#loghain x cousland

[qunaricatnip]

Hiiiii it's me the person who reblogged your post about the Cousland x Loghain marriage (this is my main blog but 99% of my tumblr activity is through my side blog queenmelisende sorry for the confusion lol). Lets talk about Ferelden nobility. Their marriage would be an insanely good political alliance -- the two teyrnirs of Ferelden uniting? Cailan should be quaking in his boots. You said she would eat him alive??? I am desperate for more elaboration.

hi!! this is a sideblog too so no worries! but yeah cailan absolutely should be worried but the best part is, at least in my little au, he’s like…. 12 when all this is happening so all he really knows is that uncle loghain is leaving him (and anora) and it’s gonna be a while before they can see each other again :( it’s really maric that should be worried (and is) because he had to make a lot of concessions to the couslands for bryce and eleanor to be okay letting their baby girl go clean up maric’s mess (even if she really wanted it for spite reasons).

Tl;dr siobhan cousland was planning a coup from jump because she was raised to be queen and got told no and then maric dropped the perfect opportunity in her lap with a bow and his blessing, loghain was both collateral and a prize

siobhan in this au was born before the occupation technically ended and so her parents, still in the rebellion mindset of “ferelden first” was sort of groomed to believe that she’d one day be queen of ferelden because she’s the only noble girl within marrying age of cailan right up until anora is born and maric and/or rowan lose their minds. the couslands are Important, second to only the royal family and that shows in siobhan’s upbringing- she’s very politically minded, everything is duty/responsibility/optics with her and that’s something that (imo) would and should drive loghain crazy.

Politically on paper, her and loghain are an amazing match after celia dies right up until we remember that a) the couslands have already married their son and heir to a well known/regarded antivan trading family creating ties to a foreign, unallied country without the crowns express permission right after a war and b) loghain for all his accomplishments is not a man made for politics in any capacity that man is a Follower, he’s the type of person that need to be wholly devoted to a person/cause and c) uniting the only two surviving teyrnir’s is actually a recipe for disaster because oh my god why would you even think that maric that’s giving your subjects too much power and influence even with ferelden’s weird political structure

and siobhan knows this!! she knows that the people of gwaren don’t feel safe or supported by their teyrn and abandoned by their king and she’s also been personally slighted by the crown twice now!! so she graciously concedes to step in and throw the weight of her name around to build gwaren back up to the prominence it once had before the occupation gutted the city all while subtly reminding people that it was the couslands that actually care about the people of ferelden, its cousland gold bolstering the economy, its cousland trading partners bringing ships back into port without even saying anything because she’s a mac tir now after all that would just be gauche to rely on her maiden family name. its siobhan that runs the show and every single person in gwaren knows it, loghain is just insurance in the beginning (before whoops they’re actually in love your honor)

[myceliumtrees]

dragon age origins will always be the best simply because you can get the assassin loghain sent after you bouncing on it and moaning like a girl

[kiivg]

.King’s Council.

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

Alexander married Queen Anora in a lavish ceremony six months after her coronation, becoming the prince-consort of Ferelden. Many said that if the two did not end up vying for control of the throne, they would usher in a new golden age not seen since King Calenhad first united the barbarian tribes.

[kauriart]

Hero

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

Oren Cousland is drunk.

But not drunk enough.

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

Stubborn determination has carried him this far, after all.

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

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

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

But that was years ago.

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

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

The drunken detritus on the table should be obvious enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loghain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hear Gwaren needs a new Teryn.”

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

… things have changed.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

Or bottles. Plural.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t been — not then. 

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

And Oren had thought— 

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

That had hurt.

But what came next hurt even worse.

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

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

He frowns at himself in the mirror.

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

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

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

It feels like a thousand years ago.

Everything has changed.

Everything.  

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

Maybe he just needs a good vomit.

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

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

It is not what he had expected of a prison.

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

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

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

Figures.

“Loghain.” 

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

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

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

Oren looks away.

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

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

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

Oren’s heart gives a small, painful jolt. 

“So you do remember me.”

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

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

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

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

Duncan died at Ostagar. 

Half of all living Wardens died at Ostagar.

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

He really is a fucking child.

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

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

Oren makes a sound of disbelief. “No.”

“Ori—”

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

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

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

More than twice.

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

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

And maybe brain-damaged now.

Loghain tosses the sword aside, still glaring.

Maybe they’re both brain-damaged.

“Ori,” Loghain starts. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

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

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

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

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

“Is it broken?” Oren asks.

“Probably.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But —

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

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

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

“You never understood why you kissed me?”

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

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

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

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

“I assumed,” Loghain says dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wait.

And wait.

His eyes flutter closed.

The grip on his neck relaxes a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is he doing? 

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

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

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

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

“No,” he manages. “Fuck you.”

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

And he wants…

Maker what does he want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A goodbye kiss.

They both know it.

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

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

His eyes shine faintly with approval.

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

More, even.

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

*

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

It is a rather peaceful place to die.

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

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

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

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

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

A drop of rain suspended in the sky.

It might be blood. It ought to be blood.

Red. Crimson. Burgundy.

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

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

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

Oren gags.

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

Stillness.

Silence.

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

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

No one moves. 

“Everyone, out!” Alistair bellows. 

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

It begins to rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He hates me now,” Oren says hoarsely. 

“It’s me he hates.”

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

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

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

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

“Unlike you?”

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

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

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

It is still raining heavily.

And Loghain’s arms are still around him.

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

Loghain doesn’t reply.

And he doesn’t let go.

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

“I consider myself unspared.” Loghain says solemnly. 

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

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

1/1 my tumblr writing masterpost

[queenofferelden]

Meanwhile, in Denerim, Loghain seized power. And declared himself the leader of Ferelden. His daughter Anora was apparently not too troubled by the death of her husband, King Cailan.

But some banns came out strongly against Loghain.

And also against calling the Grey Wardens traitors.

[howetragic]

I mentioned this earlier but Nathaniel x Anora is one of my Beloved Dragon Age Rare-pairs. I have a fic for it even.

When I first started writing for Inara, of course, she and Alistair stayed together and Anora took the throne alone (as it should be). Nathaniel then, through a visit to the capital with Inara, reconnected with Anora, and the two began a years-long affair. I never had them marry because, well, Nathaniel is a Howe and a Grey Warden.

However, if I extended that timeline out to now, knowing what we all know, I think that after the Mess in the South (the extent of which I mostly choose to ignore tbh, that's silly), they could probably get married after the defeat of Elgar'nan. The country would be shattered, and I'm sure Nathaniel would make himself a hero.

