#Alistair with a pillow over his face - “why did you marry me

[lizzybeeee]

You just know that Alistair absolutely agonized over asking a Warden Cousland about if they've ever lost anyone, only to be hit with the reminder that yes their entire family and pretty much everyone else living within Castle Cousland was effectively massacred.

Alistair - "Have you...had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I'm just..." Cousland - "My entire family was murdered just recently." Alistair - "Oh, of…of course. How stupid of me to forget. Here I am going on about Duncan and you…I'm so sorry."

If you're any other origin then it's the first time you've brought up something like this - while Alistair is aware from the get go about Cousland's loss. Likely because it's big news - Loghain even comments on it (as he should!) - and because the Warden can press to try and find Fergus as soon as you leave Ostagar. Not to mention that of all your companions Alistair is easily the most emotionally intelligent imo.

This is the kind of shit that would have me lying awake in bed at night - unable to fall asleep, smothering my face with a pillow. No shade to Alistair, he was in the middle of his grief, but I can 100% picture him lying in bed at night one month, five years, a decade later being like...fuck.

[mandoalorian]

Stay With Me [Maxwell Lord x GN!Reader]

Summary: What if Maxwell Lord died after renouncing his wish...

Warnings: major character death, grief, descriptions of blood, typical Wonder Woman violence, description of illness, food mention, nightmare mention.

This is the saddest thing I’ve ever fucking wrote.

Rating: T for traumatic teen

Word count: 2500

Masterlist

In a way, it was nice. Bittersweet, almost. Alistair was so much like his father, more than you had ever realised before. He’d often come out with bold comments. He’d point and wiggle his finger when he talked to you. He struggled to sleep at night, just like you did, so you’d invite him into yours and Maxwell’s shared bed. It was a welcome change-- Maxwell’s side of the bed no longer being cold and empty, but instead inhabited by his son. It felt like, as long as Alistair was by your side, part of Maxwell was too. Alistair was a fidgety sleeper, and you pinned it down to the nightmares he’d been having. It was horrible, for a six year old child to go through what he was going through. He never spoke to you about his bad dreams. You knew he was trying to put on a brave face for you and pretend like everything was okay. Just like Max used to do.

Maxwell’s ex-wife wanted to sell Black Gold Cooperative. It wasn’t making money anyway, but… you wouldn’t allow it. That was Max’s business, a business he dedicated his whole life to. He had worked so hard and there was no way in hell you were going to let her sell it just so she could keep the money for herself. So you did some brainstorming and opted to turn it into something else.

A museum that was specified in geology. Maxwell always loved gems and stones.

Every Saturday morning you made pancakes because they were Maxwell’s favourite. You and Alistair weren’t too fussed on them yourself, both preferring waffles, but old habits die hard. He might not have been around anymore, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to break the tradition of making pancakes.

One Saturday morning, Alistair peppered on some frozen blueberries and syrup.

“Ali, I got you Nutella.” you furrowed your eyebrows together as you watched him decorate his waffles into a smiley face.

“Daddy always wanted me to eat more fruit.” Alistair mumbled as he concentrated on organising the blueberries to make a set of eyes.

As it turned out, financially, Maxwell didn’t have much, which didn’t come as a surprise to you. But what he did have, he left to Alistair. Obviously, Alistair only being six years old, the money was transferred to his mother, much to your dismay. Theoretically, Alistair should get the money when he turns eighteen but you knew it wouldn’t last a day in the hands of Max’s materialistic ex-wife. Luckily for you though, he left you the big house and the nice cars. Only-- was it really lucky? You never drove his cars and the house always felt cold and empty. Sometimes during the week, when it was just you in the house, you’d put on an Elvis vinyl and dance around the kitchen barefoot, pretending that Max was holding you in his arms.

It brought you comfort until it was time for bed. Time for you to cry yourself to sleep… sobbing into his pillow that still distinctly smelled like him. You couldn’t describe it but sometimes you felt like the ghost of him was still there… watching over you. Eventually you’d pass out, with tear stained cheeks and your hands bundled up in the blankets as you gripped them for dear life.

 But in your sleep, you didn’t find solace. You only found more pain.

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“Max?” you cried the second you saw him on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you fell to your knees and grabbed his body. With all your strength, you pulled him into your lap and cradled him. His head was in the crook of your elbow and you began to smooth out his hair, just like you knew he loved so much. “Max can you hear me? Say something, please say something.”

His breathing was laboured and his chest was rattling. His brown eyes locked onto yours and he offered you a weak smile. “Hi,” he said meekly, raising a shaky hand to cup your cheek. His thumb grazed the height of your cheekbone and you found yourself subconsciously leaning into his touch.

Only, he wasn’t warm like he used to be-- he was very, very cold. His skin was pale and ghost-like, and his sparkling eyes were dull and blood shot. His white shirt was speckled with crimson blood and you began to rub your finger along to the stains. “Nose bleed.” he gasped out, as if the two words offered enough of an explanation.

You shook your head and felt another tear slip down your cheek, but Maxwell caught it in his hand. “Don’t cry.” he whispered.

“I don’t-- I don’t understand--” you croaked out, pulling his hand from your face and trying your best to squeeze some life into him. “I-- I thought-- I-- Max… what happ--happened?” 

“I made a mistake.” Maxwell offered sadly. 

“Can’t you-- fix it. With-- a wish. Or-- wait-- I didn’t make a wish-- let me fix it. Let me-- help you,” you sobbed, your grip on his hand tightening. “I have to touch you-- right? Okay… what do I say?”

“Nothing.” Maxwell said before erupting into a cough.

“No no no,” you chanted, and when he looked back up at you, his nose was bleeding again. You pulled down the sleeve of your t-shirt and wiped away the blood, even pinching the bridge of his nose to try and stop it. “Please, tell me how to fix it,” you begged him, but he just shook his head. You groaned in frustration, feeling completely annoyed. He always was stubborn. “I… I wish for everything to be okay. I wish that everything goes back to the way it did before the 4th of July. I wish for your health to be restored… good, strong health…” you waited to feel that familiar breeze gush through your hair. But nothing. “Why isn’t it working?!” you cried out once more.

“I renounced my wish.” Maxwell said quietly.

“Wh-- what? Why? Max… why-- but-- you’re still-- why are you--” Dying. Why was he still dying? But no matter how hard you tried to finish the sentence, you just couldn’t bear to say the word. “Can you stand? I can get you to a doctor. Come on.”

“No.” Maxwell said, his hand tangling in your hair.

“Stop saying no!” You screamed. “I can’t just-- leave you. I-- Max. We need to go now. We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll make you better, okay? And then-- and then you come home and I’ll cook you your favourite dinner. And we’ll watch one of those black and white movies that I know you adore.” you tried cohersing but he didn’t move an inch. He just smiled.

“I love you so much,” he confessed. “I know I don’t say it much but I really do. I was always a skeptic when it came to love but with you… it was different. I’m glad I met you.”

“I love you too Max, I-- come on. Let’s go,” You said, trying your best to pull him up, but it was no use. Your gaze flicked across all the different televisions and broadcasting systems. “Is there a phone in here? There must be a phone. I can call an ambulance.”

With the last of his strength, Maxwell pulled you down on top of him. “Listen, you and I both know I’m not going to make it. So don’t spend my final moments crying, or panicking, or getting angry. Just stay with me. Please. All I want is for you-- for--”

“Max?!” your heart was hammering against your chest as you watched him splutter out a mouthful of blood. With shaky hands, he pulled off his gold signet ring that he wore everyday on his pinky finger, and slid it onto your wedding band finger. 

“I love you,” he whispered, interlocking his fingers with yours. “You’ll make sure Alistair knows how much I love him, won’t you?”

“Like my life depends on it.” you promised, leaning in and nudging your nose against his.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you tried to help me, I guess this is my fault…” Max sighed, closing his eyes. His breathing wasn’t erratic anymore… it was more shallow and quiet.

“Shh,” you hushed him, gently smoothing out his golden hair. You began humming his favourite song and you noticed his lips curl into one final smile, until after only a minute or so, he stopped breathing. His body stiffened up. The bleeding stopped. He was gone.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He haunted you. He haunted you when you were sleeping, when you were awake, and no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t escape the memory of his death. The way his body felt in your arms. The way you saw him close his eyes for one final time, never to open them again. Ever since he died, nothing was the same.

His funeral stung. You didn’t expect it to be easy, but you had hoped that maybe by the day it finally came you had sort of numbed out. Alistair clung to your side the entire time, much to his own biological mother’s dismay. “Why don’t you go stand with your mommy?” you whispered, smoothing out his glossy black hair. “I’m sure she needs you right now. This can’t be easy on her.”

Alistair frowned and looked up at you, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “You need me more,” he acknowledged. He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world -- and in that sense, he was so much like his father. “Daddy wanted to marry you,” he admitted after a brief silence and you felt your blood run cold. “Remember the night you and him came to my piano show at the school, and saw me perform? Well, when he tucked me into bed, he told me that he was going to ask you to marry him.”

You shuddered. That was only a month ago. You knelt down to his level and flashed him your hand, the gold of his pinky ring sparkling under the sunset. “He gave me this before he…”

“That’s daddy’s pinky ring,” Alistair noted and you smiled, taking the hand of the little boy. You pulled the ring off your wedding band finger and slid it on Alistair’s pinky finger.

“Hm, small hands,” you giggled. “But when you’re older, I’m sure it’ll fit you. And then it can be yours.”

Alistair beamed in delight. “That ring was the first thing daddy bought with his paycheck.” 

“I-- I didn’t know that.” you confessed and Alistair nodded along.

“Can you take me to McDonalds after the funeral?” Alistair asked and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sudden change of subject.

“Sure.” you agreed, as you took his hand and walked into the church.

You fought for Alistair, and you fought for him hard. It wasn’t an easy battle. You loved him like he was your own, and he loved you too. The courts granted you custody eventually, but only on the weekends. You weren’t mad at that. Maxwell only had him on the weekends too, so really, it was like nothing had changed.

You weren’t sure what was harder. The days or the nights. When Max was alive, you only really saw him on an early morning before work. He’d slip out of your shared bed trying his hardest not to wake you so he could get ready for another busy day at the office. So, you’d spend the days alone. Until of course, he’d come home in the evening, grinning the second he walked through the front door. You always had something cooking for him, and candles burning-- and the familiar scent just made him feel like he could relax. Like he was safe in your comfort.

People say ‘home is where the heart is’, but after Maxwell Lord passed, you found that wasn’t true at all. Home was where he was. So you visited his grave, every evening when the sun went down. You made sure it was clean and you brought him a rose. It was funny, really, because roses were the flowers he’d brought you on every single date when he tried so hard to win over your affection. You’d sit with him for about an hour and tell him about your day-- because when he was alive, he’d always ask. You told him about the simple things. Woke up at 8, done the dishes and the laundry, fed the cat. 

But now he was gone, you noticed your routine had changed slightly. “Woke up at 1, done the dishes but dropped a plate and cut my hand, forgot about the laundry… I’ll do it tomorrow. No cat food but Lady was lucky there was a can of tuna in the fridge.” You made a mental note to stop by the grocery store on your way home for cat food.

“I still wait for you to come home every evening… but you don’t,” you sobbed, your fingers tracing his name in his grave. Lorenzano. “I miss you.”

When you got up to leave the cemetery that night, you noticed a cloaked figure standing under an oak tree, looking over at you. You passed her on the way out. “Can I help you with something?” you asked, clearing your throat and straightening your posture.

You noticed her smile under the shadow of her hood. Eventually, she politely pulled it down her revealing dark curls. “I never managed to get to the funeral.” she explained and you nodded understandingly.

“Were you a friend of his?” you questioned curiously.

“I must admit, I misjudged his character.” She confessed with a small sigh.

“Most people did.” you frowned, knowing just how bad the world had treated Maxwell Lord.

“I um-- was hoping to find you here, actually,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. She looked remarkably strong. “I know how it feels to lose a loved one.”

“Okay?” you shuffled your feet awkwardly.

“I never had a friend to get me through it, and I don’t know what your situation is like, but please know that you’re not alone. Give me a call, anytime, and I’ll be there.” She said, handing you a small card with her name on.

Diana Prince.

Before you could reply, she was gone. Just like that. You sniffed, shoving the card in your pocket and heading home.

You didn’t need a friend.

You needed Max.

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[grimcorvis]

Sins Locked Away- The Wedding

Part 1 of 3

(Aw ye we did it! Angst time! Phoenix and I finished it and now it’s time to share it!)

Characters: Grim Corvis Abaddon Payne Reaper the Hellhound Abigail Payne Joseph Payne Alistair the Angel Raphael the Archangel Ezzel the Succubus Daemonera the Harpy Orcus, Demon of Greed Koban the Oni Satan (duh) Cicely the Plague Doctor

(HUGE thank you to @phoenixvitae for cowriting it with me and thank you to @sassinapaperbag for letting us use their Satan design and plague doctor!)

The Wedding

The day had arrived. It was the biggest moment of both of their lives, and it would change them forever. This would be a historic moment for a demon and Death……for it was their wedding. Grim could hardly contain himself as he dressed in his tuxedo, hair wrapped in its braid. His palms were shaky and sweaty as he tried to put on his bowtie, and he fumbled with the silky fabric. He couldn’t see his soon-to-be-husband until he walked down the aisle to meet him at the podium, and he was extremely antsy. A knock sounded and a blue-skinned demon walked in, silver hair tied in a bun and long horns adorned with gold cuffs.

“Grim, you’re trembling.” Koban the Oni shook his head at the Reaper, walking over to assist his friend. “You need to relax, this is a big day for you. You should be proud! And yet you behave as if this is more terrifying than the pits of Tartarus.”

“It’s more anxiety and excitement rather than fear.” Grim sighed, letting Koban tie his bow for him. “It’s my first wedding in all my 6019 years of existence. I’m finally going to spend eternity with the one I truly love. What if I freeze up and screw up my vows? What if I drop the ring and lose it?! What if-” He started to panic, but Koban placed a hand on his shoulder.

“My friend, you will be fine. Besides- Raphael, Alistair, myself, and Orcus will be nearby to help you out if you need it.” He assured Grim and Death sighed, nodding. He hoped everything would be fine. Hopefully, Abaddon was having a better time on his end, this was nerve-wracking already!

As it turns out, Abaddon was hyperventilating as he was putting on his dress. “I’m not ready for this! What was I thinking?! We’ve known each other, what, a few months and we’re already getting married?!”

"Abaddon Jeffery Payne, would you hold still for a minute?" Abigail sighed heavily and tried to help him put his dress on, his veil resting on a chair. "Relax, dear. You've been planning this and waiting for this for a while. If you wanted to wait, then that would just make the anxiety worse." She came to his front and cupped his cheek. "Besides, what better day than today- your birthday."

Abaddon took a few deep breaths, finally calming down after hours of severe anxiety. “You’re right. Then again you’re always right, aren’t you?” 

Abigail smiled and winked at her son. "That's why I'm your mother. Now, let's get your tail under the skirt- and hold still for me this time." She started to fix up his skirt as Ezzel peeked in the room. 

"OooOooOooo, so elegant~! And the groom is looking the same way!" Ezzel giggled and took a picture with her phone. "People are starting to file into the Garden, and your angel and demon friends will show up any minute. Koban's already helping Grim."

“Seems like everything is going perfectly. Thanks for helping out, Mom. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Abaddon embraced his mother, something that wasn’t even possible before he met Grim. So much had changed in his life, and all of it for the better. 

His mother hugged back, careful not to wrinkle the dress or smudge any makeup. "You're ever so welcome honey." She smiled and looked at the time. "Now, you wait in here for a bit and don't sneak off. I need to see if everything is set up. Ezzel dear, come help me a moment." 

Ezzel nodded, following Abigail out of the doorway. The door closed, but not before a certain Hellpuppy snuck his way through. "Papa!! Papa, there's so many people and so much excitement! I'm so happy for you and Daddy!!" A pillow was strapped to Reaper's back, small enough to not be cumbersome, and with an indent for two rings to be placed.

“Oh my celestial being, you are SO CUTE!!!” Abaddon picked up Reaper into his arms, squishing his face and petting him furiously. “Who gave you the right to be this adorable?!”

