[fanfic] [Jack Jeanne] Five things Mutsumi Kai couldn’t say in public (and one he absolutely did)
Title: Five things Mutsumi Kai couldn’t say in public (and one he absolutely did)
Date: 23/9/23
Fandom: Jack Jeanne
Genre: Fluff
Ratings/Warnings: One mention of oral sex. Spoilers for the Kai/Kisa routes and some references to their versions of Sissia of the Central Kingdom.
Summary: "There are many things I can't say here". The words are spoken nevertheless, in various different places.
i.
Kai must admit, solo living has its perks. Grocery shopping will never not be minor torture, but the space is his own, the decor is his own, and—perhaps the best thing of all—he gets to share it with Tachibana sometimes.
She’s sprawled peacefully next to him on the second-hand couch, hands wrapped around her mug of tea. Something of her sharpness softens behind closed doors with him, the lifting of a jeweled mask. To the world, Tachibana Kisa is still the latest boy wonder of Univeil, but here she doesn’t have to pretend. It is a reprieve he is all too glad to give.
“How’s the tea?” he asks, nudging her knee.
“Heavenly," she breathes. "Your fans have good taste. And those cookies you bought go really well with it.”
“I agree. But I’d say you’re still the sweetest thing in this room.” Tachibana flushes as pink as her hair, and Kai thinks—not for the first time—that solo living really does have its perks.
ii.
When the curtains have closed and the applause has faded, Tachibana comes to his changing room with a bouquet, eyes shining like stars.
“Congratulations, Kai-san. 52 Hertz was—you were amazing. That monologue had the audience in tears.”
Take your flowers where you get them, Kuro has told him. He doesn’t get it (he thinks), but these are easy enough to handle. “Thank you. I owe that to you, really.”
“Me?”
“You. 52’s loneliness, their desire…it felt so much like mine. Before, it would have drowned me.” Kai pauses, wiping the last streaks of makeup from his face. “But meeting you changed that. You showed me there was no shame in wanting some things for myself.”
She looks back at him with such tenderness his chest aches. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll join us for coffee. After I find a vase for these.” He takes her hand and squeezes it. “I’m glad you came today, Tachibana.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she says, squeezing back.
iii.
“A…’Jack Jeanne’?”
Tachibana nods. Quartz is restaging Sissia for her graduating term. She’s reprising the lead role. “Neither fully masculine nor feminine. I think…I can do it. We can pull it off.”
He regards her in silence—the hard eyes, the white knuckles, the stiff-as-a-board shoulders. “Something’s still bothering you.”
“I thought doing this would be…easier. For my juniors, maybe for myself down the line. Now I’m not so sure.” She sights, the weight of three years of subterfuge suddenly plain on her face. “Will I have to keep pretending even after graduation?”
“Tachibana…”
The anxiety has stopped her ears, though not her tongue. “And what if others can’t accept the truth? How would the rest of Quartz react if they knew? Some days it feels like I’m forgetting…who am I, really—”
“Tachi—Kisa. Look at me.” Her name slips from his mouth gently, natural as air. She looks up, eyes wide, and. Oh. He would call her name again, a thousand times over, for the love of that gaze.
“Kai—”
“I’m here. Just breathe for a minute.” He wraps his arms around her, and gradually, she leans into his chest, the tension throughout her body easing. “You know how far you’ve come for your dream. Trust that you can see it through with the rest of the class.”
“What if I’ve made the wrong choice in the end?” she whispers, and it damn near breaks his heart.
“Then you won’t deal with it alone.” He leans back, cupping her face in both hands. “You are their Jack Jeanne—but I am your Jack Ace, Kisa. No matter what happens, I will never turn away from you.”
Tomorrow will be a time for new strength, resolve renewed. But tonight, there are simply two young lovers, holding fast to each other in the starless night.
iv.
Clothes lie strewn like fallen blooms all the way to Kai’s bed, where he is running his hand down Kisa’s naked frame with something akin to worship. His gaze burns, yet every kiss, every touch is careful, restrained. Distant. She reaches up and tugs gently on his ear.
“Kai,” she chides him affectionately, “I’m not going to break, you know.”
“I know. But I keep thinking…” His voice drops to a pitch less heard and more felt in the bones. “I want you so badly right now it scares me.”
“I trust you. More than anyone. So...” She guides his hand lower, to a place of proof. He flushes. It’s beautiful how the line of neat bruises below his collarbone turn even darker. “…Please don’t stop at the good part.”
He huffs in laughter at that. “Well. Who am I to refuse?” Then Kai ducks between her thighs in a single fluid motion and suddenly Kisa can’t think about anything else, anything at all.
v.
A spring shower takes them by surprise on Mt. Oodate, while they're seeking out winter plum blossoms. Kisa and Kai make a run back to the city, but they're soaked all the same. She nearly turns an ankle on the slick ground.
"Hold on to me." He sweeps her into a princess carry, splashing through Tamazaka's streets as it awakens around them. She loops both arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder, trusting him to keep them both upright.
(Under his coat he smells a lot like sun-dried laundry, and a little like the church frankincense. More and more, she thinks of it as the scent of home.)
The town church looms into view. Kai ducks under its eaves, setting her on her feet before staggering back, sliding down onto the damp stone with his back to the great wooden doors. For a moment, they stare at each other—hair dripping, cheeks flushed, raindrops gleaming on every inch of bare skin—and burst out laughing.
"Not…quite how I expected this to go," He says with a wry shake of his head. It's cold, but at least the rain is subsiding.
"Same. But you're soaked! I think I have a handkerchief...somewhere in this coat...no, not that pocket…ah, here!" It’s only when she turns back to him that she realises he’s down on one knee, holding a ring, a look in his eyes that takes her breath away.
“Kisa,” he says, voice low and hopeful, “will you be my Aljeanne for the rest of my life?”
“…Of course I will,” she murmurs, voice barely audible below the patter of the rain around them. Then louder, as she launches herself at him: “Yes!”
Above them, the clouds make way for daybreak. The night is at an end, and all things may bloom.
vi.
The church is full of children.
The little ones from the children’s home run giggling through the pews, joy uncontainable; those who were little once are catching up more sedately with old friends. Someone is already sobbing into their monogrammed handkerchief.
(Ohtori, bless him, has mellowed tremendously in the intervening years. Though Univeil is far behind him now, his future as a character actor of moderate renown lies ahead.)
Kai stands unnaturally still before the altar, as if any sudden move might shred his tuxedo. Kaidou had sprung the fitting on him, paid for the whole thing as a wedding gift, and refused to be refused. Fumi—rival, colleague, best man—nudges him discreetly.
“Stop fidgeting, man.”
“I am not fidgeting.”
“The hell you’re not. Also, that’s my jacket you’re plucking at.”
The bridal march starts up. Ohtori cries even harder. And then—
Kai hasn’t had cause for tears in a while, but Kisa is a vision like no other—and then a blurry mirage like no other, advancing, nevertheless, toward him. She takes his hand and squeezes it—once, twice, three times.
The priest, who knew Kai as a skittish scarecrow of a boy, beams at them both and begins his speech. The couple are only half listening, leaning gently toward each other, seeking support and to support.
“—and do you, Mutsumi Kai, take Tachibana Kisa…” Ah. Finally. Kai turns to his bride and smiles, pretending not to notice how she’s starting to tear up along with him. He takes a deep breath and speaks with solemn conviction, the words nearly drowned by the congregation’s cheers.
