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peopleofthedas2011-02-24 04:19 pm
lady_june) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-02-24 04:19 pm
Entry tags:
Departure Pt 2
Title: Departure (Part 2)
Characters: f!Surana/Ser Otto
Rating: AO (age gap, if that offends peoples)
Word Count: ~3k
Summary: Aleyra Surana heals a dying Templar, finding unexpected solace in his company as the world falls out from under her.
It was one of those mornings she dreaded. Her blood raged as if emboldened by its own will, hot and driven, making her eyes water with pain. Heat lanced through her veins, scorching a path through quaking limbs and Aleyra couldn’t help but curl in on herself. Her fingernails tore at the thick blankets. Anger. Terror. Hunger. Need.
When Aleyra staggered down to breakfast, she found Alistair with red welts on his face. He shot her a sheepish look across his mountainous stack of pancakes.
“Archdemon cranky,” he drawled, poking at his food. His dirty blonde hair stuck up at awkward angles.
“Understatement of the age,” Aleyra replied. Every bite of food was a struggle, the riot in her veins turning flavor to ash, juice to sludge. Leliana consoled them by describing Oghren’s eventful evening. He had spent the night regaling Anora’s waiting women with drunken songs extoling their virtues. It had gone well until he mixed up “fair” and “fat.”
“Those damsels pack a mighty wallop,” Oghren grumbled into his porridge. “Never thought a dainty lil’ thing like that Lilah girl could send me arse over elbows…”
Leliana giggled, looking to Aleyra, who couldn’t muster much more than a half-hearted smirk. Oghren’s antics usually left them all breathless with laughter, but she and Alistair suffered in a way none of them could guess.
“You look awful,” Leliana said, patting Aleyra’s hand on the table. “Are you well?”
“Warden thing,” Aleyra replied cryptically. “It will pass.”
“The Archdemon is close,” Sten observed down the table. Leliana shot him a dark look.
“It’s fine,” Aleyra muttered. “He’s right.”
“Let that flame-farting bastard come. I’m ready for ‘im!” A glob of porridge landed on Leliana’s plate, flung by Oghren’s braids as he worked himself into a froth over the Archdemon. That elicited a tiny smile from Aleyra, who mostly shared in the dwarf’s impatience. Alistair, however, looked miserable, sinking down in his chair until he looked in danger of knocking his pancakes over with his nose.
“Typical,” Morrigan sang as she glided into the room. “Only a fool would wish to hasten his own demise.”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Alistair groaned and sipped from his tea, the only breakfast item he had made any headway on all morning. Morrigan joined the table, sliding into her chair across from Oghren with her nose pointed toward the chandelier. Next door, Aleyra heard the quiet sounds of Eamon taking his breakfast privately with Bann Teagan and Anora. Aleyra didn’t mind being relegated to the rabble table with the rest of her cohorts; she paled at the idea of spending the meal under Anora’s frosty watch. She forced down a few bites of fruit and toast, drowning it in tea to keep her stomach from revolting. Aleyra excused herself, justifying her premature exit with the Templar under her care. As she left, Zevran slunk down from the servant’s exit, his hair mussed and his cheeks rosy with exertion.
The elf tried not to begrudge the assassin his distractions. Even if she had someone to spend the night with, she wasn’t sure she would be carefree enough to enjoy their company.
She slowed her pace as she approached the Templar’s chambers, aware of voices drifting down the hall toward her. Aleyra’s soft-soled slippers allowed her to tiptoe up to the half-open door and listen in on the muted conversation. The cool stones seeped through her robes, and for a moment it was almost enough to blot out the screaming heat of the Blight call in her veins.
“I don’t see the point,” Wynne was saying. “You’re wounded and weak – let us not add melancholy to that list.”
“Not even as a favor?” the Templar asked. His voice was a rasp, a shadow of the deep baritone Aleyra remembered.
“What would it accomplish? Certainly after all this time you’ve learned to go without…”
“I’m fond of miracles, madam, and equally interested in those who perform them.”
Aleyra craned her neck, pressing her ear to the door. Were they discussing her? Odd that Wynne hadn’t summoned her earlier, but perhaps the man was too weak to handle more than one visitor.
