Link reblogged from serindrana with 5 notes
My second contribution, the crackfic that spawned my adoration for Cauthrien. :) Like Temper, Temper, it’s all not-Zevran POV, but I think enough of his character comes through in opposition to Cauthrien.
There’s a lot of, especially at the beginning, self-destructive behavior and nasty thinking. But there are also sneaky video game references, frilly smalls, and epic swordfights. I hope you’ll give it a shot. :)
Six chapters, post-game~
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The assassin is taking his time and she shifts as nervousness cuts through even the thick fog clouding her head. She almost pulls down the covers to peek, but he speaks first, and she knows the accent is familiar.
“Your tastes are more expensive than I would have expected,” he drawls. She can feel him settle his weight against the frame of her bed as he rolls the something, probably whatever botle he liberated from the floor, between his hands. “Are these all from last night?”
She doesn’t respond. He blows across the top of the bottle until he finds a note that seems to please him.
“I must admit,” he begins again, “I did not expect to find you like this. Lady Cousland is a rather perceptive woman, yes?”
She still doesn’t offer him anything. She waits, because she’s finally placed the voice- Zevran Arainai. The Crow that Loghain hired what seems now like such a long time ago. The Crow whom she can easily imagine toying with his prey, trying to trip them up until they fall before his blades or to his poisons, utterly ruined. She’s close already, but she doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“She was quite emphatic that I come to check in on you, you see,” he’s saying, as if he doesn’t need a reply at all. “Told me, ‘Zevran, it pains me to send you from my side, but another needs you!’, and how am I to refuse such an exhortation? She is a force of nature, after all. It’s best to go wherever the wind drives you, yes? And Lady Cousland, she is nothing if not a gale wind.” Zevran sighs, tapping his fingers on the glass in his hands. “And so, I am here. And you are here! I do so love succeeding at missions. It makes me feel all warm and toasty inside.”
She’s still waiting for the kill when she hears him stand up. He’s stopped trying to muffle the sounds of his movements, and she can hear the floorboards groan beneath him. There’s a darker shadow for a moment, the sound of creaking leathers, and the faint scent of some sort of oil as he leans over her, but then he straightens up and retreats a few steps.
“Well, you appear to be alive, no matter how much you’re trying to hide it. I’ll leave you to your bottles, I think.” He sets the one he’s been holding down with a clunk, but doesn’t move away immediately. There are no footsteps. “… A parting gift, though, Ser Cauthrien,” he murmurs, and she tenses for the fall of metal into her-
And is greeted only by the painfully bright light of day as he pulls open the heavy curtains of the room. She groans, loudly, as he leaves as silently as he came.
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The fic that made me start writing Cauthrien!
Post reblogged from serindrana with 17 notes
[Sequel to Chevalier Games. Contains femdom, orgasm denial, pegging.]
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Cauthrien disappeared as soon as the servants began clearing dinner from the table. Nathaniel was sitting halfway down the table from her, speaking with Stroud, when he saw her rise and without a look to him leave the hall. The lack of even a glance tugged a frown from him, but he thought he understood. Sitting beside their commander all evening had put even his nerves to the test, the memory of the stables still fresh in his mind. Stroud at least had the decency to act as if he hadn’t heard them that afternoon. Nathaniel hoped that there was no punishment waiting in store.
But when he didn’t see her and she didn’t seek him out the rest of the evening, he began to worry. Had he pushed too far? Had he crossed a line he should never have even neared? Maker, but he had abused her in Orlesian, and though she had never faltered, though she had challenged him, though she had surged and writhed and wanted beneath him, perhaps her acceptance of it had been a lie.
Cauthrien didn’t lie, though. She didn’t hide her feelings except beneath stoicism. She would not have teased him or held him or smiled. That was not her way. He knew her well enough for that.
It didn’t quiet the fear.
He made his way to her room, slipping through shadows lest somebody pull him aside for some request or another. The halls were familiar, and it unsettled him to move through as if Vigil’s Keep were a military posting and not his home. He took shortcuts known only to clever boys who preferred to sneak and clamber rather than barrel down the halls like Delilah had. He padded along stone floors, the supple leather of his boots silent as he moved. He came to her door from the gloom of the nearby corner, and knocked.
There was no response. Brow furrowing, he considered calling her name. Instead he opted for careful silence, reaching for the latch.
