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: I'm posting this because, if I keep reading it, I might find more bad things about it and forgo posting at all. That said, I think I overextended the chapter a little too much. And I'm not sure I didn't rush some things. But overall, it's passable. That said, this story will end at 50 chapters for those who keep following it.

In this chapter: He is romantic. The bodies just persist in showing when he tries.

047.

Inhale. Kill. Exhale. It is enough to make him nauseous if he has the time for it, the will to spare a thought for anything else. What else can he keep track of? Denerim was a fountain of human knowledge, brimming with life and bustle. Then they come and it's all rubble in their wake, everything that Redcliffe taught him to hate and fear. But he is a Guerrin, he knows his duty, he knows his part. Up and down the city, keeping the brunt of the horde away from its leader while his own remains in parts unknown. Teagan does his best and leaves prayers for those less desperate, one breath at a time.

Teagan is tired. Exhausted. So much that all he can just taste the dirt underneath his feet as the softest bed he has ever laid in. So much that the light which fills the night sky takes its time to make itself known. He doesn't notice when the morning starts, doesn't notice anything but the next opponent, danger, a knife at his back and poison in each blade. It is not that odd that he notices the end of it all by his soldiers' reactions.

Human raise their heads, swords fall to the ground and the creatures flee. And this strange light erupts from the Tower, the very top of the city, slow, touching his vision, touching everything, warm and horrible and fascinating and terrible all at once. It takes both his breath and attention away, turning his heart lighter because their attackers finally despair, because there are wounded and those are more than the dead and the nightmare suddenly seems to be over and he's alive. The sword is heavy on his hand, the armor constricting, his shield non-existent and he is just tired but there is air in his lungs, the light, beautiful and terrifying at the same time, on his eyes and his heart feels heavier for a fear he cannot name while bursting with relief. Is this reality or a dream? Is this over or he dreams? The light means the end, the night is finished, the horror is over. The light is hope and it scares him and amazes him in equal measure.

"My Lord! My Lord, we have won!" Screams fill his ears, shouts of pure happiness where the exhaustion takes no hold. Someone beats his shoulder, some close enough to grasp his hand, congratulate him, ignore the price all around and spend each breath in happiness. There is so much relief in the air, sorrow left for another moment where they remember what's left instead of being alive. Alive they are, so being alive they celebrate. The Blight is over. Right?

There are moments in which Teagan dislikes being himself. He could be like them, be happy, be relieved, allow himself to fall to the ground and sleep the rest of the day. Sadly, he is himself. Focused, deadly focused while his mind runs ahead and beyond the immediate surroundings to list every consequence, every problem, every person who isn't right by his side but was in the city, was in danger. He knows his duty.

Instead of running towards the stage of the final battle, he pushes himself back. There are troops to order, stragglers to get rid of. No one can be sure the darkspawn will not harm others on their way to the Deep Roads. He is needed. This is what a noble exists for, look after its people.

"Regroup! We must make sure the city is secure." It does not mean he does so without a heavy heart.

The soldiers don't take long to follow his commands. They know, as well as he does, that fleeing enemies still damage and hurt. Between cheers and happiness, men and women crowd around him, a number enough to be divided into groups and sent to the different areas of the city. All around, they see the same scene. Bodies litter the streets, brick and stone and metal in between, so much debris making their enthusiasm dwell and think on the future.

He is a Guerrin, he knows his duty. And that is not running like a madman all through the streets, up and up until the Tower. No, he remembers himself, not when he's not the only one wishing this same thing, everyone curious and interested, wanting someone to praise or more. Even if for him, is personal. Even if it's more important, if he has people on that Tower, important and needed, more than one. His King should be close, his brother should be there, the leaders of this nation, her, even. All up to top of the city and bottom of the Tower he walks, not really caring that some of the others stay behind. He is more interested, he's more worried and more than that, he's ready to go up there, to see who is dead and who is not, to know if he'll mourn or not and this time, the breath he keeps is to move and never to pray.

There's a moment of hesitation just before crossing the front gate. His duty says to stay and finally – finally – he ignores it.

It's a quiet group that fills the great hall. The Dalish drag their wounded carefully, arms full and excitement gone with the weight of rebuilding. They stood their ground and that pride shines in their eyes even as they clean wounds and search for injuries. He spares all of them small glances as he passes but nothing more. A nod, an acknowledgement and he's really sorry but they don't matter that much.

