#warden x Alastair

[babydinosaur930]

Ahem! *stands on podium*

Hello. Hi. My hyperfixation has returned to DAO while I am waiting to be able to play Veilguard. Here is my request. I am looking for fic recommendations that do king Alastair x warden reunion. Preferably Tabris but I’ll take what i can get.

But i want the pinning. I want Alastair on his knees in front of the love he rejected out of fear and duty begging for forgiveness. Who knows he could have and should have fought for her. (Also that like, depending on your in game choices legit said he would fight for her and then…did not) That he could have waited. That he didn’t have to turn away then and there. And pleading for his love to come back. Pretty please. Thank you.

Oh, also happy ending. Angst with happy ending. I wanna cry and then be full of love and fluffy feels. Thank you.

[dd122004dd]

The Elder Sister

Request: can I please request a Maggie (charmed) x sibling reader who goes to Tartarus instead of her and she’s really protective of the reader?

A/N: Well, requester, your wish is my command! (I'm trying to get through my requests, so sincere apologies that this is coming out so so late, but I'm trying) Also, she's the eldest sister of the charmed, like she's not part of the charmed trio but shes the first-born.

Warnings: fem!POV (Because I just learned that that needs to be in a trigger warning), Tartarus/hell, witches, yup thats about it.

The deal was done. The price set. One Harbinger in exchange for Harry. A fair price, an impossible price, yet one they were willing to pay. With the innocent-looking paint can in hand the Charmed ones and their eldest sister made their way to Dante’s workshop, their sights trained on a singular goal, the release of Harry Greenwood.

Dante’s workshop was unassuming in nature. A rather large lock store with an intimidating owner who had a rather macabre sense of humor. The warden of Tartarus was a fair demon, his loyalties were to Tartarus, which made him rather unbiased, an admirable trait for a demon. Yet, he hated being tricked. And the infamous Charmed ones had tricked him. A decision they’d soon regret.

Dante stood before the four witches, menacingly opening the gate of Tartarus, before grabbing Maggie. As he was about to throw the witch in, she stopped him using her whip, the metallic coils wrapping around his arm, immobilizing him, “Warden,” she said, her voice echoing through the small space as she approached the aggravated demon.

“You will not imprison this witch within Tartarus.”

“And who’ll stop me? You pay when you cheat Dante.”

“If it is payment you need, I will pay the price, I will go in her place,” she said as she entered Tartarus before anyone could stop her.

"No!" Maggie's cry echoed as the gates swiftly closed.

In a snap Dante broke free from his bonds, chasing the three witches away with the final words, “The Harbinger for her.”

~

Tartarus was hell, in all senses of the world, with its fire-y pit and the dragon guarding the cells, it’s hissed words taunting her, drawing forth insecurities that remained well-buried for decades.

"The eldest, the forgotten, the misfit, the worthless one," the dragon intoned, yet the most piercing was the epithet, "Uncharmed." A creature deemed worthless, forever neglected.

She was a mere burden to her sisters; she was of no use to the all-powerful ‘charmed’ ones. Her depressing thoughts echoed within her being as her body was wracked with pain from the scorpion’s stings.

Her world slowly grew darker as she sook respite from the pain, yet even her dreams were filled with poison. She sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening, wishing her sisters would rescue her as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

~

Maggie’s hands shook as she handed the unassuming paint can to Dante. His ring crackled against the rim as he chuckled, “This is the Harbinger all right!”

As he moved to claim the paint-can, Maggie pulled it away, “First, you have something that is ours. Harry and our sister. Return them and the Harbinger is yours.”

“Fine,” Dante grunted as he unlocked the gates, “But I can’t guarantee they’ll be in…. mint condition though.”

She stumbled through the gate with Harry leaning heavily against her.

She felt like she could finally breathe as fresh air filled her lungs. Looking at her sisters’ tears welled in her eyes as she took a staggering step towards them. Maggie rushed forward first, hugging her sister. Her voice cracked with emotion as she mumbled, “Never do that again.”

Their sweet reunion was short-lived as a voice spoke aloud, “Oh what a sweet reunion!”

Their heads swiftly turned towards the entrance as they saw Alastair Cain. “Good evening, everyone. You have something that belongs to me.”

~

The workshop crackled with magic as Alastair unleashed fire with a mere flick of his wrist. She watched her sisters, huddled together, cowering, panicking, wondering what to do. Protectiveness flared within her as she slowly crawled from behind the cabinet, screaming, “Captus aqua. Captus terra. Captus aere. Captus ignis,” as a shield slowly formed around the fire-y demon.

“You think a measly shield will hold me, witch?” He spat in disgust as his flames grew more powerful with his anger. He unleashed more fire at the shield, till it formed tiny cracks.

She felt the strain on her magic as the demon ripped her shield down, layer-by-layer till she could feel him slowly break to the surface.

Turning to her sisters she tearfully said, “GO! Get out of here! I can’t hold him for much longer.”

“No! We’re not leaving you again,” Maggie said, desperation in her eyes.

“I’ll always be with you, Mags. All of you. Now go,” she said as she turned to the demon once more as he tore apart her magic with his flames. Her sisters dragged Harry out of the workshop quickly as she stared the demon down. She could almost feel the sweltering heat as he burned through the shield till there was nothing left.

She stumbled back from the force of his attack as he stepped towards her, his shoes echoing against the floor, “This. Is for your insolence,” he said, conjuring a ball of fire within his palm as he menacingly raised his hand. She closed her eyes, willing everything to end quickly as the thought crossed her mind, ‘At least my sisters are safe.’

She heard a scream in the distance as a violet light flashed behind her eyelids. She opened her eyes to see her sisters standing protectively before her as they conjured a shield with their collective powers, pushing against Alastair’s flames till he discorporated, escaping the Charmed ones.

They swiftly turned towards their eldest sister, huddling around her as she slumped against them, finally within the embrace of safety as she heard Mel whisper, “Thank you for protecting us.”

“Always,” echoed Macy and Maggie. She smiled slowly as her vision slowly darkened, the exhaustion and exertion of her powers caught up to her.

~

She awoke with a start, expecting to see the large green-eyed dragon yet she was pleasantly greeted with the familiar walls of her room. Her soft mattress sunk under her weight as she laid down once again, nuzzling into the sheets as her body relaxed.

“You’re up!” she heard a chirpy voice say from the door. She opened her eyes, seeing Maggie, her youngest sister, her favorite.

“Mags,” she whispered.

“I got you some hot chocolate. It’s in your favorite mug too!” she said excitedly as she approached the bed, carefully placing the cup of thick hot-chocolate on her bedside table. She sat on the bed, talking a moment to look at her sister before she broke the silence, “Never do anything like that ever again,” she said with a lump in her throat as tears welled into her eyes, “I wouldn’t know what to do if I lost you.”

She looked at her younger sister with affection as she slowly pulled her into a hug, softly reassuring her sister that she wouldn’t be parted from her, “Mags no one’s taking me away, not if I can help it. They’ll have to claw me out of your grasp before that ever happens,” she cuddled her sister closer as the two laid on her bed, reminiscing on their shenanigans while sipping hot chocolate. After a while Mel and Macy joined too, forming a small circle as they traded stories with each other, some exaggerated, some not and in that moment, wrapped in her comfortable blanket and enveloped in the comforting presence of her sisters she finally thought, ‘This is where I belong. This is home.’

Taglist: @iobsessoverfictionalmen

[kauriart]

How Alistair Fell in Love with Bethany Hawke

Chapter 1: A Drink in the Dark A Dragon Age fic  | Alistair x Bethany Hawke | Read it on A03

Alastair jolts awake in total darkness, hand sliding unerringly to the hilt of his sword even as he realizes—

There are no darkspawn.

Someone is shouting, and there are no darkspawn.

