Dragon Age Of Heroes, Mushrooms, Balls, and Broomclosets

**A/N: Merry Christmas, fellow DA junkies! After a brief DA:I and Christmas hiatus, I am still working on "From the Ashes," don't worry - but in the meantime, here is a little holiday trifle I wrote for Josie Lange for the CMDA Secret Santa challenge! It exists entirely outside the FtA universe, but still involves plenty of grumpy, sexy Loghain ;) Enjoy!**

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Deirdre Amell was the Hero of Ferelden. It was the sort of benediction that demanded capital letters – and, of course, if one was such a Hero that one deserved one's own capitalized appellation, it was of course the natural corollary that one also deserved to be feted with a grand and ostentatious gala, the likes of which Ferelden had not seen since the pretender Meghren had been driven from the throne. And probably not even then, since a good percentage of the Fereldan nobility had either been dead or in exile by the time the Orlesians fled with their tails between their legs.

But tonight, all of the glittering luminaries of Denerim's high society were out in force, and it was Deirdre – the Hero – around whom their orbits revolved, satellites yearning to bask in the glory of the brightest star among them. She had lost track of the innumerable banns, arls, lordlings, and knights, each of them kissing her knuckles and proclaiming their undying awe and respect, and, oh, by the way, they had_ always_ known that mages were just as capable of heroism as anyone else, and wasn't it such a _shame_ that they were locked away in that distant tower, their lights forever hidden under a bushel? Of course, reforming the Circles would be such a _difficult_ undertaking, and would take _time_, but she could be _assured_ that when that indeterminate 'time' came, she would have the full support of all of her dazzling admirers.

She was hating every minute of it. With a tight smile, she managed to extract herself from a tediously one-sided 'conversation' with an aging, portly bann whose name and holding she'd already long forgotten, claiming that those hors d'oeuvres over there by the sparkling wine fountain were simply calling her name. It seemed to have worked, because the bann blinked twice, turned around, and promptly called for his servant to bring him more treacle pie.

Deirdre huddled in the shadows beneath the wine fountain, wishing now that she'd spent more time at Kinloch learning the kind of magic that would enable her to slip from view in plain sight. As it was, she merely hoped to buy herself a few moments of solitude before the next guest who craved the candied dates happened by and spotted her and began the whole insufferable process all over again.

"For such a celebrated champion of the ages, you look distinctly miserable, my friend."

The liquid smooth accent could only belong to Zevran, and Deirdre sighed quietly in relief as she turned to her elven friend, who regarded her with a mixture of amusement and concern. His was the first friendly face she'd seen since she'd entered the ballroom and promptly been swallowed up by the inundation of aristocracy.

"I am miserable, Zev," she grumbled as she popped a date into her mouth. "These fools spent the past year squabbling amongst themselves, and most of them would have been entirely happy to keep me locked away in Kinloch Hold for the rest of my life. But suddenly I've saved Ferelden and now they were my best friends all along. What a farce."

"Most of life is a farce, dear Warden," Zevran said, as he perused a selection of tiny cakes that were decoratively arranged on a tiered serving platter. "Sometimes you just have to laugh along, yes?" He selected a miniature lemon pie topped with an extravagant heaping of meringue. "Well, that, or go mad. However, I highly recommend the former."

"Thanks, Zev. You always know how to make me feel better." Which was true, but even her friend's well-intentioned words did not make the prospect of mingling with toadying nobles and their entourages any less dreadful. At least during the Blight she'd been able to shoot a gout of flame at anything that had vexed her – she imagined that doing the same tonight would end rather less well.

