Tomorrows Song

“Alistair?”

The voice was quiet, but the grunt of assent indicated that the person in the tent wasn't asleep anyway.

“Are you still in pain?”

The man hunched in the blankets shrugged. “A little, I guess. Wynne did a good job with all the obvious....”

“But?”

“I ache. Next question?”

The elf chuckled, then eased himself through the tent flap and dropped into a cross legged position to eye his friend with some sympathy. “We've had a busy day; what did you expect?”

He regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. Alistair had flinched, a brief flash of grief across his features. Alim was used to childhood dreams being shattered, of having a bright hope turn to dust and ashes in his mouth; as an elf in a human world, one became used to life being rather... bleak. But the loss of Duncan and the shattering of the Wardens had taken its toll on the cheerful young warrior, and with every darkspawn encounter his mood became darker. The bewilderment that lurked behind his eyes was painful to see, and he hadn't come to the tent to hurt either one of them; quite the opposite, in fact.

“Wynne gave me this,” he continued, tone even, “it's very good for aches and pains that the healing process leaves behind.”

Blue eyes regarded him gravely. “Is it magic? I've had enough of magic.”

“It's not magic. I've used it before, when I was an apprentice...”

His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. Alistair gave a snort.

“Don't tell me that you apprentice magic users used to suffer through extensive hand to hand combat sessions? Ow, I could tell you some tales... some of those brothers had very hard hands, believe you me.”

“No.” Alim eyed the man he was coming to regard as his best friend, and wondered how much he ought to say. On the one hand, what he'd been through at the hands of the chantry must have been pretty rough; on the other, Alistair had had his faith in human nature kicked quite hard enough lately.

But that was the point, perhaps?

Human nature.

“No. But if the Templars that watch the tower thought you might be doing something you weren't supposed to do, learning forbidden lore, poking your nose somewhere it shouldn't be then the beatings could be pretty severe. And some of us got it worse than others. There was one brother whose avowed purpose was to beat the sin out of me--”

“Sin?”

“Magic. He thought all magic was demonic, sinful, wrong. And he didn't like elves.”

“Oh.”

“He was recalled after he beat a friend of mine to death.” Alim shrugged, turned the little jar over in his fingers and avoided meeting Alistairs eye. “But he wasn't the first.”

“Or the last, I bet. I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault. At least we had healers, and this stuff to sort out the aches they left behind. It works, I promise.”

“We didn't have anything like that. Suffering was supposed to be good for the soul.”

Alim cocked an eye in Alistairs direction, and despite himself a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Do you still believe in that?”

“Do I hell. Just leave it here and I'll do what I can.”

“It needs to be rubbed in to work properly.”

Alistair looked shifty. “Where's Wynne?”

“Asleep. She's got first watch--”

“So who's on watch now?”

“Sten and Dog.”

“But--”

“I'm not going to hurt you. Take your shirt off.”

He bit his lip, and Alim really had to hide the smile this time. Perhaps it wasn't pain Alistair was concerned about? Interesting.

Alistair tried again.

“It's cold in here!”

“Don't be such a baby.” Nevertheless, Alim spread his palm and whispered, released a breath of magic that warmed the air within the canvas space to a tolerable level. He cocked an eyebrow at the other man, who sighed and began to remove his shirt.

He arranged himself face down, naked to the waist, clad only in a thin pair of cotton undertrousers. Gooseflesh rattled across the pale skin of his upper back, and Alim smiled.

“Relax. Honestly. This will feel good.”

He couldn't be entirely sure, but he thought that he heard Alistair mutter--

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

***

Alistair couldn't be sure if he was in heaven or hell.

Yes, the salve was working wonders on his battered muscles. But then, perhaps that was the way it was being applied, and therein lay the dilemma. Because the mage had long, strong fingers, warm palms, hard hands he'd seen craft magic that stripped flesh from rotten darkspawn bones but now, oh, now...

They were burning the flesh from his bones all right, but not in quite the same way. He thought that he could feel every ridge and whorl on the pads of the mages fingers, every slow twist and press of his wrist as he worked the salve into the muscles of his back, shoulders and flanks. Down his spine, all business but still the most stimulating thing he'd ever been through in his life; lying on his front was becoming distinctly uncomfortable, and he shifted to try and ease the burgeoning ache beneath his hips. He heard Alim snort, but the sound was not unkind.