It is the middle of the night, and someone is shouting, and there are no darkspawn.

Stroud will have their head.

Alistair shakes off the last bit of fogginess from sleep and begins to stuff himself into his boots and armor by force of habit, attention entirely fixed on the sharply rising voices on the far edge of the camp. It isn’t one of the other Warden’s, he’s sure. But whoever they are, they’ll draw every darkspawn within a league if they keep up with that noise.

He grimaces at the thought. It’s too bloody early for a fight, but adrenaline zings through him anyways. He slings his shield over his shoulder, but keeps his sword in hand, secure in its scabbard — just in case — and strides to the far side of the camp where the commotion is growing.

Stroud is there, surprisingly still in just breeches and shirt sleeves and bare feet. Directly in front of him is a man with coal black hair and a beard to match, armed and armored and nearly vibrating with violence. His voice ratchets up and down like the swelling of the seas. Tucked behind the bearded man is a ruddy-haired Dwarf, face bare, and serious. He flinches a little at the noise, but remains quiet himself. And standing beside them is—  

“Anders?” Alistair blurts, mouth dropping open.

The Warden-Mage turns towards him briefly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, though much of his attention stays fixed on his noisy companion. “Hullo, Alistair.”

Four years have changed Anders dramatically. He was always tall and thin, but now there's a gauntness to his face that is more than the toll paid to the deep roads. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark as bruises, and the easy humor has been all but wiped away, replaced by something grim and… resigned.

“What’s going on?” Alistair asks.

“Foolishness,” Stroud answers curtly.

The bearded man makes a sound that’s akin to a growl, and though he doesn’t move, everything in his demeanor looks even more menacing.

Anders glances at him warily. “Hawke and I have come seeking help, and have found the Wardens... less forthcoming than I remembered.”

Stroud waves away the observation. "We've no way to help, Anders, and you know it. What were you even thinking coming here? If you can find us then you’re still enough of a Warden to sense that you’ve been dragging half-a-legion of darkspawn naught but a days march behind you. What do you think will happen when they catch up? I cannot see how a corpse can be worth such a risk.”

“Corpse?” Alistair blinks, startled, noticing for the first time the figure laid out on the floor, wrapped in a heavily stained blanket nearly head to toe. A pair of ugly, worn boots poke out of the bottom, but that’s all.

Hawke — Alistair assumes — makes a loud, angry noise, but he keeps his eyes on Stroud. "She's alive. Or what the fuck do you think we're doing here?”

Alistair kneels, and carefully pulls a hood-like fold of the blanket away from the figure’s face.

A woman.

And she's—

Alistair has been stunned utterly speechless three times in his life.

The first time was vertigo. A stunning sense of falling through the floor the first time he’d seen his father from afar. Seen his own features mirrored and muted; wrapped in spun gold and topped with a crown.

The second time was shock. Morrigan, mouth twisted in a line like she’d bitten a sour lemon, offering something absolutely ridiculous. What do witches know of Warden matters anyway?

The third time was horror. He’d seen an archdemon before of course, in his dreams. But it was different in the flesh. Ten thousand pounds of malice and terror, with wings broad enough to blot out the sun. Death lingering on the horizon.

But this… This time it is something else entirely. Something indescribable stirring deep in his belly.

She's—

He blinks.

Maker, she’s lovely.

And clearly dying.

She’s pale and cold as marble, with black spidery veins of the taint winding up her limbs. She's conscious, but barely, breathing ragged, and shallow, and strained. She’s young. Perhaps even a few years younger than himself, and finely featured. Dark hair falls in tangled curls around her face. Her eyes flicker open, a surprisingly bright, coppery sort of brown, but they’re unfocused, drifting over him in listless patterns.

“Hullo,” Alistair says quietly, fingers drifting towards the curls on her brow.

She doesn’t respond.

"You’d let her take the Joining like this?" Stroud's voice rises for the first time, cold and brittle. "Are you mad? A knife would be a quicker death, and a kinder one."

Hawke takes a slow step forward until he's nearly nose to nose with Stroud. "I wasn’t asking.” He isn’t shouting any more. His voice is low and mild. Almost pleasant. Conversational. “You’ll do it. Or I'll kill you.” His hand raises with that same, slow deliberateness, and fits itself around the collar of Stroud’s shirt. " You. Specifically. And I promise it won't be quick, or kind."

“Threatening a Warden with death is not particularly effective,” Stroud says with a raised brow. “And you are outnumbered. Badly.”

Hawke chuckles darkly through his teeth. "Am. I?”

Stroud’s eyes narrow, and Alistair can feel his heart rate pick up in response to that look from his Warden-Commander. Every time he’s seen it, death has swiftly followed.

Oh fuck.

Hawke must pick up on the subtle shift of the atmosphere. The chuckle drops nearly an octave, into something more like a growl, all rumble and danger and every hair stands up on the back of Alistair’s neck.

Double fuck.

He shifts his body so the bulk of him is directly above the girl. If it comes to a fight he’ll keep her safe. Stroud will be careful enough, but Hawke seems the type of man whose violence gets messy. This way at least, he can have his shield over them both in a heartbeat.

The silence drags, a solid wall of tension stretched between one man and the other. A strange sort of stalemate. Hawke doesn’t give an inch, and neither does Stroud.

But Anders is the bridge between both worlds. “She’s a mage, Stroud,” he offers to the silence. “You know what that would mean to the Order.”

Mages are rare. Warden mages, rarer still.

Stroud takes a half-step back, head inclining slightly. Even Hawke turns away, though in his case it is to shift his glare to Anders.

Alistair holds his breath, waiting, heart still hammering away.

He has served under three Warden Commanders. Duncan was all instinct. Emmory was blind courage. But Stroud is tradition; well-rooted in discipline and pragmatism. He might be… He should be…

But—

“No,” Stroud shakes his head. “If I was that interested in a mage, Anders, I’d just insist that you stay where you belong.”

Hawke reacts instantly, folding his hand into a fist and punching Stroud square in the gut. The Warden Commander doubles over with a strangled rush of air. A handful of Wardens rush forward armed and angry, but Stroud manages to wave them back, glaring.

"Last chance,” Hawke warns quietly.

“The joining is not a cure, Anders,” Stroud says. He ignores Hawke, though his voice is noticeably strained. One hand casually spans his middle. “I would have expected you of all people to know that.”

“It’s a chance,” Anders insists, stubborn as ever.

"Not for her,” the Warden Commander says.

There’s a sudden flurry of motion as Hawke launches himself at Stroud, the flash of a blade in his hand. Magic flares, and a barrier springs up between them, before settling around them both. Hawke spits out a series of curses — first at Anders, then at Stroud, and then at Anders again. He jams his dagger back into its sheath, rogue-quick, and grabs Stroud’s shirtfront, shaking vigorously. Stroud grabs him back and the stand-off quickly devolves into a shoving match.

Hawke makes a determined and largely ineffectual attempt to knee Stroud in the balls.

The shouting starts again after that — mostly from Hawke, describing in detail his plans for Stroud’s entrails — and Alistair winces. Not at Hawke’s descriptions which seem anatomically improbable, but at the damn noise. Noise draws the attention of darkspawn, as does the scent of blood. And there’s quite a lot of noise right now, and quite a lot of blood.

Despite all that, Alistair’s attention slips back to the girl. Her breathing is still shallow and uneven, but the bright copper of her eyes seems duller now , irises slowly going grey and gummy. Something swoops in the pit of Alistair's stomach. A sick sort of emptiness, all hard-edged, and desperate. Someone has to do something.

Something beyond posturing and bluster.

Maker, someone has to do something. He has to—

"We'll do it," Alistair says all at once, the words so hurried the syllables are all pressed together into a single sound. "We’ll do it,” he says again. “Anders is right. We can help her. We have to.”

Hawke and Stroud both freeze, varying levels of surprise on their faces.

