Characters: Alistair, Zevran Words: 1546 Summary: A discussion of Antivan courtship leads Zevran offended that Alistair has never been taught to dance. He decides it must be rectified. Author Note: I blame discord and dancing gifs.
The camp was quiet, unusually so. Little could be heard above the crackling of the fire except for Oghren’s heavy belch-laced breathing, occasionally punctuated by a chuckle at nothing. It was a stark contrast from Zevran’s gentle humming as he carefully polished a set of newly acquired daggers. Sten stood silently at the far reaches of the camp, grumbling about inadequate defenses or something equally practical. It was easy to miss the subtle life that the others brought to camp as they milled about, when he couldn’t take his attention from her. Maker, he was pathetic.
“They’ve been gone for a while,” he remarked to no one in particular, an attempt to break the unusual and uncomfortable silence left behind by his companions.
“Worried about our friends?” A mischievous smile crossed Zevran’s face, and looked up from his blades.
“Mildly concerned, yes.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s dark. We’re in the forest. There are darkspawn literally everywhere. It doesn’t seem like the best time to take a bath.”
“Oh, I envy them. Naked and wet, basking in the light from the moon,” Zevran inspected his daggers before returning them to their sheathes. His nonchalance had reached new levels of impressive. “It’s quite thrilling!”
“Yes, yes. The thought of Lucia getting ambushed by genlocks while completely unarmored is very thrilling.” Alistair gestured emphatically as he spoke. “Just like a nightmare.”
“Ah. I see.” Another smile spread across Zevran’s lips, and he raised his eyebrows as if he knew something Alistair didn’t.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” He hated when people looked at him like that.
“Have you told her how you feel?” Zevran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at Alistair from across the fire.
“That obvious, huh? Damn.” He turned his head and looked towards the camp entrance, as if he expected her to walk in at any moment. “I want to, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, you know? I’m not even sure if she feels the same way.”
“I believe she does. That look she gives you… I would kill for someone to look at me the way Lucia looks at you, my friend.” Zevran laughed slightly and leaned back. “Actually, I’ve killed for a lot less, but you understand the sentiment, yes?”
Alistair’s discomfort and self consciousness grew as the conversation plummeted deeper into his relationship with Lucia. He wished he had never encouraged it. Zevran meant well, he knew that, but it wasn’t like he had not tried to tell her how he felt. He actually had, on multiple occasions. She had this wall up, almost always. It protected her, but it also kept him from knowing how she felt. Sometimes, he almost believed he could see past it. It was in brief moments, such as those when he told her that she impressed him or after he gave her that stubborn rose. There was not much he wouldn’t do for those moments.
“I-,” he began to explain, but thought better of it, knowing it was not a conversation he wanted to have, “Listen, can we just… change the subject, please.”
“Say no more. It was not my intent to upset you.” Zevran offered a reassuring smile. “You’ll have to forgive me. I am still not accustomed to Fereldan courtship. In Antiva, everything was more direct.”
“Oh yeah?” Alistair perked up, his interest piqued. “How so? Let me guess: poetry?”
All I want in this world is for Alistair to grow fat and old and happy with the loving partner of his choice.
… And then I reserve a special place in my heart for the ‘if Alistair had ALL the babies he’d name ALL the babies Duncan’ AU. Duncan, Duncanna, Duncanessa, Duncan IV, Wee Duncan, Baby Wee Duncan, Duncould, Duncant, I mean the list could go on and on.
If Alistair had babies, he would totally baby his babies more than Bree. She can be a taskmaster when she puts her mind to it.
Alistair sleeps like someone who’s never been afforded a bed of his own—a nice one, anyway, complete with soft down pillows and bedding of silk and sheep’s fleece and not a single bit of itchy straw poking through the sheets. He sleeps curled up tight, some part of his dreaming mind still confined to the cramped tent they use to share. No, love, Emilia thinks, there’s room for us both now. She traces her fingers through his hair–it’s soft, much softer now that he’s had the time to commit to a real bathing regimen, more than a bit of cool streamwater to wash with.
With one last run of her hand over his head, one soft kiss to his forehead–many more to come, love–she slips out from beneath the thick comforter. He doesn’t wake, not at first, and she’s grateful for the time she’s granted to collect her carelessly discarded clothing from the floor next to their bed–his bed, she corrects herself, ours tomorrow.
“’Milia,” he mumbles sleepily, and ah, of course it didn’t last. “Come back here.”
She only smiles back at him, pulling on first her smalls, then her nightgown back over them, and when he cracks an eye open to look for her in the dark, he knows he’s lost this one. As always. Emilia knows what she wants, and Emilia gets what she wants. “Tomorrow, Alistair,” she whispers from the doorway, blowing an apologetic kiss to him.
“Tonight,” he whines, though he knows he argues in vain.
She shakes her head. “It’s nearly midnight. Bad luck to see your bride on her wedding day.”