The door was unlocked and he slipped inside, shutting it behind him.
“Cauthrien?”
There was no response. The room was lit only with moonlight, the bed untouched, the air still.
He prayed he understood her. They had only tumbled into bed together for the first time two months before. The days and weeks since had felt good and right, but now he worried he had miscalculated. He had offered himself in return for what he had done earlier that night, and he had thought she was soothed by it, that she looked forward to it. But why disappear? Why run-
“Down on your knees, chevalier dog,” Cauthrien said from just behind him, voice flat and stern and low enough to send curling panic and arousal twining down along his spine.
and would you look at that, it’s the femdom sequel! (plz hold while I fetch related art)
Post reblogged from serindrana with 5 notes
Chevalier Games
Cauthrien/Nathaniel, pwp, AU where Cauthrien, post-Awakening, becomes a Warden
Warnings: BDSM, misogynistic language in the context of roleplay
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If there was one thing to be said about the hard ride in from the Wending Woods, one positive thing at all, it was that as exhaustion tugged at both of them, Cauthrien was still visibly flustered as she dismounted.
“Different saddle,” she said when he asked her why her cheeks were so pink though the day was neither hot nor cold. She licked at her lips. “Not Fereldan.”
“No,” he said as he unsaddled his own horse. “Antivan.”
The horse she had ridden home wasn’t hers; they had been forced to exchange horses in a small town on the way when her garron had thrown a shoe, and her saddle had not sat right upon the smaller steed she had been lent. He had put forth the coin to borrow another, though Cauthrien had insisted she could ride the remaining miles to the Keep bareback.
It was worth it, to see the tops of her shoulders shift with the wiggling of her hips.
“The seat design-“
“Is interesting,” he finished with a low chuckle as he set his own horse to rights and reached for his bag. “You’ll survive.”
“I’m sure,” she said, dryly.
The other thing to be said was that it would, hopefully, make his gift more appreciated; Cauthrien did not accept trinkets readily, and he rarely offered, but he hoped that this time it would cheer her. At the very least, it might worsen the blush on her cheeks.
He met her outside of their stalls, then took her wrist and with an inclination of his head led her to another, empty one. “I have something for you,” he said.
“Something?”
“Hold out your hands.”
oh look it’s Nate porn week isn’t it
look what I have here
Post reblogged from serindrana with 11 notes
[~in our last installment~ Bethany found out Athenril’s plan - infiltrate Minrathous as a magister’s household, and tap into its valuable spice trade. But they’re a long way from Tevinter yet, and a few stops need to be made first…
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Chapter 3
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By the time they reached Cumberland, Bethany could bow and scrape in laughably accented Arcanum, and knew to listen for fifteen get out of there immediately phrases that had managed to work themselves all too well into mage-vivid nightmares.
“Sacrificia parentur†,” she mumbled, looking up at the city gates and for a moment seeing what she imagined Minrathous to be, all lyrium-laced stone and crackling power. But it was just Cumberland. Just Cumberland, when three years ago she had thought she would never, ever leave Ferelden. Just Cumberland, closer to the seat of the Divine and the templars than she ever thought she would come. Just Cumberland, their last stop before they met the Imperial Highway.
A section of the Imperial Highway had passed by Lothering, but it had never filled her with the nerves that a road she couldn’t even see yet did.
A hand settled on her shoulder, and Bethany jerked, and would have yelped if another hand hadn’t lightly covered her mouth. “Jumpy,” Athenril murmured by her ear. “Good trait, but you need to learn how not to squeak. Or to flail.”
Bethany wasn’t sure how she felt about how Athenril had taken to touching her. They were light touches, and over quickly, and Bethany had never told her not to - but Athenril had also never so much as tapped her shoulder in her year of service. Had it been Marian? Or was Athenril just in an unbreakable good mood with the promise of profit?
She took a deep breath as Athenril let go of her, stepping around her and canting her head. “You’ll get there yet,” she said. “Don’t look at me like that - like a startled pup.”
“It’s a Fereldan thing, I think,” she said, shaking herself. “So, Cumberland?”