Then Stroud's expression sharpens. “Alistair.”

“We have to,” Alistair insists, gesturing helplessly. “Please. She’s—“

“You had your chance to lead,” Stroud interrupts tersely. “Now you must follow.”

Alistair’s brows shoot up. It’s the truth, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t wanted command. He hadn’t sought leadership. Had refused Weisshaupt on the matter, repeatedly. And when Stroud had been named Warden Commander in his stead, he had sworn both publicly and privately, to follow his lead, without question. And he had never broken that oath.

Never wavered.

Never once.

And yet he can feel his jaw shift stubbornly. (His father’s jaw, square-set like all the old Kings of Ferelden. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard sometimes to bend.) “Perhaps,” he squares his shoulders and takes a breath. “But Warden Commander or no, you’ve not seen half of what I have as a Warden.”

Stroud's expression remains steely.

He raises a single black brow.

“We can help her,” Alistair insists. “We have to at least try.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, feeling panicky. “You don’t understand. We wouldn’t have ended the fifth blight so swiftly without the mages. You don’t— you’ve no idea what it was like to fight the— Well. At Denerim. Or Amaranthine. And we haven’t yet regained even a third of what the Order lost at Ostagar. We need every Warden we can get. Every last one,” he glares up at Stroud. “Especially her,”   he says as firmly as he can. “We need her. So we are going to help her.”

There is a stunned sort of silence.

Anders shifts back and forth, expression unreadable.

Stroud pulls himself from Hawke’s grip and steps back, flicking his hands down his chest, smoothing out his crumpled shirtfront; one of the buttons has been torn free and he picks at a loose thread. “Mage or no, I am not in the habit of making people suffer needlessly.” Stroud looks at Alistair pointedly.

“Me neither,” Alistair glances down at the girl. “But we’re the only one's who can save her.”

Stroud looks at Alistair for a moment as though he has never seen him before. He makes an amused sound, and shakes his head, but the gesture is all exasperation. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing," he asks mildly.

Alistair grins reflexively, all nerves no humor. “Not the least little bit.”

Stroud is silent a moment more, then he scrubs a hand across his face as if exhausted. “She’ll not survive it.”

It is no different than what he’s said before, but now there is a gentleness in Stroud’s voice that makes Alistair’s throat close up. He tries to speak, but instead gives a hitching, one shouldered shrug.

Stroud takes a deep, slow breath, air dragging noisily through his lungs. “Fine. I conscript her. It’s done.”

And with that, the girl belongs to the Wardens.

“Thank you,” Anders says after a quiet moment, and sets a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, forearm across his chest as if to offer a protective embrace.

The anger in Hawke’s expression dissolves nearly instantly, and he sags into Anders’ touch. It’s clear now that the rage was all but holding him together. Without it, he looks almost lost; empty, and strangely vulnerable. The hands at his side open and close in slow motion, as if grasping for something no longer there.

“You'll leave immediately,” Stroud says crisply, focusing back on Hawke and his companions.

“I can take them,” Alistair offers. He goes to stand, but his knees sort of lock up. He doesn’t want Stroud and Hawke to have the opportunity to knife each other, but he doesn't want to leave her, more.

“I’ll take them,” Stroud says firmly. “I’ll not leave Hawke alone with any of my people. Besides, the girl is your responsibility now.” He gives Alistair a meaningful look. “Mera,” he calls to another Warden over his shoulder, not looking. “You have command.”

Ever the antagonist, Hawke moves to block Stroud’s path.

“I am not leaving her.”

“We said she’d take the joining, and so she will,” Stroud says, voice cold. “This is Warden business now. And you have no place here.”

Hawke's eyes are hard, and so haunted they are nearly black. For a moment Alistair thinks it may come to violence after all. Instead Hawke nods with a fair bit of bad grace. Anders' head drops briefly, relieved, and the barriers he cast fizzle out of existence.

It is over.

Hawke kneels, and with a fierce and startling tenderness, leans in and kisses the girl’s forehead. He murmurs something against her skin, too faint for Alistair to hear, but his meaning is clear enough.

He is saying goodbye.

Alistair turns his head to give them what privacy he can, but when he turns back Hawke is staring at him with a manic sort of intensity, brown eyes dark with grief.

“Keep. Bethany. safe.” Every word is a command, bitten in half with anguish and lined with despair.

No matter if the Warden’s succeed — or not — Hawke is unlikely to ever see her again. And Alistair is struck anew with the quiet tragedy of it all.

Bethany.

He folds her name in his palm, like a secret, and nods, trying to keep his voice steady and certain. “I will. I promise.”

***

The black draught is a foul concoction. Dark as tar and nearly as thick, the potion smokes faintly and smells like a Darkspawn’s hindquarters. If memory serves, it tastes just as bad, too.

Alistair has overseen dozens of joinings, but it’s only his second time crafting the black draught himself. The first had been for a woodcutter from Jader. The man had been all sunburn and freckles and ginger curls; the least likely person to face the Deep Roads. Maybe that was why the Maker had marked him to die in the joining, choking and gasping with black foam all across his lips.  

And Alistair standing above him, helpless and horrified.

Certain it was all his fault.

Certain he should have known better.

And yet here he is again.

Somehow.

Alistair holds his breath, heart hamming halfway through his chest. His hands are slick in his gloves.

Stroud's not wrong. Dying of the joining is no easy death. But neither is dying of the taint. Even now he can see the pain carving itself into Bethany, pronounced even above the exhaustion and the spray of dried blood that stains one cheek. And yet even through the blood and the dust and the sickly cast of her pallor, something clean and bright shines through. A tiny spark. No bigger than a firefly. And for one dizzy moment, Alistair thinks he would do anything to see the girl open her eyes — look at him — and smile.

He raises the chalice, careful not to spill, and takes a breath. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant,” he begins. “Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworned. And should you… should you perish,” Alistair clears his throat to mask the tremor in his voice, “know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And know that one day... we shall join you.”

The last words are little more than a whisper. Alistair kneels, gathers her up in his arms, and gently tips the rim of the cup against her lips. “Drink?” He asks quietly, watching the column of her throat carefully.

Black leaks from the corner of her mouth, running towards her ear. He wipes at it with his thumb. Thick and almost tarry, it smears.

“Please, drink.”

Maker if she is beyond even this…

“You have to drink. Please.”

Her eyes crack open a little. They’re nearly colorless now, pupils fixed and staring.

“Please, Bethany…”

She swallows.

Once.

Twice.

“Very good.” Tears prickle at his eyes, and he wipes at her mouth with the hem of his tunic. He tries to smile, but can’t manage it. His eyes dart to the pulse point beneath her jaw. “That’s very well done.”

He lays her back down as gently as he can, hand against black curl of her hair for the barest of moments.

And then he prays to the Maker.

He has not prayed to the Maker since — well, long enough that the words are stilted and slow, rusty as an old hinge.

Alistair has no illusions as to the danger of the joining. He’s seen grown men healthy and hale, die mere moments after taking the black draught, choking on foulness and dark magic alike. And suddenly it all feels like hubris, to tear her away from people who knew her — loved her — and to let her die, alone in the dark amongst strangers.

And he did that. He did that to her.

The breath rattles noisily in her chest, black spilling from the corners of her mouth, and Alistair nearly chokes on his own fear.

He presses a trembling fist to his lips and prays harder.

***

It is a terrible night.

Death is a part of a Warden’s life. It is not a thing to be feared or avoided. It is what they do. The Maker grants the Wardens a singular sort of immortality — they survive the taint so they may kill darkspawn.

(In war, victory.)

That is all the Order is, at its core. Death. Death. And more death. And one day it will come for all of them, with a sweet song of madness in their ear. And the Maker will grant them peace.

(In peace, vigilance.)

Death is nothing to a Warden if not a familiar.