“Noooooo stahp it! Heeheehee!” Reaper giggled as he was loved on and smooshed by his pseudo-dad. “I gave myself the right, Papa!” He licked his nose and squirmed to get down. “You look so pretty! You look pretty and Daddy looks handsome! I can’t wait for you to see him! When are you gonna go and kiss him, Papa? Is it soon?” There was so much excitement and Reaper was literally vibrating with it.

Abaddon laughed at Reaper’s enthusiasm, happy to have him in his life. “I’ve completely lost track of time. I don’t know how much time we have before we’re supposed to start.”

"From what Grandma and her ex Grandpa said, pretty soon. I need to go and get the rings, and then Grandma said she'll come and get you to walk you down the aisle. I just wanted to say hi." Reaper smiled and wagged his tail. "Oh- and Daddy said he has the perfect song for your walk."

Abaddon made a curious expression. “He’s not going with the classic?” His curiosity slowly turned into excitement. “Can’t wait to hear it!”

The little pup giggled and nodded. "I gotta go, Papa. But I'll see you out there!" He nudged the door open and trotted out of the room, leaving Abaddon alone. It wouldn't be much longer now, the voices of people could be heard and seen from outside the window. This was gonna be big.

Grim paced in his secluded room, waiting until they were called out to the graveyard. He wanted to see Abaddon so bad, he was so anxious and excited all at once. He bit his lip and took a breath, creeping out into the hall. He gently knocked on Abaddon's door, smiling. "Hey, babe. Are you doing okay in there?" He asked softly, staying outside the room. He wasn't looking in the room at Abaddon, this was avoiding the bad luck, right?

The sudden knock startled Abaddon for a second, but the sound of Grim’s voice immediately soothed him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… nervous as all purgatory.”

"You and me both, sweetheart." Grim laughed softly, leaning against the door frame. "I can see that everyone is almost here, even our acting troupe is here." He placed his hand on the door and smiled. "I bet you look so beautiful. I wish I could see you right now…"

“I do too, but it’s bad luck to see the bride, or in this case the one in the dress, before the wedding.” Abaddon placed his hand on the door as well, not knowing that Grim was doing the same. 

"Do you think that...I could at least hold your hand? I won't look at your hand, but- holding it might help my nerves." He suggested, his hand matching Abaddon's on the other side. "It might make you feel better too. Considering I can tell that we're both nervous as all Heaven."

Abaddon cracked a smile. “Seems like I’m starting to rub off on you. You’re speaking in hell slang.” He chuckled to himself, opening the door a crack and offering his hand. 

True to his word, Grim didn't look at his hand. He grabbed it and entwined his fingers together, feeling a little more relieved. "How's this? Do you feel a little better?" His hand felt so warm, yet it trembled slightly with excitement. He could feel his heartbeat and Abaddon's through their touch.

Abaddon took a deep breath, feeling the slight chill of Grim’s skin course through him. “Yeah, much better. Thanks.” He closed his eyes, standing there for what felt like an eternity. 

“You’re welcome, mi amor. I love you so much, and I can’t wait to call you my husband.” Grim sighed, squeezing his hand. He was snapped out of the quiet moment when Alistair called up the steps. “GRIM! Everything’s almost ready, go get your butt out there! You need to get into position!” “Ah- coming!” He turned his head back to the door. “I have to go. I’ll see you out there, darling.” 

Abaddon had returned to the mirror, not noticing that the door had swung open wider behind him. Nonchalantly he replied, “Til Death do us part, my love~” He continued touching up his makeup, the mirror just out of the way of reflecting the wide-open door and Grim’s shocked face in it. 

Grim froze for a moment, unable to tear his gaze away from the demon in the room. He- he had seen him. In the dress. He wasn’t able to finish his thoughts as Alistair grabbed his hand, pulling him from the doorway. “What are you staring at? Come on! You’re gonna be late!” The angel tugged him out of the house and across the street to the graveyard.

It wasn’t even a few minutes later that Abigail knocked on the doorframe of Abaddon’s room. “Dear? It’s time. Are you ready?” She asked and picked up his veil and bouquet, holding them out to him. The flowers were fire lilies, beautiful orange flowers like the one Grim placed in his hair the day they became a couple.

Abaddon took a deep breath, turning to his mother in the open doorway. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He placed the veil on his head, taking one last look at himself in the mirror. “You know, I honestly never thought this day would come. Especially not 450 years ago.”

“And now that day is here. And I’m so glad I can be here for it.” Abigail started getting teary-eyed already. She dabbed her eyes a bit with a tissue and took her son’s hand. “Come, everyone is waiting for the bride. Can’t keep your new husband waiting.” She guided Abaddon out of the house and across the street. Cars were lined on the sidewalk for almost a mile, it seemed like everyone was here and then some. She paused outside of the gate, where Ezzel and Daemonera stood waiting. “This is it. Deep breath honey, and happy birthday my sweet boy.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Abaddon pulled her in for a quick embrace, not realizing until now how much he used to wish that she could be at his wedding when he was young. Tears started to form in his eyes as he quickly pulled away, not wanting to get too emotional yet. 

Ezzel smiled at her demon brother and entered the Garden, Daemonera following behind. The music started up when it was Abaddon’s turn, and Reaper was right about it not being the traditional wedding theme. It was soft piano music, ‘Everything Stays’ floating through the air. The crowd of people faced the gate smiling and teary-eyed. At the very end, standing in front of Abaddon’s father at the altar, was Grim. Standing in a tux, just like in his dream, and his silver eyes were watery with joy.

Abaddon burst into tears as well, his literal dreams coming true before him. He walked down the aisle, trying his best to keep his composure as best he could. Reaper was right in front of him, both carrying the rings and spreading flower petals on the ground from a basket tied to his neck. The hellhound occasionally looking back was the only thing keeping Abaddon from breaking down in the middle of the aisle. 

 Reaper shook the last of the flower petals from the basket as he reached the end of the aisle, trotting over to stand by the girls. Ezzel and Daemonera on one side, Raphael and Alistair on the other side by Grim. It was perfect. Grim held out his hand as Abaddon joined him and Abigail sat in the front row as she gave her son to the Grimm Reaper. 

Grim gently lifted Abaddon's veil from his face, a happy tear escaping those captivating silver eyes. "You look beautiful…" He whispered and held his hand, using his other to wipe away the stray tear. Even though he saw him in the dress beforehand, he couldn't get over how amazing he looked.

 Abaddon leaned into Grim’s hand, a smile forming on his face. “Thanks. You look amazing too.” The tears had finally stopped running down his face as he stared at the man that would soon be his husband. He whispered to Grim, “Ready for the best day of our lives?”

"Ready as ever." Grim nodded and stared back. He wanted to keep staring, but they had to break away and face Joseph, Abaddon's father, and the man uniting them. He cleared his throat and began. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here on this wonderful day..to celebrate the union of Abaddon Jeffery Payne-" Joseph gestured to his son. "-and Grim Azrael Corvis." He then did the same to the Reaper. "This wedding doesn't just symbolize their love- it symbolizes a special bond. A bond that runs deep in their hearts, one that all of us wish to someday achieve."

All the humans in the crowd seemed confused by those names but quickly returned to watching the ceremony. Hopefully, they all assumed they were just using stage names until now. 

Abaddon leaned closer to Grim, listening to his father’s words. Centuries ago something like this would have never happened between them. Now they were both demons and have changed for the better. Funny how things work out like that.

Joseph went on for a few minutes about love and marriage and yada yada all that boring stuff, and then it was time for them to say their vows. "Abaddon. Grim. You may now speak your vows to each other. Say them openly-" He smiled and spoke quieter to them. "-and do your best." Joseph stood up straight and nodded for them to go ahead.

Grim mustered up the courage to go first, taking a deep breath and holding Abaddon’s hands. “Abby. The time that we’ve been together has...it’s honestly been the happiest time of my life. When I’m down or upset or worried, you know how to make me feel so much better. You never cease to make me smile and laugh. You’re so perfect- none of the others I’ve dated before can even compare. I love you, and I always will no matter what happens.”

Abaddon had to fight back tears as his turn came up. “Grim, I can honestly say that I never expected any of this to happen. All my life I thought I’d be alone and miserable, corrupting souls for all eternity. But, you showed me that life doesn’t have to be about pleasing other people. You showed me how to be… free.” He started to choke on his words, emotion getting the best of him. “I-I promise to always love you and to be there for you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Their words brought the crowd to tears and sniffles. It was so moving, even Reaper was whimpering with how precious his dads were being. Joseph wiped a tear away as he cleared his throat. “If anyone has cause to object to the forming of their union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“I, in fact, object.” Rang out a rather smug, yet somehow still pissed off voice, in the far back of the clearing.

[lxpinwrites]

The wind howled all throughout the night,

 sending shivers down Anya’s spine, as if the cold had ripped through her thick shawl to claw at her skin. The shutters had all been shut and locked just as the sun was setting, a fact that made Anya’s heart twinge a little sadly. She had always watched the sunset with her siblings when she was younger, and though they were separated by miles of land, she still felt like she was back home when she watched the moon slowly rise in the sky. 

It was just another thing Alistair had taken from her, it seems. 

She had tried not to harbor a bitterness towards him, knowing that far more women in the world had been paired with far worse husbands. In truth, Alistair could not have been the worst man for her - he kept food on their table and their plantation well stocked, though she couldn’t help but feel a chilling cold whenever he walked into the same room as her, his shadow looming as if sucking every source of light from the room. 

She did not remember Alistair being like this when they first met. In truth, she could have loved him if she had been free to do so on her own terms. The Alistair she met was soft, with a bright smile that had often melted the worst of her moods. Anya was unsure of what had happened, but he had changed when they moved West. He had stopped smiling and often shut himself within his office for hours at a time. Instead of sleeping in their bedroom as they had done in their first home, he had taken to sleeping in the guest room - if he came home at all. She was unsure of where he went in the middle of the night, but it seemed that he snuck off more and more often, until eventually, she found herself alone more than not.

On this such night, Anya walked alone throughout the house despite having been told to rest hours ago. She had only seen Alistair once, and had only known of his arrival when she heard frantic papers rustling in his office. 

She had thought he had lost something important or perhaps was in need of a friend, so she had chosen to disobey his first order: never enter the office if he was within it. 

Anya knocked softly, though the door was creaking open the moment her knuckles brushed against the rough wood. He had been so rushed, it seemed, that he didn’t even shut the door fully, a fact that made Anya’s nerves prickle. Alistair was hovering over his desk, the lights so dim that they were nearly off, with only a dim candle on the windowsill - though it was too far away for him to have been able to see a thing on his desk. She brought her candle closer, though he flinched away when the yellow light shone on the stacks of papers.

He looked up at her, and though she couldn’t make out his face in the dim shadows, she knew he was full of a strange, nervous agitation that she had never seen before. “Just what are you doing?” He asked, his voice rough as if he were sick.

“I heard you searching for something,” she explained quietly, looking down at the shaking hand holding the candle. “So I thought I should come help-“

“It’s not needed,” he snapped. When her brows furrowed in hurt, Alistair sighed a little impatiently, though he seemed only frustrated with himself. “I mean no harm in my words. I’m not - I fear I’m not myself, lately.”

“Have you ever been yourself?” Anya challenged, a coldness seeping into her voice that reminded her more of him than anything. He was changing her, it seems, and not for the better. 

Alistair hesitated, and it was then that Anya realized what she had done - who she had insulted. She stumbled with her words, unsure of what to say, when he began to speak, his voice lower than a whisper. “You’ll need to retire early tonight. I hear there’ve been… frightening things out as of late.”

Hours later and Alistair was nowhere to be found, much to Anya’s frustration. She had meant to stay awake and follow him to his location, to finally discover just where - or who - he was sneaking off to. However, as she had laid down to appease his orders, she found that she had drifted off to sleep. 

She had awoken with a start, having not prepared at all to sleep, and having seemingly chosen the worst time to do so. Her candle had reduced to embers by the time she had awoken from her haze, and so she was throwing open her bedroom doors without her weapon, padding silently down the dark halls, wishing that Alistair had left at least one window open. 

She felt her way down the hall, stopping when she found the door to the office and carelessly cracking it open. She peered inside, and though she wasn’t surprised to find that he had disappeared, she still felt that same weight in her chest that she always felt. 

To her luck, he had doused the candle in the windowsill, and, after fumbling in his drawers for a match, she found herself safely engulfed in its warm light once again. 

Anya wished that she wasn’t afraid, but her heart pounded with every step she took towards the guest bedroom, feeling more like a rabbit walking into a trap than a member of the Boswell household. All too soon, she reached his door, though before she could open it, a loud crash from across the house made her yelp in surprise. 

Fearing that an intruder had broken into the house, she burst into his bedroom, knowing that he was far more suited to dealing with it than she was. However, the light of her candle shone only on an empty, unmade bed, its pillows cold with disuse. A searing anger ran through her, for of course she was married to a man who wouldn’t even be home for it to get ransacked. Knowing that she wouldn’t find a weapon in time to face whatever was occurring, Anya gripped her candlestick with a newfound determination, treading past the hall to face her intruder. 

She was in the kitchen by the time she heard another crash, to which she was shocked to find that someone had not broken into the house but into the cellar - the empty cellar, devoid of anything valuable save for some tools. Her nerves eased a little, thinking that perhaps it was merely a cat that had managed to get stuck inside the cellar. 

She padded with bare feet out of the house and into the cool breeze, because she wasn’t going to ignore an emergency to find her slippers. The cellar was only feet away from the end of the porch, and she was comforted to find that the full moon left a bright path for her, welcoming as always. 

For a moment, at least, she was Anya Morels, running across the yard in her old, stained dress with not a care in the world nor a ring on her finger.

And then her path was coming to a stop in front of the cellar - unlocked, to her surprise - and she was again Mrs. Boswell, having to deal with another problem that Alistair didn’t notice. The chain holding the doors together were lying in a heap beside the door, and she briefly made a note to fix it before Alistair blamed a poor servant for the mistake. She nearly toppled over as she opened the heavy doors with her empty hand, and then she was peering down into the black nothingness below.

The stairs to the cellar were steep and unlit - always unlit, to her dismay. She had once expressed her concern for falling to Alistair, though he only responded with, “It matters not who can go in without tumbling. I can see just fine.”

He was wrong again, it seemed. Anya tried to shake her bitter thoughts away as she carefully stepped down, fearing that her life would end in a clumsy heap if she wasn’t concentrating. Finally, she connected with the dirt flooring of the cellar, ice cold to her skin. Perhaps she was imagining it, but she thought she could see her breath in the frigid room. 

The cellar was so dark that she struggled to see a foot ahead of her - even with her candle. She was still at the base of the steps, though she could see little more than the narrow passage that led into the cellar.

Anya stood in an attempt to be fearless, holding her trembling voice still as she called out to the darkness and whatever was in it. “Hello?”

Someting shuffled from far within the cellar sharply, sounding as though it were nearly falling over. Fighting the urge to run and yet knowing that it was no person within the cellar, she walked inside. Her candle burned dimly, shining on an all-too familiar silhouette at the end of the cellar.

“Alistair?” She called out softly, weakly. He nearly blended in with the dark wall, though something about his silhouette burned a certain wrongness into her brain, making her nearly turn tail and run.

Alistair turned away, his legs trembling as he covered his face with his arm. “Get out at once!” He barked harshly. 

The raw anger of his voice should have made her jump, should have terrified her, yet Anya found that she was only angry. A strange ferocity overwhelmed her as she stepped closer, furrowing her brow as she said, “Come out at once! Why are you hiding like some sort of scoundrel?”

Alistair made a frustrated sound that could have been a growl, though his body cowered further from her as if petrified that she would approach him. “Dear, you do not have time to - to be so brash! This is a matter of your safety and you will listen to me before-“

“Before what?” Anya asked, more harsh than she could ever remember sounding. “You won’t hurt me - not if it risks your precious reputation you dandies care so much for. Just what are you doing down here, and without a light? Have you gone mad?”

She stepped closer, ever closer, half expecting for him to try to run for the stairs like he always did when she got too close. For months now, he was always six feet away, and now that gap was closing in on him. A cracking sound filled the air and she thought momentarily that it was thunder or a tree falling, though the sound was too close to be any such thing. 

