#alastair x cousland

[kauriart]

Hero

An NSFW Dragon Age fic for kaijuburgers as part of the 2020 @black-emporium-exchange | m!Cousland x Loghain | Read it on A03

Oren Cousland is drunk.

But not drunk enough.

There’s a serenity, surely, waiting at the bottom of a bottle that he hasn’t found yet. And he is nothing if not determined to find it.

Stubborn determination has carried him this far, after all.

He’s in the kitchens — second kitchens? Some over-stuffed yet tidy room near the wine cellar. It smells comfortingly of food and flame, and is as much a balm to his frazzled senses as the drink. Moreso perhaps.

There are oil lamps strung along the walls, but the fire in the room is smokey-low and dim, flickering erratically as though uncertain if it ought to go out. He lifts his latest bottle and pours. The glass fills so quickly some of the wine spills out over the rim and over his fingers. A puddle of deep burgundy forms on the table, glossy as velvet. 

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

But that was years ago.

And he is not nearly drunk enough to go wandering into those memories, no matter how close they press to the surface.

Oren lowers his mouth to the glass, carefully slurping up the excess wine as the door to the room slides open, wood creaking and shifting heavily. Alastair blinks. “Sorry. Didn’t think anyone would be here. What are you doing up at this hour?”

The drunken detritus on the table should be obvious enough. 

Oren lifts his wine glass carefully. It’s still rather full. “Celebrating.” 

Alastair raises a single auburn brow, but makes no comment. Instead he crosses the room, boots dragging heavily across the polished floors and sits in the chair opposite his fellow Warden. 

Or, ex- fellow Warden. No one has bothered to explain if Kings get to be Wardens after all.

“We won, didn’t we?” Oren says, voice rough from the wine. “Successful landsmeet and all.”

Only it doesn't feel that way. Not really.

Surely victory ought to carry with it some semblance of satisfaction. Of accomplishment.

Alistair is quiet and still. Brow furrowed. Everything about him has changed to a striking degree. So much at odds with the half-giddy, nervous energy he usually displays. “What do you intend to do with him?”

Loghain.

Strong hands and broad shoulders. Eyes like grey steel in the candlelight. A hard mouth, and hard kisses. Each one sweet, and salty, and stolen.

Oren dips his fingertip into the puddle of spilled wine, and tries not to frown. “You’re the King now. I should think that deciding the fate of prisoners to the crown falls to you.” 

For the barest moment, Alistair looks old. Then he reaches across the table and snags Oren’s wineglass, draining what’s left in three long swallows. “Loghain’s crimes were foremost against the Order. You’ve been our Warden Commander for the better part of a year. Doesn’t matter that you were never officially promoted.”

“Weisshaupt might disagree.” Oren says drily, and pours Alistair another glass of wine.

“Weisshaupt can go bugger itself, for all the help they’ve been.” Alistair mutters. He swirls the wine in the glass, but doesn’t drink. “It’s your call. I’ll stand by you, whatever you decide. I owe you that, at least.”

“Poor thanks, if you ask me.” Oren’s mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. “Couldn’t you just shower me with riches and titles? Half-naked noble women?”

“I hear Gwaren needs a new Teryn.”

He gives Alistair a startled look even as his insides twist, unsure if it’s a joke or not. Alistair is rarely cruel, but… 

… things have changed.

Alistair holds his eyes for a moment, copper gaze unreadable before he grimaces and heaves a tired sigh. “Sorry. It’s… it’s been a day.”

“I know,” Oren swallows hard. “ For what it’s worth, I’m… sorry too.”

“I’m sorry… your Majesty.” Alistair’s brow quirks up, and the line of his mouth eases, just a little. Just for a moment. 

Oren snorts, and clinks his wine bottle against Alistair’s wine glass. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

Alistair takes a drink, and the line of his mouth twists. “In war, victory.” he says so quietly, it is almost to himself.

*

In the morning, when Oren wakes, it isn’t really morning. The sun is already climbing down from his peak, and he has the grain of the table etched into his left cheek, a monstrous headache thundering through his right temple, and a deep sense of regret for that last bottle of wine.

Or bottles. Plural.

He’s not even sure how many he regrets, because he’s not sure how many he had — some industrious soul has already dispatched the remains of the celebration. But it had been an expensive evening.

And for all his excess he had never quite reached that floaty place where he could forget about Loghain, their past, and the decision laid out before him.

Loghain had been found guilty of treason, and had been summarily stripped of his titles and position. Even his daughter had failed to speak in his defense.

Fereldan judgement is swift. Fereldan punishment, even swifter. The nobility may have backed them in the Landsmeet, but it would not go well for the new King were he to falter in the dispatch of justice.

But Loghain’s crimes carried a particularly personal sting for Oren. 

So he bathes, and changes into his cleanest uniform, donning a warrior’s full plate. Even strapping steel to his hips. He doesn’t shave. His hands shake too badly to manage a blade, but the quarter-inch of stubble makes him feel unkempt — and the bloodshot eyes don’t help – too much like a year-old Warden who sleeps in a muddy tent, and too little like a man fit to judge the Hero of River Dane.