"Hmm. It seems that you are not the only one who would rather be anywhere but here. Perhaps you could take advantage of my former – in a manner of speaking –employer's solitude to escape your admirers?" Zevran cocked his head, and Deirdre's gaze landed upon Loghain, who stood, arms crossed, against a far wall of the ballroom, looking every bit as surly and wretched as she felt. In stark contrast to her interminable popularity, Loghain was utterly alone, and she noticed that none of the various august personages who were busy to-ing and fro-ing across the room deigned to look at him, or acknowledge him in any way. Where she was the belle of the ball, a well of gravity towards which all the guests were inexorably pulled, Loghain was quite the opposite – the pariah whose very presence seemed to repel anyone who ventured within ten yards of him. She felt a sudden and unexpected pang of anger – Loghain had fought alongside her, had been just as instrumental in ending the Blight as she had been, but where she was the Hero of Ferelden, he was just a traitor, the disgraced teryn who owed his life to the Hero's pity, and who had now been formally and decisively exiled from high society.

"It seems the adulation for the Grey Wardens is rather selective, no?" Zevran added. "But perhaps you can use your companion's disrepute to your advantage, if you wish to avoid the thronging masses. Just a thought." He took a bite of the lemon meringue pie and his eyes fluttered closed in bliss. "Oh. These are exquisite. You simply must try one."

"I'll keep that in mind," Deirdre said, distracted, watching as Loghain tugged restively at the collar of his formal doublet. No doubt he chafed at being told he could not wear his massive suit of armor to the ball. "Excuse me, Zevran." She wended her way through the crowd, sparing a swift smile and nod to the various dignitaries who attempted to ensnare her in conversation, but never slowing her gait or making any effort to respond to their beseeching words. As she approached him, the crowds drifted away – evidently the shame of being seen socializing with Loghain Mac Tir outstripped even the honor of basking in the Hero's presence.

He was studying something on the far wall, his ice blue eyes narrowed in vague consternation, when she came up to his side. "Hey. You look a bit lonely over here," she offered.

He turned to her in surprise, his eyes widening ever so slightly, before the surly displeasure resettled across his features, and he snorted disdainfully.

"That is not so. To be lonely would imply a measure of distress over my lack of company. I can assure you that I do not want for the attention of anyone currently in this room."

Deirdre blinked, stung. "Oh. Well, I didn't mean to intrude. Sorry." Stifling a stronger pang of hurt at his rejection than she could have anticipated, she turned away and had begun to make her way back to the solace of the wine fountain when she felt a hand on her arm.

"Warden… Deirdre. Wait." He heaved a sigh, and heat prickled along Deirdre's arm where his hand held her gently in place. "I did not intend to suggest that your company was unwelcome. Forgive me."

"Consider yourself forgiven." She certainly understood how he felt, after all. "Besides, er… that's why I'm here. Zevran suggested I might take advantage of your, well, lack of popularity to seek refuge from the tide of sycophants who have besieged me ever since I arrived at this blasted ball."

"Ah." His lips curled into a wry half-smile. "I take it this is your first such event? In that case, my condolences. I had forgotten how utterly wearying it must be for the uninitiated."

"The Circle was never much for fancy balls, no. Or kowtowing nobles." She grimaced as the elderly bann who'd earlier ensnared her now reeled drunkenly across the ballroom floor, apparently in hot pursuit of an attractive elven servant carrying a platter of goblets.

"Lucky you, then. You haven't truly suffered until you've been forced to listen to Arlessa Isolde grate on for hours about the pet cat she forced Eamon to acquire for her from some sort of renowned cat-breeder in Val Royeaux."

"Renowned cat-breeder?" Deirdre frowned. "I didn't even know there _were_ different breeds of cats."

"Nor did I. Well, evidently this one didn't take too well to its new surroundings, because it had a habit of… relieving itself on Eamon's pillow." Loghain snorted in amusement. "On second thought, perhaps that was a poor example of Isolde's prattling. _That_ particular tale never fails to amuse me."

"Well, on the bright side, you'll probably never have to listen to any of Isolde's stories again, now that you've poisoned her husband."

"Yes, I suppose that's one way to find the silver lining in my self-inflicted destruction of my reputation and legacy," he said, glancing askance at her.

