Strings Attached - a There and Back Again Story
Chapter 4: Leliana

Copyright© 2018 by Aquea

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 4: Leliana - Nathaniel Howe, the pariah of Ferelden. Leliana, a damaged bard. Two people who never should have met - but the story has changed, and somehow the two are drawn together despite everything. There and Back Again presented their relationship as a 'fait accompli' - but how did it start?

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Fan Fiction   GameLit   High Fantasy   Oral Sex  

She found him in Eamon’s barracks, destroying a sparring dummy with a sword. It was clear it wasn’t his preferred weapon – his musculature was all wrong for a swordsman, his attacks lacked some of the grace he so effortlessly displayed in other tasks – but he seemed to find some solace in the physical strain of the activity, working up a sweat as he hacked pieces off of his target through sheer determination instead of skill.

Leliana allowed herself a small, wry smile she’d never have allowed anyone else to see. She’d been where Nathaniel was now, newly escaped from what she’d been sure was a death sentence, betrayed and hurt and damaged, unable to see beyond her own pain – the emotional pain didn’t heal, no matter how many elfroot drafts she’d swallowed. She had thrown herself at the first available opportunity – first working with some of the Chantry’s Seekers, people Mother Dorothea had introduced her to, and then resuming her spycraft, only with Dorothea, not Marjolaine, as spymaster – but had found that no matter how ceaselessly she worked, no matter how she pushed herself past the point of exhaustion, no matter whose bed she threw herself into, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the images that played out on her eyelids every time she closed her eyes, couldn’t stop the frisson of fear down her spine that she’d be caught again, betrayed again, hurt again ... She’d learned the hard way that physical exertion and meaningless sex could not substitute for emotional health.

She’d also learned that someone couldn’t be led to that conclusion; it was something they had to learn for themselves. Dorothea had tried to counsel her, to hold her, to heal her – to stop her self-destructive search for the next fight with which to distract herself – but it wasn’t something that even the most devout, the most caring person could do for someone. It had to come from within.

It had come for Leliana, when, late one night after a mission that had been too easy, had gone too well and hadn’t allowed her to purge the mass of feelings crushing her chest with casual violence – and a brief dalliance with another lay sister had failed to distract her adequately from the dark memories she’d suppressed – she’d found herself wandering through the empty Chantry disconsolately. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for, just trying to burn the restless energy that wouldn’t let her sleep, when she came across light spilling out from a small, rarely-used chapel. She’d crept to the door, feet silent as a breath, and peered into the room uncertainly, wondering what was wrong that someone was both up so late and occupying a room she’d never seen in use before.

What she’d seen initially hadn’t seemed like much. Mother Dorothea, her saviour, her mentor, naked on her knees, tears streaming down her face as she gazed up at a statue of the Beloved Andraste, lips moving in silent prayer; Leliana had stayed still and watched as she had prayed, watched her face as she laid her soul bare to the Maker and his Bride, the tears never stopping. Dorothea had alternated verses of the Chant with silent reflection, clearly begging forgiveness from the higher power she’d sworn to serve.

She’d stayed there for an hour or more, her hidden watcher unnoticed; Leliana had stayed rapt, watching, never tiring – until finally with an audible sigh, the older woman had glanced down, and Leliana’s attention had been drawn to the bowl resting in front of her. The Mother had reached into the water and pulled out a cloth, wringing it out thoroughly before she had begun washing herself, genuflecting and pausing for moments of prayer between each part, a ritual Leliana was by-now familiar with. Most of the priestesses performed this part of the ritual in their own quarters, alone, purifying themselves before performing either some sort of service, or a penance inflicted upon them by their superiors for mistakes or confessed sins, but whether the cleansing ritual was public or private didn’t really matter – what mattered was the mental clarity needed for the service to be truly meaningful, the repentance sincere.

Leliana had watched, spellbound, until the nature of the service the Mother was going to perform was revealed. Still occasionally streaming tears, the older woman had lifted a new, clean cloth from the bowl of water and begun bathing Andraste’s statue, gently washing first the pedestal, and then the toes. She had wiped each inch with deliberation and careful attention to detail, before using a towel to dry it again, leaving it looking unchanged to the naked eye – but purified in the eyes of the Maker. It was a penance often inflicted on the newest initiates, the most troubled applicants, the ones who had difficulty seeing and holding onto their faith through everything in their past that had brought them there; it was intended to be mindless, to encourage self-reflection – but also to be mind-numbing and unpleasant, so as to not-so-gently encourage the disruptive penitent to conform.

It was a penance no one would ever assign a Revered Mother, something everyone would assume was far beneath her. Some in the Chantry would assert that it diminished the dignity of a Chantry official to perform such a menial service, though others would do such things in an ostentatious attempt to demonstrate their ‘humility’ to the Maker; this was neither. It had been clear the Mother had not intended to have an audience, was not doing it at the behest of a superior or to flaunt her devotion, but instead as an act of selfless service, a private penitence, a balm to her own faith. And it had touched something in Leliana, in a way no perfectly sung Chant or golden shimmering Cathedral ever had – this was personal, and genuine, an honest expression of belief and dedication, not a display for the benefit of others.

 
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