#also do you ever think about alistair's draw towards family and how he never knew his mother was alive. AND also a grey warden

[aidenwaites]

People who draw Alistair with pointy elven ears are so so correct

[charlottesbookclub]

king of all birds – chapter two

king of all birds masterlist

Summary: alistair and his eldest sister amice discuss their fortunes and consider their options

Warnings/Tags: historical discussions of misogyny, historical discussions of gender binaries, historical references to christianity

Words: 1029

Author’s Note: one of the things that has always bothered me about the way alistair's backstory is written in the twilight official guide is that alistair's sisters are clearly very important to him (he lives with them at their country estate, they all retreat from society together to mourn their older brother's death, and he intends to care for them if they don't want to marry) but we literally don't even know how many sisters he has??? they just feel like such a vital part of his life that clearly shaped who he is as a person, so I wanted to make sure that those relationships were something I explored in this story. in this chapter we meet amice, who is younger than alistair but the eldest of the three girls. I also see her as the closest to alistair in both age and temperament. I hope y'all like this character and this chapter! 🥰

“Brother, you may be the only second son in history who did not rejoice when he heard that his fortunes that been reverted to those of the firstborn,” Amice told Alistair as they passed along the upper walls of their family’s estate. Her voice was breathy and light – half jest and half disbelief. 

“But I doubt you are the only eldest daughter who has wished she had been born in the body of a man,” Alistair responded, thoughts traveling back to the passel of fools with whom Noll had once surrounded himself, and their silent sisters whose fates slipped like running water through the reckless, thoughtless hands of their brothers. Amice snorted.

“On the contrary, I wish only to have been born with the rights of a man. I would never wish to stink as you lot do,” she teased, knocking her shoulder against Alistair. In spite of himself, Alistair couldn’t help but smile. They both slowed to a stop then, a mutual decision that neither had verbalized. Leaning out over the rough stone walls, they gazed upon the fields and hills rolling out below them and toward the horizon line. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Alistair broke the silence – an action that did not come naturally to him.

“You could have them, you know. After I inherit.”

“Have what?” Amice did not turn to face him, her eyes still fixed somewhere in the distance.

“All the rights and privileges you want. I have no desire to manage our family’s estates, and you wish for it. I can think of no more suitable arrangement.”

“Alistair,” Amice said slowly, drawing her gaze back to the imposing stone walls on which they stood, leaning over the side just far enough to make Alistair’s chest tighten with worry. “For being by far the least foolish of my two brothers, I fear I cannot yet say that you are wise.” She turned to him then, easily reading the confusion that was so clearly written on his face. “You think the other noblemen would ever do any business with a woman? You think for a moment they would allow me to act or speak in your stead?”

He knew she was right the moment the words left her mouth. It was a child’s dream to think those idiots would ever listen to reason. Amice was the most intelligent person he knew, yet he was far too familiar with the other barons and their incessant squabbling and litany of follies to think that they would ever look past details that to Alistair were merely cosmetic. What did it matter if Amice was a woman – she could demolish any of them in a match of logic any day. Yet perhaps that is precisely why they would never dream of granting her any measure of authority, Alistair thought bitterly.

“Then act as me,” he entreated, desperately grasping her hands in his. “Cut your hair, cast off your gowns and take up my clothing instead. I have made myself scarce enough at their gatherings that they are unlikely to notice any material difference. I’ll flee the county – the kingdom even! I’ll disappear deep into the hills where they shall never have a hope of seeking me.” Alistair could feel the tears welling in his eyes as he begged her. The thought of freedom was so close he could almost taste it on the wind as a gust lifted over the walls, bringing forth the biting scent of pine and the earthy aroma of decaying leaves.

“Alistair, we do not live in a fairy story!” Amice was evidently close to tears herself, her voice breaking as she squeezed his hands. “We cannot—” she looked away then, as though herself following the scent that had been lifted up from the fields and forests below. She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, finally turning back to her brother with a countenance set in stone. “We cannot hope to carry on such a ruse until our dying days. It will be found out one way or the other, and when it is we shall face worse fates than those that await us now.”

Again, Alistair knew that Amice spoke true. Another daydream that withered to ash when exposed to the harsh light of the present reality. Knowing this did not stop the pit in Alistair’s stomach from growing wider and darker, opening up like the very mouth of hell, waiting to swallow him whole. 

“Believe me, brother,” Amice whispered, barely loud enough for Alistair to hear, “if I thought such a scheme were possible, I would seize upon it in an instant. But we are not personages in one of the great ballads, we are simply two people with unenviable lots who must make the best of the crosses that God has seen fit to place upon us.” Amice squeezed his hands one final time, then released them. She brushed past him as he stood, frozen as a stone saint on a cathedral façade, and disappeared back into the thick stone innards of the great beast of an estate at whose toothy maw Alistair still stood.

He finally broke himself from his trance and leaned forward, placing his hands on the rough stone beneath him. Carts trundled along the road, people shouted inaudibly to each other, workers labored in the fields, and beyond all that, a great expanse of hills and forests extended into the distance. They seemed to taunt him, their welcoming blanket of green beckoning him from the walls and into their embrace. Before, he would have called for his horse to be readied and followed that tugging in his chest that always drew him further and further into the unknown. He flexed his hand against the rough-hewn surface, wishing it was wrapped in the comfort of one of his hawking gloves, the ones that had been molded to every line and contour of his hands through their constant use. But it was no longer “before,” and he now had duties that tethered him. With a sigh and a final glance at the wilderness, he turned on his heel and followed Amice’s path away from everything they both wanted. 

[m-m-m-myysurana]

Candlelight Whispers

ZevWarden Week Day 4

Read it on Ao3

Written for the Opening Up prompt, but it also fits pillow talk a little bit hehe

@lesbianarcana​ Can’t thank you enough for putting up with all of my last minute beta begging and obsession with ellipses. You’re amazing <3

Zevran watched from his spot by the fire as Neria paced around the camp, staring out into the dark. It was freezing; she was stamping her feet and blowing on her gloved hands, but she stayed carefully out of the light of the fire, and he guessed it was to hide her expression from their companions. 

She��d left the decision of what to do with the Urn of Sacred Ashes to Genitivi, but Zevran knew her too well to believe she’d relinquished all responsibility. Neria would take the blame if revealing the urn’s location turned out to be the wrong decision.. It was clearly weighing on her. She was always unsure, but refused to let even a hint of it show. 

Zevran got to his feet in one smooth movement and walked towards her, making no effort to quiet his steps. 

He thought perhaps he could tempt her into her tent, away from the gaze of the others. Allow her to let her mask down and distract her.

A chill ran down his spine as the warmth of the fire fell away, replaced by cold shadow. Neria’s ear twitched and she turned her head just slightly towards him, indicating she had heard him approach. He slid his arms around her waist to embrace her, halting her uneasy movement. Neria let out a breath, leaning back into his warmth as he gently moved her hair to one side and tucked his head in by her neck. 

“What was it you said earlier?” he murmured, as he trailed kisses under her jaw. “Dread Wolf take you? I am no wolf—nor, I hope, am I dreaded—but I’d be more than willing to take you.” 

He smoothed his hand over her abdomen, expecting her usual laugh or playful swat, but she didn't react.

“Do you think they’ll work?” she murmured.

Zevran paused. “What do you mean?”

“The ashes.” Neria glanced back at him, noting his raised eyebrows and confused expression.

“How should I know?” Zevran said, a little too abruptly. He thought it odd that she would choose to talk to him about this particular topic. “The Maker and I aren’t exactly... amigos.” 

Neria’s lips twitched. She’d been laughing at everything earlier in the day, but Zevran realised that it had probably been more out of emotional exhaustion than of seeing any real humour in the situation. She was either going to laugh or cry, so in front of the others it had better be laugh. He hoped that in time, at least when they were alone, she would be able to let that go.

“I never believed in the Maker,” she said quietly. “I believe that Andraste existed, that she led the rising against the Tevinter Imperium. I believe she was killed and became a martyr. But she was a mortal woman. If those truly were her ashes, how could they do anything?” She looked to Zev, but he had as little in the way of answers as she did. He did not claim to know the truth, but such a thing was impossible in his mind. In the temple, he’d seen her cringe visibly at their companions’ unwavering belief in the Urn. His own cynicism had quite possibly been the only thing keeping her sane. 

“Leliana, Alistair and Wynne… they all believe,” Neria said. “They see this discovery as proof of the Maker’s existence. Proof that she was the Maker’s bride, that she became divine... but how is it proof of anything? We found an urn and a busty statue. It could have been anyone’s ashes.” 

She huffed, a sound of exasperation, and Zevran grinned at her irreverence.

“Perhaps Sten was right. Maybe I’m insane. It may have been their faith that directed us here, but it was my decision. I could have said no.” 

Neria lapsed into silence, and not knowing how to respond, Zevran brought his hand to her cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. His fingers traced her jaw, encouraging her to lift her chin until she reluctantly met his gaze. 

“What’s brought this on?” he asked softly, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Neria sighed, slumping, and leaned into his hand before she answered.

“I just don’t know if any of this was worth it. I was hoping that we’d find definitive proof. Either for or against, I wouldn’t have cared. But instead, all we found was a bunch of riddles and unanswerable questions.” She shook her head. “That Guardian asked too much. He hurt you. All of you—and that was my fault.”

“No, mi querida.” Zevran recognised the guilt in Neria’s face—he’d seen the same expression before. Always blaming herself for the actions of others, even to the point of irrationality. He drew her into his arms, one hand smoothing across her back, and the other carding through her hair.

“That was not your fault. Whoever—or whatever—put that Guardian there is to blame.” 

He cringed a little as he remembered what the guardian had said to her. She had been so young when she’d been separated from her family, and under such awful circumstances. He didn’t know if her past trauma or the recent events were what was affecting her now.

“You were as much a victim of it as the rest of us,” he said into her hair. “I’m sorry about your family. I understand why you have not mentioned them before. But you know I am here should you need to talk, sì?” 

Neria said nothing. After a moment Zevran pulled back, touching his forehead to hers, and looked into her eyes. Under his gaze she smiled and nodded, but he could see she had no intention of taking him up on the offer. She tucked her head back in under his chin and pulled him in tight, effectively hiding herself from his gaze. She was always open to listening when any one of their companions needed to talk, but when any sympathy was aimed in her direction she closed herself off immediately. Something they had in common.

“Who was the woman?” Neria whispered, taking him by surprise. He’d been hoping that she would have forgotten, what with everything else on her mind. Neria had become his closest friend, and more, though there was no real understanding between them. She’d made it clear she cared about him, but Zevran still found himself wondering why she should spare a single thought for his troubles.

“What woman?” he replied carefully. She looked up at him, and a little furrow appeared between her brows as she studied his face.

“The guardian said that you regretted taking one life more than any other.” 

He tried to compose himself under her scrutiny, but found it much harder to erect a wall between them. Harder than he knew it should be.

“I assume you saw her in your vision,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“I—” 

Zevran stopped abruptly, forcing himself to think for a moment. His immediate reaction had been to deflect again���to shut himself off and reject her sympathy. 

But, if he was to be honest—with Neria, and with himself—he had never let go of Rinna and his guilt at the part he played in her death. His vision at the Temple of Sacred Ashes forced him to confront how it was eating him up.

Perhaps it would scare Neria away, Zevran thought, and dropped his gaze. It was strange to fear losing her affection or her respect, but he would only know if he let it out. He sighed and lifted his gaze to hers, finding concern for him shining in her eyes. That one look tore all his defences away, and Zevran felt completely vulnerable for the first time in years. Incredibly, it did not scare him. 

“I suppose it is time,” he said quietly. “You have been a good friend to me, and it has proven impossible to let go of. Maybe speaking it out loud will help.”  

As apprehensive as he was about telling his story, there was no-one else he would ever feel more comfortable with. Still, this wasn’t going to be easy. 

After a long moment of silence, Neria shivered and pulled him in closer. 

“Let’s get out of this damnable cold first, sí?” Zevran said, and felt more than heard Neria’s hum of approval against his chest. She shifted to his side, head on his shoulder. He instinctively pulled her closer, kissing her head as they walked toward the tent. 

They silently got ready for bed. It was strange, helping to relieve Neria of her armour without any intention or expectation of more. It surprised him how natural it felt. She stole his shirt with a grin as soon as he took it off, slipping it over her head before pulling him under the many layers of blankets and furs.

Zevran smiled as Neria tucked herself into the crook of his neck. There was something about seeing her in his shirt, and nothing else, that made his heart glow. He gently traced patterns up and down her back, enjoying the moment, but she pushed herself up onto her elbow and looked down at him expectantly. 

“This isn’t the kind of pillow talk I’m used to,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood, but she didn’t react other than to smile at him sympathetically. “Where to begin?”

Neria tucked her head under his chin. Her lips brushed against his neck, and his shuddering breath ghosted over her cheek.

“You don’t have to, if it’s too hard,” she murmured, breath warm against his skin. “I don’t want to push you.”

He smiled at her compassion before leaning down to press a kiss to her hair, drawing strength from her as he breathed her in.

“I need to,” Zevran said firmly, and took a deep breath before continuing. “There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite a wonderful little accident. My last mission before this one… did not end well.

“I have told you before that I was one of only two apprentices who survived their training the year I was recruited?” 

Neria nodded slowly. 

“Well, the other was a human boy by the name of Taliesen. He was strong, stubborn, with one hell of an attitude. He made it through with sheer willpower.” He shook his head fondly at the memory. “What I told you was true. We do not have friends in the Crows, but he was as close to a friend as anything I’d ever had.

“Our first mission we were teamed with a woman named Rinnala. The three of us worked well together. So well, in fact, that the Crows began to treat us as a single unit, sending us on most of our missions as a team. Taliesen was the brawn, Rinna handled most of our planning and information, and I specialised in poisons and seductions.” He paused, breath tightening in his throat, and tried to calm his increasing heartbeat. “We eventually became... involved.”

“You and Rinna?” Neria asked quietly.

“No, the three of us.” For a moment he held his breath as he waited for her to react, but she only nodded again.

“It was an open relationship, of course,” he continued. "Just sex, or at least that’s how it began, but Rinna became special to me in a way that Taliesen was not. She was a marvel—tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired.”

“You fell in love,” Neria murmured. She leaned on his chest, chin on her hands, and regarded him. All he could see in her eyes was curiosity, no judgement, which was a relief. He shrugged a little and shook his head. He didn’t know if what he had felt for Rinna was love.

“I had closed off my heart, I thought, and yet she touched something within me that I didn’t know existed. That frightened me.” 

He swallowed, and she tilted her head in sympathy. He didn’t add that Neria was, even now, touching that same part of him, and had managed to reach even deeper into his soul in the short time he’d known her. He shifted his eyes away from her unyielding gaze as he continued. 

“Back then I was cocky and arrogant. I believed myself to be the best Crow in Antiva, and I bragged of my conquests often, both as an assassin, and lover. One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting, and my bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, to my surprise. It was a wealthy merchant with many guards, and his death was to be completely silent. Taliesen and Rinna were with me, of course. 

“When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price.” He heard Neria gasp quietly, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. “Rinna begged me for her life, on her knees with tears streaming down her face. She said she hadn’t betrayed us. She told me that she loved me.” He took a sharp breath as her desperate expression flashed in his mind. It was impossible to ignore; he’d seen it again earlier today. “I hardened my heart. I laughed in her face and told her that even if it were true, I didn’t care.”

“But that wasn’t true... was it?” Neria whispered. Her brows furrowed in concern when he looked at her. 

“I convinced myself it was.”

Zevran closed his eyes, trying desperately to block out the memory of Rinna’s face. 

 “Taliesen cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I… I spat on her for betraying the Crows.” He felt his face crumple in shame. As he struggled to control his expression, Neria reached out to stroke his cheek, pulling him back to the present. He opened his eyes and focused on her for a moment, calming himself before he continued. 

“When Taliesen and I assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. The evidence had been planted. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.” 

He felt her hand freeze, and he looked at her again to see horror and concern warring openly on her face. 

“Someone had wanted her dead. It turned out she was the bastard of some Prince or other, and she was seen as a threat. I wanted to report our mistake, but Taliesen convinced me that it would be a needless waste. He told them that she had been killed in the attempt. We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew. They had betrayed her through us.”

“Oh Zev…” 

Neria leaned over and pressed her forehead against his. He closed his eyes and breathed her in deeply. She could just be standing in his line of sight and he felt immediately better, but having her close like this soothed his soul, and he didn’t know why. He still had to tell her the worst part, however, and he didn’t know how she would take it. He wasn’t sure he could bear to see her face when he said it. 

Zevran gently pushed her back and sat up. She seemed a little confused, but she just moved to hold him from behind instead.

“You once asked me why I wanted to leave the Crows,” he continued. “In truth, what I wanted was to die.” He felt her stiffen behind him, and her hands slowly withdrew. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “What better way than to throw myself at not one, but two fabled Grey Wardens?” 