He tugs a hand through his dark curls feeling suddenly as though he were fifteen again, half in love with a man he’d known since boyhood, watching him cross the length of his father’s hall, and silently begging to be noticed.

He hadn’t been — not then. 

But then, one year, there had been a kiss. And then another. And then it was more than just kisses. And Loghain’s yearly visits had become twice a year, and then, every few months, and then every month.

And Oren had thought— 

But then Loghain’s visits had ceased abruptly, and without explanation.

That had hurt.

But what came next hurt even worse.

Rendon Howe, Loghain’s right hand, had swept in and murdered Oren’s entire family.

And everything that had happened from then until now had been a blur of grief and betrayal and bloodshed. 

He frowns at himself in the mirror.

This will be the first time in two years that he has spoken to Loghain alone.

He remembers the last time, though they’d barely spoken then. Loghain had kissed him breathless in the hall outside his room. And inside…

Oren shakes his head as hard as he can to stop the memories from coming. Even so they punch through, bright bursts of starlight behind his eyelids. The drag of Loghain’s fingertips across bare skin. The feel of his mouth curling into a smile. The taste of him. The mass of dark hair in Oren’s hands. The rumbling sounds of pleasure Loghain always kept locked tight in his chest. 

It feels like a thousand years ago.

Everything has changed.

Everything.  

And yet as he takes the long way to the part of the castle where Loghain is being held, he has to pause, and lean against the wall, hand against his face to still his breathing. There’s a sick sort of unease in his belly. Giddiness and dread and enough wine that he’s still halfway to drunk.

Maybe he just needs a good vomit.

There are a pair of guards stationed outside the door, but he orders them away. Whatever he means to say is for Loghain’s ears only. 

Oren takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open.

It is not what he had expected of a prison.

The room is large and richly furnished, with polished wood, and jewel-toned tapestries, and furs flung across every bare surface. There are no windows, but a fireplace is lit and well-stocked, casting the room in a warm, dramatic light. 

There are benefits to being the Queen’s father, it seems, no matter one’s crimes. 

Loghain is sitting near the fireplace, with a large book open on his lap, dark hair pulled back into a neat tail. He’s unarmed and unarmored, but Gwaren’s heraldic crest, a wyvern, done in gold thread, still winds down one of his shoulders.

Figures.

“Loghain.” 

Loghain looks up slowly, supremely unconcerned. One finger presses to the page, marking his place in his book. “Has Maric’s bastard decided what’s to be done with me?”

Oren glares, hands curling into fists at his sides, though he refuses to rise to Loghain’s insult. “Your King,” he says instead, leaning heavily on the word, “has sent me.”

“You,” Loghain says, voice expressionless. He looks Oren up and down with a calm sort of intensity. And if he recognizes him — or remembers what they once shared — he doesn’t acknowledge it. He tilts his head, inviting an answer. But the shadows shift along the sharp planes of his face, and all at once he’s too hard to look at — too imperious, and starkly beautiful, even in his defeat.

Oren looks away.

The silence between them stretches before Loghain speaks again. “Do you know they call you the Hero of Ferelden?”

Oren clenches his jaw. “No one calls me that.”

“They will.” He snaps the book on his lap shut. The sound is startling enough that Oren looks back at him. “That should please you. You always did love… heroes.”

Oren’s heart gives a small, painful jolt. 

“So you do remember me.”

Loghain looks at him for a long time. And the world spins and spins, flickering between what was and what is. 

“At Ostagar you didn’t… you didn’t even…”

“What would you have had me do?” Loghain’s words are sharp, and his eyes even sharper. 

Oren has no answer. Nothing that isn’t childish or petulant. Thousands died at Ostagar. 

Duncan died at Ostagar. 

Half of all living Wardens died at Ostagar.

He shakes his head, breathing heavily through his nose. He can still remember the stink of the battlefield, even before it began. An army is all noise and sweat and shit even before it is broken into pieces. And he and Alistair had watched it all from their tower. The tidal wave of Darkspawn crawling over the men below, and Loghain’s banners turning round, leaving them all to their fate. There’d been no sound –– they were up too high. But Alistair’s screams filled his ears, drowning out the tiny crack that splintered across his heart.

He really is a fucking child.

Loghain stands and moves closer, and Oren shifts from foot to foot. He won't back away, he won't. But having Loghain so close makes him uneasy. 

The table at the center of the room is laden with food, mostly untouched. Loghain uncorks a bottle and begins to pour. “Wine?”

Oren makes a sound of disbelief. “No.”

“Ori—”

“Don’t call me that!” Oren roars. Rage rises up so fast it nearly chokes him. “My family called me that. Before Rendon Howe had them slaughtered!”  

He doesn’t even realize he has his sword in his hand until Loghain moves to take it from him, grasping his wrist and twisting so sharply that for a moment everything goes numb from his elbow down. There’s a burst of pain, sharp and sweet, and Loghain has his sword.

