Chapter Text
Exiting the dark tower, Sirra squinted against the bright light, groaning at the headache pulsing against her temples at the rudeness of the sun. As her vision cleared, she checked its placement in the sky and realized it marked the approximate second hour in the afternoon. They’d been inside the tower for an entire day, at least. Who knew how much time passed in the real world when they were trapped in the Fade?
Reaching the dock, they discovered a different Templar waiting to row them across. Morrigan was the one who broached the question on everyone’s mind.
“How long were we locked inside your tower, Templar?”
“Two days,” came the clipped reply.
Sirra gasped and she felt Alistair tense beside her. Two days longer than they planned to leave Connor at the mercy of the demon. Yet they hadn’t had a choice, and they couldn’t march even halfway around the lake in their current state of exhaustion. They needed a decent meal, a good night’s rest, time to clean all the congealed gunk from their armor, and a bath. Ancestors, she was splurging for baths across the board.
Alistair helped her into the boat with the others, and they rocked along the waves in silence. Sirra missed the comfort of his knees on this trip, but he was contemplative and distracted. Instead, she clung to the side of the vessel with one hand and the bench seat with the other, praying the small craft remained upright on their crossing. It was an uneventful trip, and more quickly than it took to arrive at the tower, the foursome found themselves deposited on the opposite shore.
Sirra knew they made quite an impression when they entered the old inn: two women, one of whom was a mage, a man so tall he had to duck under the low lintel, and a dwarf wearing blood covered armor. Slapping a full coin purse on the table, she rented two rooms, baths, and a hot meal for them all. The innkeeper snatched the pouch and picked his jaw off the floor to yell at his staff to heat some water for multiple baths while he escorted them upstairs to the rooms.
There were four rooms upstairs, one of which was the communal bathing room. He gave them the two rooms side by side on the left of the stairwell and told them to see him about a hot meal when they were ready. Leliana and Morrigan claimed one room, leaving Alistair and Sirra outside the second.
The dwarf nervously shuffled her feet. "I can rent the third one, if you’d rather. I didn’t think to ask –"
Alistair tilted her head up to meet him for a chaste kiss, secretly pleased he wouldn't be separated from her after their harrowing ordeal. “No, Sirra. I already promised to spend the next night in your tent, and we ended up in the Fade instead. This makes up for rudely denying you,” he murmured with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Come on.”
Pushing open the door, he followed in behind her and closed it with a gentle click of the metal lock in the door plate. Awkwardly, they deposited their packs and Sirra tugged off her boots with a grateful sigh. She grimaced at the flakes of dried blood littering the floor wherever she walked.
“Uh, I have to get out of this armor.”
“Yeeeeep.”
Alistair’s lilting reply carried in the small space, but he did not look at her as he dropped his gauntlets on the floor next to his boots. Sirra exhaled slowly to calm her anxiety and started working on the leather straps of her armor, only to discover most of the bindings glued shut by the copious amount of blood and who knew what else. She snarled in frustration, pausing at Alistair’s amused laughter and glanced at him, now in a pair of simple cloth breeches and his under tunic wearing a bemused expression.
“Need help?”
Blowing out an irritated breath, Sirra extended her arm in invitation and in three long strides he loomed over her, his strong hands making quick work of the stubborn straps to free her from the confining leathers. Within minutes they had shucked her armor until she was left standing in snug leggings and a loose tunic, much to her relief. Sighing happily, she sank onto a nearby chair with a smile, rolling her shoulders to work out the sore muscles underneath the armor she'd been stuck in for two days straight.
“Thanks, Alistair.”
Flushed to his toes for aiding her in removing her outerwear, he croaked it wasn’t a problem before he plopped on the floor and pulled out his whetstone. Sirra hid her smile behind her hand. He always sharpened his sword or cleaned his armor when he was nervous or needed to think.
A light knock came on the door and he opened it since he was closest. She heard a disinterested woman’s voice inform him that the first bath was ready for which he thanked her and closed the door when she walked away.
“You should go first, Sirra. You got the majority of the gore on this mission.” Alistair commented cheekily, quirking an eyebrow to the flecks of blood decorating the floorboards. Barking out a short laugh, she dug through her pack for her soap and clean clothes and crossed to the bathing room.
