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greypetrel · 3 months

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Hiii 👁️👄👁️💜 Maybe: 🎄 spirits follow everywhere i go - or alternatively:🎄 oh, you fool, there are rules

Hello! Bet you forgot you sent me this, uh? 💜

WELL, it's here! After much consideration because I love the album that contains both these songs, I thought that the Yawning Grave just yelled Morrigan. A minor possible spoiler for the Arbor Wilds/What Pride Has Wrought but well. I'm not explaining whys and hows anyway.

Tis the prompt list

Oh you fool, there are rules.

[ Morrigan x Female Mahariel | 3.692 words | No trigger warnings - Hurt/comfort ]

I tried to warn you when you were a child I told you not to get lost in the wild I sent you omens and all kinds of signs I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you (You can run, but you can't escape) Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins (You will open the yawning grave)

Morrigan didn’t stall long in Skyhold, after Corypheus was defeated.

She had done what she must. That was it. She never meant to stay much longer.

She was grateful for Aisling, for her concerned expression as she told her that she would have tried to help her if she only had let her. Tried to fix whatever was done to her at the Well. Morrigan knew guilt when she saw it. It resonated deeply in her heart, and she was at the same time grateful and repulsed. It only made her want to run.

Run from that castle, run from another series of mistakes, run from companionship and friendship she still doubted she deserved.

Old books and ruins were much safer companions. They never talked back.

She wanted to believe the Inquisitor, be sure that everything could be fixed, that if they put their mind to it, they could have found a solution. Freed her from the cage of a past that wasn’t her own alone anymore, once again. She really did.

She wasn’t fool enough to actually do it.

Aisling knew not the extent of the magic that had been bestowed upon her. The extent of the control it could exert, how much she felt it deep in her bones, like the loose strings of a puppet. She knew, painstakingly well, for all the voices of the Well whispered it into her ears, that as talented as Lavellan was, as undoubtedly bright and creative with magic, she wasn’t powerful enough to break that spell.

None of her people was. No one else was, anymore. Save for… but he had vanished after the battle.

She thanked Aisling, told her words of comfort she didn’t feel, and of trust that in spite of herself she couldn’t convince herself not to mean. She at least owed her a nice goodbye. Kieran hugged her tight, and the elf stalled, caressing his hair and recommending him to listen to his mother. She whispered something in his ear, which made the boy giggle. Morrigan smiled: it happened much more rarely these days.

And before the first light of days could tinge the sky in pinks and lilacs, she took her son’s hand and left the fortress.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Leliana had waited for her, just outside the first outpost, before the descent to the valley.

She knew she didn’t have to go. She knew it well that right now, Skyhold was probably one of the safest places in Thedas. A place run by a person who knew her, knew partially the extent of what she did, could help her should something awry happen, should the Well decide to take full control of her. A person that loved Kieran and, she knew, would have gone out of her way to keep him safe and bring his mother back.

But she missed her.

She missed her and that choice of old, the separation, seemed now the biggest in a long list of mistakes she made. She had gained the knowledge she craved, and for what?

“I miss her.” She just told Leliana, too tired, to battered up to bite back something.

Leliana nodded, smiled in a knowing way that brought back memories, made her look like the young person she once was, and stirred some irritation.

“It was plenty of time you did.”

“Don’t tell the idiot.”

“Oh, I’m saving this bit of information for a special occasion, worry not.”

“If you hear from her…”

“You’ll hear first.” Leliana smiled. “You always hear first from her. You know it, yes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sneered, the pang to her heart finally enough in bringing some old bite back. “I wouldn’t dare implying I know more than the next Divine.”

“It’s been nice to meet you again, Morrigan.” She looked down, and smiled at Kieran. “To meet you both. Come say hi if you are in Val Royeaux.”

She travelled south for a couple of days, just to mislead any possible person who followed her.

And then, she headed straight to Amaranthine.

---

Nathaniel welcomed her warmly and ruffled Kieran’s hair, complimenting on how much he had grown.

Morrigan saw him frowning as the boy answered with a smile that was there for politeness, but didn’t offer any explanation to the fact. She couldn’t, not now. Not with him first.

“Is she here?”

“No.” He sighed. “Still Maker knows where. The last letter came from the Anderfels, but it was five months ago.” A pause, he looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Of course.