This close his armor will make little difference. Loghain is well known for his unholy strength and brutality on the battlefield. And he has already tried to kill Oren. More than once.

More than twice.

A question burns his mouth. “Did you know?”

Loghain doesn’t answer, but his head tilts back slightly.

“Did. you. know.” Each word is as sharp as a slap, but it’s Oren who feels it. A bright broad sting across his heart. But he has to know. He has to.

“I did.”

Without hesitating, Oren smashes his forehead against the bridge of Loghain’s nose. Everything whites out in a starburst of pain. The two men stagger away from each other swearing breathlessly. Oren holds himself up one handed as the room tilts wildly before righting itself with a nauseating jolt.

Loghain is glaring at him, blood all down his upper lip and down his chin. His nose doesn’t look broken, but it’s already beginning to swell. “Idiot,” he says stiffly and uses the hem of his tunic to stem the blood-flow.

Oren chuckles, thinking he is definitely, certainly, still at least a little drunk.

And maybe brain-damaged now.

Loghain tosses the sword aside, still glaring.

Maybe they’re both brain-damaged.

“Ori,” Loghain starts. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

Loghain sighs. “Why do you ask questions when you don’t want the answer?”

“That’s fucking retorical too.” Oren mutters. The bottle has tipped over, spilling a stream of wine onto the carpet below.

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

Loghain still has the tunic clamped over his nose. Fine linen spotted with blood. He pinches down a few more times, but the bleeding is already beginning to slow.

“Is it broken?” Oren asks.

“Probably.”

“Good.”

Loghain narrows his eyes and Oren nearly laughs again, still a little dizzy. “You don’t headbutt someone in a fight.”

“I didn’t realize we were fighting. I thought you were admitting to your part in the slaughter of my family.”

“No,” Loghain says, making a face at the splotches of blood all down his tunic. He peels it off, wads it into a ball and casts it into the fire. “You were asking questions you didn’t want answered.”

Oren wishes they hadn’t spilled the wine. It would give him something to do besides trying not to look at Loghain’s bare chest. 

“Alistair gave you the choice, didn’t he?”

 Oren grunts, and picks at the grapes on the table. “Why? Trying to seduce me into sparing your life?”

Loghain’s mouth twists into something too dangerous to be a smile. “Never had to seduce you before.”

Now it’s Oren’s turn to glare even as his cock gives a jolt  in response. It never took much from Loghain to get him hard. But he’s older now, and hopefully not so easily baited.

But —

“Your birthday was two days ago,” Loghain says softly. 

Oren freezes. Even his heart stops beating, if only for a moment.

“Every year I came you asked me for a kiss.” Loghain takes a step forward, then pauses, brows knitted into a frown. His hand twitches at his side, fingers clenching and unclenching in tiny, measured movements. “I never understood why. But I gave it to you.”

“You never understood why you kissed me?”

“I never understood why you wanted to be kissed.”

Despite everything, Oren’s chest feels tight with a sudden longing. “I was raised on stories of you. The Hero of River Dane. The right hand of the King. You,” he says carefully, “were like the sun.”

“Maric was the sun. He was the golden boy. I was only ever his shadow.”

“Not to me,” Oren breathes. “You were my first.”

“I assumed,” Loghain says dryly.

Oren bites back a dozen sarcastic replies in an instant, but he’s tired, and his head hurts. And all that is left to him is honesty. “I was in love with you.” 

The sudden flare of anger in Loghain's eyes isn’t bright, but cold and bitter. He reaches out, almost calmly, and grasps Oren by the throat.

It’s so still and deliberate that Oren doesn’t jerk away, not until Loghain begins to squeeze. He tries to claw Loghain’s fingers off his neck, but Loghain barrels him backward, until the back of his legs hit the bed and they both tip over. Oren writhes trying to break away, but Loghain is monstrously strong, and has all the leverage.

He folds his hand into a fist and drives it into Loghain’s mid-section, but he uses the arm that’s still mostly numb, so Loghain grunts, but doesn’t let go.

“Murderer!” Oren hisses, thrashing ineffectually. “Fucking coward!” 

Loghain has an extraordinary voice. Low, and rough and impeccably expressive. It could be bright, or thunderous, or sharply brittle as ice. But now it is so thin and thready it is difficult to hear. “You were never in love, Ori. You mistook hero worship for love, and now that you’ve finally grown up and realized the world isn’t made up of fairy tales, and happy endings, you want to blame me. Well go ahead.”

Oren grunts and tries to kick out, but Loghain’s weight is across his shins.

“One day there will be a boy who looks at you the way you looked at me. And you will have to explain to him that you became a hero because there was nothing, and no one that you weren’t willing to shatter to do what must be done.” His fingers tighten, mercilessly. “Heroes aren’t kind. Heroes aren’t just. They don’t have that luxury.” 

Oren makes a choked sound as his breath falters. Tears run into his ears.

“And then he’ll look at you the way you are looking at me now,” Loghain says quietly. 

