#warden x Alastair
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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 Iâll 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 thenâŠdid not) That he could have waited. That he didnât 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.
#Alastair x warden#Alastair x tabris#dragon age origins#dao#king Alastair#warden commander#i wish for the pinning#pretty please#dragon age#i usually keep alistair as a warden#but Iâm on this trend right now of what if#fic reccomendations#i need them for sanity#i donât wanna do my actual work#thanks#angst with a happy ending#angst with comfort
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Hero
An NSFW Dragon Age fic for kaijuburgers as part of the 2020Â @black-emporium-exchange | m!Cousland x Loghain | Read it on A03
Oren Cousland is drunk.
But not drunk enough.
Thereâs a serenity, surely, waiting at the bottom of a bottle that he hasnât found yet. And he is nothing if not determined to find it.
Stubborn determination has carried him this far, after all.
Heâs in the kitchens â 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.Â
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. âSorry. Didnât think anyone would be here. What are you doing up at this hour?â
The drunken detritus on the table should be obvious enough.Â
Oren lifts his wine glass carefully. Itâs still rather full. âCelebrating.âÂ
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.Â
Or, ex- fellow Warden. No one has bothered to explain if Kings get to be Wardens after all.
âWe won, didnât we?â Oren says, voice rough from the wine. âSuccessful landsmeet and all.â
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. âWhat do you intend to do with him?â
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. âYouâre the King now. I should think that deciding the fate of prisoners to the crown falls to you.âÂ
For the barest moment, Alistair looks old. Then he reaches across the table and snags Orenâs wineglass, draining whatâs left in three long swallows. âLoghainâs crimes were foremost against the Order. Youâve been our Warden Commander for the better part of a year. Doesnât matter that you were never officially promoted.â
âWeisshaupt might disagree.â Oren says drily, and pours Alistair another glass of wine.
âWeisshaupt can go bugger itself, for all the help theyâve been.â Alistair mutters. He swirls the wine in the glass, but doesnât drink. âItâs your call. Iâll stand by you, whatever you decide. I owe you that, at least.â
âPoor thanks, if you ask me.â Orenâs mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. âCouldnât you just shower me with riches and titles? Half-naked noble women?â
âI hear Gwaren needs a new Teryn.â
He gives Alistair a startled look even as his insides twist, unsure if itâs a joke or not. Alistair is rarely cruel, butâŠÂ
⊠things have changed.
Alistair holds his eyes for a moment, copper gaze unreadable before he grimaces and heaves a tired sigh. âSorry. Itâs⊠itâs been a day.â
âI know,â Oren swallows hard. â For what itâs worth, Iâm⊠sorry too.â
âIâm sorry⊠your Majesty.â Alistairâs brow quirks up, and the line of his mouth eases, just a little. Just for a moment.Â
Oren snorts, and clinks his wine bottle against Alistairâs wine glass. âIâm sorry, your Majesty.â
Alistair takes a drink, and the line of his mouth twists. âIn war, victory.â he says so quietly, it is almost to himself.
*
In the morning, when Oren wakes, it isnât 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.
Heâs not even sure how many he regrets, because heâs not sure how many he had â 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 Loghainâs crimes carried a particularly personal sting for Oren.Â
So he bathes, and changes into his cleanest uniform, donning a warriorâs full plate. Even strapping steel to his hips. He doesnât shave. His hands shake too badly to manage a blade, but the quarter-inch of stubble makes him feel unkempt â and the bloodshot eyes donât help â 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 heâd known since boyhood, watching him cross the length of his fatherâs hall, and silently begging to be noticed.
He hadnât been â not then.Â
But then, one year, there had been a kiss. And then another. And then it was more than just kisses. And Loghainâs yearly visits had become twice a year, and then, every few months, and then every month.
And Oren had thoughtâÂ
But then Loghainâs visits had ceased abruptly, and without explanation.
That had hurt.
But what came next hurt even worse.
Rendon Howe, Loghainâs right hand, had swept in and murdered Orenâs entire family.
And everything that had happened from then until now had been a blur of grief and betrayal and bloodshed.Â
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 theyâd barely spoken then. Loghain had kissed him breathless in the hall outside his room. And insideâŠ
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 Loghainâs fingertips across bare skin. The feel of his mouth curling into a smile. The taste of him. The mass of dark hair in Orenâs hands. The rumbling sounds of pleasure Loghain always kept locked tight in his chest.Â
It feels like a thousand years ago.
Everything has changed.
Everything. Â
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. Thereâs a sick sort of unease in his belly. Giddiness and dread and enough wine that heâs 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 Loghainâs ears only.Â
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.Â
There are benefits to being the Queenâs father, it seems, no matter oneâs crimes.Â
Loghain is sitting near the fireplace, with a large book open on his lap, dark hair pulled back into a neat tail. Heâs unarmed and unarmored, but Gwarenâs heraldic crest, a wyvern, done in gold thread, still winds down one of his shoulders.
Figures.
âLoghain.âÂ
Loghain looks up slowly, supremely unconcerned. One finger presses to the page, marking his place in his book. âHas Maricâs bastard decided whatâs to be done with me?â
Oren glares, hands curling into fists at his sides, though he refuses to rise to Loghainâs insult. âYour King,â he says instead, leaning heavily on the word, âhas sent me.â
âYou,â Loghain says, voice expressionless. He looks Oren up and down with a calm sort of intensity. And if he recognizes him â or remembers what they once shared â he doesnât acknowledge it. He tilts his head, inviting an answer. But the shadows shift along the sharp planes of his face, and all at once heâs too hard to look at â too imperious, and starkly beautiful, even in his defeat.
Oren looks away.
The silence between them stretches before Loghain speaks again. âDo you know they call you the Hero of Ferelden?â
Oren clenches his jaw. âNo one calls me that.â
âThey will.â He snaps the book on his lap shut. The sound is startling enough that Oren looks back at him. âThat should please you. You always did love⊠heroes.â
Orenâs heart gives a small, painful jolt.Â
âSo you do remember me.â
Loghain looks at him for a long time. And the world spins and spins, flickering between what was and what is.Â
âAt Ostagar you didnât⊠you didnât evenâŠâ
âWhat would you have had me do?â Loghainâs words are sharp, and his eyes even sharper.Â
Oren has no answer. Nothing that isnât childish or petulant. Thousands died at Ostagar.Â
Duncan died at Ostagar.Â
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 Loghainâs banners turning round, leaving them all to their fate. Thereâd been no sound ââ they were up too high. But Alistairâs 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.Â
The table at the center of the room is laden with food, mostly untouched. Loghain uncorks a bottle and begins to pour. âWine?â
Oren makes a sound of disbelief. âNo.â
âOriââ
âDonât call me that!â Oren roars. Rage rises up so fast it nearly chokes him. âMy family called me that. Before Rendon Howe had them slaughtered!â Â
He doesnât 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. Thereâs 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. âDid you know?â
Loghain doesnât answer, but his head tilts back slightly.