“Zevran, I’m so sorry.” 

Her voice cracked, making him turn to look at her. She reached out to him again, slowly, allowing him time to withdraw—but despite his instincts, he didn’t move.

Her arms came around his neck and she held him tightly. Zevran trembled, unable to stop himself. Pain and relief seeped out of him, like poison being drawn from a wound. He slowly lifted his hands to return her embrace and let out a breath he didn't know he’d been holding. 

“It… feels good to speak of it to someone,” Zevran said, once he could trust his voice again. “I swore to myself I never would.”

Neria leaned her cheek on his shoulder, it felt wet which puzzled him.

“Do you still... want to die?”

Zevran considered the question carefully before pulling away, watching the tears run freely down her cheeks. She was crying—for him? Why exactly, he had no idea. He shook his head firmly and she let out a breath, relief washing over her features.

“What I want is to begin again.” He carefully removed the hair that clung to her cheeks, wet with her tears.  “Whatever it was I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal. Perhaps now you understand how great that debt truly is.” 

She shook her head before lunging in to hug him tightly again.

“You owe me nothing, Zev,” she murmured after a moment. She pulled back and grasped his shoulders, her gaze locked with his. “You did those things yourself. All I did was reach out my hand. You had to choose to take it—and you did. You chose to leave the Crows. You chose to change your life.” 

He smiled, but shook his head. “Be that as it may, I would never have been able to do it without you. Not only did you spare my life, but you restored my will to live it.” 

He kissed her softly, then sat back and gazed at her face in the dim light. It amazed him how compassionate she could be, with everything she’d gone through herself. 

“I wish I could help you in return,” he said quietly. If he could only do for her even a fraction of what she’d done for him.

“You have,” she said, smiling, even as her eyes shimmered with tears. “You’ve been the only thing holding me together this past month, if not longer. I love Alistair and Leli, but there are some things that they will simply never be able to understand. You have no idea how glad I am to have you with me.” 

They lay down together, tucking the blankets around them. She rested her head on his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as possible.

It was an odd feeling, he thought as they relaxed into the blankets. Like a part of him 

had been hollow for his entire life, and only now was it beginning to be filled.

“Will you stay?” Neria asked, surprising him. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep alone tonight. Plus, it’s freezing.” 

She gave a dramatic shiver, and Zevran chuckled, tugging her closer in answer. He never wanted to leave, so how could he force himself to go back to his own tent when she wanted him to stay? This was a first for him, another line to cross, but he’d started to think that, perhaps, Neria was an exception to all of his rules.

“As you wish, mi vida.”

Read it on Ao3

[noire-pandora]

Birthdays

Another prompt from this list. Also on my ao3

Words:1682

Warnings: none

Arissa Surana learns how it feels to be loved.

The cold of the night made Arissa shiver, and she scooted closer to the campfire. No matter how much she wished to get to Denerim, they had to make camp and rest. Her companions chatted next to her as they ate their tasteless dinner. Arissa, Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan and Zevran have been travelling together for almost three weeks and now they had a moment of peace to get to know each other. She quietly watched them as they bickered, laughed and bonded. Even Morrigan joined them tonight, leaving the loneliness of her isolated campfire.

Arissa rarely spoke in moments like this. She preferred to eat and listen, Fluffy drooling on her leg. She loved to learn more about them but she was shy to participate. She believed tonight would be the same. Until Alistair turned towards her, a bright, big smile on his round face.

“What about you? What’s the best present you got for your birthday?”

Arissa blinked a few times, her hands squeezing her food bowl a bit too hard, her knuckles turning white. She could hear her heart pounding against her chest and she took a deep breath to steady it.

“I did not get any presents. I did not celebrate my birthday in the Circle”

Alistair’s eyes widened and his voice boomed with surprise. What? You never celebrated your birthday? Why?"

“Maybe I did, with my family, but I do not remember. The Templars took me to the Circle when I was five years old. And nobody asked for my birthday there. I never received any birthday presents. Sorry, I cannot answer your question,” she answered and avoided Alistair's eyes, looking down at her legs.

“Why are you apologizing, it isn’t your fault! I can’t believe they ignored your birthday. What a bunch of jerks.”

“This is how it usually goes in your Circles, Alistair. They do not care about the ones they cage in. They do not care about birthdays or presents or any holiday. Kindness is scarce. And all for the safety of the world, as your Chantry likes to say,” Morrigan intervened, sarcasm oozing from her words.

Arissa glared at Morrigan, deeply hurt by her words, but said nothing. Morrigan’s opinions against the Circle hurt, but Arissa usually ignored her. She had no idea what she talked about.

A long silence followed before Leliana spoke. “When is your birthday, Arissa?”

Arissa looked surprised at Leliana, as no one asked this until now. “22st Drakonis.”

“Friend, but this is three weeks from now. Why did you not tell us earlier?” Zevran asked, surprise written on his face.

“Why would I tell you that?” Arissa asked, truly confused about his question.

“Because we need to get your presents! And do something special for you!” Alistair shouted, raising his arms in the air. “What if we missed it? I can’t believe it, we have only three weeks to find a good present for you. You know, doing that in a Blight might be a biiiit tricky.”

“I am sorry, I did not realise that. You do not have to buy me anything. We are at war. My birthday is insignificant in times like this.

“Don’t be silly!” Alistair insisted, waving his hand to dismiss her words. “We’re going to buy you a present and have a birthday dinner for you. Somehow.”

“You do not have to, Alistair,” Arissa whispered, but her words were lost as Alistair started to plan what they should do for her birthday with the other companions.

The conversation lasted a few more minutes until Leliana decided to call it a day and they retreated to their tents, except Arissa, who took over the first watch. She stood in darkness, staring at the sky and wondering how her life would have been if the Templar did not take her away from her family. Maybe her parents would have bought her presents? Made her a cake? A tear slipped on her cheek. Fluffy whimpered and licked her face.

“It is all right, my friend. I am being silly. No need to cry about ifs and maybes. Let us pay attention so no Darkspawn can surprise us.”

-------------------

As the days and weeks passed by, Arissa forgot about that conversation. She had more pressing matters to think about, the Darkspawns attacking them at every corner.One night, they made camp as they usually do, but this time, Alistair insisted Arissa and Leliana went hunting for dinner. Arissa frowned, for it usually was Morrigan’s duty, and Morrigan rarely refused to do her part.The hunt went awful. Arissa was no hunter and while Leliana had impressive archer skills,the animals in the forest heard their steps and run away before Leliana had any chance to fire her bow. After an hour of running around animals and failing to hunt them, they returned to the camp with a few berries and mushrooms in their pouches. Arissa found Leliana’s nonchalant air about the whole situation a bit strange, but she did not question it.

A smell of cooked meat tickled Arissa’s nose as they got closer to the camp and she saw her friends sitting around the fire, a wild boar roasting above it.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “When did you catch the boar? Why did you send me and Leliana to hunt, knowing we will fail?”

“We planned this to distract you, friend,” Zevran answered, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Today is your birthday. Or have you forgotten?”

“We did this for you!” Alistair chimed in, visibly excited to talk about it. “Here, sit, sit. Alistair pushed her to sit on the wooden log next to his own. She looked at them, too surprised to say anything. “The boar needs time to cook. We have to wait a bit more or else we’re going to spend a lot of nights in the bushes. But until then, how about we give you the presents!”

“Presents?” Arissa murmured, unsure if she heard right.

“Yes, presents,” Zevran answered, a thick book in his hand. “This is my present to you. I brought you a journal. So you can write our adventure in it. Or draw. Anything that might distract you from your mission for a few minutes. “

Arissa’s hand shook as she took the journal. The black leather cover felt rough to the touch, but she loved the sensation against her fingers. She gently opened, careful not to break the spine. The white pages were empty and waited for her to put her mark on them.“Thank you, Zevran. It is wonderful. I think I know what to do with it. Do you mind if I used it to press and conserve plants? I always dreamed to make a herbarium.

“Not at all! What a beautiful idea. It is yours now.” he said, a big smile on his lips.

“And I offer you as a present a spell my mother taught me,” Morrigan said, her hands touching the will-be herbarium. She closed her eyes and her hands glow green, the light covering the book. It faded away in a few seconds. “The spell will protect the pages of your book from rain, mud, any element of nature, thus keeping your work intact.”

Arissa’s eyes became glossy as she held back her tears. No one ever cared about the integrity of her precious books. “Thank you, Morrigan.”

Morrigan nodded, and Arissa could have sworn she saw a small smile tugging at Morrigan’s lips.

“My turn now,” Alistair exclaimed, getting up and grabbing a small package from this backpack. “I tried to wrap it, but I’m not that good at it.” He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck, and watched as Arissa slowly unwrapped her present.

Inside, she found a small wooden carving, a few centimeters bigger than a chess piece. At first, she wondered herself why Alistair gave her a chess piece but, as she looked closer, she noticed what it was: a carving after the Circle tower she spent all her life in. She gasped and blinked back a tear, but it escaped and slid down her cheek.

“I’m sorry!" he rambled, panicked. " I know it isn’t the best carving, but you said the Tower was the only house you knew and you miss it so I tried to give you a part of it. But I guess you don’t like it if you’re crying.” His shoulder dropped, and he kicked the ground, his disappointment showing. He gasped when Arissa’s arms wrapped around his torso, her hair tickling his nose. He stood still for a few seconds, but he returned the hug, squeezing her a bit too strongly. They stood like this for almost a minute until Morrigan grunted.

“Are you all right there?” Alistair gently asked as they broke the hug.

Arissa nodded, squeezing the small wooden tower against her chest. “Thank you, Alistair. I will treasure it forever.”

Alistair giggled and rubbed his neck again, his cheeks slowly turning pink. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Can we eat now?” Morrigan asked. “I am starving. Running around to catch a boar is not an easy task.”

“Be patient, Morrigan, please,” Leliana said, rolling her eyes. “My present to you, my dear friend, is a song. Would you like to listen to it?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Then take a seat and allow me to sing for you.”

As Arissa sat on the wooden log and listened to Leliana’s wonderful voice, the tears finally slipped on her cheeks and she didn’t bother to wipe them. She let her emotions take the best of her.

No one cared to compose songs about her. No one bothered to carve anything for her or spend their money to buy her books. No one thought to offer her anything, and she never realized others could go out of their way to make her happy. But now, these wonderful people prepared a delicious dinner for her and bought her presents, in the middle of a Blight, while they had to run away from Darkspawns attacks. For the first time in her life, she understood how being loved felt.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 56 - A Long Day Later

Chapter Rating: Mature Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots In Love

Also read on AO3 First chapter

---

Twenty-sixth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn stirred from sleep, rising from unconsciousness with the faint impression that something had roused her. Yet all was quiet. The world remained dark behind her closed eyelids, frigid beyond the cocoon of warmth that the blankets wrapped around her body, and it lacked any appeal that might entice her curiosity. It must not be important. She shifted, intending to find the tipping point back into oblivion, and became aware of a heaviness in her limbs, an ache in her muscles that spoke of exertion and made her even less eager to move. A tiny moue of sound escaped her lips as she exhaled, and in response came a wordless mumble against her hair, the tightening of an arm across her waist as the solid presence behind her pressed closer along her back. Remembering, she smiled and fumbled for Alistair’s hand. The murmur against her skin grew into a path of lazy, half-formed kisses along her shoulder as her fingers threaded with his, a leg nudged between and folded around hers as she leaned into the touch.

“G’morning…” he rumbled, the low, sleep-scratched pitch of his voice raising gooseflesh along her spine.

She stretched. “S’not morning yet.”

“Shall I leave you be, then?” he teased, and chuckled as she made a disgruntled noise and followed the retreat of his hands, seeking the lost warmth, until he relented and tangled around her again like a briar. For a long moment they lay together, suspended between waking and sleep, breathing together and content to have their limbs belong to each other.  

“How are you feeling?”

She hummed when her slow mind processed that she hadn’t dreamed the question, reached backward to wind her fingers across the back of his neck. “Good. What about you?”

“You wore me out, woman,” he answered, with another laugh and a slow flex of hips that pointedly suggested otherwise.

A slink of heat knotted itself in her belly, anticipation that brought a sly smile to her lips. “It doesn’t feel that way. Maybe –”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Your Ladyship?”

Rosslyn tensed. “It’s Morrence.”

“Don’t answer,” he breathed, running fingertips over her waist.  

She shook her head with huffed laugh, calling the command to light the glowstone, and picked herself from their tangle of limbs. As she sat up, she secured the covers under her arms to keep them in place, as if a bared chest would be her biggest problem if her captain chose to break in and found Ferelden’s Crown Prince in her bed. Cold air seeped across her exposed skin, held at bay where his hand still circled her waist. In the harsh light cast by the lyrium enchantment, he stretched against the pillows, all bleary eyes and mussed hair, and her stomach fluttered as she tracked the darker line of fuzz down his chest, trying to remember when he had removed his shirt again.

She had slept with him. He had stayed. The bashfulness that had been entirely absent the night before squirmed in her gut, the heat in her cheeks blooming into a furnace under the tender smile curving his mouth, until the feeling became too much and she had to tear her gaze away.

She cleared her throat. “What is it, captain?”

“You said you were to be woken at dawn, Your Ladyship,” came the reply through the door. “Clara came to me worried when you didn’t answer.”

The covers shifted, the mattress dipped behind her, but she tried to not be distracted.

“That’s alright,” she called out. “What’s the state of the company?”

“Being roused now.” Morrence paused. “Clara tried the door, she said it was locked.”

“Yes, I –”

Light fingers brushed her hair away from her shoulder, then began a slow, appreciative trail down the length of her back.

“Make her go away,” Alistair complained, muffled as he pressed his mouth to the skin just below her ear.

Her eyes slipped closed. “Uhm…”

“Should I stop?”

It took all her concentration to shake her head.

“Your Ladyship?”

“I locked it,” she managed.

“Why?”

“Is it my door or not?” she snapped, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Carrying on a half-shouted conversation through a door struck her as entirely undignified, but the floor would be cold and the rasp of Alistair’s unshaved chin continued to be a distraction along her neck, and all in all, she really didn’t want to move.

“I’ll be ready to ride in an hour,” she said finally. “See to it everyone is ready.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

She listened for the creak of the floorboards as her captain turned away, and when she was sure of safety, twisted to capture her lover’s face so she could kiss him and vent some of the frustration he had been building in her so deliberately. A giggle escaped as an arm snaked around her waist to draw her back under the covers. Alistair, as her lover – it felt unfamiliar still, but she liked the sound if it, liked more the way his mouth slanted over hers, the way he touched her as if amazed by every inch of her.

“An hour isn’t much time,” he pouted, turning his attention along her jaw.

“It’s –” A scrape of teeth over the sensitive spot he knew too well already. She tugged on his hair to make him pause, smirking. “It’s plenty for you to sneak back to –”

“Your Ladyship?”

Her gaze snapped to the door. “Y–yes?”

There was a pause, and she imagined Morrence running her tongue over her teeth. When she did speak, the words held a deliberate air of nonchalance. “His Highness’ valet mentioned he wasn’t in his room this morning,”  

“Uh… What do you mean?”  

Next to her, Alistair bit his lips together, burying his head against her shoulder to stifle his laughter. She poked him in the ribs. He nipped her collarbone in retaliation.

“He said he found Cuno sleeping on Prince Alistair’s bed, but it didn’t look like His Highness had been there himself.” Morrence paused again, far too casually.  “Should I raise an alarm?”

“That won’t –” Rosslyn tried, and realised she should appear at least a little concerned about the supposed disappearance of a member of the royal family. “His Highness has probably gone for a walk to clear his head before we leave. If he doesn’t turn up by the time we’re ready to go, we’ll call a search, but I see no need to worry yet.”

“That’s so callous,” he chided in her ear, grinning. “Anything could’ve happened to me, I could be freezing to death for all you know and you’re all tucked up and warm…”

“She’ll hear you,” she hissed, cheeks flaming, with another light prod to his side.

“She already knows I’m here,” he pointed out, but settled next to her with an apologetic brush of lips along her cheek nonetheless.

“Where is Cuno?” she asked her captain.

“I convinced him to the kennel for breakfast,” Morrence replied.

“That’s good, I’ll collect him before I leave. That will be all.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

This time, she held her breath until the corridor outside fell utterly silent, and let it out in a rush of air as she shielded her eyes with the back of her arm. Already, Alistair was sliding limpet-like into the thin space between her body and the covers, half around her and half on top of her, propped on his elbows as if out of worry for pressing her too closely.  

He hummed as her touch feathered blindly over the back of his neck. “I thought she’d never leave.”  

“Don’t smirk.”

“What makes you think I’m smirking?” he asked.

“I can hear it in your voice,” she replied, though she pulled her arm away to check, just in case.