She called his name, watching something unknown contort in a way that nothing should. The sound seemed to fall on deaf ears.

She was quaking with terror now, a wild instinct overwhelming her senses with the desire to run, though she knew she was being ridiculous. She stepped closer, stepping into something wet, something warm.

“Alistair?” She asked once again.

The flame of her candle fell on black hair, and then he was looking towards her, the yellow of the flame reflecting on his eyes in such a way that they seemed to burn with that same fire. Shadows fell on his face strangely, frighteningly.

“Anya.”

Alistair stepped forward, though the stride was too long, too unnatural. The flame in his eyes did not disappear when she dropped the candle with a shrill scream. 

[bricousland]

Chapter 9: The Dawn Will Come

Chapter Eight Chapter  Seven  Chapter Six  Chapter Five  

Chapter Four    Chapter Three  Chapter Two Chapter One       

AO3 

The road home was solemn. Alistair was weak and could only ride a few hours at a time; between that and his nightmares, progress was slow and it took them twice as long to return to Skyhold. 

During the journey, Briana sustained her fair share of injuries and more than once, Nanami had to step in and wrap Alistair in a sleeping spell when his delusions became unmanageable. These fits ended travel for the day and left the group waiting for another bout of sanity so they could continue home. The Fade haunted Alistair; he saw demons when there were none and enemies in his friends. During his lucidity, Alistair fell into terrible depressions as he remembered the pain his barbarity caused everyone--especially Briana. He sobbed, apologized, and tried to ostracize himself from the party. During those times, only Briana could bring him back, sometimes with kind words and other times with him slung over her shoulder. It was a  long, hard trip filled with a lot less laughter and more tears. No one complained though, not even Sera who was eager to return home. 

Nanami kept her distance from the group and rode at the back of the line. She stayed  close enough to Briana and Alistair to step in, but far enough away to avoid conversation. Sera was able to coax her into a conversation here and there but Nanami was disengaged and distracted.

Once they arrived at Skyhold, they were treated to a hero’s welcome. Cullen’s men met them at the gates in straight rows with their armor shining. Josephine and the nobility that were currently in attendance greeted them with cheers. Briana kept herself and Cullen between Alistair and the visiting aristocrats, though they tried their very best to grab the attention of the would-be-king.  

Leliana doted on them and had every nurse on staff examine Alistair. When she was satisfied that he was in good physical health, she escorted them to their bedroom and set two of her best scouts outside. The cheers and conversation faded as the door closed with a heavy boom behind them. There was complete silence in the small stone room. The two of them were alone for the first time since the day they had separated so many years ago.

 Briana was at a loss for words. She stood tense, in the middle of the room with her fists at her sides. She looked at her axe propped near her pillow and her armor, carefully put away. The danger of the journey was over but a piece of her felt like she was back at camp with a darkspawn ambush waiting to happen. ” 

Alistair finished washing his (now clean shaven) face but, when he turned around and his smile faded. “You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid.” Briana shook out the tension in her hands and rolled her shoulders, “You’d never kill me.”

“We don’t know that”

“I know it.”

“Fine, then what’s bothering you?”

“You were dead, Alistair.” the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself ”I heard your heart stop beating and I gave up. I was ready to follow you and to die right there at your side.” hysteria crawled into her throat, “But then you came back, and now -- you’re broken! You’re paranoid, sobbing, and apologetic all within short periods of time. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you and for once I feel powerless.” 

“So-- it’s my turn to be the strong one, is it?” Alistair wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. His fingers ran through her hair, and his cheek pressed against the top of her head. “Briana, you’re here and I know that things have been difficult but I swear to you, every time I look at you, I feel better. Right now, you’re an anchor in a world I barely understand anymore.”

“Why did the Maker bring this war into our bedroom?”Her face pressed against his chest, his skin smelled of soap and rose petals. 

His laugh was quiet and gentle. She felt his chin rest on the top of her head, “Because, sleeping with Morrigan won’t fix this one.” 

She smiled and gave him a gentle jab in the ribs and she found herself laughing. “You’re right. The Blight was too easy.” Her arms wrapped around his waist. He was so much thinner than she remembered. Losing him had been like losing a piece of herself and now that he was back she had no words to express how alive she felt. He was someone who had seen her at her absolute worst and her absolute best. He never treated her like a hero and always showed her more compassion than she deserved. It was finally her turn to do the same for him.  

“I love you” He whispered in her ear, “and I’ll never let you leave my side again.” 

“You’ll have to.” Briana stepped out of his arms and removed her shirt. She turned her back to him and showed him the exposed, darkspawn poison that crawled through her veins. “Now, I have to find that cure. I can hear the song, I can ignore it for now, but we know what’s coming if I don’t go.”

His hand was warm to the touch as it grazed her blackened flesh, “This shouldn’t be happening to you yet. I’m the senior Grey Warden and I don’t have a touch of it. I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Briana tossed her shirt to the side and turned to face him, even from the front some of the blight peered over her shoulder. She took his hand and ran her fingers over his knuckles. Her touch was soft but her voice was hard, “You’ll be a liability.”

“You’re using your Hero voice”

“I don’t have a hero voice. This is my serious voice. Al, you know you can’t come as you are.”

Alistair looked like he wanted to argue for a moment but after a few twisted and unpleasant features, his shoulder slumped and he nodded. “And if the Blight worsens?”

“If it becomes too much to bear I will return to Highever.”

“Promise me.”

“Alistair, I promise you, no matter how this ends, my final hours will be spent holding your hand.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled his face into her’s for a long, much needed kiss. His teeth caught her bottom lip and her hands slid down his body, feeling every bone and scar along the way. Her lips moved to his neck while her hand slid down his pants. 

“Maker.” His breath was hot against her ear. His arms found their way around her and pulled her close again. The touch of his fingertips against several jagged scars sent a shiver up her spine. Briana tugged him towards the bed; her fingers caught the lacing of his pants and with one quick pull they fell around his ankles.

She slid back on the bed. He crawled after her and kneeled in front of her on the mattress. His hands cupped her face and he pulled her forward for a long, deep kiss. When they stopped, his smile was coy and playful. She pressed the tip of her nose against his, “I’ll be gentle. I don’t want to break you.” 

Alistair laughed and pushed her onto her back, “Oh, shut up.” he leaned over her and blew their bedside candle out. In the dark she felt his warm body on top of her and his arms beneath her. When her legs wrapped around his waist, for the first time in a long time Briana Cousland felt whole.

~ ~ ~

The stars danced in the sky over the Frostbacks. Orlesian and Ferelden nobility alike made an appearance. Everyone was there to celebrate the reuniting of the Hero of Ferelden with her one true love and all of it because of, and thanks to, the Inquisition. Josephine couldn’t have been happier. Nobles were already spinning tales of the Inquisitor’s gentle heart compelling her to brave the Fade again to right a wrong. It was a tale for bards to someday sing of--Maryden already was, actually. 

While having Orlesians and Fereldens under the same roof was stressful, Cullen and his men kept them separated and intimidated enough to keep the peace. The cooks were in a panic. The Orlesian food was too rich for the Fereldens and Ferelden food was ‘as good as rotting fish’ to the Orlesians. Even Nanami, and Briana were expended. They attended feast after feast as noble parties arrived to partake in the events. Alistair, was the only one excused from the rush of attention. He made intermittent appearances to the nobility orchestrated by Josephine; he was introduced and excused from the dinners in such a manner that the nobility didn’t think to question his absences.  

Tonight was the last night Briana and Alistair would be with the Inquisition before they set off to Highever. Briana’s brother, Fergus had already arrived the previous day with a royal escort for the two of them. It included a beautiful oak carriage with thick velvet drapes and a private guard hand picked by Leliana and Cullen. 

Briana was in Nanami’s room getting ready for the ball. Josephine brought them gowns to wear. She said a ball was no place for Grey Warden armor or beige lounge wear. The two women sat in chairs while stylists brushed and pinned their hair. Nanami nursed a cup of tea, bored and irritated while Briana seemed relaxed and confident, instructing the stylist to fix a pin here or to tighten a ribbon there. It was at times like these the Warden’s noble birth stood out.

“You know, Alistair has never seen me in a dress.” Briana took a cup of tea when it was offered. She tried to look at Nanami but the stylist turned her chin so she was facing forward again. 

“Really? Not even at your wedding?” Nanami’s hair had been brushed until it shone like black silk and now it was being twisted and pinned. Her stylist cooed and fawned over the style but Nanami didn’t understand a word of his thick Orlesian accent.

“Yes. The Chantry mother was there to oversee it, all the papers were signed. It was all very official. We were in our armor in the Commander’s office. The Wardens wanted to send me out on another mission and I refused to leave Weishaupt until I was married. It was the least romantic thing Alistair and I have ever had to endure.”

Nanami laughed which, in turn, caused the stylist to panic “Maker, Inquisitor, Haven’t you learned to laugh without tears?” His Orlesian accent was thick and chastising. One of the servant girls came up and dabbed her eyes to wipe the makeup away. 

Na’lahni sighed “What will you do after all of this? You’re going back Highever but it sounds like it would be best if you returned to the Wardens. Don’t you want to go to them?”

Briana was quiet while a woman painted her lips a deep ruby red, “I’m taking Alistair to Highever and I’ll stay with him for a little longer but, I’ll leave within a few weeks to finish my search for a cure for the Blight.” She pressed her lips onto a tissue when prompted, “Regardless of the outcome of that search, we’ve agreed that we will not be returning to the Wardens. All we ever wanted was a family and a place to belong. The Wardens turned on Alistair in my absence. I won’t forgive them for that. Thedas is in good hands and really doesn’t need me around with you and the Champion to fix things.”

Nanami smiled as she listened to Briana’s dreams of the future and wondered how many of them would actually come true. 

We all get dragged back in, eventually.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” Briana continued. “You’ve been a friend through all of this, even when I was trying to kill you, you showed me kindness. Can I give you one last piece of advice woman to woman?” Briana dismissed the stylists and other servants that were scurrying around the room. “Go, we look fine.” With a snap of her fingers the staff dispersed in a rush. She turned in her seat her long chocolate curls were left to hang around her shoulders. The front pieces were pulled and pinned behind her ears to give it that ‘intentionally messy’ look the Fereldens seemed to prefer.

“Why not?” One last pin was put in Nanami’s hair. Her thin, silky locks were wound in a thick, intricate Orlesian style behind her head. It showed off her elven ears and big blue eyes. It pulled tightly on her scalp and she wished she had asked a Ferelden to do her hair.

“I said it to you once in Lothering and I am going to say it again. Let Cullen love you.” Before Nanami could interrupt Briana shook her head, “before you try to tell me about Solas listen to what I have to say. I don’t know who Solas is. Sera hates him and while Cullen respects your decision, he’s not too happy with him either. From what I gather, this man ran out on you without a word as to where or why. I don’t question that he loved you. I don’t know anything about him to make that judgement. But, I can say that Alistair would never do that to me. He’d never leave without an explanation; he trusts me implicitly. Just as I trust him.”

Nanami sat back in her chair and looked down at her hands without responding. Briana reached out and held them. “You deserve better than to wait around for someone who might never come back.” Briana leaned back in her seat with a grin. “Besides, I can speak from experience, ex Templars make great lovers and eventually, with some training, great husbands.”

Nanami laughed her her cheeks blushed a shade of soft pink, “I’ll keep that in mind.” A part of her wanted to tell Briana about her experience in the Fade and saying goodbye to Solas, but when she gathered the words she pushed them back down. She rose to her feet and looked into the hearth where dying embers shone and the dining table set for two. 

 She smiled.

Nanami motioned to the door, “Let’s go.”

The entire hall was lit with warm candlelight and decorations that displayed Inquisition and Warden emblems. Nanami and Briana stood in front of the Inquisitor’s throne while everyone gathered. Briana reached out and took Nanami’s hand. “A new kind of battle.” she whispered. Nanami covered a laugh behind her hand as the hall grew quiet.

One of the many servants in the hall stepped forward and with a booming voice, spoke to the rest of the attendees, “Presenting Lady Inquisitor Nanami Lavellan, Herald of Andraste and Lady Warden Briana Cousland Hero of Ferelden.” 

“My what big names we have.” Briana said as she and Nanami descended the steps hand in hand. Against Josephine’s wishes, Leliana had chosen Briana’s dress; it was hunter green silk with deep brown leather around the shoulders and then wrapped around the waist as an oversized belt emblazoned with intricate silver griffins. Nanami felt more awkward in her dress. In an attempt to soothe Josephine, she chose her dress sight unseen. It was soft, ice blue cotton with several creamy silk layers beneath and long billowing sleeves trimmed with silver thread. It was comfortable but the layers made it heavy and she had to hold it up to walk down the stairs.At the base of the stairs, Alistair waited. He wore a suit strikingly similar to what they had worn at Halamshiral. It was white with a green sash made out of the same material as Briana’s dress. Nanami smiled, happy to see he was well enough to make an appearance.

That has Josephine written all over it. 

Briana’s smile brightened when she caught sight of her husband. Around him that warrior persona washed away and Briana was just a girl all over again. 

“By the Maker you are beautiful.” Alistair took her by the hand and drew Briana in close for a kiss. Nanami stood to the side while the rest of the nobility cheered or hid their masked faces behind lace fans.

“You don’t look so bad yourself. You’re sure you’re up for this?”

“I’m fine. Just don’t leave my side, alright?”

Briana smiled, “Never.” 

Nanami walked up a few stairs so she could see the crowd that surrounded them. “Hello, everyone and welcome. We are so glad you could all attend. Briana, Alistair, and I hope that you have the very best night.” She paused a moment as some Ferelden’s cheered from the back while the Orlesians looked disdainfully over their shoulders, “Enjoy the food, enjoy the wine, and enjoy the cakes. Most of all, enjoy dancing. Lady Cousland, if you and Alistair could start us off with a first dance?”

“We would love to!” Briana called up to Nanami. 

Alistair looked at Briana, “We would?” Briana swiftly elbowed him in the ribs, “Ow!.” He rubbed his side and nodded to Nanami, “I mean, it would be an honor.” 

Everyone clamoured to see the two of them. Nanami stayed up by her throne looking over everything just like she had at every other party. Except this time, she didn’t feel forced to enjoy it. Briana and Alistair were happy, she was able to right one of her many wrongs and save a life. She looked over at Josephine who was basking in her success at yet another flawless party and for once, Nanami felt she could relate.

As the night wore on a few nobles offered her a dance, and as always, she  declined. She was happy to watch over everyone else. Briana danced with everyone though. She watched her dance with Iron Bull, Cullen, and Varric with all the grace a noble woman was trained in. On the other hand, she watched Alistair try to dance with a few noble ladies but he didn’t have the same amount of tact as his wife. Seeing her friend drowning, Leliana swooped in and danced with him so he could regain some amount of pride until Briana returned with mussed hair and red cheeks.

As the hours came and went Briana made her way up the steps and stood beside her. Nanami looked over at the Warden, “You seem like you’re having a great time.” 

Briana nodded, “I loved dancing and attending balls in Highever. I didn’t like to dress up much but I always enjoyed this. I’ve noticed you haven’t taken to the dance floor.”

Nanami laughed, “I enjoy watching people dance. Their happiness makes me happy.”

“I bet you would have more fun if you danced with someone.”

“Did you really come up here to scold me for not dancing with Cullen?” 

Briana shook her head,“Yes and no. Alistair is worn out; he says he’s alright but I can see that he’s slipping.” She tilted her head in Alistair’s direction where he stood talking to Cullen, his hands clenched together and his eyes darting towards Briana for a quick glance. “We are leaving early tomorrow with Fergus, I just wanted to say” Briana extended her hand towards her and Nanami took it “Thank you Inquisitor. If you ever need a sword--or axe, I’m yours.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Warden.” Briana smiled and left her at the steps, retrieving Alistair from Cullen’s company. 

Nanami moved from her stationary spot and slipped through the crowd to find Cullen leaning against the wall watching over everyone like any good guard. He was dressed in his Halamshiral finery of white and royal blue.

“We’ve had three brawls so far. Orlesians don’t know when to quit with the dog jokes. I bet it’s a national sport. Is everything alright?”

She nodded, “Yes, thanks to you, everything’s been a success.”

