All I can say is aww. At least they get to be happy for one chapter. Nicely written Sia.
The Rescue -- Completed 8/1/11
Débuté par
Sialater
, janv. 17 2010 07:16
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#478
Posté 22 juin 2010 - 01:29
Sialater
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Part 49
Cullen was relieved to finally be on the road back to Ferelden, among other things. He couldn’t look at Moira without blushing though, remembering the moments before he drank the draught. He couldn’t believe he’d actually said . . . that. Thinking he was about to die was absolutely no excuse for such behavior. And he’d said it in front of the King, no less! Her lover! There was no hole deep enough for him to crawl in.
The nightmares were the worst part about being a Grey Warden, he discovered. The incident at the Circle Tower had given him plenty of fodder for bad dreams before now, but it was nothing compared to the clawing and whispering, chasing and slavering of the darkspawn. The night they spent on the road before getting to the town in which Wynne was waiting, the dreams were especially terrible. He soon found out why when he heard Moira’s and Alistair’s voices yelling for everyone to get up and get their weapons. He scrambled out of his tent to find both senior Grey Wardens already in their armor. The elf assassin and the female dwarf warrior were also heavily armored as if they’d not gone to sleep. Then he remembered they’d drawn first watch. He struggled to get the last buckle of his breast plate fastened, adrenaline already dumping into his system.
The creeping sensation of something foul sneaking up on him was persistent. The smell was terrible, sulfuric and moldy, acidic and rotten. The moon was out, and it was a clear night. The moonlight filtered down through the trees illuminating the glade they’d camped in. The horses whinnied and stamped nervously, whites of their eyes visible in the bright moonlight.
He heard Jowan’s voice, “What’s wrong, what’s happening?”
Moira’s cold answer, “We’re about to be attacked. Make yourself useful or get out of the way.”
Cullen heard the ring of steel being drawn and King Alistair replied, “I can’t believe they’d attack this far north and this close to Weisshaupt.”
“I told you, the dreams have been getting stranger,” Moira told him, drawing her own sword.
“I see what you mean, now,” was the King’s reply.
“We’re not that far from Kal Sharok,” the dwarf pointed out.
“Can we argue later and please greet our visitors with the ceremony and decorum they deserve?” The assassin snarled. Cullen agreed, silently and drawing his own blade, went to stand beside the elf. Training with him on the long journey had gotten the ex-Templar used to the erratic fashion in which the former Crow fought. “Which way are they coming from?” Zevran asked, looking over his shoulder at Alistair and Moira. In answer, all four Wardens pointed to the southwest. Zevran grunted, “Fair enough.”
No sooner than the four of them pointed out the direction of the attack then the forerunners of the assault were upon them. A hurried conversation with Jowan, and Moira went to stand to one side, her blade at the ready and spells falling from her lips. Jowan mirrored his commander. And then Cullen had no time to worry about what anyone else was doing.
The first wave of darkspawn that hit were just the normal fodder, glenlocks. The most common and seemingly most expendable of the shock troops the darkspawn had. He slashed and parried, ducked and shield bashed his way through the line, Zevran stalking behind him to clean up anything that survived the initial encounter. It didn’t take long for Alistair to catch up, the king breathing heavily in his dull red dragonscale armor, but still disabling everything he hit. Shale and Zevran were efficiently plugging any holes they might have missed; nothing seemed to get through. But then, Cullen’s blood froze as he heard Moira scream in pain. He glanced in her direction, a Hurlock Alpha had some how circled them and was pounding on the armored mage. He heard the king yell, “Zevran!” but the elf had already started running to protect the commander. Cullen moved to help her, too, until Alistair’s commanding voice brought him back, “Hold your ground, Warden! We’ve got an Emissary to find! And we have another mage to protect!” How the man could stand there so calmly shouting orders when she was in danger made the ex-Templar’s blood boil.
“How can you --?” He began, but found the front of his armor yanked toward Alistair’s snarling face.
“Get your arse over there and protect Jowan before they take out the only other mage we have!” Without waiting to see if Cullen obeyed, Alistair glared at him and gestured for Shale to follow. Cullen did as he was told, his stomach in knots with worry. He charged a glenlock attempting to hack at Jowan with a sword and shield bashed a few more away from the mage. Keeping the monsters off Jowan as the blood mage countered the spells from the Emissary was irritating and absorbing and did succeed in distracting him from Moira’s predicament. It was between beheading one glenlock and turning to face a hurlock that he realized he could still sense that there were four Wardens nearby. Surely he wouldn’t be able to sense her if she were dead?
His sword ran through the last hurlock he could see and he and Jowan looked around, panting. “She’s all right, Cullen. That elf won’t let anything happen to her.”
The heavily armored man just glared at the bloodmage, “That elf is…” he trailed off as the two of them came hobbling into the clearing where their camp had been. Both Zevran and Moira were bleeding from various wounds and there was large rent in Moira’s breastplate. They were leaning heavily on each other. Ignoring Jowan, Cullen started walking to his commander, but froze when he saw the assassin lean down to kiss her. Jowan pushed past him to go to the woman he called sister. Cullen ignored him, focusing on the fact that the two of them were still kissing. His blood pounded in his ears and he forced himself to sheathe his sword and shield across his back otherwise he might have used it on one of them.
He didn’t know why he could handle the idea of Moira being with the king and not the assassin. Maybe if she couldn’t be with him, at least a king was more worthy. He did respect the fighting ability of the assassin, but found the elf personally reprehensible. His fists clenched and unclenched and he found himself breathing heavily. He watched Zevran reluctantly part himself from Moira and turn to look around. Cullen assumed he was looking for the man he was cuckolding. “You son of a ****,” Cullen snarled.
Zevran stopped and turned toward the ex-templar, “Insulting, if accurate. What seems to be the matter now?”
All the ex-Templar could think of in that moment was wiping the smirk off the former Crow’s face. Ignoring, or rather, not hearing Moira’s shouted order to stand down, he leapt for the assassin intent on getting his gauntleted fists around the elf’s scrawny throat. Zevran stood his ground and ducked the heavier man’s first swing. Before he could swing again, the assassin swept his feet out from under him and punched him in the throat, making him gag and knocked him over on his back where his armor was less of a benefit and more of a hindrance. He found his arms pinned under the assassin’s legs and Zevran’s dagger stabbing through a weak point in his armor, angling for his heart. “Is there a reason for this, Warden?” Zevran snarled.
In the distance, Cullen heard Moira order the other mage, “Help me get the hell out of this, Jowan! The goddamned buckles will need to be cut. I don’t ****ing have time to be delicate.”
The creak of more armor and the king’s voice, “Zevran, why the hell do you have our new Warden pinned?”
Shale’s voice, “Zevran probably did something to Moira and Cullen got jealous.”
“Get off me, elf,” Cullen snarled.
Zevran smirked through his blood-matted hair, “Make me.”
Alistair’s voice again, sounding tired, “Get off him, Zevran. He’s Moira’s to deal with anyway.” The knife was pulled away and Zevran leaped nimbly to his feet. No one offered to help Cullen stand. He awkwardly climbed to his feet and looked around immediately for Moira and found both Alistair and Jowan trying to pry her out of her ruined armor. The raven-haired woman flinched and breath hissed out between her teeth as a buckle was released painfully. Movement caught his eye and he glared as Zevran crossed to stand by her side. She held out her hand for him and he grasped it tightly. She was obviously in a lot of pain from the damaged armor and she had a white-knuckled grip on the assassin’s hand as Jowan and Alistair worked to get her out of it. Cullen wondered if she had broken any ribs.
She looked up and caught him staring, “I appreciate your concern, Cullen, but I’m,” breath hissed out between her teeth and Zevran turned a little pale as Moira’s nails dug into his hands, “fine. If you attack Zevran again, it’d had better be because he’s not ducking in time to miss an arrow.” Cullen’s anger went on a slow boil as the elf merely raised an eyebrow at that.
“Oh, don’t give me that look. It has—ooof!—happen - OW!” And she sagged in relief as the breast plate was finally removed from her abdomen. The rest of her armor had already been removed, and she clutched her ribs with her free hand, still holding on to Zevran’s hand. Between him and Alistair, they got her on her feet and helped her walk over to him. She glared up at him. What in Andraste’s name was wrong with him that he thought she was still beautiful despite the liberal coating and stench of darkspawn blood and the controlled rage radiating off her? And he really shouldn’t be thinking of how tightly her leathers fit her. “They are going to bandage my ribs. You three, get the camp cleaned up and ready to move.” She glared at Cullen one last time before the other two men all but carried her away.
At least he could follow her orders. He started gathering their supplies; glad they’d somehow had the foresight to have a cold camp. It didn’t take long for the three of them to break down the camp and load up their horses. Cullen even checked each animal for wounds and still the three of them weren’t back. He looked at Shale, daring her to countermand him and order him to stay, he told them, “I’m going to go find them. They’ve been gone too long.” He spun on his heel and went after them leaving Shale staring at his retreating back in consternation.
He followed the sound of Moira’s voice cursing and Alistair telling her to hold still. “Zevran, make her hold still or this bandage will be too loose again and we’ll have to start all over!”
Cullen stood behind a tree watching the three of them attempt to bandage Moira’s ribcage. “Alistair, I love you, but you’re absolutely horrid at this.”
The fair-haired king grunted, pulling tighter on the linen, “Moira, I love you, but you’re a lousy patient.”
Zevran laughed. “He’s got you there, mi amora.” The assassin held on to her tighter, the moonlight highlighting his straining muscles. Moira gripped his arms tightly and Cullen realized she was standing there in front of both of them, wearing only her small clothes and her leather pants, the silver light making her pale skin glow. Her leather jerkin lay discarded on a nearby bush.
Moira grunted as Alistair tugged again, “Neither of you are going to have me until we get to Wynne.”
Even in the dim light he could see the king pout, “Even if we promise to be gentle?”
Moira attempted to laugh but nearly collapsed in pain, “Oh, Maker, don’t do that to me.”
Zevran grinned, “I believe our dear Commander is begging for mercy.”
Alistair gave the bandage one last yank and Moira grunted at the tug. He tied off the linen securely and looked down at the elf mage, “Do you think she deserves it?”
Zevran looked thoughtful. He stepped back and released her while Moira checked the bandage around her torso. “Hmmm…..”
“I think I should get something for putting up with both of you!” Moira said, pulling Alistair down for a kiss. Cullen wrenched his eyes away. But almost of their own accord, they wandered back to see her standing between both men, still, but kissing Zevran now. Rage flooded through his veins, his blood pounded in his ears and he stepped forward from behind the tree.
“You ****!”
Cullen was relieved to finally be on the road back to Ferelden, among other things. He couldn’t look at Moira without blushing though, remembering the moments before he drank the draught. He couldn’t believe he’d actually said . . . that. Thinking he was about to die was absolutely no excuse for such behavior. And he’d said it in front of the King, no less! Her lover! There was no hole deep enough for him to crawl in.
The nightmares were the worst part about being a Grey Warden, he discovered. The incident at the Circle Tower had given him plenty of fodder for bad dreams before now, but it was nothing compared to the clawing and whispering, chasing and slavering of the darkspawn. The night they spent on the road before getting to the town in which Wynne was waiting, the dreams were especially terrible. He soon found out why when he heard Moira’s and Alistair’s voices yelling for everyone to get up and get their weapons. He scrambled out of his tent to find both senior Grey Wardens already in their armor. The elf assassin and the female dwarf warrior were also heavily armored as if they’d not gone to sleep. Then he remembered they’d drawn first watch. He struggled to get the last buckle of his breast plate fastened, adrenaline already dumping into his system.