“Don’t ‘madam’ me, Otto.” Wynne sighed and then chuckled, and Aleyra got the impression the two of them had been friends or at least acquaintances in days gone by. “Very well, you win. You’re extremely sympathetic at the moment, though I don't encourage you to exploit that fact.”
“Thank you, Wynne. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate it…”
“What are you doing?”
Aleyra whirled, gasping. She leapt away from the door to find Alistair watching her down the corridor. She trotted toward him, shushing him with a finger over her mouth.
“He’s resting in there,” she lied, frowning.
“Sorry.” One pale brow shot up. “Hang on, if he’s resting then why are you listening in? You can’t listen to someone rest.”
“Wynne is with him,” Aleyra replied, as if that explained anything. “I didn’t want to disturb them.”
Alistair stared blankly at her, and then his mouth fell open in wonderment. He took Aleyra’s arm, pulling her further away from the door. At his touch, the shrieking wrath of the demon in her blood intensified, as if his proximity doubled its power. She flinched and wriggled out of his grasp.
“You don’t think… I mean… Isn’t she a little old for him? Not to mention a mage…”
Aleyra blinked up at him, dumbfounded. Alistair was guilty of all sorts of silly mental leaps, but this one was by far the worst. She shook her head, combing the unruly blonde fluff out of her face as she whispered, “You idiot – he’s a Templar.”
“So? It’s not like you just stop having a libido as soon as you take your vows.”
“He’s injured, Alistair. He needs rest and time to recover. I can’t imagine he has… blasphemy on the brain.” Aleyra rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly.
“Blasphemy? And I thought I was the king of bad euphemisms.” He chuckled, humoring her by stumbling away.
“You’ll be the king of cinders if you don’t shove off.”
“All right, all right!” He put up his hands, surrendering, and started down the hall. “You will let me know if you find them snogging, yeah?”
“Good bye, Alistair.”
Exasperated, Aleyra turned to the door, shouldering up to it time to hear Wynne saying, “ – and slight, even for an elf. I always worried that she would be bullied in the Tower, but she had her protectors and she had a fiery spirit. Green eyes, dark, like malachite perhaps… She has an open face, though her manner can appear somewhat guarded.”
Aleyra flattened herself against the wall, convinced that they were indeed discussing her. What other green-eyed elf mage would Wynne be describing? She frowned, saddened, realizing that the Templar had asked for a description, having no sight of his own to see her. For a moment, the Archdemon’s song quelled, chased away by a soft, fluttery feeling in her heart. The poor man. She had done the right thing in saving him, despite his unfortunate profession. Not that Templars were inherently bad, but being a Grey Warden had given Aleyra a taste of freedom, real freedom, and she ached for her brothers and sisters languishing in the Tower. They would never know what it was like to stay up late playing cards in Orzammar, or how it felt to be invited into a mighty hall and asked by a tipsy Bann to dance. They wouldn’t get to chase grasshoppers with a mabari or pick wildflowers with an Orlesian bard.
“She’s a lovely girl, if stubborn, and she hasn’t lacked for admirers. Some I approve of more than others.”
“Perhaps you should stop there,” the Templar said. “I do believe we have a visitor.”
“Your hearing hasn’t dulled a bit.” Wynne laughed and Aleyra had just enough time to take a step back before the door was flung open. She prayed the heat in her cheeks was not as blatant as it felt. Wynne gestured her inside, holding the edge of the door and hovering there while Aleyra walked to the center of the room. When it became obvious Wynne had no intention of staying, Aleyra felt the warmth in her face spread. She wouldn’t know what to say to the man. She never knew what to say. Zevran had tried, repeatedly, to help her overcome the stammering shyness that rendered her hopeless in social situations. The Antivan gave up eventually, deciding that her bumbling charm was likely to melt hearts the same way confidence did in other women. “You have the look of a girl who’s spent too much time tumbling in books rather than the bedroom,” he had chided. “But some men favor such innocence.”
It didn’t feel like innocence. No, it felt more like ignorance.
“Otto, this is Aleyra Surana,” Wynne said, nudging the mage forward with a gentle push. “I’ll be back momentarily. Would you care for something to eat, Otto?”
“No, thank you, though I will trouble you for some water.”