Alistair himself has survived a blight, an archdemon, and the needless slaughter of half of all living Wardens.

(In death, sacrifice.)

Witnessing this tiny battle waged in the bleakness of the Deep Roads, should be a small thing. Insignificant at scale. No armies are at stake. No kingdoms hang in the balance. Her death will be of no true consequence. And yet…

It doesn’t feel small at all.

It feels… heavy. There is no other word for it. A weight pressing down on his chest so every breath he takes is short, and sharp, and strained. A twisting in his gut, an uneasiness that sits awaiting the strike of a blade. And a terrible helplessness that hangs across his senses like a veil.

After the joining, once it was clear she wouldn’t instantly expire from the draught, the remaining Wardens had moved as swiftly as they could, hoping time and distance would mask Bethany’s scent from the darkspawn.

Alistair had carried her. Slung across his back like a rucksack. Still, and feverish, and unsettlingly light. Sometimes he couldn’t hear her breathing over the sound of his own heartbeat. So he’d run his thumb over the pulse points of her wrists, searching. Searching. Able to breathe again when he found her heartbeat — light and erratic, but there.

It’s still there.

The Wardens make camp for the night. Cold food and no fire. They can’t risk it until they’ve put more distance between themselves and the horde. The darkspawn are nearly out of range now, but not quite. He can still feel them lurking faintly at the edges of his consciousness. He would have preferred if they’d pressed on for a few more miles, but Mera had ordered him to rest — foolish to wear himself out entirely.

And he knows she’s right. If it came to it now, he’d be slow and sloppy in a fight. Maybe get Bethany killed. Maybe get them all killed.

Maker, he hadn’t even thought about the risk to the others.

He crouches beside Bethany, trembling with nerves, guilt, and exhaustion, until Mera lays a gentle hand on the his head, fingers digging into his scalp, urging him to rest.

They’ve no spare bedding — no spare anything, really — so Alistair rolls Bethany up in his own blankets, with his surcoat pillowed beneath her head, and lies on the bare rock beside her. It isn’t the first time he’s slept on naked stone and it won’t be the last, though this time he gets little in the way of sleep. He can’t. He’s too wound up.

Bethany… She is—

Not dying. Not dying.

—fragile as spun silk.

Her pulse is as faint as a butterfly's wings, and seems to stutter to a halt with a terrifying regularity. Alistair barely removes his hand from her wrist now. Counting the seconds between each heartbeat and the next. There’s so much time between them. So much empty space for him to fall face-first into cold terror. And then he finds the little bump of her pulse again, irregular and light, and his head blooms with an irrational sense of relief.

Twice he thinks she slips away, and quiet agony coils around his heart until she takes a noisy sort of breath that sounds like she may be drowning, and the faint bump bump of her pulse starts again.

He pulls the blankets down to her waist, afraid that their meager pressure will be too much strain for her to overcome. Then he frets that she’s too cold, and pulls them up again. But mostly he just tries to will her heartbeat into alignment with his, and struggles to stay afloat of his own growing despair.

***

In the morning there is no dawn to greet them. No gentle sunrise to reward her fight. The camp simply begins to stir, coming alive with the soft, familiar sounds of Warden’s waking.

Alistair is a wreck. He’d sweated straight through his tunic from anxiety, and can probably count on one hand the minutes he'd actually managed to fall asleep. His back aches and he’s got pins and needles all down his arse and the backs of his legs. And the muscles of his jaw are stiff and sore from grinding his teeth all night. Still. He cracks the biggest smile at every Warden who comes to check on them.

Because she is still alive.

***

“She’s not dying,” Alistair says firmly, but can’t help but wring his hands as he says it.

“Aye,” Warden Runsk sighs heavily and pats Alistair’s back mechanically. “You’ve said it a hundred times. Not sure you have anymore say in the matter now, as before. She’s had two days like this. She’ll not last a third.”

She can’t take any real food –– the risk of choking is too high –– but they stop every hour, like now, and Alistair drips a water-thin gruel into her mouth, a tiny bit at a time, stroking her throat to encourage her to swallow. She’s visibly lost weight, the bones of her wrist are sharp and sparrow-light. But the blackness of the taint has slowed it’s advance through her veins, and the pulse beneath his thumb is stronger, he thinks, but still irregular.

He takes comfort from that when he can.

“I’ve heard of someone lasting five,” Alistair mutters stubbornly.

Runsk shakes his head, unconvinced. “The Order is nothing if not half make-believe.”

“But it’s working. She’s not dying.”

“Aye, I know.” Runsk pats him on the back again.

***

In the blink of an eye, your whole life can change.

Alistair has learned that lesson so many times over, you’d think he’d never forget.

Once, he’d thought all life had to offer him was a drafty stable and the smell of Mabari all around. Caring for the hounds as well as the horses, with dirt on his breeches and bits of straw in his hair. It had been hard work — lonely work — but that was life, wasn’t it? And at least the animals were never cruel to him. And he’d always slept with the runts and hand-fed them so they’d never be culled. He’d been… resigned. Happy enough, he’d supposed.

But then he’d gone to the Templars, and it was all different. No dirt, or straw, or horse manure. Just metal, and magic, and that awful silence of the Circle’s Chantry.

Then came the Wardens. And Ostagar. And the Landsmeet — he’d been so terrified then. So aware of everything that would shift should things go poorly.

He should be ready for such things, always. But somehow he never is.

Bethany makes a sound.

Not the horrifying death-rattle as she struggled to breathe, or the tiny, pain-filled moans she would occasionally utter. This is something soft and sleepy and wonderful.

A sound of wakening.

A sound of his whole world shifting.

Alistair scrambles over to her, heart pounding. “Hello?”

Brown eyes blink open, then promptly close again.

And Alistair feels the little bubble of relief fade abruptly. “You’re not dead,” he says in a rush of breath, jaw tightening in reflex.

That’s true at least. Whatever she is, she isn’t dead.

Her eyes flutter open again, focused, though very bloodshot, and Alistair feels his face split in an enormous grin. He tries to school his features into something reassuring and dignified, but he doesn’t quite manage.

Her eyes alight on him briefly before she turns her head, searching. “Garrett—?” Her hand stretches out, distressed. Flailing in the empty air. Searching.

“Oh,” Alistair blinks, surprised by the jealousy that twinges through him absurdly. It’s faint as an echo behind the relief, but there. So stupid. He swallows it back. “Was that the shouty one with the terrifying… and, ah…  rather… ” He stumbles, searching for a word to describe Hawke that isn’t violent or bloodthirsty. Instead he gestures to his own chin. “Um… beard?”

The girl makes a pained noise that lances through him, and a credible attempt to sit up.

“Hey now, none of that,” Alistair presses her back down before she can hurt herself. “You’ve been out for three days. Stroud— that is, the Warden-Commander wasn’t… was sure you wouldn’t— Well. You’re not dead.” He says again firmly, squinting at her as though she might change her mind about it at any moment, though he knows that’s not how the joining works.

“Where is my brother?” The words come out like a shaky rasp, all jagged-edged with dread. She’s so weak she has to breathe after each one.

Oh.

Of course.

“He was your brother then?” Alistair hopes he doesn’t sound as relieved as he feels. He’s not sure if it’s easier to lose a brother than a lover — never having had much in the way of either — but he can’t say he isn’t glad that’s the way of it.

Not that he has any right to be glad that —

“Was?”  The word is all heartbreak. All despair and grief. She wrenches herself upright, panic lending her a sudden burst of strength. She gets her legs under her, nearly tries to stand. And Alistair — the world's most monumentally thoughtless arse — only just gets his arms under her as she collapses, trembling, and all broken out in a cold sweat.

Shit.

