Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1000357.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age_II, Dragon_Age_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Gamlen_Amell/Leandra_Amell
  Character:
      Gamlen_Amell, Leandra_Hawke, Leandra_Amell
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Secret_Relationship, Forbidden_Love, Heartbreak, Pre-
      Canon, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-11 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 19897
****** (To Be Forgiven) We Must First Believe in Sin ******
by Arbryna
Summary
     Gamlen wasn't always a bitter wretch--but having to give up the first
     woman you ever loved will do that to a man. Gamlen and Leandra's
     relationship through the years.
Notes
     Marked as underage because technically it is, depending on where you
     live. All sexual acts are depicted with characters aged 15 or older.
***** Chapter 1 *****
We are given to a god to put our faith therein
But to be forgiven, we must first believe in sin

~ Jewel, "Innocence Maintained"
===============================================================================


Father doesn't yell. He's a busy man, and impatient, but he never yells. His is
a quiet, composed sort of anger.
At eight years old, Leandra hasn't done very many things to make him cross.
She's always been the picture of a dutiful daughter, taking quickly to her
lessons and to the finery and etiquette expected of a daughter of the house
Amell. When she makes a misstep, as children inevitably do, Father greets her
with calm disappointment, scrutinizing her as he speaks to ensure that she
knows exactly what she did wrong. He smiles when he's done, plants a kiss in
her auburn hair and sends her off with the stern direction to do better next
time.
It's Gamlen who gets into trouble, more often than not. The burdens of nobility
are second nature to Leandra, but Gamlen can't quite wrap his little head
around them. He'd rather chase pigeons in the courtyard or sneak into Lowtown
to watch wallop matches than sit inside and learn the names of all the noble
families in Kirkwall and what their crests are.
Of course, he's only seven. Leandra doesn't think it's that big of a deal when
he comes home dragging a large piece of driftwood, but Father takes a different
view.
"It's junk. Filthy junk, at that. Where in the world did you find this?"
Leandra stops at the top of the stairs when she hears the cold disdain in
Father's voice. He towers over Gamlen, his polished finery a stark contrast to
Gamlen's untucked shirt and dirt-stained trousers. The driftwood lies on the
carpet between them.
Peering up through messy chestnut hair, Gamlen mumbles something that sounds
like "docks". Leandra can see the back of Father's vest bunch as he tenses his
arms and shoulders.
"That's no place for a boy of your status," Father sneers. "What would the
Threnholds say if word got out that an Amell was out wandering the docks like
some filthy sailor's bastard?"
Gamlen shrugs, his gaze on the floor. "I dunno."
"Without a guard, no less," Father continues, uninterested in Gamlen's
responses. "You could have been kidnapped. Not that you'd be worth all that
high of a ransom. Can you never do what you're told?"
"M'sorry." There's a growing thickness in Gamlen's voice, and Leandra knows
that he'll be crying before long. She wants to go downstairs and hug him,
reassure him, but it will only make Father angrier.
"Sorry," Father huffs. He looks down at Gamlen's prize; for a moment it looks
as though he might kick it, then decides against risking damage to his boots.
"What did you think you were going to do with this rubbish anyhow?"
Gamlen mumbles something in response, too quiet to be understood.
"Speak up, boy!" Father's voice is sharp, and Gamlen flinches a little at the
sound of it.
"I was gonna make a wallop mallet," he admits sullenly.
"What in Andraste's name is a wallop mallet?"
"It's for a game." Gamlen dares to look up, and there's a sparkle of brightness
in his otherwise dejected expression. "Wallop. The boys in Lowtown said I could
play, but only if I had my own mallet."
"A game," Father sneers. "In Lowtown."
"It's really fun!"
"You are an Amell, Gamlen. There are more important things than fun."
Gamlen hangs his head again. "Yes, Father."
"I'll have Benard dispose of this garbage," Father sighs. "Go and get yourself
cleaned up, boy. You're in no fit state to be seen, not even by your tutors."
Leandra passes her brother on the stairs, meeting his red-rimmed eyes with a
sympathetic smile. He trudges on past her to his bedroom while she lingers
halfway down, her hand twitching nervously on the banister. The stair creaks
under her slippered feet, and Father whirls around.
"What did I just tell you—" he halts abruptly when his eyes land on his
daughter. "Oh, Leandra."
"Hello, Father," Leandra says sweetly, making her way down the last of the
stairs.
"You're a refreshing sight, child." Father opens his arms, and Leandra rushes
into them, resting her cheek against the soft Orlesian silk of his vest. His
large palms are warm on her back. "Moreso after dealing with your brother."
"What did he do now?" Leandra asks, as though she didn't just hear the entire
exchange. That's one of the less formal lessons she's learned: everyone
eavesdrops, but it's simply unseemly to admit to it.
Father sighs and strokes Leandra's hair. "Does it even matter? The boy can't
stay out of trouble. I'm positively drowning in work for this month's gala, and
now I've got to find Benard to get this filthy refuse out of the house."
Leandra pulls away just far enough to tilt her head up and meet Father's grey
eyes. "I can find Benard for you, Father. You've got so much else to do."
"You're such a good girl, Leandra." Father squeezes her tighter before holding
her out at arms' length. "I want you to keep a closer eye on your brother.
There is much he could stand to learn from you."
"Yes, Father." Her cheeks flush with pride, even as a tiny sliver of guilt
gnaws at her chest. He wouldn't be so happy with her if he knew her plan, but
she's also learned that there are some things Mother and Father don't have to
know.
She finds Benard, as promised. The elf has been a servant of the Amells since
before Leandra was born, and he's always had a soft spot for her. It doesn't
take much to convince him to drag the driftwood down into the wine cellar
instead of tossing it outside on the streets.
Gamlen is sullen and pouting when she finds him in his bedroom, but he gladly
follows her down into the cellar—they've always been close, and she's pretty
sure he would follow her anywhere she asked.
His eyes light up when she opens the door to the small, hidden room in the wine
cellar. He rushes to kneel before the driftwood, running his little hands over
it in awe. After a moment, he turns to flash her a grin full of joy and crooked
teeth.
"I thought Father was going to throw it out."
Leandra smiles. "I told Benard to bring it here instead. I thought we could
work on it together."
"But you don't know anything about wallop," Gamlen says with a confused frown.
"I know about other things." Leandra rolls her eyes, moving over to squat next
to her brother. She won't kneel or sit; Mother wouldn't be happy to see dirt on
her dress. "And you can teach me about wallop. It sounds like a lot of fun."
"It is!" Gamlen confirms, nodding vigorously. Then he sobers. "But you'll get
in trouble."
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Leandra smooths her hands over the
wrinkles in her skirt. "Only if Mother and Father find out," she says, feeling
vaguely guilty. "And they never come down here. Only the servants do, and even
they don't come this far in."
Gamlen catches her off-guard with a hug, knocking her to the ground with his
weight. "I love you, Sister."
"I love you too," Leandra replies, wrapping her arms around him. She'll have
stains on her dress, but it's worth it to see her little brother so happy.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The look they give him is wary, suspicious—like he's just asked for the key to
the treasury, rather than twenty sodding silver. It's such a paltry sum they
wouldn't even notice it missing.
"What do you need it for?" Father asks gruffly, looking back down at his
paperwork.
Gamlen hesitates. "There's a…book I want to get."
Mother pauses in her embroidery and looks up at him, blue eyes sparkling with
guarded hope. It's the first time in his twelve years of life that he's shown
any interest in reading.
"We have plenty of books in the library," Father says, unimpressed. His eyes
don't even leave the desk.
"This is a new one." Gamlen's hands fumble with his pockets. "About, um,
archery."
"Interested in archery, are you?" Father's eyes are cold steel, probing
Gamlen's face for the truth. His lips press into a tight scowl. "Don't lie to
me, boy. What is it really for?"
Gamlen looks down at the carpet, trying to escape the chill of Father's gaze.
"Awalloptournament," he mumbles.
"Speak up, dear," Mother says, almost kindly. "And take your hands out of your
pockets."
He takes a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists at his sides. "A wallop
tournament," he repeats, slower and clearer. He recognizes the sudden tightness
in Father's shoulders and rushes on. "There's an entry fee, but the winner gets
two sovereigns, and I know I can win. I'm really good!"
"That blighted game." Father spits the word out, curls his lip like it's left a
foul taste in his mouth. His paperwork is abandoned for the moment; he turns in
his chair to face Gamlen. A spark of anger flashes in his eyes. "I've told you
time and time again, Gamlen, that it is unacceptable for an Amell to be
cavorting about with the scum in Lowtown. Now you ask me not only to support
this misguided hobby, but to finance it as well?"
"It's only twenty silver," Gamlen retorts, his fingernails digging into his
palms. "You give Leandra money all the time for things."
"Leandra spends her money wisely," Father says. Father's eyes drag over
Gamlen's half-untucked shirt, the gaping unbuttoned vest, the scuffed boots.
His trousers are stained with dirt, and there's a small tear in one knee. "And
she comports herself like a proper noble child should. If you were to put in
the slightest effort to look or act presentable, you might find yourself
rewarded as well."
Anger burns at Gamlen's gut. He dresses himself properly every morning; it's
not his fault that he can't bear to sit around studying all day. The other kids
in Hightown are boring, and Lowtown is a dirty place. It's not like they don't
have the coin for washing and mending.
"You mean if I sit down and shut up and never have any fun," Gamlen snaps back,
louder than intended. His arms are shaking, they're so tense.
"Don't raise your voice to me, boy." Father looks calm and composed, as always,
but the steely glint in his eyes is a dire warning.
"Why?" Gamlen presses, almost shouting now. Blood is rushing in his ears,
adrenaline racing through his body, and he's too angry to stop now. "Because it
wouldn't be proper? Does the fact that I actually have feelings embarrass you,
Father?"
He doesn't remember moving, but now he's standing right in front of Father, his
pulse pounding in his clenched fists. That bloody arrogant expression is on
Father's face, the one that he seems to reserve for Gamlen alone—like he's
disappointed and ashamed all at once, with an impatient edge that says there
are far more important things he should be doing right now. Gamlen hates that
expression, and for the first time, he thinks of how satisfying it might be to
knock it right off of his face.
"Think carefully, Gamlen," Father warns before Gamlen can raise his fist even
an inch. "If you ever raise a hand to me, you'll be using it to beg for alms at
the Chantry before you can blink."
Gamlen takes a deep, forceful breath, grinds his teeth, opens and closes his
fists. As much as he hates it here, he would hate sleeping on the street even
more. Mother sits in her chair, watching anxiously; she at least cares about
Gamlen a little, but he doesn't think she would interfere if Father disowned
him—and he doesn't doubt for a second that Father would do it.
As much as he wants to strike his father, Gamlen whirls around instead,
slamming the door to the study as he leaves. It echoes down the hallway,
follows him as he storms toward the cellar.
He should have just taken Meeran's advice, and hustled the money from some
other Hightown brat—or maybe lifted it from that ancient lacemaker in the
market. The old bitch is too blind and deaf to notice, anyway. He was an idiot
to think Father would give him anything.
In his haste he forgot to grab a lamp, but it's no matter; the way to the
secret room in the cellar is ingrained in him by now, even in the dark, and he
swings the door open with one last great burst of anger. It bounces hard
against the wall, then swings shut again with the remainder of his force.
Gamlen drops down onto the pile of straw-filled sacks he and Leandra have put
together over the years and glares into the darkness.
                                      ***
Gamlen is still fuming when Leandra finds him there half an hour later. He
hears the door creak open, sees a small halo of light slip in and flood the
room. The scowl remains on his lips, his gaze fixed stubbornly ahead of him as
Leandra sets the lamp down on the barrel they use as a table, pulls a spare
linen from under her arm to lay out next to him. It's not until she sits
carefully down on it, ever mindful of her gown, that he finally looks over at
her. From the look on her face, she knows about his fight with Father.
"How are you doing?" There's no judgment in her tone; it's one of his favorite
things about her.
