Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Fire & Ice	By : miladygrimm Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3059 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, All persons, locations, names, and mythos belongs to BioWare and their affiliates. I make NO money for this fanfiction

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Carver’s body was killing him. Templar training was not the walk in the park he thought it was going to be.He’d had dreams of showing off all the sword training that he had learned in the army; of wowing local girls and finally being out from under the shadow of his sorcerer sister. As a soldier in King Cailen’s army he had been respected and appreciated. But he had been among farmers and their unseasoned sons. He had been the proverbial big fish in a very small pond. He had thought it would be the same once he petitioned to join up with Kirkwalls most honored defenders. Rarely had he been so wrong.
Among the templars, he was just a farmboy in the midst of trained warriors. It was disheartening. Something seemed to happen every day to make him feel less than capable. Either it was some obscure bit of chantry lore that he had failed to memorize or some new weapon flourish that he hadn’t perfected.
This afternoon had been the worst of it. Knight Commander Meredith had made a rare showing at the recruits training yard, and under her steely gaze the recruits had begun to show off. One particularly fervent recruit had caught Carver off guard with a powerful slash. Carver had toppled unto his side. Carver held his hand up in surrender. But the recruit had continued to bludgeon him even after carver was on the ground. His armor had protected him from most of it; but the practice blade had slid between the back plates and scrapped along his left. It had bled like an archdemon and still stung.
He wanted to relax. He didn’t want to visit home and listen to his mother simper. He didn’t want to go back to the barracks and hear the men carouse about what they managed to pull off in front of the Knight-Commander. The woman gave Carver cold sweats. Something about her unflinching gaze made him want to turn tail and run.
So here he was wandering around Hightown with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It was one of the few moments he missed Rose. She was always up to something. Sure he would be in her shadow as she ventured off to further the name she’d forged for herself after coming to Kirkwall. He still could have followed her around.
To everywhere but the Deep Roads that is. Carver sighed grumpily as he remembered Rose’s look as their mother begged her not to take him on the dwarf’s expedition. He knew before she even said it out loud that she wasn’t going to take him. Despite everything they had done, everything they’d survived his Apostate sister left him standing in the Merchant’s District alone. He’d helped her earn everyone one of those coins; daydreamed about venturing into the great unknown with her make a name for himself. It was her greatest deception yet.
It was not the first one. Every time he thought he could count on Rose to do the right thing she went back on it. The girl was obsessed with helping mages and stomping down slavers. She had this skewed idea of what the Chantry was. She thought it forced mages to become tranquil. But that wasn’t true. There were mages who refused to follow the code…mages just like his sister…who denied or ignored the Maker’s rules about mages. Those who fell to the darkness of maleficarum or blood magic needed to be punished. They jailed men for misuse of their weapons. It was stupidity to think that mages could run about doing whatever they wanted to.
He found himself standing in front of Fenris’ door. Now…how had that happened? Hadn’t he promised himself he would stay away? Yes. He most certainly had. Fenris hadn’t exactly acted enthusiastic about the kiss. Carver couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t exactly asked if he could do it. By the Maker he hadn’t even realized what he was going to do until he had done it. He should walk the other direction. He should go back to the barracks and deal with the less than friendly ribbing of the other recruits and lieutenants. He should have a dinner of the grayish mush that was only a step above gruel and sharpen his sword, take care of his bloody armor. That’s what he should do. He’d promised. At least that’s what he was telling himself when he opened the door.
The world was filled with broken promises.
The floor was still decorated with debris. Books, papers, maps, broken chests and crates all littered the floor to make for a slapdash décor. Fenris had a distinct apathy towards the chore of cleaning. Or at least cleaning up Denarious’ mess. Carver couldn’t blame him. Carver found himself wandering the halls letting his eyes roam over the lost treasures of the estate. Books about Ancient History, magic, The Fade, Lyrium, and a plethora over other arcane topics lined the shelves. Were there books about carving into bodies and forcing lyrium powder into them? Carver doubted it. Carver slid a book entitled “The Fade Wonders” off the shelf and began thumbing through pictures of demons and their colorations.
