The road to Lothering is wet, twisting mud track through overhanging trees, shadows of malice stalking them through the quiet. The Wardens walk in silence, following the swaying hips of the Witch as she leads them, days of endless motion that seems to get them nowhere. Morrigan has assured her they are close now, they will find the Imperial Highway before darkness falls again.
Alistair paces her, close enough to reach out and graze his shoulder, should she choose. The weight of his sorrow tugs at her, but the trill of his blood so close is a comfort. It is quieter now than before, the music missing so many melodies. He lacks the booming depth of Duncan, the taste and smell of matured taint, the smooth tones of Ranulf, Errol's twirling croon. His song may not be so robust, without the other Wardens, but it is pervasive none the less. Bound, he is hers, his taste on her tongue, his scent in her nose.
Her fingers glance lightly against his bicep, more pressure than sensation, and his tiny, sad smile fractures something inside her. His rounded shoulders and downcast eyes reflect her own lament, her fury and grief shredding her from the inside. She stumbles, struggling to keep her feet, to keep walking, as she is struck again by their loss.
Hands on her shoulders, keeping her upright. Again. Without him, she would fall, sprawling into the thick mud, but he enfolds her in his warmth, his song a comforting caress. They simply stand, his blood bolstering her, her strength seeping into him, muted sobs and aching hearts. His body shudders with the force of his desolation, until she pushes her fingers into his hair, presses her lips to his skin, just beneath his ear.
He rubs his face against hers, breathing her in even as his tears leaves warm, damp smudges on her jaw. Her scent steadies him, her strength and daring his shelter. She is his Alpha, and his every sense tells him she will guide him, protect him, dominate him. The dark undertones of her chime through him, reassuring.
"Do you want to talk about what happened? About Duncan?" A delicate touch of her mouth beneath his eye, kissing away his tears, tasting his grief. It is hard for him to focus, to see her as human, to see himself as human, to be human, when the Warden instinct rides him so fiercely. Savagely, he shoves it down, and lets the words spill out, lets himself fall into her purely human compassion.
She is steadfast and fierce, a leader born, and he understands why Duncan chose her. She was to have been his Second, groomed to be Commander when the Calling stole him away, to die, or be submerged completely into the song of the taint. The devout loyalty of the Ferelden Wardens had been hers, and she theirs. Now there is only him.
Her hands stroke his neck and scalp, the taint in her touch welcoming him, pulling him close and wrapping him tight, adrift in her song. He holds her close, one arm around her waist, the other fisted in her hair as he rubs his face against her bare neck and shoulders, his tears wash away the road dust, letting her tears fall on his skin, scorching and cleansing.
When they begin to walk again, hurrying to catch the Witch who either didn't bother to wait, or didn't want to intrude, he falls into place easily, to her right, a half step behind her. He is not a leader, but he is a damn good warrior, and he is hers to command.
oOo
The song is haunting, slow chords twisting through her, the thrumming bass matches the heave of her breath. Need courses through her, to bask in the music, to float in it until she is nothing but sound, nothing but resonance in the void. Her heart aches, her body tense and coiled, waiting only to wake, only to escape. His voice is loud, keening for her, demanding, begging.
Come home
She wakes gasping for air, the flicker of the fire painting her vision red and black, the shadows of the camp bear down on her. Remnants of melody, fragments of dream flit through her mind. The pulling cry of the Archdemon claws at her, need twisting and cramping her limbs. If she could move, she would be up and running, into the ocean of blackness, to find him, to kneel before him, to be owned by him.
"Bad dream?" He picks at a seam of his bedding, gaze focused on a loose thread. Dregs of his own nightmare are heavy in his eyes, sharp in the raw scraping of his voice.
She shudders as she nods, throat too thick to speak.
"The dreams are a side effect of the Joining. We can hear them." Rubbing his face, he glances at her.
"Yes." Her voice is hoarse, barely audible.
He laughs, low and humorless. "Yes, I suppose you do know that." He eyes her warily when she pats her own bedroll, gesturing him to join her. An arched brow and a firm slap to the blanket brings him scrambling to obey, blushing furiously. He sits beside her, a careful distance between them that puzzles her.
"Alistair, what is this?" She leans closer to him, pointing as he pulls back slightly. "What have I done?"
"What? No, nothing!" He shakes his head, frowning. "You haven't done anything wrong. I haven't done anything wrong. It's just…I was raised mostly by the Chantry, with an eye on being a Templar." His sigh is laced with confusion and doubt. "I didn't even know there was such a ritual as…that, until it was happening." A shrug. "And by then, I was so caught up in the song, I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to."
"Oh." He looks so wretched, she reaches out to touch, gentle but persistent when he flinches away. She keeps her hand on his shoulder, kneading gently, trying not to startle him, make him any more uncomfortable than he is.
His blush is back, deep red. "It was my first time…"
"Oh!" A vivid flash of memory sweeps through her, setting her pulse to racing as she relives the feel of the ex-Templar pushing into her. "I…would not have guessed that."