âDid. you. know.â Each word is as sharp as a slap, but itâs Oren who feels it. A bright broad sting across his heart. But he has to know. He has to.
âI did.â
Without hesitating, Oren smashes his forehead against the bridge of Loghainâs 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 doesnât look broken, but itâs already beginning to swell. âIdiot,â 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 theyâre both brain-damaged.
âOri,â Loghain starts.Â
âFuck you,â he says.
Loghain sighs. âWhy do you ask questions when you donât want the answer?â
âThatâs fucking retorical too.â 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.
âIs it broken?â Oren asks.
âProbably.â
âGood.â
Loghain narrows his eyes and Oren nearly laughs again, still a little dizzy. âYou donât headbutt someone in a fight.â
âI didnât realize we were fighting. I thought you were admitting to your part in the slaughter of my family.â
âNo,â 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. âYou were asking questions you didnât want answered.â
Oren wishes they hadnât spilled the wine. It would give him something to do besides trying not to look at Loghainâs bare chest.Â
âAlistair gave you the choice, didnât he?â
 Oren grunts, and picks at the grapes on the table. âWhy? Trying to seduce me into sparing your life?â
Loghainâs mouth twists into something too dangerous to be a smile. âNever had to seduce you before.â
Now itâs Orenâs turn to glare even as his cock gives a jolt  in response. It never took much from Loghain to get him hard. But heâs older now, and hopefully not so easily baited.
But â
âYour birthday was two days ago,â Loghain says softly.Â
Oren freezes. Even his heart stops beating, if only for a moment.
âEvery year I came you asked me for a kiss.â 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. âI never understood why. But I gave it to you.â
âYou never understood why you kissed me?â
âI never understood why you wanted to be kissed.â
Despite everything, Orenâs chest feels tight with a sudden longing. âI was raised on stories of you. The Hero of River Dane. The right hand of the King. You,â he says carefully, âwere like the sun.â
âMaric was the sun. He was the golden boy. I was only ever his shadow.â
âNot to me,â Oren breathes. âYou were my first.â
âI assumed,â Loghain says dryly.
Oren bites back a dozen sarcastic replies in an instant, but heâs tired, and his head hurts. And all that is left to him is honesty. âI was in love with you.âÂ
The sudden flare of anger in Loghain's eyes isnât bright, but cold and bitter. He reaches out, almost calmly, and grasps Oren by the throat.
Itâs so still and deliberate that Oren doesnât jerk away, not until Loghain begins to squeeze. He tries to claw Loghainâs 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 Loghainâs mid-section, but he uses the arm thatâs still mostly numb, so Loghain grunts, but doesnât let go.
âMurderer!â Oren hisses, thrashing ineffectually. âFucking coward!âÂ
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. âYou were never in love, Ori. You mistook hero worship for love, and now that youâve finally grown up and realized the world isnât made up of fairy tales, and happy endings, you want to blame me. Well go ahead.â
Oren grunts and tries to kick out, but Loghainâs weight is across his shins.
âOne 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 werenât willing to shatter to do what must be done.â His fingers tighten, mercilessly. âHeroes arenât kind. Heroes arenât just. They donât have that luxury.âÂ
Oren makes a choked sound as his breath falters. Tears run into his ears.
âAnd then heâll look at you the way you are looking at me now,â Loghain says quietly.Â
Oren manages to get a couple of fingers wedged beneath Loghainâs grip, and sucks in a thready breath. âThatâs... because youâre choking me, you fuck.âÂ
âOr maybe all you ever wanted was a hand on your cock that wasnât your own.â
Loghain leans in, the thumb of his free hand sweeping against Orenâs 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.Â
And wait.
And wait.
His eyes flutter closed.
The grip on his neck relaxes a little.
And Loghain shifts closer, breath warm and unsteady. âOri...â
The sound of his name in Loghainâs 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.Â
And Oren cannot help but press deeper into the kiss, even as his hand comes up to the broad expanse of Loghainâs chest, hovering, certain at any moment that heâll push Loghain away.
But then he feels Loghain fumbling first at his belt, and then at the laces of his breeches, and then Loghainâs hand is cupping his bare cock.Â
Orenâs head spins. He makes a sound that's a sob and a prayer, all harsh and broken and begging.
But his hand slips down Loghainâs chest, and starts working his trousers open. Loghainâs nearly entirely hard, and the shape of him in Orenâs hand is familiar and strange and overwhelming.Â
What is he doing?Â
He ought to squeeze the fuckerâs balls until they pop.
Loghain slots their bare cocks together, wraps them in his large hand.Â
And Oren makes a shuddery sound through his nose. Maker, itâs been so long...
âDid Maricâs boy not do this for you?â
âNo,â he manages. âFuck you.â
Loghain chuckles, the sound a low rumble. And Oren realizes heâs never heard him laugh.
And he wantsâŠ
Maker what does he want?
Loghainâs grip on his throat eases deliberately. âTake a breath,â he says.
Oren does. A full, sweet lungful, even though it hurts, and it hurts when Loghain grips his neck once again, clamping down.Â
It goes quick after that. Theyâre both too riled up to savor anything. Loghain twists his hand around the pair of them as Oren tries to thrust up. There isnât enough slick, but the sensation is still dizzying â sharp and insistent and demanding. Waves of pleasure rocket up Orenâs spine and radiate through his core. He grabs a handful of Loghainâs hair tugging him down for another kiss, until heâs thoroughly breathless and quite literally seeing stars.
Their cocks slide together, Loghainâs 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 thereâs a sudden slick of heat between them, and yes yesâ
He bows off the bed as he comes, thrusting hard into Loghainâs fist. Any sound he might make is choked out of him, and thereâs only a strangled silence and the quick sure sound of Loghainâs hand, as he guides Oren through his orgasm.Â
Then all at once the hand at Orenâs throat is gone, and Loghain shifts, bending, taking his spent cock in his mouth, sucking hard enough it feels like he may bruise.Â
Oren makes a startled cry, jerking bonelessly as the sensation rises, so sharp itâs almost painful.Â
But itâs gone nearly at once, and then Loghain is kissing him again, mouth tasting of copper and salt and sin.Â
A goodbye kiss.
They both know it.