Post with 11 notes
[~in our last installment~ Bethany found out Athenril’s plan - infiltrate Minrathous as a magister’s household, and tap into its valuable spice trade. But they’re a long way from Tevinter yet, and a few stops need to be made first…
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Chapter 3
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By the time they reached Cumberland, Bethany could bow and scrape in laughably accented Arcanum, and knew to listen for fifteen get out of there immediately phrases that had managed to work themselves all too well into mage-vivid nightmares.
“Sacrificia parentur†,” she mumbled, looking up at the city gates and for a moment seeing what she imagined Minrathous to be, all lyrium-laced stone and crackling power. But it was just Cumberland. Just Cumberland, when three years ago she had thought she would never, ever leave Ferelden. Just Cumberland, closer to the seat of the Divine and the templars than she ever thought she would come. Just Cumberland, their last stop before they met the Imperial Highway.
A section of the Imperial Highway had passed by Lothering, but it had never filled her with the nerves that a road she couldn’t even see yet did.
A hand settled on her shoulder, and Bethany jerked, and would have yelped if another hand hadn’t lightly covered her mouth. “Jumpy,” Athenril murmured by her ear. “Good trait, but you need to learn how not to squeak. Or to flail.”
Bethany wasn’t sure how she felt about how Athenril had taken to touching her. They were light touches, and over quickly, and Bethany had never told her not to - but Athenril had also never so much as tapped her shoulder in her year of service. Had it been Marian? Or was Athenril just in an unbreakable good mood with the promise of profit?
She took a deep breath as Athenril let go of her, stepping around her and canting her head. “You’ll get there yet,” she said. “Don’t look at me like that - like a startled pup.”
“It’s a Fereldan thing, I think,” she said, shaking herself. “So, Cumberland?”
Post reblogged from serindrana with 19 notes
[AT LAST. This is the Athenril and Bethany go to Tevinter fic that I’ve been talking about for over ten months now (oh god). It’s going to total about 16 or 17 chapters.
Fic-wide warnings for Tevinter magisters, with all that encompasses - mass sacrifice, slavery, abuse (of people, of drugs, of power), etc.
Also on Ao3 and ff.net. Thanks to my lovely betas, ladysmaragdina, jillyfae, and screwyouflightlieutenant]
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Chapter 1
It was just another flight of stairs.
That was all Kirkwall really was - another flight to stumble down or drag yourself up - and Bethany found herself wondering, as she stared down at the docks three stories below, if the Gallows had many stairs. Perhaps they would let her live on the ground floor, or up in a tower where she would never have to climb down again. She was tired of stairs. She was tired of stairs, and she was tired of running, and she was just so tired…
She took a deep breath. It was just another flight of stairs, and one foot in front of the other had always worked in the past. It had been one foot in front of the other since Lothering.
Mother would forgive her.
And she would forgive herself if she had to close her eyes to take that first step, lifting up her foot and letting it fall into the abyss-
“Bethany.”
She yelped, eyes shooting open and hand rising to cover her mouth as she turned. That voice-
“Athenril?”
The smuggler leaned against the center divider of the staircase, where crates were hauled up and slid back down daily, with one brow quirked and her arms folded over her chest. Bethany hadn’t seen her since Marian had let that boy run off with her shipment, and at the moment, she wasn’t exactly somebody Bethany wanted to see. She didn’t need an old employer with a chip on her shoulder here to delay her from what was likely going to be the most important decision of her life.
But the elf was definitely looking at her, and, with a smooth push from the wall, was definitely getting in between Bethany and the docks below. Standing two steps down made made Athenril even smaller, and Bethany wasn’t sure if she should loom or join her or just retreat and hope the other woman followed. She ended up simply standing there, fiddling with her cuff and waiting.
And waiting.
Bethany chewed at her lower lip as Athenril’s gaze drifted up and down her body, and finally came to rest on her mouth.
“You have your staff, and nothing over your face.”
“I- yes. That’s true.” Her staff didn’t look like a mage’s staff; it had no skull crowning it, and the blade was long enough to make it look like a polearm. But any other day, she wouldn’t have stepped out under the sun hinting at what she was without a scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was a precaution she’d learned early on in Kirkwall - at Athenril’s hands.
But there was no point in hiding, and as her cheeks began to heat, she hoped that Athenril wasn’t so perceptive that she would figure it all out.
Athenril sighed. “What am I going to do with you?” She held out a hand and beckoned as she climbed the few steps to where Bethany stood. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Post with 19 notes
[AT LAST. This is the Athenril and Bethany go to Tevinter fic that I’ve been talking about for over ten months now (oh god). It’s going to total about 16 or 17 chapters.
