From the Shadows

From the Shadows

She was safe in the shadows. They had been her home since she first began pilfering sweets from Nan’s larder. They had kept her, alone, alive while Arl Howe’s men had slaughtered her family. They had provided the base from which she had launched her revenge.

Now they are a warm haven as she cries.

“I see you can’t sleep, either.”

“Alistair. I love you. You know that, right?”

“Could you make it sound more ominous?

Lily stifles a hiccupping sob – silence is second nature to her now – and is rewarded by the muffled clank from the room down the hall. He is taking his armour off.

“You’re not...joking…Be killed by the archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?”

“Alistair, please! You have to trust me! I…I can’t do this if I don’t know you’ll be there when this is all over!”

“Lily, either of us could die at any time. We both know that.”

“But we could both survive. When we fight the archdemon, one of us will die. I can’t … I’m not afraid of dying, only of living in a world without you.”

Lily leans her head back against Redcliff Castle’s cold stone. Those hands that have only ever touched her skin … lips that have only kissed hers …

“I swear by the Maker’s eye, if you don’t do this, I will leave you here and march to Denerim tonight – alone…”

From the dark corner by the castle’s door, she watches Alistair’s slow progress toward Morrigan’s room. Even in the flickering torchlight, the clench of his jaw is evident. Without realizing, Lily’s steps shadow his, softly, her rough, inky hair disappearing into the gloom. Rid of her own armour in favour of silk robes – black and silent – she follows, clinging to the darkness like a child at her mother’s skirts.

Dressed only in soft linen and leathers, his shoulders are set as if for battle – not love – as he hesitates at the door. His bare feet make him vulnerable, and Lily’s heart catches in her throat as she watches him, one hand raised in an abortive knock, the other clenched at his side. He closes his eyes and hisses through gritted teeth – and raps sharply on the door.

It swings open immediately, and Lily senses only the glow and heat from the room’s great hearth before the door closes again and she is alone in the shadows of Redcliff Castle.

Unable to stop herself, she presses her face to the door – hears Morrigan’s sly tone and his deep rumble in reply. What can they have to talk about? What is there to discuss? Her nimble fingers make short work of the lock, and the great door opens enough to admit her slight form. The room smells of herbs and some dark spice, of mystery.

“…step on the runes, fool. If you disturb them, this will all be for nothing.”

Morrigan slurs her words, her eyes wide and unfocused. She sways, nearly naked. Her skin is flushed as if from drink, but the power that crackles from her is all the intoxication she needs.

Alistair stands still amongst the swirling lines that are chalked on the floor surrounding the bed, and peers at her hazy countenance. He waves a hand before her face, but she doesn’t so much as blink.

“Well, that’s just fantastic. She’s got an escape and I’m stuck here with reality. I knew I should have insisted on being knocked out first.”

Lily closes the door silently behind her and burrows back into the shadows’ welcoming embrace.

Alistair’s hands seem to be incapable of moving, and so Morrigan approaches and begins to undress him. The witch is lithe and pale and beautiful in the firelight, her golden eyes intent on something in a distance only she can see.

As the witch peels Alistair’s tunic from his body, Lily bites her lip until she tastes blood. For a moment she hates the shadows that are allowed to dance freely over the planes of his body. But the dark edges of the light dip joyfully into the hollow of his throat and the solid ridges of his belly. They sink into the corded muscles of his shoulder and sword arm.

Lily presses her skull into the stone wall’s rough surface until tears spring to her eyes. The hours she’s spent hiding in lightless places waiting for danger and death keep her still now when all she wants to do is run … or scream…or lash out. But although her limbs shake with the effort of control, she remains, unobserved.

So she is there to watch as Morrigan slides the buckskin trousers over his ass, her fingers sliding down the deep groove of his hip. Here he blinks and steps away from her to finish removing the pants himself.

Then, one hand placed on Alistair’s chest where Lily’s mouth had once pressed hot kisses, Morrigan pushes him backwards to the bed. For all the grace and power he displays on the battlefield, he stumbles and falls heavily as the thick feather mattress presses into the backs of his knees. He scrambles back and away from Morrigan, his head thumping against the solid oak headboard, and he winces.

