Maker's breath, she's beautiful
It's the only thing running through his mind. But it shouldn't be, and the guilt of it tears at him. He should be worrying about the Blight, about Arl Eamon. About the future of Ferelden. About their destiny. Fighting a massive army of Darkspawn, and fighting an Archdemon that was more than likely going to kill the last of their land's Grey Wardens. That thought cut him deeper than any darkspawn axe. What if she died? No, no. He couldn't handle the thought of it. It was selfish, he knew. In the end, they were expendable. They were warriors meant only for dealing with the Blight, and dealing with the protection of their fair lands.
He could never have a family. His life would be the Grey Wardens, down to the moment he would finally decide to go down to Orzammar, and fight his last battle. That is, if he lived through this damnable Blight. Upon his Joining, he'd signed away a chance at normalcy. Yes, there were cases where a Warden had a family, had a wife or a family. But it was rare. He knew that, but part of him hoped. Just as part of him had always hoped that Arl Eamon was his father. A pretty lie that the Arlessa believed, and one that he wished to the Maker that could be true. He wanted a family. A father who doted on him, a mother whom he could speak to of anything. Some semblance of a thing he had never truly been able to have. He was alone. A dead mother, a father whom he had never seen or been acknowledged by... And a sister somewhere in Denerim, but Andraste only knew if she was aware of his existance. Loneliness, that was the feeling. The wit, the jokes, they were his armor. Without them, he felt naked.
She made him feel that way. Naked. In more way than one. Stripped of his armor, of his wit. Of every defence he'd spent a lifetime building. Thayet, she was beautiful. An Elven warrior of unparelled grace. Even now, watching her hack with a two handed greatsword at the flesh of a Hurlock, he could see the beauty written in the planes of her face. He wanted to protect her, but knew that it wasn't necessary. She was strong. Stronger than him, even.But that's what drew him to her. She was strong. She had walked through the fire, and come out unscathed. Literally! He had seen it. She was the paragon of beauty, of strength. It would only be a matter of time before the dwarves worshipped her, right?
The fight was over, and he couldn't help but thumb the rose he kept within his armor. The one he'd picked in Lothering. It reminded him of her. So beautiful, such a bright light in the darkness... But it would be destroyed. Just as Lothering was when the Darkspawn had descended like a storm cloud.
"Hey...Thayet." he called out, as they set next tot he fire that night. "Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?" the wilted rose sat within the palm of his gloved hand as he looked at her, eyes wide. Your new weapon of choice? A wry smile lit upon his face as he replied. "Yes, that's right. Watch as I thrash out enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!" he held the rose between forefinger and thumb, pretending to fence an invisible enemy as he spoke. "Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know that's pretty dull in comparison." Maybe she wouldn't get it. Maybe he hadn't been clear enough. Could she even like him? He truly had no idea. Maker forgive him but he was blundering his way through this whole mess. He'd meant this to be romantic, and here he was making a mockery of his own gift.
His brows furrowed as he attempted to explain himself. "I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't." it had reminded him far too much of her. Of how she stood tall in the face of such dangers, the blood of her enemies as bright as the red tint on the rose. "The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since." A slow blush crept across his face. Would she think this a mummer's farce? Would she turn him down? He hoped not. He needed the idea of a future with her. Of spending their years together, rebuilding the legacy of Duncan. Of the man who had brought her into his life, and had brought him out of his own selfish pain. They could make the Grey Wardens what they used to be. She would never see the happiness he'd felt after his joining, of finding a Brotherhood that was closer than any blood relation he could make up in his imagination. But she could have him, if she wanted.
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