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Strangers with Cookies	By : pirouette Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 9211 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age/Bioware, its characters, or any content used for the basis of this fanfiction. I am making no money from this work.

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Title: Strangers With Cookies
Chapter Four: �If I were indeed hostile, you would be
bleeding.�
Rating: T for suggestive dialogue and
qunari rodeo

Word Count: 2,930

Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Wynne,
Morrigan, Zevran, and a hair tie of unusual strength.

Summary: Adhara finally finds Sten's snapping point, and the
two of them go toe-to-toe at Haven.

Sten grumbles and pulls another shirt over his head, but all
that appears to accomplish is to make his arms feel even colder. Out of the corner
of his eye he can see the overbearing mage watching him intently. Rather than
chancing her taking his desire for a blanket as proof that he does, in fact,
need a colorful knit cloak, he strides for the fire and sits as close to it as
possible without burning himself or inhaling smoke.
Adhara joins him a moment later. �And how are we liking the
mountains?�
�Remind me why were are here,� he replies, and the Templar
nods violently.
�Yes, do. Most of this sodding country is warm, and yet
you've managed to find snow for us.�
The elf frowns and crosses her arms. �You're the one who put
me in charge, Alistair. Though I've never seen a city, have no real
understanding of shemlen politics, and everyone we've spoken to so far
tries to defer to you anyway.�
�But I'm not a leader!�
�And I'm doing the best I can. So,� she continues, shifting
to face Sten once more, �to answer your question, we're here because I
thought saving the life of the man who raised my fellow Warden was a good
thing.�
Again, she has decided to steal the duty of another. �But
this does not help us fight the darkspawn.�
She shrugs. �I'm told that if he lives, he'll fight for us.
Unlike many other lords, he lost no troops at Ostagar.�
No, Adhara is no soldier. A soldier would be leading them
toward battle, not away into the mountains.
�Gods above, it's cold, though,� she mutters, and proceeds
to sit in the middle of his lap as though it belongs to her. He tenses
instantly and stares down at her in confusion.
Not a soldier. She hardly weighs a thing; how she manages to
move in her armor is beyond him. How can she fell enemies with no bulk to put
behind her blows? He scowls as she looks up at him. �What are you doing?�
�Yes, what are you doing?� the witch echoes. �Some of us are
still eating.�
The elf's eyes widen. �Have none of you any survival sense?
I'm cold. He's cold. This keeps us warm. Why must all touching be sensual to
you shemlen?�
�Why not let me knit you a cloak?� asks the white-haired
mage.
�Because I wouldn't be able to wear it with my armor and
shield, anyway,� she retorts. �
�I am not a blanket,� Sten mutters. �Go sit on Alistair.�
�Hey!� the Templar looks up from his soup and glares toward
them both.
�You're larger,� she frowns, tilting her head back to look
up at him again. �I'm less likely to make you colder.� She catches his
scowl and grins. �How can you not know this? You're a soldier, Sten! Do qunari
freeze to death often?�
�Hardly. Seheron never sees snow. The winters are as cool as
your summers.� Vashedan. He is less cold.
�Oh.� But she makes no move to exit his lap, and he resigns
himself to her presence. Maraas shokra. There is nothing to struggle against.
At least the others appear to find her actions as strange as he does.
The priestess finishes her supper and smiles toward Adhara.
�I was thinking... I know a Dalish tale, and I have been wanting to share it.
But it occurred to me that it might have lost a great deal in its journey to
Orlais, and I do not wish to offend you by telling it improperly.�
�Honestly, it's unlikely that I'd know,� the elf admits.
�Well,� she continues, �I think that it would be more fun
for you to tell a tale tonight. None of us know much about the Dalish,
and I love collecting new stories.�
Adhara bristles strangely; he can feel her back tensing.
�I'm a hunter. I know no tales.�
�None at all?�
�I don't have a head for remembering stories. The hahren
used to shout at me about it, in fact.�
�Then... tell us the story of your scars,� the priestess
suggests. �That is a hunting tale, yes?�
�Hmmm.� Adhara rubs at her forearm absently. �Fine. There's
no harm in telling that, I think.�
Sten hopes that she will leave his lap, but she does not,
and so they all look his way and listen as she speaks about her clan. He is
surprised to learn that the Dalish way of life makes sense: the children are
raised almost communally, taught by the storytellers, and then assigned roles
by the keeper when their skills have come clear. Adhara had always been brave
and strong, so they made her a hunter, meant to both feed and protect the clan.
�These scars are from the wolf pack that earned me my vallaslin.�
When the others stare at her blankly, she touches the violet lines crossing her
face. �The keeper gives us our tattoos when we come of age. Hunters prove that
they're of age by tracking and killing an animal. It must be a predator, and
they must be alone.�
�Our clan,� she smiles, �has a long tradition of hunters
choosing wolves as their proof kill. Naturally, I wanted to be no different,
and so I sought out the pack that had been terrorizing our halla.� More