“Well good. At least we won’t have to listen to Josephine’s complaints about it in the War Room tomorrow.” 

“Cullen, would you… like to dance?” She smoothed her hands over her dress and tucked a piece of stray black hair behind her ear.

“Dance? I don’t-- I mean, yes -- are you sure?” 

“Well, I haven’t danced with anyone all night and I’m not really good at it. I thought if I was with you, you’d stop me from making a fool of myself.”

“Well, how could I say no to that?” 

Nanami reached out and took his hand in hers and let him lead her out onto the dance floor. Everyone stopped to watch, and out of the corner of her eye, Nanami saw Briana. She leaned against the corner of a narrow hall with Alistair at her side. When their eyes locked the Warden winked before she disappeared around the corner hand in hand with her husband. 

Cullen pulled Nanami close and rested a hand on her waist. As the room fell silent, her cheeks became hotter and her hand held his tight. The music was the only noise echoing in the halls. Even the clatter of cups and plates had ceased, all eyes were on the Inquisitor and the Commander. Cullen’s eyes caught hers and he gave her a subtle nod before he guided her into the first steps of a simple waltz. As she followed him, a smile crept onto her face. The music was moderately paced and her lithe elven feet easily adapted to the rhythm around them. After a moment, she didn’t even remember they were being watched. When the song ended there were gloved claps from the Orlesians and merry cheers from the Fereldens. Nanami, face flushed, turned to her audience, gave a timid curtsy, and bow of her head. Cullen, no less abashed gave a gentlemanly bow as well.  

“I think I’m going to need some fresh air.” Nanami whispered, “Will you come with me?”

“Maker, yes.” Cullen offered his arm and lead her into the cold mountain air. 

As they withdrew from the crowd, they were saluted by two of Cullen’s men stationed at the door. Nanami smiled and took in a deep breath of frigid winter air as they descended the stairs together. “It’s so quiet out here.” Nanami descended the first flight of stairs with her hand still wrapped in the bend of his elbow while her other gathered and lifted the thick layers of her dress.

“It’s better than dancing in front of a room full of people.”

“Agreed.” Nanami laughed and stood on the small platform,looking towards the stables with her arms wrapped around themselves. “I didn’t expect so much attention.” Cullen stood beside her, looking out into the moonlit yard as well. There were so many things Nanami wanted to say but she had no idea where to begin, she wished, just for a moment, she had the same confidence as Briana. 

“I’m sorry.” 

His apology left her a little flummoxed. “What?” she finally managed, taking her attention away from the yard and onto him.

“The kiss, I wasn’t in my right mind and you were--”

“No. Don’t --” Nanami pinched the bridge of her nose, “Mythal’s horns, I wanted you to.”

“I know, it was foolish and I -- you wanted it?” It was Cullen’s turn to be speechless but a little smile couldn’t help but creep across his face.

“When I was unconscious in Morrigan’s home, I saw Solas and I realized that he didn’t trust me and even if he did love me, I was finished trying to love him. Cullen, I care for you a great deal and I don’t know what’s going to happen but, I know I want to find out. I know that when I look at you, I feel safe and warm even out here in the middle of winter standing on cold stone.” Nanami paused and chewed on her bottom lip. When Cullen didn’t respond, she started again, “I’m not trying to take advantage of your feelings. I only want you to know that they’re not one --” Cullen’s hands grabbed her face and wrapped his fingers in her hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss against her lips and this time Nanami allowed herself to fall into it. Her hand rested on his arm while another wrapped around his waist. All of the anxiety that had infested her heart a moment before melted away. He felt as immovable as the frostbacks and even in soft cotton and silks he smelled of steel and a well oiled sword. 

As their lips parted his hazel eyes looked down at her and tucked some of her hair behind her ears, “I hope that wasn’t too forward.”

“Not at all.” Nanami laughed.

“Should we go back? I’m sure you’re missed.”

“Let’s stay like this a little longer.”

Trespasser

Nanami Lavallen fell through the eluvian clutching what was left of her arm. Her body hit the marble floor with a loud thud and her staff clattered and echoed in the small room. All around her were Orlesian and Ferelden dignitaries gasping and shouting as Inquisition soldiers shielded her from their view. She was blinded from pain and everything around her was blurred chaos. The friends that had come with her, Dorian, Bull, and Sera raced to help her to her feet. Her lip was bloodied and she was hunched over in pain from a few broken ribs. Dorian handed the staff to her and she used it as a cane while she caught her breath.

Josephine and Leliana soon arrived, pushing the crowd out of the room and assuring them everything would be revealed shortly. From outside Nanami heard Orlesians gasping in disapproval before she heard the roar of her Commander, “Get out of my way that is my wife you’re keeping me from!”

“Your what?!” Sera’s voice boomed in her ear causing her head to throb.

“Well that really is a surprise.” Dorian’s softer voice rose among the deep chuckles of Bull who was holding her steady as Cullen rushed to her side. He took her from Bull’s arms and leaned down to come nose to nose with her. Nanami tried to focus but his face was an exhausted blurr.

“Nanami, Nanami what happened?” His voice was panicked as he took notice of her arm.

“I’m alright.” Nanami managed in a soft whisper. Her weight was too much to bare and her knees slowly buckled. Cullen held her steady and joined her on the floor as her exhaustion wore her down. “I’m alright” she repeated, she looked up and finally his face was clear and it made her glad. “The Qunari have been stopped”

“You can tell me all about it once we get you to an infirmary.” Cullen moved to lift her but she put a hand on his chest to stop him.  

“Wait, Solas was there.”

“Solas?”

“He wants to restore Arlathan, and I may have to kill him.”

[braincoins]

for some reason...

...my brain went back into Dragon Age and conjured up... well, THIS:

A Dalish elf warden who loved Alistair but put him on the throne of Ferelden because she thought it was what was best. And he did it, because duty, because maybe some part of him thought that she’d still be with him...? But of course she couldn’t be. Not with the way Fereldens treat elves. After they both survived the battle, she became Arlessa of Amaranthine. And, after the darkspawn incursion of Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep, King Alistair comes to pay a visit. 

She treats him with the deference and respect due to the King of Ferelden; he gives her the respect due an Arlessa. Everyone’s confused about the simmering tension between the two of them until Oghren fills them in (in graphic detail, of course). Her mabari whimpers and tries to shove her towards Alistair, but he just catches her, steadies her, and they break apart with mumbled “thank you”s and “of course, it was no problem”s. The King is staying a few days; she gives up her room to him because it’s the nicest and the keep is still under repair. He can still catch the scent of her on the pillows. The spare room she goes to sleep in feels cold despite the fact that it’s still in good repair and her mabari is nearby for cuddles. 

The next couple of days are all the same as she shows him ‘round the Keep and ‘round the city. The other wardens are getting tired of it - “They’re worse than Nate and Velanna!” Sigrun moans, causing instant glares from the two named and instant laughter from everyone else. They’re beginning to plot shenanigans...

But one night, in their separate rooms, the Hero of Ferelden and the King of Ferelden wake from dead sleep. The two oldest wardens in the order can feel darkspawn out there, beyond the Keep’s walls. Neither of them spends much time suiting up: she’s in her long night shirt, he in the loose cloth pants he sleeps in. But both have their weapons, and her mabari comes with them. They aren’t even surprised to see the other creeping out towards the exit; the mutual yearning for each other, for things to be anything but the way they are? None of that exists now. There is just the duty that neither of them can forswear. They manage to get past the guards - both hers and his - and out into the night.

They track down the small raiding band and launch into battle. And it’s just like the old days: she fights at his back and he protects her as the two of them cut through darkspawn like reaping wheat. Darkspawn blood flies through the air, warden blood sings with the triumph, and everything feels good and right for a little bit.

And when the battle is over, they look at each other, chests heaving, wide grins on their faces. Just like the old days, back before titles and duty to anything besides the order... and, at that point, the order was only each other. 

She’d say afterwards he kissed her first; he’d swear she made the first move. It doesn’t matter. The darkspawn blood on them doesn’t matter, the time they’ve been away from each other, that she’s Dalish, that he needs to find a bride for political reasons, none of that matters. Just for a little bit. Just for a while, it’s just them and their names - not their titles - panted and moaned. (Her mabari stands guard a little ways away, just in case.)

They’re back just as the sun comes up, and everyone is already in a panic (except for the wardens, who had suspected this much). The two of them make excuses: darkspawn raiding band. They could feel it out there. They had to go. Why were they gone so long? Well... The King’s guards are especially unamused; they’re supposed to head back to Denerim today.

Alistair ignores them, ignores everyone and looks to his love. “I want to stay.”

And the Hero of Ferelden stares into the pleading eyes of the man she loves, who loves her in return, and tells him, “No.” When he tries to protest, she coldens her voice, pulls ice into her eyes. She tells him they’ve only ever had a relationship as Grey Wardens and as bedmates. That’s it. Nothing else. She looks him in the eye and lies. She stabs herself in the chest for the sake of Ferelden. She tells him, “I don’t love you.” And she turns on one heel and leaves. 

The King’s entourage have already gathered his things out of her room, in preparation to leave. She slams the door shut behind her and throws herself onto the bed. The pillows smell like him. She curls up and cries. The King, his guards and servants, leave within the hour. 

She’s a ghost for days, coming out for court and then going back into her room. Garevel is beside himself trying to get her to eat, and her mabari won’t leave her side. It was hard enough to give him up the first time. To look him in the eye and lie to him - and about this - when she’s always told him the truth, when they were partners before, on and off the battlefield. ‘Duty’ is cold comfort.

At the end of a fortnight, Anders comes to her. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Let Garevel deal with them.”

“Here to see you,” he insists. “Not Garevel.”

She sighs and sits up from her bed. “Warden-Commander me or Arlessa me?”

“You,” is all he says. 

“Fine.” She doesn’t bother getting on armor or any of her finery. She’s a mess, and she does her best to finger comb her hair into some sort of decency because if they’re not going to specify then they’re going to get her in the rapidly-disintegrating shirt and tattered pants she normally wears for training. She didn’t train today, but they’re the most comfortable things she owns besides her nightshirt. (The laundresses never did get all the darkspawn blood stains out.)

She comes out of her room, goes down the hall, down the stairs, out into the courtyard, her mabari trotting at her heels... until he suddenly takes off running and leaps upon their guest. Despite having a large wardog knock him down, he laughs, and she freezes in place.

“I’m glad to see you, too! Stop it, stop!” But he’s laughing. He eventually wrangles the mabari off and stands up and smiles at her. It’s almost exactly the way she remembers it, except that there’s worry in his eyes. Just a touch.

“What are you doing here? Uh, Your Majesty,” she tacks on. He doesn’t look very regal at the moment. In point of fact, he’s in Grey Warden armor. “Is there a darkspawn threat that needs...?”

“I’m not ‘Your Majesty’ any more.”

Her breath catches.

He continues, “I abdicated. Let the Landsmeet deal with it. I told them I wasn’t likely to have children because of my being a Warden, called the line of Theirin done and over with. I packed what things were actually mine - and maybe snuck out some cheese from the kitchens - and I came here.”

“But... but...”

“It’s true,” he tells her. “It’s better if I’m not king. Better for Ferelden, and better for me.” He walks over to her. “So I came here, as a Grey Warden, reporting for duty. And... and because I... I hope...”

“I lied,” she says quickly, and she babbles it all out. She lied for Ferelden, she tried to make it easier for him to move on and marry for the sake of the throne, she...

And he just hugs her and she latches onto him tightly. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” And when they kiss, every guard, every worker, every warden (and they are all there - Anders and Ohgren made sure of that) cheers and hoots and hollers. And the Hero of Ferelden pulls one hand away to make an obscene gesture at them as she continues to kiss the love of her life.

[dragonagethistle]

Holy Shit - Chapter 5

Thank you all for bearing with me on this. Here is Chapter 5 (finally)

@mapplestrudel @kagetsukai @whiskeyeyedcullen @windysuspirations 

Read on AO3 here

Cullen shook his head at the strange woman and turned back towards the hall. The guest room was cozy but not small. A large bed lay flat against the far wall with two pillows and a thick, gray blanket neatly folded on the end. Cullen momentarily wondered at the half-sphere attached to the ceiling that seemed to be the source of light filling the room before closing the door behind him and changing. The odd pants wouldn’t be comfortable for sleeping but he supposed he could remove them before crawling under the covers. For now however, he had some questions for Farrada and he had exposed enough of himself for the night. For much longer than that, really.

The living room felt even colder when Cullen returned and for a moment he considered turning back to grab the blanket from the guest room. But then Farrada returned and Cullen nearly felt his heart squeeze at the sight of her.

Her eyes were wide and a large grin was spread across her face. She looked happier than Cullen had seen her since he had crossed the threshold into her home. Her skin was flushed and drops of rain clung to her red hair, glowing like jewels. Her grin grew even wider when her eyes met his and Cullen felt himself involuntarily return the expression.

“I love the rain,” Farrada stated. She moved across the room to a fireplace concealed by a small stack of boxes, giving Cullen a wide berth as she passed him. She continued to speak as she shuffled boxes around to free up the space in front of the fireplace.

“I grew up in England and it rained all the time. Everything was so beautiful. I remember the sky usually being dark and the grass and the trees were green all year. Nothing ever died. And in the mornings fog would cling to the ground and I’d run around the playground and imagine I was running through the clouds…”

She trailed off and looked at him, embarrassment written plainly on her face. “I’m sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”

Cullen smiled gently and moved to help Farrada clear more boxes, eager to have a fire warm the room and erase the hours he had spent in the rain. “Don’t be. I am not sure what ‘England’ is and I’m not one for the rain personally, but it sounds like you found it to be lovely.”

The smile was back on her face and she spoke again as she moved the last of the clutter in front of the fireplace. Cullen moved back as she opened the glass doors in front of the fireplace to let her light it. “England is another country across the ocean. Miles and miles from here. I moved from there to a desert. It hardly rained and the grass and trees were only really green for a few months of the year. You can imagine how dismayed I was when we first moved there.”

Cullen frowned, watching her as she spoke. She didn’t have a flint or matches and she wasn’t making a move to find them. Instead she kneeled down in front of the fireplace. Cullen saw her wrist flick and suddenly a small flame was in the fireplace, licking along the logs.

Mage.

He didn’t think. In a heartbeat he had gripped her shoulder, ripped her around to face him, and seized her throat. He was inches from her, kneeling over her and pressing her back into the brick before the fireplace, and without Lyrium he wouldn’t be able to cancel out her spells, but he had to contain this new threat. His stomach clenched at the panic on her face and the tears in her eyes but he ignored it and squeezed.

“Apostate. Why have you brought me here?” He growled and loosened his grip slightly to allow her to answer.

Stars exploded behind his eyes as Farrada’s knee connected solidly with his groin. Cullen fell back and curled up into himself, gritting his teeth and willing himself to resume control of the situation. But Farrada had scrambled out of his reach, coughing as tears streamed down her face.

“Well hey, at least this time I didn’t freeze when someone grabbed my throat,” her voice was rough and she let out a dry laugh. “I’m sorry about that, Cullen. You said you weren’t sure why you were here. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d know anything about 21st century technology.”

Cullen forced himself to straighten out and stood, glaring down at Farrada. She raised her fists warningly and a few tears continued to stream down her face but her voice was steady when she spoke.

“Magic isn’t real.”

Cullen snorted. “You are trying to make me lower my guard.”

“I mean it. Magic doesn’t exist here. Never has.” The flatness in Farrada’s voice caused Cullen to pause.

“Explain the fire then,” Cullen said, gesturing towards the flames.

“There’s a dial next to the fireplace - see? That round thing to the right of the glass doors,” Farrada’s fists uncurled as she spoke and she started rubbing her throat. Maker, it was already bright red.

Cullen managed to tear his gaze from the vague shape of his hand print on her neck and noticed the round knob she had indicated. “What does that do?”

“That controls the fire. Turn it counter-clockwise and it’ll stop the flame.”

Oh maker, her voice, Cullen’s heart squeezed but he had to make sure she was telling the truth. I did that to her. He kneeled down, making sure his back wasn’t turned to her, and turned the knob counter-clockwise as she instructed. The fire died. He turned the knob clockwise.

The flames roared back to life.