Tonight, your arms whisper
their secrets to mine.
In lieu of tongues, our hands intertwine;
Your thumb sighs
at the edge of my face,
and my arm hums
a lullaby round your waist,
Let your heart
dictate to my ear
the only things I need
to hear.
Title: A Greater Demand
Date: 17/1/15
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: AU/Fluff
Ratings/Warnings: Dragon Age (c) Bioware 2009, 2015. The clumsy beginnings of some Adaar/Cassandra.
Summary: Spoilers for Iron Bull's personal quest. AU fixing ahead.
.
.
.
With an alliance with the Qunari at stake, Inquisitor Adaar is asked to choose between the few lives of the Bull's Chargers, or the many of a powerful Qunari dreadnought. He makes his choice: to save them all.
--
Halim Adaar took a deep breath as he considered his options. "No," he said, and his voice was all the firmer for how quiet it was against the neverending rain of the Storm Coast.
"No? No what?" Gatt countered. "Those Tevinter mages must be kept occupied, or they'll turn on our dreadnought! Hissrad, you know what happens to a ship crippled like that." He shook his head as the Iron Bull flinched. "There's no way--"
The Iron Bull looked at Halim, mouth a grim, tense line. His lip twitched. A short, hard bark of a chuckle escaped him. "Guess I'll give my boys a hand, boss."
"Please do."
"Hissrad!" Gatt spluttered, desperation edging every letter. But it was too late. Bull was near flying down the slopes, his metal-braced boot clashing against the stones with every step.
"Cole, can you move fast--really fast?" The young man's daggers were already drawn, his spine as tense as a bow string.
"Faster than magic, flowing like water, like waves crashing. Hearts pounding like a war drum. Not again, no more loss. I can stop them with Bull. I can!"
"Follow Bull. Go ahead of him, if you can." He glanced over at Cassandra, a flicker of apology in his eyes. "And I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Seeker."
"There is no need to say anything." She already had her shield up, her blade out. "You have made your decision, and I will stand by it."
"This is folly," Gatt said through gritted teeth, obviously trying not to yell. Yet you're still here with us, thought the Inquisitor. "You're going to get that dreadnought sunk and those mercenaries killed." A series of pained and panicked yowls rose from the drop behind them. The tang of magic filled the air and the elf's nose flared in distaste at it. "Why would you risk this mission now?!"
"Gatt, is the Iron Bull...is Hissrad not of the Qun?" Halim asked, without turning to meet his eye.
"I don't know. Maybe." He snarled a curse deep in his throat. "Yes."
"The Chargers are his men. They have been his men since I first knew him. Does the Qun abandon its own?"
Silence followed. Strained. Terrible. There was only the rain whispering against the rocks and rattling against their armour, the sounds of battle below, the tense clink of mail and creak of leather gloves as their wearer clenched and unclenched his hands. "If this doesn't work, Inquisitor..." Gatt hissed, equal parts defeated and furious.
"Then we may still say we tried our best." Halim blinked the rain out of his eyes, shook his head vigorously. "I can't--I won't stand by and watch any of our men be killed, no matter the cause." A yell rose above the din, and it was undoubtedly the Iron Bull; whether he gave voice in pain or triumph, none could yet say.
Another clump of Venatori came for the trio then, drenched to the bone and positively furious at their intrusion. Halim planted his feet more firmly and roared a challenge, brandishing his weapon, just as Cassandra did the same. They plunged into battle, Gatt dashing to flank them, and the Inquisitor pushed back furiously against their foes. He lashed out with his shield arm, knocking a screaming swordsman straight off the precipice. One down. He glanced over the ledge, hoping that it had been quick.
"Inquisitor!" Cassandra yelled. Halim turned to see a burning flask arcing slowly through the air, aimed straight for his chest, then there was Cassandra and her back and her Seeker's shield, a flash of hot orange, a bitten-back cry. His full focus fell back to the battlefield, and before any other venomous concoctions could be thrown their way he was upon their assailant, raining down blows enough to occupy them straight into the grave.
They had to hold, no matter what. The dreadnought and its living cargo had to sail away unmolested; the Chargers could not be left for Tevinter to trample into the ground. Each life, known and unknown, depended on their endurance. Each blow and block faded into the muzzy muddle of battle, and Halim saw nothing else but the enemy before him; thought of nothing else but dodging, blocking, pushing the foe back, back, away, shrugging off the blows--
And suddenly it was down to one last man, a mage in sodden robes, his fingers sticking to the pages of his spellbook as he cast with teeth bared and bloody. Cassandra's sword rose and fell, and he pitched forward, his back laid open from shoulder to hip. He twitched twice, gurgled, and lay still. Halim stood staring at him for a long time, hoping he wouldn't get up and there were no others coming after him, before realising that the sounds of battle had stopped. Completely. Heart plummeting, he peered over the edge of their cliff. Only Venatori bodies lay scattered on the path to the second vantage point, broken with Qunari efficiency. Heart pounding, he peered through the rain at the cliffs on the opposite side.
The beacon burned still. The ground was littered with corpses, too many and too far away to quite tell whose. But--there, a great horned shadow stood starkly out in the gray, brandishing his weapon in what could only be victory.
A yell of triumph bubbled from Halim's throat and he rose his sword arm in acknowledgement. He turned his head to the ocean and there, sliding silently toward the horizon, was the Qunari dreadnought, gliding into the mists beyond the range of even the most powerful mage or archer. The mission had been completed.
"You are the most almighty fool, Inquisitor," Gatt said, leaning on his sword as he wiped some blood from his jaw.
Halim watched Bull and Krem retreat, leaning heavily on each other, and counted five intact heads behind them. A smile spread across his face. "We are the fools who have won."
--
"The Qun commits, or not at all. You've made things difficult," said Gatt. It had taken a few days for everyone to sufficiently recover from the battle. 'Sufficiently' was a rather subjective term; Halim had stubbornly pulled himself out of bed for this meeting at Skyhold, despite three layers of poultice-soaked bandages still under his shirt.
"Difficult how?" Cassandra cut in, her brows drawing together in a near perfect V as she glowered at him. Cole cautiously took a few paces backward, hands inching up in front of his face."Your dreadnought was able to retreat without casualty. The Venatori have been hobbled. What else are you asking for?"
"For none of that--that risk-taking, to start!" he shot back. "Things are delicate enough as it is, back on Par Vollen and Seheron. The last thing we need is for a move like that to go wrong and for valuable men to be lost! For more valuable men to be lost because of a rash decision like that!"
"Gatt." The Iron Bull raised a hand. "Stand down. Nobody actually died out there except a bunch of Vints. Skinner's got a bunch of new scars and Grim still sleeps nine hours out of ten, but they're fine."
"That's the other problem." That same desperate look from the Storm Coast had crept back into Gatt's eyes, and Halim realised with lightning-strike clarity that he was afraid. Afraid that the Qun would discard their agent after all, finding him of no more use. Afraid that the man who saved him could no longer be saved himself. "What do I tell them now, old friend? That you nearly sabotaged an operation to save a group of basra?"
"Those basra are my men," Bull drawled, "and you asked them to hold a position so they did. You sure weren't complaining up there on the Coast!"