Aleyra sat down in Wynne’s vacated seat. She looked at her knees and then her hands, reminded of the one time she had allowed herself to see Cullen in private. His fear and hesitation, though it went largely unvoiced, had convinced her that anything beyond friendship would tarnish them both. Aleyra couldn’t understand what would drive a man to become a Templar, to give up freedom for vigilance and probable violence. What sort of man actually found it within himself to strike down a child, possessed or otherwise? Even Connor, crazed and mocking, was worth saving.
“I have you to thank for my unlikely recovery,” the Templar observed. Aleyra nodded, and then remembered his blindness.
“Wynne and Morrigan helped. Everyone helped.” She swallowed a lump and gazed around the room, unsettled by the way he knew just where to look. Wynne had tucked a light sheet around his shoulders, concealing the concentric rows of bandages wound around his ribcage.
“Such modesty is unnecessary, Warden. Wynne has not been shy about boasting of your many accomplishments. She tells me you were there in the Tower after it fell. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you.” The Templar shifted his head to the side, peering at her, studying her. He couldn’t possibly see her, but she felt the weight of his gaze all the same.
“I would rather not relive it,” Aleyra said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all… Forgive me.” He sighed and raked his gaze from her face to his lap. “The Tower imploding, Arl Eamon poisoned, the misery in the Alienage, a Blight advancing and King Cailan dead… These are dark times, Warden, and I shamefully cannot think of a brighter topic to elevate the spirit.”
“I know what you mean.” Aleyra blinked, tired, reminded that the Landsmeet could begin at any moment. Eamon could summon her that afternoon, the next day… And on the heels of that political mayhem, the Archdemon waited, drew near…
“If you would but favor me with a smile, mage, I might find proper inspiration.”
“But you can’t - ”
“See?” He laughed, a dark rumble that she felt echo in her chest. “One can feel a smile, one can hear a smile in laughter or words… Humor an old invalid, please. Unless… I had not considered that we are of two different worlds. Does my being a Templar offend you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m used to them,” Aleyra replied wryly, smiling despite herself.
“There now.” Ser Otto smirked, the tension in his brow easing as he looked across the bed at her. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I only meant that I don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” she said. Her smile flickered, strained. “Your lot will be watching over me for the rest of my life whether I like it or not. Being offended about it won’t make you go away.”
“Oh,” Ser Otto murmured softly. “Oh, I see.”
“Not… you personally.” Aleyra winced. This was what Zevran meant, although this time it was less charming and more insulting. She hadn’t meant for her suspicion of Templars to slip free like that. She wasn’t a Libertarian, not by any means, but one couldn’t hear the stories of mages cut down in their Harrowings without learning a measure of wariness. And if she was honest with herself, which wasn’t easy, Aleyra would admit that Templars made her nervous for some very unsavory reasons. She wondered if she was a deviant among mages, finding the prospect of a man bent solely on controlling and capturing her a strangely exciting idea. It didn’t help that the job called for strong, capable men, and that they were often built tall and broad. Nor did it help that Aleyra still remembered the curious pang of disappointment she had felt when Alistair admitted he had never completed Templar training. It wasn’t quite the same. He hadn’t undergone the transformation from man to hunter.
Aleyra shuddered. It was a sick idea and she was sick for thinking it.
“That came out wrong,” she said, deflating. “I just… I suppose I don’t know what to say.”
She avoided his unseeing stare, shamed by her thoughts and by the temptation to soak in his square, handsome features. He was old and injured and a Templar; truly there was something wrong with her. Aleyra blamed the Archdemon, knowing it was deceitful to do so.
“You needn’t stay, if you would rather be elsewhere. I understand you have much to do in preparation for the coming battle. Wynne can see to me…”
“Otto! Otto, there’s a boy here from the Chantry to see you.” Wynne’s sudden appearance had the mage girl jolting forward, startled. She turned on the stool, the old woman shuffling in with a pitcher of water and a pewter cup. Aleyra hopped up, grateful for the distraction, and scurried to the door. Wynne watched her pass by with both brows raised and arched.
“The Revered Mother wishes to relocate you to the Chantry ward for healing,” Wynne said, snorting dismissively. “As if those dolts are half as talented as our Aleyra. The boy brought your lyrium, too, and waits for your response to her Holiness.”
“I’m in good hands,” Ser Otto replied. His voice dimmed as Aleyra dodged into the hall. “Tell the page he shall have to return without me.”
