#celeritassagittae

I am choosing to interpret wee!Alistair as kidistair, and um... ouch. Thank you for the pain I MEAN PROMPT, Cele. <3

Stupid Arlessa with her stupid rules.  How could she possibly expect him to remember to take his muddy boots off before he came inside when he could smell supper from all the way in the kennels.  So what if he trailed mud all through the castle? So what if he smelled?  He had been so hungry he thought his stomach might eat itself, and he’d just forgotten.  It was just mud.  They were just boots. 

He he’d looked at Arl Eamon, pleading with his eyes, as Isolde scolded him, her shrill voice grating in his ears.  Usually he thought Orlesian accents were pretty, but it was hard to feel that way about hers when the only time he heard it was when he’d done something bad.  He was always messing up. 

He pleaded to Eamon with his eyes even harder when Isolde demanded that he be sent to bed early, and without supper.  The only reason he’d gotten in trouble in the first place was because he was too hungry to wait, and now he wouldn’t even get to eat?  He wasn’t even sleepy.  

Thankfully, the arl had been kind enough to send him to his room with some stale bread and cheese.  It wasn’t really a room, more of a loft in the stables with a bedroll.  At least if he got scared at night he could go talk to the horses.  He’d not figured out how to ride horses yet, but sometimes he imagined saddling one up and riding it away from Redcliffe, away from Isolde and her words that hit him like rocks.  He wondered if King Maric would take him in.  Maybe he could sleep inside again. 

As he exited the castle, now barefoot, toes cold against the cool night air, the sun had just begun to set.  He couldn’t go to sleep.  It was hard enought to make his mind turn off when it was dark outside.  He shook his head, and made his way back to the kennels, bread and cheese in hand. 

Alistair crawled into the pin with his favorite of the bunch, a young mabari that had already reached full-size, but still acted more or less like a puppy.  She didn’t have a name yet.  He couldn’t name her, or else he’d get too attached.  He’d done that before, and it had been really hard to not cry when the hound had been sold.  Never again. He sat back against the back wall, nibbling on his food and tearing off hunks to share with the mabari. It would have been rude to come into her home and not share, after all.  

“You know, you’re really lucky,” he said, handing her another bit of bread.  She tilted her head at him curiously, ears twitching.  “Someone is going to want you someday.” 

He sat with the dog for a long while, telling her about all of his hopes and dreams, complaining about the arlessa and imitating her voice.  She was even a better listener than the horses.  So much so that he sat with her until all of the bread and cheese were gone, and until the last of the sun’s rays vanished.  His eyelids began to droop, and he leaned over against the her for warmth, wrapping his arms around her body, fingers raking through her fur.  She shifted, curling up, too.  His breathing slowed, and he drifted off to sleep.  

Ohhhh that was indeed very beautifully written. <3 Thank you for the recommendation!

So, my take away from this is that I suck at writing dog POV and should not attempt it. But thank you for the prompt despite my total failure with it!

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Water falls from the sky, and inside the tent, more water runs down her face. It smells of salt and the tang of pain, and he lays his head on her chest and huffs softly. He doesn’t know all of her words, but he knows, “Stay with me,” has known that with her was where he belonged since he woke without the fog of pain and noise that had smothered him for days before she came and held his head in her lap. Of course with her. Always with her. He understands that the rest of their pack is gone. But not him. Never him. He presses closer. The water from her eyes stops. The water from the sky continues.

First is the woman who smells like metal and polish and soap scrubbed in too hard. She smells fastidious. He is reserving judgement until he finds out if she responds to his most pathetic and baleful stares at food time with the same rigid sternness or if she slips him a choice bite of meat. He thinks that if no one is looking, his chances are good. He doesn’t know then that she won’t live long enough to be a part of their pack.