(Inara would still be alive in that timeline as well, if she didn't die in the turmoil in the VG timeline).

But by then, Nathaniel would have redeemed himself, saving Fergus Cousland's life after Awakening and earning Delilah an estate of her own. Then, after the Combo Blight, I think everyone could move on and some of the Grey Wardens would be granted leave from the Order. Nathaniel could marry Anora and be King.

I think the two of them would vibe really well. Nathaniel is straight-laced, ruler-minded, but respectful. I think he would be more than happy to let Anora take the lead, and he wouldn't overshadow her in name. Forgiving Rendon's crimes, he carries noble blood from the Rebellion that's just a shade less powerful in line to the throne than the Couslands.

And he fucking loves a woman with a fire in her. The woman he romances at the Tourney and Velanna prove that pretty well. Plus, Rendon and Loghain were pals, and so they probably at least vaguely knew of each other or had some kind of report at some point. He clearly didn't care much for Cailan.

And Anora... Anora deserves an adult with a sharp mind and a strong capacity for actually doing his job and doing it with honor. Nathaniel has the blood, the brain, and the heart to make him an asset. And he's a good man, and would treat her like she deserves for once.

[skyhavens]

i haven't linked any of them yet, but i've been making so many dragon age playlists lately & i think it's time that i slide them out into the ether. some of them are finished, but most of them are still wips!!

kehda mercar. ( x varric )

varric tethras.

suri cadash. ( x blackwall)

hawthorn ingellvar. ( x davrin)

davrin.

emerence trevelyan. ( x solas )

constance hawke. ( x isabela )

meredy hawke. ( x anders )

anais hawke. ( x dumar )

ecgwynn cousland. ( x loghain )

jehanne thorne. ( x emmrich )

[thewardenisonthecase]

Stars

Alistair x F!Cousland Warden

Read on AO3

Summary: On their path to Denerim, Anneliese Cousland and Alistair watch the stars, as they reflect on their journey.

A/N: This is very short but its something that had been on my mind for awhile. Everytime I go back and replay the battle of ostagar i get this terrible sad feeling because of how things went down. I didn't have much to go with this but yeah.

word count: 873

It was one more night until they reached Denerim, after once again protecting Redcliff and gaining the titles of Champions. 

One more night until she would be faced with the enemy. 

One more night until they hopefully ended this Blight for good. 

Anneliese Cousland had found a nice spot, a little further away from camp, to sit and look at the stars. 

‘Even when everything changes, at least the stars will always stay the same.’ she would tell herself. 

Anneliese should be asleep, but there were too many feelings inside of her to allow for a good night of rest. 

It was not doubt - she had faith that they would be victorious. The dwarves, elves, mages and knights were ready. After all the work she had done to help those people, they were finally returning the favour. After all she had lost…she had come too far to lose at the end. 

It wasn’t anxiety either. Anneliese always knew it would all come to this, ever since she awoke in Flemeth’s hut, even if at times the path ahead was obscure. For a moment, her determination had wavered. They were not getting anywhere near an end and it only seemed like they kept finding problems.

Fittingly, it was in the Deep Roads that she had found the strength she needed. Seeing the Archdemon flying overhead had reminded her of her duty. She would see this battle through, no matter the cost. 

What she felt that night was not anxiety, nor doubt. No, it was the old beast that gnawed at her heart ever so often. The old beast called grief. 

After the attack on Castle Cousland, she thought all she could feel was grief. For her parents, for her brother’s family, for Iona. But she had spent too long mourning them. She lost her home but there was still a Ferelden to save. 

No, her grief tonight was for-

“There you are.” She heard Alistair’s voice as he walked towards her and sat down. “I thought I was gonna have to sleep all alone tonight.” 

When she didn’t reply, he frowned. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Ostagar.” Anneliese hugged her knees, as she continued to look at the stars. “Do you realize it’s been a year since…well, this all began?” 

“I think Wynne mentioned it once or twice. Why?” 

She sighed. “I don’t know, I just feel…we were all different people then.” She looked at him. “Does that make sense to you?” 

“I think it does. I mean, I was just a bastard being raised to be a templar and now…now I’m going to be king of Ferelden.” He let out a heavy sigh. “At least I’ll have you with me.”

Anneliese gave him a small smile and placed her head on his shoulder.

“I keep thinking about that night, before the battle. All those men talking about how it would go. I remember Duncan saying there would be an Archdemon and Cailan doubting if this was even a real blight.” 

“How wrong they all were.” Alistair said, solemnly. 

Even after so long, Duncan’s loss still hurt him - much like her family’s still haunted her. At least, they had recovered his shield, something to remember him by. 

Anneliese closed her eyes. She couldn’t stop thinking about that night. The two of them had complained when they were sent to light the signal. They were young and stupid and they wanted to join in the real fight, not knowing what would happen. Duncan had said he wanted no heroics from them. 

Look at them now. Wherever his soul went, if Duncan was watching, would he be proud of what they achieved? Did he think they died in the Tower? 

“I think we were all a bit foolish back then. No one could imagine what would happen.” She whispered. “Ostagar feels like a lifetime ago.”

“That’s what Loghain said.” 

“I hate to agree but in that regard, he was right.”

After a moment, Alistair said “I think he was, too.” 

Silence befell them again. Even if Morrigan’s ritual worked, there were still a number of different ways that they could be slain in battle. They could be betrayed again, the darkspawn could overwhelm them. Maker, even the Archdemon could prove to be too strong. 

If they survived, they would never be the same. They would be heroes. They would be Queen and King, husband and wife. They would go down in history, whether they wanted to or not. Anneliese could not make sense if this was what the Maker had intended for them all along. 

Once, she felt she was still a girl, wearing a soldier’s facade. Now, she would go to the battlefield as a woman. She wondered if Alistair felt the same, and part of her believed it so. He was still just one year older than her. 

She sighed heavily, leaning more into Alistair’s shoulder. He covered the hands on her knees with his, as he gently placed his head on top of hers. She turned her gaze to the sky once again, feeling the gentle breeze of the air on her face. 

There were many doubts about what tomorrow would bring but for nothing, they would sit in silence and watch the stars. 

.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging it and leaving a comment, they're extremely appreciated!

[unreadpoppy]

Thank you for caring

Alistar x Fem! Cousland Warden

Read on AO3

Summary: Alistair is awoken in the middle of the night by the mabari war hound and the Warden is nowhere in sight.

