#Alistair in King Cailan's armour is a LOOK

[ooachilliaoo]

New Armour

Bizarrely, her first instinct when he walked through the door was to bow.

She managed to stay the impulse – but only just – and only because he wouldn’t thank her for it. It was just… He just looked so much like a king thatthe impulse had been there before she could even properly think about it.

Her first actual thought could be neatly encapsulated in the word ‘wow’. While, yes, the golden armour had not been made for him, while it was possibly slightly too small and far grander than anything Alistair might have chosen for himself… there was no denying that he looked truly spectacular in it.

He’d have half the ladies of the court throwing themselves at his feet the moment he entered the chamber. Which, her political mind reminded her, would probably work to their advantage…

(If she didn’t stab them all first.)

However, her third impulse was the twist in her heart as she took in his expression. She’d seen him in a number of uncomfortable situations over the past year. When they’d needed to strip to retrieve the Urn of Sacred Ashes, for example. When they’d faced the broodmother. When Zevran had teased him after they’d spent their first night together. But she had never seen him as uncomfortable as he looked now, dressed in his half-brother’s golden armour.

“Do I really have to wear this?” he asked, adjusting one gauntlet awkwardly. “It feels… wrong, somehow. This was his.”

“You were the one who retrieved it from the darkspawn at Ostagar,” she pointed out, remembering how ferociously he’d set to the task of cleaning it after they’d lit Cailan’s pyre, and she had first suggested that maybe his half-brother had meant for Alistair to follow in his footsteps.

“Not so I could wear it,” he huffed. “I’m not… It’s too… I’m no king.”

They had debated this so many times that there was absolutely nothing left to say on the subject.

He’d start by saying he couldn’t be king, shouldn’t be king. He’d suggest letting Anora take the throne.

She’d point out that they couldn’t trust Anora, that the most important thing was deposing Loghain and turning a united Ferelden to the task of defeating the blight.

He'd suggest putting Arl Eamon forward, an idea he seemed to have latched on from the moment of Cailan’s death and had stubbornly refused to let go of.

She’d point out that Eamon was far more interested in supporting his stronger claim than putting himself forward.

In the end, they’d agree to ‘figure something out’. She’d promise that they’d figure something else out. Despite the fact that she had no idea what or how to fix it.

She was tired of the debate, and it was too late anyway. They had their plan for the Landsmeet and much of it rested on presenting Alistair as a palatable heir to the throne. Whether or not he actually ended up on it.

Stalking toward him, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. “Would you hate me if I said it suited you?”

He considered that for a moment. “Only a little. And I’m sure you, of all people, could think of a way to make it up to me?”

Read the rest on AO3

[tired-truffle]

Yet Broken Still You Breathe

An AlistairxOC fic

Chapter Word Count: 7.9k

Part 34/54

“Love him. Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?” - James Baldwin

Warning: Smut in this chapter! If you would like to avoid it, it starts at: "Wordlessly, Gwen caught the fabric between her fingers and pulled it over her head." And ends at: "She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, her heart swelling with an uncertainty that felt akin to home."

Masterlist

The sombre procession wove its way through the bracken, the silence between them as thick as the fog that clung to the ground. Alistair's arm was a band of warmth under Gwen's shoulder, his fingers pressed into her side, a lifeline that kept her tethered to the here and now, amidst the haunting echoes of the past.

They’d decided to build a pyre, as was apparently typical for Ferelden Royalty, and Alistair had wanted to give Cailan the sendoff he deserved.

With a flourish of Morrigan’s hand, she produced a flame, igniting the pyre they had hastily constructed. The fire took to the kindling hungrily, crackling and spitting as it claimed Cailan's remains.

Gwen watched, motionless, as the flames danced their macabre waltz, devouring flesh and blood. The pyre's light flickered over her pallid features, casting stark shadows across her face and the disfigurements that marred her skin. Alistair stayed close beside her, refusing to leave her side, his grip tight as though he feared she would disappear should he let go.

With the fire reduced to embers, they turned their backs on the ashes of what once was, each lost in their reverie. The march to Redcliffe Castle, towards the final leg of their fight against the Teryn - the last step before they set themselves upon the Archdemon’s armies - was a silent vigil. Gwen could feel the weight of Cailan's funeral settle upon them like a shroud, the finality of it a cold whisper in her ear.

Their footsteps fell in unison, a dirge of boots against the path, as if the very earth beneath them mourned the passing of a king. Gwen's mind wandered, trailing over the memories that clawed at her insides. The taint was the worst type of curse, it destroyed everything it touched. Gwen could feel it growing inside her, a rot that threatened to consume her from within. She was running out of time, and soon enough - at any point within the next ten years - the taint would claim her life. She couldn’t let it claim Alistair’s too. The Archdemon couldn’t have him, she would rip it apart with her bare hands to ensure he never met the fate it salivated over.

The moon hung low as the weary band of companions arrived at Redcliffe Castle, its pale light casting an eerie glow over the stone ramparts. The hour was late, and no nobles lingered to receive them; only a few sleepy servants - guarded by armoured soldiers - shuffled forward to usher the group inside.

"Guest chambers will be prepared for all of you," one servant murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "But first, Lady Isolde insists everyone must be cleansed in the bathing chambers."

Gwen nodded absently, her mind adrift with the weight of the day’s events. She could feel the gritty remnants of the road clinging to her skin, mixing with her own sweat and grime like a heavy cloak. The sensation was almost suffocating, reminding her of the unwanted memories that hung onto her every move. The thought of a warm bath sounded divine, even though it meant once again exposing her body, marked by countless scars, to her companions.

Alistair gave her a reassuring look, seeing the flash of concern in her eyes, his gaze soft in the dim torchlight. She had no time to react as a commotion broke their hushed exchange. Barkspawn, legs splayed and hackles raised, growled in protest as another servant attempted to lead him away.

"Come now, you brave beast, it's just water," the young servant said, tugging insistently at the dog's collar.

Barkspawn let out a pitiful whine, his dark eyes imploring Darcy for mercy. But he refused to give in, instead giving the dog a quick scratch behind his ears and an encouraging pat on his bum. With a resigned huff, the Mabari allowed himself to be escorted off to his reluctant cleansing.

Gwen couldn't help but smile faintly at Barkspawn’s antics, feeling a flicker of warmth amidst the cold that had settled in her bones.

They were led through the bowels of the castle, separated by gender and instructed on how to use the different pools and soaps that were heated by the underground hot springs. The servant explained that since Arl Eamon’s recovery, they’d been able to restore the castle to its former glory, which included a deep clean of the baths. At least one good thing had come from waking the entitled bastard.

In a small changing area prior to the baths, Leliana, Wynne, Morrigan, and Gwen were instructed to remove their clothes. With great reluctance at having to expose herself in front of the servants, Gwen turned her back to them before shimmying out of her clothes.

In a small, dimly lit room designated for changing, the women were instructed to remove their clothes. With great reluctance at having to expose herself in front of the servants, Gwen turned her back to them before delicately shimmying out of her garments. Better to let them see her back than her face. Leliana saved her from having to turn around by picking up both their discarded items and bringing them to where the servants waited. Gwen could feel their eyes boring into her back, and after waiting for the rogue to return to her side, they made their way through the doors towards the wonderfully refreshing scents wafting their way.

The bathing chamber itself was a haven of steam and echoing droplets, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and chamomile. As they settled into the heated pool, Gwen let out a contented sigh, warmth enveloping her. The water welcomed her, a soothing embrace that seemed to wash away more than just the dirt of their travels.

For a long while, they bathed in silence, the quiet only broken by the gentle lapping of water against stone. Gwen kept to herself, submerging up to her chin, letting it envelop her wholly. Her scars, usually a glaring reminder of her past, became softened beneath the water's surface, less pronounced and somehow less menacing.

It was Leliana who eventually shattered the calm, her lilting voice rising above the quietude. "Have you ever heard the tale of the Swan Princess?" she asked, her words dancing through the steam.

Morrigan snorted from her corner, her eyes rolling skyward. "Now really, is this the time for your tiresome tales, bard? Spare me your feeble attempts at lifting our spirits."

"Ah, but stories are the threads that weave us together, dear. They remind us of our humanity, especially when the world seems intent on tearing it apart," Wynne countered gently, a twinkle in her eye. "Go on, Leliana. I, for one, would like to hear it."

Encouraged, Leliana began weaving her tale, her voice painting vivid images of star-crossed lovers separated by the horizon, their only meeting place the fleeting moments of twilight. As she spoke, the mood in the chamber shifted, the burden of their reality lifting ever so slightly, carried away on the wings of her narrative.

Gwen listened, allowing herself to be drawn into the story. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be told a bedtime story. Lucy had read her some stories over the years, but it was different, she’d never been able to visit anytime after dark, too difficult to slip away once the Sisters were on alert for danger.

As the tale drew to a close, Gwen traced the line of her scar from the Ogre, running from collar to hip. The skin remained raised, reddened as it healed, soon to fade just like all the rest.

"It is healing nicely," Wynne remarked, her tone both observant and kind. She gestured towards the jagged line that marred Gwen's flesh. "The body has remarkable ways of repairing itself, doesn't it?"

Gwen met her discerning gaze. "Especially when helped along by a talented healer.”

"You flatter me,” the mage said with a wry smile. “But it would be best to keep an eye on it, the worst of it was dangerously close to your reproductive organs. It could cause lasting damage if you aren’t careful, the skin may have healed, but inside there is no telling what has happened. Please keep me informed about your monthly bleed, I’d like to ensure everything is as it should be.”

Gwen's brow furrowed at the mention of a 'monthly bleed.' She had heard other women whisper about such things, but the details had always remained a mystery to her. She averted her gaze, staring down at the water lapping around her body.

"I, um...I'm not sure what you mean," Gwen mumbled awkwardly.

Wynne's eyes widened in surprise. "My dear, you've never...?" Her voice trailed off as understanding dawned on her aged features. "Of course. I should have realized. It seems there is much that has been kept from you over the years."

The elder mage sat up and shifted closer to Gwen, her tone gentle. "As women, our bodies undergo a cycle each month to prepare for childbearing. The lining of the womb thickens, and when conception does not occur, it sheds through bleeding. It is completely natural."

Gwen's cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and dismay swirling within her. She’d known the basic concepts of becoming with child, but she hadn’t known the specifics. She had never bled in such a way, her body was too hostile to create life and all it was good for was taking it.

"So if I've never...then I can't ever..." She trailed off, throat tightening around the unspoken words.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of," Wynne continued kindly. "Simply the Maker's design.”

"What a preposterous design, if you ask me. A course of stupidity only the naive would endure." Morrigan cut in, not bothering to conceal her disdain. "What purpose does it serve other than to inconvenience women?"

"It allows for new life, dear," Wynne replied. "You might find that even in its inconveniences, there’s wisdom to be found in every experience - patience leads to understanding.”

Leliana's brow furrowed as she gazed into the distance, her fingers tapping against her chin. "I remember being frightened the first time it happened to me. But the sisters explained what was occurring and, in time, it simply became part of my cycle. We find our wisdom in each phase, dark and light.”

Gwen said nothing as she absorbed this new information. Her heart felt heavy with a mixture of emotions - anger, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of injustice. The concept of motherhood, a choice that should have been hers to make, had been forcefully ripped away from her grasp like so many other decisions in her life. She had never desired children, not with the cursed blood that flowed through her veins. It was not the wish for children that gnawed at her, but rather the relentless tide of her autonomy being swept away by fate's indifferent hand.

When would the taint stop taking from her?

I might never have chosen it, she thought, the steam from the bath fogging her vision, but the choice should have been mine to make. Her fingers skimmed over her scars, each one a a link to the life she had endured, a life where her will had so often been disregarded.

And yet, amid the swirling doubts and fears that threatened to pull her under, Gwen felt an ember of defiance flicker within her. She may not have control over every part of her existence, but here, in this moment, she did.

"Choices," Gwen finally said, her voice a soft echo in the steam-filled chamber, "are precious. They should belong to us, and no one else."

Wynne's gaze met hers, “You are quite right, Gwen. Perhaps one day you will be allowed this choice as well. Yet even if you do not, the burden of our monthly bleed is not the only thing that makes us women. We endure much that goes unspoken amongst mixed company, but know that you are not alone, nor are you the only woman who does not bleed.”

But she had bled, time and time again, for most of her childhood she had been covered in it. It was best she keep her rotten blood to herself, lest she corrupt some innocent soul. Did Alistair wish for children? Would he be upset if he found out she could not bear him any? Her heart clenched at the thought of disappointing him, of possibly losing his love. These were questions only he could answer, and yet she was not sure she would ever be brave enough to ask.

“You will have your hands full enough with Alistair, why you chose that man-child is beyond even my vast intellect.” Morrigan cut in as if sensing the direction of her thoughts.

"Oh, I think Alistair is a sweet boy," Leliana chimed in cheerfully. "He is so devoted to her, always making sure she is protected in battle. And he follows directions so well - I am sure that dedication translates to the bedroom as well."

Leliana winked mischievously and Gwen blushed deeply, sinking a little lower into the warm water. She splashed some water in Leliana's direction, though her embarrassment was mixed with amusement at her friend's bold teasing.

"You are terrible," Gwen admonished, though she could not keep the smile from her face.

Leliana just laughed merrily in response. "It is only because I want you to be happy."

Morrigan made a derisive snorting noise. "Yes, let us discuss the idiot’s prowess in intimate matters. A fascinating subject."

"Oh hush, Morrigan," Wynne sighed, though there was kindness in her tone rather than any real irritation. "Let the girls have their fun. Maker knows there is little enough of that in these dark times."

Gwen smiled gratefully at Wynne, always appreciative of the older mage's wisdom and patience. It was good to have this moment of lightness between them all, a temporary respite from the worries that plagued her outside this chamber. For now, she would push her fears aside, forget the choices that had been stolen from her, and simply enjoy the comfort of the bath and the companionship of the extraordinary women at her side.

As the evening began to settle in and their weary, water-wrinkled bodies yearned for rest, they made their way to the changing rooms. The servants had thoughtfully laid out clean linen clothes for them, a welcome luxury after a long day of travel. Gwen's fingers ran over the fabric, surprised by its quality. The tunic, a deep shade of red like freshly spilled wine, draped elegantly over her slender form while the dark pants hugged her strong legs. Even a bandana in the same regal hue was included among the pile of clothes meant for her. She would be taking them with her, whether it had been intended to be so or not.

A servant stood outside the changing rooms and bowed as Gwen and her companions approached. His worn shoes clicked against the stone floor as he led them down a familiar corridor lined with ornate tapestries depicting scenes of grandeur and opulence. Gwen's eyes scanned the surroundings, but she saw no sign of the men of their party. Feeling too embarrassed to ask, she followed the servant to one of the many lavishly decorated chambers that was to be her room for the night.

The door closed behind her with a resounding thud, leaving her alone in the flickering candlelight. The light of the small flame enveloped her, casting a soft golden glow across the chamber. Shadows danced and swirled along the ancient stone walls as Gwen slowly loosened the bandana that concealed her lower face. The fabric slipped away, and she rubbed at the skin made soft by their luxurious soak. Her grey eyes, reflective of the day's weariness, caught sight of her reflection in the polished metal mirror. Her disfigurements marred her reflection, and she looked away quickly, as though avoiding the truth would somehow change it.

A soft knock on the door pierced the silence, tentative yet persistent, causing Gwen to frown in confusion. Who could possibly be knocking at this late hour? She cautiously made her way towards the sound, her hand instinctively going to the dagger belted around her waist. With a swift yank, she opened the door to find Alistair standing before her, his cheeks rosy in the dim glow of the flickering torches lining the hallway. He shuffled his feet nervously, his hair still slightly damp from his recent bath.

She stood in front of him, unsure if her heart was racing from seeing him again or simply saying his name. "Alistair?" she said, the syllables falling out of her mouth hesitantly.

"Gwen." His voice caught in his throat, thick with longing as he took a hesitant step towards her as if wanting to envelop her in a hug but stopping himself short, unsure if that was what she wanted at that moment.

Noticing his hesitation, she drew him into the sanctuary of her room with a gentle tug of his wrist, closing the door upon the world and its relentless demands. She turned back to face him, his eyes searching hers, conveying a swirling mix of emotions she couldn't quite decipher.

As silence hung between them, Gwen’s heart pounded in her chest. She searched Alistair’s eyes, waiting for the unspoken question and feeling the weight of what lay beyond this moment. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, and for a heartbeat, she considered retreating. With no more hesitation, she surged forward, her arms wrapping around his broad frame with an almost desperate force. Alistair readily accepted her embrace, his strong arms encircling her slender waist as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Finally, she pulled back slightly, still close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her face. Gwen's fingers delicately traced the worry lines that creased Alistair's forehead, her touch as gentle as a feather.

"What's on your mind?"

"Ostagar," he exhaled the word like a burden. "I keep thinking... what if Duncan and I had swapped places? Is it selfish that I'm glad we didn't? Because if we had..." His voice broke off, but the soft look in his eyes said it all.

"You're allowed to want to live, your life is worth no less than Duncan’s.” She trailed her fingers down to the side of his face, his skin soft from the baths. “Do not discount all the good you have done. And if it is selfish to be glad that you didn’t die instead of him, then I must be the most selfish person in the world for nothing makes me happier than being with you.”

Without any forewarning, he drew her close and pressed his lips against hers in a fervent, desperate kiss. It was a moment of raw emotion, a release of all his fears, wants, and dreams. In that single touch, he conveyed gratitude for their existence together, and an unspoken understanding of the shared trauma they had both endured. As their bodies pressed against each other, it was a flame ignited against the encroaching darkness, the rest of the world fading away as they lost themselves in each other's arms.

Before she fully registered what was happening, the backs of her knees met the softness of her bed, and a startled gasp escaped her as Alistair's momentum pushed them both onto the yielding mattress. Instinctively, he let go of her, placing his arms on either side of her torso to absorb the impact and prevent his weight from crushing her. His eyes widened in panic as he searched her face for any sign of distress.

"Are you—?" he began, his voice laced with concern, but Gwen silenced him with a burning kiss, pulling him down by the collar of his newly gifted tunic. Alistair's warmth enveloped her, his body pressing against hers in a heady blend of safety and desire. She could feel the contours of his form beneath her fingers, every ridge and muscle igniting a longing that pulsed through her. Yet, hesitation knotted in her veins - fear whispered that such intimacy might unveil the jagged parts of herself she wished to keep hidden. Her breath caught as she weighed the urge to pull away, but just then, he shifted closer, pinning her softly against the mattress. The heat of his hips against hers sent a delicious thrill coursing through her core. His sturdy frame offered a sense of security, grounding her against the looming threat of the Calling that sought to pull her away from this precious moment.

They lingered in the embrace, lost in a world where only the two of them existed - insulated from the relentless tide of duty and dread that loomed outside the chamber's walls.

Alistair drew back, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His pupils were blown wide with desire, fixated on the woman in front of him with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. "I want to touch you," he whispered, his voice laced with a raw longing that mirrored her own. Despite her own desperate need, she couldn't help but instinctively recoil, an involuntary reaction ingrained from a lifetime of rejection.

A fleeting shadow of doubt and hesitation crossed his features as he observed her retreat from him. "Is it because... you truly don't want me to?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or are you just afraid that when I see you, feel all of you, that I will pull away from you?"

Her eyes were glassy and wide, reflecting the intensity of his gaze as he loomed over her. His lips had left hers swollen and aching, yet she couldn't help but let out a soft moan as his weight pressed down on her. She was captivated by him, trapped in a moment of passion that she never wanted to end. Every inch of her body longed to be beneath him, to feel his touch and his breath on her skin.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Gwen,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “You’re gorgeous - every part of you. I want to be close to you, to touch you, if that’s something you want too.”

Gwen shook her head, blinking as she fought back tears of frustration that threatened to spill down her ruined cheeks. He didn’t know that, he may say it, but how could he be sure? How did he not understand that she was a monster, and monsters were not beautiful?

The brush of his lips against hers pulled her from her dark thoughts, unable to fight against the ease that filled her upon his embrace.

“I love you, Gwen,” he murmured against her lips, his hand caressing her cheek with such tender care it felt like it might shatter her. Her heart raced, nearly choking her as she searched his warm brown eyes, finding only sincerity and love reflected there.

Gwen's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in shock. The words he spoke echoed in her mind, each syllable crashing against the walls she had built around her heart. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry all at once, and yet found herself utterly speechless. Fear surged within her, paralyzing her as she wrestled with the overwhelming truth of his confession. Could he really mean it? The very thought sent a jolt of panic through her, and all she could do was stare wide-eyed, grappling with the weight of his love.

Alistair was different than anyone she’d ever known. Patient, gentle, unwavering in his affections. He sought out her touch, when her strange appearance drew stares, he looked at her as though she were the most beautiful thing in the world. With him, she almost felt deserving of the love he so freely gave.

And yet, the insidious whispers in her mind remained. What if she wasn't enough? What if one day, he realized she was too broken, too odd, too difficult to love? Gwen yearned to believe she was worthy of him, but a lifetime of fear and self-hatred held her back. Her hands were stained with blood and there was nothing she could do to wash it away.

Gently, Alistair cradled her face in his calloused hands, his thumb brushing away the tears that had escaped her notice, leaving a warm trail of comfort against her skin.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice laced with understanding. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I know this is all a bit overwhelming. Just… take your time, alright? I’m here.”

Gwen’s head shook and she carded her fingers through his short hair, the soft strands soothing her nerves. “No, that’s not it, I just— You’re everything I never knew I wanted, you make me feel things I never thought possible for someone like me. It just makes my heart race and I’m so afraid of what this means and what I might… lose.”

He opened his mouth to argue, his expression a mix of concern and disbelief at her words, but she silenced him with a firm but gentle kiss. "Please, just let me say this. If I don’t get it out now, I might lose my chance."

Alistair's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face, and he nodded, his focus on her unwavering as she took a breath to continue.

“You’ve shown me what it means to be cared for. To feel… wanted. I never thought I was worthy of something like that. When I’m with you, I feel like maybe I could. You make me feel like I’m not a monster, and before you, I never once in my life felt that way. But I… I’ve done so many terrible things, I’ve hurt people, my very existence is a threat, and I’m the reason Lucy—” Gwen cut herself off, feeling like her throat was closing up, tears falling in earnest. "I can't change what I am."

Alistair leaned back just enough to gaze into her eyes, cradling her face in his hands to ensure she felt his sincerity.

“Gwen, please listen to me,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “The past is behind us. You can’t change what’s already happened, but you have the power to choose who you want to be from this moment forward.”

Gwen searched his face, desperate for any hint of doubt or rejection, but all she found was a deep well of love and unwavering understanding.

She took a shuddering breath. "What if... what if I hurt you?" She whispered brokenly.

Alistair’s gaze softened, and he brushed away her tears with gentle hands.

"You could never hurt me," he said with conviction. "I trust you completely."

Gwen’s breath caught at his words, leaving her momentarily speechless. This man, despite everything she had shared about her past, everything he had seen her do, was willing to trust her completely. It was almost too much to bear.

"I don't deserve you.” Her voice broke around the words, her chin wobbling.

Alistair's lips curved into a sad smile, and he gently brushed his lips against her forehead.

"While I wish you thought otherwise, you don't have to believe it, Gwen," he said. "You just have to let me love you the way I know you deserve.”

Gwen's gaze met Alistair's, and a wave of emotion washed over her. She felt her heart swell with love, a warm and overwhelming feeling that made her chest ache. How could she have been so lucky to have this man in her life? He was more than she ever dreamed of - kind, loving, and understanding. As she looked at him, she saw herself reflected in his eyes - not as the monster she had always believed herself to be, but as a woman worthy of love and affection.

Unable to contain her feelings any longer, Gwen threw her arms around Alistair and pulled him into a fierce kiss. It was like an explosion inside of her, all of her fears and doubts melting away in the heat of their passion. Alistair held her close, his touch both gentle and firm as he deepened the kiss with equal fervour.

"I love you, Alistair," she whispered against his lips.

She felt a slow smile crept across his face. “Did you just say what I think you said?” he asked incredulously, trying to suppress a laugh of disbelief. “Because if you did, I’m going to kiss you again.”

Surprise washed over Gwen as she saw the delight in Alistair’s expression. “Yes, I love you,” she reaffirmed, her flat nose nudging against his encouragingly.

Alistair's joy was palpable, and he chuckled, tension melting away from his body as he said, “Well then, prepare yourself, because I’m going to kiss you senseless now.” As his lips met hers again, the touch was firm and passionate, igniting a spark that flared between them, leaving Gwen breathless and full of warmth. When they finally pulled apart, her heart raced, and with a deep breath, she found herself caught in the moment. “I want you to touch me,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The words seemed to hang in the air, a tremulous note of want that resonated in the intimate space between them.

The corners of Alistair’s mouth curled into a smile, a blend of relief and reverence flooding his features, as if he had finally received the answer he had longed for. With an air of sacred intimacy, he closed the distance between them once more.

Alistair's lips brushed the sharp line of her jaw, his kiss a gentle whisper against her worn skin. The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the light rustle of wind through the trees outside, rattling the window as he moved with deliberate tenderness. Gwen’s breath hitched, the sensation of being cherished so profoundly foreign to her that it nearly overwhelmed her, stirring a mix of wonder and vulnerability deep within.

"Beautiful," he murmured, each word imprinted onto her flesh like a benediction as he traced the column of her neck. His lips paused over the discoloured and rough band of skin there. She could feel him grin against her flesh when he added, "And still wearing my necklace."

She nodded, the leather and wolf’s tooth necklace he had crafted holding more than just a token of a kill - it was the weight of his regard, an affection she was only beginning to allow herself to believe in. Alistair's hands encircled her wrists, his thumbs brushing over the faint marks left by the shackles she’d worn for most of her childhood, the shackles Lucy had freed her from. The affection in his touch spoke volumes, reassuring her of her worth in a way words never could.

"Is this alright?" he asked, his fingers moving to hover at the hem of her shirt, granting her the power to halt or hasten their progress.

Wordlessly, Gwen caught the fabric between her fingers and pulled it over her head. It was an act of trust, a surrendering to the moment that coaxed a gentle chuckle from Alistair as the garment fell away. His gaze lingered on the jagged reminder of the ogre's wrath etched across her torso. She saw concern flicker in his eyes, the shadow of fear that he might harm her without intention - how he’d almost lost her just days ago.

"Hey," she whispered, capturing his gaze with her own. "I'm alright. I'm here."

The plea in her voice was not lost on him. With a surge of urgency, he closed the space between them, his mouth finding hers once more. The kiss was desperate, hungry - filled with every unspoken promise and silent apology that had passed between them. His hips pressed into hers once more, a moan slipping from her lips - a sound so raw and honest it embarrassed her. Yet, Alistair revelled in it, his own pleasure evident in the hardness between his legs.

As Alistair's hands moved over her body, Gwen couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of contentment. His touch was gentle and sure, like a slow breeze on a spring day, easing away the tension that had been building within her for so long. Even as he touched her back, the worst of her scars, he did not shrink away, and relief spread through her limbs like a drug.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the sensation, every nerve ending sparking to life under his caress. She felt safe in his arms, protected and cherished in a way she had never experienced before.

Alistair’s fingers glided up her arms, a hot trail of sensation sparking goosebumps across her skin. The urge to reciprocate his tender touch surged within her, compelling her to run her hands over his back, feeling the hard muscles tense beneath the fabric of his shirt. In response, he nuzzled his face against her neck, his warmth enveloping her as he nipped gently at the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sending shivers racing down her spine.

His hands hovered over her collarbone, the heat of his touch heating her skin, and she felt a rush of conflicting emotions: elation at his desire and panic at the thought of exposing herself fully to him. The urge to pull away warred with the longing to revel in his affection. As her breath quickened, she met his gaze - a silent plea for reassurance as she fought to suppress the tide of self-doubt threatening to pull her under.

"We can stop whenever you want," he murmured. "Just say the word.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the one who wasn’t ready,” she breathed, deflecting in an attempt to hide from the fear that was still there, lurking beneath the surface. Yet she couldn’t deny the exhilaration of being touched, of being wanted.

Alistair chuckled against her skin, his breath hot and ragged. “I may have been hesitant before,” he admitted. “But seeing you now…all I can think about is touching you, as long as you would still like it, of course.”

She gave a small nod, “Please.” Since when did she beg?

But all thoughts were scattered to the stars as Alistair's hands moved once again, this time cupping her breasts through the fabric of her breastband. She let out a shaky breath at the sensation, equal parts nervous and aroused.

Alistair's eyes were fixed on her face, carefully watching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. But as his hands continued to caress her, she couldn't help but relax into the sensation. With each passing second, she leaned back into his touch, feeling the gentle pressure against her skin creating a wave of pleasure that spread throughout her entire body.

Alistair's fingers trembled slightly above the band that confined her. She held her breath, a mix of anticipation and anxiety coursing through her veins. His gaze flickered up to her eyes and then back to the fabric, as if seeking her silent approval before making the next move. With careful, deliberate movements, he unfastened the breastband, the fabric slipping away to reveal her chest to him fully.

The cool air brushed against her skin, causing her to shiver. Alistair's eyes widened in a blend of surprise and wonder, the reverence in his expression igniting a fire within her. He reached out tentatively, his fingers skimming over her breasts, exploring the soft contours with a gentleness that took her breath away.

Gwen's pulse quickened, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Alistair’s touch was tentative but filled with a hesitance that echoed their shared inexperience. She watched him with bated breath, gauging his every reaction, a mixture of shyness and desire swirling in her chest. As his fingers glided over her skin, a gasp escaped her lips - an instinctual response to the unexpected pleasure that radiated through her.

With a cautious curiosity, Alistair's thumb brushed against her nipple, eliciting another involuntary gasp from Gwen. The sensation was electric, sending shivers coursing through her body. She watched him closely, her heart racing, as a spark of discovery flickered in his eyes. It was clear he was testing this new terrain, his fingers lingering with uncertainty, yet also with a burgeoning confidence.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his gaze searching hers with a mixture of earnestness and vulnerability. Gwen nodded, unable to find her voice as she arched into the touch, encouraging him silently.

Feeling a surge of boldness, Alistair began to explore more deliberately, his fingers tracing around her nipple with a gentle pressure that made her cheeks flush with desire and she let out a low, guttural moan that made Alistair groan in response. With each tentative caress, she sensed his nervousness ebbing away, replaced by a need to learn what made her respond.

“Maker's breath, you have no idea what you do to me.” His eyes darkened with desire as he studied her, his breath coming in quick bursts, mirroring the quickening pulse in her chest.

Gwen's heart swelled with pride and joy at his words, her eyes unable to hide the unguarded admiration she felt for him. The scars on her body seemed to fade away in his gaze, as if they no longer held any weight or importance. Alistair looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world, and at that moment, she almost believed it. Unable to contain herself, she pulled him into a passionate kiss, pouring all of her longing and gratitude into it.

Gwen felt Alistair’s hands on her skin, warmth blooming in places she had long thought cold, trailing kisses down her body. But a flash of fear shattered her moment of peace. Her body tensed, and she instinctively recoiled. Alistair noticed immediately, his brow furrowing with concern. "Is it too much?" he asked, pulling back just enough to search her eyes, his own filled with genuine care. The worry etched on his face made her heart flutter, breathing light into the corners of her darkest fears. For a moment, it felt as if a protective bubble surrounded them, shielding her from the past that haunted her.

Gwen shook her head, a shy smile touching her lips as clarity returned. No one had ever touched her so tenderly before. Alistair's fingers trailed down to her stomach the still healing scar stretched over the surface, and he traced the jagged line with reverence, his mouth placing feather-light kisses along it. He knelt on the floor at the end of the bed, continuing to press his lips against the scar, her hips, any part of her that he could reach. She sighed, the tension in her body unwinding. His hands moved lower, fingers grazing the edge of her trousers. He glanced up at her, silently asking permission.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Gwen's question was one of breathless curiosity.