"Enough--enough, parshaara!" Halim barked, wincing as he felt something split under his bandages from the outburst. The resulting stunned silence gave him just enough time to catch his breath. Not the greatest decision he'd made that whole week. When he next spoke, it was a chore to keep the rasp out of his voice. "Ben-Hassrath, I gave the Iron Bull his orders. He followed them. If anyone is to blame here, it's only me. I dare say you can tell the Qun that he is still capable of serving and protecting his people, combatant or no. I trust him with my life on a regular basis and he has not gone to the grey." His pale yellow eyes bored steadily into Gatt's own. "Know this. Everyone here has pledged their life to our cause, directly or indirectly. Given the chance, I will not leave a single one to die."
"And now you know exactly how far the Inquisition will go for the folks they work with," Bull said, seeing the opening and seizing it.
"Whoever they may be," Cassandra added firmly.
"It's..." Gatt's eyes narrowed as he considered the slant, the near-lie. "It's something to be considered," he finished stiffly. "But I can promise nothing now. Reports and decisions must be made. Perhaps we may choose to work with you in the future."
"I look forward to it," Halim said honestly. "Safe travels, Gatt."
"My thanks, Inquisitor. Panahedan, Hissrad." He left them standing there, brushing past Cole as if he hadn't seen him. Odds were good that he never had.
"You okay, boss?" the Iron Bull asked after the elf had disappeared from earshot.
"I should ask you the same," he replied with a wry smile and a cough. "Thank you for trusting me. You didn't have to follow my word back there, but you did."
"You didn't have to save the Chargers. But you did," Bull countered with a shrug. "Just how do you know I haven't 'gone grey', as you put it?" If Halim didn't know better, he would have sworn there was real doubt in his voice. But there was certainly none in his own reply.
"If you had really turned from the Qun, you would not have doubted sacrificing the dreadnought. You still want to serve them, and--any Qunari worth their salt would fall on their own blade before harming their own. Or am I wrong?"
That same twitch of a lip, but this time it turned into a half-smile. And it stayed. "Probably not."
Cassandra nodded shortly. "It was a noble effort. But tell me, Inquisitor. What would you have done if Gatt had pressed the matter?"
He grimaced. "I don't know. I don't think either choice was acceptable. It's not worth sacrificing anyone's lives for an alliance, even with the Qun itself."
"Battle--blood and bruises and little cat paws," Cole murmured. "Can't leave, won't leave, runners rooted, roaring a challenge. Names like falling leaves, friend with wide horns wise and worn, the scarred Seeker sways my heart. All worthy, all warm, willingly protected."
"...S-something like that, Cole," Halim spluttered, feeling heat rising in his cheeks and studiously looking anywhere but at Cassandra. Bull had no such qualms and bust out laughing as he watched her blush redder than any rose.
"Better go see how the rest of the Chargers are doing. Grim's worse than a bear when he wakes up. And...thanks again, boss, for all of this. We all owe you a round of drinks." He clapped Halim hard enough on the shoulder to set him to coughing again, and left the others standing awkwardly around the Skyhold training dummies. The Inquisitor rubbed the sore spot on his back and gave Cassandra a sheepish smile.
"I...er, I should go let our advisors know how things went." he said, his traitorous throat drying up around his voice, the words crackling like dry sticks. Mercifully, Cole seemed to have fled. For now. "Thank you for...uh, the thing. With the shield. And the flask. You weren't badly hurt?"
"It was nothing," Cassandra said, the words tumbling a little too quick, a little too high. "Perhaps when you are recovered..." She cleared her throat, straightened her spine, looked him in the eye. "...we might spar together, Adaar. I would appreciate your company."
Halim blinked. Smiled around his deep breath. Nodded. "I would be honoured, Cassandra. Yes."
[Dragon Age Holiday Cheer 2014] [fanfic] [Dragon Age] To Touch A Heart
Title: To Touch A Heart
Date: 25/12/14
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: General/Fluff
Ratings/Warnings: Dragon Age (c) Bioware 2009, 2014. Saemus/Ashaad.
Summary: Saemus discovers the Qunari are a more physical people than most. And a few other things. Originally posted at DAHC.
i.
The Qunari, it turns out, are a more physical people than most. Saemus finds this out for himself one day on the Wounded Coast, when the wind is high and makes the beachgrass chuckle amidst the rocks. He tells a really bad joke and Ashaad has to think the punchline through, but he has the satisfaction of seeing him actually get it. The quiet, coughing laugh is accompanied with a close-handed tap to the shoulder that almost makes Saemus jump. While the Qunari apologises for the bright warpaint left behind, brittle red flakes he warns his companion not to touch as he brushes them off, he does not apologise for the contact.
It intrigues the young man. If he has learned anything in his years in high society, it is to watch, and listen, and plan. So he does just that, to try and understand.
ii.
Ashaad patrols a certain stretch of the Wounded Coast each day, come rain or shine. Nothing seems to escape him—any rock out of place, any unsettling footprint, any new sand dune.
Any new shell on the tideline. Any odd bird, turned from its migration route, lying on the sand looking somewhat insulted. Saemus watches Ashaad watch the gull for a long time, and there is a loneliness in his eyes that does not fully disappear once the bird has steadied itself and taken wing again.
(Later he will tell Saemus the bird is very similar to those that prowl the ports of Par Vollen, looking for fish scraps, mewing shrilly like an Antivan merchant, and the loneliness will disappear.)
iii.
He spends a whole day with the Qunari once: watching the soldiers go about their work, building fortifications, discussing intelligence, looking out on the ocean, their thoughts their own and their speech, the hiss and rush and roar of the ocean, for their ears only. “Your words are difficult,” Ashaad has told him. “Too many…too many dead sounds, like rocks falling together.” Across his tongue Kirkwall becomes Karkhaal and Hightown Haitaan, and some other unpleasant monikers beside. One of them translates to ‘place-of-people-talking-too-much’.
To the outside world they are an unfeeling monolith—among themselves, there is a clear solemnity, but also humour and feeling and rather more people getting cuffed upside the head than Saemus would have ever thought. They demand their space and fill every inch of it.
What others may see as the Qunari shoving and butting among their own, rude and uncivilised, Saemus interprets as them letting others know of their presence: the hand on the back, the nudge of the elbow, the tap on the shoulder. They are big and solid and inescapable, and—there.
His reverie only ends when Ashaad nudges him out of it. The man goes on one more patrol, and tells him to head back before true night falls over Karkhaal.
iv.
The days grow short and cold and Ashaad’s treks continue, at dawn and twilight on the very edge of the sea. Saemus makes it a point to meet him at the end of each circuit, sometimes just to talk, sometimes with a flask of hot tea if the weather is chilly—and most days now it is.
It happens one too many times to be even considered a coincidence. Neither one minds.
"I guess you don’t get holidays," Saemus says as Ashaad warms his hands by a small fire, the tea already spreading heat from his belly.
"Not as you know them."
"Could you—ask for one?" His ears are suddenly very hot. So are the sides of his face. "Because tomorrow is a feastday in the city and I’d like to spend it with you. If you’re willing. Is that allowed?"
Ashaad is…yes, he’s smiling in his own odd way, one side of his mouth curling slightly upwards. “I can arrange that,” he replies. “Meet me here, then, tomorrow. When the sun sets. There is something I would show you.”
v.