Oren manages to get a couple of fingers wedged beneath Loghain’s grip, and sucks in a thready breath. “That’s... because you’re choking me, you fuck.” 

“Or maybe all you ever wanted was a hand on your cock that wasn’t your own.”

Loghain leans in, the thumb of his free hand sweeping against Oren’s bottom lip and for a brief moment Oren thinks he might try to bite Loghain. But all he does is take a single, strained breath. 

And wait.

And wait.

His eyes flutter closed.

The grip on his neck relaxes a little.

And Loghain shifts closer, breath warm and unsteady.  “Ori...”

The sound of his name in Loghain’s mouth twists inside him. He makes a tiny sound, dismay and distress and a bright streak of shame at his own inexplicable arousal. But then Loghain is kissing him, and the tumult of emotions dissolves into pure shock.

Loghain smells the same. Feels the same. Tastes the same. 

And Oren cannot help but press deeper into the kiss, even as his hand comes up to the broad expanse of Loghain’s chest, hovering, certain at any moment that he’ll push Loghain away.

But then he feels Loghain fumbling first at his belt, and then at the laces of his breeches, and then Loghain’s hand is cupping his bare cock. 

Oren’s head spins. He makes a sound that's a sob and a prayer, all harsh and broken and begging.

But his hand slips down Loghain’s chest, and starts working his trousers open. Loghain’s nearly entirely hard, and the shape of him in Oren’s hand is familiar and strange and overwhelming. 

What is he doing? 

He ought to squeeze the fucker’s balls until they pop.

Loghain slots their bare cocks together, wraps them in his large hand. 

And Oren makes a shuddery sound through his nose. Maker, it’s been so long...

“Did Maric’s boy not do this for you?”

“No,” he manages. “Fuck you.”

Loghain chuckles, the sound a low rumble. And Oren realizes he’s never heard him laugh.

And he wants…

Maker what does he want?

Loghain’s grip on his throat eases deliberately. “Take a breath,” he says.

Oren does. A full, sweet lungful, even though it hurts, and it hurts when Loghain grips his neck once again, clamping down. 

It goes quick after that. They’re both too riled up to savor anything. Loghain twists his hand around the pair of them as Oren tries to thrust up. There isn’t enough slick, but the sensation is still dizzying — sharp and insistent and demanding. Waves of pleasure rocket up Oren’s spine and radiate through his core. He grabs a handful of Loghain’s hair tugging him down for another kiss, until he’s thoroughly breathless and quite literally seeing stars.

Their cocks slide together, Loghain’s thumb brushing over the wet tips and the hand at his throat is like a vice, anchoring him, even as he drifts higher and higher and far far away. And Loghain growls something, rhythm suddenly jerky and harsh, and there’s a sudden slick of heat between them, and yes yes—

He bows off the bed as he comes, thrusting hard into Loghain’s fist. Any sound he might make is choked out of him, and there’s only a strangled silence and the quick sure sound of Loghain’s hand, as he guides Oren through his orgasm. 

Then all at once the hand at Oren’s throat is gone, and Loghain shifts, bending, taking his spent cock in his mouth, sucking hard enough it feels like he may bruise. 

Oren makes a startled cry, jerking bonelessly as the sensation rises, so sharp it’s almost painful. 

But it’s gone nearly at once, and then Loghain is kissing him again, mouth tasting of copper and salt and sin. 

A goodbye kiss.

They both know it.

“Loghain…” Oren’s voice cracks. Broken, ragged thing. “For the crimes you have committed against Fereldan, you will be put to death.” 

The room is perfectly quiet. As is Loghain’s expression. But he reaches down and brushes the backs of his knuckles across the faint stubble on Oren’s cheek. The only bit of tenderness he has shown the entire night.

His eyes shine faintly with approval.

Oren slides a hand across his own abdomen, half expecting to find himself gutted and bleeding though Loghain had tossed away the sword. It hurts just as much. 

More, even.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, as much to stop the ragged sounds of his breathing as to scrub away the feeling of the kiss, of the taste of himself and Loghain in his mouth. 

*

It is a small group who gathers in the early morning for the execution. The weather in the courtyard is properly morose. The sky, a solid sheet of grey, dark with the threat of rain. It is wet everywhere, the trees droop, heavy with dew, and the ground is scattered with silver-brown puddles.

It is a rather peaceful place to die.

None of Loghain’s supporters are present. Neither is the Queen. But Alistair is there, dressed in his Warden armor, and hefting a great, two-handed sword. He has a wide silver band upon his brow, not precisely a crown, but a clear mark of his new status. With his hair slicked back, and his expression dark and severe, he looks nothing at all like the young man he’d been — and every inch a King.

In turn, Loghain looks like the man he’s always been. Straight backed and severe, head to toe in black doeskin and velvet, with his hair loose upon his shoulders. He looks like the whole affair is beneath him. The spectacular bruising across the bridge of his nose and beneath both eyes is all that is out of place. 