Head moves from side to side, eyes running over the expense of the hall and where are the Wardens? Teagan cannot know. His focus lost itself and his calm slowly goes with it. He cannot even breathe right as he searches and wonders vaguely what everyone will think if he starts running all through this place too. As if he has lost his mind, most likely. He has to because, once again, Teagan doesn't notice anything until it happens, doesn't see a thing until the group is right in front of him, dragging others and themselves towards any exit.

First comes the younger mage. Her skin is paler than usual and her arm falls by her side, broken and useless, clothes stained with blood though not only her own. The healer is next, so tired, so old but not because of her face, it's because of her eyes, tired and haunted. They bar the view to the others, cover the sight of the soldiers and he wants to ask why. When he begins running towards the two, Teagan cannot say. He just knows that one moment he's surrounded by soldiers and then he's in front of them, trying to look behind. His brother, where is he? The Enchanter, does he live? The Warden, where is she? What has become of her? Is she injured? Is she safe?

"Wait. Wait." Morrigan, the mage's name is Morrigan. Her hand rests on his armor and pushes him back, holding him in place with a strength he does not expect from a small woman. Tasha is smaller, two swords in her hands, twirling and slashing, weaving through crowds like a wolf. "I must speak first."

He doesn't want her words. He wants assurance with his eyes and hands, he want to know he has not lost his kin. He wants to know the woman was as strong as he believed – believes – her to be and that the night before he did right in allowing her to leave his sight. Only she belongs to no one and especially not to him, he cannot forbid her to do anything.

"Hear me!" Teagan gives her the smallest glance. On anyone else, his look might seem controlled, almost incredibly so. He feels crazed though, distressed and getting worse, - why is she stopping him anyway? He knows this fear, this despair with no name, crossing through his body in shudders and no words of this unknown woman will keep him still. Brother, sister, nephew and her. Her, who is no one to him but who occupies a small place in his life solely hers, now empty, chilly and terrifying. A voice is missing, dry or sarcastic, caring or mocking, worried, always worried except when close to the edge of a cliff because only then she is fearless.

Loghain shows up behind the older mage, arms busy and expression set. His fear destroys whatever hatred which remains, all the attention he could have given to others. He carries a girl, just a girl, her ashen face stained with blood. He carries an elf, an armor broken and her shattered form seems like a doll. He just carries a woman, one who doesn't move and her tattooed skin looks cold as ice when Teagan comes closer, hoping, praying he does not know the hair trickling from the helm, that her ears are round and smaller, that her eyes won't open because they might show blue. The woman looks cold.

And then it hits him, like the kind of bad thoughts that take place when everything seems wrong. The air itself is cold, snow has already come into the south, covering everything in chilly blankets, fireplaces lit in homes all over the country. Winter has come, the sudden knowledge making his heart freeze and shatter.

"Teagan?" His brother is speaking – where did he come from? His lips move quickly but, for the life of him, the Bann cannot listen to a word he is saying. In front of his eyes, he sees only white, he feels blizzard and rain, knows that flowers everywhere lie beneath snow. And Stinging Nettles die out as Winter comes.

But the mage comes again, out of nowhere, and there's the most peculiar little frown on her features. If he didn't know better, he'd say she is insulting both men without a word said. Her lips remain closed as she pushes him against her and away from his brother, - who is alive, thank the Maker – up the stairs without bothering with the calls of their names. Like a child, Teagan follows, up the stairs, through the rooms and into the terrace where fire still wages.

"Tell her." Fingers tighten, long nails scratching against the mail which cover his arms. "Tell her. I gave her what I could."

And then she is gone and he is alone.

The battleground mirrors the image of the city he already left. Broken, barren, filled with corpses and more blood than necessary. Darkspawn sleep next to humans and elves, dwarves and mages and that seems wrong. The latter deserve better, deserve everything after a sacrifice they didn't wish. But later, that's all to be considered later. The roof has been partially destroyed, the ballistae have no recovery possible, lost weapons make him stumble at every moment and there's a huge something at a corner. Even through worry he can summon some degree of amazement when he understands what it is.

He sees her when his mind is already crossing to frightening plains. Waiting near the thing, unarmed, pale face, ash and coal all over her, more blood that can be contained in a small body. Almost confused – no, not almost, she's definitely confused – though he has no idea why and cannot find the will to care. Blood covered and injured, breathing and walking, blinking in some unnamed thought but alive and breathing just like him. His body relaxes, tension slipping without his awareness.

"It makes no sense."