Next there’s the man pouring fire out of himself the way she pours out ice, and the flames leave everything smelling singed, but it’s the good kind of singed, like logs burning merrily in a fire to curl up warm and sleep beside. When he rubs his head against the man’s thigh in greeting as they continue on, he doesn’t know the words, “Blech! That thing just slobbered on me!” but he’s quite (willfully) certain that they must be an expression of affectionate delight.

The short, rotund one from their old pack, the one who tried to put a saddle on him once, shows up again, smelling slightly less of dirty socks and slightly more of the astringent burn of alcohol than usual. She is pleased, strange creature that she is, so he is pleased too. As long as there are no saddles.

Later, there’s a man in a pen who smells of desperation, and when she opens up his pen, he only smells more desperate. He stays close to her when the man passes. Desperation can be a dangerous thing. When the man shows up again days later, though, he lets him approach her. The desperation is still there, but it doesn’t smell like danger anymore. It smells like supplication. And when she takes him into their pack, he smells like gratitude.

There’s a woman hardly taller than him who smells like dirt—like the unadulterated joy of rolling of his back in the dirt. She doesn’t try to put a saddle on him like the other short one. She doesn’t even shove him away when he licks her face (it’s just so very… reachable with his tongue that he can’t help himself). He likes this one very much.

Finally there’s a woman who smells like trees and ozone and anger and resentment, but when he stares at her pitifully during food time, she absolutely does give the choicest bits to him when no one is looking, even if she does snippily insist that she just doesn’t like fat. In time, the resentment fades in an out. Sometimes she even smells like peace.

His human takes him with her, and they travel far and wide to meet the ones who smell like her. Like her but softer and quieter, but louder and more unabashed, but full of wonder and delight, but rougher and reluctant.

Later, much later, the little one who smells like wonder and delight comes to stay. She smells like her, but with all the enthusiasm she has never been able to show, and none of the hurt she hauls around with her everywhere she goes. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his fur, and it makes his tail wag so hard his back feet wobble with it.

from this list

“the externally enforced proximity” 

Alistair x Evelyn Cousland

578 words | Ao3

Evelyn could tell they were being followed through theDenerim District as soon as they passed the Chantry. The guards were notdiscreet about how closely they followed in her and Alistair’s footsteps, buthad not moved to stop them either. She had to wonder just what their game was—intimidation?It was a risk for them to come to Denerim when most of Ferelden considered theWardens criminals—if they couldfigure out that Evelyn and Alistair were Wardens in the first place.

That’s what had her surprised, at first. They had ditchedtheir armor at camp, hoping that disguising themselves as simple travelerswould hopefully grant them easier access to the city. Turns out, they had beenmade before they even stepped foot within the city gates. With only a concealeddagger to her person, and too many innocents surrounding them, Evelyn knew theonly way out was to either hide or run away. Or both.

As if realizing the predicament, Alistair’s arm hooked intohers. He turned their direction sharply, Evelyn almost tripping over his feetas he steered them towards the large crowd of shoppers gathered at the markettents.

A dwarven merchant was shouting. “Dwarven crafts, finedwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar!”

Alistair procured a few gold coin from his pocket and placedit in the man’s hand. “You didn’t see us.”

The dwarf looked confused for a fleeting moment beforeAlistair motioned to his storage tent, in which the merchant chuckled, noddinghis head. It wasn’t until Alistair was yanking her inside that Evelyn realizedthe dwarf probably thought they were using the tent for a more lewd matter than hiding from crownguards. She also realized how little space there was, their bodies separated bythe smallest of gaps as Alistair leaned against a few crates.

“Great,” Evelynmumbled under her breath. Alistair pouted, dejected.

“It doesn’t have to be so bad,” he whispered. “You could betrapped with…Morrigan.”

She frowned, ignoring his comment. “I don’t like tinyspaces.”

“Oh.” He skewed his mouth to the side in thought. “I’m sor—”

Just as he was about to apologize, the sounds of guardsapproaching echoed outside the tent. A voice called out.

“Oi, Gorim. You’ve seen two humans come through here?”

“I see humans all the time, you’ll have to be more specificthan that!”

