Too Tired to Sing (Menage 12) (omg, seriously? Yes!)
I know, right? FINALLY, you're saying. I'm sorry. I thought I'd never escape from this one. But let's not dwell on the past, darlings, because here we finally are! *whew*
Title: Too Tired to Sing (Ménage 12)
Words: 1528
Rating: PG for the inevitable broodmother squick factor
Characters: Alistair/f!Surana (Philoméne) (/Zevran?) featuring Oghren and Sigrun
Summary: Kal’Hirol. Who doesn’t love it there? Everybody.
<- previous: An Unfortunate Slight
His name was Duca, and he was about to die. His former compatriot had not yet quite accepted this, and was weeping in desperate rage over him. Her name was Sigrun, and from the moment they’d found her up until the crying Oghren had been on her heels like their suits of armor were welded together. Now, however, he stood at a respectful distance.
Alistair did not recognize it at the time, but it was all a sign of things to come.
With every step, with every day of descent into yet another fallen dwarven stronghold, the dwarves grew sterner and Philoméne more sullen and withdrawn. Sure, Sigrun was a bit like Zev in that she had a lively sense of humor, often unexpectedly perky in the midst of ghosts and ruins. But she also had a clear death wish, especially after Duca’s death, that Alistair came to realize was long gone from Zev. And what warmth she had did not seem to be getting through to Philoméne the same way.
He recognized that he was losing his own sense of humor after they rescued a local named Steafan, and Alistair yelled at the man for twenty minutes about the lunacy of looting in darkspawn-infested tunnels alone. After he scurried away toward the surface, likely more afraid of Alistair than of darkspawn, the whole party was quiet for a while.
It was all nothing compared to the darkspawn who spoke. Philoméne had told him she’d encountered such a thing when she first arrived at the Keep, but at second-hand it had remained unreal, and an anomaly. This one spoke in front of him, and that meant that there had been at least two. And if two, then why not two dozen, or two hundred....
Quickly enough there weren’t two, because the one in front of him was charred and cut to pieces. He was catching his breath, and Sigrun was ranting. “They’re not supposed to talk! They’re not bad enough yet? Now they have to talk? I need to find these things and kill every single one of them!”
“Architect,” Philoméne said quietly, standing over the body. “Mother. Titles for two more intelligent darkspawn, I would gather. ...And they’re at war.”
“With each other?” He pulled her close with one arm. “Good! They can have each other. Darkspawn killing each other for us is a fabulous idea.”
“Sigrun’s right. We have to eradicate them. The last thing the world needs is for them to always have intelligent direction that’s free to roam the surface.”
That was a lovely note on which to make camp. Alistair and Philoméne cuddled close together all night but didn’t talk about it. Like their previous time underground, though, it kept getting worse. Philoméne’s lightning proved to be all but useless against golems made of metal. The ruins were full of the ghosts of forgotten casteless dwarves, dead either because they were abandoned by the smith caste or because they fell in battle, never to gain anything for themselves or their surviving relatives. There was another undiscovered form of darkspawn crawling the tunnels, and they were giant grubs.
The clincher, though, was the pit full of broodmothers. Plural. By the Maker’s own grace they were in a pit and not up on the same ground as they were; but that didn’t stop them from sending up long, sinewy tentacles to wallop and choke Alistair and Oghren as they jumped and slashed and did everything they could to keep the women clear to throw their spells and bombs. By the Maker’s own grace, there was a metal grill to drop onto them to finish them off.
And then, Sigrun and Philoméne were standing huddled together, staring down at the gory mess silent and morose, and Oghren and Alistair were staring at them from a distance, awkward and uncomfortable.
“Why does the Legion even take women?” Alistair asked quietly. “They should know better.”
Oghren snorted. “Maybe you think duster women have a lot of options. Not everybody wants to be a whore or sell their own teeth.”
