Sometimes she wore Anora s face.
It was always late- in those few quiet moments at the end of the day when he could be alone in his tent with the shuffling sounds of a camp bedded down and slowly dying into early morning calm. She walked like Anora too, prim with her chin held high and her arms firm at her sides, but her hips- Anora s hips never swayed like that.
Sometimes she wore Anora s clothes.
It was always about appearance, choosing to stride in through the tent flaps as if she were as solid as the guards that stood watch over him. She wore her hair like Anora too, all curled and braided and tucked away like a proper noble woman, no matter how many times he tried to envision it down over her shoulders with the curl and wave he knew existed after it had been pinned up for so long. But, Anora s clothes never clung so tight.
Sometimes she used Anora s voice.
It was always soft, yet somehow still stern- with gentle pleadings and words Anora might say if she were there, things she might promise if only he would give her the chance to do so. She swore like Anora did too, with clipped and fierce words that reminded him that he loved his wife more than the clothes or the hair or the sway of her hips ever would. Anora s promises had never seemed so real.
Sometimes she was not Anora at all.
It was about power then, the slow build of tension that had him aching for a single touch, refusing him like Anora did, and talking instead of battle, keeping her caresses for herself, gentle strokes across exposed flesh to tease and arouse and promises she might keep if only he gave in to her lust for war. But, Anora would never give in.
Sometimes she read his letters.
It taunted him with Anora s presence with her words and her judgements and a body he yearned for that wasn t hers at all, like she had borrowed it as one might a set of clothing. She did it injustice, laying provocatively across his desk a seductive trail of fingers and jewelry on his letters to Orlais and maps of Ostagar. Anora would know what to do.
Sometimes she was a Grey Warden.
It was nearly enough to convince him, the blue and grey and rampant griffin taunted him and more than he wanted the curve of her body against his, he wanted the majesty of that service, the dignity of their order. She wore the armor, but had none of the respect, whispering tales of battle and triumph in his ears as her hands caressed him, near to release. Anora s hands were far more delicate.
Sometimes she was Celene.
It was a pale and faded form of an Empress with a echoing laugh and a scandalous dress and she let him see beneath it with little more than the wink of an eye and eager fingertips. She carried herself nobly as though she was practiced in the ways of royal impersonation and he was nearly convinced, despite the peek of gold chains that hung across her breasts. But, Celene would not allow him so close.
Once he nearly surrendered.
It seemed like it might be so simple after long days staring at maps and trying to stay away after long nights convincing himself that she could not help him- not really- not with this. But, his day was not yet done and he sat to write a letter, a return to Celene that he d carried with him to Ostagar and his hands fumbled at the parchment and ink, heavy with thoughts of battles and darkspawn. When the words wouldn t come and he tapped ink onto his fingers as his eyes shuddered closed, she was there. After taking the quill from his hands, she wrote him an example, a suggestion as though the words were his, of how it could all be ended.
Somehow, it went wrong and then it was written on her body- dark ink like blood on her skin and thick rivulets sunk as though directed between her thighs. She smelled of sweet perfumes and the women he longed for on long, cold nights. She was Anora for him, when his wife could not be and he dreamed of home, safety and warmth. She was Celene for him, when he wrote his inquiries and treatises and dreamed of brighter glories.
But until he submitted, it was his own thick fingers and sweat slicked palms that coaxed his body to quit its rebellion. He prayed that another night would find her somewhere else, all while she laughed and watched and drove him further towards madness. In the morning, he might still be himself and he gave thanks to the Maker for that. And that it was only Duncan and not Loghain that found the letter on his desk.