âLoghainâŠâ Orenâs voice cracks. Broken, ragged thing. âFor the crimes you have committed against Fereldan, you will be put to death.âÂ
The room is perfectly quiet. As is Loghainâs expression. But he reaches down and brushes the backs of his knuckles across the faint stubble on Orenâs 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.Â
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.Â
*
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 Loghainâs 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 heâd been â and every inch a King.
In turn, Loghain looks like the man heâs 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.Â
âLoghain Mac Tir,â Alistairâs voice cuts through the silence. âFor 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.â
Nothing shifts in Loghainâs 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.
âL-LoghainâŠâ His voice is weak. Scratchy and half-broken from the bruises from Loghainâs hands that ring his throat. He coughs, nearly retching, and steps forward. âLoghainâŠâ 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. âI conscript you to the Wardens!â It feels like something tears, and he clutches at his throat, coughs again, and spits out blood. âLoghain Mac Tir, I conscript you to the Wardens.â This time at least, his voice is clear.
Stillness.
Silence.
No matter how long he lives heâll never forget the look on Alistairâs face.Â
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. âOut.â
No one moves.Â
âEveryone, out!â Alistair bellows.Â
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. âHave you gone mad?â he asks mildly.
âThe Wardens need men.â He answers Loghain, but looks at Alistair, pleading. âWhatever theyâve done... their crimes are erased once they are conscripted and take the joining.â
Alistairâs shoulderâs shift, a nervous sort of twitch like he wants to shake his head, but canât.Â
âIâm sorry,â Oren tells Alistair raggedly.
âI told you it was your decision, so Iâll stand by it.â A breath, and Alastair flings the sword to the ground in a clatter of steel, expression stony. âBut I wonât make that mistake again.â
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 Orenâs breathing. A single flicker of lighting arcs across the sky.Â
Oren closes his eyes, thunder in his ears. Rain sting the back of his neck, and slide beneath his collar. He doesnât realize heâs tipping over until he feels his knees slam into the wet cobblestones.Â
He feels Loghainâs 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 Orenâs breath comes easier.Â
âHe hates me now,â Oren says hoarsely.Â
âItâs me he hates.â
Oren shakes his head wearily. âIâve married him to a woman who doesnât love him. Bedded him to a woman who canât stand him. And now this.âÂ
Loghain snorts. âIf keeping his favor was so important, you should not have spared me.â
Oren feels something slide down the bridge of his nose. Tears, or rain. âWhy is throwing people away so easy for you?â
âYou mistake what is easy, for what is necessary,â Loghain sighs. âIâm not sure youâll make a very good hero.â
âUnlike you?â
Loghain takes a deep breath. âI am not so concerned with being good.â
âWell thatâs a fucking revelation.â Oren mutters.
Unbelievably, Loghain laughs. It isnât a cruel sound. Or a bright one. It is soft and strangely warm.
It is still raining heavily.
And Loghainâs arms are still around him.
Oren swallows hard. âWhy is it so easy to fall in love, and so hard to fall out of it?â
Loghain doesnât reply.
And he doesnât let go.
âI didnât spare you,â Oren elaborates after a moment. âYou may die in the joining. Or get promptly eaten by an archdemon if you donât. And the uniforms are itchy.â
âI consider myself unspared.â Loghain says solemnly.Â
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 canât be sure.
1/1 my tumblr writing masterpost
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The Elder Sister
Request: can I please request a Maggie (charmed) x sibling reader who goes to Tartarus instead of her and sheâs 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 Danteâs workshop, their sights trained on a singular goal, the release of Harry Greenwood.
Danteâs 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 theyâd 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, âWarden,â she said, her voice echoing through the small space as she approached the aggravated demon.
âYou will not imprison this witch within Tartarus.â
âAnd whoâll stop me? You pay when you cheat Dante.â
âIf it is payment you need, I will pay the price, I will go in her place,â 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, âThe Harbinger for her.â
~
Tartarus was hell, in all senses of the world, with its fire-y pit and the dragon guarding the cells, itâs 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 âcharmedâ ones. Her depressing thoughts echoed within her being as her body was wracked with pain from the scorpionâs 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.
~
Maggieâs hands shook as she handed the unassuming paint can to Dante. His ring crackled against the rim as he chuckled, âThis is the Harbinger all right!â
As he moved to claim the paint-can, Maggie pulled it away, âFirst, you have something that is ours. Harry and our sister. Return them and the Harbinger is yours.â
âFine,â Dante grunted as he unlocked the gates, âBut I canât guarantee theyâll be inâŠ. mint condition though.â
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 sistersâ 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, âNever do that again.â
Their sweet reunion was short-lived as a voice spoke aloud, âOh what a sweet reunion!â
Their heads swiftly turned towards the entrance as they saw Alastair Cain. âGood evening, everyone. You have something that belongs to me.â
~
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, âCaptus aqua. Captus terra. Captus aere. Captus ignis,â as a shield slowly formed around the fire-y demon.
âYou think a measly shield will hold me, witch?â 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, âGO! Get out of here! I canât hold him for much longer.â
âNo! Weâre not leaving you again,â Maggie said, desperation in her eyes.
âIâll always be with you, Mags. All of you. Now go,â 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, âThis. Is for your insolence,â 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, âAt least my sisters are safe.â
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 Alastairâs 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, âThank you for protecting us.â
âAlways,â 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.
âYouâre up!â she heard a chirpy voice say from the door. She opened her eyes, seeing Maggie, her youngest sister, her favorite.
âMags,â she whispered.
âI got you some hot chocolate. Itâs in your favorite mug too!â 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, âNever do anything like that ever again,â she said with a lump in her throat as tears welled into her eyes, âI wouldnât know what to do if I lost you.â
She looked at her younger sister with affection as she slowly pulled her into a hug, softly reassuring her sister that she wouldnât be parted from her, âMags no oneâs taking me away, not if I can help it. Theyâll have to claw me out of your grasp before that ever happens,â 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, âThis is where I belong. This is home.â
Taglist: @iobsessoverfictionalmen
#charmed 2018#charmedmagic#maggie vera & reader#Maggie Vera x reader#Maggie Vera#charmed reboot#mel vera#macy vaughn#tw. tartarus#witch!reader#elder sister!reader
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welcome to dadwc!! how about â why does it feel like this is goodbye? â 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."
#working title: alistair grows a backbone#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#alistair#alistair theirin#alistair x hero of ferelden#warden x alistair#nevra surana#f!surana
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Iâm once again deep in my feelings over Alastair and my canon warden, Mindel Cousland, even though itâs been about a year since Iâve 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 â€ïž you can see the full slightly AU timeline I wrote for them here.
âââ
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 Couslandâs 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 hadnât 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.
