A.N: So, I promised some nsfw-ness, and It's not quite coup de gras of this story (next chapter I promise!) but there is NSFW material in this chapter. So, if you're offended turn away please. Of course this is still un-betad, so feel free to point out my errors. Criticism is a must! I don't mind, really. I feel too long winded for my own good, considering this took three weeks to complete and I rewrote it two times. This might be the last update for a little while, Mass Effect 2 is coming out soon--other Bioware crack to get addicted to! I'll come back to this though, I promise, I've never finished a long fic like this, but in this instance it will be finished. Anyway, for those of you who have left kind comments, I hope you enjoy, you prod me into action.
When Arl Eamon's eyes lazily open to gaze upon the figures of his wife and son, Alistair feels two things. Two things precisely, one of them is joy that the only other father figure he has ever known is alive, and the other is well…sadness. The kind of sadness that's mixed with a sort of envy, where you feel guilty that you're even jealous of something so wholesome, sad because you simply cannot help it. There are tears, embraces, and Bann Teagan ushers them silently out of the room so that the family can have their private moment.
"My lady, might I have a word before you and your companions retire?" Bann Teagan asks, taking Belai aside.
"Of course," She turns to them, and Alistair is always fascinated with how she addresses them, how natural her posture speaks volumes without ever really saying a word, exuding an authority that very few can deny. "We leave to find the Dalish as soon as we have had counsel with the Arl, enjoy your evening and… do try not to get into too much trouble." The last comment is directed at the duo, consisting of Oghren and Zevran who are already making plans to visit the village tavern. There is amiable chatter as they disperse, and with a last glance at Belai Alistair goes to get settled in his room.
There is a bed, it is a hard bed but he doesn't mind, it's a bed. It is a fair sized room too, with a small window overlooking the courtyard; he watches as the knights of Redcliffe train the remaining militia below, the captain bellowing orders as volleys of arrows drown his voice out. There is a woman accompanied by a young boy, no older than eight who has a small bow clutched in his hands himself, she is smiling at the Captain as he stops drilling to scoop the young boy into his arms, laughing.
It feels familiar. As a young boy he would watch the Knights of Redcliffe train here, much as they do now and every time he would beg Eamon to let him have a practice sword so that he could be a knight too.
Do all little boys dream of being Knights? Alistair wonders, scrubbing his face with a washcloth, the boy is running around now with other boys and girls who have come to watch their fathers and brothers prepare to fight in the battle that is brewing, closer everyday to erupting. He closes his eyes for a moment to let the water drip down his face, when he opens them he sees that the captain and his wife have moved off to the side, seeking the shade of the oak tree that's been there for ages.
She is beautiful, in a simple way Alistair observes, long golden tresses that are swept up into braids wrapped around her head; he isn't too bad looking himself the Captain, he's no Ser Perth (the ladies in the village would say) but such is to be expected of infantry men. He is in his leathers, she wears the apron around her waist better than any of the men around her wear their swords—she uses it more deftly too, as it passes lovingly over her husband's cheek, wiping the dirt away. Like moments before when Eamon awoke and Isolde rushed to his side, Alistair feels like he's an intruder, staring like he does.
There are no private moments, truly, he muses.
He can't help but watch though, with awe and longing as the captain lifts his helm and bows his head to place a sweet kiss upon his wife's awaiting lips. No, no more and Alistair turns away from the washstand, dropping the cloth in the bowl with a defiant plunk. When his body hits the bed every part of him that can ache does, both from the physical trials he has endured and the mental ones that plague on his thoughts like the Blight itself.
He was born in this place, to a serving girl that the King of Ferelden had happened to have a passing fancy with—I was probably conceived in this place, he suddenly feels nauseous, but not at thought of his mother and Maric, but that Queen Rowan , Eamon's sister was probably just down the hall when it happened.
The space between his eyes hurts as he pinches it to try and relieve the pressure. You feel guilt, that's natural; you were raised in a place that thrives on the bloody emotion after all, but really Alistair, how childish. Grow up for Maker's sake and concentrate on what you need to do. That's the problem though, he can't, but when he does he sees the image of the captain and his wife under the shade of the tree, and if it doesn't just leave him hollow.