It snows. After fifteen years in Kirkwall without a single flake to be seen, one drops right on Ashaad’s nose and he sneezes fit to wake the dead. Soon the ground is dusted with white, and the sunset is turned hazy with grey clouds. Ashaad, wordless and nose running behind one hand, gestures for Saemus, sides aching with unspoken laughter, to follow him behind a clump of rocks.
There’s a snug natural alcove there, away from the biting wind, and a small ring of stones that has encircled many a fire. On one side is a small pallet and a blanket, a wide, thick square of fabric folded just so. Away from the outside world, Ashaad lets his shoulders fall just a little as he makes the fire.
"You wanted to show me the sunset?" Saemus asks, eyes watering as he peeps out at the snowy world.
"Something else," comes the reply, as he continues blowing on the kindling. When he’s satisfied that the flame will continue to burn, Ashaad picks up the blanket and throws it over them both. "Come closer. This is not very large."
They wait out the weather, keeping each other warm as night falls. Under the blanket Saemus finds his courage, then takes Ashaad’s hand and squeezes it tight. It is returned as Ashaad moves closer, putting one arm around his shoulder.
They are a physical people. It could mean nothing. Is that not right?
"You sleep out here in the open?"
"Sometimes." Ashaad coughs. "If the patrol is long, or a target is expected."
"It must be cold."
"Yes."
"How do you do it?"
"I think of…home." His eyes flutter shut for a moment. Saemus notices he has short, thick eyelashes. "I think of warm Par Vollen and the cicadas screeching. Then it is not so bad. Ah, see—the snow has stopped falling. Come."
They venture away from the fire, an odd, lumpy four-legged beast lurching over the cold sand. And there it is: undimmed by the city lights, a sky filled with starlight and the constellations close enough to touch.
“Maker," Saemus breathes, still gripping Ashaad’s hand tightly.
"The stars are different here." His voice is soft, almost longing. "But they shine as brightly, just the same."
They watch the grand procession for who knows how long, talking of little things, of names and constellations, of places near and far, until Saemus’ head starts to droop. The fire still burns in Ashaad’s small shelter, and they huddle there together, finding comfort in each other’s embrace.
"Thank you for the company, kadan,” Ashaad says, ducking to touch his lips to the crown of his head.
“Kadan?” This is a word unfamiliar to Saemus. “What does that mean?”
"It means that you are here. And also—" He takes Saemus’ hand, places it on a patch of skin untouched by warpaint. Under his fingertips and beneath the tough skin, he can feel the jump of a heartbeat. "—that you are here."
This time Saemus smiles. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”
Close to each other, warm and loved, the dawn is not far away.
—
six - an epilogue
When it is cold on the Wounded Coast, on the long nights when he is staking out the area, the ashaad closes his eyes and thinks of home.
The howling breeze is no stronger than a Par Vollen squall (though no squall would stink of refuse and blood like this). The sand is the sand of home, and the rocks are the rocks of home, and the rush of the waves is the same as anywhere else.
When this does not work he thinks a little harder of Saemus Dumar, increasingly kadan in his mind. Though his people are nominally the enemy, he is…he defies categorization. Ashaad sees his friend: curious, passionate, earnest and somehow weary, determined to break free from the constraints his life puts upon him. These thoughts warm him inside and out like the midday sun.
But tonight he has no need to think. Saemus is there next to him, murmuring under his breath the Qunari names of constellations that he has just been taught: Valokas, Abaneth, Ataashi, Tamassran. His head is heavy upon his shoulder and he has Ashaad’s arm linked snugly through one of his.
There is no need to think of distant homes when the moment here and now is so precious. Ashaad rests his chin on Saemus’ head and closes his eyes, waiting for the sun to rise.
[Dragon Age Holiday Cheer 2013] [fanfic] [Dragon Age] Flour and High Spirits
Title: Flour and High Spirits
Date: 24/12/2013
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: General/Fluff
Ratings/Warnings: G
Disclaimer: Dragon Age (c) Bioware 2009, 2013. Athena belongs to her creator.
Summary: The Hawke children don’t get to play in the snow one year, but Athena has a plan for something just as good. Originally posted at DAHC.
Carver refuses to get up, a potato-shaped lump of blankets and foul temper. Bethany, however, is just as excited for the snow. She reaches up toward her big sister, begging to be carried. Athena obliges, pointing out the fat grey clouds gathering overhead. It’s enough to get Carver out of bed at last; the boy doesn’t want to miss out. Athena gives him a boost to look out the window too.
The clouds eventually let loose - with icy rain. The ground is reduced to cold, slippery muck within minutes. (Clearly it is a third year.) Father frowns at the weather and rubs at his beard, and mother forbids them all from playing outside. The children spend a sullen morning indoors. Even a gift of feastday cakes from a neighbour fails to lift their spirits.
"Want to play in the snow," Bethany says at lunch, failing to keep the whine out of her words.
"There’s no snow to play in," says Mother, and even though she sounds a little sad she sounds a little angry, too. "I’m not letting you catch a chill playing out there. You all just got over that cold going round the village. The snow might come later this year, if you’re good. Now, any more complaining and everyone’s going straight to bed."
Athena pouts, but not where mother can see her. She tends to make good on her threats. Her eyes wander over the room, past sacks of grain and strings of garlic and herbs and the meat hung up to dry for the winter. A small seed of an idea starts to grow in her mind, but it will have to be put into action later. Big plans just can’t be rushed.
Plotting what she needs takes most of the afternoon, carefully put together in her head. It’s only a little before bedtime that Athena sneaks a small sack out of their kitchen, and a little bit after that she shakes her siblings awake. They blink blearily as she triumphantly holds up her prize.
"What that?" asked Carver.
"Just don’t tell Mother and Father," she says with a grin.
The twins watch with mild confusion as Athena scoops out a handful of fine flour and sprinkles it over the bare floor of their room, until a sizable patch is carpeted with white. “Just as good as snow!” she prompts them both, noting with pleasure the gleam of hope in Bethany’s eye. “Now we don’t have to go outside!” They still appear doubtful, until she flops down onto the patch and starts waving her arms and legs in it. “Look, Bethy, Carver! Flour spirits!”
That convinces them. It’s not as cold as snow and of course you can’t make flour-balls last very long, but they have fun anyway. Bethany flops gleefully into a pile of fine white powder, kicking it up and flinging great handfuls of it everywhere as she shrieks with delight. Athena is content to sprinkle more flour into heaps and kick them over like they’re monsters—or let Carver do it, because sometimes you have to let little brothers kick things over too. The air grows white with falling flour, and they’re making so much noise nobody hears the footsteps advancing toward them.
Suddenly there’s a gasp. Athena and the twins turn as one toward the door. Mother is standing there, with Father behind her, and it’s hard to tell who looks more surprised. Everything goes pin-drop silent as they stare at their three children, floured from head to toe with eyes like scared rabbits. “Oh, Malcolm,” Mother begins in despair. This is very bad. Mother does not call Father Malcolm until she’s at the very end of her tether. Athena coughs, somewhat guiltily, and a little plume of dust flies from her mouth.
Then Father does the best possible thing: he laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs until his face goes red and tears pour from his eyes. And when Father laughs, nobody can resist. Soon all five are doubled over with glee, even Mother.
"All right, it’s too late to get anything done here tonight," he says once his shoulders have stopped bobbing up and down and he’s gotten his breath back. "How about you go wash your faces and we all sample some of those feastday cakes?"