âDo we really have to stay for so long, Father?â 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 Fatherâs 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 sheâd come to consider a cross between tired father and cross teyrn, like he hadnât fully transitioned from one role to the other by the time heâd shifted his focus. Mindel had been said focus of that particular look since sheâd decided sheâd rather learn swordsmanship than politics; she didnât see the point when Cousland Castle was going to Fergus instead of her, and sheâd sooner fight a war single-handedly before she ran a teyrnir by herself.
âYes, pup, you have to stay the entire time,â Father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. âMaking connections with other noble families will be important when youâre older, even if you donât 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.â
âMaybe for Fergus,â she muttered, looking at her allergy-ridden brother in annoyance. âHeâs taking Highever, not me. I donât see the point in this.â
âHow about this,â Mother chimed in, ever the angel of patience. âYouâll be here the entire time because both your father and I have said you will. Understood?â
âYes mother,â 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 wouldnât have Thomas or Nathaniel at her side; to the best of Mindelâs knowledge, Arl Eamon didnât 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 arlessaâs scrutinizing stare.
âItâs good to see you again, Bryce,â Eamon said happily, walking over to Father and patting his shoulder. âA shame you couldnât make it a month ago.â
âAs much as Iâd wished to have been here, Eamon, you know how duty can call,â Father responded easily, giving him an easy smile. âMy congratulations on your wedding to the both of you. I trust my package arrived safely?â
âIt did,â Isolde said, clasping her hands together at the front. âAnd such a marvelous gift! Thank you so much.â
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 Nanâs 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 hadnât realized how much sheâd 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.
âMy word,â she tutted, and Mindel decided she hated her.
Mother just sighed wearily and shook her head, touching Fatherâs arm gently. âMight we be seen to our rooms, dear? It seems the long travel has caught up to our little darling.â
âOf course, where are my manners?â Eamon asked, shaking his head. âYou had to have had quite the trip from Highever. Iâll call for someone to show you to your rooms, and we can continue our discussion after youâve rested.â
âI appreciate it, Eamon,â Father said, guiding his family toward the servants that appeared a moment later. âAnd I apologize for Mindelâs manners. They seem to have slipped with her exhaustion.â
Mindel feigned shame and chewed her bottom lip. âI am sorry, my Lord. I donât know what came over me.â
âThatâs quite alright, my dear,â Eamon said kindly, and she nearly felt bad for interrupting. âYou go rest, and we shall see you all for lunch.â
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.
âMeetings are quite boring, arenât they?â
âBryce!â Mother smacked his arm and shook her head firmly. âWe cannot encourage impolite behavior just because you find it funny.â
âEleanor, sweetheart, I also cannot discourage the truth. Besides, poor Fergus was fighting a sneezing fit the entire time. Donât think I didnât notice, son.â Father smirked as Fergus finally let the sneeze out and knelt in front of Mindel. âYour mother has a point, however. Sometimes you have to sit through the boring things to get to the good stuff.â
âGood stuff?â Mindel shook her head. âI donât even know what you were talking about most of the time.â
âYou will, with time. Though between you and me, Eamon can talk for hours. I should be thanking you.â
âBryce!â Mother scolded, and Father laughed, reaching down to pat Mindelâs head.
âGet some rest since weâre here, Pup. You can explore the castle later.â
âYes, Father,â 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 didnât 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 brotherâs loud protests, and she made a mental note to look for someone with ginger hair when she woke up later.
âââ
âMindel, get over here this instant!â Mother shouted into Redcliffe Castleâs courtyard, and Mindel quietly giggled as she hid from her motherâs ire among the overgrown bushels of hay and corn, stopping for a moment to adjust the rope sheâd tied around the waist of her brotherâs trousers. She knew she looked ridiculous, drowning in Fergusâ spare dress shirt and having rolled up each leg of the trousers enough to look comical, but she was far more comfortable than sheâd been while wearing the dress Mother had chosen for her, so her pride could suffer a little. Besides, it was much easier to avoid Motherâs 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.
âItâs you!â 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.
âI donât think I know you,â he quipped. âI think Iâd recognize such a loud mouth if I did.â
Mindel huffed. âWell thatâs not very nice. Maybe you have the loud mouth.â
âDo you think I do?â
She touched her fingers to her chin. âNot as of yet,â she decided. The boyâs lips twitched up, and he finally left the puppies alone long enough to give her a proper bow.
âThen I appreciate it. May I know why you decided to shout at me, miss?â
She smirked and dropped into a quick curtsy, which probably looked silly without a skirt to actually curtsy with. âI saw you run by the door while I was in the main hall earlier. I didnât think Arl Eamon had any children.â
The boy looked startled, shaking his head. âI--no, Iâm not Arl Eamonâs child. Heâs just looking after me.â
âAnd why would he do that if youâre not his son?â
âMaybe he just has a good heart,â he said, which was honestly a fair point. âIâm Alistair. You must be Mindel Cousland, if you were in the hall yesterday.â He bowed again. âA pleasure to meet you, my lady.â
Mindel shook her head and sat on one of the barrels in the barn, patting a puppy that trotted her way. âCould you forego the formalities, Alistair? Theyâre getting rather draining.â
Alistair seemed hesitant. â...alright, but if I get busted for it itâll be your head.â
Mindel snorted and nodded. âI promise to take full responsibility for your lack of propriety, Alistair not-Guirren.â
âFor which I am eternally grateful,â 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.
âI have a mabari puppy at home,â she said after a moment. âHis name is Moose. Heâs about this little guyâs age, I believe.â
âMaybe younger,â he said, looking down at the pup. âThis one is a runt, so heâs a bit smaller than the rest. Heâs taken a shine to me, I think.â
âDo you think heâs imprinted on you?â
Alistairâs eyes widened, and he looked at Mindel like sheâd grown a second head. âI--no, thereâs no way.â
âAnd how do you know that?â she asked, tilting her head to the side. Alistairâs neck turned rose pink, and he just shook his head again.
âMabaris imprint on nobles and those worthy of it,â he said slowly, scratching the pup under his chin. The pupâs eyes closed at all the attention being given to it, while his brothers and sisters went to the mother to feed. The runt didnât seem inclined to move, even after both of them pulled away to let it crawl away. Rather, it curled tighter against Alistairâs stomach and began to snooze in earnest. Mindel chuckled quietly at the loud snores and glanced at the younger boy through her eyelashes.
