#m!warden

~Andraste's Grace ~ 

✨🌸  🌷 🌸✨ 

In between some blood magic rituals and mixing poisons my warden casts some pretty magic flowers for his gf ;>

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Thank you for the ask!

I am...Just in Love prompt lists

Characters: Mirnan Mahariel, Amayian Trevelyan

Time period: Inquisition, Alternate Universe (Mirnan lived)

Words: 2,500+

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Mirnan wounded the silver-hammered goblet with his wrist, the dark red wine sloshing about like an unsettled sea. He brought the rim to his lips, drank a little draught, and sighed as a flood of warmth crept through the aching bones. Across the wide chambers, Warden Mahariel spied the untouched cup at Amayian's elbow, forgotten like so many things between them. How caring, he thought, with only a glimmer of bitterness, that he leaves even more so for me. The charm has not waned off him, no indeed. He knew well enough that if asked, Amayian would simply shift the goblet forward on his desk, allow Mirnan to come and pluck it up and indulge himself more in the stupor of drink, so he could forget it all. Amayian was good at that, he knew - good at forgetting without the need of wine's fogginess. Or he was better at simply ignoring it; or the memories simply refused to resurface at all. All things possible, all things possible.

I need more drink. The wine was fire in his throat, but he tasted fire before, did he not? The drink of darkspawn blood from that ancient chalice of the Grey Wardens, a rushing river that hungered and consumed, a wilting flame that sought the kindling of his living blood, his living heart. He could still feel it, even now—that sickness that could never end, that hunger that could never be sated. Another regret of his. Another shame that did not need to be given to voice.

Mirnan wished that Leliana was here, or that Amayian was closer so he could grasp him by that opened woolen collar with its loosened strings and drag those scarred lips to his own, so he could forget. Ah, but he’s the Inquisitor, now. And his Lady’s Herald. An oddity, to be sure. Oh, it was pleasant enough to see Amayian take charge, to give orders and commands that gambled the fate of thousands, the hearts of nations. It was good to see some confidence in the boy, the Creators’ know that he needed it. But when Mirnan graced him with a glance, he did not see the bearded mountain of a man with a long veil of thick dark curls; he did not see the harsh sculpture of high cheekbones, strong jaw, and hollow cheeks. He did not see anything of that—this Inquisitor Trevelyan, Blessing of Andraste. All he saw was a curly crown of black that dusted across his big golden eyes, a scrawny face and lanky limbs. Oh, the impeccable frost that transformed his living flesh into stone remained, the long line of unsmiling lips, the guileless gleam of his eyes unmarred. But the face was all wrong, longer and stronger, weathered by time and hardened into something more frozen than winter. Long muscles from years of sword-fighting, the teachings of the arcane warrior alive in his flesh and bones, now corded around those once thin arms, and the chest hair had merely been a dusting across his narrow chest, cute when played with, only ruined by that cruel scar dashed across from shoulder to hip. He could not even grow a beard, thought the beardless elf. My, have the years slipped past both of our grips, and hands like those you’ll think he’d have a better one. Was it worth it to tease him about that? It would only go over his head, like so many other things. 

At least that did not change. Mirnan could not entirely be sure if that had been a gift or not, and wondered if Leliana thought the same as well. 

He tossed his head back again, drank the wine, and relished in the fire, and hoped to grasp something that was not the strangling thorns of regret and shame. 

“There is more here, if you would like.” Frost casing stone, that was the sound of his voice, lost of all emotion, certain and practical. How can such warm eyes hold such icy words? Another magical trick, surely. And he had so many little tricks when played in just the right way. If one ignored the chance encounter that a flame may accidentally be caught on the fabric of their tent, they were all relatively pleasant. 

And the thoughts returned to him, shameless as the regret that chained his heart. The warmth of Leliana’s lips against his own, the soft touch of Amayian’s against his knuckles. The flush of the Free Marcher’s cheeks as Mirnan rocked against his hips before his vision was stolen from Leliana’s trapping thighs. The shy grace of Amayian’s fingers against his knuckles as they made their way through the Deep Roads, a reminder that both still lived. Remembrances that should have well been forgotten. Yet the words escaped him, an autumn leaf of russet-and-gold plucked from the bough of a tree. “Did you ever think of what it would have been like if we remained together? If you stayed?”

The mocking laughter of the fire seemed to have been Amayian’s response, the response of the heavens. If the wide carpet stretched across the stone floor seemed like an ocean that separated an isle veiled by hidden mists, observed from the stony shore, then Mirnan had draped the distance of the sun from the moons now between them both. If only his words remained sloshing inside like that red swirling wine in his goblet, which remained sadly untouched. 