“What are you doing here?”
Carver nearly flinched at the cold tone. Slowly he closed the book and slid it back unto the dilapidated shelf.
“Skimming through the library.” Carver answered.
Carver turned and there Fenris stood. By Andraste the elf was beautiful. Elves by their very nature had a particular elegance to them; an otherworldly beauty that many found enjoyable. Carver had never thought himself to be one of these. He thought their women too skinny and their men too frail. But there was more to Fenris than a racial inheritance. There was some primal glory to him. With skin like burnished copper and eyes that were somewhere between silver and green. He was shorter than Carver by half a head and slimmer than him by far. Carver loved every bit of him, even those lyrium scars that Fenris seemed to abhor, Carver loved the way they flashed and shimmered when Fenris got emotional.
The scars had shimmered during the kiss. Casting blue light over his skin. Carver wondered how far down they went.
But Fenris had walked away. They’d pretended it hadn’t happened. Pretended so hard they didn’t even speak anymore. Something had to change. Something had to give. Carver would change it. Because he couldn’t keep these charades going anymore.
“You should go.” Fenris turned and began to walk back upstairs.
“I need your help.”
It wasn’t…exactly true. He could go to the barracks and have someone take off the bandages, tell him how the wound looked, and bandage him back up. Or they could call a mage and just make it all go away. But Carver didn’t want anyone else. That was truer than any lie he could tell himself about not wanting mages or the guys at the barracks to see him. He wanted Fenris’ touch.
“My help?” Fenris sounded suspicious.
“Your help.” Carver confirmed. “I was wounded in training today. I need you to look at it.”
Fenris waved his hand dismissively but he didn’t walk away. “Sounds like a job for a healer, I assume that the chantry has a monopoly on such services.”
“Don’t trust mages.” Carver said, which was entirely true. “I trust you.”
He watched Fenris’ face go carefully blank. It was his slave’s look; an empty stoic expression that hid every last feeling from the people around you. “Me?” He asked careful to keep all emotion out of his tone.
“You know how to patch yourself up; you know how to clean a wound without magedom. I trust you.”
He must have sounded sincere because Fenris nodded. “Alright, follow me.”
Carver hid a smile as Fenris turned once more and followed the elf into the master bedroom. It seemed strange to him that Fenris would take Denarious’ old room as his considering how the ex-slave felt about his former master. Certainly it was the most comfortable room in the mansion. A grand worm eaten rug took up most of the floor, serving only to give the steadfast gray a little relief. A massive four poster bed took up most of the available space. A dilapidated chest and bureau sat on either side of it. A square table had been dragged in from somewhere to sit in front of the fireplace, covered with maps and historical accounts of Tevinter. Carver wasn’t entirely sure what Fenris was researching but whatever it was had clearly consumed the elf’s thoughts.
“Sit down.” Fenris commanded heading over to one of the shelves.
Carver complied. Though it hurt like a demon to do so. He should have taken the blasted armor off hours ago. Pure dumb pride had made him keep it in place this long, plus Carver was fairly certain it was holding part of his side together.
Fenris set a small oak box upon the table, opening the lid he pulled out a decanter of clear liquid, a pot with some herbal scented salve, a few clean linens and a tea pot. Without speaking the elf poured water into the pot, uncorked the bottle of liquid and tossed in a few drops. He set it on top of a black iron hook to hang near the flickering fire. Fenris opened the herbal pot and turned back to Carver. “Well?”
Carver frowned, “Well what?”
“The wound…where is it?”
“Ah.” Carver stood up and slid the pauldrons off his shoulders. That one move made him sag with relief.
“Is it that bad?” Fenris asked.
“Hmm?”
“The templar training. You look worn. Is it that bad?”