It was no surprise, after all: when she came to bid her goodbye in Orlais, Alyra had said she would have been gone for a while, and that communications would have been difficult. She had built a net of spies, but it wasn’t so widespread as to reach desolate places. In the Anderfels, Morrigan knew she had a handful of people in Weisshaupt, but nothing more. And, she couldn’t risk getting found or tracked.

Hoping she would have been there, waiting to magically fix her mess, had been childish and stupid. She wasn’t living in a fairy tale, she was no Vassilissa, as much as she had liked to pretend she was, as a child. As much as Alyra had made her feel like that. Such mishaps had already happened: the first time she reached her in Vigil’s Keep, Alyra had been in Denerim, impossibilitated to move before a week. They had managed three days together. Nothing more, and it wasn’t the only time they had missed each other. It was foolish to hope things could go differently.

“Very well. Can we stay the night, before leaving again?”

Kieran looked at her, snapping his head quickly with a face of disappointment. Morrigan knew perfectly well what he was about to say, and shook her head at him.

The room was found, and there were not many things left to do save opening the window, get a fire going, and bring their bags there, their cloaks to be washed. The same room she had occupied every time she had visited, finding it in the same level of readiness to be occupied.

She observed a dapple of sun shining over the white of the fresh linens. The air smelled like clean, as clean a that place -the whole castle actually- was. Kieran shook Nathaniel’s hand, very politely, and Morrigan wished him a nice afternoon and thanked him for his hospitality. He scoffed the formalities, but hesitated on the door before leaving. He turned towards her.

“She left orders, you know.” He told her, with a smile. “You both can stay for as long as you wish. Not a word of your presence will leave the walls, she described in no lack of details what will happen to snitches to all the recruits and the staff.”

“It sounds like mamae.” Kieran convened.

“The recruits still have nightmares.”

Morrigan joined the other two laughing at that, in spite of the glomp in her throat that rose knowing that Alyra had, in fact, thought of her. Of them both. She clutched one hand in the other and told Nathaniel that she would have thought about it, when Kieran asked her if they could stay.

“Just until mamae is back. Please, mother.”

The room was warm and comfortable, and no servant batted an eye when she asked for dinner to be brought in her room, leaving Kieran to go dine with the others in the great hall. She just walked him there, watched him taking place on a bench close to Nathaniel and in front of Velanna, answering politely to the question the others asked him. Smiling.

Some normality, at long last, or whatever normality she could ever hope to offer him.

The image only made the glomp in her throat grow.

And the glomp grew further when, back in her room, the servant returned with her favourite dish.

“Lady Warden-Commander left a list of what you and your son like to eat, my lady. Just in case.” The old woman smiled, sympathetically. “If you have other preferences, please let me know.”

Morrigan closed the door behind the maid, thanking her, and with all the dignity she had left, walked to the bed and sat down, elegant as a queen.

And then she let go, falling heavily back on the bed. It was fresh and plush: a room well taken care of, as if she was expected. Alyra left orders. Alyra said to the cook what to prepare her.

She wished she never went through that eluvian, all those years ago.

What god to pray for Mahariel to come back to her safe and sound and please, come back soon, she didn’t know anymore, but she was tired. Bone-deep tired.

Maybe she could rest. For some days, at least.

Kieran would benefit from a familiar place to cope with the lack of part of his soul. Faces he knew and who loved him to help him through the change.

Yes, she decided. They both would use some rest.

For some days, at least.

If that was yet another mistake, at least Kieran would have been happy about this one.

She ignored the voices telling her to go.

---

The days became weeks. And months.

Morrigan thought they were past hospitality, but looking better she realized both her and Kieran were a part of the Keep. Expected and wanted. Kieran had his spot in the Library, and everyone in the Keep, Wardens and not, automatically started to teach him whatever knowledge they possessed as if the child was a part of their environment too.

It wasn’t Skyhold, with the Inquisitor and Lord Pavus struggling to cut a free hour for lessons in busy schedules. No, here he was welcomed and expected during activities, at very regular timings Morrigan knew were something Alyra had started in the Keep. Everything happened at a precise time, as she would have wanted.

Her absence was a presence in itself, and it was soothing. It relaxed her, and the boy as well.

Kieran still cried because at night he felt the air too silent, and often crawled in her bed, to be soothed with a hug. He was growing old for that, Morrigan knew, and yet she had not in her to shun him away, nor to scold him because it was unbecoming for a young man his age to seek his mother when he had a nightmare.