"I didn't mean – "

"Deirdre." The way he said her name, tinged with exasperation and, perhaps, a hint of affection, silenced her at once. "It is hardly your fault that I am suffering the natural consequences of my actions. You needn't feel any guilt on my account. But I do have to wonder why you're choosing to waste your time on me. You could command the attention and respect of anyone here, impress any number of powerful and influential nobles. Why spend your social currency on a disgraced traitor?"

"I – " It was a good question. She _was_ the Hero of Ferelden. She had a power that no mage outside of the Tevinter Imperium could dare to dream of – the power to influence and shape the politics of kings, to direct the course of nations. Loghain Mac Tir, on the other hand, was a broken-down war horse, a man who had tried and failed to bend a country to his whims, and who had decisively been defeated. That he lived at all was only due to her mercy. There was nothing he could give her, nothing he could do for her.

And yet, as her gaze traveled the length of the ballroom, as she beheld the throngs of lords and ladies all jockeying and vying amongst themselves for favor and social position, she knew why.

"Because I can trust you," she said simply, turning to meet his pale blue eyes with her own. "Because you're the only 'noble' in this room who won't lie to me, or flatter me, or tell me what I want to hear. Because you're real."

Before Loghain had a chance to respond, a drunken guffaw, loud enough to cut through the susurration of ambient chatter, roared through the ballroom, and Deirdre was unsurprised to see the inebriated bann being firmly pulled away from a rather scandalized-looking lutist by his mortified compatriot. She scowled in disgust. "Sweet Maker, does that man have no dignity? I would have thought a nobleman would be possessed of more restraint."

"Ferelden may not play the Game, but nobles are not so different no matter where you go." Leliana's voice appeared behind Deirdre's shoulder as the trim Orlesian bard glided around her, and Deirdre noticed Loghain's jaw muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth in irritation. "Don't look now, but the Orlesian ambassador has just arrived, and he is desperate for a word with the Hero of Ferelden. If I were you, I would do my best to avoid him at all costs. I remember him from my time in Val Royeaux. He must have finally worn out his welcome at the Imperial Court if he has been exiled here."

Deirdre managed to spy a glimpse of a foppish man gaudily dressed in a matching set of mustard-hued velveteen doublet and breeches. In a small concession to his Fereldan hosts, he lacked an Orlesian mask, but he more than compensated for its loss with a be-plumed hat festooned with what looked like canary feathers. Isolde Guerrin was draped heavily across his arm, tittering wildly at one of the ambassador's witticisms.

"Is that him?" Deirdre struggled to keep the incredulity from her voice. "He's very… yellow."

"He's very… Orlesian," Loghain sneered, lip curling in disdain.

"Yes," Leliana whispered, shifting ever so slightly to keep herself between Deirdre and the ambassador's line of sight. "Lord Mushrooms." At Deirdre's disbelieving glance, Leliana offered a shrug. "His name is Lord Sauffré de Chamberons, but all the Court called him 'Soufflé de Champignons' behind his back. He has supposedly declared that he will duel anyone who he discovers has made use of the nickname, but considering he once famously fainted in a salon after getting a paper cut on his thumb from a serviette, it is widely regarded as a hollow threat."

Deirdre groaned. "That fat drunken bann was bad enough. I don't think I can survive a conversation with Isolde and someone called 'Lord Mushrooms' at the same time."

Loghain glanced askance at the Orlesians, who appeared to be eagerly scanning the ballroom, no doubt looking for a glimpse of the Hero of Ferelden.

"You said there were now two surviving Archdemons, did you not? Perhaps they have decided to come out of hiding early," he quipped.

Deirdre shuddered as Lord Mushrooms threw his head back and pretended to laugh uproariously at something Isolde said, causing the feathers atop his hat to flutter like a flock of canaries taking wing. "I don't think even an Archdemon could make such a ghastly sight. Maker, what I am going to do? They're eventually going to notice me standing here, and not even your presence will be enough to deter them."

