Warden Tabris - Tumblr Posts
"See? I knew this would happen eventually. I should have warned you right from the moment you refused to kill me. It was inevitable."
❤️⚔️
Summary: Tabris has some issues. She doesn't want to burden her lover with them, even when she's lying on her back, slick with sweat as he fucks her and her mind starts to crumble under the weight.
CW: Descriptions of childhood sexual abuse (incest)
When they are done, when they lie there spent and sweating and he pulls an arm around her waist and nuzzles her neck and hums in sleepy contentment, there is nothing more she wants than to do the same. She stares into the ceiling as his breath evens out, body twitching against hers as he is pulled into a deep sleep. She is on fire, her loins aching, her mind racing between thousands of thoughts in the span of a few seconds because it's not fair. It's not fair that this man, this wonderful man that loves and admires and respects her so much, does everything for her and it's still never enough. That she cannot separate herself from her thoughts for a few hours, that no matter what she does, no matter how much time passes, the memories are seared into her eyelids like a brand that has never properly healed. And she doesn't want him to know.
When Alistair kisses her, her heart races but not just from excitement. It's always there, bubbling under the surface, waiting to be exposed. Behind every smile, every brush of skin, every teasing remark, it pools in her stomach and threatens to peer into the world, past the walls she's created. She doesn't want him to know. He doesn't need to know. She has to push past it on her own, so they might finally embrace without her thoughts threatening to destroy the few moments they are allowed together.
"Vestele?"
Her blood heats through her chest, up her throat and behind her eyes. How long has he been awake?
"It's fine, I'm fine," she says, because it's true, but it's not. She squeezes his arm and smiles into the black. Her eyes burn.
He says nothing, doesn't have to, his body is tense because he wants to say something, anything. She squeezes his arm again, this time in warning.
"Is it...did I--?"
"Don't." She swallows, hard. "It was amazing. You were amazing. It's not you."
"But you--"
Between clenched teeth, she tells him, "I know," because she does and it's burning her insides and she wants, needs to fight back the tears. There's no amount of night outside that could completely black out her vision, although she desperately wishes for it so she doesn't see the anguish on his face when he turns to her.
If only she was a poet, a bard, an artist, a storyteller, anything but a fighter. A warrior. Her words are rough and awkward. No words she has ever known, or will ever, could mend the emptiness inside them both at this moment. Her words will not ease his discomfort, nor will his to her despair.
Screwing her eyes shut, she reaches for his face and guides his lips to hers gently, so gently, with as much affection as she can muster with her emotions draining her body of all strength. He returns it in kind, slow and careful, letting out a shaky sigh when they part.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
Vestele refuses to open her eyes to see the pain she feels etched across his face. Alistair pulls her close. "There's nothing wrong with you. You are the most amazing, brave, beautiful woman I know, and nothing could change that."
He's trying, he's really doing his best, but his words just make the burn behind her eyes shoot to her chest. "It's never enough. Regardless of what I do, or try, my head just..." All the burning makes her head feel fuzzy as she searches her mind for how to tell him, explain the images that come in a rush whenever his head settles between her thighs or when he's moving on top of her and peering down with lidded eyes and a clenched jaw.
When he looks at her like that, there is the split second that she fears the worst. That Alistair can see the truth in her features, that he somehow can hear her racing thoughts once that she has let the tiniest bit of her guard down. When she looks up at him, she knows this is Alistair, I'm with Alistair, it's okay, right now we're all safe, I should be enjoying this-
Until she closes her eyes and the images sweep by, mixing everything together in one single second. It consumes her whole mind until she's only vaguely aware of Alistair's voice, his thrusts, the own sounds sneaking past her lips. It's white noise as the memories come flooding back of watching her own young, wandering hands; caressing of small, pale breasts with her fingers and tongue; crawling over limbs to sit and grind their hips together in a way that makes her head spin but why is it spinning? What are we doing? It feels good, really good, so good, but why does she always push me away when we finish?
By the time she's back to herself, she feels more open and naked than ever, irrelevant of the fact her knees are spread and pinned down to the cot by his hands or the rivulets of sweat running down the length of their bodies to where they are joined. But the most terrifying of part of it is the heat that jolts straight to her core when the scenes replay over and over and over. He groans and pushes into her harder, becoming desperate, as it seems like she takes him even deeper, a gush of wetness coating him and spurring him on.