No, she hugged him tight and caressed his hair until he felt asleep against her shoulder, like she did when he was but a baby. Everything felt more bearable, more worth it, when she held him like so, alive and breathing and free.

She missed him tenderly when he was a baby, those days. She soothed him and soothed herself as well.

She missed tenderly the exact look Alyra made when she first saw him: she had melted down, the usual air of harshness crumbling in something tender and marvelled. She never looked smitten, not with her and not with Alistair. She had looked so with Kieran. She had smiled, and poked the baby’s nose with such delicate tenderness that Morrigan had burst in tears.

“If you haven’t heard from her… But I’ve written her, too. Told her you’re here.” Nathaniel said, one day when she asked again whether he had news or not. “You know her safe spots, she’s gonna return as soon as she’ll read the letters.”

“Is she?”

He sighed, deeply, stopping to look at the Wardens training in the courtyard, at Velanna crouching in front of Kieran to correct his grip on the staff. Everything went on like normal, like one would expect. A clockwork fortress that stood its ground, brought to discipline by a missing Commander and kept so by her lieutenant. Nathaniel looked that much older, and it wasn’t just the Blight paling his skin, starting to paint his black hair in grey at the temples. Command didn’t really suit him: he could do it, he had been grown for it. It was clear as day, knowing him, that he didn’t like it.

“I hope she is.” He answered, tone lowering. “What are we going to do if she isn’t?”

Morrigan considered. She didn’t want to, but it’s been seven months since the last time anyone had any news from Mahariel. The whispers in her ears told her nothing useful: tales and whispers of Deep Roads, and creatures slain, something stirring, deep down. The possibility that it was too much, even for Alyra, was concrete. More than concrete.

But she knew perfectly well what she would have answered.

“We stop being stupid about it and go on.”

He laughed, bitterly, and couldn’t but agree with her.

They went on, but Morrigan still didn’t feel like leaving, even if everything told her she should not stay any longer, she was being stupid about it, waiting for a person that would have never come back.

She once thought that her plans wouldn’t have allowed her to stay more than a handful of months in one place, but as per now, she wasn’t sure what were her plans anymore.

So, she just listened to the voices from the Well, concentrated on them and tried to interpret them.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but all she could devise was one word.

Stay.

It seemed a fitting excuse to be stupid about it and listen.

---

Something was on the bed, crawled into her arms.

She sighed and shifted, still more than a half asleep, she shifted her arms on the figure, rested her chin more comfortably on the head, thinking it was Kieran.

“Another nightmare?”

“He had one, but he’s asleep, right now.”

It was enough to make Morrigan jolt awake, every trace of sleep instantly gone. She snapped her fingers and a ball of fire started in the air, balanced on the palm of her hand to illuminate the rest of her bed.

Red hair, glinting orange and golden in the firelight, carefully braided in an intricate motive to stay out of her face. A practical style, a travelling one. Dark tattoos marking her brow, making her features less minute and delicate than they were. Beside her eyes, usually, but tonight those eyes were mellower than their usual.

“You’re-” There were at least ten thoughts in her head, but the whispers were loud and insisting, hissing about alarms and danger and wrongness, and she grew distracted. “Am I still dreaming?”

It was all that she managed to spit.

Alyra Mahariel, the Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, survivor of yet another mission everyone with some brain would have deemed impossible, frowned at her. She rose on one elbow, the shoulder of her nightsuit daintly slipping off a shoulder. Muscly, but less than Morrigan remembered. She looked thinner, more ghastly, the bags under her eyes were darker and her cheeks looked hollow, and the Witch knew it wasn’t just the light. If all, the light masked how more grey-ish her skin had gotten.

“it depends.” Alyra extended a hand, hesitating just a moment, just to see a nod from the other, before cupping Morrigan’s cheek. “Is it a good dream?”

A thumb caressed Morrigan’s cheekbone with tenderness, the pressure barely perceptible. The elf slid forward, very slowly and carefully as if she was afraid of startling a wild animal. Her face grew closer, her lips parted, but still she stopped at but a breath space from a kiss. She brushed her lips with her own, and waited for the other to consent. As she had done from the start, inviting but never pressing.

It made the glomp in Morrigan’s throat only bigger, as she realized that it was really Alyra, not an impostor. Her breath on her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on her cheek were not a dream. The whispers were more pressing, insisting on the verge of deafening: they spoke of decay and death and wrongness, and danger. Morrigan had seen her slice so many throats, kill enough people in cold blood to say the Well was wrong.