“Loghain Mac Tir,” Alistair’s voice cuts through the silence. “For crimes against Ferelden and her people, and for grievous harm done to the Order during a blight; the Ferelden Wardens sentence you to death. Kneel.”

Nothing shifts in Loghain’s expression as he drops silently to his knees. He obeys, but concedes nothing.

Alistair raises his sword, the weight of it dragging against time itself. Slowly slowly the world stills.

A drop of rain suspended in the sky.

It might be blood. It ought to be blood.

Red. Crimson. Burgundy.

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

Oren closes his eyes. Hears his own breath begin to splinter apart.

He knows what happens next. The slice of the sword. The thunk and squish of finality. The silence. Long, dark hair spilling across the flagstones, still and wet. Grey-blue eyes unseeing, slowly filling with rain.

Oren gags.

“L-Loghain…” His voice is weak. Scratchy and half-broken from the bruises from Loghain’s hands that ring his throat. He coughs, nearly retching, and steps forward. “Loghain…” He takes another, and then another, and then his feet carry him, tripping over himself, stumbling as he rushes forward faster than the blade can fall. “I conscript you to the Wardens!” It feels like something tears, and he clutches at his throat, coughs again, and spits out blood. “Loghain Mac Tir, I conscript you to the Wardens.” This time at least, his voice is clear.

Stillness.

Silence.

No matter how long he lives he’ll never forget the look on Alistair’s face. 

A raw thing, torn open and bleeding for the world to see. Then Alistair swallows it all behind a mask of utter blankness. He lowers the sword slowly. “Out.”

No one moves. 

“Everyone, out!” Alistair bellows. 

It takes a moment. Long, shocked moments of silence and shuffling feet before the courtyard is cleared. Only the Wardens, and the new Warden conscript remain.

It begins to rain.

Loghain turns to Oren, still kneeling. “Have you gone mad?” he asks mildly.

“The Wardens need men.” He answers Loghain, but looks at Alistair, pleading. “Whatever they’ve done... their crimes are erased once they are conscripted and take the joining.”

Alistair’s shoulder’s shift, a nervous sort of twitch like he wants to shake his head, but can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Oren tells Alistair raggedly.

“I told you it was your decision, so I’ll stand by it.” A breath, and Alastair flings the sword to the ground in a clatter of steel, expression stony. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”

He stalks away just as the skies spill in earnest. The rain becomes a downpour, a rush of sound that swallows even the broken sounds of Oren’s breathing. A single flicker of lighting arcs across the sky. 

Oren closes his eyes, thunder in his ears. Rain sting the back of his neck, and slide beneath his collar. He doesn’t realize he’s tipping over until he feels his knees slam into the wet cobblestones. 

He feels Loghain’s arms come up around him, fingers at the collar of his uniform, undoing the buttons, easing the constriction against his throat. It takes a few moments kneeling together in the rain, but Oren’s breath comes easier. 

“He hates me now,” Oren says hoarsely. 

“It’s me he hates.”

Oren shakes his head wearily. “I’ve married him to a woman who doesn’t love him. Bedded him to a woman who can’t stand him. And now this.” 

Loghain snorts. “If keeping his favor was so important, you should not have spared me.”

Oren feels something slide down the bridge of his nose. Tears, or rain. “Why is throwing people away so easy for you?”

“You mistake what is easy, for what is necessary,” Loghain sighs. “I’m not sure you’ll make a very good hero.”

“Unlike you?”

Loghain takes a deep breath. “I am not so concerned with being good.”

“Well that’s a fucking revelation.” Oren mutters.

Unbelievably, Loghain laughs. It isn’t a cruel sound. Or a bright one. It is soft and strangely warm.

It is still raining heavily.

And Loghain’s arms are still around him.

Oren swallows hard. “Why is it so easy to fall in love, and so hard to fall out of it?”

Loghain doesn’t reply.

And he doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t spare you,” Oren elaborates after a moment. “You may die in the joining. Or get promptly eaten by an archdemon if you don’t. And the uniforms are itchy.”

“I consider myself unspared.” Loghain says solemnly. 

And together they sit in the rain, not speaking. Not moving.

And for a brief moment, Oren thinks he feels the touch of a feather-light kiss upon his brow, but he can’t be sure.

1/1 my tumblr writing masterpost

[aeducanwrites]

I’m once again deep in my feelings over Alastair and my canon warden, Mindel Cousland, even though it’s been about a year since I’ve written about either of them. I plan on writing more, though, and posting them here bc why not, so have a little drabble about the first time Min and Alastair ever met ❤️ you can see the full slightly AU timeline I wrote for them here.

———

9:19 Dragon

The breeze that came off of Lake Calenhad was cool as it blew across the plains of the Hinterlands, pollen drifting along from elfroot and spindleweed and making Fergus sneeze in rapid succession. What little breeze that got through the windows of the Cousland family carriage brushed through Mindel Cousland’s loose brown hair, only held down by an equally loose braided headband, though a few strands still managed to get caught in her mouth. She furrowed her eyebrows and wiped at her cheek, looking away from the plains and to her parents. Mother was offering Fergus her handkerchief, and Father was looking over papers sent to him by Arl Eamon.

