#Aeron x Alistair

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WIP: Two Wardens at a Party

Related Readings: Tabristair Masterpost | Original Fiction Masterpost

A bit of dialogue from something I’m working on in earnest, instead of a few other things I planned to finish, because spite is a powerful motivator sometimes.

“Ooh—!” Alistair nudges Aeron from recollection. “Isn’t she that one woman from the Chantry?”

“Which one?” As if Aeron keeps track of who works in or for the Chantry. “You know I haven’t set foot near one since your sister got remarried.”

“I’m almost certain that it’s her.” He points ahead of them, where an older woman in Chantry colors stands talking with the hostess of this party, a teacup and saucer in hand. “Remember? She came to the Keep last month. What was it she wanted—?”

“Oh, you’re right. No. I remember. That’s not her, though.”

“It’s not?”

“The woman who came to the Keep was younger.”

“Was she?”

“And a redhead. Made me think of Leliana, actually…” And, in reflecting on it now, Aeron wonders if that was intentional. “She was there trying to see if the Grey Wardens would be willing to make an investment in furthering the good work they do on behalf of the Maker.”

“Right…” Alistair frowns a little. “You made sure you were polite in your refusal, at least, weren’t you?”

“Alistair Tabris, I am offended! You know I am nothing but polite to all our guests, especially when they are from such an upstanding and important institution as the Chantry!”

But Alistair looks at her like he knows better, and he does know better; why else would he murmur some half-apology to the Maker as Aeron snickers into her wine glass?

“You needn’t apologize on my behalf, Alistair. Besides—” She nudges him gently, a conspiratorial smile on her lips. “—when was the last time you attended a service?”

“I—” He blinks at her. “I have just...been very busy, is all.”

Aeron gives a dramatic little sigh. “It can indeed be so very busy, living in such sin, when you’re married to a borderline heretic.”

Too late, she remembers that Alistair still does not find that funny. The wine goes down hard and she coughs out an apology.

“You see that? That’s the Maker taking you to task for your blasphemy,” Alistair tells her, but at least there is a little smile on his lips as he says it.

[dani-dear]

i’m fulfilling my 2014 dreams finally guys, i made Alistair smooch (one of many) my warden (on the cheeky)

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Mr. & Mrs. Tabris

Remix title: Mr. & Mrs. Tabris Remixer name: Celeritas Link to remix: https://celeritassagittae.tumblr.com/post/164733906029/da-remix-fest-mr-mrs-tabris Pairing(s): Alistair x f!Tabris (Aeron Tabris) Rating and warnings: Teen to M for some discussions of sex Summary: Alistair and Aeron’s wedding goes off without a hitch… mostly

Original inspiration fic: By Any Other Name Original author name: @crisontumblr Link to original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4954882

Cris’s universe is a gift, Aeron Tabris is a gift, and I’ve always been fond of the fics (all two of them) where Alistair says “screw it I’m taking the Warden’s name when we marry."  Cris had mentioned later in some sort of meta that she imagines Eamon getting *super* sad drunk after all this and possibly bemoaning that none of this would have happened if that chit hadn’t gotten her claws in him, and I don’t remember if she said she was going to write that scene or not, but the nice thing about seeing it on the list of remixables is that I don’t have to worry about that any more.  Uses additional meta, too, because why not?

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Fic Doodle: Promises Worth Keeping

Related Reading: Tabristair Masterpost

Just a bit of dialogue I needed to get out of my brain. Takes place way back in the beginning of Aeron Tabris’s Blight adventure, specifically after Ostagar. Will clean up and make an actual full-fledged fic later.

See if you can spot all of the parallels and lines that are technically call-forwards. ;3

“I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to run right now.”

Aeron stops dead in her tracks. Alistair glances over his shoulder—perhaps to confirm that it really is her walking towards him?—before returning his gaze to the marshland before them.

“I doubt anyone would,” he adds, “given the circumstances. Part of me hopes you won’t, though—”

“I-I’m not—” Aeron breathes in, sighs. She presses her hands together; a brief attempt to resist the urge to wring them. “How are you managing, Alistair?”

Alistair gives her another glance, but there is an odd little smile on his lips. “Truthfully? I’m not. All my friends—my, ah…m-my family, I guess—?”

He turns his head away the same moment his voice cracks, bowing it into his hands before his shoulders begin to shake. Something about the swiftness of the gesture makes Aeron feel strange—as if, though she can’t explain how, she is certain this is something he has done before, and often.

You should probably leave him be.

Aeron approaches slowly. She has given up trying to avoid wringing her hands.

Go back inside. Let him finish this crying jag he’s on. You can assess your supplies while you wait; that’s productive for the both of you?

And how long will that take? Not very, considering the situation they left. They’re lucky to have their armor, their swords—

Besides, how long has he been out here, by himself?

This grief doesn’t concern you.

