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Strangers with Cookies	By : pirouette Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 9210 -:- 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 One: �What is that smell?�

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,466

Characters: f!Mahariel, Sten, assorted elfroots, fences, and a
big cage in Lothering.

Summary: Sten can never tell if elves are male or female, and
the one that unlocked his cage door seems to be covered in face-paint and
wearing chainmail. Parshaara. At least he's moving again.

[A/N: I started this fic as a challenge to myself
(what is it like being in Sten's head? What does he think of the other
party members? Are non-qunari women even remotely
attractive? Why? Why not? What races are less infuriating? Etc),
and my betas and I ended up falling in love with the idea. It gets smutty
eventually (I've got several chapters in final draft already), but the another
focus is how Sten and Adhara, the Dalish PC, deal with Fereldan culture shock.]

Elfroot. Easy, eager, evening, east. Each, every,
elaborate. Eight, elsewhere. Eating... egg.
Sten's scowl deepens. No matter how he tries to prevent it,
for the past week his mind has been drawn more and more to food words. Perhaps
it would be best to halt this exercise and return to reciting the Qun.
�Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban
aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.� Struggle is an illusion. The tide
rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle
against. Victory is in the Qun. His voice is growing hoarse. Water would
certainly soothe his throat. What poor timing that the passage he left off on
is concerned with the sea.
Exacerbate. Is there nothing for him to focus on that
will not draw his mind to the things that he cannot have? Moving to F again
seems dangerous. There is a fence directly in front of him, but he is already
having enough difficulty not thinking about food.
As though on cue, loud footsteps and the clink of armor
sounds from his right. A mishmash of people are approaching from the town
thoroughfare. Not refugees, or Templars. Perhaps another group of bandits. If
they are more children with rocks, he may no longer possess the patience to
ignore them.
Elf. It halts the party and gazes up at him. Perhaps
this is another curious gawker, though the markings covering its face make it
nearly impossible for Sten to read its expression. As with all elves, gender is
equally difficult to determine. Slight figure, with either muscle or curve.
Long hair pulled into a ponytail, and a wide mouth, though the armor indicates
masculinity. A man in face-paint, then.
He does not stand like the elves he has seen in Ferelden
thus far; his shoulders are squared, and he is familiar with the chainmail that
he is wearing. Behind him stands a human male, two human females, and one of
those dogs they are so fond of in this country.
Exude. He can smell the dog's stench from here. It is
even managing to overpower the refugees.
Sten stares down at them and waits for the curses. But all
they do is stare back. When his eyes narrow, the elf finally speaks.
�What are you?� An elf's voice; soft, lilting, and
disconcertingly feminine. His observer's head tilts slightly to the left. Enthralled.
Sten has long since lost patience for those who seek to use
him for entertainment. �A prisoner,� he snarls, but the elf is not daunted.
They talk about him as though he is not present, which he
expects. What is unusual is that they appear to be discussing his release. All
the while the elf's eyes remain pinned on his. They are grey.
Extraordinary. No qunari possesses eyes remotely
similar in color. Behind him, the discussion has devolved into bickering. The
elf ignores it and takes a step forward, placing his hands on Sten's cage and
gazing upward at him. The markings on his face appear to be some sort of
tattoo. Beneath the violet lines covering his forehead and cheeks, Sten notices
smooth skin. This elf is still nearly a child. Perhaps the others are his
guards. Though why humans would be guarding an elf here, he could not imagine.
�Let me see your hands,� he orders. Sten raises them to the
bars, placing one on either side of his head in an attempt to intimidate him.
They are nearly as large as the elf's face, but he inspects them without even a
flicker of fear.
�You're a warrior,� he tells Sten as though he is not
already aware.
�And you are an elf.�
He bares his teeth. �Quiet, all of you,� he says over his
shoulder. �I want this one.� Grey eyes meet his and do not blink. �If I freed