But that wasn’t the whole of it.

The Well knew many things, but the Well didn’t know everything. Not the care in which she cupped her face, not the love in which she still waited for Morrigan to take the first step, without forcing her or making her feel trapped or pressured. That little choice she gave her, knowing how important it was for her.

She waited in Amaranthine for 7 months, and for 7 months she endured and kept strong, hid under the carpet all the negative.

Only then, 7 months after Corypheus had been slain, 9 since she drank from the Well and lost her freedom yet again, in front of that little tenderness, Morrigan allowed herself to cry.

She folded forward, and the fact that she was met with a solid shoulder and arms that held her, made her cry more. She circled the other woman’s bust and held her with all she had in her. She didn’t remember the last time she cried like that, so loud and intensely. She held Alyra like she would have disappeared again if she let go, and squeezed her past the point of comfort. She had missed her, missed her so much that the voices in her head felt more distant, more quiet.

“What happened?”

She asked her, tenderly combing her hair with her fingers -stiffer than her usual, Morrigan didn’t want to know whether she was just tired or her mission had failed and the Blight was starting to get hold of her. She couldn’t face it, now. As the elf patiently waited for an answer. Morrigan felt the deep, satisfied sigh, her frame melting against hers, as if she too hadn’t relaxed in ages and was waiting for it.

“I-” She started, but the words died in her throat. She didn’t want to know, but she had to. She needed at least one thing to go right, in the grand scheme of things. “… Did you succeed?”

She didn’t need to specify in which exactly. And she hated the whiny tone the question came out from her mouth with. It was pitiful and pathetic, and she wasn’t a person who begged. She could care later, tho.

“Avernus has it. A last round of control.” Alyra answered, her arms holding her tighter. “… I have the Cure.”

Morrigan started crying again, fat tears surging instantly to her eyes, as some weight she didn’t realise she was carrying lifted from her shoulder. Alyra disentangled from the hug, still as quick and agile as ten years ago in her prime, and moved to cup her cheeks and delicately pull her head so she was looking in her eyes. Her eyes were shiny too, and she looked tired. Bone-deep tired. But less stoney than she had seen her ever since she first met their son. She pushed forward and gently nuzzled her nose with her own, stopping as usual but a breath away from her lips. Morrigan, this time, didn’t hesitate: she filled the distance and kissed her, her taste all so familiar and soothing. Finally, after three years.

“What happened to you?” She broke the kiss, but didn’t stray far, delicately kissing tears away from her cheeks. “You’ve missed me before, but you haven’t ever cried like so. Not even when I told you I couldn’t follow you through your mirror.”

Morrigan sighed, pressing forward until her face drowned in the crook of the other’s neck. Alyra shifted, urging her to lie down after a while that they hadn’t moved. Her back ached, she said: she had ridden fast and hard all day, and they weren’t all that young anymore.

She settled them under the covers, tugging the hem on Morrigan’s shoulder with just one hand. The other arm held her close all throughout, as if she knew she needed to be this close, hear her steady heartbeat under her ear, when she moved.

Satisfied, she settled more comfortably around the witch, holding Morrigan as she kept combing her hair with her fingers, absent-mindedly. Tracing circles on her skin. Pressing a kiss where she could, every now and then. On her cheek, jaw, neck and shoulder. She even started to humm a song: a familiar tune she had sung to Kieran every time she was there to tuck him to sleep.

Three years since they last saw each other.

Morrigan could have written more, or could have travelled to meet her. She could have travelled with her, even. She could have stayed in Amaranthine, 10 years ago when they met for the first time after the Blight. Alyra couldn’t move, but Morrigan could have stayed. She wondered what could have been, if she had. Kieran growing up happy with people he could have called family.

She could have done so many things more for the woman in her arms, the woman she loved.

And yet, as cruel and ruthless and unforgiving as her fame said, Alyra Mahariel never put an ounce of blame on her. She was crying, so Alyra held her and soothed her until tears stopped.

She wondered if she would have done the same knowing what she did at the Well of Sorrow. Knowing that she took the Well away from two Dalish. The Well and the voices whispered she was theirs, that the illusion that she belonged with her was just that. She belonged to them, now. It was foolish to hope anything else. Such was the price she paid.

Bile rose in her throat, the thought of losing her love unbearable and anguishing.

But once again, she had to know.