Which was why they were heading to Redcliffe, or so Father said. Mindel certainly hadn’t wanted to leave home behind for the next month and a half. Mother had made her leave her mabari, Moose, at home with Nan and Gilmore, and she missed having her dog slobbering at her feet immensely.

“Do we really have to stay for so long, Father?” she asked for the fifth time since getting into the carriage with her family, leaning forward onto her knees and clasping her hands together. She could practically see the frustration building in between Father’s eyebrows, though whether it was from the papers he was reading or her nagging Mindel had yet to decide. He did set the papers down though, finally, and met her eyes with a look she’d come to consider a cross between tired father and cross teyrn, like he hadn’t fully transitioned from one role to the other by the time he’d shifted his focus. Mindel had been said focus of that particular look since she’d decided she’d rather learn swordsmanship than politics; she didn’t see the point when Cousland Castle was going to Fergus instead of her, and she’d sooner fight a war single-handedly before she ran a teyrnir by herself.

“Yes, pup, you have to stay the entire time,” Father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Making connections with other noble families will be important when you’re older, even if you don’t see it yet. The Redcliffe arling is a valuable relationship to have, and the sooner you get to know Arl Eamon and his family the better.”

“Maybe for Fergus,” she muttered, looking at her allergy-ridden brother in annoyance. “He’s taking Highever, not me. I don’t see the point in this.”

“How about this,” Mother chimed in, ever the angel of patience. “You’ll be here the entire time because both your father and I have said you will. Understood?”

“Yes mother,” Mindel said glumly, slouching in her seat and ignoring the chiding Mother sent her way for her posture.

The Hinterlands was a boring landscape to watch roll by, but soon enough they came upon Redcliffe Castle, the bustling village resembling ants the further up the hill the carriage went. She was tempted to sneak out and explore the village, but unlike in Amaranthine, she wouldn’t have Thomas or Nathaniel at her side; to the best of Mindel’s knowledge, Arl Eamon didn’t have any heirs. Their stay in Redcliffe became bleeker at the realization, and Mindel put on a smile to hide her disappointment as the staff introduced them in the hall of the castle. Despite his allergies, her brother was the epitome of dignified, bowing low at the waist to greet Arl Eamon and his new bride, Arlessa Isolde. When her name was said, Mindel gave a low curtsy and resisted squirming under the arlessa’s scrutinizing stare.

“It’s good to see you again, Bryce,” Eamon said happily, walking over to Father and patting his shoulder. “A shame you couldn’t make it a month ago.”

“As much as I’d wished to have been here, Eamon, you know how duty can call,” Father responded easily, giving him an easy smile. “My congratulations on your wedding to the both of you. I trust my package arrived safely?”

“It did,” Isolde said, clasping her hands together at the front. “And such a marvelous gift! Thank you so much.”

Mindel exchanged a confused glance with Fergus, who simply gave her a subtle shrug and turned his attention back to the adults. Mindel did as well but quickly grew bored, her mind wandering as the four of them (and occasionally Fergus) chatted about politics or whatever else adults found interesting. Nan often told her she was quite mature, for a twelve year old, but her head was often in the clouds. Right now only seemed to prove Nan’s point, she idly notes as she took in the main hall of Redcliffe Castle. It was darker than Cousland Castle, even with the roaring fire at the back and the candles lined along the dark brick walls. She sincerely hoped Isolde brought about a lighter atmosphere to the castle, or they would sooner push potential guests away rather than encourage them to visit. Mother had insisted on keeping their windows open whenever the weather permitted, and Mindel hadn’t realized how much she’d taken advantage of that until Father had started insisting she go with him on trips to other holds.

A flash of ginger appeared in her peripheral vision, and Mindel turned her head just in time to see a small figure dart across the open doorway to its other side. She frowned and glanced back at her brother, but he seemed oblivious to whatever may have happened. Irritation flooded her, and Mindel shifted her eyes to her mother before letting out a large, unladylike yawn. The adults stopped chatting, and Isolde looked scandalized.

“My word,” she tutted, and Mindel decided she hated her.

Mother just sighed wearily and shook her head, touching Father’s arm gently. “Might we be seen to our rooms, dear? It seems the long travel has caught up to our little darling.”

“Of course, where are my manners?” Eamon asked, shaking his head. “You had to have had quite the trip from Highever. I’ll call for someone to show you to your rooms, and we can continue our discussion after you’ve rested.”

“I appreciate it, Eamon,” Father said, guiding his family toward the servants that appeared a moment later. “And I apologize for Mindel’s manners. They seem to have slipped with her exhaustion.”

Mindel feigned shame and chewed her bottom lip. “I am sorry, my Lord. I don’t know what came over me.”

“That’s quite alright, my dear,” Eamon said kindly, and she nearly felt bad for interrupting. “You go rest, and we shall see you all for lunch.”