It’s a proper late-night feast, and Father very secretly uses his magic to help Mother make mulled wine. Everyone gets a sip, even Bethany, who makes a face that gets everyone laughing again. And that feels nice, everyone laughing, and Athena thinks maybe she should do this sort of thing more often.
"My little flour spirits," Father says at last, when everyone is full and sleepy. He ruffles her hair (more flour falls out) and pinches the twins' ears very gently. They’re not in too much trouble, then. "Tonight, we can have a little fake snow. But tomorrow, you are all taking a bath and helping your mother clean up."
The next day it finally, actually snows, and while everyone is too busy cleaning to go play in it, none of the children mind too much.
"Give up, Invocator." Gwardan, all stark black angles and lines, cast a scornful gaze at the bloody, battered figure struggling to rise to its feet before him. She stared right back, amber eyes burning with fury. Blood seeped through her robes where a sword had found its mark. The woman's knuckles were white around her staff, every crystal embedded in its length now cold and silent; she had no more allies to call, no more names to name. The grit of the killing grounds scraped harshly between her back teeth. Two of her comrades lay fallen beside her, Orna sprawled across Ardite. Out of the corner of her eye, she could also see Ardite's arm, his mighty mailed fingers still closed around his sword.
"Armisa," a voice whispered weakly behind her. Armisa closed her eyes, set her teeth. She knew that behind her lay Hesmat, both legs broken and one eye blinded with blood. But that voice and that gaze gave the Invocator strength, blossoming from hope barely bigger than a mustard seed.
"I will never surrender to you, demon," she rasped, before a spasm shook her from head to toe. A mouthful of her blood hit the barren earth. Something had definitely broken inside her. Her breath was a horrible, grinding rasp that she'd never heard before. And it did not stop, going on and on. Armisa blinked. Gwardan, Lord of the Black Thorns, jackal-headed and badger-blooded, was laughing.
"It seems you fleshlings persist in your foolishness. You are but one, Invocator. A tiny stripling with a tiny army. If you die here, then so will your friends--whatever that word may mean to you. But let none say I am without mercy. Join forces with me. There will be other names to give--yes, beyond counting. Your staff is dead and you have called the twenty-eight names bound to your own. No others will fight for you."
The wind blew, cold and dry, Armisa merely smiled. "I am not so far gone that I would trade my life or name to your cause. Hes, love...I'm sorry." She still had one name. The very last.
Do not call me, it had said, with fire dancing all around them on that day many moons ago. Do not call me until you have no other. To do so means the end.
Invocator Armisa planted her staff in the blood-damp earth and pulled herself to her feet, even as every inch of her flesh screamed bloody murder and the red stain on her robes blossomed. The Old Tongue flowed from her as easily as breath, and it was not her staff that flared bright in response, but the chipped gem that hung below her throat.
"You the nameless, I name you,
Born of the shining ground;
Make your strength mine, and make my cause yours.
Friend and sister, I call for an answer:
Armisa Whitemoon."
The change was as spectacular as it had always been, though Gwardan had only once seen it at this distance. Light surged up from the ground over Armisa's frail body, the final soul washing over its vessel and drawing her to full height. No, indeed, she was taller now. Her eyes shone pale gold; the short, pale hair now fell loose like a river of starlight. Standing there was an entirely different woman: taller, broader in the shoulder, older. But no Invocator could call upon a living soul. Which meant that she had to be dead. Which meant...
"What is the meaning of this sorcery?!" bellowed the dark lord.
"I am Armisa Whitemoon." Hesmat stared, eyes wide as saucers. Armisa's voice was different, but still familiar somehow. "The Invocator of Twenty-Eight. None have come before me, and none may do so again. Except, perhaps, my sister Altem. If she has called me," she snarled, "then it seems it is my turn to claim vengeance."
"She bound you to her?!"
"I bound myself to her. You left us no choice. Both of us were trained as Invocators, but only one could inherit the title. Our village fell at your hands, and I did what I could to save my little sister."
"You will die for this--this farce, Invocator!"
"You have already killed me. I fear you no more." She jerked her staff from the ground. The dead crystals pulsed with new light from base to tip, every single one. "And I feel what Altem has left me, and there is nothing stronger than the love she has rooted in this world, in these people. Shall we see how you fare with an Invocator at her full strength, Dark Lord? Altem has called upon our friends, but I have not. Not once."
Gwardan charged with a howl of rage, swinging the battle-axe that had cleaved Ardite’s arm from his torso, dented Orna’s skull and crushed Hesmat’s pretty legs. Armisa raised her staff.
"You the nameless," she thundered as the magic surged in her blood, "I name you…"
Title: Enough of Cages
Date: 14/7/2014
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Ratings/Warnings: PG
Disclaimer: Dragon Age (c) Bioware 2009, 2014.
Summary: When Grey Warden Natia discovers the giant Sten in his cage, what to do seems blindingly obvious. The problems come after.
This, thought Natia Brosca, is going be difficult.
The…what had he called himself? The qunari in the cage stared impassively back at her from behind the bars. She wondered if he wondered why she had come alone. With his face looking like that (and so high up), she couldn’t quite tell. Alistair and the others had made camp some distance from Lothering, and Fiver was their official watchdog. But she had chosen to do this on her own - mostly because what you don’t see, you can’t pretend not to know about.
"Hello again," she said at length, her voice feeling like rags stuck in her throat.
"I’ll ask the questions here, thanks." The man looked supremely unconvinced. She cleared her throat, twice, before trying again. "I spoke to the Chantry Mother earlier. She confirmed you were telling us the truth."
"Do the people in this land often lie about murder?"
"You’d be surprised," Natia replied cagily. "But I told her I would take charge of you, and…well, I’m just going to get you out of there now. Whatever happens, you swear to follow us against the Blight?"
"I give you my word, as Sten of the Beresaad."
"All right." She waved her hand at him. "Back up a little, please?"
"You have the key? I must admit, I did not think the priestess would part with it."
"Well, actually…I don’t," the dwarf said. She seemed almost apologetic to Sten, but that quickly melted away as she hefted her sword and crashed the pommel into the lock of his cage.
It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised when the metal actually gave way and the door swung wide open.
--
"I’m not so sure this was a good idea any more," Alistair said conspiratorially over the campfire about a week later. "What do you think of the new guy?"
"He’s certainly very quiet," Natia said, stirring her bowl of stew absently. Her gaze was fixed on Sten, sitting apart from the others as he ate. Fiver sat at his feet, eyes shining with the mabari adoration she had grown familiar with by now. If her dog liked the big guy, he couldn’t be entirely bad. But he still hadn’t said more than two words together to anybody since joining them. It was like addressing a large, cold wall.
"He’s a bit more than quiet, mind you. Or less, depending on how you look at it. It’s like he could walk into a party and suck all the chatter out of it with one look." Alistair paused with the waterskin halfway to his mouth. "Do you think Qunari even have parties?"
"Alistair, I’m as clueless there as you are. But you’re right, this can’t go on. I’m…I’m going to talk to him.” She brushed the crumbs off her leathers and stood up. All she had to do was just walk over to him and start a conversation, friendly-like. One foot in front of the other. No big deal. It wasn’t like he was twice her size and could snap her in half like a nug rib.
