Warning: NSFW

When Nesiara returned home with the fabric she had bought for their wedding clothes, she found her husband at the table folding a section of parchment. The ink and quill had already been stored away. "What's this?" she asked, setting the canvas bag on the cabinet shelf.

"I'm writing a prayer."

Curious, she looked over his shoulder, watching his hands bend the paper into intricate folds. "Writing a prayer? I thought you didn't like the Chantry."

"I don't. It's not a prayer for them. Shoo," he said hunching his shoulder over his work. She laughed.

She glanced over and noticed the pattern he was making matched the ones she had seen hung from the vhenadahl. She had thought the decorations odd as she'd passed the tree the day before, thinking to herself that they must have prettier things to hang there. Yet another reminder that she still had a lot to learn about this alienage. Knowing his weakness, she gently lifted the hair off his neck and started to glide her lips along his skin. Though he tried to hide his reaction, his fingers turned clumsy. When she got to his ear, gliding her lips as light as a breath along the shell, he dropped the folded paper. "But I want to know," she whispered.

"No," Raviathan said softly, and she knew she had him. If she over did it, he'd take her to their bed and there would be no finding out, so instead of nibbling his ear, she lightly ran her nose up the long outer curve. He trembled, his soft spoken voice growing quieter, "It's considered bad luck."

It was enough that he would give in, so she sat next to him. "Bad luck? What sort of prayer is this?"

Raviathan bit his lips. "It's for the vhenadahl. When there's something we're grateful for, we write a prayer and hang it on the tree. It's… " he fumbled for a good way to describe the practice. "It's like opening your heart to the world, to the good things out there."

"To the Maker?"

He nibbled his lip as he made another two folds. "I suppose. I know some people do, like lighting a candle at the Chantry. But the Chantry candle is more for good wishes for loved ones or hopes. I guess you could make it to whoever you want."

Nesiara grinned a flirtatious smile to get him to open up a bit more. "What about you?"

The look she got in return, a reluctant but impish smile, told her he knew exactly what she was doing but was enjoying it anyway. "I… I guess the Maker might be in there. I sort of make mine to the world at large and whatever good spirits might be listening. It isn't to anything in particular. I think the act is more important than who it's to. It's valuable to recognize the good things in your life."

"Like what?"

"What do people write in their prayers?" She nodded. "Oh, different things obviously. The birth of a child, if you've been prosperous, or a sick relative gets better. It can be for something simple, like you hear a bit of music or see a sunset and it reminds you of how beautiful the world can be. It's meant for anything that makes you realize your life is worthy, the things that touch your heart, give you inspiration and lift you up. You know those moments? Sort of like when you step back and stop thinking about yourself and you just exist in a good moment, and for that time, there's nothing but happiness. And the prayer is to give thanks that, to be grateful for the gifts you receive in life."

"So why is it bad luck?"

"It's not. Well, the prayer itself isn't," Raviathan amended. He looked at her pensively then shook his head. "How you can stand to be without a vhenadahl at Highever I'll never understand."

Nesiara cocked her head at him, but she was beginning to get a sense of the tree's place here. At first she'd thought it little more than a pretty thing, all decorated and cared for, a permanent version of the solstice tree that humans kept in their homes during the month of Haring. Now, she was starting to realize that although the elves here didn't see it, they had a tendency to center their lives around that tree. It was very subtle, and Nesiara was going by intuition and impressions, but the vhenadahl was more than just a focal point in the alienage.

Maybe she was imagining it, too much of her artist's eye coming out as her mother would say, but she got feeling that the arrangement of the alienage interior made a strange, organic sense. The buildings weren't haphazardly constructed as she had always thought when she was in Highever. The old buildings in Highever resembled those here in Denerim, but the randomness of the new additions built at Highever during her lifetime gave the whole place a different feel. At this alienage there was an echo of the tree in the placement of homes, the way they grew out in branches and had roots. At first it seemed chaotic, but as it became more familiar, it started to make an intuitive sort of pattern. "Will you show me?"