When he went to go drink again, Amayian’s voice strangled out, floated through the air like thunder lost behind the thin line of the horizon. “Yes.” 

The anger flicked awake in his heart, a storm bursting from the sealed clay urn. “Is that all? What was it, then? A passing thought, a long mindless dream, the old pain of it?”

Amayian’s eyes were torn away from the report he had been reading. Along the corners were the little bent folds, a trace of Leliana’s touch. Oh, how he wished he could have her now, if only to turn the conversation far away from this. Beneath the frozen dawn of his scarlet-speckled golden eyes, Mirnan felt as if he had been stripped away - ripped of his breeches and tunic (and certainly not even in the fun way), his flesh and bone, until his heart and spirit remained, both in fright and fleeting feet. Its rapid beat was in his ears, a thunderous drum that drowned out nearly all sound. A gathering of sweat slicked the back of his neck, traced chilly fingers down his flushed back. 

“None of that, I do not think.” He frowned, and the flames in his eyes seemed to draw back, a growing darkness of uncertainty that seemed an oddity beneath the stone vistage of empty emotion. “I simply…missed you. The both of you. All of you. Even Zevran, though I still do not understand what he meant when he said if all Trevelyans are master riders.”

That caused him to laugh, and old regret and longing twined their searching arms around one another. He always wanted to grab him by his face and leave a kiss on his forehead, whenever he got that way. A flirt could be shot straight at his face from the most keen of arrows and eyes, and it would have darted right over, no matter what. And Mirnan could not help but enjoy adding more kindling to the bewildered fire. “One day, perhaps I can explain. When I am more drunk.” 

“You seem to be nearing close to that.” The concern was a shadowy trace along the sharp edges of his iron words, a soft warmth that nearly brought a fond smile to Mirnan’s lips. 

“Not close enough.” He swung his head back, drank the last of the wine, and slipped off the couch. Mirnan was glad that his feet were somewhat stable, enough that he nearly did not tossele straight onto his face. Now that would be more than embarrassing, made worse by the fact that Amayian would pester and worry for his sake until Mirnan wanted more than wine to fill his stomach. 

He crossed the turbulent sea, his heart still a flight with its racing beats, his hands suddenly soaked in sweat. From the wine, or his own fears, he dare not choose. When he got close to his desk, he settled a hand down, finding something soft on top and something hard beneath. Amayian’s arm. His warmth drew out from his skin like the warmth of a sun-dried sheet. “The wine?”

Amayian slipped his arm free from Mirnan’s grasp, and the phantom it left behind made his fingers twitch in long. He slid the wine glass to him, then the bottle of wine that rested on a small, circular table at the side of his desk. Mirnan’s fingers grasped the goblet by its narrow neck, lifted it up, and pushed it toward the Free Marcher. “I’ll only have a sip if you do too.” 

“I am not thirsty.”

“Did I ever care?”

A glimmer of a smile, gone as a light born from lightning. “No.” His long and larger fingers took it delicately from his hands, and the jolt that crawled over his arm aroused the gooseflesh along his skin. Amayian took a mere sip. Not enough to dent the pond, but it was something. Once, I would have to nearly strangle him to take the food into his mouth, ungrateful gnat. 

Smiling, Mirnan turned the goblet around, saw the light glimmer of where the wine had washed up to brush Amayian’s lips when he took his sip, and it was there in which Mirnan sipped on his own. “Ah,” he said. “Delicious.”

With more than a little pleasure, he watched as the sketch of a blush touched his cheeks, drawing out the dark freckles that littered nearly unseen across the sharp hook bridge of his nose and shelves of his cheekbones. But the frost did not melt from his words. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“I do.” His eyes spied the small tray of sliced cheese, grapes, and slivers of meat with a loaf of bread. He slid along the side of his desk, pushed himself into the Inquisitor’s lap. 

“Do you need something?” asked Amayian. 

“A chair, and look! Your lap makes a perfect one. It's a long walk to the couch, you see, and I’m growing hungry.” He bent an arm outward, grasped a piece of cheese, and plopped it into his mouth. “You know, I really didn’t get the chance to enjoy the spoils of victory for too long after the Blight. It took months for Vigil’s Keep to be in proper order, and I’d spent most of it afterward searching for Morrigan. Never got to have those little cheeses on those tiny platters the nobles loved so much. Guess that is one of the perks of having a furnished fortress of your own, I suppose.”