"Zevran may be insufferable at times," Alistair admitted, "and I have tried my best to ignore everything he suggests regarding intimate matters, but there is only so much I can block out. And I must admit - though never to him - there is one thing he spoke of that I would very much like to try. Would you like me to?" He let his fingers toy with the band of her pants, his movements halting as he sought her permission.

Gwen's pulse raced as it dawned on her what he intended to do. "Yes," she said, giving herself no time to listen to anything but her instinct, the word laced with a tremor as she lifted her hips in acquiescence. He slid the fabric down her long legs, her smalls coming with it, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze. Gwen's body reacted with a shiver, torn between wanting to be seen and wanting to hide away. She couldn't bear the thought of his judgment on her naked form, so she shielded herself by covering her face with an arm.

Alistair murmured soothingly and gently pulled Gwen's arm away from her face. "My love, you have nothing to hide from me.”

Gwen pursed her lips against the slew of self-hating vitriol that threatened to spew forth.

He ran his hands reverently over the marred skin of her torso and legs, his touch full of devotion. "You are breathtaking, Gwen. Let me show you just how much I mean that.”

With that promise lingering in the air, his hands continued their tender exploration, gliding over her hips before slipping lower. Gwen gasped as Alistair's fingers trailed through her folds, wet and swollen in her desire for him. The sensation was unfamiliar yet intoxicatingly welcomed. She instinctively arched into his touch, yearning for the delightful friction that ignited her senses. A low groan escaped him at her responsive eagerness, and he trembled, fighting the primal urge to claim her completely.

Alistair watched her reactions closely, ready to pull back at the first sign of discomfort. But Gwen only moaned softly, a blush spreading down her shoulders as her legs fell open in permission and invitation. Alistair let out a shaky breath as he gently stroked along her cunt, his fingers slick with her need for him. Though his movements were tentative at first, once he found that aching bundle of nerves that made her arch off the bed, he quickly learned a rhythm that had Gwen writhing beneath him. Her murmured sounds of enjoyment emboldened him, and he slid a finger inside her slick entrance as his thumb continued massaging her sensitive bud.

Gwen’s body shook as he entered her, the feeling indescribable in its intensity, his rough finger providing pressure within her that only added to the tingling pleasure he had pulled from her clit.

Alistair kissed a meandering path up her thigh as her hips bucked beneath his hand, his stubble tickling her sensitive skin.

When he reached her lower stomach, so close to her sex that all he could smell was how badly she wanted him, he paused to look up at her, stopping his ministrations and eliciting a whine of dismay from her. Before he could ask her if she did still want this, she beat him to it.

“Are you sure you want to do this? There are other things we can do that you would likely enjoy more.” She could see his eyes flicker hungrily towards where his hand lay buried, his tongue darting over his lips as his eyes darkened.

His head shook. “I am positive I will enjoy this. I’ve been wondering for far too long how you would taste. Will you allow me to satisfy that curiosity?”

Gwen's breath caught in her throat as Alistair's words enveloped her like a warm embrace. A whirlwind of emotions surged within her: a heady blend of desire, nervousness, and an exhilarating sense of empowerment that she had never before experienced.

With a decisive nod, Gwen offered him her permission. Alistair’s smile ignited her from within, and he wrapped his arms beneath her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he dipped his head between her legs.

When his tongue parted her already dripping folds, it felt as if the world had tilted on its axis. Gwen thought she might have melted right then, her senses overwhelmed with the waves of pleasure crashing through her. When he found her swollen bud and sucked it into his mouth, a desperate cry escaped her lips, raw and unrestrained. Her hands fisted in the sheets, helplessly tangled in the overwhelming sensations, longing for more yet teetering on a precipice she had never known.

Alistair sensed her impending release and slowed his movements, granting her a fleeting moment to catch her breath. He took his time, exploring every inch of her with a skillful tongue, drawing out pleasures she had only dared to dream about.

His hands gripped her hips possessively as he savoured her, his tongue teasing and flicking over her sensitive flesh. Gwen felt herself spiralling into a hazy bliss, coherence slipping away as Alistair brought her closer and closer to the edge. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, he added a finger, thrusting it inside her while continuing his tantalizing assault on her clit.

The moment he struck the perfect rhythm, Gwen cried out, her body surrendering to the intensity of the orgasm that washed over her like a tidal wave, pleasure radiating from her fingertips to her toes. Alistair didn’t relent; he continued to worship her until she was trembling and breathless, begging for him to stop.

Finally, he relented and moved up to capture her lips in a deep kiss, tasting herself on him - intimate and delicious. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, her heart swelling with an uncertainty that felt akin to home. At that moment, she knew she would never want to let him go again.

As they both caught their breath, Alistair rolled off Gwen, yet he stayed close, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her against his chest. The warmth shared between them created a cocoon of intimacy, and they reclined in comfortable silence, the air thick with unspoken feelings. Time seemed to stretch as they savoured the quietude, a gentle rhythm of heartbeats filling the space. After a few moments, Alistair turned to her, breaking the peaceful stillness, his voice low as if not wanting to shatter the delicate moment.

"Was that alright?" He asked, a hint of masculine pride in his tone.

Gwen smiled, happier and more sated than she could ever remember being. "It was perfect.”

Gwen nestled her head against Alistair's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his pulse. It was a sound that spoke of life, of survival - of a future uncertain yet no longer faced alone. He smelled faintly of sweat from his recent exertions and the herbal soaps from the bathing chamber, a comforting scent.

"Are you warm enough?" Alistair's voice was a hushed whisper, tinged with concern. The gentle brush of his fingers across her scarred back was both an inquiry and an affirmation. Here, in the dark, with only the shadows to witness, Gwen allowed herself to be vulnerable, her usual armour set aside.

"More than," she murmured, the heat from both their bodies plenty. She had survived much harsher conditions than this. Gwen felt Alistair's lips press a tender kiss atop her head, silently acknowledging her words.

As they lay there, Gwen's thoughts meandered through the winding paths of what-ifs and maybes. She thought about the Calling that haunted her every moment, both awake and at rest, the gnawing fear of the Darkspawn taint within her veins. But in Alistair's arms, those fears receded like the tide, replaced by a blossoming hope that perhaps she could belong after all - at least to him.

"Thank you," she whispered, not just for the physical closeness but for the understanding that bridged the gaps between them. For the laughter that chased away her darkest thoughts, for the acceptance that mended the fractures in her soul.

Alistair's response was a soft rumble, a sound that vibrated through her in a comforting resonance. "There's nothing to thank me for, Gwen. This is where I want to be. Here, with you."

In the stillness, with the night pressing against the windowpanes, Gwen allowed herself to imagine a different kind of future - one where her past and her blood did not define her, but by the choices she made and the bonds she formed. And as sleep began to claim her, lulled by the cadence of Alistair's heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Gwen realized that this, here, was what it meant to feel truly alive.

This is what she had been searching for.

Next Chapter

A/N: Long chapter is long. I probably should have split it up but… I didn't want to. There's only one other chapter that's longer than this one, but I hope you enjoyed it!!

Not pictured in the baths scene: Darcy twirling up a towel to whip Alistair across the ass like an annoying little brother.

[thessalian]

Jallira!Warden vs Chance Meetings

Ostagar

Alistair: I don’t believe you have me wearing King Cailan’s armour.

Jallira: Is it that problematic? I mean, it’s good armour, and also it’s been on darkspawn and even after washing it we need to be careful of the taint around anyone but a Warden ... and ... you know, even if it did fit Sten, it’s probably a good idea that a Fereldan wears it?

Alistair: Well ... yes, but ... I mean, it’s just...

Jallira: Let me guess. You will tell me later.

Alistair: ...yes.

Jallira: Though honestly, given that I met King Cailan wearing that armour ... and seeing you in it now ... either we are very much haunted by coincidence or I think I may already have an idea.

Alistair: ...........riiiiight, I keep forgetting you and details.

Jallira: Speaking of... *hands over Joining chalice*

Alistair: ...I ... are you sure you don’t want to keep this?

Jallira: It belongs to all the Wardens, you’re technically senior, and honestly my backpack is getting a little full. Please hold on to it for me?

Leliana: Did she just ... distract him from an obvious sore spot with cute and logic?

Wynne: She does that. She learned logical arguments from the Tranquil and everything else is ... just her. She used it to wheedle second dessert out of people just so she could give it to new arrivals or anyone who looked sad. Or to get someone taller to get a book from the higher shelves for her.

Leliana: Aww.

Wynne: Yes, adorable until you realise those books were up there for a reason. Eight-year-olds should not be given access to the Spiritorum Etheralis and should definitely not be summoning spirit nugs just to have something to cuddle.

Leliana: I ... sorry, but ... that’s still just adorable.

A bit later, heading down darkspawn entrance tunnels...

Alistair: What are those two talking about, anyway?

Leliana: Tactics, perhaps? That or advice on mages getting involved with--

Alistair: I would kill for an interruption right now.

Corrupted Spiders: RAAAAAAAA

Alistair: Thank you...

Jallira: As we discussed?

Wynne: Ready.

Jallira: *Cone of Cold on nearest few spiders*

Wynne: *Stone Fist to nearest spider*

Corrupted Spider: *shatters into slush*

Alistair: .................

Leliana: ...Tactics, then. *Shattering Shot to ice sculpture spider*

Alistair: ...Ever been disappointed and not at the same time?

And, on the battlefield...

Alistair: They put the king’s body on display but ... I haven’t seen Duncan’s yet. I-- *trip* Whoops; I... oh.

Duncan’s Head: *is the thing he tripped over*

Jallira: At least that means that necromancer genlock over there won’t raise him?

Alistair: ...It dies.

Necromancer Genlock: *raises ogre that killed Cailan*

Jallira: How about that dies while I deal with the magic-user?

Alistair: ...Those are DUNCAN’S WEAPONS in your chest! GIVE THOSE BACK, YOU OVERGROWN PILE OF TAINT!

Wynne: Are you sure about this?

Jallira: I think sharing one last kill with his mentor will make him feel better. As will carrying his mentor’s sword. Shattering a necromancer, please?

Wynne: Oh! Yes.

And, later, tromping through the Wilds...

Leliana: I don’t see why we had to leave Wynne at camp. Or is it just that she’s not the mage you’re hoping to find next to you in your bedroll in the morning?

Alistair: Maker’s breath, please stop already. I’m trying to internalise doing favours for Morrigan of all people, and she looks set to blush herself into the floor.

Jallira: ...........meep...

Alistair: See? Now let’s just--

Traveller: Help! Bandits! Help!

Alistair: Jallira’s siren song. Let’s go.

Trap: *is sprung*

Zevran: The Grey Warden dies here!

Jallira: Erm ... excuse me? But first of all, there are two Grey Wardens, so less of the singular, please.

Zevran: ...You are awfully talkative for a woman facing death.

Jallira: Two ... you’re facing off against people who have survived an army of darkspawn, far too many bandits to count, and a Circle Tower entirely filled with demons, abominations, walking corpses, and possessed Templars. So I have to wonder if knowing that makes you even a little wary about attempting this?

Zevran: ...The Crows are worse.

Jallira: *Virulent Walking Bomb*

Zevran’s Backup: *explodes en masse*

Zevran: ..............all right, perhaps the Crows aren’t worse. That was ... singularly inventive.

Jallira: All right. We are now talking. Why are we having to die, exactly?

Zevran: Some taciturn fellow in the capital--

Alistair: Loghain. ...Jallira, you were saying something about Fade hornets?

Jallira: Still working on that one. So Loghain hired you? I ... honestly hope you were very well paid.

Zevran: Me? No. I’m more of an indenture, honestly. They get the money, send me to do the dirty work, and placate me with shiny objects and attractive scenery.

Jallira: ...*looks around* I suppose you do get some very nice landscapes, travelling around for ... erm ... employment...

Zevran: I meant more like gorgeous companions. Though you three put them all to shame, by the way.

Alistair: We ... three? Please say you mean the dog.

Muffin: *confused whine*

Zevran: Message received, my shield-bearing friend. But you two, now - well, I could say that I have been a very naughty boy and need to be punished, but ... well, I think only one of you would take my meaning.

Jallira: I was always a little more curious about how the Antivan milk sandwich works, in all honesty. Bondage and the domination / submission kink loses its appeal if you spend long enough in a near-literal cage.

Zevran: I don’t know about that, but ... you know about the Antivan milk sandwich?

Jallira: I read. A lot. And the Circle isn’t always particularly discriminate. That or I accidentally tripped over someone’s secret stash of smut. Either way ... I’d honestly rather not kill you but I don’t really want you going back to Loghain either.

Zevran: I would happily take a job serving you. That would mean you could keep an eye on me and I could ... well, feast my eyes upon you.

Alistair: First the lady hearing voices from the Maker--

Leliana: It was a vision, it was metaphor, and the Maker moves in mysterious ways!

Alistair: Then the literal murderer--

Leliana: Whose only action against us so far has been a stern glare, Alistair.

Alistair: And now a man who literally tried to kill us and is ... is...

Leliana: Better at wooing a woman than you have ever been or will ever be on your best day?

Alistair: ..................shutup. Look, is this really a good idea?

Jallira: I keep saying; we really do need the help. Besides, we can open up new opportunities for him.

Zevran: Indeed! When my time as bodyguard to a deadly sex goddess is over, perhaps I can go into business for myself! There is an establishment called the Pearl in Denerim and--

Alistair: I’m starting to think his only ... ‘use’ is in his smalls.

Zevran: So! Where to?

Jallira: Small cottage about three miles from here; pre-emptive strike against body-stealing witch.

Zevran: Sounds simple enough!

Three miles and a semi-conversation later, facing a giant fuck-off dragon

Zevran: NOT SO SIMPLE! NOT SO SIMPLE!

Jallira: *no reply; too busy healing people and chugging lyrium potions like they’re water*

Alistair: Listen, you under-armoured smarm-merchant ... just ... shut up and kill it!

Zevran: As you wish. *leaps up onto dragon head, stabs dragon through head, rolls off collapsing corpse*

Alistair: .....................all right; he can stay.

[bluekaddis]

Today is 11/11 which marks 101 years of Poland regaining independence and I thought it is a perfect time to publish a post that I’ve been working on for a while. 

Ferelden from Polish Perspective aka Why We Can Relate to Dog Lords So Much. 

This is a sort of compilation of my own thoughts I had while playing the games and various talks with my Polish friends. It is not supposed to force any ideas or teach others how to interpret the game. I just thought it could be entertaining for anyone interested in history and culture. I was trying not to elaborate too much on the subject here but it still ended up being A Very Long Post TM. To make this post a little neater to read, I divided this post into 4 sections:

1. History

2. Fashion and Food

3. Politics

4. Relationships with Other Countries

I will be very happy if you find a minute or two to read some of my points. If you have any additional questions or comments feel free to leave me a message :)

And once again - enormous thanks to @aeducanka​ for proofreading. I would be a poor mess without you. 

DISCLAIMERS

1. Yes, I know that Ferelden is based mostly on Anglo-Saxon England and I have no problem with that. True, I may be a little disappointed that the game includes references to so many European cultures and countries (France, Byzantine Empire, Venice, Roma culture etc.) and yet practically ignores Central and Eastern Europe completely, BUT this post is not meant to be a “Where is my representation?!” rant. If I wanted a game with Slavic culture vibes, I could always play the Witcher trilogy again. We are doing alright. 

2. I am in no way an academic specialist on culture or history, even these of my own country. I did some research, but most of facts and figures can be easily found on wikipedia. You can treat this as just some observations and headcanons of a 29 y/o Polish woman, who has grown up and lives in Poland. 

3. The main focus of this post is Poland in different moments of history. However, when talking about fashion and political system I will mostly refer to Polish culture between the 16th and 18th century. During that time Poland and Lithuania formed a dual state known as The Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. So, whenever I refer to this particular period, I will use the term “Commonwealth” instead of “Poland”. 

PART 1 – HISTORY

The country’s name origin

Ferelden means „fertile valley” in Alamarri tongue [WoT vol. 1], Poland most probably comes from the Slavic word „pole” meaning „field”. They both refer to land that can be cultivated.

History of unification

Ferelden lands were divided between many tribes until they were unified by Calenhad Theirin. He fought and defeated other Alamarri tribes’ leaders, proclaimed Andrastianism as the new official religion of his kingdom and started the Theirin dynasty.  

A similar story can be told about Mieszko I of Poland – the leader of the Polans tribe (one of many Slavic tribes of that time) who, by means of war and diplomacy, united many Slavic tribes and created the Polish country in 965. In the same year he was baptised, abandoning native paganism in favour of Christianity. Mieszko started the Piast dynasty which ruled Poland for over 400 years. He never officially became a king, though – his son, Bolesław, was crowned king in 1025.

Also, Ferelden is a relatively young country compared to countries like Orlais or Tevinter. Even if Poland has over 1000 years of history as a country, it has to be noted that some Western European countries have a longer history (eg. the Carolingian Empire or the Visigothic Kingdom). Polish lands have also never been a part of the Roman Empire. 

Fun fact – the half-legendary sword of the first king of Poland, Szczerbiec, was stolen by Prussian troops during their invasion on Poland in 1795. Calenhad’s sword, Nemetos,was lost during the Orlesian invasion on Ferelden [WoT vol. 1].

Ostagar

Now, I will tell you a story. It is about a young king (in his twenties), a little reckless, wanting to be the leader who stood against the great invading threat to his country, a little blinded by the perspective of glorious victory. Just before the battle one of his allied forces betrayed him and did not provide the promised aid. The enemy army was too strong, too large. The king’s army was defeated, the king was killed in battle and his body was taken by the enemy. The king did not have children and his younger brother had succeeded him.

No, I’m not talking about Cailan, this is the story of Władysław III of Poland.

PART 2 – FASHION AND FOOD

Fashion

All cultures in Thedas have their own style and fashion. Ferelden is supposed to be this “We like fur and warm fabrics” culture, opposite to the extravagant Orlesian style. However, I have few problems with how Fereldan fashion is shown in the game.

1. It is too early-medieval looking. I know, it is a fantasy, you can mix ancient Egypt with steampunk and nobody should care. But we see, from cultural and technological perspective, that Thedas in Dragon Age is more renaissance/baroque than your typical medieval. Heck, some elements, like the infamous Formal Attire, look like clothes from 18th or even 19th century! In comparison, outfits like Arms of Mac Tir or Robes of the Pretender (though good looking) look like something from the Vikings era.

2.  We do not see many good looking Fereldan outfits in the games. I like Alistair’s royal outfit and some of Fereldan armors and clothes from DA:2 but remember this?

Or this?

Yeah, Dog Lords can do better :/

And that’s why I like to headcanon Fereldan fashion as something more resembling the Commonwealth fashion between the 16th and 18th century. It was an interesting mix of European and Asian influences and I think it would work perfectly with canon Ferelden because:

1. People LOVED fur elements in their clothing. Fur lining on coats, fur caps decorated with feathers, pelts of wild carnivores (lions, wolves, bears, etc.) on armour  - fur was everywhere.

2. It is simple but regal. The quality of materials and patterns were more important than volume and the number of layers. A typical male noble outfit consisted of a long garment (żupan), a long, ornate sash, one of two types of cloak (delia or kontusz) and a fur cap decorated with feathers and jewels. If you compare it with the baroque fashion from France it is less extravagant and more practical. No wigs, no flounces, no man tights. 

Compare these two dudes – the older one is dressed Commonwealth style, the younger – in French style. 

The Deluge, 1974

Of course some wealthy noblemen who spent a lot of time in France or other Western countries tended to adapt their style, but from what I know it was not that common. Women, on the other hand, tended to dress more similar to their Western counterparts (especially when they wanted to look fashionable) but their everyday dresses were not that much elaborate. They also wore kontusz (though the female version was shorter) and fur caps when outside. 

Below I post some more costumes to better illustrate my point. They all come from Polish movie adaptations of H. Sienkiewicz’s novels (I looove both the books and the movies).

With Fire and Sword, 1999

The Deluge, 1974

Fire in the Steppe, 1968

And I could not NOT to mention the wonderful interpretation of Fereldan armor and clothing for my OCs drawn by @ankalime​ - I still can’t get over how beautiful they look :3

Food

From what we know, Fereldan food is very similar to traditional English cuisine (lamb and pea anyone?), HOWEVER, I can totally see some traditional Polish dishes on Fereldan tables. Let us look at this part of Alistair’s banter with Leliana:

“Now here in Ferelden, we do things right. We take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that's when I know it's done.”

Dishes like bigos, flaki or goulash (mostly associated with Hungary but also present in various forms in Slavic countries) totally fit this description. Tasty and hearty but I know some foreigners see them as totally unappetizing :P

Poland is also culturally more into beer than wine  (high five, British Isles!), so Fereldan ale fits this image, too.

PART 3. POLITICS

When I first played DA:O and heard about choosing the new queen/king on Landsmeet I was like “omg, they have wolna elekcja!”

The canon Ferelden is a feudal country, however, there seems to be less focus on the king's absolute power – instead, the nobles can choose the king they like, the hierarchy inside this particular social class is also less striking than one can expect. 

And this brings me to the concept of Golden Liberty. (I will quote Wikipedia here, I am not that smart to explain this well in English on my own).

The Golden Liberty was a unique political system of the Commonwealth – a mixture of monarchy, oligarchy and democracy. The most distinctive elements of that systems were:

- All nobles regardless of rank or economic status, were considered to have equal legal rights (and you did not have to own a town or two to be considered a noble – a large part of the nobility owned nothing more than a farm, often little different from a peasant's dwelling, and some did not even have that much). The rights were, for example:

-  Neminem captivabimus ("We shall not arrest anyone without a court verdict").  

- right to vote – every nobleman, whether rich or poor, could vote. Of course if someone was rich, they could bribe others to gain more political influence, but it is the same as today. 

- religious freedom – unlike many other European countries of the time, people in Commonwealth were legally free to follow any religion. The Commonwealth became a common refuge for people who were persecuted for religion in their homelands. The religious freedom was not restricted to nobility but to all social classes. 

- rokosz - the right to form a legal rebellion against a king who violated nobility freedoms.

- the monarchy was elective, not hereditary, and the king was elected by the nobility. That “democracy” was not, of course, perfect, as only male noblemen had the right to vote and elect the king. However, it was still between 10-15% of the population who could vote. In comparison, “in 1831 in France only about 1% of the population had the right to vote”

The Landsmeet in DA:O is basically the free election (well, maybe minus the duel :D) and I would say the Fereldan nobility does not feel obliged to be obedient 100% of the time. 

PART 4. RELATIONSHIPS WITH OTHER COUNTRIES

Orlesian occupation

We know from the game that Orlais invaded Ferelden in 8:24 Blessed and occupied it for decades. The Fereldan forces were rebelling against the occupant and finally, under the command of Maric Theirin, they won their freedom.

Again, it is a huge topic, so to summarize: Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth suffered a similar fate in 1795 as it was conquered and divided between Habsburg Austria, the Kingdom of Prussia and the Russian Empire. For 123 years Poles have been trying to regain their country, have started several uprisings and lost many lives in their fight for independence. Finally, at the end of WW1, independent Poland reappeared on the map of the world. Then came the WW2, probably the most tragic event in Polish history – the cities were razed to the ground, a vast part of national heritage destroyed or stolen, and over 6 million people (1/5 of the pre-war population) were killed.

So yeah, a country invaded and occupied for decades by its neighbour sounds way too familiar to be ignored. 

Ferelden in the eyes of Orlesians

The Fereldans are a puzzle. As a people, they are one bad day away from reverting to barbarism. (...) They are the coarse, wilful, dirty, disorganized people [DA:O Codex Entry: Culture of Ferelden].

Yeah... this, unfortunately, sounds familiar. I fear that the stereotype of a drunk, stupid, poor, thieving Poles (and other Slavic nations), which originated from WW2 propaganda, is somehow still alive in the West. I will not dive deeper in this subject because I want to believe my followers have their own brain cells and I do not need to explain how hurtful and offensive those stereotypes are.

My point is – I could identify easily with a fantasy country that is located east from the “centre of culture and civilisation” and is unfairly believed to be more barbaric.

So – for all two of you who bothered to read the whole thing - thanks for coming to my TED talk.I really appreciate the time you spent here :)

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 69 - Denerim

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Fereldans, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3

--

Twenty-third day of Wintermarch, 9:33 Dragon

Spring flowers bloomed along the western road to Denerim, but the column of riders and infantry that approached was no proud company in parade shine. They were bedraggled and muddy from weeks of fighting along the coast, tired from the day’s march, and while Rosslyn and Alistair straightened in their saddles as they waited at the gate to be let in, they had to roll their shoulders beneath their armour and hide yawns behind their hands. The decapitated heads of traitors watched them sightlessly from hooks set into the walls above them, many of them fresh enough to still be recognisable despite the depredations of the crows. Mother Berit wasn’t among the number, perhaps saved by her Chantry connections, but Bann Loren was, and next to him a younger man with blond hair and a crude green sunburst painted onto his forehead.

“That was Vaughan Kendells,” Rosslyn said, noticing the direction of Alistair’s gaze. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her, remembering what she had told him, and the lift of Tabris’ chin as she spoke of her escape from the city. “Me neither.”

Before she could do more than smile at the reply, the gate opened and an officer waved them through. The market-day traffic was thinner than it had been the last time Alistair had visited capital, and he saw more beggars on the streets, but those who stopped to watch them pass did so with open, curious gazes instead of the harried suspicion that had met them in Amaranthine. On impulse, he nudged his horse closer to Rosslyn and held out his hand. Gaze soft, she took it and linked their fingers together as she had in Uldred’s dream, only this time they bumped knees, and there was a smudge of dirt under her eye, and all of his bones ached from days on the road to tell him it was real. People cheered, and it made her blush.

Her smile still lingered when they reached the palace gates and dismounted to hand off care of the army to the officers, and their horses to the grooms that had appeared from a side arch as if by magic. In the momentary confusion, he stepped close to her so he could distract himself from their formal welcome by brushing away the smear on her cheek.

The last time he had been brought to the palace, as part of Teagan’s entourage, he had been all but smuggled in under a helmet to hide his resemblance to the various portraits of Theirin ancestors hung in almost every room; there hadn’t been two flanking rows of guards waiting at attention as they walked up the steps, nor an announcement by a herald. Rosslyn’s titles outnumbered his, and it gave them a moment to pause before they were ushered through.

“Relax,” she told him. “You’re not heading to an execution.”

He only pouted. “This is just as bad as Summerday.”

“Is it really?” she asked, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Well. Maybe some things are better.”

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the wry look she tilted at him, but before he could say anything else, the doors to the great hall swung open to reveal not just Cailan and Anora sitting on their thrones on the dais, but also Rosslyn’s grandparents, straight-backed and magnificent in their finery.

“So here ye are,” the Storm Giant boomed. “At last! We were starting to worry ye’d upped and run off with her.”

Anora shot him a peeved glance. “Your Highness, my Lady Cousland, be welcome in our hall.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn replied as she sank into a graceful bow.

“I trust your journey was not too eventful?”

“Given your track record, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a slew of rescued damsels left in your wake,” Cailan interrupted. He was frowning, and a bitter, sullen note coloured his voice. “Perhaps you stopped by Soldier’s Peak to rid it of all its ghosts?”

“Not quite,” Alistair supplied, with a careful glance to the woman beside him.

The king seemed to shake himself out of his bad humour. “A jest, of course. It’s good to see you both unharmed.”

Rosslyn adjusted her stance, folding her arms behind her back as if she were delivering a report from the field. “Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine proved difficult to convince of her allegiances, Your Majesty. We are sorry for the delay.”

“We are glad of your safe arrival, of course – especially given the happy tidings you bring with you,” Anora said easily, without looking at her husband. “My congratulations to you both.”

“Indeed.” Lady Lileas, who until that point had merely watched proceedings unfold before her like an augur scrying bones, swept forward and pulled her granddaughter into a hug. “It’s good to see you, mo chridhe. And as for you,” she added, turning to Alistair with a stare that made him shrink away like a mouse, “You bested An Sgòrnan Aigeinn. I am satisfied.”

“Uh…”

“Can we be away now?” the Storm Giant interrupted with impatience. “My oald joints are starting to creak like a mizzen in a hoolie.”

“You’re not staying in the palace?” Alistair asked.

Lady Lileas smiled. “My grandson has kindly granted us use of his estate while we see to the preparations for your wedding, and we are still Rosslyn’s guardians.” Her expression darkened. “That swine left it in a terrible state. His death was well deserved. Come, granddaughter, you must wish to change out of armour, and there is much to discuss.”

A frown creased Rosslyn’s forehead. “It’s almost dark already and we’ve been travelling since dawn. I’m sure Their Majesties would not begrudge their hospitality – any discussion can wait until tomorrow.”

“You are not staying here,” her grandmother replied, as if the suggestion were absurd.

“I’m Commander-in-Chief of the army,” she pointed out. “I’m needed to plan the spring advance – the war isn’t over yet.”

“You are also not married yet.”

“This is because…?” Her eyes flew wide. “What do you think will happen? It’s not like we haven’t –” Faltering, her gaze flashed to Alistair and skittered away again as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. “We’ve been together on the road for weeks, what difference does it make now?”

“This is how things are done in the joining of two houses.” Lady Lileas drew herself up. “You know this.”

Behind his wife, the Storm Giant cleared his throat and said something in Clayne that Alistair failed to catch, but instead of lifting Rosslyn’s expression it only served to set her mouth in a line of petulant defeat. It was adorable.

“My things will need to be forwarded,” she said. “And I’ll require a schedule for meetings with the army’s officers and outfitters.”

“It will be done,” Cailan told her, having watched the whole exchange from behind steepled fingers. “And the sooner you get married, the sooner we can move your things back, eh?”

With nothing left to say, and a last helpless glance back at Alistair, Rosslyn was chivvied from the hall less like a war hero and more like a child caught shirking lessons, taking their plans for a quiet, shared evening with her and leaving him to wonder at just how quickly their fortunes had been turned around. Anora and Cailan’s gazes itched on the back of his neck, and he only barely remembered to turn to ask their leave before running after her. The clanking of his armour echoed ahead of him, and he found them already waiting just inside the entrance hall at the top of the steps. The looks being levelled at him were not favourable.

“Uh – can I have a moment to speak to my betrothed?” The word still sparked on his tongue. He doubted he would get used to it before he was calling her his wife instead, but thinking about that too closely made him dizzy. “In private?” he added, as he slipped his hand into Rosslyn’s.

The Storm Giant nudged his wife with his elbow. “Ach, go on.”

The clan leader of the Mac Eanraig pursed her lips at him, but it didn’t quite hide the twitch of her amusement. “We will wait in the carriage.”

He didn’t dare breathe until Rosslyn’s grandparents had reached the bottom of the steps, and then, spying an unobtrusive side door leading off the hall, he tugged on their joined fingers and pulled her after him with only the thinnest veneer of patience. The door swung open easily onto a small room lit by a single arrow slit, and the latch clicked back into place behind them an instant before he dropped her hand so he could take her face instead. She giggled as her forehead pressed against his.

“What is this place?”

“A storeroom – something – I don’t care,” he answered. “How long do you think it will be before they come looking for us?”

Gently, she shook her head and nudged a kiss against his lips. “Nowhere near long enough for all these layers of armour, my love.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he purred.

“I’m sure.”

One gloved finger traced the line of her jaw. “I told you we should have stayed in bed this morning.”

“Soon, we’ll be able to stay in bed every morning,” she reminded him.

“In our bed.” His breath stuttered.

“No sneaking away back to separate rooms.”

“Then…” He steadied himself and found her hand again. “This is just another reason why Guardian can’t come fast enough. How am I going to last without you for so long?”

She laughed, lightly pushing him away so she could get to the door again. “I’m not disappearing off the face of Thedas, and it’s only a few weeks. We’ll see each other every day – we’ve been through worse.”