"I'm lower than the shit on a beggar's boot, if you ask Father," Gamlen says
moodily. There's a piece of straw sticking out between the weave of the burlap;
he picks it free, flings it out at the floor. "Andraste's tits, it's like I
can't do anything right."
Leandra sighs and slips her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. "You
know what he wants of you."
His palm feels clammy against his sister's, awkward in a way that's new and
strange. He tries to ignore it; a lot of stuff has been changing about him
lately, physically, and he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask any of the older
boys about it. Maker knows he can't talk to Father.
"Why should I care?" Gamlen spits, his hand clenching tightly around Leandra's.
"He doesn't give a nug's blind ass about what I want."
She chuckles—against her better judgment, Gamlen is sure. Her thumb strokes
gently along his index finger. "Your friends have certainly taught you some
colorful language."
He shrugs, glares at the opposite wall. "At least they like me for who I am."
At least, he thinks they do. He's pretty sure they would tell him if they
didn't; Meeran and the other boys aren't exactly subtle.
Leandra's hand squeezes, then retracts. Gamlen's scowl deepens as the cool air
hits his sweaty palm. He can't decide if he's relieved that she took her hand
back, or disappointed—or even what either one would mean. His stomach feels
strangely warm and anxious.
A moment later, Leandra's hand is back—but this time, it's holding out a small
pouch. Gamlen glances wide-eyed at his sister as he takes it, feeling the heavy
weight of coin through the silk. He doesn't need to open it to know that it
contains enough to pay his way into the tournament.
"Mother wants me to get something nice for the ball next week," Leandra
explains. "I was going to spend it on this comb I saw at the market, but I
think you could use it more."
Gamlen holds the pouch tightly in his fist, feeling the promise it contains.
His anger is a thing of the past, quickly replaced by a giddy sort of hope.
Maybe if he comes home with a trophy, Father will take him seriously.
He frowns. "Won't you be in trouble when you don't have anything to show
Mother?"
Leandra shakes her head, smiles. "I've got so many trinkets and jewels even I
can't keep track of them all. I'll just pull out something I haven't worn in a
while. Mother won't even notice."
It's really his. He's really going to do this—if he gets his fee in on time.
"I've got to go tell Meeran—I've got to sign up before the roster's full!"
Before he even realizes it he's on his feet, still clutching the pouch of
coins, ready to head out the door. He pauses, looks back; Leandra is just
sitting there, prim as ever with her hands folded on her lap and a fond smile
on her lips. Suddenly Gamlen feels terribly ungrateful. He shoves the coin back
into his pocket, goes back to her and offers his hand to help her to her feet.
He may be hopeless with most of his lessons, but this small chivalry isn't too
much of a chore to remember—at least, when he cares enough to.
Leandra's smile broadens as she takes his hand and tilts her head politely in
response. It's so effortless, the way she does it—the nobility thing. She
allows him to pull her to her feet, smooths her skirt down, stands with a
comfortably regal posture that Gamlen could never match.
His sister is pretty sodding close to perfect.
"Thank you," Gamlen says sincerely. He pulls Leandra into a tight hug. "I'll
find some way to pay you back, I promise."
"Just be happy, Gamlen," Leandra replies, her cheek brushing against Gamlen's
as she speaks. "That's all I want."
They've hugged before, lots of times, but Gamlen's never been this oddly aware
of everything. Leandra's back is warm through the fabric of her dress, her
chest presses against his, and the air suddenly feels thick. His heart feels
like it's pounding in his throat, and the hot, tight feeling in his stomach
starts to spread lower.
No, Gamlen thinks, horrified. Not now. Not here!
His body does not comply. He tries to pull out of the hug, to move away before
she notices, but the uneasy look on her face says she had to have felt it. He
covers himself with his hands and feels his cheeks flush hot.
Leandra breaks the silence first, delicately clearing her throat. "You should
go get yourself signed up."
Gamlen nods, not quite meeting her eyes. "Yeah, I'll—I'll go do that."
He turns and practically runs out the door. Maybe while he's down in Lowtown,
he can finally ask the older boys some of those questions he's been having.
                                      ***
They don't talk about it—it's too awkward, too embarrassing. It's like the
whole afternoon never happened, except that Gamlen is in a far brighter mood
over the next couple of days.
The evening of the ball, Leandra finds a small bundle wrapped in dingy cloth on
her vanity table. She unwraps it to find a jeweled comb, far finer than the one
she had been considering. A smile pulls at her lips as she holds it up to her
head, admiring the way the sapphires bring out the blue in her eyes, the way
the tiny diamonds sparkle in her auburn hair.
There's no note, but she doesn't need one—she knows who it's from, just as well
as she knows that Gamlen didn't pay a single copper for it. She'll have to talk
to him again about stealing.
She really should make him return the gift—but then Father would find out, she
reasons, and they might punish Gamlen anyway. It's probably better to keep
quiet about it.
And it really is very lovely.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The market is always loud, chaotic, full of people; it's a wonder Leandra hears
it at all. But the the voice is familiar, a loud jubilant cry that she so
seldom hears at home. Mother is deep in discussion with the Comtesse de
Launcet, and though Leandra knows she should be paying attention, she can't
help but take a couple of discreet steps back to peer down the staircase to
Lowtown.
Gamlen is holding his wallop mallet over his head, grinning as some of the
other boys clap him on the back. There is still a good-sized line of
competitors, but it's clear he's a good pick to take the whole tournament.
Leandra feels a warm flush of pride; as much as he likes to brood about never
doing anything right, he's definitely good at this.
She's grateful that Mother was amenable to the idea of shopping today, so that
she can catch a glimpse of the game's takeover of the main Lowtown courtyard.
It's not often she gets to slip away to see her brother play.
As Gamlen returns to the center of the courtyard, shaking his arms out and
preparing for his next match, Mother's resigned sigh sounds in Leandra's ear.
"I do wish you could convince your brother to give that up."
"It makes him happy." Leandra doesn't dare argue too strongly with her mother,
but she can't resist trying to prod just a little bit. "I wish you and Father
could at least try to understand that."
"Hmph." Mother gives her head a little shake. "If wishes were poppy, we'd all
be dreaming. Some things are more important than being happy, Leandra."
Leandra looks down to disguise the slight roll of her eyes. "Yes, Mother."
"Oh, well of course you know," Mother says, affection warming her tone as she
clasps Leandra's hand. "You're such a good girl."
"Oui, she is quite the prize," the Comtesse chimes in. Her expensive Orlesian
perfume reaches Leandra before the woman herself. "She has turned out very
well—and growing up so fast, too! Before you know it she will be ready for
marriage and a family of her own."
Gamlen's game fades from Leandra's mind as she fights the urge to frown. Mother
has been talking of marriage more and more of late. "I've got a few years yet,"
she says politely, forcing a small smile to her lips.
"Oh, nonsense, dear," Mother says, her eyes shrewd as she smiles sweetly at the
Comtesse. "You're nearly sixteen years old. I was younger than that when I was
betrothed to your father."
But you're not me, Leandra wants to retort. She doesn't think Mother would take
it well, though, so she keeps smiling instead, bites down on the inside of her
cheek.
Blonde ringlets bounce atop the Comtesse's head as she gives it a little shake.
"Oh, Guillaume is simply thrilled about the prospect. I think sometimes that he
is more taken by the idea of a grand wedding than his bride will be."
"I doubt that," Mother replies. "A fine lad such as that, why any woman should
be ecstatic to have such a match. Don't you think so, Leandra?"
Leandra's smile tightens around the edges, but she doesn't let it falter. She's
been taught well. "Of course, Mother."
Mother is caught up in her own machinations, and doesn't seem to notice
Leandra's apprehension—or if she does, she pays it no heed. The conversation
drifts to some new juicy bit of gossip, and Leandra finds herself glancing back
toward the stairs down into Lowtown.
Not for the first time, she wonders if she might be happier taking a page from
Gamlen's book; surely if she cared less for pleasing her parents, it would be
easier to think of pursuing her own happiness. She knows it's hopelessly naive
and romantic, but she'd like to think that one day she might marry for love,
rather than her family's political advantage.
It's a silly thought.
                                      ***
She waits for him that evening, in their hidden place. Gamlen has been in other
wallop tournaments before, but today was apparently a bigger deal than the
others. He's certainly been going on about it enough. She still feels a small
twinge of guilt that she wasn't able to watch the whole thing—to lend him her
support from the sidelines, rather than catching glimpses from far above him.
Their parents won't celebrate it, so Leandra convinced one of the cooks to help
her bake a small cake for him. It's a bit more rushed than she would have
liked—not all of the cooks are sympathetic, particularly with the torment
Gamlen has subjected them to over the years, so it had to be done quickly and
discreetly—but she doesn't think he'll mind.
He bursts into the room not long after she arrives, dragging his mallet behind
him. A grin spreads wide across his face as he meets her eyes. "I did it!" His
voice breaks on the words, but he doesn't seem as self-conscious about it as he
has been—he's too giddy. "I won the whole thing!"
Leandra beams at him, plucks the cover off of the cake and sets it aside. "I
didn't doubt you for a minute."
Gamlen's eyes light up even brighter as they trace over the iced
words—"Congratulations Gamlen"—and the small, simple outline of a wallop
mallet. The smile on his lips threatens to split his face open as he sweeps
Leandra up into a fierce hug. His shirt is still damp with sweat, his neck
slick with it, but she wraps her arms around him anyway. His happiness is an
infectious sort, and she can't be bothered with her usual hangups at the
moment.
"I couldn't have done it without you," Gamlen murmurs, holding her tight. His
hands settle flat against her back; they seem to be growing larger every day,
and they almost burn through the fabric of her dress.
"Please," Leandra scoffs, rubbing at the lean muscle of his back. "You're the
one who's put in all the hours of practice. I'm just proud to say that my
brother is officially the best wallop player in Kirkwall."
His head tilts against her shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing against her
throat; she feels a strange heat flush her cheeks. Leandra tightens her arms
around him once before releasing, stepping back. He's slower to let go, the
muscles in his forearms tensing against her waist. She rests her hands
awkwardly against his shoulders, leans in to press a kiss into his cheek.
She doesn't notice his head turn at the last minute, doesn't realize until her
lips don't land on the sweaty skin she expected. Leandra freezes at the feel of
her brother's lips sliding against hers.
The kiss is clumsy and still, and lingers too long to be simple or chaste. His
hands are heavy against the small of her back, his chest warm and sturdy where
her own presses against it with each quick, fluttering breath. They could be
any pair of young lovers in any of the books Leandra reads in secret when her
parents aren't around, sharing a tentative, inexperienced first kiss.
They could be—but they're not. They can't. This—this is wrong. Leandra sucks in
a sharp breath through her nose and pushes at his shoulders. They separate, her
eyes staring wide at him while his shoot to the ground. Even in the dim
lamplight, she can see the color flooding his cheeks.
"Gamlen—"
"Sorry," Gamlen says quickly. His fists clench at his sides as he looks up at
her, his expression a chaos of embarrassment, shame, penitence. His brow
tightens, and Leandra can practically hear him struggling to find words.
"It's all right," Leandra replies, her voice soft and shaking. "It was just an
accident."
His gaze drops away from hers as he nods, silently confirming the lie. It was
no accident—she saw the guilt in his eyes as they pulled apart, felt his desire
quivering against her lips.
A mistake, that's what it was. A spur-of-the-moment, ill-conceived mistake. One
that won't—can't—happen again.
Even if a small, hidden part of her wishes it would.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Leandra stares, almost unbelieving, at Gamlen's prize. The wood—it looks like a
large tree root—is at least as tall as Gamlen, thick and painted bright red
with white swirling patterns. It's all too obvious where it came from.
"You shouldn't have taken that," she chides. "That tree is sacred to the
elves."
Gamlen keeps his back turned as he shrugs, still examining his acquisition.
"Who cares? They're just elves. Their beliefs are bullshit anyway."
"Gamlen!"
"What?" He turns around, flashes her a grin. "Are you saying I'm wrong?"