“It is still not furnished,” Amayian corrected, making no moves to remove the elf from his lap. Though he shifted a bit in the chair, and from the way his fingers grasped the heads of the armrests, he seemed suddenly unaware of what exactly to do with his hands. “Many of the watchtowers will need to be repaired. Open gaps in the floor mark many of the minor keeps and chambers. The roofs remained open to the elements, and much of the foresting that has crept along the hold will need to be cut down and damages assessed. Though, it is true that Skyhold remained remarkably well preserved.” A shift of Mirnan’s hips, a thickening of the blush on his cheeks, and the words for a moment halted on caught breath. “Old magic lingers in these stones, in the very soil in which the grasses sprout from, all along this valley. Old and ancient magic seem to be the breath of this basin, at once alive and at once dead.”

“No doubt elven.” His people were remarkably excellent in being both alive and dead, when it came to magic. 

“Possibly. That remains to be seen.”

He hummed, plopped the sliver of sharp cheese in his mouth, and washed it down with his wine. A bit slipped out, dribbled a hot rivulet down his chin, onto his tunic. Without a moment of hesitation or question, a cloth appeared in his vision, and he thanked the human for his generosity. “Your lady ambassador shall handle all that. She’s a capable one, from what Leliana has told me.” 

“That she is.”

Silence between them, another risen sea that stretched from one corner of the earth to the next. “Did you think of me?” asked Amayian, in a voice more quiet than the scurrying rat lost between the grass. “Or as you asked before, what could have been?”

He stared at darkening wine, saw his reflection as a ruby shadow that could not sit still. Mirnan allowed the sigh to pass his lips. “Yes. More than I would like. More than even I could remember.” 

His shifting grew rigid, and Mirnan saw him work his fingers into a tight clamp before loosening once more. “I am sorry.” And in that little sentence, the flood of regret and shame broke through the raised dam, shattering the broken stones into a hail storm that marched down the slopes. 

Another stretch of silence, uncertainty flitting around the both of them. The fire was in his heart, in his blood. It was rageful and searching, ashamed and longing. Mirnan wanted to turn around and capture those stern lips with his own. He wanted to turn around a slick dagger into his side and watch as the regret fled down his cheeks in tears. He wanted to scream; he wanted to hate; and he wanted to love him all the same. He wanted so many things, but he knew not the words to say, nor did he have the time. Time fled from them both, and left them both with nothing. 

And when we are both gone, then Leli would be alone. And how terrible was that all, how cruel. Did Amayian know that? Did Amayian think that? He cannot be certain. All he had was the truth, and the truth stung and gorged on him, drinking the flame, drinking the freezing dead heart in his chest. He hated this ruby reflection. 

And once more, Mirnan drank. More spilled from his lips, stained his shirt, and each droplet was a kiss of life stirring back into him, feverishly hot. The grey fog gathered his thoughts and memories, cast them into that swarming sea, sealed them behind billowing mounds of steel and iron. And that was the most pleasant thing.

That, and Amayian’s warmth against him. That, and the smell of cedarwood that clung to his tunic like the smell of fire. When the wine left his lips, sloshed over the stained rim and splattered onto his shirt and Amayian’s pants, and like always Amayian did not complain, he allowed that old regret to slip away from his tired, grieving mouth. “I missed you.”

Amayian’s fingers brushed across his chin with that clean cloth. When it left his skin, red smears marked the white, like blood in the snow. And in that frozen voice with only a glint of old longing warmth, he said, “I know. I am sorry.”

✨✨ Brosca ✨✨

This week is going way too slow but at least I'm learning to draw on my phone more. Have a slightly unhinged know-it-all.

“Rocky! Give Morrigan back her staff!” Kamen wheezed, laughing as his Mabari sprinted through the camp, magical staff of twisted wood clamped between his powerful jaws. Next to him, Zevran chuckled. “Amor, who do you think will catch him first? The Qunari, the Templar, or the Witch?”

Suddenly, there was a clattering and squelching sound, indicating that either Sten or Alistair had slipped into mud in full armor, followed by a mighty roar as Morrigan transformed into a bear. Before Kamen could be too concerned for his dog, the ground shook ferociously, knocking everyone to the ground.

“It should learn not to steal from its companions,” Shale scolded the dog, picking up the staff and tossing it at the bear.

~*~

Kamen Aeducan never had any interest in ruling Orzammar. In fact, had Bhelen spoken to him at all about such things, he probably wouldn’t have needed to frame Kamen for Trian’s murder. As it happens though, Kamen wouldn’t change a thing. Had Bhelen not framed him for the murder, he would never have been exiled, made a Warden, been nearly assassinated, and fallen in love with his would-be assassin.

Funny how things work out, eh? Kamen certainly thinks so.

~*~