peopleofthedas | fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

An AU to Wings of the Storm Crow

Title: Petrichor (Chapter Twenty-Six)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Alistair/Lily
Summary: Time to get moving, seize the day, be productive and do stuff. Right? Right. I've got projects to attend to, and Wardens to spank at cribbage. This life... I love this life. I finally feel... home. The future stretches on before me, straight and true, a shining ribbon of highway, well lit, all the way to the horizon. I finally know where I belong.

scarylady is very awesome, and fixes all the injustices and horrible liberties I take with the language without even meaning to.

The day dawns like a big fat brick of sunlight to the face as the first spear shines straight through Alistair’s open window and into my eye. I groan, putting a hand over it and rolling over, grumpy. He’s so warm, I had to have the blanket off my front just to not bake to death, and now my back is frigid and my front is on fire. I feel like an ice cube and suddenly shiver, teeth chattering. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. The blanket falls over my back as I press myself against him, trying to warm up, and his brow furrows.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles, tucking my head under his chin. This is when it sort of hits me that I just woke up in his bed. The sudden throb between my thighs as I shift against him reminds me of last night, and I gasp softly, looking up at him. He leans back, cracking his eyes open, then smiles broadly. “Hi!”

“Uhm... Hi!” I burst into giggles, covering my mouth with one hand, blushing, and press my cheek to his chest, cuddling closer. He chuckles, his hand running lazy circles from my shoulder, over my hip, and back up again, under my shirt. It’s about the fourth revolution that it begins to make me feel a little more than just comforted, and I shift toward him. A heaviness awakens deep within my belly, and I pause, putting my hand over it. It aches, almost like period cramps, only not very strong, and not quite in the right place. I moan softly, half in pain, half in desire.

“Hmmm?”

“I can still feel you,” I whisper.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

We can’t stay in bed all day, so after a time, I sigh regretfully and roll over again. “Got to get moving,” I say, resigned. At first, I can’t stand up, all jelly-legged, but I eventually manage to wobble my way through getting into my clothes. Once I’m dressed, I lean against his washstand, supporting myself on both arms, stretching my legs out and trying to convince my inner thighs to do their job. He laughs at me, teasing me gently as I pace and pull the knots out of my hair, before we head out to grab some breakfast.

The hall is mostly full when we get there, the night and morning shifts mingling, settling bets, starting new games and scarfing down mass quantities of food. “Commander!” someone calls, and we halt just inside the door as Alistair stops and looks up. It is as all heads turn to look at us that I realise maybe I should have thought this through a little better. Everyone starts clapping and cheering, making me blush hotly; most of it is directed at Alistair, who turns bright red and rubs the back of his head with one hand, grinning broadly the whole while. I lean into him, hiding my face in his shirt, and he puts his arm around me tightly. The rich tenor of his laugh rumbles under my ear, and I love the sound of it.

We eventually make our way around the room and sit down with some breakfast, a lot of the Wardens filtering out soon after, still grinning at us or laughing.

“Oh gods,” I groan softly, leaning against his shoulder, having turned several shades of red over the last twenty minutes or so. “We are so not sneaky.”

He laughs. “Nope! Stealthy as an angry bronto with smelly socks on.”

“You didn’t sound like a bronto,” I say, keeping my voice down so it doesn’t carry, purposely teasing him about his socks, because damn. Seriously. There’s no excuse for it. They’re gonna walk off by themselves one night.

“Who said I was talking about me?” he says, then laughs, dodging my ineffectual slap at his bicep.

“I am not smelly! You’re horrible! I hate you so hard!” I exclaim, laughing. He bats my hand aside and grabs me by the hips, pulling me closer, suddenly making me gasp.

“No you don’t,” he scoffs, voice low and full of humour. Smiling and completely sure of himself, he kisses me soundly. My fork clatters to the plate as I tilt my head up, hands automatically rising to his shoulders, fingers travelling upward and through his hair. I don’t even care about the whistling and laughter as those Wardens still present witness us kissing for the first time.

He’s right.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The warm sun of late afternoon beams down on the garden around us as Leliana and I enjoy the shade on the side of a small pool. I lay sprawled on the blanket, arms over my head, watching scudding clouds float by, my feet kicking lazily in the water. Leliana hums softly, idly weaving a crown of grass and early wild flowers, and our decimated picnic basket stands forlornly nearby, a lone scrap of cloth hanging out from the mostly empty interior.

“I can’t remember the last time I went out for a picnic,” I muse, completely relaxed for the first time in a very long while.