He backtracks as fast as he possibly can. “No no no, hey. He’s not dead. Stroud took some men to escort them back to the surface.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and sees her eyes follow the gesture, jittery with adrenaline. “Never should have been this deep. Surprised any of them made it out in one—” She flinches and Alistair wants to bite off his tongue.

Damn.

Maker, he’s doing none of this right.

He wipes sweating palms on the backside of his breeches.

“Well, hmm.” He takes a breath and forces his voice lower. Softer. Steadier. “You were lucky you brought a healer. Luckier still that the healer was a Warden— is a Warden,” he corrects with a frown. “You never really get to leave the Order, after all.”

“Lucky?” She repeats, voice small and lost. For a moment her eyes drift restlessly back and forth as if trying to understand.

The world changes so easily, after all.

Alistair understands. She didn’t choose this. She didn’t join the Wardens, she was taken by them. By him. And now everything she knew in life, everything, even her own being, is fundamentally, permanently altered.

It is worse than being carted off to the Templars; to join their ranks or become their charge.

Worse than being nearly made King.

He hopes it is less worse than dying.

“What do you remember?” Alistair asks as gently as he can.

She shakes her head in mute confusion. Tears spill down her cheeks. His fingers twitch, wanting to wipe them away, but he doesn’t move.

Always start with the easier questions.

“What’s your name,” he asks instead.

She blinks at him through the tears, sticking her hand out automatically, as Alistair tries not to be thoroughly charmed. “Bethany Hawke.”

Bethany.

It sounds prettier the way she says it, like the chime of a tiny bell, bright and clean, and he cannot help but grin.

“Alistair,” he takes her hand, and his thumb brushes across the top of her knuckles, a tiny show of affection he can’t quite stifle. “Welcome to the Ferelden Wardens.”

[thiefbird]

welcome to dadwc!! how about ❛ why does it feel like this is goodbye? ❜ for any pairing of your choice?

For Nevra Surana x Alistair! This takes place in between Riordan telling the Wardens how the Archdemon must be killed, and Morrigan proposing the Dark Ritual; it's also before Nevra becomes possessed

For @dadrunkwriting

Riordan silently left the room, likely to try to sleep; Alastair's careful, confident shell shattered. She knew it would: a year living in each other's pockets had made her almost too familiar with the slightest changes on his face and she could read the signs of impending panic better than she could sense darkspawn.

Nevra stepped closer to Alistair, just close enough to break him out of his trance, and he collapsed into her, fingers digging into her ribs and spine, as if he held her right enough, not even an Old God could separate them. She wrapped one arm around his waist, looping the other around his neck to comb through the soft, short hairs on the back of his neck as he buried his face in her shoulder.

They stood like that for long moments, the only sounds Alistair's harsh breathing and the pounding of their hearts, until Alistair had calmed enough to pull away of his own accord. "Why is it always you comforting me?" he asked, voice small and ashamed. "You're always there for me, for all of us, and any time it feels like we should be there for you, I'm the one falling apart anyways."

It wasn't the time to explain how the Templars and the Circle taught spent to control their emotions; he didn't need that tonight. He didn't need to know the burns across her back and arms weren't the result of a misplaced spell, like she'd said when he'd asked all those months ago, but were how the Templars countered the cold, heavy weight of Despair.

She didn't want to cry ever, anymore. She didn't think she could if she tried.

"Because I love you. You need me, and I am here." It wasn't a lie. She smiled up at him, brushing her thumb over the salt-sticky tear tracks on his cheeks.

Alistair brought his hand to hers, pressing it more firmly to the side of his face before kissing her palm. "You are... you are the most beautiful, wonderful woman in Ferelden. Possibly in the whole of Thedas, but I've never been outside of Ferelden." His smile was watery, but sincere and adoring, and Nevra wanted to hide from the weight of his regard, even knowing no Templars would separate them.

"I do not deserve you," he continued, "but I will spend the rest of my life learning to, even if it is only-"

She covered his mouth with her hand before he could finish his sentence, a superstitious part of her afraid he'd speak it into being. "You do deserve me, Ali. And you heard Riordan. This will not fall to you if he can help it. Keep hope, love."

Alistair's nose scrunched up indignantly before he pried her hand off. "I know what Riordan said, Nev, I just... Why does this feel like you're saying goodbye?"

Because I am. Because I already got my greatest wish. I've seen snow, and mountains, and the sea. I've slept beneath the moons and stars, and I've fallen in love, and I'm free. Because I forfeited my life at my Harrowing, and even He can't save me from an Old God's soul.

"I'm not, Ali. Just... just promise me you'll..."

"No! No, Nevra, you don't get to- I can't. I can't!" The look of panic on Alistair's face broke her heart; it hurt worse than deepstalker venom. His fingers gripping her shoulders were bruisingly tight as he near folded himself in half to look her in the eyes. "Don't ask this of me. I love you. I love you! Don't ask me to let you die for me like my mother and brother and Duncan and every other Warden-!"

His tears were flowing freely again, distress staining his cheeks with uneven blotches, and she forced herself to step away, breaking his hold on her. "I'm not asking as your lover, Alistair. I'm telling you as your Commander. If Riordan falls, I will deal the final blow." She was proud of how controlled her voice sounded; some small part of her still in the Circle smarted at any sign of emotion.

Alistair froze, stunned by her tone, and slowly straightened up. Oh, how she wanted to comfort him, to reassure him they'd both be alright, but she couldn't force her lips around the empty words. If they both lived, she would apologize beg for his forgiveness. Until then, one of them needed to step back, and she knew it had to be her.

"... You're not my commander, Surana. Riordan is." Alistair sounded colder than Nevra had ever heard him, and it sent a chill down her spine. "You do not command me, and as your lover, I will stay by your side. If that means we both die to Urthemiel, so be it. But I will not let one more person sacrifice themselves in my name."

[aeducanwrites]

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

———

9:19 Dragon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think I do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think he’s imprinted on you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. We will.”

[lesetoilesfous]

For DADW "Kiss in a dream" warden/morrigan

Ooooh this was delicious, thank you!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: f!Warden Surana x Morrigan

Characters: Eloren Surana, Morrigan

Tags: Fade shenanigans, unhealthy coping mechanisms, self destructive behaviour, demons pretending to be your lover

Rating: Mature

Eloren never sleeps easily. She hasn’t since she was six years old, and templars came banging on her mother’s door following reports of a girl with blue sparks at her fingertips. Ever since, every night, she wakes with a jolt as if she’s falling, terrified of what she’ll find when she opens her eyes.

It’s fine.

They’ve been trekking for three days out of Denerim, slaughtering what spawn they’ve found on their way. Even Zevran’s smiles are wearing a little thin with the sheer exhaustion of it all, and Alastair is visibly harrowed. Leliana and Morrigan are better at covering it, but Eloren doesn’t doubt that they too feel the weeping ache of overused muscles by now. She’s been avoiding Wynne.

The Fade is as familiar and cold to Eloren as it has always been: a land of shifting icy mists half obscured by cloud. As she treads down into the uneven landscape of her dreams, her bare feet prickle against the frozen floor. Her hands drift in front of her, more habit than fear these days, parting the clouds in trailing ribbons of smoke. 

She knows it isn’t her. Eloren thinks it even as the thing that looks like Morrigan smiles at her, gold eyes glittering with secrets. But she keeps walking anyway, until the thing that looks like Morrigan takes her into its dark, wiry arms, made strong by years of wilderness, burned brown by the sun.

The thing’s face twists into an expression of concern so unlike the real witch that for a moment even Eloren cannot lie to herself. “You seem tired.”

Eloren shrugs, running her fingers over the thing’s slender, muscular waist. Its skin is warm, and rough with years of weather, branched by stretchmarks and scars. “I’m always tired.”