âMabaris donât just imprint because someone is noble,â she said slowly. âIf that were the case, my brother and I would have several mabaris to our name. My entire family would, really. Theyâre smart dogs, you know. They can see into your very being to tell whether youâre worthy of their trust or not.â She hesitated. âAt least, thatâs what Nan said when we found Moose and he refused to leave my side.â
Alistairâs lips twitched up, and Mindel knocked her shoulder into his. âLucky me,â he said. âI get the runt. How ironic. He is a cutie though.â
Mindel grinned. âJust like you. What a perfect match.â
Alistairâs 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.
âââ
By the time the Couslands left Redcliffe, Mindel didnât 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; heâd pulled her aside one evening to thank her for spending time with Alistair, and Mindel had shook her head in response.
âI donât need to be thanked,â she had said. âHeâs a great friend! Do you thank people for being your friend, Arl Eamon?â
The arl had chuckled. âOnly when Iâm being particularly stubborn, I suppose. Still, accept my thanks on Alistairâs behalf. Maker knows he wonât say it himself.â
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. âI should thank him, actually. Is he in the barn?â
âHeâs in his lessons actually. Perhaps you two can talk afterward.â
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 Redcliffeâs boundaries, the night sky shimmering above. Mindel looked at Alistair, his awed smile doing something funny to her stomach, and rolled onto her side.
âYouâll write when my family leaves, right?â she had asked. âIt wonât be fun at home without you there.â
Heâd turned an interesting shade of pink. âI-if you want, Iâll write. Youâre a good friend, Min.â
âNot just good,â sheâd teased. âYouâre my best friend, and Iâm yours. Right?â
Alistair had smiled, rivaling the shine of the stars above. âRight! Best friends, I promise.â
Leaving Redcliffe was hard because of Alistair; Mindel didnât want to leave him behind. Father merely chuckled as she watched the castle disappear from the carriageâs 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.
âStill upset that youâd stayed with us in Redcliffe?â Father asked teasingly. Mindel narrowed his eyes into a glare, but it didnât stay long as she shook her head.
âNo, I suppose not,â she admitted. âAlistair is fun to be with, Father. Can we come to Redcliffe again soon?â
âIâll see what I can do, pup. Until then, youâll have your letters.â
âYeah. We will.â
#c: mindel cousland#r: forever this time#dragon age#dragon age origins#dao#warden x alastair#alastair x cousland#alastair x female warden#alastair therin#arl eamon#bryce cousland#eleanor cousland#fergus cousland#my wriring#my fic#my post#im posting this on mobile so iâll fix formatting later
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For DADW "Kiss in a dream" warden/morrigan
Ooooh this was delicious, thank you!
(If youâd 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 hasnât since she was six years old, and templars came banging on her motherâs door following reports of a girl with blue sparks at her fingertips. Ever since, every night, she wakes with a jolt as if sheâs falling, terrified of what sheâll find when she opens her eyes.
Itâs fine.
Theyâve been trekking for three days out of Denerim, slaughtering what spawn theyâve found on their way. Even Zevranâs 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 doesnât doubt that they too feel the weeping ache of overused muscles by now. Sheâs 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.Â
She knows it isnât 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 thingâs face twists into an expression of concern so unlike the real witch that for a moment even Eloren cannot lie to herself. âYou seem tired.â
Eloren shrugs, running her fingers over the thingâs slender, muscular waist. Its skin is warm, and rough with years of weather, branched by stretchmarks and scars. âIâm always tired.â
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. Sheâs self destructive, not suicidal. She looks up into the thingâs eyes: sketched so exactly like her own Morriganâs, 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.
âI know a remedy for that.â
The thingâs hand slips back into Elorenâs 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. âWhat say we truly tire you out, hm?â
Elorenâs hand tightens around the thingâs waist as it leans down to kiss her neck. Her other hand comes up to pull loose the leather tying up her loverâs 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 Elorenâs robes, but Eloren stops her. âKiss me.â
Again, she smirks, pausing before she tilts her head to murmur with laughter on her lips. âI should warn you. I bite.â
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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 donât think theyâre 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 Iâve been watching this for ages, Iâm on season 8 now and Iâm still obsessed with the show.
Currently reading:
Iâm actually not reading anything atm? Which is unusual for me, Iâve usually got a book on the go or a fanfic, but Iâve got nothing right now.
Howâs it going?
Pretty rubbish, to be honest. Iâve just gone into a full lockdown again, I feel pretty hopeless at this point because Iâve got nothing to do and everything keeps getting cancelled. I know itâs to protect my family and everyone in the south east of England, but I canât help but feel hopeless at the moment.
Tagging: @nuclearvessel @misseffect @skyllianhamster and anyone else who wants to do this!
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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 commanderâs 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, Corypheusâs 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 âredemption for the Wardens involvementâ 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. âDamn you, Alistair,â she said with a brief smile crossing her face. âDid you even think About howâd I feel? You selfless bastardâ 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 inquisitorâs hand inside out. âWHY WONâT YOU OPEN, DAMMIT!â 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 Inquisitorâs 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 wouldnât 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. âGet Solus, now!â 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. âWhy?â she asked, âwhy did I have to choose?â
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 couldnât 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 âletâs go homeâ. 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. âNot yet,â he says to himself as he begins to lie on the ground. âNot until I see her one last timeâ
Acceptance Defiance
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Marina Amell x Alistair Theirin || SFW || 688 words
âMarina!â 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 sheâd 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 Inquisitorâs 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.
âAli,â Marina greets breathlessly with a smile, one hand gently coming up to cup her loverâs cheek.
âMaker, Iâve missed you,â Alastair replies shaking his head, stealing another quick kiss between his words.
âAnd I you,â the mage replies, slowly allowing herself to slide down her loverâs slightly taller body until her feet are on the ground once more.
âNot that Iâm not thrilled to see you,â 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. âBut what are you doing here, Love?â
âCouldnât let you have all the fun, now could I,â Marina teases with a grin, but rather than drawing out a laugh from him her loverâs slight frown only deepens. âIâm sorry,â she whispers softly, caressing his jaw with her long, delicate fingers. Heâs been through much, likely far more than sheâs had the opportunity to hear about yet, jokester though he often is, perhaps he hasnât arrived at that point just yet.
âYou shouldnât be here,â Alastair manages finally, brown eyes swimming with emotion and conflict. âCorypheus⊠The Wardens-â he stumbles, trying to find the words to express it all. âMaker, Clarel, she was- they were killing all the warriors, sacrificing them so they could bind demons to all the mages.â
âAnd you helped stop them. Saved those you could,â Marina nods patiently, hand drifting down to offer his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. âIâm sorry I wasnât here with you to help.â
âIâm not,â Alastair blurts out, shaking his head violently. âIf you had been⊠If Clarel had found you somehowâŠâ he trails off with a shudder. âI couldnât stand to lose you. Not now. Not after everything weâve been through together,â he admits. âBut Corypheus is still out there, and the Calling-â he begins worriedly.