A/N: This is something I had on my mind for a time since you can't really change the warden's hair through the game and I HC my warden having longer hair and my heart melts everytime i see Alistair and so I decided to write this. Also, this is my first time writing for Dragon Age so I hope it's ok.

Alistair’s sleep was interrupted by the sound of Anneliese’s hound, Buddy, whining next to him and nudging him with his snout. 

He tried to ignore it, turning around and murmuring “Five more minutes, Anneliese, and I’ll go.” In his sleep-addled state, he hadn’t realized that the Warden wasn’t nearby. It was only when Buddy gave a playful bite on his hand that Alistair woke up. 

“Ow, that hurt.” He said to the dog, clutching his hand. Buddy sat, whining and looking at him. “It’s the middle of the night, it’s not time to play.” He tried to reason with the mabari but the dog stayed. “Go to your owner, she-” He began telling Buddy to leave, looking around when he realized that Anneliese was nowhere to be seen. 

“Where is she?” Alistair whispered, making the dog bark in response. He stood up, walking to where the Warden usually slept, but she wasn’t there. He turned to the dog. “Buddy, can you find her?” 

The dog barked and began sniffing the ground, trying to find a trail. When it had seemed that he found a scent, he began running after it. Alistair, quickly grabbing his sword, following Buddy. 

As the two wandered through the forest near camp, Alistair started to think about what could have happened: had darkspawn kidnapped Anneliese to turn her into one of those horrid broodmothers? Did the Crows decide to send another assassin to finish Zevran’s job? Had Loghain's forces found them?

Buddy’s pace picked up when Alistair began hearing a string of swearing followed by groaning and moans of pain and irritation. It was when he heard a familiar “Fuck!” that he realized it was Anneliese that was talking. 

Alistair ran even faster, somehow outrunning the mabari war hound, trying to cut a clear path through a bunch of bushes and vines. Finally, he managed to burst through the woods, eyes close because of the thorny bushes, sword raised high and shouted “Don’t worry Anneliese, I’m going to-” 

He stopped himself as he opened his eyes and saw that he was in the middle of a clearing, with the Warden perfectly fine, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, her hair down and a brush in her hand. 

“Save you?” He finished his sentence, confused. Buddy then showed up behind him, barking when he saw his owner and running to her side. 

“What are you doing?” She asked, frowning. 

“I was-I, well….” He stumbled on his words, the blood rushing to his cheeks as he felt embarrassed. “Buddy woke me up and I noticed you weren’t in camp so I just-” He took a deep breath. “I got worried that something had happened. Something bad.” He said, a little quieter. 

He scratched the back of his head, and began looking down when she said “It’s alright.” She gave him a small smile. “It’s…sweet. That you cared.” 

Alistair looked up. “Of course. I care about you.” He said, and under the moonlight, he could see the blush forming on her face, as she turned to the mabari hound once again, her hair falling over her face. 

It was then that he realized that that was the first time he was seeing the Warden with her hair down. Ever since they had first met, back in Ostagar, Anneliese wore her hair up in the same two braided buns every single day. 

Now, as he looked at her, he noticed how long her hair was, cascading down to her lap in various waves - though he could not tell if they were natural or if it was due to her always wearing braids. Maybe it was due to the scenery of the Warden sitting there in the moonlight or maybe it was due to Alistair’s growing feelings for her, but he couldn’t help but think how beautiful her hair - no, how beautiful she was. 

He already knew that, as the same thought came to him everytime he saw her killing an enemy in battle, or when she smiled at him. But this was a different part of her that he hadn’t seen before - the one that wasn’t wearing heavy armor, with a constant frown on her face due to stress. In that moment, he saw her as the Lady Cousland, the person she had been before all of this began. 

“Maker’s breath.” Alistair whispered to himself, catching her attention. 

“Alistair, don’t just stand there.” She said. “Come sit with me.” 

He gulped, shaking his head and walked to her, sitting next to her on the tree trunk. From where he sat, he could see a pond in front of him, the moon reflected on its waters. 

“So…why did you come here?” He asked, after a moment, putting his sword down.. “I thought I had heard you swearing earlier.” 

She sighed. “I was trying to brush my hair but it’s been hard.” She showed him the hairbrush, with chunks of dark brown hair stuck to it. She started to pick them off. 

“And you had to come all the way here to do that?” Alistair said, raising a brow and crossing his arms. 

Anneliese shot him a look that, for a moment, made him scared for his life. But she shook her head, looked down and said “I didn’t want everyone to hear me struggling with that. I guess I didn’t account for Buddy to come after me. And you.” She petted the dog and whispered “I can kill an ogre three times my size but I can’t seem to tame my own hair.” 

“Do you want help with it?” Alistair proposed. 

“Is that your way of saying you want to brush my hair?” She said, with a raised brow. 

“Yes. I mean no. I mean -” She shut him off by handing him the brush and turning her back to him. Then he saw why she had been struggling so, as the back of her hair was very tangled - likely due to not being well cared for. “You start from the bottom and slowly make your way up.” She instructed him. 

Alistair took in a deep breath, and began doing so, gently holding the ends of her hair and brushing it. Truth be told, he had no experience doing such a thing, as his own hair was short enough that he didn’t have to think much about it, but he tried his best, going slow and careful as to not pull too much. 

The two stayed silent as Alistair managed to untangle her hair, the brush going through it easier each time. In this proximity, he noticed that her hair wasn’t black, as he used to think, but a very dark brown, and on the top of it, gray hairs were beginning to show. He frowned looking at them, as she was around the same age as him and shouldn’t be having so much of those on her head. He remembered once hearing Wynne speak about how stress can make one’s hair grow white, and he wondered if that was why the Warden always wore her in these buns, to try and hide how much gray there was - how much stress she was truly under. 

Buddy was sleeping in Anneliese’s lap, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The repeated motion of Alistair combing her hair and the quiet of the night made the Warden begin humming a tune. 

“I never heard that song before.” He whispered. 

Anneliese took a deep breath. “My mother she…she used to sing this, whenever she combed my hair.” She said, bringing her knees under her chin and Alistair stopped what he was doing. “Usually, it was the maids who took care of it, but mother’s hand was always gentler.” 

She grew silent again, and a moment passed, until Alistair heard a sob. He stood up, walking around to sit in front of her, as she covered her face with her hands. At first, he felt unsure of what to do, as he was not used to people - and much less Anneliese - crying in front of him. 