"Go," Leliana said. "I will distract them with the quiche tray. You'd be amazed how long you can tie up an Orlesian noble with a conversation about puff pastries." As Leliana departed, making a beeline for Isolde and Lord Mushrooms, Deirdre began to search the room, casting about for an exit strategy, when she felt a gentle tugging on her elbow.

"Come," Loghain said. "There is a corridor leading out from the southern exit. There will be a study of some sort where you can escape for a time."

They quickly ducked out of the ballroom, Loghain leading her down the long hallway as disinterested guards glanced lazily their way. He reached the first room on the right, an ornately carved oak door, only to pull the handle and discover that it was locked tight. As was the first door on the left, and the second on the right.

"Maker's breath, you'd think there would be one blasted retiring room for this bloody ball," he grumbled. Deirdre glanced back down towards the ballroom – maybe Leliana had succeeded in her mission to distract her prey, after all, and the coast would be clear – when she heard a high-pitched voice echo down the corridor.

"I could have sworn I saw someone come this way!" Isolde's unmistakable voice shrilled.

"It could have been anyone!" Another Orlesian voice, a male one, added. "She would surely not leave her own party!"

"She saved my baby! I must have you meet her! I _must_!"

"Oh, Maker," Deirdre moaned. "I'm done for." Then, she spotted it: salvation. A small, nondescript door, almost invisible against the dun colored walls.

"Come! Now!" Grabbing Loghain's wrist, she tugged hard, and before he could sputter in response, she jerked the door open and pulled him in, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Er…"

"Hush! They'll hear us!"

"Deirdre…"

"Shh!"

"Deirdre, we're in a broom closet."

And so they were. In her haste, Deirdre had not stopped to worry exactly where she was hiding, but now that she was shut in the room with Loghain, the tightness of their quarters were more than apparent. Something sharp jabbed into her back, and she shifted forward – only to find herself pressed up tight against Loghain's chest. The heat of their physical contact spread throughout her, warming her skin, and she awkwardly attempted to create some distance between them – only to bang against a shelf of buckets behind her, causing a clatter that resounded deafeningly throughout the tiny, enclosed space.

"Um, yes. It appears that we are." Easing away from the shelf, she found herself squished against Loghain's body again, and as the heat returned, she mused that there were, in fact, worse places to be trapped. Unfortunately, there was also no good place for her to put her arms – the closet was tiny enough that she could not comfortably hold them at her side, but the only place she could rest them was –

"Oh, Maker! I'm so sorry!" Her hands came to a final resting place against his sides, but she was reasonably certain that that was not a broomstick they had just brushed against.

"Deirdre… if you wanted to get me alone, you hardly needed to contrive such a ridiculous excuse."

"I contrived nothing! I was only trying to escape from 'Lord Mushrooms' and that dreadful harpy! I didn't –" But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the cramped room, she saw Loghain smirking at her, and she sighed. "Oh. You're joking."

"Of course I'm joking. What else can one do when trapped in a closet with the Hero of Ferelden while evading pompous Orlesian fops?"

She laughed, glad that he had chosen to defuse the tension. But as her hands rested against his chest, and the silence of the chamber was disturbed only by their soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing, she felt a hazy warmth bubble through her, finally settling low in her belly.

"Deirdre…" His voice was uncharacteristically hesitant in the darkness. "What you said earlier, about trusting me. Did you mean that?"

"I – " Whatever she had been expecting him to say, that had not been it. "Of course I meant it. I do trust you." She could feel him against her in the darkness, could smell the soap on his skin. "As odd as that sounds, after everything that's happened between us, I'm not sure there's anyone I trust more."

"Mmm." His rumble of assent caused the warmth in her belly to flare, and she could hear the sound of her blood pounding through her ears with every beat of her heart.

"Is that why you asked me to perform that… ritual with the marsh witch?"