Fic-wide warnings for Tevinter magisters, with all that encompasses - mass sacrifice, slavery, abuse (of people, of drugs, of power), etc.
Also on Ao3 and ff.net. Thanks to my lovely betas, ladysmaragdina, jillyfae, and screwyouflightlieutenant]
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Chapter 1
It was just another flight of stairs.
That was all Kirkwall really was - another flight to stumble down or drag yourself up - and Bethany found herself wondering, as she stared down at the docks three stories below, if the Gallows had many stairs. Perhaps they would let her live on the ground floor, or up in a tower where she would never have to climb down again. She was tired of stairs. She was tired of stairs, and she was tired of running, and she was just so tired…
She took a deep breath. It was just another flight of stairs, and one foot in front of the other had always worked in the past. It had been one foot in front of the other since Lothering.
Mother would forgive her.
And she would forgive herself if she had to close her eyes to take that first step, lifting up her foot and letting it fall into the abyss-
“Bethany.”
She yelped, eyes shooting open and hand rising to cover her mouth as she turned. That voice-
“Athenril?”
The smuggler leaned against the center divider of the staircase, where crates were hauled up and slid back down daily, with one brow quirked and her arms folded over her chest. Bethany hadn’t seen her since Marian had let that boy run off with her shipment, and at the moment, she wasn’t exactly somebody Bethany wanted to see. She didn’t need an old employer with a chip on her shoulder here to delay her from what was likely going to be the most important decision of her life.
But the elf was definitely looking at her, and, with a smooth push from the wall, was definitely getting in between Bethany and the docks below. Standing two steps down made made Athenril even smaller, and Bethany wasn’t sure if she should loom or join her or just retreat and hope the other woman followed. She ended up simply standing there, fiddling with her cuff and waiting.
And waiting.
Bethany chewed at her lower lip as Athenril’s gaze drifted up and down her body, and finally came to rest on her mouth.
“You have your staff, and nothing over your face.”
“I- yes. That’s true.” Her staff didn’t look like a mage’s staff; it had no skull crowning it, and the blade was long enough to make it look like a polearm. But any other day, she wouldn’t have stepped out under the sun hinting at what she was without a scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was a precaution she’d learned early on in Kirkwall - at Athenril’s hands.
But there was no point in hiding, and as her cheeks began to heat, she hoped that Athenril wasn’t so perceptive that she would figure it all out.
Athenril sighed. “What am I going to do with you?” She held out a hand and beckoned as she climbed the few steps to where Bethany stood. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Post reblogged from serindrana with 9 notes
Here, tumblr, have some Alistair darkfic I wrote for Cherith:
Fort Drakon is far from quiet at night. There are little noises everywhere, behind the bigger ones, and he can’t close his eyes, can’t bed down and save his strength. Alistair tries to tell himself that really, neither was camp, neither was Eamon’s, neither was anywhere he’s ever tried to sleep, but this is wholly and undeniably different.
Most places he’s slept, including the Deep Roads, did not echo with screams and whimpers and the smack of wood and metal on flesh, the rattle of chains, the creak of wheels.
The brutality of men to one another is something he’s never truly had to face, not like this. Darkspawn aren’t people. The Deep Roads are cruel, violent, disturbing- but not like this. This is worse, infinitely worse, and though he has followed Daylen’s advice, has held back his trust and watched others warily, nothing could have prepared him.
They took Daylen away an hour ago, two, somewhere in what seems like the distant past as well as just seconds earlier. He had shouted then. He had railed. He had tried to protect his closest comrade, and Daylen had looked at him and just shook his head, lips pressed to a thin line. He had tipped his fingers forward in what Alistair wants to think was forgiveness, was a motion of strength. When the guard had dragged them from Howe’s estate, Loghain’s lieutenant had ordered the mage’s hands bound. Alistair had watched as bandages were used to constrain him, binding each finger to its pair, strapping his palms together until Daylen was forced to stand as if praying.
And Daylen had taken it all stoically. Alistair had assumed that the other man knew something he didn’t, had some hope that Alistair could not conceive of. He’d followed the man through haunted forests, dwarven thaigs, castles howling with the shrieks of undead.