Raviathan sighed, and his shoulders hunched. "You're not suppose to see it. That's the bad luck part. A prayer needs to be made from your heart. It has to be pure. If another person sees it, it's like you're showing off. Then you have people making prayers because they want something, or to show they're sorry rather than saying it, or to prove something. The last is really bad. You know how humans try to show off how pious they are by building bigger Chantries or giving more expensive things to the fire as if it was really their sacrifice to Andraste? Plus all that wealth was made from someone else's labor and is wasted in a fire. They do it to show off to others, how much money they have, how 'noble' they are. They don't do it because they really believe. Showing a prayer taints it and takes away its honesty."

"Please? I want to know how to do it." He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Please, Rav? What you wrote, and the reason you wrote it won't change. I want to make a prayer for…"

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't tell me. Just write it down, and I'll show you how to fold it."

"Alright," Nesiara said a little taken aback. So this was the serious stuff. He kissed her temple and got the writing material. "Can it be a wish?"

"No," he said. "Wishes are what you want. These prayers are for what you receive. Sometimes gifts come in unexpected ways. If you're full of expectations, then you're less likely to see a gift when you receive it." Raviathan bit his lips looking at her. She was struck again by how much emotion could be contained in his large eyes, and it made her feel still and wondering.

He said hesitantly, "Maybe this isn't the best example. In fact it's probably a really horrible example, but it's what came to mind. I know a woman. She really loved being a mother, especially when her child was young. Loved every minute of it, but she was only able to have the one daughter. She was always a little sad about that, and she often talked about how she wished she could have those years over again. If the circumstances were different, she might have helped with the orphanage. She always regretted having to leave for work every day, not spending more time with her daughter, especially after her daughter left to be married. She would never get that time back.

"One day she received word that her daughter had died of pneumonia. She was heartbroken. Her one little girl was gone." Raviathan blinked rapidly, his eyes bright in the dark room. "She's grieving, and she'll always grieve for her daughter. There isn't anything that can replace that person in her heart. In the letter, her son in law asked her to come to his alienage. You see, he has two children now, one just a few months old. There isn't any way for him to care for the children, not when he has to work.

"It's a tragedy, and there's no erasing that. But she would never have seen her grandchildren otherwise, only heard about them in letters. She'd have to work, and the only time she would be able to visit would be when she's too old to make the journey. Now she's going to be there with them, watch them grow. She won't have to trade off with an aunt because she has to work. In fact, she's going to be the one other mothers look to when they need help or advice. She's going to be respected in the alienage, and she's going to be doing something a hundred times more satisfying than cleaning a bann's chamber pot.

"She could spend her life wishing for the time back with her daughter, but that's never going to happen. Whatever life she wished for her daughter, she had no control over. She can let this make her bitter, or she can spend the rest of her days in sorrow. I'm not saying she doesn't have the right to grieve. Not at all. But all those wishes… It's normal to want things. We all do that. But you don't shouldn't open your heart to things you want. It's just a way to make yourself bitter, and it can blind you to what you receive. That's why these prayers are always in gratitude, because it makes your heart open to the joy in the world." Raviathan bit his lips and looked down at his hands. "Does… does that make sense?"

Nesiara took a long, slow breath to consider. While she thought, Raviathan went back to folding the paper. It was a rather pretty and intricate sort of braid. The paper was very thin and delicate with his pen scratchings making visible patterns through the folded surface. She could make out a few letters but little else. What was he giving thanks for? The paper was thin enough that it would dissolve in rain, which was probably intentional. The tree wouldn't get cluttered and the prayers would dissolve instead of falling to the muddy ground. "Okay. I know what I want to write."

He smiled up at her and finished the series of folds so he could put it down without losing his work. He placed the ink, quill, and a tattered old turkey feather in front of her then very carefully cut off a section of the paper with a knife. "It's thin, so be careful as you write. Once you're done, give it a minute to dry, then fold it in half with the writing on the inside, then fold again. Make sure you remember what you wrote so you can say it at the vhenadahl."

"Is there a particular way I should phrase this?" Nesiara asked touching the paper to get a feel for how it would take the ink.

"These are private, so I don't know how others would phrase it. I usually just start with 'Thank you for…' then say how this has touched you or why it's special." Getting the sense that he was hiding something, she gave him a look. He squirmed under her gaze then said in an embarrassed undertone, "Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with…"

Why did he try to hide this more poetic side of himself? Still, it was nice to know it was there, and that with a little prodding he was willing to share it with her. She made her letters small so she could fill the paper.

Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with such an amazing husband. I love his kindness and sensitivity. I love how he is sweet and thoughtful. Thank you for making him so handsome and for the warmth that fills my chest whenever I see him. Thank you for taking away my fears and giving me this gift in its place.

Nesiara blew on the paper gently to speed the drying process. She folded it as he had instructed just as he was finishing his own. Seeing she was finished, he smiled at her, and she felt the familiar tingle that arose whenever he gave her that smile. He got up to lean over behind her for the folding demonstration. "The paper is this wide, so remember to make all your folds that wide." As he demonstrated, Nesiara realized that the pattern was more like a series of knots rather than folds. After seeing three knots, she made the fourth under his gaze, then a fifth. "You've got it."

His hands rested on her shoulders, his fingers slipping under the top of her dress as he watched her fold. He didn't do more than that, but as she worked, Nesiara kept wanting him to either reach further down and play with her breasts or start slowly undoing the buttons that held her dress up. Every once in a while he would shift. They were tiny movements, but it was incredibly distracting when she wanted him to do other things. His hands left when she was two thirds of the way done. "The fold is different here. When you hang the paper up, it has to fold inside like this," he said demonstrating. "That way you can loop it around a branch."

"Makes sense."

"Then the rest is the same kind of folds you've been doing."

"Got it." Then, instead of his hands with their tender invasion, his fingertips caressed her bare shoulders. Sometimes she felt impossibly lustful around him. She wanted him to touch her and undress her, right there in the main room. How could he respect a wife like that? But then he would look at her with hunger, like he never seemed to have enough. She continued to work under his supervision, and she wondered why this lighter touch seemed worse than when his fingertips had gone under her dress. The thick, many layered cloth of her dress helped hide the aroused points of her breasts but chaffed her too.

"Okay," said Raviathan. "Now the final fold." His breath had been right next to her ear while he was touching her. A tiny outrage sparked in Nesiara's chest. No wonder his touch seemed worse. He had been teasing her, and she hadn't even known why she was so affected.

His hands wrapped around hers to demonstrate the last knot that served to keep the paper from unraveling. His lips weren't touching her ear, but she could feel the lightness of his breath. Instead of fantasizing about what she wanted him to do, Nesiara took perverse pleasure in the frustration he was causing. "There. If you're ready, we can go hang them up."

Raviathan left to look over the fabric she had gotten. Nesiara examined at the pretty little folded prayer she had made. "So. What was yours?"

"I told you. It's bad luck to say."

Nesiara got up to tease it out of him but stopped when she caught the hard little grin he was trying to hide. "You knew exactly what you were doing to me," she accused putting her hands on her hips.

Raviathan looked at her out of the corner of his eye, mischief written all over his dark features. "You little tart. Did you think I was going to let you get away with all that teasing?"

"Tart am I? Cad."

He couldn't suppress his smile anymore, and she swatted him on the shoulder. It only made him laugh outright, and he grabbed her around the waist and spun. She ended up pressed against him, his lips parting hers. His eyes softened as he gazed at her. "We still have a couple hours before sunset."

"Do we now? But I need to measure for your clothes. Indeed, dear husband. You'll have to be patient while I take all sorts of measurements."

He kissed her again, his hands slowly roaming down her back and over her rump. "I can't wait for summer when you have to wear less clothing."

She tried to wiggle away in mock offense, but his arms were like iron around her. "How dare you call me a tart. You brute. Unhand me. I should run off to the Dalish."

She had only managed to get turned around, and when he pressed her close, she could feel him hard through their clothes. "I'll hunt you down, wife," he said low next to her ear.

At the sound of his voice, she melted. She grabbed the chair top for support, and her bottom pressed against his pelvis. She could feel him there, hard and pressing her dress into her. He let out a growl then her skirts were up. The cool air hit her bare legs, and he had a hand inside her small clothes, pulling them down. Here? Oh no, no, no. It was wrong. This was the family place. How would she ever be able to sit at the table again without blushing? Dinner tonight was going to be so awkward.

She felt his thighs slide along the back of her legs and was surprised by the deep wanting moan that came from her own throat. One of his hands was working with clumsy fury at her dress buttons, and she thought he'd rip them off the way he pulled and struggled. It was wrong to do this here. What if someone came in? She hadn't locked the door, and his cousins tended to just walk in without knocking. What if his father came home early? His length brushed over her buttocks, and her hips thrust back in newly awakened instinct.