Cullen rocked back, startled. Farrada let out another dry chuckle.

“Welcome to the 21st century.”

“The what?”

Farrada frowned and moved towards the fire. She sat on the floor, close enough to feel some of the heat but out of Cullen’s reach. “You really don’t know where you are, do you?”

“I truly don’t.” Cullen ran his fingers through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “I am in over my head, I think.”

“Ok, um, let’s start simple. How did you get here?” Farrada’s voice was still raspy but it was already improving. That blasted red mark was still branded across her throat though.

I did that…

“Cullen.”

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out and felt his face flush. “You took me into your home and I attacked you. I should go.”

He stood to leave but Farrada seized his hand with both of hers as he moved past her. Cullen started - she hadn’t touched him at all and had, in fact, been attempting to avoid any proximity with him since that moment in the wash room he realized.

“Cullen,” she said again, and her voice was steady. She looked up at him with her emotions written plainly on her face and those eyes. Maker, I could lose myself in those eyes. “Stay, please. Let me help.”

Was that desperation in her voice?

“Why?” Cullen broke first, looking away from her face and down at her hands, still clasped around his. Her hands looked so small compared to his, and he noticed with curiosity what appeared to be a metal fox coiled around one of her fingers.

“Because you’re here. Cullen Rutherford is in my apartment, lost and confused, and I just want to help him.”

Cullen stiffened and pulled his hand from hers. “I never told you my last name.”

Farrada’s eyes went wide and her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Shit, you’re right.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes down at her. “Start talking. Now.”

“I still don’t know how you got here! I can’t explain,” Cullen started to move towards the door and Farrada stood. She reached down and yanked her right sleeve up harshly. “Look!”

Cullen couldn’t hide his shock as he glanced down at Farrada’s exposed arm. It was covered from shoulder to elbow in various markings, most of which Cullen couldn’t recognize. But there were three large symbols in a line down the side of her arm and those he knew.

The Warden Commander’s Symbol was etched on her skin starting at her shoulder. Underneath that lay the crest of the damned Champion of Kirkwall. And beneath that a black eye with sunrays behind it and a sword speared through it lay just above Farrada’s elbow.

How in Andraste’s name does she have the bloody Inquisition’s Crest on her?

Cullen reached out slowly to graze the line of familiar symbols down her arm. He ignored the way she tensed as his hand approached her - he needed to know what he saw was real. He grazed the symbols with the tips of fingers and vaguely felt scars beneath the lines of the images.

“I don’t know how else to say this, Cullen, so I’ll just say it. You’re not real.”

Cullen blinked. He looked up from her arm to her face, trying to find the hint of a joke. So far he had noticed that Farrada seemed unable to hide her emotions - her face was like an open book. But her expression was serious.

“Explain how you have these, then.”

“They’re from a series of video games,” Farrada started. “Dragon Age.”

“Of what?”

Farrada made a noise of frustration and ran both hands through her hair, looking up to the ceiling as if trying to find guidance and keeping both hands at the back of her neck, fisted in her hair. “How the fuck do I explain this...” she trailed off, biting her lower lip while her gaze remained locked on the ceiling.

Cullen’s head spun, trying to make sense of the situation unfolding around him. How can I not be real?

“You’re Ferelden. You want tea? I’m making tea.”

“What?” Cullen felt his jaw drop in confusion. “You just told me that I don’t exist and your solution is tea?”

“Yes.” Farrada didn’t wait for an answer, she simply turned and walked towards the kitchen. Cullen remained where he was, still frozen in confusion as Farrada continued speaking from the other room.

“There’s this set of… interactive stories. The first is about the fifth blight and the Warden -” Cullen watched her through the door of the kitchen as she lifted a lever and water flowed from a spout into what resembled a kettle.  “I played that one through three times. I think my last play-through I was the human noble Cousland so I could make my character marry Alistair.”

“King Alistair is married to Cousland, though,” Cullen interrupted, still confused. “Moria Cousland, now Therin.”

Farrada snorted and set the maybe-kettle on a round base. She flipped a switch at the base and moved on to finding two tea mugs. “Yeah, I was always bad at coming up with names. ‘Moria’ is from another set of stories. You alright with Chamomile?”

“I would prefer mint, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Farrada nodded, riffling through an assortment of small, colorful boxes while she continued.

“Dragon Age 2 focused on the Champion. You were in that one a lot. Not as much as Dragon Age: Inquisition though.”

Cullen was shocked. “My life… the Warden, the Champion, the Herald… It was all just a game to you?”

“Cullen, I told you. You’re not real.”

He didn’t know what to do. Cullen crossed the threshold into the kitchen and grabbed Farrada’s hand and pushed it against his chest, forcing her to feel his beating heart. “If I’m not real, how am I here?” He was pleading for an explanation and she knew it.

Farrada’s face fell and she jerked her hand away, though Cullen offered little resistance. “I don’t know, Cullen. This doesn’t make any fucking sense. Imagine how you would feel if one of Varric’s characters showed up on your doorstep.”

It was his turn to laugh dryly. “I’d probably drag them down to the dwarf and demand an explanation.”

There was a clicking sound and Farrada turned back to the kitchen. Cullen watched as she grabbed the strange object he was now sure was a kettle and poured steaming water into two small, red mugs. She worried at her bottom lip as she worked, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was doing so. For a moment Cullen pictured placing his thumb on her chin to force her lip from between her teeth, but he shook his head and cleared the intrusive thought away.

“Do you want sugar? Or honey?” Farrada asked as she placed a tea bag into each mug.

“Neither, just the tea is fine.”

Farrada nodded distantly, staring at the steaming mugs and avoiding eye contact with Cullen once again. He coughed awkwardly and his hand flew to the back of his neck,a nervous habit he would normally scold himself for but this situation was hardly normal.

“So that’s it?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Cullen,” Farrada’s exasperation crept into her voice. Her arms were crossed over her chest and Cullen noticed her white-knuckle grip on one arm as she dug her nails into her own flesh.

“In all honesty, I’m freaked out. A video game character is in my apartment. A fictional person is standing in my living room waiting for a cuppa tea. What the fuck am I supposed to say in this situation, Rutherford?” Her words came more rapidly as she spoke, the grip on her arm visibly tightened until Cullen was sure she would bruise herself, and her throat still bared the brand of his hand...

He let out a long sigh. “I suppose Varric would say it best, so I can only quote him here,” Farrada looked up at him expectantly, pale green eyes meeting his soft, amber gaze. “Well, shit.”

She smiled shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this day has been more shitty for you than me.”

Cullen shrugged. “I woke up in a strange world and my feet lead me here. You are the one that let a stranger into her home only to be attacked…” he trailed off, still unable to tear his eyes from Farrada’s neck.

“Yeah, well,” she busied herself with removing the tea bags and adding sugar to her own mug. “Luckily I have a large collection of scarves. Just… don’t touch my neck again, ok?”

Cullen winced at the memory of her knee connecting with his groin and nodded enthusiastically. “Consider it done.”

Farrada pressed a mug towards Cullen, avoiding eye contact with him once again. He could have sworn there was a slight blush coloring her cheeks as he took care not to let their fingers touch when he took the mug from her. You’ve already put the poor girl through enough, Rutherford. Just drink your tea and leave her alone.

She took her own mug from the counter and slid out the doorway to her kitchen past Cullen. He watched as she moved towards the sofa and tucked herself in the corner closest to the fire, pulling her knees close to her chest and wrapping both hands around the small red mug. It was then that Farrada noticed another tea mug sitting on a small table in front of the couch and she let out a laugh, small but still somehow musical. The sound brought a smile to his own face.

“I completely forgot that I already had tea,” Farrada explained as Cullen took up a spot on the ground near the fire. “It’ll be cold as hell now. Guess I could’ve just heated that up. How’s your tea? I added some ice, I hope that’s ok.”

Cullen took a sip from his mug and closed his eyes in pleasure as the cooling sensation of mint washed down his throat. It wasn’t enough to undo the stress caused by the day’s events but it felt nice nonetheless.

“Maker’s breath, it’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Farrada’s mouth quirked up into a smile before she concealed it behind her own mug. “Glad you like it.” she took a sip of her own tea and Cullen saw her relax visibly.

“I wish I could offer you a better explanation for… anything, really. But it’s fucking late and honestly I had a few shots of whisky before you came in. Someone gave it to me as a housewarming gift. Maybe tomorrow I can be more helpful.”

“Farrada, you opened your home to me. It isn’t your fault that you don’t know how I got here - I don’t expect anything more from you.”

She waved him off. “You said your feet lead you here, right?” He nodded. “Then I choose to believe you’re here for a reason. Tomorrow after work I’ll try to be of more use. For now, I’m sure you’ve noticed all the light bulbs keeping the place lit?”

“Light bulbs?”

She pointed to another half-dome attached to the ceiling, filling the room with light. “We don’t have magic here but we have electricity which may as well be magic to you. There’s a little switch on the wall in every room here that controls the lights. I think the one in your roo - the guest bedroom - is still on so you’re gonna wanna hit that before you go to sleep.” She took another sip and made a small noise, swallowing quickly. “Wait no - don’t hit it. I just mean flip it.”

Cullen chuckled and Farrada stuck her tongue out at him. The gesture reminded him of that elf Sera and he only laughed harder. “Flip the switch. Got it.”

She nodded softly and yawned into her tea mug. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Cullen, but it really is late. I need to get some fucking sleep. Are you going to be ok on your own?”

“I should be. Thank you again, Farrada.”

She nodded and uncurled before standing up and grabbing the second tea mug. Cullen watched as she shuffled into the kitchen and disappeared from his view. He turned his attention to the fire again, staring into the flames and thinking of home.

What will Cassandra do? And the Inquisitor? Without the Inquisition they need my help finding that damned Elf. At least the Templar refuge has some healers who can actually help the worst of the Lyrium addicts without me… Shit! Who’s going to take care of Fireball?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Farrada gently patting him on top of his head and made a small noise of astonishment. Another smirk crept across her face as his was colored by a blush, embarrassed at letting his guard down.

“If you need me, you know where I’ll be. Although I really don’t recommend waking me up - I’m not afraid to bite. When you finish your tea you can just leave the mug on the table there. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you turned the fire off before you go to bed. Good night, Rutherford.”

He watched as she walked down the hall and disappeared into her room, feet dragging on the floor as a testament to her exhaustion. Cullen drowned the rest of his tea and set his mug on the table as she had requested. He stared into the fire for a moment, head still reeling from the events of the day, before turning the dial to kill the flames and following Farrada’s example.

With his legs freed from those odd, blue trousers and soft fleece wrapped around his body, Cullen was asleep moments after his head touched the pillow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will have answers for… whatever this is.

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

Hi, guys! Chapter 28 of A Thread of Fate is now live on AO3, and it’s full of everybody dealing with things they’re not totally mentally prepared for because I’m mean to my characters but I swear I love them.

Chapter 28: Finding Footholds

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the unexpected three-day mission, or how little sleep I’d gotten without Nalissa at my side, but I wake actually feeling rested for the first time in days. She fell asleep with her head on my chest like a pillow, and though I seem to have turned toward her in my sleep, she’s still curled against my chest with her face buried in my nightshirt. One of her arms is wrapped around me, and as I brush the hair back from her face, I can’t help but smile.

She’s lovely, and incredible, and she loves me. I’ve never heard those words before, not directed at me, until last night. Remembering them in her voice, with my name attached at the end so there can be no mistake, makes me happier than I knew I could be. She makes me happier than I knew I could be.

Nalissa murmurs something in her sleep, too faint and too muffled to make out the words, but they’re not frightened ones. I hope she didn’t have nightmares while I was gone. With no Ilana to talk her down, I can’t imagine how the Wardens would have reacted.

The Wardens, I remember with a start. The sun hasn’t yet risen but the sky through the window is beginning to lighten, and I can’t imagine Caron is a patient man. If she’s expected again today, he’s probably already pacing.

I work her fingers free of my shirt, ignore her mumbled protest, and kiss the back of her hand gently. “Lissa. Lissa, wake up.”

Whatever she says in response is still distorted by sleep and her face against my ribcage, but I’m pretty sure I hear something about the color of Andraste’s chosen undergarments and a bleeding pyre in there, and I have to stifle a chuckle. Quite the blasphemous vocabulary she has when she isn’t trying to be proper and polite.

“Lissa,” I try again. “My dear, are you supposed to be training with the Wardens again today?”

“’m not a deer, you’re a deer,” she grumbles quite clearly this time, and the accusation is so obviously meant to be an insult that I burst into laughter. That rouses her quickly enough.

“Mm? What happened?” Nalissa asks, blinking up at me groggily, and I can only offer a grin as an explanation. Then she looks around, realizes it’s nearly sunrise, and I can watch the panic creep into her widening eyes. She rolls away and out of the bed so quickly I think her feet hit the floor before I’ve even realized she was moving, swearing softly under her breath the whole way.

“I take it you are supposed to be training with the Wardens today,” I observe as I rise. I turn toward the wardrobe, in the general direction of which I had tossed my breastplate after it tried to murder me yesterday, and freeze.

Nalissa has just yanked the overlarge tunic off her head, tossing it aside to destination unknown, and is wearing only smalls beneath. I watch, entranced, as her fingers deftly tie a knot in the back of her breastband, before I turn away with my face burning to collect my armor from the pile I tossed it into yesterday instead. She has her back turned, likely not thinking of my presence at all, or I doubt she would have allowed me to see the scars she tries to hide.

A stray thought flits through my head of what she might have looked like facing me, before the undergarment was properly in place. I shake my head and try to clear it before Sister Agatha’s voice in the back of my mind can start screeching that I’m a lecher.

Is it still lecherous if the woman that keeps wandering into my mind in various states of undress is engaged to marry me? If I love her, and she loves me too? My heart still does a flip at the idea, but yes, I decide, Sister Agatha would definitely still say so. Regardless, such distractions do not help with trying to put on armor, I remind myself firmly. Quite the opposite.

I make very sure every buckle and link of chain is in place before I turn around again, to make sure she’s had time to dress properly. To my surprise, she’s wearing armor of her own, and as I recognize it, I think my heart stops. Warden armor. She’s wearing Warden armor.

“Nalissa,” I say sharply, crossing the room in haste. “What is this? What did they do?”

My hands tug at the shoulders of the studded leather gambeson, the blue and silver motif of the order that I was once so proud to wear suddenly terrifying me to see on her. Three days I was gone—Caron could easily have organized a Joining in less time than that. If she took it so recently, I wouldn’t sense her yet. I wouldn’t know unless they told me.

“Wh-what?” Nalissa stammers, and her eyes dart between mine in confusion.

“This armor,” I demand, gripping it more tightly, until the edges of the studs start to cut into my fingers. “Why do you have it? What did they make you do?”

“Make me do? I’ve been running drills for them in the morning. That’s all they’ve asked, like we agreed.”

“Did he Join you?”

She shakes her head and frowns, looking uncertain. “Caron? We sparred the first day, but—”

“No, a Joining ritual. A chalice—did he have you drink from a chalice? A great silver one with dark liquid inside?”

“What—no,” she objects, and finally I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. Nalissa’s shoulders though remain as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Alistair, what just happened?”

“Nothing,” I answer quietly, leaning my forehead against hers. She hesitates, then reaches up to drape her arms around my neck, and I relent with a sigh. “The Joining is… it’s how Wardens are made. I saw you in that armor, and I thought… I was afraid he had tricked you somehow.”

She kisses me gently, if very shortly, and smiles. “Well, if it helps you feel better, I’m typically not one to accept strange drinks from men I already don’t trust as far as I could throw them.”

“Good, because let me warn you, it tastes terrible.”

Nalissa laughs and leads me downstairs by the hand. She only lets go at the door just before we exit to the training field, and pauses to prepare herself. I watch her roll her shoulders and check that her hair is secure in its high ponytail, then take a deep breath like she’s about to dive underwater. It’s a strange experience, watching as she dons the mental armor I spent weeks convincing her she could let go of around me.

When she steps outside, it’s with that proud tilt to her chin and a commanding stride that somehow makes me feel invisible, following in her wake. Caron is nowhere to be seen, I notice. Didn’t she say she sparred with him the first day? I wonder just how that went, for him to agree not to be here. I bet she stomped him, I think with a grin. I really was lucky to get to lose that first match while no one was looking.

