A/N - Property of Bioware.
This was meant to be in response to a prompt, but it turned out to be a bit too angsty, I think...so I'm putting it here instead! This is my first try at remotely risque...please judge harshly!
A/N 2 - I've made a couple alterations, trying to relieve a bit of awkward. A huge thank you to HopeLearningSerenity for the advice on the fix up!
The handful of flowers she wanted to place on the memorial ended up on the ground, scattered in the dirt. The proud bearing she wanted to show the world, the bearing of the Grey Wardens, ended up sprawled in the dirt as well. She can't stand, because her legs have stopped working.
He's gone.
Her entire body shudders, pulling into a fetal position, and she wishes she had come alone, had not let Anora talk her into making this a public display, because she has single handedly destroyed the stoic image of the Wardens, in the course of five minutes. The Hero of Ferelden has collapsed in a weeping mess at the foot of the memorial dedicated to the Warden King, who lost his life slaying the Archdemon.
He's gone.
Confronted with a statue that looks almost nothing like him, she can't tell herself that he is gone to Weisshaupt, and will be returning…eventually. Can't tell herself that he is on a mission to gather recruits, and is simply later than expected in returning. Not away in Orlais discussing treaties and politics with the Empress. Not hidden away in the Queen's chambers, duty bound to father an heir before returning to her.
This is crazy…don't do this!
The wound in her chest, kept covert and covered for a year now, is suddenly ripped wide open, agony rolling through her in waves, anguish pooling in her fingertips, seeking release.
Sanest thing I've ever done.
Her heartbeat is loud, as she channels her need into the ground, the dirt slicks with ice, melts to mud, dries to dust as her training kicks in, safely converting her raw release of power into controlled spells.
He is not going to come bounding into the room, pick her up, wrap her in his strength and scent, promise to never leave her alone again. She has been waiting for that for a year now, but he isn't coming. Because he can't. Because she let him die.
Her face is wet, her body curled, her palms flat to the earth as each bolt of lightning slams through her, into the ground, the hollow thump echoing her pulse. She is falling apart, dragging the image of the order with her, and he is not going to come to pull her to her feet, kiss the tears away, make the world disappear with his touch, make the pain stop. Because she killed him.
He's gone, because she didn't have the strength of will to convince him to live, for her. Because she couldn't even ask him to take the chance. Because she was stupid enough to think that he would let becoming King keep him safe. He's gone, and it was supposed to be her. It was meant to be her destiny, her fate, her sacrifice.
By the time her sobbing subsides, her mana is drained, she is empty, save for the dull pulse of pain that comes with each breath. She is distantly aware that the courtyard has been cleared, few who saw the start of her meltdown witnessed it's finish. There are soft voices that she can't understand past the harsh loudness of her own breath.
Anora's voice is a gentle murmur, responding to a deep rumble. There are no words, no meanings, not for Surana. The world hasn't had any meaning for a long, long time now. A soft touch between her shoulders, the sweet scent of the Queen, and the elf whimpers. She wants to hate Anora, but Anora isn't the one who took him away. She would have shared him. He loved her enough that it didn't matter, and Anora didn't mind.
Another hand on her, meant-to-be soothing strokes that aren't, a greater heat than the Queen radiates. She arches her back slightly, and the stroking continues with greater pressure, more enthusiasm. Groaning, she pushes up onto her elbows, and Anora helps her to sit up, wipes her face clean. She turns her cheek toward the warmth, and breathes in. He is spice and sweat, dust and ice. She can smell her own magic on him, as if he stood too close to her tantrum.
Bann Teagan wraps his arms around the slender elf-mage, she lays her cheek against his chest, drawing his warmth into herself. There are more muttered sounds, a conversation, a final touch of Anora's fingers on her own, and then only the rumble of his breath as he holds her, the slither of silk on silk, on skin as he strokes her arms and back.
He isn't coming back.
The sobs threaten to return, and Teagan's arms tighten, he pulls her body closer to his own, wrapping all of him around her as much as he can. She can feel his mouth against her hair, nonsense sounds that may be words, but she can't tell. Can't listen.
He isn't - Shut up.
Blindly she turns, burrowing into him, her hands gripping him, drawing him closer, and he responds, finding more skin to touch. She comes around until her legs are around his waist, as he sits on the ground holding her in his lap. She tilts her face toward him, bites her lip, and finally meets his eyes. They are concerned, tender, worried, wanting.
He traces her cheek with his fingertips, painfully gentle. The bright blue of his eyes traps her, her hands find their way into his hair, curling, tugging, drawing him down until his lips touch hers.
Gentle is banished, frantic in its place. His grip on her stings, her teeth leave marks in his flesh. His hands chase the hem of her dress up her legs to bunch around her hips, fingers slide against silky wet skin. She breathes him in, in panting gasps, arcing against him. She reaches between them to unlace his trousers just enough.
He flushes a little, and grasps her fingers to still them. His eyes are fevered as he scans the courtyard, glances toward the windows that look in on them. His lips never leave her skin as he stands, keeping her legs anchored around him, he steps, stumbles, falls into the shadowed alley, drops his cloak to keep them out of the dirt. Under the onslaught of her mouth and body, this is all the shelter their dignity will have, a darkened doorway as he drops to his knees, cinching her tight to him.
The thrumming in her veins hurts, the power sparking up again as her mana seeps back. She can't even pretend it is him, the touch is too different, his smell nothing like the steel, blood, divine that she longs for, but the heat is so good, the ache between her legs so deep that just now, she doesn't care. Small spurts of magic thrill along her skin. Teagan jerks a little at the first one, but each is a quick trill of pleasure, and he relaxes into them. His moan is deep, the jerk of his hips causes him to rub against her, and she whimpers.
Teagan grips around her back and shoulders, pulling her down, pulling her close. Her hands clasp behind his neck as she rocks her hips, sliding, slow and wet, onto his length. His mouth locks onto hers, swallowing her cries as she rises and falls. Each stroke stabs into her heart, Teagan's body the blade, her memories wielding it. The soft curve of his smile. The worship in his eyes when he made love to her for the first time, and every time. His relief at not losing her after the Landsmeet. Each memory washes over her, thick and hot, bursting through her as pleasure and pain roll up her body.
Not coming back.
Her breath is ragged, and she is crying, each sob in time to the downswing of her hips, the upswing of Teagan's. Sorrow crashes through her, and there is no less pain this time, and no less pleasure. Their movements slow, but do not stop, as he brings one hand to grip her chin, kisses her, softly again, and looks into her eyes.
He is gone.
"Are you with me now, my Lady?" At her nod, he flips her onto her back, laid out on his cloak, and lays between her thighs, pushing back into her. Propped on his elbows, he watches her face, watches the pain drain into pleasure as she is wracked again, hips bucking up against him, and he groans loudly, watching her see him, rather than the man who left her shattered, spills into her.
After a moment, she brings her hand up to cup his jaw. Her smile is not quite as empty as it has been. He quickly gathers her up, wrapping her in his cloak while fastening his trousers. He swings her into his arms, kisses the tip of her ear. It is a beginning, an end, a moment.
He's not coming back.
I know.