Emeric's my favorite bit character in Dragon Age 2 - I always wondered what would drive a man to search for a colleague for four years, long after everyone else stopped caring and presumed her dead. Was it just Templar duty? Or something more?
Standard disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of the characters here.
9:20 Dragon
Tonight, Emeric finds Mharen—as usual—in the Primal Libraries, a warren of interlocking cells on the Western wing of the Gallows.
It's quiet here this late, what with most of the Enchanters at Feastdays and most of the apprentices in their own beds (or close enough). Tall brass falcons loom down from the dark gables, and it feels a little like being in the Viscount's Keep, if Threnhold ever let his guards sleep.
At the end of a long table she sits, holding court among a crowd of precariously-stacked books, a single lamp flickering atop the tallest pile. If she hears him as he clanks into the room, she makes no indication.
She frowns a little in concentration, and he can't help but notice how the lines show a little more these days, the flickering lamplight caressing new wrinkles on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes. The years of work and study and herding apprentices like halla are finally taking their toll on her fair Anderfellian features, but it doesn't seem to bother her and it doesn't seem to bother him—indeed, the more lines her skin seems to cultivate, the more familiar to him she becomes.
He thinks of when he first came here, when he'd first met her: in this very spot, in fact. She'd been surrounded by books then, too, hugging one to her chest like a pillow, and she'd told him, ever so sweetly and matter-of-factly, that he had his pauldrons on backwards, and did he know that this was where they'd hung the arsonists once, decades ago?
They'd shared an indecent giggle at the irony of it all—the fire studies now housed where countless arsonists had been executed – and when he'd looked at her pimple-dusted cheeks and her straw-like hair, that's when he knew he'd made the right choice; that, no matter what Father had said, his had indeed been a Calling and not an obsession—and that he, a boy of barely twenty, swimming in his backwards tin suit, had come home at last.
But that too was decades ago. He is older now, but when he looks at Mharen, his truest friend and his most precious charge, he wonders if in fact he is any wiser.
He knows he shouldn't be here—but then again, neither should she, not at this late hour, long after all the Libraries should have closed for the night.
But here she is.
And here he is.
And they are alone.
Emeric walks toward her, drawn by a pull he can't resist. The truth is, of course, he could never resist her: Those warm, honey eyes; that too-strong jaw; the moles dotting her temples; the scar along her left eyebrow she got from an errant spirit bolt when she was seventeen. All of it, he knows it all; over the decades he has memorized her face as surely as he has the Chant of the Light, and whether she knows it or not it has helped keep his demons at bay, both the real ones and the ones only he can hear.
She squints and turns a sheet of parchment over, and he allows himself a single moment to watch the quick flick of her hands and to revel, to imagine. He likes her hands best of all: Those long, clever fingers that carve the air and conjure the elements from nothing, the pale skin at odds with the power that ripples just under the surface. Hers are the hands of a lifelong scholar, a scientist, a theorist, and yet as a mage, she is proof that life still experiments with itself: A creature of fire and ice and light and infinite possibility, of all things primal and deep. It's true of all mages, to be sure, but it's a little truer of her, and when he watches her hands do their work, somehow the spark of him comes alive inside its tin cage.
At his approach, she smiles teasingly, but does not look up. If he hadn't been so fixated on her hands, he would've missed it as she slid a small sheaf of parchment under another.
"You're as stealthy as a Stonefist, Tin Man," she says fondly. "You'd wake even an Archdemon."
"All the better to strike fear in the hearts of maleficarum, Firestarter," he replies, removing his helmet. With a gauntleted hand, he shakes out his sweat-damp, grey-streaked hair as best he can and sidles up behind her shoulder. Not for the first time, he wishes he could just pull out a chair and sit with her like a normal human being, like one of her fellow mages, instead of hovering behind her like a golem—but the armor won't allow it. "So what Thedas-shattering matter requires your attention at this late hour?"
"Threnhold says he's had sightings at the Bone Pit again," she says, her weariness evident. She leans a little toward him, her slender hands braced on the table, and now he can see new gray hairs mixing in among the blond at her roots.
"Another Blight in a teapot," he sighs. "The man's completely paranoid."
"Perhaps." She stands, and as she eases a crink from her neck, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "But he does have a point - You never hear about the restless dead wandering around Starkhaven or Tantervale. Their corpses keep the courtesy of staying dead."
