I would be lying if I said this story wasn't inspired by Jakia's Origin Romances. However, readers of that story should expect two broad differences: I am writing about the male Wardens, and most of these stories are rather morbid.
The Love You Take
If someone had told Aedan that it would have played out like this, he would have laughed out loud.
He was a proud son of the Cousland family, second only to the Theirins. He could have anything he wanted just shy of Highever, and even that could fall into his hands if anything were to happen to Fergus. It wasn't as if he wished horrible things on his brother, but there was a great deal of chaos to be had at Ostagar…
But Ostagar was so very far away, and Iona was so very close at hand. He marveled at her scent, her taste, her touch. He felt like a man on fire.
Iona, a mere lady-in-waiting, and an elf at that, should not have made him feel like he was alive for the very first time. He should have used her up and thrown her away, setting his sights on his next conquest as he sowed his wild oats until the time came for him to marry a bann's daughter—or maybe even a bann herself. Bann Alfstanna had yet to wed, if memory served.
Just the other day, he would have jumped at the chance to take her hand. Now, with Iona looking up at him with eyes beyond description, Alfstanna could go hang herself for all he cared.
They lay in a lover's embrace, talking about nothing in particular. She told him her life story, time spent in the Alienage, the loss of her husband, the jewel of her life that was her daughter: Amethyne. It was a good name, even if it filled Aedan with a mild sense of disappointment that her child was not his own.
But there was plenty of time for that in the future. He would go to his father tomorrow with his intentions. Father wouldn't have any room to complain. Fergus had already taken a woman of high breeding as his wife and continued the Cousland line. Aedan was free and clear as far as he was concerned. Aedan would take Iona's hand in marriage and love her Amethyne as if she were his own. Why shouldn't he? She was the daughter of the woman he loved.
Love. Ha. What a strange, silly thing. What was it that had allowed that emotion to curl about his heart so quickly and so easily? Why had a tryst become the love of a lifetime?
He put the question out of his mind. Best not to question a run of good luck.
Everything was going swimmingly for Aedan Cousland. A pity that it had to end in blood and treachery.
They used to play dress up when they were younger. They had even played husband and wife once. Darrian had liked that.
He had really, really liked the announcement that he and Shianni were to be wed. To other people. Darrian hadn't liked that at all.
"Why can't it be Shianni?" Darrian drew himself up as tall as he could, trying and failing to sound like something more than the seventeen-year-old troublemaker he was. "You know she and I are a great match!"
His father, Cyrion, approached Darrian's petulance with the weary patience that had become second nature in raising such a wild, willful boy. He had only himself to blame for this. His wife (Maker rest her soul) had taught him so much of swords but nothing of manners, and then she was gone from them before those lessons could be imparted. Cyrion, for his part, had retreated into the excuse of responsibility as a pillar of the community after she died, ironically overlooking the one part of their community closest to him.
"It is not unheard for a man in our community to take his cousin as his wife," Cyrion began and immediately moved to cut Darrian off before he could sink his teeth into that, "but it is not something we do with any sort of regularity. Our community is isolated enough as it is. We need to strengthen our bonds with our brethren. We have no one else to turn to. Not the humans or the dwarves or anyone else in this city outside of the Alienage. This is for the best. You will see."
"I don't want to see," Darrian groused. "I don't want to live in a world where giving up on love is some sort of virtue!"
Cyrion did not sigh in annoyance, but Maker how he wanted to.
"It was cute to hear those things from you when you were a boy, and it is my fault for not nipping this in the bud when I had the chance. But let me say this and let me make it clear: You are a man now. Certain things are expected of you."
"Is that what a man is, someone who bows to the shems?" He was using Dalish slang, which was something he only bothered to do when he was especially upset.
Cyrion considered it a minor miracle that his boy hadn't run away to join the Dalish in a fit of teenage rebellion years ago. And it could still happen at any time, Cyrion warned himself. Darrian was still a teenager, still rebellious and still angry enough at the Alienage that it would be all too easy for him to pick up and move onto the Dalish in search of greener pastures. Never mind that most elves who left the city never made it to the clans, not with the roads overrun by bandits and slavers.
Cyrion knew he had to proceed very carefully.
"What do you mean?"
"The humans don't marry cousin-to-cousin anymore unless they want to be called inbred, but since when has that ever mattered to us? I love Shianni with all my heart. I know this to be true, and you would see it too if you weren't so desperate for shem approval. It doesn't matter if they make jokes about what our babies will be like. They will be ours, and we will love them. Doesn't that count for something?"
For the first time in a long time, Cyrion was willing to make a concession to his son's hot-blooded ples.
"If only it were that simple, Darrian."
It should have made Darrian smirk with triumph, but there was something so terribly sure, so resigned in his father's tone, that he knew the conversation was over. He had lost. They would be marrying strangers, but he would never stop loving Shianni.
It was something that arrogant arl's son would learn at sword point when he bled out all over his expensive carpets.
"I have something for you, lethallan," he murmured as he slid up behind Merrill in a way that only he could. He could stalk anything in the forest like its own shadow. Catching someone as spacy as Merrill off-guard was child's play.