"No, of course not." Leandra frowns. She knows what the Chantry teaches, and
has felt it in her heart to be true. "But surely the Maker wouldn't approve of
desecrating their beliefs simply to prove you can."
He doesn't try to argue that the vhenadahl is the best wood around, or try to
justify his actions with some barely feasible excuse. He just shrugs again, his
grin melting into an almost-apologetic smirk—all but confirming Leandra's
suspicion that this was some sort of dare his friends put him up to.
"Well it's already done," Gamlen reasons, turning back to the bough and pulling
out his belt knife to trim at some of its edges. "They'd still be pissed off if
I returned it. Might as well make use of it."
Leandra sighs. He's hopeless. At least there's no real chance of reprisal from
the alienage elves. She steps closer, in front of the makeshift work bench
cobbled together from a couple of barrels and a door long ago torn from its
hinges. She keeps a good foot or so between them; it's been more than six
months since their ill-advised kiss, but she hasn't been able to forget it.
"It is a good cut of lumber," she admits grudgingly.
"Better than the soggy driftwood I dragged in here all those years ago. And
it's about time I had a new mallet." Gamlen pauses, sets his knife down on the
table beside the bough. He breathes in, then looks over at her. "I was hoping
you'd help me make this one, too."
There's something in his eyes, something dangerously hopeful. Something that
tells Leandra there's more to this than what he's asking. "I doubt you need my
help," she says with a soft, nervous laugh. "You know more about all this than
I do by now."
Gamlen moves sideways toward her, his fingers brushing at the small of her
back. "I would still enjoy your company."
Leandra stiffens, her chest tightening as though all the air has been sucked
from the room. "Gamlen—"
He presses closer, his fingers drifting to her hip as the warmth of his chest
pushes against the back of her shoulder. His breath is heavy and quick against
her cheek. "I know you feel it too, Leandra."
She's tried not to, honestly she has. She's done everything in her power to
push the memory of that day out of her mind—to forget about the taste of his
breath, his lips and hands and body all warm against her. It fills her with
shame just to think of it, even as her stomach flips and flutters at what he's
suggesting.
"The Chant condemns it," she says shakily, shutting her eyes as she prays for
the strength to resist this. "We are brother and sister. We aren't meant to
know one another in…in that way. A child born of such a union would be an
affront to the Maker."
Then his chest is flush with her back, both of his hands trembling against her
corseted waist. Soft, moist lips press gently just under her ear. "Well, we
don't have to do that," he murmurs into her skin, almost pleading. "There are a
lot of other things we can do."
Desire flares in Leandra's belly, hot and anxious, as he plants a sloppy line
kisses down the line of her throat. His tongue flicks out to taste the dip in
her collarbone, and a shiver tears through her body, pressing her back into
him. Hot breath rushes across her skin as he lets out a quiet groan. His hips
jerk into her backside, and she can feel him pressing hard against her.
"Gamlen," she gasps, turning her head to seek out his gaze. Whatever words she
might have followed with are swallowed up as he claims her mouth, breathing in
sharply as he sucks at her lips.
Guilt rises dark and thick in Leandra's chest as she moans her surprise into
her brother's mouth. It turns to a low whimper as his tongue pokes out, sliding
clumsy and shy against her own. Heat flushes Leandra's chest, quickens her
heart, steers her away from shame and toward something infinitely more
dangerous.
When the kiss ends, it is Gamlen who pulls away, desire and uncertainty
glimmering in his eyes. His hands shake where they frame her hips. Leandra's
eyes drop to his mouth, to the wet sheen of his lips, the subtle promise of his
tongue pressing behind his teeth. This is wrong. She should stop this.
She can't stop this. Maker help her, she doesn't want to. Her chest heaves, her
pulse jumps as she cups the sides of his face to pull him back in. His hands
slide more firmly against her, stroking up her sides as her own fingers tangle
in his short, messy hair.
The edge of the table presses into her back as he tears his mouth away from
hers, only to trail down the other side of her neck. He sucks tentatively at
her flesh, and she clutches at his shoulders as electricity races through her
blood to crackle and spark between her legs.
"You feel so good," Gamlen gasps into her skin. His hands never stop moving,
exploring; his thumb brushes the underside of her breast and she lets out a
sharp gasp. "I've wanted to touch you for so long."
His hands drift down, sliding over her backside to pull her firmly against him.
Leandra can feel him through the layers of clothing, pressing into her. A
pressure makes itself known between her legs, throbbing with increasing urgency
as he groans and drags his lips back up to hers.
Where this is going, what they're doing, Leandra couldn't begin to guess. She
never even kissed a boy before Gamlen. She only knows the bits she's read in
those bawdy novels her mother doesn't know about, and their flowery language
seems borderline ridiculous when faced with the reality of her brother's warm,
solid body pressing against her.
Gamlen is a little more sure than she is, or at least his body seems to know
what to do. His hips grind into her, rubbing his hardness against her belly. He
breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers.
"I've touched myself and pretended it was you," he admits, his breath hot on
her lips.
The image sears itself into her mind; she doesn't know the specifics, what
movements he would make or how it all works, but she can picture his face all
too easily, flushed and screwed up in pleasure. Almost of their own accord, her
hands drift down his chest, trace over the soft muscles of his abdomen. Her
fingers flutter uncertainly at his belt.
"Y-you can touch it," he stammers, breathing heavily. "If you want."
Leandra hesitates, swallowing hard as her eyes focus on the bulge in his
trousers. She drags her fingertips along the length of it, gasps softly when it
twitches beneath her touch.
"Shit," Gamlen hisses, one hand flying from her hip to brace against the table.
"Is-is that good?" Leandra asks shakily. She's afraid to speak above a whisper,
as though speaking aloud would shatter whatever it is that's made doing this
okay.
"Maker, yes," he gasps. He tilts forward, rubbing more firmly against her
fingers. She feels around for a better way to stroke him, to touch more of him,
but she can't find a position for her hand that works through his clothes.
Gamlen pushes slightly away from her and reaches for his laces, hastily tugging
at the knot holding them together. Once his trousers are loosened, he slips a
hand inside and pushes the front of them down as he frees himself.
Her heart pounds in her throat, thumping against the back of her tongue. His
manhood sways between them, hard and erect, filling his hand as he pulls his
fist up its length. She closes her eyes as desire clutches at her chest.
"You don't have to," he says, as soberly as he can manage. "If—if you don't
want."
Leandra opens her eyes, forces them to focus on her brother's face. His cheeks
are flooded with pink, eyes dark and fluttering and earnest. As aroused as he
obviously is, he's still thinking of her comfort. She leans up to kiss him
again, reaches to replace his hand with her own.
"Oh, Maker, Leandra," Gamlen gasps into her mouth, bracing himself against the
table behind her with both hands.
His pulse pounds beneath hard flesh, hot against her nervous, sweating palm.
She tangles the fingers of her free hand in his hair again, kissing him
clumsily as she starts to stroke.
It's simpler than she would have thought, a rhythm her body seems just to know.
His breath comes in quick, irregular bursts, his tongue poking clumsily into
her mouth. The air grows thick as his hips jerk faster, tension building toward
an unfamiliar goal. Her body winds tighter with every pass of her hand; though
she is touching him, not the other way around, she feels herself growing
frantic right along with him.
"Shit." Gamlen pulls away from her when the intensity is reaching its peak,
scrambles at the work table for a rag. Leandra watches, breathless, as his hand
works and down his length at a frenzied pace. It's only moments before his
fingers curl into the edge of the table, his head bowed and his whole body
tense and shaking. A strangled groan tears from his throat, and he makes that
face she imagined earlier, eyes screwed up tight and lips parted and quivering.
It makes something clench in her stomach, or maybe lower.
When his breathing evens out a bit Gamlen pushes away from the table again,
turns to her as he wipes himself with the rag. "Mother complains enough about
dirt on your gown," he offers with with a panting smirk.
Leandra is frozen where she stands, torn between the horror at what she's just
done and the desperate ache between her legs. She searches for something to
say, but her throat is dry and tight.
"Are you all right, Sister?" Gamlen asks, hastily tucking himself back into his
trousers and moving back to her. His fingers stroke up her arms, and she gasps
at the shivers it sends down her spine. The concern on his face melts into a
knowing smile, and his voice drops to a rumbling whisper. "I can help you,
too."
She feels his hands drop back to her waist and start to hike up her skirts.
This is wrong, she has to stop this, she can't let him—
But oh, his knee presses right there, and she can't think beyond the sparks
exploding behind her eyelids. His hand slips between her legs, sliding over the
slick fabric of her smallclothes. It doesn't seem possible, that so much
moisture could accumulate without her realizing.
Gamlen dips his fingers beneath the fabric, and her hips jerk hard into him as
one rough fingertip slides over her hardened nub. Leandra whimpers, curls her
hands around the edge of the table. Gamlen's free hand comes down next to hers,
bracing him as he leans in to press a kiss into her mouth.
"You're so beautiful," Gamlen murmurs as his fingers fumble over slippery
flesh, feeling out a rhythm.
Her brother's breathless awe tugs at Leandra's heart, and her eyes slide open
to look at him. His cheeks are flushed and sweating, his eyes glowing with the
same hopeful pride he displays when presenting her with a gift. At once she
sees him, both the little boy he was and the man he's rapidly becoming, and her
stomach lurches violently.
This is her little brother; the boy she's known all of his life and most of her
own. She's supposed to teach him, to protect him—to guide him away from sin,
not follow him toward it. Her teeth bite hard into her bottom lip, a desperate
attempt to fight back the tears pressing hot against her tightly shut eyelids.
He seems to interpret her expression as one of pleasure and increases his pace,
dropping his head to her shoulder as his hand works between her legs. His
breath comes quick and hot against her throat.
Arousal and shame twine together in Leandra's blood, choke up her throat and
settle heavy and leaden in her gut. Her body is too far gone to turn back, and
before she can even contemplate how to stop it, she finds herself hurtling over
the edge of some unseen cliff. She presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her
cry, but she can't hide the tears that squeeze out between her lashes.
Gamlen's exhausted grin falls from his lips when he raises his eyes to see the
wet trails on her cheeks. He pulls his hand away sharply, as though it was
burned. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, panic sharpening his tone.
Leandra's heart breaks just a little bit more; she shakes her head, pulls her
arms tight around her ribs. "No," she says, her voice thick and tremulous. "But
Gamlen, this—this was wrong. I should never have let you…it shouldn't have
happened."
She catches a glimpse of the wounded expression on his face as she turns to
rush out of the room. She doesn't look back.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Leandra has always loved birthdays. The presents, the grand parties, the
dresses and jewels that always seemed to sparkle more brightly than on any
other night. Then, when all the guests had gone and her parents had retired for
the evening, there was the private celebration, just her and Gamlen. They would
sneak down to their hidden room together and stay up half the night, talking
and laughing and eating leftover sweets Gamlen had looted from the kitchen.
Of course, that was before. When things were simpler, and brothers were only
just brothers and birthday parties didn't become surprise engagement parties.
It's all burned into her mind—Father's pride, Mother's joy, Guillaume's haughty
smile. The clattering of the door as Gamlen stormed out without a word. Her
face aches from the facade of politely restrained happiness she's had to wear
all evening.
It's not a shock, not really. Mother has been hinting after it for years, and
all the other nobles have talked about it like a forgone conclusion. Even
before the announcement was made, her future was already slated to be tied to
the future Comte de Launcet.
If Leandra were any other girl, she might be happy about it. She should be
happy about it; Comtesse is a far more prestigious title than simply being just
another noble's wife. She'll have power, influence—and attractive children, it
would appear, although she's heard rumors of premature hair loss in the de
Launcet men.
Besides, it's not as though she could ever marry for love now. What man could
love her, after what she's done? There must be something terribly broken in
her, something corrupt, to inspire such perversion. She's fortunate to have an
option like Guillaume, to have a life of stability and wealth all laid out for
her.
She tells herself that silently in the mirror, tries to make herself believe
it. Her reflection is not convinced.