Hunger for knowledge was what would have brought her demise, ultimately. And it was better now than later, she thought. Even if it was the most terrifying thing she had ever done.

Her hands fisted in the cotton of her shirt, a silent plea not to go, to stay where she was. Four words that weighted like the whole castle slowly creeped out of her lips.

“I made a mistake.”

#morrigan x female mahariel #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #warden mahariel #dao #da fanfic #writing petrel #angst #dai #da morrigan #nathaniel howe #it's gonna be fine alyra found a cure to the blight #what's defeating an ancient elven well #she'll speak with the voices in the well and convince them to behave or else #“Don't make me come there.” cit.

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tired-truffle · 4 months

Text

Yet Broken Still You Breathe

An AlistairxOC fic

Chapter Word Count: 3.3k

Part 11/50

"Ignore every instinct to flee. Remember: you are a monster too." - Destiny

Masterlist

“Ta-da!” With a dramatic flourish of his wrist, Darcy unfurled the rolled-up scroll and placed it on the breakfast table. Gwen had been so caught up staring at the spread before her, not quite believing her eyes that she hadn’t noticed Darcy’s arrival. The long oak table was draped in a fine white linen cloth, upon which sat platter after platter of sumptuous breakfast foods. At one end was a huge wheel of creamy cheese, its rind dotted with herbs. Beside it sat a basket of still-warm bread, the crusty loaf steaming gently in the cool morning air. Bowls of plump berries in shades of crimson, purple and blue beckoned invitingly, their sweet perfume wafting towards Gwen's nose. Slices of juicy ham, pink and glistening, were piled high on a bronze platter next to a stack of buttery croissants. In the center sat a vase bursting with bright wildflowers, their colourful petals still dusted with early morning dew.

The group fell silent, all eyes turning to Darcy as he stood at the head of the table a self-satisfied tilt to his chin, “Don’t hold back the compliments people! You’re welcome for gracing you with my brilliant forethought, planning, and use of personal connections.”

“Maybe if you explain what you’re talking about first, our lesser minds may be able to come up with adequate compliments for this spectacular feat of yours,” Alistair drawled, placing a croissant on his plate - having just sat down and the last member of their party to arrive - he had just joined the rest of their party at the breakfast table, still looking a bit dishevelled from sleep. His tawny hair was tousled and his gambeson was on inside out, adding to his charmingly rumpled appearance. As he settled into his seat a few places down from Gwen, she couldn't help but stifle a laugh. Across from her, Zevran and Leliana exchanged knowing glances and quickly placed bets on how long it would take Alistair to notice

“I’m so glad you asked, my good friend Alistair, I would love nothing more than to explain how amazing I am.” Darcy leaned in close to Zevran, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He playfully winked and fluttered his long eyelashes at the rogue.

Morrigan groaned, her initial pleasure at avoiding Alistair’s presence this morning disappearing under the haze of Darcy’s flirtations, “Cease this childish display and proceed, would you? Lest this idle chatter lull me back to sleep and we delay our exit from this place even further.”

“Alright, alright,” Darcy attempted to appease the witch, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Morrigan’s jaw clenched with a sharp clack of her teeth and she muttered, “My knickers are none of your concern.”

Gwen breathed a silent sigh of relief as Darcy refrained from provoking Morrigan any further. Instead, he carefully untied the twine that bound the ancient-looking scroll and laid it gently on the table. The parchment was yellowed with age, and intricate map lines traced its surface, depicting the corner of Ferelden where they currently resided. However, anything past that knowledge was beyond Gwen. There were words written in an elegant, looping script on the lower left corner of the map, different from the other titles spread around the page, but given that Gwen was unable to read any language at all she couldn’t discern their meaning. She could guess - her travels had given her knowledge of the names of the surrounding locations - but the letters had never made much sense to her. Keeping her expression neutral was second nature to Gwen, a defence mechanism honed over years to keep others from knowing what lurked beneath the mask. It wasn't that she was ashamed; illiteracy was common among common folk. But revealing this vulnerability could only bring trouble, so she kept it to herself.

The gentle chirping of crickets filled the room, their rhythmic song blending with the soft rustling of leaves and distant birdcalls. The cool breeze that flowed through the open window carried with it the smell of damp earth and floral notes, a refreshing respite from the stuffy air inside the small room.

“Where on Thedas did you get this?” Leliana asked, glee coursing through her as she stood, palms pressed flat on the table to allow her a better view of the map.