The bile rushes up her throat, violently, catching her erratic breath and squeezing her eyes shut to block her mind. There's more, always more fleeting memories that last a second and send her reeling. Was that real? When did that happen? Who are the others, faceless older girls sitting and watching and giggling and moaning as they touch each other to mimic what was happening to her own body?
And as hard as she fights her mind, she can't stop herself from thinking of her, now that they are older and grown women, how she looked with tears in her eyes and thanked Vestele for rescuing her, for protecting the whole alienage with her selflessness, her voice and empty smile so broken and helpless and Vestele's entire heart aches for her. And yet still, she can't stop the thoughts, I wonder how much she's changed since she was a child? Are her breasts as pert, how strong the scent of her arousal might be...
And then, with boiling uncertainty, she remembers Shianni shoving her from her lap, an expression of disgust on her face and a muttered, "We need to stop, we can't do this anymore," but the only thing she can remember from this memory is the sinking in her stomach and blood pounding in her ears as her heart breaks in two.
"Why?" she can see herself asking in that piercing voice. A short, pudgy child with wide eyes and kinky locks that stick to the sweat on her brows. "Did I do something wrong?" There's no answer, and Vestele winces when the memory continues, how pathetic she was when she apologized and begged Shianni to return, to keep going, to not stop touching and kissing and making her feel like she was wanted.
She has to bite back the desire of wishing she could go back, wishing she could peer down at the woman trembling and sobbing on the stone floor of the castle, surrounded by corpses of those who had hurt them, to tell her, now you know how it feels to be used and tossed aside and left to pick up the pieces by yourself.
That is when the tears start to leak out because she can't tell what's worse: the scorching arousal, or the skin-crawling realization of how badly she wants her loved one to suffer. She wants, with each fiber of her being, she wants to grab her and scream in her face, why would you do that to me? Why didn't anyone think about what I wanted? Why did you believe I would be fine with being used for someone else's pleasure with no regard for my own? And why couldn't you let me be a child? And why? Why why why why why?
It doesn't matter. She knows it doesn't matter. Her thoughts would still swarm her even if she shouted it a million times. If she was back in the alienage, if Vestele was standing right in front of her and asked the questions she knew she would never have the strength to ask or know the answers to, no words would stop the bile or the thrumming warmth or the shaking in her legs when her mind drifts to the past instead of staying here, in this moment, with him.
Because right now he's looking at her like that, like she's everything he's ever wanted and that makes more vomit creep up because she will never be able to give him what he wants; not when she's been torn apart beyond repair and can't stop thinking about their inevitable fate or loses her temper over misplaced gauntlets or how her fingers only move faster when she touches herself at night and the intrusive images of her cousin's hands running along her body overcome her mind.
Because the worst part isn't remembering. The worst part is laying awake and asking herself the same sickening questions, then why do you enjoy it? Why do you allow yourself to think about it when you're with him? And she doesn't know if she will ever find an answer to it, especially when all she can do is bite her pillow and muffle her screams until her throat is hoarse and raw and nothing more comes out.
Now she turns away and lets Alistair wrap his arms around her waist, engulfing her small frame. He kisses her neck, her shoulders, her back, her neck again. In her chest, her heart beats wildly, but whether from his attentions, or her memories, or her terror, she isn't sure. Now, when her mind wanders to Shianni, there's no underlying emotions, no heat, no bile, only an ache. Vestele misses her. She misses all of them. Maybe one day, if she's somehow wrong about their inevitable fate, she can travel back home with him and introduce him to her family and create new memories. Better ones that overshadow her past as she pulls her cousin in for a hug and recounts all their adventures over a bottle of wine while they laugh freely. Maybe she won't have any thoughts lingering in the back of her head about how good it felt when she touched Vestele all those years ago or how soft her body probably is under all those clothes.
And maybe, just maybe, she can start to tell Alistair what goes on in her head. What a strange concept, that he might not be repulsed by her, but rather, accepts and loves her all the same.
She tells him she loves him, and he replies earnestly, because if nothing else at this moment, at least that is true.
Summary: The concept of found family is new to Tabris--and she knows it will never welcome a shattered mess like her.
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for @elfroot-and-laurels' datober prompt, thank you!!
She sits on the cold ground outside her tent—the one resting on the outskirts of the clearing, farthest than anyone save Morrigan—maps and tomes scattered haphazardly around her. Vestele lifts her head to stretch her shoulders, shocked to find that the sun has already set. The candle next to her is almost burned to the base. No wonder her head is throbbing.
