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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.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Seven: �Happiness is fragile. Nothing can
be built upon it that will last. Only duty endures.�
Rating: T

Word Count: 2, 030

Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, Leliana, Alistair, Wynne, Morrigan,
Zevran

Summary: Can qunari angst? The answer may surprise you. (Spoilers
for Dalish origin story.)

[A/N: Thanks for all the awesome feedback so far, everyone.
Your comments and concrit have been lovely. I'll go ahead and announce it here
for those who don't know: this fic updates every Tuesday and Saturday. I
have a buffer of chapters built up, and so I post them as I work on the ending.
This means two things: 1) Regular updates! 2) A fic that will be
completed.

If you wish, you can head over to twist-shimmy.livejournal.com
and friend me there. That is my writing journal, where I post fic first, and
frankly I think is easier to read and navigate than AFF. Regardless, I will
continue posting in both places. But please, don't be shy! I love friends and
feedback.]

Sten sits beside the others, sharpening Asala while they
discuss their current destination over dinner.
�So what do you think we'll need to save the Dalish from?�
Alistair grins, glancing toward Adhara, who is meticulously dissecting an
orange. �We've got civil war and demons covered. Maybe they'll have a plague,
or lost children to find?�
Adhara scowls and ceases sucking juice from her fingers to
speak. �Nonsense. My people can handle themselves. If anything, it'll be nice
to finally show up somewhere, receive a promise of aid, and then leave.�
�That would be nice,� the Templar agrees. �We're so close to
having a proper army to fight the darkspawn.�
Adhara tosses an orange peel at his ear. �'That would be nice?'�
�Look, all I'm saying is that everywhere else has been a
complete disaster. I'm just preparing for the worst.�
She shakes her head. �You shemlen never give my
people enough credit.� When the Templar bristles, she grins. �Ha! Got you.�
�I hate it when you do that,� he sulks. �I can never tell
when you're joking!�
�That's what makes it fun.�
�You're evil, you know that? That, and your tattoo
makes it impossible for me to tell what face you're making.�
�That's why we do it, you know. Keep you shems on
your toes. This way you'll never see it coming when we lead the city elves in
an uprising against you.�
�Really?�
�...No.� She glances sideways at the assassin, and they both
begin laughing merrily.
The Templar scowls again and turns to Sten. �Why doesn't she
ever torment you?�
�She does,� he replies, and returns his eyes to his sword,
but it is too late: her attention focuses on him.
�When do I torture you?�
�Should I remind you of the time you strangled me, or the
weeks you spent nearly naked just to spite me?� Though that had not been
torment when it occurred. It is only now that he sees her as an equal that the
memories prove distracting.
The assassin frowns. �Perhaps you should torture someone who
would be properly appreciative of your efforts. No need to strangle me perhaps,
but I wouldn't say no to spanking!�
Sten latches on to what he desperately hopes is a change of
subject. �I'm unfamiliar with that word. Is it a fighting technique?�
He grins and leans closer than is desirable. �I could
demonstrate how it is done, if you like.�
Adhara inserts herself forcibly between them. �He will
kill you, and I won't stop him.�
So it is something sexual; he should have known. The elves
catch his facial expression, and Zevran begins to speak again. �Generally,
spanking is done as punishment to small children. Though among adults, it can
have...other applications.� He smacks at the air before him, hand cupped as
though�parshaara.
�You spend far too much time thinking about sex,� Sten
scowls.
�And not nearly enough time having it,� he replies.
�Enough,� Adhara orders. �Alistair can't get much redder.
Let's go to bed before he boils over.�
�A little boiling over is healthy now and then!� the
assassin retorts, and is instantly herded away.
Once everyone is settled into their bedding, Adhara joins Sten
at the camp perimeter. �They're getting antsy. We've been in the field for too
long.�
�If they were true soldiers, it would not be a problem.�
She shoves at his shoulder and succeeds in pushing herself a
short distance away from him. �We've been over this. They're useful, soldiers
or no.�
�What good is the witch?�
�Other than the fact that she excels at blowing darkspawn
apart? She gives us a common enemy. Without her to unite them, the others
wouldn't get along half so well.�
He is forced to admit that her reasoning is sound, though he
privately wonders if traveling with the mage is worth it, even still. Adhara
spends the rest of the shift fighting sleep, and he eventually convinces her to
retire early: the alternative is bearing her dozing off and falling against his
shoulder every few minutes. She retreats to her bedroll grudgingly, but is
asleep within minutes of lying down.
Adhara does not remain so long, however; Sten is used to the
nightmares now, but tonight she seems more restless than usual. She tosses, and
turns, muttering to herself and flinching periodically. He can hear similar
noises from within the Templar's tent, and decides that the archdemon must be
speaking.
Or worse. She jolts awake with a shriek and takes her sword
into her hand, running for Alistair's tent. He meets her just outside, face
pale. Both of them are panting, eyes wild.
�Sten, be careful,� she calls to him, pitching her voice
low.
Alistair does not bother to keep his voice down. �It saw us,
didn't it? Adhara, it saw us!�
�I don't kno�agh!� she crumples to the ground, and the camp
descends suddenly into pandemonium. The horrible shrieking noise that gives the
tall, clawed darkspawn their name assaults his ears, and as soon as he blinks
the camp is full of them. The Wardens are in the middle of a ring, and as the
smell of her blood reaches him, he surges forward with a roar.
The others are awake, and it is chaos; the mages are