“Even if I am, why shouldn’t I?” his smirk widened. “I’m in bed with the woman I love, and who told me only a few short hours ago that she loves me, too. Oh, and she’s very naked,” he added, with a sly glance downward.

“Those are all things that can change if you’re going to be so glib,” she retorted.

He laughed and leaned closer. “I get it, I get it – You talk too much, Alistair, get to the kissing already.”

She rolled her eyes, but pulled him down all the same. “If you’re offering…”

“For you?” he asked as their lips met. “Always.”

She might never tire of his mouth. He moved languidly, unhurried, letting his hands wander, and the sounds she took from him, the little gasps and moans as she explored in turn, fired through her blood and settled deliciously between her legs. Blunt nails skimmed her side so that she arched upwards, clung harder, squirmed against the hot weight of his erection pressed between them. One of those same hands found its way behind her knee and helped guide it over his waist, coaxing her to follow him so they lay, side by side and face to face, somehow more intimate that before.

“I wish we could stay here all day.” He leaned towards the corner of her mouth, and paused. “What is it?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, watching the shape of her fingers in the glow of the light as they carded through the hair on his chest. A reply lay on her tongue, but the taste of it grew ashen as the ever-insidious shade of the future rose to break the careless peace that had settled over them.  

“When we reach Highever, we won’t be called away,” she said at last. “At least not for a few days.”

His nose nudged against hers, drawing her gaze. “You’ll have to give me a tour.”

“I don’t know how much of it will be left,” she admitted, as her mind turned to memories – the view from Harrowhill, the demon in the Fade wearing her father’s image as if it were nothing more than a mask in a mummer’s play. “I don’t know if I’d even recognise it.”

“We can rebuild it,” he replied. “This war won’t last forever.”

“And you’ll be needed in Denerim.”

“Oh, Rosslyn – that wouldn’t matter if… if you needed me in Highever.” When she still refused to look at him, he sighed and wriggled closer, his hand splayed warm against her back. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her breath faltered. Even in the artificial light, conviction shone in his eyes, bright enough that she lost herself wondering how he found it so easy to burn away her doubts, how loneliness lost its grip in his arms.

“I…”

“Yeeeeeeees?”

Her grin spread like certainty across her face. “If – well. If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to have a room.”

“Really?” he asked, with a sly quirk of his brow. “I think I already know which one I want.”

“You haven’t even seen any of them yet,” she reminded him with a playful tug on his fingers.

“But surely yours is the nicest?”

She gasped. “Rogue! And where, pray tell, am I supposed to sleep if you take my bed?”

She saw the pounce an instant before his arms twined around her waist. Laughing, she let herself be pulled onto his chest, until she straddled him, braced on her arms bare inches from his face with their hearts beating erratic rhythms against each other. Her hair got caught between them, but he helped her tidy it away, twisting it over her shoulders so her skin wouldn’t chill where the covers had fallen to the small of her back.  

“You’ll sleep right next to me, my love,” he purred, as his hands trailed a lazy path to the base of her spine. “Every day, if I have my way. Especially with a view this good.”

“You like this position, do you?” she asked.

“Mmmhm.”

“Good,” she answered, leaning down to hide her blush in a kiss. “Because so do I.”

--

The sun still had yet to peek over horizon when Rosslyn gathered in the stableyard with Leliana and the troop of soldiers hand-picked for the assault on Highever, her breath fogging in the freezing air and the horrid taste of the tea lingering on her tongue. She had added enough honey to turn it from bitter to sickly, but she wouldn’t call it an improvement.  

Only a lone blackbird called. Most of the camp had yet to stir, and wouldn’t move for a few days yet, but whatever stillness they might have enjoyed for the time being was ruined by Lasan, who had realised he was being left behind and decided to make his dissatisfaction known by kicking his stall door to splinters. His bugling did little to agitate the horses they were taking, who dozed under their rugs while the riders stamped their feet and blew warm air into their gloved hands to try and fend off the cold. Satina’s bright disk still hung in the sky, its pinkish glow a rival to the dawn. If they didn’t get going soon, they would waste what few hours of daylight they could use.

At the end of the line, Leliana straightened. “Here he is.”

Rosslyn turned to follow her gaze to the door of the keep, where Alistair tripped down the stairs still trying to fit his helmet over the padded cap that would help keep him warm as well as distribute the helmet’s weight evenly over his head. He was in splintmail, as she was. It would make for an uncomfortable ride, but the Westmoreland breed used by the relay messengers were too lithe to carry riders in heavy armour, and their plan relied on avoiding recognition.

“It’s good of you to join us at last, Your Highness,” she said in clipped tones as he puffed to a halt beside her.

He blushed deeply enough as he took his horse’s reins from her that it made a beacon of them even in the low light. Fortunately, she was able to hide the colour growing in her own cheeks behind her scarf as she turned and led the way towards the gate. The guards who hauled open the doors for them saluted as they walked through, but nobody else marked their passing.  

“We have a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to do it,” she told them as she checked her horse next to the mounting block that had been left for them. “We’ll walk to warm the horses up but if we’re to make the checkpoints the rest of the day will be spent at canter. I understand this won’t be easy for all of you, but speed is key, and the king is counting on us. There’ll be plenty of time to nurse your backsides once we’re out at sea.”

There were nods and a few low chuckles as she gathered the reins and vaulted up, then guided her horse aside to fix the girth strap and adjust her stirrups. The volunteers she had taken from the infantry had all been schooled in horsemanship during the camp at Aeylesbide, and had been given the quietest mounts, but still she watched with a critical eye as each of them clambered into their saddles with only the barest shade of grace and turned their mounts to the road.

They left the blankets over the horses’ quarters as they started off, following the dim line of the road west so that the rising sun cast long shadows in front of them, and set a blaze on the surrounding hills where it struck through the trees to bare clearings of winter bracken. A small herd of deer led by a grey doe paused on the path ahead of them, curious, before vanishing once more ghostlike into the brush, and once, a fennec barked, but aside from the growing chorus of birds in the hedgerows, the steady clop of hooves encompassed the only sound in the world. Despite the brisk pace she set, Rosslyn let herself enjoy the peace, the fleeting break from duty, watching as colourful gangs of finches darted among the bare, berry-laden branches of a nearby rowan.

There had been many mornings like this when she was growing up, camping and following loggers’ trails through Highever’s ancient countryside – and many more that had dawned wet and cold and miserable, and weren’t half so fond to remember. Her father had insisted. Adamant that a ruler should be intimately familiar with their domain, should know how to work with the land and not against it, he had taken both his children into the wilds and made a play of hide and seek through the trees, teaching them about game and mushrooms and the best place to find shelter. And she would never forget the black night in deep Harvestmere when she was ten years old, when he had poked the embers of their campfire and woven a story about his upbringing as an exile in his own country, caught between the desire to keep his people safe and the knowledge that every day he fought for their freedom they only suffered more. He had wanted them prepared to face the same tough choices.

She shook the memory and called a halt to prepare the horses for the run. If their blankets were left as they were, the animals might overheat, or spook when the material flapped in the wind, so each saddle had a strap attached to the cantle that allowed the rug to be folded up and stored like a bedroll, and it was far easier to use if the horse was standing still. Alistair was having trouble twisting around far enough to secure his in place, so she nudged her own mount over to him and casually batted his hand away.

“Thanks,” he said as she fastened the buckle for him. His hand brushed her shoulder to steady her as she straightened again.

She glanced to the others still securing their horses. “It’s a beautiful morning, don’t you think?”  

“Almost worth getting out of bed,” he agreed, smirking, and even though his voice was low enough not to carry, she had to look away. Her horse’s tail swished.

“How are you coping so far?”

He shrugged. “My feet are frozen, but that’s all. I’m sure I’ll have some fascinating bruises later, though. The pace you set, If I can walk after I get off, it’ll be a miracle.”

She shot him a chiding look. “You know you could’ve stayed behind if you –”

Someone snickered behind her. She caught the words ‘hard ride’ and nothing more, but the audience of guilty looks when she whirled to face the perpetrator told her everything she needed to know about the rest of the sentence.

“Do you have something to say, soldier?” she demanded.

The man avoided her gaze. “No, Your Ladyship. It wasn’t –”

“In that case, I’d suggest you keep your mouth closed in case one of the horses decides to shit in it,” she snapped. “If I didn’t need every body I can get for this mission, I’d send you back to Deerswall in disgrace to gossip with the rest of the washerfolk. As it is, you’re taking middle watch every night until this is over. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” he answered, still with his gaze on his horse’s withers.

She waited a moment longer to make sure her point had properly struck, determined not to be embarrassed even though she could hardly be surprised at the flavour of the comment. Soldiers, after all, were worse than servants for rumours. Alistair tried to catch her eye as she ordered them back onto the road, but every moment was precious; discipline had to be maintained. She couldn’t regret the night they spent together, the sighs and touches that still ran hot in her blood so many hours later, but her authority required a distance already drawn in by the necessities of their mission, and she couldn’t afford for it to slip further.

--

They travelled quickly. At the waystation they reached just after midday, they paused only long enough to relieve themselves and change to fresh horses, without even a break for food. Instead, they took hard rations straight from the saddlebags as their new mounts warmed up and ran for the rest of the afternoon until the quick winter fall of night made it too dangerous to go any faster than a walk.

Rothsbridge came into sight a few hours after sunset, its lights sparking like jewels nestled in black velvet. As the bottleneck for trade coming from the Waking Sea into the central Bannorn, it had grown wealthy in the decades of peace since Maric became king, and had outgrown its defensive walls years before, spilling wealthy streets of well-appointed villas into the surrounding countryside like apples from an overturned sack. The mayor still liked to keep up appearances, however, and so the gatehouse had stayed, complete with a burly porter who saw the party coming and halted them with a raised lantern.

“Who goes there?” he called, muffled through a thick, knitted scarf.

“Soldiers, in service to His Majesty King Cailan,” Maddow replied at the front. He kicked his horse forward and offered him a writ bearing the royal seal. “You are to let us pass and complete our business here.”  

The man squinted at the parchment, frowning as his mouth laboriously formed the outline of each word, then looked up to pass a leery eye over the rest of them. Wary of being recognised, Rosslyn and Alistair hung at the back, but their layers of splintmail and fur hid them well, and they garnered no comment from the gatekeeper.  

When he was finally satisfied, he handed back the document and shuffled away to unlock the gate. “Sorry to keep ye, lads. Canna be too careful these days.” he coughed. “If yer looking fer a place, Crow’s Head’ll have stabling room, and a good hot meal fer ye an’ all.”

“Thank you, serrah,” Maddow replied as he replaced the writ in the message satchel. “We’ll take your recommendation.”

“It’s on’t left after Silver Street – big sign,” the gatekeeper supplied. He waved them through with his lantern and quickly fell behind them, lost behind the first of Rothsbridge’s tightly-packed rows of terraces.

The Crow’s Head inn lurched into view a few moments later, under a sign of a painted black bird’s head on a pale blue field. It presented a narrow front to the main street, stone foundations with timbered walls on the upper floors, warm light glowing through the swirled windowpanes, and carved rosettes of painted flowers on the lintel of the front door. A sign for stabling pointed down the alleyway next to it.

Rosslyn dismounted. “Hobbs, see to it the horses bedded down while His Highness and I ask about rooms.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

“Meet us in the taproom when you’re finished.”

She handed off her reins and stepped out of the road, and with Alistair following at her heels, pushed open the door into the inn’s welcoming interior. Paintings of river boats dotted the walls between lengths of signal flags hung like bunting, lending a festive air to the array of mismatched chairs and scrubbed, beerstained tables. A stuffed raven eyes them from its perch above the bar and several patrons glanced at them as they passed, but either their weapons discouraged attention or strangers were common, and they went unchallenged.

“Is this about what happened earlier?” Alistair asked as they picked their way between tables.

“We should have been more discreet,” she said, and stopped. Her hand reached for his arm. “Don’t think for an instant that I regret it – any of it – but until this is over, maybe a little distance would be best.”

He sucked in his cheeks, disappointment clear, but nodded, robbed of a response as the innkeeper put away the glasses he had been cleaning and rapped broad knuckles on the bar.

“What’ll it be, sers?”

“We’re a party of fifteen, with horses,” Rosslyn answered. “The keeper at the north gate recommended this place. We need dinner and rooms for tonight – we don’t mind sharing.”

The innkeeper scratched at his beard in a pondering sort of way. “I got two dorms, twelve beds each, int’ attic. Not got anyone in ‘em. Men and women to be separate, mind.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Breakfast int’ morning?”

She shook her head. “We’ll be leaving early.”

With a grunt, he retreated around a stand of ale casks to call for someone to go and air out the dorm rooms, before disappearing into a back room that smelled of herbs and savoury roasting meat. While they waited for him to come back, Alistair leaned his elbows on the bar and heaved a long, put-upon sigh.

“This distance thing means not even kissing, doesn’t it?”

She sighed too, and bumped her elbow lightly against his side. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m not. I’ll waste away, I tell you, and then when I die of not being kissed you’ll miss me very much.”

“Maaaaybe. Why don’t you save them all up and give them to me when we reach –” She bit her tongue to hold in the slip. “– when we get where we’re going?”  

“There’ll be a lot of them,” he warned.

“I can manage that.”

“And if you don’t mind,” he added, leaning closer until his face hovered barely an inch away from hers, “they won’t all be on your mouth.”

He was grinning, tempting her to ignore her own words and sway just that little bit forward to stop all the space between them, but it was a game two could play, even if her only lessons in allurement had come from trying not to watch Oriana flirt with Fergus. She licked her lips, drew the bottom one between her teeth, watching him all the time until with an easy breath out, she leaned away.

“Don’t lose count,” she advised, and folded her hands primly on the edge of the bar.

“Did – you –”

“That’ll be ten silvers,” the innkeeper interrupted, wiping his hands on a cloth as he came whistling back from the kitchen. “Of and find a seat, I’ll bring food out when all’s settled. Beds’ll be ready in a mo’.”

“Thank you, serrah.”

With a nod, the man ambled off to see to one of regulars, leaving the two of them alone once more. As soon as nobody was looking, Alistair so leaned close his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“Just so you know, that’s five already. I’m going to be merciless.”

[braincoins]

for @yslanam, who keeps encouraging me in Dragon Age stuff, here’s more stuff from the Schism-verse that may or may not ever see the light of day. >_> (don’t get cancer, kids) Originally, I wrote this in an email to @tybunnythehellmoose, but they’re okay with sharing.

For reference, this is long, long after what’s currently published (or written [cough]); Kivral & Alistair adopted a girl named Guinevere whose parents were abusive, and basically all the Wardens have been sort of co-raising her at his point. She’s ~15 years old or so here.

Cut for brief mentions of naughty sexy times happening where we can’t really see them, and also because not everyone is interested in all this nonsense.