Pleased embarrassment flooded his face, actually paling his blush a bit. "It is hard to reconcile my upbringing with some of the changes becoming a Warden has brought on. The increase in appetites. Especially that appetite."
"Alistair, I need to know more about that ritual." She can smell the uncertainty on him, but she can smell the lust too. He is fighting to suppress it, struggling against the need brought on by his tainted blood. "Was it a once only thing, or does it need to be redone? I can hear the Archdemon much clearer now than I could even yesterday. He gets clearer and more tempting day by day." She grips his shoulder, agitated. "Can we redo it, or am I lost? How many are needed? Can we make it work if it is just us?"
"I don't really know much. I mean, you were there. I know exactly as much as that." He squirms in his discomfort, and she is frightened. Scared that he won't be able to help her, that his Chantry bred ideals will keep him from giving in to his instincts, her pheromones. Without his fellow Wardens, she worries that he may not be able to overcome his training enough to save her from herself.
He shifts his body, leaning slightly, away from her touch. His withdrawal leaves her cold, the hunger gnawing at her bones, the swelling symphony beckoning. She clenches her jaw against a whine, twitching. His pull is barely strong enough to let her sit in place, now that she can't touch him.
"What does your instinct tell you to do?"
"Even now, I want you." Guilt and desire war across his face. "Our Brothers lie slaughtered not a week gone, not even buried," he hisses, "and all I can think of right now is how it felt to move inside you, how it felt to feel you come on me." He is carefully keeping his hands to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. She wants them to be on her, quelling the strengthening music, helping her deny the echoing cry, harder to block out now. "I'm not sure if that is instinct, or lechery."
Her laughter is hollow, despairing. She tried to comfort him, she knows she failed, but she can't bring herself to care. The call is too distracting, bolstered by the dreams, and the support beneath her resolve is crumbling.
He is not so far gone in his self loathing and recriminations that he doesn't sense the change in her. One moment she is human, composed and questioning, compassionate and warm, even in the face of his breakdown, the next she is music and movement, the hunger of the taint her only drive. Suddenly he can feel the surge of her pulse across the space between them, her heartbeat speeding as she looks at him slyly.
When she moves to her knees, he follows, wary and coiled, mimicking her motion. When she bolts to her feet, he is on her, knocking her into the dirt with the weight of his body. Forgotten is his guilt, his uncertainty, his grief. There is only her, heat and sound, pulse and scent. Her struggle beneath him is frantic and entirely ineffectual. She is strong, but he is stronger, even without armor, the solid mass of him is more than she can shift.
"No." He whispers it in her ear, propped up on his elbows, before trailing his mouth down her neck. "I won't let you go." He has been fighting this for almost a week, since nearly his whole world fell apart. She is all he has left, and he feels dirty and perverted, with a constant urge to throw her down and fuck her senseless.
Her hips rock against him, seeking. "Then Maker's sake, Alistair," she begs, "help me!" Nails bite into his shoulders, tearing through the fabric of his shirt. "I can hear him, almost as strong as before." She is fighting to get free, her body at odds with her words. Pining her with his body is easy enough, grinding against her, but their clothes make things difficult, and she will run if he gives her the chance.
There are flashes of humanity in her eyes, but mostly they are dark with want, the Archdemon's song loud in her ears, she has gone too long without for Alistair's melody to compete.
A chill touch on his shoulder makes him pause, brings him back to himself enough to remember the others in camp. One of whom is…touching him. Too close to her. If it were male, he would attack. MINE!
"Be calm, Alistair. Be still." The voice is soothing, aware she is speaking to more beast than man, the thin veneer of his civilized upbringing shattered by his prey's attempt to flee, his mate's feral need. A flare of magic flows around the Wardens, and Morrigan crouches next to him, her hand now firmly on his back. "I've cast a paralysis spell on her, we've a few moments."
He cocks his head, regarding the raven Witch quizzically. Her scent is different, if he breathes her in deep enough, he can taste the taint in her, a taint she didn't have before. She has no song, but her smell…Maker, she smells like kin. She smells like Warden.
"I am aware of what it means to be a Warden. 'Tis quite evident, in fact, that I am more knowledgeable than the pair of you." The Witch works quickly, while she has them both calm, the Warden frozen in her spell, the Templar caught in her scent and gaze, yellow eyes captivating as she winds silken strands of web around the Warden's wrists. "I have sent Sten and Leliana to find me a goodly supply of elf root, which was no easy task, considering the commotion the two of you have caused."
"Morrigan." Her voice is slurred, weakened by the Witch's power. "I'm going to kill you for this."
Morrigan's cruel laugh is a surprisingly pleasant chime in Alistair's ears. "I hardly think so, Warden. 'Tis a certain wonder you've survived thus far, and not run off to join the horde. I suppose I should count myself lucky one of you actually is male, or this would be even more difficult." She smells of musk and night, disdain and desire. The faintest scent of wolf, and a growing scent of Warden. She doesn't smell female, she simply smells of taint.