you, would you fight for me?�
Eccentric. Though potentially... escape. It
would be nice to be outside of this cage. �What are you fighting?�
�We're fighting darkspawn and working to end the Blight.�
�...You are a Grey Warden?�
The elf flinches, but nods.
�Surprising.� Embittering. Sten lost his brothers to
darkspawn, and this is what humans rely on to stop the Blight? Elves,
women, and a loud-mouthed boy? The qunari could lift the elf in one hand; how
could he fare better against the darkspawn than his soldiers had?
They continue speaking, but he ceases paying attention to
the words. Their language is coarse, and full of consonants. Harsh, with no
rhythm or flow, and after so long in the sun it quickly becomes grating. When
they leave him, it is a relief.
He closes his eyes and listens to the grass swaying in the
breeze. If he ignores the stench of refugee and the dry heat, it almost sounds
like water to his ears. Cruel, to be trapped in surroundings that almost
replicate the sounds he will never experience again. End. Extinguish.�
The sound of more bickering makes Sten reopen his eyes
minutes later. The party has returned, and the women are clamoring at one
another, speaking too quickly for him to follow without effort.
�What's your name?� The elf is gazing up at him again.
Sten bristles before he remembers that is the Fereldan way
of asking his identity. �Sten.�
The elf bares his teeth once more. �Pleased to meet you. I'm
Adhara.�
An odd name, though it flows better than any other he has
heard in this land. �Are you mocking me? I do not expect politeness from
Fereldans.�
He bares his teeth again, and Sten wonders what could have
been so offensive until the elf begins laughing� no, he has not been not baring
his teeth, but smiling in an exaggerated fashion. Does no Fereldan have
restraint?
�I see you've had much the same experience among the shemlen
as I have,� replies the elf. The lock clicks, the door opens, and Sten is able
to take a step for the first time in weeks. As he exits his prison, the elf
gazes up at him. �Andaran atish'an, Sten of the qunari.� More unfamiliar
words. Perhaps this elf is no Fereldan at all.
Emancipation. Sten takes a deep breath and rolls his
shoulders. Better to die shamed in battle than to die shamed in a cage. He is
given armor, and a greatsword, and agrees to follow the Wardens in return for
his release. He walks behind the chattering humans, surreptitiously stretching
his sore legs, as they depart the town.
The elf walks in front, choosing their direction, still
acting in every way as their leader. The only time he speaks is near dusk, when
he orders his followers to stop for the night. The humans begin unpacking and
building a campfire, but the elf grabs his bow and perches on a nearby rock,
watching his companions work. He only joins them to take a share of supper,
which is offered to Sten, who has lowered himself to the ground underneath a
tree far enough away to ignore their words.
�Eat. The villagers told me that you were in that cage for
weeks. Do you need water?� he asks, and Sten shakes his head. The elf ignores
the movement and passes him a waterskin before sitting beside him underneath
the tree.
Food. Fire, fight, flee, finery, fish, feeling.
Sten eats, drinks, and inspects the elf's equipment. His bow
is made of a strange material, with similar markings as cover his face, and he
finds himself curious enough to ask �What are you?�
The elf laughs again. �I'm Dalish. Am I as new to you as you
are to me, then?�
Sten counters the question with one of his own. �But you are
an elf, are you not?�
�If you're comparing me to the poor things you find in
cities, you should know that they are not elves.�
�They look like elves to me.�
He shakes his head. �They've spent too long with the shemlen.
They may look like elves, but they've forgotten what that means. We Dalish call
them 'flat-ears'.�
Parshaara, Sten is too tired for this. He returns the
waterskin, and the elf takes the cue and leaves him alone beneath the tree. The
humans retire to their tents, finally silencing themselves, but the Dalish
resumes his perch on the rock and keeps alert, evidently intending to keep
watch. Sten observes him until the food in his belly makes him sleepy, trying
to learn all that he can about this strange creature who has freed him.
The arishok had not warned him that there were two breeds of
elf. Perhaps he did not know. Sten presses his back against the tree and sighs.
And now he never will.�
Failure.
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Strangers with Cookies