“I’ll dream of you,” he promised.

“My grandmother would be scandalised.” She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth as she turned to leave. “Everything will be fine.”

--

It was not fine.

Aside from the wedding plans – fabrics and food and guest invitations and the small feud that erupted between Anora and Rosslyn’s grandmother because of it – they were kept ridiculously busy organising for the march south, and assisting in the city’s rebuilding efforts. They saw each other only in snatches for daily meetings, and barely exchanged two words that were not about policy or supplies. In addition to the schedule, Rosslyn had to drag herself across the city every morning to oversee the army’s drills, which meant most moments she had to herself during the day were spent trying to catch up on sleep.

To keep himself from missing her too much, Alistair took on oversight of the alienage. Nobody else seemed to care about the damage done to the elves, and while Cailan indulged him, or perhaps lacked interest, many of the other nobles already in attendance for Wintersend muttered that he was wasting both time and money on a worthless cause. They quieted after he pointed out that having to contend with an uprising would only add to the strain being faced by all of them, but having to appeal to their self-interest left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anora, at least, offered support for his efforts. As the time went by and Cailan’s preoccupation with finding Loghain took up more and more of his thoughts, the day-to-day politics of the palace fell to her. For this reason, relations with her continued to be fraught, especially in regards to military matters. She didn’t like people stepping on her toes. She didn’t stand for breaks with decorum, either, but she was fair and even-handed in her judgements, and for the sake of peace, Alistair tried his best to follow her lead and stay out of her way.

The only bright spots in all the blandness of days passing too slowly came in the notes he and Rosslyn managed to smuggle to each other during meetings and meals, the only times they got to touch, or even stand next to each other. She had passed the first to him in a chance encounter in one of the corridors, a brief press into his hand and she left with just the flash of her smirk tossed over her shoulder, and a glance down to where a neatly folded square of paper sat in his palm. Before anyone could call him away, he had slipped into a nearby empty room and pored over the lines, just a few sentences written in her elegant hand, but more than she had been able to say to him since they had arrived in Denerim.

I’ll not trust any messengers this time save our own hands, my love, and the time cannot come soon enough when I get to hold yours. When I get to be alone with you. When I can fall asleep beside you once more and never again worry about how long it will be until we must part. I love you.

He passed her his reply with the salt cellar at dinner.

I love you too. I wake up thinking of you. I miss curling around your body and waking you with kisses, even if your hair so often gets caught in the middle. I miss the sound of your voice and the brightness of your eyes. I’d write poetry about them, but you haven’t married me yet and I don’t want to risk it.

It became a game between them, this sly exchange of notes, each one a tiny rebellion at the strictures of propriety, a private conversation when no privacy was allowed.  

My hair would not get so wild if a certain someone didn’t take such delight in tangling it the night before. In case you start to worry, that was not a complaint. I miss your voice as well, and your hands, and what both can do to me, although one benefit of distance is that I get to admire my future husband from afar without him noticing. Your footwork showed great improvement when you were sparring today, though you still drop your elbow too far when you block.

~

You enjoy making me blush, don’t you? Perhaps I can return the favour, Wife-To-Be. There was a moment in the gardens yesterday where you were wandering among the shrubbery with no idea that I was stuck only a floor above you, listening to Brantis drone on about the advantages of a trade deal Cailan has already agreed to. My attention may have wandered, and my hand was nothing but a thrall to the vision before me. I’m sure you can guess the subject.

~

I will treasure this likeness, my love, if I am allowed to keep it? I ought to admonish you for not paying more attention to Brantis, given how hard he tries, but I find I do not have the heart. The expression you captured here, is this truly how I look? Rest assured that I am blushing profusely, though I made the mistake of opening your offering for the first time while in the same room as my brother. Fergus seems to have taken it upon himself to stuff a year’s worth of insufferable brotherly affection into a few short weeks, though in hindsight I should not have told him your note included a sketch. He also says if we want to keep these messages secret, you ought to do better containing your grin in the exchanges. I told him to boil his head.

~

I am glad you like the sketch. It’s yours. I might never do you justice, but maybe in the future we’re to have together, I might practice? You looked tired when I saw you today (yesterday, by the time you read this), and you cannot tell me Wintersend isn’t preying on your mind. I know you too well. I cannot tell you how to feel, but please remember that I love you. So much.

As the holiday approached, Rosslyn’s sombre mood grew more pronounced, and she withdrew into herself. In the palace, the time was marked for celebration, and the festival spirit was upheld by an army of harried servants made busy decorating and preparing guest rooms for the visiting nobles – but it had also been a year since the sack of Highever, since Fergus and Rosslyn had marched away to war and returned to find a ruin. Alistair did what he could to bolster her spirits, but short of slipping his night guard and breaking into the Cousland estate like a common thief, there was little remedy for the nightmares she refused to admit were plaguing her again.

On the morning of the feast he spent an extra hour in the lists, trying to beat out his nerves on practice dummies. The usual meetings had been put on hold for the day, which meant he wouldn’t see her until she arrived with the rest of the guests just before sundown. It would be their first public appearance as a couple, the only one before the wedding, and that meant extra fuss in his attire lest the assembled nobility find him lacking either as a prince or as a prospective husband. Besides, he wanted his betrothed to be impressed.

While he bathed, Marten lay out the same rust-red doublet he had worn for Summerday, with the addition of the mantle made for the voyage to the Storm Islands, and the bracers Rosslyn herself had given him to meet her grandfather. He traced his fingers over the embossed leather as his valet fussed with his collar, remembering. He had almost kissed her after she helped him put them on the first time. Looking back, at what came later, he was glad he hadn’t but he wondered if she knew. Even during the darkest part of his time in Orzammar, he had worn the gift, too stubborn and too hopeful to give them up, and now he couldn’t stop smiling, and the day when he would become her husband rose barely a week away on the horizon, a lighthouse guiding all his thoughts to safe harbour.

“You’re all set, Your Highness,” Marten pronounced, bushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Alistair fiddled with a sleeve.

“You know her better than me, milord,” the valet pointed out. “I wouldn’t dare presume her taste in outfits.”  

“Right.”

Marten licked his lips. “No one’s in doubt that she loves you, but if you stand up here all night worrying – well, that’ll hardly do you any good, now will it? I’ve done the best I can for you.”

“And you have my eternal gratitude for it,” he replied.

With one last glance in the long mirror, and a deep breath to steady himself, Alistair nodded and left the room. When he reached the door to the king’s chambers further along the corridor, it was a maid who answered his knock, and she told him both Cailan and Anora were still indisposed. Then she shut the door again with a decisive click, before he could say anything else. He shifted on the balls of his feet. The light outside the window was fading from the brightness of late afternoon, which meant a good number of the guests should have arrived. He didn’t want to lurk in the hallway, awkward and bumbling and gossip-fodder for any servants who happened to catch a glance of him in all his worried finery, but he also didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself in the hall – Isolde had always sneered that he got under people’s feet, and however much he tried to block it out, the contemptuous echo of her in his mind remained persistent.

But Rosslyn would arrive soon, if she wasn’t already waiting for him. He could make small talk pretending to oversee the final preparations for the feast until she arrived, and then, he reasoned to himself as he walked, he could talk to her. He could spend the whole night talking to her, and nobody would be able to stop him. Maybe he could sneak her away, to some shady corner where he could hold her hand, and run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her. His thoughts wandered far enough in imagining it that his foot slipped on the first step of the landing and he only saved himself from tumbling all the way to the bottom of the stairs by snatching his hand out for the banister.

“Ow,” he grumbled, massaging his shoulder. “I really hope nobody saw that.”

Allers, the royal guard stationed in an alcove a little way away, made no response to his suspicious glare.

“Alistair?”

His face heated. It was Rosslyn. She stood at the base of the stairs with one hand on the banister and the other lifting the hem of her gown to keep it out of the way of her feet, frozen in the act of rushing up to meet him.

“Huh?”

She was in deep blue damask, the folds of the sleeves and the low, broad dip of the neckline richly embroidered, the fabric outlining the curve of her waist. Her hair fell in a thick black curtain down her back, braided and pinned with the aurum laurel wreath she had worn in the Storm Islands – and around her neck, bare on her pale skin for all to see, his amulet hanging at the end of a delicate silverite chain.

“You fell,” she said.

“I –” He swallowed. “Only for you, dear lady.”

She rolled her eyes, but waited as he skipped down the stairs to meet her, and smiled when he caught her hand to press his lips to the knuckles. Close to, the elegance of her dress didn’t quite hide the slump of her shoulders, nor the brittle fatigue that tightened the corners of her mouth.

“You’re early,” he murmured, still holding her fingers.

She shrugged. “There wasn’t much left to do at the estate, and I wanted to see you.”

“I’ve wanted to see you, too.” He leaned forward. “And I’ve wanted…”

Before he could finish the thought, she reached up and pressed a halting finger against his lips. “I had to drag Fergus with me.”

Fergus. Of course. He followed the tilt of Rosslyn’s head to where her brother stood not even that far away, with one eyebrow raised and his arms folded across his chest, the very picture of a concerned guardian who had just caught someone nefarious swooping down on his charge. Alistair, preoccupied with other things, had completely failed to notice him.

“Ah – um. Your Lordship! You’re looking well.”

“Your Highness,” Fergus answered mildly. “Please, do carry on with my sister. It’s not like our grandmother is in the next room, wondering where we’ve snuck off to.”

“You could go and stall her if you like,” Rosslyn suggested, and when her brother only returned her a flat look, she frowned. “Please, Ferg? I did it for you – for weeks.”

“Only because I bribed you,” he retorted, but his face softened. “Fine, I’m going. But don’t do anything too outrageous.”

“I think that means you’re not allowed to spirit me away to somewhere nobody can find us,” she huffed as he ducked through the door, already looping her arms around Alistair’s neck.

His hands found her waist. “Damn, that’s my plan foiled, then. Please tell me I can kiss you, at least?”

“You may,” she giggled.

“Good.”

His heart thundered more than it should for such a simple brush of lips, but before he could sink too far into the feeling, he pulled away so he could see her expression. Her eyes were still closed, her head turned into his palm like a flower angling its petals towards the sun.

“How are you?” he asked.

A sigh, and her eyes fluttered open to focus on his chin. “It… hasn’t been a good day. I’ve tried to keep myself busy, but it hasn’t really worked. It’s been a whole year, and yet all I’ve been able to think is that they should be here. That it’s –”

“Not your fault,” he interrupted firmly. “I wish I could have been with you – I mean, not that I don’t every day, but today especially, I wish I could’ve been there to make it easier.”

“I had your notes,” she reminded him with a weak smile. “That kept the worst of it at bay.”

He grinned. “Did it now? In that case, I’ll feel a little better giving you this.” With the flourish of a showman, he reached into the end of his sleeve and pulled out a folded square of paper. “For later,” he explained. “When you don’t have an audience. There’s words in it that I hope are reassuring, but also – since you liked the last sketch so much, I thought as a distraction…”

Their fingers brushed as she took the note from him. The blush rising in her cheeks chased away the wan tone of her skin, and for a moment Alistair allowed his mind to linger over all the other scandalous ways he might prompt such a reaction.

She smirked at him. “If it needs to be so private, I had best keep it safe.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, she folded it once more and with nimble fingers slipped it down the front of her dress. Alistair stared. She smoothed her hands over the silk to make sure nothing poked out where it shouldn’t, unconcerned. It was a perfunctory gesture, businesslike, and yet far too thorough to be innocent.

“Are you alright?” she asked sweetly, once she was finally satisfied that everything lay in its proper place.

He managed a strangled sort of noise. “Nothing a long soak in Lake Calenhad wouldn’t cure.” When he caught her expression, falling from a smirk into true concern, he shook his head and pulled her closer, until they were standing hip to hip. “I’ll manage. And don’t think I won’t get you back for that little performance.”

“You started it.”

“You like tormenting me.”

She laughed at that, and darted a quick kiss against his mouth that he was too slow to return. “Shouldn’t you be going to greet your guests?” she asked. “Where is the king?”

“Applying the finishing touches, I think.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on Cailan or his moods, not with Rosslyn in his arms. “We should be safe from disgrace, in any case. One is only late if one arrives after royalty, after all.”

“You are royalty, my love,” she murmured, smiling wider as he waggled his eyebrows.

“And soon you will be, too.” The reminder stole his breath. “Uh… shall we?”

The eyes of every guest turned to look at them as he appeared in the doorway with Rosslyn on his arm, but for once, he didn’t mind the attention, or the wave of movement that swept through the room as people bowed to him in greeting. Her grandparents stood in one corner with Fergus, given their own deference as foreign dignitaries, and while the back of his neck heated under their knowing gaze, there were enough distractions elsewhere to keep him from too much embarrassment.

He even managed to avoid glancing lower than Rosslyn’s collarbones. Mostly.

“Aye, and don’t they make a handsome couple?” Bann Ferrenly preened once he caught them into his orbit. “I predicted this, you know. I said to my dear Raina, ‘We can’t have these two in such close quarters without them falling for each other. Mark my words,’ I said, ‘There’s much to admire in him, and he would be a fool not to see the quality of such a lady!’”

“Of course,” Bann Aldubard agreed stiffly. “Who could have predicted otherwise?”

At the other side of their circle, Arlessa Élodie of South Reach laid a delicate hand on Rosslyn’s arm. “I, for one, am glad that this war has not been all tragedy – we must move forward, must we not?”

When Cailan and Anora eventually joined the gathering, even Bann Ferrenly was almost out of anecdotes, so it was a relief to follow the line of torches the servants had lit in the darkened gardens, to where a troupe of mummers had set up a stage in front of an open-fronted pavilion furnished with a long table that was already groaning with food. As the nobility were directed to their seats, the troupe master welcomed them and announced a performance of Dane and the Werewolves. At first, Alistair kept his eye on his brother and the carafe of wine placed by his elbow, but though Cailan looked tired, he was dressed in fresh clothes and his hair had been brushed and braided, and he was minding Anora’s voice in his ear.

Rosslyn slipped her hand into his. In the distraction offered by the players she had nudged her chair close enough to his to press against him to the knee. They could do little more under so many watchful eyes, but with every moment counting time down to the wedding, still so many days away, it was enough.

“To us?” she suggested when the servers had filled their goblets and everyone else was preoccupied with the strut of the warpainted hero onto the stage.

He touched his cup to hers and leaned across with a kiss. “To spending our lives together,” he agreed.

--

It was only the following morning that he spotted the note she must have slipped inside his tunic. He picked it off the middle of his bedroom floor with his head still ringing from his hangover, his thoughts whirling about the one he had given her, whether she had opened it yet, what she thought of it, if the ink had smudged against her breasts after spending so many hours pressed to her skin. Perhaps going beyond words into illustrations was a step too far, and even now she was marching through Denerim’s streets to out him as a lecher and declare there wouldn’t be a marriage after all. If it were so, at least he’d have one last message from her to remember her by.

Today I cannot help but think about the past, but the weight sits less heavy on my shoulders knowing my future lies with you. We have fought through so much, together and apart, and it is strange to think how I ever managed without you. What if we had never met, or if our paths had crossed in some other way? Would I still miss waking up without you? Would you miss me?

His worry vanished. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the paper to his lips, wishing it could be her instead, that he could put his arms around her and drive out all her doubt.

He was at his desk and finishing his reply before he had even changed out of his smallclothes.

I would miss you. I do miss you. There is an empty space in the bed and the pillows don’t smell like you. You make me better, and make me want to be better. If someone could knock me out so I can wake up on the morning of our wedding without having to endure the torture of not being able to hold you, I would be very grateful.

~

My love, if you lie unconscious, who will distract me with such delightful correspondence? Who will smile at me as you do? And what if whoever it is hits you too hard on the head and kills you? No, it cannot be risked. You must continue to suffer, as I assure you I do as well, but only for a little while longer.

~

For you, perhaps I might make it three days, and believe me, I am counting every moment until you become my wife. I cannot wait to be your husband. I love you.

~

Two days, my love. I can barely eat for nerves.

~

I haven’t slept – can’t until I have you in my arms again. I’ll see you tomorrow.

[loghainmactir]

just you and i; repost edition

title: two last wardens  series: just you and i (1/?) relationships: male warden/loghain mac tir, male warden/alistair theirin characters: padril mahariel, alistair theirin words: 1.4k summary: The Landsmeet is only a day away, and the stress is beginning to wear at Mahariel. After disappearing into the crowds of Denerim, a friend comes to console him. notes: Hi y’all! Because of tumblr’s brand new hatred of posts with links, I’m just reposting the full fic chapters here. They’ll still be on AO3, but I’ll no longer be only updating JUST AO3. Anyway, here it is!

They had arrived in Denerim a little after midday. With foreheads glistening under the bright afternoon sun, they headed to the estate in the centre of the Market. Still dirtied and bloody from their travels, they're treated to a lunch much bigger and luxurious than they’d had in years. Two impossibly large birds sat at either end of the table, vegetables plated around them. Padril hadn’t seen that amount of food all together in one spot before in his life, and he ate little. He swore if he swallowed anything, it’d just come back up again.

Escorted through the estate by Eamon, they made themselves comfortable where-ever they were told to. After a whole year on the road, sleeping with moth-eaten blankets and weather-worn tents, wearing the same set of armour every day- it was difficult to adjust. The Arl's estate was so wildly different to what they’d gotten used to that it was jarring.

As soon as everyone was looking elsewhere, Padril escaped outside.

They’d been to Denerim a few times before for the odd job or necessary purchase. Nothing that ever required more than a day’s stay, but the experiences made the crowds less overwhelming. Regardless, he kept Eamon’s estate within eyesight the entire time. He imagined it was all too easy to lose one single elf in this city; if anyone really needed him, they’d find him easily.

Padril settled at a stall run by an elderly human woman. She was hunched over and covered in wolf furs to protect her from the chilly Ferelden wind, her grey hair tied back in a tight bun. Her little wooden table was full of hand-made scented candles and soaps and incense. If she ever turned her nose up at his pointed ears and the vallaslin on his skin, he didn’t notice.

His eyes scanned the table for a moment, and he plucked a bar of cream soap from it. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in; it smelt like honey and vanilla, and he paid three gold extra for it. Well, he was going to die in the next few days, he figured he’d better smell good doing it. Padril turned around, about to pocket the soap, but instead he ran straight into what felt like a big, human-shaped metal wall.

They caught his elbow as he stumbled backwards, and a light chuckle came from them– oh, it was Alistair. He hadn’t removed his armour– then again, neither had Padril– and it made him look bigger than he already was. Alistair was tall and soft under all that metal. Good for hugs. But running into him like that kinda stung.

For the first time in a longest time, there was a warm smile on Alistair’s face. “Hey there, bud,” He greeted. “Preparing for the Landsmeet?”

A smirk played on his face. As much as he had come out to avoid the Landsmeet discussion, Alistair was one of his best friends. So Padril offered the bar to him. “Yeah, actually. Thought you could use it! You’re the worst smelling shem I’ve ever met!”

Alistair laughed and took the bar– his face crinkled as he smelt it and he tossed it back to him with a shake of his head. “I’m much more of a, uh, lavender kinda guy.” He admitted. “Uh—if you’re not busy right now, d’you– um, want to go talk?” Padril gave a sharp nod, and he followed him out of the market, hit the main streets of Denerim.

The streets were full of people; refugees from the blight were everywhere. Bleeding and crying in the alleyways, sleeping on steps, begging for copper at the corners. It was hard to move, and it took almost thirty minutes just to walk to the docks. Padril kept his hand on his coin-purse the entire trip.

They settled on the end of one of the wooden piers. Padril pried off his leather boots and let his feet dangle to the water underneath. Alistair sat a little back, made sure his metal boots didn't get wet. The sun was warm, and the water was bright blue and sparkling. For everything that was happening and was about to happen– it was beautiful. As beautiful as a city like Denerim could be, anyway.

For a few moments they sat in a comfortable silence, staring out at the Amaranthine Ocean. It was then that Alistair cleared his throat. “So... it’s tomorrow. Are you nervous?”

A hollow laugh escaped Padril’s throat. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this. The Landsmeet— it’s full of nobles who’ve known Loghain their whole life. Or, almost. What have we done to earn their trust? For all they know, we’re the traitors.”

“Funnily enough, when you left that’s what Eamon talked about. He says there’s some who aren’t too sure about him. Like we can convince them we’re worth listening to, that the Blight is the real threat here.” Alistair scowled for a second as silence fell over them again. His voice grew grave. “We can do it. We have to. For Cailan. For Duncan. They need justice.”

As sure as Alistair sounded, Padril wasn’t quite there. “I’m so tired of everything.” He sighed heavily. “I want it to be over.” A thick arm wrapped around him, and suddenly, Padril was leaning into it— it was grounding, comforting.

“We can do this,” He repeated. “I mean, really, look at what we’ve survived so far. Zevran’s assassination attempt—“ That made Padril laugh, “The tower, the Anvil. We found Andraste’s ashes, Padril. We did that! What’s one more man to us, huh? That’s all he is.” It was clear he was trying to be reassuring. He was trying so hard— Padril appreciated it. “And afterwards we’ll go to Highever for Duncan, and Orlais for Leliana and Sten’ll go to Par Vollen but we’ll bake him cookies. We’ll have to find Wynne a giant quilted blanket—“ He stopped himself. “We’ll be ok.”

“Eamon will still want you to be king, you know.”

“I know.” He sounded so uncomfortable— Padril felt guilty for even mentioning it. “But they’ll find someone else. I mean, they’ve got to. I— I’d make a horrible king. A terrible one. Really! Could you imagine it? Me, in all those fancy robes? Ick.” Alistair pulled away, then, and gave a shudder. “Morrigan’d never let me live it down. I can hear her mocking me now. And all those meetings they have to attend— nuh-uh. Nope! It’s just… such a bad idea.”

He’d started to ramble. Usually, Padril would’ve listened regardless– but his mind was wandering. The cold seawater splashed against his legs, and he kicked it back.

“They’ll find some poor sod who actually wants it,” Alistair continued. “Like– oh, maybe one of the Couslands. I know they’re, um, few in numbers these days, but I think the youngest and the oldest children are still around. Fergus– the older one, I think?– is meant to be pretty popular. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway–“ He caught himself again, and quickly shut himself up. He could tell he was starting to feel self-conscious, now. It radiated off of him like heat, made the silence enveloping them awkward and uncomfortable.

So the elf nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and offered his most reassuring smile. It was a struggle, but for Alistair, he’d muster it. “I love you, y’know. And so does everyone else. We won’t let anyone rope you into something you don’t wanna do.” He promised.

It got Alistair smiling, at the very least. “I love you too, bud. Y’know, out of everyone it could’ve been– I’m glad I have you here. I dunno if we’d have gotten this far without you.”

Padril couldn’t help it, but he snorted. “Oh, trust me,” He grabbed his boots from where they sat by his side. “Anyone could’ve done this a lot better.” Before he could protest, Padril yanked a spare rag from the pouches at his belt, dried the water from his skin, and pulled on his boots. “C’mon. We better go see who Eamon thinks we should butter up first.”

He offered his hand down to his friend, and Alistair took it. Padril made sure he was a few steps ahead of him, avoiding his eyes. The Landsmeet loomed over his head. And what awaited them if they really did fail? Execution? Loghain would never realize the threat of the Blight in time. It was already too late. The past year would be for nothing, and Ferelden would probably fall. And it’d all be on him.

Creators, Padril thought. Why hadn’t everyone just left me to rot like they had Tamlen?

[twinbladeslegacy]

23 Cloudreach, 9:30 Dragon

After several days’ journey, we’ve finally reached Ostagar. The shem king, Cailan, is nice enough for king. He hasn’t a clue what goes on in his own city’s alienage, though he doesn’t seem to be ignorant by choice — he said something when we met about not being allowed to visit the alienage. Though, who is above a king, I wonder?

I wish Shianni and Soris could have seen the look on the shem king’s face when I told him what I did to find myself at his service. Duncan hastily smoothed things over and diverted the King’s attention back to the supposed Blight, but it was nice to have the full attention of the most powerful man in Ferelden if only for a few minutes. I only wish Duncan had let me tell him exactly what goes on in his city without mincing words.

I’ve met the other recruits, two shems called Jory and Davey and they seem nice enough. How funny it is, the way the Maker plays with our lives. Jory is from Highever, though our paths wouldn’t have crossed had I gone there with Nelaros. Davey, like me, is a criminal saved from the noose by Duncan’s perfect timing... though his crime was petty theft as opposed to murder, but who’s counting?

There’s also another Grey Warden here, a funny shem called Alistair. He doesn’t seem to have been part of the Wardens for long, since he’s still full of jokes and none of Duncan’s grumpiness.

I also met Teyrn Loghain. He seems like a nice man. A smart man, honestly, and far smarter than the King. The Teyrn seems to also find the King a little too eager to dive into battle as if we’re only playing at soldiers here. Not that I can say much, wearing my mother’s armour and having only a skirmish at best under my belt, but the King doesn’t seem to be taking any of this seriously.

Ostagar is impressive, even as a ruin. It’s far larger than Denerim castle, and the Kocari Wilds are a beautiful backdrop. Duncan says we are to go to the Wilds to collect vials of darkspawn blood for this “Joining” ritual. I have a bad feeling about this, but it’s not like I have much of a choice.

[trulycertain]

The Right Thing

The crown prince of Ferelden can’t possibly have a future with a common guard. Can he? 

This is a remix of Soldier’s Mask by Aphreal, which is one of my favourite fics ever written, and also one of the few things she’s written that isn’t entirely angsty, so I decided to make the reverse AU... really, really angsty. Sorry, Aph.

(I nearly titled this “nothing’s gonna change my world” or “shadows of my name” but both would’ve been a little on-the-nose, I suppose.)

“Wow,” he manages. “And… ow.”

He supposes he was asking for it, really, swaggering in like some arrogant idiot and challenging the members of the guard. It’s not as bad as it sounds: he’s trained with them before, and he’s heard them uttering about how “the spare boy’s not too bad.” It gets him out from under his father’s feet, at least, and Maric seems to prefer him anywhere but around. Or, you know, anywhere that might block the light for Cailan while they’re talking about the business of kinging. (Is kinging even a word? Does it matter?) Because Maker forbid he forget who the real heir is here, even if everyone else should; it’s still slightly more “secret” than “open secret,” but that’s threatening to change every day.

Anyhow, none of that is helping to explain how he ended up on his arse in the mud, grinning up at a guard who has a sword – a really, unnecessarily big sword, one that puts even some of Cailan’s collection to shame – to his throat.

So: here’s how it went. Arrogant idiot wandered into the training yard and offered to spar, but not to first blood, and not the face, because “my father might kill me if I don’t look pretty for the coronation, spare my delicate complexion.” Arrogant idiot managed to take a few guards down and had a couple of draws, then they grinned at him and clapped a helmed figure on the back, telling him to help break in the newbie. Arrogant idiot said before he could shove his armoured boot in his mouth, “Aren’t you… a little short for a guardsman?” There were a few snorts from around him, and he thought one echoed from inside the helm, too - and then they started. Suffice to say, arrogant idiot got his arse handed to him.

He stares up at his opponent, slightly dazed. “I can… see why they wanted to keep you,” he manages, breathlessly, and yes, that’s a definite laugh he’s hearing. That’s something, at least. If he can’t put up a decent fight, he can at least be a few minutes’ entertainment.

They offer him a hand up.

He takes it with a smile, and climbs to his feet. “I should be thanking you. I haven’t had a match like that in a while.”

“I could say the same.” They reach up, and then the helm comes off, and… oh.

She – definitely a she – is sweaty and flushed and her hair is plastered to her face, and there’s what might be the start of a nasty black eye developing. And she’s beaming at him, bright and carefree, like she isn’t seeing the armour or the name but a friend, someone she likes, and it’s…. Wow, he manages again, and tries not to stare.

“Thank you for the fight,” she says.

“Glad I could help,” he tries.

He really, really is. More than he can afford to be.

They call her The Lady, he learns, after doing a lot of what is definitely not eavesdropping, stop looking at him like that. They do it mockingly, because she hasn’t offered a name, and beneath the gauntlets and the dirt-edged, short nails, her skin is pale. Then there’s what looks like a mud-smeared crest on the sword (Must’ve come from some noble’s guard, they said.) That and, well.

“Talks all plummy, dun’t she?” one of the sergeants says, swigging water from his canteen in the training yard. “She sounds like she’s from up north.”

One of the others scratches at his hair. “She could be from Highever. Or… some of the Marches accents sound like that.”

The first man snorts. “Like you’ve ever been farther than Denerim.”

The other shrugs. “I’ve met Marchers.”

Someone chips in, “Nah, she didn’t mention a ship.”

“She didn’t mention much of anything. I think she said she rode here, but… Maker knows where from. Or why. It’s not as if she’s about to tell us.”

Alistair frowns at that, and keeps walking.

He ends up going back to the yard. Not that that’s unusual, but he swears he didn’t always do it this often. It’s just sparring, he tells himself. Cailan’s been needling him and Father snapped at him to make himself useful, like he’s twelve again and trying to sneak into Landsmeets. It still stings, that, because he knows he’s more of an inconvenient accident than anything else, but it’s not like he needed the reminder.

The ache’s still in his chest as he crosses steel with guards and fends them off, one after another, and he can feel them looking at his gritted teeth and the dark cloud that must be floating around his head, but he has to do something or he’ll go insane.

And then there’s that familiar figure striding towards him, without the helm this time, her hair shining in the sun, and sure enough, a whole lot of bruising on her face. He smiles before he can stop himself, and she returns it, her face brightening like she’s been looking forward to this all day. She’s about to give him injuries that will ache for a week, and she looks like she’s just been handed a gift. He shouldn’t find that a little sweet, should he?

Then she’s putting the helm on and he’s trying to fend off attacks with that greatsword. And failing. Failing in so many painful, humiliating ways, and listening to the laughter of the guards around them. He really shouldn’t be laughing too, feeling a thousand times lighter, all of a sudden.

“Do you yield?” she asks, when he’s panting on the ground and trying to work out if he has any skin left or if it’s just all one big bruise.

“I yield,” he sighs - but then she smiles at him, and he finds it hard to mind that he’s been so thoroughly beaten.

“That must be a thoroughly charming pillar,” Cailan says.

Alistair jumps and looks up from what he was meant to be reading – something on diplomacy and methods of communication. “We were just having a scintillating conversation about Antivan diplomacy,” he replies, trying to cover his expression. “Do you know they normally use three forks in one formal dinner?”

Cailan crosses his arms, leaning against the wall, and offers him that half-grin, the one they’ve both inherited from their father. It always looks awkward and maybe a little constipated on Alistair, but Cailan looks like some kind of heroic charming rogue from a tale about… slaying dragons, or something. It doesn’t matter. “Father enlightened me about that, yes.  And you’re blushing.”

“It’s… hot in here? Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

Cailan raises an eyebrow and looks at him, fiendish. “Who is she, Alistair?”

“Good question.” He closes the book and stands. “I didn’t even know we were talking about a she. I thought we were talking about someone over-stoking the fires, it’s a… it’s kind of a problem here, someone should tell the servants about that…” He’s edging out of the room.

“I really need to brush up on fighting against two-handed weapons,” he says.

One of the guards coughs – either that or it was a hastily-concealed laugh. It had better have been a cough. “I see, Your Highness.”

There’s a throat cleared behind him, and he turns from the books he was browsing.

The servant says, “There’s a guard to see you, Your Highness.”

He swallows. “Right. Bring her in, if you would?”

The servant nods and bows, and then a moment later is replaced by the guard. She bows her head, too, and he doesn’t know why it bothers him but it does. “Your Highness.”

That still feels like it’s Cailan, not him, but he ignores that to say, “I had… an offer. Well, I was more… wondering if you’d do me a favour.”

She looks him in the eye again, and it’s a relief. And best of all, she looks interested in what he has to say.