The Witch guides him, pulling him away from the Warden, dulling the roar of his flesh, of his blood. "Why can't you just keep us under this spell, Morrigan?" Humanity is resurfacing, followed swiftly by shame and guilt. He tried to…he'd nearly…Oh, Maker!
"'Tis a very temporary measure, Alistair. You will find it wears off in a few moments, and then we are no closer to solving the problem." She is kneeling behind him, stroking his flanks languidly. His flesh shivers under her ministrations, and as her fingers caress across his abdomen, removing his shirt, he feels himself responding. "You may as well get used to this, and to me, now. With only one, the effects will be short lived, but I can add perhaps a day or two with my involvement."
Her lips are warm on the shell of his ear, her fingertips dancing playfully across his chest. "I've a wish you were more dominant, my handsome fool." She tastes the sweat on his shoulder, slowly dragging her mouth across his skin. "But you will serve."
He groans and lets his head fall back when her sneaky fingers slide into his trousers to wrap around his cock, hard already, but harder still as she strokes him, her voice cunning and depraved in his ear, telling him his perversions are natural.
His fellow Warden lies trussed before him, her eyes wide as Morrigan brings him firmly to attention. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she can taste the Witch as well, the kinship. For a moment, she watches in oh so human fascination as the Witch's hands and mouth send wracking sobs of pleasure through the Templar. The pulsing jolt in her cunt has nothing to do with the taint, the music, the blood, but only the dichotic beauty of passion playing out before her.
"Can you smell her? Her need?" The voice in his ear is pitched lower, and riding the edge of oblivion, he knows she is the Witch he despises, but all he can hear, taste, feel is family. He hears Warden in her voice, smells it on her breath. A warm honey glow of power, and Morrigan is gone, the voice slithering against his skin far more familiar. The touch on his body is warmer, stronger, vaguely reminiscent of Valan, the only other Warden to touch him like this. He can't put a name or a face to the scent, but it is kin.
It isn't quite right, there is no music in him. Alistair is left with a grinding feeling of dissatisfaction, but reason is lost, and he lets the Warden behind him ease him forward, crouching over the woman whose blood is singing to him, drawing him in.
She watches them writhe, the Witch blurring in and out of focus, her rapidly changing scent a tempting confusion. Images raised from the Warden's memory play out over her face, as she becomes more solidly Warden. She pushes the Templar to his hands and knees, gentle but firm as she moves his pliant body to rest between the bound Warden's thighs.
"She is yours, Alistair."
The fever burning through the ex-Templar is easy to read. In the moment, he is not Templar, nor man. The hunger in his eyes bores into her, and his music flares, sharp and hot, the beating drum of his pulse defines him movement. The submissive posture falls away, as he takes her for his due. His growl against her throat makes her spasm, a flood of heat and wet.
"Please…" She is panting, begging, and he finally responds, ramming his cock into her with all his considerable strength. Her cry is pain laced with want, she isn't ready, but he doesn't care.
The wicked whispers continue, "Yours to do with as you please. She cannot deny you. She does not wish to." The arc of her body and the whine in her breath tells him the truth of that. "Be what you are, Warden." She lifts, meeting his thrusts, and he lets go of himself, drowning in her. Slow and strong, each flex of his hips brings a cry spilling from her, desperate and needy. His teeth worry at her mouth, his lips paint fire across her jaw. Each shove drives the crystalline notes of him deeper into her soul, filling her empty spaces, feeding the hunger that ravages her.
The man in him is gone, but the beast remembers, remembers the tilt of hips that brings that sound from her, remembers the nip of teeth that throws her head back, crying out. Remembers the liquid swivel that brushes just…there, and causes her to buck beneath him. His fingers dip into her wetness, and when she clenches frantically around him, his beast remembers the taste of her, tearing into her flesh to swallow her symphony.
He shares it with her, mouth locked to hers as he fractures, his world narrowed to the taste of her mouth, her blood, her music, to the hard pulse of his flesh in hers, the softness of her body beneath him, to nothing at all.
The soft stroke of her hands on his back and shoulders calls him back to his senses. Ragged breaths calm, the heat of flesh cools. Her ankles still locked around his back, cradling him between her thighs. She peppers his neck and chin with whisper light kisses, telling him that it is all right, that he is home, that she will take care of him.
A subtle cough drags their attention to the Witch, seated cross-legged on the far side of the fire. She watches them with hard eyes, lips twisted in a sneer. "Perhaps you'll not leave it so long, next time?"
He buries his face in the Warden's shoulder, hyper aware of their near naked state. The Warden herself meets the Witch's gaze, surprised to see her face soften slightly with pity.
"Go, the pair of you. There is a stream just beyond that copse, I've spelled it for warmth. It should last another hour, at most." Rolling her eyes, the Witch rises. "You've only to tell him, Warden. He follows orders quite well."