He will never have these things. He knows this, not as a Grey Warden, not with the taint simmering inside of him. Inside his head the Warden's oath plays like a songbird who sings every morning, rain or shine and down below they prepare to fight a war, to fight a Blight—will any of them, himself included ever live after to know the simple pleasure of a lovers kiss underneath the shade of a tree? He closes his eyes and sighs, it isn't his place to say, he will simply have to live with the ache.
"—again, I am eternally grateful my Lady, if you had not arrived when you did, I fear I would not be standing here, talking of such things…"
"Think nothing of it, besides, it was Alistair's idea after all to seek out Eamon." Alistair opens his eyes at the mention of his name, since when were these walls so thin…two pairs of footsteps pass his door and stop nearby, Teagan escorting Belai to her room—he frowns and strains to hear more of their conversation.
"Yes, Alistair…it was a shock seeing him after so long. I missed the boy you know, he's turned out to be quite the man though, and a Warden no less—Eamon will be glad to see him when he has recovered fully. Though I'm sure he'll hardly recognize him, he looks so much like…" Alistair pales, I don't think I want to hear this, he rolls over on to his stomach and buries his face into the mattress. Much better Alistair, now your face hurts as much as your back you twit. Groaning he rolls back over and into a sitting position on the bed, his gaze drawn to the wall where behind it they speak.
"—well then, a pleasant evening to you, I will seek you out once Eamon has regained consciousness again." Teagans footsteps fade away down the hall as Belai's door opens and closes quickly, the sound of armor being dropped on the rug covered, stone floor evident through the wall.
Alistair raises his head, resting his chin in his hand he stares at the wall that separates him from her, musing on the last three days from when they left Haven and arrived not long ago. Specifically the part where they kissed, and then they shyly danced around each other, too embarrassed to…entertain the activity again with their companions watching everything. Not that there hadn't stolen glances, smiles and brief touching of hands—it almost nauseates him, not from loathing though but from the sheer anxiety of it all. It had been alright though, they had needed to reach Redcliffe in haste, a life hanging in the balance, so on and so forth…
He can hear the Reverend Mother's shrill screeching in his ears in his repose, sermons on sin and lectures about temptations of the flesh. It's almost like a dream now, or some vague nightmare, taking his vows and completing the last remnants of his training as a Templar. It never happened though, thank the Maker, if it had he wouldn't be here now staring at a wall thinking about her—he'd be off in prayer, deep in self flagellation over the thoughts that currently invaded his mind.
Thoughts of her, wondering if she wouldn't mind if he took her under the shade of a tree, and kissed her…and let your hands wander to the curve of her hip, the swell of her well formed backside, her lips swollen and flushed—her breath hot on your ear…
A series of knocks shakes him from his reverie as he jumps up, flustered, crossing the room to wrench open the door. He has cross words ready to exchange with whomever has so rudely interrupted his respite, they die on his lips though as his eyes take in the sight of Belai standing before him, a pigtail caught between her fingers and her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"Hi."
"Hello."
She shifts her weight from foot to foot and coughs, "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"
"No! No, not at all…I was umm…just freshening up." Belai nods and looks past him at his room, and then slowly back at him, questioning.
"Would you—would you like to come in?" Alistair asks stuttering, she nods wordlessly again and steps inside. He closes the door behind them, feeling very much akin to a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar.
For a moment they simply look at each other, they've done this a lot in the past few days he has noticed. He can feel himself flushing down to his very core as he stares intently at the cut of her breeches (if they could be called that) that end a few inches above the knee, exposing her legs fully to him; her blue linen tunic billows around her, swallowing her petite frame but failing to really hide it. It's a lace up, but the first few laces are united granting him a view of her delicate collar bone and the silver pendant she hasn't taken off since she received it from the shade Shianni in the Gauntlet. He wonders, again, if she has any idea of the effect she has on him.