“Hmm... it is important to take time to savour the little things, no?” she says, a smile in her voice. “Sometimes it is the best thing to simply sit and enjoy being a creature of the land. The Maker gave us a beautiful world to explore, full of light and possibility. It is important for us to notice these things, and be grateful for them.”

I nod. “It’s easy to call on the gods during times of stress and fear, but when times are good, people forget to be thankful.”

“Mmhmm,” Leliana agrees, flower stems twisting between her fingers. “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Lily... if you’ll tell me... Who are your gods? I see you have an altar that you set up in a very specific way, and you speak of them, but... Oh, I am just terribly curious, and I have been for a long time. I don’t like to mention it, because a person’s relationship with their god-- or gods-- is a very personal thing, but... I do love stories,” she says, and I laugh.

“You’re right. It is a personal thing. But I’m happy to tell you, Lels. You can always ask me anything.” I take a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. “The gods I worship are called the Greek Pantheon. They’re tied to the stars, and the turning of the seasons and the rhythms of the world. Every aspect of life has a god or a spirit attached, has its heroes and its villains, and story after story of the people who lived to tell tales of their encounters with the gods.”

“They walked among you?” she asks, startled, and I shrug.

“Once, so they say. They certainly didn’t in the time I was living in. I’m a keeper of a very old faith that not many follow anymore. Hmmm... let’s see... where to begin...”

“Do you have one in particular that you are drawn to?” she asks, after a moment.

“Ahhh... You know, I do. Poseidon. Ruler of the sea and my Piscean - that is, fish-like - nature, and deliverer of my life’s blood, hundreds and thousands of times. The wood by which I made my living, and the survival of a storm that--” I cough. “Anyway, there’s a story of a man who really pissed off Poseidon, scoffing at him, before he was going to try and head home from a war in a foreign land... Right before he’s going to get in a ship and try to sail home, no less. That was the longest trip home I’ve ever read.” I sigh, then tell her the story of the Odyssey while she braids my hair and weaves the flower crown into it.

“Maker, this Odysseus fellow doesn’t have much sense of self-preservation, does he?” she says at one point, and then, “Why is she just waiting for him like that? It’s incredibly romantic, but it’s not very sensible.” The story becomes new again through her eyes, and I enjoy telling her, much as I hated reading it for freshman English.

“Soooo...” she says, after a while, and I turn away from watching the fish to look at her. “You’re the topic of servant gossip today,” she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and I blush.

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” I say, then giggle. “I can’t believe it happened, really. I’m just glad it didn’t change his standing with his men.”

“I don’t think anyone has any doubts about your opinion of him,” she teases, making me blush again. “What I wonder though, is what changed? I thought sure you would both become insane during the winter, yet nothing happened. What was different about yesterday?”

I bite my lip and feel my face falling, even though I want desperately to hang on to my good mood. “I... I told you about the bag of silver, right... well... that very day, I flung it in the trunk of Mahariel’s stuff and closed the lid. Never opened it again, until yesterday, when I was going to get those bowls. Well... there was some kind of magic attached to it. When I opened the trunk, I felt--” I swallow, putting my hand to my breast. “That terrible, hollow agony, the howling grief of a sh-shattered heart,” I say, my voice breaking on the last word, and I have to stop, try to breathe, my reflection wavering in the uncertain mirror of the water’s surface. I see Leliana’s hand float up to rest on my shoulder and close my eyes, taking the comfort as she rubs my back gently.

“Oh gods, it hurt so bad. Ponka slammed the lid, and it stopped immediately. So... I went to Anders and he figured out that it was this paper in the bottom of the pouch that was the problem, so he took it. Meanwhile, this thing had hold of me, pulling all of that shredding torture straight out of the grave and shoving it in my face, making me bleed all over again. It was horrible, Lels, like no time had passed at all. And then Anders was gone, and so was the feeling, leaving me hollow. I just kind of... collapsed on my floor and stayed there, crying on Ponka, because it sucked all the life out of my day.

“But then... Alistair was there. He must have heard me crying or something, and come to see what was the matter. Anyway, he picked me up off the floor, no questions, just... put his arms around me and held me, and I let him, because I needed it, and then I realised it was because I needed him. That the source of my sense of safety and belonging is him. He’s given me all these things. And... And... I just... He smells like home, where I come from,” I whisper. “Suddenly it seemed like a crime that he wasn’t kissing me. And then he was... and it... it just... Oh gods, it felt right, Lels. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t burn me to say his name, and then I suddenly couldn’t imagine a situation where I wanted him to stop.” My breath catches and I turn to see her eyes full of total understanding, and she smiles.

