deal of cash should the regime ever care to come after him again. Within moments he was able to rush after her.

“Wait! I—“ he came to a grinding halt at the sight of her leaning against a car expectantly.

“Well, that didn’t take long did it?” Her voice was full of dry amusement.

He scowled. “Shut up.”

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see I waited.” Trevelyan’s pout shifted into something openly appraising as her gaze blatantly raked up his body. “I know I’m glad to see you’re interested.”

He was blushing. Knew he was blushing and the laziest smile he’d ever seen blooming across her lovely face did nothing to alleviate it. Rutherford pinched the bridge of his nose because that… that was dangerous. His entire body had heated through, and it had everything to do with the way she seemed to know how to push all of his buttons.

She laughed then, a high and bright sound that made his hand drop reflexively. Her smile widened a little when their gazes locked once again. His heart was racing, and he was confused as to why.

“Alright grump,” she chirped, opening the passenger door. “Get in. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Her laughter and choice of address were unexpected, and he felt himself breathing out a small huff of amusement as he stepped off the curb and reached in to toss his bag into the backseat. “What did you just call me?”

“Grump.”

“No. Don’t. I don’t like it,” he said, voice muffled from trying, in vain, to wipe away the stupid grin stretching across his face as he stood straight. The smile felt odd, maybe because it felt real.

“Are you sure? It seems like you do very much.”

What he did like, oddly enough, was how her standing on the curb put her almost face to face with him. “I really don’t.” He shook his head, smile finally fading away. “Preferably Rutherford, or Cullen if you must.”

“Alright, Cullen,” she said very slowly as if savoring the feel of his name in her mouth. She extended out a gloved hand. “Preferably Evelyn, or Trevelyan if you must.”

It took him a moment, almost a moment too long but he accepted. It wasn’t a handshake, it was something else, and it bothered him. He abruptly pulled his hand back and clenched it into a fist at his side to prevent himself from wiping it off on his pants.

Her expression shifted. It was subtle, but Rutherford breathed a little easier at the hardness in her eyes for the last thing he deserved was anyone’s warmth or acceptance no matter how much he may want it deep down.