“Call me Alistair, if you’re going to keep knocking me into the dirt,” he laughs, after the seventh Your Highness in as many minutes.

She looks a little sheepish. “Of course.” She nods, and tries it out for size. “Alistair,” she says quietly, and when he can’t help smiling at the sound of it, he sees her do the same. And beneath the bruises and the flyaway hair from sparring, maybe her cheeks are pink.

…No. That one’s probably just the exertion. He has to think that so he can stay sane.

He sees her moment of panic – it’s well-hidden, but he’s been sitting at parties and Landsmeets with nobles since he couldn’t see over the tables - as she waits to see whether he’ll demand her name in return. Whether she can deny a prince. It makes something in him shrivel. “Not that you have to return the favour. Unless there’s something you want me to call you?”

“I… No, Your – Alistair.”

“Huh.” He rolls his neck, pretends to consider it. “’My Alistair.’ Kind of catchy.”

She glares at him, and it’s the sort of thing a guard should probably be reprimanded for, but he likes it. He likes it too much.

They end up travelling to Arl Wulff’s castle, what with Cailan’s coronation coming up soon. Apparently it’s a social call, but really it’s to make sure the new king will have his loyalty, when he takes the throne. It’s almost unheard of, something like this: usually a son only ends up on the throne through bumping off any other contenders. The last person to hand down the crown like this was their grandmother.

Frankly, he doesn’t know why he’s with them. It’s not like he’s going to be king, and he could catch up on his reading, or his training. But his father and Cailan insist on something about a united front, and he guesses he’s going after all, whether he wants to or not.

They take a few members of the guard with them, for security. He knows all their names except for one – but he sees bright eyes under the helm and the hint of a nod, that little, subtle gesture that means Don’t let them get too far away, the key is range, and knows perfectly well who she is.

He smiles without meaning to, and she nods, formal and appropriate for the spare prince of Ferelden – but he sees the curve of her mouth under the helm.

A couple of days pass. Cailan looks worn and he’s rubbing his forehead as he comes from another meeting with their father, his eyes tracing over a piece of parchment in his hand, but he looks up when he hears Alistair coming, and his eyes fill with gleeful big-brother malice. “I see your pillar can fight rather well,” Cailan says.

Alistair freezes. “Maker’s breath. I don’t know what you’re – “ He frowns at the parchment, tilts his head, catching what doesn’t look like the Common tongue. “Interesting letter?”

Cailan looks down at it, and then rolls it, too quickly. “Trade deals.”

“In Orlesian?”

“The rebellion was long ago, in these terms. Ferelden and Orlais have changed so much that it seems…. ancient history.” He says it with a slight, awkward laugh. “So trading seems a good way to establish trust.”

Alistair raises an eyebrow. “Father would kill you if he heard you saying that.”

Cailan casts a dark glance at the wall. “There are a lot of things he doesn’t like to hear.” He levels Alistair a piercing glance. “You should know.”

And then he sets off down the corridor, leaving a deflated Alistair behind. What in Andraste’s name was that all about?

“I yield!” he manages, through laughter. “Please, my lady, I yield.”

She blinks at him, looking surprised, and for a moment he wonders whether he’s going to end up even more black and blue. Something sad crosses her face, and then something… amused, warm. Then it’s forced back down and she says, “I suppose I haven’t given you anything else to call me, have I?”

“I can stop…”

“No, Your Majesty, feel free.”

He glares at her, because she did that on purpose.

She just gives him the hint of a smile and offers him a hand up.

“You were distracted,” she says, frowning, the after the third week they start training. Every couple of days, he’s ended up here, getting the stuffing beaten out of him and trying to learn, or trying not to get distracted by how beautiful she looks when she smiles, as if they’re just two people who enjoy each other’s company bonding through mutual bodily harm and it’s… simple.

Alistair shakes his head. “I’m just… tired. Mainly because you keep exhausting me.” He should have come up with something better, but his forehead’s stinging and he really has barely slept.

There’s the slightest uptick of her mouth, but she doesn’t look convinced. “Let me look at that.”

He should bristle at being ordered around – his father would tell him not to allow it - but instead he half-falls to sit on a chair, and then she’s producing a rag and a pail of water from somewhere. “Sit still.”

She sits in front of him, and leans to dab at the wound. The rag comes away red, and he knows enough not to panic; head wounds are always dramatic, and he doesn’t feel dizzy or shaky. Well, any more than he would anyway – because she’s so close, and her eyes are bright. She gets this little frown-line between her eyebrows, and he kind of wants to reach up and smooth it away –

Then she meets his eye, and he freezes. Her eyes are so intent on his face that he feels like he wants to shrink, or… or preen under the attention. “You can talk about it, if you’d like.”

He shouldn’t say anything. They aren’t meant to open themselves to commoners like this, there’s too much to be used… He sighs and closes his eyes. “My brother. He… he called me stupid again and thought I wouldn’t notice. And maybe if it was just this once…” He sags and feels those gentle, calloused hands cleaning the blood from his skin, checking the wound. “I don’t know what happened. We used to be… I don’t know. Not like this, whatever this is.”

“Brothers are like that,” she says quietly, and he opens his eyes. “Mine can be… a sod,” she mutters, and it’s only when he laughs under his breath that she seems to realise she’s said it. She glances at him briefly, wide-eyed, then looks like she decides to keep talking. She goes back to checking his forehead. “They suffer to help us, older brothers. It can be hard, sometimes. But he’ll mean well. Mine does. We’ve had our moments, but… most of them were good. It gets better, even when it’s hard.”

He catches her eye, then. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Her mouth goes tight, as if she’s wondering whether to regret her honesty.

“I’d ask, but… this is one of those things like your name, isn’t it? Am I ever going to know what it is?”

She looks trapped, and sad, and… something else. She stares at him. “I… Someday. Perhaps soon.” Then she ducks her head, hair falling into her face, and she says, “But if you don’t ask for names, I can tell you about the time he fell into the toad pond.”

“Now this I need to hear.”

“So,” he pants, after he’s come out of a stuffy trade meeting straight into training and almost, almost managed to best her, “how did you end up in the guard?”

She shakes her head, and then says breathlessly, “I had to do something.”

“Something other than - ?” he prompts.

“I had to help somehow. I couldn’t just… My family had my brother, and all I could do was… get married. That wouldn’t save anyone, not directly. It wasn’t about – They’d want me making sure your family was safe, if I couldn’t secure a future for ours. I had to do the right thing. Even if it hurt.”

“And that was getting shoved around a training yard and not having a bath for a week?” he laughs.

She grins. “Pretty much.”

It keeps going, after that, and when he calls her “my lady” again during one of their sessions – it just slips out, jokingly, when they’ve declared a draw and they’re both exhausted and his shield’s over… there somewhere – she smiles, going pink. He climbs to his feet with an arm on the fence and a hand in hers, and for a moment, he wants to spin her round. Instead he keeps her hand and pulls them into a turn, gently, keeping a respectful distance between them.

“What,” he says, “were we not dancing?”

And suddenly she’s spinning, and he raises his arm to let her underneath, and he wonders which of them moved but he honestly isn’t sure. He wonders when her sword got left behind, too. He pulls her closer and her hands end up in his, and they end up doing more of a careen than a dance, but her hands are in his and that bright laughter echoes round the empty yard, and it’s his favourite sound in the world.

They only stop when it starts to rain and she has to blink away droplets, looking up and suddenly realising what they’re doing. She steps away with a hint of nervous laughter, and he does the same. She doesn’t look like she regrets it, at least.

“Where does a guard learn to dance like that?” he says, still slightly breathless.

He knows he’s made a mistake when her eyes go dark, and he knows she’s hiding. Damn it, he didn’t mean – He wonders if he’s hurt her. She says, “The family… they taught me.”

Interesting, that they’d take the time to do that for a guard. And kind. He thinks again that he’d like to know who she worked for. “Right, well…” He nods. “I should be going. Tomorrow?”

She nods, and the cheer returns to her face. “Same time as usual.”

A week later, Alistair pauses next to the door of his father’s study, even though he knows he shouldn’t., because this meeting doesn’t exactly sound quiet or subtle.

“Yes, working with the Orlesians went well last time.” Father’s voice is desert-dry, and dangerous. This is the tone that was worse than shouting when he was growing up, because the consequences are usually longer-lasting and more painful.

“Your prejudice is blinding you – “

“And your naievete’s more useful. I see,” Father says, with a hint of bitter laughter. “I told you to be careful, not to disregard anything that might help us.”

“It’s not that simple. There are good people – “

“There are always good people, Cailan. I’m sure there were good magisters. It doesn’t mean you offer them your back.”

“You’re no-one to talk about trust, or offering too much,” Cailan snarls. “Or did I just imagine your bastard running round the halls and making us a laughingstock?”

Alistair goes very, very still, and realises too late that he’s standing, white-knuckled, in the corridor, where anyone could find him. He turns on his heel and walks, needing to get somewhere, anywhere, away from here. Andraste, he has to fight not to run. It might draw some attention if a prince of Ferelden is sprinting through the halls.

He only realises where he is when he’s leaning against a training dummy, probably looking like he’s engaging in the worst one-sided hug Ferelden has ever seen, thanking everything in the Fade that the training yard’s empty. His father would tell him to pull himself together or at least laugh it off, and Cailan… He really, really doesn’t want to know what Cailan would do right now. He can’t even – He can’t think, Maker, he can’t think – He scrubs a hand across his eyes, even though he isn’t crying, though that’s a closer thing by the moment and he can’t let people see him do this, what is he thinking...

“Alistair?”

He freezes. He can’t even say her name because he doesn’t know it, even though right now it feels like she might be the only person in this entire damn castle he trusts, and there’s something so wrong about that.

He feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Oh, I’m… fine. Wonderful. Today’s been…” And then he can’t do it. He put his hands over his eyes, his mouth, and sags against the dummy. He hears a high noise of pain, and realises too late it’s come from him. Well, there goes his manly pride. “Sorry. No. I’m not. I don’t think I’ve been this not all right for a while.”

“What’s happened?” Her voice is soft.

“I…” His father’s voice is echoing in his head, things about Don’t give them enough to trip you up with, but he ignores it the way he almost always has. Maker, who decided to put him in a royal family? (He wants to laugh bitterly at that, because wasn’t Cailan saying the same?) “What you were saying, about… about things getting better with brothers… I’m not sure that’s true, with mine.” He looks at her, and nothing in her eyes is… wrong, or plotting, or whatever his father and his tutors would say. All he can see is earnestness, and something deep, and sad. She has really lovely eyes, he thinks suddenly – wide and shining as they look at him, something… gentle about her face despite all the bruising and the fact she’s meant to be putting herself in front of arrows and blows for him. Maybe it’s that that makes him say, “It was about my mother. Or my… lack of one. He’d hidden it well, but turns out I really am just… an embarrassment. A reminder of my father’s mistakes, running around and making them all look bad. I mean, not that I needed it confirmed – “

“You’re not.” And suddenly both her hands are on his shoulders. “You’re not an embarrassment. Or a mistake. Or stupid, I don’t know why you keep saying that when you can recite half the battles of the past ten years by memory, or outmanoeuvre me when you forget to pretend you can’t, and you know how to talk to the guard to stop them wanting to mutiny. They say you’re the decent one of Maric’s sons, you know. They respect you.”

“You can’t just say things like that. I’m not – I’m an accident, I shouldn’t even be here…”

“That’s not true. And Cailan’s a fool if he thinks it.”

He feels her hands move to his face, and her thumbs are rubbing over his cheeks, and he can’t… He says, surprised by how raw his voice sounds, “Are you ever going to tell me your name?”

“I think I want to,” she says, and even if it’s not the answer he wanted, it’s an answer.

“Why do you keep… I’m just the spare heir who keeps walking into your training and taking up your time and pretending he knows anything, and you’re…”

“Because I like training you. Because I like you, and I don’t know why you’d think otherwise.” Her face is pained.

“Right. That,” he says, shakily.

She’s still touching his face, and the way she’s looking at him… Like he’s the world and she’s only just realised it. The yard is quiet except for the birds and his own harsh breathing, and he suddenly thinks that he doesn’t want to walk away from this. He doesn’t want to go back to being underfoot, to being with people who aren’t… her.

“Look,” he tries, “tell me if I’m wrong. Or kick me, whatever works.”

He leans in a little, and she doesn’t stop him, or say anything, and then –

He doesn’t know who closed the gap first, but her lips are soft and she makes the smallest, surprised noise – and no, this wasn’t the way he thought he’d be ending today either – before they’re kissing and his arms are around her waist, and wow, he should have done this weeks ago.

“Oh,” she breathes, when they part. She’s flushed and she still looks like her mind’s with the kiss.

“Took the word right out of my mouth,” he manages, and then realises how literal that might be and feels his cheeks heat.

“Alistair – “

“Oi, new recruit!”

They spring apart, and luckily the sergeant that called is only just rounding the corner and can’t have seen anything, even if it was a near miss.

“Give me a moment!” she calls, still looking at him.

“Later, I promise.” And he turns, all but fleeing, before one of the guard asks him why his eyes are red and he looks like he’s just been bashed over the head with something heavy.

The days pass, and there’s always some new meeting, some little request around the palace that needs making – no time for training. Cailan drags him out on a hunting trip and notices his silence, but doesn’t ask. It’s a relief; he’s too afraid he might answer honestly.

He tries everything to clear his schedule – works faster, even if he’s walking around in a daze because he’s never had a kiss like that before, when they aren’t trying to get an audience with his father or be seen with Maric’s son, and he thought his heart might burst out of his chest – and he eventually manages to get a spare hour. He’s making his way through the corridor when the uproar starts, and he looks around the corner, and he hears, “What do you mean, eloped? In Orlais?”

“Tell him to come back. You can’t… there has to be someone better,” he tries desperately. His hands are shaking, and he’s blinking back something that might be tears.

“There is no-one better,” Maric says, with a sigh. “He’d been planning this for some time.”

“Then don’t pass on the crown! There has to be something you can – “

“I can’t fight for my people, I can barely ride a horse,” Maric snaps. “I’m frail. I have been for some time, between age and the injuries. And you know what will make us look weak? The people having to watch their king rot before their eyes.”

Alistair stares. Maker, he hadn’t known it was that bad.

“And there’s a viable heir who knows his way round the families and the politics – Don’t look at me like that, we both know it’s true, and you’re a good speaker when you want to be. You’ve been trained from birth for this.”

“I’m not - ” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m a bastard.”

“You’re a member of the Theirin bloodline. That will be enough.”

“And what if I refuse? What if I run, too?”

His father’s eyes are steel. “You won’t. You’re better than that.”

“You’re wrong,” he says, and then he’s slamming the door to his father’s study and making his way blindly to his room. He sits on his bed, running white-knuckled hands through his hair, and knows in his bones that his father was right.

King of Ferelden. Maker, it all sounds – it sounds impossible, it sounds terrifying, it sounds –

I had to do the right thing. Even if it hurt.

He hears a low sound and realises that he’s laughing, and it sounds bitter even to his own ears. A man about to be crowned has no time for training, or for dalliances with commoners, or for risking his hide for people who aren’t family.

He guesses he’s never going to know her name, is he?

He allows himself a second to shut his eyes and know what he’s lost. Then he straightens up, assuming the posture expected of Ferelden’s crown prince, and prepares to walk back to his father.

[thenugking]

The Adventures of Mary Suesland Chapter 2

Chapter 1

I think the only warnings this chapter are for the slightly offensive views on mage issues, and some slight Inquisition spoilers. Also I would like to apologise to every character in this chapter for how I wrote them.

(Also remember that time I was trying to work out if anyone in the fandom wanted to fuck Ser Jory? It was for this. Sadly he is so unfuckable Emelerana will not be losing her virginity to him.)

CHAPTER 2

When Duncan and I arrived in Ostagar, we were greeted by King Cailan. He looked so handsome in his shiny royal armour and with his beautiful blonde hair! I blushed when he introduced himself to me, and told me he’d heard that I was brilliant. “And I’ve got to say, you certainly are,” he told me smiling.

“Thank you,” I told him. “I think you’re amazing too.” I’d always liked Cailan and was really sad when he died in Origins. But hopefully, I could stop that happening! “You have to take care though!” I told him. “Loghain is planning to betray you.”

Cailan looked confused. “But why would he do that? He was my father’s best friend!”

“He’s evil and power mad,” I told him. “You can’t trust him!” Duncan put his hand on my shoulder. “He won’t believe you,” he told me. “Loghain has manipulate him into trusting him too much.”

I burst into tears. “Why does no one ever believe me?” I cried. “It’s like I’m cursed!”

“It’s all right,” Duncan told me. “I’ll look after him in the fight.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “But make sure you don’t get hurt either. I couldn’t bare to lose either of you!”

I hugged him goodbye  before setting off to look around the Ostagar camp. Duncan had told me to look for Alistair and I was really looking forward to meeting him, he’d always been one of my favourite Dragon Age characters, and I’d romanced him every time.

I looked around the camp before going to find him. First, I went to the Tower of Ishal, but a guard told me Loghain had ordered that no one go in there. Of course he did, the asshole. He was such a controlling monster! Then I crossed a long bridge, trying not to look down at the battlefield below because I didn’t want to remember how horribly the battle would go. The bridge lead me into the main camp. I decided to go over to the mages’ tents first, after all I was a mage now.

There were two templars standing guard outside a small area behind the tents. “Stop,” one of them told me. “The mages past here are in the Fade, you mustn’t disturb them.”

I smiled at him. “It’s all right, I’m a mage too.”

“Very well then,” he said, and let me past.

I went past him and approached the mages who were in the Fade. Somehow, I knew just what to do. I reached out and felt magic tingle around me. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again,  I was standing in the Fade. Everything was slightly fuzzy and I could see the Black City floating in the distance. I shuddered, remembering that that was where Darkspawn came from. In front of me were the mages.

“Hello,” one of them said. “We came here to fight a demon, but we’re not strong enough. Can you help us?”

“Of course,” I said. I gasped as the demon approached, it was a pride demon, the worst of all of them, and looked really big and scary. The other mages screamed and ran to hide behind me. But I reached out and sent out a bolt of lightning to kill it. I could feel the magic of the Fade tingling around me, reacting to my power. The demon glared at me hatefully as it fell down dead. I took a deep shuddering breath, that had been terrifying!

The other mages congratulated me and we left the Fade happily. They started telling everyone about how I’d saved them! They decided to reward me by letting me take whatever I wanted from their mage chest. I was really glad, I remembered that in the game you had to talk to a horrible deserter to get a key he’d swallowed to open it, this way was a lot less gross. They also introduced me to Wynne. She was very impressed with my power and said she was sure I would make an excellent Grey Warden.

I still had other things to do before my Joining though, so I went to find the other Grey Warden recruits, Daveth and Jory. Daveth was really nice and handsome. We flirted a bit and it made me really sad that he was going to die in the Joining, I almost told him he should run away, but I suppose he wouldn’t have believed me anyway. No one ever does.

Then, I met Ser Jory. He was a lot older than Daveth and quite ugly but he started hitting on me straight away! It was gross!

“I thought you had a wife!” I exclaimed. In the game he’d been really devoted to her and was going on about her constantly.

“Well yes,” he said nervously. “But she’s not as lovely as you are!”

I slapped him and ran away.

I ended up on the other side of the camp, in the Royal Conclave. I hid between a tree because I saw Loghain leaving his tent, looking really cruel and mean, on his way to argue with poor Cailan, and I just couldn’t face him knowing what he’d do later. Then, I had an idea! If I could find evidence in his tent that he was planning to betray everyone, I could show Cailan and he’d have to believe me.

I ran over to his tent but there was a guard outside.

“Hi,” I said giving him my nicest smile. “Could I go inside Loghain’s tent please?” “Oh, well, uh, yes, I’m sure that would be all right,” he said, letting me inside.

I grinned in delight. Then, I started looking around. There were a lot of papers and battle plans but I couldn’t find anything about betraying the king. It was like he wasn’t even planning to at all! I wailed in frustration. How could I make anyone believe me now? Suddenly, I gasped in fear. Loghain was back!

“What are you doing in my tent?” he asked cruelly.

“I know you’re planning to kill the king! I told him. “And I’m going to prove it!” 

“What are you talking about?” He said. “I wasn’t planning to kill Cailan at all.” I frowned in confusion. Could I be wrong? Were the games wrong? But I’d been right about Howe. I exited the tent and turned to face him. “If you hurt him, I’ll make you pay,” I said threateningly.

He stared at me and it seemed like he was getting more evil as he did. “Get away from my tent,” he said nastily.

I didn’t want to do what he told me, but I still hadn’t found Alistair and I was looking forward to meeting him. So I glared at Loghain again and left.

I found Alistair a short way away from the main camp. My mouth dropped open when I saw him. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen and I felt myself falling immediately in love. But there was a problem. When I arrived, he was having an argument with a mage. I’d been so excited about my new magic powers, I hadn’t stopped to consider the downsides! As soon as Alistair met the Warden, he always asked if she was a mage, and was disappointed if she was. This would be a terrible start to our relationship and I wasn’t sure if I could convince him that I wasn’t like the other mages who looked down on him.

The horrible mage stormed away from him, leaving Alistair to shake his head in disgust. “You know,” he muttered, “One good thing about the Blight is-” His mouth dropped suddenly open as he turned to look at me and he started blushing. “Uh, hello,” he said. “I’m Alistair. You’re, uh, really pretty.”

I giggled. “I’m Emelerana. You’re very good looking yourself!” I told him. We were getting along really well, I’d had no reason to be worried at all!

“Thank you,” said Alistair, adorkably blushing even more. “So, I hope you’re not another mage!”

My stomach dropped, he’d had to ask, hadn’t he? For a moment, I considered just lying to him, and telling him I was an ordinary person. But I loved Alistair too much, I couldn’t bare lying to him like that. “I am a mage, yes,” I confessed. “But don’t worry! I’m not part of the Circle of Magi like that guy was!”

Alistair glared at me and I realised I’d said the wrong thing. “That’s even worse!” he snapped. “If you’re not with the Circle, you’re an apostate! I’m a templar, I can’t talk to someone like you!” He turned and stormed away, leaving me standing there miserably. What was the point in having magic powers if it meant Alistair would never love me? Why did my life always have to be so unfair? Every time something good happened to me, it would be taken away. First Chad, then my life with the Couslands, and now Alistair! I wondered if I’d ever really be happy.

I wiped tears from my eyes and pulled myself together. No matter how much pain I was in, I had to be stronger than this. I still had to stop Loghain and save Cailan and Duncan! I set off back to the campfire where the other Wardens were waiting for me.

Duncan told the four of us we needed to go to the Wilds, to collect Darkspawn blood and some old treaties, and asked for a word with me before I left with the others.

“I told Alistair you weren’t an apostate,” he told me. “I spoke to the revered mother and some templars earlier and we agreed that you’re strong and powerful enough to control your powers without having to go to a Circle. But Alistair’s still upset that you’re a mage, I’m afraid. He says he can’t trust you.”

I sighed. I was proud of Alistair for being such a good templar, but it still hurt that he would never love me now. I thanked Duncan, and went after the others, into the Wilds.

Jory was whining cowardishly, I rolled my eyes at him and went to talk to Daveth again. At least he didn’t mind that I was a mage. We got attacked by a group of darkspawn and I killed them all with a fireball, and Daveth told me how clever and talented I was.

“Hey!” Alistair yelled at us. “Stop flirting and focus on the Darkspawn!” I guess he really did hate me.

We gathered up some of their blood for our Joining and Jory asked Alistair what we needed the blood for, but Alistair refused to tell him. I almost told him just to spite Alistair, but I realised that if I did, he’d just run away right now, and then Alistair would get mad at me again. I sighed and walked further into the Wilds, ignoring Alistair shouting at me to come back.

I turned a corner and found a group of wolves. They growled at me but kept their distance. In the game, I’d had to kill them, but maybe here things could be different. I’d always felt bad about killing wolves in Dragon Age since I romanced Solas. And who knew, one of them could even be him in disguise!

“Solas?” I asked quizzically, reaching out towards a wolf.

It turned it’s head to the side in confusion. I guess it wasn’t Solas. Maybe Morrigan then, I thought, remembering that she was a shapeshifter. Wait a minute… Morrigan was able to shapeshift into animals after observing them. Maybe I could do the same!

I stared at the wolf in front of me, concentrating hard on what it must feel like. I felt magic at my fingertips and gasped, as I began to realise how to change.

“Agh!” Suddenly, I was lying on the ground, a heavy weight on top of me. Alistair had tackled me to the ground.

“Are you all right?” he said as the wolves ran away. “You need to be more careful, they could have killed you!”

“I’m fine!” I snapped. Truthfully, I was very touched that he’d tried to save me like that, but I was still upset at him, and I hadn’t needed it. “Just leave me alone, I got my Darkspawn blood, it’s not like you even need me for anything else!”

Alistair glared at me. “Well, we still have to get those treaties from Duncan.” 

I sighed. “The treaties aren’t even here!” I snapped at him. “They were taken ages ago!”

“What??” he yelled. “How do you know that?? Did you steal them?”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course not! I only just arrived in Thedas, you idiot!”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else who would have taken them!” he said.

“Twas I who took them, actually,” said a voice from behind us. We both jumped in surprise, turning round. It was Morrigan.

 Everyone except me glared at her suspiciously and asked who she was. She talked to me instead though, saying that I was braver than all of them.

“I know who you are,” I told her. “You’re Morrigan, a witch of the wilds. Your mother is Flemeth.”

“Flemeth?!” gasped Alistair.

Morrigan stared at me in shock. “Tis true,” she said. “How do you know that?”

“I’m from another world,” I told her, knowing she wouldn’t believe me.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at that. “You’re lying,” she said. “But my mother will want to see you anyway. Tis this way.”

We followed her further into the Wilds.

“The way you stood up to that witch was so brave and amazing!” said Daveth, taking my hand as we followed her.

“Thanks,” I said. “She’s not as tough as she wants us to think!” In the game, Morrigan had started at the same level as Alistair and me, she was actually quite weak. And now that I was really here, I was already a better mage than her. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” said Daveth.

I blushed and then, he kissed me!

I kissed Daveth back happily, until I remembered again that he was going to die soon. Then, I pulled away sadly. “Come on,” I told him. “Let’s go and meet Flemeth.”

We found Flemeth standing outside her hut in the swamp. I was a bit surprised by her appearance, I’d forgotten how different she looked in the first game to the second two. The men all gasped and tried to hide behind me.

Flemeth laughed insanely about the threat of the Blight and how irrelevant Jory was as she handed Alistair back the treaties. And then she turned to look at me. Her eyes went wide.

“No….” she muttered to herself. “It can’t be….”

“What is it?” I asked her. “What’s so strange about me?” “Get out of my Wilds now!” she snapped. “Morrigan, get her away from here!”

Why did Flemeth hate me so much? I knew you couldn’t trust her, but in the game she was at least helpful. I turned and stormed away.

Morrigan ran after me. “Mother said tis I who should show you out of the forest,” she said.

I was suddenly angry. “Well, who says I have to do what your mother says? You both just want to manipulate us anyway! And I’m sick of everyone treating me like this!” I ran into the Wilds before she could respond.

I sighed angrily, kicking at the ground. I’d leave the Wilds when I wanted, not when Morrigan or Flemeth told me to! Besides, maybe there was still something else I could do here. Maybe I could find the wolves again and try turning into one. Or… I thought back to my playthroughs of the Kocari Wilds. I’d found some buried treasure when with the others, but one thing we hadn’t done was fight the demon hidden in the pile of rocks. It wasn’t like I needed to fight it, you didn’t get experience points in real life, but I remembered a post I’d read on tumblr once about how the demon is meant to be a spirit that grants wishes to you. Getting a wish from a supernatural being really would be helpful right now!

I walked over to the pile of rocks, killing some Darkspawn with my magic on the way, and picked up some ash. I held it out in front of me and sprinkled it over the pile of rocks.

There was a roar, as the demon climbed out of the rock pile and glared at me, and then tried to cast a spell at me. I yelped, and got up a magic shield just in time.

“Wait!” I said. “I just wanted to make a wish, I’m not here to fight you!” “I don’t care!” the demon growled. “I kill every traveller who tries to get a wish from me!” It sent another bolt of magic right at me and I dodged to the side, screaming. I’d really gotten myself into a mess!

“Please!” I yelled. “I just want a way to save Duncan and Cailan and everyone from dying in the battle.”

The demon stopped suddenly, staring down at me. “You… want to save people?” It shook it’s head in shock. “I’ve been here for thousands of years and people have only ever wished things for themselves. But your wish is so selfless…” I gasped, as right before my eyes, the demon seemed to explode into light, and then gazed down at me, now a smiling transparent being. “Thank you, Emelerana,” it said. “Your selflessness has transformed me from a demon back into a spirit. I am going back into the Fade now, but I leave you a gift to make sure your wish comes true.” And it faded away, leaving a shining amulet lying on the forest ground.

I shrieked in joy, picking up the amulet and putting it on. Finally, a way to stop Loghain from killing everyone! Now, I just had my Joining to get through. I started back to Ostagar with a grin on my face, eager to become a real Grey Warden and save everybody.

[cactuarkitty]

Random DA:O Thoughts - Pt 12.

Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Orzammar we go!

The shop keeper at Orzammar said his wares were guaranteed by his 24hr life time guarantee. LOL

Wow I’m shocked that the first scene I saw between the dwarves is of one being killed with an axe because he disagreed with him. Maybe I shouldn’t be shocked.

What is a nub?

Well a nub is a naked rat animal thing haha. Kinda cute. Collecting the nubs now.

The King has died. There are two dwarves, a noble and a prince who I are vying for the throne. You have to pick a side. I was sooo confused I really didn’t know who to choose. I ended up going with the Prince. We’ll see what happens haha.

I had to show two nobles some papers, proving that the other guy had promised them the same land for their vote. I’m pretty sure one of the nobles had Canderous’ voice from KotoR. :D

I had to travel into the deep roads to find one of the nobles. Found it kinda creepy. More of those baby raptors who squeak awww.

Every time I die and get swapped to Alistair or something, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing haha.

Oh yeah just searching the Dwarven palace and looting chests. Just another day as a grey warden. :P

Now I have to clear some gang out. That was fun! Quite cool how they have little secret quests. Like having to take the least expensive item from each chest to be able to access their stash. Also it made me laugh that the exit was out through a shopkeepers wall lol.

Dwarves carry lots of coin.

We’re off to find Branka. Her husband I guess joined our team. Yay I have the dwarf now!

I like how Oghren says sodding a lot. His beard and hair are so red :D

Ahaha he keeps making funny comments on Alistair’s and Norua’s relationship.

The deep roads quest is very long. Only thing that bothered me about it being so long is the fact I ran out of health potions and those roots to make them.

I found Huck. He is crazy, doesn’t want me to tell his Mum he’s still alive. So I won’t.

That whole bit with the dwarf lady saying some weird poem super freaked me out! :/ Creepy.

Eww what the fuck is this brood mother thing. Gross! So they’ve been feeding her heaps of dwarfs maybe.

Killed her. Focused on her with spells while the rest of the team fought her minions and tentacles.

I don’t really like Branka much.

The totem poll fight with the spirits was super hard! Probably didn’t help that I was low on health potions.

Oh so the other paragon guy is in a golem (I forgot his name). He wants me to destroy the anvil because to make the golems they had to take actual lifes. Wow so yeah I decided I’d destroy it and of course Branka wants to fight. -_-

Awww after I destroyed the anvil he committed suicide. I guess it wasn’t much of a life for him. He made a special crown for the next King.

As planned I chose Baleen and instantly regretted it! He ordered Harrowmont to be executed :O even after I said “I didn’t give you the throne so you could be a tyrant” he refused to change his mind. I’m actually finding him super annoying now. I actually had a memory of watching my ex play as a noble dwarf, and a picture in my head that someone had poisoned others. I think it was Baelen. I felt so bad I loaded and gave the crown to Harrowmont, who was like “I’m surprised.” cause I never tried to get their trust. Baelen attacked us lol. So now he is dead. Oh well.