He chuckles. "You know it's most likely blood magic, of course. And not a Blight."
"I know. But we are so near the Deep Roads, and Kirkwall's such a—" she searches for the correct term, "quirky place." She sighs heavily. "I must investigate it. You understand."
He nods. He gets it—he, more than anyone. If she tried to let it go, she'd never be able to sleep, never be able to rest, until she'd returned to the question. Yes, how very well he understands: He is the same way.
Obsessive, some call it. Mharen had always preferred persistent.
She yawns dramatically and pushes away from the table. "I suppose you're here to tell me to go back to my quarters like a good girl, no?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, smirking. "But you should take pity on Errol. He needs to start his chores in here soon." She stretches out her arms behind her, and the motion flutters her hair a little. Suddenly he can smell her: Ink and parchment and the arcane, mixed with faint traces of the lilac soap she imports all the way from Val Royeaux. To him the scent is just as familiar as the armor he straps on every morning, and just as comforting. "The poor man's just standing out there, waiting."
She frowns at him. "You know, for a Tranquil, he is rather neurotic."
"Are we sure he's Tranquil?" For a moment, just a moment, he has the urge to touch her, to run his fingers through her hair. But then he gets the image of her grey-blonde curls snagging in his gauntlets, and it makes him clench his fist tighter instead. "Maybe he just got the tattoo in his wild youth."
She chuckles. It echoes hollowly in the empty chamber. "Come on, Tin Man. Walk me back to my quarters?"
"Of course."
With a loud scrape, she pushes back the chair before he can help her out of it, rolls up her parchments and leads him from the library. When they pass Errol, she nods to him fondly and pats him on the shoulder. He does not flinch from her touch, but neither does he smile back.
They walk in companionable silence to her chamber. Like all Enchanters, she gets a cell to herself; and Mharen's lucky in that hers even has a small window carved out of the top, like a porthole, although she likes to joke that it's probably just left over from a previous resident's escape attempt—although mage or prisoner, she's never clarified.
Tonight, moonlight seems to struggle especially hard to shine through it, casting weird shadows on the walls and Mharen's face.
He watches her silently putter around the room, lighting her desk lamp with a tired waggle of her hand, picking up books and placing them there, smoothing down the sheets.
"You shouldn't light the lamp with magic," he says. "Not with so many books in here."
"Why waste the oil?" She turns to face him, and the weak flame casts teasing, soft shadows across her eyes and mouth. "You look fussy, Tin Man. What's on your mind? Worried a dragon's going to swoop in here and fetch me for supper?"
"I hope not." A low chuckle escapes his lips. He takes a single step toward her, and already he feels enormous in the room, a giant crowding her space. "Swooping is bad, or so I hear."
"Sometimes I wonder," she says, still smiling, but her gaze flickers up to her window before returning back to him. He frowns, clenching his fist. Mharen had always been loyal to the Circle, but Emeric knows that even the most loyal of mages have thoughts about the outside sometimes—one of the reasons, he knows, the First Enchanter had pushed Threnhold so hard to allow mages their little holiday performances in the first place.
Emeric tries not to resent her for these flights of fancy, because he knows that at this age, that's all they'll ever be. But it is tough, and besides, he's getting older, too.
"So," she says after a time. "What was it that sent you looking for me?"
"I—" He wonders how to broach the subject delicately. But delicate has never been his strong suit, especially around her. "I just wanted to—to check on you. I heard you weren't going to the Feastdays celebrations."
"No." Her face is unreadable in this low light. "Obviously, I didn't."
"But didn't you say you were looking forward to 'escaping' the Gallows for a bit?"
"I suppose I was." She waves her hand dismissively, but does not look at him. "But I convinced Orsino to take my place. Let that git prance about for some stuffed-shirt nobles for once. I'm tired of it."
"That's quite a change from yesterday," he says, taking another step closer to her. He's close now, in this small room. Too close. Or maybe it's the walls that are too close, or her. "Is something wrong?"
"No—well, it's just—" She turns from him and shuffles some papers on her desk. In this low light, she can't possibly know what's on them; Emeric gets the distinct impression that she's only doing it so that she won't have to look at him. "I'm too old for it anymore. Any of it."
"You're never too old to show off for nobility," he says teasingly.