The creeping sensation of something foul sneaking up on him was persistent. The smell was terrible, sulfuric and moldy, acidic and rotten. The moon was out, and it was a clear night. The moonlight filtered down through the trees illuminating the glade they’d camped in. The horses whinnied and stamped nervously, whites of their eyes visible in the bright moonlight.
He heard Jowan’s voice, “What’s wrong, what’s happening?”
Moira’s cold answer, “We’re about to be attacked. Make yourself useful or get out of the way.”
Cullen heard the ring of steel being drawn and King Alistair replied, “I can’t believe they’d attack this far north and this close to Weisshaupt.”
“I told you, the dreams have been getting stranger,” Moira told him, drawing her own sword.
“I see what you mean, now,” was the King’s reply.
“We’re not that far from Kal Sharok,” the dwarf pointed out.
“Can we argue later and please greet our visitors with the ceremony and decorum they deserve?” The assassin snarled. Cullen agreed, silently and drawing his own blade, went to stand beside the elf. Training with him on the long journey had gotten the ex-Templar used to the erratic fashion in which the former Crow fought. “Which way are they coming from?” Zevran asked, looking over his shoulder at Alistair and Moira. In answer, all four Wardens pointed to the southwest. Zevran grunted, “Fair enough.”
No sooner than the four of them pointed out the direction of the attack then the forerunners of the assault were upon them. A hurried conversation with Jowan, and Moira went to stand to one side, her blade at the ready and spells falling from her lips. Jowan mirrored his commander. And then Cullen had no time to worry about what anyone else was doing.
The first wave of darkspawn that hit were just the normal fodder, glenlocks. The most common and seemingly most expendable of the shock troops the darkspawn had. He slashed and parried, ducked and shield bashed his way through the line, Zevran stalking behind him to clean up anything that survived the initial encounter. It didn’t take long for Alistair to catch up, the king breathing heavily in his dull red dragonscale armor, but still disabling everything he hit. Shale and Zevran were efficiently plugging any holes they might have missed; nothing seemed to get through. But then, Cullen’s blood froze as he heard Moira scream in pain. He glanced in her direction, a Hurlock Alpha had some how circled them and was pounding on the armored mage. He heard the king yell, “Zevran!” but the elf had already started running to protect the commander. Cullen moved to help her, too, until Alistair’s commanding voice brought him back, “Hold your ground, Warden! We’ve got an Emissary to find! And we have another mage to protect!” How the man could stand there so calmly shouting orders when she was in danger made the ex-Templar’s blood boil.
“How can you --?” He began, but found the front of his armor yanked toward Alistair’s snarling face.
“Get your arse over there and protect Jowan before they take out the only other mage we have!” Without waiting to see if Cullen obeyed, Alistair glared at him and gestured for Shale to follow. Cullen did as he was told, his stomach in knots with worry. He charged a glenlock attempting to hack at Jowan with a sword and shield bashed a few more away from the mage. Keeping the monsters off Jowan as the blood mage countered the spells from the Emissary was irritating and absorbing and did succeed in distracting him from Moira’s predicament. It was between beheading one glenlock and turning to face a hurlock that he realized he could still sense that there were four Wardens nearby. Surely he wouldn’t be able to sense her if she were dead?
His sword ran through the last hurlock he could see and he and Jowan looked around, panting. “She’s all right, Cullen. That elf won’t let anything happen to her.”
The heavily armored man just glared at the bloodmage, “That elf is…” he trailed off as the two of them came hobbling into the clearing where their camp had been. Both Zevran and Moira were bleeding from various wounds and there was large rent in Moira’s breastplate. They were leaning heavily on each other. Ignoring Jowan, Cullen started walking to his commander, but froze when he saw the assassin lean down to kiss her. Jowan pushed past him to go to the woman he called sister. Cullen ignored him, focusing on the fact that the two of them were still kissing. His blood pounded in his ears and he forced himself to sheathe his sword and shield across his back otherwise he might have used it on one of them.
He didn’t know why he could handle the idea of Moira being with the king and not the assassin. Maybe if she couldn’t be with him, at least a king was more worthy. He did respect the fighting ability of the assassin, but found the elf personally reprehensible. His fists clenched and unclenched and he found himself breathing heavily. He watched Zevran reluctantly part himself from Moira and turn to look around. Cullen assumed he was looking for the man he was cuckolding. “You son of a ****,” Cullen snarled.
Zevran stopped and turned toward the ex-templar, “Insulting, if accurate. What seems to be the matter now?”
All the ex-Templar could think of in that moment was wiping the smirk off the former Crow’s face. Ignoring, or rather, not hearing Moira’s shouted order to stand down, he leapt for the assassin intent on getting his gauntleted fists around the elf’s scrawny throat. Zevran stood his ground and ducked the heavier man’s first swing. Before he could swing again, the assassin swept his feet out from under him and punched him in the throat, making him gag and knocked him over on his back where his armor was less of a benefit and more of a hindrance. He found his arms pinned under the assassin’s legs and Zevran’s dagger stabbing through a weak point in his armor, angling for his heart. “Is there a reason for this, Warden?” Zevran snarled.
In the distance, Cullen heard Moira order the other mage, “Help me get the hell out of this, Jowan! The goddamned buckles will need to be cut. I don’t ****ing have time to be delicate.”
The creak of more armor and the king’s voice, “Zevran, why the hell do you have our new Warden pinned?”
Shale’s voice, “Zevran probably did something to Moira and Cullen got jealous.”
“Get off me, elf,” Cullen snarled.
Zevran smirked through his blood-matted hair, “Make me.”
Alistair’s voice again, sounding tired, “Get off him, Zevran. He’s Moira’s to deal with anyway.” The knife was pulled away and Zevran leaped nimbly to his feet. No one offered to help Cullen stand. He awkwardly climbed to his feet and looked around immediately for Moira and found both Alistair and Jowan trying to pry her out of her ruined armor. The raven-haired woman flinched and breath hissed out between her teeth as a buckle was released painfully. Movement caught his eye and he glared as Zevran crossed to stand by her side. She held out her hand for him and he grasped it tightly. She was obviously in a lot of pain from the damaged armor and she had a white-knuckled grip on the assassin’s hand as Jowan and Alistair worked to get her out of it. Cullen wondered if she had broken any ribs.
She looked up and caught him staring, “I appreciate your concern, Cullen, but I’m,” breath hissed out between her teeth and Zevran turned a little pale as Moira’s nails dug into his hands, “fine. If you attack Zevran again, it’d had better be because he’s not ducking in time to miss an arrow.” Cullen’s anger went on a slow boil as the elf merely raised an eyebrow at that.
“Oh, don’t give me that look. It has—ooof!—happen - OW!” And she sagged in relief as the breast plate was finally removed from her abdomen. The rest of her armor had already been removed, and she clutched her ribs with her free hand, still holding on to Zevran’s hand. Between him and Alistair, they got her on her feet and helped her walk over to him. She glared up at him. What in Andraste’s name was wrong with him that he thought she was still beautiful despite the liberal coating and stench of darkspawn blood and the controlled rage radiating off her? And he really shouldn’t be thinking of how tightly her leathers fit her. “They are going to bandage my ribs. You three, get the camp cleaned up and ready to move.” She glared at Cullen one last time before the other two men all but carried her away.
At least he could follow her orders. He started gathering their supplies; glad they’d somehow had the foresight to have a cold camp. It didn’t take long for the three of them to break down the camp and load up their horses. Cullen even checked each animal for wounds and still the three of them weren’t back. He looked at Shale, daring her to countermand him and order him to stay, he told them, “I’m going to go find them. They’ve been gone too long.” He spun on his heel and went after them leaving Shale staring at his retreating back in consternation.
He followed the sound of Moira’s voice cursing and Alistair telling her to hold still. “Zevran, make her hold still or this bandage will be too loose again and we’ll have to start all over!”
Cullen stood behind a tree watching the three of them attempt to bandage Moira’s ribcage. “Alistair, I love you, but you’re absolutely horrid at this.”
The fair-haired king grunted, pulling tighter on the linen, “Moira, I love you, but you’re a lousy patient.”
Zevran laughed. “He’s got you there, mi amora.” The assassin held on to her tighter, the moonlight highlighting his straining muscles. Moira gripped his arms tightly and Cullen realized she was standing there in front of both of them, wearing only her small clothes and her leather pants, the silver light making her pale skin glow. Her leather jerkin lay discarded on a nearby bush.
Moira grunted as Alistair tugged again, “Neither of you are going to have me until we get to Wynne.”
Even in the dim light he could see the king pout, “Even if we promise to be gentle?”
Moira attempted to laugh but nearly collapsed in pain, “Oh, Maker, don’t do that to me.”
Zevran grinned, “I believe our dear Commander is begging for mercy.”
Alistair gave the bandage one last yank and Moira grunted at the tug. He tied off the linen securely and looked down at the elf mage, “Do you think she deserves it?”
Zevran looked thoughtful. He stepped back and released her while Moira checked the bandage around her torso. “Hmmm…..”
“I think I should get something for putting up with both of you!” Moira said, pulling Alistair down for a kiss. Cullen wrenched his eyes away. But almost of their own accord, they wandered back to see her standing between both men, still, but kissing Zevran now. Rage flooded through his veins, his blood pounded in his ears and he stepped forward from behind the tree.
“You ****!”
#479
Posté 22 juin 2010 - 02:31
Shenzi
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rofl loved the chapter, poor Cullen is in for a very long trip home 
#480
Posté 22 juin 2010 - 10:04
sapphyreelf
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Silly censors!
I almost feel bad for Cullen here. It's always rough to see that person tumble down from their pedestals. (Even if they should never have been stupid enough to put someone on a pedestal)
I almost feel bad for Cullen here. It's always rough to see that person tumble down from their pedestals. (Even if they should never have been stupid enough to put someone on a pedestal)
#481
Posté 23 juin 2010 - 03:13
dbfandillyjam
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I think Cullen's trying to get himself killed.
#483
Posté 26 juin 2010 - 08:12
Sialater
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Part 50
Moira froze, her hands still on each man’s chest, and she pulled her mouth away from Zevran’s to stare at Cullen. Mirth bubbled in her chest as she tried very hard not to laugh because it would hurt like hell.
She didn’t have to look at Zevran or Alistair to know what their reactions were. She felt Alistair’s hand convulse on hers, tightening in rage. Zevran was standing loosely in the stance that meant someone was going to die, painfully. One of his hands was on the small of her back, but the rest of him was standing slightly away from her, poised on the balls of his feet.
She allowed herself to laugh as loudly as she wanted to. It wasn’t false, she was very amused, but if she didn’t do something to diffuse the situation, Zevran and Alistair would kill Cullen. She gasped for breath, “Are you incredibly stupid, or just suicidal?”
Brown eyes turned to glare at her after yanking themselves away from the two fighters on either side of her. Cullen stood ready to defend himself, one hand reaching behind him to draw his sword, but her laughter seemed to have caught him off guard. “They’ve made you their ****,” he explained to her patiently as if she were a naïve child.
Moira tried very hard to not giggle again, “I don’t believe they’ve paid me.” She looked from Alistair to Zevran who were both still glowering at the newly made Warden. “Don’t be an idiot, Cullen,” she told him, her mirth draining away into simple exhaustion. She met his brown eyes, his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed beard drawing into a harsh line. She stepped away from both of the other men. “I love them.” She glanced back at both of them, still standing as if ready to fight, “And they love me.” She looked back at her old friend, and watched his face crumple from rage to sorrow.