It's early yet, far earlier than she's ever retired on her birthday before, but
her shoulders ache with a weight beyond her years and there is nothing to stay
up for tonight. She hasn't been alone with Gamlen in months, not since…
A ragged sigh passes through her lips as tears prick at her eyes. She misses
her brother, misses the kinship and affection that always came so easily to
them. She's always been able to talk to Gamlen about anything, but she can't
talk to him about this—not when it's so obvious where he stands.
She's tried to ignore it, the hurt and longing in eyes that now linger in
places they never dared glance before, the way it twists her insides and
flushes her cheeks as memories of that night replay in her head over and over
again. She's beginning to think she's fighting a losing battle, and she's
terrified of what losing might mean.
The doorknob clicks softly, and Leandra stiffens in her chair. There's only one
person in this house who wouldn't knock before entering her bedroom.
Gamlen quietly slips inside, closing the door behind him. He looks contrite,
anxious. "I'm sorry I ditched your party," he says, meeting her eyes briefly
before looking away.
"It's all right," Leandra replies with a weak shrug, looking everywhere but at
him. "It wasn't much fun. I can't really blame you."
He shuffles closer, and Leandra's heart jumps nervously. He's only putting a
bundle on her vanity, however, and her chest loosens as he steps away again.
She unwraps it with trembling fingers as he watches.
Inside the napkin is a selection of sweets: ladyfingers and tarts and little
cakes filled with jam. She presses her fingers to her lips as she tries to
suppress the urge to cry. No matter what happens, no matter what else he might
be, Gamlen is ever her little brother, and she aches with love for him.
His arms are around her before a single tear can fall, a gentle hand guiding
her head to rest against his stomach. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, stroking gently
at her hair. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
"It's not you," she replies, reassuring him out of reflex more than anything
else. She keeps her hands folded carefully in her lap, but allows herself the
luxury of turning her face into his shirt, breathing in his familiar scent.
"Not really."
Gamlen tenses, and his hand stills in her hair. "It's him, isn't it?
Guillaume." The name is spat, dark and bitter, in a tone he usually reserves
for their father.
She nods, fights the urge to stand and coil her arms around her brother's neck.
"I don't want to marry him."
"I wish I could fix it," he says fiercely. His fingers slide a lock of hair
behind her ear, trail down the side of her neck. "I wish I could marry you
instead."
Leandra pulls away with a start, stunned both by his words and the passion and
sincerity with which he says them. She shifts in her chair, turning away from
him. "You shouldn't say things like that, Gamlen."
"Why not? It's true." Gamlen follows her around, dropping to his knees before
her. His hands capture her own, squeezing to emphasize his words. "I would be a
good husband to you. I would make you happy."
She dares to glance up at him, and her heart breaks at the desperate longing
etched into his features. Her hands tighten around his, and she tries to keep
her voice steady. "You know that's not possible."
The intensity in Gamlen's eyes dims a little; he does know. He drops his head
into her lap, presses a kiss into the back of each of her hands. "If wishes
were poppy, we'd all be dreaming, right?"
A laugh bubbles up in Leandra's chest, breaking as it passes her lips. She tugs
one hand free and runs it through his hair. It's not fair, that she could find
a man who loves her this much only for him to be the one man she cannot be
with. If only she didn't feel this way, if only he wasn't her brother…
If wishes were poppy. Her fingers tighten in his hair as she shuts her eyes
against another wave of tears. She can feel his head tilting in her lap, feel
his eyes caressing her face. "I can still do other things for you," he offers
nervously, his hands slipping free of hers to settle against the outside of her
thighs. "I can make you feel good."
Heat sparks to life between her legs, sharp and urgent, melting the hard edges
of guilt and shame pricking at her chest. No, she wants to say. We can't. We
shouldn't. It's wrong. She tightens her fingers in his hair and parts her lips,
but all that comes out is his name, a strangled breath barely audible over the
pounding of her heart.
His fingers pluck clumsily at the knot of her robe. "Tell me to stop," he says,
"and I will. Just tell me you don't want this."
Linen brushes against her calves as Gamlen drags her shift up. He moves slowly,
deliberately, giving her ample time to respond. To put a stop to this.
She can't. Maker forgive her, she's starting to question why she should. If
this is all she is to know of love, if she is to be sentenced to spend a
lifetime in a marriage of convenience with no affection, no attraction, no
passion—then why shouldn't she be allowed this indulgence now?
They can be careful, they can be discreet…and when the time comes for her to
marry, she will at least have known what it feels like to be touched out of
love—to have a lover dedicate himself to her pleasure first and foremost. The
memory will see her through her wedding night, and all the nights that follow.
Cool air brushes her legs as Gamlen pushes her shift up to her waist. He rests
his hands on the top of her thighs, presses a gentle kiss into each knee, and
waits.
Leandra opens her eyes, looks down at her brother's face. Guilt rises in her
throat, and she forcibly swallows it back down. She can't erase the shame in
what they're doing, but she can try to push it from her mind, at least for a
little while.
There's a question in his gaze, a hesitation. She wants to answer it, but the
words won't come. Her throat is thick with arousal and emotion and want, and
all she can do is meet his eyes and nod, almost imperceptibly. Her fingers fall
from his hair to curl around the edges of her chair, and when his hands slide
between her thighs, she lets them fall open.
Desire flashes hot in his eyes before they flick away from hers to follow the
path of his hands. His fingertips brush along the edges of her smallclothes,
lightly teasing, before they slip under the waistband and tug. She lifts her
hips as he slides the fabric down her legs, gasps as cool air collides with
damp flesh.
Gamlen's lips are hot against the inside of one thigh, the barely-there peach
fuzz on his cheeks tickling her skin. Leandra gasps as his thumb brushes
against her curls, dips into them to slip along slick flesh. There's an
unbearable clenching between her legs, an urgent need that she can scarcely
name, and she bites down on her lip, tightens her grip on the chair.
He doesn't touch her, though, not the way she wants, not the way she thinks
he's going to. His hand lays flat against her thigh, and the other moves up to
join it, and she's not sure what he's doing until he surges forward, until she
feels the hot slick of his tongue moving against her.
Maker, she can't watch this. Her eyes slam shut, her head digs into the back of
her chair. Gamlen's hands idly caress her thighs as he takes her in his mouth,
teeth scraping and tongue flicking and and then suction. He's probably just
feeling his way around like last time, trying things out to find one that
works, but she wouldn't know it, not with how good it feels.
Leandra presses the back of her hand against her lips, stifling the whimpers
and moans she's hardly aware of producing. She can hear him, though, the wet
sounds his mouth makes against her, the groans choked up in his throat, and it
makes the fire in the pit of her belly burn all the brighter.
One of his hands slides off of her thigh, and his mouth pauses in its
movements. She can hear the rustling of fabric, feel his sigh of relief brush
over her swollen flesh. His face draws back then, and the whole flat of one
hand drags up through her slick before his mouth picks up where it left off.
A new sound joins the others, then, a sound burned into her memory from when it
was her hand wrapped around him. It shouldn't, but the knowledge that he is
touching himself at the same time that he's pleasuring her seems to drive her
closer to release than the work of his tongue does.
His movements become more erratic, his mouth sucking harder and more urgently
now. The pressure between her legs builds until it feels like she's going to
explode—and then she does.
It's as though every muscle in her body clenches and releases all at once, in
an instant. Her hand presses hard against her mouth, but it's not able to
completely contain the cry that tears from her throat. She only prays that it
doesn't carry to the hallway, to the always-sharp ears of servants who wouldn't
hesitate to divulge their secret.
Gamlen's cheek presses damp into her thigh, his lips parted and glistening as
his arm works back and forth at increasing speed. His hair is plastered to his
forehead with sweat, a lock of it sliding down into his eye, and she reaches
out a finger to tuck it away from his face. He jumps at her touch, a soft moan
catching in his throat; she flattens her palm against his cheek, helping in the
only way she can think to.
Soon he turns his face further into her thigh, groaning into her skin. His arm
stills moments later, falling slack as he relaxes against her. The heavy
panting of his breath tickles her still-sensitive flesh, and she twitches as he
trembles.
Finally his eyes slide open, peering up to meet hers as an anxious sort of hope
tugs at his lips. Slowly the guilt begins to creep back in, and the reassuring
smile she gives him in response is ragged around the edges. He rises up on his
knees, his smile widening as his eyes drop to her mouth. She stops him before
he can kiss her, shrinking away from his face.
"Gamlen, you're…you're covered in…" She can't finish; her cheeks flush hot
anew.
He smirks, closing a little of the distance. "It tastes good," he murmurs, his
breath brushing her lips. "You should try it."
Her nose wrinkles at the idea, but he presses closer before she can turn away.
His mouth is sticky and slick against hers, and the smell of her own arousal
fills her nostrils. The taste, however, is faint; she barely catches a hint of
salt and tang mingled with the flavor of Gamlen's tongue.
There's something temptingly filthy about it, something that sparks equal
amounts of desire and shame. Leandra whimpers into her brother's mouth, tangles
her fingers in his hair, and it's only the whisper of his shirt brushing
against her, catching on the damp between her legs, that jolts her back into
harsh reality and gives her the strength to push him away.
With her hand pressed to his shoulder, she can feel the rapid beat of his heart
thumping against her palm. He looks uncertain, perhaps afraid that she's going
to retreat from him again.
It's what she should do, but it's not what she intends to do. Still, it's
difficult to fight back her guilt as she leans in to softly brush her lips over
his. When she pulls back, there's a grin on his face and so much love in his
eyes that it makes her ache.
The Void will have her for this, she's almost certain.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Gamlen doesn't like Malcolm Hawke.
Not that he knows a whole lot about the man, really. He's Fereldan, or claims
to be, and he's a bloody mercenary, so it's a mystery how he was able to
finagle his way into Father's most recent gala.
Well, not so much of a mystery. No doubt he used his arrogant smirk and clever
tongue to woo some simpering noblewoman into taking him along as her escort.
The bigger mystery is why he would even want to attend a fancy Hightown event.
Though Gamlen has his suspicions about that, too. It's not like he could miss
the way the Hawke fellow's eyes gravitated toward Leandra, or the overly
pompous way he strolled over and introduced himself, taking her gloved fingers
in one hand and brushing a polite kiss over the lace. Didn't even acknowledge
Gamlen at first, who up until that moment had been quite happily entertaining
his sister with sarcastic comments muttered under his breath about the gala's
many guests.
It was hard to miss the way Leandra blushed at his compliments, or the
reflexive way she moved just a step away from Gamlen, as though realizing how
close they'd been standing and fearing that someone might get the wrong idea.
Or the right one.
If Father hadn't approached when he did, Gamlen is sure that Malcolm was going
to ask Leandra to dance. He thinks she might have said yes, which only makes
his dislike grow—not to mention that now he has his father to thank for sparing
him the uncomfortable sight of his sister wrapped up in another man's arms.
Malcolm disappeared partway through the night, probably with one of their more
inebriated—or less discerning—guests. Gamlen was relieved when he looked around
only to find that cocky shit nowhere in sight.
Then the blighter had the nerve to come and talk to Gamlen in Lowtown, of all
places. Meeran tried to glare him off—he's gunning for a higher position in the
Red Iron, and being seen palling around with a competing guild's members isn't
likely to help his chances—but Malcolm just ignored him, strolled right up to
Gamlen and started asking all kinds of impertinent questions about Leandra.
Gamlen's fist still hurts from colliding with Malcolm's face.
But Malcolm Hawke isn't the one with Leandra's incredible mouth wrapped around
him right now, with her soft delicate hands teasing at his balls. It feels
divine, hot and wet and just the right whisper of teeth, and a smug grin pulls
at his lips when he thinks that Malcolm Hawke will never get to feel this.
Of course, it's hard to think about Malcolm for too long when he's here with
his sister. When they're here, nothing exists beyond these walls, beyond the
two of them and the love and pleasure they share in these private moments. He
looks down at Leandra, at her flushed face and fluttering eyelashes, and he
feels a clench in his chest that has nothing to do with what she's doing to his
cock.