“But every one who - ” Alistair shuddered and began again, lowering his voice more. “Every one who’s taken alive is a hundred more darkspawn someone has to kill later. It’s bad math.”
“That’s dwarven politics for you. We play the long game with building, and the short game with staying alive. Pfeh. Someday, those of us on the surface’ll be all that’s left.” Oghren frowned, then suddenly turned toward Sigrun and shouted, “Hear that, hot pants? It’s gonna be up to blighters like you and me to keep the dwarves alive out there in the land without a ceiling!”
Sigrun put a hand on her hip and regarded the other dwarf with a sneer. “Still not interested. Go breed with your wife, why don’t you?” Then she looked up at Philoméne, sullen again just as abruptly as she’d come out of it the moment before. “Actually... I should go. There’s always more darkspawn.”
Philoméne’s eyes rounded, dark with horror. “We just... I can’t let you go down further into the Deep Roads by yourself. That’s suicidal. Even moreso than the Legion usually is.”
Alistair scowled down into the pit. “Suicidal if you’re lucky.”
Sigrun had a sad face that looked like a puppy’s. How was it that dwarf women were so cute when dwarf men were so... not cute? “Thank you for helping me avenge them,” she said, “but I have to keep going. I took an oath.”
And with that, she shouldered her gear and turned as if she was actually going to walk down into the Deep Roads alone and stab darkspawn until she died. Or.
“I’ll make you a Grey Warden!” Philoméne cried out, and looked just as startled at herself as Alistair was. She’d been so determined not to - but of course, this was different. This once, letting a woman become a Warden would reduce the risk, not increase it.
Sigrun spun on her heel to face Philoméne again; there was what looked like a quick flash of hope in her eyes, but if so, she crushed it quickly. “Can I be a Warden if I’m Legion?”
Philoméne answered with a smile a little too wide and tenuous to pass the suggestion off as one of her brilliant “I planned this all along” moments, but she pulled her argument together quickly all the same. “I don’t see why not! You’re sworn to die fighting the darkspawn. As a Warden, you will. You’ll just have extra tools and resources.”
Suddenly Alistair started thinking, Please don’t take the next step. Please don’t suggest that we should go down into the Deep Roads on a mission to induct every member of the Legion of the Dead into the Wardens. We’re not going. You’re not going.
Sigrun digested the proposal with a thoughtful look, and the spark he’d taken as hope seemed to come back. “Right. So I’d be a Legionnaire, only with powers! And I’d still get to march to my doom in a forsaken cavern! But with friends!” She fairly beamed at the prospect. “I’ll do it!”
That agreed, she started traipsing back the way they’d come, back toward the surface. Oghren chuckled and slapped Philoméne on the back on his way to follow. “Smooth, Commander Filly! Let her stick around to pine for me, but save her dignity. I like your style.”
Philoméne smiled at him - she’d learned to appreciate his sense of humor, at least when it didn’t involve bodily noises - but still, she didn’t start walking herself until Alistair came and put an arm around her. The days of walking back to the surface and then the Keep would be easier than the days coming down had been, Maker willing, but they were still going to be morose for a while. He couldn’t help but think that if Zevran were with them, he could win more genuine smiles out of them both than Oghren could. They could share a bottle of wine, the three of them huddled close around the fire....
Philoméne gave him a little one-armed squeeze as they walked. “I miss Zev being with us,” she said, echoing his thought.
He squeezed back. “Me too. I’m sure he’ll be back at the Keep by the time we get there.”
She looked up at him, serious and reflective. “I mean it. I hadn’t really thought about it seriously until now. I don’t want him to leave us again. He’s. Important.” She blinked. “Is that all right?”
He stopped walking and pulled her fully into his arms. “You mean, do I understand that we can love him and still love each other?” he asked quietly. “Yes. I do. In fact, it’s a great relief to me that we both feel that way. It seems to me like that’ll be much easier.”