“There are some who say they were present after dinner last night to see Alistair go straight over the top of a table to chase you,” she says, a cheeky sparkle to her eye, and she giggles.

I am quick to defend myself, gasping as though offended. “That was not my fault. He totally tickled me first.”

“Oh? Hmmm... And then what happened?” she asks, grinning and saucy, all ready for the juicy details, and I have to laugh. I feel like I’m in high school; she’s Sofia all over again, demanding that I dish. So I do, some of it. I tell her about him catching me and stumbling through the door, Anders interruptus, how his hair grows in every direction, and how he seemed to love my belly and hips the most, and she giggles with me, blushing just as much as I am.

“I do not know if I dare to ask, but I’ve just been burning with curiosity. Lily, you were with Zevran, so-- How-- You never were so... clear-voiced,” she says, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

“Uh... well...” I laugh nervously. “He’s... A very tall guy...” I say lamely. She looks at me for a moment, and then her eyes get wide. “And uh... I’ve...” I clear my throat, gesturing vaguely and awkwardly, trying not to measure with my hands. “I’ve had plenty of... attention, but not... in... quite those... dimensions,” I say, kind of at a loss for words, then blurt in a whisper, “My knees still weren’t working this morning!” Her mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ of surprise, and we fall together, shoulder to shoulder, laughing.

And as for Zevran, because he was very good about swallowing my cries, or putting his hand over my mouth. I loved those things.

My heart cracks dangerously, and I shy from it, even as the images take over, unbidden. I gasp, putting a hand to my forehead as it scythes through my mind. No, don’t look, don’t look--

The slide of his leg between mine and the purr in my ear--

Stop it, stop it!

His hand down my side and the way his stomach rolls--

He’s gone!

The smell of spice and musk.

Cedar and rain and ocean and wood and callused hands and wit and laughter--

Cara mia...

My Zevran.

I’m choking on it, and I press a hand to my heart, suddenly doubled over gagging, tears starting from my eyes. Aphrodite, help me.

Leliana pats me on the back and I cough again, wiping my eyes on the back of my wrist. “Oh, that wasn’t funny,” I say, shivering. “I think the magic is still having some kind of effect on me. That hurt. I better get back, have Anders check me out.”

The day is old by the time we make it back to the base, and Anders isn’t in. Ah well. I fetch dinner from the hall and eat in the courtyard, where it’s quieter. Leliana keeps me company for a time, and I tell her a story about Persephone and Hades. I hang around for a while after she goes, but still haven’t seen Anders, so I just get up and wander toward my room. It’s probably nothing. Just an echo. The magic was bound to have an effect on me, didn’t he say? It’s just residual.

I hear the rhythmic sound of armour crashing together in marching time, and stand aside as a regiment of Wardens go by in full plate. Battle plate, not dress plate. Alistair comes out of his office, and he’s in armour too.

I look up at him, wide-eyed. “What’s going on?” I ask, trying to pretend like I’m not freaked out by any of this. He crowds closer, putting his hands to the wall to either side of me, gauntlets clattering against the plaster as he leans down, and oh gods, he’s frighteningly massive in his armour. My heart picks up speed and I feel my lips part.

The smile he gives me then is one I’ve only seen on his face since yesterday morning, and I know it’s just for me. “Routine for opening anything underground outside of the city: have to take a full presence, just in case,” he murmurs, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “I should be back in a few hours.” I go up on my toes, fingers curling into the neck of his breastplate so I can kiss him lightly. He straightens as I let go, and then one articulated finger stretches out to touch a leaf that rests against my forehead. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,” he says, eyes soft, startling me to open-mouthed surprise, and then he turns, jogging off after his men, before I can even form a coherent reply. Oh gods, the men are always so much hotter in their armour.

I watch them go, tongue-tied, then dash off to Leliana’s room. She’s just pulling out some skirts she’s been working on for us when I darken her doorway. “Lels!” I exclaim, breathless, and she looks at me, eyebrow arched. “You have to help me. I need you to do my portrait.”

She blinks at me. “Now?” she asks, and I nod quickly.

“Right now. Please. I’ll buy you a pot of honey. Two pots. Two pots of honey and a chunk of chocolate,” I keep upping the ante and she finally laughs. I point at her. “Sold, two pots of honey and a chunk of chocolate, right? It’s all yours, if you’ll just do it now. And we have to go back out to the courtyard.”

“All right, all right, let’s go,” she capitulates, picking up her charcoal and paper. I hustle back to the place where I was just a moment ago, and stand there. “That’s it? Just here?” she asks, and I nod.