The thing clicks its tongue, and long, calloused fingers cup her cheek. Eloren leans into its palm, but resists the urge to shut her eyes. She’s self destructive, not suicidal. She looks up into the thing’s eyes: sketched so exactly like her own Morrigan’s, with lashes thick and dark as smeared coal, bright against the vivid paint she wore in a band across her browbone and cheeks. The thing smirks, and that is like the Morrigan she knows. Eloren sways closer like a sapling in a gale.

“I know a remedy for that.”

The thing’s hand slips back into Eloren’s hair, scratching blunt fingernails against her scalp. Eloren shivers, and the thing slips its thigh between her legs, bending to press a kiss to the tip of her ear. “What say we truly tire you out, hm?”

Eloren’s hand tightens around the thing’s waist as it leans down to kiss her neck. Her other hand comes up to pull loose the leather tying up her lover’s hair, and she relishes the thick fall of warm weight against her forearm as she presses Morrigan closer. Her hands move to the fastenings at the back of Eloren’s robes, but Eloren stops her. “Kiss me.”

Again, she smirks, pausing before she tilts her head to murmur with laughter on her lips. “I should warn you. I bite.”

[garriante]

Catch up meme!

I was tagged by the wonderful @gucciorchid for this, thank you so much for tagging me!

Rules: tag as many people you want to catch up with/ get to know better and answer these questions!

Three ships:

Uh...

1: Shakarian - super cute couple and I love them

2: warden x Alistair - Alastair is a himbo boy and I love him

3: Danny x Rachel (Hawaii five-0) - I don’t think they’re over each other and love them a lot

Last songs listened to:

1: hopeless, train

2: 50 ways to say goodbye, train

3: Alejandro, Lady Gaga

4: of the night, Bastille

5: broken strings, James Morrison and Nelly Furtardo

As you can tell, I listen to a lot of train lol

Currently watching:

Hawaii five-0! I know I’ve been watching this for ages, I’m on season 8 now and I’m still obsessed with the show.

Currently reading:

I’m actually not reading anything atm? Which is unusual for me, I’ve usually got a book on the go or a fanfic, but I’ve got nothing right now.

How’s it going?

Pretty rubbish, to be honest. I’ve just gone into a full lockdown again, I feel pretty hopeless at this point because I’ve got nothing to do and everything keeps getting cancelled. I know it’s to protect my family and everyone in the south east of England, but I can’t help but feel hopeless at the moment.

Tagging: @nuclearvessel @misseffect @skyllianhamster and anyone else who wants to do this!

[dovalord123]

Grief Regret Acceptance

(Revised)

The night was cold as the Grey Wardens laid in their tents, struggling to sleep through the cold as the air that kept them awake and. Even in full armor, they shivered until sleep finally came. Torches shine bright orange and red around the camp for everyone to see. Some wardens huddled around fires to worm himself into sleeping. Guards patrolled, baring their own torches, making sure no one was sneaking about. Off the distance, one of the guards spots a man riding horseback directly towards the camp.

The Grey Warden readies his weapon, gripping the handle of his blade. The Horse Rider greets the Warden as a messenger for the Inquisition and he steps off his horse. The Warden offers him shelter from the cold night as the Horse rider hands him a letter bearing the insignia of the Inquisition, claiming they were for the Warden commander’s eyes only.

In the center of camp, the Warden Commander, aka the Hero Of Ferelden, observes a map of Thedas for the hundredth time. The map had specific points circled, but some were crossed with an X. No one could tell who or what exactly the Warden Commander was looking for unless she told them herself. The Warden guard makes himself known to the Warden-Commander has he enters, giving her the letter from the Inquisition, then leaving the camp to resume his patrol. The Warden commander wastes no time opening the letter, knowing that her beloved was currently occupied with the inquisition. She began to read:

Hero of Ferelden:

It is, with a heavy heart, that I must inform you of the tragedy that occurred not long ago.

I shall keep this letter brief and straight to the point.

During the siege of the Grey Warden fortress, Corypheus’s dragon attacked. In a near-death decision, I opened a rift into the fade in order to save myself, my companions, Hawke, and Alistair from falling to our deaths.

Before we could make it out, a fear demon had blocked our path of escape, and Alistair volunteered to cover us as “redemption for the Wardens involvement” he put it.

During our time in the Fade, Alistair openly admitted to the Wardens involvement with Corypheus.

The Grey Wardens have held their ceremony for Alistair, and are rebuilding their order with the help of the Inquisition as we speak.

It is unlikely that he has survived in the Fade for this long. I have attempted time after time to re-open another rift into the fade and rescue him, but it is much too complicated for me to write on this letter.

I shall send my fastest courier to you if any news of Alistair is uncovered.

Sincerely: The Inquisitor

The Warden-Commander finished reading the final words, her heart sank into the Fade itself. Tears dropped from her eyes onto the letter. Her fists clenched in anger. “Damn you, Alistair,” she said with a brief smile crossing her face. “Did you even think About how’d I feel? You selfless bastard” she choked on her own words.

Grief

Meanwhile, in Skyhold, The Inquisitor stood in her quarters. She pointed her hand out for the 20th time in the past hour. Her hand glowed dark green as she attempts to reopen a portal into the fade. Her hand crackles as the green aura grown in size. She shrieks in pain as the mark felt as if it were trying to turn the inquisitor’s hand inside out. “WHY WON’T YOU OPEN, DAMMIT!” she screamed as the pain was getting worse and worse. But the inquisitor did not stop until she felt her hand split open.

screams came from the Inquisitor’s quarters. Everyone in the War room heard them as Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine rush up stair after stair to investigate. Cullen attempted to open the door but it wouldn’t move because the Inquisitor locked it. Cullen gestures for Leliana and Josephine to stand back as he kicked the door off its hinges and into the floor. The three advisors are struck with horror in sight of the room before them. The Inquisitor sits on her knees, one hand gripping the mark that glowed green and sobbing in pain.

Cullen approaches and is suddenly paralyzed at the sight of the mark. The hand was glowing dark green, ooze flowed from what could be described as a gash, followed by Blood. Blood also stained other parts of the wooden floor, indicating the inquisitor had suffered the same experience more than once. “Get Solus, now!” Leliana and Josephine rush out of the room doing as Cullen instructed. The inquisitor turns to face Cullen, eyes red and swollen from all the tears flowing down her cheeks from both pain and grief. Cullen embraces the inquisitor, comforting her to the best of his ability. “Why?” she asked, “why did I have to choose?”

Regret

Alistair sits near a peninsula rock, exhausted and out of breath. He stares into the oblivion sky as it swirls into darkness. He felt like he had killed every demon in the fade three times over. But He couldn’t rest until the Divine arrives so that she may protect him and give him. Alistair shut his eyes for a moment, hoping to wake up in his bed when he reopened them, with his beloved right beside him. Suddenly, he heard his name being called.

The voice was female and was immediately recognizable by Alistair. He stood up, looking around, eyes wondering. Then he sees her. The Warden commander stood before him, a warm smile on her face. She extended her hand towards Alistair saying the words “let’s go home”. Alistair approaches the Warden commander as he slowly extends his hand. He knew it was a demon in disguise, he knew his decision would mean death, yet he did not care, he wanted the torment to end. Alistair freezes as he almost joins hands with the Warden Commander.

In a puddle of water, he sees the Divine from afar, watching in anticipation. Alastair unsheathes his sword and cuts the disguised demon in half. The Warden-Commander shimmers into a demon as it is cut in two. The Divine approaches Alistair. She begins to construct a ball of divine energy that protects Alistar, allowing him to sleep. “Not yet,” he says to himself as he begins to lie on the ground. “Not until I see her one last time”

Acceptance Defiance

[talesfromthefade]

Marina Amell x Alistair Theirin || SFW || 688 words

“Marina!” The shout echoes across the courtyard bouncing off the surrounding stone walls as Alistair charges forward towards the new arrivals just inside the gates weaving through and dodging passersby and onlookers without care or thought for how ridiculously childlike or indecorous his behavior might seem. He has eyes for no one and nothing else, but her. The hood she’d been wearing falls away as she leaps from her horse, long blonde tresses flying behind her as she too runs towards him. They meet halfway, a collision so hard it looks as though it must have hurt, but neither it seems can be bothered to care as the Warden mage lets out a soft squeal of surprise as her warrior compatriot and lover hoists her into the air, grinning and laughing as he spins them both round, before balancing her on his hips to draw her in for a kiss.