Well, no, it doesn’t. That’s true. But…

Aeron starts to reach out, stops, pulls her hand back halfway, glances back towards the hut, relents, and finally—carefully, deliberately, and gently—places her hand on his left shoulder. Alistair goes quieter, but she can still feel him trembling under her hand. As Aeron sits down next to him on the bank, hand lifting a little to avoid pushing him down sideways, Alistair hastily wipes his face. He draws his knees to his chest and hugs them tight, mumbling an apology.

“This is—” Another odd smile quirks at his lips. “It’s not very becoming of a Grey Warden, is it?”

But Aeron isn’t thinking that, even as she watches him try to play this off; instead, she is focused on how strikingly young Alistair looks in the light filtering through the hazy clouds. (How old did he say he was? Has he even said?) So young and the entirety of the world he knows, gone, seemingly overnight.

Aeron already knows more than enough about that, doesn’t she?

“Do you always cry alone?” she asks him. She shrugs when Alistair looks as if he isn’t sure how to answer, turning to pick at grass in front of her. “My Da was fond of saying that…that crying, y’know, in private is like keeping a secret you should share with someone, but you can’t for…whatever reason.” Aeron shakes her head. “I never really quite… He’s always saying strange things like that.”

“Your father’s still alive?” Alistair sounds mystified by the idea. “I just—I never…knew…mine…”

They fall into uneasy silence occasionally broken by soft sniffling on Alistair’s part. Aeron wonders what her Da is doing now, if Shianni and Soris are faring well, and she feels a pang of guilt. At least, if she did choose to run, she would have something to run towards.

“Listen, Alistair—” Aeron lets out a short breath. She squints against the late-afternoon light. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. I have no idea what we should do. I don’t like our odds. We’re the only Grey Wardens left, we have no proof that Loghain betrayed us—”

“But he did. He betrayed us—not just the Wardens, but King Cailan, also! Loghain turned his back on his own king and left us all to slaughter—!”

And she is surprised by how much anger is suddenly in Alistair’s voice; how his brown eyes catch the sunlight and burn brightly with it.

“He won’t get away with it,” he tells her. “I’ll see to that, even if it kills me after.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Aeron answers. “I’m not sure I’m the person Ferelden should depend on for stopping the Archdemon, much less inherit the job of rebuilding the Grey Wardens here.”

Alistair makes a sound of confusion. “And I am?”

“Well, I mean…” She offers an uneasy smile. “You have been in for longer, haven’t you?”

“Six months! That’s hardly—” Alistair shakes his head, but he actually manages to laugh a little. “That’s barely basic training there, that is! It’s hardly enough!”

“That’s more than me, at least!” Aeron points out. “And—and—you have templar training—”

“It’s hardly enough,” he repeats, the sadness already coming over him again. He sighs. “Maker, this is terrifying.”

“Yes, it is,” Aeron admits.

“I wish Duncan were here.” Alistair turns his gaze back towards the marsh. “But he’s not, is he? This isn’t just some horrible nightmare. He is never coming back. None of them are. They’re all dead.”

“Alistair…” For a moment, when he looks at her, the words catch in Aeron’s throat. She draws herself up to her feet. “Look, I’m just going to say this a-and…take it as you wish, alright? We’re the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, yeah? Nobody can stop the Archdemon but us, even if we have no idea how or—or even if we can, and that’s assuming Loghain doesn’t manage to kill us first.

“And I mean… I haven’t been the nicest to you in the short time we’ve known each other, I know that, but… Well, I took a vow to see this through, and—” Aeron runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know if it still means something or if—I don’t know, but… Alistair, I’ll make you this promise; that if you’re going to see this out through to the end, then I’ll help you. We’ll finish this together, the Archdemon and Loghain.

“And then…who knows? Maybe after that, we can talk about the Wardens or something. I-I don’t—”

She shakes her head, her sudden surge of confidence vanishing as she looks down at her hands. It’s silly, isn’t it? Thinking the two of them can accomplish the impossible.

“Do you really think we have a chance?” Alistair’s voice is soft.

“I don’t know.” Aeron offers out her hand. “There’s really only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

“Hm.”

A thoughtful look passes over his features. He looks up at her, head at a slight tilt. Is he trying to size her up? Waiting for her to exclaim that she is joking and, in fact, planning to leave as soon as she feels it might be safe?

“Alright—” Alistair’s hand is larger than hers—it is warm, rough with callouses from years of hard work—but while his grip is firm, he only grips as tight as he has to, and he lets go as soon as he is back on his feet. “Let’s see where this goes, then. Together.”

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7

Prompt List: Send a Number, Get a Micro-StoryRelated Reading: Tabristair Masterpost

I might also recommend, from the masterpost, reading this bit of headcanon I have about Berserkers.

