Prompt: a character taking their lover's hand during a stressful situation
There were few times Cal saw the pressure of leadership overwhelm Alexandra. She wore her smiles easily, never seeming to trip up on her decisions or question her choices, as certain of her course as the sun marching through the day. And if she ever did seem weary of a situation, she bore it, and her suffering, in silence.
And Cal's heart always ached at the sight.
Alexandra bowed her head when Cullen reported the casualties for the assault of Adamant, her jaw set and dark hair shrouding her face like a veil of shadow. One of her hands were balled into a fist, clenched so tight that her pale hand looked even paler, more ghostly. A flare of green snapped lightly within, spilling through in wicked slashes of emerald-white fire, seemingly draining what color remained in her hands. "Leave me." Her voice was as cold as the Frostbacks, with steel laced with lightning in its tones. "Now."
The advisors made no noise to argue. Leliana sent a long, searching, and half-plea look to Calypso as she departed, before training her eyes, cool and collected and yet tinged with concern, on the hunched over Alexandra.
As the wooden doors of the War Room sealed closed with a low groan and hard shudder, Cal only became aware of her fingers twined with Alexandra's, her thumb drawing circles into Alexandra's skin. "Alex..." The words did not come. Cal was never good with them, never knew what precisely to say. Alexandra had always been the better when it came down to it, when it came to speaking, that is. With a start, she noticed the glisten of tears which sprinkled from the sunlight fall onto the continent-covered parchment. "Alexandra..."
When Alexandra turned her head to face Cal, her eyes welled with tears, an edge of red about the rims. "I...I failed them, Cal. They gave their lives to me, and I still failed them. Stroud, Lancil, Raiman...three thousand died. I could had saved each and every one of them." Her eyes closed, her voice quavering for a moment. "I could had saved Justinia." A bitter, hard smile rose on her lips. "What a prophet I am."
Her arms were around her waist, frustration and rage mangled with her sadness at the sight of Alexandra's shame. She did as best she could. Even better than what anyone else could that. Cal drew her close, her hand rising to stroke Alexandra's cheek, before resting her forehead against Alexandra's. "You did as well as you could. Your soilders - our soldiers - were fighting against Wardens, and they won. We saved more lives in Adamant than we lost, Alexandra. You did that." Cal remembered how Alexandra had ordered Wardens to lay down their weapons and come willingly to the Inquisition, as prisoners of war and later allies; and Cal knew, other leaders would not have shown the same mercy, the same kindness.
Kissing her lightly, she felt Alexandra melt against her, a cry becoming muffled by Cal's lips. Delicately, as much delicacy as Cal could muster, Cal molded her lips with Alexandra, and in between gasps of breaths, she murmured how much she was proud of her, how much she loved her.
She did not remember lifting Alexandra up, or resting her against the War Table; she did not remember losing her shirt, or discarding Alexandra's to lay kisses and marks and whispers of affections upon lightly freckled skin and scar. But she did remember how Alexandra shivered and rolled her hips against her hand, against her mouth, against her tongue. She remember kissing away the tears from Alexandra's face and stroking her sides as she took her gently, feeling her legs wrap around her waist, to hold afraid to let her go. Cal was afraid of letting her go too, of losing that one ounce of kindness the Maker, or whoever created Alexandra, gave her.
Yet, more than that, she was thankful for this woman, who spun the dawn out of the darkness with her smiles and who reminded her what love truly was, after years stumbling through winter and shadows.
Cal was thankful for finally being able to see that the dawn finally did come.