“Brother Genetivi’s house in Denerim,” Darcy said as though that answered anything.

“I think the next logical question would be how, then proceeding that, how did you know to look there?” Alistair had straightened, his breakfast all but forgotten in favour of staring in wonder at Darcy.

“Sir Henric’s note. Remember that Templar we found killed on the road? He mentioned that Brother Genetivi, a scholar in Denerim, knew of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It is located in Haven.” Darcy pointed at the spot on the map with the elegant script with one hand and produced said note out of his pocket with the other, passing it to Alistair who read over the note in bewilderment.

“How did I miss this?” Alistair mumbled to himself.

Darcy took it upon himself to answer, “You didn’t miss anything, I kept the note from you in case it was a dead-end, I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

Alistair's lips pressed together in a tight line, his expression revealing a hint of displeasure although he did not speak up to protest.

“I asked a skilled friend of mine to investigate - his ability to slip in and out of the Alienage is like no other. He sent a letter along stating that Brother Genetivi is missing and his assistant dead, and that he’d been able to find this map among his things.” Darcy sat back in his chair, “It’s the best lead we have for the Urn, we should set out immediately if we are to have our best chance to wake the Arl. Thoughts?” Darcy opened the floor to discussion.

“And we have to save the Arl?” Gwen clarified, ignoring the indignant glare Alistair shot her way. Their conversation last night did little to warm her up to the idea of helping nobles, they had already saved Lady Isolde, did they really have to save another?

“Not all others lick the boots of nobles like you, Alistair. Why should those of common breeding care about the fates of their lords when the lords care little for them in return?” Morrigan berated him and at the same time, both insulted and defended Gwen. She frowned, unsure how to interpret such a backhanded compliment.

Alistair scowled at Morrigan. Yet before he could offer a retort, Darcy commanded their attention again, “Look, I know we all just woke up and we’re feeling a little strung out, but if we can wake up the Arl and get him on our side, we stand a much better chance of going against Teryn Loghain. The other Lords at the Landsmeet are not going to care about a bunch of nobodies, especially not ones led by an Elf.” He flicked the tips of his pointed ears for emphasis, “Unless we’re able to secure noble backing that can verify Alistair’s nobility, we don’t stand a chance and may as well charge head first at the Archdemon with no backup.”

In a rare moment of almost seriousness, Darcy had made an excellent point that Gwen could not argue. She shrugged and did not offer a rebuttal. What was an extra week or two of travel when they had wasted so much already?

“Any other objections?” Darcy spread his arms, welcoming their arguments.

“Can we go after we finish breakfast? I am reluctant to leave such a decadent spread after our long hours on the road.” Zevran took a suggestive bite of sausage and Darcy’s playful grin settled back in its usual place.

The table quickly devolved into meaningless chatter, Sten complaining of Darcy and Zevran’s un-Qun-like proclivities, while Morrigan took every opportunity to provoke Alistair’s ire. Leliana regaled Gwen and Wynne with stories of her travels with the Chantry, and Barkspawn slept soundly beside his recently emptied bowl. Gwen didn’t know when she had started to think of this as ‘normal’. Part of her longed for the quiet solitude she had grown used to have, but another part relished in the company, soothing the little girl inside her who wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by people she cared for.

“I forgot something in my rooms.” Gwen's fists were tightly clenched, her nails digging into her palms as she struggled to suppress the fiery anger rising in her chest. She couldn't help but notice Alistair's slumped shoulders and distant gaze as he returned from his meeting with Darcy, Bann Teagan, and Lady Isolde. The air around them felt heavy and tense, like a thunderstorm brewing on the horizon. “I’ll meet you at the gates.”

Darcy, who appeared to mirror her feelings, his nose crinkled and his eyes sharp, nodded his assent - a smirk of understanding pulling at the corner of his mouth. No one else seemed to notice their exchange and Gwen quietly slipped away from the group.

Frustration and irritation whirled in her mind like a tempest, fueled by Isolde's constant undermining of Alistair and the never-ending Calling that plagued her. The throbbing ache in her head was a constant companion, a reminder of her frayed patience. She had reached her limit with the haughty nobles and their archaic belief in their own superiority. It was enough to make her want to scream into the wind.

Her timing was perfect, Lady Isolde exited the throne room, her blonde hair pulled back tight in her braided buns, and her thin mouth set in a hard line as she started down the hallway towards the Arl’s study, Bann Teagan nowhere in sight.