Her feet brought her there. Then her mouth decided to betray her, and so did her brain. All the questions she wanted to ask flew like farts on the wind as she stood beside him. He cast her a glance, and she thought she saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly before he looked away.
"Sten! Hey, how are you doing?" No answer. "You got enough to eat today?"
"Yes."
"Good! Need anything else?"
"No."
"Food’s not turning your stomach or anything?"
"No."
"You like stew?"
More stony silence. She supposed she could take that as another no. (Even in her duster days, stew had never been this kind of a grey colour. Alistair was not allowed near the cooking pot again.)
"You’re not ill, are you? Or injured?"
"No."
"Oh. It’s just that you’ve been very quiet so far."
"There's nothing to speak about, Warden."
"…Do you like the weather?"
"No."
"Dogs?"
"No." Fiver whined keenly.
"You’re really not going to tell me why we’re not speaking, are you?"
"No. Parshaara! Why do you pester me?"
It all seemed to click, then. Natia raised an eyebrow. “Paragon’s dangling participles. You’re angry at me.”
"No."
"I think you are. Is this about that whole…thing…with the lock and the cage?"
Sten twitched. “No.” But the sudden, practiced flatness of the word spoke far more eloquently than he.
She groaned. “Can I sit with you? No, to nugs with that, I’m sitting with you.” She plonked herself down on the ground in front of him, legs crossed tightly. “You think I should have left you back there to rot in that cage, don’tcha.”
"It would have been the sensible thing to do."
"Who said any of us was sensible? Look, nobody here is any kind of paragon of Grey Warden…ness. Morrigan hates everyone. Alistair tells too many jokes for his own good and he’s still broken up about Ostagar. Honestly, I don’t know what Leliana’s story is. Me? I’m as much of a killer as you are." She shoved the hair back from her branded cheek, wincing a little as she expected a reaction. There was none, save perhaps some well-concealed confusion. It was still a novelty to find people didn’t know what the brand was: its meaning, its weight, its shame. "Before I was a Warden, I was a casteless, nothing. Less than nothing. Folks like me, we’re…not even things. Things actually get taken care of. We don't get a second look. We can't get jobs, either. So I’ve stolen stuff to keep going, and cheated like a nug in the mud, and killed a whole bunch of people. OK, a few of them probably didn’t deserve it. But I killed ‘em anyway. There’s a lot of blood on my hands, and I should’ve died in a cell in Orzammar. But someone broke me out of my cage, and gave me a chance to not mess up. He believed that I could. And I think everyone deserves a chance like that, even the lowest scumsucking duster.”
"Warden, you did not—" he began tightly.
"Also she was asking for thirty silvers."
Sten’s train of thought sputtered to an abrupt stop. “Who are you even talking about.”
"Thirty silvers. The Chantry Mother, she asked for a donation to the Chantry before she even considered listening to us. I didn’t have the silvers, but even if I did—I know what a blood price sounds like. You shouldn’t, you can’t boil down a person to a bunch of coins, that’s not right. Nobody gets to sell anybody else like shaved nugs, a life is worth more than a PRICE—" She made an exasperated, tired noise deep in her throat. Sten watched her run her fingers through her hair before she continued, voice sharp and weary. "I’m done with cages and I’m done with letting folks rot in ‘em when we can do better. I’m officially bedrock-to-ceiling finished with that. So if you want to look for a-atonement, I’ll help you. Believe me, I want to help you out. Maybe we’ll both find it." It was probably the most she had spoken in one go since she’d reached the surface. "Think you can work with that?"
He looked at her long and hard, before nodding almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t the almighty thawing she had hoped for, but it was a start. “Yes.”
"Good." Natia smiled. "Good." Then she added, "Thank you." Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Title: Sword and Staff
Date: 1/7/2014
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: General
Ratings/Warnings: PG
Disclaimer: Dragon Age and all related characters (c) Bioware/EA 2009, 2014. This particular Solona Amell belongs to lichbookclub.
Summary: Sten knows of three things: swords, mages and magic. In that order. But he will have to learn new ways if he is to fight with the Grey Warden. (Giftfic for aforementioned Lichbookclub, who requested a piece on the relationship between Sten and a Warden Amell)
Thanks to elenilote for the beta! o7
Sten knows of three things: Swords, mages and magic. In that order. His is the way of blades, forged to attack and defend. That he is unversed with chains and shields is a blessing for the bas mages they travel with—their proximity makes his skin prickle, but his is not the way of an arvaarad so he lets it pass, though he will not walk too near alongside either Morrigan or Wynne.
It is a mage unleashed—it is also a she, but that’s neither here nor there and Ferelden is confusing enough as it is. No arvaarad was present to chain it or stitch its lips after its turning (a Templar is not an arvaarad, no matter what parallels the others might try to draw). By all accounts, it should have turned into a raging abomination by now, yet it still walks in human form with a human mind and a soul...reasonably unblemished.
(Sten also knows houndsmen, qenvaarad as his people call them. They tell him in the absence of guidance, a hound sees the void of a leader and takes that role upon itself. It does the creature little good, but he suspects that is what has happened here.)
The mages he knows, the lords of Tevinter, are steel and pomp and claws. His people's own are as the hounds of war, hard and reined in with the strictest discipline. This one is...soft. Untempered. Hair the colour of the rice at harvest, tied back from the face. Eyes the colour of the growing plains, fed by monsoons. More child than adult in appearance.
"Sten? Is there something on my face?" Its voice breaks his reverie. The soldier averts his gaze.
"I do not see anything missing," he retorts, and that silences it for now.
--
The Circle is chaos. Worse than he'd ever thought. He tries to broach the subject of this cruel abandonment, but the mage doesn't take it well.
It is a mire of blood and festering flesh all the way up the tower--all the way to the Sloth demon, which pulls them into the realm of the dead.
So it's fitting, then, that he finds himself surrounded by the men he has lost, and the dirty, lyrium-tinged smell of Calenhad's waters. He has been trapped here, and yet--it is a reasonable trap, for all that it has been cobbled together out of thoughts he will not surrender. And if he tries to leave, will the darkspawn boil out of the ground and fell them all again?
It's not in the Fade that he thinks the Warden might be worth following after all, nor when it appears in his dream out of nowhere, sudden and vibrant as a tongue of lightning. Not even when it strikes at Ashaad and Karashok without fear, its attacks rough and unrefined compared to a chained saarebas, yet just as clean in their purpose.
That moment comes after, as they surround the abomination that was once the human Uldred. Fragile as it is, the Warden fights hard, its attacks relentless and determination visible in every movement. It is saarebas, forever vulnerable, forever corruptible, but in the face of this demon it fights like it can win--like she knows she will win.
Sten ponders this for many nights, and grudgingly decides the Warden may have some merit yet. For a bas.
--
"Your land is strange," he says as they are on the march one day. "No one is content to be who they are."
"And the Qunari are?" Her eyes flare bright as marsh fire, almost mischievous. "There's always something more, something to aspire to. Something better. I knew I could be doing something else beyond the Circle, somewhere, anywhere! Everyone should be free to choose their fate."
"Freedom is not an absolute, Warden. In the Qun, every person has their place, from high to low. Fleeing from it is the same as fleeing from yourself; from doing your duty. The Blight--"
"--must be faced, I know. But we need those armies fighting with us, or everyone else behind them doesn't stand a chance." She shifts her staff on her back. "I'm not running away from being a Grey Warden. They're the reason I'm here walking among other people, breathing this air, seeing this stars--yes, even arguing philosophy on the road with a grumpy Qunari. Spending the rest of my life beating the darkspawn back is a price I'm willing to pay for my freedom. Don't think I've forgotten," she added a little sharply.