She sent her magic through her muscles, feeling the strength it gave her flood through her. She knew both Cullen and Alistair would have felt it, but only Alistair would know what it meant. She knew she needed to prepare for a betraying move on Cullen’s part, but what exactly he would do, she didn’t know. Adrenaline flooded her veins and Zevran’s and Alistair’s presences took up their well-worn corners in her mind. “Why?” his voice was broken, ragged. “Why them? I watched over you for years! I have stayed faithful to you.” He dropped to his knees and looked up at her. “There was never any hope for us, was there.”
Moira closed the distance between them, despite her paranoia where Cullen was concerned, she did care for her friend. She cupped his face in her hands, “I’m not going to lie and say, ‘No,’ Cullen. Perhaps, if I’d stayed in the Tower. . . If I’d stayed a prisoner, I’d have been content with the affection of one of my jailers. But would you have broken your vows for me?”
The ex-Templar’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, “Yes.”
Moira shook her head, “No, you wouldn’t have. You hate me and you love me. You hate that I’m a mage. With every fiber of your being, you hate it. But you’ve decided I have to be worthy of your adoration, so you’ve put me up on a pedestal. A very tall one, I might add.”
One word, wrenched from his throat, “No.” His eyes closed tightly.
“But if you broke your vows to be with me, you’d grow to hate me anyway. And it would eat away at you, rotting through your very core. It would color every action you ever took and breaking those vows would break you.” Moira dropped her hands from his face but didn’t step back, “You won’t be going to Amaranthine with me when I go.”
With a roar, he launched himself at her. His arms wrapped around her hips, knocking her on her back. She nearly screamed at the agony that lanced through her as her fragile ribs impacted the ground and her vision nearly blacked out when her head struck a rock, but with her magic infusing her body, she was sturdier than she looked. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she held his arms pinned against her, immobilizing him. She glanced up and glared at Zevran and Alistair who’d both drawn their weapons as the big man lunged. She shook her head at them and they merely stood ready so they could yank him off her if they needed to.
She wrenched Cullen’s face away from her chest by the simple expedient of yanking on his short hair, “You’ve attacked your superior officer, Cullen.”
Brown eyes stared at her, hatred plainly written in them, “You are not my superior, mage.”
Was he really going to push this to the point where she had to kill him? Another voice intruded, however. “What the hell is going on?” Jowan’s voice intruded. Moira groaned inwardly. Cullen’s opinion of Jowan was even worse than his opinion of her. She felt the heavily armored man on top of her go limp, however, and she released his hair. His head flopped back down on her chest and she felt him shudder, even through his armor. Breath hissed through her throat at the pain.
Shale’s voice, “Are you both going to just let him smother her like that?”
Moira drew in a breath, painfully, “Shale, Jowan, that’s enough. Zevran, Alistair, please make sure we’re ready to go.” She looked up to meet Alistair’s eyes as he stared down at her. She tried to reassure him without speaking. She needed to deal with this, privately. Cullen had too much pride and was too wounded to deal well with others seeing his humiliation. Alistair nodded, reluctantly, his mind processing the same information and coming to the same conclusion.
“Be careful,” he mouthed, and she heard his and the other’s footsteps leave the area, crashing through the underbrush. She had no doubt, however, that Zevran had stayed to watch from concealment to back her up.
Cullen’s heavy body still shook against hers. He managed to choke out, “So, after all this, you’re going to send me away?”
“Yes.” His arms tightened around her and she gasped as pain from her ribs lanced through her. He immediately loosened his grip, muttering apologies. “I have to be the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you would follow every order without question?”
He raised his face to meet her gaze where she looked at him down the length of her body, “Yes.”
“Liar.”
He tucked his face back against her stomach, “I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are. You wouldn’t allow me to endanger myself even if it was to stop a Blight. Neither would Alistair or Zevran, which is why they’re not going with me either.”
He looked up at her again, alarmed. “You’re going to the stronghold of the man who tried to kill you alone?”
“I even plan to leave Perrin with Alistair.”
He sat up, giving her breathing room for her poor ribs, “Why?” She was glad he was finally thinking, using his brain to pull himself out of his emotional pit.
Clutching her chest, she pulled herself into a sitting position. “I’m the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. I can’t have, or be seen to have, emotional attachments to anyone. Jowan won’t be going either.”
Cullen made a face, “You’re better off without him.”
Moira shrugged, “I hold a different opinion.” Moira shifted, grunting as her ribs protested. She looked at the taller man, catching his eyes and holding his gaze, “I am not their ****, Cullen.”
He covered his face with his gauntleted hands, “It kills me to see you with them.”
“You’re going to have to respect my choice.”
“I could force you to choose differently,” his eyes slanted to her, the mix of anger, hatred and lust plain in his expression, his body tensing as if he would pounce on her again.
With her magic still singing through her muscles, Moira laughed, “No, you couldn’t. And you won’t. No matter your feelings right now, you are no monster.”
He looked away, “Andraste’s ass,” he swore. Then flinched at his language. Moira bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked back at her, “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes.”
Propping his arms on his bent knees, he stared into the forest, “I’m sorry.”
Grunting with the effort, Moira scooted a little closer and put her hand on his shoulder, “You’re going to find some nice farm girl one day, my friend.” And she meant the word.
He snorted, and turned to face her, not hiding the tracks of drying tears running down his cheeks, “Friend, huhn?”
Moira shrugged, wincing a little as even that movement caused her pain, “Well, Brother, technically.”
“Why them?”
It was Moira’s turn to stare off into the trees and spotted Zevran ducking behind a large oak. She smiled to herself, “They accept me for who I am and don’t try to change me.”
“Whereas all I’ve ever wanted was for you to not be a mage.”
“I can’t help being a mage any more than I can change my pointed ears, Brother,” she pointed out. “Can you please bring me my shirt, now?”
Moira froze, her hands still on each man’s chest, and she pulled her mouth away from Zevran’s to stare at Cullen. Mirth bubbled in her chest as she tried very hard not to laugh because it would hurt like hell.
She didn’t have to look at Zevran or Alistair to know what their reactions were. She felt Alistair’s hand convulse on hers, tightening in rage. Zevran was standing loosely in the stance that meant someone was going to die, painfully. One of his hands was on the small of her back, but the rest of him was standing slightly away from her, poised on the balls of his feet.
She allowed herself to laugh as loudly as she wanted to. It wasn’t false, she was very amused, but if she didn’t do something to diffuse the situation, Zevran and Alistair would kill Cullen. She gasped for breath, “Are you incredibly stupid, or just suicidal?”
Brown eyes turned to glare at her after yanking themselves away from the two fighters on either side of her. Cullen stood ready to defend himself, one hand reaching behind him to draw his sword, but her laughter seemed to have caught him off guard. “They’ve made you their ****,” he explained to her patiently as if she were a naïve child.
Moira tried very hard to not giggle again, “I don’t believe they’ve paid me.” She looked from Alistair to Zevran who were both still glowering at the newly made Warden. “Don’t be an idiot, Cullen,” she told him, her mirth draining away into simple exhaustion. She met his brown eyes, his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed beard drawing into a harsh line. She stepped away from both of the other men. “I love them.” She glanced back at both of them, still standing as if ready to fight, “And they love me.” She looked back at her old friend, and watched his face crumple from rage to sorrow.
She sent her magic through her muscles, feeling the strength it gave her flood through her. She knew both Cullen and Alistair would have felt it, but only Alistair would know what it meant. She knew she needed to prepare for a betraying move on Cullen’s part, but what exactly he would do, she didn’t know. Adrenaline flooded her veins and Zevran’s and Alistair’s presences took up their well-worn corners in her mind. “Why?” his voice was broken, ragged. “Why them? I watched over you for years! I have stayed faithful to you.” He dropped to his knees and looked up at her. “There was never any hope for us, was there.”
Moira closed the distance between them, despite her paranoia where Cullen was concerned, she did care for her friend. She cupped his face in her hands, “I’m not going to lie and say, ‘No,’ Cullen. Perhaps, if I’d stayed in the Tower. . . If I’d stayed a prisoner, I’d have been content with the affection of one of my jailers. But would you have broken your vows for me?”
The ex-Templar’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, “Yes.”
Moira shook her head, “No, you wouldn’t have. You hate me and you love me. You hate that I’m a mage. With every fiber of your being, you hate it. But you’ve decided I have to be worthy of your adoration, so you’ve put me up on a pedestal. A very tall one, I might add.”
One word, wrenched from his throat, “No.” His eyes closed tightly.
“But if you broke your vows to be with me, you’d grow to hate me anyway. And it would eat away at you, rotting through your very core. It would color every action you ever took and breaking those vows would break you.” Moira dropped her hands from his face but didn’t step back, “You won’t be going to Amaranthine with me when I go.”
With a roar, he launched himself at her. His arms wrapped around her hips, knocking her on her back. She nearly screamed at the agony that lanced through her as her fragile ribs impacted the ground and her vision nearly blacked out when her head struck a rock, but with her magic infusing her body, she was sturdier than she looked. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she held his arms pinned against her, immobilizing him. She glanced up and glared at Zevran and Alistair who’d both drawn their weapons as the big man lunged. She shook her head at them and they merely stood ready so they could yank him off her if they needed to.
She wrenched Cullen’s face away from her chest by the simple expedient of yanking on his short hair, “You’ve attacked your superior officer, Cullen.”
Brown eyes stared at her, hatred plainly written in them, “You are not my superior, mage.”
Was he really going to push this to the point where she had to kill him? Another voice intruded, however. “What the hell is going on?” Jowan’s voice intruded. Moira groaned inwardly. Cullen’s opinion of Jowan was even worse than his opinion of her. She felt the heavily armored man on top of her go limp, however, and she released his hair. His head flopped back down on her chest and she felt him shudder, even through his armor. Breath hissed through her throat at the pain.
Shale’s voice, “Are you both going to just let him smother her like that?”
Moira drew in a breath, painfully, “Shale, Jowan, that’s enough. Zevran, Alistair, please make sure we’re ready to go.” She looked up to meet Alistair’s eyes as he stared down at her. She tried to reassure him without speaking. She needed to deal with this, privately. Cullen had too much pride and was too wounded to deal well with others seeing his humiliation. Alistair nodded, reluctantly, his mind processing the same information and coming to the same conclusion.
“Be careful,” he mouthed, and she heard his and the other’s footsteps leave the area, crashing through the underbrush. She had no doubt, however, that Zevran had stayed to watch from concealment to back her up.
Cullen’s heavy body still shook against hers. He managed to choke out, “So, after all this, you’re going to send me away?”
“Yes.” His arms tightened around her and she gasped as pain from her ribs lanced through her. He immediately loosened his grip, muttering apologies. “I have to be the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you would follow every order without question?”
He raised his face to meet her gaze where she looked at him down the length of her body, “Yes.”
“Liar.”
He tucked his face back against her stomach, “I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are. You wouldn’t allow me to endanger myself even if it was to stop a Blight. Neither would Alistair or Zevran, which is why they’re not going with me either.”
He looked up at her again, alarmed. “You’re going to the stronghold of the man who tried to kill you alone?”
“I even plan to leave Perrin with Alistair.”
He sat up, giving her breathing room for her poor ribs, “Why?” She was glad he was finally thinking, using his brain to pull himself out of his emotional pit.
Clutching her chest, she pulled herself into a sitting position. “I’m the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. I can’t have, or be seen to have, emotional attachments to anyone. Jowan won’t be going either.”
Cullen made a face, “You’re better off without him.”
Moira shrugged, “I hold a different opinion.” Moira shifted, grunting as her ribs protested. She looked at the taller man, catching his eyes and holding his gaze, “I am not their ****, Cullen.”
He covered his face with his gauntleted hands, “It kills me to see you with them.”