“Alistair. Relax, will you?”

Warmth moved away from his side and the hands withdrew. He tilted his head, squeezed a glance from the corner of his eye; the mage was sat back on his heels, wiping the excess salve from his long, slender fingers with a clean cloth. His expression hovered between amused and exasperated, and Alistair felt his face grow hot.

“I'm sorry. I...” he turned his face back into the pillow, rubbed his burning cheeks against the coolness of the cloth. At least the embarrassment had got rid of one rather... pressing... problem. Alim sighed, rearranged his legs into his usual cross-legged pose with a grace that belied the tight quarters.

“What's the matter? The salve seemed to be doing its job, then you tensed up again. Is there pain?”

Alistair pulled himself up until he was sat facing his friend. He couldn't meet his gaze, kept a blanket pulled firmly across his lap, and bore a faint flush of pink on his cheeks.

“Not that sort of pain. But last night I heard you and Zevran... together... and I got to thinking. I didn't know that you. Well. Liked men. As well as. Or instead of? Whichever. And then I started to wonder.”

He ran out of words, and risked a quick glance at Alims face. The mage wore a half smile, chin cupped in one hand, and alien eyes kind. Alistair tried to speak once more, but had to snap his teeth closed over the words that refused to form any sort of coherence.

“And you wondered what, Alistair?” Alims voice was gentle. “And it's as well as, not instead of; pleasure can be hard enough to come by in this life, and I learned young to take it where I could find it. As for Zevran, well,” and here the elfs face twisted into a wry smile, “apparently the ferocity of battle and presence of death whets his appetite for life. Mine too, as it happens.”

“That's just it,” said Alistair, face twisted in the most miserable expression Alim had ever seen, “I don't want to die a - which is to say, without ever -”

He struggled for a moment, then shot his friend a mute glance of appeal.

“You don't want to die a virgin?”

Alistair shook his head.

“And you think I would be a better choice to rectify this - situation - than one of the ladies? Or Zevran?”

“Zevran? Pfft. I don't trust him. Morrigan, same thing. Plus, ew.”

“Leliana?”

“Crazy.”

“Wynne?”

For the first time, Alistair met his friends gaze and a genuine smile cracked his expression. “No!” they both exclaimed together, and the laughter that broke free was easy.

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Alim regarded his friend for a moment, searched his gaze; what he saw must have satisfied him, because he gave a sharp nod. The lantern, at a gesture from Alim, began to dim, but left enough of a glow that shapes and textures softened and blurred, rather than vanished. The light from the fire outside brightened the sheet of canvas behind the mage, and the only clear detail Alistair could see was the reflection from the others eyes. He saw movement, and then the elf knelt before him, slipped out of his robe in the warm glow of fire and quietened lantern. He reached down, retrieved the little pot of salve from a fold in the blankets, and gestured Alistair to lie down once more.

“Let me finish this,” he said, and after a single nervous gulp of air Alistair rolled on to his front, pillowed his head on folded arms.

The massage began again, but this time the hands felt different; before they had been all business, firm and near impersonal in their efforts to soothe the aches of battle. Now, though, they stroked and caressed, smoothed along lines of muscle and built up delicious tension before they balanced it with more gentle friction elsewhere. Alistair groaned, a quiet exhalation of heat, then flinched when he felt warm breath on his ear.

“Roll over,” said the voice, and with some reluctance he did so. Elegant fingers dipped beneath the waistband of thin trousers, eased them down; he lifted his hips to allow them to be slipped off and, finally, lay naked before the elfs gaze. He felt no shame, just desire; the ache and cold he'd felt in his soul earlier was gone, driven away by the skilful touch of the man he'd come to trust so well.

More salve, this time smoothed across the bulk of his chest muscles, over his shoulders, down his arms. When the hands stroked back to his chest the mage bent over, breathed across the sensitive nubs of nipples, joined the warmth of of his mouth to the gentle strength of his hands. Alistair breathed heavier, his desire racked up with each quick pant of breath; eyes closed, he felt the closeness of Alim's face over his own a moment before lips brushed his, and Alim kissed him.

