AN: Miscellaneous gen or non-Hawke/Fenris ships.


Characters/Pairing: Sten/Brosca
Rating: G
Word Count: 248
Prompt: from maybethings: "Sten/Brosca, sword and shield"

She knows her purpose. He respects that.

Respects her, though it costs him something to admit it the first time, before she is kadan and before she remakes his soul into one piece. She wears the brand like honor; she wears the brand like shame, depending on the place she stands and the person to whom she speaks. He does not understand that. To know oneself is to know purpose; she knows what she is and yet she questions it, and fears it, and hides it and wears it proudly all at once.

And yet when she walks once more among her own people it is with purpose; she speaks to the ones of her kind who would be king and carries her resolve on her face. He knows that desperation, even if she keeps it hidden behind her words.

(Another thing that perplexes him—how many of her kind wage war without once lifting a sword.)

But then one night she comes to him with a blade wrapped in cloth, and he takes it from her with no small suspicion and no small hope. The brown cloth slides away so quickly, as if it cannot bear to hide the sword beneath it. Asala, he thinks, a hot tight knot in his chest that he does not recognize.

How easily she returns to him his soul.

How easily she smiles, as if his gratitude should matter to her. As if that is reward enough.

As if she—

cares—


Characters/Pairing: Zevran, Alistair
Rating: G
Word Count: 485
Prompt: from ojirawel: "Something with Zevran and Alistair being bros?"

Alistair winces. "You're lying."

"Ah, my friend," and isn't that the most perfectly injured tone he's ever heard, all wounded dignity and injured pride and deeply-felt sorrow at his own ignorance. "I swear to you, it happened just as I say."

"You mean to tell me that you—and four Orlesians—and a pigeon—"

"Brought in one afternoon a Tevinter slaving ring to a fabulously disastrous end? Oh, yes."

Alistair frowns pensively into his glass. Not nearly as full as it was earlier—he's not entirely sure how that happened. Perhaps Zevran has been stealing again. That seems a rogueish thing to do. Or a Zevran…ish thing, anyway.

Did Zevran say something? "What?"

Zevran looks at him, one perfectly-manicured eyebrow lifted. Alistair is intrigued by those eyebrows. He's seen Zevran plucking them sometimes in Morrigan's fancy golden mirror. He's not sure why. He's not even sure Morrigan knows who stole the mirror in the first place.

Ha, not that he'd tell her. Bloody angry Wilds-mage. Doesn't even like mabari.

"My dear Warden," Zevran says, and Alistair has never noticed before how smoothly the Antivan accent rolls off his tongue, although now that he thinks about it probably a lot of things have rolled off Zevran's tongue in the past, and he should probably stop thinking about that now if he doesn't want his cheeks to burst into flames right here in this terrible tiny inn in the middle of nowhere. "My dear Warden, perhaps you should allow me to relieve you of your…what was it? Flying Knight?"

"Flying Templar," Alistair mutters, but when Zevran deftly plucks the squat little glass from between Alistair's elbows he doesn't protest.

The tip of his nose is numb. That seems like a sign. He's not sure what of, but it's definitely a sign.

"Why don't you follow me," Zevran suggests so much later in that perfect Antivan accent, and Alistair nods dumbly, and somewhere between the smiling serving wench and the minefield of empty chairs he manages to trail after Zevran like a lost puppy up the stairs and down the hall to a blessedly dim room, where there is a blessedly empty bed and blessedly clean sheets.

Distantly, he realizes someone is tugging off his boots, that a warm tenor voice is clucking about his inability to hold his liquor and his general over-readiness to trust to random strangers to care for him. But something in him knows it's Zevran, and despite everything he trusts Zevran, and that Zevran is here and saying nice things and not shouting at him is sign enough that he's safe. He closes his eyes, feels a body thump to the bed beside him.

"Good night, Zevran," he mumbles into the pillow.

He's not sure, but he thinks Zevran says good night too. He finds the assassin's warmth surprisingly comforting; he pats Zevran's shoulder twice, and with a sigh, he goes to sleep.


Characters/Pairing: Carver, Eppie Hawke
Rating: G
Word Count: 633
Prompt: from riana-one: "If you are taking requests… Carver becoming a templar and the awkward reconnection with his sister after the deep roads."

"You bloody idiot," his sister snaps, and it's all Carver can do not to throw that damned Templar sword right at her. "How could you do something like this to Mother?"

"To Mother?" he retorts, just as hot, as if their mother isn't standing right there with her hands over her mouth, betrayal plainer in her face than his sister's. "What about you? When was the last time you even ate a meal here? Or have you lost track of your family in your stupid hunt for fame?"

"Fame!" Eppie screeches, because she won't be Hawke to him no matter what everyone calls her, no matter what she calls herself. He's seen her face-down in mud; he's seen her bawling her eyes out as their father pulled out a splinter; he's seen her embarrassed to hold that boy's hand, the blacksmith's son in Lothering. Their father was Hawke; she doesn't deserve the name. Not yet. "What makes you think I give a flying nug about fame?"

He spreads his hands, the templar gauntlets weighted and unfamiliar, silver and shining in the smoky torchlight of Gamlen's home. "What else am I supposed to think? So busy building yourself up that you haven't got time for us little people anymore?"

"You little ass," his sister says, seething, and when she smacks his armor with the flat of her hand he sneers.

"Can't feel it, sister. Armor, you know."

"I know you're being a pompous prick, and if you try to smite me I'll smoke you so hard your toes'll curl."

He snorts, brushing her away like a cloud of gnats, and looks to where their mother stands statue-still with dismay. That unsettles him, more than Eppie's disapprobation ever could; he takes her hands as gently as he can, considering he can't feel them through steel, and bends his head. "It's better this way, don't you see? If Kirkwall's Gallows is so broken, someone's got to work on it from the inside out. And sometimes…I dunno. I think it's got to be me."

"Oh, Carver," his mother sighs, but she squeezes his hands hard enough he can feel it, and that's enough.

So. Nothing left but his sister, still steaming with righteous indignation by the door.

"Well?" she asks, defiance and challenge in one as she crosses her arms. "Nothing more to say for yourself?"

He rolls his eyes. "It's long past any time I had to defend myself to you, sister."

Her lip curls, a hard sort of hurt flashing behind her eyes. "Well. At least you've got your great big sword to protect you, then. I hope it tells jokes."

"Better than yours," he snaps, shoving past her to pick up his pack by the door. Eppie's quiet as he arranges it, fiddling with the strap over his shoulder, fumbling the weight of it to sit just so at his hip. Perhaps he—perhaps this, after all this time—

No. He's made his choice.

"Well," his sister says at last, still stiff, still oddly strained. "Say hi to Keran for me, I suppose."

Carver nods, short and sharp, and turns to look at her. Not for the last time, he knows, but—he's glad, somehow, that they're solid enough that some things can still go unsaid. He won't turn her in. Better still, she knows it, knows that even now with all the bitter animosity between them that she's got his trust all the same. She's got his, and—

He's got hers.

"Well," he echoes, and for only an instant her eyes drop to the Templar blade emblazoned on his chest. Only an instant—and her eyes are back on his, blue as his, as their father's. "Take care of Mother."

"Of course," Eppie says softly, and then Carver opens the door, and is gone.