“You’re going to have to respect my choice.”
“I could force you to choose differently,” his eyes slanted to her, the mix of anger, hatred and lust plain in his expression, his body tensing as if he would pounce on her again.
With her magic still singing through her muscles, Moira laughed, “No, you couldn’t. And you won’t. No matter your feelings right now, you are no monster.”
He looked away, “Andraste’s ass,” he swore. Then flinched at his language. Moira bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked back at her, “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes.”
Propping his arms on his bent knees, he stared into the forest, “I’m sorry.”
Grunting with the effort, Moira scooted a little closer and put her hand on his shoulder, “You’re going to find some nice farm girl one day, my friend.” And she meant the word.
He snorted, and turned to face her, not hiding the tracks of drying tears running down his cheeks, “Friend, huhn?”
Moira shrugged, wincing a little as even that movement caused her pain, “Well, Brother, technically.”
“Why them?”
It was Moira’s turn to stare off into the trees and spotted Zevran ducking behind a large oak. She smiled to herself, “They accept me for who I am and don’t try to change me.”
“Whereas all I’ve ever wanted was for you to not be a mage.”
“I can’t help being a mage any more than I can change my pointed ears, Brother,” she pointed out. “Can you please bring me my shirt, now?”
#485
Posté 01 juillet 2010 - 12:55
Sialater
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- Members
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Part 51
They reached Val Dorma by the next sunset. They made it to the inn where Wynne and Perrin had been staying. Moira walked into the common room feeling as if her muscles were about to refuse to move another inch and her ribs ached to the point where she wanted to weep. She’d been unable to put her armor back on and wore only the leather pants and jerkin that went under it, the jerkin helping to hold the bandages in place. She’d spent the last few miles, walking, unable to handle the jostling of the horse. She’d alternated between leaning on Alistair and Zevran and occasionally, even Jowan. No one let Cullen near her, not even Shale.
Alistair gave her a brief kiss, “I’ll get a couple more rooms. Go find Wynne and get yourself taken care of. I hate seeing you in this much pain.”
Moira nodded and looked dubiously at the stairs. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” She realized Zevran was standing beside her, “No, you’re not going to carry me.”
“Why not? Do you have something to prove to someone?” He asked.
“The Commander of the Gray does not get carried up a flight of stairs like some damsel in a bard’s tale.”
Zevran clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She does when she can’t breathe without weeping.”
Moira scowled at him, “I have yet to shed a tear in pain, Zevran.”
Zevran grinned, “Poetic license, mi amora.” He walked to the foot of the stairs and bowed to her with a flourish, “After you, Commander.”
Moira glared at him and his grin widened. She knew he was challenging her but she’d faint from the pain before she admitted she needed help. She steeled herself and refused to think of how many stairs there were until the top. She gritted her teeth and began to climb, knowing Zevran was right behind her, not because he made any noise whatsoever, but because she’d begun to just know when he was around. She wavered slightly on about the fifth step and felt the gentle pressure of his hand against her back, keeping her from falling. From the position, she doubted anyone could have seen him support her. She took as deep a breath as she could and continued to climb.
She reached the top of the stairs, panting shallowly. Her limbs were shaking and she felt like she was dripping with sweat. Zevran stood behind her, waiting for her to catch her breath. She looked at him and found that his face was carefully blank. “I know you disapprove, Zevran.”
He glanced around to make sure they were alone, “I realize you wanted to set an example for your Wardens, mi amora, but the example you could have set was one of knowing when to ask for help and knowing your limits.”
“I realize that, Zevran, but I don’t honestly think it would have helped my situation with Cullen,” Moira pointed out.
“He needs to see you as human and his commander, mi amora. His pedestal for you is very high.”
Moira pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’ll keep that in mind, Zev. I promise.”
The elf smiled impishly, “Besides, you have two very gorgeous and strapping young men to cater to your every whim. Don’t you think you should take advantage of that more often?”
Moira turned to him, tilting her face up to his, one of her hands on his chest. She snaked the other one up and around to knot her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. His arms slid around her gently, wary of her ribs as he returned her soft kiss. She pulled away first, unable to hold her shallow breath for very long. He leaned his forehead against hers and she said, “You make a compelling argument, Love. Now, please, help me to Wynne’s room.” He smiled at her, and she leaned on him as he led her.
At Wynne’s murmered, “Come in,” Moira and Zevran pushed into the room. Perrin leaped to his paws and ran at Moira, his stub of a tail wagging so hard his butt wiggled. “Sit!” Moira nearly shouted, afraid of the Mabari hitting her damaged ribcage with his enthusiasm. With a whine, the Mabari dropped to his haunches, paw raised in supplication. “Help me down,” Moira told Zevran and using one hand on her back and holding one of her hands, he helped her kneel to greet her canine friend. The Mabari were the smartest dogs in Thedas, it didn’t take Perrin long to figure out he needed to greet his mistress carefully and without his usual exhuberance.
Wynne came to stand near Moira and asked, “What by the name of the Maker happened, Moira?”
Giving Perrin’s ears a last scratch, Zevran helped her to her feet, “A hurlock Alpha got a little too affectionate with me on our way out of Weisshaupt.”
Wynne’s breath hissed through her teeth, and she immediately snapped into healer mode. She made Zevran bring Moira over to the chair in which she’d been sitting kitting in the last of the daylight. “Are they bruised or broken?”
Moira inhaled, slowly, and replied, “We’re not sure. Since I’m not coughing up blood, probably just cracked.”
“Thank Andraste for small blessings,” Wynne sighed. “You couldn’t heal this yourself?”
Moira shrugged, then winced. “Left the injury packs with you, so no.”
Wynne made the same clicking sound Zevran had earlier, “Aren’t you glad you traveled light? Foolish girl! Zevran, they’re over against the wall. Bring me one of the large ones.” Wynne unlaced Moira’s jerkin and helped her take it off. She unwound the bandages from the elf mage’s ribs, while Moira held her arms out. Wynne took a sympathetically deep breath at the massive bruising on Moira’s torso. “Maker’s breath! What did it hit you with, a battering ram?”
Moira choked off a laugh, “Felt like it. But, no. It hit me with a broadsword, but Zevran distracted it enough that it only got a glancing blow. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Moira watched the emotions cross her old friend’s face. The old woman’s features settling on concern and anger. “Did you at least rescue Alistair?”
The man in question chose to open the door at that moment, “Of course she did!”
Wynne dropped the bandages and poultices and rushed to embrace the King of Ferelden. “Thank the Maker!” She stepped back and Moira was amused to see her scowl back in place. “What are you doing letting her get injured like that!”
Alistair threw his hands up in mock surrender at the same time that Zevran walked back over to Moira and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t look at me! It was his turn!”
Wynne turned to look at at the two elves. Moira tilted her head up to Zevran as he quietly asked, “How badly does it still hurt?” He moved his hand so that his thumb traced her jawline.
“A lot. Can we please get on with this?” The younger mage looked back at the older one as Wynne turned back to Alistair.
“I’m so sorry, Alistair. She shouldn’t be flaunting in front of you.” Wynne actually stood wringing her hands.
Moira caught Alistair’s amused expression. He was actually having fun letting Wynne think poorly of her! Moira glared at him and he finally noticed her expression. She felt Zevran’s fingers tighten on her shoulders and she glanced up to find he was doing his best not to laugh at Wynne’s outraged expression.
Alistair gave in to Moira’s glare and crossed the room to her, he mouthed, I’m sorry, before bending to kiss her as deeply as the awkward position allowed.
Wynne burst into surprised laughter as Alistair straightened up. She shook her head, and met Moira’s eyes, “He had me going there for a moment. Forgive me, Moira. I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”
“It’s our Alistair’s fault, dear Wynne. He came out of his imprisonment with an even worse sense of humor than he went in with,” Zevran told her, leaning down to get his own soft kiss from Moira.
“Oh, my,” Wynne murmured as he straightened up. Wynne met Moira’s eyes, “You’re certain of this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Moira responded. “Can we please get on with this?”
Wynne looked at her steadily then grinned. Glancing at the two men, she said, “You two had better let her get some sleep tonight. She may not be able to travel in the morning as it is.”
Moira choked out a laugh at Alistair’s mockingly disappointed expression. Behind her, Zevran said, “We have been forced to be perfect gentlemen since the day it happened. It’s been heartbreaking.”
“Cheeky elf,” Wynne laughed. “All right, Moira, let’s get you wrapped up.”
Roughly an hour later, Moira was gratefully stretched out on the bed in the room she shared with Zevran and Alistair. The numbing effect from the poultices dulled the pain from her damaged ribs. The two men sat at the small table in the room sharpening and polishing their blades and hers, and cleaning all of the armor, though there was nothing any of them would be able to do about the giant rent in her breastplate. If it weren’t for the implements of violence in their hands, it would have made a nice picture. “We’re never going to get a break, are we?”
Zevran glanced up from the dagger he was polishing. “Where would be the fun in that?” She saw Alistair catch his eye and shake his head slightly. Zevran sighed and put the dagger and rag down and crossed the room to her. She watched him kneel down next to the bed and take her hand in his, “Mi amora, I would give anything to live peacefully with you in some village somewhere.” He moved closer to the head of the bed, and with his free hand, brushed her hair behind her pointed ear.
Moira snorted, wincing at the stab of pain in her ribs, “No you wouldn’t. You’d get bored.”
Zevran grinned, “We could run off and join the Dalish. I’m sure they’d allow us to keep Alistair, if we told them he was our sex slave.” He looked at the other man over his shoulder.
Moira choked back a laugh, “Maker’s Breath, Zevran! You’re going to kill me.”
By the time she’d recovered from the flare of pain Alistair had crawled in bed next to her and took her other hand in his, holding it over his heart, his tone serious and his hazel eyes meeting hers, “He’s right, you know.”
“Oh?”
“The Dalish would completely believe I was your sex slave.”
They reached Val Dorma by the next sunset. They made it to the inn where Wynne and Perrin had been staying. Moira walked into the common room feeling as if her muscles were about to refuse to move another inch and her ribs ached to the point where she wanted to weep. She’d been unable to put her armor back on and wore only the leather pants and jerkin that went under it, the jerkin helping to hold the bandages in place. She’d spent the last few miles, walking, unable to handle the jostling of the horse. She’d alternated between leaning on Alistair and Zevran and occasionally, even Jowan. No one let Cullen near her, not even Shale.
Alistair gave her a brief kiss, “I’ll get a couple more rooms. Go find Wynne and get yourself taken care of. I hate seeing you in this much pain.”
Moira nodded and looked dubiously at the stairs. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” She realized Zevran was standing beside her, “No, you’re not going to carry me.”
“Why not? Do you have something to prove to someone?” He asked.
“The Commander of the Gray does not get carried up a flight of stairs like some damsel in a bard’s tale.”
Zevran clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She does when she can’t breathe without weeping.”
Moira scowled at him, “I have yet to shed a tear in pain, Zevran.”
Zevran grinned, “Poetic license, mi amora.” He walked to the foot of the stairs and bowed to her with a flourish, “After you, Commander.”
Moira glared at him and his grin widened. She knew he was challenging her but she’d faint from the pain before she admitted she needed help. She steeled herself and refused to think of how many stairs there were until the top. She gritted her teeth and began to climb, knowing Zevran was right behind her, not because he made any noise whatsoever, but because she’d begun to just know when he was around. She wavered slightly on about the fifth step and felt the gentle pressure of his hand against her back, keeping her from falling. From the position, she doubted anyone could have seen him support her. She took as deep a breath as she could and continued to climb.