He wants to be closer. He wants to kiss her lips, to look into her eyes as he
comes. He knows he can't be inside her—she won't let him and besides, in his
more lucid moments, even he can understand the danger in that. Still, there
might be something…
The boys in Lowtown talk a lot. Gamlen's grown up listening to them brag about
their sexual exploits, and they're always more smug when they've managed to get
into a Hightown girl's skirts. When it comes to doing everything with a woman
but claiming her virginity, Gamlen has a long list of tales to draw from—some
more outlandishly untrue than others, and some infinitely more appealing.
This one, he thinks, might work. He strokes his fingers through her hair,
tugging her gently off of him. She looks up at him, mouth wet and eyes
questioning, and he feels that clench again. His sister is easily the most
beautiful woman in Thedas. The Maker Himself would be jealous of Gamlen right
now, if He cared enough about His creation enough to bother to look.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, cupping her cheek with a sweaty palm. She drops her
eyes and smiles, pretty and shy. He wants to kiss that smile, to feel it
against his own lips, and so he does.
Leandra shuffles back away from the wall to make room for him as he kneels.
Then he's kissing her, and he doesn't think he's ever felt a more perfect
feeling than this—the soft press of her mouth against his, the little sighs
that catch in her throat and stumble past his own lips. He would be content
just to do this for hours on end—and they have, once or twice—but his body has
other ideas.
He presses forward until she's lying on her back beneath him. They have a
carpet here now, an only slightly tattered thing bought with his wallop
winnings, so she doesn't complain about getting dirt on her dress.
She does tense, however, when he bunches her skirts up around her waist and
tugs down her smalls. Her hands press flat against his shoulders, halting his
progress when he moves back to position himself between her legs. "Gamlen—"
"I won't put it in," Gamlen says quickly, curling his hands gently around her
wrists. "I promise."
Her hands fall away from his shoulders, but she still looks nervous. Gamlen is
careful, oh so careful, guiding his cock as he lowers his hips down onto hers.
When he's done he can feel her, hot and slick against the underside of him,
pulsing against his balls.
A long, ragged groan pulls from his throat, and for a moment all he can do is
rest there, feeling her pressed all along the length of him. It would be better
without clothes, with the softness of her breasts warm against his chest and
her thighs wrapped around his bare hips, but it's incredible enough just to be
doing this.
Then she starts to rock against him, whimpering into the side of his neck, and
he can't imagine anything better. Slick curls drag along his cock as he slides
back and forth, careful to keep himself pressed firmly between their two
bodies.
Leandra's fingers bite into his shoulders, and he pushes himself up on his
elbows to see her properly. Her eyes are shut tight, her lower lip caught
between her teeth, tendrils of auburn hair matted to her forehead. The sight
makes him clench, makes conscious thought fade into a haze of warm wet
pressure, of sparks tingling along his cock and through every muscle in his
body.
"Open your eyes," he pants out, moving his hips faster. He's close, so close,
and he wants to see her looking at him when it happens.
Her eyes pop open, dark and glittering in the dim light, and that's all it
takes. He spills into her skirts, too caught up in the moment to fumble around
for a rag, but she's still grinding against his throbbing length with a
desperation that says she's too far gone to notice.
When he can think again Gamlen rolls off of her, replacing his cock with
fingers that have learned just how to stroke her. She cries her release into
his mouth, shuddering against him, and he feels that familiar swell of pride
fill his chest. He's never been good at very many things, but this is something
he knows he can do.
Finally she breaks the kiss, falling back against the carpet as she tries to
get her breathing under control, and Gamlen looks around for a rag.
"Sorry," he murmurs as he wipes at the mess he's made in her skirts. "I got a
little carried away."
Leandra reaches for him, and when he looks up there's a lazy smile on her lips.
"It's all right. I'll worry about it later."
She tugs at his arm, and it doesn't take more encouragement than that for him
to toss the rag aside. He rests his head on her shoulder, laying his palm flat
against her belly. Her arm slips around his shoulders, stroking idly at his
arm.
As good as the rest of it feels, this is his favorite part. Lying sated in each
other's arms, nothing more urgent than the simple warmth and comfort shared
between them. It took a bit for Leandra to be comfortable with this, to stop
shrinking away from him once the act was done and her shame took over once
again. Now she seems to crave it as much as he does.
In moments like this, he can pretend that they'll never have to stop.
"Malcolm Hawke was asking me about you," Gamlen says after a little while. The
words are casual, mocking.
Her heart skips against his cheek. "Oh?"
"It was daft," Gamlen scoffs. "A blighted mercenary asking after you, like he's
actually got a shot at wooing you."
Leandra is tense beneath him, her answering chuckle subdued. "Well he's too
late. By now everyone in the Free Marches knows I'm promised to Guillaume."
There's something in her voice, something wistful and resigned. Gamlen swallows
nervously, his fingers twitching against her stomach. "Is that all that's
stopping you?"
A pause. "Not just that," Leandra replies. She laughs, but it's a bitter thing.
"I suppose even if I weren't engaged I'd have a hard time getting Father to go
for it."
Something subtle but sharp twists in Gamlen's gut, pulls at his insides. "You
sound disappointed," he says, praying harder than he ever has in his life that
he's wrong.
Her chest rises under his cheek as she sighs. "When I was a little girl I used
to dream I'd marry for love," she says sadly. She nudges him with her hip. "I
know I told you about it before—don't you remember?"
Oh, he remembers. He's had dreams of his own, ones he hasn't dared share with
her since that night in her bedroom. He's dreamed of being the one to make her
smile the way she used to when she talked about marriage. But what does this
have to do with Malcolm Hawke? "What, you love him after five minutes in his
company?"
"No, of course not." Leandra laughs softly, presses a kiss into his hair. After
a moment she shrugs. "But who knows, maybe I could. It's a better chance than
Guillaume has, that's for sure."
Gamlen wants to scream, to punch something—maybe that Hawke's face again. It
gnaws at him, how easily a Fereldan piece of mercenary trash can be seen as a
better prospect than him, due to one accident of birth.
"It's silly to even think about it," Leandra says, giving his shoulders a
squeeze. Her voice is strained around the edges. "Even if I were to disregard
Father, how would I even go about meeting him? It's almost a month before the
next gala, and I'm sure someone like him will have long moved on by then."
The sorrow in her tone distracts Gamlen from the ache in his chest. He's never
been able to bear seeing her sad. "If he forgets you that easily, he doesn't
deserve you," he says fiercely, tears stinging at his eyes.
Leandra hugs him tighter, presses her lips to his head again. "I do love you,
Gamlen," she says, soft and tinged with guilt.
Gamlen rises up on his elbow to catch her gaze. "As I love you. And always
will," he swears, with all the passion in his blood. If he could only convince
her of the depth of his love, perhaps they could find a way for this to work.
They could both run away, find some place where no one knows who they are,
where no one could judge them.
But Leandra would never go for it. She may entertain the thought of going
against Father, but she'd never go against the Maker. Not that far. No, Leandra
is resigned to her fate, just as Gamlen is doomed to stand by and watch her
marry another man, have his children—to watch her be miserable and be
completely unable to do anything about it.
Unless…
"I could help you." The offer spills from his lips before he can catch it,
before he can really think it through. "If you wanted to meet him again.
Explore your options, and all that."
She tries to hide the way her eyes light up, a moment too late. "You don't have
to do that."
Regret surges bitterly in the back of his throat, but he swallows it back. If
Leandra ends up running away with Malcolm Hawke, at least one of them will be
happy—and he won't be forced to watch it happen.
"I'd do anything for you, Leandra," he says, stealing a kiss as though it's his
last. "Anything to make you happy."
Even if it breaks his heart to do it.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Things change.
Gamlen helps how he can, arranging to smuggle Leandra out through the cellar
and making excuses if anyone notices her absence. For the first few weeks,
Leandra is giddy with the blush of courtship, and Gamlen is all too happy to
reap the benefits of her affectionate glee. If he doesn't think too hard about
it, he can pretend she's this happy because of him.
The happier Leandra becomes, however, the less comfortable she is with Gamlen.
It's been more than a week now since she's touched him, and longer still since
she allowed him a kiss. She stays out longer with Malcolm now, sometimes
creeping in barely before dawn. She never talks much about what they do
together; Gamlen is pretty sure that it's to spare his feelings, but it cuts
deep to know that she's started keeping things from him.
He can feel her pulling away from him, giving more of herself to Malcolm, and
it drives him mad. He knew this wouldn't be pleasant, but he didn't realize how
bloody much it would hurt. He's not just losing a lover, but a friend and
sister as well.
Still he waits for her, brooding in the dark, no matter how long it takes.
Tonight it takes longer than ever before, until the shuffling sounds of the
servants rousing to begin their day echo faintly even down in their hidden nook
of the cellar.
Leandra slips through the door and turns, gasps when the light from her lamp
falls across his weary features. Her free hand presses to her chest to contain
her surprise. "I thought you'd have given up and gone to bed by now."
A tight smile pulls at Gamlen's mouth. "I'd never give up on you." He stands,
taking the lamp from her so she can begin to change her clothes. They've
started keeping a few spare things down here, so she can change back into her
nightclothes before going back inside the house.
"You're sweet, Gamlen," she says with a smile, slipping her cloak from her
shoulders. Her dress is rumpled, the laces hastily knotted together, and this
close to her Gamlen can detect the unmistakable scent of sex.
"Late night," Gamlen comments, curling his free hand into a fist to force back
his jealousy.
A blush blooms on Leandra's cheeks. "We lost track of time."
Gamlen sets the lamp down on the table, mostly to busy himself while she begins
to undress. "Been happening a lot lately," he replies, bitterness bleeding into
his tone.
Leandra freezes for a moment, then continues unlacing her dress. "I suppose it
has."
Her voice is carefully neutral, but even turned away as she is Gamlen can hear
the smile she's fighting. He scowls and crosses his arms, glaring at her back.
"You let him fuck you yet? Or is that off limits to him, too?"
This time the tension in her shoulders is deeper, more pronounced. Her hands
fall to her sides, curling into loose fists. "Gamlen, don't."
But his control has finally worn too thin, and now that he's started, he can't
stop. His pulse roars in his ears. "What, I can lick your cunt until you beg me
to stop, but I can't ask if anyone else is doing the same?"
"Gamlen!" Leandra whirls on him, her dress half-unlaced and her eyes brimming
with hurt.
It galls him. Of the two of them, he's the one sacrificing—he's the one gladly
helping the first woman he's ever loved to leave him. If anyone has the right
to be hurt, it's him.
"What's the matter, Sister?" Gamlen sneers, the empty ache in his chest filling
with rage. "You've never complained when my face is buried between your legs.
Surely it doesn't shock you to hear the words?"
Leandra shakes her head softly, pulls her arms around herself. "You don't have
to be so vulgar about it," she says shakily, not meeting his eyes. "Maker's
breath, you're the one who suggested this whole thing with Malcolm in the first
place!"
Angry tears burn at Gamlen's eyes. "I didn't know it would work," he replies
with a sullen scowl. "I didn't think you'd fall in love with him."
"Gamlen…" Leandra trails off, and when Gamlen looks up, her expression is
guilty.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Gamlen says with a bitter laugh. "You love him."
To her credit, she doesn't try to argue or refute it. She just looks at him
with those sad, sympathetic eyes, her arms twitching like she wants to reach
out for him, but she's afraid.
"Why him?" Gamlen chokes out. A tear spills down his cheek. "What's he got that
I don't?"
She's silent for a moment, fixing her eyes on the ground. Finally she speaks
again, her words hoarse and thick. "A different father."
"That's not fair!" Gamlen's cheeks burn hot with a desperate sort of anger. "I
would do anything for you, to be with you, but I can't change that!"
Her arms slip around him then, her hands guiding his head to her shoulder. "I
know," she murmurs, her own voice filled with tears. "You knew we would have to
stop sooner or later."