With cautious steps, Gwen trailed behind Isolde, her senses on high alert. She could feel the weight of Isolde's trust in their familiar surroundings and she knew it was up to her to be vigilant. As they neared the study, Gwen instinctively jammed her foot inside the door, causing Isolde to startle in alarm. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the masked intruder standing before her.

“You!” How kind of her to remember Gwen’s name, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you have left with the others?”

Her pupils widened as she took an involuntary step back, raising an arm as though she stood a chance at shoving Gwen away. She’d barely done anything and already the Orlesian’s delicate sensibilities were affronted by her presence.

“You don’t mind if I come in, do you?” Gwen didn’t wait for the response of what was sure to be a resounding no before yanking the door out of Isolde’s white-knuckled hand, entering the room with firm steps, and shutting it firmly behind her.

Isolde’s quickened breaths stuttered in the deafening silence.

“If I scream my guards will come and you’ll spend the rest of your days rotting in prison.” The quiver of Isolde’s bottom lip did nothing to help her attempt at intimidating Gwen. She merely raised an eyebrow at the Lady’s threat, unfazed by the mention of guards and prison. She knew that she could easily evade capture and that her presence here was more important than any risk of punishment. It wasn’t as though prison was something she was unused to, or unable to withstand, even if the thought of spending even a second of her time locked behind bars didn’t make her skin crawl.

“Relax,” Gwen rolled her eyes, “I do not wish to cause you harm.”

“What do you want then?” Isolde spat, backing up until she hit the desk, Gwen matching her steps, her eyes dark and intense as she peered at the smaller woman.

Her lip curled behind her bandana, “You are a cruel, vile woman. Stealing the only good thing he had away from him due to your petty insecurities?” Gwen had met many people like that, but to do that to someone like Alistair? If anyone in this world did not deserve that treatment it was him. “If it were up to me you would not so much as look at Alistair again, but alas he is attempting to save your husband - at the potential cost of delaying our mission and resulting in the deaths of thousands, might I add.”

Isolde’s eyes flashed with indignation, and she straightened, remembering her title and all the power it possessed. Unfortunately for her, Gwen did not care for such trivial things. “I am the lady of Redcliffe, you are nothing more than a common criminal, most likely, with the way you hide your face. What authority do you have to give me orders?”

The demure Lady had some fight in her after all. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Gwen stepped forward, crowding Isolde so she had to lean back on the desk, the wide cast of her eyes betraying her alarm, replacing the brief bout of vexation. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to maintain composure against Gwen's unexpected aggression. “That is all us common folk are to you nobles.” Gwen laughed humourlessly, her mouth curving into a feral grin under the cloth that covered it, the slit in her cheeks parting to reveal all of her pointed teeth. “Nothing more than a bunch of criminals. And while I may not currently be wanted by any authorities, I am more than willing to receive such punishment should I ever hear of you speaking to Alistair with no more than the utmost respect.”

Isolde’s lip pulled back in a sneer, “He is a bastard, a product of his father’s idiotic mistakes. There is no respect to give to boys like him.”

Gwen slammed her hands down on the desk, bracketing Isolde’s slender frame. The woman let out a yelp but Gwen pressed forward, “He is not his father, nor is he responsible for your misgivings about him. Either you kiss the very ground he walks on, you do everything he could ever want from you without question, and you shower him with praise like you would any other heir to the throne, or,” A prickling sensation at the nape of Gwen's neck signalled the impending Calling, its eerie hum growing louder with each passing moment. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out any rational thoughts as she succumbed to the all-consuming rage coursing through her veins. With a swift and calculated movement, she pulled down her mask and pressed one hand firmly against Isolde's mouth to silence her screams. A twisted smile stretched across Gwen's face, her nostrils flaring as if scenting the anticipation of what was to come. Isolde's eyes bulged in terror as she desperately tried to find purchase on the desk behind her, realizing too late that there was no escape from Gwen's wrath. “I will make you regret it, and I will enjoy every second of your torment.”

Gwen held the woman in place, grabbing her by the front of her dress and pulling her close. Tears streamed down Isolde’s face as her pleas were muffled by the firm grip Gwen had on her jaw. This terror, a tangible force that choked her very existence, threatened to swallow her whole. It was a familiar feeling, one that she had grown accustomed to over the years. The anxious part of her mind that constantly worried about what others thought of her was momentarily quelled by this overwhelming emotion. She didn't have to worry about someone growing to hate her one day when they weren’t able to stand being near her in the first place.

