Fanfic: Strangers With Cookies
Posting early so I can go help one of my betas move several states away. *sobs* The good news is that SWC is drafted to completion. Two more chapters until the end!
Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Sixteen: “Draw your sword. I want to see what you can do.”
Rating: T
Word Count: 1.940
Characters: Sten/f!Mahariel, Alistair, Wynne, bits and pieces of Loghain. (Mostly pieces.)
Summary: The fate of Ferelden's throne is inexplicably left to the only elf in the room at the Landsmeet.
[ Previous Chapter]
Drapery. Desperate, desolate, deconstruction. Devoid. Dalish, delicious.
Sten is bored.
The human nobles are grousing, and their voices are echoing throughout the chamber. But the room is too large, and improperly shaped, and so voices dissipate and nobody listens to the words being spoken. He is left wondering yet again how it is possible that his people failed in conquering the southern lands.
Adhara stands beside him, arms crossed, periodically sighing and yelling at the old soldier that is their enemy. He paces and places blame and mentions Orlesians, and Adhara grows increasingly annoyed and shouts about enslaved elves and assassins and poison.
Deflection. Desire, dangerous, dark, daring.
Sten sneezes. Dusty. Several nobles stare at him, but when the old soldier begins shouting outright, all eyes return to him instead. His hand is on his blade, and he is standing threateningly close to Adhara.
Duel. Sten is about to protest and insist that he fight the massive man for her when Alistair steps forward, hand upon his blade, and takes a strong stance between Adhara and the old soldier.
Alistair is the senior Warden of the two of them. Sten keeps forgetting that. This is the first time he has taken initiative in all their months of travel. Had it been anyone else attempting to defend her, Adhara would have battled the old soldier herself, Sten is sure. But for him, Adhara merely smiles and steps out of the way.
Interesting. So Alistair does have a spine, after all. Sten crosses his arms again and waits to see what he will do with it.
“Thanks, 'Dhara,” the Templar smiles, and draws his blade as the terms are called by the outspoken female noble.
The crowd forms a nervous circle around the fighters, but he and Adhara stand still at the edge, watching the warriors before them intently. He can tell by the small crease above her eyebrows that she is worried for her brother-in-arms. After the old soldier's first swing, Sten is, as well. His thrusts are violent, but precise in their execution, meant to cause the most damage with the least exertion. He is powerful, and experienced, and practiced, and Alistair is soon nicked and bleeding at the cheek.
Alistair is knocked back several times as he parries the old soldier's blows, but at last remembers his footwork through his anger and settles into the same intent frame of mind as his opponent.
Now the fight is even. Sten's eyes dart between them, watching the play of their emotions and the pace of their breathing, attempting to decide if Adhara's fellow Warden will survive. Alistair is too angry; the emotion is exhausting him and draining his accuracy. Allowing himself to be ruled by emotions in the heat of battle is a mistake. But the old soldier does not take the Templar seriously, which is also a mistake. Perhaps months ago this would have been the proper course of action, but a man who cannot see change in his enemy is doomed to failure.
Alistair gives a sudden shout and surges forward in a rush, knocking into his opponent with his shield and sending him staggering backward. The old soldier stumbles, loses his grip on his sword, and looks to Adhara with wide eyes. The Templar freezes, sacrificing the momentum needed for a killing blow to glance at his leader for approval.
The room freezes and everyone holds their breath, except for the blonde queen, who begins to insist that her father's life be spared. But all eyes in the room turn to Adhara and wait for her decision yet again.
Adhara ignores the screaming and silent nobles alike. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the two combatants before her, and gives a slight nod when Alistair positions for the killing stroke. The queen shrieks again, ordering them all to stop, but Sten can tell by the way the nobles exhale at once that they wish for Alistair to obey Adhara.
Only in Ferelden would he see an elf become more powerful than one born to rule. It seems to confuse Adhara as much as it does him, but she still gives Alistair the last bit of goading that he needs to exact his revenge.
“Do it, you sod. What are you waiting for?”
The Templar's sword falls, and another of their opponents falls with it, spine severed at the neck. Blood sprays into the air, and as it coats Alistair's face Sten notices that he appears to be happy.
The civil war has been stopped. Revenge has been taken. Perhaps now they will be able to focus properly on the Blight and kill darkspawn for once. The arishok will not understand.
None of the nobles appear to be willing to break the silence. Adhara gazes around the room, frowns, and then leaps at Alistair, throwing her arms around his neck. “Well done!”
“'Dhara, ow, ow, that's-no, stop, I pulled that muscle, please, for the love of the Maker!” She lets go, and he rubs at his neck. “You're a menace!”
“Whiner,” she retorts.
“Well, Warden,” the arl calls from his vantage point above them, “your champion has won the duel, and the Landsmeet will honor your decision regarding the throne.”