âCanât touch me anymore,â Marina confides softly for only her lover to hear, watching as he abruptly bites his tongue, eyes going wide.
âYou-â
âI found it, Ali,â she nods with a small smile. âI found it. Weâre free,â 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.
#marina amell#tales:marina#alistair theirin#dragon age#dragon age: origins#warden x alistair#alistair x warden#alistair x amell#da:o
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Tabris x Alastair
Alastair didnât 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 MCâs relationship with Alastair when her family finds out about their relationship.
-
âSooo⊠Betrothed, attacked by rapists, and murderer of noble heirs. Slaying the Archdemon canât be as terrifying a prospect for you with that track record.â
Kallian sighed, usually finding comfort in her fellow grey wardenâs 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.
âDrop it, Alistair.â
âNo, no, no. You donât get away that easily!â He persisted, though, and she didnât know whether to be grateful or not for the small mercy, he pointedly pitched his voice lower now. âYou 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 Duncanâs ear about you cutting a some purses in Ostagar, and Iâve certainly seen you smooth talk your way out of a number of messy situations. But,â and he punctuated it with a furrowed brow, âI never thought you would dissemble so well with your companions - let alone me!â
Tabris winced. âNow really isnât the time, my fatherâs ââ
âTravelling the width and breadth of Fereldan for days upon days together, and after baring my soul to you about- about Goldanna and
**TBC**Â
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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 realizesâ
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 isnât one of the other Wardenâs, heâs sure. But whoever they are, theyâll draw every darkspawn within a league if they keep up with that noise.
He grimaces at the thought. Itâs 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 â just in case â 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 isâ Â
âAnders?â 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. âHullo, Alistair.â
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.
âWhatâs going on?â Alistair asks.
âFoolishness,â Stroud answers curtly.
The bearded man makes a sound thatâs akin to a growl, and though he doesnât move, everything in his demeanor looks even more menacing.
Anders glances at him warily. âHawke and I have come seeking help, and have found the Wardens... less forthcoming than I remembered.â
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 youâre still enough of a Warden to sense that youâve 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.â
âCorpse?â 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 thatâs all.
Hawke â Alistair assumes â 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?â
Alistair kneels, and carefully pulls a hood-like fold of the blanket away from the figureâs face.
A woman.
And she'sâ
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 heâd 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 sheâd bitten a sour lemon, offering something absolutely ridiculous. What do witches know of Warden matters anyway?
The third time was horror. Heâd 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'sâ
He blinks.
Maker, sheâs lovely.
And clearly dying.
Sheâs 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. Sheâs 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 theyâre unfocused, drifting over him in listless patterns.
âHullo,â Alistair says quietly, fingers drifting towards the curls on her brow.
She doesnât respond.
"Youâd 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 wasnât asking.â He isnât shouting any more. His voice is low and mild. Almost pleasant. Conversational. âYouâll do it. Or I'll kill you.â His hand raises with that same, slow deliberateness, and fits itself around the collar of Stroudâs shirt. " You. Specifically. And I promise it won't be quick, or kind."
âThreatening a Warden with death is not particularly effective,â Stroud says with a raised brow. âAnd you are outnumbered. Badly.â
Hawke chuckles darkly through his teeth. "Am. I?â
Stroudâs eyes narrow, and Alistair can feel his heart rate pick up in response to that look from his Warden-Commander. Every time heâs 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 Alistairâs neck.
Double fuck.
He shifts his body so the bulk of him is directly above the girl. If it comes to a fight heâll 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 doesnât give an inch, and neither does Stroud.
But Anders is the bridge between both worlds. âSheâs a mage, Stroud,â he offers to the silence. âYou know what that would mean to the Order.â
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 beâŠ
Butâ
âNo,â Stroud shakes his head. âIf I was that interested in a mage, Anders, Iâd just insist that you stay where you belong.â
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,â Hawke warns quietly.
âThe joining is not a cure, Anders,â Stroud says. He ignores Hawke, though his voice is noticeably strained. One hand casually spans his middle. âI would have expected you of all people to know that.â
âItâs a chance,â Anders insists, stubborn as ever.
"Not for her,â the Warden Commander says.
Thereâs 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 â first at Anders, then at Stroud, and then at Anders again. He jams his dagger back into its sheath, rogue-quick, and grabs Stroudâs 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 â mostly from Hawke, describing in detail his plans for Stroudâs entrails â and Alistair winces. Not at Hawkeâs descriptions which seem anatomically improbable, but at the damn noise. Noise draws the attention of darkspawn, as does the scent of blood. And thereâs quite a lot of noise right now, and quite a lot of blood.
Despite all that, Alistairâs 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 toâ
"We'll do it," Alistair says all at once, the words so hurried the syllables are all pressed together into a single sound. "Weâll do it,â he says again. âAnders is right. We can help her. We have to.â
Hawke and Stroud both freeze, varying levels of surprise on their faces.
Then Stroud's expression sharpens. âAlistair.â
âWe have to,â Alistair insists, gesturing helplessly. âPlease. Sheâsââ
âYou had your chance to lead,â Stroud interrupts tersely. âNow you must follow.â
Alistairâs brows shoot up. Itâs the truth, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. He hadnât wanted command. He hadnât 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 fatherâs jaw, square-set like all the old Kings of Ferelden. Maybe thatâs why itâs so hard sometimes to bend.) âPerhaps,â he squares his shoulders and takes a breath. âBut Warden Commander or no, youâve not seen half of what I have as a Warden.â
Stroud's expression remains steely.
He raises a single black brow.
âWe can help her,â Alistair insists. âWe have to at least try.â He scrubs his hand through his hair, feeling panicky. âYou donât understand. We wouldnât have ended the fifth blight so swiftly without the mages. You donâtâ youâve no idea what it was like to fight theâ Well. At Denerim. Or Amaranthine. And we havenât yet regained even a third of what the Order lost at Ostagar. We need every Warden we can get. Every last one,â he glares up at Stroud. âEspecially her,â Â he says as firmly as he can. âWe need her. So we are going to help her.â
There is a stunned sort of silence.
Anders shifts back and forth, expression unreadable.
Stroud pulls himself from Hawkeâs 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. âMage or no, I am not in the habit of making people suffer needlessly.â Stroud looks at Alistair pointedly.
âMe neither,â Alistair glances down at the girl. âBut weâre the only one's who can save her.â
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. âDo you have any idea what youâre doing," he asks mildly.