She laughs, a dry, brittle thing without any real warmth. "Perhaps. Even still, tonight I'd just as rather stay here instead."
"With your books."
"With—my books, yes."
"Mharen," he says, taking one last step to close the gap between them. He's barely an arm's length from her—Guylian would scold him, call this distance "within the cone of fraternization", and honestly, he doesn't know what's gotten into him; he only knows that she needs the closeness, needs him. And he would give her anything, the Gallows itself, if she needed it. "Talk to me."
She sighs.
"Tomorrow's my nameday, Emeric," she says at last, her back to him. "I'll be thirty-eight."
"Congratulations," he replies. "You're older than smokeless coal."
She laughs again, warmer this time, but then stops herself. "It's just—Emeric, I'm old. There's so much yet to do, so much left unaccomplished. And I'll never see Val Royeaux, or Weisshaupt, or Denerim, or at this rate, even Cumberland. I'll be a Gallows mage for life."
He places a hand on her shoulder. Dangerous, he knows, but he can't stop himself—doesn't want to stop himself. They are alone, the only two people for a thousand paces, and if he feels the urge to comfort a lifelong friend, then by the Maker, he'll do it.
"Weisshaupt is cold, and you hate winter," he says, and when he sees her smirk, he takes it as encouragement. "Val Royeaux is teeming with nobles. You can't even stand the ones here. And, honestly, what would a firestarter like you want out of a backwater like Denerim anyway?"
She shakes away the smile, unwilling to be comforted. "It's the principle of the thing. I like the Gallows, I like my research, I like—" her voice catches, "—my friends. But I'm limited in what I can do here, what I can see."
Emeric wonders what has gotten into her. She has never spoken like this before—not to him, not to anyone, to his knowledge. He tries not to take it personally, but finds somehow, he can't help it.
"Besides," she continues, sighing, "For once in my life, I wish I didn't have to live in books alone. To see new places—Maker's breath, to cook for myself, or shop alone in Lowtown, or—" she swallows loudly, "—to fall in love."
"All of those things are overrated," he says in a voice that he hopes is lighter than how he feels.
She turns to him, smirking bitterly. "Even the last?"
He can't—won't—meet her eyes. "I wouldn't know."
She cocks her head. "Wouldn't you?"
"I—" He swallows too now, through a strange thickness that has suddenly invaded his throat. "Templars don't get a lot of time for courting."
"Ah. I see." Her voice is barely a whisper now, and before he can control it, his thoughts swerve to how that whisper might feel against his earlobe, against his lips.
He clears his throat. "Even if we did—it wouldn't matter."
"Why?"
Emeric shrugs. "I have everything I've ever needed right here."
She goes very, very still.
"Emeric," she says softly, her lips barely moving. Her eyes dart to the window, on her books, on the insignia on his chestplate, anywhere but on him.
"How do I—?" Her voice trails away into a sigh. "I've wasted so many years. Too many years. A madness bubbles under this city, spreading like a cancer, and what have I done?" She gestures vaguely, but vehemently. "I've been playing keep-away with my tin man."
He doesn't have time to think about what she's said because suddenly she is standing close, so very close to him, her green-speckled honey eyes serioius and honest, evoking all the thoughts left unspoken between them for so many years. She touches her slender fingers to his cheek, her thumb dragging slowly against his lower lip, and he feels himself stirring in his armor, his cock suddenly awake and pressing against the confines of cool metal.
Startled, he pulls back slightly. This isn't happening. This is a trick of fatigue, of his fevered mind; Mharen is sick, she is delirious, she is unwell—
She's saying something, but he has no idea what; he knows it's important but he can't decipher it, not with her so close, so near. He wants to pull back, knows he should for her sake if not his, but he can't, not with her soft mouth so near and her breath hot upon his mouth and stubble.
For there is no darkness, no death either, in the Maker's Light, he recites, seeking the solace of the Chant to soothe him, calm him, free him from these troublesome thoughts. And nothing He has wrought shall ever be lost.
"Mharen—" He tries. He honestly tries.
Nothing shall ever be lost.
"Ssh," she hushes him, drapes her arms around him and pulls herself against his armor.