The top of her dress was undone and fell, the buttons making a small tick as they hit the chair. He pulled her shift down roughly and squeezed her breast. A strangled cry escaped him as his palm roamed against her stiff nipple. "Ness," he whispered and pressed hard against her. She felt his bare thighs, his fine skin sliding against her own, and his pants crumpled about his knees. If someone came in, how would they ever explain this?

Frustrated, he pulled back her hip, his hand keeping her chest upright so her back arched. She wondered at the picture she presented, her body contorted, presenting her sex as eagerly as a demon of lust. His hands cupped her buttock, squeezed, then delved between her legs. He had touched her so many times since that first night together, enough that she knew the pleasure his fingers could bring, but each time she felt terribly shy. She liked the shyness though. A part of her reveled when he took over like this, like he couldn't stop himself. She only had to say one word, and he would stop. They both knew that, so she was safe to play. She could be the chaste virgin or the nymph, that she was desired in all her incarnations. Now, she was his uncontrollable desire. She didn't have to be anything, only exist, to feel her husband's need, a force as primal as the need for water or sleep.

His fingers reached in, their very foreignness, of another person touching her, raised her awareness of her own sex. She felt her own wetness through him, her heat by the cool of his fingers, the sensitivity of her skin by the touch of his. "Ness."

Belonging overwhelmed her. I am his. I am his desire, his need. She pressed back to feel his fingers slide along the folds of her sex. His mouth was open on her ear. Without looking, she knew the expression on his face. Eyes heavy lidded, mouth open in dazed pleasure, mind nearly lost, as beautiful as a saint given deliverance, and all because of her. His lips moved along her ear, searching up for the point. She had to arch further so he could reach her ear, which further opened her body to him. His fingers roamed inside her once more before retreating. Then she felt his own sex pressing into her.

With one breast in his firm grip, his other hand held her high on her bare hip to keep her dress up, he joined their bodies. A warmth spread through her, and his fingers reached the mound of her sex. Just a little more. His other hand caressed and teased her taut nipple, sometimes scratching lightly, playing with her in the most maddening way. When his fingers entered between her legs, they did the same. Light little caresses that tightened her whole body. His breath was heavy against the back of her neck, and when she tightened slightly around his fingers and pushed back into him, he groaned with a deep ache. His lips caressed her bare neck.

So sweet, she thought. He's so incredibly sweet. She moved, tightening as she pulled him out, opening to take him in. She wanted to spread her legs apart more, but it felt like her small clothes had gotten hooked around her boots. She tried to wiggle them off a bit, but after the first fumbling attempts decided that she wasn't willing to stop just for that. Instead she arched her back and squeezed her legs together. Raviathan groaned, "Oh sweet bloody Maker's tits." She almost laughed, but he seized her by the shoulder and started pumping quickly. Her breasts bounced, their small shifting weight making her more aware of them. She was a woman, and all the things that marked women when she was a child were now hers: their curved bodies with hips and breasts, their hidden knowledge. The secrets of women were hers to know.

Her climax came in a burst of pressure that pulled her in heavy waves. She dropped over the chair, tight and weak, her trembling legs wanting to buckle. Raviathan held her up, the wet from her sex on his fingers and now on her hip. She looked up and saw their prayers on the table, curled from the knot work. Thank you, Maker. Her husband pressed against her back, his arms folding around her. He nuzzled the back of her neck, kissing her lightly. Thank you, Maker.

He stood back, leaving the intimacy of her body. Her skirts slid back down, feeling rough after knowing his smooth skin. He kissed the back of her neck, his lips sliding along her shoulder, and held her, a hand cupping her breast as he did in sleep. It was tender and caring, and she was struck by how protected she felt in his presence. Nesiara took his hand and kissed his fingers. "Cad," she whispered.

"Tart," he said hugging her from behind. "Don't you dare run off to find the Dalish."

She wrapped her arms around his. "Not without you."

"Deal." She started to leave but then fell when her legs caught.