She sighed peacefully as he gathered her close, and they breathed calm and adoration into each other for a while. Eventually, it was only the sound of the dwarves bickering over their sexual compatibility or lack thereof that compelled them to move again.
Philomene Index
Title: Too Tired to Sing (Ménage 12)
Words: 1528
Rating: PG for the inevitable broodmother squick factor
Characters: Alistair/f!Surana (Philoméne) (/Zevran?) featuring Oghren and Sigrun
Summary: Kal’Hirol. Who doesn’t love it there? Everybody.
<- previous: An Unfortunate Slight
His name was Duca, and he was about to die. His former compatriot had not yet quite accepted this, and was weeping in desperate rage over him. Her name was Sigrun, and from the moment they’d found her up until the crying Oghren had been on her heels like their suits of armor were welded together. Now, however, he stood at a respectful distance.
Alistair did not recognize it at the time, but it was all a sign of things to come.
With every step, with every day of descent into yet another fallen dwarven stronghold, the dwarves grew sterner and Philoméne more sullen and withdrawn. Sure, Sigrun was a bit like Zev in that she had a lively sense of humor, often unexpectedly perky in the midst of ghosts and ruins. But she also had a clear death wish, especially after Duca’s death, that Alistair came to realize was long gone from Zev. And what warmth she had did not seem to be getting through to Philoméne the same way.
He recognized that he was losing his own sense of humor after they rescued a local named Steafan, and Alistair yelled at the man for twenty minutes about the lunacy of looting in darkspawn-infested tunnels alone. After he scurried away toward the surface, likely more afraid of Alistair than of darkspawn, the whole party was quiet for a while.
It was all nothing compared to the darkspawn who spoke. Philoméne had told him she’d encountered such a thing when she first arrived at the Keep, but at second-hand it had remained unreal, and an anomaly. This one spoke in front of him, and that meant that there had been at least two. And if two, then why not two dozen, or two hundred....
Quickly enough there weren’t two, because the one in front of him was charred and cut to pieces. He was catching his breath, and Sigrun was ranting. “They’re not supposed to talk! They’re not bad enough yet? Now they have to talk? I need to find these things and kill every single one of them!”
“Architect,” Philoméne said quietly, standing over the body. “Mother. Titles for two more intelligent darkspawn, I would gather. ...And they’re at war.”
“With each other?” He pulled her close with one arm. “Good! They can have each other. Darkspawn killing each other for us is a fabulous idea.”
“Sigrun’s right. We have to eradicate them. The last thing the world needs is for them to always have intelligent direction that’s free to roam the surface.”
That was a lovely note on which to make camp. Alistair and Philoméne cuddled close together all night but didn’t talk about it. Like their previous time underground, though, it kept getting worse. Philoméne’s lightning proved to be all but useless against golems made of metal. The ruins were full of the ghosts of forgotten casteless dwarves, dead either because they were abandoned by the smith caste or because they fell in battle, never to gain anything for themselves or their surviving relatives. There was another undiscovered form of darkspawn crawling the tunnels, and they were giant grubs.
The clincher, though, was the pit full of broodmothers. Plural. By the Maker’s own grace they were in a pit and not up on the same ground as they were; but that didn’t stop them from sending up long, sinewy tentacles to wallop and choke Alistair and Oghren as they jumped and slashed and did everything they could to keep the women clear to throw their spells and bombs. By the Maker’s own grace, there was a metal grill to drop onto them to finish them off.
And then, Sigrun and Philoméne were standing huddled together, staring down at the gory mess silent and morose, and Oghren and Alistair were staring at them from a distance, awkward and uncomfortable.
“Why does the Legion even take women?” Alistair asked quietly. “They should know better.”
Oghren snorted. “Maybe you think duster women have a lot of options. Not everybody wants to be a whore or sell their own teeth.”
“But every one who - ” Alistair shuddered and began again, lowering his voice more. “Every one who’s taken alive is a hundred more darkspawn someone has to kill later. It’s bad math.”
