Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: The Landsmeet is officially done and over with~ This is the previous chapter expanded through Assan's POV. This poor character just pops up randomly, please to forgive. I do like this though, probably the end worked out nicely, I think. That said, hope you like it. The next chapter will take a bit to come out.
In this chapter: She is his and she cannot be alone.
030.
The scent in this room is disgusting. The taste is worse. It tastes like salt and death, poison and bitterness. It feels like salt crammed in his fur and he doesn't like it.
"I was the one to spare him. Don't I have a say in this?" Salt, it threatens to spill over, he feels. Her sadness, his sadness, it's the same thing. His elf might look like etched in snow and ice but snow and ice melt and spill over just like anything else. It is why he is there when no one else is. Mabari cannot cry.
"His life, yes. And I don't presume to know why you took that option." Hey, not nice! That was harmful. So would be a bite right about now. Assan takes a look at his elf's face. Just a little bite? Small nip?
Hand tap on his head. Warning. How does she do that? He doesn't like it.
"What else can we both do?" Many things. She has good claws, his elf. She beat him once too – and that's thought with pride – she can do it again. Twice. Thrice and until he's dead and not dangerous. Once more to make sure. "He can be sent to Orlais after the Blight is over. You will not have to see it. But more than that, you will need another before this ends."
Yes. Well, maybe they should both notice the idiot's watching as they talk and the enemy's outside. Smart.
"Trust me."
That sounds funny. Stupid and funny. Trusting humans is like trusting a snake, it changes, it moves, it bites the hand that feeds it. See the knight? – King? Bastard? Not so sure anymore. Assan thought he could protect once. Now, he doesn't. He dislikes humans just as the elf, he stares at the woman in concern, pulls against her, glares at the idiot and the elder at random intervals. One thing he has learned with all of this. The elf taught him. Don't trust humans.
The conversation shifts into an argument which he doesn't bother to get. Idiot is talking and usually, he tunes her out. Spares his mind, spares his patience and his elf is more than strong enough to deal with her. He just moves when blood feels the air again, when the elf leaves and he follows. The blood is familiar. Its scent is familiar. Assan finds himself watching, curious eye, slow and confused as it is given to the enemy. Poison. Is she poisoning him? Yes? Yes.
The enemy falls.
It breathes, it pales, it doesn't die and his elf's teeth grind against each other as if she's biting an enemy. This is bad. He doesn't understand why it's bad but it just is, like the scent of blood or the links being formed.
"He will live, sister." The scent. Bitter like poison. She bites harder.
Assan remembers when her scent changed. He was sick, she was weak and he remembers watching her walk away while storing her scent away. He would follow her. She had saved him and she was his. He could save her too. But when he had met her again – older, stronger, lost and found – she smelt differently. It's the cup. The cup and blood, the mage's scent changing from bland to bitter in a shower of pain. Yes. The blood connects them. He's so smart.
"The mage is stronger than it seems." Who would believe that? "He will also live."
They smell kind of the same now – mage, elf, enemy and elder. Similar with an undertone of individuality. Similar but she is still alone. Without the bastard she's all alone – …bastard. Bastard works. The mage is there but he doesn't understand things that well. The enemy is the enemy just like the elder is just an elder. They have the blood but cannot be companions.
She's alone and blood is the key. Ah well, he thinks prodding the forgotten goblet. What's the worst that can happen?
"Assan! Assan, what is…?"
It burns. It burns like before, the day he bit too hard and too deep, the day he swallowed without remembering he's not supposed to. But it's worse this time, so much worse. It's like his body doesn't carry blood but liquid fire, up and down, from his head to every limb, paw and tail. It hurts because his elf is on her knees, shaking his form and yelling his name. "Assan, you stupid dog. Did he swallow? We need to…" Shut up. Shut up is a good idea. Ow.
Unknown hands touch his neck, his fur, his ears, his mouth carefully in this make-shift examination. He is not a horse to be sold, moron. Not a horse. Not stupid.
His scent changes slowly, bitterly and in pain. Mabari cannot cry. Why does he feel that he can?
"You don't need to worry. He will also live."
To be a better Grey than you. Assan tries to bark but whines like a pup. Undignified.
His elf taps his head strongly – ow – her expression annoyed while iron replaces the bitter flavor which now they share. Angry. Iron is always anger. "You foolish dog. It better be hurting." There's iron for anger, there's salt for worry and sadness – why sad? – and underneath it all, very deep, so hidden he can only feel it when she places his head on her lap, there is something like grass. Wild. Happy. Belonging.
The right thing. See? He knows it.
"You foolish silly dog."
Smart. Smart dog, much smarter than you, than him, definitely more than him and even him. One day, they will understand. Younglings.
Assan closes his eyes slowly. When he sleeps, he dreams of lowlands.