"So what did you and Teagan talk about?" Alistair finds himself blurting out, moving away from the door to sit once more on his bed. She shrugs and turns her body towards the window, gazing outwards intently.
"What anyone ever wants to talk about with me, the Blight, the civil war. Their amazement that I'm an elf, you know the usual." She goes back to fiddling with one of her pigtails, he frowns.
"You know, not everyone wants to talk about those things with you."
"There's nothing else to talk about."
"Sure there is."
"Like what?"
"Like…" Alistair trails off and Belai scoffs.
"See, I told you, there's nothing," she walks over to where he sits and plops down ungracefully, as she always does, tucking her legs under each other Antivan style.
"Well, that's certainly not what I always want to talk to you about…" he looks down at his hands, the gash he received a few days ago still purpling, a very angry cut that he never bothered to take to Wynne.
"Oh? Say now we were to talk about something, what would it be about?"
It comes out before he even has time to censor himself, "Well, I'd start off telling you how beautiful you are, and depending on whether or not that went over well, well I'd—" He dares to lift his head and look at her, and it's so priceless—her fingers paused in mid twirl of her hair, her mouth slightly agape and a sufficient flush that's spread from her cheeks to her neck.
"—you think I'm…beautiful?" she asks quietly, lowering her eyes.
"Do I think? No my lady, have you received an injury to your head in the last skirmish? I do not simply think, I know." Idly he runs his hand through his hair again, swallowing loudly as to find moisture for his throat that's gone dry. "—and well, beautiful doesn't quite describe it as well as I'd like, but it will have to do since I am so poor with my words."
"Oh." There is a pregnant pause, filled with questions and tensions as they sit side by side on his bed, alone together.
"Here," she fishes into her pocket, exposing the flat plane of her stomach to him again, she holds out the object to him. Tentatively he takes it, cradling it in-between his palms he stares down at it for a moment before it dawns on him.
"This is…my mother's amulet," Alistair says slowly, holding it up to the dying sunlight he sees the cracks the tarnished silver is ridden with, but recognizable anywhere is Andraste's flame. "Why isn't it broken? And where did you find it?"
"Well, I was in the Arl's study with Teagan, consulting the almanac when I happened upon it." Belai replies softly. He's still wordless as he comprehends what this means, the tiny cracks, the tarnished surface—it shouldn't exist; he had destroyed it in his childish fury, hadn't he? But there it was, cracked and tarnished but it was hers once, his mother.
"Why would he…why would he keep it, why would he repair it? I don't…I don't understand."
She motions towards the amulet, meeting his eyes again. "Perhaps you mean more to him than you think Alistair, maybe he thought that one day he could give it to you and maybe you'd—"
"Forgive him," Alistair finishes, he exhales the breath he's been holding and feels stupid again. Stupid for what he did all those years ago, ridiculous for jealousy he feels and…surprised, she actually remembered. Something inside of him feels heavy; his heart beats rapidly in his chest and something akin to hunger gnaws at his stomach. "Thank you, I mean it. I thought I'd lost it forever, hopefully when this is all over I can talk to him about this." He laughs on impulse, surprised still that she had even taken the time pilfer through the Arl's things, it's a bad habit she has but it's more curiosity than maliciousness –in this instance it would be rude to complain about her activities now.
"I just…I'm so used to people not really listening to me when I go on about things."
"Well," a wry smile works its way on to her face, the one he's grown accustomed to when she decides to be cheeky. "People ignore you, and people won't leave me alone. I guess it balances out."
"Yes I guess it does."
"Hmm? I'm sorry did you say something?"
"Ha-ha, very funny fearless leader. Is this the part where the minstrels appear and we start dancing?"
"I hate dancing." She shudders and sticks her tongue out in disgust. Alistair nods mutely in agreement.
"Well, are you going to put it on?"
He holds it in front of him again and tries fingering the clasp open, his fingers are too large and he can see her suppressing laughter at his clumsy attempts to get it around his neck.
"Here," she holds out her hands to him, he hands it to her delicately, her expert digits make quick work of the clasp—she leans into him, her head on his shoulder, he stares unabashedly at the bareness of her collarbone, again.
