Just a series of fluffy, stream-of-consciousnessy vignettes detailing my Inquisitor and Cullen's thoughts and feelings as they realize they're falling for each other. Follows game events very closely.
Chapter 1 is from Aylwen's point of view, Chapter 2 is from Cullen's point of view.
When Aylwen first started flirting with him, she didn't mean it seriously. She was in a new place, new people, lucky to even be alive. She might as well enjoy herself. It wasn't as if anything could come of it. After all, he was human.
o
Nevermind that first time, when he smiled at her and her heart gave a shudder—split second. Nevermind that every time she spoke to him—by the training grounds, in front of the Chantry, in the War Room—she was dizzy, hot, and fumbly, even when it seemed like she kept her composure. Nevermind that she sometimes avoided speaking to him because she was so afraid she'd say something embarrassing ("Do the Templars give up physical temptations?" Really?). She couldn't stand the idea he'd think less of her.
o
Anyway, she was sure he didn't feel the same. How could he? He was like a prince out of a human tale and she was gawky and thin and red faced. He'd seen things, done things. She'd never done anything. They would be ridiculous together. Not that she was picturing them together.
o
She'd fallen for the wrong person before, and it had been a disaster. She had no intention of making the same mistake again. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. Not from the flirting, but from the feeling. She shouldn't have been so upset when he criticized her decision to recruit the mages. Shouldn't have been so relieved when he told her he didn't have a problem with her being a mage. Definitely shouldn't have been thinking No no don't go when he left her behind in Haven.
o
By the time he told her about giving up Lyrium, she knew she was losing control. After he told her she couldn't stop thinking about their conversation, couldn't stop worrying about him, couldn't stop seeing his face, "I can endure it." But, if she was losing control, she didn't care anymore. He was in such pain, and so kind, and so sad. And she wanted to hold him, keep him safe. He would probably have laughed if he'd known. As if she could keep him safe. Stupid to even think it.
o
But there were hints. Little, hopeful hints that maybe he felt the same way. It dawned on her slowly. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again." "Not in Kirkwall." And those pauses in their conversations. Those strange, tense moments when they'd run out of things to say and she'd swallow and begin to notice his hands, his eyes, the stubble on his chin, the warmth of his expression. She couldn't be imagining it, could she?
o
And then the chess game in the courtyard. So happy to see him enjoying himself, actually taking a break. Spending time with Dorian, of all people. And then his abrupt, startled rise when he saw her, and him asking her to stay and play. It felt unreal and it was all she could do to focus on the game and put on a decent showing, even if he was clearly a much better player than her. And he was laughing and it was so nice, just spending time with him. Just talking. "We should spend more time together," she said. And his expression. Surprised. Hopeful. "I would like that." His private smile. "You said that." Her heart burst. If she hadn't been lost before, she was now.
o
Keeper Deshanna wasn't one to speak ill of humans. She was the first in the clan to caution others from generalizing. "Humans are not all bad," she would remind them. "We must never forget those who have helped our people." But even she had strong views on the topic of elven-human relationships. "Stay away from human men, D'alen," she used to caution. "They will only use you." She wasn't the only one among the clan to speak of such things. All Aylwen's life she'd heard whispers of what became of those who left to pursue romance with humans. Stories of abandonment, of ostracism, of half-breed children who belonged nowhere. And though clan Lavellan was more liberal than some—they, at least, would allow those who'd left once to return—even they would never accept the children of such unions. Aylwen knew all this. It lingered at the back of her mind, even as each look he gave her made the voice of caution fainter and fainter. Faint, but still there.
o
She had to know so finally she asked him. On the battlements with the sun blazing and the wind cold on her skin. And his words were fumbling, but he moved ever closer. Eyes warm, hands encircling her waist. Her back hit the stone of the ramparts. She didn't even realize she'd moved. His face was inches away, leaning in. Blood roared in her ears.
o
Then, the interruption, the disappointment. It ached in her throat. He was saying something to the scout but she didn't even hear what because this was it. The chance was gone and neither of them would ever be brave enough to have this discussion again. He turned back toward her and she spoke, eyes on the ground. "If you need to—" and then she was in his arms.
o
After the surprise came the sensations—his gloved hands on her face, his breath hot in her mouth and the sting of his stubble. Her imagination couldn't compare. Her hands found his waist and she leaned into him. If she hadn't been holding on she might have fallen.
o
He pulled away. She looked up into his apprehensive, flushed face. Was she out of breath? She wasn't sure.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was… really nice."
o
For a split second, her thoughts went back to Deshanna, to her friends and the rest of the clan. Their faces flashed in front of her, blocking him out. But only for an instant. He was right here, solid and real.
o
Her lips curled into a smile.
"That," she said, "was what I wanted."
"Oh," he said. He leaned in again. "Good."
As their lips met, as her eyes closed, Aylwen knew that what she said was true. This was exactly what she wanted.