He raises a gloved hand to touch her hair, her cheek, even as he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking from the effort of restraining himself. He tries the Chant again, repeating it over and over in his head; his favorite mantra, his personal motto - maybe the familiar can keep him focused, give him the courage to resist this: everything he'd ever desired, but never could admit.
But he can feel the heat radiating from her, seeping in through the chinks in his armor, drawing him in, promising him so much more.
"Emeric," she says again, and the weight of her voice opens his eyes. On her lips, his name sounds simultaneously like a benediction and a warning; he feels her voice vibrate against his armor, into his ribcage and down his spine.
"I'm too old to play coy any more," she whispers. "And you're too old to want it. Let's live a little before—before we're only dust and bones."
She looks up at him, waits for him to say something, but he can't trust his voice, can't trust that this is actually real and not some demon's trick. Everything bubbles inside him, the years of worry and memories and reservations, and still Mharen is there, waiting, luminous and strong and alive, gazing up at him with eyes full of all the things that remain; all the things to remind him of the divide between who he is and what he must be.
"Is this real?" he whispers against her lips, when he finally finds his voice.
"It's the only thing that is," she says thickly, and, at last, kisses him.
Something inside him fractures and breaks.
Maybe this is only a Feastday prank, one that will end once the moon reaches its zenith—but he doesn't care, because he's ached for her for twenty years, dreamt of this moment for as long as he's been a Templar, and a man. And if it's only for tonight, then so be it: together, they can be—no, they already are – more than what they once were, more than they'd ever be apart.
His arms surge around her and his mouth crashes against hers; a needful confusion of lips and tongue and teeth. He pulls her close, and from low in the back of his throat emerges a moan that makes her wriggle closer still against his breast-plate.
She tastes of peaches and wine, and something else too, something metallic and harsh—Lyrium, Emeric realizes with a start. When he recognizes the taste, it's all he can do to resist tossing her across the desk and taking her, consuming her, plunging into her again and again until they both scream out their climaxes in hoarse, ravaged gasps.
As it is, he can't help but inhale sharply and tangle his gauntlets in her hair, the metal catching a little, as he knew it would, but she doesn't seem to care. It just seems to incite her more, her hot palms and clever fingers scrabbling against the back of his neck, seeking warmth and purchase—anything man, and not metal, to hold onto.
Mharen pulls back—barely an inch, just far enough away to move her lips against his without losing contact.
"Take this off," she breathes, hot and wet, and thumps his breastplate with a finger.
Emeric's breath hitches. A kiss is one thing—and oh what a thing it is-but no matter what his body screams for now, no matter how many times he has heard her utter those exact words as he roams the Fade, he is still a Templar and she still a mage and… well, he's been with women, of course, but never quite like this, never one as important as she.
"Mharen?" He grabs her shoulders, gently but firmly, but does not push her away. "Are you sure?"
He feels her frown, rather than sees it, and lightly she lowers her head, touches her forehead to his chin. Her brows knit against his stubble. She exhales, long and low.
"You are—" Desire and frustration strain her voice in equal measure. "You are such a silly old Tin Man."
She resumes kissing his cheek, his jaw, but this time he finds the strength to resist.
"No, Mharen," he says, thumbs rubbing her shoulders in small circles. "Tell me this is what you want. That this is alright. I need to—I need to hear it."
"Yes, you idiot," she growls. "Now take your armor off before I have to burn the straps off myself."
Simple, coarse, honest—that's all the permission he needs from her, all he ever expected, and he grins against her teeth as he hastily and awkwardly pulls off his gauntlets behind her back. Then he leans back, tugs for a few desperate moments at the straps of his pauldrons and bezagews—thank goodness Guylain had the sense to upgrade their plate to quick-release—and unhooks his breastplate. When he hears the practiced snap, feels the metal give and sag off his skin and the rush of cool air caressing his slightly-damp tunic, Emeric nearly sobs in relief.
He barely shrugs the plate off—doesn't even bother with his greaves—before embracing her again, tracing a wet path from the corner of her mouth, to her neck to her earlobe, his tongue yearning to taste every inch of that intoxicating, lilac-and-lyrium laced skin.
His rough, calloused palms clutch at her Circle robes, wringing the trapped heat of her from the thin cotton. She is against him now, all yielding breasts and silk-soft arms; and the sensation sends a frission along his spine. He's as hard now, hard as a mountain, harder than he can ever remember.