Alistair thinks back to the things he's read, the stolen passages memorized for moments like this he had only hoped for. Belai's breath dances along his ear and neck as lightly, the hands he's fallen in love with secure the heirloom she recovered for him. Lately he's more apt to fail in trying to help himself with her, his hands move to her arms, gripping them lightly as he inhales the sweet and spicy scent her scalp exudes. She makes a noise in her throat as she pulls back, the stubble on his cheek rubbing against the nape of her neck. They're eyes are locked again, her eyes plead actions, he sees this, suspended orbs dark against the white, open but at the same time—a closed door. He's so slow, (but it's not from not trying) and its taken lifetimes for him to understand that kind of look in a person's eyes—what it can mean.
With her though, it can be a myriad of things, and the memory of the snow a few scant days ago compels him to find out if his assumptions are correct. It's just a tilt, an incline of his neck that makes the meeting of their lips possible— for she is already there waiting to move as he moves; his heart jumps, leaps as the memorized passages are thrown promptly into the mental garbage pile.
Acceptance is a beautiful thing, and it's the thing he's desired the most, from her especially, and by the Maker if he hasn't just received it a tenfold over when the slight sigh escapes her. It's gentler this time, there's no sadness tinged on it like before or the nervousness of the event, just exploring the intricate patterns and texture sprawling across her lips as first time kissing conspirators should.
Alistair is vaguely aware of Belai shifting forward, her arms are around his neck—she's instantly flawless, pressed into the angles of his body, breaths exchange; a pressure is building in the deepest parts of him and Alistair reckons to explode at a moment's notice as she emboldens him with her ministrations. He's been sampling a pocketful of some confection they picked up in Denerim, it tastes like pure sugar but dissolves and tastes like honey, her idle chewing's of cinnamon are repaid in kind with his own boldness, a swipe of his tongue along her lower lip—the flavors dance between them, in their wanting mouths, caramelizing.
He wants to taste all of her, not just the new sovereign Alistair spawned in the wake of their exchanges, but the waking man who pulls her in tighter—demanding more. She doesn't stop him, isn't shy, he doesn't know what to say about it. It's something so completely foreign, but entirely breathtaking as moist softness yields and the touching of their tongues spreads a red hot flush across their skin. Too much, too much, slow down… Alistair tries to pull back, murmuring her name pleadingly.
Belai doesn't let him pull back though, she pushes forward. He's sucking in a sharp breath he finds himself flat on his back on the bed with her above him, hands resting on his chest. An audible smack of their mouths disengaging rings in his buzzing ears as his breath comes out heavy and hers erratic. It's too fast, he knows this, they're still like very acquainted strangers, knowing much but only understanding what needs to be understood, he can't stop it though—the feeling, multitudes of sensations laden and associated with one single emotion. No—I must slow, slow down, oh please don't do that…"Belai I—" She presses a finger to his lips, silencing him—it isn't necessary though, he's already speechless and entranced by the visage of her and her hips pressed snugly into his own.
In this vision, hazy and filled with words he doesn't care to mention, at least not yet, it's here he notices that the both of them have changed. Alistair has felt it, gradually becoming more apparent as each day passes in each other's company; the ease, the comfort, the knowingness that feels quite a bit older then it is—part of him wonders if it is the taint singing in their veins and drawing them inwards, is hesitant, the other part doesn't care. He wants, no he needs, to throw caution to the bloody wind and simply tell her, so much stands in the way though, the implications.
They are Grey Wardens, their life is not truly their own anymore and what they feel could only lead to distractions, lead them away from their true purpose. It already has, sometimes the Blight is only a passing cloud over the horizon, in his dreams they are undaunted and he is brave—in dreams though, only. It is a sweet mirage though, like the moment he witnessed not moments before, the Captain and his faithful wife, fearless and complete under the shade of an apple. It's these reasons, and more that he pushes down every bit of want and desire, calms his heart, stills his beating heart.
Belai's lips are hovering above his again, too knowing, the word he doesn't want to use hangs in the air between them—black marble, cool and reflective, she's reading his thoughts (thought not truly) because Alistair cannot hide them as their eyes meet.