She reached the top of the stairs, panting shallowly. Her limbs were shaking and she felt like she was dripping with sweat. Zevran stood behind her, waiting for her to catch her breath. She looked at him and found that his face was carefully blank. “I know you disapprove, Zevran.”
He glanced around to make sure they were alone, “I realize you wanted to set an example for your Wardens, mi amora, but the example you could have set was one of knowing when to ask for help and knowing your limits.”
“I realize that, Zevran, but I don’t honestly think it would have helped my situation with Cullen,” Moira pointed out.
“He needs to see you as human and his commander, mi amora. His pedestal for you is very high.”
Moira pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’ll keep that in mind, Zev. I promise.”
The elf smiled impishly, “Besides, you have two very gorgeous and strapping young men to cater to your every whim. Don’t you think you should take advantage of that more often?”
Moira turned to him, tilting her face up to his, one of her hands on his chest. She snaked the other one up and around to knot her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. His arms slid around her gently, wary of her ribs as he returned her soft kiss. She pulled away first, unable to hold her shallow breath for very long. He leaned his forehead against hers and she said, “You make a compelling argument, Love. Now, please, help me to Wynne’s room.” He smiled at her, and she leaned on him as he led her.
At Wynne’s murmered, “Come in,” Moira and Zevran pushed into the room. Perrin leaped to his paws and ran at Moira, his stub of a tail wagging so hard his butt wiggled. “Sit!” Moira nearly shouted, afraid of the Mabari hitting her damaged ribcage with his enthusiasm. With a whine, the Mabari dropped to his haunches, paw raised in supplication. “Help me down,” Moira told Zevran and using one hand on her back and holding one of her hands, he helped her kneel to greet her canine friend. The Mabari were the smartest dogs in Thedas, it didn’t take Perrin long to figure out he needed to greet his mistress carefully and without his usual exhuberance.
Wynne came to stand near Moira and asked, “What by the name of the Maker happened, Moira?”
Giving Perrin’s ears a last scratch, Zevran helped her to her feet, “A hurlock Alpha got a little too affectionate with me on our way out of Weisshaupt.”
Wynne’s breath hissed through her teeth, and she immediately snapped into healer mode. She made Zevran bring Moira over to the chair in which she’d been sitting kitting in the last of the daylight. “Are they bruised or broken?”
Moira inhaled, slowly, and replied, “We’re not sure. Since I’m not coughing up blood, probably just cracked.”
“Thank Andraste for small blessings,” Wynne sighed. “You couldn’t heal this yourself?”
Moira shrugged, then winced. “Left the injury packs with you, so no.”
Wynne made the same clicking sound Zevran had earlier, “Aren’t you glad you traveled light? Foolish girl! Zevran, they’re over against the wall. Bring me one of the large ones.” Wynne unlaced Moira’s jerkin and helped her take it off. She unwound the bandages from the elf mage’s ribs, while Moira held her arms out. Wynne took a sympathetically deep breath at the massive bruising on Moira’s torso. “Maker’s breath! What did it hit you with, a battering ram?”
Moira choked off a laugh, “Felt like it. But, no. It hit me with a broadsword, but Zevran distracted it enough that it only got a glancing blow. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Moira watched the emotions cross her old friend’s face. The old woman’s features settling on concern and anger. “Did you at least rescue Alistair?”
The man in question chose to open the door at that moment, “Of course she did!”
Wynne dropped the bandages and poultices and rushed to embrace the King of Ferelden. “Thank the Maker!” She stepped back and Moira was amused to see her scowl back in place. “What are you doing letting her get injured like that!”
Alistair threw his hands up in mock surrender at the same time that Zevran walked back over to Moira and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t look at me! It was his turn!”
Wynne turned to look at at the two elves. Moira tilted her head up to Zevran as he quietly asked, “How badly does it still hurt?” He moved his hand so that his thumb traced her jawline.
“A lot. Can we please get on with this?” The younger mage looked back at the older one as Wynne turned back to Alistair.
“I’m so sorry, Alistair. She shouldn’t be flaunting in front of you.” Wynne actually stood wringing her hands.
Moira caught Alistair’s amused expression. He was actually having fun letting Wynne think poorly of her! Moira glared at him and he finally noticed her expression. She felt Zevran’s fingers tighten on her shoulders and she glanced up to find he was doing his best not to laugh at Wynne’s outraged expression.
Alistair gave in to Moira’s glare and crossed the room to her, he mouthed, I’m sorry, before bending to kiss her as deeply as the awkward position allowed.
Wynne burst into surprised laughter as Alistair straightened up. She shook her head, and met Moira’s eyes, “He had me going there for a moment. Forgive me, Moira. I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”
“It’s our Alistair’s fault, dear Wynne. He came out of his imprisonment with an even worse sense of humor than he went in with,” Zevran told her, leaning down to get his own soft kiss from Moira.
“Oh, my,” Wynne murmured as he straightened up. Wynne met Moira’s eyes, “You’re certain of this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Moira responded. “Can we please get on with this?”
Wynne looked at her steadily then grinned. Glancing at the two men, she said, “You two had better let her get some sleep tonight. She may not be able to travel in the morning as it is.”
Moira choked out a laugh at Alistair’s mockingly disappointed expression. Behind her, Zevran said, “We have been forced to be perfect gentlemen since the day it happened. It’s been heartbreaking.”
“Cheeky elf,” Wynne laughed. “All right, Moira, let’s get you wrapped up.”
Roughly an hour later, Moira was gratefully stretched out on the bed in the room she shared with Zevran and Alistair. The numbing effect from the poultices dulled the pain from her damaged ribs. The two men sat at the small table in the room sharpening and polishing their blades and hers, and cleaning all of the armor, though there was nothing any of them would be able to do about the giant rent in her breastplate. If it weren’t for the implements of violence in their hands, it would have made a nice picture. “We’re never going to get a break, are we?”
Zevran glanced up from the dagger he was polishing. “Where would be the fun in that?” She saw Alistair catch his eye and shake his head slightly. Zevran sighed and put the dagger and rag down and crossed the room to her. She watched him kneel down next to the bed and take her hand in his, “Mi amora, I would give anything to live peacefully with you in some village somewhere.” He moved closer to the head of the bed, and with his free hand, brushed her hair behind her pointed ear.
Moira snorted, wincing at the stab of pain in her ribs, “No you wouldn’t. You’d get bored.”
Zevran grinned, “We could run off and join the Dalish. I’m sure they’d allow us to keep Alistair, if we told them he was our sex slave.” He looked at the other man over his shoulder.
Moira choked back a laugh, “Maker’s Breath, Zevran! You’re going to kill me.”
By the time she’d recovered from the flare of pain Alistair had crawled in bed next to her and took her other hand in his, holding it over his heart, his tone serious and his hazel eyes meeting hers, “He’s right, you know.”
“Oh?”
“The Dalish would completely believe I was your sex slave.”
#486
Posté 02 juillet 2010 - 06:04
Lord Deshwitat
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- Members
- 163 messages
Hehe... I would love to have them as sexslaves=).
Nice chapter... Love it
Nice chapter... Love it
#487
Posté 02 juillet 2010 - 06:47
jillyfae
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It's too bad you can't seem my goofy smile... that was loverly. (And belatedly for last chapter, Cullen is such a moron, but at least his brain is slowly making its way past all his trauma and issues. *snorts* Poor tortured Templar. Even if most of it is self-inflicted.)
#488
Posté 02 juillet 2010 - 09:59
Sialater
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I'm glad y'all are liking my little menage. I just couldn't make Moira choose.
Thank you for all the review! They keep me going.
Thank you for all the review! They keep me going.
#489
Posté 10 juillet 2010 - 05:29
Sialater
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Part 52
Alistair woke slowly to find himself wound around Moira, her legs tangled with his, but her head on Zevran’s chest. Even in their sleep, they were careful not to hurt her injured ribs further. Both she and Zevran were sound asleep still and he took a moment to look at both in the dim rays of the early morning sunlight peering through the high casement window in the shabby but clean room. He raised his head and realized he’d been lying on the assassin’s arm where it emerged from under Moira’s dark curls. He thought he should feel odd about that, but discovered it didn’t bother him at all. The fact that the assassin was undoubtedly nude in their bed was slightly unsettling, but not enough for Alistair to want to flee from the warm coccoon. Moira had fallen asleep wearing one of his shirts again and it was bunched up under her breasts, baring the bandages binding her torso. He put his arm back around her, across her hips, avoiding her injury, and settled down to go back to sleep when he felt Zevran watching him from half-lidded eyes. The assassin smiled lazily from over Moira’s head as she snuggled into his shoulder in her sleep.
Alistair had to smile back. He thought he should mind more, sharing her. But he couldn’t feel jealous of Zevran any more. Especially when her small hands clutched at him in her sleep to pull his head back to her own shoulder. He resisted for a moment and whispered, “I’m surprised I’m not more jealous of you.”
Zevran frowned for a moment, considering the king’s words and replied, “And I of you. I didn’t expect that.”
Alistair lay his head back down and sighed, contentedly. He reached over and patted Zevran’s leg, momentarily relieved to find the elf wearing pants, before putting his arm back around Moira. “I didn’t expect any of this,” he replied, sleep already reclaiming him.
“I am getting up and we’re leaving for Denerim, Alistair!” Moira nearly shouted in irritation.
“You’re not getting out of this bed if I have to tie you to it, Moira,” Alistair told her, pulling his shirt on over his head. Daylight flooded the eastern-facing room from the small window high in the wall. He looked up and saw a wicked grin cross Zevran’s face from where he lounged in the room’s only chair. Alistair laughed and threw the other man’s shirt at him, “Don’t get any ideas, Zev. She needs rest.”
The blond elf’s grin turned into a pout, causing Moira to laugh until she had to hold her ribs. “Spoilsport,” he told Alistair. The taller man was prevented from replying by a knock at the door and Wynne’s voice.
“No, that’s a spoilsport. Get dressed.” Grumbling and making Moira laugh helplessly at his theatrics, the elf complied. “Just a minute, Wynne,” Alistair told the closed door, shaking his head at his friend.
Zevran pulled the shirt on over his head but went over to sit on the bed next to Moira. Alistair rolled his eyes as the assassin leaned over to kiss the mage. When Moira’s fingers went up into the elf’s blond hair and Zevran climbed over her to straddle her hips, the king let in the elder mage as a form of interruption. He nearly laughed out loud as Zevran pulled his mouth away from Moira’s and sat back on his heels, turning his head to glare at Alistair. “What?” he demanded with mock innocence. “She needed to come in!”
Zevran ignored the other man and turned back to Moira, “What would you like for breakfast, mi amora?”
Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly and Alistair felt an answering pang in his own. “I don’t care,” she replied, “as long as there’s a lot of it.”
Wynne stood watching the three of them and shook her head, her hands on her hips, “Both of you, out.”
The assassin gave Moira another kiss, brief this time, and grabbing his boots, left the small room. Alistair bent for his own kiss as Moira asked him, “Feed Perrin for me?” He nodded in reply and pressed his lips against hers, intending a brief kiss so that Wynne could examine her. The elf mage had other plans and her fingers wound though his hair, holding him in the kiss and pulling him off-balance. He nearly fell onto her, but caught himself on his hands on either side of her hips. Forgetting his intention of getting out, Alistair deepend their kiss, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth to stroke hers. For a long moment, she was all there was in the world, her touch, her scent, her taste. Nothing else mattered.
She pulled her lips away first and Alistair did his best to catch his breath, opening his eyes to watch her. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” he whispered back, touching his forehead to hers. Her fingers still played in his hair making him fight the urge to push her back down into the bed and bury himself in her.
He nodded. “Just, uh, give me a minute.”
