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: Dear Lord, I've reached Redcliffe. Isn't that amazing? It's even more amazing managing over 2000 words after not managing two paragraphs. Hrm. This is attempt at romance again. Read but beware of danger of lack of coherency. I would like comments on it. I'm curious about opinions and in-character-ness.
In this chapter: It is all Eamon's fault.
039.
It is Eamon who gives him the answer. It is not unexpected, really. Teagan was practically raised by his older brother, he is used to listen to his advice and follow it to the letter. It is normal, something he does without thinking. He does what is expected most often than not, a part of him he cannot erase even if he tries hard enough. This time, is a little different. He listens, makes his own conclusions, replies to the questions and does the exact opposite. Simply put, he is out of his mind.
He first met her as a Grey Warden. This is a title and meant little bar old tales and faded legends but he had been so horrified, frightened – this, he is free to confess – for his people and for himself, that he was ready to catch each and every trail of a legend if it would help bring a tomorrow for Redcliffe. And there she was – there they were actually. But the remembrance of Alistair he kept close still sported mud on his hair, skinned knees and an oblivious mind. And that little boy cannot look like a legend even if Teagan blinds himself. She, however, was different. Small, imposing, blunt and sharp as nails. And more than that, more than everything else, she hid her fear deep down, well enough so that not even he could see it, an odd sort of courage which bolstered his on that day while waiting for sundown in front of the Chantry.
When the night comes, he meets the warrior. It is not immortal, it is not untouchable as every legend of the Grey Wardens seem to paint them as. It's someone who sweats and bleeds, who curses like a soldier and shouts like a banshee, who pushes others out of the way or pulls them with her when the situation is too dire and they need to back away. A tactician, a murderer, someone belonging to the vanguard of an army and definitely not to the closed Chantry where he guards the survivors – until his courage demands action and he finds himself side by side with the defenders as Eamon would not wish.
On the next day, he is faced with the elf instead. Her helm has been taken out, tattoos and pointed ears and most of her is sarcasm and a dry tongue to those who cross her way. There is suspicion and concern because there are always consequences to one's actions and she is dangerous, they can see that. Fear does things to people. And even though she is being called a hero, he can see in her eyes – in her expression and light contempt – that she doesn't believe others will accept her nearly as easily as the little boy who she found or the sister who she helped. It is still the elf who faces him later on, who faces Isolde, who goes behind everyone's back to keep him safe. As much as possible anyway. He was angry at her that day, Teagan remembers. It makes him smile when nothing else seems capable of forcing him to do so.
It takes weeks for him to meet the mortal. It sits by the old waterfall, so close the edge that a mere touch would send her tumbling down, so close that the water almost touches armor and her hair remains wet and dripping with abandon. He doesn't speak the first time he sees this part of her. Hunched shoulders, words lost in the noise which never stops and that's alright. It is alright to be just a mortal, it is understandable that sometimes the burden is too great and one needs a break. He empathizes. The next time, Teagan sits by the tree and talks to himself, to the tree, to the figure in front of him, leaning ever so carelessly. It takes him a week and a half to make her laugh. It makes him feel proud as if he has just battled an entire horde of darkspawn, foolish as that sounds.
In Denerim, he finds the person. He hears the whispers, knows the rumors, was taught the stories, even knows her family. He finds a girl who is both cousin and daughter, sister and friend and more of an elf than anything he could have thought. He finds an equal, someone who listens to his worries when he cannot find the will to burden others, who doesn't judge him – completely, at least. Though she does tend to enquire far too much at his reasons, annoying as it is. Prod holes into his ideas, push problems into his plans, she's good at that. She also snores, is incredibly self-centered early in the morning unless someone force-feeds her a whole gallon of coffee, irrational when opposed to most types of humans and a set of morals he cannot understand completely even if gifted with a rulebook. Teagan meets someone absolutely normal.
The woman is the last he finds. In the Palace, she is always covered in mail and metal, wandering with both swords like she'll be attacked in every corner. It is like a savage animal all over again, thrown into the chicken cage and forced to become domestic. However, in the Alienage she walks in dresses and ribbons in her hair, curves beneath wool, forms which are more athletic than many, smaller and sharper but he finds his eyes following nevertheless. She is not a girl. She is not a young woman, even. She is a woman, older and wiser and he is a man who has to keep reminding himself that he is also a noble and none of the ideas his eyes gather to his mind are acceptable.
Teagan blames his brother. Before he had been censored, these ideas had not passed through his mind. Or if they had, he had not bothered to pay attention. Now, he knows he shouldn't but his eyes follow, he thinks, he takes notice of little things.
A hand near her elbow, her arm in his – rarely – and that night above the tree when he forgot his fear and focused on hers. Teagan knows his arm is just long enough to encompass her shoulders and then bend lightly, fingers trailing up and down the traces of her skin. Her hair trickles his chin – she is not that tall – her skin is always warmer than his, paler, lighter even after crossing the whole country and he should never, ever have met this woman because now he thinks too much, feels too much and wants that night to repeat itself. Which is madness as Eamon so kindly reminded him. Her skin is soft to his fingers and he wants to touch it simple because touch can be addictive. Her lips are small and barely there as she has the habit to purse them together when annoyed, bite them between sharp teeth when there is something that can't be said. And he wants to see just how small they are, the exact definition and size. He wants to hug her lightly just like that night, not for comfort, not to keep nightmares away but merely because he wants to. Simple things, simple wishes.