confused stares, but she ignores them this time. �I brought down the alpha
female with a single shot to the heart.�
Adhara bares her arm and shows the scar. �This bite is from
her mate, which I hadn't noticed was stalking me. And the marks along my spine
are from the back claws of the one who jumped on me and tried to bite through
my neck. I returned to my clan, bloody, weak, and carrying three pelts.�
�Reckless,� Sten says, and to his surprise she nods.
�Certainly, but it's an excellent reminder of the lesson I
learned.�
�And that was?�
Her head tilts backward so that her eyes meet his. �Don't be
so focused on the goal that you lose sight of the dangers beside you.�
Hmph. A lesson the Fereldan king would have done well to
learn. But saying so will only antagonize the Templar.
�Do you think the Dalish storytellers would share their
tales when we find them?� asks the priestess.
Adhara shakes her head. �I'm sorry. They wouldn't. Even if
you're with me, you'll still be a shemlen.�
�Too bad,� she sighs. �I find the Dalish ways fascinating.�
She stiffens again. �They're not meant to fascinate
you.�
�No, I misspoke. Thank you for sharing so much about
yourself, Adhara.��
They spend the rest of the evening in relative silence; the
elf remains in his lap, dozing sleepily like a child. Odd, that this should be
an accepted practice among the guardians of her clan, cold weather or no. But
she stirs the instant that he becomes truly restless and moves to her bedroll.
�No,� the priestess says. �You're not sleeping
outside of a tent tonight. Share with me, Adhara.�
Sten is herded into Alistair's in a similar fashion, and he
spends much of the night thinking and trying not to breathe too deeply. She is
not a warrior. She was not meant or trained to lead. The other Warden is even
more inept at it, and so they are drifting while the Blight worsens. The only
true leader among them is himself, but though Adhara would likely be happy to
pass the role off, the others would need convincing. This was her party;
they followed her leadership. How could he convince them that he was more
competent?
The answer comes to him the next morning when they reach
their destination and Sten learns that they have fled the Blight to locate a
backwater town which appears to be entirely populated by chickens and oxen. He
puts a hand to Adhara's shoulder and stops her as they enter the center of
town.
�Is it your plan to go north until it becomes south and
approach the archdemon from the rear?�
She smiles at him. �You have to admit that it will never see
it coming.�
�True. It will be too busy destroying what is left of this
country.�
The smile fades, and she turns to gaze up at him, arms
crossed. �Speak your mind, Sten.�
�You told me when you freed me that you were fighting the
Blight.�
�We are.�
�No. We are climbing a mountain to seek the ashes of a dead
woman. Would it not simply be easier to kill and burn one of the mages?�
�No, 'twould not,� Morrigan interjects, staff in hand, but
Adhara stops her with a look.
�We've talked about this, Sten. I've told you how this helps
us fight the Blight.�
�You have. And your assessment is incorrect. I cannot allow
us to flee from battle and continue on in this fashion.�
�Thankfully, it's not your decision.�
�Yes, it is. I'm taking charge.�
To his surprise, she laughs at him and draws her blade. �You
may certainly try.��
The others scatter, and Sten stares down at her, confused.
She is half his size. No, worse: she is the size of his sword. This must be for
the sake of the others; if he defeats her, then they will be willing to follow.
Surely she does not believe that she can�
Parshaara. Sten answers her battle shout with a yell of his
own and draws his blade. Her eyes narrow as he charges, sword raised, and
prepares to knock her out with a single swing. But the blade hits dirt, and his
teeth grit at the impact. He sees movement from his right side and ducks out of
habit, moving himself directly into a shield swing and nearly knocking himself
senseless.�
Perhaps there is some advantage to being small, he
grudgingly admits, rolling sideways to avoid her next swing. While she is
unbalanced, he knocks her over, and uses the chance to pull himself off of the
ground.
She is already standing. How is she already standing?
Vashedan, she is faster than he was prepared for. She blocks another blow with
a grimace, stumbling backward as splinters of wood fly from her shield. He
pulls back as though preparing to swing again, then brings his pommel crashing
down as she takes the bait and steps inward. Metal rings, and she cries out as
he knocks her helmet backward off of her head. It bounces along the ground, and
she steps with it, putting distance between them again. She yanks out the remains
of her ponytail with a shriek before returning her attention to him, hair loose
around her shoulders.
Sten watches her settle into a more defensive stance and
realizes with bemusement that she is smiling. He feints, attempting to get her
to charge again, but she answers him with a frustrated shout and holds her
ground. He works his way closer, seeking an opening, but her shield follows everywhere
he moves.
She surges forward again, and he swings to counter her, but
she steps aside at the last instant and allows him to rush past. Before he can
regain his balance, she hits him in the back of the neck with her shield-edge,
and he crumples to his hands and knees, momentarily stunned. The flat of her