Gamlen may well know that, but he's not ready to admit it. He stays stubbornly
tense in her arms. "He's a mage," he says venomously. "An apostate."
She doesn't gasp like he expects her to, doesn't immediately disavow any
feelings she might have for the man. She only tenses, her voice tight and
apprehensive. "How do you know that?"
And it hits him: she knows. She knew before tonight, probably before Gamlen
himself saw the Fereldan light a pipe with his fingertips yesterday in Lowtown,
when he thought no one was looking.
"How do you?" Gamlen shoots back.
There's a tense pause as she pulls away from him, averts her gaze. "He told
me," she admits. "A while ago."
"And you didn't think that might interest me? That I'm going to all this
trouble to help you bring more magic into the family line?" Somewhere inside,
Gamlen knows it's not fair to attack her for this, but it's the only way he can
think of to ease the sharp ache in his gut. Anger is more comfortable than
pain, more powerful.
Leandra's eyes blaze with anger of her own as she catches his gaze. "You've
never cared about the family line before. Don't pretend to start now."
His scowl deepens as his vision blurs with tears. "You could have told me."
"It wasn't mine to tell." Leandra sighs and approaches him again. Her hands are
warm and gentle sliding up his shoulders, cupping his face. Her thumbs brush at
the moisture under his eyes. "You're my brother, Gamlen. That will never
change, and I will never stop loving you."
"Feels like you already have." Gamlen sniffs and relaxes his arms, settles his
hands on his sister's waist. "It's bad enough you won't touch me or kiss me,
but you won't even talk to me, Leandra."
Guilt flares in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I was only trying not to hurt you. I
didn't think you'd want to hear about it."
Gamlen shrugs. "It hardly matters, does it? I'm losing you either way."
"You'll never lose me," she promises. Her hands curl around the back of his
neck, pulling his head down, and her lips press into his forehead. "Even if
some things do have to change. Try to be happy for me, brother. Malcolm may not
be a nobleman, but he is a good man. He treats me well."
Not as well as I would, is what Gamlen wants to say. No one could love you like
I do.
"I'll kill him if he ever hurts you," is what comes out instead.
The fragile smile that springs to her lips is almost worth the pain. She wraps
her arms around him again, buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. "I
would expect nothing less."
Gamlen slides his arms around to her back, holds her close for as long as he
can.
***** Chapter 8 *****
By now, Leandra can navigate the Darktown sewers connected to her family estate
with ease. It's been months since she started sneaking out to meet Malcolm, and
she's lost count of how many times she's followed the same damp, dark path.
Well, if she's honest, she's never really tried to keep count to begin with.
The prospect of seeing him again tends to make everything else around her
dim—an effect that's only intensified with time.
Tonight, however, she finds the going a little more difficult than usual. Her
head is buzzing with too much Orlesian champagne, and her chest is full of a
warm, fluttering feeling that keeps distracting her from which turns she's
supposed to take and when.
It's early yet. Their evening was cut short—rather abruptly—when a city
guardsman caught them making love on the roof of the viscount's keep. Her body
still throbs with desire left unfulfilled, but even that can't sully her mood
tonight. Her hand keeps straying to her chest, to the delicate gold chain and
the ring that hangs heavy with promise at the end of it, and her cheeks ache
with a grin that hasn't left her face since she and Malcolm parted.
A grin that remains in place when she finally slips into the wine cellar, when
she pushes open the door to her and Gamlen's little hideaway. Not even the
prospect of facing the hurt in her brother's eyes can make her joy falter.
It seems she's to be given a reprieve on that front, however; when she closes
the door behind her and leans against it with a giddy sigh, she's not met with
silent accusation or quietly twisting grief. Instead her brother is curled up
on the pile of straw-filled sacks, fists curled up under his chin and a lock of
chestnut hair falling across his closed eyelids. Her smile softens as she steps
closer and kneels down to brush that lock of hair back away from his face.
He's been trying. Maker knows it's not easy—for either of them—but he's made a
concerted effort to be happy for her, or at least appear to be. To Gamlen's
credit, even when things were at their worst between the two of them, he still
waited up for her—never stopped making excuses for her absence or seeking out
Malcolm in Lowtown to arrange visits.
She didn't think it possible, but Leandra feels her chest swell even further,
overflowing with love and affection. Leaning down, she brushes a soft kiss
across his forehead before pushing herself back to her feet. The sudden motion
dizzies her; her balance falters a little, and she giggles quietly as she
steadies herself on a nearby barrel.
Definitely too much champagne—but a night like tonight calls for the highest of
celebrations.
Her mind wanders as she undresses, clumsy fingers fumbling with the laces of
her dress. She just keeps remembering the look of love in warm brown eyes, the
way Malcolm's voice shook with the weight of that one, life-altering question.
She slips her dress off of her shoulders, cold air coaxing goosebumps from her
bare skin, and then she's remembering the press of him on top of her, the way
he covered her face and throat in kisses as he filled her over and over again.
The throb between her legs intensifies. She pulls her sleeping shift over her
head, bites her lip as the fabric brushes against stiff nipples.
"You're back."
Leandra jumps, whirls around to see Gamlen sitting up and rubbing at his eyes.
Her grin returns in full force as she ducks her head, cheeks burning with
color. "I am."
His own lips curve up automatically in response. "And happy, too."
Crossing her arms over her chest, Leandra tentatively steps closer to him. She
doesn't mean to rub it in, but she can't keep the giddy joy from her voice.
"Malcolm asked me to marry him."
Gamlen's smile falters, and hurt flickers through his eyes before he's able to
school his expression. He forces his smile wider and stands to pull her into
his arms. "Congratulations," he says, sincere and a little bit sad. "I know
you'll be very happy together."
She turns her face into his chest, breathes in the familiar smell of him. "It's
all thanks to you, Gamlen," she says, curling her fingers in his shirt. "I know
it hasn't been easy for you. I don't know how I can ever repay you for this."
He tenses, silent, and Leandra winces inwardly at her own words. They both know
that there's only one thing he wants from her, and it's the one thing she can't
give him. It doesn't seem fair.
"If you're happy, I'm happy," Gamlen lies. His voice is thick, his throat
bobbing against her forehead.
She wants to reassure him, to say something to make him feel better, but what
could she possibly say? Instead she slips her arms around his waist, hugging
him tight to say what words cannot.
"I'll miss you," he says after a time. He chuckles bitterly. "I don't know how
I'll survive Mother and Father without you."
"You'll do just fine," Leandra chides. "With me gone, it'll be up to you to
settle down and start a family. You'll be the last hope for the Amell line."
"Please," Gamlen scoffs. His laugh resonates against her cheek. "You'll always
be more of an Amell than I am—especially in their eyes." A pause. "And you're
the only family I care to have."
Leandra pulls back, enough to see his face. His eyes glisten with unshed tears
as he raises a hand to cup her cheek. She doesn't realize that the gaze is
becoming more intense, that it's gone on too long, until he's tilting forward
to press his lips to hers.
Her moan of surprise is muffled by the desperate pull of his mouth. Her hands
fly to his shoulders to push him away, but his fingers curl in her hair, press
against the back of her head to keep her close.
"Gamlen," she murmurs into his lips, pushing more insistently. The feel of him
against her is stoking the fire Malcolm didn't get a chance to quench, setting
her on a dangerous path that she thought she'd left behind.
"Please," he begs hoarsely, resting his forehead against hers. "I need to feel
you—I want to have at least this memory to hold close when you're gone."
Giving in to him isn't an act of logic by any means. All that goes through
Leandra's mind, still drunk on giddiness and champagne, is that he's not asking
her to stay. He's not asking for promises they both know she can't keep, or a
commitment to anything beyond this shared experience. They've done it before,
after all—and Maker knows she's still aching for release.
It's unclear when Leandra decides to give in, or if there's even a defining
moment at all. Her head tilts just slightly toward him, and he mirrors the
movement, and before she has a chance to talk herself out of it they're kissing
again.
Gamlen's grip on her hair loosens and his clammy hands tremble against the
sides of her face, his fingers brush down her throat. She twines her arms
around his neck as his hands move lower, sliding down over her hips and farther
back.
She isn't aware of moving until she feels the rough stone wall against her
back. One of Gamlen's hands moves purposefully down her backside, curls around
the back of her thigh. He hooks her leg over his hip, angles them so that his
thigh presses right between her legs. A gasp tears from her throat, sharp and
loud, but Gamlen muffles it with his mouth, with teeth gently pulling and
tongue slipping just past her lips.
As Gamlen rocks into her, she can feel him growing hard against her hip. She
arches forward, tries to give him the same delicious friction he's giving her,
but she loses focus when he starts kissing down the side of her throat. Her
fingers tangle in his hair, tugging as he pulls aside the neckline of her shift
and sucks at the skin right above her collarbone. Her nails scrape along his
scalp.
All the time his thigh is grinding into her, increasing the tension tightening
in her belly, burning through her veins. With his free hand, Gamlen works her
shift up to her waist, and she lets out a low hiss as the rough fabric of his
trousers drags through the wetness between her legs.
Leandra moves her own hands, slipping them under her brother's tunic to glide
up his chest. Playing wallop has done wonders for his physique; his muscles are
firm and supple beneath her fingers, twitching as her nails scrape over his
nipples.
In a tangle of arms and fabric, his tunic and her shift are worked over their
heads. Gamlen groans as he presses forward again, his bare chest flush against
Leandra's breasts. It's warm and incredible and so very intimate, being pressed
skin to skin from the waist up.
"Leandra," Gamlen gasps, his breath hot on her throat. His fingers bite into
her hips as he rocks into her, his arousal becoming more and more evident by
the second.
When he lowers his head to take a nipple in his mouth, Leandra nearly loses her
balance. Only the wall at her back and Gamlen's strength keep her standing.
"I don't think I can stand for much longer," she chuckles giddily, clutching at
his shoulders to keep steady.
Gamlen responds by grabbing her other thigh and lifting. Leandra squeals a
little in surprise, wraps both legs tight around his hips as he turns to move
them over to the carpet.
Moments later, Leandra is lying on her back on the carpet. Gamlen is looking
down at her, his eyes burning with intensity as his hands drag down over her
torso. He pulls one nipple between his teeth and flicks at it with his tongue
while his fingers twist and tug at the other.
The throbbing between her legs is feverish now, insistent and sending pulses of
hot arousal racing through her blood. A whine sounds in the back of her throat
as her hips jerk up, all but begging for her brother's attention.
He smiles into her breast and slides his hand down. The first touch of his
fingers against slick flesh is like lightning against her skin, burning hot as
he starts to rub little circles into her. He's careful about it, slow and
steady, and she realizes with a foggy sort of indignation that he's teasing
her.
"Please," Leandra begs, grinding into his hand as much as their position
allows.
Gamlen kisses her thoroughly in response, his tongue sliding languidly against
her own. He dips his fingers lower, the very tips pressing just inside her, and
she finds herself clenching eagerly at nothing when he immediately draws them
back out.
He's never been farther than this inside of her, never crossed that unspoken
line. Leandra's finding it nearly impossible to remember why the line was there
in the first place, why they can't cross it now. She arches her hips more
deliberately, chasing the soft pressure of his touch.
Desire blazes in his eyes, locked onto her face as his fingers enter her
again—first one, then two, gradually pushing deeper until his knuckles bump
against her and she can feel him curling inside. Her fingers dig into the bare
skin of his shoulders as her head arches back against the carpet.
"Shit," Gamlen swears, the word strangled in his throat. Then his fingers are
gone; Leandra looks down to find him leaning back on his heels, tearing at the
laces of his trousers.
He lets out a sigh of relief as he pulls his erection free; Leandra can look at
nothing else but the way it bobs and sways between his legs, how it strains
upward, swollen and wanting. She's held him in her hands, tasted his release on
her tongue, but that was all before—before she was with Malcolm, before she'd
felt her now-fiance thick and hot inside her.
It was easier then; she couldn't be tempted by what she'd never felt. Now all
she can think about while Gamlen rids himself of trousers and smalls and boots
is how that pulsing flesh would feel sliding inside of her, filling her.