But then he remembered all the times she comforted him, when he was upset over Duncan’s death and he tried to do the same as she did.

“It's alright.” He whispered and she looked at him. 

“I’m sorry.” She said in between sobs, and he reached a hand forward to wipe her tears. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” She sniffed. “I don’t want you to think poorly of me.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I just- there’s so much to do and here I am, crying. Pathetic” She scoffed. 

“What? No, no, no.” Alistair said, his gaze softening. “I could never see you as that, not after all you’ve done for me - for everyone. You don’t need to apologize for having feelings.”

Anneliese took a deep breath and nodded, Buddy waking up and licking her face, bringing a chuckle from her. “Thanks, Buddy.” She sniffed and looked down. “I thought I was over it at this point but I guess I’m not.” She said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.” Annelise looked at Alistair, who was staring at her. “I never even got to bury them.” She whispered, another tear falling down from her eye. 

He moved once again, sitting next to her, and she placed her head on his shoulder. 

“Maybe…maybe when all of this is done, we could do a funeral for them and for everyone else who was lost.” 

She knew he was referring to Duncan and all the other Gray Wardens lost in the Battle of Ostagar. “You say that as if you were sure we are going to survive.” 

Alistair looked down at her. “With you leading us? I have no doubt we’ll win.” He smiled. 

Instead of saying anything, Anneliese hugged him. He freezed for a moment, but returned the hug and she hummed satisfied. 

“Thank you, Alistair.” She whispered. “For what?” 

She looked at him. “For being you. For being here.” 

He looked into her green eyes, swearing he could see a sparkle in them. “Always.” 

Anneliese smiled and stood up. “I think we should head back to camp, catch a few more hours of sleep before the sun rises.” 

He nodded and stood up. Then, she offered her hand to him and tentatively, he held it in his much larger one. He breathed deeply as she led them out of the clearing, Buddy following behind.

[sky-kiss]

You know that I need to ask BG3 and Dragon Age 😉

Oh, lord. ALRIGHT. LET'S GET INTO IT, BABY! Thanks for the ask!

Dragon Age:

1. The first character I first fell in love with: Zevran or Morrigan. I don't remember which.

2. The character I never expected to love as much as I do now: Cassandra <3

3. The character everyone else loves that I don’t : I'm putting a target on my head, because I know that most all of my friends played them but. Cousland. Like, I get why people like playing them but lord they're boring.

4. The character I love that everyone else hates : Loghain.

5. The character I used to love but don’t any longer : Hm. Maybe Alistair? I don't dislike him at all! I just wouldn't romance him.

6. The character I would totally smooch : It'd be boring to just say Morrigan or Zev, so I will say Sten or Orsino. I loved Orsino.

7. The character I’d want to be like : Bro, I don't think I wanna be like any of those nasty lil' freaks. They are disasters. Maybe Varric. Varric seems like he's doing alright.

8. The character I’d slap : If I see Meredith or Corypheus, it's on sight. They're catching hands.

9. A pairing that I love : Mahariel/Morrigan. Love the bog witch and her feral wolf boy, both baffled by the city and humans. Also Cassandra/Lavellan. Or. Varric/Hawke. (Also, Hawke/Fenris/Isabella).

10. A pairing that I despise: Bro, I dunno. UH. Anything involving Meredith or Corypheus I guess. Just on principle?

Baldur's Gate

1. The first character I first fell in love with: It was Astarion or Zevlor, way back in early access. Unless we are saying that it's Baldur's Gate on the whole, as a series. If that's the case, it's Jaheira. Been in love with her since I was 14.

2. The character I never expected to love as much as I do now: Shadowheart. Day one in early access, she and I were not on good terms. Now, she is wife.

3. The character everyone else loves that I don’t: Gale. He's just alright.

4. The character I love that everyone else hates : Orin.

5. The character I used to love but don’t any longer : Maybe Gortash? I still like him a lot. But it's tempered a little bit. BUT I STILL LIKE HIM SO MUCH, DON'T COME AFTER ME.

6. The character I would totally smooch : Listen. Raphael, Haarlep, Jaheira. Probably Shadowheart. Jaheira.

7. The character I’d want to be like : Is it weird to say Jaheira? Nine-fingers maybe?

8. The character I’d slap : Raphael. But affectionately. I would slap Wyll's dad less affectionately.

9. A pairing that I love : Raphael x Tav/Durge, Raphael x Haarlep. Minthara/one of my friend's OC's. Jaheira/CHARNAME or older Tav. Astarion/one of my friend's OC's lol.

10. A pairing that I despise: Minthara/Orin isn't a favorite of mine. I don't know that I despise any pairings...there are some I don't like but like. I don't DESPISE a lot.

[qunaricatnip]

remembered once again that there was a significant number of the bannorn that wanted a cousland on the throne and all I can think about is an arranged marriage between f!cousland and loghain by maric to suppress any growing rebellion/discontentment

[fereldanwench]

started thinking about what worldstate i wanna create for my first run in veilguard because of course i have.

we can't import past saves and we won't be using the keep anymore, so I'm not sure how detailed we'll be able to get with it but I've got a few possibilities to play with:

the first and most likely is my mostly canon-compliant worldstate with these bbs:

lorelei cousland [rogue; double-wield] warden / queen of ferelden / li: king!alistair

daphne caron [rogue; double-wield] warden commander / ruler of vigil's keep / li: warden!bethany

ansley hawke [warrior; board & sword] champion of kirkwall / pirate / li: isabela

melisande trevelyan [rogue; archer] herald of andraste / inquisitor / li: cullen

rosalind hendry [mage; knight-enchanter] former chantry scholar / inquisition agent for leliana / li: blackwall

the second is my slightly less canon-compliant worldstate that i never brought into inquisition because i didn't want to have to choose between alistair and my favorite hawke in the fade lmao:

karina amell [mage; i do not remember her spec] warden-commander / li: warden!alistair

rhiannon hawke [force & elemental mage] champion of kirkwall / temp viscount of kirkwall / li: cullen or fenris*

*last summer i did replay da2 with an iteration of rhiannon that actually romanced fenris and i loved it and I've complicated shit for her, lmao. rhiannon x cullen were my goro x valerie of 2013-2014 and making her officially with someone else feels wrong bc i loved them together so much. but i just can't enjoy cullen anymore. so do i do i give rhiannon a boyfriend upgrade? do i make a whole 'nother hawke inspired by her? do i just let rhiannon x cullen and rhiannon x fenris exist in different AUs? i don't know!