I said to the new king I wanted my face on a giant rock ahaha

I think I only have a bunch of side quests before the lands meet stuff, so I’m kinda at that point where I dunno what to do. I don’t really want to go to the lands meet. Maybe I’ll buy some of the dlc to do in the mean time.

It’s weird but I wondering why I hadn’t gotten Leliana’s loyalty quest to do yet, since she is at full approval. Also when I talk to her there is no new convos. Someone said that she talks about your relationship with Alistair but it’s never came up. I found out that for some reason her approval being so high has locked out convos. I had to give her some rotten onions to get it down. Then she had more convo options. There was even a cutscene with her singing which I thought was beautiful. Kinda makes me wonder if I missed other convos cause I gave them too many gifts at once. Oh no I just did that with Oghren. Oops.

I think when I play again I’ll try to talk to them more often and space out the gifts a bit more. Like one gift per quest. This time I usually gave them about 5 gifts in a row lol. What if I missed out of Alistair convos by giving him too many gifts. I actually have about 4 gifts for him now which I useless since he has the gold heart now. Don’t really wanna mess with his meter.

Haha Oghren is drunk and he told me to sod off.

Did Oghren’s loyalty. Lmao of course it’s to help him hook up XD was very funny!

Now I’m doing Shale’s loyalty. It was a cool quest. So Shale used to be a female dwarf - interesting. I guess Shale is still a they/them since they have no gender, being a golem. Actually just now in a convo with Leliana, Shale said they weren’t a she… that they are a golem.

Don’t really have much else to do so I’m going to do the prep for the lands meet. I was relieved that it wasn’t yet the point of no return.

Ugh I hate Loghian so much! And that horrible Arl who he has under his thumb. He’s obviously a snake. Gonna enjoy killing them. No fucking way am I making Loghain a grey warden.

So a handmaiden elf needs us to rescue Queen Anoia. That bastard snake arl has her locked up. I knew he was creepy! I know he has Tim Curry’s voice and he’s good at playing creepy evil weirdos haha.

Haha we had to get dressed up as soldiers. I’d never seen Norua in armour before - she looks quite striking. Not as lovely as in her robes though. Of course I had her and Al kissing before they got into the castle.

AHAHAHA OMG! I intruded on a maid giving a guard a bj XD so funny! Now he is dead. I hope he enjoyed his last moments of pleasure.

I was so excited when I found all the treasure piles in the locked room :D

Whoa a guard just got strangled. Pretty graphic haha. Poor Norua took a step back all scared like towards Al. “Hold me Alistair!” “Come here, my love. Alistair has you.” Tee hee <3

Oh it was a grey warden who had been captured. Wow so King Cailan had asked about 200 grey wardens to come help. Damn that Loghain bastard! The grey warden seems cool. Alistair had met him previously at his joining. He just told us about a wardens stash… oooooh! Exciting!

Holy crap some of the fights are super hard! Had to load a couple of times.

Yay that Arl dickhead is dead! That was a hard fight too cause he had two mages helping him.

In the dungeon there was the real Arl. He seemed to be a bit of a dick but I let him out anyway. Zevran disapproved by 5 points. Also opened the door for a captured Templar. I feel so sorry for him :( he has lyrium withdrawal so isn’t right of mind. He was captured trying to bring Jowan back. God that Jowan all he does is cause trouble. I really dislike him. Anyway the Templar asked me to give his sister a message or a ring, I can’t remember.

Rescued the queen. Loghain’s second in command (can’t remember her name) stopped us when we tried to leave. I made the mistake of revealing the queen was with us. Then the queen said we tried to kidnap her :O Norua was NOT happy! Wasn’t until later she realised she wasn’t as subtle as she could have been. Oops!

Haha Norua and Al have been captured and are in the cell together half naked. Who’s great idea was that?!

I took Wynne and Leliana to rescue them. Hehe this mission was amusing! Some of the fights were quite hard. I summoned a spirit wolf with Leliana to help us. :)

Aww when we travelled back to the Estate, the spirit wolf died. Made me sad :( I thought it wasn’t an actual wolf. Maybe I can dismiss it while in combat. Kinda gross to have the wolf just drop dead then turn into a skeleton.

The warden gave me the location of the stash - woo!

OOOOOMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGG I FOUND DUNCAN’S SHIELD TO GIVE TO ALISTAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He was SO happy!!!! He said he would cherish it forever. It was amazing! I’m so happy! Looks awesome with his Warden armour and Starfang sword too. :D 

Norua: “Who loves you, Al?” Alistair: “My sweet little rose petal.” <3

[thessalian]

Jallira!Recruit vs Ostagar

Duncan: Welcome to Ostagar. It’s my pleasure to introduce King Cailan.

Cailan: Pleased to meet you!

Jallira: ...meep?

Cailan: Are you sure this is Grey Warden material, Duncan? I mean, legion of heroes and all--

Duncan: We encountered a small scouting band of darkspawn on the way. She made one explode, and the ensuing ... erm, debris killed the others. Then she healed my very few wounds. I think she’ll be fine.

Cailan: ..............you did what?!?

Jallira: ...It’s ... efficient. I’m ... actually working on a way to ... erm, chain that? Like, those few who don’t die of the debris also get the same effect so they also explode and it probably seems a little gruesome given it’d be effectively darkspawn confetti but one spell to take out an entire war party seems remarkably efficient so I like the idea. Even if it’s a little hard on the laundry.

Cailan: ...Well! Very good! Um ... I’m sure I have some kinging to do.

Jallira: I didn’t want to scare him...

Duncan: He could do with a little dose of reality. Come; get something to eat and explore the camp. And find Alistair. That ... should be interesting for you.

Jallira: ...meep?

Duncan: I saw that Templar looking at you in the corridor at Kinloch Hold. I’d be interested to see what a not-quite Templar makes of you

Jallira: ............meep?!?

Further into Ostagar

Loghain: Oh. You’re the new Warden. Honestly, Cailan thinks entirely too much of you people.

Jallira: ..............I made a scouting party of darkspawn explode.

Loghain: ..............wut.

Jallira: Just ... saying. You ... may not think much of the institution? But ... maybe the individuals have something to ... recommend them?

Loghain: Perhaps. Still. This is folly and we should just all pray we get out alive.

Jallira: Wow. I ... haven’t met anyone this grumpy and negative since Ser Greagoir.

A little later

Jallira: Wynne!

Wynne: Jallira! I just heard about your Harrowing; well done. And you were chosen as the newest Grey Warden. Quite the achievement.

Jallira: I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, exactly, but if Ferelden needs me... Also Jowan may have kind of mucked some things up.

Wynne: Like his chances at ever seeing his Harrowing.

Jallira: Like the carpet. With blood magic. A lot of it. I guess they should be glad the carpet’s red anyway? Except blood dries to brown, so that’s probably not as helpful as it could be...

Wynne: *chuckle* Go exploring, Jallira. Your brain’s going to eat you alive on that track if you don’t derail it soon.

Jallira: You know me too well. Just I’m trying to keep my mind off a few mysteries involving the Grey Wardens and the Joining thing and I suppose if I could face the Harrowing that should be fine but I still have to ponder what on earth they could make us face and it’s also overwhelming just being outside and-- Pupper!

Wynne: ...wut.

Jallira: *is already fleeing to kennels*

Wynne: Ah.

At the kennels

Jallira: Oh, poor pupper! Will healing magic help at all?

Kennel Master: Maybe, but you’re not going to be here to heal him forever. Could you get a muzzle on him, d’you think?

Jallira: *enters kennel; rumples mabari’s ears, and gently pets while putting muzzle on*

Kennel Master: Huh. If I’d tried that on him, he’d have bit my hand off.

Jallira: *hugs mabari* Poor pupper! If I get a chance to go into the Wilds, there are herbs that will be good medicine and I will bring them back for you.

Kennel Master: That’s a war dog; not a teddy bear.

Jallira: He is a sweet and cuddly muffin.

Kennel Master: So long as he lives and can still fight, I suppose he can be a ‘sweet and cuddly muffin’ all you like.

And, further in

Jory: I didn’t expect an elf.

Daveth: You’re not what I expected; didn’t expect an elf.

Quartermaster: You there; elf! Where’s my armour?

Alistair: You wouldn’t happen to be another mage, would you?

Jallira: ...yes? Sorry? Just ... one question? Not ... related to the darkspawn; I’m saving those.

Alistair: Yes?

Jallira: I ... think ... I just experienced ... racism? For the first time, basically. Is ... that going to happen often?

Alistair: Oh, right; Circle mage. Um ... yes. A lot. I’m sorry.

Jallira: ............meep.

And, finally

Duncan: Go into the Wilds and get me some darkspawn blood. A vial for each of you. And there are treaties in an old ruin; we’ll probably need those at some point.

Alistair: Are you going to be alright, Jallira? I mean, I know you travelled to get here but that’s a lot of ‘outside’ for someone new at it--

Jallira: Herb scissors ... collecting vials ... flasks for healing potions... Finally, proper application of all my herbalism study! Where I don’t have to settle for dried herbs or whatever Aethelwain grows in pots on the windowsill!

Duncan: Really. Do not coddle her; she’s stronger than she looks.

Jory: She’d have to be. Are you sure about this?

Duncan: *grin*

Alistair: I know that look. I think I’m just going to stand back and watch whatever caused that.

And, immediately upon hitting the wilds...

Jory: Wolves! Jallira, stay back; we’ll handle this.

Jallira: *casts Walking Bomb*

Jory: Well, that did noth--

Jallira: *casts Winter’s Grasp*

Wolf: *hits the damage threshold and explodes*

Other Wolves: *are also very very dead*

Daveth; Jory; Alistair: *are covered in wolf bits*

Daveth: You were saying, Ser Knightly-Pants?

Alistair: ...suddenly very glad that the immunity to the taint is retroactive upon taking the Joining...

Jallira: *clutching staff; apologetic expression* ...meep?

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 60 - The Storming, pt 2

Chapter Rating: Explicit Chapter Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels,  Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3 or start at Chapter 1

“Blast it, where is Loren’s reserve!”

Sweat dripped into Cailan’s eyes. It mixed with the blood still fresh sprayed against his cheek, but another soldier in Gwaren black shoved into the place of his fallen comrade and left no time for the king to wipe the mess from his face. Cailan raised his sword and cut the soldier down. Around him, his royal guard hacked at Loghain’s line, absorbing the greatest impact of the enemy forces, pushing their flank hard enough to create a window of escape for the rest of the army. The mages stood in a knot behind him, protected by Redcliffe’s knights, but their attention was turned towards deflecting the arrows and ballista bolts raining on them from the walls, and without their healing spells and the entropy they would have sent into the enemy ranks, the fighting was bitter. It would be even worse when their mana ran out.

He slew another soldier and chanced a look at the rest of the field as two of his guard came forward to fill the gap. Teagan, leading the retreating flank, was almost free, and with him the hopes of the whole royalist cause should they fail to take the castle. In the brief moment when they first realised the trap, they had argued, but as the main target for Loghain’s rage, Cailan had been adamant that he should be the bait, that it should be him daring the Drake’s jaws to give more of his people a better chance of escape. He spied Loghain in the distance beyond the crush of bodies, high on a bright bay charger and unmistakable in the chevalier’s plate he had taken as a trophy so many years before. On his left sat shorter figure, and to his right a thin man in dark robes who could only be the Tevinter magister warned about in Anora’s letters. All three surveyed the battlefield safely out of arrowshot, and that cowardice alone brought a snarl to Cailan’s lips.

His greatsword slashed in a diagonal arc to block against the latest of his seemingly endless opponents, and his muscles burned in protest. Without even time to break for water, the hours since dawn had dragged, the horror of it roaring in his ears as he called for the shield wall again and again, with only his determined belief in Rosslyn and Alistair to steady him, to keep him fighting. His force was being steadily pushed back, but he kept the line under tight control to make sure one end folded more readily than the other, so they were squeezed along the wall instead of trapped against it, even if it meant the barbican now was nothing but a vain hope swarming with Gwaren and Amaranthine soldiers. Rosslyn would get Anora out. Alistair would see them both safe, would make sure Ferelden was safe. He himself was the distraction, nothing more.

“Teagan’s line is flanking!” someone shouted to him. “We’ve room to retreat!”

He bared his teeth. “Second row forward – rest the front line!”

His breath sawed in his chest as he bit into Gwaren’s lines again, so loud against the inside of his helmet it took him longer than it should to pick up on the murmur of change at his back, and only realised the cause of it when a wave of rejuvenating energy tingled through his body. The mages were meant to be guarding against Howe’s artillery, but if they had mana for such a spell, then –

“It’s the Laurels! The Laurels are on the wall!”  

A ragged cheer burst through the ranks, and Loghain’s soldiers faltered. Cailan didn’t dare turn to look, but he shouted with the rest, dug in his heels to help bolster the shield wall as it ground to a stop and then, inch by inch, heaved forward like the breath of some massive beast.

--

Standing atop the battlements, Rosslyn saw everything, watched Gwaren’s advance slow to a crawl and then be pushed back as Cailan’s forces gained new courage. She saw the curve of the rest of the royalist army swing around slowly but surely to trap the enemy, with her own banners high in the centre, knowing it would not be enough.

“We have to get to the king,” she muttered. Her eyes darted to her right, to Alistair and the wound in his shoulder seeping blood between his fingers where they pressed against his armour.

He shook his head and grimaced. “Erimond is the biggest danger.”

She had decided not to look that way. Howe was there, with her vengeance, but so was Loghain and their best chance of ending the war once and for all. She had to admit to a certain relish at the thought of turning the trap on him, of taking Castle Cousland and his army in the same day he had designed to be their downfall. The trouble was the sea of enemy soldiers between her and them.

“Can you clear the gate?” she asked.

“And keep the infantry off you long enough to reach him.” He offered her a wry grin as her gaze fell once more to his wound. “I told you already, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

She stepped closer. “When this day is over, I’ll be the judge of that.”

His mouth lifted at the corners, with too much pain still lingering to be a true smile, but she felt the warmth of it nonetheless. She nodded once, in answer to his silence, before turning away down the steps to the bailey, barking an order as she went for the inner portcullis to be opened. Behind her, Alistair was already calling for their few archers to turn their bows towards the gate.  

Their pitifully small force met her at the bottom, just six riders already mounted and not even two dozen footsoldiers gathered from the castle and the Windcaller’s survivors. Even so, they were fresh where their enemy had been fighting for hours, and they had surprise on their side, the castle walls at their backs. Hobbs saluted and handed her the reins of a tall, dark bay stallion with one white sock on his left foreleg.

“Ranger,” she breathed, surprised, as warm, sweet breath puffed against her face. She had last seen him at Glenlough, guided by her father. “Is all set?” she asked Hobbs.

“Waiting for your order.”

She mounted using the wall as a block and reined her horse around as the great iron portcullis lifted with a clink of chains, testing her aids and Ranger’s responsiveness to her commands. He shifted beneath her as she drew her sword, his ears flicking first to her and then to the sounds of battle beyond the walls. She had no way to tell how fit he was after months kept under Howe’s dubious care, but he was battle tested, and wily, and besides anything else they had no more time to get used to each other. With her own battleblood rising, she nudged her heels against his sides and guided him into the narrow space beneath the barbican. The rest followed. The horses’ hooves clacked hollowly on the boards covering the wolf-pit, and one let out a nervous whicker as the portcullis closed behind them. Swords were drawn.

“We’ve all waited long months for this chance, and now we go straight for the throat,” she spoke into the silence. “Do yourselves proud, and me.”

At her side, Hobbs checked the banner sat properly in its rest on the saddle. She sent a signal up through the murder holes to the soldiers waiting on her command, and in the next moment, they were surrounded once more by the groan of chains as the teeth of the outer portcullis lifted from the ground.  

The gate swung open.

“For the Laurels!”

The cry echoed as they poured out from the dark like water from a broken dam. The infantry went first, opening a hole for the horses to punch through with their greater momentum. Panicked, the Gwaren soldiers barely had time to turn for the new threat before they were cut down. Rosslyn’s higher vantage gave her a view over the rest of the battle, caught in glimpses through sprays of blood and the flash of weapons. With the shock of reinforcements, Gwaren’s centre line had broken, the soldiers there in full retreat where Teagan’s flank hadn’t boxed them in. Cailan remained, with only the bones of the royal guard surrounding him, but the rest of the defensive line was strung out too far to offer aid. And Loghain was already charging into the fray, his sword bared and his intentions clear.

“Forward!” she shouted.

Her riders followed her in a strafing line as she broke from the melee. Three broke off at the point of her sword to go straight for Erimond, while the others swung around behind her to intercept Loghain. Nothing but cleared ground lay between them, a straight dash to put herself between him and the king. A war cry tore from her lips. Her vision narrowed. And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a wisp of darkness, a bubble like black tar she knew all too well. The demon rose from the ground with a screech and loomed in front of her. It swiped for her head. Ranger baulked sideways, ringing a challenge, and nearly threw her from her seat, but she clung to the saddle and stabbed outwards, then wheeled and came forward again to slice through the creature’s flesh. Sparks leapt from Talon’s blade, and the demon shrieked, but before she could revel in her victory, there was more movement at her horse’s feet.

“Unde-aarggh!”

She looked up in time to see the rider dragged from his saddle. The horse next to him screamed as a corpse with a deep cut to its neck brought its sword up in a clumsy swipe and split it open in the belly. For an instant she wavered, wanting to go back, but more hands clawed at her – everywhere, bodies were twitching, jerking upright, Gwaren and Highever both gaping with slack faces towards her – and she would never avoid them all. The rider whose horse had been killed was beating a path towards his comrade, saw her hesitation, shouted at her to go.  

The king was unguarded. More undead swarmed over the royal guard, cutting them away to leave him exposed. Loghain had reached him. And Cailan was falling back under the onslaught, already exhausted and perhaps unwilling to kill his wife’s father outright, the last of his strength quickly fading away.

With a last glance back she wheeled her father’s horse into a gallop. Most of the dead lacked the coordination to get out of the way, so she simply ran them down, her heels firm against Ranger’s sides to keep him straight against his terror. Once, a bloodied hand grabbed for the reins, but she saw it and flashed through with Talon, twisting in the saddle just in time to stop another from striking for her leg on the other side. They were too many, and more were being raised all the time to block her path, to drag her down, to keep her from the king and from victory. She screamed for her horse to keep going, hacked at everything that came near, but still they slowed, overwhelmed.

A fireball exploded to her left, so close the blast of heat blinded her. Ranger reared sideways with a sickening crunch as a hoof came down on a femur. Another one ahead of her. The distinct, metallic stench of magic, then burning flesh as the corpses blocking her path were incinerated. The horse fought her, but the way ahead cleared, and through it she saw Loghain and Cailan on a clear field. She kicked the horse forward. She levelled her sword, bright as the sky. Fireballs continued to fall, too close for comfort, but if she spared a thought for them and what would happen if one of them hit her, the last of her courage would fail.

There was a flash of green light ahead and Cailan stumbled back, dropping his sword but raising his arms as if to ward off a blow. Without any clear thought in her head, Rosslyn bellowed a challenge, answered by Ranger’s scream, anything to distract Loghain, to get him to turn from the king and give him time to escape. Even in her borrowed armour, he clearly knew her. He stepped away from Cailan, sword raised towards her instead, lowered into a fighting stance. Without a pike to match her manoeuvrability in the saddle, she had the advantage of force and speed.

And then Loghain moved. He blurred in her vision. One instant he was still thirty feet away, the next, his sword flashed what seemed inches from her face, and in her panic the blade swung wide in a slow, excruciating arc, impossible to stop, impossible to avoid, drawing her gaze like the flutter of a silk banner against a stormy sky. Ranger screamed. Momentum carried them forward, but falling, the world turning over, a moment of weightlessness as she lifted from the saddle, and then she was falling, rushing, twisting to try and soften the blow as the ground rose to meet her.

She landed hard, stunned and winded and rolling, and the bleed of her consciousness came back with a searing pain in her right arm that only worsened when she tried to move it. Broken. Instinct drove at her to get back on her feet, to be ready, and with gritted teeth she pushed herself up into a sitting position cradling her arm, so dizzy she barely registered the body against which she rested. Ranger, her father’s horse, thrashed a little way away despite his broken legs, the sounds he made piercing into her skull, but she couldn’t help him. Loghain was advancing on her. Tears stung her eyes. As she scrabbled to pry the shield from her left arm She cast around for a weapon she could use. Talon glinted in the mud not far away, but with every step Loghain closed the distance between them. She tried not to look at him, begged the straps of her shield to loosen enough to slip her arm free.  

He was barely ten strides from her when she managed to throw the shield away. She levered herself up, ignoring the jab of pain it sent through her right side, and crawled for her weapon on her knees, dignity forgotten, her only goal the sword. The hilt slipped under her gauntlet. Another step. She lunged for it again, felt her fingers close around the hilt just as her enemy raised his arms to strike at her.

His blow thudded into the mud. She stumbled back, off-balance, crying out as the movement jostled her injury, but gritted her teeth and brought her sword up between them nonetheless. Breathing hard, she tucked her arm against her side and tried to present a smaller target, backing away, buying herself time to assess. Her opponent had strength, and freshness, and no injury to slow him down, and more years’ experience as a fighter than she had lived at all. And against his sword ad shield, her only weapon weighted strangely in her off-hand. He was smiling.  

The rest of the battle died away as he stalked towards her, as she tried to get used to her new balance. Something knocked against her boot, a limb or a discarded weapon, but even that beat of distraction gave him enough of an opening – he struck at her. She parried the first two blows more by luck than anything else. Still backing up. The movements she knew in her head were clunky and too slow, the sword ungainly where it should have flowed as an extension of her arm. On the third strike, she managed to duck around him, earn a pause where she could adjust her grip on the hilt, but this wasn’t a true fight. He was merely testing her limits, wearing her down before he had to finish her. In her condition, it wouldn’t take long.

A small, detached part of her mind worried for Cailan, but she blinked it away. She had to last. She already knew this was a fight she could not win, but someone would come – someone had to come.

“You don’t have to do this,” she tried, desperate, trying to stall. “Uldred told us about the demon. It’s controlling you. Look at what you’ve done – you’ve split Ferelden apart, left us vulnerable, but you can end it.” The words slurred with the pain, with the terror slowly crawling up her throat. She backed up again.

“Ferelden will be free of traitors,” Loghain spat back at her.

He charged forward, sword swinging with such ferocity she could barely do more than stagger backwards and absorb every ringing impact. When she spotted an opening, she went for it, realising too late it was merely a feint to draw her in. His shield slammed against her broken arm hard enough to send her flying backwards, the pain white fire exploding behind her eyes. She rolled. The sword stabbed into the earth so close to her head mud splattered against her helmet, and only the effort it took him to pull it out again spared her decapitation. She retreated again. Her vision was starting to blacken at the edges, her breath stuttering like a dampened fire, her hand shaking as she raised the sword one last time.

“Is – is your daughter included in that?” she demanded. She was a Cousland, she would not die begging. “Would you kill Anora, too?”

For the first time, a flicker of doubt shone through the cold malice in her opponent’s face. “Anora…”

“She wanted to fight – to fight you.” Rosslyn’s throat burned. “She wanted peace, so she –” She wobbled, but beat the weakness back – “She helped us. She knew you were the traitor so she told us – what you were doing.”

“No –”

“She wanted to help you!”

“No!”

This time, she planted her feet to meet him, one last surge of battle heat born of defiance even as her parries weakened with every new blow. She tried to keep to his left, so his shield hampered the reach of his sword, but she could no longer feel her feet and the uneven ground interrupted her stance, and every hit that landed against her blade merely set him up to attack her from another angle. Any time she tried to turn the advantage her way, he blocked her, forced her back, kept her scrambling for a guard. She no longer had the energy to dodge around him. And then, at the last of her strength, she watched the tip of his sword swing up and down in a vertical line she recognised dully as the first move in the Woodcutter sequence. She knew the counter to it. But as she raised Talon, instead of sliding off her blade he caught it, forced it wide, and faster than she could register, drove forward. She felt the impact, heard the screech of metal, and after an instant of shock, pain bloomed like an arc of lightning beneath her lungs.

She tried to breathe, but her body didn’t respond. She looked down. Some distant alarm sounded in her mind at what she saw, but through the fog that suddenly clouded everything her thoughts refused to connect. The world around her was silent. All she could fathom was that his hands were too close, his sword not where she expected it to be. She couldn’t breathe.  Searching for an explanation, she grasped at Loghain’s shoulders, and as her eyes roved wild they caught on a strange amulet hanging around his neck, an intricate runed circle of gold with a large, egg-shaped green stone set in the centre. The longer she stared at it, the more convinced she became that something moved in its emerald depths, something like mist, and behind it, something darker, huger, its myriad limbs flexing, mouthparts chittering as it turned towards her –

As if from underwater, someone yelled, and her gaze tore from the horrific, transfixing sight to focus instead on a shining figure that launched into her field of vision wielding a greatsword like a lance from the sun. Whatever held her upright was driven back, and without that support she sank heavily to her knees, only kept from falling entirely by the stiffness of the armour encasing her body. Strangely, the pain was receding. Her limbs were cold, numbing with the clarity of her thoughts. As she floated outside herself, she wondered absently at the sword hilt wedged against her cuirass, at the brief length of blade poking from her body and the trickle of blood that flowed into her lap. She couldn’t breathe, but she felt that should be a greater worry than it was. Her hand lifted to touch the wire-wrapped pommel of the sword, but before she could follow through on the distant knowledge that it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, the darkness creeping at the edge of her vision rushed in and stole away the last of her thoughts.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 58 - The Bear and the Falcon

Chapter Rating: Explicit Chapter Warnings: Animal cruelty, Sexual Threat, Canon-Typical Violence (incl. Torture) Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU  - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels

Read on AO3 Or start at Chapter 1

----------

An ache in her arms; cool, damp stone against her cheek that held a faint, sour-animal odour; darkness. Her throat burned with thirst. The quality of the silence told her she was inside, and – after a few more careful breaths with her eyes still closed and tension forced out of her body – alone. Her heart throbbed, but the terror it compelled would be of no use to her until she knew more about her surroundings, so she swallowed it back and forced her attention elsewhere, to her arms bound behind her back and the pins and needles in her leg. Bruises, but nothing broken.

Finally, she cracked an eye and levered her protesting body up into a sitting position, flinching when her back met cold iron bars. Her oilskin and gambeson had been removed, along with her weapons, but as her examination passed from her self to her surroundings, she noted with a sick kind of relief that her shirt was still tucked into her breeches and the laces fastened neatly. Even so, it meant little considering who had taken her.

To distract herself, she examined her cage, and the rest of her prison beyond it. Light fell dimly through a grated door at the end of the room, just enough to reveal a narrow space with a low, vaulted ceiling above her, and more rows of iron bars stretching away from her into the darkness. Small windows were set high into the walls, but the pitch dark outside offered no help. It was night, then – but which one? Was it days, or merely a few hours since the battle at the cove? She couldn’t remember seeing Windcaller escape, only Cuno lunging for one of Howe’s soldiers, and Alistair –

No, she told herself firmly. Don’t think about it – either of them. She could worry about them later, once she had a better hold on her situation. Forcing a deep breath, she turned her attention back to her bound wrists, and the clink of the cuffs against the bars that told her she would never get them off. They still allowed a bit of slack, however, enough that if she curled her spine and wriggled, she might be able slip them down the backs of her legs and bring them in front of her. It wouldn’t be much, but it would improve her chances until she could snatch a key. 

As she worked, the nagging familiarity of her prison resolved itself in a moment part elation and part panic: she was in Castle Cousland, in the kennel run that stretched under the eastern side of the curtain wall between the keep and the Marl-land Tower. Cuno had imprinted on her in the whelping den at the end of the row. They were fools to bring her here. A childhood of running the roofs and hiding from Nan’s temper had given her every secret in the place, from the nooks in the ramparts left over from ages of building to the best handholds to climb the walls and reach them. Even if Windcaller hadn’t made it, a chance for Cailan’s plan still lay with her, and if nothing else, she would finish Howe.

She had almost managed to squeeze her arms past her hips when the bolt on the door snapped back and the latch turned. She threw herself back onto her side just as light spilled across the far wall. Heavy, booted feet made a slow approach, every step jangling with the telltale sound of mail, and she tracked it until it stopped outside her cell, behind her, and every nerve in her body screamed against the need to lie still, limp like a plucked daisy, and wait for a chance.  

Leather creaked as the guard squatted down. “My lady!” His voice emerged as a hiss, panicked and urgent. “Lady Rosslyn, wake up – there’s not much time.”

A hand reached through the bars to shake her shoulder, but when she kept still, whoever it was cursed and retreated, and then she heard a rattle of keys, something settled on the floor, and the door groaned inward. She waited. The guard loomed over her, hesitating.  

“My lady?”

As soon as his touch landed again she launched upward, throwing herself bodily against him regardless of the sharp jab of pain in her side as unprotected flesh collided with the sharp points on his armour. Before he could do much more than yelp his surprise she twisted, kicked out, braced her back against the wall of her cell so she could jam her boot against his throat.

“Please – my lady –” he gasped, clawing at her foot. “I’m here to help – help you –” His helmet fell back, revealing a round face and a mess of dirty blond hair.

“You’re Master Darion’s boy,” she realised, letting up the pressure in her shock. His name was Gareth. She had gone months thinking everyone in the castle had been killed in the attack, and yet here was a boy who had trained next to her in the lists, followed after her through the summer orchards. Blazing with the orange and white of Amaranthine.

He saw the moment her eyes settled on the Bear on his surcoat, and raised his hands as if to ward her away, but the cage door still stood open, unnoticed, and freedom just a few hundred feet beyond. She feinted towards him, got her feet under her. He flinched. She used the distraction to bolt for the door.

“No!” He tackled her before she made it three steps, bringing her hard to the ground with an impact that jarred all the way to her teeth.

“Traitor!” She spat, and lashed out hard.

A grunt of pain met her ears, but he didn’t let go. “You’ve got’a listen to us - Lowan’s sent for you, there’s not much time –”

“My parents were murdered by Howe and now you’re here in his colours, and I should listen to you?”

“It wasn’t just you! They killed everyone. Me Da, Canavan, Gilmore, all of ‘em what he thought would be loyal to you. Please – just listen –”

With a final heave, she kicked away from him and rose into a crouch, hating the limitation on her arms. “Get me out of these manacles,” she demanded. “If you are loyal.”

The kennelmaster’s son scrubbed a hand down his face, then across the reddened skin at his throat. “I canna. It’s a different key, Lowan’s got the only one. I’m sorry.”

“How are you still alive?”

He held up a hand again, asking patience. “After he killed the officers, the rest of us was given a choice – serve, or have the same thing happen to us. We knew you were out there, that you might need our help, so we let ‘im think he’d won, and waited for you to come back.” When she didn’t reply, he ducked his head and pointed to the lantern he had left just outside the cage. “I brought you water. And there’s some bread and cheese there, an’ all. It’s nowt fancy, but you’ve been out a few hours now. Can I –?”

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded, and he scurried across to pick up a small horn cup and a parcel of food wrapped in a napkin. As much as she disliked being fed like a child, her current state allowed for little choice. Some of the water dribbled down her chin as she gulped it down, more eager than she had realised for the rush of cool liquid, but Gareth held the cup steady against her lips and the spillage was minimal. When there was none left, she wiped her mouth on her shoulder.

“None of us knew what’a do when they said they’d brought you in,” he said as he unfolded the parcel of food. “Reckon you’re lucky Howe’s got a bigger fish fryin’ him right now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.  

“Loghain, my lady.” When she stared at him, his eyes widened. “Din’ you know? He’s here with his entire army waiting out in the orchard by the west gate.”