A large brass tub dominated the room, and tendrils of steam rose from the water in invitation. Sliding the wooden plank across the door to bar unwanted guests, Sirra laid her clean clothes next to the towels. Far enough away from the tub that if water sloshed over the sides, they would remain dry. Stripping out of her dirty garments and unfurling her hair, she snagged her soap and gingerly eased her bruised and battered self into the tub with a loud moan of pleasure. She heard Leliana giggle in the hallway and the dwarf blushed scarlet, hoping her moment of bliss hadn’t sounded as wanton beyond the door as it had in the echoic chamber.
Sirra leaned against the back of the basin and processed everything that happened, allowing the guilt and shock and pain of the last two days to break free, adding copious amounts of salt to the water with her tears. Pulling up her knees, she laid her head on them and sobbed. They did what they could at the tower, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Not with all the death and destruction. Not with Greagoir sealing off survivors and leaving them to die. Not with poor Ser Cullen tortured for Ancestors knew how long. Not with losing Niall in the Fade. It was all such a waste.
Guilt descended, knowing she was beholding the mages to the treaty for aid during a Blight after all they'd already gone through. Sirra knew the mages would be invaluable. Against the Archdemon they must exploit every angle to win, but part of her felt the mages had already sacrificed enough. Those lucky enough to survive the tower should not have to risk their lives again later.
Yet, it was done. The Circle was functional again and the mages aid secured. Irving would travel with them to Redcliffe tomorrow to save Connor. They had achieved much, and she had to remind herself to stay positive.
Corralling her scattered thoughts, she lathered her skin and hair, diligently working to remove days’ worth of grime from her body before the water cooled. Repeated passes were necessary until she was sure every spot was clean. It was impossible to be sure if her hair was fresh since the water turned red as soon as she started scrubbing her locks, but at the very least, it was better than when she started.
Aware of how slick the water was with soap residue, Sirra carefully exited the basin. Vigorously drying her body, the dwarf wrapped her hair in the towel so she could dress in her clean clothes. Collecting her things, she exited the bathing room, feeling guilty for the poor girl who would have to deal with the bloody water.
Inching the bedroom door open, in case Alistair was half naked or sleeping, she found it empty instead. Frowning, she studied the room and noticed the dried blood on the floor was gone, as was her armor.
Shoving her dirty clothing and soap in her pack, her fingers quested the depths of her bag for a leather tie. Retrieving a thong in quiet triumph, she unraveled the wrap from her hair and tossed it across the nearby chair. Returning to her pack, she searched for her comb box, and with her items she moved to the bed centered against the wall. Scrambling with difficulty onto the far side of the bed, she chewed on what she’d been avoiding: her feelings about a certain almost-Templar.
As she brushed the ivory tines through her hair, she ruminated on her deep feelings for Alistair, and the desire for a committed relationship with the handsome warrior. Yet, even with her immediate attraction to him, she never expected to... love him.
This wasn’t something she was familiar with. It was downright dangerous to have feelings for anyone in the Carta that ran beyond simple respect. It made you weak. It gave the leaders something to exploit. Very few dwarves in Dust Town were stupid enough to care for anyone, for that reason.
Although, she wasn’t in Orzammar anymore, and she didn’t need to protect herself from retribution from the Carta. She was free of Beraht and his cruelty, free of the neglect of her mother, free to let someone give her what she’d been starved for her whole life.
It was insane considering their short time together that she could love him after only a month. Crazier when she was honest with herself that she was smitten with the handsome warrior from day one. Sirra would never forget the way his piercing hazel eyes held hers in front of the Tower of Ishal, as rain flattened his hair, tracing his chiseled features before falling onto his rapidly rising chest. Even then, she was enamored by him, awed by such raw masculinity tempered with gentleness.
The depth of her feelings had only grown since then: a small, hopeful burn in her chest whenever he was near that ignited into a raging inferno when he touched her. Yet the morning in her tent two days ago was when she knew that she could no longer deny it, try as she might. Sirra did not doubt he felt similarly. His heroic rescues and the rose he gave her were obvious signs. Not to mention the very telling Fade dream of his.
But was it too soon to say those things? Was it actually love considering how briefly they’d known each other, or was it a trick of the mind? Were they merely struggling to find meaning in a world gone mad?
They would have to talk tonight and see where they stood.
Deciding to have a quick nap before doing anything else, Sirra worked a small amount of camellia oil she purchased from Bodahn through her strands, before packing her comb and oil into the box. Then she braided her wet hair, tying it off with the leather cord, and curled up on top of the bed. She needed to rest before broaching such a sensitive topic with the shy warrior.