7. Silent Fury

There it is. That fierce glow in her eyes, the snarl that bares her sharper teeth; she actually growls as she breathes. The very air around her seems to warp and twist as she stalks towards her opponent, sword and shield clasped tightly in each hand.

“Oh, no.” Alistair swallows; feeling the old chill shoot down his spine, the nervous flutter in his gut. “Oh, Maker, no. Not this–”

Nathaniel turns his head. “What’re you talking about?”

“You’ve–” Alistair glances back. “You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” Nathaniel’s eyes narrow. “Constable–” He leans in closer and drops his voice. “Alistair, you look like you’re going to be sick.”

“No, I’m–”

And then a cry from the crowd goes up. The sound of weapons clashing draws their attention and, for a brief moment, Alistair is glad too many people are on their feet for him to see what’s going on.

“She refers to it as ‘the beast,’” he explains to Nathaniel. “They’ve just tricked her into letting it out.”

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Number 11 and 12 for the fluffy OTP ask. :D

11. Who brings the blanket to wrap them both up in it? That would be Alistair, sometimes for the purpose of first wrapping her in the blanket and hauling her over his shoulder away from work for a much-needed break. XD

12. Who falls asleep on who? What is their reaction when the other falls sleep on them? Aeron would fall asleep on Alistair, finally giving in to being as tired as she swears she isn’t from work. The times when Alistair has fallen asleep first are usually when she’s reading something aloud to him, or (more seriously) after she’s calmed him down from some nightmare. If the former, she thinks it’s adorable. If the latter, well... She worries, but she’s resigned to knowing this is part of the unfortunate price they pay for being Wardens.

Fluffy OTP Questions

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Fic Readings: Home Again [Dragon Age]

Summary:  After a month in the field, Aeron Tabris returns to almost the perfect homecoming.

Author: ThePaintedScorpionDoll

Characters: Aeron Tabris, Alistair, Nathaniel Howe

Pairing: Tabristair

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Notes: What better way to mark the end of NaNoWriMo than with the first stand-alone fic I’ve written in over a month? (What’s that, you say? NaNoWriMo has been over for 12 days now? Shhhh.)

Word Count: 2,266

It has been a long month.

Aeron Tabris rides into Vigil’s Keep ready to crawl into bed and sleep for at least the next month, maybe two. Every part of her body throbs with a steady, dull ache. There must be at least three layers of grime coating her clothes, her skin, her hair. Rivers and lakes be damned; nothing but a good, long, hot bath will do right now—following that, a good, hot meal.

(And then, once she has Alistair completely to herself, some good, hot—)

“Commander! Welcome home!” The stable master comes running up to meet her just inside the gate. “How was your time in Krocari Wilds?”

“Productive.” Aeron is grateful that he helps her unseat from the saddle. She pats a hand to the horse’s shoulder. “Make sure she gets a thorough wash and a solid meal. Oh, and, ah, get her some fresh apples as a treat, would you? The old girl’s certainly earned it on this trip.”

He takes the reigns with a small nod. “Of course, Commander. Shall I have your bags sent up to your quarters?”

“Please.” Aeron manages a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

- Continue at AO3 -

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18!!! A cute kiss, for the kiss meme.

Related Reading: Prompt List | Kissing Day Tag | Tabristair Masterpost

It took me a little bit longer than I expected, and I’m not entirely sure if I fully succeeded, but here’s what I got.

“Oi, look there,” saysthe breeder, pointing. “Seems the old boy’s got an idea of his own there.”

They watch as Shepardquietly marches into the wiggling, squealing mass of puppies with a level offocus usually reserved for battle or hunting. The little ones crowd around andtry to climb on him, at least one or two succeeding before sliding off with a shortyelp or bark. They continues to watch as the large mabari approaches one of thesmaller wiggling, squealing puppies and delicately seizes them by their scruffin his massive jaws. Shepard trots past the other cooing recruits, thebreeder’s assistants, and even the old breeder himself before finally—to thebemusement of all present—gently setting the puppy down at Alistair’s feet andsitting back on his haunches. The little mabari shuffles around, smelling theair. When they try to wander back towards the group, Shepard gently nuzzlesthem back towards Alistair.

“Hey now, boy. That’s notnice,” Alistair tells him, kneeling down to collect the pup. “Let the littleone go play with his brothers.”

“S’a girl, that one,actually,” corrects the breeder. “Only one of this litter, in fact.”

“Is it—oh—Shepard! Stopit! Let me put her back—”

But as Alistair tries toreturn the pup to the group, Shepard continues to mirror and block hismovements, firmly planting himself on the floor each time he stops moving. Meanwhile,the pup in his hands fidgets and kicks in the air. A few of the recruits noticeand appear to be doing their best not to laugh. If he were anyone else, Alistairwould start to feel ridiculous.

(He does feel ridiculous, actually, but only a little.)

“If you don’t mind mysaying, ser—” And to Alistair’s ears, it sounds as if even the breeder istrying to hide his amusement. “—seems to me the old boy’s offering a gift.”