She pushes against him urgently, guiding him toward the bed with the jut of her hips. He grinds himself into her belly. She mewls into his mouth a little.
And grinds right back.
Together they collapse on the bed, him on his back, her straddling his waist. Her robes have hitched up, and he can feel the wet heat between her thighs pressing on his trousers. The soft, ancient mattress smells like her, all of her: the ink, the arcane, the ghosts of lilacs. When she bends to kiss him he inhales long and deep and never wants to leave this spot again.
But suddenly Mharen sits up, bracing her hands on his chest.
"Your turn, Emeric."
Her body still lets its intentions be known – her hands knead his skin, her hips still roll against his—but she won't look at him. Gently she worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, and he's transfixed by the small motion.
"What?" he gasps.
"Tell me—tell me that you want me." He wants to kiss that lip so she'll stop biting it. "I need to hear it too. Even if—Just the once."
How does he tell her that she'd always had him in her clever fingers, that she'd never needed his permission? That the demons always knew that he would have given up his shield, his Calling itself, in exchange for this night and this very moment—a few precious hours where he could be more than her friend or protector, where he could just be, and be with her, man to woman, human to human.
"I've always wanted this," he says lamely, burying his head in her neck, grabbing at her robe, her hair again. "Always wanted you."
She moans – in relief or desire, he can't exactly tell – and down his kisses trail, feverishly tracing her collarbone, her chest, the swell of her breast. With his teeth, he tugs gently at her clothed nipple, feeling it rise and harden in his mouth, and reveling in her delighted gasp as she rakes her fingers through his hair, scraping, holding him in place.
He looks up.
Her eyes are half-closed.
She looks like she's at prayer.
Mharen opens her eyes, smiles down at him.
Honest. Genuine.
Unafraid.
She bends over him, and he can feel his cock digging into the hot space between her thighs, his erection straining his thin undertrousers. She scrabbles at his waist-knot, and when her hands brush against his hardness, he sucks in a sharp breath and bucks upwards, aching, anticipating—but there is something important, something he has forgotten, something that needs to be taken care of first—
"Greaves," he moans.
She does not stop.
Emeric grabs her waist, digging his fingers into her flesh to still her, marveling at the soft curves and how perfectly they fit against his palms. "Mharen, my greaves. And my boots."
Finally she looks up from her task, and rolls her eyes.
"You wear entirely too many pieces of armor, Tin Man," she says, shifting off of him impatiently.
"Not all of us get the luxury of robes," he pants, fingering the clasps at his shins with no small amount of urgency and wondering how he's finding any words with which to speak at all. "Too tough to fend off sword attacks."
"Because Thedas is just so full of mages that know how to use a sword."
The first greave gives, but the other is stubborn.
"A Stonefist, then." The other greave gives, and he impatiently kicks off his sabatons.
"Silly Templar," she says, laughing as she throws – launches - herself back on top of him, wriggling zealously against his hips. "Didn't you know? That's what the hats are for."
In one fluid flick of her arms, Mharen yanks off her robes.
Her breast band is plain, her smalls…small, her body supple and scarred and pale and more perfectthan he ever dared imagine. He runs his palms along the curve of her thighs, her hips, her ribcage; with his thumb he traces a small constellation of moles just underneath her breast. She sighs in pleasure, squirms against his cock. She is smooth and warm. He didn't expect her to be this warm.
She leans down again to taste his neck and earlobe, breath hot and urgent in his ear, while he fumbles with the back enclosure of her breastband. When it releases, finally, he can't help but grin foolishly, like a boy.
He sneaks a hand between them and rolls one nipple gently between his finger and thumb, and feels oddly proud when she groans so loudly it makes him flinch slightly.
Then she too slips her hand between them, down his trousers, brushing those clever fingers against his tangle of hair and his muscled thigh.
When she finds his cock, she smiles against his lips and gives him a not-so-gentle squeeze.
"Mharen," he gasps.
Her grin widens and she shifts, and then—oh Maker something dances along his cock; a warm, sinful tingle, wrapping itself around him, coiling, swirling, hot, good—so very, very good.
"You like that?" she whispers.
He grunts.
"Sparklefingers," she snickers, and waggles her other hand.
He groans like a dying man, writhing at her touch, his cock throbbing and insistent and completely at the mercy of her adept, sparkling, perfect hands.