Really the whole display is indecent. Too personal and passionate to be so indiscriminately shared with such a wide and varied audience, but neither of them seem the least bit concerned, and Eloise for her part suspects that some of their visiting Orlesian guests are enjoying it. At the very least, Cassandra seems to be, though the brunette scowls and does her best to look busy trying to dismantle another practice dummy when she catches the Inquisitor’s gaze on her. Ellie smiles, shaking her head, and taking the opportunity to lead the horses to the stables to give the two Wardens some time.

“Ali,” Marina greets breathlessly with a smile, one hand gently coming up to cup her lover’s cheek.

“Maker, I’ve missed you,” Alastair replies shaking his head, stealing another quick kiss between his words.

“And I you,” the mage replies, slowly allowing herself to slide down her lover’s slightly taller body until her feet are on the ground once more.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you,” Alastair continues furrowing his brow a little as he pulls back a little to study her, hands still clasping her shoulders as though fearful if he should let go she might prove some manner of ghost or trick of the Fade and disappear. “But what are you doing here, Love?”

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun, now could I,” Marina teases with a grin, but rather than drawing out a laugh from him her lover’s slight frown only deepens. “I’m sorry,” she whispers softly, caressing his jaw with her long, delicate fingers. He’s been through much, likely far more than she’s had the opportunity to hear about yet, jokester though he often is, perhaps he hasn’t arrived at that point just yet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Alastair manages finally, brown eyes swimming with emotion and conflict. “Corypheus… The Wardens-” he stumbles, trying to find the words to express it all. “Maker, Clarel, she was- they were killing all the warriors, sacrificing them so they could bind demons to all the mages.”

“And you helped stop them. Saved those you could,” Marina nods patiently, hand drifting down to offer his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you to help.”

“I’m not,” Alastair blurts out, shaking his head violently. “If you had been… If Clarel had found you somehow…” he trails off with a shudder. “I couldn’t stand to lose you. Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through together,” he admits. “But Corypheus is still out there, and the Calling-” he begins worriedly.

“Can’t touch me anymore,” Marina confides softly for only her lover to hear, watching as he abruptly bites his tongue, eyes going wide.

“You-”

“I found it, Ali,” she nods with a small smile. “I found it. We’re free,” the mage confirms, only barely managing to hold back a second squeak in the last few minutes as Alistair whoops, scooping her up into his arms once more.

Fiona looks on from one of the library windows where several have taken to watching the scene below unfolding between the two Warden heroes who stopped the last blight, a small rueful smile ghosting across her face before she turns to take her leave.

[rickonwrites]

Tabris x Alastair

Alastair didn’t know about Nelaros, much less about the events surrounding her betrothal that led to her becoming a fellow Grey Warden. He confronts MC after their business in the Alienage concludes and her father insists they stay to dine.

Prejudices between elves and humans arise, as does the affect of MC’s relationship with Alastair when her family finds out about their relationship.

-

“Sooo… Betrothed, attacked by rapists, and murderer of noble heirs. Slaying the Archdemon can’t be as terrifying a prospect for you with that track record.”

Kallian sighed, usually finding comfort in her fellow grey warden’s humour, was finding tonight to be a notable exception. Throwing a furtive glance to check that Soris and her father were occupied with preparing for the impromptu dinner she threw a warning glare at her companion.

“Drop it, Alistair.”

“No, no, no. You don’t get away that easily!” He persisted, though, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the small mercy, he pointedly pitched his voice lower now. “You know, I was aware you were a rogue from the start. I was there when the captain of the guard dropped a few words in Duncan’s ear about you cutting a some purses in Ostagar, and I’ve certainly seen you smooth talk your way out of a number of messy situations. But,” and he punctuated it with a furrowed brow, “I never thought you would dissemble so well with your companions - let alone me!”

Tabris winced. “Now really isn’t the time, my father’s —”

“Travelling the width and breadth of Fereldan for days upon days together, and after baring my soul to you about- about Goldanna and

**TBC** 

[talesfromthefade]

Eloise Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford || SFW || 2406 words

“Ellie,” he ventures softly, one hand reaching out for her arm before hesitating halfway between them, uncertain whether his touch might be welcome. It has never been more so, but the young mage doesn’t know quite how to tell him so, watching sadly out of the corner of her eye as his arm drops before he makes contact. “Are you alright?”

“I-” she hesitates, biting her lip. “It’s foolish,” she mumbles softly, feeling a traitorous flush creeping up into her cheeks as she shakes her head.

“Tell me anyway?” The request and his expression, the desire simply to help in whatever capacity he is able, is so plain and earnest on his face telling him no seems suddenly far worse than the embarrassment of sharing the truth.

“Do you still love her,” the brunette asks softly before she can lose her nerve.

“What?”

“Warden Amell,” Eloise continues. “Marina. You knew her when she was still an apprentice, saw her become an Enchanter. ’A lovely woman,’ you said,” she reminds him.

“I-” Cullen considers frowning a little.

“I see,” Eloise nods, biting the inside of her cheek to fight down her tears.

“Ellie, wait,” he calls a bit desperately as she turns on her heel and flees the room. She doesn’t stop or look back, however until she’s reached the quiet attic alcove where Cole often resides. She doesn’t immediately see him, but trusts as she sits down in a lone chair in the corner that he will come- her desire to see him and her hurt calling out to him like a siren’s song. He appears at her sides seemingly between blinks, frowning sadly as he studies her.

“I need to be unseen, Cole,” she tells the spirit, before he can ask or say anything. There is, only one way to reach the safety and solitude of her chambers, and it will mean walking passed untold number of eyes- both friendly and entirely unknown strangers- through the great hall to get there. Any number of them staring at her unkempt and emotional state, any of them able to inform an inquiring Commander of where she has gone. “Can you help me.”

“Always,” the spirit nods without a moment’s hesitation. “But… Varric says sometimes it helps to talk about the hurts instead of trying to forget them-”

“I will,” Eloise nods in agreement. “But not yet.” It’s all too fresh just now. The young woman isn’t truly certain where she’d even begin relating it all to anyone else. “Please,” she pleads. “I just need to be alone for a while.”

“Alright,” he nods. “Take my hand?” She does, following beside him at a leisurely pace across the courtyard and through the hall until they’ve ducked behind the door and pause on the steps leading up to her room. They’ll look for her here eventually, of course, but not right away, not with no one having seen her head this way.

“Thank you, Cole.”

“Yes,” the spirit nods. “Thank you for letting me help.” Eloise doesn’t really know how the spirit feels about the gesture exactly, but she hugs him gratefully before turning back and making her way up the steps to the safety of her quarters and collapsing on her bed, grabbing and dragging a pillow into her chest and clutching it tight.

As ever the young mage feels like a fool, a child playing at knowing what she is doing- at being competent, an adult… she should have known better. Some part of her must have done. Cullen is a number of years older, but hardly past his prime and undeniably attractive on both a more superficial and a deeper more spiritual level. He will have had other loves and lovers before.

But it hurts, seeing the way he had lit up when Marina Amelia, the hero of Ferelden had walked through the gates of Skyhold, even if the other woman had made a very pointed beeline and public display of affection with her fellow and eagerly waiting warden Alastair. They are absolutely besotted with one another, she knows. Anyone with eyes could see it. That dopey grin of unadulterated happiness has not left Alistair’s face since her unexpected arrival, and Marina for her part, seems just as delighted, every bit as eager to catch up with him. From what the young mage has had the opportunity to hear about or observe herself, the former Warden Commander’s initial meeting with the leader of the Inquisition’s forces was… awkward.