Instead, he is forced to keep inside and stare outside his window as darkspawn find their way into the castle. It makes no sense, he thinks, fingers tightening around the window shield. It makes no sense for them to be out their door, it makes no sense to keep inside while they are out there, she is out there and there are no news. Eamon looks at him fleetingly, wondering about his brother who is becoming a fool. And Teagam does agree with him. The sheer inanity taking over him is hardly normal or understandable. But he does want to leave, he does want to know of her and the inability to do so will kill him. Madness. Madness, complete and total madness and that will also get him killed. Damned if you do and damned if you don't.
"Are you honestly barring our entrance? Truly? Really? Wow…we do have the most interesting people as knights these days. Wonder if Howe took the idea…"
The tiniest touch of a doubt flickers through his thoughts, touches his mind and takes him away from both window and absurd thoughts. Somewhere in the middle, someone sighs. Another curses. Another belches, which is honestly not expected.
"Zevran, speaking too much."
"But my dear, he is barring the entrance."
The first to enter into the hall is said elf, covered head to toe in blood and grime, so much that his hair seems to have ceased being blond.
"So are you, elf."
There comes the dwarf. There comes the bard and the qunari, the murderer right at their heels with the mabari by his side. There come the mages, white faced and exhausted, shivering from the aftereffects of what seems to be a freezing spell. The Wardens come at the end, discussing in low tones in almost companionship. Eamon will not like it. But then again, what does Eamon like now about the Wardens, now that Alistair sits on the throne and the Blight is well on its way to be over? No, Teagan loves his brother but he is no fool. If anything else, Isolde knows much about politics and Eamon had always been an eager learner.
The group seems to have been riding on the front of a storm – she looks tired, so exhausted that her skin has lost its color, or was that the spell also hitting her? Is there a spell capable of doing such, of sapping health and energy, turning happiness into worry – and act like it, they do. Every trip to Redcliffe is always associated with more tasks, they expect.
Riordan begins speaking, welcoming his brothers in arms and Tasha's eyes turn to his, a little above the man's shoulder. Just the smallest greeting, that's all she can afford. After all, the older Warden has problems, plans, discussions, they all do. There is no time. There is never time.
His brother once said Teagan didn't know what he wanted. That wasn't true. He did know, ever since he gained a friend who evolved into a companion. He knows what he wants and that knowledge is like a little spark on the back of his mind even as he has to pay attention – listen, listen, this is important but just one touch, one more word, one more second. Maybe the worse of the whole situation is not that he wants this but because he cannot have it. Lovely, and there's dryness in his voice which is just too uncommon, a woman that he finds himself finally interested in, one who, with some luck, he might be able to persuade for something and they will be soon on the road, headed for battle with not much hope of happiness at the end.
Conversation eventually reaches its end and there is a free moment just before they must leave to speak – Maker knows what – with Riordan. Her hand moves silently, Loghain's head lowers for just the smallest fraction and Teagan acts without thinking, grasping her arm. Away from Eamon's eyes and ears and the accusation it usually follows.
"You do not look well," he hears himself say before sighing mentally. Ridiculous beginning. "The road was…?"
Her arm in his, small and simple things in borrowed time. Tiredness in her eyes, paler than ever and all of this makes Teagan realize this might be the only moment they will have in a long time, if ever. Her lips are opening to reply – which is really tempting this madness a little too much – but he stills her with his free hand, fingers touching all too lightly. He doesn't want to hear anything of war. If anything, he knows she doesn't wish to speak of it.
Tasha raises an eyebrow, silent, serious in that manner she has of inquiring when a move makes no sense.
He would love to explain it, really. This madness which has no logic, no answers, nothing but wishes and demands – hand trails to push her fringe aside, brushes the strands of hair while she stays in silence, wishes to touch the dark ribbon she uses but dares not just yet – The moment continues.
"Perhaps." Blue eyes, brown hair, white, too white skin darkened by lack of sleep. Yes, they must leave, logic states, to rest, lay down and forget the coming day. Riordan awaits, Loghain sits somewhere else, she is needed, he is being called or will be soon enough.
"It is not that I'm uncomfortable," Tasha continues, obviously ignoring his inner monologue. "I have just walked too much in the last two days. Fighting also. Arguing. A seat would be welcome."
No sense of romance, this woman, no sense of his dilemma or anything but that is what makes her her and not someone else. And this is just what they have, a moment in a hallway with his brother on the room to the side, an old Warden above and a noisy group waiting to see where she managed to lose herself to. Eavesdropping, most likely.
Teagan gifts her a smile – candid and just slightly there – before guiding her to the bench near his usual window which now remains useless.
"Tell me of your day."
He knows exactly what he wants. One moment.
The coming day, Eamon finds himself receiving gratitude without the smallest reason for it.