Title: Seventeen

Summary: Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

Notes: A segment of seventeen vignettes, each one exactly 200 words. Amell/Alistair.

Seventeen

She thinks they conveniently forget that she is only seventeen.

A seventeen-year-old mage turned Grey Warden.

It's because she's seventeen that she feels butterflies in her stomach whenever Alistair talks to her, smiles at her—that stupid, boyish smile.

She was a mage, fraternization in the Tower was forbidden.

She pretends to be stronger than she really is, barking out orders, making the decisions no one else wants to take responsibility for ("We'll seek out Arl Eamon first"), but inside the butterflies shrivel up in fear.

She's not Morrigan. She's not a witch with experience—she couldn't even dress the way Morrigan does.

Not that Alistair would mind. The hatred he has for the swamp witch is obvious even to Amell.

"No decency," he mutters to her. "She thinks she's so clever."

Amell rolls her eyes. "You were being a baby," she chides.

Alistair looks hurt. "My socks were wet, and it's cold," he whines. But then he smiles at her—that smile—and her heart melts.

"Oh, well, I suppose my socks won't matter if we're dead," he says, quickening his pace so Amell has to keep up.

Amell wonders if she's even told anyone that she's only seventeen.