Morrigan moves like a hunting cat as she crawls over Alistair’s naked body – Perhaps she was one, once, thinks Lily, feeling dangerously close to hysterical. The wild witch is sinuous and powerful, compelling. Dangerous. She crawls over his powerful thighs, her fingernails grazing the sensitive flesh under his hips.

Lily is desperate to turn away, to stop seeing, but the rise and fall of his hardened belly and the firelight that dances on the curve of his mouth rivets her attention. Her fists clench as alabaster breasts slide over his groin. Alistair’s lip curls in disgust as his body reacts against his will, rises, thickens.

Morrigan reaches up and brushes her fingers softly across his cheek and this, of all things, snaps his resolve.

He bolts up, hand whipping out like a viper and catching her fingers in an iron grip. She seems not to notice his grasp, but to Lily it’s evident that he understands it’s his own death that he’s holding in that hand.

And it’s evident to Lily the moment he understands that it’s her death he holds as well.

And, in that instant, he looks up, past Morrigan’s glazed visage and into the shadow. His tawny eyes widen as Lily leans forward from the darkness, two fingers pressed to her lips – whether to beg his silence or enforce her own, she doesn’t know. This moment, frozen in time, might almost be humorous. Alistair’s face, slack with shock and embarrassment, only just visible over Morrigan’s white shoulder as she presses her naked body against him. Except…except…

Except it isn’t a moment isolated in time. It is a moment deeply and bloodily connected to every hot, sweet breath that Lily has spent pressed up against that same battle-honed flesh. Every sensitive hollow and dark, secret spot had been hers first.

Cheeks flaming in mortification, Alistair rises to his knees to struggle anew against the witch’s unfeeling embrace. But Lily leans more fully into the fire’s gleam and pushes her hand down in a repressive gesture. He stops, disbelieving, confused, but still resists Morrigan’s attempt to push him backward onto the soft pallet. His eyes meet Lily’s, silently pleading with her to call this whole thing off, to allow him to retreat with his dignity. But her jaw clenches and her eyes harden to sparkling obsidion, and she only nods solemnly to his dismay.

Her eyes intent on his face, on every rise of his chest, she draws a single finger down her own throat, over her breast bone, and lower still between the loose silk folds of her robe. When she reaches the knotted belt, she shrugs, and black silk drapes low over her shoulders, sliding down her arms, baring her breasts to the hearth light’s caress.

Alistair’s large hand stills where it had been pushing Morrigan away.

Lily knows the touch of that hand. She knows each and every ridged callous that frames the pommel of his sword, the white scar that slashes across the love line on his palm, the ragged nails, the burn from the stew pot. She knows the gentle squeeze of his long fingers as he holds the weight of her breasts. She has drawn those fingers between her lips and tasted herself on them.

Her own nails drag vivid streaks in the golden flesh over her breastbone, before sliding down to the dusky nipples, tight and aching for his touch.

Morrigan strokes his body with practiced hands, but he seems not to notice, so focused is he on the path of Lily’s slim fingers across the rise of her own generous chest. His hand mimics the heated trail of her progress on the witch’s pale skin, but all he sees is the dark-honey tones of Lily’s body in the firelight.

Making quick work of the knot at her waist, Lily allows the silk robe to part. The ebon material hangs from her arms and dissolves into the blackness behind her, becoming part of the shadow. Alistair gasps. It sounds like pain. It sounds like need.

He tenses and moves, as if to leave the prison of that bed, but she turns her head to the side in a swift, negative movement and pulls the edges of her robe together. He sinks, sitting back on his heels as he comes to understand.

As he retreats, Lily again lets the robe fall open and settles soundlessly into a satin-cushioned chair, pushing the shimmering cloth from her body, exposing herself to the firelight, the heat, and his gaze.

A slow rage builds in his face. His amber-brown eyes glitter dangerously, and his hands tighten on Morrigan’s upper arms, pressing red marks into her flesh. His mouth twists into a snarl and – never taking his eyes from the golden figure in the corner – he drags his lips across Morrigan’s shoulder to her neck and bares his teeth against her jaw. Her head sags back, long strands of glossy brown hair tumbling down over her spine.