"Oh, Therron!" Merrill nearly jumped out her skin and wheeled to glare at him. "Don't do that. You know I—oh, Therron! It's beautiful!"
Her eyes twinkled with unabashed joy at the sight of the intricately carved necklace dangling from his hand. She didn't even have to ask if it was for her. She could spy the mark that banished any doubts she might have had: On the heavy knob of wood at the end of the trinket sat a unique sigil that blended elements of both of their facial tattoos, a visual shorthand for the intertwinement of their lives.
It was a design he had sketched out only a few weeks ago, but it had already become a constant in their lives. She absently scrawled it in the dirt with a stick with one hand while the other held an ancient text to her face. They carved it into trees. He had even signed a piece of parchment with the symbol when he and Tamlen had been out on the hunt long enough that the rest of the clan had started to worry.
The halla had come galloping back to camp to deliver the good news with the scrap of paper in its mouth. No one else had given the sigil any thought, but she knew exactly what it meant: He was still thinking of her, always of her.
She hadn't told a single soul. She hadn't told mostly because no one would believe her.
She and Therron had known each other for years, and they got along famously. But Therron was not the sensitive type. He was a rough, rugged hunter. He would have been a warrior, too, if he had been born in the time of Tevinter. He honed his skills as an archer and a tracker. He wouldn't waste his time pining over a girl, even a sweet girl like Merrill. He most certainly hadn't been sneaking off to take lessons from Master Ilen in woodcraft for the purpose of impressing her.
There was a great deal Merrill didn't know. She didn't know enough about her people or her language. She didn't know what she had done to inspire such fierce devotion from Therron.
But she did know she was immensely grateful for it.
She wrapped the necklace around her neck without hesitation. And there it would stay for the rest of her life, long after Therron was sent away with the shemlen Warden, never to see his clan—his family— again.
But she never stopped wearing his necklace. She took to hiding it with a scarf draped around her neck because the necklace was too painful a reminder, too constant a source of questions about where she got it and what it meant. But she never stopped wearing it—until the time came for Hawke to teach her how to love again.
Alim forced down the horror and dredged up a smile.
He wasn't going to resort to something childish like telling himself this wasn't happening. It clearly was happening, so he would have to make the most out of the situation by not causing anyone undue stress.
Undue stress. Ha. What a good little mage he was. The Templars had taught him some world-class confrontation avoidance techniques.
"So, this is Lily," he smiled so broadly it made his cheeks hurt.
They exchanged pleasantries before Jowan launched into his rant about true love. Love. He thought he had found that in Lily, but Jowan had clearly beaten him to the punch. It wasn't surprising, really, and that made it worse.
Alim had admired her from afar, knowing that love between a mage and a sister of the Chantry could only ever end in tears. So he forced himself to be content with the occasional eye contact, the meaningless, cursory conversations they held after he went to pray. Alim wasn't even sure if he believed. He was a Surana, descended from that same Keeper Surana that fought the Tevinter Imperium to the bitter end in the defense of Arlathan.
His upbringing had been a peculiar mixture of Dalish paganism and Chantry enforcement between his barely remembered childhood with the clan and the rest of his life spent in the Circle. The notion of a pantheon and a single god struck him as equally valid and equally pointless. The god or gods of Thedas clearly didn't care about the magical or elven plight long enough to help them, so why bother worshipping them?
Come to think of it, that was the crux of the issue, wasn't it? She wouldn't spurn a mage's love if she was carrying on with Jowan. But Jowan wasn't an elf.
Alim continued nodding along, pretending to be alternatively supportive and horrified at various intervals. Of course he was happy for them. Of course Aeonar was unfair.
It just wasn't fair. Alim was the special one, the son of the Suranas, Irving's protégé. He was the one who had aced each and every one of his classes, making even the enchanters look lame by comparison. He was a magical prodigy.
So why was it Jowan, stupid Jowan, weakling Jowan who had won Lily's heart?
The whelp didn't have anything to offer beyond an endless string of whining. Ha. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was Jowan's willingness to walk up to a total stranger and begin airing his grievances apropos of nothing that let him approach Lily. Had the cowardly whiner's outgoing personality really been enough to trump the hyper-successful Alim's introversion?
No, no. That was silly, ridiculous, absurd. It must have been his elven blood, his pointed ears. That was the only reason she hadn't loved him. She was just another racist bitch.
So he would destroy her. He would go to Irving and tell him everything.
Leske bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet. His every nerve was screaming in terror. He couldn't begin to put into words how much he wanted his perennial partner in crime, Faren Brosca, to shut up.
But that would mean speaking out of turn, and Faren was doing more than enough for the both of them.
Beraht looked ready to throw him in the nearest lava pit. Jarvia was looking even worse. And Faren ate it up.
He wore his shiteatingest grin right up until the moment he was eating Jarvia's fist. Faren didn't miss a beat, going off on another vaguely insulting tangent about how they were running this operation—just enough to piss his superiors off without sending them straight into murderous rage. Faren was just smart enough to know how to be dumb and alive at the same time.