They seem to have found their footing now, however, if the scene she stumbled upon with the pair side by side talking and laughing on a bench in the gardens earlier that afternoon is anything to go by. She pushes down a flare of jealousy rising up from the pit of her stomach at the thought. Marina is here to help them in their fight against Corypheus. The Inquisition cannot afford to turn down any assistance or advantage available to them. And it’s clear the other mage has no intention of straying from her lover.

That doesn’t mean she can’t have Cullen’s heart wrapped around her little finger, however. Warden Amell simply seems to have that effect on people. She is a stunningly beautiful and- Eloise reluctantly assesses-‘lovely’ woman. She’s no real right to be jealous or angry. Marina is no more responsible for her flawless ivory skin and long blonde tresses, than she for her plainer olive skin, dark brown locks, or scarred brow and cheek. More importantly, however fondly she’s come to regard Cullen there isn’t any understanding between them of any relationship besides their regular friendly chess matches and sometimes walks along the battlements trading news, reports, and occasional jokes and smiles. She’d never dreamed after what she survived in Ostewick that she might ever let a Templar- even a former one- so close. That she might allow herself to begin to fall for one. But more and more Eloise had found herself hoping…

It doesn’t matter anymore, she thinks defeatedly, burrowing her face into the pillow she’s been crushing against her and hugging tight, letting lose a muffled and frustrated shout. She feels the tears, hot and fat pouring out, beginning to soak the pillow, but doesn’t fight them anymore. Foolish, she thinks, scolding herself. To think that she could be happy in the midst of all of this. That she even deserves to be. That someone like him could ever…

A gentle series of knocks on the door interrupts her inner-monologue. The young mage stands, crossing the room to check her reflection in the mirror, brushing off tears with the sleeve of her robes and fixing the more flyway and wild strands of her hair, until she’s decided she looks- presentable at least for whichever member of her inner circle is calling upon her. Josephine, with another proposed meet and greet with some important noble or other perhaps, she muses as she makes her way to the door to admit the advisor. In her time with the Inquisition, particularly since accepting the role of Inquisitor, Eloise has become far better and more patient in the ways of the game than she ever was as a younger girl. Had she not suffered the misfortune of being 'cursed’ with magic, it’s entirely possible she would have proved everything her mother and father once hoped for as the next head of house Trevelyan, though she shudders to think what manner of suitors they might have proposed for her.

But it is not the young and bright Antivan woman who waits on the opposite side of the door. “Eloise,” Cullen starts softly as startled and wide hazel eyes meet his own amber ones, the young mage’s mind already frantic grasping for excuses, someplace else to quickly flee to. “I-” he hesitates, suddenly seeming to realize where they both are, the possible impropriety of his being her quarters, and blushing ever so slightly. “Could we talk? Please,” he asks gently.

She doesn’t want to. Doesn’t need to hear whatever excuse or apology he may have to soften the blow or attempt to soothe her bruised pride and ego. She’s grown sadly accustomed to not being anyone’s first choice. Even here in the Inquisition she knows Cassandra and Leliana had sought out Marina and Hawke to lead them all before a strange twist of fate had delivered her to them. Whatever it is he’s come to say, Eloise is quite sure she hasn’t hardened herself enough yet to hear. But she nods, not trusting her own voice yet where her throats feels like it’s swollen shut, and gently steps back to let him in.

He closes the door behind himself, but waits to follow her up the stairs, pointedly stopping near her desk far from the bed and her more personal effects. His hands glide for a moment, seemingly on instinct towards the familiar stance of resting on the pommel of his sword before he catches himself, and Eloise notices for the first time that he has taken the time between when last he saw her to shed most of his usual armor in favor of a more relaxed tunic and trousers. He’s still armed, because it wouldn’t really do to be caught off guard, but stops himself before he can rest in his sword as he so often dies, and instead allows one to travel up to run through his hair and rub the back of his neck. A nervous habit, she recognizes with some confusion, though she can’t imagine what he might be nervous about. She is human, yes. Grieving a bit for something she had no right or reason to dare hope for, but is he really so afraid she might not be able to handle his rejection? That she might allow it to affect things between them professional or make he or the Inquisition pay for her childish mistake?

“You asked me if I still loved Marina Amell,” Cullen begins finally, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, then presses forward. “The truth is… I don’t know,” he admits with a small frown. Eloise nods, mostly on instinct, even as her heart clenches, encouraging the other to continue. “Even now, it’s difficult to sort out how much of it was idolization and youthful infatuation on my part- perhaps hers as well. I think, perhaps I did- love her once. And I think-” he hesitates again, worrying his lip a little as he considers how best to proceed. “Maybe, when you love someone- really love them, that you always do, no matter what happens or however much time passes.”

Eloise looks away, first at the stone floor, before turning her gaze over his shoulder to the mountains beyond the balcony. She will hear him out, but meeting his gaze-those bright and burning amber eyes- seeing what can only be pity there is too much for her to bear now.

“But things change. Just as we all do,” he presses on, cautiously reaching out to take her hand and hold it between his own. “I read once somewhere that there are many kinds of love, but never the same one twice,” he smiles a little, the expression pulling a little at the small scar that rests above his lip, and Eloise does her best to keep her composure. “I didn’t think to find love again. For many years I wasn’t ready to, and many more I didn’t think I deserved to. I’m still not entirely convinced,” he admits truthfully, in a rather uncharacteristically vulnerable declaration of feeling that simultaneously breaks her heart and makes her long to hold and comfort him.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he continues, shaking his head. “We’re at war. These last few months, I’ve cherished every moment we have spent together, but I never really thought it was possible. Seeing the way you became upset about me spending time with Warden Amell this afternoon… it gave me hope,” the commander admits causing the young mage’s gaze to snap immediately back to his in utterly bewildered surprise. “Not that, that was my intention in speaking to and spending time with her,” the Commander adds hastily, a bit more like himself, or at least the side of him the young mage has seen more of in their stolen moments of peace and solitude together. “Is that wrong? To hope? Am I foolish to-” he begins, but Eloise cuts him short, rushing forward to close the gap between them and stopping his speech and train of thought as her lips crash into his.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing precisely and is entirely grateful when after a moment’ shock Cullen takes over, enthusiastically returning the embrace and kiss, arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. The young mage’s hands fly about searching and learning his body through the cotton of his tunic, before one comes to land over his breast, thrilling at the way she can feel the muscles his armor often hides, can feel his heart beating, hammering beneath her flattened palm. The other continues traveling, first across the expanse of his back to pull and hold him close, his neck to keep his lips pressed to hers, then finally tangling in his hair as his own larger hand has done in her rich brown curls.

“Ellie,” Cullen whispers breathlessly, smiling softly, and Eloise feels as though her heart is fit to burst.

“No, Cullen,” she replies finally, beaming and shaking her head when they break away ever so slightly to catch their breath. “It isn’t foolish.” Though perhaps they are, for dancing around this and one another for so long, she thinks fondly, mind still reeling that this can possibly be anything more than a dream.

“Maker El, I-” Cullen replies a bit breathlessly. He bites the inside of his cheek. Courage Rutherford, he thinks steeling himself, you’ve said everything but and she hasn’t thrown you from her quarters yet. Maker’s breath, but it’s only now occurring to him where they are, the impropriety of it all being alone together in her chambers. “You are-” he begins again, before shaking his head with a soft huff of amusement. He’s never been known for poetry. Short and direct, more than anything. “I have never felt anything like this,” he manages finally.

“Neither have I,” Eloise replies, unable to hold back the smile that spreads across her face, “but I like it.”