A/N: This is another challenge issued by Tyanilth, the Instigator and Cheeky Monkey Extraordinaire. The challenge was to write a one-shot of Loghain, Duncan and the woman of my choice. As Leonie is the only woman I can imagine Duncan being with it had to be her. This takes place during Chapter 36 of The Lion of Orlais and Chapter 1 of The Heart of the Lion.
Josie Lange has written a smoking hot answer to her challenge, which includes her Korrine Hawke, Loghain and Zevran, entitled "Coming Home"
The Eyes of the Beholder
Autumn in the Bannorn is awash with color. Bright yellow and scarlet leaves dance happily on swaying branches, busy preparing for Winter's onslaught. The wind whispers its secrets to the rippling golden grass. Large piles of amber colored leaves scuttle along the ground, to be caught by the wind's embrace and scattered along the road, crunching crisply under the horses' hooves
Leonie smiles as she breathes in the air appreciatively. A sweet, delicate blend of decaying leaves and over-ripe apples meld together, tickling her nose. Dismounting, she kicks off her boots to stomp with childlike abandon in the leaves, scooping up great handfuls and tossing them to the wind which playfully catches them. A vivid red leaf tangles in her hair. Duncan watches her, his smile as soft as the white clouds that sail happily across the deep blue skies.
"I love you my Rivaini pirate," she announces, looking over her shoulder at the man who claims her heart. He is now sitting with his back against a tree, staring at her with a wicked grin. She knows that look and it quickens her pulse, sending her blood flowing and her heart racing. She feels like a child let out early from her lessons, her laughter catching on the trailing edge of the wind, carried away to scamper with the leaves.
"And I love you, my sweet Lion," he replies, holding out his hand in invitation.
She floats on a sea of joy, celebrating life. It is a day as deep and endless as her love for Duncan. And for this day she can let go of her fear that he is slipping away from her; that his Calling is closing in on them both. Today is meant for life and laughter and love. Her smile softens as she looks around her. She spies no one, hears only the jaunty call of a blue jay, the soughing sigh of wind through nearly nude branches.
She pirouettes across the meadow to sink before her swarthy pirate, her lips finding his in a tender kiss. "You have that look about you, Duncan," she whispers against his ear, leaning into him as his arms wrap around her waist.
"What look would that be?" he asks with feigned innocence, his eyes alight with the same mischief that sparks in her heart.
"The one that makes my knees weak and my thoughts wicked."
His eyes narrow, taking on a flame of desire in their brown depths. "Is that bad?" he asks, his hands already untying the pale blue ribbon holding her braid. His fingers comb through her hair. Her laughter is muffled by the curtain of unbound hair that now falls between them.
"Not if you intend to take advantage of it," she replies and returns the favor, letting the leather strip that holds his hair fall to the ground. Her fingers move with delight through the thick silk strands and she sighs with delight. For these moments she is not the Commander of the Grey of Val Royeaux and he is not the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. They are lovers, sharing their pleasure in each other on a warm autumn day. She finds his lips, silk against silk and then tongues dance and bodies meld. She moans softly, her desire for him a living thing that flows through her body and blood.
His fingers, ever nimble and agile set to work on the laces of her dress. She stands, letting the dress slip from her shoulders and slide down her body with a twist of her hips. Her shift clings to her curves, pressed there by the wind's caress. She holds out her hand and Duncan takes it, allowing her to pull him up.
"Husband," she whispers, the words a bright promise of things that can never be taken from them, even if they will soon be parted by time and circumstance.
"Wife," he replies in a low growl, possessive and proud. She beams at him, letting her fingers work at the knots on his shirt. Soon it is being tossed carelessly aside and it billows like a sail as it is caught by the wind.
Her fingers prowl the broad sweep of his shoulders and glide down his softly furred chest, along the tight muscles of his abdomen, to rest on the ties of his trousers. Her lips taste the musk of his skin as she nips at his neck. He is everything she wants and her desire heats her blood. He is everything she needs. Her lips wander along his neck and up to nibble at his ear. She tugs gently at his loosened trousers and they slide down his well-muscled legs. There is heat between them, slowly building, a song in their blood that calls to each other with wanton abandon.
His fingers are no more content to lie still than hers and she feels them whisk along the skin of her arms and then her shift is sailing after his shirt and she shivers with longing as the wind kisses her skin. Her hands know every scar, every muscle, every angle and plane of the body before her yet she continues to explore, to stroke, to caress. He is her pirate, her touchstone, her center.