She glanced down and met his eyes again, her smile wide and mischevious. “I hope I still do that to you when we’re decrepit and gray, my love.”
Alistair returned her grin, “I have no doubt that you will.” He gave her another kiss, this one quick and chaste and retrieved his boots. As he left, Wynne was already helping Moira out of her borrowed shirt in order to unwind the bandages.
Zevran met him out in the hall, “I thought you weren’t jealous, my dear Alistair.”
Shrugging, Alistair tucked his shirt into his pants, “I said, ‘more jealous,’ not ‘not jealous.’ I’m a little jealous.”
The other man laughed, “At least we’re honest with one another. I must admit to a small amount of jealousy as well. Come, let us get our lover her breakfast so she might recover her strength faster.”
At the thought of Moria regaining her strength, Alistair groaned. “You are not helping. I’m going to need a cold bath, soon.”
Zevran sighed, similar images apparently dancing across his own imagination, “You and me, both, my friend. Maker blast that stupid hurlock.”
The two men went down stairs. Perrin rushed to greet them, wagging his stub of a tail. Shale looked up from where she sat with the mage and the former Templar. The petite woman slid off her stool in greeting. “Good morning! I trust you three slept well?” She grinned broadly.
Apparently, the earthyness of her dwarven nature had wasted no time in reasserting itself once she became mortal again. Alistair stretched, exaggerating the motion, “Tolerably well, all things considered.”
Zevran laughed, “Something to be said for the arms of a beautiful woman.” Alistair caught the deadly glare Cullen shot the elf and exchanged a glance with Zevran.
Jowan stood up, interrupting the tension. “What is the plan for the day?”
Shale shook her head, “I think I’ll just go find out from Wynne and Moira myself. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” The dwarva disappeared up the stairs.
“The plan is for Moira to recuperate for a day, let Wynne’s treatments reknit her bones,” Alistair replied.
“And what do we do in the meantime?” Jowan asked.
Zevran shrugged, “Rest while we can. Perhaps see what we can get in the way of supplies here. But more importantly, we leave her to rest. No matter how bored and grouchy she’ll get.”
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, “I forgot about that. She’s really going to be very irritated at not being allowed to move around. Maybe I’ll sleep down here tonight.”
An expression of mock horror crossed Zevran’s features, “She really will be that irritatable, won’t she.” He made a put-upon sigh, “The trials we must bear.” The two men grinned at each other.
“You’d better get her her breakfast,” Alistair reminded the elf as he sat down at the table with Cullen and Jowan. Zevran left to find a server to order something for himself and Moira. Alistair waited at the table, silently regarding the two newest Ferelden Grey Wardens. “Cullen, find something to do that isn’t here. I’ll talk to you later.”
The sandy-haired man blinked, “Um, what should I do?”
Crossly, Alistair glared at him, “I don’t care. Try checking on the horses? Just get lost.” Irritably, Cullen slammed his empty tankard of ale down on the table and stormed out of the inn.
Jowan looked at the king and swallowed nervously. “Wh-what can I do for you, your-“
“Don’t finish that form of address,” Alistair warned, glaring at the mage pointedly.
“Uh, yes, your- er, Alistair.”
A barmaid came to the table and interrupted them. Alistair ordered and waited for her to leave, watching the blood mage steadily. When they were alone again, except for Perrin who settled at Alistair’s feet, the king said, his voice cold, “Moira told me about the part you played in her recruitment.”
Nervously, the mage swallowed, “I, uh, I’m not proud of that.”
“Yeah, you proved that at Redcliffe.”
Defensively, Jowan started shouting, “I thought -” and Alistair cut him off with a gesture to lower his voice. The blood mage leaned into the table, his voice lower, “It was Loghain! The Hero of the River Dane? The Savior of Ferelden? How was I to know he was a traitor!”
“Who are you loyal to now, Jowan? Yourself?” Alistair stared at him steadily.
“I – I’m loyal to you and to Moira.” The dark-haired man’s voice was defeated.
“No, you’re not.”
“What?” Jowan nearly shouted. At another angry gesture from Alistair, Jowan continued, his voice lowered again, “I am! I’m loyal to you and to Moira! And Ferelden!”
“Shut up, Jowan. You’re a blood mage. You’re loyal to yourself, first and foremost.”
Anger crossed the other man’s pinched face, “Just because I know a few unsanctioned spells, doesn’t make me a bad person!”
Alistair glared at him, “No, but the fact that you would use your best friend since childhood, the woman you claim is as close to you as sister, for your own ends, proves you are a blood mage, through and through.”
Jowan looked at the other man, helplessly. “I – I’m not that person any more. I would never harm her. Ever again!”
Alistair just looked at him steadily, allowing his doubt to show plainly in his eyes. “What did you do to become a blood mage, Jowan?”
Jowan blinked, startled at the question. “I – I read a book. It was a forbidden book, but I found it in one of the instructors’ offices when I was cleaning it for him. I don’t know why I was never reported for theft.”
Alistair shook his head, Is this guy for real? “Did it ever occur to you he couldn’t report you without admitting to practicing it himself?” A large bowl of steaming porridge was placed in front of him along with a heaping plate of ham and eggs and a tankard of ale. A large hambone was dropped in front of Perrin who started gnawing noisily immediately. After the barmaid left, Alistair dug in and said around the food in his mouth, “So, you never made a deal with a demon for your abilities?”
Jowan choked on his mouthful of ale, swallowing it quickly to keep from spitting it all over the table. When he could speak again, he stared at Alistair, “How-? Who would do such a thing?”
He wasn’t certain why, but he wasn’t buying Jowan’s innocent act. Moira had often told him to trust his instincts, and right now, they were screaming. “People desperate for more power. People utterly uninterested in how their actions can affect the world around them. The completely insane or the incredibly stupid.”
Jowan sat slumped in his chair, his mouth open in astonishment, “Do you honestly think I’m that . . . evil?”
Around another mouthful of the bland eggs, Alistair replied, “Are you?”
“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”
“Not especially.” The mage and the king regarded each other, staring at each other. Jowan was doing his best not to back down from the bigger man, but not challenge him either. Alistair broke the silence first, “If you’re finished, go help Cullen.” Relieved, the mage jumped up from the table and nearly sprinted from the common room.
Angrily, Alistair continued to shovel food in his mouth, as usual ignoring the bland taste in favor of just shutting up his nearly-always empty stomach. Zevran spoke from behind him as he approached the table with his own plate of ham and eggs, “You do not trust the blood mage either?”
Alistair looked up from his breakfast, “Of course not, do you?”
The elf snorted, cutting into his ham, “The list of people I trust completely is very short, my friend. You and Moira are the only constant members of it.”
Alistair nodded, unsurprised, “He was the reason she became a Grey Warden, you know.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Keep an eye on him.”
“As if you had to ask.”
Alistair woke slowly to find himself wound around Moira, her legs tangled with his, but her head on Zevran’s chest. Even in their sleep, they were careful not to hurt her injured ribs further. Both she and Zevran were sound asleep still and he took a moment to look at both in the dim rays of the early morning sunlight peering through the high casement window in the shabby but clean room. He raised his head and realized he’d been lying on the assassin’s arm where it emerged from under Moira’s dark curls. He thought he should feel odd about that, but discovered it didn’t bother him at all. The fact that the assassin was undoubtedly nude in their bed was slightly unsettling, but not enough for Alistair to want to flee from the warm coccoon. Moira had fallen asleep wearing one of his shirts again and it was bunched up under her breasts, baring the bandages binding her torso. He put his arm back around her, across her hips, avoiding her injury, and settled down to go back to sleep when he felt Zevran watching him from half-lidded eyes. The assassin smiled lazily from over Moira’s head as she snuggled into his shoulder in her sleep.
Alistair had to smile back. He thought he should mind more, sharing her. But he couldn’t feel jealous of Zevran any more. Especially when her small hands clutched at him in her sleep to pull his head back to her own shoulder. He resisted for a moment and whispered, “I’m surprised I’m not more jealous of you.”
Zevran frowned for a moment, considering the king’s words and replied, “And I of you. I didn’t expect that.”
Alistair lay his head back down and sighed, contentedly. He reached over and patted Zevran’s leg, momentarily relieved to find the elf wearing pants, before putting his arm back around Moira. “I didn’t expect any of this,” he replied, sleep already reclaiming him.
“I am getting up and we’re leaving for Denerim, Alistair!” Moira nearly shouted in irritation.
“You’re not getting out of this bed if I have to tie you to it, Moira,” Alistair told her, pulling his shirt on over his head. Daylight flooded the eastern-facing room from the small window high in the wall. He looked up and saw a wicked grin cross Zevran’s face from where he lounged in the room’s only chair. Alistair laughed and threw the other man’s shirt at him, “Don’t get any ideas, Zev. She needs rest.”
The blond elf’s grin turned into a pout, causing Moira to laugh until she had to hold her ribs. “Spoilsport,” he told Alistair. The taller man was prevented from replying by a knock at the door and Wynne’s voice.
“No, that’s a spoilsport. Get dressed.” Grumbling and making Moira laugh helplessly at his theatrics, the elf complied. “Just a minute, Wynne,” Alistair told the closed door, shaking his head at his friend.
Zevran pulled the shirt on over his head but went over to sit on the bed next to Moira. Alistair rolled his eyes as the assassin leaned over to kiss the mage. When Moira’s fingers went up into the elf’s blond hair and Zevran climbed over her to straddle her hips, the king let in the elder mage as a form of interruption. He nearly laughed out loud as Zevran pulled his mouth away from Moira’s and sat back on his heels, turning his head to glare at Alistair. “What?” he demanded with mock innocence. “She needed to come in!”
Zevran ignored the other man and turned back to Moira, “What would you like for breakfast, mi amora?”
Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly and Alistair felt an answering pang in his own. “I don’t care,” she replied, “as long as there’s a lot of it.”
Wynne stood watching the three of them and shook her head, her hands on her hips, “Both of you, out.”
The assassin gave Moira another kiss, brief this time, and grabbing his boots, left the small room. Alistair bent for his own kiss as Moira asked him, “Feed Perrin for me?” He nodded in reply and pressed his lips against hers, intending a brief kiss so that Wynne could examine her. The elf mage had other plans and her fingers wound though his hair, holding him in the kiss and pulling him off-balance. He nearly fell onto her, but caught himself on his hands on either side of her hips. Forgetting his intention of getting out, Alistair deepend their kiss, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth to stroke hers. For a long moment, she was all there was in the world, her touch, her scent, her taste. Nothing else mattered.
She pulled her lips away first and Alistair did his best to catch his breath, opening his eyes to watch her. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” he whispered back, touching his forehead to hers. Her fingers still played in his hair making him fight the urge to push her back down into the bed and bury himself in her.
He nodded. “Just, uh, give me a minute.”
She glanced down and met his eyes again, her smile wide and mischevious. “I hope I still do that to you when we’re decrepit and gray, my love.”
Alistair returned her grin, “I have no doubt that you will.” He gave her another kiss, this one quick and chaste and retrieved his boots. As he left, Wynne was already helping Moira out of her borrowed shirt in order to unwind the bandages.
Zevran met him out in the hall, “I thought you weren’t jealous, my dear Alistair.”
Shrugging, Alistair tucked his shirt into his pants, “I said, ‘more jealous,’ not ‘not jealous.’ I’m a little jealous.”
The other man laughed, “At least we’re honest with one another. I must admit to a small amount of jealousy as well. Come, let us get our lover her breakfast so she might recover her strength faster.”
At the thought of Moria regaining her strength, Alistair groaned. “You are not helping. I’m going to need a cold bath, soon.”