Alistair grins reflexively, all nerves no humor. âNot the least little bit.â
Stroud is silent a moment more, then he scrubs a hand across his face as if exhausted. âSheâll not survive it.â
It is no different than what heâs said before, but now there is a gentleness in Stroudâs voice that makes Alistairâs 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. âFine. I conscript her. Itâs done.â
And with that, the girl belongs to the Wardens.
âThank you,â Anders says after a quiet moment, and sets a hand on Hawkeâs shoulder, forearm across his chest as if to offer a protective embrace.
The anger in Hawkeâs expression dissolves nearly instantly, and he sags into Andersâ touch. Itâs 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.
âYou'll leave immediately,â Stroud says crisply, focusing back on Hawke and his companions.
âI can take them,â Alistair offers. He goes to stand, but his knees sort of lock up. He doesnât want Stroud and Hawke to have the opportunity to knife each other, but he doesn't want to leave her, more.
âIâll take them,â Stroud says firmly. âIâll not leave Hawke alone with any of my people. Besides, the girl is your responsibility now.â He gives Alistair a meaningful look. âMera,â he calls to another Warden over his shoulder, not looking. âYou have command.â
Ever the antagonist, Hawke moves to block Stroudâs path.
âI am not leaving her.â
âWe said sheâd take the joining, and so she will,â Stroud says, voice cold. âThis is Warden business now. And you have no place here.â
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 girlâs 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.
âKeep. Bethany. safe.â Every word is a command, bitten in half with anguish and lined with despair.
No matter if the Wardenâs succeed â or not â 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. âI will. I promise.â
***
The black draught is a foul concoction. Dark as tar and nearly as thick, the potion smokes faintly and smells like a Darkspawnâs hindquarters. If memory serves, it tastes just as bad, too.
Alistair has overseen dozens of joinings, but itâs 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. Â
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 â look at him â and smile.
He raises the chalice, careful not to spill, and takes a breath. âJoin us in the shadows where we stand vigilant,â he begins. âJoin us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworned. And should you⊠should you perish,â Alistair clears his throat to mask the tremor in his voice, âknow that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And know that one day... we shall join you.â
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. âDrink?â 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.
âPlease, drink.â
Maker if she is beyond even thisâŠ
âYou have to drink. Please.â
Her eyes crack open a little. Theyâre nearly colorless now, pupils fixed and staring.
âPlease, BethanyâŠâ
She swallows.
Once.
Twice.
âVery good.â Tears prickle at his eyes, and he wipes at her mouth with the hem of his tunic. He tries to smile, but canât manage it. His eyes dart to the pulse point beneath her jaw. âThatâs very well done.â
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 â 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. Heâs 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 â loved her â 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 Wardenâs 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 â 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 yetâŠ
It doesnât 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 wouldnât instantly expire from the draught, the remaining Wardens had moved as swiftly as they could, hoping time and distance would mask Bethanyâs scent from the darkspawn.
Alistair had carried her. Slung across his back like a rucksack. Still, and feverish, and unsettlingly light. Sometimes he couldnât hear her breathing over the sound of his own heartbeat. So heâd run his thumb over the pulse points of her wrists, searching. Searching. Able to breathe again when he found her heartbeat â light and erratic, but there.
Itâs still there.
The Wardens make camp for the night. Cold food and no fire. They canât risk it until theyâve 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 theyâd pressed on for a few more miles, but Mera had ordered him to rest â foolish to wear himself out entirely.
And he knows sheâs right. If it came to it now, heâd be slow and sloppy in a fight. Maybe get Bethany killed. Maybe get them all killed.
Maker, he hadnât 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.
Theyâve no spare bedding â no spare anything, really â 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 isnât the first time heâs slept on naked stone and it wonât be the last, though this time he gets little in the way of sleep. He canât. Heâs too wound up.
Bethany⊠She isâ
Not dying. Not dying.
âfragile 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. Thereâs 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 sheâs 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 Wardenâs waking.
Alistair is a wreck. Heâd 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 heâs 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.
***
âSheâs not dying,â Alistair says firmly, but canât help but wring his hands as he says it.
âAye,â Warden Runsk sighs heavily and pats Alistairâs back mechanically. âYouâve said it a hundred times. Not sure you have anymore say in the matter now, as before. Sheâs had two days like this. Sheâll not last a third.â
She canât take any real food ââ the risk of choking is too high ââ 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. Sheâs visibly lost weight, the bones of her wrist are sharp and sparrow-light. But the blackness of the taint has slowed itâs 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.
âIâve heard of someone lasting five,â Alistair mutters stubbornly.
Runsk shakes his head, unconvinced. âThe Order is nothing if not half make-believe.â
âBut itâs working. Sheâs not dying.â
âAye, I know.â 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, youâd think heâd never forget.
Once, heâd 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 â lonely work â but that was life, wasnât it? And at least the animals were never cruel to him. And heâd always slept with the runts and hand-fed them so theyâd never be culled. Heâd been⊠resigned. Happy enough, heâd supposed.
But then heâd 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 Circleâs Chantry.
Then came the Wardens. And Ostagar. And the Landsmeet â heâd 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. âHello?â
Brown eyes blink open, then promptly close again.
And Alistair feels the little bubble of relief fade abruptly. âYouâre not dead,â he says in a rush of breath, jaw tightening in reflex.
Thatâs true at least. Whatever she is, she isnât 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 doesnât quite manage.
Her eyes alight on him briefly before she turns her head, searching. âGarrettâ?â Her hand stretches out, distressed. Flailing in the empty air. Searching.
âOh,â Alistair blinks, surprised by the jealousy that twinges through him absurdly. Itâs faint as an echo behind the relief, but there. So stupid. He swallows it back. âWas that the shouty one with the terrifying⊠and, ah⊠ rather⊠â He stumbles, searching for a word to describe Hawke that isnât violent or bloodthirsty. Instead he gestures to his own chin. âUm⊠beard?â
The girl makes a pained noise that lances through him, and a credible attempt to sit up.
âHey now, none of that,â Alistair presses her back down before she can hurt herself. âYouâve been out for three days. Stroudâ that is, the Warden-Commander wasnât⊠was sure you wouldnâtâ Well. Youâre not dead.â He says again firmly, squinting at her as though she might change her mind about it at any moment, though he knows thatâs not how the joining works.
âWhere is my brother?â The words come out like a shaky rasp, all jagged-edged with dread. Sheâs so weak she has to breathe after each one.
Oh.
Of course.
âHe was your brother then?â Alistair hopes he doesnât sound as relieved as he feels. Heâs not sure if itâs easier to lose a brother than a lover â never having had much in the way of either â but he canât say he isnât glad thatâs the way of it.