"Ness!" Raviathan's arms were there to get her righted. She moved awkwardly trying to get her balance with her legs impaired, grabbing the chair which scraped hard against the floor. Raviathan got her balanced, but then took a step only to find his pants around his knees. With a surprised "ahh!" he fell on his butt. They looked at each other for a moment then started laughing. Nesiara slowly went to her knees then lay over his chest. Raviathan smiled at her, his large eyes twinkling. He asked, "Are you alright?"

"Sure. My small clothes got caught around my boots. What about you?"

He laughed putting one arm up to cushion his head and another around her waist. "Extremely happy, my wife."

"I like that better than tart."

"But you're such a good tart," he said laughing. "Sweet and yummy. This summer I'll make you strawberry and custard tarts, and you'll never complain again."

Her face puckered at him, but she was laughing. "I like my other nickname better."

"My sweet Ness it is then."

She started to do up the top of her dress, but he rolled her on her back, pining her hand. His mouth doing wonderful things to her breast that made her writhe. "You have the most gorgeous body, my sweet Ness."

"I can't believe we just did that here." She started laughing under his continued attention. "There's no end to you, Rav. Let me get dressed."

"Why should I? You're a vision."

She couldn't get enough of his hungry gaze or the power she felt from it. She struggled halfheartedly, more wanting to feel his desire than wanting to cover up. He didn't let her, and another bout of fondling left her pliant in his arms.

"You know, I haven't been on the floor since I turned twelve. I would sit over there and listen to my mother's stories," Raviathan said gesturing.

"What kind of stories?"

"Some about Tevinter. More about different fables. Like how the stars got their names or tricksters. Some were about my family, but those were rare. Most died in the escape, and it made her sad to talk about them," Raviathan said as he absently caressed her hair. "I have one that's my favorite. I think it was my mother's favorite too."

"I want to hear it."

He smiled at her, gentle and sweet in a way that made her forget everything else existed except the two of them. "Well, dark skin is common in Tevinter. That's why Alarith is dark too."

"Did he come here with your family?"

"No. He's from further south than my family. Almost the same story too. His family were escaped slaves, and most died on the way. He came to Denerim when he was five, and he says he was rescued by the Dalish."

"Do you think that's true?" Nesiara asked.

"Why not? My mother had a story about the Dalish when she was escaping. That's another good one, but for later. Usually dark skin and brown eyes tend to go together. As far as I can tell, it seems dark humans almost always have brown eyes and dark hair unless it's gone grey from age. Our eyes though," he said batting his eyelashes at her, "are special. My family doesn't come from just any slaves. The house that owned my mother had been breeding a line of elves for many, many generations to create the perfect bard."

"So your mother's family were entertainers?"

"Bards are more than that. She had to be beautiful for one, and there was no one that was more beautiful than her. I'm not just saying that because she was my mother. All children think their mothers are beautiful, but she was someone extraordinary. Ask anyone in the alienage. She also had to be an accomplished singer, all around musician, dancer, and all the other things that go into entertaining, which she taught me. But a bard is also a spy and thief. The act of entertaining is just subterfuge, a way of gaining access or method of persuasion. So not only was she beautiful and a talented performer, she was an incredible athlete. She could move like a prowling cat, quiet as shadows."

Nesiara understood then why his body was so different. "She trained you then? More than music and dance."

Raviathan bit his lips. "She died before I learned much. A little sword work and how to use a bow without shooting myself. Some exercises. She would have taught me more, but she died. My father didn't want me to tell you."

"There seems to be a lot your father doesn't want me to know."

Raviathan took in a long breath. "You understand what it means that I'm going against his wishes. He's worried that… well that I have a reputation as a troublemaker. You said that yourself. He wanted this marriage. So do I, but I don't want to keep secrets from you."

She kissed him. "Thank you, Rav. It means a lot to me."

"Anyway," he said trying to lighten the sadness that had come over him. "I was telling you about my family. So, the Tevinter house was always looking for the most beautiful, the most talented elves in the country, and took the best they could afford. Something like four generations ago, they found two elves who lived by the sea, a boy named Farraige and his sister Derya. Unlike most Tevinters, they had palest skin, so pale they almost looked blue depending on the light. Their hair was midnight black, but most extraordinary were their eyes. Her eyes looked like the sea far away from land. Deep, deep blue. His were turquoise and sometimes shifted color between grays, sea greens, and blues.