Zevran sighed, similar images apparently dancing across his own imagination, “You and me, both, my friend. Maker blast that stupid hurlock.”
The two men went down stairs. Perrin rushed to greet them, wagging his stub of a tail. Shale looked up from where she sat with the mage and the former Templar. The petite woman slid off her stool in greeting. “Good morning! I trust you three slept well?” She grinned broadly.
Apparently, the earthyness of her dwarven nature had wasted no time in reasserting itself once she became mortal again. Alistair stretched, exaggerating the motion, “Tolerably well, all things considered.”
Zevran laughed, “Something to be said for the arms of a beautiful woman.” Alistair caught the deadly glare Cullen shot the elf and exchanged a glance with Zevran.
Jowan stood up, interrupting the tension. “What is the plan for the day?”
Shale shook her head, “I think I’ll just go find out from Wynne and Moira myself. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” The dwarva disappeared up the stairs.
“The plan is for Moira to recuperate for a day, let Wynne’s treatments reknit her bones,” Alistair replied.
“And what do we do in the meantime?” Jowan asked.
Zevran shrugged, “Rest while we can. Perhaps see what we can get in the way of supplies here. But more importantly, we leave her to rest. No matter how bored and grouchy she’ll get.”
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, “I forgot about that. She’s really going to be very irritated at not being allowed to move around. Maybe I’ll sleep down here tonight.”
An expression of mock horror crossed Zevran’s features, “She really will be that irritatable, won’t she.” He made a put-upon sigh, “The trials we must bear.” The two men grinned at each other.
“You’d better get her her breakfast,” Alistair reminded the elf as he sat down at the table with Cullen and Jowan. Zevran left to find a server to order something for himself and Moira. Alistair waited at the table, silently regarding the two newest Ferelden Grey Wardens. “Cullen, find something to do that isn’t here. I’ll talk to you later.”
The sandy-haired man blinked, “Um, what should I do?”
Crossly, Alistair glared at him, “I don’t care. Try checking on the horses? Just get lost.” Irritably, Cullen slammed his empty tankard of ale down on the table and stormed out of the inn.
Jowan looked at the king and swallowed nervously. “Wh-what can I do for you, your-“
“Don’t finish that form of address,” Alistair warned, glaring at the mage pointedly.
“Uh, yes, your- er, Alistair.”
A barmaid came to the table and interrupted them. Alistair ordered and waited for her to leave, watching the blood mage steadily. When they were alone again, except for Perrin who settled at Alistair’s feet, the king said, his voice cold, “Moira told me about the part you played in her recruitment.”
Nervously, the mage swallowed, “I, uh, I’m not proud of that.”
“Yeah, you proved that at Redcliffe.”
Defensively, Jowan started shouting, “I thought -” and Alistair cut him off with a gesture to lower his voice. The blood mage leaned into the table, his voice lower, “It was Loghain! The Hero of the River Dane? The Savior of Ferelden? How was I to know he was a traitor!”
“Who are you loyal to now, Jowan? Yourself?” Alistair stared at him steadily.
“I – I’m loyal to you and to Moira.” The dark-haired man’s voice was defeated.
“No, you’re not.”
“What?” Jowan nearly shouted. At another angry gesture from Alistair, Jowan continued, his voice lowered again, “I am! I’m loyal to you and to Moira! And Ferelden!”
“Shut up, Jowan. You’re a blood mage. You’re loyal to yourself, first and foremost.”
Anger crossed the other man’s pinched face, “Just because I know a few unsanctioned spells, doesn’t make me a bad person!”
Alistair glared at him, “No, but the fact that you would use your best friend since childhood, the woman you claim is as close to you as sister, for your own ends, proves you are a blood mage, through and through.”
Jowan looked at the other man, helplessly. “I – I’m not that person any more. I would never harm her. Ever again!”
Alistair just looked at him steadily, allowing his doubt to show plainly in his eyes. “What did you do to become a blood mage, Jowan?”
Jowan blinked, startled at the question. “I – I read a book. It was a forbidden book, but I found it in one of the instructors’ offices when I was cleaning it for him. I don’t know why I was never reported for theft.”
Alistair shook his head, Is this guy for real? “Did it ever occur to you he couldn’t report you without admitting to practicing it himself?” A large bowl of steaming porridge was placed in front of him along with a heaping plate of ham and eggs and a tankard of ale. A large hambone was dropped in front of Perrin who started gnawing noisily immediately. After the barmaid left, Alistair dug in and said around the food in his mouth, “So, you never made a deal with a demon for your abilities?”
Jowan choked on his mouthful of ale, swallowing it quickly to keep from spitting it all over the table. When he could speak again, he stared at Alistair, “How-? Who would do such a thing?”
He wasn’t certain why, but he wasn’t buying Jowan’s innocent act. Moira had often told him to trust his instincts, and right now, they were screaming. “People desperate for more power. People utterly uninterested in how their actions can affect the world around them. The completely insane or the incredibly stupid.”
Jowan sat slumped in his chair, his mouth open in astonishment, “Do you honestly think I’m that . . . evil?”
Around another mouthful of the bland eggs, Alistair replied, “Are you?”
“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”
“Not especially.” The mage and the king regarded each other, staring at each other. Jowan was doing his best not to back down from the bigger man, but not challenge him either. Alistair broke the silence first, “If you’re finished, go help Cullen.” Relieved, the mage jumped up from the table and nearly sprinted from the common room.
Angrily, Alistair continued to shovel food in his mouth, as usual ignoring the bland taste in favor of just shutting up his nearly-always empty stomach. Zevran spoke from behind him as he approached the table with his own plate of ham and eggs, “You do not trust the blood mage either?”
Alistair looked up from his breakfast, “Of course not, do you?”
The elf snorted, cutting into his ham, “The list of people I trust completely is very short, my friend. You and Moira are the only constant members of it.”
Alistair nodded, unsurprised, “He was the reason she became a Grey Warden, you know.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Keep an eye on him.”
“As if you had to ask.”
Modifié par Sialater, 10 juillet 2010 - 06:39 .
#490
Posté 10 juillet 2010 - 11:30
jillyfae
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woo! Update! (Good update too... as if that was a surprise.)
I like seeing Zevran and Alistair interact on their own, too. (And goodness, I wouldn't trust Cullen or Jowan either if I were them.) Good times.
I like seeing Zevran and Alistair interact on their own, too. (And goodness, I wouldn't trust Cullen or Jowan either if I were them.) Good times.
#491
Posté 11 juillet 2010 - 05:34
Lord Deshwitat
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Nice chapter. Keep them coming...
#492
Posté 14 juillet 2010 - 06:21
Sialater
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Part 53
Moira still couldn’t handle riding a horse; the jostling was too much despite the day-long stay in bed. Walking would slow their return to Denerim, but it couldn’t be helped. In contrast, everyone had insisted that Wynne remain on horseback, no matter the slow pace. The elder mage needed to retain what strength she had left. Perrin trotted ahead, sniffing out the road and then repeatedly bounded back to Moira’s side, barking his report. Zevran had no idea how his lover understood the dog, but either she actually did, or put up a good front.
Alistair walked near her, the two of them surreptitiously clasping hands when they didn’t think anyone would notice. He knew Moira was just relieved to have Alistair back at her side. He’d be jealous, but she seemed to keep touching him, too, as if to make sure he was still there. Walking along beside her, he’d feel her small hand slip into his, clasping his fingers tightly before letting them go, wisely not hampering his sword arm. He met Alistair’s eyes over her head and the king winked at him. Zevran felt himself smile back, a feeling of peace he had never expected, nor thought he wanted, stealing over him at the sight of both of them. Neither of them were going to tell him to leave. He finally realized he’d found a home. Wherever they were, he would belong as well. He allowed his fingers to entwine with Moira’s, briefly, squeezing her hand as she’d done his. She glanced up at him through the raven hair falling into her eyes and smiled at him. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms just to feel her press against him, reminding himself there would be time for that later.
Besides, she was forced to wear those skin-tight, scant mage robes due to her injury and the fact that her armor was useless until it was repaired – and she wouldn’t trust anyone but Wade & Herron with that. He had all day to enjoy the sight of her round ass encased in the clinging silk of the skirt. He let a little of his lust shine through in his eyes and was gratified to see her blush. He leaned down slightly to see if he could embarrass her further, “Are you still in pain, mi amora?” he whispered in her ear, his hand sliding down to cup her ass. He felt her step falter before she regained her composure.
Her hand reached up and she trailed a finger along his jaw, rasping along the stubble he hadn’t taken the time to scrape off this morning. “Maybe… if you’re gentle,” she whispered back.
Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for nightfall.
It was a long walk to Perivantium, longer since they had to walk the Imperial Highway and the small group settled into a routine of travelling. They still stuck with the cover of travelling merchants, but with Alistair pretending to be the senior partner and Cullen the junior.
Alistair sat on a fallen log as they discussed this cover story and Moira gingerly settled down between his legs, leaning her back against him and her head on his thigh. “Not only should you and Cullen pretend to be merchants, but maybe brothers?”
The king looked consideringly at the new Warden, “All right, I think we can pull it off. Though he is older than me.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to be the more senior in our business, ‘brother,’” Cullen pointed out.
Zevran sat next to Alistair on the log and grinned down at Moira, “Will you serve Alistair or Cullen, mi amora?”
Moira grinned at him, catching the innuendo he’d put on the verb. Looking up at Alistair, she transferred her grin to him, “I don’t know… What will my service entail?”
When Alistair returned her grin, allowing a bit of a leer through, her grin widened and she said, “Because I’m not washing your socks.” Alistair put his hand to his heart and pretended to fall backward off the log. Zevran had to laugh at them.
When Alistair turned his mock glare to him, Zevran told him, “Don’t look at me, I’m Sers’ bodyguard. I don’t do laundry, either.”
After the laughter settled back down, Wynne smiled and said, “I refuse to be your mother. Either of you.”
Before anyone else could reply, Zevran told her, “With that magical bosom? Never.” He winked. “Favorite aunt, my dear Wynne?”
Wynne glowered at him, though he could tell she wasn’t serious, “That’ll do, Zevran. “ She laughed, “You haven’t changed one bit.”
He stood and bowed to her with a flourish, but before he could reply, he caught Moira looking up at him, something in her eyes he’d never thought to see, “Why would we let him change, Wynne?”
An exasperated tone in her voice, Wynne replied, “I guess we wouldn’t want that.” Zevran barely heard her, his eyes still locked with Moira’s. He sat back down on the log without his usual grace and felt her small hand grasp his from around Alistair’s leg. The bigger man moved his leg to the other side of Moira so they were flanking her where she sat on the ground, but his movement pushed the side of his hip into Zevran’s. Alistair either didn’t notice through his armor, or didn’t care that he was touching the assassin. Moira reached up to wrap her other arm around Alistair’s leg and leaned her head on him, but still held Zevran’s gaze and his hand.
Alistair’s voice barely crossed Zevran’s awareness as he said, “Shale, I guess that makes you a bodyguard, too. Jowan, a mage that was looking for traveling companions?” At the sound of their assent, Alistair stood up, putting his bowl near the pile of used dishes near the fire. “Glad that’s all taken care of. Now, I need to have a discussion with my servant and my body guard in private. Perrin, stay by Wynne.” The king rose, drawing Moira to her feet with him, and Zevran followed, drawn along by that tiny, imperious hand. He felt odd, detatched, surreal. As if he were watching someone else lucky enough to be wearing his body and have this sort of attention paid to him.
Alistair didn’t lead them to their tent, however. He stopped some distance away from the camp, the firelight glowing in the distance like a small beacon. Zevran turned to look at the other man, “What did you need to discuss?”