"Again?" he asks—begs—and she does it again and it's all he can do to not explode all over her like a teenager.
She smirks.
"That's nothing. Wait 'til you see why they call me Firestarter."
"Wait," I don't want to think of those hands on other mages, on other men, "I thought I was the only one who called you that."
"Well," she shifts off of him, pulls his trousers down with one solid yank. "It's more appropriate than you know."
He frowns at the sudden image of her bed linens aflame. "Not the sexiest thing you've ever said."
"Spoken like a true Templar," she taunts.
But the softness in her eyes belies her words as she looks down at his hips and takes in the sight of him. His cock – exposed, hard, flushed - bobs in anticipation of her touch.
She leans down, pressing herself against him like a shield. His cock digs into the space between her thighs, seeking the heat, and his hands skirt up her arms, her legs, her breasts, anywhere, everywhere he can.
Gently, she kisses his chest, rubbing her cheek against the fine down smattering his ribs and belly. At once he's reminded of Errol's kittens, particularly the runt who rubs against his leg whenever stormclouds gather in the east. So he holds Mharen there for a moment, relishing the weight of her against his chest, hair fanning against his shoulders, smile against his heartbeat.
But she is restless. She gently mouths his breastbone, nips at his nipples. One by one, she kisses his ribs. She runs her tongue along the scars that tattoo his belly, the jut of his hip bone, the curve of his inner thigh.
And then.
Then she buries her face in the space between his thighs, resting her nose in the swirling thatch of greying hair there, and breathes. She inhales him like incense, like something sacred and essential. The act makes him a little uncomfortable, self-conscious even, but at the same time, her breath fluttering against the sensitive hairs there causes him to toss his head back and beg incoherently for more, please more in the half-forgotten tongue of his fatherland.
He threads his hands in her hair and pulls her up, shoving his lips against hers, not so much a kiss as a wet and insistent collision. But she pulls away before too long, and resumes her position between his legs. Her swollen lips tickle the thin skin at the base of his cock, her breath hot on his balls.
Emeric had never thought it possible to be so aroused and not ignite from the sheer power of it. But then again, he'd thought many things impossible about Mharen, and she's defied his expectations at every turn.
Already he's so painfully, desperately hard for her, as feels himself rub indecently against her cheek and jaw. Then she turns her head slightly and with a long, languid stroke of the tongue, licks him from base to tip, swirling the head in her lips easily, lazily, joyfully.
His hands scrabble against the thin cotton blanket, clawing for purchase. She licks him again with the broad part of her tongue, running along the underside as if it concealed her favorite sweet, one she has waited so very long to savor.
"Delicious," she whispers against his cock, her breath hot and moist and inviting.
He catches her gaze.
"Beautiful," he sighs.
She pauses mid-lick, her breath catching.
But her hesitation is brief, because the next moment, she takes him into her mouth, just the tip, her lips making a tight seal around the ridge. Emeric struggles to remain still, and when she flicks her tongue across his slit, he bucks wildly, nearly sobbing; arching his hips, he tears at the sheets and moans her name.
Mharen braces her thumbs in his hip line to hold him down, her nails digging in as she takes the length of him in, her nose against his belly, and then she sucks him, oh Maker-
She sucks him earnestly, indelicately, loud, squelching noises escaping her lips. She is wet, she is hungry, she is tireless. As she descends, her hair brushes along the tops of his thighs, and when she pulls up, she sometimes licks him again across the slit, sometimes under the ridge, sometimes moves her head from side to side and buries himself in her cheek. He's caught between closing his eyes and losing himself in the exquisite feel of her, and watching her mouth descend upon him, again and again and again.
She releases his hips, and slowly one hand grabs his cock and begins moving up and down in time with her mouth, a firm, slick rocking of her fist. The other hand moves to cup his balls, holding him gently, and as she drags her lips up and down his cock, that hand, that wonderful, magical, impertinent hand sneaks ever-so-carefully to the soft skin behind his balls, and then a little further back, and a little further, and a little further still, until one warm finger is pressed against his opening—and no woman, nobody, has ever touched him there, much less massage it like she does now, tenderly, knowingly, like she is kneading a knotted muscle, or unfurling a closed sail, until he loses all sense of language and is reduced to growling, inhuman noises, all animal, all instinct, all senses alive.
