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
Amell refuses to cry.
Alistair just holds her. He lets her alternate between grabbing onto his shirt and then pounding her fists against his chest.
"Shh," he whispers against her hair.
If she was somewhat alert of her senses, she would realize how pathetic this is. Crying over Cullen—a Templar who only ever murmured and stammered.
But he had been the Tower, and the Tower had been home, and they both were collapsing before her eyes.
"I couldn't help them," she whispers.
"I know," says Alistair, because he understands. Because her Tower is his Duncan, and there's nothing left for either of them.
"Was he your first love?" he asks. It's matter of fact, no different than asking if you're hungry or cold.
"What?" Amell peers up at him.
"Was he your first love?" There's a pause. "You know, butterflies in your stomach, redness in your cheeks. Makes you twirl your hair kind of first love? That's what girls do, right? Twirl their hair."
She giggles, and hits him again, but this time it's softer. "I think he spoke all of five complete words to me the ten years I knew him."
"Ah, not as suave as I am."