Almost two hours later, Alistair returned to their room with their freshly cleaned armor slung over his shoulder. His breath caught in his lungs at the sight of Sirra sleeping peacefully on the bed. Her dark hair twined in a braid draped sensually across her shoulder, the end nestled between the cleft of her breasts. The cream tunic still sheer in places where her saturated hair touched the fabric. The form fitting leggings she favored clung to her muscular calves and curvy thighs, causing his fingers to twitch at the thought of kneading her generous flesh. Her mouth was slightly parted in sleep again, and he smiled tenderly as he tiptoed across the room to gently lay down their armor.
Not wanting to disturb her when he knew she desperately needed rest, Alistair snatched his pack and left the room to have his bath. The dwarven girl who worked there informed him moments ago his bath water was ready, just as he was finishing up the armor deep-clean by the lake. He'd desperately needed something to do, to keep his hands busy, while he mulled over things from the Circle and Redcliffe before allowing his mind to wander to his Warden companion.
Alistair was pretty sure his feelings had deepened sufficiently at this point to call it what it was. Through the entirety of the Fade and Circle tower, his heart remained lodged in his throat, and he'd wanted nothing more than to spare her the emotional torment of that experience. When Sloth attempted to shred through Sirra in the Fade, he'd moved with a burst of speed he didn’t know he possessed to protect her. Blind rage directed at the demon fueled his murderous reaction and was only tamed when he found her unharmed.
And then, with Uldred in the tower – that had been utterly insane.
When he realized the monster would crush her, he’d thrown his sword and shield aside, offering to be crushed instead without a second thought. It was almost as though someone else took control of his body and decided for him. He'd gone along, willingly, if it meant saving her.
That they both walked away from such a mad tactic was miraculous. One, if not both of them, should be dead after that. Looking back on it, he believed the spongy tissue overlying most of the floor saved them, even though it was damned slippery and sent them skidding across the tower.
Yet, even with all this, he still worried she didn’t harbor the same depth of feelings for him. There was a difference between attraction and… love. He recalled her reaction in his dreamscape had been pretty mild, more interested in getting them out of the Fade. As he replayed the scenario, it was hard to gauge what she made of the fantasy Sloth used to lull him into complacency.
It humiliated him that she saw his dream, walked in it, breathed it! His desire for a family and people who loved him. A peaceful life where he could hang up his sword and just be Alistair the farmer or something equally mundane. Maker, she must think him such a fool for harboring such idle fancies! Not to mention the way he imagined her attire and the things he said about taking her to bed. Ugh, Maker’s breath!
Closing his eyes, Alistair ducked under the water with a groan and blew out his mortification in a flurry of bubbles until required to resurface for oxygen. Of course, he would never find out if he didn’t ask … but Andraste’s ass! How could he discuss such a thing with a woman he cared for when he could barely string together a sentence that wasn't full of horrible puns or self-deprecating humor?
Grumbling in the chamber as he vigorously scrubbed all the accumulated dirt and gore from his body, Alistair tried to formulate the words he wanted so he could actually speak to Sirra later without becoming a bumbling fool.Clambering out of the tub, he briskly dried his body and his hair, examining a few new cuts on his side from his skid across the tower floor that might scar with a sigh. He was a warrior. Soon there wouldn’t be an unmarred part of him to be found.
Rubbing his hand along his jaw, he huffed at the excessive growth, preferring a clean-shaven jawline to keep blood and dirt from getting trapped against his skin. He made a mental note to get out his shave kit later and remove it. Tossing on his clean clothes and roughly shoving his dirty ones inside his pack, he collected his things and crossed the hall into their room.
Sirra still slept, but he knew he needed to wake her or she risked not being able to sleep later tonight when she needed to. Closing the door softly behind him, he dropped his bag and plucked her comb box from the bed, placing it on the end table. Climbing gingerly on the bed facing her, Alistair brushed his rough fingers tenderly across her face, smiling when Sirra stirred in her sleep, leaning into his touch.
“Sirra, you need to wake up,” he murmured, tracing her ‘S’ shaped tattoo with his thumb. “You’ve had a good nap, but if you sleep too long, you won’t be able to sleep later.”His heart skipped erratically at her pleasant hum and then her eyelids fluttered, slowly opening to reveal her rich brown eyes coupled with a lazy smile.
“Hi,” she mumbled quietly. Alistair grinned affectionately and twined his fingers through hers.