And Andraste’s ashes, if Nalissa isn’t good at this. She has the Wardens pair off for practice, then marches up and down between them, rearranging the pairs. It only takes a minute to realize what she’s up to. She’s matching greatswords with dagger users, axe wielders with shieldbearers—pitting speed against reach and defense against power. Everyone has a match-up where they’ll struggle, she says, but struggle is a chance to improve. And I wonder how many of these weapons she’s actually used herself, because she seems to have advice for everyone. When she comes to Oghren and me, we’re no exception.

“Your axe is dual-bladed, Warden Oghren,” she points out with an arched brow.

Oghren grunts and rolls his head to one side, as if trying to crack his neck. “Aye.”

“Yet you only seem to use one blade against a single opponent. If you miss a strike, you dodge and reposition. Habit, I assume. But if you have a opening to bring the other blade to bear, it’s a simple matter to hook it on the edge of an unsuspecting shield. Trust me, shield users do not adapt quickly to having it yanked off their bracers.”

Oghren twitches his moustache in thought, then agrees it’s a sensible suggestion. Nalissa nods and adds, “Do try not to actually break any arms in here though. Save that for the darkspawn.”

“I’ve managed not to break him so far,” Oghren grumbles, and when Nalissa turns to me, she’s wearing her serious face still but there’s a twinkle in her eyes.

“You heard the man, Warden Alistair. He’s coming for your shield. Don’t let him.”

“Fine advice; should’ve thought of that one myself,” I joke, and one side of her mouth curls into a smirk. I find that it makes me want to kiss her in the middle of the practice field.

“I’ve seen you spar,” she points out, neglecting to mention that it’s typically been against her. “Somehow, I really don’t think you need step-by-step instructions.”

Nalissa gives me a wink that makes Oghren snicker, and then her head snaps to something behind me. “Oy, Warden Tarvell! Keep swinging that wide and you’ll disarm everyone except your opponent…”

Oghren eyes her as she leaves and then raises his brows at me. “I always knew you liked being bossed about, but that one could order a dragon to flee and the beast’d probably consider it.”

He gets a chuckle out of me, but not enough of a distraction to catch his axe on my shield, which I’m pretty sure is what he was aiming for. “She can be very persuasive. But she could also probably slay the dragon, if she really put her mind to it.”

“Maybe. After how she handled the boss, most of these blighters would probably follow her to fight one.”

Of course she did, I think a little proudly. She’s incredible. I check over my shoulder that she’s still out of earshot, then whisper, “How did that go? She didn’t quite say, except that he never came back after.”

“Little lady’s a sodding acrobat is how it went,” Oghren says, then gives what I can only shudderingly describe as a really low-pitched giggle and adds, “Lucky you. I bet she can do some fun things with those legs.”

“I realize it’s like asking a Revered Mother not to Chant, but could you not be crude? For once? Tell me what she did.”

“What do I look like, a match caller at the Proving Grounds? She danced around all light-footed like she belonged in the circus, knocked him on his ass, and put a dagger to his ribs. Anything fancier than that, you’d have to get someone else to tell you.” I’m just about to sigh and give up when he adds thoughtfully, “But to be honest, I think it was the scars that won her respect more than the dueling.”

“Scars?” I ask curiously.

The obvious answer doesn’t occur to me, because she’s so careful to keep them hidden, so ashamed when they’re spotted. I don’t even imagine he means her scars from Fort Drakon until he mumbles, “You know,” and makes a nervous gesture toward his back like he’s afraid she’ll catch him looking if he’s not quick about it.

That actually does stun me long enough for him to hook his axe under my shield, but I recover quickly enough to cross my sword under the axe head and pin it in place long enough to free my shield. I backstep quickly out of range and give him a serious look. He frowns but gives up the attack.

“What do you mean, her scars won her respect? Who saw them? How?”

“Damn near everyone with eyes, I imagine,” he says with a shrug that tells me he has no idea how serious that is. Something of what I’m thinking must show on my face, because he holds up a hand warily. “Now, it was just the back of her shirt that tore. Nobody saw any fun bits. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here telling you if they had, I’d be standing back and waiting for the explosion—”

“Comforting, Oghren,” I say, a little more sharply than necessary, and I receive a scowl for it but I don’t care. “What did she do? She doesn’t let anyone see that, she must have been mortified.”

“For a minute, she tried to cover ’em up again,” the dwarf admits. “Can’t see why. Warriors should be proud of their scars. But then she changed her mind and showed the boss what for, and marched out of the arena like she owns the place.”

I glance over my shoulder at Nalissa again, this time with more appreciation than anything else. I’m not surprised, exactly; that would be the wrong word. My Nalissa is stronger than even she knows she is. But Oghren’s story is a far cry from the girl I met a few months ago, who froze up and nearly broke down at her scars being revealed to just me and Venya, and that has me nearly bursting with pride for her.

The deeper wounds from her imprisonment, I think, may finally be starting to heal too.

I’ve just dismissed the Wardens and started toward Alistair when I spot him as the crowd clears. My heart kicks into panic mode before I can stop it, but this time I’m prepared enough to force a deep breath and focus. It isn’t Rendon Howe. Rendon Howe is dead, and he never wore his hair that long, and his chin was weaker and his nose more hooked.

Listing the differences helps, a little, but still it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep a straight face. He wasn’t here for drills, and I suppose that makes sense considering he has a bow and quiver over his back instead of a close-range weapon. But that means he’s come at the end of training on purpose, and considering he’s looking straight at me, I don’t really have to guess what that is.

Alistair, sweet as he is, appears at my side while I’m distracted and speaks to me gently. “Lissa? Are you okay?” He keeps his voice low enough that no one else can hear, takes care not to touch me, and I know he’s worried. There are still enough stragglers putting away training weapons and packing up shields that if I lose myself again, it could be very problematic. I nod sharply, the motion maybe a little more jerky than usual, but I keep my spine straight and my eyes level. It is long past time, I think, that I took control of my fear back from Rendon Howe.

“Lissa,” says Nathaniel Howe, and even though the voice is different too, a cold chill runs down my back that I do my best to ignore. “Good morning.”

“Nate,” I answer, crossing my arms to feel more held together. “It’s… been a long time.”

Nathaniel tries for a smile. “Yes. Last we met, you were still a tiny, freckly kid hiding from your tutor and sparring with squires, and now you’re training Grey Wardens. I’m sure the old man’s glad his lessons didn’t fall on completely deaf ears.”

A sudden image of how Aldous’ beard used to twitch as he tried not to smile at my shenanigans strikes an unexpected chord of homesickness in my chest. The old scholar said something very much like that the last time I spoke with him. “I’m sure he would be,” I say, and my words come out a little more clipped than before. “If he hadn’t been murdered in the library with the guests.”

Nathaniel fidgets with one hand on the strap of his quiver, looking exactly as uncomfortable as one would expect from the turn in conversation. “I, ah, meant to speak with you about that. If you have a moment?”

Alistair touches my elbow, his hand warm even through the studded leather. When I glance at him, his eyebrows are pulled low over eyes still watching me with concern. I don’t think he doubts me, he was always far too upset with Fergus for doing that, but he’s probably worried at the prospect of leaving me to a private chat with someone I’ve so recently tried to murder.

I give him a faint smile and a nod, then gently but firmly remove his hand and squeeze it for reassurance. “I’ve got this,” I tell him quietly, purposefully choosing any phrase but I’m fine because I’m fairly certain he doesn’t believe that one anymore. “I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

He hesitates only for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead and reminds me in a somewhat louder voice that he’ll be within shouting distance if I need him. He spares only one glance toward Nathaniel as he turns to leave, but it looks very much like a warning. Alistair’s faith in me makes me feel bolstered, and even though I don’t think I need it, that he’s still so ready to defend me makes me feel safer, even as he walks away.

“He really loves you,” Nathaniel says aloud, something like disbelief in his voice as he stares and shakes his head. So I’ve just realized, my mind snarks, but I don’t say it and so he continues on. “I’d assumed it was arranged, him being the king. That he only defended you as the future queen. But you’re actually in love.”

Something about his tone says without words, “That explains a lot,” and I wonder again about the mission Alistair still hasn’t found time to tell me about. But I can’t see any reason to lie, so I admit, “It was arranged. I almost decided to overthrow Fergus and refuse. I’m glad I didn’t.”

The last part comes out sounding surprisingly soft, and I force a cough to cover it, like I might have been losing my voice. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to admitting… anything about how I feel for Alistair, to anyone except him, and even that is so new it makes my heart race just to remember. I’m failing miserably at remaining stoic, I realize. I’m probably blushing, and definitely not completely hiding my smile, and I can’t allow that to be a weakness for someone to exploit.

“Well, I’m… glad for you,” Nathaniel says slowly, but though he seems sincere despite his struggle with the words, he is a Howe, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever trust anyone with that surname again.

Etiquette dictates I should thank him for the sentiment, I know that, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps that particular lesson Aldous and Mother tried to teach me didn’t stick so well as they would have hoped. So I shift my weight from one foot to the other and ask abruptly, “What is it you want of me, Nate?”

He pauses before answering, looking just as uncomfortable with this entire conversation as I am. Odd, considering he’s the one that sought it. Finally he sighs and gestures hopefully toward one side of the training field, past the few Wardens still inspecting bruises and stowing equipment, and I follow him cautiously away from the wall of the keep.

Nathaniel leans against the wooden fence separating the training grounds from the courtyard proper and stares toward the sunrise instead of looking at me. “I’ve, ah… heard rumors since my return to Ferelden.”

“No surprise there. I’m sure Arl Bryland is already telling people Alistair and I have eloped and are honeymooning in Orlais, dueling grand dukes and winning honor for Ferelden.”

He snorts, then shakes his head. “That does sound like something he would say, but not the rumors I meant.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and despite all the differences I keep trying to focus on, his eyes are the same steel gray as his father’s, and I pull my elbows more tightly to my sides. It’s a poor defense, but it makes me feel a little better. “I’ve heard… disturbing things, about my father. And about you.”

I find that my mouth is turning dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again. “That he tried to murder my entire family and everyone loyal to us? Not rumors.”

“That much Delilah has told me,” Nathaniel admits, and a sense of dread settles in my chest like a terrible premonition. “Whatever… became of him while I was gone, I’ve come to accept that there was more to it than just making the wrong decisions in a war.”

“Good,” I snap, a little more viciously than I meant to, but he doesn’t falter and that gaze is starting to make my hands itch to hold a blade.

“Is it true, that he didn’t kill you intentionally? That he kept you prisoner during the Blight?”

I look away from those chilling eyes, needing to focus on keeping my breathing even. My nails feel like they’re cracking against the metal studs on my upper arms, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip. “I’d really prefer not to talk about that,” I manage to say, but my voice comes out too high and too thin to sound firm.

“Fucking Maker,” Nathaniel swears. I hear the creaking of wood and react on instinct, one hand flitting to the knife pouch at my hip, but his bow isn’t even in his hands. Instead he seems to be trying to wrest one of the fence slats from the post, and judging by the sound, the fence objects. His back is to me again, for which I’m grateful, but still he hisses, “He really did it, didn’t he? It wasn’t just… death as acceptable losses. It was murder. Torture. Senseless violence. That’s what he became.”

“He wasn’t called the Butcher of Denerim for nothing,” I whisper hoarsely, and this time when he looks at me, his eyes aren’t so much like his father’s anymore. They’re downcast and regretful, an emotion I never saw Rendon Howe wear.

“Why? What did he possibly hope to achieve?”

He sounds desperate to understand, and as much as it makes me feel sick to think about, I consider the answer. Highever itself wasn’t it; I don’t think it ever really was. I was only ever a means to an end, and chances are Howe only enjoyed hurting me so much because I reminded him of someone else. It isn’t something I should have to try to explain to anyone, but Nathaniel does deserve the truth. And in the end, it’s just another thing his father has forced upon me to deal with.

“I… I think it boiled down to resentment,” I try to reason. It’s difficult to try to apply logic, especially when each revolting memory threatens to pull me in, but I try. “He was angry—furious—with Father. Decades later, and he still blamed him for ‘stealing glory’ at White River. For winning the favor of the king and the freeholders. For becoming a teyrn when H—he only ever became an arl. He thought he deserved everything that was my father’s, so he took it away. At first, I think… I think he only meant to make me beg to die. But then something changed. Loghain started losing supporters and ground, I suppose, but I had no idea. He just swore I would never know peace again until I married his son and handed Highever officially back to Amaranthine.”

Nathaniel gives me a look so near to disgust that I could almost be offended if I wasn’t preoccupied being terrified of my own thoughts. “He wanted to force you to marry me?”

“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “Thomas. It was always Thomas, until he and Lady Eliane died. Then… then it was him, until he died too.”

“Are you… you’re saying my father tried to torture you into marrying him.”

I realize abruptly that my face is stinging in the chill morning air and turn away to dry it discreetly. “He was mad, by that time. More so than before. Grasping at straws, with all his plans coming undone around him. Everyone thought Fergus dead, and me the only heir, and with Loghain’s support failing…”

Nathaniel takes a deep breath and a long exhale before he speaks again. “I didn’t want to believe how far he’d fallen, but the… things I’ve heard, and what they’re all saying about scars, I had to ask. Maker, I’m sorry.”

My fists clench at the mention of those marks, and I give him a piercing look. “Don’t you dare. Your father did quite enough to me, Nate. I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need anyone contributing to the rumors I’m—I’m weak or an invalid or—”

“What?” he interrupts, and actually scoffs at me like I’m being ludicrous. “Lissa, not a damn person in this keep thinks you’re weak. They’re talking about how you must be stronger than any of them. That you’re a better duelist than Emile—and for the love of the Maker, do not tell him I said that or he will send me on pointless scouting missions twice a week for the rest of my life.”

“I… what?” I stare at him, unable to connect the words with what I’m sure I’ve seen in the eyes of some of these men, but he just shakes his head at me.

“They think whatever happened to you is deplorable, but that’s all. I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, but there’s not a Warden who saw that fight that wouldn’t throw down a gauntlet at the first man to call you weak. Emile included. He might be too proud to admit it, but I know him. He was impressed.”

I can’t decide if everything he’s saying is the truth or not, but I appreciate that he says it anyway. So I swallow my own pride and offer the apology I really should have given him when he first approached. “I’m sorry for how I reacted, in the dining hall. I wasn’t in a—I didn’t recognize you—”

Nathaniel holds up a hand to silence me and offers a wan smile. “It’s fine. Your fiancé explained. A little angrily, not that I didn’t deserve it, but it’s what convinced me you probably wouldn’t stab me if I approached slowly enough.”

“Probably not,” I allow, trying for a smile too. I’m probably about as successful as he is. “I’m… also sorry your father wasn’t who you thought he was.”

“No,” he answers quietly. “He hated my mother, and sent me away to the Free Marches in a glorified exile because he preferred my brother. I should have put it together a long time ago.”

I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to want a response. One polite nod later, he turns to leave, and I take his place leaning against the fence and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t quite manage it until a short while later, when a voice whispers my name and then a familiar pair of arms circle my waist from behind. Alistair’s chin rests on top of my head and I lean back against him with a sigh. I’ll work out what to tell him about all of this later; for now, I just hold onto his forearms like they’re the only thing tethering me to the world.

[levyfai]

Lost Bride pt. 4

Bella had just got done comforting Bern and putting him back in bed with Scott. She knew that Francine and Alistair would have questions for her. She sighed, she had kept the twins hidden for so long.  She didn’t even tell her family who the father was but now it seemed the would find out along with the father.

Bella went to the window and looked out at the garden beneath the room. She sighed and looked at her sleeping boys. She smiled sadly and walked over to them as she sat on the bed she touched their heads.

“My sweet boys.” she whispered as the two snuggled to her touch.

She then moved to lay on the side close to Bern. She then pulled them both close to her and deiced to fall asleep. The two boys snuggling to her as the slept, the were in a deep sleep they didn’t hear the door open.

(Alistair’s pov)

Alistair didn’t know what he was doing, he had left Francine in the living room. He had told her that he had forgotten his wallet in the room. Yet instead of going to their room he headed back to Bella’s.