Shepard barks. He openshis mouth in the appearance of a smile, pink tongue lolling out the side.Alistair chuckles as he looks down at the small hound in his hands.

“Don’t tell the commanderI said so,” he answers, “but this is the same dog who’ll jump in the bin offood scraps meant for the gardener’s compost. His concept of gift giving is…notvery complex.”

Still, the puppy is adorable, isn’t she? With her tawnycoat, her floppy ears, and big brown eyes…

“Certainly would be anodd gift of a mabari to make, I suppose.” The breeder shrugs. “I’d’ve peggedthe constable to get the old boy’s strongest rather’n’the runt or nearly closeto it.” Shepard gives a low rumble of disapproval, and the old man pats hishead. “Hush now, you. Runts’re always my favorite. Always got a goodbit’o’fight in ‘em, and she’s no different. Not shy about nipping good’n’hard‘fore she’ll let you steal off what she gets to eat, that’s as sure as rain.”

“That so.” Alistairshifts his hold of her, one arm under her back legs while his other hand restsagainst her back. Her nose is cool against his jaw, his cheek… “And no one’staken interest?”

“You know how it is,Constable; they all want the biggest and most powerful-looking first—even justfrom puppyhood—when you can’t always predict a dog’s true nature ‘til you’vehad ‘em long enough and trained ‘em wella and good. Feh! Batch of fickle sods,if you’ll forgive me saying so, ser, though your Wardens all seem smartenough.”

Most of them, Alistair thinks of saying but smartlydoesn’t. They do their best to instill the responsibility of raising these dogsas companions. Most of them understand it. Others…could do better. Not thatthey have had any serious situations, thankfully. It’s just that dogs requireresources, same as Wardens do, and taking on a mabari should never be alighthearted matter.

Of course, Alistairconcedes, that sort of rhetoric is harder to follow with one snuggling againsthis chest as if they have always been a bonded pair. Much, much harder.

“It would be wrong torefuse a gift, wouldn’t it?”

The breeder smiles, aknowing glint in his eye. “I’d reckon so, Constable, ‘specially if it comesfrom a mabari.”

And as if confirming,Shepard barks again. He trots over and settles promptly at Alistair’s feet,curling up instead of sitting down before looking up. Alistair knows that look.It’s almost a perfect replica of the one Shepard tends to give him in theaftermath of a fancy dinner.

“Oh, stop,” Alistairgroans. “You don’t have to do that. You already know what I’m going to do, don’tyou? I’d say you almost planned it this way, didn’t you?”

This time, Shepard doesnot bark. Instead, he shuts his eyes and pretends to sink into a nap. The oldbreeder laughs. “Here now, ser. Maybe he’s more clever than he gets credit forafter all!”

“Oh, he’d like hearingthat, wouldn’t he?” But Alistair can’t help but smile a little. “If my wifeasks, I picked her myself.”

“Fair enough, ser, but Isuppose she’ll need a name.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s—that’sthe easiest part, honestly. I— Hey, little one—” Alistair looks down into thepuppy’s big brown eyes. “What do you think about the name Barkspawn?”

At his feet, still pretendingto nap, Shepard groans. The mabari in Alistair’s arms looks up at him, headtilted in silence. Then, as if offering her approval, she licks at his facewith her little tongue—and his heart completely melts.

“Okay.” Alistair laughssoftly and plants a little kiss on her head. “Barkspawn it is.”

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Fic Doodle: Classic Antivan Proverbs

Related Readings: Kissing Day at Vigil’s Keep | Tabristair Masterpost | Prompt List

I meant to have this posted last night, but I should know by now that if I mean to post something the same night as Pathfinder night, it’s not going up until the next day. /o\ Anyway, @celeritassagittae hit me with “Ayurnamat” from the above-linked prompt list, and since it’s been a minute too long since I’ve written anything with my current favorite platonic OT3 (and since I wanted to flesh out more of what Kissing Day would be like in Ferelden, hosted by Grey Wardens), I figured I should fix that right away.

“In Antiva, there is a phrase…” Zevran leans forward and pours more wine into Aeron’s glass. “Actually, there are a couple of sayings, and they are fairly crude, but the best ones tend to be.” He holds up the carafe in her husband’s direction. “Alistair—?”

Alistair merely leans forward, empty glass in his outstretched arm. From where she lies slumped against him—head half-swimming in the mix of exhaustion and Antivan wine—Aeron finds enough strength to raise an eyebrow.

“Since when do you drink wine?” she asks.

“Since I ran out of ale and it became too much work to leave and fetch more.” Alistair settles back against the headboard. “So precisely about, ah…oh, somewhere around the moment you started raving about rumors of rogue templars wanting to infiltrate the festivities.”