Vashedan. This country makes no sense.
“...What?” Adhara stares up at the arl and crosses her arms. “Are all of you shemlen insane?”
There is a long pause, and Sten notices that most of the humans are staring at her tattoo. She grumbles and points to the queen, who is kneeling beside the bloody corpse of her father. “Don't you people already have a ruler?”
The arl frowns. “Yes, but Ferelden deserves a Theirin on the throne.”
No. Ferelden deserves a Theirin raised to be a noble. Blood's potential will not be tapped through improper upbringing. Alistair would not think properly for the job. He is a Warden, and a mage-killer, and once the Blight is over those skills will prove useless to the country.
Adhara seems to agree with Sten's silent assessment. “Then all of you should have thought about that before you let Cailan die,” she retorts, glaring at the assembled nobles. “Honestly. I shouldn't have to rearrange your sodding political system just so I can do my duty as a Grey Warden and save your hides from a Blight. Anora is your queen. Keep her, and let us Wardens do our job!”
With that, she turns and strides toward the exit. The crowd parts around his chest as Sten follows, and he can hear Alistair and the overbearing mage following behind them both.
“Well, that was tactful,” she says to Adhara through pursed lips, and crosses her arms as she is rounded on.
“I'm sick of this!” Adhara shouts. “There's an archdemon singing in my blood, and darkspawn eating half their country, but those idiots are worried about bloodlines.”
The overbearing mage shakes her head. “Alienating the nobles isn't going to help your cause.”
“I have my army,” she replies. “They have their queen, Alistair has his life back, and everyone wins.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” Alistair murmurs. “I owe you one, 'Dhara.”
She shakes her head and shoves at his shoulder. “No, you don't. Now let's get back to the estate and pack in case the arl decides to throw us out for ruining his plans.”
The arl does not throw them out. His country is unified, and now he turns his gaze on the enemy gnawing away at the land. The Warden they saved when rescuing the queen outranks Adhara and Alistair both, and so takes control of the battle plans. Months of fighting, and planning, and walking grind to a halt as the army is assembled and they prepare to mass and march for the horde. Sten spends a day pacing listlessly before he reaches the limits of his boredom and asks Alistair to spar with him.
Adhara, who so thoroughly resented being placed in charge when he joined them at Lothering, now seems equally adrift without plans to be made. Her senior Warden keeps her updated and asks for specifics on the armies she has gathered, but Adhara is not a general. She is a soldier. Until there is fighting, both she and Sten are reduced to uselessness.
When it is announced that they are leaving to meet the troops massing at Redcliffe, she looks as relieved has he feels. They spend a final night in her bed, and he is just beginning to drift when Adhara's voice sounds at his chest.
“You're lucky, you know.” Her voice sounds choked, and his fingers find their way into her hair of their own volition.
“Why?”
“You get to go home soon.” She speaks the words lightly, but her muscles are tense against his skin.
Home. Sten wraps his arms around her and breathes in her hair. “I will not miss Ferelden.”
A long pause. “What's Seheron like?”
Memories and scents stir in his mind from where he has been trying not to recall them. “Incense, tea. The smell of the sea. The language isn't grating to the ears like the common tongue.”
“The little I know sounds lovely, it's true.”
An unexpected compliment. Sten feels the sudden urge to hear her speaking fluent qunari. “Come back with me.” Only after he has spoken the words does he begin to wonder if it would be possible for her to do so. Adhara is a woman, and a soldier. She fights, and leads, and there is no place for her within the Qun.
Adhara pulls her face away from his chest and stares up at his face. When she speaks, she sounds as confused as he feels. “...What?”
“I have to go home. I must complete my duty to the arishok. But your duty is in your blood. You can be a Warden wherever you go.” Her status as a Warden will be enough to keep her safe in his homeland. The Antaam hold them in high enough regard to tolerate her eccentricities....
Perhaps he should not have suggested this.
She closes her eyes. “What about the Fereldan order?”
Sten finds himself wanting to convince her despite his reservations. She has grown close to Alistair, but if he leaves her she will be trapped in a country that makes no sense with people who are desperate to pretend that it does. He thinks of how she looked among the Dalish, and how she acted at the Landsmeet, and concludes that it would be better for everyone if she came home with him.
“You are not the senior Warden,” he replies, “and Alistair has shown that he can take charge if needed. It is not your responsibility.”
Adhara relaxes back into his chest, apparently deep in thought. “Would I get to meet the arishok?”
...A frightening thought. But if he returns with a Grey Warden, there will be many who will wish to meet her. Who better to speak to for an improved understanding of the nature of a Blight?
“Yes,” he replies, and she laughs quietly into his chest.
“Then how can I say no?”
Tension that Sten had not even been aware he was feeling eases from his shoulders, and he sighs into her hair. He will not have to choose between his home and his kadan. At least not immediately.
