Hawke: I thought you’d use the feathers I found for you in some kind of spell or ritual or something. Anders: This is a far better use for them, don’t you think? Hawke: … Hawke: Do we really need more cats? Anders: Absolutely.
but where’s a high school au of Arthur’s on the footie? team for Camelot Academy’s Dragons and Merlin has the most unpleasant task of being the sweaty bloke dressed in a giant yellow stuffed dragon costume, doing shitty cartwheels and clapping his paws and avoiding being hit by empty drink cups
gwaine’s in-training currently they tell him but he’s got so much energy. it gives him an excuse to see leon on arthur’s team and flirt w/him during the match
He woke her up with a kiss every morning and had ever since the first night they had stayed together. Some days it was a chaste touch to her cheek or foreheads. Some days it was a long drawn out kiss, drawing her out of sleep. Other days it was more. But after the fears on their journey that they would lose the other, after the near death scrapes, the court intrigue surrounding them, the years apart it had remained the constant of their mornings.
This had been a more morning, but after Alistair had regretfully dragged himself out of bed. Truth be told, he’d be happy to stay there with Ellie all day, they had lost years together when she was gone, there was plenty of time to make up, but the Orlesian party was here and someone had had the bright idea to schedule a breakfast meeting. Ridiculous. How was he supposed to enjoy his cheese danish with a bunch of Orlesians jabbering at him?
“Ellie, time to get up.”
Long years of Templar training had conditioned him to get out of bed. Elizabeth had no such inclination. She had rolled herself back up in the blankets and buried her face under his pillow, taking up the entire bed and all the covers.
Her reply was somewhat muffled.
This was an almost every morning occurrence as well.
“Dear, I know you had a grand time sleeping in on the Deep Roads looking for a cure, but it’s back to work for you,” he said with a grin, tweaking her exposed toes.
She yelped and jerked them securely back under the covers.
So it was to be one of those mornings then. Yes, he had a ritual for that too. Carefully though, she never went without her knives and rolling her out of her blanket cocoon one morning in the early days of their marriage was the reason he had that lovely scar on his cheek. It had been funny, after she stopped apologizing and crying over it.
“Are you going to leave me all alone with the Orlesians?” he asked with a pout, stalking as quietly as he could towards the bedside table.
Under the bed her mabari whined. Rebel knew what was coming. And what a bad idea it was.
She lifted her head slightly, eyes cracked open. “Yes.”
He took that chance to flick cold water off his fingers into her face.
She yelped and sat bolt upright. “Alistair!”
By then he had retreated out of arm’s reach and was smothering a grin. After all these years you’d think she would be used to it. Wait until winter, then it would be snow from the window sill. “Morning dear.”
He could see her fighting back a laugh as she swung her legs off the bed. “You’re a monster.”
He chuckled. “You want to leave me to the Orlesians?”
“For that? Maybe.” But she grinned and slid off the bed, kissing his cheek as she brushed by him, still wrapped in one of their blankets. “How much time do we have?”
He glanced at the ugly clock on the wall, a mabari popped out of it at noon making some terrible baying noise. Without fail Rebel howled back. Their daughter, Eleanor, loved it she never missed it. Another useless present from someone he wasn’t supposed to offend by hanging it in Lea’s nursery.
“Fifteen minutes.”
She yelped and threw open the wardrobe doors. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”
“Maker only knows.”
And the morning rush to get dressed began with her tossing out his outfit first then plunging into the dresses. He let her. Maker knew when he had to dress himself Eamon always made that face, the sucking on a lemon face. As if he paid enough attention to know what level of dress was appropriate for what event. He left that up to Ellie.
“Button me up.”
“I’d rather not,” he drawled crossing the room to fix her dress.
She tossed him a coy look over her shoulder, “Think of all the work to just take it off later.”
For a brief moment he considered leaving the Orlesians to wait, but seeing as the last time they had supposed to meet had been the day after Ellie came back, and he had called off all business for the week, he had the feeling he shouldn’t leave them high and dry again.
“Oh I will,” he said, deftly fastening her dress, lips close to her ear. He grinned to himself at her shiver. “Eight minutes.”
She swore and pulled away from him, grabbing for a brush and yanking it through her short hair. Before she would have made him fix it for her, but she had hacked it off during the journey. He missed it.
She crossed to the counter and rummaged through the various make ups she had, then with a grumbled comment to herself. “Five minutes,” he told her as she swiped bright pink across her lips.
She spun to face him and fluffed the front of his hair up.
“Acceptable?” he asked with a crooked grin.
“Acceptable.”
“And you are breathtaking as always,” he said offering her his arm. “Shall we make our morning ungainly sprint through the castle.”
“There’s a reason I wear boots under this,” she said, eyes twinkling. “For sprints and any rogue assassins who might try anything.”
And they were off, like they had been so many mornings, to so many meetings before.
Alistair prayed it never changed.
I was trying to make it a more every day thing but then I decided, why not make their every day a sprint to where they’re supposed to be! Sorry it went off the tracks a little bit! 🙂
There’s a Fenris/Hawke one to come and you can send me more and I’ll keep rolling them out as I’m able to write them! ^_^
Many Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth are known for having ‘chicken-scratch’ handwriting since most of their peers are mercenaries who put little importance on such things.
Vashoth or Tal-Vashoth who want to be a scholar or an academic being told they’re wasting their time.
Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth being envious of other races for having such detailed histories and vast ruins to explore.
Qunari being told they can’t come in certain establishments because they make other patrons feel uncomfortable.
Vashoth watching at a distance along with the other humans in detached fascination at the Qunari who pass through their village. Careful, as always, to not draw attention to themselves.
Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth making most of their own clothing and having to wear lots of hand-me downs, covered in patches and mended tears since clothing and boots their size are hard to come by. If they ever want anything new, from a tailor, it has to be custom ordered, which tends to be expensive.
Qunari being unable to get tattoos like other races because their hide is too thick.
Qunari and Vashoth often mistaking humans for elves and elves for humans.
Vashoth Circle mages being told they’re one of the lucky ones, and that they should be thankful to be under Chantry rule as opposed to the Qun who would make them Saarabas.
Pregnant Tal-Vashoth woman being overwhelmed at the idea that they will be this child’s mother. Their only mother. A vastly different experience than their own; being raised by a community of caregivers.
Tal-Vashoth fathers not understanding as to why their pregnant lovers are so nervous until they hold their child for the first time and feel the same weight of responsibility fall onto their shoulders.
King Alistair… of Ferelden: So Leliana.. I mean Sister Night-… I mean the Left Hand of… is going to be the new Divine. Huh. Small world. Good for her. Should send congratulations, get her a gift. What do we get new Divines? When we, or I, really, know her – personally.
Arl Eamon: The traditional gift, Your Highness, is to commission a portrait.
King Alistair: Isn’t that what we sent the last one, Justinia? Seems morbid considering… maybe if we personalized it a bit?
Arl Eamon: It is traditional, my lord. We should-
King Alistair: Oh I know, a nug. Put a nug in the portrait. She’ll love it.
Arl Eamon: Ali- My King. Are you sure? A… nug.
KING Alistair: Yes. Oooh, a flying nug. I’ll bet she’ll make that happy cooing noise she used to make.
Arl Eamon: As you wish…. Maker preserve us.
[Six months later, copies of the official portrait of Divine Victoria, commissioned by the monarchs of Ferelden, are delivered to all Chantries across Thedas. Arl Eamon’s eyebrows sink lower every time he attends Chantry services. The King grins happily up at the portrait of his long-time friend he never gets to see as often as he like.]
Delicious Fish 