Gwen leaned forward so she was only a few inches from Isolde’s reddening face as she struggled to get air through her nose and into her panicking lungs. “Do you understand?” Gwen let her jaw widen beyond what was humanly possible, letting it hang for a moment as Isolde froze in terror before she snapped her mouth shut, barely missing the tip of the Orlesian’s perfect nose.

Isolde nodded vigorously as she sobbed, her whole body quivering.

Gwen's heart raced as she watched Isolde plead for her life, her desperation palpable in every squirm. The urge to give in and consume her enemy simmered beneath the surface, growing stronger with each passing second. But Gwen resisted, holding onto the moment, savouring it like a rare delicacy. Her eyes burned with determination as she stood her ground against the tempting desires within her.

Gwen took a hesitant step back, her heart racing as she wrenched herself away from the dangerous edge of anger and vengeance. That wasn't who she wanted to be - a ruthless avenger willing to do anything to protect Alistair. She had only meant to issue a warning to the Arlessa, to make her back off and leave Alistair alone. She hadn’t even meant to truly scare her, and she certainly hadn’t meant to show off her face.

Isolde sank to the floor, her chest heaving as she gasped down breath after breath as though she’d thought she’d never breathe again. She had almost been right.

Gwen had expected to be consumed by a wave of guilt, but instead, she was struck with a deep sense of revulsion as she stared down at the pitiful woman cowering on the floor. Her sobs echoed through the room, filling Gwen's ears and senses with their spinelessness. How could someone so weak and insignificant dare to think they were worthy of someone like Alistair? The thought made Gwen's blood boil. Alistair, with his kind heart, brave spirit, and infectious humour. But perhaps that was the root of it all - this woman's inferiority complex gnawed at her and she lashed out at Alistair because he believed himself to be lesser than her. This cycle had to end, and even if it meant facing consequences for her actions, Gwen couldn't bring herself to regret standing up against this injustice. The air in the room felt dense and oppressive, suffocating like a heavy cloak wrapped around them both. But beneath it all, there was a fiery determination burning within Gwen - a flame that refused to be extinguished.

Gwen pulled up her bandana, turning to leave before she could continue in her recklessness, not wanting to stay in case the urge of the Calling took hold of her once more - pushing her further into the monster lurking below her skin. She stopped when Isolde spoke in a trembling voice, “What are you?”

A monster, a creature so unlovable even the holy Sisters of the Chantry could not find anything redeemable about me. She wanted to say, but Isolde must already know that, it was written across her skin in the disfigurement of her mouth, the scar around her neck where the collar of shackles had once sat, and the bottomless darkness behind her eyes.

“If you tell anyone about what you saw or what I have said, what I am will be the least of your concerns.”

Gwen's anger boiled over, leaving no room for further discussion. She stormed out of the study, her hands clenched into tight fists, her nails pressing bloody half-moons into her palms. The sound of her heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, each one marking her determination and frustration. Her face was flushed, her jaw set in determination as she left the room with purpose.

“You okay?” Darcy asked when she met them at the gate, his eyes flickering with curiosity. Gwen's response was a mere grunt, filled with an ambiguous mix of emotions that she struggled to put into words. Panic and satisfaction battled for control within her mind, making it difficult to form cohesive thoughts.

Darcy grinned mischievously, the rest of their party grabbing their packs, ready to head on the next leg of their adventure, their sights set on the small village of Haven. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, meant for Gwen's ears alone, “Whatever you did, she deserved every second of it.”

Gwen’s gaze flickered to where Alistair fiddled with a fraying strap on his shield, oblivious to what had just happened, and she felt the anger start to dissipate in the glowing sun. He deserved so much more than she could give him, and yet… “Yes, she did.”

Next Chapter

A/N:

I apologize for the lack of Alistair in this chapter, but there is more to come of him next! This chapter was a bit transitional and shorter than most of the others but we should be back to our regular length when I post on Sunday!

As always thank you for reading my little story <3 It would mean so much to me for any likes, reblogs and comments!

#angst with a happy ending #slow burn #fluff #eventual smut #falling in love #humour #alistair dao #alistair dragon age #alistair theirin #alistair x original character #original female character #leliana #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #wynne dragon age #sten dragon age #morrigan dragon age

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