He’d followed him to this prison.
derp derp
Post with 11 notes
The inspiring promptfic, by Maybethings.]
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Chapter 15
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She was still there when the sun rose.
He had woken twice in the night, fearing she might disappear, but each time when he reached out he could find her. The first time she was still tucked warm against his side. The second, she had moved away slightly, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame her. He hadn’t shared a bed in some time, and his arm had fallen asleep from being trapped beneath her earlier.
At dawn, though, she had returned to his side, lying beside him with an arm draped over him. He wondered if she had woken and moved, or if it was something done in sleep. He watched her as the sunlight began to filter in through the window, catching on her hair - not black, it turned out, but a very deep brown. She had a surprisingly delicate jaw, and the slight lower curve of her nose kept his interest for longer than it likely should have. Her shoulders were broad and he could make out the lines of muscle there, even faded as there were.
He counted scars while he waited for her to stir. The bedding had fallen down to their waists while they slept, tangling around their legs, but his eyes didn’t linger on her (full, lovely) breasts; they went to the little raised lines and puckers of a life spent fighting. Her skin was surprisingly smooth for it all, though it showed her age. Armor, he supposed as he traced the path between her ribs down to her navel.
She started at the touch and he pulled away, flushing.
“Just me,” he murmured.
She opened her eyes, blinking blearily and stretching against him. Her toes brushed his shins and he felt it like a jolt through him. “Good morning,” she said, and then she pushed against the mattress, sitting up and rolling her shoulders.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, and she paused, then shook her head.
“Habit,” she said, lowering herself back down.
Post with 4 notes
[1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 :: Ao3 :: fst
The inspiring promptfic, by Maybethings.]
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Chapter 14
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He woke again in his room. He was alone and stripped to his smalls, curled beneath heavy blankets. The window was cracked and he grimaced at the stench. Funeral pyres, he thought as he pushed himself up.
His side protested, and he looked down to see bandages wound around his abdomen. They were clean, with no stain of dried blood, and a searching prod produced only a dull ache. Satisfied, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.
The motion drew a groan from him, but the pain was bearable, and he stumbled to the wardrobe.
I’ll miss you. The words echoed and he thought of her, on the battlefield. He’d dreamed of her, he was fairly certain. He’d dreamed of her alone, unarmed. He’d dreamed of her dying. But he’d also dreamed of her winning the day, and he had dreamed of being beside her, and he had dreamed-
Had he dreamed I’ll miss you?
Dressed, he tugged his boots on and laced them quickly, then slipped into the hall. He heard talking and he followed it. Vanadia’s door hung open, and Sigrun’s voice drifted out. He hesitated- and then he passed it by.
The yard was still a mess of mud and blood and all the rest, and his boots squelched through it. The pyres burned beyond the inner walls, out in the former darkspawn camp, and the stench of it pervaded everything. He ignored it as best he could, making for the prison door.
“Warden Nathaniel,” Justice called, and Nathaniel ignored that too, wrenching open the door. Vanadia had returned, and she must have met Cauthrien on the field. Cauthrien- back in that cell- the thought made his blood burn. He strode inside-
And was met with only empty cells with open doors.
Post with 2 notes
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[1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 :: Ao3 :: fst
The inspiring promptfic, by Maybethings.]
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Chapter 3
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Nobody mentioned he had to drink darkspawn blood until it was too late to back out. As he woke up with his head spinning and throbbing even more than it had over the last two or three weeks, the taste seemed to pervade everything. Even his headache had a foul tang to it, and he rolled over onto his knees, eyes squeezed tight.
He was still in the blasted audience hall, he realized as he opened his eyes and squinted against the firelight. Nobody had moved him. Nobody had found him even a cot, let alone a bed. Left on his back in an open room - great. A wonderful start.
And, as he pushed himself up and looked around, he noted that Vana wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The other three (Anders, he remembered, and Velanna, and Oghren) were gone as well. There was only a red-haired elf and a long-haired human sitting in the corner playing cards and, on the other side of the fire, the seneschal sitting in what should have been the arl’s seat, with a small table beside him loaded with papers.
He raked his hand through his hair, and turned to look for his pack. It was gone. Of course it was gone. He muttered a curse and edged around the brazier.
The seneschal looked up. “Ah. You’re awake.”
“Was there a point to leaving me on the stone floor?”