She followed her family to the rooms Eamon had prepared for them, Father thanking and dismissing the servants before turning to her, looking faintly amused. Mother looked less amused, but luckily Father spoke first.

“Meetings are quite boring, aren’t they?”

“Bryce!” Mother smacked his arm and shook her head firmly. “We cannot encourage impolite behavior just because you find it funny.”

“Eleanor, sweetheart, I also cannot discourage the truth. Besides, poor Fergus was fighting a sneezing fit the entire time. Don’t think I didn’t notice, son.” Father smirked as Fergus finally let the sneeze out and knelt in front of Mindel. “Your mother has a point, however. Sometimes you have to sit through the boring things to get to the good stuff.”

“Good stuff?” Mindel shook her head. “I don’t even know what you were talking about most of the time.”

“You will, with time. Though between you and me, Eamon can talk for hours. I should be thanking you.”

“Bryce!” Mother scolded, and Father laughed, reaching down to pat Mindel’s head.

“Get some rest since we’re here, Pup. You can explore the castle later.”

“Yes, Father,” Mindel said, heading to one of the provided beds and getting comfortable under the covers. The dress was uncomfortable to nap in, but luckily Mother had let her wear a loose-fitting one that day, so she didn’t feel the need to change into her sleepwear. The last thing she heard as she drifted off was her parents fussing over Fergus despite her brother’s loud protests, and she made a mental note to look for someone with ginger hair when she woke up later.

———

“Mindel, get over here this instant!” Mother shouted into Redcliffe Castle’s courtyard, and Mindel quietly giggled as she hid from her mother’s ire among the overgrown bushels of hay and corn, stopping for a moment to adjust the rope she’d tied around the waist of her brother’s trousers. She knew she looked ridiculous, drowning in Fergus’ spare dress shirt and having rolled up each leg of the trousers enough to look comical, but she was far more comfortable than she’d been while wearing the dress Mother had chosen for her, so her pride could suffer a little. Besides, it was much easier to avoid Mother’s wrath while not worrying about tripping over her skirt, and it was with that thought in mind that Mindel finally snuck out of potential sight and toward the barn just down the way. She had heard there were mabari puppies staying in the barn, cute little whelps still too young to be trained as warhounds, and she missed her own hound terribly enough to risk sneaking into the den and pet one.

The lack of guards near the shed made Mindel hesitate briefly, but she steeled her resolve and pushed the barn door open, a grin spreading across her cheeks as she heard a few puppy cries and saw little brown bodies squirming near a small figure at the middle of the room. She quickly shut the door behind her and took in the ragged clothing the figure wore, possibly due to the puppies wanting to naw on everything in sight, but her eyes widened when she noticed the ginger hair the figure had.

“It’s you!” she shouted, and the boy in the center jumped, looking hilariously spooked. His eyes darted around as if expecting her to be accompanied by someone, but when he saw no one he relaxed slightly, shoulders sagging and attention being drawn back to the puppies.

“I don’t think I know you,” he quipped. “I think I’d recognize such a loud mouth if I did.”

Mindel huffed. “Well that’s not very nice. Maybe you have the loud mouth.”

“Do you think I do?”

She touched her fingers to her chin. “Not as of yet,” she decided. The boy’s lips twitched up, and he finally left the puppies alone long enough to give her a proper bow.

“Then I appreciate it. May I know why you decided to shout at me, miss?”

She smirked and dropped into a quick curtsy, which probably looked silly without a skirt to actually curtsy with. “I saw you run by the door while I was in the main hall earlier. I didn’t think Arl Eamon had any children.”

The boy looked startled, shaking his head. “I--no, I’m not Arl Eamon’s child. He’s just looking after me.”

“And why would he do that if you’re not his son?”

“Maybe he just has a good heart,” he said, which was honestly a fair point. “I’m Alistair. You must be Mindel Cousland, if you were in the hall yesterday.” He bowed again. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Mindel shook her head and sat on one of the barrels in the barn, patting a puppy that trotted her way. “Could you forego the formalities, Alistair? They’re getting rather draining.”

Alistair seemed hesitant. “...alright, but if I get busted for it it’ll be your head.”

Mindel snorted and nodded. “I promise to take full responsibility for your lack of propriety, Alistair not-Guirren.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” he shot back, sitting beside her and picking up one of the puppies. The mabari squirmed in his arms but eventually settled, Alistair looking far from uncomfortable as it gnawed gently on his forearm. Mindel smiled warmly and reached over, scratching it behind its ear.

“I have a mabari puppy at home,” she said after a moment. “His name is Moose. He’s about this little guy’s age, I believe.”

“Maybe younger,” he said, looking down at the pup. “This one is a runt, so he’s a bit smaller than the rest. He’s taken a shine to me, I think.”

“Do you think he’s imprinted on you?”

Alistair’s eyes widened, and he looked at Mindel like she’d grown a second head. “I--no, there’s no way.”

“And how do you know that?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. Alistair’s neck turned rose pink, and he just shook his head again.