Not that he has any right to be glad that â
âWas?â Â 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 â the world's most monumentally thoughtless arse â 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. âNo no no, hey. Heâs not dead. Stroud took some men to escort them back to the surface.â He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and sees her eyes follow the gesture, jittery with adrenaline. âNever should have been this deep. Surprised any of them made it out in oneââ She flinches and Alistair wants to bite off his tongue.
Damn.
Maker, heâs doing none of this right.
He wipes sweating palms on the backside of his breeches.
âWell, hmm.â He takes a breath and forces his voice lower. Softer. Steadier. âYou were lucky you brought a healer. Luckier still that the healer was a Wardenâ is a Warden,â he corrects with a frown. âYou never really get to leave the Order, after all.â
âLucky?â 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 didnât choose this. She didnât 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.
âWhat do you remember?â 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 doesnât move.
Always start with the easier questions.
âWhatâs your name,â he asks instead.
She blinks at him through the tears, sticking her hand out automatically, as Alistair tries not to be thoroughly charmed. âBethany Hawke.â
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.
âAlistair,â he takes her hand, and his thumb brushes across the top of her knuckles, a tiny show of affection he canât quite stifle. âWelcome to the Ferelden Wardens.â
#Alistair Therin#bethany hawke#alistair x bethany#bethistair#dragon age#my fic#sunshine in the dark#part 2#how alistair fell in love with bethany hawke
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Eloise Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford || SFW || 2406 words
âEllie,â 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 doesnât know quite how to tell him so, watching sadly out of the corner of her eye as his arm drops before he makes contact. âAre you alright?â
âI-â she hesitates, biting her lip. âItâs foolish,â she mumbles softly, feeling a traitorous flush creeping up into her cheeks as she shakes her head.
âTell me anyway?â 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.
âDo you still love her,â the brunette asks softly before she can lose her nerve.
âWhat?â
âWarden Amell,â Eloise continues. âMarina. You knew her when she was still an apprentice, saw her become an Enchanter. âA lovely woman,â you said,â she reminds him.
âI-â Cullen considers frowning a little.
âI see,â Eloise nods, biting the inside of her cheek to fight down her tears.
âEllie, wait,â he calls a bit desperately as she turns on her heel and flees the room. She doesnât stop or look back, however until sheâs reached the quiet attic alcove where Cole often resides. She doesnât 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 sirenâs song. He appears at her sides seemingly between blinks, frowning sadly as he studies her.
âI need to be unseen, Cole,â 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. âCan you help me.â
âAlways,â the spirit nods without a momentâs hesitation. âBut⊠Varric says sometimes it helps to talk about the hurts instead of trying to forget them-â
âI will,â Eloise nods in agreement. âBut not yet.â Itâs all too fresh just now. The young woman isnât truly certain where sheâd even begin relating it all to anyone else. âPlease,â she pleads. âI just need to be alone for a while.â
âAlright,â he nods. âTake my hand?â She does, following beside him at a leisurely pace across the courtyard and through the hall until theyâve ducked behind the door and pause on the steps leading up to her room. Theyâll look for her here eventually, of course, but not right away, not with no one having seen her head this way.
âThank you, Cole.â
âYes,â the spirit nods. âThank you for letting me help.â Eloise doesnât 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 Alistairâs 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 Commanderâs initial meeting with the leader of the Inquisitionâs 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 itâs clear the other mage has no intention of straying from her lover.
That doesnât mean she canât have Cullenâs 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-âlovelyâ woman. Sheâs 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 sheâs come to regard Cullen there isnât 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. Sheâd 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 hopingâŠ
It doesnât matter anymore, she thinks defeatedly, burrowing her face into the pillow sheâs 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 doesnât 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 everâŠ
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 sheâs 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 'cursedâ with magic, itâs 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. âEloise,â Cullen starts softly as startled and wide hazel eyes meet his own amber ones, the young mageâs mind already frantic grasping for excuses, someplace else to quickly flee to. âI-â he hesitates, suddenly seeming to realize where they both are, the possible impropriety of his being her quarters, and blushing ever so slightly. âCould we talk? Please,â he asks gently.
She doesnât want to. Doesnât need to hear whatever excuse or apology he may have to soften the blow or attempt to soothe her bruised pride and ego. Sheâs grown sadly accustomed to not being anyoneâs 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 heâs come to say, Eloise is quite sure she hasnât hardened herself enough yet to hear. But she nods, not trusting her own voice yet where her throats feels like itâs 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. Heâs still armed, because it wouldnât 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 canât 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?
âYou asked me if I still loved Marina Amell,â Cullen begins finally, Adamâs apple bobbing as he swallows, then presses forward. âThe truth is⊠I donât know,â he admits with a small frown. Eloise nods, mostly on instinct, even as her heart clenches, encouraging the other to continue. âEven now, itâs 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-â he hesitates again, worrying his lip a little as he considers how best to proceed. âMaybe, when you love someone- really love them, that you always do, no matter what happens or however much time passes.â
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.
âBut things change. Just as we all do,â he presses on, cautiously reaching out to take her hand and hold it between his own. âI read once somewhere that there are many kinds of love, but never the same one twice,â 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. âI didnât think to find love again. For many years I wasnât ready to, and many more I didnât think I deserved to. Iâm still not entirely convinced,â 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.
âYouâre the Inquisitor,â he continues, shaking his head. âWeâre at war. These last few months, Iâve 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,â the commander admits causing the young mageâs gaze to snap immediately back to his in utterly bewildered surprise. âNot that, that was my intention in speaking to and spending time with her,â 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. âIs that wrong? To hope? Am I foolish to-â 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 doesnât know what sheâs doing precisely and is entirely grateful when after a momentâ shock Cullen takes over, enthusiastically returning the embrace and kiss, arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. The young mageâs 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.
âEllie,â Cullen whispers breathlessly, smiling softly, and Eloise feels as though her heart is fit to burst.
âNo, Cullen,â she replies finally, beaming and shaking her head when they break away ever so slightly to catch their breath. âIt isnât foolish.â 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.
âMaker El, I-â Cullen replies a bit breathlessly. He bites the inside of his cheek. Courage Rutherford, he thinks steeling himself, youâve said everything but and she hasnât thrown you from her quarters yet. Makerâs breath, but itâs only now occurring to him where they are, the impropriety of it all being alone together in her chambers. âYou are-â he begins again, before shaking his head with a soft huff of amusement. Heâs never been known for poetry. Short and direct, more than anything. âI have never felt anything like this,â he manages finally.
âNeither have I,â Eloise replies, unable to hold back the smile that spreads across her face, âbut I like it.â
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