“Hi,” he breathed. “Did you have a nice nap? No bad dreams?”
Shaking her head, Sirra stretched with a contented sigh. “No, I slept like the Stone. It was wonderful.”
Alistair chuckled. “I take it that's a good thing?”
She nodded, with a too-wide smile that didn’t reach her eyes. His chest tightened uncomfortably as he worried how to approach the topic they both avoided. Clearing his throat softly, Alistair rubbed his thumb absentmindedly across her calloused palm.
“Do you want to talk about it? The Circle and… Redcliffe, I mean?”
Sirra met his gaze sadly. “Do you?”
He nodded, but the words wouldn’t come, trapped by the lump filling his throat. “You first,” he finally croaked.
Her dark eyes shimmered with tears, her bottom lip quivering slightly when she whispered. “Did we do enough? It doesn’t feel like a victory to walk into a war-zone and only save a dozen people. So… many lost before we arrived… mages, Templars… children. I don’t think I’ll ever get the images of the destruction inside the tower or all the boats burning on the lake from my mind.”
She sucked in a ragged breath, and Alistair nodded in silent agreement. Releasing a heavy sigh, he replied, “I don’t know that we could have done more in the Circle. If we arrived before the rebellion, then we would have recruited the mages only to find later they were all killed. And if we got there at the beginning, they could have killed us. We did what we could… but I wish we could have done more.”
A sob fell from her lips and without hesitation he pulled her into his chest. Shaking like a leaf in his grasp, she clutched his shirt as her composure gave way. The secret thing she so feared in the tower spilled from her lips unbidden.
"The whole time we were in the Circle, fighting crazed Templars, I kept thinking, what if you were one of them? Every one hidden behind their helmets could have worn your face and we cut them down without a second thought. It makes me sick to think... you could have been there! Manipulated by demons, tortured like poor Cullen, or torn apart and thrown into... Bleeding Ancestors, Alistair! If things had been different, I might have been forced to kill you!"
"Oh, Sirra, I am so sorry," he whispered. His own gut lurched at the horrendous picture she painted while the breath stuttered in his lungs to see how much the idea upset her. No wonder she didn't want him touching her when they reached the Templar quarters. It would have broken what little fortitude she had.
Gasping, she continued, "And then, I-I threw an acid flask at that poor Templar. A dirty move from my Carta days I never thought I’d use again. It’s one thing to use it on darkspawn or demons, but I melted a person’s face, Alistair. A poor tormented man who could have been y-you!"
He winced at the memory of the enthralled Templar who also longed for a family and had that desire used against him. Cruelly ensnared by the demon wearing a nameless woman's face, a figment of his imagination, while it slowly drained his life. Alistair choked down the bile that coursed hot up his throat. The memory hit too close to home.
The rogue wept hard into his tunic, her words so broken and guttural he could barely understand them and he strained to hear her next words.
“I killed my sister in my Fade dream. S-Sliced her neck open and watched her bleed before the demon crumbled to ash. I’m nothing, but a murderous thug! I kill everything I touch.”
Alistair’s blood ran cold. Blasted demons f*cked with both of them in the worst way, using their families to hold them captive. Shushing her tenderly while rubbing circles on her back, he gave her time to calm before responding.
“You know it wasn’t your sister, Sirra. You killed a demon playing a cruel trick on you, then you escaped and found the rest of us. We would all still be snared in Sloth’s web, if you hadn’t. Your sister is still alive.”
Leaning back, he tilted her head up and gave her a warm smile. “When we go back to Orzammar for aid, we’ll find her, okay? Will that make you feel better?” She smiled faintly as a shuddering breath wracked her frame and he thumbed her leftover tears from her red, puffy eyes.
Brushing his lips sweetly over hers, Alistair murmured, “And you are not a murderer or a thug, Sirra. War is not fair, and we’ve all been forced to do things we wish we didn’t have to since Ostagar. Don't blame yourself for actions taken on the battlefield. I don't - I could never hold anything against you and I would hate for you to hold a grudge against yourself.”
Sirra bit her lip, uncertain what to say in response to his surety of her character. Cupping his bearded jaw, she changed the subject. “And what of you? How are you holding up? Redcliffe was your home, Alistair. I know what we did there was difficult, but it was harder for you. I wish I could have spared you that.”