“We thought he was still on the road,” she muttered. “That means the king is walking into a trap… Tell me, is Queen Anora here?”

He frowned. “Anora? I don’t know about her… but there was someone brought in ‘bout a month back and put in the southwest room on the top floor, guarded day and night. The servers take meals up, but they never see who it is – the guards take the trays and say bugger all that’s not snide comments. My lady, what’s –”

“Gareth!” A voice thundered from outside. “Is that bitch awake or not? What are you doing in there?”

“It’s Commander Lowan!”

“Get rid of the cup,” she hissed. “And the rest of the food.” The bread had been little more than a scrap of crust, the cheese sharp, but her empty stomach was grateful all the same. She watched as Gareth stuffed the evidence out of sight beneath a mouldy pile of straw, their time slipping away with every growing echo of boots along the corridor.

“He’ll think you’re still out of it, so you’d best –”

“Listen to me,” she interrupted. “I wasn’t alone when I was caught. I have over a dozen soldiers who will be coming up the secret passage through the pantry to help. No matter what happens to me, you must make sure the queen makes it safely away and that the king’s army can get in through the gate.”

He shook his head. “My lady, I can’t just –”

“Gareth!”

“Just getting her up – that bloody second-rate apostate kept her too far under!” he shouted as he knelt next to her and hooked his hands under her arms. “I’m so sorry. We’ll get you out, soon as we can.”

The door slammed against the wall. Gareth flinched from the sound, and squeaked an instant later as he was knocked out of the way by a hand clad in a gauntlet made of stiff, scratched leather. Rosslyn let herself sag as that same hand grabbed her shoulder and hauled her off the floor. The rough action tore at her joints, but she refused to stand under her own weight – if he wanted to take her anywhere she would bloody well make him work for it.

“On your feet. Teyrn Howe wants a word.”

She rolled her head back to look at him through heavy eyelids, a man with close-cropped grey hair and deep lines around his eyes, and a jagged, poorly-healed scar down the left side of his face. “I don’t recognise anyone with that title.”

“Too bad for you,” Lowan snapped as he dragged her into the corridor. “If he didn’t want to play with you himself, you would’ve woken up in far less comfort than you did, girlie.”  

“This day will end with his head on a spike and yours next to it,” she snarled.

That made him pause. He turned to her with a leer, his grip on her arm bruising as he leaned close enough for her to see the broken capillaries in his cheeks. “I told him he should’ve passed a blade across your throat before you woke, but with that defiance? It’s going to be fun watching him break you.”

Revulsion coiled in her stomach as he reached up to wind a lock of her hair around his fingers. Every inch of him radiated the smug superiority particular to those who think themselves untouchable, and her lip curled. Baudrillard had been the same.

“And maybe after he gets bored, he’ll let the rest of us have the leftovers.”

She lunged forward and headbutted him in the face.

“Fucking bitch!” he yelled, as Gareth came forward to catch her. Blood was already pouring from his nose. “Get her out of here.”

She allowed herself a moment to admire her handiwork before she was pulled away, an ugly smirk still lingering at the corner of her mouth. She might face retaliation for it later, but even a small victory sent a message; she would not be cowed, not inside her own keep.

“Been wanting to do that for months,” Gareth muttered in her ear. He guided her down the corridor to the room that usually stored harnesses for dogs, though now the nooks set into the walls were empty. More men in Amaranthine colours waited for her there, and none offered anything but blank stares as her gaze flicked between them, no sign they could be trusted. Apart from the soldiers, she recognised the scrawny, mousy-haired man standing in the corner as the apostate from the beach. Several days’ patchy growth of beard disguised the weak line of his chin, and his dark robes cut off at his elbows to reveal forearms wrapped in fresh bandages and criss-crossed with lines of pale scarring, some more faded than others. He looked anxious.

She turned her attention away. Voices were growing beyond the door at the far end of the room. One held a gravelled quality, clipped with irritation, while the other was a thin, nasally whine she recognised from years of backhanded disapproval and family dinners. Gareth tightened his grip on her shoulder as her face tightened into s snarl, and she remembered just in time that she was meant to be helpless.

The door opened as she was forced into a chair in the middle of the room, and the conversation cut short. Gareth blocked her view, catching her gaze just once as he linked her manacles to a chain set into the back of the seat, far more loosely than he should have done; her legs were left free. He gave her the barest nod before he scurried away, full of trepidation, a last flash of solidarity before the storm descended upon her.

“Well, well, Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire!” Howe cried. “Finally awake! All grown up and playing the soldier, I see.”

As her mother taught her, she straightened and wiped her face clean of emotion, of the hatred surging like fire in her blood. Her eyes fixed unfocused on the far wall, but she could imagine his smile, spreading like the spill of lamp oil over water. Before he could say anything further, however, Lowan clattered in pinching the bridge of his nose, a torn rag held over the bottom half of his face that did little to stem the mess of blood pouring from his nose. She must have broken it.

“What happened to you?” Howe demanded.

Lowan spared her a glance, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Nothing, Your Lordship.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Lowan’s scowl deepened but he did as he was told, ducking past his master with only a perfunctory murmur of deference to the man standing next to him. It was Loghain, Rosslyn realised. He looked terrible, hardly recognisable as the proud advisor who had stood beside the throne at every Landsmeet she could remember. His once military bearing was sunken, gaunt, his cheeks bloodless as tallow and his unkempt hair worn with grey where it wasn’t thinning completely. Only his eyes retained their vigour, but even then, when he fixed his gaze on her, something in them reminded her of the dead at South Reach.

“An interrogation now is useless,” he said, with only a thin veneer of patience. “There is nothing she could tell us we do not already know.”

“I disagree, sire.” Howe still had his smile. “And I’ll remind you she is my prisoner, to do with as I choose.”

“Your petty vengeances do not come before the task at hand,” Loghain snapped. “Cailan is already here, and only waits for the morning. You have until I have spoken to my daughter to deal with this, and no longer. Anything else will wait until after I have that fool boy in my grasp.”

“Of course, sire.”

The old general turned to go, only pausing in the doorway to spare Rosslyn a glance before whatever he wished to say was swallowed up by his better judgement, and he left without a word. Without him, Howe unfolded himself from his servile crouch, the sycophantic tilt if his head curdled into a sneer, and though she squashed it down, her fists clenched with the awareness of being surrounded by enemies commanded by a man who wished her nothing but ill intention. Only her rage kept her shielded against the chill in her spine, so she stoked it, channelled it, anything to keep the worm in her chest from clawing its way up her throat.

“Are you quite comfortable, my dear?” her enemy asked.

She gave him her most disdainful stare. “You should address me with my proper title, Arl Howe. I am the Teyrna of Highever.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You are nothing, you’re the last of nothing. Your parents died begging, your brother’s body rots where no one will ever find it, and his brat was burned on the scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. There’s no king coming to save you, no prince charming.” At that, he grinned, and her heart faltered. “The way you threw yourself after him on the beach meant nothing, and in the morning, the last of those who claim loyalty to you will be swept from the face of Thedas once and for all. You’ve lost.”

She struggled to control her breath, and heat pricked at the back of her eyes, but she had learned her lessons well. She kept her voice level as she replied, “And yet you’re still scared of me.”

“What?”

“I count four guards,” she mocked, straightening. “Not including your right-hand, who you no doubt wanted present, and a blood mage. Why else would you need them all around one chained woman if you weren’t afraid?”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Howe saw it. He advanced on her, fury contorting his features, and though she saw the slap coming – braced for it – the strike sent her reeling, ears ringing, blinking away the sting.

“You are entirely at my mercy, you pathetic little whelp, and you will learn it sooner or later,” he spat.

She probed her cheek. Blood welled from a cut, but all of her teeth were still in place.

“The more you fight, the more I’ll enjoy it, but you will submit. And through you, my claim on these lands will go beyond anyone’s doubt.” The manic grin came back. “The regent will approve the match, no doubt.”

For an instant, cold terror held her in its grip, the knowledge that her only help lay beyond guarded walls twenty feet thick, that her crew was scattered, that Alistair was…

But she was the Seawolf’s daughter; she had faced down the dead. Rolling her shoulders, she turned away from Howe and casually spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.  

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep,” she sneered, fixing him in her glare once more. “Everyone at court knows how your poor wife had to find her comfort elsewhere because her husband was impotent. The horsemaster, the cook –” Her lip curled. “And don’t think it went unnoticed how much Thomas looked so much more like the Vigil’s seneschal than he did you. We all knew, everyone knew, and everyone laughed at you for it.”

She saw it, the moment her barb struck its mark, in the wild flicker of his gaze around the room and the lift of a snarl over his teeth, and her battle blood rose in response. He wouldn’t win this battle of wills between them; she wouldn’t let him. And then, she would kill him. But even as she thought it, his shoulders lost their tension, and the scowl smoothed from his face as if she hadn’t scored a point at all.

“There it is, right there,” he murmured. “That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. Your father would be proud. I, however, intend to wipe that defiance away once and for all.” He smiled, and her fingers itched for a weapon. “Bring in the animal.”

One of the soldiers nodded and hurried out. Rosslyn watched him go warily, aware of Howe’s smug expression and the anxious way the others shifted on their feet. Soon, a burst of shouted curses carried through, almost drowned out by the rattle of chains and the monstrous snarling of some enraged beast. Behind her, Gareth stirred in his place in the corner, as if to intervene, but his courage failed him and he stayed silent.

The wait took longer than it should have, but eventually two burly men in heavily quilted jackets with thick leather shields on their arms squeezed through door, dragging chains behind them. The creature on the other end was Cuno. He thrashed and snapped against the restraints cutting into the thick muscle of his neck, trying at once to twist free and attack the guards holding him captive, to fight, but two others hung on behind him, so that he couldn’t lunge in any direction without being wrestled back by the other three. Foam lathered in his gaping jaws, his breath wheezed from his throat in ever more desperate gasps as he threw himself against his enemies, and as she took in the blood staining his flanks, Rosslyn’s hatred of Howe set into a cold, hard ball in her gut.

“Put him over there,” he pointed, as if directing nothing more dangerous than a new piece of furniture. “And you,” he added, turning to Rosslyn, “will learn. there is nothing you can do but watch.”

“What are you going to do?” Gareth asked. His eyes were wide on the dog he had known since puppyhood, and who had now seen his mistress was in danger and broken into new ferocity as he tried to get at Howe.

“What is always done with uncontrollable beasts,” he replied as the first guard returned with a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. “Unless you want to tell him to be a good boy?” he asked of Rosslyn.

She stared at him. Her own thoughts were drowned out by the drum of her heart, Cuno’s mad barking, the desperation that surely there must be something she could do. He wanted her to beg. The glint in his eye told her it wouldn’t make a difference. Cuno launched himself forward again, jerked back by the end of the chains, his breath harsher than ever, trying to get to her, to help her, and her nails dug so hard into her palms she was sure they would bleed.

“Void take you,” she hissed, and spat in Howe’s face.

He grabbed her jaw. His fingers dug into her skin like claws as he moved within inches of her face, his eyes greedy in anticipation of what was about to happen. “I said, you will watch this. Hold it still.”

“Your Lordship, you can’t –”

“I’ll deal with you later,” he snapped at Gareth. “Take aim.”

For Rosslyn, the world slowed. Every click of the ratchet drawing back the string, the guards straining, the flecks of blood and saliva cast to the floor as the dog tried to reach her. The bolter raised the crossbow. Cuno roared. Her gaze turned to Howe, to his sneer and his eagerness and every line of cruelty held in the slack, sallow mouth.

The rage took her so quickly she didn’t have time to think. Past the first stirring of it, her mind went blank. She felt her body coil, felt the snarl curling at her lips, and before she registered the movement she threw herself at her enemy, blind instinct, raw fire, nothing but a snap of energy bent into pure vengeance. Greasy cartilage caught between her teeth. She twisted, tore her head away and kicked out in a spray of red and a scream. There was a thud of metal hitting flesh, a yelp. The chair back hit her legs as it fell over. It didn’t matter that her hands were still bound. All she could see was Howe, writhing on the floor, clutching the side of his head She was insensible even to the hands that grabbed at her shoulders to keep her from him, to keep her from ripping him apart with her teeth if she had to.  

“Get her out of here!” someone shouted. “And get a healer!”

She spat out his ear at his feet. “That was your last mistake. There’s nowhere you can go, nothing you can do that will save you. I’ll kill you.”  

The words caught hold of her, worked through her sinews like roots as the guards wrestled her back, out of sight and down into the bowels of the castle. She didn’t know where they came from, but they rang through her head, burned in her throat, reverberated in her bones like the clarion notes of a horn in an empty hall.  

“Whatever you do, I won’t yield!” she bellowed as they hauled her away. “Not until your head is mounted on a wall! There is nothing left you can take from me – run to the far corners of Thedas and I’ll find you! Set an army against me and I’ll slaughter them all to get to you! Even if you kill me, I will crawl back through the Fade over broken shards of glass to make sure you suffer. You won’t escape – do you hear me, Howe? You will never be rid of me!”

--

The screams echoed off the walls of the dungeon, distorted through the thick stone and hollowed until the words were lost beyond the guards’ curses. There was a lot of screaming these days. For those who had months since lost their hope, it made pity a distant thing. The noise disturbed the prisoner’s rest, that was all, and he resented being pulled from the meditative oblivion that these days came to him almost as naturally as his own breath as he waited for death to claim him. He shut his eyes in the near-complete darkness as the woman – more the shame – was dragged past his door, and with nothing else he could do he turned his head away.

Something moved on the other side of his cell. He could still hear screaming, but it was muffled behind doors and walls, and far more immediate was the sense of another body, betrayed perhaps by the rustle of cloth, or a breath, or the clink of a chain as whoever it was shifted into wakefulness, little more than a half-imagined outline in the gloom. A spark of curiosity lit in the prisoner’s mind. It was a novelty in itself, the first emotion to break through his despair in months.

“Who’s there?” A male voice, and then a groan. “Is someone there?”

The prisoner leaned forward, licked cracked lips, and in a voice scratchy with disuse, told the stranger his name.

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Mature Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort Summary: Alistair and Rosslyn end up somewhere they don’t expect.

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She sat tall in her saddle at the head of the column of riders, the salt breeze stirring against her face, tugging at her hair and the deep blue cloak arrayed over her horse’s quarters, while the jingle of harness rang like the clamour of Satinalia bells in her ears. She didn’t need to look behind her to see the array of the knights who followed her banner raising dust along the length of the Cullodhne Road, gleaming so brightly in their armour they seemed less flesh and blood than a trail of sapphires led on a silver string, like something out of legend.

On her right hand, Highever was laid out under the cloudless Kingsway sky, industrious as a beehive. Boats bobbed on the incoming tide, flashing signals to one another and to the dock workers to communicate their cargo, and further into the city itself smoke rose from the smithies, the bakeries, from the eternal fires lit in the various chantries scattered through the streets. The Orlesians had left it a wreck, blockaded as it had been during the Rebellion by Clayne pirates and abandoned by all but beggars and the most stalwart fisherfolk, but her father’s careful investment had mixed well with the forthright determination of his people, and bit by bit, like a kennelmaster nursing a starved whelp, the city had returned to prosperity. Now it sat, the third jewel in the crown of Ferelden’s northern coastlands, sleek on the riches brought south from all over the world.

And her gaze stretched beyond it, to the basalt cliffs that hid ribbed flats of silver sand and sparkling rock pools beneath their skirts, and as far again in the other direction, until the blue haze of distance stole all detail and blurred land and sky against the horizon. Stubbled wheat fields and rolling pastures dotted with livestock gave way to deep forest that fluffed like discarded bobbles of felting with the distance, but which grew tall with ash and oak and sheltered dense populations of game under their eaves.

A thought itched in Rosslyn’s mind, despite the beauty of the day, like there was something she had misplaced. The gates of Castle Cousland stood ahead, another hour’s ride away at the end of the road, the keep couched above the town like a lioness watching over her tumbling cubs. Squinting against the glare, she scanned the walls, though for what she did not know.

“Is it good to be home?”

She turned to Alistair, on her left on a great bay charger. “I can’t quite believe it yet.”

He reached across the space between their mounts to take her hand. His oak-bronze eyes softened with his smile, lending her strength and maybe taking some for himself too. Surely she should be allowed a little pride at having caught him, all handsome lines and wind-ruffled hair and laughter, a fierce warrior and a good man and hers.

“I love you,” she said, and he beamed.

They reached the castle gates to the clarion notes of a fanfare. People lined each side of the road, waving strips of brightly coloured cloth like pennants as they strewed wildflowers beneath the horses’ hooves. As the delicate stems were crushed, their sweet, herby scent rose as a greeting and Rosslyn sat a little straighter, determined to match the grandeur of the celebration. Her horse tossed its head. She had to let go of Alistair’s hand to manage it. They passed into the shadow of the barbican, clattering over the hollow boards of the wolf-pit to reach the second portcullis, and emerged again into the airy, gravelled space of the bailey. The Laurels flew from every pole, from the battlements and the towers and the tips of the standard-bearers’ pikes, framing the straight path to the keep in an undulating sea of blue silk.

Her parents waited for her at the top of the steps. For some reason her eyes darted to the western gate, but the shiver passed as her horse pranced sideways against the bit, and she dug her heels into its flank to keep it grounded.

A third figure waited behind her parents. As she dismounted, he stayed far enough back that all she saw of him was a shock of feathery white hair and beard blown over rich furs, but she turned to hand the reins to the groom that had emerged from the throng and thought no more about the details of his face. Alistair stepped closer to her, using their horses as a shield. With soft eyes, he leaned in and brushed his hand along her elbow, briefly enough to look like he was steadying her, lightly enough that she wished all the layers of her armour gone.

“I know there are people watching, but I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmured.

“Save it,” she teased, with a playful glance to his mouth. “Give me two kisses later.”

“Only two?”

Side by side they climbed the steps, Rosslyn with her stomach churning and the relief of home settling over her shoulders like a mantle. Feeling too hot, she tugged her gauntlets off her fingers and twisted them through her hands. Bryce and Eleanor came forward before she even reached the top, and smiled as they enveloped her in a hug, armour and all, holding close for a tight, desperate moment before they pulled back to welcome Alistair as well.

Her father bowed. “Your Highness, I am honoured to meet you at last.”

Alistair flushed to the roots of his hair. “And you – I mean, the honour is mine, Your Lordship,” he stammered, slinking into himself as he always did when his lack of confidence overcame him. For a moment he stumbled, caught off-guard by the two benign expressions, but when he glanced sideways Rosslyn lent him an encouraging nod, and the happiness clear in her eyes allowed his shyness to melt away.  

He cleared his throat. “Highever Is just as beautiful as I imagined it,” he said, and earned another proud smile from Rosslyn. “I’ve been told so much about it.”

“No doubt,” Eleanor replied on her husband’s arm. “But we must thank you for the help you have given our daughter.”

“Who, me? I mostly just cheered from the sidelines.”

“Alistair –”

Bryce laughed. “Handsome and modest to boot! Looks like you were right when you told Fergus you didn’t need any help to find a husband, Pup.”

“Bryce!”

“Hus–?” Rosslyn froze. “No, he’s – we’re not –”  

“Talk for another day, I see,” her father allowed, rubbing the spot on his arm where Eleanor had swatted him. “Well, no rush, as long as all stays fair. In any case, there’s someone else here who wishes to see you.”

He turned with an expansive gesture to the man waiting behind them. In the breath of space it left them, Rosslyn passed a squirming look at Alistair, expecting to see relief in his features now that her father’s scrutiny had been directed elsewhere. It was there, in the quirk of a brow and the tilt of his jaw, but it warred with a curious lift to his mouth that she didn’t know how to interpret. Before she could ask him what was on his mind, however, the expression disappeared in a shock of recognition as the old man finally stepped into their circle.

“King Maric!”

Startled, Rosslyn hurried to mirror Alistair’s bow, but the king made a noise of displeasure and waved the gesture away, as if such formality were out of place. The movement unsettled the mantle of wolf furs that bundled him against the chill of the autumn air, exposing the rich, embroidered cuff of his tunic. Up close, the white of his hair still retained a golden sheen, weak as winter sunlight, framing a pale face with the same square jaw and straight nose as both of his sons. A pair of washed-out, tired blue eyes regarded them from beneath a stern brow, but the moment eased and the frown melted into a kind smile as the old man reached out and laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulders. There was barely an inch of height to separate them.

“My son,” the king said in a quiet voice.

Rosslyn looked away, not wanting to intrude.

Maric’s smile faltered when Alistair remained too stunned to reply, but he seemed to share Cailan’s implacable nature, and recovered well. “Let me look at you, all grown – you’ve surpassed all my hopes for you, you know. Ferelden owes you a great debt, and your name – both your names – will be spoken for ages to come.”

“Father…” The word tripped from Alistair’s tongue, unfamiliar, guarded against all the things he did not say.

“You should be proud of the man you have become,” Maric told him. “As I am – especially given your excellent taste in companions. Will you introduce me?”

Startled into manners, the younger man stood back and brought Rosslyn forward with a gesture, remembering to let her bow before giving her name. Behind them, her parents’ attention was turned by the arrival of a servant, who whispered in Bryce’s ear before scurrying away again.

“Your Highness,” Eleanor called, “forgive the intrusion, but preparations are being made for this evening’s feast. since it isn’t for a few hours yet, would you like to get settled first?”

“Everyone is eager to see you,” her husband added next to her. “The two Heroes of Ferelden given a proper homecoming at last.”

“Your rooms have been prepared, if you would all follow…”

The brightness of the day gave over to the dim interior of the castle’s entrance hall, with its familiar gold-threaded tapestries and the view out onto the courtyard garden brimming with colour. Guards stood at attention in their alcoves. As Rosslyn lagged behind with her father and Alistair, rich, savoury smells wafted up from below, like in every celebration of her childhood, and without anything particular to take her attention, she drifted into memory. When she had last been here, garlands of holly and ivy had arched above doorways, twined with red glass beads and baubles enchanted to glitter like stars.  

The image made her uneasy, the same anxious flutter beneath her ribs that she had first felt… When? She knew it well, as the fire that sang through every nerve before a battle, but the details escaped, slipping through her mind like grains of sand through her fingers. Her disquiet must have shown on her face, because a hand brushed against hers, too casual to be noticed by anyone else, but deliberate enough that Alistair’s fingers didn’t move away when she returned the gesture.

Her father had pulled ahead slightly, lost in the castle’s rambling history, and didn’t notice them falling behind. It was a well-worn speech, the same one offered to all new visitors, though some bore it with more grace than others; Oriana’s parents had made it three hours and four ages back before the dainty Lady Ophelia had ‘twisted her ankle’ and begged them both out of climbing the tower. And yet, the comfort of the familiar words could not drown out the doubt in her mind that pricked at her like hailstones, drawing her in all directions like the echo of a shout across a foggy heath.

“What did we do?” she asked, when the wrongness finally clicked.

“What’s that, Pup?”

Her mother had turned, too, already five steps up the central staircase with the king.

“His Majesty said Ferelden owed us a debt,” she clarified, with an uneasy glance at Alistair. “But for what? I have no memory of it.”

Maric tutted. “No memory of routing the last of the rebel forces and saving us all? You are too modest, my lady. My son, surely you haven’t forgotten your victory?” He smiled, but the expression looked hollow as new ice, and the gap in her memory glared wider, insistent.

“There was the war…” Alistair tried. He scratched his head.

“The war is won,” Eleanor told him. She looked imperious, standing at the top of the stairs, her face backlit in sharp angles by the windows, her hair pulled back in neat braids except where loose strands fell around her face…

Rosslyn tasted bile. “You died.” Months of nightmares, the revulsion crawling across her skin, those last cold, desolate moments atop Harrowhill with the weight of the Cousland sword on her hip. “Howe killed you and put your heads above the western gate.”

“The men who told you were mistaken, Pup,” her father replied, laying a hand on her arm. “Howe got what he deserved, thanks to you, and you should be proud of that, but you’ve been too long in battle. You have forgotten the feel of peace, that’s all this worry is.”

She shook him off. “What men who told me?”

The challenge hung in the air. Her eyes, locked with her father’s, stared him down, waiting for a crack, a flinch, anything that might reveal what was really going on. A hand twitched towards the sword still buckled at her side.

“Come now,” Maric chuffed, catching the movement. “What manners are these? Is it not enough that we are all here, whole and well, and ready to celebrate?”

“King Maric died at sea.” Alistair spoke quietly, but he had shifted his weight further behind Rosslyn, and his hand, too, had reached for his sword.

“Shipwrecked, and a long time coming back to my rightful place,” came the reply. “You know this. I don’t understand why you’re both being so stubborn.”

“Pup, it’s time for you to rest,” Bryce said, and turned to Alistair. “You know she pushes herself too hard, doesn’t give herself the credit she deserves.”

“Yes…” He shook his head. “I mean, she does – you do – but this isn’t right.”

“Howe is still out there,” she insisted. “The war isn’t over.”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor snapped. “You are safe. There is no war, and you should be proud of your role in ending it.”

But Alistair was frowning. “We were in the tower, at the Circle. The last thing I remember was… Uldred – we were fighting him to save the mages.”

A flash blinked in Rosslyn’s mind, an image of dark stone and a looming monster, shards of black energy scattering across the floor. But a fog closed around it, cutting it off like a dream. Her father once more touched her arm, his smile kindly, his eyes soft.

“That’s not your concern,” he told her. “All we want is for you to stay here, and take your rightful places as –”

“You’re not real,” Alistair interrupted. “None of this is.”

Rosslyn stepped back, out of reach, sword drawn. “My father would never say such a thing, not while there was still fighting left to be done.”

An instant passed in which it seemed her father would try cajoling again, but they stood firm, side by side, and as he looked from one to the other his face collapsed into a snarl too twisted to be human. Ambient sound dropped like the sudden cease of a storm. Behind the demon, the castle blurred and shimmered, its details and those of the other players dissolving without the need to hold onto the illusion. Only the floor beneath their feet remained steadfast, solid enough to ground her as she drew her sword.

“You couldn’t just be happy, could you?” the Not-Bryce growled at her. “I would have given you everything you wanted, let you live the dream of everything you ever hoped coming true.” It circled them. “What fools you are – you delight in struggle, and wriggling like little hooked worms instead of the hawks you might have been. Even you, Lady Falcon.”

It made to lunge, starting forward with a hiss, and its hands curled into claws, but pulled up short before it reached them, head cocked as if listening to something.

“No – no,” it muttered. “They are mine. They are mine. You won’t interfere.” It shook itself, growing sinister and stretched out even as it kept Bryce Cousland’s form. Its words echoed with a second voice beneath the one it had borrowed. “You bring this on yourselves. If you will not give me your pride, I will take your pain, and such exquisite pain it shall be.”

Two guards leapt from nothingness and grabbed for Alistair. He cried out, but before Rosslyn could reach for him the blurred world dissolved into black, swallowing him with it. She stumbled, whirled, found the demon smirking at her turmoil.

“Yes,” It sneered. “I feel your pride. Fight me, give it to me, give me strength…”

She raised her sword. “You do not get to wear my father’s face.”

--  

The doors of the harrowing chamber burst open. Almost before the first abominations could turn, arrows took them in the throat. Soldiers roared, demons squealed, and in the confusion of the clash of metal and bone, Cailan stormed through, a war cry on his lips, resplendent despite the ichor staining his golden armour. His greatsword cleaved through everything that rose in his path as he wielded grace and violence in equal parts, and in moments the ragged line that had managed to form against him collapsed. He faced the thing that had once been Uldred. Only the barest traces of humanity were left in its face, in the carapace just barely clinging to its old proportions and the grin that stretched too wide with too many teeth. Energy crackled between its claws as it turned towards him, dark tendrils that coiled down and wrapped around the two motionless figures at its feet.

“Do you worry for your friends, little king?” it boomed when it saw the direction of its gaze. “Do you think to save them? Your pride will undo you.”

Cailan laughed at it. “I’ve roasted larger game than you, piglet! Come taste my blade and die on it!”

He charged, roaring, but the headlong rush was more controlled than the demon believed. As it swiped for him he dodged, rolled, came up under its guard and neatly sliced through the soft skin behind its knee. The demon howled, crashing to the floor as its hamstring was severed. Fade being it might be, but it had trapped itself in a mortal body, in the limitations and the pain of the physical world, and its grip on that reality seemed to be weakening. Unfocused, it lashed out, catching the templar on Cailan’s left, and one of its own kind as it tried again. The king parried the blow as he ducked out of the way again, and this time – there, beneath the arm. He sprang like a cat, thrusting his entire weight behind the point of his sword, straight into the exposed inch of flesh beneath the monster’s arm. The steel pierced deep, first through muscle and bone and then into the cavity of the chest. The roar became a gurgle, then a rattle of air. Blackish blood surged over Cailan’s greaves, into his boots, making him slip as he darted out of reach of the still-flailing arms, but as he swung to face his next opponent, he found the last abomination falling to his captain’s sword.  

Across the other side of the room, one of the templars was loosening the bonds on the remaining mages, and another had taken charge of the warrior who had accompanied Rosslyn and Alistair into the tower. All around, the carnage of the battle was being settled, picked through with the grim efficiency of soldiers practiced in war. Seeing himself not needed for the time being, Cailan wiped his sword clean on his cloak and sheathed it, shucking the confines of his helmet before turning to the two figures on which the demon had been feeding. Alistair was already awake, but Rosslyn still lay sprawled upon the stone, her face exposed and pale, all but unresponsive to the sound of her name or the hand on her cheek.

Slowly, she stirred, groaned, pushed herself onto her elbows and rolled upright, pressing her fingers to her temple. Alistair’s voice came low and soothing in her ear, his arm a support around her shoulders that she leaned into him like a small creature huddling from the cold, bringing their heads so close they seemed to shut out the whole world.

“… And I killed him,” she said. “I killed him. My hands – the blood –”

“It wasn’t real.” His hand covered hers. “We were in the Fade, and it was toying with us.”

“I - Your Majesty!”

They parted like scolded children, and Cailan, like a worried parent, found his hands going to his hips.

“You both seem determined to age me prematurely,” he huffed. “Not content with a failed assassination, you decide to storm a tower full to the brim with demons! It was well done with the rest of the brutes, but it seems lucky I decided not to wait – that last one nearly had you.”

Rosslyn frowned. “We would have defeated it.”

“You’ve been missing for two days.”

“Two –?”

“I had to threaten Greagoir with exile before he would let me help.”

Alistair sat up straighter. “Did he force the Annulment?”

The king shook his head. “Luckily for you, Val Royeaux is a long way off, and your heroics managed to give first Enchanter Irving a chance to slip away and explain the situation.”

But Rosslyn was still frowning. “How were we lost for two days? It was still afternoon when… Where is Enchanter Amell – and lieutenant Cullen?”

“They’re being seen to,” came the reply. “You’ll all be weak after so long without food, hold on – you there! Fetch water and some tack from the stores.”

With Cailan’s attention diverted, Rosslyn let herself sway against Alistair once again. “Two days…”

He traced a thumb along her cheek. “We were trapped in the Fade,” he reasoned. “Maybe time is distorted there? But we survived it, and that’s what matters. The Circle is safe and now Greagoir has no reason to allow the Annulment.”

A wet chuckle interrupted them. Uldred’s body twitched, its form shrunk back to moderate size now that the demon had been slain both here and in the Fade, but the transformation had left sagging folds of flesh poking through the ruined clothes like loose sails. As they watched, he hauled himself onto his front, head lolling, his breath a harsh rattle in his throat.

“You think it so – so easy?” he babbled. Blood trickled between his lips. “You have – only delayed the inevitable.”

“I see no victory for you,” Rosslyn snapped. “Your army lies dead, and the mages and templars still live. You failed.”

The mage’s eyes rolled back in his head, his words seemingly more for himself than his audience. “Loghain will come for you – all of you. And you will not – be able to – you won’t stop him. He can’t be stopped.”

