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peopleofthedas2012-01-08 04:48 pm
lenticularstudy) wrote in peopleofthedas2012-01-08 04:48 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Sweetheart (T)
Title: Sweetheart
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Wynne/anon!Templar, briefly mentioned mage!Warden/Alistair
Words: Approx. 1020
Summary: History repeats itself, in the end. Wynne reflects on mages and templars.
A/N: A prompt response that ran away with me.
Sweetheart
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Wynne/anon!Templar, briefly mentioned mage!Warden/Alistair
Words: Approx. 1020
Summary: History repeats itself, in the end. Wynne reflects on mages and templars.
A/N: A prompt response that ran away with me.
Sweetheart
A small smile curves her lips as she twists the band around her finger, touching the runes that she knows are there. The Tevinters did many terrible things, but they can't be faulted for their language. She feels each symbol, mouths the meanings as she does.
Love. Only. One.
She had believed these words, once. When she was young and just a little foolish.
A small gift, a pauper's ring, but his eyes had shone when he'd given it to her, his armour creaking as he reached for her hand and slipped it onto her finger. She felt it when their hands met, the half-whisper of magic, and suddenly there were engravings on the metal. Something warm bloomed inside her. She smiled at him, her eyes alight, too, and kissed him softly, reaching for him even with the heavy plate between them. He pulled her closer, hands tangling in her hair (brown, then), the both of them revelling in the taste of the forbidden; then it was over, and he pulled away reluctantly, gathering his sword to him and standing straighter.
The epitome of a templar on duty - the thought scared her, and yet made unexpected pride blossom in her heart, seeing his strength and his stature and yet knowing he was hers.
On guard, he was just another templar, she another mage. Then his eyes flickered to her, and he gave her, once more, the small half-smile she loved so.
No. Perhaps not just another templar.
Was it the ring or the wine that made her finally lose control? She isn't sure now. Perhaps a combination of the two.
Another apprentice, Tymothy, had found it in the First Enchanter's office; offered it to her, grinning.
She choked at the unexpectedly bitter taste, then, seeing him laughing at her, slapped his arm. She raised the bottle to her lips once again, and carried on. On. On.
Somewhere, the mouthfuls blurred into one another, the taste no longer mattering, and Tymothy had left her to return to his own dormitory. Alone, confused and more than a little afraid, she sought her templar.
He was, as always, studying, asleep in a book. She woke him from sleep, and nearly fell onto the desk. He stood, helped her up, then held her gently by the shoulders. He looked around nervously, but the library was deserted. She should sleep it off, he said in an undertone, and everything would look better in the morning.
She grinned at him, and asked, even him?
Then her mouth was on his, and she was searching for him again, even though he was there. His desperate, hushed protests died on her lips, and one kiss became another. Another. She asked for more, and he gave it, finally surrendering.
He was her first, her his. Hushed and desperate, in a silent library.
She was asked again and again, who was he? She simply shook her head and shut her mouth, refusing to answer them, placing a protective hand over her stomach.
She screamed when the time came, wondering why no-one had never told her there would be so much blood, but then the child she had been waiting so long for was laid upon her chest.
Small. Perfect. Her hair, his eyes. Her son, she realised abruptly, reached for her, small hand closing on one of her fingers; for a brief, simple moment, they weren't in a Tower, and she was just another mother, looking up at the proud father...
She looked into the eyes of the templar guarding her, meeting them inside the helm, and smiled, radiant. His eyes were wide as he reached for them, tentatively, almost in wonder...
A cry of triumph from somewhere to her side, and then both her lover and her son were pulled out of the room, away from her desperately reaching fingers, her own cries ringing in her ears.
Love. Only. One.
She had believed these words, once. When she was young and just a little foolish.
•
A small gift, a pauper's ring, but his eyes had shone when he'd given it to her, his armour creaking as he reached for her hand and slipped it onto her finger. She felt it when their hands met, the half-whisper of magic, and suddenly there were engravings on the metal. Something warm bloomed inside her. She smiled at him, her eyes alight, too, and kissed him softly, reaching for him even with the heavy plate between them. He pulled her closer, hands tangling in her hair (brown, then), the both of them revelling in the taste of the forbidden; then it was over, and he pulled away reluctantly, gathering his sword to him and standing straighter.
The epitome of a templar on duty - the thought scared her, and yet made unexpected pride blossom in her heart, seeing his strength and his stature and yet knowing he was hers.
On guard, he was just another templar, she another mage. Then his eyes flickered to her, and he gave her, once more, the small half-smile she loved so.
No. Perhaps not just another templar.
•
Was it the ring or the wine that made her finally lose control? She isn't sure now. Perhaps a combination of the two.
Another apprentice, Tymothy, had found it in the First Enchanter's office; offered it to her, grinning.
She choked at the unexpectedly bitter taste, then, seeing him laughing at her, slapped his arm. She raised the bottle to her lips once again, and carried on. On. On.
Somewhere, the mouthfuls blurred into one another, the taste no longer mattering, and Tymothy had left her to return to his own dormitory. Alone, confused and more than a little afraid, she sought her templar.