“Okay, one: I was not raving—” Aeron sits up. “—and two: it was not just a one-off rumor. I have at least—” She picks up her glass and downs a blessed mouthful. “—a-at least three reports on my desk, Alistair! Three! Three well-sourced reports of—of-of splinter groups in and around the area—”

“Plotting to derail the festival as part of some grand plan to force the Chantry into restoring the Circles as they were. Yes, we know.” Setting his glass on the bedside table, Alistair sits up and starts to rub her shoulders. “You asked me to have people look into it. I told you that I would, and I do. I have people looking into it.”

“And?”

“And they’re still looking into it.”

“Do you think someone would actually try?” Zevran asks. “And I mean, on Warden territory of all places…”

“Our reputation took a hit for what happened to the previous Divine, and the thought of free mages is still so new in Ferelden…” Alistair shrugs. “But so far there’s nothing concrete. It’s just been people making up stories.”

Zevran hums thoughtfully. “Stories sometimes hide a bit of truth in them, no? And if she has enough for even one report—”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aeron interjects.

“No, don’t encourage her, Zevran! I’m serious,” Alistair warns. “She’s already stressed as it is.”

“Oh, I am not stressed,” Aeron corrects. “This is—this is definitely not stress! Fighting the Archdemon—that was stress. Being in the Deep Roads, going to Weisshaupt, dealing with nobles on a regular basis—that is what stress is for me. But this—this is…

“I am being cautious,” she says after a sigh, raising her glass to her lips. “I am simply protecting what is, as Warden-Commander, mine to protect.”

“At the same time,” Zevran says into his own glass, “no puedes cagar los mojónes de otros.”

A long measure of silence unfurls in the room as Zevran drinks. Aeron and Alistair exchange confused glances; no strangers to Zevran’s occasional lapse into his mother tongue, but nowhere near as close to understanding it as easily as he speaks it.

Not that a few words haven’t stuck, of course.

“What was that about someone’s shit?” Aeron asks.

Zevran laughs. “It’s a saying, as I was telling you before! You can’t waste time… Wait, no—maybe that’s not the right…” He takes another sip of wine. “No, no—that’s the right one. ‘No puedes—’

“You can’t strain yourself worrying about this, is what I’m trying to say. It’s hard to translate it directly from Antivan, but basically—”

Alistair snickers. “A bit late with that advice, I’d say—ow!” He giggles and rubs the spot on his thigh where Aeron lightly slapped him. “Easy! I bruise so tenderly, you know!”

“Hush, you,” Aeron tells him, “or it’s to the barracks with the recruits.”

“Aww—” He keeps giggling. “—you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you know I would.”

“You would no-ot,” Alistair calls in half a song. “Not with how it’s getting colder at night.” He wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek. “Come on. Be honest. What would the prestigious White Wolf of Denerim possibly do without her favorite War Hound to keep her warm, hmm?”

“Enlist her favorite Crow to fill the empty space,” Aeron responds.

Zevran chokes and sputters on his wine. Alistair gasps, barely audible over the laughter that fills the room from the two of them, but he soon joins in the amusement as Aeron snuggles back against him and kisses his cheek.

“Honestly,” Zevran says when the laughter passes, “don’t fret this more than necessary, Aeron. You are doing what you can—which is already more than most would do, given how this sounds like simple fear mongering and little else—and maybe there is a little more to be done, but the rest… It’s out of your hands. All that’s left is to see what happens.”

“I guess.” Aeron heaves a sigh. “I hope it’s nothing. I want it to be nothing—”

“And when it turns out to be nothing, we will have one more reason to celebrate, won’t we?” Zevran gets to his feet, collecting his glass and the carafe. “However, if we’re wrong and these supposed rogue templars arrive to make trouble, we will simply do as we have always done.”

“And what is that?” asks Alistair.

“We will politely inform them of their mistake and gently escort them from the premises!”

Aeron lets out a snorting laugh. “Sure. We’ll just…kill them all with kindness, then.”

“As renowned for it as you are, how could they possibly resist? But enough of that talk—get some rest. Both of you.” Zevran raises the carafe as he turns to leave. “There’s a dashing archer with whom I promised to share this particular kindness, and I am not one for breaking promises.”

“Just don’t go having another shooting contest!” Alistair calls after him. “We’re still paying for the previous repairs!”

Laughter is the only response they get as the door falls closed. Aeron shifts and curls up closer to her husband, the pull to sleep once again resurfacing. Maybe they’re both right. Maybe she is thinking about this too hard, worrying over shadows when she should be focused on more practical things. This festival isn’t going to continue planning itself, is it?

Still…

“What’re the odds we’re going to wake up with a few more broken windows than we’ve already got?” asks Alistair.

Aeron gives a groan. “What was it Zevran said earlier? Don’t…don’t shit for someone else?”

“I’m actually not…sure that’s what it was, dear.”

“Whatever it was,” Aeron says flatly, “just let me sleep and not worry about a single damn thing until I have to.”