   "You sure this'll work, mage?" Oghren grunted, holding the small statue up to his eye. It was shaped like an eye itself, though it was the size of his fist. It was carved from a smooth white stone. "Good craftsmanship, at least."     Anders snatched it away from him. "Only one way to find out. The other one's in place, yes?"     "Yes, yes," Nathaniel grunted. "I do know how to sneak around, thank you very much. And I actually got some help in distracting her from Alistair, not that he knew it." He grinned just a little. "He's so damn predictable."     "Yes, well, he was a Templar," Anders groused. "I try not to hold that against him, though." He set the eye on a table. There were three chairs set up in a row a small distance away, and Oghren and Nathaniel each claimed a seat. Ser Pounce-a-lot was already curled up on the center chair, warming it for his human. "Now, let's see if I've got this right..."     "By all the gods, I am exhausted," Kiv sighed, shutting the bedroom door by practically falling against it. She closed her eyes and soaked in the knowledge that there was strong oak between her and the rest of the world. Well, most of it. She could feel Alistair drawing near, and she tried not to smile.     "Well, I promised you a back rub, and if you stay like that, it's going to be rather difficult."     She considered. On one hand, Alistair's strong hands would be excellent therapy for her tense shoulders and back. On the other hand, it was unlikely this would be just a back rub. Oghren liked to exaggerate when he talked about... well, almost anything, but especially her and Alistair's sex life. If she were being honest, though, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Oh, it wasn't quite the ardor it had been in the beginning, but the right smile or look from Alistair still melted her, and by now the damnably-smug love of her life knew it. And he'd been looking at her earlier... not quite that way, but close. He'd been considering giving her one of those looks, she'd thought. He'd been scheming. And this was almost certainly part of that scheme.     "I know what you're up to," she said, keeping her eyes closed. "I'm just trying to decide whether to 'fall' for your little trap or not."     "Trap?! You wound me, madam! You're the sneaky rogue here, not I!" The heat of his body settled in next to hers as his hands went either side of her against the door, so she couldn't leave. He nuzzled her cheek and added softly, "You know I would never do anything you didn't want, my love."     She exhaled. "But you're very good at changing my mind, ma vhenan." And then he was kissing her cheek, one hand resting itself on her hip as he pressed himself against her. She slid her arms around him almost out of reflex, and was happy to feel his bare skin beneath her fingertips; he'd already gotten rid of his shirt, at least.     "Am I?" he whispered against her ear. "How good?"     She tsked and mock-whined, "Oh, fine, but you do have to give me the back rub first." She finally opened her eyes as he straightened up to catch her gaze. Her smirk mirrored his own as she leaned up to kiss him. With their eyes on each other (and Alistair's back to the rest of the room), neither noticed the small, white, eye-shaped statue on the desk, with its blank, unblinking gaze turned towards the bed.    "Sound's not that great," Nathaniel commented.     "Who needs sound?" Oghren said, grinning at the images being projected by the eye onto the nearest wall. "They talk too much anyway."     "It's sort of... strange, thinking of her as our leader when you see her like this," Anders said, petting the cat on his lap. "I mean... it's clearly her, but I'm used to..."     "Her being armored?" Nate finished.     "Or at least clothed."     "You get used to it," Oghren told him, not taking his eyes from the scene unfolding for them. "Not that we ever got to see 'em back in camp, but we sure did hear 'em well enough. All the more reason I don't need sound."     "Well it'd be nice for the rest of us," Nate put in with a faint pout. All three of them fell silent, eyes widening as things... progressed in the commander's bedroom. "Not that I have a problem with the view."     "Hehe, for an elf, she's not bad, is she? Needs a bit more meat on her, but the legs are a good feature. 'Course I know how you like those elf women, Howe."     "Shut it."     "We have to get that man some better pants," Anders mused. "It's a shame not to show that ass off more."     "Ugh!” Ogren groaned. “Look, mage, I know you swing both ways, but at least leave the comments about him inside your own head?"     "I can always shut it down,” he threatened.     "Don't you dare!" And Anders grinned at having won against the lecherous dwarf.      Nate’s eyebrows went up. "Damn. He's... surprisingly flexible for a warrior."     "Oh not you, too!" Oghren huffed.     "No, no, I'm not... “ Nate protested, “I'm just saying, could you manage THAT?" He pointed at the scene.     "Have you seen me?" Oghren grunted.     "No wonder she can't keep her hands off him." There was a suddenly-hushed "OH" from all three of them before Anders added in, "...and no wonder he can't keep his hands off her, either."     "Well, she is a rogue." Nate sounded almost proud.     "What are you three doing?"     All three of them jumped, so much so that Ser Pounce-a-lot skittered off of Anders's legs and ran off. Anders waved a hand and the images vanished quickly. When they saw who it was, all three of them couldn't help blushing (though Oghren slightly less so than the two humans). "Nothing!" Anders declared quickly. "Just... um..."     "Testing out a magical artifact we found, that's all," Nathaniel said, not quite as smoothly as he would've liked. Because, of course, of all the people to be caught by, it had to be Guinevere. She had, in the ensuing years, become more than just an "apprentice" or a "recruit" to all of them. She was like a little sister or a niece to most of them, and Kiv and Alistair's formal adoption of her had only cemented that feeling of family. They were all protective of the girl, even as she grew into womanhood. And, apparently, despite being trained primarily as a warrior, she was still good at being a little sneak when she wanted to. Either that, or Nate'd been so distracted by the show that he hadn't been paying attention.     "Uh huh. Of course." She didn't entirely seem to buy it, but she left them be, closing the door behind her again. They all sighed in relief, but Nate held a hand up to keep Anders from starting the artifact up again. He listened, straining his senses through the door. She'd yet to go through the Joining, so the rogue couldn't have the sense of her that he'd have of the other Wardens. But after awhile he nodded. Coast clear.     Anders glanced between Nate and the door even after given the go-ahead, but then reactivated the device. Oghren settled back into the show happily, while Nate and Anders eased down out of their adrenaline a bit more slowly. If nothing else, the commander and her lover certainly hadn't been interrupted, it seemed.     Guinevere walked as quietly as she could down the hallway. To all outward appearances, she seemed calm and unconcerned, but in her head she was chewing out her pervy "uncles". Well, her mom & dad (her current ones, not those things she'd been born to) had raised her to do the right thing, and she intended to do it. She marched straight to the door of their room (and tried not to think about what was going on on the other side of that door) and knocked.     They both stopped dead at the knock. Kiv, having the most breath at the moment (barely), responded. "Yes?" She tried not to sound put out, though, frankly, it was getting on to bedtime, so even if she and Alistair weren't... well, they could have been sleeping, dammit. Or about to be sleeping. If she did sound upset, she had good reason, yes?     Guinevere's voice said, "Dad, you might want to Cleanse the room."     "What?" he asked. "Why?"     "Just trust me. G'night."     Kiv and Alistair shared a look, and he shrugged and sat up. He had to take a moment to catch his breath and focus on something more mental than physical, but then there was a wave of magic through the room and a faint "bzzt". "What was that?" he asked, looking around.     "I'm not sure, but I will find out," she promised. "In the morning. Now, where were we?"     In the projection, Kivral and Alistair paused and looked towards the door. "We've been sold out!" Oghren yelped.     "You don't know that," Nate put in. "It's probably Garevel."     "At this time of night? He knows better," Anders replied, "unless it's an emergency, and if it were, he'd've just sounded the alarm." And, sure enough, the images disappeared, leaving only blank wall. Anders flopped back against the chair. "We're doomed."     "Worth it." Oghren stood up. "I got plenty of material to fill in the rest for myself, hehe." He went to leave but was stopped cold when he opened the door.     Guinevere was standing in the middle of the doorway, arms folded, looking Very Disappointed - a look she'd perfected after seeing her adopted mother do it enough times. The girl had grown in all sorts of ways since she'd first come to them, but physically, she was still nothing compared to most of them (though she was much, much taller than the dwarf, of course). Still, between combat and leadership training from her very-skilled parents, she radiated a presence that seemed to fill the doorway and shove its way into the room, despite her standing still. "Did you really think I'd let you just get away with that?"     "You told them?" Nate said, rising to his feet.     "I told Dad to Cleanse the room." Anders groaned something about Templars ruining everything, but she ignored him. "I didn't say why, but I'm pretty sure I don't have to... do I?" She arched one eyebrow, continuing the Very Disappointed glare.     "You expect us to confess?!" Anders exclaimed.     "Have you met us?" Nate continued.     "Still say it's worth it."     "Shut up, Oghren," all three humans said at the same time. He just grinned and shoved his way past Guinevere, headed back to his room. She rolled her eyes.     "She'll find out one way or another. It'll be better on all of you if you come forward first."     "Ugh. I suppose you're right." That was Nathaniel, who was slightly more used to accepting his fate than the runaway mage was. "Out of curiosity, how'd you know what we were even up to?"     "Sekh was trying to get at Ser Pounce-a-lot again, and he'd tracked him to this room. I shooed him off, but then I heard you three talking."     Nate facepalmed so hard there was an audible SMACK! "You and that damn cat, Anders..."     "Don't you blame Ser Pounce-a-lot! It's not his fault that stupid dog won't leave him alone!"     "Good night, uncles," she sing-songed. "Enjoy your last night amongst the living!"     Nate's lips twisted in a sardonic grin. "Ha ha. Good night, Guinevere."     "Thanks for ratting us out!" Anders called after her as she walked towards her own room.     "Love you too!" she called back over her shoulder.

[shannaraisles]

Fire & Fidelity - Chapter 3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no fandom can ever have too many Pride and Prejudice AUs. A straight retelling of Jane Austen’s P&P, based on the 1995 BBC miniseries adaptation, with a few tweaks here and there along the way.

Note - I have lifted characters and story elements from Dragon Age and placed them in Regency England purely in order to use the locations in P&P rather than confuse myself with making the geography of Thedas work for this story.

[Read on AO3]

Chapter Three

As the evening wore on, Jane held true to her promise to Mr. Theirin, allowing Lizzie the pleasure of seeing her sister stand up with a gentleman who was not only young and handsome, but clearly had a quick mind and a good temper that matched Jane's near perfectly. She had not seen her elder sister have such fun dancing with any partner before this one. Even a furtive glance to Mr. Rutherford, following the line of Mr. Theirin's gaze, found the disagreeable man actually smiling. It was a fleeting glimpse of a smile, hastily hidden, but it would appear that he, too, saw something in the pairing that was worth smiling about. Lizzie couldn't help the surge of pride in her sister for making such a good impression on the one person in the room whose opinion did not matter in the slightest. However, she could see he was not unaffected by the gossiping of the older women, all of whom he had offended this evening simply by refusing to dance with anyone who was not Miss Theirin, or Madame de Montfort.

Not that Lizzie was offended herself, of course not. She had danced a few of the dances, though male partners were in short supply as ever. Still, it allowed her time to catch up with Marian and Bethany, and her Aunt Montilyet. She would have liked to have danced more, but so long as Jane kept standing up with Mr. Theirin, Lizzie was determined to be happy for her. Indeed, the highlight of the evening  for everyone who was hopeful for Jane was when Mr. Theirin escorted her over to be introduced to his sister, who seemed far more polite and agreeable than his friend, despite the look on her face.

"I wonder at Kitty and Lydia," Mary murmured to her as the two of them sat together, neither one partnered for this dance nor the one to come, unlike their younger sisters, who could monopolize the dancing company of the young men and boys closest to their age with alarming confidence. "They are so fond of dancing, yet I take little pleasure in a ball."

"I should think we would both take greater pleasure in this one if there were enough partners as agreeable as Jane's," Lizzie countered, patting her sister's hand fondly.

"I believe that I should learn to find the rewards of observation and reflection much greater than I do, Lizzie," Mary admitted in a rueful tone. She was unlikely ever to marry, they all knew it, but it would be a pleasant change not to see her discarded on the sidelines of every social engagement.

"Those rewards are great when there are none others to be had," Lizzie said, squeezing her hand. "We shall have to be philosophers, Mary."

She was rewarded with a giggle from her sister, and the arrival of Madame Leliana, who slid happily into the seat Lizzie vacated in order to talk to Mary herself. That was one thing Lizzie was very grateful for; that Mary, despite the stigma of being a mage, had many good friends here in Meryton. She would never be bereft of kind company. That in itself was enough to keep Lizzie smiling as she stood a little way away from the two women, though she felt her smile fade when she realized she could hear Mr. Theirin and Mr. Rutherford rather more clearly than anyone might have liked.

"Come, Cullen, I must have you dance, I must," Mr. Theirin was insisting. "I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."

"I most certainly shall not," was Mr. Rutherford's firm reply, but it appeared that Mr. Theirin was not having anything of it. "In an assembly such as this? It would be insupportable."

Despite herself, Lizzie found it difficult not to laugh at the high and mighty phrase spoken aloud in the midst of all those he was insulting. Was the man a fool, or did he truly wish for everyone in a fifteen mile radius to despise him by the end of the evening?

"In any case, your sister is engaged at present, as is Madame de Montfort," Rutherford added for his friend's benefit. "You know perfectly well it would be a punishment for me to stand up with any other woman in the room."

Now that was insulting, Lizzie was quite content to admit. She knew she shouldn't be straining her ears to hear every word, but she could not quite draw herself away, fascinated to discover just how awful Mr. Rutherford really was.

"Sweet Maker, Cullen, I wouldn't be as fastidious as you are for a kingdom," Theirin informed his friend in a voice that was almost heated. "I've never met so many pleasant girls in my life, certain of them uncommonly pretty."

Lizzie had to glance over at that point, just in time to see Mr. Theirin gazing longingly at Jane, now dancing with their cousin, Antoine Montilyet. It was still delightful to see how decidedly her sister had won over the sensibilities of the best gentleman they had ever been acquainted with in the course of a single evening.

"You have been dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," she heard Mr. Rutherford comment, preening on behalf of her sister for a moment as Mr. Theirin lowered his voice to add something to his comments.

She could only hope that murmured addition was further praise being heaped upon Jane's head. Maker knew, the eldest Trevelyan deserved every kind word and positive opinion. She was an angel, in Lizzie's opinion, and she did not think her opinion was so very different to Mr. Theirin's after this evening. She could have wished, however, not to have been close enough to overhear what came next.

"Look ... look, there's one of her sisters," Theirin was saying, apparently in the belief that he couldn't be overheard as he jerked his chin toward where Lizzie stood not far from the men. "She's very pretty too and, I dare say, very agreeable."

"She is ... tolerable, I suppose," his friend conceded, "but she's not handsome enough to tempt me. Alistair, I am in no mood to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men, and far less to those who clearly know nothing of the dangers of magic."

Abruptly deciding she had heard more than enough, Lizzie turned, fighting to keep the anger from her face. How dare he talk about her in that way? He knew nothing of her, nor of her family, yet had clearly decided she was beneath his notice and her sister less than nothing simply for the accident of birth that had given her magic. But yes, he did know nothing of her, and to assume she was not dancing because she was somehow defective in the eyes of the men of the parish ... that was hilarious. Not even trying to keep her laughing smile to herself, she turned back to where Mr. Rutherford stood, passing him by on her way to join Marian and share with her everything she had just overheard. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked by, as she and her friend laughed heartily at his prideful assumptions and ill-formed opinions. What a marvelous experience to take home from the Meryton assembly rooms ball.

Mr Trevelyan had made the mistake of being awake and in the drawing room when his wife and daughters returned from the ball, and despite his best efforts, he was unable to concentrate on his book as his overtired wife paced and twirled and twittered on about the evening they had just enjoyed.

"Jane was so admired! There was nothing like it!"

Despite the lateness of the hour, Mrs Trevelyan was as giggly and bouncy as Lydia and Kitty; rather too much so for the comfort of her husband who, having had the luxury of absolute silence in the house for several hours, was now regretting not reading in his study instead of the drawing room.

"Oh, Maker, I'm so fagged," Lydia declared, thumping down into a corner of the couch.

"Lydia," Jane said gently, and their youngest sister grinned as she corrected herself.

"Tired, I'm so terribly sorry to use coarse language."

Over the sound of Lydia's laughter at her own joke - which wasn't particularly funny - Kitty leaned toward their father, eager to share with him everything that had happened that evening herself.

"Lydia and I danced every dance," she enthused.

Lizzie couldn't help a faint pang of sympathy for Kitty. Constantly overshadowed by her only younger sister, and held up in comparison to her older sisters, Kitty had long ago  learned that she would never be their mother's favorite, or even favored. Instead, she had set her heart on their father, a feat Lizzie herself had accomplished purely by being herself. Unfortunately, all Mr Trevelyan saw in his second-to-youngest was a silly little girl, and he could not be convinced otherwise.

"And Mary danced none!" Lydia added with a squawk of laughter that was abruptly silenced by the look their father gave her over the top of his book.

He could tolerate twittering, he could tolerate any amount of silliness, but he would not have unnecessary cruelty in his house between his daughters, and Lydia knew that. By trying to make Mary a target, Lydia was also inviting the wrath of Lizzie, which was never an enjoyable experience. Lizzie knew she had a sharper tongue than any of her sisters, or even their mother, and though she didn't often employ it in anger, she could and would in defense of Mary, who was already isolated enough.

"And Mr. Theirin favored Jane above every other girl," Mrs Trevelyan added, pacing happily back and forth as she waved her scented handkerchief. "For he danced the first two with her, and the next with Marian Hawke, which vexed me greatly; but lo, there in the very next, nothing would please him but to stand up with Jane again! And then, you know, he danced with Lizzie, and then what do you think he did next?"

Mr. Trevelyan closed his book with a snap.

"Enough. Enough, woman, for Andraste's sake let's hear no more of his partners!" he protested, rising to his feet in an attempt to intimidate his silly wife into stopping her litany. "Would he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh, and his sister, oh!" Mrs Trevelyan's delighted squeak drew quieter giggles from the couch, and even smiles at the table where Lizzie sat with Jane and Mary. It was difficult not to smile when their mother was in such a good mood, rare as the occasion was. "Such a charming woman, so elegant and obliging - oh, I wish you had seen them. I daresay the lace on Madame de Montfort's gown alone -"

"No lace," Mr. Trevelyan said flatly, straightening from prodding the fire with the poker still in his grasp. "No lace, Mrs Trevelyan, I beg you."

It said a lot for how they had learned to navigate their relationship over the years that Mrs Trevelyan knew when not to push her luck.

"But the man he brought with him, Mr Rutherford as he calls himself," she snapped, her former fury of the evening making an appearance once more. "He is not worth our concern though he may be the richest man in Derbyshire. The proudest ... the most horrid, disobliging - He slighted poor Lizzie, you know, and flatly refused to stand up with her."

"Slighted my Lizzie, did he?" Mr. Trevelyan raised his brows curiously as he looked to the daughter everyone knew was his favorite.

Lizzie laughed, shaking her head.

"I didn't care for him either, Father, so it's of little matter," she assured him, not particularly wanting both her parents to make an enemy of Mr. Theirin's closest friend.