Alistair smiled at that, and Evelyn breathed a sigh ofrelief, thankful that the dwarf was easily bought. In the silence, the onlything the two could do was simply…stare at each other. She blinked at him,feeling her cheeks heat up at the way his honey colored eyes darkened slightlyas they flicked across her face, dipping for a split second to her lips. Did hewant to…kiss her? A blush spread across his face, the redness reaching the tipsof his ears as he bashfully glanced away. Evelyn could only smile, despite thefact her heart was suddenly racing.

They had been dancing around each other for months now—maybe it was finally time,now that they were alone. The setting could be better, but…Evelyn shifted justever so slightly closer to Alistair’s body, his eyes widening at her movements.

“Hey!” They two flinched as far away from each other as thetiny space would allow as the merchant called out. “The coast is clear!”

Alistair audibly swallowed, straightening himself out as heopened the tent flap. “Right.”

14. Cineri gloria sera est. Glory paid to ashes comes too late

Green, everywhere. The grass, the trees, the vines that climbed them. The mark on her left hand. Her eyes. And she was dying.

She didn’t know that. A high, melodic laugh, more musical than the magic under his skin, rang through the forest. Her face flushed from climbing, climbing, climbing through the trees till she was waiting in the canopy. She didn’t know she was dying, but he did.

Months? Years? Decades? How long until she would be buried under a mound like those on the ground below them, covered by roots and time and legend? These souls were barely remembered; she couldn’t even pronounce the names of some of them. Still, she had cried on their first night in the Emerald Graves.

There was little he could do now. His fate was hers and they walked it together. They walked it alone. Both of them: infamous, heretical, troublemakers. Both of them with one foot in the grave.

She pulled him up to her perch, high enough to see their camp through the trees. She laced her fingers through his and he could feel the pulse of blood in her wrist. She was so alive.

Would anyone be able to describe her properly at her funeral? Could they tell the audience about the way she smiled when she was sad, or the stack of unfinished books by her bedside, or her drunken hiccups, or her fierce loyalty, or her…

When there’s not an active rebellion, it’s actually rather easy for the city elves. Elves work as couriers all the time, they can just put their messages in with the ones they’ve been paid for and no one will question it. 

The Dalish have had trail markers for as long as they’ve been nomads. The clans compare every Arlathvhen to make sure everyone is still using the same marks. Things like if the hunting is good, if there are ruins in the area, how close a human town is and how aggressive the occupants. They also have dead drops of a sort. Keepers will leave letters for each other, written in Elvish since they’re the only ones taught to read it anymore. If it’s something more urgent, it gets a bit trickier. Some clans have ravens, but it can be hard to ensure the message will get where it needs to go, since they move around a lot. In which case they have to send a messenger. It’s a dangerous job, since it requires them to be alone and likely to pass through more populated areas or to use human transport, like ships. They need to be able to present themselves as a city elf, essentially, to make themselves unobtrusive, meek, hide their vallaslin, etc.

In the early stages of the Rebellion, the courier method works well. Once it turns to open revolt, though, few places are safe for any elf to traverse. Fighters in this rebellion have to rely very very heavily on stealth. Some are still able to work as messengers, travelling only at night, off the roads, sneaking in alienages through hidden tunnels. The Dalish, while wary of actually fighting, are pulled in early enough for their methods to help. They end up with a marking system that’s part-Dalish, part-slave, part-homeless, and a little made up for necessity. The ravens that are little use for nomads work a lot better with alienages. There are places in the country, elves that have managed on farms, sympathetic humans, even some semi-safe deep roads that all get marked as a sort of underground railroad. At some point they manage to acquire a few mabari, and most humans don’t think elves can bond with mabari, so they’re not going to suspect such noble beast of being couriers for the insurgents. 

Yes! Now, quickly, have Dorian be the one that nearly dies and regrets his life choices!

WAIT, WHAT? YE - 

I MEAN NO