Alistair laughs softly. “Fair enough, my queen.”

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I'd love to see what you can do with #3... but I'm going to make it tough for you and say the fantasy itself shouldn't be steamy. :D

Related Reading: Prompt List | Kissing Day Tag | Tabristair Masterpost

Ngl, I was plenty excited when I saw the blip of a notification Tumblr puts on your dash. Then I saw the twist. But you know what? I got this. I got this prompt. Here we go.

The sun begins to sink low behind the treeswhen Alistair considers that it might be good enough to call it a day. The takein his basket is not entirely what he expected, but then Alistair never hasconsidered himself a master fisherman.

“What doyou think, Barkspawn? Three enough? They’re pretty big, I suppose, aren’t they?Good for a stew or...maybe just a quick steam with a bit of salt.”

The littlemabari pup barks once, little nub of a tail wiggling rapidly; probably in thehope that she might receive another helping of whatever remains from lunch.(The little one is certainly learning well enough from her father, isn’t he?)With a small laugh, Alistair brings the line in and starts to pack up. By somelittle miracle, he finds some remnants of ham from this afternoon, which thedog happily devours. The last of his bait winds up in the lake, a gift of sortsto the craftier fish that evaded his hook.

Firefliesbegin to light the path back to the cottage, becoming a source of wonder forthe puppy running at Alistair’s heels. It’s a short walk from the pier, sure,but the sky in twilight and the fall air moving through the trees make it feeldifferent—like moving through a more pleasant portion of the Fade, only…

Onlythis is better, isn’t it?

Alistairsmiles to himself as the stone cottage comes into view.

Muchbetter.

Aeron hasthe door open before he even gets a chance to knock. Whatever loose bun shepulled her hair into is coming undone. There are smudges of flour on her cheeksand the apron tied around her waist. Her fingers bear the wine-dark stain ofberries. It is, admittedly, an altogether different look for her, but certainlynot a bad one.

“Well?”Aeron asks. “Are you going to come in or do I have to send out a formalinvitation?”

Alistairlaughs at his own expense. “Sorry.” He nudges the door closed with his foot.“Guess it’s been a long day. Makes me much more easily distracted.”

“Does it,now?”

“Mm-hm.Especially when the distraction is so very pretty.”

Aerongrins at him. “Hopefully you’ll have focus enough to eat something, or we mightbe in dire straits.” She points to the basket. “What’s—?”

“Oh! Onlythree of the most gullible fish the lake had to offer. They never knew whathit’em, poor things.” Alistair briefly takes on the expression of a man overlyproud of himself before adding, “Remind me to thank Zevran for those lures hemade. Maybe if I’d used them earlier, we would have more than three fish fortomorrow.”

“It’splenty for one of the recipes I collected.” She takes the basket from him andjerks her head towards the table. “Sit. And he didtell you—”

“And Ishould have listened, and he will at least gloat about it once, but all thesame...” Alistair slides into one of the chairs. Nearby, Barkspawn excitedlyclambers all over an unbothered Shepard. “I should probably thank Nathaniel,too, now that I think about it.”

“I alreadyhave!”

“Yes, butthat’s you. I should also, y’know, show a bit of my owngratitude. Maker forbid he thinks we’re taking advantage of him for—I don’tknow—retreats from duty or whatever this is—”

“This is either a well-deserved vacation or a honeymoon long overdue. Take your pick—”Aeron sets down a steaming bowl of what smells like venison stew. “—and thentell me what you think of this.”

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For your Warden-Kissing Day festivities: rushed late for work kisses, a flash of heat before hurrying out the door. :D

Related Reading: Kissing Day Tag | Tabristair Masterpost

Let’s start Kissing Day off around here with something short and simple, yes? I might write a few more of these and collect them all later. We’ll see.

Alistair is trudging his way down the hall,each step heavier than the last, when she comes bursting from their bedroom attop speed. He stops to watch her struggle to put on a coat, noting how her hairstill flutters loosely behind her. How neither of them falls over when theycrash into each other is something of a miracle. Maybe. Perhaps. It doesn’trightly matter to Alistair at the moment. He holds her tight. He breathes inthe scent of her bathing oils—vanilla and honey, the gentlest touch of clove—andthe tension starts to pour out of him.

Finally.He’s home.

But thenAeron jerks backwards—not all the way out of his arms, but far enough—and it’senough to sweep his growing sense of comfort clean away. Her expressionshuffles quickly; surprise, recollection, mild guilt, and then—

“What’swrong?”

“I have togo.” Aeron presses her lips to his, an apology. “Get some rest.”

“Wait—go? But—but where—?”

“I don’thave time—” Another kiss; still an apology, but sweeter,the kind that makes him forget just how exhausted he is. “I’m so glad you’rehome—I just—”

“Sendsomeone else.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”Alistair knows he’s whining now, a child not allowed his way instead of aWarden, but he can barely help himself. “I’ve missed you a lot, you know.”