“Definitely.” I sigh softly, thinking about the moment I was looking up into his eyes, the feel of the metal under my fingers and the press of his lips to mine, the way he smiled at me and how my heart sped when I saw him again in full gear. I go over and over it again in my mind, waiting for Leliana to tell me she’s done, and then when I see the results, I’m shocked. “Four pots. Four pots of honey, some chocolate, a piece of candy, and a package of tea.” She laughs.

“I’m glad you like it!” she says, handing it to me, and I give her a tremulous smile.

“Alistair was here, the Wardens going out for something official, and he said I looked beautiful, so...” I look down at the paper, then back up at her. “I wanted to capture it for him, before the light changed. Thank you. So much.” She chuckles and stands up, giving me a hug.

“You are so silly. I would have done the drawing anyway, you know,” she chides, and I nod, grinning.

“I know. But this way was more fun.”

She laughs at that, finding it truly funny, then gives me a peck on the cheek before heading back to her room, still chuckling, and I look down at the picture. It’s really, really good. Not a photo, but a damned good likeness. I giggle softly, biting my lip. Pictures are so much more important here, so much less taken for granted. I need to build a frame for this.

I head back to my room instead, trying to think of how to protect it once I’ve got a frame for it, because the glass here is ripply and doesn’t work very well for picture frames. I tuck it away in my wardrobe and set about cleaning up my room, because it’s a shambles after everything that’s happened over the past few days. I sing quietly to myself as I transfer my altar to its new home: a small table I liberated from a back room. I miss music, more than anything else from home. I miss being able to turn on the radio or put on a playlist and just work. It’s finally set to rights, and I’m turning around, thinking about going to the shop to get a piece of something to carve, when I find Alistair filling my doorway, leaning there like he’s been watching me for a while.

“Hi,” he says, smiling, that one that’s only mine, and I feel myself blushing already.

“Hi,” I reply, suddenly shy for no good reason.

“Come play chess with me,” he says as I cross the room and he straightens, coming a little further in to meet me. He takes my hands as soon as he can reach them, thumbs smoothing over the backs, fingertips stroking the insides of my wrists

“Gods, and you say you’ve never done this before,” I whisper, lost in his eyes enough to be entirely artless, and I can see the humour at the corners of them.

“What?” he asks, laughing softly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, just the way you touch me... you’re so sure of yourself,” I say awkwardly, and Alistair laughs, his hands slowly rising along the length of my arms.

“I know what a woman’s body looks like, Lily, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

I blink again. Wait, how much time? “How old are you?” I blurt, and he laughs again, cupping my upper arms.

“I promise I’m an adult?” he offers, and I blush. “Why?” he asks archly, a sparkle of mischief in his eye. “How old are you?” I put a finger to my lips. Actually, I haven’t thought about it.

“What day is it?” I ask, looking up at him, and realise he’s a lot closer than I thought. I swallow, shifting. Why am I nervous? Oh gods, he’s going to touch me again - not that he isn’t already touching me, but the length of his legs and--

“Er... twenty-second of Guardian,” he says, wary, but still smiling. “Why?”

“Uh... it... it’s my birthday today, actually,” I say, surprised. “Sort of. Technically. Your year is eleven days longer than mine, but... fifty-three days past the first of the year, that’s today, and I was here on this day last year. I’m... thirty-two.”

He blinks. “You’re younger than me?”

I blink. “You’re older than me?”

We both laugh. “How old did you think I am?” he asks.

I bite my lip. “Uhhh...” Now I’m embarrassed. What if I guess too high, or way too low? I don’t want to insult him. “...Twenty-nine?”

He stares at me for a moment, then laughs. “Seriously? Twenty-nine?”

I blush again, laughing with him. “Er... Yes? I don’t know!”

“Clearly,” he says, still chuckling, and I sock him lightly in the bicep. “Ow! Ah! You’re so mean to me,” he complains, pouting, even though he surely barely felt it.

“Well, then how old are you?” I ask, exasperated, all full of warring impulses. I want to just be playful with him, like we always are, but I’m also keenly aware of his proximity, the way his body feels against mine, oh gods, the size of--

“You really want to know?” he asks, “It matters that much, does it?” Some of the playfulness has dropped away, and I realise that he’s got so close, I can feel his heat again. I bow my head, my eyes closing, and breathe deeply.

People don’t talk about their age much. They don’t like to discuss birthdays, unless they’re political affairs or particularly significant. I don’t know why that makes me feel kind of lonely sometimes, but it does. I have no idea how old the people around me are. Leliana won’t tell me hers, and seemed slightly offended that I would ask, even if she forgave me easily for not knowing it seems to be gauche. And hey, there are even people from home who feel that way. Why does it make me uncomfortable? Do I need to know whether I am younger or older in order to determine how I interact with someone? Maybe that’s not a good way to be. I pause, thinking all these things. “I... No. No, it really doesn’t.”

