I thought I had closed the book on Thora and Alistair, but as it turns out, a challenge from suilven on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age forum brought me back to them. The first few chapters have been written in 10 minutes, in accordance with the challenge. These are some snippets of their lives at random points from the Blight through their Calling, to be updated as the muse strikes. Enjoy!

The first chapter takes place between "No Armor Against Fate" and "When Fate Summons", and is captured beautifully by Dasque's artwork, which can be seen at: dasque. deviantart .com/# /d415jon (minus the spaces, of course).


It was raining so hard outside Thora couldn't even hear the drops pattering against the pane; it was just sheets of water flowing down the glass. Weariness pinched the muscles between her shoulder blades, and she put down the quill with a sigh, walking inevitably to the window. Spreading her hand on the glass, she wished she knew why rainy nights like this always made her long for what she couldn't have. She closed her eyes, pretending that the glass was warm skin beneath her fingers.

Alistair stretched his legs out closer to the fire, the wineglass dangling in his fingers, listening to the rush of the rain on the windows. He stared into the flames, taking a sip from the glass. The quiet of his study, the restful break from the constant needs of his kingdom, washed over him. The only thing that could make this hour of peace better would be her presence behind him, strong small fingers finding the knots of muscles and kneading the tension out of him, creating a different sort of tension in its wake.

The same memory stretched unseen across the miles between them, the warmth of the little bedroom deep in Orzammar, the narrow dwarf-sized bed that had been more than enough for them both when all they had was each other. Alistair could nearly feel the silky strands of her hair between his fingers; Thora remembered the rumble of his chest as she lay on it, listening to his laughter.

She turned as the door opened, startled from her reverie, and smiled at the little figure in the doorway, holding out her arms for Anawyn, the child certain to wake during any rainstorm, lifting her girl in her ams.

Alistair called "Enter" carelessly in response to the knock on his door, and rose to take the small, sweet-smelling bundle of baby from the nursemaid's arms. He looked down into Duncan's little face, his heart warming with the contact.