“It was easier than moving you.”
Post with 14 notes
[This one’s going largely under a cut due to potentially triggering material. Per the title, this installment includes violence directed at a pregnant woman and traumatic miscarriage, along with character insensitivity to some aspects.
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M is for Miscarriage
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Athenril’s fingers dig into the woman’s upper arm as she pounds a fist against the finely carved door of the estate. It’s the dead of night, moon obscured by endless clouds. Wind howls through Hightown, shutters banging and creaking, gardens loosing not only delicate scents but also the uneasy sounds of trees and brushes in a blank stone city. The sea and sky are uneasy, and rumors say that the qunari are as well.
It’s a shit time to be out, even for women like the two of them who are well-versed in walking in shadows and using the screaming of the heavens to hide their movements.
The door finally swings open, and it’s not a servant who looks out, or the owner of the manse, but a woman with curling blonde hair, a fine evening robe thrown over what looks to be nothing at all, and a scowl.
“What in the Void do you think you’re doing here, Athenril?” Elegant snaps.
Link reblogged from serindrana with 16 notes
M is going up later tonight, so I thought, hey! Why not reblog K and L as a quick refresher for anybody who’s forgotten what’s going on/missed it and is interested. The link above and at the bottom will take you to the full collections of what’s been posted so far.
[A slightly lighter entry today. Aveline makes another appearance (and I swear this is the last time Athenril will just hand her her ass and her ideals), and there’s OC goodness.
There’s a chance Scattered Coin will be going on a brief hiatus. I’ll attempt to stay on schedule, though. Thank you for your patience]
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K is for Kith
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“Good work.”
The oddest thing about working with children is that they’ll beam at the slightest positive comment. The girl in front of her, Fereldan with plaited dark hair and features that Athenril has heard called Avvar before, is fighting down a grin, fidgeting where she stands. Athenril can’t help her own small, answering smirk, as she closes the pouch of contraband Tevinter goods and smuggled opium. Nothing’s even missing, as far as she can tell.
The girl has promise.
She’s clever and quick and listens well but not too well. She’s also just shy of ten. There’s still time to raise her up right, make sure she knows the ins and outs and how to keep herself safe. Athenril has never been the maternal type, but sometimes-
“You. We need to talk.”
Ah. The ginger brute.
The girl - Hilgrud, Athenril reminds herself - stares up at the very tall guard captain, daring to show her face in full regalia in this part of town, without backup. With a motion of Athenril’s hand, the girl darts behind her. Athenril divides a part of her attention to watch her pockets.
“You’ve gotten pretty ballsy, haven’t you,” Athenril said, not a question but enough to pluck at Aveline’s nerves. “I’m working.”
“I thought Hawke would have made it clear to you the other month - no children.”
There’s a touch at her hip and for a moment Athenril thinks the girl is filching, but then tiny arms wind around her leg. She tries not to kick the girl off.
“You came all this way in all your pretty armor just to tell me that? Priorities, guard captain.” She knows ears are pricking at that. “I’m doing nothing illegal by giving a few children a chance at enough coin to live comfortably.”
“Nothing illegal. As if that would even make a difference to you,” Aveline snorts. “It’s unconscionable.”
“And murder isn’t? Theft isn’t?”
Hilgrud whimpers.
Aveline shifts uncomfortably, arms crossing over her chest in a rattle and scrape of metal. “None of it is. But I can’t ignore everything.”
“And would you rather this girl be out on the streets by herself? Or perhaps you think some slavers or pettier brothels should be teaching her a trade?” Athenril drawls, though there’s anger boiling behind her words. “Or maybe she should just beg, and hope a kind man takes pity on a little foreign girl? Let’s be honest here. Realistic. Tell me, what would you have her do?”
“Send her to the chantry. They take orphans, Athenril, for this exact reason. Getting them off the streets, somewhere better-“
“They don’t always have the room,” Athenril says, cutting her off. “Especially not for grubby foreign children with no money to back them up, no rich relatives coming to retrieve them someday. She’s lucky enough that she’s not an elf, you know. But ten years old… that’s a little old to tug at their need to be charitable.” She shrugs. “Besides, I’m sure that’s the first place a good girl like Hilgrud went.”
There’s a quiet sound of assent from behind her.
“So. Another option, then, guard captain?”