“Loghain told you to turn yourself into an abomination and go on a murderous rampage, did he?” Alistair scoffed.

Cailan returned, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. “He is just a man,” he said. “Even if he did orchestrate this tragedy.”

“Another one to add to the list.”

“He promised us an end!” Uldred cried. “To fear – a life free of the Chantry’s leash – and I – would have gladly served. But you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

The chamber rang with the harshness of the mage’s laugh. “You pretend you have no fear, but it knows you – all of you, what you cry out into the night, and – you will fail.”

“What knows us?” Rosslyn demanded, struggling to her knees.

“I am not the only one to seek help in the Fade.” Sightless eyes turned on her. “His ally is more ancient and powerful than anything – you can imagine. He will use it to burn you to ash, and I –”

“I’ve heard enough of this.”

There was a bright swipe through the air, and a wet thud as Uldred’s head was separated from his body and rolled away across the floor. Cailan stood over him, sword still raised, staring down at the corpse with nothing but revulsion in his face. After a moment, he shook himself, sighed, and crossed to kneel beside Rosslyn, taking a waterskin from his belt that he pushed into her hands. She took it without a word.

“It is over,” he said. “Brother, can I trust you to watch her? I must organise the relief and get word to Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

Alistair barely spared the king a glance. He nodded, already helping Rosslyn to her feet, ignoring his own dizziness and the weakness of his legs as he led her to a chunk of fallen rubble at the edge of the room. She stared at the floor as he knelt in front of her and shed his gloves, and only reacted when he pulled hers off too and chafed his palms over her fingers to warm them up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry it took their faces.”

She blinked, softening as she caught up to what he was saying. “That’s not what… It tricked you, too.”

“It’s not the same for me,” he replied, still with her hand in his. “It’s not like Maric and I were close.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

He offered her a weak smile, a huff of laughter and a cautious look to see if they might be overheard. “My lady is too wise for me.”

“That cannot be,” she answered, leaning closer, “because my prince is not a fool.”

“Only a fool in love.” But he stopped short before he could kiss her.

Around them, the remaining mages helped to the lower levels by members of the royal guard, Amell was channelling a glow of healing energy into Cullen’s unconscious form, and the ichorous stain where Uldred had fallen had been scattered with sand from a bucket in the corner. Her eyes fixed on it, the levity of the past few moments falling away into a frown.

“A demon. He’s in thrall to a demon.”

Alistair followed her gaze. “If a demon’s manipulating Loghain, it explains why he’s dealing with Tevinter, maybe even why he started the war,” he reasoned.

“You don’t understand.” A muscle ticked in her jaw. She sighed to steady herself. “I… I almost gave him Highever.”

“What?”

“When I was escorting Baudrillard to the border, I drafted letters in case he betrayed us, declaring a turn of allegiance if – in case I was killed.”

His eyes went wide. “But that’s –”

“Treason. I know. I thought it would be the lesser of two evils in the face of an invasion from Orlais, but… now? A demon?” She sank her head into her arms. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

Gently taking her hand again, Alistair eased down next to her. Around them, the clearing of bodies continued without talk. Most of the dead were mages who had refused to yield to Uldred and his abominations, and they had been discarded for far longer than a mere two days, though with the pressure of magic in the air, the corpses had been preserved. The templars’ blank faceplates betrayed no emotion as they worked in pairs to lift each one to the lower floors, but they were focussed on the work.

“You couldn’t have known,” Alistair murmured, once the nearest templar was out of earshot. “What happened to the letters?”

“Burned. Gideon saw to it.”

He nodded, relieved. “Can you stand?”

“I may even be able to walk,” she replied, nudging against his shoulder. “Good thing too – it looks like we’re about to get our marching orders.”

Cailan appeared at the top of the stairs, his sombre mood already stuffed behind his usual joviality, his steps picking around the rubble still left on the floor.  

“They’re going to house us in the barracks, Travers here is going to show you where it is,” he told them. “I can take care of the rest for now.”  

“Did we thank you for rescuing us yet? Because we’re really grateful.”

The pair staggered to their feet, using each other for balance, their armour as much a support as a hindrance for exhausted limbs. Hunger gnawed at Alistair’s belly almost worse than the cramp in his muscles. He stretched, as far as his plate allowed, and tried to hide the purse of his lips when Cailan offered Rosslyn his arm.  

He wants to marry you, actually, he had said, with a serpent of jealousy coiling black in his gut. As if she hadn’t already woken up beside him and confessed that she loved him. He put the feeling to the back of his mind, along with the realisation that they might have discussed telling Cailan, but they hadn’t expected to meet him so soon. How would they broach the subject? What would they say? The answer could wait for morning. For now, he was content to follow, and leave the nightmare behind.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 33 - Certainties and Uncertainties

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

He was late. It meant nothing, but every heartbeat that ticked by with Alistair still yet to appear pulsed a little more painfully in Rosslyn's chest. He’s late – he’s late – he’s late. She smoothed down the creases in her shirt and turned to pace across the antechamber again; the whirlwind of meetings and catchings-up that had followed her landing had left her almost no time to change from the formal attire she had worn on the beach into something fresh and more relaxed. She remembered picking out the deep blue samite with a flutter in her fingers, thinking the rich hue and the spark of gold embroidery at the hems would go well with her grey breeches and black boots, the flare of the collar modest but dipping low enough to expose the line of her throat. And now Alistair was late and she stood in a lonely hall with only the rattle of the wind for company, feeling like a fool for taking such care about her appearance. 

Cuno paid little attention to her souring mood, choosing instead to keep his nose pressed to the crack in the door so he could better sniff the hearty, savoury smells wafting through the broch from the kitchen. A puddle of drool was forming on the floor by his feet. He whined as she passed him again, a polite request for why aren’t we in the hall now, please, but she ignored him. The runner she sent to tell Alistair where to meet had left over an hour before, and had had no reason to be waylaid. She had checked with Brantis, who was busy overseeing the storage of their cargo and hadn’t seen him, but asking his whereabouts from one of the guards like some lovelorn fishwife was a step her pride would not allow her to take. Instead, she lingered out of sight of the main way into the broch, agitated, indecisive about whether to go and look for him, to stay and pace, or to march into her grandfather’s hall as if she never made the arrangement in the first place. Every time she turned in one direction, doubt crept in; the more she paced, the more her mind roved in circles. 

What if he’s already in there? it wondered traitorously. What if he never got your message and arrived with Nerlina instead of you? 

“Stop it,” she growled at herself. 

She had never thought about Alistair with other women. Whether that was due to the other demands on her time, or how slowly her regard for him had grown into something more, it hardly mattered now, when she was worrying at the idea like a loose tooth. Really, it was none of her business how he spent his time; she held no claim on him and it was all but expected for young people, especially among the nobility and especially among men, to dally and gain experience of the world before marriage tied them to a single partner. To assume Alistair was different was… too much like hope. They had been growing closer, yes, and her heart had shaken behind her ribs with how close he stood next to her on the Siren's Call only that morning, how he had leaned down, lips parted slightly as if to ask a question – but she had known flirts all her life. Men like Auldubard and Lucien, who hungered after her titles and the body they could use to claim them; Cailan, whose self-love depended on the love of others. 

As she turned and paced again, she realised that wasn’t what bothered her. Alistair didn’t care for titles, or the attention of his peers. Others admired him, some grudgingly, but besides his handsome features, he was intelligent, kind, funny, brave in battle, an endless list of traits that made any time she spent with him feel like the first bathe of sunlight after the chill of winter. He deserved so much warmth, she couldn’t blame him if he chose to take up the offer of an eager, willing body. 

She hated the idea of it. 

She hated that she hated it. She hated how her imagination twisted into dark spaces that sounded like Alistair, that smelled of him, pressed like his hands on her skin, then shut her out, cut the image to pieces with the barbs of her own abnormality, the disinterest that had never bothered her in her previous life. After all, what did desire matter when her world was horses and dogs and how to better work the swing of her blade against a target? She never expected to feel sick at the thought of Alistair touching someone who wasn’t her. 

“Enough!” she snapped, loudly enough that Cuno drew his head away from the door, wagging his tail uncertainly. “Sorry, boy,” she said. “That wasn’t meant for you.” 

He whined again, tongue lolling as he tramped towards her with the reminder that whatever heartache existed in the world, there was still food to think about. Scratching at his ears, Rosslyn sighed and cast a glance down the empty corridor, heavy with shadow between the beams of evening sun through the windows. 

“We’ll be late if we stay here much longer, won’t we?” she huffed at the dog. “Come on, then.” 

The noise of the hall swelled around her as she opened the door. Already, the broch was bursting with people, though more trickled in with every moment, crowding through the double doors at the other end of the room as newcomers recognised friends and family among the throng and went to make their greetings.  She navigated her way through with the ease of long practice, heading for the wide, curved table opposite the main door that seated the Storm Giant and his entourage.  

The broch was almost as she remembered it, a huge, circular construction under a cavernous roof built of concentric slate tiles, supported by basalt columns. Generations ago it would have been dark and smoky inside, but ventilation ducts had been added to the roof, and the Storm Giant himself had commissioned the glazed windows in the walls – they were draughty in the winter but runes for light and heat had been embedded in the lime render, long, spiralling lines forming protective spells in ancient patterns that guaranteed cheer even through the fiercest storms. At the centre, with five long tables radiating out from it like the pages of a newly opened book, a cauldron bubbled over a crackling peat fire, the embers of which hosted dozens of covered platters being kept warm for the start of the feast. 

“Your Ladyship!”  

She turned at the voice, and watched as two familiar figures battled towards her through the throng. “Wade?” 

“Your Ladyship,” the smith panted, collapsing into a dramatic bow. “I wanted to thank you. The forge here is simply sublime, and the smiths – why, there are techniques mastered here that I have only dreamed of!”  

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, recalling the numerous arguments about the delicacy of the man's anvil. “I suppose that means we won’t have the pleasure of your company on the return trip?” 

“Alas, as much as I am honoured to serve king and country, there is simply too much to learn here to waste time mending dents in tin plates for common soldiery.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all simply too fascinating! I’m on my second notebook already, you know.” 

“Really?” 

He nodded. “I cannot express my gratitude to you for allowing me to come, Your Ladyship. You have done me such a great service – and Herren, he’s delighted too.”  

“Ecstatic,” Herren agreed, with an indulgent roll of his eyes. 

“No thanks needed,” Rosslyn allowed graciously. “I’m pleased you find the Alamarri forgers meet your expectations.” 

“Maybe not needed, but I –” 

“Wade, perhaps we should go and ask Niall to clarify the stages of that smelting technique he showed you earlier,” Herren interrupted. “I’m sure Her Ladyship has other people she needs to talk to.”  

Shaking her head as they departed, Rosslyn resumed her path towards the centre of the room, passing Isabela, already swaying, and Morrence, who was deep in conversation with Leliana, with one hand fussing over the new braids at her temple, and did not notice her. Her grandmother was directing the gathering from the raised platform that separated the curving high table from the lower benches. Minstrels would play there once the servers were finished, but for now Lileas Mac Eanraig held the floor, directing her army of underlings with the kind of poise that took a lifetime to master. 

“You’re to be seated third on the right, dear,” she said when Rosslyn bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “Did you have to bring that hound with you?” 

She shrugged. “He would have been worse fretting in my room.” 

“Your grandfather should be here soon, he’s meeting with the other clan lords about tomorrow. Don’t worry about it – or about helping, you’re our guest tonight. Go and rest yourself.” 

By the time Rosslyn ushered Cuno under the table and sat down, the broch was almost full. Alistair was still nowhere to be found, but in the lower part of the room, the crew of the Siren’s Call had already cracked open the barrel of ale Eoin had promised them, and were elbowing room next to the members of Fereldan guard, while Isabela regaled them all with an animated story that made her drink slosh over the rim of her cup. The other tables seated the entourages of the other Clayne lords who had come to hear the request from the king. Each clan sported their own colours over mismatched sets of boiled leather armour – elves, humans, and even a dwarf or two among their number – and all seemed uneasy at having to share space with others who, without a common enemy, were reluctant allies at best. But nobody did more than grumble; the punishment for drawn steel in the broch in peacetime was the loss of a hand. 

Content to take in the atmosphere and let her mind drift, Rosslyn leaned her chin on her fist, trying to ignore the rumble of her stomach and the dark, insidious thoughts that still lingered at the back of her mind. She was tired, that was all, and once the night was over and she got some decent rest, there would be no room for them. Cuno butted his head into her lap, and when her only response was to absently scrub his ears, he grumbled and pushed his cold, wet nose into the crook of her elbow. 

She recoiled and snapped her gaze down. “What?” 

He looked up at her with dark, liquid eyes, and when he was sure he had her attention, he gave the barest tilt of his head towards the dish of cold meat pastries already on the table. 

"No,” she told him sternly. “You’ll get food, just not yet. Be polite.” 

A mournful sigh puffed against her hand, followed by a tiny, hopeful nudge of his chin.  Couldn’t she see how he starved? 

She scowled at him, but more for form’s sake than anything else. The dog had perfected his begging while still a puppy, sitting under the high table during dinner in Castle Cousland. Fergus had caught her once during the Satinalia feast, sneaking dumplings sloppy with fat drops of gravy, but her father had said nothing and Cuno had only learned that if he stared long enough, she would always, eventually, yield. Cursing herself, she glanced around to make sure nobody was watching, and quickly lifted one of the pastries off the plate and into the snap of triumphant jaws, before rearranging the plate to make it look like nothing was missing. 

“But that’s your only one,” she hissed at him as he snuffled on the floor for any missed crumbs. 

A hand descended on her shoulder. “I saw that.” 

She jumped, heart thudding as Alistair settled into the chair next to her. “I’m sorry?” His voice had been barely an inch from her ear. 

“That’s one rather satisfied mabari,” he answered, shifting his gaze to Cuno, who was licking his paws clean. 

“You try saying no to that face.” She took him in, ruffled hair and flushed cheeks, his collar looser than it had been when she left him that morning. None of my business. 

He tutted, smirking, oblivious. “Brantis was adamant that it was the height of bad manners among the Clayne to take any food from the table before all the guests were seated – something about disproportionate shares?” 

“What did Brantis say about being late to parties held in your honour?” The words snapped out colder than she intended, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek when his face fell into a frown.  

“I, uh, got lost,” he said. 

“I thought Nerlina was taking care of you?” 

“She’s serving tonight, so she had to leave,” he replied slowly, wary of the caustic edge in Rosslyn’s voice but not quite sure of the reason behind it. “Poor Giles and I had to find our way here all by ourselves.” 

“Surely it’s not that far,” she replied. 

“That’s what I said! Apparently, as a prince, I should have been born with an innate sense of direction, but it started getting foggy and after we went to make sure Connor had settled in we ended up wandering halfway to Orlais before we spotted a group of people heading in this direction and decided to follow them instead.” He leaned closer. “I’m… sorry I’m late.” 

“I…” 

A shadow passed over them, interrupting. 

“Now then,” the Storm Giant boomed. “Tha’s the first I’ve heard o’ royalty apologising for their timekeeping. Most expect the world te dance to their tune and never mind the consequences.” He slapped Alistair on the shoulder as he passed and held out the other meaty hand to squeeze Rosslyn’s as the other clan lords filed behind him and took their places at the other end of the table. None of them spared a glance for the two Fereldans in their midst.  

“I hope yer rooms are to yer liking?” the Storm Giant asked. 

"Uh, this whole place is amazing,” Alistair stammered. "Not quite what I pictured.” 

"Ha! And what did ye picture?” 

“More sea monsters, I think.” He glanced to Rosslyn. “And more rain.” 

“Tch, the storms come in the winter, and the sea monsters, well, ye hope they never come at all.” The old man shook his head. “There’s a fret rolling in frae the north, mind, so ye’d best hope ye don’t get lost again, laddie. It’s a short way to the cliffs and a long drop intae the sea.” 

Somewhere on the other side of the broch, a horn sounded. The large double doors closed with a slam and Lileas wove through the last of the crowd scrambling to their seats. 

“Your place, Feachar!” she reminded in an exasperated whisper, and with a final wink the Storm Giant left Rosslyn and Alistair to take his seat in the one of the two large, carved chairs at the centre of the curving table. On his other side, the other clan lords settled into place, as cautious with each other as a meeting of feral cats.  

Servers entered from a door set off to one side, carrying glazed pitchers that they dipped into the cauldron in the middle of the room. Some went to the lower tables where the guests held out horn cups or clay tankards, while others approached the high table and filled the cut-glass goblets there with steaming amber liquid. 

“Spiced honey mead,” Rosslyn explained when Alistair took a cautious sniff. “It’s stronger than it looks.” 

 Once everyone had been given a drink and the servers had retreated to the centre of the room, Lileas stood and raised her glass, glancing around as the rest of the broch mirrored her, watching expectantly towards the dais.  

“This is a marvellous day,” she announced. “This is a day we welcome new friends and old allies, and see the return of one we thought lost to us.” She turned briefly to Rosslyn, who returned the fond gaze with a small nod of her head. “For tonight, we celebrate, and for tomorrow, we look to the future and the renewing of our bonds.” 

After a brief pause to allow the murmur of assent to settle, she spoke again, this time a toast in Clayne, her words a melody that wove through the hall and rang in the silence. Alistair couldn’t understand it, but Brantis had drilled the meaning into him so he wouldn’t feel the need to interrupt with questions, and he followed the pattern of the words as she welcomed each clan in turn, then thanked the servers and the cooks and invited everyone gathered to eat their fill. When she finished, he toasted slainte mhor along with the rest of the broch and took a gulp of the mead. 

“How do you find it?” Rosslyn asked, chuckling at the way his eyes watered. 

He coughed. “I guess you did warn me – it’s got a kick. But it’s nice.” 

“Be careful how much you drink,” she cautioned. “It won’t hit you until you try to stand up.” 

“You know you sound different here.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Your Common – you have an accent,” he teased. “Like theirs. Just a little bit.”

“I don’t –” she started, then cleared her throat as she noticed the new broadness of her vowels. “I do not. I don’t. Don’t look at me like that, all smug and smirking like a cat with cream.”

His clever retort was cut short as the servers returned, this time with the platters that had been keeping warm by the fire. Each dish had enough portions for everyone to eat more than enough, and throughout the evening each one would be moved to another part of the room, so everyone could take an equal share in the meal. At the end of the night, the servers would get whatever was left over, as well as whatever choice portions never made it out of the kitchen in the first place. Unlike the fancy meals served at Cailan's table, where each course had a separate flavour palate, here sweet and savoury were mixed, so roasted meats and cheese were set alongside puddings and spiced fruits, with so much choice he barely knew where to start. 

Rosslyn laid a restraining hand on his arm as he reached for a dish of small birds glazed in some kind of sauce.  

“I wouldn’t, with that one,” she said. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s gannet.” When he looked at her blankly, she shook her head and huffed. “You know that smell you were complaining about at the docks when we were stuck in Invermathy?” 

“Yeeees…” 

“Imagine putting that in your mouth.” 

He pushed the platter away. “Ah. An acquired taste then?” 

She let go of his arm. “Not quite. It’s more… tradition. The Storm Islands weren’t always as prosperous they are now, and people had to make do. Keeping gannet on the table is a reminder of where the people came from, so their hubris doesn’t anger the gods.” 

“Aye, and te catch out unwary landlubbers who want te try it.” Eoin pouted at them both from further down the table. “It’s nae fun with you around, lass.” 

“Drink more then,” Rosslyn retorted, smirking. 

Eoin stuck his tongue out at her, but toasted her nonetheless and downed the contents of his glass. From the steadily rising noise level in the broch, others had the same idea. As the evening wore on, the dishes rotated and people started moving between tables to see old friends, and the Storm Giant boomed louder and louder to his conversation partners with each gulp downed. Alistair failed to notice most of it. In between conversations with their other closest neighbours, Rosslyn had taken to educating him on nautical terms using cutlery and table fittings to illustrate her points, while every now and then throwing choice cuts of meat to the dog under the table. As the drink disappeared, she started giggling and leaned in closer, and more than once he caught her staring fascinated at different parts of his face. The room grew very warm. 

“And that’s what green-to-green – Cuno, no – spit that out!”  

She dived under the table to wrestle with her dog for an unexpected chicken bone, leaving Alistair a moment to fully appreciate the soft, fuzzy feeling vibrating through his skull. Rosslyn’s hair gleamed in the torchlight where it tumbled down her back; he wanted to touch it. Trying to puzzle out the exact reason why doing so would be a bad idea, he brought his glass to his lips and was disappointed to find it empty. He looked up to flag down a server, but Nerlina had already appeared at his elbow as if she had stepped through the Fade to reach him. 

“Refill?” she asked sweetly. 

He offered his best grin in return. “Please.” 

Rosslyn, finished making sure her dog wasn’t about to choke, poked her head out from under the table again. The wine warming her veins chilled like a breath of cold air across the back of her neck, and all the worries she had shoved away surged back to the forefront of her mind with the sight that greeted her. Alistair sagged tipsily against the table, his eyes caught on the alcohol slowly filling his glass – or perhaps on Nerlina, who was bending over far more than necessary for a half-emptied pitcher of mead, in a very tight bodice with a very low neckline. 

“I don’t remember if I thanked you for earlier,” he said, still wearing his cheesy smile as he toasted her and drank. 

Nerlina tittered. “It was fun,” she told him, winking as she turned away. “And if you like, I could help you have even more fun later.” 

Alistair choked on his drink. He coughed, fumbling to set the glass back on the table without spilling as the alcohol burned in his lungs and up his nose, but Rosslyn, mind frozen, barely noticed. Heat flooded her face. Her pulse threaded through her ears, mortification fusing with whatever force was crushing through her chest, scalding behind her eyes. She stared at Alistair, watching him splutter from far outside herself. When he turned to her, eyes wild with panic, she flinched away, catching her gaze on a stain in the tablecloth.  

I should have known. Only the strictures of her noble training and adamant self-restraint kept her from fleeing right there, the knowledge that to leave now would cause insult to her hosts and possibly unwind all the good they meant to do for the king. Everything was too hot, too loud – she buried her fingers into Cuno’s ruff, the coarse fur against her skin the only anchor that kept the world from keeling over sideways. Her blood pulsed like mercury through her chest. I have been an utter, utter fool. 

“Rosslyn –” 

She pulled her hand away from him, reached shakily for her drink. “It’s not my business.” 

“No, you don’t –” He steadied himself. “I – That’s not what it sounded like. At all.” 

“I’m here to see we get our ships,” she growled, willing the alcohol to work faster. “Whatever else happens is…” She turned with a smile, brittle even to her herself. “There’s no shame in seeking company.” 

“And you think I want Nerlina’s company?” he demanded. His gaze followed the arch of her throat as she tipped back her glass to drain it of its contents. “Rosslyn, no. That’s – I mean, not that she isn’t attractive, I suppose, but –” He blanched. “Maker’s breath… I never considered – I mean, I have considered company in more, uh, general terms, of course, I just…” 

Something in the awkward shift of his eyes, the tick rubbing at the back of his neck, pulled Rosslyn back into the present moment. Her heart fluttered at the suspicion rising in her mind. 

“You’ve considered it?” she repeated. “Does that mean you’ve never…?” Her lungs constricted. 

His eyes blew wide and he leaned away. “Never what? Never had a good pair of shoes?” 

“You know what I mean,” she insisted, turning in her seat.  

“I’m not sure I do. Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never…” He glanced about, looking for inspiration, “…licked a lamppost in winter?” 

“And now you’re making fun of me.” With hope sinking like lead in her stomach, she turned away again, shifting as far away from him as she could as her mood crashed down and her teeth gritted against the sudden urge to cry. 

He caught her fingers before she could fold her arms over her chest. “Make fun of you dear lady?” he teased. “Perish the thought.” The earnest look in his eyes was an apology. He swayed into her line of sight, lowering himself so she had to look down at him as he wrapped her hand in both of his, the world now disappeared behind a tipsy haze and the knot of tension twisting between them. 

“Tell me,” he breathed, with a ghost of a grin, “have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?” 

“I…” Her memory flashed, to all the conversations between Oriana and the other ladies that left her out; how at court she was teased for her obliviousness, then later reassured an inclination would grow in time, and then later still told in no uncertain terms enjoyment of the act was not required for the getting of heirs. Everyone had always seemed so interested in sex, in the wanting and the expectation, and for the longest time she had thought them all merely bluffing, exaggerating what they felt because that was what was done, until the day she realised the bemusement was hers alone, that others desired in a way she did not, that she was locked outside a gate that had no key. 

She couldn’t tell him any of this. Not here, in a public hall rife with interested ears – and how could she do so anyway, without having him turn from her to someone with more than a detached curiosity in that kind of intimacy? What had her life been without him in it? 

“No,” she said, dropping her gaze to stare at the point of Cuno’s ear. “I haven’t.” 

Alistair squeezed her hand. “Good. I hear it’s quite painful. First you get stuck, and there’s pointing and laughing, and then you become known for miles around as the idiot who got their tongue frozen to a metal pole.” 

She couldn’t help the lift of a smile, though the back of her throat still burned. “Is that a warning from personal experience?” 

“You wish – some of the village boys did it on a dare once. I myself have also never done it.” His gaze faltered, voice lowered as colour climbed in his face. “That. I know it’s somewhat, uh, expected, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s because of where I came from, but I’ve always thought it would be better to – to be with a person you wanted to be with. That probably doesn’t make any sense.” He started to pull away, but Rosslyn held tight to his hand and didn’t let him. 

“I think it does,” she said in a small voice. “To be with someone you trust, when it’s an experience shared, not something taken.” 

They were sitting very close now. When Rosslyn glanced up, her breath stilled, caught in the way the torches illuminated beads of gold and amber in Alistair’s tawny eyes. She watched as his gaze trailed away from hers, following the movement of his free hand with rapt concentration as he gathered a stray wisp of her hair and pushed it behind her ear. 

“That’s it exactly,” he murmured. His thumb lingered on her jaw. “Have you… never found anyone like that, my lady?” 

Her smile turned wolfish, her cheeks warming with colour. “Well… maybe I just never found a lamppost worth licking before.” 

“Maker’s breath.” He reeled away, slumping backwards so his head hit the backrest of his chair with a dull thud, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips drawn inward between his teeth.  

“Alistair?” 

The concern in her voice brought a giggle bubbling up his throat. The alcohol singing through his blood meant the sound built until he couldn’t stop. In short order, the infection spread to Rosslyn, who doubled over, laughing at nothing until all the breath was driven from her lungs and the awkwardness of their conversation passed into base hysteria. It seemed most of the other guests were too deep in their own cups to notice the exchange, and neither of them felt much like letting go of the other’s hand.  

“Here, let me,” Alistair said when she reached for her glass and remembered it was empty. With a slightly unsteady grip, he tipped half of his own drink into hers. 

“Thank you.” 

Further along the table, the Storm Giant banged on the table with his fist. “Is this a celebration or a wake?” he cried. “We need music! Cuilean, din’t ye say ye brought an Orlesian songstress wi’ ye?” 

“Leliana is a Chantry sister,” Rosslyn answered, drawn out of her contemplation of the thumb stroking across her palm. “But she has a fondness for folk tales if she’s in the mood to share.” She beckoned to one of the servers and sent him down into the crowd to where the redhead sat among the Highever guard, and watched as she picked up her lute from under the bench and glided into the empty space in front of the fire pit. 

“What song would you have of me, my lord?” she asked the Storm Giant. 

Lileas answered. “A good bard knows how to read a room, does she not?” 

With a tiny, dimpled smile, Leliana bowed. “I am not a bard, but I will do my best. Perhaps something old to help our wonderful meal digest?” 

The broch fell silent. Somebody dashed in with a chair so Leliana could sit, then retreated into the shadows by the kitchen door. She plucked a few notes on her instrument, testing the tuning of the strings. 

“I learned this song from a Dalish woman when I was at Halamshiral with my patronesss,” she told them all. “She could not sing well herself, but she liked my voice and missed the old songs of her people, so she taught them to me so I could carry them forward. This one is called ‘Ame Amin’, and it is the lament of an elvhen knight upon witnessing the fall of the Dales.” 

“Bloody odd subject matter fae a Chantry sister,” the Storm Giant grunted. His wife batted him on the arm. 

Rosslyn had never heard Leliana sing. She knew the older woman had the ability, but hadn’t expected the crystaline quality to her voice as the first few notes climbed through the hall. It purled like the waves of the sea, speaking of loss and renewal, compelling sadness and wistfulness despite the foreign nature of the words. It filled the curve of the vaulted ceiling and returned strange, nascent echoes that isolated and magnified the cadence until everything else fell away. As the servers quietly tidied away the dishes, the cares of the day seemed to sneak in, weighting her limbs with a dull fatigue that sent tingles to the ends of her fingers. She only realised she had closed her eyes when a slight nudge against her shoulder startled her out of her doze. 

“It’s getting late,” Alistair murmured as the final notes of the song dissolved into the air.  

“Are you telling me it’s bedtime?” she asked through a yawn. “I haven’t had a bedtime since –” The memory shot through her like a cold knife in the ribs. She had spoken those exact words at Glenlough, with her father. Almost the last thing she had ever said to him. “I suppose we’ll need clear heads for the morning.” 

“I think I’ve had too much mead for that.” 

She chuckled, hiding a second yawn behind her hand as she toed her boot against Cuno’s side to wake him up. Around the hall, others were getting up as well, pleasantly full of food and drink, to begin the long stagger back to cot or hammock. 

“Would you mind if I came with you?” Alistair asked as she stood and stretched. 

“The night isn’t entirely over yet,” she answered, flashing him a wry grin as more minstrels appeared on the dais. “But if you’re worried about getting lost again, then it’s probably better if I let you tag along.” 

“Your Ladyship has such a magnanimous attitude.” 

With a tired chuckle, she led the way towards the door that opened onto the courtyard, her fingers buried in Cuno’s ruff to combat the sway of the floor. She paused to bid her grandparents goodnight, like she was a little girl again, but she missed the way the Storm Giant’s eyes narrowed when he spotted Alistair rising to follow her. 

They left a comfortable space between them and walked in silence through the night. The cool air shook off some of Rosslyn’s tiredness, but in the brief few hours since the horn had sounded to eat a thick fog had rolled in off the sea, leaving them in a formless, directionless void. The dog disappeared on the scent of some small animal, his snuffling weirdly magnified in the still air, and returned as a patch of heavier shadow in the darkness. 

“Here we are, safe and sound,” Rosslyn announced as the round bulk of the guest house materialised through the fog. A pair of whale-oil lamps flanked the low door, casting a greasy pall over their faces as they crossed the threshold. The space inside was dim but warm, laid out in the same wheel-like pattern as the broch, except here each wall radiating out from the communal space in the centre enclosed a room, with another level above reached by a sturdy wooden stairway.  

“It’s very cosy in here,” Alistair commented as he followed her to the bottom of the stairs. 

“It is. And I suppose this is good night.” Cuno had already padded up to her room, but tradition forbade men from going beyond the ground floor. 

Alistair tugged at her fingers. “Just a moment. ‘Good night’ is hardly a fitting farewell to the woman who brought me safely through the perils of a strange land, beset by shadows and mist.” 

“It was thirty feet,” she protested, allowing him to close the last casual space between them so she had to tilt her head back to see above his chin.  

“Oh hush, I’m trying to be gallant.”  

“Are you? In that case, I apologise.” When had he slid his arm around her waist? “Go on.” 

He still had hold of her fingers. Her palms were calloused from swordwork, the knuckles flecked with scars, but the skin on the back of her hand was so soft he could spend forever touching it. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to tell you all day.” 