He got to the door and pulled out a master key. He along with anyone in their family had one. He knew he was wrong to do this but he couldn’t help but wanting to know the children who were with Bella.

He walked into the room and saw three bodies in the nearest bed. He looked at Bella first, her snow white hair was everywhere on her pillow. She hadn’t changed in the three years that had happened. She still looked like the woman he met at a small cafe in London.

He then looked at the small boy beside her. He was a copy of her but only difference was his blond reddish hair. He was holding on to Bella a small smile on his face. Yet when he looked at the last child his heart stopped.

There was no denying that he was Alistair’s. The red hair, eyebrows and the small smile on his face.  His wild hair fell all around and his arms reached out to hold both his brother and mama.

He frowned, he didn’t understand why she didn’t tell him. He was temped to wake her but then he felt a killer aura behind him. He turned and found himself face to face with Matthew.

“With me now.” the man stated his once quiet and polite stare was filled with blood lust and protectiveness.

Once the two were out Matthew closed and locked the door. Once that was done he looked over at Alistair. Alistair didn’t have time to react as he felt the wall hit the back of his head and Matthew growling.

“What were you doing in my sister’s room?”

“I don’t need..”

“Yes you do. You broke her heart already, are you going to do so again?”

“I don’t..”

“I don’t, is that all you can say bastard?”

Alistair was taken back, all the times that he met Matthew he seemed kind. The blond had helped his brother and Alfred with the wedding and also helped with some of his marriage problems. Then he thought about, all those times he talked with Matthew there was a wall in between them. Now he knew why.

“Matthew..”

“Your anniversary, your two year anniversary you cheated on her. You left her and got married to the bitch you cheated with. You left my sister heart broken, no not just that she was broken. She had a panic attack when she found about her pregnancy. She had enough since to call a close friend of hers who helped her though it.”

“Panic attack?”

“Oh yes, you didn’t know, I mean why would you? She didn’t have one when you were dating. She felt safe with you, safe enough to let you have her a few days before your anniversary. You didn’t even think about it did you?”

Alistair was processing what the man was saying. Bella had felt safe, he had helped her in ways he didn’t even know. She even gave her virginity to him, even without him asking her. He frowned if Bella needing him that much why didn’t she fight to keep him.

“If she felt that why didn’t she tell me?” he shouted.

“Because she wants people happy, and the only way that she thought you would be happy is with that bitch. That’s why she didn’t tell you about her pregnancy or the boys. She hid it from my family even me, until 8 months later when our papa got a call from the hospital.”

“Bella was there and she was labor. I was with my papa when he got the call, we both ran to the car and got there an hour later. Once we were there the head nurse took us to the head doctor. Bella had had a panic attack, and her babies were at risk of getting hurt. Bella had told the doctors to save the babies, that’s why they called my papa.”

“Why?”

“My papa is a doctor who specialty is high risk pregnancies. I’m a nurse. We both walked in…Bella was pushing and screaming. I quickly went to her, she was so pale.” he had tears in his eyes.

“She calm down and that’s when we saw that she had already pushed a baby out. My papa was mad not at Bella but at the hospital. They forgot to tell him that one of the twins was already out. So there was only two lives in danger. We had to do a c-section, we save Bern’s life but in the process..” he looked at Alistair with hatred.

Alistair looked away he didn’t want to hear what was next. He couldn’t help but remember what the doctor had to him and Francine.

“Barren.” he stated.

“No, she can still but if she does her life is at risk..”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because my sister almost died because of you, if you were there she wouldn’t of panicked. The only things that are important in her life now are her boys and family, which now will include Arthur. Even so, if I catch you even looking at her and boys in he wrong way I will hurt you.”

Alistair knew that was a promise, he knew the look of a protective brother. He had been the giving it to Alfred when he started dating Arthur. He he looked at Matthew’s eye and frowned.

“There my..”

“Don’t, they are not, there Bella’s she one who’s raising them. She’s the one who comforts them, she’s the one who punishes them. She’s their father and mother, you, you who is a sorry excuse for a man is the one who left her.”

He then punched Alistair in the eye. He smiled when he saw the bruise that was forming.

“Be thankful it was me that saw you enter my sister’s room, if it were any other male in my family you would be dead right now. Especially if they figured out your the one who left her and gave her the boys.”

With that Matthew left leaving the red head with a black and blue eye. He couldn’t help but smile, he had protected his sister and got a little revenge on the one who broke her heart. He paused when he saw the door opened beside Bella’s room. He cursed, standing out in the hallway was his uncle and Aunt.

“Aunt Nora, Uncle Matt..” “In here now Matthew, yer going to tell us about the conversation you had with Arthur’s brother.” his Aunt stated as she pointed to their room.

Matthew swallowed judging by the looks of the two he was going to be integrated by them. He didn’t know how they would react when they found out that Alfred was marring the brother of the man who left Bella. He just hoped that they understood that Arthur wasn’t his brother.  

[ponticle]

Anders in March (Day 1: Anderstair “5 Months Apart” Challenge)

[Masterpost for this challenge]

[Read it on Ao3]

Summary: Anders tries to recover from his chance meeting with Alistair two weeks ago--it’s not going well. Rated E: sex right off the bat... whoops.

Anders in March

Fenris: dude… are you ignoring Renee’s calls?

Anders: no…

Fenris: really?

Anders: okay… a little.

Fenris: that's kinda mean…

Anders: I’m not trying to… I’m just really busy.

And I’m thinking about Alistair all the time.

Fenris: is that true? I thought you were on break this week?

Damn it. I should never tell people my schedule.

Anders: Well, I am… but I’m seeing some of my old training clients this week to make some cash before classes resume…

Fenris: if you don’t like him, you need to tell him. I don’t like being in the middle.

Anders: Sorry, Fen… I’ll handle it…

In the two weeks since the White Coat ceremony, I’ve been dodging Renee’s calls like it’s my job. It isn’t because I don’t like him—I do—but I like Alistair more. And seeing him again brought up a lot of old feelings. All of those are compounded by the fact that he’s getting married to someone who isn’t me. And I know Icis—she’s such a great person: super intelligent and probably a great doctor—so it’s impossible to hate her. Instead, I’m just left hating myself.

I decide to be honest for once and call Renee right away. I’m nervous as the phone rings.

“Hey!” he says emphatically. “I’m so glad to hear from you!”

Great….

“Yeah, me too…” I sputter nonsensically.

“You’re on break this week, right?” he asks.

“Uh… yeah…” I mumble. “How did you know that?”

“Fenris mentioned it…” he explains. “I’d love to take you to dinner and hear all about your last couple weeks.”

I'm trying to think of how to politely decline, but I’m silent for a second too long, so he starts talking again.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Suddenly, I can’t remember how life works and I stumble, “Nothing?”

“Not anymore—meet me downtown,” he says.

He gets points for persistence, anyway. “Okay… give me like an hour?”

We agree to the terms and I hang up. It’s stupid because all I want to do is let him down easy, but I don’t seem to be able to do it.

An hour later, I see him. In the span of two weeks, I’d forgotten that he’s actually very handsome and put-together-looking.

“Hey, Anders,” he shrugs and smirks when we get close. He looks like someone I used to be—someone kind and small and gentle… and dreadfully unaware of how great he is. If he knew even a fraction of how cool he is, he would not be putting up with a guy who ignored his calls for two weeks.

“Hi, Renee,” I parrot. Despite the fact that I know he deserves better, I seem to be incapable of giving it to him. “How are you?”

“I’m good—I’ve been busy with school… but I’m good on the whole,” he explains.

“So where are we going?” I ask.

“There’s an awesome Indian restaurant right around the corner… do you like spicy food?” He looks hopeful.

“Yeah, totally.” I don’t, actually, but I want to be agreeable. Particularly since I’m planning to tell him I’m not interested in him.

We sit down in the restaurant and order. He’s babbling pleasantly about his dissertation and everything he’s hoping to accomplish in the coming year. He has a passion planner—he likes it a lot; it’s helping him get his ‘priorities in order.’

I nod and smile and get through the dinner without saying anything controversial. I’m planning to tell him when we’re done—or something. Only, when we’re done eating, he invites me back to his place and I don’t decline.

As soon as we’re in the door, I know it’s on. He pushes me against the wall in his kitchen and kisses me soundly. His face isn’t as soft as it was the first time we kissed a couple weeks ago. He has stubble now. I make a mental note to tell him how much I like facial hair. It’s stupid, because I have no intention of continuing to see him… but… well…

I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him flush against my body. His dick nudges me through his pants, which only feeds my ego. “Bed?” I ask.

He nods desperately.

We sloppily kiss and undress while stumbling through his living room. My thighs hit the side of the bed before my pants are completely off, but they’re unzipped, which is a start.

He drops his pants and kicks them off into some corner of the room before ripping mine down. I have no idea where they end up because I’m so distracted by how his dick looks. First of all, he’s uncut—so that’s new. Additionally, his erection sits in the exact middle of his body—Alistair’s always hung slightly to the left.

Damn it. Stop thinking about Alistair.

I grab him and pull him on top of me as we tumble into the center of the bed. He instantly finds my cock between us and starts to stroke it. His hands are just as soft as the rest of his skin. It feels amazing.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, between kisses.

“God, yes,” I bite the skin of his shoulder and look up at him daringly. “Do you want me?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m rushing this. Maybe, subconsciously, I know that I won’t be able to do it if I slow down.

He nods, his lips slightly parted.

Now comes the awkward part of every same-sex encounter I’ve ever had: the top/bottom discussion.

Only, he preempts me, “Can I fuck you?”

My eyes widen fractionally, but I’m thrown off, so I nod and flip over.

God, this is moving fast.

He grabs a few things from the bedside table and I hear crinkling, wet noises that confirm he’s into safe-sex. I think about looking at him, but something stops me. Instead, I just arch my back toward him gently and wait until I feel him spread cold liquid across the cleft of my ass.

“Sorry it’s so cold,” he laughs a little.

I smile over my shoulder, “It’s fine…”

To my surprise, the next thing I feel is the tip of his dick nudging against my entrance. I try not to flinch, but I’m not used to this. When I was with Alistair, I would occasionally skip right to the dick-in-hole scenario, but that was because we did it a lot—I knew he’d be ready. I, on the other hand, am not ready.

I hold my breath and try not to squeal as he pushes into me. It isn’t horrible—it gets more tolerable with each thrust. While I’m still adjusting, I have a memory of the last time Alistair and I had sex. It wasn’t like this at all—to call it ‘having sex’ seems wrong. ‘Making love’ doesn’t even do it justice. We were one heart—even though it was the end.

I exhale and try to clear my head before I accidentally sob. This is bringing up a lot of feelings that I’ve been avoiding for a year. My therapist would be elated.

Instead of trying to deal with them, I double down in the here-and-now, pushing myself back into Renee and willing my body to cooperate.

He must feel the difference, because he lets out a long groan and grabs my hips.

“Oh god, Renee,” I whimper against a pillow. My dick rubs painfully against the sheets each time he thrusts into me, but I’m pretending to like it.

He supports himself on his left arm and leans down to kiss my neck.

I nuzzle toward him and bite whatever skin I can reach. Nothing about this is gentle anymore.

A minute later, he starts to thrust more frantically. “I’m gonna…”

“I know… do it,” I goad.

When he comes, it’s violent—I feel it happen like he’s somewhere in my viscera… which, I guess, he is.

He withdraws stutteringly, suddenly too sensitive to be touched, and gets rid of the condom straight away. I’m left on my side with an aching erection. I touch myself experimentally. A bit of precome leaks out of the slit. The second I thumb it, I realize Renee is back and watching me. I pull my hand back reflexively.

“Don’t stop,” he urges. “You look so amazing doing that.”

I smile haughtily, “Like this?” I grab my dick harder and stroke it a few times demonstratively.

He nods, crawling back into bed with me. “Show me what you like.”

I prop myself on an elbow and spread my legs a little to let him see.

He gasps.

I thrust into my palm a little faster, which he seems to like. I close my eyes, but I can feel him shifting to get closer to me. Before I know it, his fist is on top of mine, following my lead.

“Can I?” he asks.

I open my eyes and nod at him.

When he grabs me, it’s the perfect amount of pressure and speed. I find myself grinding into his hand with abandon. Once we establish a rhythm, I finally let myself go enough to come all over the space between us.

A few minutes later, we’re staring at his ceiling and it occurs to me that this is exactly the opposite of what I set out to do today.

Whoops.

“Anders… that was amazing,” he pants.

“Thanks…” I grin. Considering I haven’t had sex (with anyone but myself) in a year, I’m surprised I did that well. “I think most of the credit goes to you, though,” I roll toward him and smirk.

He blushes.

“Honestly, I’m usually not into… that,” I laugh. I’m referring to the fact that I let him bang me. It’s not really my thing unless I’m emotionally ruined. ...But he has a really nice penis.

“Neither am I…” he mumbles.

I’m not sure what he means, though. Is he agreeing? Telling me he’s not a bottom? That we’re going to have to fight it out all the time. Oh dear.

“We should probably clean ourselves up…” he smiles down at the sheets between us.

I nod, “Want to take a shower?”

After such a long dry spell, I’m fairly sure I’ll be ready to go again in about two minutes.

In the shower, he’s pliable in my hands—soft everywhere, except where it counts. I eventually find myself shoved against the shower wall, water cascading through my hair, with my dick half way down Renee’s throat. He’s fantastic at this. I’m starting to think that having a younger boyfriend is going to have its advantages. He’s awfully willing to please. My mind hitches: boyfriend? That’s not what we’re doing here...

“Renee?” I suddenly pull my hips back and look down at him.

He blinks through a stream of water, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I pull his arm until he stands. I notice we’re almost exactly the same height and size.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whimpers, kissing my clavicle.

Although I like compliments, I push him back slightly so I can look into his eyes. “So are you… but I just want to… be up front about some stuff…”

He looks worried, “okay?”

“Okay,” I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure I’m really ready for a relationship…”

His face falls.

I can’t stand that look, so I backpedal, “But I like you… so maybe we could just see where this goes?” I smile hopefully.

He kisses me so hard I struggle to keep my balance.

I guess this is happening.

[ew-you-wish]

Q U I N N I S T A I R💫

@thought-bubble-doodly-doo AAAY

——🌟——🌟——🌟——🌟——

Quinn would sometimes stare at the city through the window.

She would sometimes run her fingers over the cold glass, and then follow the thin traces the tip of her fingers would leave. She would try to ignore the bruises, the cuts and band aids on her hands; she would try to ignore the ache, and draw small and flowing patterns over the reflections of the city lights. The tips of her fingers would follow lonely taxis hundreds of meters beneath her, and follow the ever so tiny silhouettes of the unaware people who ran home. A storm was coming, and she could see it in the thick, grey clouds that covered the otherwise starlit sky she had gotten used to see from her apartment.

Her empty, old, dark apartment that looked more like a jail than a home.

She was used to sleeping in a bed covered in old covers. She was used to waking up to a cold pillow beside her, a cold breakfast, and then spending hours starring out of the window to an empty and dangerous street - and that, to her, was life. It was all she had known since she was a kid. Since her mother held her in her arms as a newborn baby and named her Quinn, Quinn Horvatinčić.

Other people had shiny days awaiting for them. Days with candlelit dinners, trips around the world, expensive schools and colleges to attend, and parties with friends and family reunions… Her days were hosted in a fight club. An illegal, underground, rusty fight club. Quinn had blood under her nails instead of nail polish on them, but blood and red nail polish were somewhat similar to the naked eye.

That’s what made her different.

So now that she stood in front of a floor to ceiling window wearing only her underwear and an oversized shirt with a scent of male perfume, she wasn’t sure of how she should be feeling.

She was out of the streets she had lived in for years now. She should be feeling vulnerable - most of her skin was bare, she was alone in a living room that was bigger than her whole apartment, and moreover, the only clothing she was wearing wasn’t even hers. She should feel weak - was she really skipping her training sessions for that? She should feel angry at herself - maybe what they were doing was immoral. Maybe she should run away. She could grab some money - his wallet was probably on the kitchen counter - and take a taxi back home - but she was almost naked - where were her clothes anyway?

She rested her forehead against the window and closed her eyes. She could find a way to leave. It would be easy. She had escaped from far more terrible situations in her life - escaping from an apartment wouldn’t be difficult.