Mr. Trevelyan, however, knew her particularly well, holding her gaze as his wife went on. Lizzie did her best to maintain her smile, but she knew her father had seen the sting she still felt at being dismissed by a handsome man who could so easily have stolen her breath with a smile.

"Another time, Lizzie, I would not dance with him even if he should ask you," her mother advised heatedly, and Lizzie could not think of any advice her mother had ever given her that corresponded so well with her own wishes.

"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you never to dance with Mr. Rutherford."

That seemed to satisfy her mother, and the evening relaxed into the quiet back and forth of a household of young women getting ready for bed while their parents separated to different rooms in a careful dance that had kept the house free from raised voices for many years. With Mary asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, Lizzie was quick to follow her, too tired to sit up with Jane and seek out her sister's opinions on the evening. That would have to come tomorrow, but she could imagine it for tonight. It was far better than lying in bed and thinking about Mr Rutherford's cold beauty.

Unfortunately, that was almost exactly what Lizzie did, leaving her irritated with herself in the morning after a night of restless sleep. Jane, however, could spot her sister's moods a mile away, and was quick to invite Lizzie to spar with her, successfully preventing an all-out war at the breakfast table when Kitty made an ill-advised remark about people who took up all their father's time. And, of course, the talk turned to Mr. Theirin, and Jane's experience of the ball the night before.

"He's just what a young man ought to be, Lizzie," she declared with a happy smile, taking her stance opposite her sister as they both raised swords. "Sensible, lively ... and I never saw such happy manners!"

She thrust, and Lizzie found herself too slow to react appropriately, knocking Jane's sword aside with a clumsy slap of her own blade as she stumbled to the side. She heard their father harrumph from the other side of the training yard, and scowled for a moment, certain that Kitty would be celebrating the fact that their father's favorite wasn't living up to her title right now. But there were happier things to focus on, clearing the frown from her face as she corrected herself, advancing to attack on her own recognizance.

"He's handsome, too, which a young man ought to be if he possibly can," she reminded her sister, pleased to see Jane's blush intensify even as the elder deflected her attack with enviable ease. "And he seems to like you very much, which shows good judgment."

"Lizzie!"

Teasing Jane was the best way to knock her off-balance during a sparring session, and Lizzie had to admit, working off the tension of a poor night's sleep and the last vestiges of annoyance with the awful Mr. Rutherford was just what she needed right now. The swords crossed, the two elder Trevelyan girls nose to nose between the blades as they grinned at one another.

"No, I give you leave to like him," Lizzie informed her sister with an impish cast to her gaze. "You've liked many a stupider person."

Jane laughed, pushing back from the clinch and whirling away to catch up a secondary dagger. This, she tossed to Lizzie, before claiming one for herself. Turning the dagger in her hand, Lizzie circled with her, eyeing the expert way Jane moved.

"He could be happier in his choice of sister and friends, although the sister I suppose he cannot help," she added, jerking back from the sweep of Jane's blade.

"Do you not like her?" Jane asked, a curious hint of defiance in her voice.

"Not at all," was Lizzie's honest answer. She and Jane rarely disagreed on such things, but she could understand why her sister had a slightly different opinion of Goldanna Theirin to her own. "Her manners are quite different from his."

She lunged, and Jane caught her sword blade between both dagger and sword, twisting the weapon from her grasp and sending her skipping back to avoid the blow the golden child of the family aimed in her direction.

"At first, perhaps," Jane conceded, kicking the fallen sword safely out of their way as she pressed her advantage. "But after a while, I found her very pleasing. Miss Theirin is to keep house for her brother, and I am sure they will be very charming neighbors."

"One of them may be," Lizzie said, letting the playful tease shine through just to see Jane hesitate and shake her head.

"No, Lizzie, I am sure you are wrong," came the insistent answer, a familiar refusal from Jane to hope for anything that might give her so much happiness. She did have a rebuttal to knock the wind out of her younger sister, as well. "And even Mr. Rutherford, you know, may improve upon closer acquaintance."

Despite the rise of stinging hurt that came with the memory of the words, Lizzie refused to show that it still tugged at her, turning the man's unfortunately overheard comment over until she could laugh at it.

"Do you mean he'll be in the mood to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men?" she declared outrageously. "Never!"

Jane's laugh was loud and carefree, and did nothing to prevent her from tackling Lizzie about the waist and bearing her down onto the grass, knocking the dagger from her sister's hand and winning the match without seeming to need effort at all.

"Well done, Jane," their father called from the other side of the yard, where he was correcting Kitty's stance as she sparred with Lydia.

Beaming, Jane rolled off Lizzie, thumping down to lie on her back beside her, both of them looking up at the clouds scudding across the spring blue sky. Lizzie sighed, bringing to mind the words from last night that would not leave her be.

"She is tolerable, I suppose," she repeated breezily, "but not handsome enough to tempt me."

"It was very wrong of him to speak so," Jane murmured, turning her head to look at her sister's profile.

"Indeed it was," Lizzie agreed, raising a warm smile as she, too, turned her head to meet her sister's blue eyes. "A capital offense!"

"Lizzie!"

She sat bolt upright at the sound of the call from their mother, Jane not long behind her. Mrs Trevelyan waved a handkerchief at her from the house.

"Marian Hawke is come to call," she declared, loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear. "Come along inside."

Jane smiled as she rose to her feet, reaching down to pull Lizzie up too. She knew how close Lizzie's friendship with Marian was, and how much her sister might need that friend today. After all, Lizzie never liked to let her see anything but a smile on her face.

"Go on in, Lizzie," she urged in a fond tone. "I will spar with Lydia while Father corrects Kitty in her stance."

Glad to be released, Lizzie embraced her briefly and moved to hurry into the house, unlooping her skirts until they fell demurely about her ankles once again. Marian was sitting in the parlor, having apparently been abandoned by Mrs Trevelyan. This was not necessarily a bad thing; Lizzie knew her mother had views on the Hawkes, and couldn't always keep them to herself.

"Marian, how wonderful to see you," Lizzie declared, smiling as she embraced her friend. "What brings you to us so soon? I had thought you would be calling upon all your former acquaintance before renewing with us again."

Marian rolled her eyes, gently swatting at her friend's hand.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie," she said. "In truth, my parents are to give a party at Hawke Lodge, and you are all invited to come. I volunteered to extend the invitation myself simply in order to visit with someone who isn't going to twitter at me about Miss Theirin's dresses."

"Well, you may be assured on two counts," came the reply. "That we shall certainly accept your invitation, and that you will hear no twittering about Miss Theirin's anything at all from me."

"And what of Mr. Rutherford?" Marian asked, eyeing her a little slyly.

Lizzie's frown returned, but she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"I am determined not to think on Mr. Rutherford unless no other course of action is open to me," she said firmly. "I will not give him the pleasure of knowing if his words caused harm of any kind."

The look her friend gave her spoke volumes about the lie Marian knew was in that little speech. But no matter - Lizzie was certain about one thing. No matter how handsome he was, there was nothing within Mr. Cullen Rutherford but pride and prejudice, and she would not invite such into her circle for all the happy manners in the world.

[loserdomain]

An Unsuccessful Exorcism: Part 4 Seven Days

Weeks passed as the days grew colder and shorter. Now that Dimitri’s goal wasn’t to terrify you, he’d proven to be good company. For starters, your apartment was always warm no matter how cold it was outside. He also made sure you always had food in your fridge. Aside from making your day to day life more relaxed, he was kind to you; he cared for you in a foreign way.

“Are there other’s like you?”

“Not many, but yes. We tend not to become involved in each other’s affairs,” he said, sitting next to you as you ate dinner. You’d never seen Dimitri eat.

“Why?” On the tv, a cheesy, seasonal romance movie played. Shifting your gaze to your advent calendar you were reminded Christmas would be here in exactly one week.

“We’re very...territorial,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. This made you think of your gift to him. From time to time you would feel Dimitri watching over you while you were at work or school, usually, in the form of a detached presence. Though he wasn’t always with you, he could show up any minute. You didn’t want him to appear while you were picking a gift for him. “I have something for you, by the way,” he said, pulling a small wooden box out of thin air.

“It's not even Christmas yet,” you joked nervously. Glancing at the box, you noticed there was no lock on it. You couldn’t even make out the split at which the box opened, however as Dimitri pressed a long finger against the side, you were able to make out a small crease. You opened the box to reveal a necklace. It was a simple silver chain with an intricate design pressed onto a coin hanging from the center. Gently, you pulled the necklace from the box to examine the coin. The back had writing on it; unfortunately, you could not decipher what is said. “What is this?” you asked, looking up at him.

“My family name, drawn in the language of the daemons. The front is my family crest,“ he explained. You felt the chain for a clasp. Unable to find one, you looked to him, confused.

“The chain responds only to me,” he said. Taking the necklace from you, it separated into his hands. You tugged gently at it once it was around your neck.

“Will I be able to take it off?”

“Not by yourself, no” You gave thanks once more, but deep down you couldn’t help comparing his gift to a collar. The thought made you uneasy. That night, you felt the metal of the necklace weighing on your chest as tried to sleep. You settled into a short-lived restless slumber before you were jolted awake by the sound of rolling thunder. Quickly, you pulled the covers over your head and pressed your pillow to your ears. You were curled up in a fetal position for only a few moments before you felt a hand gently pull the blanket from your grasp to hold your hand comfortably. You felt Dimitri lean down, pressing his mouth to your ear, he spoke, “A storm in the winter generally means snow within seven days. It looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas.” Another flash of lightning appeared and you braced yourself for the thunder. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep through the storm. Squeezing his hand tighter, you hoped he would stay; you hoped he would hold you. Your wish was granted as you felt him slide into the bed beside you before pulling you into his arms. You felt safe as he rubbed small circles on the back of your neck with his thumb. This was how you drifted, head tucked neatly beneath his chin.

“I won’t be with you today,” Dimitri said as he watched you eat from the counter. “I don’t know if I’ll be back tonight.” This was perfect, you thought; it would give you a chance to find something for him. Today was the last day of school before winter break. You would have about an hour to find something before you had to be at work.

“How will I ever survive,” you joked as you walked to the sink with your plate. He was dressed differently today. Turning to face him, you noticed he was wearing what looked almost like armor. “So...where are you off to?” you asked, trying to seem casual as you took in his domineering appearance. Choosing not to answer your question, he suddenly stepped close to you, pulling you to him by your hips before pressing his lips to yours. The kiss lasted only a few seconds before he pulled away, leaving you slightly light-headed.

“Go to school, darling” Hours later you could still feel his lips pressed against yours as you mentally replayed the encounter. Recalling how his hands held your hips made your chest feel like it would burst. Moments later, you were filled with dread; you felt additional pressure to find something he’d like now that he’d kissed you. You had a lot of cash since you were no longer buying groceries or paying rent. You chuckled as you recalled the day you were about to write your monthly rent check. Dimitri took it from you before you could unlock your door and ripped it up saying “You won’t need to do that anymore.” You hadn’t asked any questions.

“Did you ever get rid of that ghost?” the shopkeeper asked. You told her that you had rather than explaining that you had a demon for a roommate now.

“I have a friend who is interested in this stuff, but I don’t know what to get him,” you explained.

“What kind of friend is he?” At your hesitance to answer, her lips curved into a knowing smile. Not waiting for you to stammer out an answer, she gently pulled you to a shelf toward the back of the shop. “This enhances emotions, makes them more noticeable. It should speed things along with your demon,” she said, placing a small tin in your hand. “You should be careful though, I was almost sure what you had in your apartment was a demon, not a ghost. Demons feed off of intense emotion.” As she spoke, her eyes fixed on the necklace Dimitri had given you. In a hurry to make it to work on time, you quickly paid for the tin and a few sticks of rock candy before making your way to work.

It was a busy day at the store. Your shift was understaffed for the number of people who came through looking for baking ingredients and cheap toys.

“I hate to ask this and you can say no if you want, but I need to be at my boyfriend’s family’s house in fifteen minutes for a dinner. Do you think you can close up here tonight” your manager asked. The store was closing in five minutes and it wouldn’t take long to clean up, so you said yes. You quickly checked out your last customers as your manager pulled his coat on before rushing out the door. After locking the doors, you swept the floor before going back to the small office to record the day's revenue. Singing along to Christmas music, you didn’t hear the door to the office open behind you. When you finally noticed that you weren’t alone, you weren’t sure how long the broad, stiff shadow had loomed above you. Thinking it was Dimitri, you spun around with a wide grin on your face.

“What happened to your impor-,” you trailed. Before you stood a man similar to Dimitri in every way. What gave him away as a separate person was his long dirty-blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail behind him.

“Not who you were expecting, huh?” His lips curved into mocking smile as he spoke. You gazed up at him, almost in a haze of wonder. Your mind hadn’t yet registered the possibility that the man in front of you could mean you harm.

“Who are you?” You flinched as he reached behind you to turn off the radio. “Are you looking for Dimitri?”

“I was, but I don’t think I’ll have to anymore,” he said, maintaining eye contact. Gently, his hand extended to the necklace Dimitri gave you. “He clearly wasn’t expecting me,” the man murmured to himself. Feeling the chain separate from around your neck, you began to feel vulnerable.

“Who are you?” You asked sternly, snapping out of your previous trance.

“Alistair. You know my brother.” You tested the name on your lips as he stared at you with a wolfish grin. “Its a bit arcane, isn’t it?” He was too close to you; you could feel his breath on your ear as he spoke. When you tried to stand up, his hand met your shoulder and roughly pushed you back down. “Don’t do that,” he warned. Naturally, that meant you were going to try again. To your surprise when you tried to get out of your seat, your limbs wouldn’t respond.

“Does Dimitri know you are here,” you asked frantically. Drawing in a breath, you prepared to scream for help. For the second time, you felt out of control of your body. Though your throat felt raw, no sound left your mouth. Running out of breath, you stared at Alistair, horrified. You couldn’t figure out why Dimitri’s brother was doing all this. Would he hurt you?

“No, I won’t hurt you. In fact, if all goes well you’ll never have to see me again,” he said. You shrunk into yourself. He could read thoughts. “Not just that,” a phantom voice whispered from inside your head; it was him.

“Can Dimitri do all this too?” you asked him in your head.

“He has a lot of the same abilities I do. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown off more. I remember hearing he was particularly fond of using some of them in the bedroom.” You felt tricked as memories of Dimitri kissing you emerged in the front of your mind along with other embarrassing thoughts. “Virgin,” you heard him whisper in your head. Before you could retaliate, he was gone. Moments later Dimitri came through the door with a worried expression before seeing you tensed in the office chair.

A/N Its been a fat minute since I updated. Hopefully the work I put into this chapter pays off.

[catswillothewisps-archive-blog]

CAT AND REESE aka Slut & Falcon

(Slut and Falcon I’m Dying)

Alistair Quinn Dunbroch-Ham - “Intelligence is in the head, not the age”

Name: 

{ A L I S T A I R } meaning “defender of men”

{ Q U I N N } meaning “wise”

{ D U N B R O C H – H A M } meaning “brown fort” and “hot”

Gender: 

Male

General Appearance: 

{ eyes } blue

{ hair } dirty blonde

{ height } stands at 5’7”

Faceclaim: 

Corey Fogelmanis

Personality: 

+ bubbly, caring, intelligent

- distracted, impatient, arrogant

Special Talents: 

Maximum Brain Capacity → From the moment Cat and Reese metAlistair they knew he was different, but they weren’t fully aware of how differentAlistair really was until they had to take him out of school. They knew he wassmart, but he was having problems in class. Alistair was calling out answersbefore anyone raised their hands, he was correcting the teacher’s when they didsomething wrong, and the principal felt as if the school was not challengingenough for him. Reese and Cat decided to take Alistair out of the school Eilidhwas in and homeschool him. They wanted to pinpoint where the issue was, butafter a couple of days of Cat teaching Alistair she knew that his mind was notnormal. This is when Reese and Cat did some research, and they quicklydiscovered that Alistair had full access and usage of his brain. From then on,Alistair taught himself.

Who They Like Better: 

Like most people, Alistair has a favorite parent, but it dependson the day and how he is feeling. Even with that logic it is still very hardfor him to choose, because he loves both of his moms. On good days, Alistairlikes to spend most of his time with Reese. She tends to keep him calm, and heloves that they can sit in silence and have many unspoken conversations. Healso loves to watch her paint, one because sometimes she’ll draw something soreal it comes off the page, and two because he literally sees her thoughtprocess as she paints. On bad days, or days when he feels as if his brain justneeds to relax, he spends it with Cat, which is a tad ironic since Cat can be alittle high maintenance. Alistair loves to sit in Cat’s lap, her fingersrunning through his hair, eyes closed, listening to her read. He loves thesound of her voice, her accent is soothing to him.