He was so close, filling every sense until she was left dizzy. The small part of her mind not weighed down by alcohol or warmth or the scent of pinesmoke knew she ought to reply, to at least express gratitude for the compliment, but it faded away as she watched him lean down in order to leave a courtly kiss on her hand. His eyes slipped closed. She wanted more. She drew her hand back, amused when he followed blindly, and when he was close enough, with wine and anticipation fizzing through her blood, she caught his cheek and pressed her mouth to his. The muscles under her palm tensed, and for an instant she feared he would pull away, but then he pushed forwards, folding one arm more fully around her waist while the other curled along the line of her jaw. He tasted of honey. She wound her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him forward, matching his eagerness, moulding to the solid shape of him until they overbalanced and had to stumble against the wall to catch themselves. 

“Careful,” he breathed, still with his lips at the corner of her mouth.  

When she turned into the feeling, he responded, kissed her with light, lingering touches until she was giggling again and had to hide her face in the crook of his neck. Tangled so close, in the dark with silence draped over even the crack of the fire, the divisions between their two bodies grew indistinct, irrelevant, and she could have stayed forever wrapped in it, giddy enough to tremble with the reassuring beat of Alistair’s heart beneath her ear. 

“You know, I'm even more glad I passed on the gannet now,” he said, from somewhere above her. “That – that wasn’t too soon, was it?” 

She pulled back. “Was it? I’m the one – I kissed you first.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” he agreed, delight evident in every line of his face. 

“What,” she teased, “were you not paying attention?” 

“Oh, it’s not that. I was just wondering…” His voice dropped to a low rumble that stroked a shiver up her back. “Is this the part where I get to do the same?” 

Uncertainty crowded back in, warring with her joy. “Only if you want to.” 

For a brief instant, it looked like he was going to say something clever, but his gaze dropped to her mouth and with a dismissive shake of his head he leaned down again. The movement was deliberate, measured, the slant of his mouth promising more with everything it held back, and when his tongue peeked across her lips, her knees started shaking.  

“I definitely want to,” he told her. 

“That’s good to know.” Without quite meaning to, her gaze shifted to the darkened hall around them, with the peat fire burning low in the central hearth. “It’s late.” 

“Not for a little while yet, surely?” he tried, with a hopeful quirk of an eyebrow. 

“I wish I could say so. Good night, Alistair.” She rose on tiptoe and pressed one final kiss against his mouth, only for him to catch her with another. 

“Good night.” 

Shaking her head, she untangled their arms, her touch lingering until she stumbled on the first stair and decided to pay attention to where her feet were going instead. She didn’t look back until she reached the mezzanine, and her heart fluttered when she found Alistair still rooted in place, his expression split in a beaming smile she couldn’t miss even in the dark. 

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 34 - Trials

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Sixteenth day of Justinian, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn watched her reflection in her chamber mirror as her maid fussed about behind her, braiding her hair into the simple but elegant style she would wear before the moot. An early morning walk with Cuno had cleared the worst of her hangover, but the dim light streaming through the window left her face pale, and pronounced the shadows hiding in the hollows beneath her eyes. She had barely slept. Part of her wanted to believe the odd twist in her stomach could be explained away as nerves for the coming trial, but her mind wandered too far, dwelled on sensations that had nothing to do with official business. The ghost of Alistair’s lips still tingled against hers, their pressure missed as much as the spiced honey taste of the mead that lingered on his tongue. Even now, hours later, the delight of his touch at palm and waist and neck thrummed through her being, left her thoughts drifting like an unmoored ship at the whim of the tides. It hadn’t been her first kiss, but what were the others, really, but a traditional gesture for Satinalia, or a clumsy attempt to fix whatever in her was surely broken? Alistair’s was the first kiss she’d truly wanted, the first she craved to have again.

Morrence appeared in the doorway, her leather armour polished to a gleam. “All’s set, the guard are all ready to go at your word.”

“Thank you –”

“Will you have this one, Your Ladyship?” her maid interrupted. She held up a pendant on a thin gold chain, a gift from Cailan when he confirmed her title as teyrna.

“No, thank you Clara – I’ll have the garland if you would.” She turned her attention back to her captain in the mirror, obediently still as a necklace fashioned like a wreath of leaves was fixed around her neck. “Has Guard-Captain Mhairi reported yet?”

“They’re watching over the king’s gifts like a dragon, and His Highness is already waiting downstairs.” A knowing smile softened the edges of Morrence’s expression. “He seems to be in a good mood this morning.”

Rosslyn gazed steadily back, denying the power even Alistair’s title had in making her pulse quicken. He had parted so reluctantly, pressing himself to her until the last possible instant as he said goodnight. She cleared her throat.

“What about Tabris?”

“Lloyd reported that she slept on the ship last night,” came the amused reply. “Should I send someone to fetch her? She hasn’t turned up yet.”

Rosslyn frowned. “I would rather not. The lords will be happier to hear what she says if it doesn’t look like we’ve coerced her. Send along a messenger,” she decided. “Someone non-threatening. If she hasn’t shown up by the time we’re ready to proceed, well, we’ll have to do without her.”

“She’s come all this way, it’d be a waste not to go a little further,” Morrence huffed. “In the meantime, would you like me to pass on your regards to the prince?”

Pushing up from her seat, Rosslyn grabbed her coat from the foot of the bed and turned to look her smirking captain dead in the eye.  

“No need,” she said mildly. “I’m ready now. Cuno, stay.” Ignoring the howl of protest from her dog, she strode out onto the mezzanine that ran the full circumference of the common space. Alistair stood by the door, discussing their final preparations with Brantis, regal in the same mantle he had worn on the beach. Her heart pounded. How should she greet him? With so many people watching she couldn’t just let all her inhibitions go, and yet too much formality might give him the impression she regretted what they had done. And what if he regretted it? What if, despite Morrence’s assurance of his good mood, last night had been the result of too much drink and heavy food? She could feel her captain next to her, brimming with smug satisfaction.

“Speaking as a friend, you might want to wipe that frown off your face before he sees you,” she whispered.

“I…”

“We’re happy for you, and I’m not going to pry, but whatever happened last night, he’s happy too.”

The reassurance calmed the churn in Rosslyn’s stomach, if not the rapid tempo of her pulse. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to touch her friend’s arm. “And I suppose scowling in front of the moot won’t win me any favours anyway.”

“Your Ladyship!”

She turned. “Ser Brantis, good morning.”

“Good morning indeed!” he replied, bustling forward as she descended the stairs. “Hurry, hurry, we must not keep the lords waiting. Now, everything is prepared. You must remember, when you go into the chamber, you will be in two columns, one led by you and the other by His Highness. His Majesty’s gifts already have their carriers assigned, one from each guard on either end. I wonder if I’ve forgotten anything – that elf still isn’t here –”

She held up a hand to halt the rambling line of his thoughts. “I’m sure everything is fine. We’re ready, and Tabris will be here. If… I might just have a word with His Highness?”

Alistair peered over the chamberlain’s shoulder, the anxious shade to his expression an exact mirror of hers. And yet, he was wearing the bracers she had given him, and smiled when Brantis bowed and went to go and interrogate Morrence about her readiness again.

“Rosslyn! Uh, hi – good morning!” he stammered. “Did you… sleep well?”

Very aware of how her face was burning, she nodded. “I did – at least, once I finally got to sleep.”

He beamed. “I think I know what you mean.” She didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Are you ready?”

“If I’m not, there’s not much I can do about it now.” He shrugged. “At least if everything goes horribly wrong Cailan won’t get the news for a few days and I’ll have a head start going into decadent exile in Orlais.”

“Things won’t go horribly wrong,” she insisted, reaching for his arm. “You did well yesterday.”

“A party isn’t quite the same thing as a legal proceeding,” he pointed out. “Depending which side of the bench you’re sitting on, I mean. Any last-moment advice?”

She twisted her fingers together, considered. “I’m not sure. The clan lords aren’t politicians, they’re… well, pirates. They command respect from their crews, so you shouldn’t talk over them, but don’t let them talk over you either – and pause before you speak, so they can see you’re measuring your words. And maybe…” She glanced up, and found him watching her with an indulgent quirk to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. I don’t think I’m being much help. You’ve probably been told all of this already.”

Alistair laid his hand over hers to stop her fidgeting. “Heeeey, I would be lost without you.”

She smirked. “Literally.”

“Well, yes, but I wouldn’t say that ended too badly.” He was somehow so much closer now, the world beyond the warmth of his hand drowned in a rush like the sea.  

“No,” she managed. “It didn’t, did it?”  

The roundhouse door banged open, bringing back reality and the certainty of purpose.

“Wotcher,” Tabris saluted. “Ready for my marching orders, Your Ladyship. See, you didn’t even need to send one of those hobnails to fetch me – ain’t you surprised?”

Rosslyn ignored the sarcasm. “You’re just in time,” she said.

“Now that we’re all here,” Brantis interrupted with a delicate clearing of phlegm, “perhaps we can be underway?”

They made a grand procession across the terrace to the broch, straight-backed and glittering despite the low, looming clouds. The twin columns of booted feet tramped a pulse like drumbeat behind the Prince of Ferelden and the Teyrna of Highever, carrying chests ironbound with the royal seal between them as the double banner of the War Dogs and the Laurels fluttered on fields of silk. At the door, a herald met them and bowed, and the heavy oak boards groaned open onto a space left cavernous where the trestle tables had been cleared away. The eight clan lords of the Gailleanan stared down at them from high chairs arranged in a semi-circle, with the Storm Giant at the centre. Rosslyn rolled her shoulders, lifting her chin, and glanced at Alistair for a moment of reassurance before she strode forwards.

“Presenting His Highness Prince Alistair Theirin of Ferelden, and Her Ladyship Rosslyn Cousland, Teyrna of Highever,” the herald announced. “Here to plea with the lords of the Storm Islands for their assistance against His Lordship Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren.”

The last of the procession filtered through the doors, and at a nod from the Storm Giant a pair of guards swung them shut like a trap. Silence followed, ruffled only by low thuds and groaning hinges as the soldiers set the gift-chests on the stone floor and cracked open the lids. Rosslyn used the time to appraise her opponents, the set of hard men and women, human and elf, they would have to convince to stop the slavers. They were a wild band, all braided hair and bristling weapons, with more than one glimmer of sea-drake scales under the layers of plaid and leather. Most of them didn’t bother to return her regard, more eager instead for their first sight of the piles of treasure Cailan had sent them, luxuriant pelts from the Wilds, Chasind amber, and quantities of mineral-rich ore gained in trade with Orzammar. Everything, in short, that the Alamarri and lands north could not get for themselves.

“Before we begin this day, there’s a matter that needs te be addressed,” the Storm Giant called as the last of the boxes was unlidded.  

Hastily, the herald began a translation into Clayne, for those did not favour Common. Alistair raised a quizzical brow in Rosslyn’s direction, but she merely shrugged and looked to Brantis, who seemed to have been similarly wrongfooted by the announcement.

“One of our own resides among your number. Rosslyn, Teyrna of Highever, you carry the name of Cousland, and yet you’re also the Seawolf’s daughter and have blood of the Mac Eanraig flowing in your veins, which gives you a unique perspective on this matter. Where do ye choose to stand?”

She swallowed as she stepped forward; being asked to pick a side before the hearing even began could not be a good sign. “I am Eleanor Mac Eanraig’s daughter, but I came as an envoy for King Cailan, so I’ll stand as Teyrna of Highever, in his name and my own.”

“Alright then.” He sniffed and turned away. “Now, we all know why we’re here. This moot is convened under the laws that govern the Clayne. Your Highness, do you and yours agree to abide by them as well?”

“We, uh… we do,” Alistair replied.

“Then we’ll hear your petition. Why have you come?”

Eight sets of eyes turned expectantly towards Alistair, who flushed under the attention. He licked his lips and raised his hand, but faltered and ran his fingers through his hair as the speech he had practiced so many times stalled on his tongue.

“Ha – um. Hi.”

The lords creaked in their chairs, resettling themselves like pigeons fluffing up in their roosts, while Brantis stood off to the side with his lips twisting together to check the impulse to intervene in what had to be Alistair’s moment, for all their sakes. Even Tabris looked anxious – or like she wanted to smack him over the head. He glanced down, clearing his throat to try and quell the churning of his stomach, to quiet the voice in his head that still spoke like Isolde and laughed that of course he was going to fail, and let everyone down. The War Dog on his bracer glared up at him, measuring, daring him to do better. He breathed deep through his nose.

“My lords,” he said. “You may not know me. My name is Alistair. I’m the son of a serving maid from Redcliffe, but I’m also the son of King Maric, who came here for the same reason we have. Thirty years ago you agreed to help my father free Ferelden from the Orlesians – now there’s another threat that will cause just as much harm if it’s left unchecked, and we need to stop it.”

“Your Highness, the gifts!” Brantis hissed.

“Huh? Oh – yes!” Alistair gave an apologetic grin and swept his arm out over the arrangement behind him. “As a sign of goodwill for hearing us, Cailan – I mean, His Majesty – sends these assurances of the continuing friendship between the Clayne and the Theirin bloodline.”

Cool stares greeted his words, though the mention of the gifts had several of the lords shifting in their chairs.

“Frae what I hear, the mess in Ferelden is of King Cailan’s making,” grunted one, a human with a thick blonde beard and a golden ring looped in his nose like a bull. “If he wanted mercenaries, he should ha’ sent ye off tae the Raiders.”

“Aye!”

“Mac Cinead has a point!”

“Simmer down,” the Storm Giant barked, and glared at the two who had spoken.

Another, an elven woman whose facial tattoos were the same henna red as her braided hair, beckoned to the herald and muttered something in his ear.

“The honourable Lord Misyluinan asks if these boxes are of specific worth, and how many ships is His Majesty asking for each?”

Alistair blanched. “No, no! I didn’t mean – I mean…” His fingers brushed over his wrists again, gaze sliding over to Rosslyn, who stood expectant but gave him an encouraging smile. “His Majesty wasn’t thinking of the expense when he sent these gifts,” he told them. “They were freely given. No matter what you decide, King Cailan wishes the Storm Islands nothing but friendship. I hope you’ll understand, he isn’t asking you to intervene in his fight, he’s asking you to help him protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

“Tha’s no’ an act of charity,” Mac Cinaed retorted. “Loghain is using this trade tae fund his armies, which he is then sending against you. His Majesty can claim friendship all he likes, but he still has the most tae gain from this.”

“It’s slavery!” Alistair cried. “Doesn’t that make you sick? Yes, if this is stopped, Loghain will no longer be resupplied from Tevinter, and that would be good for us, but the longer this war drags on, the more trade will be damaged across the Waking Sea. The ports of Highever and Denerim are already closed off, and nobody wants to trade with Ferelden. I’m not sure how many glazed windows Dunedyn will be able to afford after that.”

The Storm Giant glared. In the corner, Brantis winced at the implication in the words, wringing his hands as he imagined every excruciating detail of the future in which he returned to Cailan with an entirely new declaration of war.

On the very edge of the circle, an elderly woman with a face like cracked sandstone leaned forward on a gnarled staff set with a glimmering ruby. “I’d be careful of your tone, my lad.”

“I didn’t mean –”  

“It sounds like ye think we’re interested in profiteering,” Mac Cinaed interrupted.

Alistair stuck out his chin. “I think you should let me finish my sentence before you leap to conclusions.” He heaved another breath. “Look, it’s understandable you don’t want your people dying in a war you didn’t start, but that’s why you ought to share the outrage that brought us here. Someone said, uh – that is, I was told recently that fear grows in the darkness in people’s hearts, and then it spreads and infects others until nothing is left but shadows. People are already dying, and more will if something isn’t done. Not just soldiers. Do you think Tevinter will be content to stop once they get a foothold in Ferelden?”

“And how do we know these Tevinter spectres are not simply an attempt to scare us into joining a civil conflict?” Misyluinan demanded through her translator. “Where’s the proof?”

“I have the proof,” Rosslyn declared, crossing the gap to stand next to Alistair. She beckoned for Morrence, who brought her an oilskin pouch stamped with the sign of the Laurels. “I have here months of reports from my scouts in the Highever teyrnir, and among other things they speak of slaver gangs roaming the countryside in the guise of ordinary patrols, taking prisoners if they do not pay fines.”

“Your Ladyship, if I may…?” The herald stretched out his hands and took the pouch to the Storm Giant, who gave it a cursory glance and tucked them at his side for a closer look once the first arguments were out of the way.

“Some have been cut free,” Rosslyn continued, “but many more end up taken to cargo ships hired by Tevinter through ports in the Free Marches, free Fereldan citizens caught on the wrong side of a war.” She paused, and made sure to look every one of the lords in the eye as she turned in her agitation to pace the room, the way she had been taught by Aldous a lifetime ago in her father’s library.  

“I know what you’ll say next. Maybe those records are falsified – maybe I’ve conjured the whole story out of thin air. For some of you it might not matter, because those reports are just words on a page, dealing in numbers and absolutes. I can’t tell you what it’s like, to be one of those people stolen from their loved ones, who knows they’ll never see home again. But she can.”

She gestured to Tabris, who had been sullenly watching the clan lords eye the treasure and roll their eyes at everything said so far. Besides the Storm Giant, five of them were shems and had no reason to care, but the other two were elves. Misyluinan even had vallaslin like Tabris’ own mother – a different pattern, a different god, but the magic behind the flowing lines was the same. Being angry at them was easy.

“And has she been brought to be paraded like those reports?” the elderly mage lord asked.

“Who’s ‘she’, the cat’s mother?” Tabris demanded. “I have a name. And I wasn’t brought here, I don’t answer to Her Ladyship over there. I came because I thought it would help my family.”

She stepped into the place Rosslyn ceded to her, fists balled at her sides, and the jitteriness that had consumed Alistair didn’t touch her as she began to speak. She answered their questions, told them everything from the beginning when the Guard had called a purge on the alienage after someone suggested the elves were harbouring royalist dissidents, and how that cull had brought a winter illness that had no physical symptoms and yet was highly contagious. Loghain had sent men into the alienage, magisters under the guise of healers, who set up a quarantine to treat people who never returned.

“When my cousin Shianni started asking questions, they told her she had the plague too, and they took her,” Tabris said. “I followed, broke into the house they were using as a quarantine – all I found was blood and a secret passage behind a wall. When I followed it, I found them all. They –” She faltered, gritted her jaw. “They were packed in crates like animals, in chains. Before I could get them out I was spotted and the next thing I knew I was shoved in with everyone else. We was lined up on the docks, waiting for the tide, I heard them say, and any as didn’t wait quiet enough got the smack of a whip. Sometimes they did it just to watch us flinch.”

“How did you escape?”

A small smile curled at the corner of the elf’s mouth, eyes unfocused, lost in memory. “A ponce-arse shitstain shem thought he’d have a little fun with me and I sliced his throat to the bone. After that I went to the king, thought he’d stop it.” She looked up sharply. “And it may be ‘cos he just wants to win his war, but at least he didn’t sit down judging whether or not it was worthwhile getting himself involved. This one –” she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Rosslyn “– even brought me along to speak for myself when she didn’t have to. Thought you lot was honourable. I don’t see nothin’ but a bunch of self-righteous greedy thumb twiddlers.”

“I see,” the Storm Giant growled. “And do ye have anything to add to that?”

Tabris shrugged. “Nah, that about covers it.”

After that, Brantis took over their argument as the one with the greatest knowledge of the specifics if Clayne law. Though all the lords agreed on the abhorrence of slavery, none was willing to take the first leap and pledge lives to stop it for the sake of a foreign power. Yes, the precedent existed with the Occupation, but the Rebellion had served as an ally against a corrupt power that had already placed multiple embargoes on Clayne trade and crippled shipping across the Waking Sea. This war was merely a civil conflict, instigated by the very man now seeking aid to stop it.

“And now His Majesty has brought Orlesians in on his side,” Mac Cinaed pointed out.

“Lucien Baudrillard is a mercenary –” Rosslyn tried.

“With close ties to the imperial court. Loghain’s fears are legitimate, if not his methods.”

The other lords murmured in agreement.

“And we must not forget this time we would be fighting Tevinter, not Orlais,” added a wiry, swarthy man who hadn’t yet spoken. He nodded to the mage who sat across from him. “Even with our own talented spellcasters, magisters make difficult prey.”

“So do the great whales,” Rosslyn snapped. “And hunts for them are turned into songs.”

The Storm Giant raised his hand. “I think we should recess. The arguments for each side have been made, and now we must decide the verdict. Gilly –”

“Aye m’lord?” asked the herald.

“Get us some pasties or something from the kitchens would you? I’m famished.”

“Do you think they’ll help us?” Alistair asked.

Rosslyn glanced at him. Fed, watered, and left to wallow in a comfortable antechamber while the moot decided the fate of hundreds, they had spent over an hour with that very question hanging over their heads.

“They always meant to,” she answered, picking at the hem of her coat.

“How’d you figure that?” Tabris demanded. “You saw them all in there shooting down everything we said like target practice.”

Rosslyn ignored the lack of deference. “Exactly. They agreed on everything. If they hadn’t already decided they would’ve shouted each other down for hours and forgotten we were even there.”

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ to this,” Morrence surmised, and watched as the younger woman rose and tried to relieve her agitation with pacing.

“The question is what they want in return.”

“Ain’t all that loot enough? All what we said? Teach me to get my hopes up, that will.”

“Show some respect,” Rosslyn snapped. “The Clayne live by the sea and follow the gods, so they’ll want to know the gods are with them before they commit to us. There’ll be a trial – a test.”

“So – What?” Morrence asked. “They choose a champion, we choose a champion, they slug it out and the winner gets the boats?”

Rosslyn nodded. “Perhaps.”

But she turned again and looked out at the worsening rain, counted the drips as they fell from the overhanging roof. For a matter so serious, the moot would probably decide on something more than a test of mere strength, and as the leader of the mission, Alistair would have to face it – whatever it turned out to be.

“Hard to believe it was bright sunshine yesterday,” he said next to her now. She hadn’t heard him approach. “Come on, it’ll do good to get some fresh air.”

She followed the light guiding hand on the small of her back though the antechamber to the sheltered porch outside, where she leaned against the wall at let her head fall back, taking comfort in the cool, rough stone.

“It’ll be alright,” Alistair said.

She opened her eyes and nudged closer to him. “We need those ships.”

Tension loomed in the space between them. He cleared his throat.

“Let’s talk about something else, at least for a little while. How about – about last night. We should – should we discuss… things?”

“What about things?” she asked warily. “You don’t… regret it?”

“What? No!” He turned, cupping the side of her jaw in his haste to reassure. “Kissing you was…” He paused and let his gaze fall to her mouth. “Wonderful. Something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. And this morning, well, all that stopped me was the audience and not knowing if – if you regretted it.”

She licked her lips. “I don’t.”

“Thank the Maker for that.” He chuckled, and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “You know I’m not very experienced with this, and it might sound strange given we haven’t known each other for very long, but… I’ve come to care about you. A great deal. I…”

A brief spasm of uncertainty passed over his features, but she caught his chin to bring his gaze to hers.

“I feel the same way,” she murmured in a voice laced with regret. “And there are so many things I want to say to you, but… they could call us back at any moment. I don’t want to – to get halfway through a conversation and then have to leave it. And besides…” the words broke off in a breathy chuckle as she glanced, blushing, at the lips so close to her own.

“More kissing?” he clarified, unable to resist leaning closer still. “What if I kissed you now?”

“That would be…”

The door groaned open behind them and they sprang apart. Mhairi stepped out, her eyes carefully averted, looking nevertheless relieved to find she wasn’t interrupting anything more than a conversation.

“The herald just arrived to say the moot has made its decision, Your Highness,” she said with a cough. “They’ve asked for you.”

“Excellent. That’s –” Alistair glanced to Rosslyn. “That’s excellent. Lead on.”

With only a perfunctory stop to resettle the lie of their clothes and brush away the last few stray crumbs from their meal, Rosslyn and Alistair were ushered once more into the broch, where the circle of disapproving clan lords waited for them. This time, only their guard-captains and Tabris accompanied them.

“The moot has come te a decision,” the Storm Giant told them from his chair. “Will you hear it and abide by it?”

“We will,” Alistair replied.

“Then listen.”

It was Mac Cinaed who stood and offered the ruling. He rose from his seat and began with an address; the acknowledgement that slavery should not be tolerated and that an intervention would bring a quicker end to the war and make trade flourish again, unless Loghain won and imposed sanctions on a people that would have otherwise remained free.

“It’s not for the Clayne tae interfere in the affairs of others,” he continued. “But we acknowledge that this could become our affair. In such situations, we must trust tae the will o’ the gods, and the will o’ the sea. Therefore, it’s our judgement that as the highest ranked among your number, Prince Alistair must face the challenge o’ the sea. Do ye accept?”

“If I win, you’ll stop the slavers?” Alistair checked, turning to the Storm Giant who sat grave in the centre of the half-circle.

“Aye.”

“Then I’m all ears. Tell me what I have to do.”

“The ‘what’ will be told to ye tomorrow morning,” Mac Cinaed replied. “Until then, I suggest ye take your rest.”

“Wait a moment,” Rosslyn interrupted. “That tells us nothing. You must name the challenge, otherwise it’s bounds are unset and it can’t be wholly accepted.”

Several of the lords glanced at each other, their sighs ruffling through the broch like a cold wind. Alistair tried to catch Rosslyn’s eye but she was too busy staring down Mac Cinaed to notice.

“The trial is that of An Sgòrnan Aigeinn,” the clan lord huffed. “Are you satisfied?”

The sound of the thing left an ominous chill on the back of Alistair’s neck, but he shook it off, determined to make light of it and get out so he could pull Rosslyn away and maybe spend some time with her before whatever it was he had to face in the morning, but his smile died on his lips. She was rigid, staring in horror between Mac Cinaed and the Storm Giant as if someone had just pronounced a death sentence. He barely caught the tiny, whispered no that slipped off her tongue like a lead weight.

“Have ye something to say, Teyrna of Highever?” the Storm Giant asked.

She moved to stand in front of Alistair, planted her feet. “There are other trials, ones not given to murderers.”

“This is a matter with consequences for all the Clayne,” Mac Cinaed answered over the growing murmurs of the rest of the moot. “Nothing else will satisfy.”

“Rosslyn,” Alistair muttered. “Whatever this ann skorgan… uh – whatever this test is, I’ll do it.” He laid reassuring fingers on her arm. “It can’t be that bad.”

For an instant, she turned to him, eyes wide. He read an unfamiliar desperation in them, in the flick of her gaze to his mouth and the miniscule shake of her head as she turned away from him to face the council again.

“He’s not Clayne,” she pressed.

“He swore tae abide by our ruling. An’ so did you.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“What?” Alistair demanded behind her. “No. I can handle it.”

Her gaze snapped back to him. “You don’t even know what it is!”

“You’re right, but from the look on your face do you really think I’d let you face whatever it is in my place?” His hand rose as if to stroke her cheek, but curled away as he remembered where they were.

“There is no ‘let’,” she growled, and moved beyond his reach. “If you demand An Sgornan Aigeinn be faced, my lords, then I will do it. I have the blood, and I speak for King Cailan just as well as Prince Alistair.”

“No you don’t,” he hissed, following. “No she doesn’t!”

“Alistair –”

“Enough!” the Storm Giant roared. He was standing now, glaring at them both. “You, lass, come with me.”

Without a backward glance, he prowled from the dais to the door at the back of the room that led to the household’s private quarters, and then turned down a side corridor towards to a storage room at the end. Even though she held her head high, shoulders back, Rosslyn flinched when he slammed the door behind her.

“What are you thinking of, lass?” the Storm Giant growled in Clayne. “How dare you embarrass me like that?”

“Me?” she spat. “What about you, leaving the fate of so many up to chance? Weren’t you moved by anything we said? Are the Clayne so insular these days that you’d leave the fate of hundreds to be decided by – by something so arbitrary?”

“Do you expect us to put the lives of our own above strangers who let themselves be led away like sheep?” he retorted.

“Not everyone has the power to fight for themselves. After everything I’ve seen, I’ve learned that much at least. Superstition is just an excuse to sit on your hands.”

He turned away. “Call it superstition, but without the blessing of the sea, the Mac Eanraig will not go to war, and nor will any of the other clans. I tried to sway them – I did – but it is war that is being asked of us, one that we have no part in. Without him you do not get your ships.”

“And what about my mother?” she cried. “Do you think she would have stood by while others suffered if she could do anything about it? Howe put her head on a pole above the castle gates. I saw it, I was there. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? You’re denying help to the same people she died to try and protect!” She drew herself up, despair giving way to the roar of the battle blood within her. “If you do nothing, you spit on the Seawolf’s memory.”

The Storm Giant rounded on her, face contorted into spitting fury. “Have a care, lass,” he ground out. “She was my daughter. But I am bound by the laws which govern me. Have you so little faith in this prince?”

Rosslyn faced him square. “It’s not a question of faith. If the gods are going to decide whether you should help us, surely it doesn’t matter who goes through the Swallow – or do you have no faith in me?”

He reeled away, his expression softening into something broken. “I would not risk you, Cuilean, especially not now. You know why it must be him.”

Still stiff with defiance, Rosslyn watched her grandfather hunch away from her, shrinking in a single instant to a man well into old age, past his prime and overburdened by the legend of his name. Even so, she refused to bend, or to beg. Her mind rang with images of Alistair, the memory of their closeness the night before, the tremor in his voice as he admitted he cared for her so short a time ago – and the fear of cold water closing over his head, of the dark, directionless pull of the sea and the empty hollow that would be left over if she lost him like she had lost everyone else.

“There must be someone else,” she said. “Something else.”

The Storm Giant did not look at her. “It is a shame you care for him, but his fate is now in the Lady’s hands.”

“This was your plan even before we landed on that beach,” she realised, with a numbness that shook through her limbs. Pain rose in the back of her throat, choking, deep enough to clog her lungs as she backed away disbelieving towards the door.

“You will follow our laws, Cuilean. He must do this alone.”

With a final shake of her head and her hands balled into fists, she wrenched open the door and marched back to her place, teeth gritted and shoulders straining with how high she raised her neck, gaze unfocussed and fixed straight ahead, ignoring Alistair’s frantic attempts to catch her eye.

“The judgement of the moot stands,” the Storm Giant announced as he retook his seat. “Prince Alistair of Ferelden will face An Sgornan Aigeinn tomorrow at the morning ebb. Until then, our lives are our own. I suggest you eat and rest well, Your Highness,” he added as the herald blew the horn that signalled the end of the hearing.

Alistair turned away from Rosslyn just long enough to bow his acceptance of the decision, but in that instant she had made it halfway to the door, driven by the need to be out and away from people, up into the fresh air and the hills where she could scream her frustration in peace.

“Rosslyn!”

“Please… just don’t,” she said as he caught up with her in the courtyard. Rain pattered around them, the kind of fine drizzle that chilled through hair and skin and clothes straight to the bone. She refused to look at him.

“Rosslyn,” he tried again. “It’s alright. We’ve been through worse – we’ll figure this out.” He reached out for her but she dodged away from his touch.

“I’m not allowed to help you.” Her knuckles clenched so hard the joints popped. “If I do, then it’ll be taken as an insult to the gods and to Clayne laws, which… would not be good.”

“They wouldn’t help us against Loghain,” he surmised, and hissed in a breath as another thought occurred to him. “And we can’t talk about other things, can we? In case someone gets the wrong idea.”

“I’m sorry.”

He watched her fold her arms across her chest, rocking backwards on her heels, and tried a smile. “I’ll just have to keep looking forward to that, then. What’s one more day?”

She opened her mouth to reply, actually lifted her gaze to look at him properly, but her eyes caught on something over his shoulder, and with an expression that was part fear and part defiance, closed herself off once more. “I have to go. I – I’m sorry.”

Before he could call her back, she fled, striding across the cobbles while the rest of their company carefully ignored the scene. Confusion and hurt carved through his guts, leaving him as hollow as his fist as it clenched on empty air. He turned to find the source of her distress, anger flaring through his limbs, but the Storm Giant only leaned in the doorway of the broch with his arms folded over his chest and a scowl cut deep across his craggy face.