Alistair grumbles to himself, still shaking off sleep; he’s never been one for Fereldan tradition–and why would he be? she thinks, he never had anyone to teach it to him–but she adores it nearly as much as she had years ago as a child. Tradition was romantic; if you asked her last year for her cares on tradition she might say she had none, might be perfectly content to smite tradition where it stood out of sheer dedication to duty, out of hatred, out of hurt. And now, a year later, a lifetime later, there would never come a day where she didn’t silently thank Alistair for bringing her back to herself, for making her into a romantic once again.
“I won’t be able to sleep without you,” he pouts.
“Oh, stop it.” But the smile playing at her lips betrays her serious tone, and she can’t help but laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t be able to sleep either. But you should at least try, love. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She can hear him huff in the darkness, accepting his inevitable defeat. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Alistair.”
She’s nearly out the door when she hears him again, “Em, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Can I say it? One last time, before it’s…different?”
“Say what?” she asks him, and she can hear him exhale fully.
“I love you, Emilia Cousland.”
She flushes red. Even after all this time. “I love you, too,” she whispers, slipping out the door and into the chilly halls of the royal palace.
so i have to cheat again…i’m making today’s prompt “portrait” because you know…these hoes don’t have instagram…HOWEVER, it does occur directly following this, so please enjoy more emistair post-awakening/pre-DAI fluff
Emilia Cousland
“You’re getting a portrait, Warden-Commander,” Alistair had declared the morning after she’d returned from Amaranthine, adding, with a devilish smile, “if I had to sit through one, so do you.”
“Fine,” she’d answered; she’d sat through plenty of portraits in Highever, though the last was nearly three years ago now. But she was no stranger to them, to the long hours of sitting, holding a pose, setting her lips straight and her tongue silent as the grave.
“Fine,” Alistair had shot back in a girlishly high-pitched tone, eyes gleaming with laughter, mocking her.
She’d gasped, feigned insult, wrinkled her nose at him. “I will sit for my portrait, Your Highness, and I’m quite certain it will be done in far less time than yours had taken.”
He replies only with a fluffy pillow thrown in her face.
She’s in the throne room promptly the next morning, long before Alistair is even awake, dressed in deep blues and silvers–they are Fereldan royalty, but they were Wardens first, and the very clothing they choose never fails to reflect that–a gown the likes of which she hadn’t worn since their wedding, her brown hair (more auburn now; she’d gotten plenty of sun in Amaranthine) braided back neatly beneath her crown.
“All day, my lady,” the painter confides in her when she asks how long Alistair’s portrait had taken. She smiles, smug, to herself, of course it did, and when the painter asks if she’s ready, she nods graciously, ever the lady, hands folded neatly in her lap, legs uncrossed, ankles to the side, begin, Ser.
It’s nearly noon when Alistair struts into the throne room.
“Cousland,” he drawls in a bored voice, as if they hadn’t been apart for over a year before yesterday, as if he hadn’t absolutely ravished her last night and the one before.
He’s up to something, she knows. “My liege?” she replies coolly, not moving an inch.
He yawns, stretches, raises his arms high enough above his head that his untucked tunic bares a glimpse of the tawny hair trailing below his navel.
Oh. She knows he’s toying with her, baiting her. She will not bite.
“How is your portrait going?”
The painter before them barely hides his snort of laughter, no doubt remembering the King’s own portrait, and Alistair sticks his tongue out at him.
“Better than yours,” she replies evenly, her tone absent of the teasing they both can read in each other. He grins, flashes her that crooked boyish smile, the one she can never help but beam back at, but she has to–has to–keep a straight face.
Good try, Theirin.
“You know, it’s occurred to me,” he continues, skipping up the dais like a child in a field of clover. Emilia catches the painter in an eye roll, but he doesn’t object–couldn’t if he wanted to, truly, but he remains silent. “You haven’t even properly greeted your mabari since you’re return.”
It takes everything in her to keep her jaw from dropping. “Alistair Theirin…” she warns, she can only imagine her massive dog hurdling through the throne room at a time like this, and he chuckles–chuckles!–and continues to smile at her, lounging on the throne beside her, swinging his legs over one arm of the chair and tilting his head back on the other closest to her.
“So I took the liberty of fetching him from the kennels,” he says pleasantly.
“You didn’t–” she says through gritted teeth.
“He missed you, Em!”
“He can see me later, Alistair!”
The painter has come to a full halt now anyway, but Emilia is dead set on continuing.
“Later.”
“Now,” Alistair replies gleefully, bringing his fingers to his lips and giving a shrill whistle.
You could hear a pin drop in the throne room for about three seconds before it all comes to a stop–howling, barking, claws skidding on stone and the behemoth of a dog bounding through the room, “Fletcher, no!” cries Emilia, but it’s no use, in seconds he’s leapt upon her, fur and drool and all, licking her face and her neck and her dress and her hair and everywhere he can reach, and Alistair is doubled over in laughter and even Emilia is shaking in a fit of giggles, at last reunited with her faithful friend.
They don’t even notice that the painter has packed up for the day.
Mayerine 