"The state of your memory remains to be seen," he mutters darkly. But adherence to duty and honour--that, Sten can respect.
--
Their stories come out as they are breaking bread at camp one evening. He learns a little of her past in the Circle. She asks about the cage she found him in, and Sten tells her the story as honestly as she can. The Warden asks questions and he answers, but expects precious little to change.
That is, right up until the moment the Warden places a long, heavy bundle wrapped in oilcloth in his lap many weeks later.
"Go on. Open it." She seems pleased with herself for some reason. He casts her a suspicious glance, but unties the fastenings and there is a flash of familiar metal and ribbon--
Ah. So this is what it is like, then, to forget how to breathe.
Asala is heavier than he remembers, but his heart is light for the first time since he set foot in Ferelden with the Beresaad.
The Warden is worthy. Perhaps, indeed, she is worthy.
--
When she next hails him, he calls the Warden kadan. Completely by accident. Her hands still over her pouch of potions, her eyebrows rise, and she replies in confusion, "What did you just call me there?"
He can't tell her. He simply doesn't have the breadth of language to sketch out the shape of the word, the space it encompasses, the weight of it across his tongue. The letters are warm and the sound is warm and the word tastes of home; of brothers in arms in burnished armour, scarred men and smiling women, the honoured few he holds close to his heart like a child holds honeycomb in the mouth.
"In my language, it means you and I are equals and comrades," Sten replies, and she will just have to be satisfied with that. But by the light that comes into her eyes and the faint smile that plays about her lips, it seems she understands something of the word after all.
When he next says kadan, he says it on purpose.
--
Sten knows of three things: swords, mages and magic, in that order. Just as his sword would be ill-suited to the Warden's grip (pry it from his cold dead hands) the way of the staff is not his.
It is hers, however, in more ways than one. She pokes and prods and goads and observes, and does not let her magic speak for her. She talks to elf and beast and human and dwarf with equal ease, and while her decisions are not ideal--they cannot be, untrained as she is--they are backed up with knowledge.
Except this one. He cannot understand this one, standing shin-deep as he is in dunes of snow. "Interesting strategy," he says through chattering teeth. The ice curls in his blood, sharp, needling points under his skin. "Tell me: do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?"
"It'll never see this coming," says the Warden, with the quick smile he has grown so used to.
"Truly. It would surprise me if my enemy counter-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain." The rest of the party has gone uncomfortably silent. Alistair is obviously holding his breath. The Warden turns around, a picture of patience, looking up unflinchingly at Sten. "You haven't thought this through."
"You just have to trust me."
"I trust you with my life." He does, oddly enough. She has come this far bearing it and bearing them, after all. "But this is not my life at risk. It is our goal."
"I know. I don't intend to fail, Sten." Her voice is dry, tired. The grip on her staff is more akin to someone holding onto it for support, not as a weapon. And Sten does something he did not think he would do before a bas saarebas: he yields.
"Then be careful, kadan. I have spoken my mind. Let us waste no more time here."
If the mage seems surprised at this, Alistair's eyeballs have practically rolled out onto the snow. Sten pulls his too-small cloak tighter around his shoulders, fixing his eyes on the Warden's advancing back and the light of her staff.
--
They are facing the Blight head on, at last. It has been some time since Sten has fought among so many. The energy crackles up and down his skin, sings in his fingertips. The Grey Warden has gone up Fort Drakon to face the Archdemon head-on. She has taken with her the younger mage, the assassin and her fellow Warden.
And he stands exactly where they parted, before the gates of Denerim with all of Solona Amell's other companions.
A lesser man would perhaps feel slighted. But he knows he stands before the gates because of trust. The Warden has measured his worth, the bounds of his strength and his determination. She has entrusted the final defence of the city to him and the others.
...If he had not trusted her, he would not have suffered her to leave with her head on her shoulders, either.
Sten knows little of darkspawn, even now. But he knows well the way of the sword, and his path is now clear. "Prepare yourselves!" he thunders, back straight, Asala drawn. "The enemy must be cut down here!" A roar of agreement replies, and he turns his full attention to their battlefield.
--
"You came."
"Of course I came. Maker, I can see you off before I head to Vigil's Keep, at least." The mage--Solona doesn't have to lean on her staff today. Scrubbed and clean and kitted in the blue uniform of her order, one of his own might actually believe her to be a Warden at first sight. "You're certain you can't come and visit us again some time?"
"Many things are possible." Odd. When he first set foot here in this land of mud and wet dogs, only war would have induced him to return. "You have your duties here, Warden. I dare say you will be sufficiently occupied."
She smiles wryly, this mage, his kadan, and somehow Sten knows she will prevail. Perhaps this determination shall be a boon to her instead of a curse. He will have to remember this bas well. Her example will be noted by the Qun.
"Sten? Really now, is there something on my face?"
"I do not see anything missing." This time she laughs, and lifts an arm to bid him farewell.
Every year I try to post one line from my current NaNo project as it progresses daily. This year I'm a bit behind with last year's rewrite, but have 10 of my favourite lines so far anyway.
Day 1
The world lurched abruptly and she flinched. “Maker preserve me.”
“Wherever your hissra is, it is not here. Drink this.”
Day 2
When he walked away, a small basket of laundry at his hip, he had the straight spine of a free man.
Day 3
“Of course, to Tevinter it may not seem that way, but that nation is more chaotic than twelve qalaba bulls fighting for two cows.”
Day 4
A good man brought you running here, her mind chose to remind her.
Day 5
She would have liked to further her train of thought, but she could already feel more heat rising to her cheeks than she could blame on the tropical sun.
Day 6
"The burden of their magic is one they must bear themselves, but we are their shepherds. We must see to their welfare as carefully as we do our own souls."
Day 7
They beheaded the saarebas as he wept over my mentor. He did not resist.
Day 8
Latan turned and, for the second time in her life, she fled from her name.
Day 9
With shocking and silent clarity, she knew where she had seen something like it before: white and gleaming, in Qenvaarad’s unabashed and toothy smile.
Day 10
"Look around you, Sergius,” Latan said. “These are my own people.”
Title: Contentment
Date: 9/9/2013
Fandom: Dragon Age
Genre: Fluff/Romance
Ratings/Warnings: PG
Disclaimer: Dragon Age (c) Bioware 2009, 2013. This particular Tamassran and Thelaan are my own creations.
Summary: A rare moment of leisure for two Qunari lovers.
The afternoon was a clear one, and blessedly warm--a brief and welcome respite from the monsoons that lashed the Qunari isles at that time of year. Upon the hills beyond Seheron's high walls, the jungle lay damp and still, rich with the smells of earth and living things. The ground was soft beneath Tamassran's head where she lay, drowsing, the sunlight falling dappled upon her bare forearms and Thelaan's broad chest. The whine of cicadas in the air was like a heavy blanket upon them, familiar and comforting, and both drifted in and out of consciousness like leaves upon the tide.
It was a rare, still period for both, their duties completed, the hour theirs alone. Even the warmongers of the North would know a measure of peace.