and the third is kind of the opposite of the second one: a worldstate i made just for inquisition in the keep with some choices i had never made in the previous games. i don't even have the worldstate in the keep anymore so i don't remember everything but i think it was like this:

default f!mahariel [rogue; archer] no li / recruited loghain / made alistair marry anora

default m!hawke [mage] li: anders / sided with mages

keagan trevelyan [mage; knight-enchanter] herald of andraste / inquisitor / li: cullen (although i headcanoned a polycule with her, cullen, and josie)

one of my conundrums with all of these is, as i mentioned, i can't enjoy cullen anymore. he was obviously a big fave, i think his arc is fascinating especially in da2 and especially if you side with the templars and he has to contend with the shit he's done for meredith, and i enjoyed all the different shipping dynamics with all different kinds of ocs. but i can't separate him from his dipshit VA at this point. hearing his voice is just an instant NOPE for me now

i am 99% positive cullen will not be in veilguard for 2 reasons: 1) the writers said during inquisition that they were no longer trying to work in characters whose fates could be too varied depending on player choice and 2) that twitter shitstorm a few years seemed to guarantee ellis will never work with bioware again lmao

now i suppose there's a possibility that ellis could have recorded lines before that happened and somehow they would be able to be used despite all the changes that happened, but I'm trying to be an optimist here

nevertheless, all of the inquisitors i played were with him, and it sounds like we'll be able to engage with our inquisitors in some capacity in veilguard so do i even want to have a passing mention of cullen? idk. i mean, my disdain for his VA isn't so bad that this would ruin the game for me or anything, but i also feel like this is an opportunity to enjoy another character

between keagan and melisande, melisande was definitely my more developed OC, but i just loved playing as a knight-enchanter gameplay-wise so keagan is actually the only one of the two who did trespasser and jaws of hakkon. i never did the descent--the only DLC in all the games that i haven't played. I've been debating firing up my inquisitor!valerie game again to play that with her but i know the descent recommends a pretty high level and i can't remember how far i got in the story with her (I think i just reached skyhold that last time i played)

so anyway, i've got some decisions to make!

as for what i'm leaning towards playing in veilguard: at this point in time, i'm pretty sure my first rook will be a mage of some kind and lucanis sounds like he was made specifically for me lmao so odds are looking good that'll be my first ship

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 11/? Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read on AO3!

--

Two more days of uneventful travelling brought the little group to the outskirts of civilisation, chilled and soggy under the pall of wet snow that had closed over them the night before. They had sheltered, shivering, in an abandoned barn, one of many along the old, paved road they were following, which had been in poor repair even before rumours of war had channelled carts and animals and the refugees who drove them out of the southern hinterlands. Now, it was a struggle to trudge through the lines of muddy, iced-over puddles where the flagstones left gaps, breath coming in harsh clouds of white fog and cold-numbed fingers tucked as much as possible under the folds of the oilskin cloaks Flemeth had been able to spare them.

“Lothering,” Alistair huffed when they finally paused for breath on a bluff overlooking the village. Thin banners of smoke rose from the hunched cluster of buildings in the settlement proper, and from the damp campfires dotted between the mass of grubby tents that spilled out over the southern boundary like flotsam from a shipwreck.

“Pretty as a painting.” He shot a sidelong grin to Rosslyn on his left. “I almost didn’t think we’d make it.”

“It’s a real sight, isn’t it?”

The new, reedy voice came from just off the road, from a small campsite set far enough back into the bushes that any travellers heading north would miss it on the way past. The thin, gaunt man it belonged to stepped out onto the path in front of them. Four others emerged after him, in front and behind to block their path, all in similar states of beggary with weapons drawn. Rosslyn’s own hand reached for her sword at the same moment Alistair stepped closer to guard her flank. The shiver of air along her spine told her that Morrigan, too, readied for an attack. She hoped it would not come. Though her shoulder had knitted together far faster than should be expected even with the aid of magical healing, the dull twinges that flared with every movement warned of the permanent damage that could be done if she got into a fight before the muscles fully recovered.  

“Let us pass,” she commanded from beneath her hood. At her side, Cuno growled his own threat, the sound a low vibration against her leg.

“Ah, the pretty one is in charge, I see,” the stranger cried, as if delighted. He looked malnourished, his hollow cheeks exaggerated by the cracked, ill-fitting leather armour strapped about his shoulders, the sour odour of his unwashed body an offence even from ten paces’ distance. Everything from his stance to the flashy, overly stiff grip of his sword screamed his lack of skill, even without the coating of rust on his neglected blade that would have gotten any squire in Castle Cousland flogged.

One of the other bandits shifted on his feet when she didn’t respond. “Uh… these ones don’t look much like them others,” he ventured. “Maybe we should just let them pass?”

“Nonsense,” the leader snapped, and turned a greasy smile on Rosslyn. “We have rules, you know. There’s a toll. A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You’re not very well dressed for tollkeepers,” Alistair noted. “Better hope Bann Dunstan’s militia doesn’t catch you preying on those fleeing the darkspawn.”

The man laughed. “Bann Dunstan went north with Teyrn Loghain, and took all his soldiers with him. There’s only a few templars left at the chantry now – so we’re taking the initiative.”

“You are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan told him with a sneer.

“Loghain came through here?” Rosslyn pressed, before the bandits could test the claim.

The leader shrugged. “Day before yesterday, leading his whole army and saying the Grey Wardens betrayed the king and got him and themselves killed.”

“That’s not –”

“No other survivors?” she interrupted.

“A few,” he answered. “Band of Ash Warriors came through yesterday – stayed right out of their way, I can tell you. But you aren’t Ash Warriors.”

“No?” she asked lightly. “We came from the south, we’re armoured and armed better than you, and I can tell you exactly how far the darkspawn are behind us. Are you really going to risk yourselves on a losing battle here when you could be running?”

“Uh… you don’t seem to realise –”

She feinted forward. He flinched, and she tilted a cold smile at him.

“Alright!” he huffed, throwing up his hands. “We’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all.”

“Then go,” she suggested. “And hope they don’t catch up.”

He risked a glance sideways at the campsite, one hand rising in a hopeless gesture that faltered with the deliberate step she took towards him, his eyes glued to the inch of white steel drawn from her scabbard.

“Those things don’t belong to you,” she reminded him.

“Yes, right.” He swallowed. “Of course. Come on, gents – it’s slim pickings here anyway.”