Alistair merely smiled, “Moira’s feeling better, Zevran. But I don’t think the three of us can do anything in that tent besides sleep. And even that may be doubtful.” He gestured to the ground. The Grey Warden had led them to a small area he’d apparently cleared out earlier. Two of their three bedrolls were laid out on the ground, overlapping slightly to keep them together. Zevran grinned, reality coming back to him in a rush. He glanced at Moira and found she was already working on the many buckles of her mage robes. He wasn’t certain if Alistair had planned it, but he seemed to have chosen a spot where the moonlight came through the trees at just the right angle. It bathed her in silver, making her raven hair as dark as the night sky and her skin glow as if lit from within by the moonlight and he inhaled sharply, his armor growing uncomfortable. He’d thought the DreamMoira had been beautiful and then was proven wrong by the real woman in her room at Weisshaupt. He’d thought she’d looked beautiful by firelight that night. This was twenty times better. He heard the other man make a simiar sound and Moira looked up, her eyes wide.
“What?”
“Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” Zevran told her and pulled her to him for a kiss.
They made it back to their tent before the end of second watch, Shale grinning knowingly as she watched them steal back into camp, their bedrolls and armor in disarray. Perrin leaped to his feet to greet Moira and settled down outside the tent flap as they crawled inside to sleep until the fourth watch that Alistair and Zevran had drawn. Moira and Wynne were kept out of the rotation, Moira for her injury, Wynne for her tendency toward exhaustion.
Zevran did not care, though, as long as Moira healed properly. He lay on his side, facing her, pretending to sleep but watching her drift off, nestled against Alistair’s front as the other man curved around her. Zevran had no particular objection to being closer to Alistair, but Moira was the glue still holding them together and they both still needed to be near here for their own reasons. Alistair, because of their separation, Zevran because he was finally coming to grips with how he felt about her. Gently, his long fingers pushed a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes back behind her ear. She shivered in her sleep and he didn’t have to see through the blankets covering them that she’d pushed her hips against Alistair’s for he moaned, sleepily, and buried his face in her hair. Zevran smiled and turned over, tucking himself in against Moira and feeling her breasts press into his back and her’s and Alistair’s arms drape over him. He didn’t wake again until Alistair nudged him awake for fourth watch.
Their routine unchanged, they reached Perivantium a few days later.
Moira still couldn’t handle riding a horse; the jostling was too much despite the day-long stay in bed. Walking would slow their return to Denerim, but it couldn’t be helped. In contrast, everyone had insisted that Wynne remain on horseback, no matter the slow pace. The elder mage needed to retain what strength she had left. Perrin trotted ahead, sniffing out the road and then repeatedly bounded back to Moira’s side, barking his report. Zevran had no idea how his lover understood the dog, but either she actually did, or put up a good front.
Alistair walked near her, the two of them surreptitiously clasping hands when they didn’t think anyone would notice. He knew Moira was just relieved to have Alistair back at her side. He’d be jealous, but she seemed to keep touching him, too, as if to make sure he was still there. Walking along beside her, he’d feel her small hand slip into his, clasping his fingers tightly before letting them go, wisely not hampering his sword arm. He met Alistair’s eyes over her head and the king winked at him. Zevran felt himself smile back, a feeling of peace he had never expected, nor thought he wanted, stealing over him at the sight of both of them. Neither of them were going to tell him to leave. He finally realized he’d found a home. Wherever they were, he would belong as well. He allowed his fingers to entwine with Moira’s, briefly, squeezing her hand as she’d done his. She glanced up at him through the raven hair falling into her eyes and smiled at him. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms just to feel her press against him, reminding himself there would be time for that later.
Besides, she was forced to wear those skin-tight, scant mage robes due to her injury and the fact that her armor was useless until it was repaired – and she wouldn’t trust anyone but Wade & Herron with that. He had all day to enjoy the sight of her round ass encased in the clinging silk of the skirt. He let a little of his lust shine through in his eyes and was gratified to see her blush. He leaned down slightly to see if he could embarrass her further, “Are you still in pain, mi amora?” he whispered in her ear, his hand sliding down to cup her ass. He felt her step falter before she regained her composure.
Her hand reached up and she trailed a finger along his jaw, rasping along the stubble he hadn’t taken the time to scrape off this morning. “Maybe… if you’re gentle,” she whispered back.
Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for nightfall.
It was a long walk to Perivantium, longer since they had to walk the Imperial Highway and the small group settled into a routine of travelling. They still stuck with the cover of travelling merchants, but with Alistair pretending to be the senior partner and Cullen the junior.
Alistair sat on a fallen log as they discussed this cover story and Moira gingerly settled down between his legs, leaning her back against him and her head on his thigh. “Not only should you and Cullen pretend to be merchants, but maybe brothers?”
The king looked consideringly at the new Warden, “All right, I think we can pull it off. Though he is older than me.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to be the more senior in our business, ‘brother,’” Cullen pointed out.
Zevran sat next to Alistair on the log and grinned down at Moira, “Will you serve Alistair or Cullen, mi amora?”
Moira grinned at him, catching the innuendo he’d put on the verb. Looking up at Alistair, she transferred her grin to him, “I don’t know… What will my service entail?”
When Alistair returned her grin, allowing a bit of a leer through, her grin widened and she said, “Because I’m not washing your socks.” Alistair put his hand to his heart and pretended to fall backward off the log. Zevran had to laugh at them.
When Alistair turned his mock glare to him, Zevran told him, “Don’t look at me, I’m Sers’ bodyguard. I don’t do laundry, either.”
After the laughter settled back down, Wynne smiled and said, “I refuse to be your mother. Either of you.”
Before anyone else could reply, Zevran told her, “With that magical bosom? Never.” He winked. “Favorite aunt, my dear Wynne?”
Wynne glowered at him, though he could tell she wasn’t serious, “That’ll do, Zevran. “ She laughed, “You haven’t changed one bit.”
He stood and bowed to her with a flourish, but before he could reply, he caught Moira looking up at him, something in her eyes he’d never thought to see, “Why would we let him change, Wynne?”
An exasperated tone in her voice, Wynne replied, “I guess we wouldn’t want that.” Zevran barely heard her, his eyes still locked with Moira’s. He sat back down on the log without his usual grace and felt her small hand grasp his from around Alistair’s leg. The bigger man moved his leg to the other side of Moira so they were flanking her where she sat on the ground, but his movement pushed the side of his hip into Zevran’s. Alistair either didn’t notice through his armor, or didn’t care that he was touching the assassin. Moira reached up to wrap her other arm around Alistair’s leg and leaned her head on him, but still held Zevran’s gaze and his hand.
Alistair’s voice barely crossed Zevran’s awareness as he said, “Shale, I guess that makes you a bodyguard, too. Jowan, a mage that was looking for traveling companions?” At the sound of their assent, Alistair stood up, putting his bowl near the pile of used dishes near the fire. “Glad that’s all taken care of. Now, I need to have a discussion with my servant and my body guard in private. Perrin, stay by Wynne.” The king rose, drawing Moira to her feet with him, and Zevran followed, drawn along by that tiny, imperious hand. He felt odd, detatched, surreal. As if he were watching someone else lucky enough to be wearing his body and have this sort of attention paid to him.
Alistair didn’t lead them to their tent, however. He stopped some distance away from the camp, the firelight glowing in the distance like a small beacon. Zevran turned to look at the other man, “What did you need to discuss?”
Alistair merely smiled, “Moira’s feeling better, Zevran. But I don’t think the three of us can do anything in that tent besides sleep. And even that may be doubtful.” He gestured to the ground. The Grey Warden had led them to a small area he’d apparently cleared out earlier. Two of their three bedrolls were laid out on the ground, overlapping slightly to keep them together. Zevran grinned, reality coming back to him in a rush. He glanced at Moira and found she was already working on the many buckles of her mage robes. He wasn’t certain if Alistair had planned it, but he seemed to have chosen a spot where the moonlight came through the trees at just the right angle. It bathed her in silver, making her raven hair as dark as the night sky and her skin glow as if lit from within by the moonlight and he inhaled sharply, his armor growing uncomfortable. He’d thought the DreamMoira had been beautiful and then was proven wrong by the real woman in her room at Weisshaupt. He’d thought she’d looked beautiful by firelight that night. This was twenty times better. He heard the other man make a simiar sound and Moira looked up, her eyes wide.
“What?”
“Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” Zevran told her and pulled her to him for a kiss.
They made it back to their tent before the end of second watch, Shale grinning knowingly as she watched them steal back into camp, their bedrolls and armor in disarray. Perrin leaped to his feet to greet Moira and settled down outside the tent flap as they crawled inside to sleep until the fourth watch that Alistair and Zevran had drawn. Moira and Wynne were kept out of the rotation, Moira for her injury, Wynne for her tendency toward exhaustion.
Zevran did not care, though, as long as Moira healed properly. He lay on his side, facing her, pretending to sleep but watching her drift off, nestled against Alistair’s front as the other man curved around her. Zevran had no particular objection to being closer to Alistair, but Moira was the glue still holding them together and they both still needed to be near here for their own reasons. Alistair, because of their separation, Zevran because he was finally coming to grips with how he felt about her. Gently, his long fingers pushed a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes back behind her ear. She shivered in her sleep and he didn’t have to see through the blankets covering them that she’d pushed her hips against Alistair’s for he moaned, sleepily, and buried his face in her hair. Zevran smiled and turned over, tucking himself in against Moira and feeling her breasts press into his back and her’s and Alistair’s arms drape over him. He didn’t wake again until Alistair nudged him awake for fourth watch.
Their routine unchanged, they reached Perivantium a few days later.
#493
Posté 14 juillet 2010 - 06:46
Shenzi
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Fluffy sweet fun. Course with Sia, that usually means diaster is just around the next corner .
#495
Posté 14 juillet 2010 - 06:52
Lynn01
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I've been reading this for a while now, and I haven't been posting a review (sorry ;-)).
I find the relationship between Alistair>Moira>Zevran interesting and somehow keeps me watching your updates all the time haha. So nicely written!
I find the relationship between Alistair>Moira>Zevran interesting and somehow keeps me watching your updates all the time haha. So nicely written!
#496
Posté 14 juillet 2010 - 07:19
Sialater
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Thank you, Lynn! I'm glad you're enjoying it!
Hope they're not getting too sappy.
Darnit, Shenzi, you figured me out.
You're welcome, Jilly.
Hope they're not getting too sappy.
Darnit, Shenzi, you figured me out.
You're welcome, Jilly.
#497
Posté 14 juillet 2010 - 07:32
jillyfae
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@Shenzi: *laughs* I know, but I shall enjoy the respite for as long as it lasts. Makes it all the sweeter, really.
#498
Posté 16 juillet 2010 - 02:08
Lord Deshwitat
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Can't wait for the next chapter... You need to write faster^^
#499
Posté 16 juillet 2010 - 02:34
Sialater
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Lord Deshwitat wrote...
Can't wait for the next chapter... You need to write faster^^
I've got three massive fics on going, plus two novels of my own intellectual property. My husband will divorce me if I pay any less attention to him.
But I'll try. Thanks for sticking with it this long! I'm very glad you're enjoying it!
#500
Posté 18 juillet 2010 - 02:42
Lord Deshwitat
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Sialater wrote...
Lord Deshwitat wrote...
Can't wait for the next chapter... You need to write faster^^
I've got three massive fics on going, plus two novels of my own intellectual property. My husband will divorce me if I pay any less attention to him.
But I'll try. Thanks for sticking with it this long! I'm very glad you're enjoying it!
Didn't mean to rush you. It is just nervwrecking to wait for a new chapter^^. I'm glad you still update=).