The shock of contact drove his heat back a notch, and he felt full lips curve into a smile against his own. Determined not to back down now he kissed back, fully aware that he was no doubt rushing like a clumsy teenager; his partner stretched against him, gentled him with touch and breath, slowed him until they lay pressed close enough together to feel the pulse of each others hearts.

Alim lifted one of Alistairs hands, and kissed the back of each finger in turn. Then, before his wondering eyes, he took the tips of the first two in his mouth; the touch of his tongue to the sword calluses on his fingers brought a whoosh of breath from Alistair. He whined deep in his throat, pushed his hips forward to rub his cock against the warm, soft skin of his lover. Alim made a sound somewhere between groan and sigh, and without ceasing to suck on the fingers took a little more of the marvellous salve, and slicked it along Alistairs cock.

It was not unpleasant; far from it, in fact. It warmed a little, and he felt some of the insistence simmer down, the mild numbness the salve provided giving him a little more time.

“Why did you - ?”

“So I can do this,” murmured the mage, and lifted himself to swing a leg across Alistairs hip. He moved back, reached behind to steady the newly-slick cock, then began to work the head inside. Alistairs cry this time was loud enough to be heard beyond the walls of the tent, and slender fingertips touched his lips to hush him. Desperate to distract himself from the sensation of his cock being enveloped, so terribly slowly, into that welcome warmth he took the fingertips between his lips and began to suck. He was rewarded with a soft cry, a breath snatched, and then he'd breached the tightness of entrance and slid in, lifted his hips with a jerk to seat himself fully within the body of his lover.

“Easy,” gasped Alim, and Alistair marvelled at the body poised above him. The mage had his head thrown back, muscles in the long throat working as he swallowed, straight hair tumbled around his shoulders in disarray a thousand miles away from the neat, tight braids he usually wore it in. Golden light shimmered on the planes of muscle, and the bite of fingernails into the skin of his chest as the mage began to move, lifting a little then easing back in a slow slide of delicious sensation, the heat and the moist grip around Alistairs cock almost more than he could stand.

“I - Maker, Alim!” he gasped, gripped the slim hips of the elf and pulled him down, ground himself against his body to push as deep as he could. Above him Alim groaned, a deep sound torn from the slender frame, and they began to move together.

Alim began to stroke himself in time with Alistairs thrusts, one hand braced on his chest while the other encircled his own cock tightly, rise and fall synchronised until the sight and the sound and the smell and the feel began to overwhelm Alistair, and he dug his fingers deep in the mages skin and began to fuck him hard, a grunt of effort pushed past his lips with every fast grind into the body of the other man. Alim gasped, curled his body forward and jerked at himself harder, shoved back onto Alistairs hips as hard as he could.

Control snapped, and Alistair felt nothing except the white hot roar of sensation along his spine, the explosion of heat and light behind his eyes that signified the clench and release of his orgasm. He felt - as from a distance - the splash of warm fluid on his chest, and his balls tightened once more to fire his own send off in another spasm of release.

They fell from the heights together, the slender elf sprawled across the heavier body below him, sweat and semen pasting their skin together while their hearts hammered, their chests heaved and their minds began to clear. Alims breathing slowed first, and he nuzzled his face under the chin of his lover, licked at the droplets of sweat that clung to the skin there.

“Not bad,” he murmured, “for a beginner.”

Alistair managed to wheeze a brief chuckle.

“Sweet Maker. I think you killed me....”

“Not this time,” replied Alim, and the glint in his eye when Alistair met his gaze was mischievous. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh dear,” and Alistairs voice grew slurred as he slid toward sleep, “I’ve awakened a monster, right?”

Alim rolled off the other man, rose gracefully to his knees, and stretched. A hand slid along his spine, and at the hesitant touch he turned to eye the prone form of his friend. He licked his lips, and the mage tilted his head in surprise at the hint of worry in Alistairs sleep-blurred eyes.

“Stay?” he asked, hesitant, so quiet that it was almost beyond hearing. In answer, Alim slipped back alongside the warm body, pulled the blankets over them both; Alistairs strong arms slid around him, and he pillowed his head on his chest. No more was said, and in moments the heartbeat beneath his ear had slowed and the breaths become the long, slow cadence of sleep.

They could sort out any... complications... in the morning, and with a contented sigh the mage let exhaustion pull him down to join his lover in deep, dreamless slumber. He’d worry about it tomorrow, and tomorrow would come soon enough.