Characters: f!Surana/Ser Otto
Rating: AO (age gap, if that offends peoples)
Word Count: ~3k
Summary: Aleyra Surana heals a dying Templar, finding unexpected solace in his company as the world falls out from under her.
It was one of those mornings she dreaded. Her blood raged as if emboldened by its own will, hot and driven, making her eyes water with pain. Heat lanced through her veins, scorching a path through quaking limbs and Aleyra couldn’t help but curl in on herself. Her fingernails tore at the thick blankets. Anger. Terror. Hunger. Need.
When Aleyra staggered down to breakfast, she found Alistair with red welts on his face. He shot her a sheepish look across his mountainous stack of pancakes.
“Archdemon cranky,” he drawled, poking at his food. His dirty blonde hair stuck up at awkward angles.
“Understatement of the age,” Aleyra replied. Every bite of food was a struggle, the riot in her veins turning flavor to ash, juice to sludge. Leliana consoled them by describing Oghren’s eventful evening. He had spent the night regaling Anora’s waiting women with drunken songs extoling their virtues. It had gone well until he mixed up “fair” and “fat.”
“Those damsels pack a mighty wallop,” Oghren grumbled into his porridge. “Never thought a dainty lil’ thing like that Lilah girl could send me arse over elbows…”
Leliana giggled, looking to Aleyra, who couldn’t muster much more than a half-hearted smirk. Oghren’s antics usually left them all breathless with laughter, but she and Alistair suffered in a way none of them could guess.
“You look awful,” Leliana said, patting Aleyra’s hand on the table. “Are you well?”
“Warden thing,” Aleyra replied cryptically. “It will pass.”
“The Archdemon is close,” Sten observed down the table. Leliana shot him a dark look.
“It’s fine,” Aleyra muttered. “He’s right.”
“Let that flame-farting bastard come. I’m ready for ‘im!” A glob of porridge landed on Leliana’s plate, flung by Oghren’s braids as he worked himself into a froth over the Archdemon. That elicited a tiny smile from Aleyra, who mostly shared in the dwarf’s impatience. Alistair, however, looked miserable, sinking down in his chair until he looked in danger of knocking his pancakes over with his nose.
“Typical,” Morrigan sang as she glided into the room. “Only a fool would wish to hasten his own demise.”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Alistair groaned and sipped from his tea, the only breakfast item he had made any headway on all morning. Morrigan joined the table, sliding into her chair across from Oghren with her nose pointed toward the chandelier. Next door, Aleyra heard the quiet sounds of Eamon taking his breakfast privately with Bann Teagan and Anora. Aleyra didn’t mind being relegated to the rabble table with the rest of her cohorts; she paled at the idea of spending the meal under Anora’s frosty watch. She forced down a few bites of fruit and toast, drowning it in tea to keep her stomach from revolting. Aleyra excused herself, justifying her premature exit with the Templar under her care. As she left, Zevran slunk down from the servant’s exit, his hair mussed and his cheeks rosy with exertion.
The elf tried not to begrudge the assassin his distractions. Even if she had someone to spend the night with, she wasn’t sure she would be carefree enough to enjoy their company.
She slowed her pace as she approached the Templar’s chambers, aware of voices drifting down the hall toward her. Aleyra’s soft-soled slippers allowed her to tiptoe up to the half-open door and listen in on the muted conversation. The cool stones seeped through her robes, and for a moment it was almost enough to blot out the screaming heat of the Blight call in her veins.
“I don’t see the point,” Wynne was saying. “You’re wounded and weak – let us not add melancholy to that list.”
“Not even as a favor?” the Templar asked. His voice was a rasp, a shadow of the deep baritone Aleyra remembered.
“What would it accomplish? Certainly after all this time you’ve learned to go without…”
“I’m fond of miracles, madam, and equally interested in those who perform them.”
Aleyra craned her neck, pressing her ear to the door. Were they discussing her? Odd that Wynne hadn’t summoned her earlier, but perhaps the man was too weak to handle more than one visitor.
“Don’t ‘madam’ me, Otto.” Wynne sighed and then chuckled, and Aleyra got the impression the two of them had been friends or at least acquaintances in days gone by. “Very well, you win. You’re extremely sympathetic at the moment, though I don't encourage you to exploit that fact.”