The elf looks up when it is impossible for her to ignore his presence. Seems in shock, eyes wide open and fixed in something he cannot see even though the only object in her line of sight is his old armor. Her head shakes, tilts to the side like a child and her stare meets his. As lost as her voice sounds.

"He told me it was needed," Tasha continues when he's close enough, not to him, just to her, a hand reaching out to grasp his and force him to listen. "He told me he was going to die. And then he died and so it was up to me. Loghain was needed, you see?" He doesn't, he truly doesn't. "I couldn't see any other way. So I attacked and He died, He is dead, isn't He? I have felt it and the song died, they all died but I'm not?"

Explanations. The woman wants explanations? Dear Maker, a little fool had just managed to kill an Archdemon. The man finds his lips twisting against his own volition, turning upwards while there is something very close to laughter fighting to leave. Fool, he worries for a fool, her wellbeing and safety. Sighing, Teagan tugs on her hand and pulls her closer, nearer, the closest thing to an embrace he can dare when two sets of armors lay between them. But it is her skin against his when he lowers his head, cheek against cheek, a breath running through his neck every time she exhales. Assurance.

"Are you injured?" Her eyes have a glint of herself back and they blink, again and again. There is blood in her armor, she's injured. How can anyone care about questions and answers, truly? Laughter comes and goes while his arm finds a waist between metal and tightens.

"I don't think so," voice not above a murmur. She looks the part. She looks tired. And he knows, just as well as if he was looking at a mirror, that he is much the same and she might seem well, might seem alive but her armor protects. Doesn't allow him to see what he wants. Breath in, breath out, to be sure everything is fine. "Teagan? It is over, isn't it?"

"Indeed, my lady."

"And now what?" Lost, confused for a different reason while her lie is exposed. The lie she said so long ago, with a waterfall in front and a human behind her. The Archdemon lies dead but she does not and the future she expected disappeared. Now what, indeed.

His arms refuse to move, her fingers close on his armor, hair against his face, metal against hers and it doesn't need words, this feeling, not for her and not for him. They must seem odd, human and elf, both covered in mail, trying to draw comfort in such a public place, and that little voice in the back of his mind can never turn off or make him forget. Petulantly, he secures his arms even more firmly – she doesn't even bother to complain – and pushes it back.

"Now," a little more weariness, a little more happiness, it is all over. "How do you feel about marriage?"

"I must check if Alarith is alive first," she mumbles against his plate.

A fool with no sense of romance whatsoever. End of a battle with victory assured, it is the subject of epics. And then.

"Are you honestly asking me this in the middle of a battleground?"

Yes. Yes, he is. Otherwise, he might think again, of his duties and hers, of how this might be possible and the many things which make it impossible. Otherwise it might be too late, just as he discovered barely hours before.

"Perhaps."

With a sharp gesture, Tasha pushes her head away, a few dark hairs touching his chin if he moves just slightly. And she is again looking at him, her eyes darker than he recalls, confusion replaced by thoughtfulness and herself. Teagan simply cannot phantom what she is thinking. It comes to him that there is a lot about her that he doesn't understand, cannot understand without proper observation and explaining. And with time. A lot of time.

"I snore," she declares almost randomly. "I leave my dirty clothes all over the place. I don't think I'll have the chance to stop and live somewhere permanently. I won't live to be old. I might not be able to have children. I'm an elf. I'm a warden. I might…"

Teagan places his hand on her lips before she manages to make a book worthy list. "Really. Is that all?"

The elf shrugs - amused, now amused like he is an inhumanly large amount of oddness - and one of her eyebrows rises somewhat while her smile widens. "You are a fool."

Ah.

Her hands are in his hair then, slipping the threads between her fingers with almost curiosity, touching and kneading the strands before pushing him down to her. And then her lips are touching his, she is pulling him even more forward as if there was too much space between them and she needs him to breathe. But this is almost chaste, simple brush of chapped, bloodied lips, awkward, sweeter than anything he might try to remember. This is exactly why he searches for her, why he tries to understand, why he ignores any other more sensible choices.

"So," he whispers as she settles again in his embrace, apparently wishing to ignore the several scales of his armor digging into her face. "I guess that is not a no about the marriage."

Black, injured, covered in sot and dust and every trace of blood, hers and otherwise. Teagan finds no issue with his previous question.

Her lips twist lightly, a tired grin if nothing else.

"Perhaps. We will see."

"He proposed to me in the middle of a battleground."

"How romantic."

"Yes. A marriage proposal done in the mist of puddles of blood, dead bodies and a giant draconic carcass. How could I hesitate?"