Duncan's lips trail along her latest blemish, a dueling scar that runs along her neck and ends just below her chin. "Stubborn woman," he whispers against her skin and she smiles softly before turning away from him to stare at the gently rolling hills and undulating grass that seems somehow alive.
Tenderly pushing aside her hair, he feathers soft kisses along her back, where Montran's whip tore away her flesh. It is a ritual, an acknowledgement of the time he almost lost her, and when he is done, he turns her to face him again, her hair swirling around them like a black silk cloak. Again, he gently pushes aside her hair and lets his lips murmur kisses along her collarbone and down to a breast where he suckles greedily, his teeth grazing against her hardened nipple. A moan floats on the currents.
Her hands tangle in his hair, her hips arching into him as their slow dance begins to spiral and desire flames hotly in her. She reaches down and strokes his hard length, its heat scorching her fingers as she continues to stroke. He growls, hips swaying against hers. There is newness and familiarity in every touch, every caress, every kiss.
Duncan steps away, his smile slow and playful. He pushes her gently until her back is against the tree and then he kneels before her, his eyes full of lust and longing and love. Her heart beats quickly, a bird in joyful flight, and the heat continues to gather, her folds slick and swollen by want.
With the first flick of his tongue on her bud, she lets out a low, keening song of need, her fingers dragging through his hair as she guides his mouth and tongue. He pins her in place with a strong but gentle arm as he continues his exploration, his tongue velvet heat against her folds.
Honey flows through her veins, slow and hot and gathering in a pool; intense and aching. "Please," she whispers, her legs trembling, her belly tightening as her need grows and races through her, her muscles shuddering as the ache pulls at her.
"Come for me," he demands, his voice a low growl as he pulls away to look up the length of her, his eyes heavy-lidded from his growing lust, his lips wet with her juices. His thumb massages her bud, a finger slipping inside her dewy folds, followed by another. Her gasp turns into an urgent moan and the tightly spiraling heat explodes, sending sparks along her every nerve and his name is on her lips, captured by the wind, echoed in the cry of the hawk that glides on the currents in the deep blue sky. Her body shudders and bucks against his mouth.
~~~oOo~~~
Loghain hasn't been along this trail through the Bannorn since he rode to Highever with Maric, just weeks before Maric was lost at sea. The grief is still there, buried beneath layers of duty and his stubborn refusal to give in to it. But here, now, on this autumn day, he feels it as keenly as he feels the loss of Celia. Of Rowan. He reins in and dismounts, content for the moment to walk the path, to concentrate on his current duties. He loops the reins around his arm and leads Taranis, whistling softly.
There are more days than not that he misses the earth, the farm, the land, even the smells of fish and freshly cut timber of Gwaren. There are days when he allows himself to remember the dreams that he and Maric had of securing Ferelden's borders for the next generation and watching as their children and their children's children ruled the lands while the two men retired to the countryside. Foolish dreams. Distant, broken dreams. Melancholy seems his constant companion as he walks along. Taranis nickers and nudges at his shoulder.
Pausing, he listens intently, his hand inching quietly up to un-shoulder his bow. Not an animal, he thinks in disappointment, returning the bow and standing still, continuing to listen. He starts off in the direction of the sound and stops again at the sight before him. In the distance he sees a man and woman, dark heads pressed together. The man's swarthy skin is a stark contrast to the milky white skin of the woman. Her hair falls like a dark veil, covering much of her upper body, leaving only a pair of long, shapely legs visible, with tantalizing hints of her curves peaking out. He feels an odd sensation, a languor that slows his blood but quickens his pulses.
He should announce his presence but he is far enough away he doubts they know he is there and he is mesmerized by the sight of the man and woman, as wild and free as any creature he has ever hunted. There is a beauty in their movements, a closeness that is impenetrable. He doesn't know how he comes by the knowledge, but he knows it for a certainty. It must be in the way they hold each other, in the sinuous grace of their bodies swaying against each other. He feels bewitched, unable to turn away.
The man picks the woman up in his arms, holding her high and she throws her head back, laughing. The long strands of her hair hide her face but he can imagine her expression is as joyous as the sound. Loghain should not be witnessing such intimacy and he starts to turn away but finds he still can't. He is intrigued and envious. He is spellbound.