Delay. Sten forces his breathing to deepen, and soon he is tired again.
Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Sixteen: “Draw your sword. I want to see what you can do.”
Rating: T
Word Count: 1.940
Characters: Sten/f!Mahariel, Alistair, Wynne, bits and pieces of Loghain. (Mostly pieces.)
Summary: The fate of Ferelden's throne is inexplicably left to the only elf in the room at the Landsmeet.
[ Previous Chapter]
Drapery. Desperate, desolate, deconstruction. Devoid. Dalish, delicious.
Sten is bored.
The human nobles are grousing, and their voices are echoing throughout the chamber. But the room is too large, and improperly shaped, and so voices dissipate and nobody listens to the words being spoken. He is left wondering yet again how it is possible that his people failed in conquering the southern lands.
Adhara stands beside him, arms crossed, periodically sighing and yelling at the old soldier that is their enemy. He paces and places blame and mentions Orlesians, and Adhara grows increasingly annoyed and shouts about enslaved elves and assassins and poison.
Deflection. Desire, dangerous, dark, daring.
Sten sneezes. Dusty. Several nobles stare at him, but when the old soldier begins shouting outright, all eyes return to him instead. His hand is on his blade, and he is standing threateningly close to Adhara.
Duel. Sten is about to protest and insist that he fight the massive man for her when Alistair steps forward, hand upon his blade, and takes a strong stance between Adhara and the old soldier.
Alistair is the senior Warden of the two of them. Sten keeps forgetting that. This is the first time he has taken initiative in all their months of travel. Had it been anyone else attempting to defend her, Adhara would have battled the old soldier herself, Sten is sure. But for him, Adhara merely smiles and steps out of the way.
Interesting. So Alistair does have a spine, after all. Sten crosses his arms again and waits to see what he will do with it.
“Thanks, 'Dhara,” the Templar smiles, and draws his blade as the terms are called by the outspoken female noble.
The crowd forms a nervous circle around the fighters, but he and Adhara stand still at the edge, watching the warriors before them intently. He can tell by the small crease above her eyebrows that she is worried for her brother-in-arms. After the old soldier's first swing, Sten is, as well. His thrusts are violent, but precise in their execution, meant to cause the most damage with the least exertion. He is powerful, and experienced, and practiced, and Alistair is soon nicked and bleeding at the cheek.
Alistair is knocked back several times as he parries the old soldier's blows, but at last remembers his footwork through his anger and settles into the same intent frame of mind as his opponent.
Now the fight is even. Sten's eyes dart between them, watching the play of their emotions and the pace of their breathing, attempting to decide if Adhara's fellow Warden will survive. Alistair is too angry; the emotion is exhausting him and draining his accuracy. Allowing himself to be ruled by emotions in the heat of battle is a mistake. But the old soldier does not take the Templar seriously, which is also a mistake. Perhaps months ago this would have been the proper course of action, but a man who cannot see change in his enemy is doomed to failure.
Alistair gives a sudden shout and surges forward in a rush, knocking into his opponent with his shield and sending him staggering backward. The old soldier stumbles, loses his grip on his sword, and looks to Adhara with wide eyes. The Templar freezes, sacrificing the momentum needed for a killing blow to glance at his leader for approval.
The room freezes and everyone holds their breath, except for the blonde queen, who begins to insist that her father's life be spared. But all eyes in the room turn to Adhara and wait for her decision yet again.
Adhara ignores the screaming and silent nobles alike. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the two combatants before her, and gives a slight nod when Alistair positions for the killing stroke. The queen shrieks again, ordering them all to stop, but Sten can tell by the way the nobles exhale at once that they wish for Alistair to obey Adhara.
Only in Ferelden would he see an elf become more powerful than one born to rule. It seems to confuse Adhara as much as it does him, but she still gives Alistair the last bit of goading that he needs to exact his revenge.
“Do it, you sod. What are you waiting for?”
The Templar's sword falls, and another of their opponents falls with it, spine severed at the neck. Blood sprays into the air, and as it coats Alistair's face Sten notices that he appears to be happy.
The civil war has been stopped. Revenge has been taken. Perhaps now they will be able to focus properly on the Blight and kill darkspawn for once. The arishok will not understand.
None of the nobles appear to be willing to break the silence. Adhara gazes around the room, frowns, and then leaps at Alistair, throwing her arms around his neck. “Well done!”
“'Dhara, ow, ow, that's-no, stop, I pulled that muscle, please, for the love of the Maker!” She lets go, and he rubs at his neck. “You're a menace!”
“Whiner,” she retorts.
“Well, Warden,” the arl calls from his vantage point above them, “your champion has won the duel, and the Landsmeet will honor your decision regarding the throne.”
Vashedan. This country makes no sense.
“...What?” Adhara stares up at the arl and crosses her arms. “Are all of you shemlen insane?”