"We can't," he hoarsely whispers, his body in a mire of arousal still as his brain feebly tries to command it. It wounds her, her head bows in defeat as she gingerly slides off of him to sit once again at his side. He trembling swallows, his hands shaking, body a whole mess of nerves. "Believe me, I want to, but it's all so... I mean, it's just been so—"
"I understand." Her voice is steady and like steel, but he can hear the undercurrents of something dangerous in her tone, she doesn't look at him. "I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable, it was not my desire to do so…" she pauses, and stands up. "It will not happen again."
Before he can even come up with a retort she is gone, slippers slapping against stone, her door slamming causes Alistair to flinch. He simply does not know what to say, his strangely conflicted mind is all but silent now as his body is still raging—needing release. Drawing in a shaky breath he lumbers to his door and closes it quietly, fastening the bolt, he makes quick work of the window too—the velvet curtain pulled down eclipses him in complete darkness. His body still hurts as he lies down once more, weariness of battle and the torrid effects she has left on him.
Grabbing a pillow from above him he curls in on himself, face half buried into the pillow, body rigid, he closes his eyes, thinks—of her, images that slide inside his mind so easily he gasps at his own state of being, he won't last long. Though he never does, he used to when the fantasies were of his own conjuring and not based off of a reality that could have happened. Should have happened, he groans weakly into the pillow as he quickens his pace, if he had not been so honorable. There is no room left in his mind for it now though, not when his eyes are shut so tight…
Alistair imagines them in their own piece of shade, their own apple tree. Belai is leaning against the tree casually, but considering him carefully (or maybe it's predatory, often people are not as they are in dreams, rather how the dreamer deems them) and slowly devouring an apple she has plucked from above. Of course, in his dreams he is more daring, he leans into her, an arm resting over her head she offers the apple out to him; he moves to take a bite, but there is a flash of a smile and she takes the bite herself. Munching happily, crunching with vigor, juice drips down her chin—the very most center of her eyes has disappeared into the rest of the darkness surrounding it, washed over in lust.
He breathes, the word is there now, and he can say it in his fantasy, lust. Alistair has thought of this scenario before, and will probably do so again, the times before were much more tender though—this Alistair is not, he is angry with himself, in the waking world, it ripples to this sacred place of his he has imagined for them. He uses his mouth as a tool, sucking and licking the juice that has trickled down her chin and neck, eliciting quiet gasps from her.
This is all pretend, he doesn't know, but he wants to, these secret places on her body that would quench the starvation in them both.
Dream Belai drops the apple, wholly enthralled with what his own dream self is doing to her, covering the top part of her breasts with kisses she holds him in place, shaking, quietly saying his name. "Alistair…Alistair…" He is on his knees now, practically ripping the ties of her tunic, exposing the more lightly colored flesh, shadows from the leaves above and his hands caress the pert, soft mounds; they fit perfectly over them, cupping and squeezing, he can only hope the rough texture of his hands would drive her mad. She pushes him backwards, none too gently, he lands in the soft dewy grass and she is atop of him, her mouth covering his own, working to rid the material separating their skin…
Snapping back into the waking world he is almost sobbing into his pillow, his movements furious as he builds towards release…she's guiding him inside of her, his hands everywhere, on her breasts, on her hips, lost in-between the fraction of an inch that separates them…He arches into his own touch, the pillow muffling the sound as he pants her name, utterly spent.
He ghost kisses his fist, pretending again, stifling the feelings of guilt and sadness that wash over him.
There's more to this, more to her, more to them, Alistair realizes. Grey Warden or no, he can't ignore her, not when he's already given so much of himself, not with what she has done for him. His eyes grow heavy with sleep, covering his modesty with a blanket he stares at the wall again—that divides them, knowing that he denied her in his own fear; fear that was reduced to another word he wasn't quite ready to say or think of in this world.
A.N2: I hope that wasn't too terrible! I've only written a handful of smut, I enjoyed writing it at least. ;) Until next time....