Gamlen lies back down next to her, pressing naked all along her side. She feels
him hard against her hip as his fingers return to their earlier task. He
thrusts into her a few times, sucking in sharp breaths between kisses as she
arches against his hand.
Then he shifts again, drawing his fingers out and settling between her legs.
His fingers glisten with her arousal as he lowers his hand to circle himself,
pumping once or twice before guiding the very tip to rub against the sensitive
flesh between her legs.
They're very close to crossing the one line Leandra always swore they never
would. It alarms her at first, but by the time the tip of him presses
fleetingly at her entrance, it feels so good and she's so aroused that she has
to struggle to remember why it's such a very bad idea.
He freezes, and she can tell from the guilt in his eyes that he's just realized
what he's so close to doing. Before he can apologize, before Leandra can think
too hard about it, she lifts her hips to slide hot, slick flesh against him.
The message is clear, but at first Gamlen just gapes, eyes shining with hope
and disbelief. She catches her lip between her teeth and arches again, holding
his gaze until his eyes slam shut and he groans.
When he eases into her, it's slow and careful. He's not confident like Malcolm
was, but he's just as concerned for her well-being. The deeper in he gets,
though, the more his features melt into a look of pure pleasure.
Finally she has to jerk her hips again to force him deeper, faster. He takes
the hint and pushes in until the flat of his pelvis is pressing flush against
her own. He looks down at the place where they're joined, then back up at
Leandra.
"Maker," he gasps, mouth slack as he breathes in shallow pants. "You feel so
good."
So does he. Gamlen is different from Malcolm, obviously, but fills her all the
same, rubbing against the sensitive flesh that clenches around him. Leandra is
beyond words, beyond trying to rationalize this to herself; she reaches up to
drag his mouth down to hers, kissing him hungrily to distract him—and
herself—from asking questions that she doesn't like the answers to.
The carpet rubs rough against her back as he starts to rock into her, but she
hardly notices. Gamlen buries his face in her neck, kissing and nibbling and
panting into her skin. She meets his thrusts, driving down onto him with
frantic purpose. Her fingers press hard into his back, nails digging into him,
and it only seems to fuel his own passion.
"M-Maker," Leandra gasps as he hits just the right place inside of her. She
feels a pang of guilt for the name she almost said instead, but it's driven out
by the heady pleasure building up inside her.
Gamlen pushes up, bracing himself with his arms as he increases the speed of
his thrusts. His eyes stay locked on hers as his motions grow wilder, more
frantic. Sweat slicks their bodies where they press together, mats his hair,
trickles down his face.
"Leandra, I'm—"
He doesn't get the chance to finish before he shudders and seizes up. His
expression is one of incredulous ecstasy, like he can scarcely believe what's
happening or how good it feels.
But he's done trembling against her in what feels like moments, and Leandra is
still aching. Gamlen seems to realize that, because a shaky hand darts between
her legs, rubbing in tight circles as he remains buried in her to the hilt.
Then there's no thought at all, just an explosion of feeling flooding her body.
Every part of her clenches, tight and wanting, then releases all at once. The
only thing left when it's over is the dull, sated throb between her legs and
the rapidly drying sheen of sweat on her skin.
The guilt doesn't make its continued presence known until after, when Gamlen
slides out of her and collapses against her side on the floor. It creeps back
in then, in the damp press of his face to her throat and the rough slide of his
fingertips idly trailing over her chest.
In the unabashed depth of affection in his voice as he murmurs, "I love you,
Leandra."
Her heart aches—with guilt, with regret, with sorrow. She shifts her arm around
his shoulders, strokes her fingertips through his hair. "Oh Gamlen, I love you
too."
He smiles into her skin, but his words are solemn and sincere. "I'm glad you
were the first."
It never occurred to Leandra before; she tenses. "You-you've never…"
Gamlen raises his head to meet her eyes. His smile is bittersweet. "I've never
wanted anyone but you."
"But you always seemed to know so much," Leandra argues with a frown. If she
thought what she felt before was guilt, she's not sure what to call this. That
she did this with him at all is wrong, but for his first time with a woman to
be so fraught with desperation and shame is beyond the pale. She feels as
though she's taken something from him, something precious that can't be given
back.
"I ask a lot of questions," he replies, smirking. When it doesn't coax a smile
from her, he presses his hand to her cheek. "You don't need to feel guilty,
Leandra. I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else."
"You deserve so much more." Tears prick at Leandra's eyes. "Gamlen, you deserve
to be with a woman who can marry you. Who can be with you without shame,
without hiding."
Moisture begins to gather in his eyes as well, glimmering in the lamplight.
"What if I don't want more?" His lips press together as emotion flushes his
cheeks. "I would give up everything—all the money, the nobility, all of it. I
would spend the rest of my life in hiding if only it meant I could be with
you."
Leandra flinches, suddenly all too aware of how naked they are, how intimately
they're pressed. "Gamlen…"
"Don't worry, Sister. I know." He scowls and rolls away from her, starts
fumbling around for his clothes. Then he stops, glances over his shoulder at
her. "But I'll always have this. He might take you away, but no one can take
this memory from me."
Guilt and pleasure have driven the champagne's buzz from her head, tempered the
giddiness in her blood. Leandra watches with a growing lump in her throat as
Gamlen tugs his clothes back on.
She hasn't only betrayed her own principles tonight, the ones she's clung to
for so long; she's betrayed Gamlen and the feelings she knows he harbors for
her, and she's betrayed the oath she made to Malcolm just hours ago, to be with
him only, to love him only.
Malcolm doesn't know about any of this—about Gamlen's feelings or Leandra's,
about the things they've done. She's terrified to tell him; surely a perversion
of this magnitude is enough to turn even the most understanding and sympathetic
man against her.
All she can do now is hope, and pray; that Malcolm never has to find out, that
she can move on from this night and forget what she's just done, or at least
push it from her mind. Curling onto her side on the carpet, Leandra sends up a
silent prayer to the Maker.
Silence is His only response.
***** Chapter 9 *****
She misses Malcolm.
He's only been gone a couple of days, and they have a whole lifetime together
when he returns, but she misses him all the same. In the weeks since he
proposed, it's been difficult—almost unbearably so—to go through the motions of
her daily life, to continue to play the dutiful noble girl with a suitably
noble fiance. She's almost slipped more than once, when one noble woman or
another asks her about the man she's to marry. She has to remind herself that
they're talking about Guillaume, that they're referring to an imagined future
that she has no intention of taking part in.
Her stomach churns, a dull sick feeling that she's starting to grow used to.
She presses her hand flat to it as a humorless chuckle passes her lips. She
couldn't marry Guillaume now even if she wanted to.
The latch on her door turns, and Leandra tenses. It's already mid-morning;
Maker only knows what Mother would say to find her still abed. Her mind races
with possible excuses, explanations—but there's no need.
Her brother enters the room with a sullen pout on his lips, and his hands
shoved into his pockets. He doesn't meet her eyes. "Mother sent me up to see
what kept you from breakfast."
"I wasn't feeling very hungry," Leandra offers feebly. She folds her arms over
her stomach self-consciously.
Gamlen chuckles bitterly. "And here I thought you just couldn't stomach the
sight of me."
She opens her mouth to respond, then slams it shut as guilt and nausea swell in
her throat. Pressing her palm to her lips, she scrambles out from under the
covers and kneels before her chamberpot. Thank the Maker it's already been
emptied this morning.
"It was just a joke," Gamlen says uneasily as she empties what little remains
in her stomach from last night's supper.
"Gamlen—" Leandra attempts again, but stops short as she retches again. When
she can manage to catch a breath, she waves her hand frantically at him. "Close
the door."
He does as instructed, then rushes to her side. His hand is warm as it rubs
small circles into her back, his fingers gentle where the brush the hair away
from her face. When she's finally finished, he presses a kiss to the side of
her head before standing to fetch a glass of water from the pitcher on her
nightstand.
She takes it gratefully, taking a long pull from it to rid her mouth of the
taste of bile. Gamlen's eyes bore into her as she drinks She's tried to put
this off, to avoid telling him for as long as possible, but there's no getting
around it now.
"What's wrong, Sister? Are you ill?" he asks, the bitter anger in his voice
giving way to curiosity and worry.
"In a manner of speaking," Leandra quips, flashing him a tired attempt at a
smile. His frown deepens, confusion tightening his brow. She sighs and pushes
her chamberpot out of the way, leaning back against the side of her bed. Her
hands fidget restlessly in her lap. "I'm…I'm pregnant."
The words fall heavy between them. Leandra can't bear to look up at him, can't
bear to see the shock or dismay—or worse, hope—on his face.
"It-it was only once," Gamlen finally sputters. "That's impossible!"
"Not impossible," Leandra counters weakly. She takes a deep breath before going
on. "But I've been with Malcolm as well."
Gamlen sighs heavily as he shifts to sit against the bed beside her. He closes
lips still parted in disbelief and swallows hard. "Only once?"
The poorly-concealed jealousy in his voice pricks at Leandra's chest. "No."
His hands rest on his knees, working themselves into fists then relaxing over
and over again as he thinks. "So it's probably his," he says with some
difficulty.
Tears sting at Leandra's eyes as all the shame and guilt and fear that she's
kept bottled up threatens to break free. She pulls her knees up to her chest
and wraps her arms around them, trying to contain it, but it's a losing battle.
"Don't you see, Gamlen? There shouldn't be any question! If there's even a
chance—any chance at all—that this child is…" the word gets caught up in her
throat; she swallows it back, unable to give it voice. "I should have gotten
rid of it the second I found out."
Gamlen turns quickly, his hand jumping to rest on her knee. "You can't do
that!"
"No, I can't," Leandra admits. It's so terrible that all she can do is laugh,
bitter and resigned. "I can't bear to even think of it."
Silence dominates, the weight of everything pressing in around them. After
several moments Gamlen clears his throat, his hand twitching nervously against
her knee. "Does he know?"
Leandra nods weakly, a smile almost touching her lips at the way Malcolm's eyes
lit up when she told him the news. "I told him before he left."
"Left?" Gamlen tenses, anger creeping back into his voice. "Where could he
possibly have to go that would be more important than being by your
side—especially now?"
She reaches up to take his hand, cradles it between her own. "Calm yourself,
Brother. He left to do a job for the Grey Wardens. He says it should bring him
enough coin to support us for a long time. All three of us," she adds as an
afterthought, her eyes dropping toward her stomach.
"It'll be all right, Leandra," Gamlen says awkwardly, squeezing her hand in an
attempt at reassurance. "Even if it is…mine, no one will think to question
Malcolm's claim. No one has to know."
It's the wrong thing to say. "I have to know!" Leandra pulls her hands away
from his, slides away from him. The tears that threatened before now spill
freely down her cheeks as she pulls her arms tight around herself. "Maker,
Gamlen, the things we've done…it's all wrong. There's something wrong with us.
There has to be."
"We love each other," he says stubbornly. She can't look at him, can't see the
hurt she knows is in his eyes, but she can hear it in his voice nonetheless. "I
don't see what's so wrong about that."
"No, I didn't think you would." Leandra sighs, shakes her head sadly. He's
never agreed with her about this, never understood.
He reaches up to cup her cheek, turning her face to meet his pleading eyes.
"Leandra—"
"It's getting late," Leandra says quickly, flinching away from him. "I should
get dressed before Mother sees me still in my nightclothes and asks questions."
Gamlen looks at her for a long moment, wounded and vulnerable, before his
features harden. He draws his hand back and turns away. "I'll leave you to it,
then," he says, his voice thick and hoarse.
Leandra stays curled up on the floor, leaning against the side of her bed,
until she hears the door click shut behind him. Her eyes drop down to the linen
pulled tight over her knees. As much as it was an excuse to end the
conversation, her words were based in truth. She's so close now to making her
escape, to starting her life with Malcolm; the last thing she needs is for her
parents to start getting suspicious and keep her under closer watch.
