Elen, the Smut Queen

17th March 2013

Post reblogged from accidentally on purpose with 254 notes

spicyshimmy:

succulentthighs:

The thing that makes me so angry about the Grey Warden 30 year death sentence, is that Carver is never going to be an angry little old person shaking his fist at kids

Because Carver would make the best angry little old person. You do not understand

famous last words

He holds on a few extra, stubborn years more than he should. That’s him all over. And he thinks, at last, that he’s become more steel than shield or sword. ‘I’m damn well silverite,’ he tells himself—never out loud; not anymore—while surveying the bleary, bloodshot eyes of fresh recruits on the stingy mornings after their Joining. He knows the shadows in their cheeks, the way their knuckles turn pale gripping their weapons too tight. 

Nathaniel Howe—an old, fine friend—left for the Deep ten years ago now; Sigrun and her laughter went with him, and the tunnels swallowed her stories. And Oghren took his belches and his beard the following Satinalia: ax strapped to his back, a carved wooden horse dangling from a belt strap. 

‘If you don’t make those sodding ‘spawn shit themselves silly when I’m gone,’ he said, ‘then I’ll know. I’ll feel it in my jiggly stones.’ 

‘Famous last words,’ Carver Hawke replied. 

He holds on a few extra, stubborn years more, but it’s a strange thing to protect. The cracks in his knuckles. The chips in his shoulder healed—only to be replaced by the chips in his sword. Polishing metal. Oiling leather. Nightmares and the stammering, clamoring voices. 

Because, he tells himself—never out loud; not anymore—he’s a champion’s champion. 

He holds on every day. A little bit; a little bit more. 

‘Just the two of us now,’ he says, one stingy morning, gray as the stone and sky of Ferelden. 

‘You’re a tit for this,’ Hawke replies. ‘The biggest tit I’ve ever known.’ 

‘Tit for tat, Champion,’ Carver says. 

Hawke stands at the mouth of the cave, framed in light, watching him go. Carver doesn’t look back, but hears the echoes. ‘Famous last words.’

Bethany will come for—comfort him, Carver thinks, knuckles turning pale, gripping his weapon too tight. Father’s arms. Mother will know. It isn’t surrender. It’s time to head home. 

Shimmy. I love you. Please never stop.

Tagged: dragon ageda2carvergrey wardenficshimmy

Source: succulentthighs