And he can't help it: suddenly his hands are in her hair, pulling her down, urging her to take more and more of himself into her throat. He knows he should restrain himself - he is a gentleman and a knight, after all - but she takes it so beautifully, so hot and wet, the edges of her lips curling in the hint of a smile. And then she hums—dear Maker she hums with his cock buried in her throat, and her finger pushing into his ass, and the sensations nearly unravel him; he's close, so close, his balls tightening, all awareness narrowing, all sensation lost but the hot, wet feel of mouth on cock on tongue on throat, the whiteness, the ecstasy just within reach—
And then her mouth is gone.
She sits back on her haunches.
He whimpers.
"Tsk, tsk," she says. Her lips glisten with her saliva and his pre-come. "I can't have you finishing that quickly. You'll ruin my reputation."
He draws in a ragged breath. Then another.
"Firestarter." Breathe, Emeric. In and out. You remember how. "You will be the death of me."
Her smirk is back.
She rises up on her knees and shimmies out of her smalls. Then she takes his calloused, too-large hand in both of hers, and brings it between her thighs.
She is slick. Sodden. Ready.
For him.
"Oh Maker," he whispers as he gingerly he slips one finger inside. She is warm and wet and alive. "Make me to rest in the warmest places."
She arches an eyebrow. "Kinky, Tin Man, even for a Templar."
Emeric says nothing in response, just withdraws his finger slightly and rubs it along her outer edge, slowly tracing her folds and soft curls. He closes his eyes and tries to memorize her exact shape and texture, a geometry he never wants to forget.
She bucks her hips, and stutters once, twice, before she recovers her voice. "Does Elthina know you abuse the Chant so?"
Now it is his turn to smirk.
Holding her gaze, he silently withdraws his finger and brings it to his mouth.
Despite himself, he groans. She tastes spicy. Tangy.
Metallic.
Maker, even her cunt tastes like lyrium.
"Touch me with fire," he whispers, sucking his finger clean, "so that I might be cleansed."
He expects her to counter with some flip remark, to continue this flirtatious dance of theirs they've spent so many decades mastering. But she doesn't. Instead, like a rabbit eyeing a wolf, she stares at him, very still, a deep blush gradually blooming upon her cheeks.
He wonders if he has pushed too far, if something in his tone betrayed too much, and when he slides his hands along her thighs, it is as much to soothe her as to hold her in place.
At his touch, she blinks and shakes her head slightly, as if dispelling a bad dream.
Surging up, he takes her in his arms, one hand digging into her back, the other cupping her just so, with his thumb pressing gently against her clit. His finger returns to its former purchase, sliding easily into the slick while his thumb rubs wide, lazy ovals on her pearl. Into her opening he traces loose designs: the letters of his name, the letters of hers. If she deciphers the motions, she makes no indication—indeed, makes no intelligible noise at all, apart from the vulgar moans escaping the back of her throat, so loudly they echo off the walls of her chamber.
Feeling impertinent himself now, he slips in another finger, and another, smiling as she gasps and squeezes and bucks against the heel of his palm.
He mouths at a nipple, and she scrabbles at his hair. Bold, playful, he tugs at it with his teeth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue as she did with his cock, and the memory of it makes him bob anxiously against her thigh. Her nipple puckers and hardens as he suckles it, first one, then the other, and she digs her nails into the back of his head to keep him in place, all the while his fingers still circling and teasing and fucking her relentlessly.
She presses into him, all curves and groans and slick cunt, the musky, lyrium-tinged perfume of her sex stuck in his throat like a drug. He grabs her bottom, leans back, pulls her toward him, toward his mouth, desperate to taste her, salivating at the idea of her juices slick on his chin, tangy on his tongue-
Her eyes flutter open.
"No."
He looks up at her quizzically.
"Not—" Her gaze flickers down, vulnerable, hooded. "I-That would be—too much. I'd rather just—you know."
He can feel her rebuilding the wall between them, and so he grabs her hips and pulls her down onto his chest instead, desperate not to lose her, not now, not ever. "Next time then?"
Her smile is crooked and maybe a little sad.
"Of course," she says. "Next time."
He nods and guides her on top of his hips. She bites her lower lip, betraying something, although he can't tell what, because all the years of longing and resolve and common sense melt away the moment he finally slides into her.