“I’ll betI’ve missed you more.” Aeron’s hand is cool against his cheek. She smiles athim and his heart skips. “I’ll make it up to you, my king, I promise. Thiswon’t be long.”

“Hopefullynot,” he tells her in that growl of a voice she likes, “because I certainlyexpect that you will.”

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Turning Point [Fic Readings, Dragon Age]

[In the interest of context, I present the following exchange with @celeritassagittae from earlier this evening.

The referred-to “Architect feels” being this headcanon (and the ensuing discussion) in which I suggested a timeline in which the Architect kidnaps Alistair and does a whole host of things which are not very nice to him? Yeah. Anyway, I barely had to refresh before this ficlet appeared in my inbox, along with this added message:

As previously evidenced, Celery has apparently studied up so well on Aeron that I actually didn’t alter too much of what she originally sent me. (You can sort of tell what’s mine by how many spaces there are between sentences. She puts two spaces; I put one.) Amusingly, this actually fits really well in terms of coming after the one idea I had for fic within this headcanon, wherein Aeron ultimately decides to go into the room alone, so if this ain’t a sign that I should finally write that…]

Two chess pieces.

A room, carefully swept of furniture splinters and figurine fragments and the other bits of detritus left over from Alistair’s previous rages.

And Aeron Tabris, unarmed, unarmored, facing him.

He was curled up on himself, naked, panting like a cornered wolf, and the door was locked behind them.

Nathaniel said this was going to get her killed.

Oghren–Oghren, of all fucking people!–looked genuinely terrified after she delivered the order not to let anyone else inside.

Aeron didn’t care anymore. She couldn’t worry about those things, not right now. They were distractions. Obstacles.

Alistair looked up slowly, sniffing the air.  Fear was wild in his eyes when they finally met hers, and he flinched.

Then he saw the chess pieces sitting next to each other on the floor. Did he recognize them?

With a roar, Alistair lunged forward, sweeping up one piece in each hand—no, one was rolling away, into a corner of the room, while the other—

“Alistair!” she cried, surging up to grab hold of his wrists and block him.  No good; he wrenched his way out of the hold and pivoted to the stone wall.  She’d hoped that time away from the Architect would have dulled some of the feral strength he’d possessed when she found him, but of course things never went the way you hoped.  If they had…

There was no time for thought, though.  Wrapping her legs around his waist, she squeezed hard and grabbed the arm that was bashing the chess piece into the wall.  His knuckles were already bloodied, and he bit one of her arms as she pried his fingers back, letting the broken pieces fall to the floor.  Alistair twisted to grab them with his other hand, but this time Aeron was prepared.  Planting her feet back on the floor, she checked him and bowled him back before he could do any further harm.

There was a wordless, anguished cry as Aeron moved to pin him.  “No,” she said.  “You’re still here, under all this, and I won’t let you destroy yourself just because that scares you.”

His head flew up, slamming into hers, and the next thing Aeron knew, his weight was over her, holding her arms in place.  She could have wrenched herself out before he managed to pin her, but she wanted—no, needed—to know that her hope wasn’t misplaced, that her instinct was still guiding her in the right direction.

She bared her throat to him, and dared him with her eyes to kill her.

For the span of one, two, three breaths, he did nothing, looking wildly into her eyes.  Then he collapsed on top of her and rolled away.

Aeron slowly rose and made her way to the chess piece fragments—the king, just as she’d suspected.  Picking them up, she placed them into a pocket and returned to him.

Alistair was staring at the ceiling, crying in great big ugly sobs.  “Why?” he said raggedly.

She wondered if he was asking about her, the Architect, or himself.  But she could answer only one of those questions, so she did.  “Because I love you,” she said, “and I won’t give up on you, not even if you’ve given up on yourself.”

The next day she returned to him with the chess pieces and a pot of glue.

Alistair stared at the objects sullenly, and turned away.

“You can help, you know,” Aeron said.  “As long as you don’t eat the glue—it won’t kill you, but you’ll be stuck on the chamberpot for hours.”

He turned back at that, the hint of a question in his eyes.

“Yes, I found out the hard way, but in my defense I was six at the time.”

There was a ghost of a chuckle, and when Aeron looked at him, for the briefest of moments it was as if the old Alistair was back.

She could work with this.

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WIP: Sharing Memories

Related Reading: Tabristair Masterpost | AO3 List

I got tagged by @celeritassagittae to share a WIP, and I figure it’s been a while since I’ve shared some platonic Tabrainai, so...have some of that.

Also, tagging @fanfoolishness for this, because I’m sure she’s got some kind of really good WIPs hiding around in there.

“Shianni would love this place. That’s what I keep thinking and coming back to; all these trees, being out in nature, the halla—she’d just feel right at home here.”