Who They Take After: 

Cat loves to take credit for the person Alistair has become, andrightfully so, but anyone with eyes can see that Reese had the most influenceover the way Alistair was raised. He is extremely intelligent, sometimes toointelligent for his own good. This can cause him to be a little harsh when someonemakes a mistake, and because Alistair is, quite literally, the smartest one inthe family, he can let it go to his head. It also doesn’t help that Cat feedshis intellectual ego, but other than that, Alistair is the sweetest most, caringboy that anyone will ever meet. He has a big heart and will help his moms orhis sister with anything they ask.

Personal Headcanon: 

A few years after Eilidh was born, Reese and Cat discussed thepossibility of having another child. Cat was all for it, but she did not wantto experience pregnancy again. Reese was actually pleased with that statementbecause she had been thinking about adoption. Considering Eilidh was about 5years old, they wanted someone she could play with, bond with, someone aroundher age. Looking through the files, they had just assumed they would haveanother girl, a boy had never crossed their minds until they startedinteracting with the kids. After a long day and many kids who just didn’t feellike they would fit in to their family, Cat was ready to give up. They were thelast potential parents at the adoption center, and the kids were getting readyfor dinner, when a blonde boy came running towards them. They hadn’t seen himin the files or during their interactions today. Reese began to have aconversation with the woman that had been showing them around all day. She explainedthat this boy was not in the system, he wasn’t a prime candidate for adoption.The boy was functioning at levels a four-year-old should not have reached yet.With that statement, Cat and Reese looked at each other with unspoken intrigue.Cat bent down to say hello, but before she could say anything the boy giggled. “Youraccent is funny Momma.” Both Cat and Reese were taken by surprise, and thistime Reese bent down to talk to the boy. “What’s your name sweetie?” “My nameis Alistair Quinn.” He said in a perfect Scottish accent, which he didn’t havebefore. “And you’re Mommy Reese.” The accent now gone. Cat and Reese were alittle cautious with the boy as they discussed what they would do, butsomething in their gut told them that Alistair was their son. About an hourlater, after all the paperwork was done, Alistair spoke up again. “Can we gohome now Momma Cat, I wanna meet Eilidh.” They hadn’t even told Alistair abouthis sister yet, but somehow, he knew, just like how he knew their names. “Fromthe moment I saw you, I knew you were going to be my mommies, and Eilidh isgonna be my best friend.” Alistair fit right in, Eilidh loved him from themoment she saw him, and the rest in history.

[laqualassiel]

Ash on the Wind

    Even in the dead of night, the world was never silent. The breeze whispered through the trees, leaves rustling and branches groaning. An owl called out a question in the distance. Crickets chirped a song in reply. Snaps and cracks punctuated the soft roar of the campfire, all but drowned out by Bradhach’s mighty snores from the other side of camp.

Shadows danced to the flickering fire. With the sky above hidden by clouds, it was their only source of light, and a poor one indeed. Walls of sable loomed at the edges of the clearing.

Fingers ran across wood and bone and steel. Ash gently traced patches worn smooth over the years. The wood was a flute. Ash didn’t know what wood her mother had carved it from. She never thought to ask. The steel belonged to the small blade of the knife her brother had bartered for with meat off one of Ash’s kills. The large antlers of the stag had fashioned the knife’s handle as well as her father’s smoke-pipe.

In the dim lighting, Ash could almost bring herself to place her hands like her family would have. She could allow herself to imagine smoking with her squad around the fire. Or joining Domnhall’s tenor with the soprano of the flute. She thought of strapping the knife to her belt. Ash imagined it might feel like home. And there it was; the all too familiar ache in her chest that yearned for her village near the mountains of the north.

But home was gone. All that remained were ashes on the wind.

As the sky lightened in the beginnings of false dawn, Ash returned the memories of her family to the small bag she carried. This life was all she had now. Dwelling on impossible dreams wouldn’t change that.

The first order of business upon settling into the outpost barracks was the maintenance of their equipment. Everyone had served on Squad Three long enough that Domhnall no longer needed to remind them. The man’s reputation for taking chewing out slackers was infamous. Training sergeants liked to set Domhnall on unsuspecting new recruits. It discouraged the necessity of remedial lessons.

He said the same words to every recruit. 'The state of your equipment can mean the difference between life and death. If you’re too lazy to care about the lives of your team, get out. We don’t want you.'

Squad Three got to work. Chain mail clinked as it was degreased and hung to dry. Cloth rustled over steel, cleaning away dirt and oil that would pit and rust. Steel ground against stone. Ash inspected her bow for signs of wear, glancing up every so often to glare at a fidgeting Marcas.

“When do we get the rookie?” Marcas finally asked.

Ash leveled a fierce scowl at the widening grin on Alistair’s face. He held out a hand. “Pay up lass. I told ye Marcas has the curiosity of a cat.” 

“And far less patience.” Ash grumbled, flipping Alistair a silver coin. Marcas couldn’t have waited another ruddy two minutes?

Marcas’s question stirred everyone’s interest. Six pairs of eyes turned towards Domhnall.

Domnhall didn’t look up from sharpening his sword. He ran the stone over the edge in smooth strokes, the rasping rhythm a steady hum through the room. “Sir Riagan of Glenduff is to arrive with the reinforcements from the capital.” He said. “If the weather holds, they should be here tomorrow.”

“The rookie’s a noble?” Marcas sputtered. His lip curled in distaste as the other men sneered. Ash’s scowl deepened. The squad held a universal and deep dislike for nobility. Ash didn’t know the story behind it; what ever happened, it happened before she joined the service. But the entire company knew how poorly Squad Three handled nobles. What in the name of the gods made their lieutenant think this assignment was a good idea?

“He is our new squad leader.” Domhnall reproached. 

Marcas swore as Alistair buried his face in his hands. 

“Gods spare us.” Bradhach and Fearghas wore matching looks of horror. For good reason, Ash groused. We’ve a gods-forsaken greenhorn for a sergeant. The idiot was going to get them killed on their first mission!

Nobles. Any other rookie started out at the bottom of the chain of command, with a mandatory year of service before any possible promotion. It gave young hot-blooded idiots a chance to learn under the more experienced. No need to raise the mortality rate higher than it already was.

But no; gods forbid nobles have to take orders from commoners. Just ignore the fact Domhnall had been acting sergeant since Sergeant Niall’s death, and none of them were dead yet!

Maybe if Ash prayed enough, the gods would arrange for a lightning-mage to fry their new sergeant.

Ash eyed the man Domhnall introduced as Sergeant Riagan. He was short for a man. Ash guessed that only she and Coinin stood shorter. He had dark hair and a beard trimmed short, contrasting with skin light enough that indicated Riagan spent a fair amount of time indoors.

He was a trained knight at least. The longsword strapped to his waist was far better quality than the Hunter-issued arming sword. Emblazoned across his shield was what Ash assumed to be the crest of Glenduff. Again, much higher quality than what a mere soldier could afford. They didn't have to worry about him getting run through.

That was an unfair thought. Ash might not like Riagan, but the Hunters didn’t take anyone but the best. Noble or not, the lieutenant wouldn’t put an idiot in command.

Hopefully.

Green eyes scrutinized each of them. From the pursed lips, Ash wagered Riagan was as impressed by his new squad as the squad was of their sergeant. In other words, not at all. She almost smirked. Not what you were expecting as the elite warriors of the King’s Fist, are we?

“We have orders.” Sergeant Riagan said shortly. His voice was deep, but it carried in a way Ash knew would cut through the mayhem of battle. “A group of mages were last seen in Haulwyd, heading south towards Niwlcreek. At least one is a suspected fire-mage.”

Ash suppressed a shudder. Fire-mages were terrifying to fight. Mage-flame burned hotter than almost anything else, and it burned everything it touched. Nothing short of the mage’s death could douse the flames, meaning fire-mages could wreak unthinkable havoc. 

Hollowed husks where buildings once stood. Ash blanketing the village like dirty snow, crops razed, the very soil charred beyond chance of nurturing seed again. Smoke lingering in the air, burning with every breath.

Ash could go her entire life without seeing that again.

“Get your gear.” Riagan ordered. “We ride out in an hour.”

The worst thing about outposts, Ash decided, was sharing them with the army. When civilians saw the dark blue of Hunter tunics they didn’t get in the way. Hell, the majority of civilians got out of their way as fast and far as humanly possible. Hunters had a reputation, and it wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the one they had with the nobles.

But knights? Knights were infuriating. They looked at her and saw a woman, not a Hunter. Oh, they saw the sword and bow, but never considered that the grueling training she went through was the same as the men.  

Ash ignored the boisterous laughter and the leering calls as she headed to the outpost armoury. She needed more arrows, and there wasn’t any time to make her own. She'd have to settle for army issue.

The quartermaster didn’t even blink when she handed him the requisition paperwork. He simply signed the bottom and disappeared past racks of swords and pikes to wherever he stored the arrows. Had he dealt with Hunters before? Odds were even either way. Hunters had made it clear they did not like wasting time, so he could have heard it from the army gossip.

The door creaked open behind her. Plate mail clanked. She didn't even need to turn to know it was a knight behind her. “I didn’t know the reinforcements had brought company.” Ash wrinkled her nose against the smell of whiskey. What self-respecting knight got drunk this early in the day? He'd be useless if they received orders.

“Come on, luv. How about you and me have some fun? Get to know each other?” The knight slurred.

He was drunk, Ash reminded herself. And likely a noble. She was not going to feed the cocky son of a swine his finger.

“Not. Interested.” She bit out.

More footsteps from the doorway. The knight suddenly backed away, and Ash glanced over to see who was so intimidating.

It seemed Hunter tunics made up for her new sergeant's lack of height. Thank the gods, Riagan could get away with telling this idiot to sod off -

“We aren't here to cause trouble, Hunter.” Riagan said.

Ash stared at him, speechless with fury. He could not be so blind to have missed that. Knight or not, noble or not, anyone else in the squad would have already launched to her defense. But she shouldn't forget Sergeant Riagan was also Sir Riagan. 

Ruddy entitled knights.

“Understood, Sergeant.” Ash said. She accepted her arrows from the quartermaster and stormed out of the armoury.

Niwlcreek was a village three days ride from the outpost. Ash would better describe it as a hamlet. There weren't even a hundred people living there. Mostly farmers and fishermen, perhaps a few self-taught craftsmen for the tools they needed. 

Coinin remained at the main gate, hefting his crossbow with a grim expression. Ash spurred her horse into a canter towards the southern entrance, where her faster rate of fire could guard that entrance better. The buildings there were too close together for Coinin's crossbow and they couldn’t risk a mage getting away.

Ash dismounted and surveyed her chosen battleground. She left her horse where she wouldn't catch the mare in the crossfire. Now it was a waiting game. Eyes and ears pricked for any sign of trouble, arrows staked in the dirt at her feet. The first arrow nocked and ready to draw.

The town was deadly silent. People had fled indoors at the sight of them, realizing that this was not a stop on the road for the Hunters. Her horse snuffed, a hoof thudding against the beaten path.

A distant scream, silenced almost immediately. The familiar tell tale crackle and whoosh that warned of fire. Ash forced herself to stay put. Her squad could handle it. They all had more experience than her. They’d handled worse.

She was not inclined to include their beloved sergeant.

A series of slaps against the dirt. The acrid scent of woodsmoke made her nose twitch. Ash’s grip tightened on her longbow. Not from the main road, she would have seen the person by now. A side street then, to her left.

Wood silently curved as she drew the arrow back, muscles coiled tight under the hefty pull. Goose feather fletching caressed her cheekbone. Wait for it… There. She released her bowstring with a soft exhale.

Her arrow ghosted through the air. It struck the shoulder of a young man, sending him crashing to the ground. Ash ignored his cries of agony and trembling hand over the wound. She grabbed another arrow, nocking it as eyes wild with terror and pain landed on her. Sparks flew.

Her next arrow found the fire-mage’s throat. His screams died in a choked gurgle of blood.

“May the Sea bear you forth.” Ash murmured. A horn call rang out, echoing through the buildings. Situation resolved. 

She waited at her post anyhow. Prior experience told her a mage could be hiding, patient enough to wait for her to leave an escape route open.

Sharp thuds and rustling chain announced the appearance of Domhnall. He spared the fallen mage a cursory glance, stepping around the congealing blood.

 “Any trouble?” He asked.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Do you have to ask?” There was a reason she used a bow over a sword. She hadn’t missed a shot in years. “Orders?”

Domhnall’s face hardened. “The town is guilty of treason.” He said. “Kill any who flee.”

What?

Ash couldn't move. These were civilians. Mothers, fathers, and children under the protection of the King. She doubted more than a few knew of the mages. They were innocent of any crime. She stared, wide-eyed, at Domhall. He knew this was wrong, he wouldn’t condone this –

He wasn’t saying anything.

“Massacre.” Ash said, feeling somewhat weak. “Domhnall, these are innocents!”

Dark eyes hardened. Unfamiliar. Cold. Unrelenting. Ash reeled back. She couldn’t breathe. No. You can’t ask me to do this, this is wrong! Murder! Ash had known Domhnall for years. He’d protected her, mentored her. He recruited her. Vouched for her when everyone doubted her ability.

I never knew you at all.

Domhnall’s gaze did not waver. “Those are your orders, Hunter.” 

A choice. Obey, and go against every moral fiber she had. Or refuse, and risk treason.

She wouldn't face execution, not for disobeying orders like this. But Ash would be going against the orders of a noble. In the current political climate? That meant exile. Without exception.

She had already lost one home. Ash didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Hours later the wind carried the ashes of the dead. She didn’t look back. 

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 28 - To The Sea

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Ninth day of Justinian, 9:32 Dragon

The hunt chased through a golden wood. Laughter and the jingle of the bells on the horses’ harness kept the pace even though the thick growth of summer leaves obscured all but the path ahead, while above, through blinks in the canopy, the sunward wall of Castle Cousland lounged upon its spur of rock, a warm, comforting weight on the horizon, indomitable against the first autumn turning of oak and beech.

Bryce Cousland reined his horse out of a gallop in a glade dotted with wildflowers. “The quarry is close, Pup,” he said to Rosslyn at his side. “There, through the trees – if you look closely. After it now!”

She kicked off after the flashing shadow, the rocking gait of the horse beneath her steady and sure. There was no sign of the hart ahead but she knew it was there, just out of reach, just beyond the fading of the laughter and the bells.

When she emerged into the orchard – not Highever’s walled garden but the half-wild grove of Aeylesbide – she found the hart at last, a great proud beast crowned with broad antlers that seemed to pierce the sky. He was waiting for her. His breath was warm and soft against her face, amber eyes and russet fur she knew would feel like sable running through her fingers.

Do you think it that easy?

She turned at the voice, but too late. Summer dissolved. She fell through winter, through swirling snow and the crack of ice, down into the dark, the rushing current where the cold gripped her bones and stole hr breath, and indifferent shadows moved in the world above.

She lurched awake, caught in the steel trap of the old nightmare and the confusion of finding herself in unfamiliar surroundings. The strange rocking of the floor brought panic rising like bile up her throat until she remembered the mission to the Storm Islands and the schooner setting sail from Redcliffe. Tension shivered in her limbs even when she tried to force it away, rubbing a hand over her face and through her hair to tear the last shadows from her mind. It had been a while since that particular dream had troubled her enough to wake her, but as she pinched the bridge of her nose she decided she should not have been surprised. Being on water always brought the memories back, and that was without the uncertainty of the task that lay ahead.

As she followed the thought, she looked across the room at the dividing curtain that separated her cot from Alistair’s. There had been a moment of awkwardness earlier as they changed for sleep, when conversation faltered and they were left with the silent awareness of each other just out of reach, the hazy silhouettes the candles painted against the hanging sailcloth. Now, she listened for the sound of his breathing, wanting to make sure she hadn’t woken him, but she heard nothing save for the slow lap of the water and the occasional creak of timber. Cuno’s familiar weight was also missing; the echo of warmth where he had been sleeping against her leg was cooling rapidly, and she had to search for the shadow of his bulk in the darkness.

“You need to go out?” she asked in a voice scratchy with sleep.

The dog looked back at her from the door and wagged his tail.

“Alright.” She shrugged the blanket over her shoulders, yawning as she climbed to her feet and stretched the kinks out of cramped muscles. “I bet he’s out there already and you’re just worried you’re missing something.”

The dog chuffed a reply, pawing at the door in his eagerness to be out of the cabin. He didn’t wait for her when she finally got the door open, instead padding up the gangway with the hollow rattle of his claws sounding on every step.

It was almost dawn. Rosslyn found Alistair by the portside rail, talking to Connor with his arms folded behind his back in the manner he used when trying to be less imposing. The conversation looked uncertain, stilted – completely understandable given the stories she had heard in the week of being at Redcliffe, about Alistair’s treatment under the arl’s care and Isolde’s insistence on sending him away for fear of him usurping her own son’s place. She hadn’t missed Alistair’s expression when Eamon proposed taking the boy with them to be fostered with the Storm Giant’s court, and seeing him now, trying to forge a bridge with someone he had every right to resent, made her less than willing to interrupt his privacy.