Her gaze falls on the fire across the campsite. Nights like this are the most painful. Wynne, Alistair, and Zevran huddle around it, talking amongst themselves. She watches how the colors of the fire flicker along each of their features; every grin or chuckle warm and inviting. It makes her insides ache.
Leliana appears from behind the fire and announces that dinner is ready. A groan slips from Vestele’s throat. This is her least favorite part of the day.
She snuffs the candle, then gathers her materials together and drops them right inside the mouth of her tent before heading to the gathering. As Vestele approaches the campfire, the melody of the bard’s song floats through the air. She grinds her teeth in irritation but releases the scowl before the woman turns around. Leliana gives her a full bowl along with a gentle smile. “Here! I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.”
Leliana’s smile falters a bit, but she simply makes a soft noise of acknowledgment before bending down to fill another bowl.
Vestele stays rooted to her spot. To her surprise, she feels…guilty? Leliana seems disappointed at her reaction. Why? She can’t say that a slightly aloof response is anything out of the ordinary.
Leliana looks at her again once realizing Vestele hasn’t moved. Upon their eyes connecting, Vestele grunts and turns on her heel towards her tent. She barely takes a few strides before she hears her name and freezes. Wynne asked her a question. She heard it, but really didn’t.
“What?” she says, facing Wynne and immediately regretting it. The eyes of every person are fixed to her.
“I said, would you like to join us at the fire for dinner tonight?”
They’re all staring. Her body is on fire, her neck is drenched in sweat. She can’t hear anything, not the sounds of wood cracking in the flames, not even her own breathing. Because she can’t breathe. They’re still staring.
“I’m set. But thanks.”
While she practically sprints away, she can hear Alistair scoff. “She’s just like that. You’ll get used to it.”
She settles down on the floor of her tent and yanks it shut. It is quiet for a few moments, until Leliana giggles and whispers something Vestele can’t make out. Alistair laughs, and then they begin debating the quality of Leliana’s cooking compared to Wynne’s.
Her stomach is in knots. Tonight will be the worst in a while. She knows she needs sustenance—the decrease in appetite had made her body weak, a burdensome figure her mind is chained to. Normally it isn’t like this, so intense that she can barely walk a straight line, but ever since the Circle…the memories, the nightmares; screams of children in horror and agony reverberating in her brain, loud enough she almost believes she’s still there. Images of abominations holding her down, melting her flesh, ripping her jaw apart and choking her with their essence…
Vestele peers down at her bowl of stew and the mere sight invokes a small gag. Reluctantly, she brings the spoon to her lips, snarling at herself when she sees her hand trembling. Each swallow is more difficult than the last. Her throat constricts, fighting against the liquid and even managing to force some back up. She covers her mouth and digs her nails into her cheeks, hard enough to form deep marks. A welcome distraction from the contractions in her middle each time she hears a laugh outside, the sounds of comradery and fondness. They’ve decided Wynne’s culinary skills are the best. Another reminder of isolation.
But you did this to yourself.
“I did.”
And you continue to make that choice.
“I know.”
The struggle against every mouthful hurts. She must pause to suck in a deep breath, dry her eyes, swallow what remains, then start again. Ever the warrior, too stubborn to give up.
They are not your friends. Swallow.
They will never be your family. Gag.
Why would you bother, anyway? This will not last. Once you have no use for each other, you will part ways. And that is assuming you live. Why form a bond that is doomed to end in tragedy?
Done.
Vestele wipes down the bowl, wraps it in an unwashed shirt, and places it in the corner of the tent. She crawls into her bedroll and curls it tight around her body, over her head, trying to block out the voices in the distance. Then she closes her eyes, eyelashes sticky with tears, and repeats her mantra over and over until falling asleep.
Yet despite everything, she has a stray thought. But...maybe tomorrow could be different.
Summary: The Guardian brings up memories that Tabris prefers to keep buried.
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for @elfroot-and-laurels' datober prompt, days 4 & 5: memories & home!
“Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past—your suffering, and the suffering of others. By the time you reached Shianni, she was broken, brutalized. You were too late.”
Vestele’s blood turns to ice.
The world around her evaporates in an instant. Nothing is real again. Her legs disintegrate, her arms dissolve, everything from her stomach to crown melts away until she’s floating; a simple, weightless form, a mirror image of the figure standing before her. It stares motionless, unwavering, yet the grief in its eyes is unmistakable. Tangible.
“Yet she has never answered for the sorrow she has caused you. Tell me, pilgrim: did you fail Shianni? Or were you denied justice?”