Then again, there was a problem.

She did not want to leave.

Maybe she did not want to leave because of the atmosphere: the dimly lit living room, the panoramic windows that allowed her to stare down at the neon city, which didn’t affect the amber lights in the room. The leather furniture, the glass table, the cabinets full of vodka bottles, the plants growing next to the windows and the wide tank filled with exotic fishes… it all matched in such harmony that for once she felt like she could drop asleep if she closed her eyes for too long.

So she did. She wanted to sleep there, once again, so she closed her eyes and pictured the city, felt the warmth against her skin and…

“Quinn.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she quickly turned around, since she knew that voice far too well.

Standing a few feet away from her, wearing some grey sweatpants she had never imagined someone like him would own and a sports t-shirt, Alistair Quartermane stared at her. He stared at her with those dark, round, brown eyes she had now gotten used to see every day, and above him, the amber lights hanging from the ceiling lit his skin. Just as his eyes, his skin was dark, covering strong muscles and a stiff silhouette; he had strong arms, broad shoulders, a firm and hard chest, a nearly perfect body crafted by the gods - if they existed, that is. Quinn still had her doubts in the matter.

“I thought you had fallen asleep,” whispered Quinn, her hands still pressed against the window.

“I did,” Alistair looked around the living room as he walked towards her, “But I woke up because of the lights, so I came to turn them off.”

She nodded slowly as he turned the amber lights off, and the neon lights from the city gained territory inside the living room. Alistair took some steps forward, dipped his hands into his pockets, until he stood beside her and stared at the city as the first rain drops fell from the sky and down to the streets. He fixed his eyes on some store hundreds of meters beneath him, and she fixed her eyes on the worn off logo of some sports team she had never heard of before. The streets had lost her interest, even if they had gained Alistair’s.

It wasn’t an unusual situation. Alistair would always get her to lose interest in anything, and fix it on him. She didn’t know, but she had the same effect on him - and even if his eyes looked at the city, the warmth that came from her body and brushed against his side was everything in his head.

“I didn’t know you liked sports,” she mumbled, furrowing her eyebrows.

“I don’t. My father gave this shirt to me before I came here for college. I have no idea of what the motive was, but it’s comfortable,” he mumbled back, watching as her finger leaned in to trace over the faded letters on the shirt. “It’s from his favorite sports team. I guess he expected me to be a fan, too.”

“Looks comfy,” the tip of her finger rubbed the old fabric, turning her body towards her.

“Quinn.”

When she looked up to him, she found Alistair’s brown eyes looking at her with a serious yet calm expression. Quinn felt a shiver go down her spine as she slowly and reluctantly let her hands fall to her sides, only for Alistair to lean in and hold one of her wrists before it pushed away completely. Quinn felt his hand shake slightly before he let go - only after brushing his thumb against her knuckles tenderly.

“You didn’t fall asleep,” she whispered, staring at his retreating hand.

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, resting his big hand against the window, “I didn’t.”

“And you lied about the lights waking you up.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Alistair sighed. He leaned his body backwards and raised his chin to look up to the sky - rain was starting to pour down, and the rain formed constant water streams across the windows, causing the city lights to undulated inside the apartment. Against Alistair’s face, Quinn saw hints of blue and purple, and on her shoulders and chest rested red and pink lights of which she wasn’t aware.

“I needed to talk to you,” he said, and once again looked at her, straight into her pale green eyes. “I–…”

“If you want me to leave, I understand,” she sighed, with no particular expression on her face. Alistair had grown used to her almost unnoticeable expressions, that were much like his. She looked down at herself, and her first instinct was to cover herself with the white shirt she was wearing loosely. His shirt. “It’s perfectly fine. You don’t need to explain yourself. Your fiancée–…”

“This has nothing to do with Samra,” he groaned, and raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She stared at him with an emotionless expression. He leaned towards the window and rested his shoulder on it, feeling the cold touch of the glass as a refreshing shiver.

“It doesn’t?” she asked, crossing her arms over her small chest and taking a step back.

She didn’t notice how Alistair’s body tensed as soon as she backed up and any opportunity of a casual touch between them disappeared in thin air.

“No, Quinn. Not at all,” he reassured, “I just have a question for you.”

The clouds roared outside of the window and a new waterfall of rain fell down to the city. Quinn tried to take a step back from the storm, but soon enough, Alistair’s hand was holding her arm lightly, and she instinctively leaned into his touch.

“I need to know something before all of this keeps escalating,” said Alistair.

She knew what he meant by ‘all of this’.

He meant the sex. He meant the fact that now, Alistair’s deluxe apartment was the place she most frequented, alongside Lucio’s and her fight club. He meant the fact that now she would walk around in her underwear while he showered, and that some days she’ll prepare breakfast while he kissed her neck. That sometimes she’d sneak into the shower while he was inside and he’d receive her as soon as she peaked into the bathroom.

He was talking about their secret.

And there were so many possibilities:

'I need to know that you’re aware that this has to be a secret.’

'I need to know that you’re aware that as soon as I get married, this will end.’

'I need to know that you aren’t getting attached.’

“I need to know that you’re comfortable with this,” he said, leaning towards her gently.

For a second, she stayed quiet. Then, the room temperature dropped a few degrees, and then rose again when Alistair took a step towards her.

“What?” she asked; it sounded as if she was choking on thin air.

“You’re asexual,” he said, matter of factly, “and we’re having… relationships…”

“Sex,” she didn’t mean to say it in a harsh tone, but it turned out like that.

“I prefer the term 'making love’.”

She blinked.

He probably noticed the surprised and slightly confused look she gave him as soon as he corrected her words, because for a second he looked as if he wanted to retreat those words. However, when Quinn’s empty expression finally switched to a softer, slightly fascinated one for a few seconds, he felt the sudden urge to place his hand on her shoulder to reassure her; he didn’t. He kept talking.

“I don’t know about you, Quinn, but I do notice the difference between these three: fucking, having sex, and making love,” his voice sounded low and calm, but slightly held back; Quinn could feel the warmth of his breath near her face, “And I’m afraid that what we do implicates less violence than fucking, and more feeling than having plain sex. What we do is called making love, in the simplest terms.”

“And that scares you?” she asked.

“That fascinates me.”

The first thing that came to her mind was a blank space. Even after years of studying English, there were some words that only held a minimum place in her memory, such as “fascination”.

Fas-ci-na-tion.

It was so long, and complicated, when as a child she had known it in a completely different way:

Zanos.

“Zanos,” she whispered.

“…I believe so,” he hesitated, and she realized that he couldn’t understand what she had said.

“Fascination,” she translated, staring at him, “for sex?”

“Love making.”

“Love making,” she repeated, slowly. “Love making.”

“Quinn, I need to know.” He slowly took a few steps forward, until he was barely a few inches away from her, and his hands reached out until he held her arms softly. He looked down at her since he was taller and she looked up at him, eyes wide open. “I need to know that you’re comfortable with this. That I’m not pushing you into anything, and that the fact that I’m going to marry Samra doesn’t…”

“Alistair,” she interrupted him, lowering her head to stare at his shirt instead of his face.

She watched him swallow. He was getting nervous and tense - his hands on her arms were now pressing with more force than before - and his chest was stiff behind the old sports shirt.

“Yes?”

“You’re tense,” she said, almost as a warning, “relax.”

“Quinn…” he groaned, “I need an answer…”

“Stop.”

A thunder roared in the distance. The neon lights that came from Tokyo, a city that never slept, flickered and a couple of them started to fade until they turned off. The window beside them was now foggy, and at the other side, cold streams of water ran down the building.

Quinn leaned forward with no more than a faint preoccupied expression, and her hands pressed themselves against the old t-shirt, right over Alistair’s broad chest. She rubbed her hands softly up and down, being careful to not be too harsh, and raised her hands up to his shoulders, always with her eyes fixed on where her hands rested. The fabric wasn’t as warm as his skin and the difference was obvious, but she knew he was feeling every touch deeply, since his chest would gently raise and fall whenever she went down to his chest. She could feel his heartbeat against her hand, never steady, always an ever changing rhythm…

“You’re starting to lose control.” She whispered, and leaned forwards until her chin was just about to rest on his shoulder, “All of this is building up stress inside you. You need to calm down.”

“Quinn…”

“You’re shaking.”

“I need to… know…”

She leaned forward, and the light rubbing turned into soft touches and caresses down his spine. And he felt warmth, and the lingering tips of her fingers, as if suddenly flowers were blooming on his back, and he let out a long, peaceful sigh. He leaned forward, pressing himself against her, and after giving her a doubtful look, he slowly let his hands hold her hips as soon as she nodded softly.

“Please,” she whispered in his ear, running her hands down his back, “calm down. You’ll unleash one of those… attacks if you don’t.”

“How do you…?” he wanted to ask, with just a whisper left of his voice.

“That’s why I’m here,” she answered, “to stop them from happening. And this helps, doesn’t it?”

He knew what she meant. She meant the soft touches, the warmth against their skins, the whispers. The fact that whenever they found themselves leaning into each other and sighed when they decided to let their clothing fall to the floor, they stopped being two touch starved loners. She meant the way in which now she was pressing herself against him and ignoring the pouring rain and the city lights, all to calm him down, to stop the panic attacks from raising from under his skin and eating his emotions until leaving an empty casket with only fear, pain and loneliness wandering through his body.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his torso, and for a moment, Alistair noticed a burst of light. For a second he thought it had been lighting from the storm.

Then he noticed it was her.

It was her hands, sliding beneath his old sports shirt and touching his abdomen. It was her hands, touching him with no lust, with no second intention, with no dirty second thoughts and no double meaning. It was the bruises and the cuts on her skin that now healed his broken skin; broken because of the lack of contact, and slowly being placed back together now that she let her fingers leave traces of warmth on them.

“You’re not broken,” she whispered, when her hands took hold of his shirt and started pulling it off slowly, “you’re cracked. And I’m trying to keep you together, in one piece, before one of those attacks pulls you apart.”

On his abdomen, he felt daisies. He felt the innocent yellow silhouettes of a newborn flower, waiting to grow as soon as her fingers caressed his abdomen. Then he felt white burst of life whenever she rubbed her thumb in circles, next to his bones, where all the pain and stress would concentrate. He felt peace and innocence staining his skin, he felt silence and memories that were mostly feelings more than images.

She took a step back when she helped him pull off the t-shirt, and it fell to the floor as a shapeless shadow. She knew he was desperate when his hands immediately looked for her and pulled her back against him, and she stood on her tiptoes to lean in and kiss his neck, and once again, he felt flowers bloom.

He felt roses; the felt the color red dripping down his neck. He felt the blood from her cuts sliding down his bare skin even if she wasn’t bleeding. He felt rose petals caress his skin and fall on the floor. He felt paint, he felt art, he felt love and hate and comfort and pain…

He felt life.

And when his hands slowly took off the white shirt that hid her underwear and he felt her silhouette against the palm of his hands, he didn’t know that she was feeling a soft orange being painted over her. Orange, like sunlight against dried leaves in autumn; like the heart of a bonfire; the same color she would see when she opened her eyes and stared at the walls in her room as a kid. She felt relieve when he touched her back and she sighed against his neck, tasting his dark skin, breathing in the weak scent of cologne on his collarbones.

He was melting. It was evident. His muscles relaxed, his movements became soft and slow, he would close his eyes, and his skin gained warmth. Her warmth, perhaps. Or perhaps it was the heat that always rested deep inside his body and no one would know how to ignite.

No one but her.

Her, whose small chest now fitted perfectly against his. Her, whose back was the exact size of his hands together. Her, whose lips fitted perfectly on his neck.

And him, who would touch her bruises without her feeling any pain. Who would keep a space in his bed for her to fill. Who now bought enough food for them both to eat. Who had given her a key to his apartment. Who greeted her with a soft 'good morning, Quinn’, 'good afternoon, Quinn’, 'good night, Quinn’, and then would look at her apologetically when he’d be forced to say 'goodbye, Quinn’.

“Not broken,” she would whisper every now and then, “Not broken.”

She kept whispering those same two words when he got hold of her hips and raised her from the grown, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. It became a constant reassurance while he kissed down her neck and walked carefully through the living room, and she felt the contact of his skin against her; her arms around his shoulders, fingers digging on his back.

She felt young.

Even if she still was, she had lived moments not even the eldest of people had experienced. She had been dragged into the real world too soon, too innocent, too pure. For some, she was the only innocent aspect of their lives, and for others, she was a toy that would soon be broken.

She had looked at Death in the eye many times, mostly when He came to take the dying under his arms. She had sat next to bloody bodies and watched a silhouette carry their souls - their laughters, their tears, their memories, their whole being - away.

She had stared, and Death had blinked first.

That didn’t make her immortal. That made her desired.

She knew He was coming for her.

But now that she was being held and carried into Alistair’s bedroom, she felt as if she, for once, was safe.

So she moaned and sighed when she was softly laid on the sheets, between the covers, and Alistair left kisses and touches down her neck and chest. She helped him get rid of his sweatpants so that now, both of them were only in their underwear. His soft pants made her smile. The feeling of his thick fingers touching her waist and leaving color where there would, otherwise, be bruises. She leaned towards him and pulled him close, knowing that he’d be soft, and delicate, and as sweet as he could. That there’d be soft thrusts, gentle kisses, deep stares into each other’s eyes, and soft marks that would be gone by the time the sun came out next morning.

'Love making,’ she thought.

“Scratched,” he whispered, against her neck.

Her eyes fluttered open as he pulled away from her, holding himself up with his arms, being careful not to crush her underneath his body. He softly sat back, and took her hands in between his, signaling her to sit up too. He didn’t worry when she gave him a confused, inquisitive look while she sat up.

Alistair pulled one of her hands towards his lips and kissed one of her bruised fingers.

“You’re not deeply wounded,” he said, in between the rhythmical kisses from finger to finger, “You’re scratched. There’s blood, but the scratches can be healed easily with some care,” he looked down at the cuts and bruises, the hints of dried blood in her nails, “and I’m trying to keep you healed, in one piece, before you get a wound that not even God will be able to heal.”

So many things felt out of place.

They were on a bed. She was wearing no more than plain black underwear; a revealing bra, some small panties. He was only wearing dark boxers. They had been kissing and touching each other’s bodies.

But he had stopped.

Stopped to hold her hands and kiss them.

Even if it felt out of place, it felt right.

Out of pure instinct, one of her bruised hands reached out to his face, and stroked his cheek. He closed his eyes and tilted his head towards her.

'Home’.

“I… want this,” she whispered, “all of this. Even if you’re engaged, and I’m asexual, and no one will know… even if the world breaks down.”

“Quinn.” He sighed, looking at her, as she climbed onto his lap and held his face between her swollen hands.

Swollen, but warm.

“Alistair,” she pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes and breathing in soft pants, “make love to me.”

It sounded like an old fairy tale.

Two people, a rich man and a poor girl. An elegant gentleman and a violent street rat. Two idiots who loathed themselves through live, two fools mistreated by the world, two miserable ones that had forgotten what another being’s warmth against their skin felt like, who suddenly found each other in the ruins of what could have been of their existences.

Two fools that made love in secret and behind everyone’s back.

Two fools that, deep within them, held the only treasure that could heal each other’s wretched soul.

Two fools that made love.

She allowed him to undress her, and he allowed her to undress him. His toes curled. Her back arched. He groaned. She moaned. He was soft. She was tender. He thrusted; she kissed. He kissed; she held tight.

And when they kissed and rushes of golden heat ran down their bodies, they felt home.

When he fell asleep with his arms around her waist and his face nuzzled against her chest, listening to her heartbeat and lulled by her chest raising and falling when she breathed, there was peace.

Right before she fell asleep, she saw Death out of the corner of her eye, staring.

Before that night, she felt that she was slowly bleeding out.

Now she knew that it was only a scratch.

So she looked at Death while she held the only person that could clean her wounds and make them disappear, and she smiled at Him.

She wouldn’t leave.

Not forever.

If she left, it would be only for a while. Then, she’d return.

She’d return to him.

She’d return home.

When she fell asleep after kissing his lips, after hours of watching him sleep peacefully, she knew there was hope.

There was hope.