She kept her gaze on him as he stumbled backwards, tense in case of a double-cross, though she had spent enough time among her father’s hounds to know a beaten dog when she saw one. The patter of the rain fell heavily in the mud as he retreated with the rest of his miserable band slinking at his heels, reluctant, but not one daring enough to attack alone.

They would not remain cowed for long.

As soon as the last man retreated into the cover of the trees, Rosslyn turned and leapt the ditch between the road and the bandits’ makeshift camp, hissing a curse as her boot slipped on the landing and wrenched her shoulder.

“Uh… what are you doing?” Alistair asked, coming closer.

“Outfitting,” she replied. “Before they come back.”

“If they do, I say teach them a lesson,” Morrigan scoffed. She had stayed on the road, vigilant as a wolf with the distant scent of deer on the wind.

“The best way to win a fight is to not fight in the first place.” Busy hunting through the meagre spoils the bandits had managed to scrounge together, the adage came to Rosslyn’s lips almost without thinking. It crowded with others in her head, the stories retold by the hearth on winter nights that spoke not of the glory of battle but of the hardships that went between, nights of cold and hunger where morale wavered like a candle flame by an open window. There had been days, her father said, where the Orlesians had forced them to choose between the tired army and starving civilians.

Behind her, Cuno whined. A small animal, perhaps a yearling lamb, lay poorly spitted over the fire, its flesh half-cooked and the tips of its shanks beginning to burn. Drops of fat hissed as they surrendered to the flames. In the few days of travel from Flemet’s hut, the dog’s share of their meagre rations had been smaller than she would have liked, stretched as far as possible with grains but limited by all the things he couldn’t eat.

“Such a good boy,” she crooned, leaving off her inspection of a tatty bedroll to cut away one of the haunches for him. The heat of the bone warmed her numb fingers through the thick leather of her gauntlets, gone again the instant she wiped the juices away on the inside of her cloak.

“Are we taking this stuff, then?” Alistair tried. “You know it was stolen.”

“We’re taking what we can carry, what we need,” she corrected, without looking at him. “I don’t like it either, but you heard what he said about Loghain just as well as I did – we need all the advantages we can get.”

Morrigan delicately flicked a cleaning rag away from the rim of an engraved silver bowl so she could inspect it. “If the former owners of these items were foolish enough to allow themselves to be robbed, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

“The people who passed through here were desperate,” he insisted. “They had nothing else.”

“Neither do we,” Rosslyn reminded him, and sighed. “We can pass word in the village once we get there – maybe someone will come for what’s left.”

A long moment passed as he wrestled with his conscience, as the snow thickened overhead and Cuno crunched down the bones of his impromptu meal, until necessity overcame nobility and with a snarl at nothing in particular he tramped over to the bandits’ tent to dismantle it. Even through the thick layers of armour and cloak, the tension in his shoulders screamed loud enough that Rosslyn had to grit her teeth and turn away. She swiped a bag of dried provisions and a coinpurse from the bottom of an unlocked chest, and an extra cloak and bedroll that she hoped weren’t infested with lice, before hunting around for something that might serve to wrap the rest of the meat.

Further into the trees, they found a pair of tacked-up horses tied to the branch of a bare oak. One was of much finer quality than the other, with the tall, strong-boned confirmation of a knight’s charger, but both had been neglected, left to stand with no sign of fodder in a slurry of mud up to the fetlock.

“Ah, I see we are to rescue every pathetic creature that wanders across our path,” Morrigan commented as Rosslyn ran her hands over the destrier’s legs to check for swelling.

She shot a glare over her uninjured shoulder. “Would you prefer to carry the tent?”

--

With their baggage now strapped to the horses, the last stretch of the journey took less than an hour. By the time they reached the outskirts of Lothering, the blizzard had eased and a glance of pale sunlight managed to slip past the bars of cloud. The squalor it illuminated rose bile in the back of Rosslyn’s throat as surely as the smell. Families huddled beneath scavenged yards of cloth trying to stay dry as the few campfires still burning billowed acrid curls of smoke, their meagre possessions kept within sight and easy reach.

“I wonder, Alistair,” Morrigan commented as they passed through the gauntlet of wan, wary stares, “why do none of them recognise you? You passed through Lothering on the journey south, did you not?”

“I was considerably better dressed then,” he pointed out, but pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his forehead nonetheless. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not recognised, if what that bandit said about Loghain is true. It does make you wonder what all these people are waiting for, though. They have to know the darkspawn aren’t that far away.”

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “‘Tis not our concern if they wish to sit like rams waiting for the wolf.”

They trudged further in silence, until the cobbles of the road once more emerged from beneath the quagmire of the squatters’ field. In the distance, the tower of the village chantry rose above the lines of shingle roofs, its pennants flashing with gold-embroidered sunbursts. If any organised retreat existed, the templars would have charge of it, though to judge from the blasphemous ravings of the merchant they passed arguing with a lay sister, their grasp on order was tenuous at best.

“Please, sers – have you seen my mother?”

Rosslyn stopped cold. A small boy, older than Oren but not by much, and with lighter hair, huddled under the eaves of an empty doorstep, clutching a scrawny, point-eared mongrel about the neck. His clothes were thin and ragged at the hems, smeared with the dirt that also smudged its way across his cheek.

“Your mother?” she repeated, fighting back the shake of double vision.

“She’s really tall, and she has red hair,” the boy said hopefully. “Some mean men with swords came and Mother told me to run to the village as fast as I could, so I did. She said she’d be right behind me, but I’ve been waiting and waiting and I can’t find her.”

“Do you know where your father is?”

The boy’s gaze turned briefly to Alistair before settling on the dirt. “He went with William to the neighbours’ yesterday, but he didn’t come back.”

“‘Tis likely your parents are dead,” Morrigan told him, without sympathy. “Waiting for them here is pointless.”

“That’s not true!” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said she’d come.” But his lip trembled, and he drew his arms tighter around the dog.

“Here,” Rosslyn interrupted, reaching to her side before the tears could truly come. “Get yourself something to eat, then go to the chantry. It’ll likely be the first place your mother will look for you.”

With a hearty sniff, the boy peered dubiously at the offering before lighting up in glee, his worry forgotten. “A whole silver!” He made to grab for it, then remembered his manners. “Thank you – you’re a really nice lady, kind of like mother.”

“Go on,” she commanded with a rough jerk of her head, and watched him disappear through the crowd.

“Poor thing,” Alistair muttered. He rounded on Morrigan. “Did you have to do that?”

“I only spoke the truth,” she retorted.