He laughs again, shaking his head at me. “You are a very strange woman, Lily... but I love that about you.” His hands slide down my back to settle on my hips as he bends down to whisper in my ear, “I’ll be forty at the end of Bloomingtide,” and my breath catches. Forty? Holy crap! He doesn’t look anywhere near that age! “You look shocked,” he says, leaning back, amused, and I blush hotly.

“You don’t look your age. Not by a long shot,” I tell him honestly. “And... also, I thought with the whole Templar thing and not having taken your vows yet, you’d be younger.”

He shakes his head, laughing again. “Noooo... You think they would just turn a twenty-year-old, hot-blooded young kid loose on the Tower? It’s bad enough, some of the things they get up to, the abuses of power, but to add on that the raging desires of youth? Cruelty at best, and a recipe for failure. Templars don’t take their vows until around thirty-five, for that reason. They have to be sure the celibacy takes, you see.” I stare up at him. Good gods, no wonder there was never anyone else.

Why does it hit me so hard, that he’d tell me this? He will, when even my best friend won’t. That I told him mine might be considered a bigger sign of trust and affection than I think. “Thank you,” I murmur. The heat of his palms searing through my jeans drives all further thought from my head, and I close my eyes, breathing in his smell of home. It is an intimacy, I realise, just judging by the way it’s tugged on me so hard, for him to tell me his birthday. It’s a small thing, but it matters, and so you guard it closely, share it carefully.

His fingers curl around my hipbones, pulling me closer, flush up against him, and I hum softly with desire. I sigh as he wanders the curves from the base of my ribs to the tops of my thighs, smoothing down over my hips again. “I love these hips,” he murmurs, heartfelt, and I giggle as he gives them a squeeze.

“I noticed!” He growls, a low and hungry sound, and I lose my breath all at once. Gathering my tunic up to my waist, his mouth claims mine with authority. The heat of his palms sears me as his hands slide down into my jeans, fingers curling around the curve of my bottom. I moan into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. Stumbling backward with me, he fetches up against the side of my bed and tips over backward to land across it with a heavy thump, and I end up sprawled atop him, wildflowers raining down everywhere.

So much for playing chess.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

“Girl, you have got an uncommon eye,” Brizio says as I put the finishing touches on Alistair’s bookcase. Once I got the structure built, I realised that the edges of the pieces had strange variegation that didn’t mesh very well, so I painted the whole outside with black lacquer, which made the red of the shelves pop out shockingly. When I got done with that, it looked much more like a Chinese piece, and then I couldn’t resist the giant canvases that were the sides. I took some gold paint and blocked in frames that were like long rectangles with the corners punched out and rounded inward, and used just a few, neutral tones to paint cranes and bamboo on both sides. Two different pictures, of course, because I’m not so good that I can make a blind copy like that.

Also, I didn’t think about the fact that I could have used a mirror until I was half-way done with the second picture.

Brizio, inclined to feel that I was obsessing at first, has now decided that I had this in mind the whole time. It has taken me weeks to complete, it’s true, but part of that was waiting for paint and lacquer to dry, and part was interruptions by things that needed doing right away. Anyway, this is done, and should be ready to transport up to Alistair’s office by tonight. “You know what? I really like this red wood. Clearly, it has to be used sparingly; it’s very fancy for everyday stuff, but it finishes up beautifully.”

“Will you be wanting more of it?” he asks, slowly turning a table leg on the lathe, and I consider.

“Uhhhh... I don’t know...” I say slowly. “Probably would be best to have some on hand, yes, but... I don’t see there being a ton of call for it. Not with what we’re usually about.”

“If you build more furniture like that,” he says, “It will be raining sovereigns from the nobles.”

I look at it again, considering. I think maybe my eye is jaded to it, because it looks cool but normal to me. I could’ve got something like this mail-order at home, no problem. But here...? Hmmmm... “It’s definitely a thought,” I say, musing and tapping my lip with my finger. “Let’s get enough to make a small table, and see what happens. We can shop it around to some of the noble families and see what they make of it. If they like it, we can order a few more pieces... but it’s going to have to be limited production, or they’ll get saturated with it. We could show people some sketches of what’s possible,” I say, warming to the idea. “That’s a really good plan. And then I’ll only make like, eight large pieces total, aside from the little table, maybe commit to a dozen small items, like dressing table boxes or something, and make them bid over it. It’ll really get vicious once I turn out the first couple of commissions.” I laugh. “Brizio, you’re brilliant.”