Cuno, of course, had no such reservations about propriety. After a cursory sniff at the base of the capstan, he approached the pair wearing his signature doggy grin in a polite request for fuss. Connor, who wasn’t yet much taller than the dog, drew back slightly. When he saw Rosslyn, his eyes widened and briefly flicked to the tower on the lake, before he turned and muttered something to Alistair and slipped away down the forward hatch.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said as she joined him at the rail.

He shrugged. “To be honest there wasn’t really much to intrude on. Couldn’t sleep?”

“It’s not that unusual for me.” A loose strand of hair caught in the breeze and she tucked it back behind her ear. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Uh…” Alistair looked down at the thin linen nightshirt and loose breeches he had worn to come up on deck, with his bare toes peeking beneath the hem. “I wasn’t really thinking about that when… I mean, I was warm when I came up.”

Rolling her eyes, Rosslyn swung the blanket off her shoulders. “Here,” she said, stepping closer. In one fluid movement she draped the garment around his back and pulled it closed like a cape. His breath puffed against her cheek as she tweaked it to sit right, drawing her attention upwards to notice how very close to him she was brought by the gesture. His eyes softened with smiling, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.

“What about you?” he asked, close enough she felt the words vibrate through her skin.

“Me?” she stuttered. “I’m, uh… I’m a little… overheated, actually, now you mention it – wait, what are you –?”

With a breathy chuckle, he shrugged one shoulder out of the blanket, readjusted it, and enveloped her in the trailing edge so that they stood still facing each other in the cocoon of warmth, with her hands braced against the broad, solid plane of his chest.

“How’s this?”

Rosslyn cleared her throat, looking around to try and catch her attention on something other than the way his fingers brushed against the back of her hand. “Very cosy.”

He grinned. “Good.”

“Are you alright?”

“You know,” he sighed, letting the smile fall from his face, “I swear there was one point when you couldn’t read me so well. Not that I don’t like the state of things now,” he added hastily, to stop her pulling away, as a frown darkened across his brows. “Do you ever just stop and think how much things have changed since we first met, all the things that have happened to us?”

She looked out at the water. “All the time.”

“Of course,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think –”

“It’s alright,” she interrupted. “My family’s gone, but they taught me well, and I carry that with me. Besides,” she added, poking him lightly in the ribs, “it’s not like you’re going anywhere – or at least I hope you’re not.”

Alistair’s words caught as she glanced up at him. He swallowed, but his mind seemed stuck, unable to process her words and the uncertainty beneath her lopsided smirk. The feel of her so real against his frantically beating heart rooted him in panic, and it took all of his will not to imagine leaning down to kiss her, and to have her kiss him back.

“If you’re worried about the Storm Giant, you don’t need to be.” She looked away. “He isn’t that scary… most of the time, anyway.”

“You say that, but I do still get lost in my own shirts on occasion – more often than I should admit, really.” With his courage dented, all the anxieties of the mission at hand came clawing back. “It was bad enough when I was just meant to be Cailan’s spare – I have no idea why he thought I could be all – all official, like a real prince.”

“It can’t all be sitting on soft cushions and sampling expensive dainties,” Rosslyn teased.

“There’s also kissing babies and attending tourneys – I could do that.”

They fell silent, content to watch daytime colours bleed into the sky as the stark towers of Kinloch Hold drifted past. A flock of gulls took flight from the shore and wheeled towards their morning fishing grounds, their mocking calls carried away by the wind as they shrank into white specks that merged with the light reflecting off the waves of the lake.

“I was meant to be a templar,” Alistair blurted as he watched them disappear. “Eamon was going to send me to the academy in Bournshire, but Teagan stepped in at the last minute and took me to Rainesfere instead. I’m not sure what my life would look like now if he hadn’t.”

Rosslyn frowned. She studied him, the way the rising sun painted a halo over his features, and the faraway look in his eyes as his imagination took him across the water to another world in which he was nothing more than a stoic watcher, a shadow in an alcove with a ready sword. Others like her cousin Irminric felt a calling, but templar training was unforgiving, it had to be to forge individuals who wouldn’t hesitate to carry out sentence on those under their care. It would have warped him into something entirely against his nature.

“We might never have met,” he said, as if the idea puzzled him.

She had to look down, the breath stolen from her lungs. He was so warm and solid next to her, so steady and generous, the thought of being without him – of what would have become of her alone over the past few months – left a chill across the back of her neck. Without quite acknowledging the movement, she turned into him, cheek to shoulder, heart racing as she laced his fingers within both her hands. She thought of secrets, and inclinations, and all the myriad ways they might still be separated.

Her thumb stroked a distracted line along the length of his. “I’m glad we did.”

The rest of the journey passed smoothly, and with the wind still behind them they reached Lakehead by early afternoon. The docks here dwarfed the constructions at Redcliffe and the other ports they had seen on the journey north. Instead of a few, rough-hewn piers and a rickety shed for the harbourmaster, here the stonecraft of ancient Tevinter was in full view. A grand, colonnaded forum led out into six wharves arranged like the spokes of a wheel, each of which could easily fit multiple ships twice the size of the schooner. These in turn were enfolded in two wings of a towering harbour wall, and at the very tip of each, a pair of lighthouses guarded the gap for the benefit of any ship that needed guidance out of winter storms. Once, these lighthouses had been fashioned to resemble some magister or other, but time and the need for masonry elsewhere had whittled the faces away to more Fereldan practicality. As they passed through the eye and into the calmer waters of the harbour, Alistair finally understood why most maps labelled this port town as ‘Lake Calenhad Docks’, as if none other existed. Even the homes of the merchants and sailors who lived here seemed tacked on additions to the ancient architecture, like mice clustering in the straw beneath an ox’s hooves.

It took hours for the cargo to be transferred, first from the schooner’s hold to a series of carts, and from there onto barges that would take the whole party and their goods through the long, winding canals of the Seacatch, which led down to Lakehead’s sister-town on the shore of the Waking Sea, and the ship that would take them on the final leg of their journey. There was little for either Alistair or Rosslyn to do; the inventory was managed on either end by Captains Morrence and Mhairi to ensure none of Cailan’s gifts to the Storm Giant went astray, and the organisation of each trunk and bundle was supervised by Brantis himself, who refused to entrust the task to anyone else.

As the dockmen worked, the sky overhead clouded and the wind picked up, promising rain to come. The harbourmaster, a broad woman with a booming voice and a face weathered like polished chert, came to chivvy proceedings along, but a gust caught one of the cranes and only significant coaxing brought Wade around to the idea that a slight wobble was not going to damage his precious anvil. The need for caution in the worsening weather only slowed proceedings, however, and it was dark before the last sweep of the schooner’s hold was completed. And then the process had to be completed again in reverse when the time came to offload the carts.

Eventually, the last of the baggage was secured, with guards posted along the length of the convoy of barges to ensure protection in case of bandits. Those not on duty clustered into the tiny cabin of the foremost vessel, finding floorspace where they could in a room meant to house no more than half the people it contained.

Morrence was the last to board, her drop onto the deck steadied by Leliana, who had taken it upon herself to distribute blankets.

“All set, Your Highness, and all accounted for,” she said.

��Right then,” Alistair replied, turning to the bargemaster who stood above them on the wharf. “That’s everything, we can cast off.”

The man grunted a reply and loosed the mooring ropes. “The current’ll take ye along nice enough,” he explained. “The canals tame the current from the lake falls, but there’s still enough on it ye’ll make the port by morn, nae botha.” He saluted smartly and gave the signal to open the lock gates, and with that, the stream nudged the convoy into the first channel that formed the twelve switchbacks of the Seacatch.

At first, there was little to see. The canal was dug into a steep gully of rock that rose high on both sides, the original course of the waterfall that had once brought water thundering over the faultline that separated Lake Calenhad from the relatively short distance to the sea. The sheer sides closed them in, blocking what small amount of light was left in the sky. As the ground began to fall away, they reached the first of the cataracts, a tank cut into the bedrock where the water level could be raised and lowered as needed. The vaulting arches carved into the bedrock wall revealed the Tevinter origins of the engineering, though draft animals had replaced slaves to work the lock gates, and solid Fereldan stone had plugged the gaps where the original masonry had crumbled away. The shouts of the lock keeper and the complaints of the mules forced to work at such an unholy hour formed a sharp contrast to the almost eerie silence of the past few miles, but the noise fell away again as the gates opened onto the second watercourse, and they were once again left to the dark.

They passed through six more gates before the switchback rounded a knoll and the vista opened enough to offer a view of their final destination. Only a few lights shone in Invermathy, muted by the late hour and the worsening weather, but the bright eye of Sevuna, winking behind scudding clouds, gave shape to Lakehead’s sister-town, nestled on the edge of the ocean like a crab tucked into a crevice in a tide-pool. Seeing it and the faint glitter of water beyond, Alistair turned excitedly to Rosslyn, only to find her slumped in her seat with her dog curled as small as possible in her lap. Glancing around, he saw that almost everyone else was asleep as well, and smiled to himself as he readjusted her cloak around her shoulders, determined not to wake her.

“You really do care for her, don’t you?”

He choked. “What?”

Wynne was watching him, her arm a protective shield around Connor’s shoulders. For whatever reason, she had taken the boy under her wing, a devotion matched only by the almost desperate fierceness with which the boy clung to her, even in sleep.

“That look in your eyes,” she murmured. “I believe the correct term is… ‘enraptured’.”

“I – uh – I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” he answered, with a nervous ruffle of his hair and a glance sideways to make sure Rosslyn was in fact very much asleep.

“No? You try to hide it, but you two seem almost joined at the hip these days – and you watch her, with great interest, I might add.”

“She’s – I’m still new at this, I look to her for guidance.”

“Guidance?” Wynne crinkled a smile at him. “Yes, I’m sure those swaying hips are the perfect place to look for that.” She sighed at Alistair’s spluttered indignation. “For what it’s worth, I think you make her happy, too. What you’re doing isn’t easy, and I’m glad you found each other.”

He peered at her suspiciously. “That’s it? No more barbs? No more looking like the cat who swallowed the pigeon?”

“It’s usually canary, but no, that’s all, Your Highness.”

“Riiiight.” He glanced at Rosslyn again, her eyes rolling under the lids as she dreamed. “Well, thanks, I guess.” With a sigh, he turned to look out of the window again, and the steadily growing swathe of darkness, dyed with the first wash of blue from the light of a new day. “You know, I’ve never seen the sea before.”

The smell of detritus rose as they passed through the final cataract, clean salt undercut by algae and rotting fish. As the light rose, figures snaked their way through streets of brightly-painted houses, all winding for the harbour and the ships bobbing like hounds eager to chase after the scent of a hare.

“They’ll have to be quick today, if they don’t want the weather to catch them,” Rosslyn murmured as she woke, casting a leery eye over the harbour and the rising swell as the barges finally slipped into the loading dock.

Alistair started. “You’re awake.”

She hid a yawn behind her hand. “Just about. I’d best let Cuno stretch his legs for a while before we have to cram him on a ship for the next week. Come on, you,” she added to the dog, who merely groaned and tried to readjust his head in her lap.

“I think I can hold off the charge until you get back,” Alistair teased, before noticing a figure approaching, opposite the flow of traffic. “Who’s that down there, do you think? He looks like he’s come to meet us.”

The sailor, a lanky Marcher with dark red hair and faded tattoos along his forearms, introduced himself as Casavir, quartermaster on the ship that would take them on the final leg of their journey to the Storm Islands.

“It looks doubtful we’ll make it out today,” Rosslyn said once she returned from her walk with Cuno. She passed an eye over Morrence and Brantis, debating some detail or other as the barges were unloaded, and the rest of the entourage milling about without much direction.

“A weather eye have you?” Casavir asked. “Aye, it looks like it’d be in your blood. You’re right. The wind’s turning against the tide, and only looking to get worse when you’re not even unloaded yet. If you’d been half as fancy, we might’ve pushed off today, but no way is the captain going to risk her ship getting smashed against the breakwater.”

Across from him at Alistair’s side, Mhairi stood at stiff attention, trying not to show her impatience for the sailor’s rough manners.

“Of course, you were lucky the harbourmaster’s raven caught us,” he continued, oblivious. “We were Kirkwall-bound not a week ago, after every other ship with sense, and most of those saw none in accepting the king’s offer – not the best luck for a merchant to get involved in politics.”

“What makes you different?” Alistair asked, curious.

Casavir chortled. “You’re paying us, ain’t you? It’s a bit blunt but coin is what makes the world go round. That and the captain looks further ahead than most – we’re out of Denerim, usually, and this place doesn’t have a patch on it for fine goods. Unless Loghain gets ousted, trade’s going to be crippled, so we’re happy to help especially if it means getting in cosy with the Storm Giant. And between us,” he muttered, leaning closer, “she has a disliking for slavers.”

“It’s good to know your captain draws a line somewhere,” Mhairi noted dryly.

“You got a name, love?”

She glared. “Guard-Captain.”

Casavir laughed again. “Worth a try. How about we trot along and I can show you the old bark, and the mateys can follow on after? It’s either that or the tavern to get out of this rain.”

With little else to do, Rosslyn and Alistair followed their guide down the sloping streets to the harbour. Most of the smaller fishing vessels had already set out, leaving only one or two larger ships further out to show that the town was occupied at all. The water swirled a stormy grey beside the wharf, almost hypnotic in its rhythm despite the force with which each wave broke against the stone. Their ship was moored at the far end, rocking like a living thing in the swell from the harbour mouth, the sails of its twin masts tucked up like a guillemot’s wings. A fierce eye was painted on the prow, scowling towards the open sea. The name above the eye, scrawled in an elegant script, read Siren’s Call.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 18 - Divisions

It is the spring of 9:32 Dragon, and Ferelden is gripped in the midst of a bloody civil war. Driven by fear of an old enemy, the traitorous Loghain Mac Tir has stirred the people against the king, and every day new factions vie for power, waiting to take advantage of the chaos now that it is certain a new peace can only be won with swords.

In the north, Arl Howe of Amaranthine has seized control of Highever, and only Rosslyn Cousland, last scion of a slaughtered noble house, stands in the way of his greed. Aided by King Cailan’s uncle and his bastard half-brother, Alistair, she is determined to seek justice for her family’s murder and right the wrongs done to her people.

But politics is a complicated game. War has a cost; nobility comes with obligation; and beneath the machinations on both sides of the conflict, an even deeper threat stirs, biding its time to come into the light and bring Ferelden to its knees.

Words: 4208

Chapter summary: Rosslyn tries to escape her new title, just for a little while, and Alistair faces a decision as the king's plan becomes clear.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

The main road through the village bustled with soldiers and camp followers as well as the local population, with impromptu stalls set up in the gaps between houses selling everything from good luck charms to seed potatoes and cured pelts. It was rowdy, but not disorderly, and it seemed so far that the army was sticking to Cailan's injunction to leave the villagers in peace. Rosslyn, relieved now that the effects of the guelder tea were finally taking hold, allowed herself to be borne along by the current of people, enjoying the rare chance to absorb the ambience of a market day without the presence of guards to set her apart from the rest of the crowd.

One middle-aged woman she passed hollered out deals for her fruit stall, vaunting the quality of her produce at such a volume her voice could be clearly heard over the general hubbub of everyone around her.

“These apples look very well for the season,” Rosslyn commented, stepping out of the flow with Cuno at her heels. The fruit was stacked in neat pyramids, glossy, stippled yellow, and looking as crisp as if they hadn’t spent several months stored in a cellar.

“Oh, thankee very much, Ma’am,” the woman chirped, after a moment of stunned silence. “I grow ‘em meself – and these hazelnuts, and them dried pears ye see owa there, on’y those don’ keep so well in the winter months. Would ye mebbee like to try one?”

Rosslyn chuckled and reached for the small purse of coin she carried with her. “No need, Messere. I think some of those apples would do nicely, if you’d fill one of those small bags for me.”

The woman grinned toothily. “Aye, right away, Ma’am.” She reached for one of the reed-net pouches hanging from a nail hammered into the post that held up the awning.

“How much for them?”

“Oh no, Ma’am, I couldn’. Ye’ve already done me a good by coming here an’ ev’ryone seein’ ye. They’ll be clamourin’ now.”

“And what if they also see you refuse to take payment?” Rosslyn asked, leaning closer. “They might get ideas.” She watched the fruit seller suck on her bottom lip, undecided, and added, “It’s only a few coppers. Take it with my gratitude.”

“You’ve a reet canny tongue in your head, Ma’am,” the woman said, handing over the bag and holding up three fingers to indicate her price. “It’d be bad luck to refuse such a thing. Maker keep ye –” She glanced around warily for eavesdroppers and muttered, “And the Lady, too.”