“And what good did it do?” Rosslyn demanded.

“What good is a silver to someone who will likely soon be prey to the darkspawn?”

In terms of cold practicality, the point was well barbed; it fired clean and struck true, even if the silver for the boy’s meal had come from an already-stolen purse. Rosslyn’s hands curled into fists nonetheless, the image before her eyes smeared not with mud from the gutter, but with blood.

“You don’t know that,” she growled.

“Denial will not –”

“I won’t argue this.” She drew in a steadying breath and clucked at the horses to walk on. “We should get to the chantry.”

Morrigan scowled at her. Alistair, too, held a wary edge in his posture, as if daring himself to ask whether she was alright, but she ignored them both to push on through the crowd of people milling about without much seeming purpose at all. Most wore the simply stitched clothes of farmholders, bundled up against the cold in cloaks of thick wool. A few, wealthier, had rabbit or squirrel trim about the collar, but none could be considered truly rich in their dress, and like the refugees beyond the village boundary they all kept close watch of their belongings, heads bowed like workhorses at the plough as they hurried about their business. Clearly, any with the means to leave had already made their escape.

Further on, a crowd had gathered in the lee of the chantry wall, their number shifting uneasily as a wiry man in the leather tunic and cross-tied cloak of a Chasind trader gesticulated at them from atop an overturned crate. His hair was lank and matted, his hose stained with mud to the thigh, and wild exhaustion creased the sun-darkened skin around his eyes.

“The legions of evil are on your doorstep!” he cried. “They will feast upon our hearts!”

“At last, someone who seems to understand the situation,” Morrigan noted dryly.

“There! One of their minions is already amongst us!”

Several faces turned in the direction of his point, and murmured amongst themselves as their eyes landed on Rosslyn, trying to guide her horse to the quieter side of the road. Travel-worn she might be, and scowling like a thundercloud, but a disappointing comparison to the monsters that haunted the dark edges of their bedtime stories.

“Prettiest darkspawn I ever saw,” someone laughed. “If they’re all like that, maybe I should join up.”

“This woman bears their evil stench!” the man insisted, spit flying from his lips. “Can you not see the vile blackness that fills her? The darkspawn will cover the world like a plague of locusts, and she is but the beginning! There is nowhere to run – better to slit your children’s throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!”

Rosslyn stopped. Her lip twisted in a moment of indecision before she dropped the leading rein and started into the crowd with Cuno at her heels. Above, a bank of cloud shifted again and covered the sun, so that as she advanced, with onlookers scrabbling out of her way and drawn in her wake to see what would happen next, the sky darkened and the little warmth left bled from the air.

“I am not your enemy,” she declared, when she finally stood before her accuser.

“You are but the first of those who will destroy us!”

“What’s going on here?”

The Wilder shrank from the bite of the new voice, from the two soldiers in Gwaren Black fighting through the ranks of people, shoving with the hafts of their polearms when someone was too slow to move.

“You again!” spat the taller one, who had a sergeant’s band around his upper arm. “We’ve warned you. Move along, and stop causing trouble.”

“You would punish me, but not this thing of evil?” the wilder demanded. “Look on her! See the corruption thick in her veins.”

The soldiers were already looking, eyes half-lidded in affected disdain as they measured her. She stood, half a head taller than either of them, and glared coolly back.

“You’re well-armed, traveller,” the sergeant said. “Come from the south, did you?”

“Most recently,” she allowed.

The man scratched his chin. “No sigil, and no company. No mercs that I saw at Ostagar, and an honest soldier would wear a liege lord’s colours. Corrupted, you say?” he added, turning to the Wilder. “That sounds like a Grey Warden to me. I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“In what manner?” Rosslyn asked. These were not desperate farmers driven to banditry; all reports said Loghain trained his soldiers hard, ever fearful of a new invasion from Orlais, and they would not tuck their tails like scolded mongrels if she merely bared her teeth. She stood relaxed, drawn up to her full height despite the pain it brought to her shoulder.

“There’s a bounty out for traitors,” he leered.

As his hand shifted for a firmer grip on his polearm, his gaze slid to a point to Rosslyn’s left and widened in disbelief. A red-haired woman in the dawn-coloured cloth of a lay sister slipped into the open space the crowd had drawn around the confrontation, her graceful fingers splayed palm to palm in the sign of the sunburst as she placed herself gently as a feather between the soldiers and their hoped-for prize.

“Surely there is no need for trouble, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and melodic, lilting with the precise inflections of court Orlesian. “No doubt this is but another poor soul seeking refuge.”

The sergeant gestured with his weapon. “Stay out of our way, sister, or you’ll get the same, chanter’s robes or no. The Wardens killed the king, or haven’t you heard?”

The crowd tensed. Rosslyn didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Alistair hanging in the first line of onlookers, his stance and sword ready to aid her should any real fighting erupt, though he kept his hood low over his face, hunched to disguise his height. She could worry about his silence later, but for now she was glad neither Morrigan nor the horses were with him.

“It is no excuse for ambushing –”

“Loghain is the one who betrayed the king!” she called out over the Chantry sister’s misgivings, a clarion note on the dull air as she circled to once again stand before her opponent. “When the moment came for his support in the battle, he turned and fled, and left King Cailan and the Wardens to be overwhelmed. Their sacrifice is the only reason the darkspawn are not already swarming at your door.”

“Lies!” the sergeant spat. “This isn’t even a true Blight!”

“When the moment came,” she repeated, in a voice like winter, “he chose cowardice over loyalty.”

The insult struck. With a bellow like a bull the sergeant charged, polearm lowered to skewer her. She was ready. Whistling two quick notes, she stepped into the attack and drew her sword to parry the blow, the movement a graceful arc into his guard that slammed down into a pommel strike against his neck that sent him to the floor. His companion yelled a protest, but before he could intervene, Cuno’s massive jaws clamped around his arm. Surprise broke off into screams as he was borne to the ground and shaken like a dust rag. There was crack of bone.

“Alright!” the sergeant cried, as the crowd swayed, sickened by the sound. “Alright! You’ve won – we surrender!”

Rosslyn, her sword laid like a whisper against his neck, whistled once. In an instant her dog let go and backed off, though his thunderous growls still reverberated through the space, and left no doubt about his intentions should anyone else dare to attack his mistress. A few lost snowflakes drifted down against the stones.  

“They have learned their lesson now, I think,” the Chantry sister said, calmly, as if the soldiers had lost a chess match and weren’t both lying in the dirt, the one cringing against a white steel blade and the other cradling his bloodied, broken arm. “We can all stop fighting now.”