No!
“W-what?” The sound of her own voice—hoarse and timid and barely audible—startles her as she races to take control of what leaves her mouth. It is a useless struggle. “How…how do you know…?”
The entity examines her carefully, almost reluctantly. “Your path is laid out before me and plain to see—in the lines of your face and the scars on your heart.”
In an instant, she senses the others behind her. She remembers the ones that have accompanied her to this place, this sacred temple that is violating her right before their eyes.
“You assumed full responsibility for what happened, but the humans retaliated against your home even so.” She sees what it is now: pity.
He’s going to say it! DON’T LET HIM SAY IT!
Her heart is far away but she knows it is about to burst from her chest. She is drowning in silence as she feels it reach into the farthest fragments of her mind, the parts where her most revolting thoughts are kept locked deep within. She watches the apparition’s lips unleash her venom into the space between them.
“You wonder if accepting the arl’s offer would have been the right decision, if she deserved—"
NO!
“STOP!”
She crashes back down.
FOOL. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
“She didn’t—” Her voice chokes on a sob.
PATHETIC.
Vestele slams a hand over her mouth, but it’s too late. Everything is real again. Everything hurts. “She didn’t—doesn’t know how it h-hurt…”
YOU FAILED.
She drops her hand, as if it burns straight through the thick gloves. Her eyes squeeze shut; her jaw clenches tight until the muscles scream and she swears she could hear her teeth crack.
DO. NOT. CRY.
With a sharp intake of breath, she digs her nails into her palms, furrows her brows, then looks up at the spirit. It’s difficult to see him through the haze. A river spills in relentless waves as she speaks, voice now firm and level even when her lip quivers and breath catches. “I w-wasn’t strong enough to protect my home. I failed them all.”
The spirit nods. “Thank you. That is all I wished to know.”
The waves continue, unobstructed. Relief floods through her in an instant and is immediately replaced by shame.
Why would you indulge this creature? Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?
As her head bows, eyes falling on the stone by her feet, an intense tremble runs through her entire body. Only the noises of her quick gasps fill the room, lungs pleading desperately for air; the silence around her is suffocating.
You are WEAK. They will never respect you now.
To her right, she notices someone approach. A slight heaviness hovers above her shoulder, but it disappears before she can determine what it is. A soft whisper tells her, “You are too hard on yourself. You did the best you could.”
Blood rushes through her cheeks. He is mocking her. A bitter allusion to his confrontation just days ago.
“I’m doing the best I can, Alistair.”
"Really? It doesn't seem like it would be that hard to do better."
No.
He is not mocking—he is offering compassion in her moment of vulnerability.
She doesn’t want to believe that someone like him exists. Someone that has followed her for months, has endured the worst of her rage and hatred, yet continues to stand by her side. He chooses to show her grace and kindness as she tries to be better.
But she has caused pain to him and so many others. She does not deserve such compassion. They do not deserve her scorn. The shame is unbearable. She flinches away from Alistair’s presence, unable to take her eyes off the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shift his stance, but remains next to her.
Vestele finds herself thankful for that. She listens to the specter move through her company, burrowing through their doubts, fears, regrets, failures. This is too much. It is wrong. She should not hear these things. They should not have heard hers. The suffering of her companions being brought to light by this creature claws and crawls inside her. Her mind is shifting, making space to welcome their torment as well.
But before she can put an end to it, he is finished. “The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek.” Then the spirit fades into nothing.
No one moves. The silence lingers for what feels like hours. It’s too much, too heavy. Her eyes are sore, her head is throbbing.
You’ve said too much. Don’t let them speak. Just get moving.
She clears her throat. “Let’s go,” Vestele says, then pulls on her helmet and marches through the archway to face the next test without waiting to see who follows.
Little sketch of my elven cinnamon roll (which can kill you, of course)
"You killed them didn't you? You killed them all."
"Like dogs, Shianni"
//
In other words, the city elf origin is one of the most brutal things in dragon age.
As Warden-Commander Lucia Tabris hears The Calling, she once again stands face to face with despair.
Are we allies or enemies? This will be the death of me All is fair in love, and war But I can't fight with you anymore This will be the death of me
Alistair and Lucia have a complicated relationship, Lucia refused to become the Concubine of Alistair as he became king, unwilling to be put in a position like that to be judged by all, but Alistair remains her first and only Love.
grey warden lowenhe is having :) a great :) time :)