"The two of them were strange elves. Sometimes they were calm, still and silently watching. Other times they raged, passionate and out of control. Some said they were bitter because they had no mother, and their father was always in mourning for her. He would pace up and down the shore day and night, his fishing boat forgotten. The children might have starved if not for the father's sister to look out for them.

"Their mother was always a mystery. No one in the village knew where she came from. One day she was there, in the father's house. He was always guarding her, never let her out of the house without him and would lock her in while he went out fishing. Some of the villagers wondered about her, and tried to talk to her, but she didn't speak Tevinter. Or Antivan. She was strange, so pearl pale they thought she was a ghost, but her hair was a black tangle. Her eyes were the most startling thing about her. Huge and shifting colors that were strangely bright. No one could say if she loved the fisherman or not, but while he was out, she would sing. She would always be at the window looking out at the ocean and singing the saddest most haunting melody anyone had ever heard in a language no one understood. She would pace back and forth watching the ocean day and night. Though it troubled the fisherman, he would not let her out.

"In time she bore him a son and then a daughter. After they were born, it seemed that she was at peace. She cared for the children as well as any mother and had stopped constantly watching the ocean. She would sing to her children, gentle lullabies in her own tongue. And so the fisherman left with the house unlocked when he went to town to sell his catch. When he returned that night, his children were screaming. The house was dark with no warming fire and the door was open. The woman was gone without a trace, leaving no clue as to what happened. There were no signs of a struggle. Some say she was kidnapped because, even though she was strange, she was eerily beautiful. Others say he was protecting her, and when he left her unguarded, tragedy struck. The oldest woman of the village said she left her mate and children as she had been waiting to do for years. The father never recovered. He drank and wandered the coast, staring out at the sea as she had done.

"Her children grew up wild, more like wolves than elves. They ran with their feet bare and hair ragged from wind. They weren't afraid of humans. When a slaver came to the village, having heard rumors of the children, he smiled at his fortune. Though strange, they had their mother's eerie beauty. The villagers were scared of the children and so made no protest and did not try to hide them. When the fisherman found out, he went into a mad rage. It had seemed like he had forgotten his children, but at the sight of their being taken away, he lost all sense and attacked the slaver. He was cut down before his children, his blood splattered across them, and that was when they learned to fear. The brother and sister were chained about the neck and led away.

"The slaver was paid enough that he could retire, and the children were used in the house's ongoing breeding program. Derya, the daughter, became weaker as months of captivity wore on her. She had grown up wild and free, and the chains seemed to drain her spirit. The Tevinters knew she would not last long, and though she was too young, they forced her to become pregnant. It was obvious that she would never be trained as a bard for their intrigues, even with her haunting voice, so they hoped for at least one child to enrich the line. Farraige was enraged and killed his sister rather than see her live caged with such men.

"The slave house was furious that such a treasure was lost, and Farraige was beaten within an inch of his life. Had he been a common slave, they would have killed him, but he was the second treasure. Farraige was stronger than his sister, but he too struggled in his life as a slave. He would not be forced to breed of his own will, so the slavers used blood magic. Two of their most promising slaves were impregnated before they lost Farraige. He was stolen by a rival house, and on the way there, jumped from the ship to be lost in the turning waves of the sea.

"His children were all that the slave house had left of their investment. The children both had the dark skin of their mothers, but their hair was black as night and their voices pure as the sky after rain. Most striking were their eyes, and their children's eyes, and so on. It marked their line, elves with eyes the colors of the sea, shifting grey, and blue, and green."

They were quiet for a minute, Raviathan gently stroking Nesiara's hair. "Rav," she said raising up to look at him, her eyes narrowed, "are you telling me that your great, great grandmother was a mermaid?"

He smiled mischievously. "I never said she was a mermaid. Just terribly mysterious." At her skeptical look, Raviathan laughed. "My mother said we have mermaid eyes. My aunt's eyes were a very deep blue, and I take after my mother. I've heard my uncle's were grey blue like stormy seas as were my grandmother's. My aunt would roll her eyes at that story and say, 'there's no such thing as mermaids. Stop filling the boy's head with that nonsense.' But when my mother put me to bed at night, she would whisper, 'mermaid eyes.'"