Carver shrugged and wished he hadn’t. The wound had become sore, and the more he took off the more he seemed to feel it. His bracers came off easily. It was the latches at his shoulders he couldn’t unclip to get the breastplate off. “Help…”
Fenris rolled his eyes, “I would think armor removal would be covered by the templars training.” He stalked around the table and leaned over to work the laces apart. He was close. All Carver had to do was turn and he could have kissed that long tan neck. It took everything in him to hold back. For a moment all he could think of was that first kiss, shared in the mansions main room. The only kiss.
“I still don’t see the wound.” Fenris stepped away, holding the breastplate in one hand.
Carver sighed and stood up, pulling off the chainmail undershirt with a little difficulty, leaving him in only the templar wrap, a red high collared shirt to protect his skin from the armor, and boots.
Carver’s fingers rose to the buttons to undo the shirt, Fenris’ eyes followed them. The elf fought hard to keep his face disimpassioned but the eyes gave him away. Carver watched as the smoky moss colored eyes followed his fingers over each button. Truthfully he only needed to undo two or three to get the shirt off, but it was good to see that he had some sort of effect…the shirt hung open around his chest, framing a long line of lean pale flesh decorated with a palm sized patch of hair half hidden by a thick wad of blood stained wrapping. Fenris’ eyes seemed glued to that line of skin. Slowly, a hungry heat crept into those elfish eyes. Carver stood still, barely breathing. Afraid any move might frighten that look away.
He knew it now. Fenris wanted Carver just as much as Carver wanted Fenris. Good. He made a small move, flexing is abdomen so slightly. Templar training had turned him from a well built farmer to a young man of physical perfection. Hours of unending exercise had sculpted his youthful build into something far more masculine. His stomach was a plane of abdominal perfection. His shoulders had filled out with all that extra work, his arms no longer looked boyish, they had taken on a defined line that now turned ladies heads. But it wasn’t ladies that ogled now. He watched Fenris’ jaw slacken ever so slightly as he moved his hips to show off newly acquired stomach muscles. He found himself happy that the wrapping was higher up.
“Fenris?”
“Hmm?” The elf asked, blinking out of whatever daydream he’d been having.
“The water…it’s boiling.”
Carver fought a grin as Fenris’ face flushed. He’d never met a person who could scowl and blush all at the same time, but something about it drove him wild. Fenris said nothing as he pulled the water from the fire. He simply set it on a wad of rags and busied himself with slicing the bloody wrapping away.
“What happened?”
Carver was pleased by the note of concern in Fenris’ tone.
“One of the other recruits…he was attempting to show off.”
“It appears he succeeded.” Fenris brushed some of the salve on the wound and Carver saw stars.
“Be gentle.” Carver grunted.
Fenris’ hands dropped suddenly away. “You’ll be fine.” He snapped.
“What is the matter with you?” Carver demanded.
Fenris snapped the lid of the box closed pushing it away from the maps and piles of notes. “I am fine.”
“You are a terrible liar.” Carver stood up, feeling his anger rise. “I am sorry that my kiss meant so much to you.”
“So little, you mean.”
“No, Fenris. I don’t. I meant exactly what I said. If it had meant nothing to you it wouldn’t be bothering you this much. It stirred something. I should have asked. I admit it. I’m sorry, little wolf. Sorry that it hurt you. But I am NOT sorry for what I did. I loved the feel of your lips. I would kiss you…a million times more if you let me.” Carver stood fast enough to knock the chair over, stalking towards Fenris who lifted his chin to look more regal and distant.
Carver saw it now. Watched as the elf built walls of security around himself. He drew a layer of cold stoicism around himself in a pitiful effort to keep Carver away. Carver wasn’t having it anymore.
“Damnit Fenris, why are you pretending?” He stepped up to the lyrium etched male till there was but a bare inch between them.
“I am not pretending. I have no interest in having any…relationship…with you.”
Fenris didn’t move as Carver leaned down. Carver paused, so that his words breathed across the elf’s mouth. “Then I’ll just wait for you to come to me…”
Carver turned, grabbed his armor, and left.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Fire & Ice