The wind brushes against his blush-warmed cheeks as he watches the man slowly lower the woman to the ground. Pale arms pull the man down to her and Loghain feels an ache in his groin as the man raises himself on his arms and then slowly enters the woman. Her legs wrap around the man's waist and he throws his head back. Loghain closes his eyes, the image burned in his brain. His ache tightens and coils, hard and hot. Faint sounds of love-making filter through his thoughts and his erection presses painfully against his trousers. He imagines he is there, above the nameless, faceless beauty, that her legs are wrapped around him, urging him to enter her mysterious wet darkness.
So long…so long since he has felt a woman's touch on his skin, felt a woman's soft lips on his, felt that enveloping warmth around his manhood. His eyes open slowly, his eyelids feel weighted, and he looks at the couple, watches as the man continues to rock into the woman. The cries are faint but they seem to wrap around his erection and stroke it, squeezing and massaging him. He bites back a moan and it is then that he realizes how pathetic he would appear if anyone saw him. A lonely, pathetic man. The ache in his groin is replaced by one in his heart.
Turning away, disgusted with himself, he prepares to mount Taranis when he is caught again by the sweet joy in the woman's voice, climbing higher as her passion overwhelms her. His erection throbs painfully and he adjusts his trousers but the longing is now heating his blood, searing away any rational thought. His pulses pounding and his heart answering, he removes his gloves and lets them fall in the thick golden grass. He loosens his trousers and closes his eyes as his hand wraps around his engorged manhood. He imagines her, long silky hair trailing along his fevered skin, warm lips opening for him. His knees weaken as the tightly coiled desire unwinds, his grip tightening around the head of his shaft. His seed spills upon the ground to the sound of the passionate cries of her own release, joined now by the man's deep, wordless cries.
Loghain falls to his knees, panting. He should feel foolish and weak; ashamed. He is kneeling in the grass, spent like a young boy who has just discovered the ability to stroke himself to completion. Yet, he doesn't feel any of those things he should. He feels as though he has shared a sacred, joyful moment with a man and woman who celebrate life in a way he has never allowed himself to. He closes his eyes again, listening to the wind as it whispers through the tall grass; listens to the hawk calling out for its mate, listens to the woman who is laughing breathlessly and the man whose voice, even at such a distance, holds such contentment.
He cleans his hands with water from his waterskin and then picks up his gloves. Whatever madness seized him is gone and he has miles to go before darkness falls. He turns once to see the woman is swaying as she stands in the tall grass and then she spins slowly, arms stretched wide and still he cannot see her face but it doesn't matter. For the first time in a long time, Loghain feels at peace. He wonders, as he mounts, if the couple is even aware of the unexpected gift they have given him. Not that it matters. His heart is lighter and he accepts that. Wherever Maric is, Loghain is certain he is laughing. He can almost hear the sound of it in the rustling leaves of the trees.
He spurs his horse, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the scent of decaying leaves and over-ripe apples pungent and oddly sweet as he gallops over the crest of a hill and disappears.
~~~oOo~~~
Vigil's Keep, 18 months after Ostagar
Loghain's anger is simmering, just below boiling point. This foolish piece of Orlesian fluff, Leonie Caron, who is now the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, is demanding his orders for Montsimmard. He delves into his pack for them, seething. An Orlesian in Ferelden, mocking him with her cold smile and cold gaze. She is disdainful and proud, aloof and bitter. He has yet to strike a woman, but he knows, should he remain much longer, he will be tempted to. He is almost relieved to be traveling to Montsimmard.
Yet, in the first moments of meeting her he had been struck with a sense that he knew her from somewhere. Ridiculous. Such a thing is, of course, impossible. She is Orlesian and he can count the number of Orlesians he knows on one hand and have several fingers left over. Yet the feeling tickles at his memory, tantalizingly out of reach.
As he hands her his orders, he stands ramrod straight, the sneer on his face lets her know just what he thinks of her. She takes the papers and smiles coldly at him once more, a gleam of something in her blue eyes. Again, he feels the odd sensation that he should know her. She tears his orders up and hands them back to him before marching stiffly into the keep. He wants nothing more than to wring her slender neck.
He stands in the courtyard, anger a hard knot in his stomach. He takes a deep, calming breath and as he does, he smells the sweet scent of decaying leaves and over-ripe apples. If he closes his eyes he knows the image of a man and woman making love on a bright Autumn day will be there. His heart stutters and his eyes remain open, blinking away the memory. The smell lingers.
He shakes his head derisively. It can only be the trick of an over-tired mind. Yet his anger has abated, caught in the memories of that day. Loghain enters Vigil's Keep with a lighter step.
Fin