Swallowing hard, the warrior shook his head. “You’re not responsible for what happened and you shouldn’t feel guilty. I appreciate it, but it’s not on you. It’s not even on Connor. That falls squarely in Loghain and Isolde’s lap.”
“Don’t forget the blood mage who poisoned the Arl,” Sirra reminded gently.
Alistair sneered. “He is a symptom. Loghain is the disease. He’s already seen to the death of the King and now this? Whether I knew Cailan personally or not is not the issue – he was still our King! Then he continued to attack the royal line, my foster family, all in his mad grab for power.”
Bringing her close again, he buried his face in her hair, speaking with difficulty through his tears. “How many people died for nothing? To feed his pride? His vanity as the Hero of River Dane? Those days are gone, and he sacrificed an entire army at Ostagar while his actions with the blood mage saw Redcliffe nearly annihilated.”
“I’m sorry, salroka. I'm so sorry,” she whispered, rubbing his back soothingly. He nodded in acknowledgment, but did not reply since his quiet sobs prevented him from speaking.
Silence fell between them. Sirra wasn’t sure what to say to ease his suffering or rein in his anger. Alistair had a sensitive soul and was easily affected by unpleasant things. She used to tell herself she was impervious to emotion, but it wasn’t true. Deep down she was the type who felt strongly about everything, as Alistair did, but working for the Carta forced her to bury her feelings. She couldn’t be weak or give Beraht anymore leverage than he already had on her, but Alistair brought out all those hidden emotions to the surface. And like her, the warrior was unused to having a listening ear regarding how he felt.
Fingers fiddling with the shaggy ends of his hair, Sirra carefully broke the tension. “You’ve never mentioned you had a sister. Do you know each other well?”
Alistair stiffened around her with a small shake of his head. “N-No.”
His voice cracked, forcing him to clear his throat uncomfortably. "I-I don’t think she knows about me. My birth was a secret, after all. After I joined the Wardens, I did some digging and learned about Goldanna. I know she lives in Denerim, but that’s all. Everything… in the dream was simply a result of my overactive imagination. Hopes and wishes that can never be reality." Alistair laughed ruefully, shifting anxiously on the bed.
“Imagination or not, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Your dream was beautiful. I’ve never seen you so content and relaxed.”
He pulled away to read her expression, skepticism clearly etched on his own features. “Beautiful, huh? I would have gone with mortifying, personally.”
Sirra co*cked an eyebrow at him with a frown. “Why? Because I was there? Because you dreamed about a nice life with the sister you’ve never met?” Alistair flamed crimson and a grin bloomed on her face. “Oh, I see. Because you mentioned taking me to bed.”
Holding his gaze, she purposefully closed the minimal distance between them. He froze as her breasts pressed against him and the heat from her body radiated through their thin tunics, settling low in his groin. Sirra watched the emotions flit in his hazel eyes: fear, uncertainty, desire, hope.
Her lips parted slightly, breathing out her words in a rush. “I want to kiss you, Alistair.”
Closing his eyes with a groan, he ducked his head to capture her lips hungrily. The touch of her tongue in his mouth yanked a ragged gasp from him. Sirra started to lean out of the kiss, but a firm hand cupped the back of her head to hold her in place. Angling over her, Alistair pressed her into the soft mattress, his upper body pressed intimately flush against her torso. Sirra’s fingers tangled in his overgrown hair, moaning when he sucked on her bottom lip, nipping it gently with his teeth as his confidence grew.
Abandoning her lips, Alistair’s mouth inched across her cheekbones before angling south and placing small kisses along her neck. Sirra tilted her head for better access with a strangled sigh, raking her short nails across his broad shoulders encouragingly, reveling in the hoarse groan that tumbled from Alistair’s swollen lips.
He trembled under her hands, and Sirra’s stomach clenched with guilt. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel uncomfortable with her. Cupping his face tenderly, she lifted his face from the crook of her neck, waiting for him to open his eyes and look at her before quietly breaking the sexual tension.
“Do you need to stop?”
Swallowing hard, Alistair drank in the desire written clear as day on her face, but he wanted more than just a physical attraction. He was sure she had feelings for him, but he didn’t know how deep they ran.
Maker, he wanted her!
The utter disaster that had been Redcliffe and the Circle tempted Alistair to give into his selfish desires and get lost in what she offered. But he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t hard-wired for casual dalliances, not that he thought that's what this was, but still - he needed to tell her how he felt. To find out where they stood before he could let this continue.