She thinks she can hear Aveline’s teeth grinding, and experimentally she reaches behind herself to stroke the girl’s hair. “I’m waiting. Hilgrud’s waiting. Or maybe you’re realizing that you just don’t understand. What do you think, Hilgrud?”
Hilgrud looks up at her with wide, frightened eyes, and Athenril makes a note that there’s still some hardening left to do yet.
“Make her go away,” Hilgrud says at last.
Aveline looks away sharply.
Prying Hilgrud’s hands away from her leg gently, Athenril walks up close, close enough to rest a hand on Aveline’s breastplate. The woman flinches but doesn’t retreat, and so Athenril rises up on her toes and leans in close.
“I take care of my own, and you know that. The girl is as safe as any other place she could find here, probably safer. Back off.”
She settles her weight back on her heels. “Will that be all, guard captain?”
“Yes,” Aveline says, stiffly.
Athenril expects another threat, another roaring snarling snap to try and make her retreat, but she gains nothing more than Aveline’s back and her retreating, harsh steps. Biting down a sigh and shaking her head, Athenril turns back to Hilgrud. She reaches for her pocket. “So. Let’s see. For that work- five silver?”
Hilgrud pouts - and holds out the sovereign she’d plucked from Athenril’s hip belt.
Athenril laughs. “Oh,” she says. “I like you.”
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When they first met, it was an Amaranthine spring just beginning - not so cold as the southern lands but far wetter, bitter and insinuating and aching - and she wasn’t what he expected.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t the first time they had met and it wasn’t just that she was other than he expected - she wasn’t what heremembered. He remembered a proud and strong woman with eyes like steel. He remembered a straight back beneath pounds and pounds of armor. He remembered unflinching stoicism as she waited for her lord’s attentions and orders. But it had been many years since he had seen her in passing during the days of the Landsmeet, before he’d been sent to the Free Marches and back when he still knew his father’s heart, or at least believed that he did. Then, she hadn’t even been a knight. Then, she had only been a soldier.
Now she was neither.
She was wasted beneath the shapeless woolens she wore, her shoulders bowed beneath her heavy, ratty cloak. Her wrists her bound before her and it was only the smallest mercy that she was not led into Vigil’s Keep on a chain lead. Her eyes were downcast, the skin around them paper-thin and shadowed with exhaustion. There was still a martial echo in her step and in how her shoulders bowed but did not sink, but it was worn down.
Ten months. Ten months in the palace prison and in Fort Drakon, waiting on a sentence that never seemed to come. Ten months locked away once the Blight was quelled, rotting in a cell, because King Alistair struggled without Anora’s aid to govern a hemorrhaging country. And now she was passed over to him to deal with.
Nathaniel Howe rubbed at the tension gathering between his brows and turned away from the yard, slipping into the shadows along the keep walls and through the door that stood slightly ajar. He would meet her as he should, in uniform and awaiting in the hall that had once been his father’s.
My first attempt at writing a how Cauthrien and Nathaniel met story. It was tricky to write, and sometimes I wonder if I made it too melancholy, without enough action, but it was a good experiment. When people ask me why I ship them, I often come up with… less than satisfactory answers. I just do. But that makes it hard for me to write how they come to be together.
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There are definite perks to filling the Chantry’s coffer. Leave to travel is one of them. He feels more than a twinge of guilt as Kirkwall fades behind him, but it doesn’t stop the soothing rock of the ship. The waves cooperate, the wind pushes him out, and he breathes air not confined by the Gallows for the first time in years.
It is a good day.
And on the horizon is not Cumberland (though the gardens there are magnificent, and people-watching at the College will always be one of his favorite activities), but Ferelden and the Frostback Mountains. The templars that accompany him come not as guards but on pilgrimage. Andraste’s very tomb is said to lie in his path.
But he, of course, is going for the more physical, the less spiritual, the call of rare materials that even Hawke cannot bring him. Dragons, the rumors say, nests of them, and with dragons come dragon fangs, shed skin, bones. He will pick through the ice and the remains left in the wake of the inhuman figure known only as the Warden, and though the Chantry will benefit in coin, he will benefit in knowledge.
Written because of the Dragon Age prompt generator, and encouragement from several fronts, including sakuratsukikage and flutiebear. I should write more! Solivitus and Genitivi, and a pet theory of mine as to just who Genitivi is…
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