electrocuting and petrifying without their normal warnings, and so the dwarf
nearly gets caught in crossfire. The priestess stands back and fires rapidly,
sinking arrows into the twisted flesh of the darkspawn surrounding Adhara.
As he cuts his way to her, he sees that her shield is gone,
and she is clutching at her stomach as she stabs at her enemies. Blood is
seeping through the back of her chainmail and making her purchase slick; when
she falls, he shouts, drawing the shrieks' attentions toward him.
Suddenly, there is silence. As soon as it is clear that no
more are coming, Sten falls to his knees beside her.
�Well, that hurt,� she manages, and he holds her off the
ground and allows Alistair to remove her armor.
�Maker,� he groans as he sees her blood-soaked shirt. �How
are you not dead, Adhara?�
�No, don't tempt the trickster.� She scans the camp with
half-focused eyes. �Is everyone okay?�
�Zevran caught a rock to the chest when he accidentally
leapt in front of Wynne,� the priestess replies, moving toward them. �She'll be
over as soon as his ribs are set.�
�Idiot,� she groans. It takes Sten several seconds to
realize that she means the assassin and not the mage.
She is freshly healed and grimacing at her ruined armor when
a rustling in the bushes catches her attention. The priestess raises her bow,
and the mages their staves, but Adhara orders them to stop.
�N-no, no,� she wails, running toward the figure. �Lethallin?�
The others are out of earshot, and as a result have no
warning when the dark figure attacks. Adhara has slain it by the time they
realize what has happened and begin to rush forward. Sten halts when he sees
her fall to the ground with a bowed head, but the Templar does not stop until
he is behind her.
She does not turn her head. �Not now, Alistair.�
�Adhara, who��
�Look, you sodding shem, I told you to leave me
alone!�
�I�sorry. I'll just. Sorry.� Alistair retreats toward the
campfire, shaking his head and gesturing for the others to follow. Sten expects
him to look hurt, but instead he turns to the qunari with a worried expression.
�Can you go talk to her? She doesn't think you're a... shemlen, so she
might actually tell you what just happened.�
�Did I not hear her say that she wants to be alone?�
�I don't think that's a good idea,� he replies.� �I just got
a good look at that thing's face, and I... think that's who she was talking to
in the Gauntlet, at Haven. Whoever he is, he's important to her, and she just
killed him.�
Adhara ignores him when he calls her name. He has to kneel
and place his hand on her shoulder to elicit a response, and even then her
voice is uncharacteristically soft. �Go away.�
�No.�
She whirls on him, and he is surprised to see tears
streaking her face. He has never seen her cry. The priestess, yes, and even the
witch, when she was shot through the gut by a poisoned arrow, but never their
leader. �Why? Do you think this is really the time to tell me that crying is
something a soldier does not do, and that I'm too weak to lead? Can't you wait
to lord the fact that you're emotionally dead over me, or does now really seem
like the time to discuss qunari superiority?�
Sten blinks and sits fully beside her, taking care not to
look at the... thing... she has cradled in her lap. He still towers over her,
but he is at least able to see her face more clearly. �You are not one to cry
needlessly, kadan. Tell me who he was.�
Her eyes widen briefly, and then she appears to fold in on
herself, crumpling around the figure with blackened skin that looks like an elf
but smells like a darkspawn. �He was my lethallin. My brother, my
hunting partner.�
�Your kadan?�
She smiles weakly. �If your brothers at Lake Calenhad were kadan,
then yes, I suppose. We grew up together. We got in trouble with the hahren
together, and we got sick together.�
Adhara explains in halting phrases about a mirror, and
falling ill, and the disappearance of her kadan. �Duncan said he was beyond
help, even though I had fought against the sickness for days and was fine. He
said that even if he were found... but you saw those things in the Deep Roads,�
she says in a rush, looking up at him. �He's not even close to them, not yet,
and it's been months. If I had found him, I... I....�
�Kadan,� he begins, but she cuts him off.
�We might be Wardens together. I might have saved him. But I
trusted a shem and abandoned my best friend and....� her voice fails
her, and she takes a deep breath. �And then he would have died alone at Ostagar
among a bunch of shemlen, or he'd die in thirty years. If I guess like
this I'll go insane, I will.�
�My Warden,� comes a soft voice from behind them, and they
both turn to see the assassin approaching. �We should bury him before we move
on, no? This friend of yours?�
Adhara sighs. �I suppose that's a small mercy of all this.�
So the Dalish bury their dead. Sten finds that strangely
barbaric, but offers his aid all the same. �Tell me what should be done for
him.�
�W-what? Oh. I need a sapling.� When she sees his confusion,
she elaborates. �A small tree. Alive.�
�Very well.�
Sten leaves her to venture into the woods. It takes a time
to find a suitable tree, and even longer to tear it from the ground. This gives
him ample time to realize what she meant when she called him emotionally
dead. But of all of them, she alone could read his expressions well enough
to understand when he was smiling. How is it possible, then, that she thinks he
does not feel, especially after their conversations about home and clan? It is
likely that he is rougher with the tree's excavation than is strictly
necessary, but most of its roots remain intact.
The sun is rising when he returns, sapling in tow.� The
mages are cooking food and offering the others water. The Templar and the
priestess are digging a hole, and Adhara is sitting under a nearby pine,
smelling strongly of blood, darkspawn, and the assassin, who has an arm around
her and is running his fingers over her hair.
He had intended to sit beside her until it was done.
Instead, he gives the tree to the dwarf and retreats back into the woods.
�
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Strangers with Cookies