In the time it took him to decide what to say, her genuine concern morphed into supreme embarrassment. Mentally berating herself for being too forward with him, aware he was a virgin and she nothing but a worthless Carta thug who’d been using her body to forget the loneliness and starvation of Dust Town since she was fifteen. Sirra wanted him, true, but for the first time in her worthless life she wanted more with a man and she didn’t want to screw it up by acting like a noble hunting whor*.
"I-I’m sorry, Alistair. I shouldn’t -"
Her face flamed and she cast her gaze nervously away as her body tensed in his grasp. Strong fingers gently caressed her face and along her braid, catching her breath and giving her the courage to look at him again. His smile was bright, but anxiety clouded his golden gaze.
“Don’t apologize. I didn’t stop for the reason you think.” Swallowing hard, Alistair paused and tried to think over the pounding of blood in his ears. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I’ve come to… care for you. A great deal, Sirra. I needed to tell you... because I’m not the type who does this casually, you know?”
Sirra sucked in a quick breath. “Yes, I know –”
Alistair blanched. “Maker! Not that I’m implying that you do... or would between us!” Slapping a hand over his face, a muffled curse slipped between his fingers. Sirra’s lips quirked in amusem*nt as Alistair floundered and she giggled. Peeking at her, Alistair chuckled in embarrassment and lowered his hand.
"What I meant to say is… I want you. I want this... with you, because every time I’m near you I feel like my head is going to explode... in a good way! And -"
“Every time I’m near you, you make my pulse race. Because of who you are and what you stand for and because when you look at me... you don’t see a casteless dwarf. You see me, Alistair.”
Alistair stared at her as words, only slightly different from the ones he planned to use, cascaded from her full lips instead.
"Yes," he breathed wondrously. "You see me, Sirra, and I love what I see when I look at you. You’re strong and brave and fearless. You saved us in the Fade! You can handle lecherous mercenaries and Morrigan’s snide tongue in equal measure. And I… l-love you. I’m sure it’s too soon to say such things, but I know what I feel and I can’t go another moment without telling you. There were... too many times over the last few days I thought I could lose you and it would kill me to think I never took the chance to say it."
Her eyes widened and a beautiful pink blush to match his stained her face and neck as she bit her lip. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, Sirra whispered, “I love you, too. I’ve never loved anyone before, but I know that’s what this is. You're smart and funny and caring... and you are my Stone above ground, Alistair. I can always count on you to be there and support me or to catch me when I fall.”
Alistair flushed to his toes when she referenced his actions in the tower earlier that day, and she chuckled softly while running her hands through his hair. Pressing his forehead to hers, he closed his eyes and breathed in her clean scent and the faint sweetness unique to Sirra.
"I think it’s because we’ve been through so much together. Even though we’ve barely known each other a month, I just feel so… bonded to you," he murmured.
Releasing a shaky breath, Sirra nudged him with her nose so he would open his eyes again. “I am afraid of one thing, though, Alistair.” Frowning deeply, he waited with bated breath for her to continue.
“I am afraid you’ll leave me.” Opening his mouth to protest, she stopped him with a finger to his lips and a stern shake of her head. “Not because you want to, but I’m afraid Ferelden will make you King. You're the last of your line and there will be those who support you for the throne. They won’t let you keep a dwarven mistress… and I don’t know what I would do, if that happened.” Her voice so quiet that even this close to her, the words were almost lost in her gravelly undertone.
Alistair's hold tightened as he growled. “I don’t give a flying nug what they want. I’m not becoming king, Sirra. I’ll renounce my claim – whatever I have to do. I’m not losing you, damn it! I refuse to give up the one person who has ever brought me joy. And you know I don’t give a damn that you’re a dwarf. It’s my favorite thing about you, actually.” With an audible snap, Alistair clamped his mouth closed and refused to make eye contact.
Arching an eyebrow, Sirra teasingly poked his chest. “Okay, first things first. Did you just say you don’t give a flying nug?”
Alistair snorted and gave her a small smile. “What can I say? Your colorful dwarven curses are rubbing off on me.”
She barked out a laugh. “Alright then, fess up, Chantry boy. You have to tell me now. Why is my dwarven-ness your favorite thing about me, hmmm?”
Blushing furiously, he coughed and tried to sit up, but she snagged his tunic and co*cked her head inquiringly as he prayed the Maker would strike him down and spare him this embarrassment. Continuing to hold his gaze, the corners of her lips quirked in gentle encouragement and he drew a deep breath before answering.