blade ricochets off the back of his skull, and he sways dizzily and collapses
the rest of the way into the dirt.�
He tries to shake his head to clear it, but there is
something keeping�Adhara has him by the ponytail, and is crouched on his upper
back. He growls and tries to upset her balance, and is rewarded with a sharp
tug and a heel to the back of his neck.
�Get back in line,� she pants.
�Ebost issala,� he retorts, spitting dirt out of his mouth
and beginning to rise.
�That sounds like a no.� More hair-tugging, which he ignores
and struggles to his hands and knees. She shifts with him as he stands and is
soon kneeling on his upper back and shoulders. Each time he attempts to upset
her, she pulls at his braids again to steady herself.
She has dropped her sword and that accursed shield: all he
needs to do is get her off of his back, and he will have her. If she had been
human, he would have her already, but she is slight, and he is finding it
difficult to reach her. He is forced to grab her by the ankles and actually
hold her to him to prevent her from jamming her boots into his armor plates and
locking his arms at the shoulders. She takes the opportunity to untie his
ponytail and wrap the leather around his neck, leaning back and putting her
weight on the cord to cut off his air.
They struggle for a few moments, her weight shifting with
his, until he becomes too dizzy to remain standing. Even falling does nothing
to shake her balance, and he finds himself back in the dirt with her still on
his shoulders.
�Enough,� he chokes, and she instantly releases his neck,
though makes no move to abandon her perch on his back. As he inhales, he is
inundated with scent. Sharp mountain air, the dirt below them, the bitter smell
of metal, and her. She smells of anger, and the blood that is trickling
from a nick near her hairline from when he sent her helmet flying. The
combination is almost enough to make him dizzy again.
�Who is in charge?� she snarls in his ear. When he does not
answer, she pulls at his braids again, and he feels rage begin to boil within
his chest.
�You are, Warden.�
Her legs relax so that she is straddling his back, feet on
the ground. Her guard is dropping. �If you try something like this again, Sten,
I'll ride you up this mountain like a horse,� she hisses.
Foolish to follow up winning a physical fight with verbal
threats. After the hair pulling, he lacks the patience to humor her posturing.
Sten lunges to the side, sending her sliding off his back and into the dirt,
and pins her to the ground by her own hair. �That is not a tactic that will work
twice, elf.�
The humans are scared. The assassin is worried. But still
she glares at him fearlessly, eyes narrowed in rage, panting heavily. He
straddles her stomach and presses her into the dirt. He had killed a family of
humans bare-handed, and she was unlikely to be any more difficult to end than
their children. Sten waits, staring down at her, expecting fear to flicker to
the surface. Any second now, he will be able to smell it, and that will be the
encouragement he needs to wrap his fingers around her tiny neck and squeeze.
But she remains angry; as their breathing steadies, he rises
and pulls her to her feet. �Honestly,� she pants, �I've been expecting you to
challenge me since the Circle Tower.� She wipes at her forehead and grimaces as
she smears a thickening patch of blood. �I've been trying to provoke you into
it.�
Sten passes her helmet over in silence, trading it for his
hair band, and begins tying his braids back where they belong. How has she
managed to best him, as small as she is? In the past, he has only fallen to
warriors or darkspawn. Perhaps the blood she ingested�no. She cannot be a
darkspawn and dedicated to fighting the Blight. That leaves only one
explanation.
He does not speak again until they sit down together at
watch, even farther into the mountains than before, with the ruined temple he
is told is their destination looming before them. �I was wrong,� he sighs, and
scowls when she smiles at him happily.
�So, I'm a woman?�
�Yes.�
�And a soldier, perhaps?�
�...Yes,� he admits. He had been raised to believe such a
thing impossible. �Though it makes no sense to me.�
Adhara takes the opportunity to climb back into his lap,
bringing with her the scent of sweat and blood.� �One wolf down. Leading isn't
much different than hunting, as it turns out.� She rubs at the scars on her arm
absently, and Sten rests his back against the rock behind him and considers.
�The tale was a warning?�
She smiles. �You're not as inscrutable as you think, my
friend. Did you know that I'm the only one in the party who can tell when
you're smiling?�
�I would have preferred to know that earlier,� he replies,
and scowls when she laughs at him.
The next morning the assassin steps before Adhara with a
merry grin as Sten shoulders his pack and prepares to follow her lead. �I have
been thinking, my Warden, and if you still wish to ride someone up the
mountainside, I would be happy to oblige.�
�Shut up, Zevran,� she retorts, and Sten shakes his head in
disgust. So he was the wolf who came at her from the side, and the assassin the
one she shot through the heart before it could put up a fight. Which of the
party, then, does she think is the wolf who strikes from behind?
Adhara scans everyone with her grey eyes, then takes the
lead. �Let's get this over with. I want to get off this mountain.�
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Strangers with Cookies