Lily leans back in her chair, slinging one leg over the carved wooden arm, spreading her legs to his sight. Her full breasts glisten under a sheen of sweat and flame, and the taut muscles of her stomach clench as his glare sharpens with a hunter’s intent. She slides slender fingers from her knees, up and over the smooth skin of her thighs. Shadows flicker across her body, first hiding the black curls of her sex, then illuminating them and the delicate flesh beneath.

Alistair’s breath is coming in outraged sobs, his cock rigid under Morrigan’s hand. His jaw is set in an icy sneer as he reaches behind her head and drags her by her hair to his mouth. His kiss is hard. A punishment. His eyes never leave Lily on her wicked throne.

Remembering how the sleek heat of his erection strained and throbbed at her own touch, remembering how she could taste him on her tongue and how he would moan low in his chest as she wrapped her lips around him, Lily strokes her fingertips over her swollen mouth. She rubs thumb over her nose and cheek before inserting it between sharp, white teeth. She bites hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, if they weren’t already there.

She’s breathing in shallow gasps, watching as he presses against Morrigan’s body in a slow, languorous rhythm. Her hips echo the pulse, her ass lifting from the silk and satin, rising to meet the shaking stroke of her own fingertips. She spreads the soft flesh there, presses down on the sensitive bud where his tongue had made her writhe and weep beneath him.

Morrigan is pushing him again, urging him back, so she can climb over him. Possess him. With a snarled curse, Alistair captures her hands and raises them above her head. He wraps one powerful arm around her ribcage, and with a smooth twist of his body, turns them both so they are at an angle to Lily’s shadowy presence, and she is on her hands and knees before him. He bears down on her shoulders, forcing her head down towards the mattress, and presses his erection between her thighs. She makes a sound, a whimper perhaps, or a gasp, but he pays no attention as he enters her in one hard, merciless stroke.

Lily watches the fire’s golden light slide over the slick muscles of his body, the grooves of his ribcage, the flex of his back as he bucks against Morrigan’s ass. Morrigan’s head hangs low over her braced forearms, thick, dark curls of hair hiding her face. Alistair folds his body over her, his head turned, facing Lily. His fingers bruise the creamy skin of her hips and waist as he pulls her back, impaling her with vicious blows as he watches the dim corner of the room.

Lily’s jaw clamps down on a moan that’s building somewhere around her heart. Her nostrils flare with the effort of silence, with the effort of remaining in that chair. The core of her being is screaming for the hard thrust of him, the hot weight of his body pushing into her, stroking the hunger he creates in her. She slides her fingers deep inside herself, desperate to soothe the growing pressure, the ache. She matches the rhythm of her fingers to the hard slap of his body against Morrigan’s, to the building tempo of his exhalation. She pushes her skull back against the chair’s wooden back until stars dance in her vision, biting her lip to quell a rising cry. As the tension snaps, Lily trembles in her chair, willing herself not to scream, not to thrash. Only the smallest sob escapes her lips as she collapses into her self.

Alistair grinds out a ragged shout, the muscles of his back and thighs shaking as he buries himself in Morrigan one final time. Then, heaving and head low, he places his hand in the middle of her back and pushes her to the bed, removing himself from her.

He is unsteady but swift as he gathers his discarded clothing from the floor. He bends over the ornate chair in the corner and straightens, his arms full of black silk. Heedless of his own naked state, he opens the door and fades into the midnight shadows of the hallway.

Later, bathed and smelling of rich Orlesian soaps, they lay silent in each other’s arms, seeking only to breathe and touch and taste. She has already apologized over and over, for her fear, for her selfishness, for demanding this of him. He only wiped away her tears with a gentle touch and smoothed her ragged bangs from her face before kissing the bow of her lips. Her arms barely manage to wrap all the way around his broad chest, and her face is pressed to the steady thump of his heart. His hands are buried in her hair as he gently holds her close.

Morning light banishes the night’s shadows and finds them still entwined in each other before they wake, prepared to march to Denerim.