“Can I marry you?” He asked it, a little breathless, a little surprised that the words were coming out of his mouth.
“Are you asking?” The Warden – his Warden – tilted her face to see him over her shoulder. They were lying in bed together, her back to his chest, warm and safe, life having taken them far away from danger for the time being.
“Yes. No. I mean, no. I’m not asking asking, that would involve rings and candles and… poetry, or… songs, at the very least. I-”
“Because the answer would be yes.”
“What?” Definitely breathless now.
“Yes. You can marry me. I would say yes.”
“I…” Warmth like a tidal wave of joy was flooding his body. He couldn’t stop smiling. “I don’t… I….” He was laughing the words. “You would say yes?”
He cleared his throat. “I will… keep that in mind.”
He ducked his head against her back, pressed his forehead to her shoulder, smiling so hard it hurt.
King Alistair gets the reunion he’s been waiting for.
Alistair glared at the missive from the Orlesian court before setting it in the growing pile meant for the Inquisition. He’d had more than enough of the ‘hospitality’ from the court during their last talks: at least the masks burned nicely.
With a groan, he smacked his head onto the desk. Facing a horde of darkspawn would’ve been preferable to this endless stack of messages and treaties and boring dinner parties. He buried his head into his arms; his dreams would bring her closer to him again—if only for a moment.
Drifting between dreams and reality, his eye twitched when someone knocked on the door. The sounds of running feet and shouted orders were keeping him from her.
He glowered when he heard the click of the door opening. Didn’t the whole point of being ‘King’ mean that he got to tell people what to do?
“I said,” he snarled, head lifting from the desk, “to go awa—”
He blinked then rubbed his eyes and looked again.
Her hair hung several inches lower, a new scar marked the left side of her jaw, but it was her: his warden. His wife. She wore a scout’s uniform; her boots were caked in mud and her hair was scrunched and wet from rain.
I decided to do my own designs for Alistar, Faybelle and Rosabelle. See Mattel? Its not so hard to make interesting yet nice looking outfits from the themes you chosen! So why does your new dolls look like a hot mess?
When Leliana sees Morrigan in Halamshiral after so many years, in a silk and velvet dress that looks so familiar despite her never having seen anything but mud-stained rags on her. When the Inquisitor whispers to Leliana, wondering if they have pissed the court mage off because unlike everyone else at the ball, Morrigan seems to waste no words, curt as ever - only to get a ringing laugh from Leliana because that was Morrigan putting effort into being polite and even trying to small-talk, you should have seen her ten years ago, I’m sure Alistair is still terrified she might turn him into a toadstool.
Imagine the Inquisitor following Leliana’s eyes as her words drift away, watching Morrigan as she hides herself in the shadows, how different yet still familiar she looks. (reminds herself of a conversation held years ago, about shapeshifting from human to another and perhaps, perhaps this is magic at work, or perhaps ‘tis just Morrigan.)
The Inquisitor seeing Leliana chattier than usually, as they hear her voice without the sharp edge that has crept into it over the years, but now the Witch (a title, they remind themselves) has managed to cajole the smallest smile on Leliana’s lips. How does someone so grim do that is beyond the Inquisitor, but it is obvious the two are old friends, despite both trying to pretend they are unaffected by this encounter. On the way back to Frostbacks, their spymaster looks happier than the Inquisitor has ever seen her.
Imagine Alistair arriving in Skyhold with Hawke, warden armor gleaming in sunlight and rivaling his smile as he scoops Leliana up in the tightest hug to everyone’s surprise. How is this man not afraid of their assassin spymaster, the one who can rip out a man’s tongue and feed it to him, if the tales are to be believed? But how could he not envelope her in his arms after so long, isn’t that what old friends do?
How the bad blood between Morrigan and Alistair has mostly faded, now realising itself in good-natured jabs and Morrigan’s familiar biting remarks at Alistair’s expense. She still won’t let him hug her though. Not that he wanted to, I mean who would even want to hug a mean swamp witch? (Alistair always carried his heart on his sleeve, fooling no one.)
Imagine Leliana scrunching her nose when Morrigan pulls out familiar faded rags from her knapsack, the scent of campfire smoke and pinewood so seeped into them that for a moment it works almost like time magic, imagine Morrigan’s laughter because she knew how Leliana would react, and this is exactly the reason why she dug them up.
(Imagine Leliana’s smile because she knows that even though Morrigan doesn’t word her feelings, they both feel the same pang of nostalgia, this strange quiet friendship springing back to life.)