There is a long pause, and Sten notices that most of the humans are staring at her tattoo. She grumbles and points to the queen, who is kneeling beside the bloody corpse of her father. “Don't you people already have a ruler?”
The arl frowns. “Yes, but Ferelden deserves a Theirin on the throne.”
No. Ferelden deserves a Theirin raised to be a noble. Blood's potential will not be tapped through improper upbringing. Alistair would not think properly for the job. He is a Warden, and a mage-killer, and once the Blight is over those skills will prove useless to the country.
Adhara seems to agree with Sten's silent assessment. “Then all of you should have thought about that before you let Cailan die,” she retorts, glaring at the assembled nobles. “Honestly. I shouldn't have to rearrange your sodding political system just so I can do my duty as a Grey Warden and save your hides from a Blight. Anora is your queen. Keep her, and let us Wardens do our job!”
With that, she turns and strides toward the exit. The crowd parts around his chest as Sten follows, and he can hear Alistair and the overbearing mage following behind them both.
“Well, that was tactful,” she says to Adhara through pursed lips, and crosses her arms as she is rounded on.
“I'm sick of this!” Adhara shouts. “There's an archdemon singing in my blood, and darkspawn eating half their country, but those idiots are worried about bloodlines.”
The overbearing mage shakes her head. “Alienating the nobles isn't going to help your cause.”
“I have my army,” she replies. “They have their queen, Alistair has his life back, and everyone wins.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” Alistair murmurs. “I owe you one, 'Dhara.”
She shakes her head and shoves at his shoulder. “No, you don't. Now let's get back to the estate and pack in case the arl decides to throw us out for ruining his plans.”
The arl does not throw them out. His country is unified, and now he turns his gaze on the enemy gnawing away at the land. The Warden they saved when rescuing the queen outranks Adhara and Alistair both, and so takes control of the battle plans. Months of fighting, and planning, and walking grind to a halt as the army is assembled and they prepare to mass and march for the horde. Sten spends a day pacing listlessly before he reaches the limits of his boredom and asks Alistair to spar with him.
Adhara, who so thoroughly resented being placed in charge when he joined them at Lothering, now seems equally adrift without plans to be made. Her senior Warden keeps her updated and asks for specifics on the armies she has gathered, but Adhara is not a general. She is a soldier. Until there is fighting, both she and Sten are reduced to uselessness.
When it is announced that they are leaving to meet the troops massing at Redcliffe, she looks as relieved has he feels. They spend a final night in her bed, and he is just beginning to drift when Adhara's voice sounds at his chest.
“You're lucky, you know.” Her voice sounds choked, and his fingers find their way into her hair of their own volition.
“Why?”
“You get to go home soon.” She speaks the words lightly, but her muscles are tense against his skin.
Home. Sten wraps his arms around her and breathes in her hair. “I will not miss Ferelden.”
A long pause. “What's Seheron like?”
Memories and scents stir in his mind from where he has been trying not to recall them. “Incense, tea. The smell of the sea. The language isn't grating to the ears like the common tongue.”
“The little I know sounds lovely, it's true.”
An unexpected compliment. Sten feels the sudden urge to hear her speaking fluent qunari. “Come back with me.” Only after he has spoken the words does he begin to wonder if it would be possible for her to do so. Adhara is a woman, and a soldier. She fights, and leads, and there is no place for her within the Qun.
Adhara pulls her face away from his chest and stares up at his face. When she speaks, she sounds as confused as he feels. “...What?”
“I have to go home. I must complete my duty to the arishok. But your duty is in your blood. You can be a Warden wherever you go.” Her status as a Warden will be enough to keep her safe in his homeland. The Antaam hold them in high enough regard to tolerate her eccentricities....
Perhaps he should not have suggested this.
She closes her eyes. “What about the Fereldan order?”
Sten finds himself wanting to convince her despite his reservations. She has grown close to Alistair, but if he leaves her she will be trapped in a country that makes no sense with people who are desperate to pretend that it does. He thinks of how she looked among the Dalish, and how she acted at the Landsmeet, and concludes that it would be better for everyone if she came home with him.
“You are not the senior Warden,” he replies, “and Alistair has shown that he can take charge if needed. It is not your responsibility.”
Adhara relaxes back into his chest, apparently deep in thought. “Would I get to meet the arishok?”
...A frightening thought. But if he returns with a Grey Warden, there will be many who will wish to meet her. Who better to speak to for an improved understanding of the nature of a Blight?
“Yes,” he replies, and she laughs quietly into his chest.
“Then how can I say no?”
Tension that Sten had not even been aware he was feeling eases from his shoulders, and he sighs into her hair. He will not have to choose between his home and his kadan. At least not immediately.
Delay. Sten forces his breathing to deepen, and soon he is tired again.