Leske might have actually found it morbidly fascinating if Faren wasn't pushing his luck today.
Jarvia belted him again.
Faren was an enforcer. You didn't get that kind of job without being tough. He could take whatever Jarvia was willing to dish out. He lived for it.
Somewhere in Faren's monologue, Jarvia got the bright idea to up the stakes. Instead of slamming a fist into his face, she curled one around his genitals. Faren's monologue came to an abrupt and squeaky halt.
"You listen here, duster," Jarvia seethed like some sort of war goddess. "We pay you to break legs, not run your mouth. You get me? The next time you have a problem with the way things are run around here, you can take it up with a genlock when we strand your ass in the Deep Roads with nothing but the clothes on your back and a hole in your belly."
Faren's face was a peculiar mask of agony and delight.
He looked Jarvia square in the eye and said, "Yes, ma'am!"
Jarvia released her killer hold, and Leske finally learned how to breathe again.
"Sorry about Faren, boss," Leske babbled, taking his friend by the arm. "That duster gave him a good knock across the head. I just need to get him home and put him to bed. He'll be right as rubies in the morning."
Beraht gave a snort of disgust and banished with a wave of his hand.
When they were well on their way to the Brosca household (hovel, really), Leske finally exploded.
"What's wrong with you, man! Are you trying to get us killed?"
Faren, for his part, was grinning like a kid in a candy shop. And limping like a bronto had just bit him in the ass. The two had more in common than you might think.
"Nah, just roughed up," Faren beamed. "She's good with her hands."
Everything fell into place for Leske, and he did not like what he was seeing.
"You mean…you…and Jarvia! By the ancestors, I'm going to be sick!"
"Aw, c'mon, Leske," Faren pouted and smiled all at once. "I don't see why you're so hard on her all the time. She's great!"
"She's a great pain in my ass is what she is!"
"That's the point. Plenty of people can hurt me, but she's the only one who knows how to make it hurt good."
Lekse gave up and started walking the other way. Not even getting a peek at Rica was worth listening to Faren's S & M relationship.
"Were ya goin', Leske?" Faren called after his friend. "Leske? It's not that bad! You should try it some time. Pay one of the girls to kick the crap out of you some time and see if it doesn't feel right!"
Bhelen cursed under his breath. He made no secret of the casteless woman visiting his quarters, but he still tried to be as discreet as possible. With any luck, most people would mistake her for a maid of some sort. And most anyone who asked could be deflected on the grounds they had no right to question the prince.
Duran Aeducan was not 'most anyone.' As the second prince of Orzammar, he was one of the few people who could pull rank on Bhelen. And he had set his sights on Rica. This would not end well.
"And who do we have here?" He sidled up to Rica with his most handsome smile. "Bhelen, you should have told me you had such a lovely lady in your life!"
"I thought I did," Bhelen smiled tepidly. "It must have slipped my mind."
"I cannot say I blame you, brother," Duran chuckled even as his eyes continued boring holes into Rica. "It is only natural that you would take leave of your wits in the presence of such a fine lady."
"M-my prince," Rica suppressed a gasp and a giggle when Duran kissed her hand. "You honor me, but I am not so beautiful as you say."
"Nonsense!" Duran frowned agreeably and turned to his second. "Gorim, is she not a stunning vision of beauty?"
Gorim played his part in his master's game.
"Not even the greatest of the smith caste could forge something so radiant."
Now Rica was looking absolutely flustered. But it was a flattered flustered. Duran was eating it up.
"This is my first time seeing you in our palace," Duran plunged ahead, "and, as a master of these halls, it is only right that I give you a tour."
"Brother," Bhelen began, "I don't think—"
"Ancestors take you, Bhelen!" Duran waved him off with the veneer of a good-natured smile. "What kind of host are you to deny the lady this small privilege? It is the least we can do a guest in our home!"
"Perhaps, but I think I would be better-suited—"
But Duran was already walking away, leading Rica inexorably away from him and toward his bedchambers, no doubt.
As things could always get worse, Gorim chose that moment to remind the prince of his presence.
"Is there anything I can do for you, m'Lord?"
Bhelen scowled. He would have to be a simpleton to miss what he was really asking: Is there anything I can do to distract you while Duran beds your woman?
"You are my brother's second," He spat, waving the soldier off like a piece of trash. "Go and tend to his needs. What else are you good for?"
"Oh, trust me, my Lord," Gorim smiled thinly, relishing the opportunity to strike back, "your lady friend is in a much better position to satisfy Prince Duran's needs than I."
With that parting shot, Gorim turned on his heel and walked off.
Bhelen fumed. Who was a mere warrior to speak to him that way? Gorim was deluded, no doubt, with the idea that Bhelen couldn't possibly touch him. He was sworn to the second prince. As long as he and Duran remained such steadfast friends, Bhelen could do nothing more than wring his hands in anger.
But Duran was a sinking ship, and Gorim had tied himself to the mast.
Reassuring himself with that cold comfort, Bhelen made his way to the Proving Grounds. He needed to see someone bleed.