Thelaan shifted slightly, his head pillowed upon her lap. The hard angles of his horns carefully skimmed the curves of her flesh, his movements slow and cautious. Tamassran didn't need to open her eyes to feel his gaze upon her, or imagine his face in her mind. Still drowsing, she smiled fondly to herself.
"What?" he said, bemused.
"Liking what you see, Thelaan?"
She heard rather than saw his grin. "I am content, kadan." To any other people, such words might mean nothing, but under the Qun to be content was to be complete, and to be complete was to want for nothing. There was no higher praise.
Her smile widened as she opened her eyes, matching grin for grin and look for loving look. She did adore those eyes of his, black as the night and silver as the moon, sharp and full of life and joy. Teasingly her hand crept to the base of his ear, and she ran her thumb over the margin between skin and horns. That caught his attention all over again.
"What are you--ahhh," he groaned, almost a purr, eyes rolling, undone. He reached for the loose knot of her hair hanging over one shoulder and tugged gently, tangling his fingers in the strands, as if to make them even.
In that moment of sunshine, and peace, and belonging and freedom, the priestess and archer laughed, curling into each other, their voices echoing in the spaces between the trees. They were young. Their bonds would be tested, would mature. But in that moment, both were content.
2The Malays shall not disappear from the world - Hang Tuah. Rallying cry of Malay nationalism, different beast from Malaysian nationalism. The Kamus Dewan is the BM equivalent of the Oxford Dictionary.
3 ‘stinky pillow’. Body pillow/bolster/huggable cushion to sleep with.
Asahina wonders sometimes about whether any of the fight is worth it. Whether there's still a world out there to return to. Whether they will all die at each other's hands as Monobear giggles over their respective demises.
And then Sakura will float into her mind's eye. Something about contemplating the slope of her shoulder, or the grace of her stride, or even the strength of her gaze, makes her heart sprint out of time. And sometimes Sakura will look at her, and flush, and she knows she thinks the same.
They are both different in many ways, but they have also found each other's companionship in a dark and terrible place; given the other strength and hope and certainty, and a reason to keep moving forward. They make the other's heart race. That cannot be wrong, she decides. It can never be.
"Asahina." Sakura sees the look on her face and turns to her, gently resting one hand beneath her jaw. Her pulse is a steady beat against her skin. "Does something trouble you?"
"No, Sakura-chan," she says with an honest smile, curling her little fingers around her friend's broad ones and squeezing. "Not a thing."
Between both of them, one heart beats on, undying.
"Judging by your name, your parents must have expected a swimmer."
"Huh? Oh! Oh no, it’s actually not that Aoi.” Asahina pulls her student ID out of her pocket and shows it to Sakura. It’s a different character, nothing to do with blue or water. “It’s the aoi that’s a plant, you know, the one in the Tokugawa crest?”
"The triple hollyhock," Sakura muses. "Very noble."
"Oh, pff." Asahina expels a breath with an amused pout. "I am, like, the least noble person you will ever meet.”
"I would not be so certain of that." Sakura’s gaze is thoughtful, piercing, and makes her heart go pitter-pat in interesting ways. “Nobility is not an outward facade. It is inner truth, something one is born with. Your namesake blooms in the spring rain, unbowed. Do not doubt your strength. Or, for that matter, your will to survive.”
"People do terrible things to survive, Sakura-chan," mumbles Asahina. The most recent murder is still fresh in her mind.
"True." She does not blink. "These same people also go to great lengths to protect the people they love. Some call it weakness. Some may yet call this strength. But to stand tall against the wrongs of the world?" Sakura raises one hand to her chest. "There is part of your nobility."
Asahina blushes and starts talking overly loud about donut cravings instead, but there is no hiding the shy flush of her cheeks or the touched look in her eye. She is a flower, tiny but tall in the face of the storm, and while Sakura will never see her in full bloom, she dreams of a day when the clouds will part and her friend will be standing there, unscathed, face turned to the light in joy.
When you are Oogami Sakura, after a certain point in your life you know you are not meant for love. The gods have granted you a strong body, a fighter's pride and a warrior's constitution, and a heart too large and fragile in the wrong places for your own good. You are so aware of this it is almost painful. Truth hurts like that.
Romance is for other people; people with less important promises to keep. You tell yourself this as you enter Hope's Peak Academy, red tie knotted smartly around your neck, shoes white, skirt ironed to knife-crease perfection.
Love finds you anyway in the form of a girl not quite half your size. She waves at you like a tiny windmill outside of the gymnasium on your first day. You worry she will give herself diabetes with all those donuts. She gives you her heart, that fierce and fiery object, without any hesitation at all--steals your affection in degrees. She is unafraid and cheerful and frank and an incredible friend.
You still have important promises to keep. But you're keeping them for her now, too. You are unsure when this happened; it feels right nevertheless. The girl shines like the morning sun, and the light of her smile is the warmest thing in a world that turns colder by the day.
You share secrets and confessions and blueberry perfume, stolen chaste kisses behind the cafeteria and in the halls and everywhere else. Nobody messes with her when you're around. Nobody messes with you when she's there, either.
The gods have granted you a strong body, a fighter's pride and a warrior's constitution, and a heart large enough to let someone else in at last. You have taken them all and made them undefeatable. And love, different but not less, fills the spaces in between.
The lights are out. They're both squashed into the same bed (Asahina's) and bundled up in extra covers (Sakura's). It's nice.
"Sakura-chan, do you have someone you like?" Asahina mumbles sleepily, flapping her hands against her chest.
"Yes. And she should stop poking me in the bosom and go to sleep."
She giggles and rests her head against her chest, sighing contentedly. The rest of the night is silence, and warmth fills the spaces in between.
(Spoilers. Spoilers. Whoo boy, the spoilers. Abandon all hope unless you're done with Chapter 4.)
(previous entries)
Asahina's voice cracks in horror. "Sakura-chan, you're bleeding!"
"I will be all right," she says. Lying is becoming quite the bad habit with her. What would her father say? "Asahina, would you get me some protein? From the lab." The runner nods, hands fluttering before her chest nervously, and she dashes off down the hallway. That should buy her enough time.
Sakura drags an extra chair to the door, trying to gauge the damage she's taken already. The head wounds are bleeding more than she'd thought, and the world is blurry before her. She licks her lips and tastes iron. There will be a death tonight, all right...but she will suffer no harm to her friends. None.
I am sorry, Asahina. But if I had told you... Sakura smiles faintly to herself, jamming the chair tight under the knob. You would have tried to stop me. And we would be right back where we began.
She sits back down on her chair, heart beating fast although she knows exactly what's to come. The brown glass bottle is slippery in her bloodstained hands and she nearly drops it as she twists the cap off. The poison tastes disgusting, but she chokes all of it down. She has a few more minutes at most.
Will they be able to find the truth? They are not unintelligent. Asahina is not unintelligent. Surely, surely they will see before it is too late.
Sakura reaches into her pocket, feeling for something small and hard. It's Asahina's candy: the same that she offered to Hagakure, and the same that she has kept back for herself--as insurance, if she were feeling generous, and childish comfort if she were not. Her fingers are already growing cold and numb, but she unwraps the little treat and pops it into her mouth. One last selfishness, then.
The bitter and the sweet mingle in the best way as it goes down. She closes her eyes with the taste of candy still lingering faintly on her lips, below the blood and the end she has chosen.
