I am going on vacation for a week from tomorrow, and, due to the laws of physics - and the fact that it's a desktop - my computer must stay on my desk while I go gallivanting off to the middle of nowhere. Therefore, expect to hear nothing of me for said week. Very, very sorry for the inconvenience. No, really - I enjoy writing for people.
Rambling: Interestingly, it's been mentioned that a lot of my stories in Armour revolve around favours and doing right by others, which is true. I think it's because these days, the cynical part of me sometimes thinks manners have been forgotten, and sometimes it's the little things like someone holding a door open or giving me a smile that can leave me with a spring in my step. Maybe it's the same for Morgana.
Writing Harrowed made me really sad for a while, so here's a fairly angst-free short. Enjoy!
Dogs
Alistair
He's been tense all day, and has caught Morgana throwing him cautious glances from time to time; maybe it's the fact that the smile has dropped from his face and his hand has strayed regularly to his sword, as if expecting something to jump out at them, while they've been walking. Redcliffe - and with it, the issue of his, er, parentage - is edging ever closer. It'll be in sight soon, and he's surprised to find he's gritting his teeth. It takes him a moment to consciously unclench his jaw.
He's startled out of his unpleasant reverie by the sound of a feminine throat clearing close by. He looks to the side (and not that far down; he notes to himself that she's not particularly short) to see that Morgana has fallen back and is walking next to him, clanking slightly in her new splintmail (which she seems determined to show off at every possible opportunity without ever admitting she's doing it. The thought makes him smile for the first time in hours). "Er, Alistair..." Her voice is quiet, and he suddenly realises that he's still not quite used to her using his name yet. "Since we're on the way - you said that you were raised by this Arl Eamon?" She sees his surprise that he's suddenly worth talking to, and there's another of her hinted not-quite-smiles, the ones she's so good at, that leave him feeling unsure and a little bit ridiculous. "Yes, I do actually listen to you occasionally."
He stumbles a little. "Did I say that? I meant that I was raised by dogs. Wild, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels - "
"That explains the smell."
"Morgana..." The comment is either really offensive or really funny, and he settles for funny. He's not the only one looking surprised - it's the first time he's used her name, and, considering they've been travelling together for days, the realisation makes him uncomfortable. He feels like he should say something, but instead settles for telling her the story of his less-than-pleasant childhood.
He looks at her - Andraste's flaming sword, she's doing that listening thing again - and, just for a moment, she's the shy, smiling apprentice he met at Ostagar, before the Chantry got in the way, who laughed at his jokes and wanted to know what a mabari was.
Maybe there's hope yet.