look, i'm just saying
i've got lips, and you've got lips,
and I don't believe in magic,
but we own every one of those stars shimmying in the sky tonight
thuli zuma
They are being watched. They both know this as they settle down beside the fire to begin the arduous task of removing their armor, a habit borne of weary weeks, months spent on the road. Sometimes they speak. Sometimes they don't. On this particularly blessed occasion, they are both silent, but they are both well aware that all eyes are on them. Why would they not be? Yes, everyone in camp is watching the traitor Teryn, and the Grey Warden he has spent the last year trying to kill. The Orlesian bard, at least, has the decency to pretend to be doing something worthwhile.
"He's watching us," she says softly, so softly he almost does not hear her. He snorts, lips curled back in sneer she finds entirely unbecoming on one of Ferelden's most eligible bachelors. She's right, of course. Somewhere in this hive, there's a royal carriage, and a pair of wounded green eyes stares out at them. this could be (was) you, you daft boy, Loghain thinks, but, alas, those Theirins, and their damnable honor.
"They all are," he responds just as quietly, deft hands making quick work of her heavy buckles, and clumsy straps.
"Oh," and it's such a quiet noise he isn't certain he's heard that, either. "I didn't realize..."
"No, you wouldn't," he states simply, rolling his shoulders as she relieves him of his breastplate. She hums thoughtfully in response as she holds the rather cumbersome piece up, and regards it intently in the fading light before setting it down gently. He doesn't know what precisely she's looking for, or why she'd bother looking for it in his armor of all the damned places. He doubts she found anything worthwhile.
"I hate it now, you know. That bloody armor, and everything it stands for," he confesses as his fingers brush across her pale décolletage, and she shivers in response. He wonders, then, against his better judgement, when the last time she was touched, and by whom. he finds himself inexplicably jealous of whatever ignorant lout was granted such a... well, whatever it is. honor? privilege? mercy? He doesn't want to think about her in the throes of ecstatic passion with another man, or woman, or whatever suits her fancy. He is, anyway, though, wonders if the rest of her is as soft as this particular segment of flushed flesh. His hand has tarried too long, but she doesn't brush him off. Rather, she presses into his palm with fervor, which is a rather unexpected development, but he can feel the tops of her breasts through her under-armor, shifts to avoid pressing her with his growing hardness.
She inhales sharply, shifts her own focus with a monumental amount of self-control he himself finds impressive, and sadly lacks. She begins inspecting her longsword with the same sort of consideration she just showed his armor. "S'you know this blade, General? This, ser, is the Cousland family blade. This is the sword Sarim Cousland used while in service to Bann Elstan. This is the blade that Haelia Cousland bore during the Black Age when werewolves ravaged her land, and its people. This is the blade Elethea Cousland wielded against Calenhad, and, when Sophia Dryden mounted her rebellion,this is the blade the Teryn of Highever used against King Arland. When Orlesians were putting our people to the sword, is the blade my grandfather, my father wielded, and d'you know what I did with it? I ran Howe through with it, and d'you want to know what I intend to do with it? I bloody well intend to do the same to that thrice-damned Archdemon, and, by Andraste's flaming sword, if this blighted relic doesn't get put on display in the main hall of the Royal Palace, I'll haunt everyone involved with this whole sordid affair."
He laughs, then, uncontrollably, and inexplicably, and she can feel its rumble through her body, scoots closer to him despite her own reservations. "So, you are Bryce's get, after all."
she arches a slender, dark eyebrow in his direction. "You had your doubts?"
"No," he responds after a moment of quiet consideration. "Though, be pleased you look like your mother, madame."
"She never spoke of it." She pauses, eyes downcast. "The rebellion, I mean. She never spoke of it. Not even once. Oh, she used to get so cross with Father when she'd catch him telling us stories about it. You'll put ideas in their heads, she'd say. Can't have out children thinking for themselves now, can we? It didn't, you know, put ideas in our heads. I didn't want this. This just happened while I wasn't looking, and I'm bloody terrified of failing, and I can't turn back now."
"I know," he says, and he does, he really does, and, Maker have mercy on him, because her face is so close to his, and he does not think he will survive this moment if stretches itself out any farther, and he can feel her heart putting in some hard miles inside her chest, and her lips are so soft when they meet his. Her mouth, a slippery wetness he does not bother to ask if he may enter. Barges through with tongue, and teeth, and fingertips, will swear on everything he hears her mewl in the back of her throat as she brings her hands up to hold the base of his skull. i could have married you. It's a strange thought, the way it flutters across his mind as they separate abruptly, and he wants to tell her this, doesn't know why, but it will slip off the tip of his tongue, and fall into letter he will write in nine months, two weeks, and four days from this very moment. But, for now, they simply stare at one another.
"Thank you, General, for your assistance," and she is all shyness now, will not meet his unflinching gaze as she hurries onto whatever new task she has so suddenly set for herself.