“The same to you, Messere,” Rosslyn replied, smiling as the woman turned away to address the queue already forming at the other end of the stall. She could imagine how the boasts would go now, and took a small sort of pleasure in knowing she had done something, even if did nothing to lessen the mountain of her other worries.

On the other side of the road, a messenger guided her weary-looking horse against the flow of traffic. Her leathers were stained with dirt, the colours faded so her allegiance was hard to discern, but from the grit of her scowl, her mission was both urgent and serious. Rosslyn let her go. Given the probably sensitive nature of the news, it would be madness to try and waylay the messenger in the middle of a crowded street – and whatever had happened, she would likely hear about it soon enough anyway.

She stepped off the road and onto the muddy path that led along a low ridge above the lists, towards the stables, absently tucking in to one of the apples. The crunch took her away to the crisp autumns spent in Highever’s orchards, chasing through the groves with Fergus and the labourers’ children, playing Heroes and Werewolves until the afternoon shadows grew long and they were called back to the croft, where her father would have his sleeves rolled up to take his annual, ceremonial turn at the cider press. The would be her duty now, along with a thousand others. If the croft still stood. If she lived long enough to ever see home again.

Unconcerned with the future, Cuno trotted at her side. He glanced pitifully between her and the net bag in her hand, as if he hadn’t already devoured an entire haunch of goat that morning, and wagged his stubby end of a tail when he saw her watching.

“You won’t like it,” she promised. “These are for Lasan.”

He whined.

Below them, the day-to-day routine of battle training ground on, with the smart tramp of soldiers marching in formation punctuated here and there by the dull ring of a sword on wood, or the bark of one of the arms masters correcting a stance. Gideon was busy in the riding ring, giving a lecture to a line of fidgeting cavalry officers who one by one were called forward to ride through a slalom of tall poles, guiding their horses only with their knees. The results were… mixed.

Alistair was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t realise she had been searching for him until his absence sent a swoop of disappointment coursing through her stomach. She cursed herself for even looking. What would she do if she did see him? Should she expect him to drop everything to greet her on familiar terms, or to smile tolerantly while she stumbled through a conversation just because she found herself the victim of some unwelcome, childish fantasy? And then there was the other matter, the truth she had tried so hard to avoid since the night after the battle, the one she feared would blurt out at the first opportunity.

He had lied to her. Every stripe of blood she had cleaned away from his face as they sat there together in the infirmary had confirmed it, the resemblance between him and the king so uncanny despite the age difference that there could be no doubt of who he truly was. The pieces of the puzzle fit so perfectly now she knew the final design – his resentment of nobility, the reason he always tried so hard to deflect attention away from himself, why the subject of his childhood was never discussed. Imagining what he must have suffered growing up as an unacknowledged bastard made her heart clench every time she thought of it, but so did the insidious voice that never failed to remind her it was a truth she had not been trusted with, either. He hadn’t wanted her to know – and that was before, when she wasn’t yet the Teyrna of Highever, one step down from the king and what must surely be the seat of his resentment. How wide that gap yawned between them now. People like me tend to avoid the ones sitting at the top end of the table.

And what was she to do? How could she look him in the eye, knowing she held a secret she was never meant to keep? Better that they not meet, better not to see his repulsion when he found out that she knew.

But what if he were acknowledged? a querulous voice asked in the back of her mind. She had dared to think it, on the nights she woke up after dreaming of him, entire conversations carried out in her head as she tried to work out the best way to rid herself of her unease. But to draw him out, to force the issue of his parentage when he so clearly didn’t want it just to satisfy her own selfish wants would only prove right every rotten opinion he had about the nobility, and that was a painful thought.

She had no right to pry. She had already promised herself not to impose upon him. She would keep her knowledge of his secret, even from him.

Lasan was grazing in the paddock as she walked up, completely at ease with a couple of geldings she didn’t recognise, his tail swishing idly at flies, and she put her own worries out of her mind. At a distance, she checked her horse’s condition, noting how he bore weight easily on his injured hoof, and how patches of thick winter fur were starting to give way to the sleek roan marble of his summer coat. When she whistled, his proud head arced up with a whinny, and she watched as he started towards her. He walked solidly, with equal weight on both sides, and when one of the geldings tried to overtake him he squealed and bucked, breaking into an airy trot in order to reach her ahead of the others.

His head bobbed as he smelled the apple she held out for him as a greeting gift. Velvet lips plucked the offering from her palm with a soft blow of welcome, leaving her free to slip between the bars of the fence as he crunched it down. The other horses kept a respectful distance but she watched them all the same. As laidback as Lasan was for a stallion, he was often jealous of human attention, especially around food, and getting caught in the middle of a dispute between two animals that alone could easily kill her would not help with her pile of paperwork.

She cleaned his foot as best she could without a pick and checked it for signs of bruising. His new iron shoes still had their shine, so he must have only been out loose recently, but the poultices the horsemaster used seemed to have worked.

“A few more days, and you can get back to showing off for everyone,” she informed him with a clap on the neck.

Lasan snorted turned to regard her with one warm brown eye, then promptly scraped his head against her side with such force she staggered backwards. Apparently his nose itched.

“Oi!” She pushed back against him, but chuckled and moved her hands to the familiar spot on his withers that made his lip twitch with pleasure. Years ago, she would spend afternoons in the stables with Fergus, breathing in the musty scent of horse and helping the grooms so they could avoid the gatherings of uptight nobles who flocked to the castle almost every other week. And then Fergus had met Oriana and the hours in the stables became hers alone, a way to hide from her mother’s friends and the seemingly endless supply of unmarried sons they paraded before her.

But something always drew her away from those brief interludes of peace, and even now, as she found a twist of grass to work over Lasan’s back in place of a curry comb, she spotted a scout in Redcliffe colours jogging towards her from the direction of the village.

“Teyrna Rosslyn!” the boy puffed, saluting.

“Get your breath back first,” she advised, giving her horse one final pat before slipping back between the fence slats.

“Yes, Your Ladyship – thank you.” He breathed deep and started again. “Arl Eamon sent me to find you. We have news – a messenger has just arrived from South Reach with news from Arl Leonas. He says forces from Gwaren have taken Denerim.”

Her eyes widened. “But our last reports put him in Gwaren. How could he slip past South Reach undetected?”

“I don’t know, Your Ladyship,” the scout replied. “Only that I was sent to fetch you.”

“I’ll come at once. Was there something else?” she asked, when he hesitated.

“I’m sorry, your Ladyship, only Arl Eamon bid me find King Cailan as well – there was a private letter for him, from the queen, I think – but I don’t know where he is. I asked some of the royal guard, but all they said was His Majesty didn’t want to be disturbed.” The scout wrung his hands in front of him, his gaze fixed on her feet, already flinching from the expected reprimand.

Rosslyn shook her head. “Cuno can sniff out His Majesty.” If nothing else, it would give a her a few more minutes out in the sun, free to imagine a life not embroiled in politics. “I’ll see he gets the message. Go about your duties.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship – thank you!”

Alistair’s hands were clasped behind his back, his brows furrowed in concentration as he listened to Cailan talk and tried to work out where best to punctuate the speech with affirmative nods. It had been his attitude for the better part of an hour now, as the pair of them wandered through the rows of orchard trees mantled with blossom and alive with the humming of bees. Inwardly, he was doing his best not to panic.

The king’s hands were expressive, his face open and smiling in an almost infantile manner, but his blue eyes were lively and intelligent, and from the first moment they met Alistair felt like a bull in a show ring, appraised and judged for purpose. He had tried to hide his resentment, though it turned out Cailan bore little resemblance to the spoiled child in his memory. He was courteous, if stilted at first, as if he were uncertain of protocol, but once the most awkward enquiries were out of the way, his smile widened and his shoulders relaxed, and Alistair found himself completely wrong-footed.

“Of course, your current wardrobe just will not do,” the king was saying now. “It’s a shame I had to leave my tailor behind in Denerim, but time was of the essence and the old fuddy never did do well on horseback – we’ll just ask Bann Ferrenly nicely if he’ll spare his man for a suit or two.”

“Your Majesty, I –”

Cailan stopped him with a hand on his arm, his smile shrinking into more sympathetic lines. Alistair had been prepared for a scolding, or an order to keep his head down. This was something he could never have foreseen.

“It’s a habit, I know,” the king said, “but you must start using my name. We are brothers, aren’t we? You must admit, our likeness is uncanny! Why, I could almost be looking into a mirror back in time.” His grip pressed harder in what he must have thought was a reassuring squeeze. “Our father never told me the reason he hid you away, but fate has brought us together nonetheless and I wish to make redress for past mistakes. It’s time to claim the birthright that should always have been yours. What say you, brother?”

Alistair swallowed. The king’s eyes were too bright. How many years had he spent hoping for words just like these? When his mother died, he had dreamed that Maric would spur through Redcliffe’s gates on a great white charger to claim him as a second son and carry him away from the life of drudgery expected from the bastard orphan of a kitchen maid. Even when Teagan had taken him to Rainesfere to be a knight, there had been a faint hope at the back of his mind that it was his chance to prove worthy of the father who had never noticed him, the man whose shadow had fallen across him all his life.

It was the past. What he was now, he had earned through hard work and merit, not because of Maric’s name.

“You Majesty,” he said again. “I’m just an ordinary soldier, nothing more. I’m not even sure I have matching socks on today. With due respect, are you entirely serious about this? I mean, what does an heir to the throne even do?”

Cailan threw his head back and laughed. “That’s your worry? Come, we are not Orlesians to sneer at one who does not have a conventional background. The people will love you – you understand them, and you have fought for them, and won a rousing victory to boot! And as for the rest, well –” he waved his hand vaguely and wrinkled his nose – “We can see to that. Will you at least think on it?” he asked, when Alistair still looked uncertain. “Most people would jump at the chance to be royalty, or so I’m told.”

With a sinking sense of premonition, Alistair straightened his shoulders and nodded. “As you say, Your – oompf!”

Something heavy slammed into his waist, nearly doubling him over. When he managed to get his wind back, he looked down to see a slobbery, tongue-lolling smile and an absurdly wiggling rump trying to press itself against his breeches. Panic seized his limbs. After a week, an entire week of hoping and having those hopes dashed, of all the places she could have turned up, why did it have to be here, now?

“Ho, now that’s a familiar face!” Cailan laughed. “And if I’m not mistaken, when this one appears, the other isn’t far behind – and yes, here she is!”

Alistair followed the point of the king’s finger as Rosslyn strode into sight along the path ahead. Heat leapt up the back of his neck. There were bruised circles under her eyes, her boots were muddy, and the quilted, slate-grey cotton of her shirt was dusted by a fine covering of reddish hair, but if anything that lack of polish just emphasised the grace of her walk, and the economy with which her warrior’s muscles moved under the form-fitting lines of her clothes. And her hair – it gleamed like a raven’s wing in the sunlight, braided back from her face but long and loose down her back, just as it had been in his dream. Cuno stretched up to lick his chin, his full weight against Alistair’s legs. He gladly took the distraction and bent over to fuss the dog, the better to hide his flaming cheeks while he tried to rein in the wandering line of his thoughts.

“Teyrna Rosslyn!” Cailan cried, with genuine delight. “Of all the blossoms out on this fine morning, you are surely the most beautiful, if not the most expected.”

Alistair’s ears burned. He remembered what she had said in the barracks room, about the king and his charm and how they grew up together.

“Ever the flatterer, Your Majesty,” she replied easily. With his eyes fixed resolutely on the grass, Alistair imagined the way she held her hand out for the king to take, the way the king took it and brought it to his lips. “Tell me, has a large, excitable dog wandered across your path recently?”

“Why, yes. I believe he’s just making himself acquainted with…” He trailed off when he noticed Rosslyn’s start of surprise, and Alistair sheepishly looking up to return her gaze. “You know each other?”

“Ser Alistair was the one who found me and my troopers at Wythenshawe,” she explained. “He was kind enough to take care of me.”

Alistair bowed, his hands still trailing through Cuno’s fur, and searched her face for any sign of partiality as he made his greeting. “Your Ladyship.”

Her expression remained neutral, though he thought maybe her gaze lingered on him a beat longer than strictly necessary before turning back to the king.

“Oh I will have to hear all about this, I’m sure,” Cailan was saying. “But tell me first, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Her voice lowered as she explained her errand, her head bowed respectfully, but every so often her eyes flickered to him and back, as if uncertain whether to include him in the conversation or not.

Cailan’s easy smile collapsed in a frown. “I must see to this. But first I must apologise for having disturbed your walk, my lady,” he said, tilting her a winning smile. “Since the two of you are acquainted, would you mind terribly if I left you here together?”

Alistair saw his panic mirrored in her eyes. To be alone with her – after so long spent thinking about it – but with so much between them now, what could he say?

“If Her Ladyship doesn’t object?”

“I don’t – unless I would be intruding?”

He smiled at their stumbling clash of words. “Of course not.”

“Excellent.” The king pressed a light kiss to Rosslyn’s knuckles that managed to be charming rather than pompous, already moving towards the village. “I will see you soon, my lady, and we’ll see what this business is about. And you also, Ser Alistair,” he added. “Remember you’ve promised me you’ll think about my offer.”

When he left, the easy atmosphere left with him, and for a tense moment neither of them spoke. The only sound apart from the spring birds was the contented panting of the dog as he rolled all the way over onto his back to allow Alistair better access to his softest parts. The sight made Rosslyn fold her arms across her chest and frown, but she had to bite her lips to keep from smiling.

“Absolutely pathetic.”

Alistair gasped in mock outrage. “Don’t listen to the nasty lady, boy. You’re a good dog.”

Cuno righted himself and tried to boof him on the chin.

“You’re looking well,” she offered, after another lengthy pause.

“Oh it’s a miracle,” he replied, giving her a distracted wave. “For a while, I was afraid I wouldn’t pull through, and that I would depart this life without having accomplished my dream of growing a really fancy moustache.” He ducked his head and ran a nervous hand through his hair, heart pounding. “I was, uh, lucky I had such a good nurse.”

“Mhm, that mage – Amell, is it? – is rather pretty, isn’t she?” came the easy reply.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He pouted, to cover his mortification. How could he expect anything but a deflection from such a clumsy compliment? “I don’t remember picking on you when you were still an invalid.”

“You wouldn’t have dared,” she told him, but the smug tilt of her lips faded, her fingers going to fidget with a ring he hadn’t seen her wear before. “I’m sorry for not coming to see you.”

You sleep like a bear. I was worried.

It was a dream, not real; he shrugged it away. “You’ve been busy. And I hear you’re officially Teyrna now,” he added brightly. “Is there a special curtsey I should be aware of, or anything? I heard somewhere it’s a custom for knights to lay their coats over puddles for noble ladies to step through.”

She frowned. “Wouldn’t the water just seep through the fabric, or overflow at the edges?”

“See, that’s what I thought,” he replied, glad to get at least a small reaction from her, but unsure what to do with it. He wanted to ask how she was, if she needed anything, what she would do now the army was moving south, but he didn’t dare.

“Either way, I wish you wouldn’t.” the lop-sided smirk flashed briefly at him. “I trip over enough protocol these days without having to contend with somebody’s coat. Besides,” she added, “I’m not the one lofty enough to have private meetings with the king.”

He dropped his gaze, rubbing at the sudden itch on the back of his neck. He needed to tell her, even if nothing came of it. The words bunched in his chest, struggling for order, a way to bring it up without just blurting out that he’d been lying by omission since their first meeting. And maybe, he realised, if she knew, she might have advice about Cailan’s offer to acknowledge his claim to the throne.

But when he looked back at her, his confession ready on his tongue, he found she had turned her attention to the branches of a nearby tree, and was running her fingertips along the dainty white blossoms, the pink buds yet to open. When she bent her head to inhale the scent, her features set in wistful lines, it was an image he wanted seared in his brain forever.

“But that’s none of my business,” she told him quietly. “Forgive me. To be honest, I came out here to get away from politics for a while.”

His mouth snapped shut.

“I should head back. No doubt whatever is in that message for His Majesty will involve me soon enough.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I ought to return to my duties as well, if you wouldn’t mind the company? We could talk about things that have nothing to do with politics.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, I heard that the Avvar make a particularly fine cheese from the milk of dwarven battle nugs, and I would like your opinion on the matter.”

He was a coward. As he fell into step beside her, the dog a barrier between them, he felt the moment pass, and mourned it. What good would it do her to know who he really was anyway? The secret had never caused him anything but trouble, and giving it to her would just be another burden to add to shoulders already strained with responsibility. No, far better to keep his father’s name to himself and not risk her pulling away from him completely – or worse, treating him with a deference                 that was never meant to be his. Making her smile was enough. Besides, who was to say that this idea to make him a prince wasn’t just some passing fancy of the king’s, a way to create intrigue among the nobility for some as-yet undiscovered reason?

Even in his own head the argument was less than convincing, but he kept his silence nonetheless.