“Mabaris imprint on nobles and those worthy of it,” he said slowly, scratching the pup under his chin. The pup’s eyes closed at all the attention being given to it, while his brothers and sisters went to the mother to feed. The runt didn’t seem inclined to move, even after both of them pulled away to let it crawl away. Rather, it curled tighter against Alistair’s stomach and began to snooze in earnest. Mindel chuckled quietly at the loud snores and glanced at the younger boy through her eyelashes.

“Mabaris don’t just imprint because someone is noble,” she said slowly. “If that were the case, my brother and I would have several mabaris to our name. My entire family would, really. They’re smart dogs, you know. They can see into your very being to tell whether you’re worthy of their trust or not.” She hesitated. “At least, that’s what Nan said when we found Moose and he refused to leave my side.”

Alistair’s lips twitched up, and Mindel knocked her shoulder into his. “Lucky me,” he said. “I get the runt. How ironic. He is a cutie though.”

Mindel grinned. “Just like you. What a perfect match.”

Alistair’s blush made the little flirt worth it, and she laughed when the pup woke up and began licking and nibbling at his face. The boy sputtered and fell backward onto the floor, puppies swarming him quickly. Mindel got onto the floor with him and let the mabari puppies consume her, the barn echoing with puppy whines and the laughter of two children.

———

By the time the Couslands left Redcliffe, Mindel didn’t want to leave. She had visited Alistair at the barn every day when she could get away from her mother, the two of them chatting without the propriety that drove her up the wall. It was nice to be respected, sure, but everyone treaded carefully even when she thought they were friends. Arl Eamon seemed thrilled enough that Alistair had a friend; he’d pulled her aside one evening to thank her for spending time with Alistair, and Mindel had shook her head in response.

“I don’t need to be thanked,” she had said. “He’s a great friend! Do you thank people for being your friend, Arl Eamon?”

The arl had chuckled. “Only when I’m being particularly stubborn, I suppose. Still, accept my thanks on Alistair’s behalf. Maker knows he won’t say it himself.”

That was admittedly confusing, but Fergus had taught her to nod and smile when she was confused until someone offered clarification, so she had done just that. “I should thank him, actually. Is he in the barn?”

“He’s in his lessons actually. Perhaps you two can talk afterward.”

That afternoon, when a surprisingly well-dressed Alistair had left his tutor, Mindel ambushed him with a tug on his hands to drag him along. The two had run out past the castle gates and fallen to the ground just across the stone bridge leading into Redcliffe’s boundaries, the night sky shimmering above. Mindel looked at Alistair, his awed smile doing something funny to her stomach, and rolled onto her side.

“You’ll write when my family leaves, right?” she had asked. “It won’t be fun at home without you there.”

He’d turned an interesting shade of pink. “I-if you want, I’ll write. You’re a good friend, Min.”

“Not just good,” she’d teased. “You’re my best friend, and I’m yours. Right?”

Alistair had smiled, rivaling the shine of the stars above. “Right! Best friends, I promise.”

Leaving Redcliffe was hard because of Alistair; Mindel didn’t want to leave him behind. Father merely chuckled as she watched the castle disappear from the carriage’s view, waving goodbye to Alistair and him waving back until they were out of sight from one another. She sat down with a sigh when the view became nothing but open road, head tilting back against the carriage wall.

“Still upset that you’d stayed with us in Redcliffe?” Father asked teasingly. Mindel narrowed his eyes into a glare, but it didn’t stay long as she shook her head.

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted. “Alistair is fun to be with, Father. Can we come to Redcliffe again soon?”

“I’ll see what I can do, pup. Until then, you’ll have your letters.”

“Yeah. We will.”

[ooachilliaoo]

About Me

The lovely @poweredbycoffeeandwine tagged me. Thanks so much for thinking of me hun! *hugs*

I’ll tag @faith-less-one @eisschirmchen @hawkeykirsah @everkings @vorchagirl and anyone else who wants to! (no obligation of course)

Favourite colour: Red – I’m just always inexorably drawn to red things.

Top 3 Ships: Sarah Shepard x Kaidan Alenko / Evelyn Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford / Elissa Cousland x Alastair Theirin – I mean they’re the main three I write about so it had to be them.  

Lipstick or Chapstick: Lipstick! Don’t get me wrong Chapstick is great but there are so many fun lipstick colours. I have like four red’s, one of which is the same shade Hayley Atwell wore as Peggy Carter and a purply colour called ‘Power Move’ which I absolutely love and wear whenever I need to project a very ‘don’t fuck with me’ kinda attitude.  

Last Song:  The last song I listed to was ‘Only happy when it rains’ from the Captain Marvel soundtrack, because Carol Danvers and Endgame.

Currently Reading: ‘A Court of Mist and Fury’ by Sarah J Maas, for the second time because this series. OMG. It’s full of all those fanfic tropes everyone loves and yet there are so many surprises along the way. I wanted to re-read the series now I know what happens and you know what? It still makes me weep. Sarah J Maas is an evil evil genius and I love her.