“Shianni is your cousin, correct?”

Aeron nods. “You remembered.”

“Why would I forget?”

“I just… I don’t know.” Aeron shakes her head. “Truth is, she might as well be my younger sister, really, seeing as how we grew up together. Her mum died when she was young and I don’t know what happened to her father, but my Da sent for her and she was with us ever since.” She looks up into the tree. “You think that might hold another person?”

With a smile of his own, Zevran pats the space beside him. “I always pick the strongest perch. You remember what I taught you about climbing, yes?”

“Why would I forget?” She is still nowhere near as graceful as he is, but it takes considerably less effort than her first few attempts. “Huh. You can see plenty of the camp from up here.”

“I could still go higher for a better view—and I might, come the evening—but here is as suitable as anywhere else.” Zevran shrugs a little. “But we were discussing your cousin—”

“Shianni.”

“Yes. What made you think of her, specifically?”

“Just the... “ Aeron gestures towards the camp below, the Dalish going about their duties. “She always had this—this idea, right, that her father was actually one of the Dalish; that he would come back for her someday.”

Zevran tilts his head slightly. “Did she?”

“Very much so! Everything she could learn from books, from the Hahren; I mean she was relentless! She wanted to know, because she wanted to be ready for that day, y’know? She wanted to be prepared.”

A vivid memory emerges, suddenly, of the two of them as children—the heat of summer, the mixed scent of flowers and burning wood, the stickiness of dye—and Aeron starts to laugh. How could she have ever forgotten that day? Her father was so mad when she found them, but her mother simply helped wash them up.

“What?” asks Zevran. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just— One time, she…” The limb moves slightly and Aeron abruptly stops laughing. “Shit, I shouldn’t—”

“Strongest perch,” Zevran reminds her with a kind look. “You’re very pretty when you laugh, you know.”

Aeron lets out a snort and rolls her eyes. “Please, Zevran, I thought we promised to be honest with each other.”

“And I am! I can’t deny it when I see it. You’re very pretty when you laugh! No wonder you’re with Alistair—”

“I will push you from this tree, Arainai.”

“And I would land gracefully on my feet! Unless you’d prefer I do not. I am, after all, still bound to you by my own words.”

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A Mini Masterpost of Kissing Fics [Dragon Age, Aeron Tabris x Alistair]

Given that it’s the week for celebrating Kissing Day, and I write a fair bit about kissing, here’s a quickly-gathered post of fics where the act is pretty much front and center.

Kissing Day Specific

An Adoption of Customs: Kissing Day comes to Ferelden. Inspired by @thesecondsealwrites‘s headcanon and series of fics on the invented holiday.

Set Their Place: Aeron finds out she has to invite the Chantry. She is not amused. (Neither is Alistair. Still, duty calls.)

General Kissing Fics

The Redcliffe Castle Incident: Aeron and Alistair’s first kiss.

A Goofy Kiss: Painting kaddis on the Mabari is a task much easier said than done. Fills from this kiss prompt list.

Two Kisses: One on the Nose, One Upside-Down: Two prompt fills from the same prompt list.

Eyelids: Another prompt fill from the same list as the previous two. Angst ahoy!

Wedding Night: Alistair admires his new wife.

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Aeron x Alistair, 80s action flick AU?

Alistair as a by-the-book detective genuinely trying to make a difference and Aeron as the loose-cannon transfer who actually knows her shit but skirts the line of legality in terms of dealing with suspects and gathering evidence. For instance...

Alistair stares at her hard. “Do you always perform interrogations like that?”

“When they need doing that way, sure.” Aeron shrugs and cracks the knuckles of her left hand. “It’s perfectly within the limits--”

“Barely! You--” He steps back from her, pointing a finger. “You set him up! You got him all...s-stirred up and angry, and that’s why he attacked--”

“But you didn’t get hurt--like I promised--and we got the information, so I suggest we find you some better clothes and not miss tonight’s performance.” She turns and heads towards their car, snapping her fingers in the air. “Let’s go!”

Because of course, they have to infiltrate some high society thing dressed up in fancy clothes and that’s the first time each sees the other in a “whoa they’re actually kind of hot” light.

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celeritassagittae replied to your post: celeritassagittae replied to your post: Fic...

See, the *really* evil part of me just went “and what if that happens in the same universe where the Architect already put Alistair through the psychological wringer?” because apparently I have no heart.

It’s like you almost WANT Aeron to suffer or something!

Aeron having to deal with two of her favorite boys going through that kind of hell could go one of two ways--either it would break her, or she’d get so pissed the Maker himself would have to intervene for fear of her storming the Fade looking for a rematch.

Then again, if it’s a universe where she’s able to rescue Alistair from what the Architect did to him, then she’s likely to find hope in that. True, it’d be the kind of hope that would fuel her Berserker onslaught through whatever compound the Guildmaster is holding Zevran in, but...