He was, as always, studying, asleep in a book. She woke him from sleep, and nearly fell onto the desk. He stood, helped her up, then held her gently by the shoulders. He looked around nervously, but the library was deserted. She should sleep it off, he said in an undertone, and everything would look better in the morning.
She grinned at him, and asked, even him?
Then her mouth was on his, and she was searching for him again, even though he was there. His desperate, hushed protests died on her lips, and one kiss became another. Another. She asked for more, and he gave it, finally surrendering.
He was her first, her his. Hushed and desperate, in a silent library.
•
It was only later, when the evidence of their nights together began to show, that the problems began.
She saw the panic in his eyes, the frightened boy showing through for a moment, and then he pulled her to him and laid a kiss on top of her head. We'll find a way, he said, it'll be all right. Murmured, hoarse reassurances in her ear, over and over.
She saw the panic in his eyes, the frightened boy showing through for a moment, and then he pulled her to him and laid a kiss on top of her head. We'll find a way, he said, it'll be all right. Murmured, hoarse reassurances in her ear, over and over.
•
She was asked again and again, who was he? She simply shook her head and shut her mouth, refusing to answer them, placing a protective hand over her stomach.
•
She screamed when the time came, wondering why no-one had never told her there would be so much blood, but then the child she had been waiting so long for was laid upon her chest.
Small. Perfect. Her hair, his eyes. Her son, she realised abruptly, reached for her, small hand closing on one of her fingers; for a brief, simple moment, they weren't in a Tower, and she was just another mother, looking up at the proud father...
She looked into the eyes of the templar guarding her, meeting them inside the helm, and smiled, radiant. His eyes were wide as he reached for them, tentatively, almost in wonder...
A cry of triumph from somewhere to her side, and then both her lover and her son were pulled out of the room, away from her desperately reaching fingers, her own cries ringing in her ears.
•
"Why are we even talking about this?"
A loud, frustrated question snaps her out of her reverie, and she sits, leaning against the canvas and listening to them. Most, like her, have taken refuge in their tents due to the snow, but the Wardens are still outside, still arguing.
"Because you're trying to throw away my books!" comes the indignant cry.
"You know we can't pack these. There's just no space. Look, the pack is full." A rustle, and she knows that Alistair is showing his fellow Warden the rucksack he insists on heaving with them daily.
A sigh. Quieter now comes the question, "Is there no other way?"
"None. Sorry," he replies bluntly.
A long silence, then, "These. The Portabello Mysteries. The Tale of Pride. The Arte of Fyre."
She recognises the titles. All, no doubt, stolen from the Tower library. The sound of something hitting the campfire, the crackling of the flames interrupted, and she winces at the thought of those texts burning...
"I... really am sorry," Alistair says quietly and there is a pause, before he adds tentatively, "You always seem happier when you're reading. You smile more."
Another sigh. "It doesn't matter. Books won't stop the Blight, and they're certainly not all that makes me happy..." You do. There are many words unsaid there, simply hanging in the air, and Wynne wonders whether Alistair will spot them. Another rustle, the clank of armour. "You say that like you've been watching me." Her voice is light, but things are below the playfulness.
One more long, excruciating silence, and Wynne knows the other Warden has hit the truth. "I... Not really, no. We're just stuck in a camp together. You notice things." A clank of metal; he's shrugging.
"I see." The reply is soft, threaded with poorly-disguised shock, and Wynne smiles, because she recognises all this, all the awkward movements and almost-said confessions - but they are not in the Circle anymore.
She sits, listens to a mage and her templar, and allows herself to hope.
A loud, frustrated question snaps her out of her reverie, and she sits, leaning against the canvas and listening to them. Most, like her, have taken refuge in their tents due to the snow, but the Wardens are still outside, still arguing.
"Because you're trying to throw away my books!" comes the indignant cry.
"You know we can't pack these. There's just no space. Look, the pack is full." A rustle, and she knows that Alistair is showing his fellow Warden the rucksack he insists on heaving with them daily.
A sigh. Quieter now comes the question, "Is there no other way?"
"None. Sorry," he replies bluntly.
A long silence, then, "These. The Portabello Mysteries. The Tale of Pride. The Arte of Fyre."
She recognises the titles. All, no doubt, stolen from the Tower library. The sound of something hitting the campfire, the crackling of the flames interrupted, and she winces at the thought of those texts burning...
"I... really am sorry," Alistair says quietly and there is a pause, before he adds tentatively, "You always seem happier when you're reading. You smile more."
Another sigh. "It doesn't matter. Books won't stop the Blight, and they're certainly not all that makes me happy..." You do. There are many words unsaid there, simply hanging in the air, and Wynne wonders whether Alistair will spot them. Another rustle, the clank of armour. "You say that like you've been watching me." Her voice is light, but things are below the playfulness.
One more long, excruciating silence, and Wynne knows the other Warden has hit the truth. "I... Not really, no. We're just stuck in a camp together. You notice things." A clank of metal; he's shrugging.
"I see." The reply is soft, threaded with poorly-disguised shock, and Wynne smiles, because she recognises all this, all the awkward movements and almost-said confessions - but they are not in the Circle anymore.
She sits, listens to a mage and her templar, and allows herself to hope.
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