Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening, Part 5: Permanently Frozen

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Re: Negotiations (2)

[anonymous]

The eastern horizon was red, not from a coming dawn - the sun had only just set - but from the fires of the horde. The men of Ferelden stared uneasily toward it as they stood their pickets, knowing their countrymen were burning, knowing that they could march no farther today, not and be in any shape to fight. But tomorrow - tomorrow, they would reach its gates.

Tomorrow, she would die.

Mithal, mother-of-all, must have guided her feet, putting her on that path. In the face of death, one thing in particular was the defiant cry of life. The royal guards did not move to stop her as she silently made her way to the queen’s tent.

One of the Circle’s glow-stones provided the light by which Anora pored over some bit of paper - the notes she took when the scouts reported back, probably. She reached for a small blade when Mahariel pushed open the tent flap, then relaxed when she identified the intruder. “I thought even the Dalish had the courtesy to announce themselves,” she sniffed.

She ignored the barb, intent upon her quarry. She got quite close before Anora put up an arm as a bar. “Warden. Why are you here? Are there new reports?”

She shook her head. “Lay with me.”

”What?” The queen was scandalized, affronted, and probably about to shout. Mahariel put a finger to Anora’s lips, almost tenderly. To her surprise, it worked.

“Tomorrow,” she ground out, “I go to fight and to die for my people but also for yours. I want...” She huffed, exasperated with words. A connection to something besides the Archdemon. To be remembered. To forget. To feel. “...you. As you want me.”

Anora raised a fine eyebrow. “Warden, you do presume -”

This time, she silenced the woman with another kiss, hot and deep as that first accidental, impulsive one. She poured herself into it, her hope and fear and bittersweet life, and after a moment, she felt the queen respond. Hesitantly, delicately, but it was there.

Then she pulled back, perhaps having startled herself. “Warden, I must insist -”

She held up a hand to interrupt. “If you tell me go to, I will.” It wasn’t a reassurance - it was a challenge. Do not test me, play no games. Be honest, if but for one night.

Uncertainty sat strangely on the queen’s face. One hand clasped her other elbow and she looked at the small desk, the ground, anywhere but at her visitor. “I... I’m not sure what to think, or to say...”

The elf pulled her close again, tilting her head up to say quietly in her ear, “My name is Mahariel, not ‘Warden.’ You could say that.”

“I... well, certainly, but I meant rather about the matter -”

She silenced her with another kiss, and Anora did not tell her to go.

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“Look, the Grey Wardens... you are the closest thing I’ve had to a real family. You’ve been a better sister than my actual sister. It’s meant more to me than I can say.” Alistair glanced sidelong at the struggling mound of flesh that was the wounded Archdemon. “Even if I... didn’t always think brotherly thoughts.”

Mahariel half-grinned. She felt oddly light, as if she were half into the Beyond already. “All is forgiven, lethallin, blood-brother. Tend my grave well.”

“Right. About that.” The blow from his shield sent her flying back; she hit the ground, rolled, and came up on her feet. She dashed after him - she had lighter armor, ran faster, might still get there first...