He snorts. “Of course I am. I am surprised you have only now noticed.” He sounds gruff, but the corner of his mouth is twitching, and I laugh again. I think I can see why apprentices have been scared off by him before. He doesn’t take any crap, shoots from the hip, has a sarcastic streak a mile wide, and doesn’t have patience for fools. If he’s told you once, that should be sufficient. Twice is all right if it’s a complicated matter and you get lost in the middle somewhere. Anything else, and you’re a waste of space, and his shop isn’t big enough for that.

He’s a saltier version of Papa, and that’s the man who taught me the trade. No wonder we get along.

Now I’ve got most of the morning and all of the afternoon, so I start on the pattern for Leliana’s tackle box. “I think I’m going to play with that stripe next, and see what comes. I’ve been thinking it might be good for veneers, but I want to see what it can do as a solid piece.”

By the end of the afternoon, I’ve got the pieces blocked out on the wood, ready to cut for the morning.

I can’t wait to see what she thinks of it.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair is completely blown away by the bookcase, standing there thunderstruck and staring at it as I stand nervously by. “You made this... Wow...” he breathes running his fingers down the edge of the wood, and I nod, even though it wasn’t a question.

“For you,” I whisper, and he looks down at me. His eyes, oh, so dark.

“For me?” he repeats, voice soft with wonder, even though we’re standing in his office. “It’s a work of art, Lily. Thank you.”

It’s not long after that I get pinned to the wall and ravished, and I have to say, as far as thank-you’s go, it’s my favourite so far.

I had intended for it to replace the sagging one, but he decides to use it for his regular books instead, and swaps out the rickety one for the former bookshelf. The red shelf now holds pride of place in the centre of a wall by itself, showing off the sides, and everyone who enters his office remarks on it. I’m going to have to update the rest of his furniture so it doesn’t look shabby by comparison. Oi. That’ll be a big job. However, I believe it’s important for the Warden Commander’s office to be both elegant and imposing. It needs to command as much respect as he does. Besides, the desk that he’s got in there is constantly trying to eat his knees, it’s so low.

It doesn’t take me long to realise he wasn’t joking: now that I’ve told him yes, it’s like he has to make up for lost time; he always wants to be in contact with me somehow, when we have the chance to be together. He seriously loves it when I sit in his lap. I would say I don’t know why, but I do, and it’s not because of the usual reason: he just can’t get over the idea that he’s got me sitting on him, that he can take a double handful of my hips any time he wants. A perfect night for him entails some good food nearby, a bit of wine and cheese, me on his lap (possibly sleeping on his shoulder), and either a chess game or philosophical debate with Anders. And then me in his bed. All night. And only his bed, of course, because mine is too big - Too big, he says! It’s a queen! - but it’s because I’m not smashed up against him all night. I ‘escape’, he says, and then he gets all cold and that’s just no good for anyone. So clearly it’s got to be his bed.

I have to say, it seems to work out better for me when I do stay. On those nights, if I have a nightmare, I see him when I open my eyes, know where I am, and feel safe enough to just fall right back to sleep. No more waking up screaming and fighting. Sometimes I’m not even conscious at all, just responding to the sound of his voice in my ear. Half the time, I don’t even remember, even if I do wake.

It takes about a week for me to get Leliana her sewing box; I put padding on the top and fill it with sand, covering the whole thing securely with several layers of tightly-woven fabric, so she can stick pins in it, an innovation she’s absolutely thrilled with, and make a mesh envelope that presses to the inside of the lid, for holding patterns and miscellaneous things that don’t fit in the rest of the box’s compartments. All the little details of drawers and trays that lift out make her positively squeal with delight, scaring poor Schmoopie half to death as he darts under the bed with a matching squeak of his own. It takes her half an hour to coax him out from there, and then he won’t kiss her for four days. Always, she can stick out her face and make little kissy noises, and Schmooples will peck her nose with his own. Very adorable. Well, not after this. She is positively forlorn until he either forgets or forgives her.

It’s hard not to laugh at her, but I miss Wanderer, and Pounce is a pocket cat. He only likes Anders. I’ve seen that cat crawl out of his hood and into the collar of his coat, go down his sleeve, and pop into his satchel, little striped tail hanging out, and Anders doesn’t even bat an eye, just keeps on talking like everything’s right with the world. Still, even without a cat, Ponka is the best dog I could ever hope for, and I am so, so glad I named him after my favourite dog when I was a child. I can’t think of him as truly a pet, but he likes me to, sometimes.