He glides in easily, so easily, her hips snug against his. He's felt the embrace of a woman's cunt before, of course, but never one quite so perfect as this—like she was made for this, made for his cock, made for him.
"So good," she sighs above him.
Then she lifts her hips up, withdrawing all but the head, at which point he can't take the tease any longer and jerks his hips up to bury himself in her again. So good: so warm and hot and tight and holy, and so very, very good.
She rocks against him, slowly at first. On every sway, a little noise, animal and intense, escapes her lips. He too is making sounds that he doesn't recognize, but he doesn't care, not when she's digging her nails under his shoulder blades and squeezing him on every upthrust as she rocks, fierce, lovely, alive.
She turns her head and furrows her brow as if she's working on a particularly complex equation, or translating an ancient Tevinter text.
She is in control, he knows, in total control of him and of this, and all he can do is hold on and trust in her and hope to keep up.
Grabbing his hair, she pulls him against her chest. With a smile he flicks his tongue against a nipple; her startled gasp is muffled by his hair.
Then, still holding onto his head, she starts rocking faster, harder, burying him deeper and deeper. Sweat pools in the gaps between their bodies, their heated flesh sticky and flushed. The motions between them grow more intense and begin to lose their rhythm; they become jerky and indistinct and rushed, and now she's pushing harder and deeper and deeper and harder, and suddenly she is screaming, her skin erupting in blue flame that envelops them both—it doesn't hurt, no, he can barely even sense it; but it's warm and familiar and like soaking his entire body in a lyrium vein; and every hair stands on end, every nerve of his body thrumming and aching; but he can't ask why, he can't wonder why this is because now she is cresting, her perfect, hot cunt milking his cock, practically begging his flesh to join her in release. And it's too much, finally too much—he bucks up into her, tossing his head back onto the pillow, vision narrowing into nothingness, and while everything explodes he jerks out a staccato rhythm against her cunt, screaming something that sounds like her name or Maker or maybe just a broken Nevarran please.
Then it is over. She collapses against him. He cradles her, hands shaking a little, rubbing small circles along her shoulders and back.
They stay like this, together, one perfect moment, lost in the divide between what is and what could be.
Emeric kisses her shoulder, nuzzles her neck, and thinks fondly, We are once more than we were.
He's about to tell her as much when exhaustion overtakes him. In fact, he can't remember feeling this tired in his entire life.
She leans back from him slightly – not disentangling, per se, or even peeling her sticky flesh away from his, but just far enough away to look him in the eye. A dazed smile plays at her lips, and her grey-blonde hair stands at a strange angle.
"Firestarter, huh," he says muzzily.
"Hmm," she says, shrugging her shoulders. Her smile fades. She doesn't seem quite as tired as he is. That should be strange. It is strange. But it's hard to think of the reason why. Or to think of anything at all.
She looks as if she's about to say something, but gives up. He doesn't blame her. Suddenly it's so difficult to remember words, or to even stay upright. So instead he leans – falls – back onto her pillow, pulling her down with him, her gray-blonde hair fanning against his chest like a starburst.
He is content.
Mharen's arms snake around him, and she presses her cheek against his heartbeat.
He is happy.
"Emeric," her voice is calm, alert, and very far away, "just know that what whatever happens next, this at least I meant."
He is whole.
He feels himself slipping away into darkness, and just as he's drifting off, a small voice deep inside - a soldier's voice - begins to wonder exactly how and why this fatigue has come on so fast. It reminds him that he is no virgin, that post-coital bliss has never been so intense before, and suggests that if he didn't know better, one might assume Mharen had used a sleeping spell on him—but that would be silly; she's a Primal mage, not an Entropic one: She starts fires, not illusions. She does not traffic in dreams.
But the small voice – which starts to sound too much like gruff, old Guylian, the prude - reminds him that significant quantities of lyrium can have similar effects, that a large enough dose could drag even a conscious man to the Fade, perhaps even the most resistant of Templars. But he couldn't, no, she wouldn't, not like this, not now…
But all the things he knows or hopes or thinks fall away as sleep claims him at last.
When he wakes, finally, it is hours later, and the first grey fingers of dawn creep through the window. His head pounds. His stomach pitches. His cock and mouth and fingers ache and throb. And Mharen-
Mharen is gone.