If Deirdre had not been expecting his earlier question, she _certainly_ had not been expecting him to bring up _that_. An unbidden thought intruded into her mind, a searing image of Loghain and Morrigan making love, and a stab of jealousy ripped through her.

Later, she would never know exactly what had compelled her unvarnished honesty. Perhaps it was simply the broom closet, such close quarters precluding anything between them, even secrets.

"I asked you to perform the ritual with Morrigan because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you," she said, avoiding his eyes in the darkness. "I didn't want to say goodbye to you too. I'm sorry."

For a while, he said nothing, their quiet breathing the only interruption to the silence. She noted that his soap smelled like sandalwood, and closed her eyes, determined that he would not see any weakness in her.

She felt him move before she saw him, his muscles shifting under her hands, and then his forehead was resting against hers, and, just as she opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing, his lips were on hers, warm and rough.

"Don't be sorry," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. "I'm not." And then he claimed her lips again, and all conscious thought fled.

Deirdre was amazed, as her hands slid up his chest and found the clasp at the collar of his doublet, how much room there was to maneuver in the cramped closet, now that the planes of his body were open for her exploration. She pushed his doublet open and ran her hands down his shirt to his trousers, fingers trembling as she worked at the laces, his breath rough and uneven in her ear as he nipped and sucked at the soft skin of her neck. The work of her hands earned her a growl of pleasure as she felt the evidence of his desire straining against the thin fabric. Not a broomstick, indeed.

"Be careful," she hissed, as with impatient hands he struggled with the bodice of her dress. "I still have to wear this tonight!" Her protestations were immediately smothered under a wave of pleasure as he kissed his way roughly down her newly-exposed breasts to take a nipple in his mouth. Wrapping her arms tight around him, she pulled him back against the wall, ignoring the cacophonous crash as the weight of their bodies sent the shelf of buckets tumbling to the floor. Her hands returned to their task, and at last, she felt the enclosure of his trousers give way, and she wrapped his length in her hands, caressing the smooth skin with the tips of her fingers. The warmth in her belly had blossomed, burning through her blood and igniting a throbbing ache in her core.

"I need you now," she whispered, releasing his cock and threading her fingers through his hair. With a deft movement, he pinned her up against the wall and lifted her dress, hastily tugging away her smallclothes, and she felt the tip of his length positioned at her entrance. She hooked a leg around his waist and he held her in place, leaning forward to crush his lips to hers in a bruising kiss.

"You shall have me," he said, and he entered her with a smooth, deep thrust. Deirdre cried out with the joy of it, and as Loghain took her, and she took him, there in a forgotten broom closet mere yards away from the assembled nobility of all Ferelden, she dimly reflected, in the part of her brain still capable of rational thought, that it was the most perfect ending to her victory celebration that she could've hoped for.

With a shudder, she found her release, burying her head into his shoulder to stifle her cry, and he followed shortly after, spilling himself into her with a final, rigid thrust. The tiny closet smelled of mingled sweat and sex, and their breathless gasps echoed loudly in the close, still air.

"Well," Loghain said. "While I maintain that you needn't have gone to so much trouble to get me alone, I certainly can't complain. This has been without a doubt the most enjoyable ball I've ever attended."

"I think I can manage to endure them in the future if I have this to look forward to," she sighed, her fingers gently playing with one of his braids. "Do you suppose the Orlesians are gone?"

"I should certainly hope so. If they followed us down the hall, I'm sure they got more than they bargained for. You weren't exactly quiet."

"And whose fault is that, ser?" She smacked him lightly on the chest, then began to rearrange her tousled dress. "Well, it doesn't matter who's waiting out there, because I've got you at my side. If we can defeat an Archdemon together, we can surely handle a party full of fussy nobles." She leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss. "Besides, I'm told the miniature lemon meringue pies are to die for."


End file.

Dragon Age, Humor, Romance