Spring turns into summer, and I make not only a locking, roll-top secretary desk, but also an apothecary’s hutch. Together, those take me almost two months to complete properly, much to Brizio’s alternating amusement and consternation. It feels like forever. But when I’m done, the results are undeniable, and the look on Anders’ face is absolutely the best reward I could ever ask for. I even reinforced the slats with some thin metal rods, courtesy of Donal, so if someone really determined were trying to get in there by force, they’d make a hell of a racket.

After those finally leave the shop, there’s this giant space in the corner that I had cleared out to hold them during assembly and finishing.

“Well, girl, you made a right jumble of the shop,” Brizio grumps, and I look around. It’s true. There are so many tools and bits everywhere. “Time to clean house.”

I haven’t actually paused to take stock of what we’ve got since I started, I just commissioned new pieces from Donal as they became necessary and kept going. We need to clean up, and quick, before I start something else. While we’re at it, I make some racks to hold all the new tools that have, up to now, just been sort of stacked wherever. As soon as we start that, I realise that it would be really, really nice if we had better organization in general, so I begin doing an actual full-scale inventory, making notes as to what’s missing in terms of things I’ve commissioned and what still needs to be made, as well as putting everything in order. And then we build a new cabinet to house all the tools more efficiently, since there’s so many of them now. That takes us another two and a half weeks, but the shop’s never looked better.

We’re baking in the heat of mid-Solace, laying around during the afternoon siesta and fanning ourselves, talking about how much the Wardens hate their armour in the summer, when it occurs to me. “Alistair?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this, but I have to ask. He’s never mentioned it, and sometimes I think it might be on purpose. He looks up, and I pause, but go ahead and ask anyway. “What... what happened to Enzo?”

He takes a deep breath, sitting back and studying me carefully, then tilts his head. “You sure you want to know?” I nod, and he lets his breath out in a whoosh. “The truth is, I actually don’t know. I gave him several choices: I could hand him back over to Zev, I could give him to the Crows for punishment, he could stay in the dungeon, or I could pack him in a crate and ship him off to Weisshaupt in chains, let him explain to the First Warden why his allegiance to the Crows was more important than his duty to the Wardens.” He shrugs. “He chose the Anderfels.”

Unlike the Crows, or Zevran, Alistair gave him choices. Mercy.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

“Why are you doing that?” Alistair asks, and I pause, pawn in hand, looking up at him.

“Uh... because I have to move a piece, and pawns go first?”

“Not true,” he counters. “You can get a knight out, if you want, for instance. So... you don’t have a plan for your pawn,” he says, not a question, and I shrug. “Put it back.” I set it down, biting my lip. “Is that really how you play? You just move pieces around?” he asks, surprised and confused.

I shrug again, awkwardly. “Sort of... I just... move these guys out of the way so I can get my mages and the queen out, and then try to take down pieces so I can get across the board.”

He sits back in his chair, one arm bent to prop his chin on his thumb, forefinger pointing up over his cheekbone as he regards me seriously. “Just getting across the board isn’t really the point,” he says. “You only have to do that if you lose your queen, or another piece you desperately need, and if you’ve done that, unless it was planned very carefully, you’ve made a mistake somewhere. So, what’s your plan?”

“I’m supposed to have a plan?” I blink.

“Maker, no wonder you never get any better. Look,” he says, pointing. “This is your army. It’s not just a collection of objects with rules attached. You have to decide how you intend for them to advance, which figures will be sent after which of your opponent’s, and why, and who will guard them, while they carry out their mission. Soldiers can be expendable, sure, but sometimes the sacrifice of a key figure can distract long enough to make other things much more possible.” His hands shift the pieces around the board, demonstrating his words, and I watch as he plays out a very quick succession of moves, culminating in the sacrifice of a mage, two pawns, a rook, and the queen herself, before the other mage suddenly has a clear line on the king, putting him in checkmate against a knight.

It’s the most intimidating thing I’ve ever seen anyone do, and he’s so casual about it.

I sigh. “I can’t think that far ahead. The board holds infinite possibilities for me, at any given point. I have no idea which way you might move, what your plans or motives are. I know it’s possible to plot out a sequence of moves from any given point in the game that will win, but it changes with every move, and I just can’t keep all that in my head at once.”

“You’re still thinking of them as objects on squares. They move individually, yes, but they’re part of a whole. They have to have just one commander, and one goal. Any way you move has to be part of that plan, has to get you further toward that goal, or it’s wasted effort. So, if you pick up a piece, you have to know why. You have to have orders for them.”