With a heavy sigh, Leandra forces herself to her feet. It's time for another
day of pretending.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Gamlen is the first to know of Malcolm's return.
He's down in Lowtown, knocking back some of the Hanged Man's swill with Meeran
and the boys, when Malcolm trudges in looking like he's seen a ghost. His
clothes are dirty and torn, and the bandage on his left arm looks like it
hasn't been changed in days. Not that Gamlen spends an awful lot of time with
the mage, for obvious reasons, but the sight of a bandage of any kind on his
arm is a strange sight. Gamlen figures he must have some skill at healing
magic, seeing as how he never seems to have so much as a scratch.
The worst part, though, is the haunted, desperate look in his eyes. He singles
Gamlen out immediately, paying no heed to the other men at the table who
scatter when they see him approach. Gamlen is still the only one who will dare
to be seen talking to a member of the Red Iron's rival guild.
"Gamlen," Malcolm says urgently, planting his hands on the table and leaning
across it. "Is Leandra all right?"
Something bitter twists in Gamlen's stomach as he thinks of the past weeks, of
Leandra feigning illness more and more often to avoid both him and any
suspicion about her pregnancy. "She's fine, no thanks to you."
The turmoil in Malcolm's eyes brightens a little. "Thank the Maker," he sighs,
sinking heavily into a chair. He drops his face into his hands, rubbing at his
eyes. "I thought…well, I wasn't sure what they'd do. I should never have taken
that job."
Gamlen scowls. "You'd better not be getting my sister mixed up in your
problems."
Malcolm looks up and offers a tired smirk. "Right now my only problem is
finding an opportunity to sweep her off of her feet and carry her away to start
our life together. I was hoping you could help with that."
He wants to say no. It would be so easy to tip off the templars, to rid himself
of Malcolm Hawke once and for all. Maker knows he's been tempted—but Leandra
would never forgive him. She'd only marry Guillaume instead, and grow to hate
Gamlen as much as she hates the life Mother and Father have picked out for her.
"There might be a way," Gamlen admits grudgingly. "The Empress of Orlais is
arriving in Kirkwall tomorrow morning. Father's got a grand masquerade ball
planned, wants to prove he can get his nose farther up her arse than any of the
other nobles. It'll be busy, to say the least."
"Sounds perfect." Malcolm smiles. "I can't wait to see her again."
The acrid flavor of whiskey isn't enough to get rid of the bitter taste in the
back of Gamlen's throat. He drains his mug anyway, and summons a picture of
Leandra's bright smile in his mind's eye. He's doing this for her.
"You'll need a mask," Gamlen says. "Bloody Orlesians and their gaudy fashions.
I'll see what I can scrounge up for you."
Malcolm reaches across the table to give Gamlen's hand a solid squeeze. "Thank
you, my friend. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this."
"Make her happy," Gamlen says thickly, not sure if he wants to cry or vomit.
"That's all I want anyway."
"That's one promise I'm sure I can keep," Malcolm replies, his smile widening.
He looks down at himself and sniffs distastefully. "I should see about getting
a bath. I've got a month's worth of dirt and darkspawn blood caked into my
clothes.
Before Malcolm can get very far, Gamlen's hand closes tight around his forearm,
hard enough to bruise. Gamlen waits until Malcolm meets his eyes before he
speaks, his voice shaking with intensity. "If you hurt her, I swear the next
game of wallop I play will use your head as the ball—with your body still
attached."
Malcolm smirks, but Gamlen can see the spark of fear in those brown eyes. The
mage has seen him play. "If I ever hurt her, you won't get the chance," he
swears solemnly. "I'll go to the templars myself."
Gamlen holds his eyes for a moment, searching for any hint of the man's usual
flippant humor. All he finds is a solid promise. It's enough—not enough for
Gamlen to be okay with this, he'll never be okay with it, but enough to
convince him that it's nonetheless the right choice for Leandra. She'll be
happy with Malcolm.
With a gruff nod, Gamlen releases Malcolm's arm and flags the waitress down to
order another drink.
                                      ***
Leandra is predictably thrilled when he tells her the news. It's the first time
he's seen her smile in weeks—a real smile, at least, not the false one she puts
on for Mother and Father.
The next day passes in a blur of preparation for the ball. Gamlen has his hands
full trying to arrange Malcolm's admittance to the event. It takes some
carefully placed bribes and promises of future favors, but he manages to get a
false name added to the guest list and acquire a mask for the Fereldan to wear.
Everything falls into place, and every moment that passes is one moment closer
to losing Leandra for good.
Her giddy smiles are the only thing keeping him going. Leandra throws herself
into dress fitting and jewelry shopping, something that pleases their parents
to no end; until now, she's shown a marked lack of enthusiasm for the event,
and they've been rather vocally worrying over it.
While Leandra is being dressed and decorated by the servants, Gamlen stashes
her bag in their room in the cellar. She's not taking much, by
necessity—choosing the life of a fugitive means traveling as light as possible.
Still, Gamlen makes one small addition: a large smooth splinter of wood, taken
from the first wallop mallet he ever owned. She helped him make that mallet,
encouraged him—and he wants her to have something to remember him by.
Finally it's time. Gamlen has reluctantly submitted to being dressed up
himself, and the ball is about to begin. Guests are already trickling in as
Leandra descends the staircase into the ballroom; even with her features
masked, joy seems to radiate from her with every step.
He captures a gloved hand in his own, bowing to bring it to his lips. When he
speaks, he speaks softly; his words are for her ears only. "Sister, I don't
think I've ever seen you look more beautiful."
"Flatterer," Leandra chides, squeezing his fingers before retracting her hand.
Behind her mask, her eyes travel down the length of his own body. "You don't
clean up half bad yourself."
When her gaze drifts back to his own, Gamlen feels an all-too-familiar pang in
his chest. He wants to draw her into his arms, wants to waltz her around the
room and kiss her breathless.
"I beg your pardon," a familiar voice murmurs beside them. Leandra's face
lights up as Gamlen's falls. The mask does nothing to disguise Malcolm's
signature smirk, or the mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was hoping the lady
might do me the honor of a dance."
Leandra takes his offered hand without a moment's hesitation, and within
moments Gamlen is alone, left to wander in search of some form of booze to dull
the ache in his heart.
                                      ***
They dance together for hours, something that hardly goes
unnoticed—particularly by Mother and Father. Gamlen sees them muttering to one
another between conversations, sees how their eyes never leave Leandra and the
dancing partner who is definitely not Guillaume de Launcet.
This wasn't the plan. They were supposed to slip out as soon as possible, to
sneak away when the festivities were at their height. Instead they're waltzing
about like a pair of stupid teenagers in love—which, Gamlen thinks sourly to
himself, is what they are.
Just when he's about to find them, to urge them to get a move on, he realizes
that he can no longer spot them on the dance floor. He looks around the room
more carefully. They're definitely gone.
Good. Perhaps they'll get away before he's forced to see them again, forced to
smile when he wants to retch at the love that shines so obviously between them.
Then he notices that he can't find Mother or Father anywhere either.
Maker's balls. Can nothing go right?
                                      ***
Gamlen races through the halls as fast as he can, ignoring the buzz of alcohol
that dizzies his steps. He makes it to the front hall in time to hear his
father's voice, angry and booming. It's the closes Gamlen has ever heard the
man come to shouting. He watches from behind the pillar at the top of the
stairs; Leandra is facing off against Mother and Father, and Malcolm is nowhere
in sight.
"You'll do no such thing," Father is saying. "You'll stay here, and you'll
marry Guillaume de Launcet, if I have to lock you in your room until the
wedding day!"
"I won't," Leandra says, her voice filled with tears. "You can lock me in if
you want, but I won't marry him. I can't. I don't love him."
"Love?" Father scoffs. "What does any of this have to do with love? You'll
marry Guillaume because I command you to, and it's your duty to obey your
father."
"I'm sorry, Father." Leandra sniffles, wrapping her arms around herself. "I
can't obey you in this."
Father sucks in a deep breath, ready to rage at her some more, but Mother rests
a hand on his forearm. "It's her life," Mother says. She sounds disappointed,
bitter, resigned—Gamlen's only ever heard her use that tone with him. "Let her
ruin it."
Leandra sees her opportunity and takes it, giving her parents one last
apologetic look before disappearing down the hall toward the wine cellar.
Father looks ready to race after her, but Mother settles a hand on his arm.
To buy Leandra more time, Gamlen descends the stairs. "I'll go after her," he
tells his parents. Father huffs unhappily, still fuming, while Mother collapses
into an armchair and buries her face in her hands.
                                      ***
Gamlen catches up to Leandra in their secret place, where she's tearing
ineffectively at the laces running down the back of her gown. He hesitates for
a moment before stepping up behind her, nudging her fingers out of the way. She
tenses.
"It'll be faster if I help," Gamlen says softly. Once she relaxes he continues
to work, careful not to let his touch linger for too long.
True to his word, he's unlaced her down to the waist in just a few moments. She
holds the gown to her chest as she turns, red-rimmed eyes seeking out his own.
"Could you…could you turn around?"
Whether she doesn't trust him or herself doesn't matter; it stings the same.
Still he turns, more to hide the pain from her than anything else. After a
pause, he hears the rustling of fabric sliding against skin, hears the gown hit
the floor with a soft thump. "Where's your fiance?" he asks, trying to distract
himself from the thought of her body, bared and so close.
"He went on ahead," Leandra replies. "He's got some kind of travel arranged for
us, but he won't tell me what."
"Always got to be some grand adventure with him, eh?" Gamlen jokes weakly.
"Let's hope not," Leandra laughs fondly. "I won't be in any shape to do any
adventuring pretty soon."
Gamlen swallows hard against the growing lump in his throat. Leandra's hand
settles warm on his shoulder, and he turns to find her dressed in the traveling
clothes he smuggled into the house for her. Even dressed like one of its
residents, he thinks, she'd still stand out in Lowtown.
She smiles and pulls him into a hug, and even though it's far too soon, he's
sure he can feel the swell of her belly; evidence of a child that may or may
not be his.
"Try to be happy, Gamlen," she murmurs, turning her face into the curve of his
neck. "Find a wife of your own. Someone to love as the Maker intended."
Tears sting at his eyes, and he tightens his arms around her waist. "I'll never
love anyone like I love you."
Her hand presses to the side of his cheek as she pulls away, her thumb lightly
stroking his skin. "Just try," she says with a sad smile. "For me."
Gamlen's never lied to his sister before—not until now, when he nods grudgingly
even though he has no intention of doing it. Her brow tightens, and he's pretty
sure she's caught on—but before she can say anything further, she's cut off by
the sound of light, quick footsteps approaching their hiding place.
"Your groom has arrived," Gamlen says thickly as the door opens and Malcolm's
head pops in.
"All set?" Malcolm asks with a giddy smirk, his eyes fixed on Leandra. She nods
and pulls away from Gamlen, collects her bag. She turns back at the door,
giving Gamlen one last long look.
Forcing a smile onto his lips, Gamlen nods at her. "Be safe, Sister."
She returns the smile, though her eyes are also wet with tears. Then she turns,
and the last he sees of his sister is her back, as she's dragged laughing
toward the passage to the sewers.
                                      ***
Father is still waiting when Gamlen returns upstairs. His expression
darkens—Gamlen didn't think it possible—when he sees that Gamlen is alone.
"I couldn't stop her," Gamlen lies, keeping his gaze turned to the floor.
"Bullshit. You think I don't know you had something to do with this?" Father
takes a step toward Gamlen, cold eyes boring through him. "It wasn't enough to
disappoint me on your own, you had to drag your sister down too?"
Absurdly, Gamlen almost wants to laugh. Oh, Father, if you only knew.
Father continues to rail at him, but Gamlen stops listening. It doesn't matter
what Father thinks of him—that's always been a lost cause anyway. What's
important is that Leandra got away, that she has a chance.
Be happy, Sister, he thinks darkly as his likely future plays out in his mind;
decades more of apathy and silent, seething disapproval. I certainly won't.
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