“Can we?” Rosslyn asked of the sergeant.

Eyes wide, he nodded. “Maker bless you for your mercy, ser!”

“My mercy,” she repeated. “There’s precious little of it. I want you to be of use to me.”

“Anything – anything!”

“You’re going to take a message to Loghain,” she said.

“Uh, what –” He swallowed. “What do you want to tell him?”

She glanced up and met Alistair’s eyes, the lines of his mouth pinched in worry as he slowly shook his head to urge her to caution. For a moment, her jaw clenched around the desire to rebel, to issue a challenge like those her ancestors had laid down before their enemies, a bright, shining pennant to unfurl across a battlefield, a streak of midnight intent, but the urge bled from her as she once again felt the ugly itch of the whispers in the back of her mind. Loghain possessed an army, and in sacrificing the Wardens had excused it the obligation of stopping the Blight; for now, Alistair’s survival, and her own identity, were the only tactical advantages they had.

“Tell him there are those who know what he did,” she growled. “And that we will see justice done for it.”

She took her blade away, and kicked him for good measure as he scrambled to his feet His lackey stumbled after, cowering away as she flexed out the rush of the battle-blood that made her fingers shake. She would pay for that burst of action later. All eyes were fixed on her, or on Cuno nosing up under her hand for a scratch behind the ear. Even the Chantry sister, who seemed far less bothered by the violence than should be expected, watched with curiosity to see what would happen next.

Her father would have known what to say; he would have chided her for shrinking back from her duty.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she told the gathered crowd. “Listen to me – the darkspawn are coming. King Cailan bought you time, but it is falling away and they cannot be stopped. They do not reason. If you do not leave, you will die.”

“Coward’s talk!” someone shouted.

“We’ll show ‘em if they dare creep out of the Wilds!”

“Maybe the Wardens killed the king and you’re trying to cover it up!”

The Chantry sister raised her hands. “Good people, please –”

“If it is so safe here, then why did the bann flee north?”

The voice did not come from one of the villagers, but from Morrigan. Her disdain rang so clear that it might have been amplified by magic, and it blunted the anger of the crowd into a low, uncertain buzz that faded entirely into silence as the lay sister once more stepped forward to address them.

“Please, do not despair,” she said. “The Maker sent this Grey Warden as a warning, to help us in our hour of need.”

“Do you think we should tell her who actually sent us?” Alistair muttered in Rosslyn’s ear as he sidled up to her.

“It would be interesting to see how things could get worse,” she muttered back.

“You handled those soldiers pretty well – I’d almost forgotten how scary you were in the lists.”

Disbelieving, she glanced at him and found nothing but sincerity in his shrouded features, a soft trust that stung not least because part of her wanted to throw back his hood and show him to the people in all disregard for sense. Such a move would certainly make them listen, but if Loghain had truly put out a bounty for captured Grey Wardens, how much more would he be willing to pay for Cailan’s only heir? Perhaps, at least until they met with Arl Eamon, it would be safer to pretend he was another Grey Warden instead, to shield him with her own status as much as it was her duty as a Cousland to shield him with her body.

As she mulled this over, the crowd succumbed to the lack of fresh entertainment and let itself be chivvied back about its business, clearing the path to Morrigan and the main doors of the chantry that had been their first destination. The lay sister remained, a demure smile upon her face as she waited for them to notice her.

“Thank you for intervening, Sister,” Alistair said. “We’re glad the crowd decided to listen to you.”

“I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” came the reply. “Though from your display of skill I see my aid was not required.”

“A welcome attempt nonetheless,” Rosslyn told her.

The woman smiled and dipped into a curtsey. “Then I am glad. Perhaps, if you wish it, I can offer further assistance by escorting you to the chantry?”

[heylavellan]

prompt me!!

This Week's Interests

Rookanis. Will use my Rook, Antonio de Riva (they/them) for this! Would love to write them in an AU or canon.

Missing Josephine hours, so would appreciate some Josephine x Inquisitor.

Been rotating Saliin Mahariel in my head and need some sickly sweet stuff for him and Zev. So Zevwarden.

Dorian x Inquisitor my beloved... Usually I write Pavellan, but I also have my dadquisitor au with Baz Cousland and his horde of children. Been craving them in an AU or post-DA:I fic.

Bellara, Neve, Lace, and Taash are also on the mind, so feel free to request one of them with an OC or with each other.

Suggested prompt lists (please send whole prompt!):

pillow talk

tarot prompt collection

OC Codex

tol & smol (rookanis only!)

sugar & spice (suggestive prompts)

make them yearn!!

will they, won't they?

vampire au

For more prompts, check my #writing prompts tag.

None of these interest you? Check under the cut to see my general interests.

Things I Write

PC ships will use my OCs unless another name or OC is specified.

Fave Ships: Zevwarden, Inquisidorian, Alistair x Warden, Cullistair, Cullrian, Ser Gilmore x Cousland, Maric x Loghain, Krem x Cullen, Josephine x Inquisitor, Finn x Arianne, Dorian x Anders, Handers, Fenhawke, Merribela, Zevistair, Dorikrem, Carver x Cullen, Carver x Nathaniel Howe, Bethany x Nathaniel Howe, Rylen x Cullen, Rylen x Krem, Zevhawke, Merrill x Hawke (and poly configurations thereof!), Isahawke,

Fave platonic ships: Alistair & Zevran, Lavellan & Zevran, Shale & Wynne, Ferelden circle besties (Jowan, Anders, Finn, and mage!Warden), Cousland & Ser Gilmore, Vivienne & Dorian, Dorian & Solas, Sera & Cole, Fergus & Nathaniel Howe

Fave Characters/NPCs: Ser Gilmore, Zevran, Alistair, Sten, Oghren, Wynne, Arl Eamon, Anora, Loghain, Duncan, Jowan, Bann Teagan, Irving, Lanaya, Riordan, Lace Harding, Sera, Dorian, The Iron Bull, Cassandra, Varric, Cullen, Leliana, Krem, Nathaniel Howe

Meet my OCs

What to Expect

A little bit fruity

As a big ol' fruit, I'm most likely to write my ships as gay or in some other way queer. So if you want something cishet (or want to explore a specific identity), you'll need to specify.

[queenofferelden]

Feel free to call me an all-rounder, but as a noblewoman, I want to meet other important people. I have already greeted the king, it was General Loghain's turn.

He strikes me as a fairly reasonable man.