“Thank you, Wynne. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate it…”
“What are you doing?”
Aleyra whirled, gasping. She leapt away from the door to find Alistair watching her down the corridor. She trotted toward him, shushing him with a finger over her mouth.
“He’s resting in there,” she lied, frowning.
“Sorry.” One pale brow shot up. “Hang on, if he’s resting then why are you listening in? You can’t listen to someone rest.”
“Wynne is with him,” Aleyra replied, as if that explained anything. “I didn’t want to disturb them.”
Alistair stared blankly at her, and then his mouth fell open in wonderment. He took Aleyra’s arm, pulling her further away from the door. At his touch, the shrieking wrath of the demon in her blood intensified, as if his proximity doubled its power. She flinched and wriggled out of his grasp.
“You don’t think… I mean… Isn’t she a little old for him? Not to mention a mage…”
Aleyra blinked up at him, dumbfounded. Alistair was guilty of all sorts of silly mental leaps, but this one was by far the worst. She shook her head, combing the unruly blonde fluff out of her face as she whispered, “You idiot – he’s a Templar.”
“So? It’s not like you just stop having a libido as soon as you take your vows.”
“He’s injured, Alistair. He needs rest and time to recover. I can’t imagine he has… blasphemy on the brain.” Aleyra rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly.
“Blasphemy? And I thought I was the king of bad euphemisms.” He chuckled, humoring her by stumbling away.
“You’ll be the king of cinders if you don’t shove off.”
“All right, all right!” He put up his hands, surrendering, and started down the hall. “You will let me know if you find them snogging, yeah?”
“Good bye, Alistair.”
Exasperated, Aleyra turned to the door, shouldering up to it time to hear Wynne saying, “ – and slight, even for an elf. I always worried that she would be bullied in the Tower, but she had her protectors and she had a fiery spirit. Green eyes, dark, like malachite perhaps… She has an open face, though her manner can appear somewhat guarded.”
Aleyra flattened herself against the wall, convinced that they were indeed discussing her. What other green-eyed elf mage would Wynne be describing? She frowned, saddened, realizing that the Templar had asked for a description, having no sight of his own to see her. For a moment, the Archdemon’s song quelled, chased away by a soft, fluttery feeling in her heart. The poor man. She had done the right thing in saving him, despite his unfortunate profession. Not that Templars were inherently bad, but being a Grey Warden had given Aleyra a taste of freedom, real freedom, and she ached for her brothers and sisters languishing in the Tower. They would never know what it was like to stay up late playing cards in Orzammar, or how it felt to be invited into a mighty hall and asked by a tipsy Bann to dance. They wouldn’t get to chase grasshoppers with a mabari or pick wildflowers with an Orlesian bard.
“She’s a lovely girl, if stubborn, and she hasn’t lacked for admirers. Some I approve of more than others.”
“Perhaps you should stop there,” the Templar said. “I do believe we have a visitor.”
“Your hearing hasn’t dulled a bit.” Wynne laughed and Aleyra had just enough time to take a step back before the door was flung open. She prayed the heat in her cheeks was not as blatant as it felt. Wynne gestured her inside, holding the edge of the door and hovering there while Aleyra walked to the center of the room. When it became obvious Wynne had no intention of staying, Aleyra felt the warmth in her face spread. She wouldn’t know what to say to the man. She never knew what to say. Zevran had tried, repeatedly, to help her overcome the stammering shyness that rendered her hopeless in social situations. The Antivan gave up eventually, deciding that her bumbling charm was likely to melt hearts the same way confidence did in other women. “You have the look of a girl who’s spent too much time tumbling in books rather than the bedroom,” he had chided. “But some men favor such innocence.”
It didn’t feel like innocence. No, it felt more like ignorance.
“Otto, this is Aleyra Surana,” Wynne said, nudging the mage forward with a gentle push. “I’ll be back momentarily. Would you care for something to eat, Otto?”
“No, thank you, though I will trouble you for some water.”
Aleyra sat down in Wynne’s vacated seat. She looked at her knees and then her hands, reminded of the one time she had allowed herself to see Cullen in private. His fear and hesitation, though it went largely unvoiced, had convinced her that anything beyond friendship would tarnish them both. Aleyra couldn’t understand what would drive a man to become a Templar, to give up freedom for vigilance and probable violence. What sort of man actually found it within himself to strike down a child, possessed or otherwise? Even Connor, crazed and mocking, was worth saving.