“That’s dwarven politics for you. We play the long game with building, and the short game with staying alive. Pfeh. Someday, those of us on the surface’ll be all that’s left.” Oghren frowned, then suddenly turned toward Sigrun and shouted, “Hear that, hot pants? It’s gonna be up to blighters like you and me to keep the dwarves alive out there in the land without a ceiling!”
Sigrun put a hand on her hip and regarded the other dwarf with a sneer. “Still not interested. Go breed with your wife, why don’t you?” Then she looked up at Philoméne, sullen again just as abruptly as she’d come out of it the moment before. “Actually... I should go. There’s always more darkspawn.”
Philoméne’s eyes rounded, dark with horror. “We just... I can’t let you go down further into the Deep Roads by yourself. That’s suicidal. Even moreso than the Legion usually is.”
Alistair scowled down into the pit. “Suicidal if you’re lucky.”
Sigrun had a sad face that looked like a puppy’s. How was it that dwarf women were so cute when dwarf men were so... not cute? “Thank you for helping me avenge them,” she said, “but I have to keep going. I took an oath.”
And with that, she shouldered her gear and turned as if she was actually going to walk down into the Deep Roads alone and stab darkspawn until she died. Or.
“I’ll make you a Grey Warden!” Philoméne cried out, and looked just as startled at herself as Alistair was. She’d been so determined not to - but of course, this was different. This once, letting a woman become a Warden would reduce the risk, not increase it.
Sigrun spun on her heel to face Philoméne again; there was what looked like a quick flash of hope in her eyes, but if so, she crushed it quickly. “Can I be a Warden if I’m Legion?”
Philoméne answered with a smile a little too wide and tenuous to pass the suggestion off as one of her brilliant “I planned this all along” moments, but she pulled her argument together quickly all the same. “I don’t see why not! You’re sworn to die fighting the darkspawn. As a Warden, you will. You’ll just have extra tools and resources.”
Suddenly Alistair started thinking, Please don’t take the next step. Please don’t suggest that we should go down into the Deep Roads on a mission to induct every member of the Legion of the Dead into the Wardens. We’re not going. You’re not going.
Sigrun digested the proposal with a thoughtful look, and the spark he’d taken as hope seemed to come back. “Right. So I’d be a Legionnaire, only with powers! And I’d still get to march to my doom in a forsaken cavern! But with friends!” She fairly beamed at the prospect. “I’ll do it!”
That agreed, she started traipsing back the way they’d come, back toward the surface. Oghren chuckled and slapped Philoméne on the back on his way to follow. “Smooth, Commander Filly! Let her stick around to pine for me, but save her dignity. I like your style.”
Philoméne smiled at him - she’d learned to appreciate his sense of humor, at least when it didn’t involve bodily noises - but still, she didn’t start walking herself until Alistair came and put an arm around her. The days of walking back to the surface and then the Keep would be easier than the days coming down had been, Maker willing, but they were still going to be morose for a while. He couldn’t help but think that if Zevran were with them, he could win more genuine smiles out of them both than Oghren could. They could share a bottle of wine, the three of them huddled close around the fire....
Philoméne gave him a little one-armed squeeze as they walked. “I miss Zev being with us,” she said, echoing his thought.
He squeezed back. “Me too. I’m sure he’ll be back at the Keep by the time we get there.”
She looked up at him, serious and reflective. “I mean it. I hadn’t really thought about it seriously until now. I don’t want him to leave us again. He’s. Important.” She blinked. “Is that all right?”
He stopped walking and pulled her fully into his arms. “You mean, do I understand that we can love him and still love each other?” he asked quietly. “Yes. I do. In fact, it’s a great relief to me that we both feel that way. It seems to me like that’ll be much easier.”
She sighed peacefully as he gathered her close, and they breathed calm and adoration into each other for a while. Eventually, it was only the sound of the dwarves bickering over their sexual compatibility or lack thereof that compelled them to move again.
Philomene Index