My Warden (COMPLETED)

My Hope

Cullen thought he lost Lana Amell when she sacrificed herself to remain in the fade, but now the king of Ferelden has her phylactery and insists she's alive somewhere on the other side of thedas. Can he trust this man he barely knows or can stand as they travel through treacherous waters and lands while searching to find the woman he loves? All he has to cling to is his faith and hope.

This one's a little more disjointed than previous with lots of memories and flashbacks to fill in backstory, so I included a date and location before every chapter.

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9:36 Denerim

Lanny prodded a spoon into the grey mass attempting to ooze off the table and consume them all. Then, against all common sense or fear of it fighting back, she dug in and brought the traitorous gelatinous mash of dinner to her lips.

"You're balmy, you know that," Alistair said shaking his head as he grabbed the second spoon. Stabbing deep into the middle of the gurgling lump to make sure it stayed dead, he inched off a small section. It tasted like someone dumped sewer water onto the tavern floor then tried to sop it up with rancid flour. "Hm, it's getting better," he remarked returning for seconds.

She smiled brightly but jabbed her own spoon upright into the shared "chef's surprise" her delicate Arlessa sensibilities unable to handle that much food poisoning. In reaching for her clay mug of the second cheapest wine in Denerim, Lanny yanked back her nondescript sleeve.

"Pst," Alistair nodded to her, "you've got some, uh, bandit juice still."

"Oh?" she rolled her eyes and then rolled her sleeve up to her elbow to reveal her arms covered in their day's work. Sliding closer to the table, she dropped her arm down and called to her dog. He woke from his dreams at her feet, and a slobbery tongue lapped up the gore across her skin. Alistair forgot about that vampiric quirk from the days of the blight, and he'd been happier in his ignorance. She must have caught his queasy stare because she offered, "He'd be willing to clean you off too."

"That's all right, I'm good."

The dog finished and flopped back down on the floor. White coated his muzzle like snow across the eaves, but he held up like a demon while they worked through the back alleys. Rolling down her sleeve, Lanny smiled, "You probably have fancy servants devoted to drawing the bath, one for holding the soap, and a last just to wash the king."

"Ha, I mention I plan on stripping off any layer of clothing and the entire palace scatters screaming to warn everyone. Not a soul for miles, which means I'm free to slide down the banisters without anyone yelling at me to stop."

"Buck naked, of course," she said lifting her glass as if in a toast.

"Is there any other way?" Alistair grinned. He was trying to cling to the last hours they had together before all that duty stuff came back. It was an odd tradition, one Eamon threw apoplectic and apocalyptic fits about, but the old Arl couldn't stop it. It was too ingrained now. The 'on a holiday' king of Ferelden lifted his own glass. "To Duncan," he said.

Lanny knocked her mug into his, "And the others lost at Ostagar." They both took a long swig of the swill, Lanny's entire face scrunching up in pain. It'd been too long since she'd last been back in town. She forgot how stomach churning the rot could get here, which was also its charm.

"I almost didn't think you'd make it," Alistair said. He cut off a section of their shared dinner and palmed it. Sliding his hand under the table, he tried to pass it off to the dog.