“I have you to thank for my unlikely recovery,” the Templar observed. Aleyra nodded, and then remembered his blindness.
“Wynne and Morrigan helped. Everyone helped.” She swallowed a lump and gazed around the room, unsettled by the way he knew just where to look. Wynne had tucked a light sheet around his shoulders, concealing the concentric rows of bandages wound around his ribcage.
“Such modesty is unnecessary, Warden. Wynne has not been shy about boasting of your many accomplishments. She tells me you were there in the Tower after it fell. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you.” The Templar shifted his head to the side, peering at her, studying her. He couldn’t possibly see her, but she felt the weight of his gaze all the same.
“I would rather not relive it,” Aleyra said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all… Forgive me.” He sighed and raked his gaze from her face to his lap. “The Tower imploding, Arl Eamon poisoned, the misery in the Alienage, a Blight advancing and King Cailan dead… These are dark times, Warden, and I shamefully cannot think of a brighter topic to elevate the spirit.”
“I know what you mean.” Aleyra blinked, tired, reminded that the Landsmeet could begin at any moment. Eamon could summon her that afternoon, the next day… And on the heels of that political mayhem, the Archdemon waited, drew near…
“If you would but favor me with a smile, mage, I might find proper inspiration.”
“But you can’t - ”
“See?” He laughed, a dark rumble that she felt echo in her chest. “One can feel a smile, one can hear a smile in laughter or words… Humor an old invalid, please. Unless… I had not considered that we are of two different worlds. Does my being a Templar offend you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m used to them,” Aleyra replied wryly, smiling despite herself.
“There now.” Ser Otto smirked, the tension in his brow easing as he looked across the bed at her. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I only meant that I don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” she said. Her smile flickered, strained. “Your lot will be watching over me for the rest of my life whether I like it or not. Being offended about it won’t make you go away.”
“Oh,” Ser Otto murmured softly. “Oh, I see.”
“Not… you personally.” Aleyra winced. This was what Zevran meant, although this time it was less charming and more insulting. She hadn’t meant for her suspicion of Templars to slip free like that. She wasn’t a Libertarian, not by any means, but one couldn’t hear the stories of mages cut down in their Harrowings without learning a measure of wariness. And if she was honest with herself, which wasn’t easy, Aleyra would admit that Templars made her nervous for some very unsavory reasons. She wondered if she was a deviant among mages, finding the prospect of a man bent solely on controlling and capturing her a strangely exciting idea. It didn’t help that the job called for strong, capable men, and that they were often built tall and broad. Nor did it help that Aleyra still remembered the curious pang of disappointment she had felt when Alistair admitted he had never completed Templar training. It wasn’t quite the same. He hadn’t undergone the transformation from man to hunter.
Aleyra shuddered. It was a sick idea and she was sick for thinking it.
“That came out wrong,” she said, deflating. “I just… I suppose I don’t know what to say.”
She avoided his unseeing stare, shamed by her thoughts and by the temptation to soak in his square, handsome features. He was old and injured and a Templar; truly there was something wrong with her. Aleyra blamed the Archdemon, knowing it was deceitful to do so.
“You needn’t stay, if you would rather be elsewhere. I understand you have much to do in preparation for the coming battle. Wynne can see to me…”
“Otto! Otto, there’s a boy here from the Chantry to see you.” Wynne’s sudden appearance had the mage girl jolting forward, startled. She turned on the stool, the old woman shuffling in with a pitcher of water and a pewter cup. Aleyra hopped up, grateful for the distraction, and scurried to the door. Wynne watched her pass by with both brows raised and arched.
“The Revered Mother wishes to relocate you to the Chantry ward for healing,” Wynne said, snorting dismissively. “As if those dolts are half as talented as our Aleyra. The boy brought your lyrium, too, and waits for your response to her Holiness.”
“I’m in good hands,” Ser Otto replied. His voice dimmed as Aleyra dodged into the hall. “Tell the page he shall have to return without me.”
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My favorite part was when Alistair caught her listening to Wynne and Otto and thought they were having sex. King of cinders indeed!
Nicely done!
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