“BecauseIpreferthickerwomenandIthinkyourcurvesaresexyandIhavesincethedaywemet.”
Sirra blinked a couple of times in shock. That had not been what she’d been expecting. She understood his run-on sentence perfectly well, since dusters spoke fast and rarely spaced out their words. But she never considered herself particularly attractive – too skinny by dwarven standards. Dwarven men wanted their women to look like sticky buns, but working for the Carta and living on a near-starvation diet kept her leaner than most. Although, living on the surface where the food was better had plumped her up slightly, her Grey Warden metabolism and constant fighting kept her from ripping through the seams of her armor. Not to mention her triple brand and ruined voice cooled most men’s ardor.
Her one true beauty was her hair. Most female Carta members chopped theirs off following initiation, but after a lifetime of growing it out according to dwarven tradition, she hadn’t been able to go through the "big chop." Besides, Sirra always imagined if Rica elevated them to noble caste, she’d want her long hair to denote her new station and decorate it with delicate golden hair links.
Finding her tongue at last, she murmured softly. "Thank you, Alistair. I-I’m not used to anyone telling me..." Blushing, she continued anxiously, "I'm not attractive, by dwarven standards, and I know most humans prefer elves because they’re petite and graceful."
Alistair pressed a desperate kiss to her lips and pulled her flush against him, rocking his hips slightly along her thigh so she could see for herself what she did to him.
“They’re crazy,” he breathed when they separated, palming the flesh of her hips with a broken groan. “Maker’s breath, you’re…‘beautiful’ does not do you justice, Sirra.” The sincerity behind his words burned in his eyes like hot coals, searing her to the mattress until she believed it, too.
Placing her hands on his chest, she eased him gently on his back and straddled his hips, feeling a surge of pride when the apple in his throat bobbed as her weight settled over him and pinned him to the bed. Running her calloused fingers lightly over his tunic, she traced the hard planes of his chest, up along his collarbones, and down his biceps. Sirra reveled in his muscular physique and appreciated that he allowed her, of all women, to touch him this way.
“Do you have any idea how handsome you are, Alistair?”
He struggled to reply with his mouth drier than a desert while her hands made broad, sensual sweeps of his body. Even through the fabric, her touch was electric and his veins buzzed with every pass of her fingers. “I’ve had a few women tell me that, yes, but they weren’t like you. I’m pretty sure they only wanted something from me.”
Sirra chuckled huskily, her dark brown eyes blown to black above him. “Oh, I’m sure they did.”
Alistair furrowed his brow for a second to suss out her meaning and then blushed furiously, closing his eyes in embarrassment for his ignorance. Of course, they wanted him to bed them. Maker, he was an idiot. He couldn’t even tell when women were hitting on him, not that he understood why they would.
“You're hard muscle covered by golden skin - scarred, but perfect. Warm eyes that blaze with fire when you defend those you care for. Lips full of sarcasm and wit that always make me laugh. Strong arms to protect and comfort, giving me a safe place to hide and be honest without judgement. Your courageous heart shines like a beacon, and it wasn’t until I met you, I felt I had a home.”
Tears filled his eyes at her words, stunned to learn how she saw him. But she wasn’t looking at his face as she spoke; instead her lovely tattooed features were bowed nervously and a wash of red highlighted her cheeks. Alistair knew she found it hard to be honest and vulnerable, and it warmed his soul that she trusted him enough to bare herself completely. Snatching her hands to still them, he placed them over his pounding heart and whispered her name. Noting the tears in his eyes, she opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.
“You should be a poet, salroka. That... is the most... incredible thing anyone has ever said to me, Sirra. Thank you, truly… I- thank you.”
Sirra graced him with a shy smile, her blush deepening under his intense gaze, but she bravely maintained eye contact. He wrapped his arms around her to reward her with another round of kissing when his stomach growled loudly and they both froze.
Simultaneously, the couple erupted into snorts of laughter, which quickly became belly laughs. Sirra rolled off him so she could squeal into a pillow, causing Alistair’s chortles to boom throughout the room until she shoved the second one over his own face to drown him out. After a few minutes of unadulterated mirth to shake away the tension between them, Alistair could only wheeze with his sore abs, and Sirra struggled to rein in her residual hiccups. Peeking around the pillows and sharing broad grins, they agreed to go downstairs and grab a hot meal with their companions before returning to their room to find out where the night might lead.