“I have no idea how to plan that far ahead,” I tell him helplessly. “At any moment, any of my guys could be wiped out. I can’t rely on them like that.”

“Hmmm... that explains a lot,” he mutters, putting the pieces back on their starting squares. “Did you approach the Blight the same way?” he asks, and I have to think about that. He doesn’t ask me questions like this very often, because he wants to make a clear line between me and Mahariel, but he also knows that it was my mind directing her actions.

“Uh... what do you mean, exactly? Like, us and our companions? Or the armies?”

“Yes,” he says, sitting back, watching me, and I bite my lip again. He gets that from me, this answering of multiple questions with a single yes or no.

“Uh... Hmmm... Sort of, I guess. There were times when I didn’t take certain people into certain situations, because I knew they’d be counter-productive or whatever. Like I tended to leave Morrigan and Sten behind for that reason, a lot of times. Morrigan wasn’t particularly interested in mercy or charity, and Sten couldn’t understand how the things we were doing related... to... Oh.” He grins, and I throw my hands up, frustrated. “Man, I told you I’m bad at this game,” I grouse, sighing.

“You’re not bad at it. You’re just not thinking about it. Running on instinct works in a lot of situations, but in a tightly controlled space like this, there isn’t much margin for error.”

I sigh again. “I know... I’m just really not very good at strategy. The way things went down during the Blight was as much her influence as mine, when it came to what situations we got involved in.”

This is news to him, and he blinks, cocking his head. I’ve never quite put it in terms like this before, but it’s the only way I can explain how my options were limited without talking about game parameters. “What...? What do you mean?”

“Well... I was the one who made all the decisions, but she was the one who presented me with all our options. So... there were times when I didn’t have the option to make the choice or say the thing I would have otherwise done, because of the way she required me to interact with the world.”

This has got his attention, and I shift uncomfortably, glancing away. “Hmmm...” he says, and I can hear the speculation in his voice. “Dare I ask? What would you have done differently?”

“Uhhh... Well...” I chew my lip, trying to think of one that’s fairly neutral subject matter. “Er... Well, like... Okay, here’s one: there was no way to save Danyla. I could just feel it in my bones, that something wasn’t right, but that it could be set right, if she’d only be patient, if she’d only have faith. It was a curse, not like the Taint, and I wanted to counsel her, offer her herbs to let her sleep for a time. We could have cared for her, and then she would have been free, because it turned out I was right. But... Mahariel never set it on the table. I don’t know, maybe she believed Zathrian. I thought he seemed to be too tightly controlled, and didn’t trust him. I didn’t want to make any major changes anywhere, didn’t want any bloodshed or anything until I could find out what was going on with the werewolf thing, because the lore from my land doesn’t match up with what I was seeing there.”

His eyebrows go up. “No? What did you know?”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well... where I come from, there’s argument on whether it’s a curse or a disease, but it’s agreed that you have to survive an attack by a werewolf to be burdened with the change. Then, on the night of the full moon, the unfortunate person turns into a werewolf - like Swiftrunner, for instance - except for one major difference: they really are mindless beasts. The person always wakes up in the morning someplace random, naked, and maybe they’ve got evidence on them of some horrible doings in the night. But the one thing they don’t do is talk. At least, that’s what my lore said. I never learned anything to prove me wrong.”

“So then if you truly believed she could be saved, why did you kill her?” he asks, and he’s only curious, not judging me.

“Mahariel didn’t give me the option to save her. You watched me ask all those questions. I couldn’t say many of the things I was thinking, because I was confined to what Mahariel was willing to say or do. Usually, I was able to affect the changes I felt were best, say the things I wanted to say to people. But there were other times, like that, where...” I look down at my hands. “Anyway... Uh... So she was better at strategy than I am. Beyond that, we mainly did what we did because I was listening to you.”

“Me? Why? You were supposed to be the one leading!” he says, and I shrug.

“Well, I did what I could, but I always thought you were smarter than me on tactics.” I sigh, feeling tired all of a sudden, and look out the window. The waxing half-moon of August (no joke, August is August, here...) is on its way down toward the city roofs. “It’s late, love,” I say, yawning, and stand up. “We have a bad habit of...” I pause, the most curious coldness spreading out from my heart, and press a hand to my breast. “Alistair?” My voice is thin and quavery, and suddenly I can’t draw breath, my scalp prickling. The yawning chasm of blackness that was trying to swallow me whole on That Night suddenly opens up beneath my feet as spots dance in front of my eyes, blinding me. Oh gods, Zevran. My knees buckle--

[Next Chapter]

fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

no subject

no subject