Nesiara giggled and snuggled into his chest. "Mermaids and rebel slaves. That's so much more exciting than my family. As far back as I know, it's mainly been Highever and Ferelden alienages. Too bad it's such as sad story."

"It's a sad story I know, but most of their stories about Tevinter were horrifying. I think it brought a little mysticism that made their lives bearable. I know it sounds exotic, this whole mermaid thing, but really, their lives were just one horror after another.

"In all their other stories, any slave who attempted to escape was hobbled. They had their feet crushed. That's probably what happened to Farraige. The reality of it, there were two kids who lived in a little village, and because they were beautiful, they saw their father killed, were kidnapped, imprisoned, and raped. Farraige too. And there isn't a single person who wants to know their great grandfather was raped. Imagine you hate your life so much you want to die, but they won't let you do even that. You can't resist because they use blood magic. You don't even have the right to your own life. Hobbled slaves wouldn't be any good anymore as bards, so they played music for the family that had crippled them and were used as playthings and breading cattle.

"You know, Ness, it may sound exotic, but in reality it doesn't feel great that my ancestors were tortured and lived their lives in fear. That they were bred to be murderers or glorified prostitutes. And 'being bred' sounds bad enough, but it's a lot cleaner than forced or raped, which means others were rapists. And no one wants to know they're the product of rapists either. One of the ugliest parts is, that it's still going on. I have relatives I've never met who still live that way, who are still slaves. Sometimes, if I think about their lives, it turns my stomach. It isn't fair that they got left behind while my family was able to make a new life."

Nesiara propped herself up to look at him. His hurt was clear in the way he didn't look at her. "Sweetheart, none of that is your fault. I'm sorry it hurts, but that isn't you. You don't bear any of the shame for that. Honestly, Rav. If one of the children found that out about their parents, would you let them feel shame for it?"

"Of course not," he said while rubbing her exposed back.

"Exactly."

There was a faint, sad smile on his lips when he turned back to her. "Yeah. But I like the mermaid story. I have to accept the ugly part because there's no changing that. And I know it's not my fault, but it still hurts. And there really isn't any such thing as mermaids. The reason I like the mermaid story is because I love my mother and aunt, and the uncle and grandmother I never met. They were real, and they did escape. For all the sadness, Farraige and his sister did escape that life. I think the idea of escape was what helped my mother change the course of her life."

She smiled back at him. "And you're going to tell your children the mermaid story, aren't you."

"I'm also going to tell them how their mother captured the Maker's light and gave it to me as a wedding gift."

She laughed and stretched out along him. "Maker bless you, Rav. You're so easy to love."

"Hey cous…in." Shianni stared wide eyed as the two scrambled on the floor to get their clothes on. Shianni started a slow laugh that kept building as she watched them.

"What is it?" Soris asked from the hall.

"No… nothing," Shianni replied, her lying voice high. "They'll be out in a minute."

"Damn you, Shianni," Raviathan muttered. Nesiara tried to get up only to fall on her butt when her legs got tangled in her small clothes.

Soris peeped over Shianni's shoulder. "Oh for love of the Maker," he said and threw his arms up. "It's so not fair having you for a cousin."

"Not fair?" Shianni asked.

"How are Valora and I supposed to compete with that… that…"

"Shut up!" Raviathan shouted at the two of them. "And get out, you little deviants!" He unhooked Nesiara's small clothes from her boots so she could work them back up as demurely as possible under the circumstances.

Shianni merely rolled her eyes and walked in. "I'm here to help with your wedding clothes, you ingrate. You should have locked the door. And besides, you were supposed to be at my house over an hour ago for fittings."

Nesiara put a hand over her mouth. "I forgot. I just came up to show you the fabric… and then…"

Soris folded his arms, his face squished in a pout. "So not fair."

"Come on," Shianni said, laughter still bubbling in her voice. "Valora is waiting at my place."

Nesiara grabbed the bundle and followed Soris, a deep pink coloring her cheeks. As Shianni was leaving, Raviathan clutched a handful of her apple red hair. She let out cry of surprise and turned to him. He gave her head a little shake as he glared hard enough to break stone. Her full mouth spread wide in a smile, and she started to laugh at him all over again. She pulled him into a hug, and the hand in her hair relaxed as he started to laugh with her. "Cousin, you're worse than an imp."

"Back at you."