First things first: Some inspiration for the way this is written is due to Bladesworn's "Princesses" I thought it so creative, and I couldn't help but mimic it. Here's to the sincerest form of flattery!
Second: I wrote this as I was always curious as to when Alistair picked that Lothering Rose and just how it survived as long as it sometimes can!
Thirdly: Grammar/spelling corrections are welcomed! Please inform me!
Fourthly: I've been checking out this story's traffic stats...and let me just say I was so thrilled to see the diversity of countries! Its great to see that love for Alistair really is international! :)
Lastly...None of these characters are mine. Thanks to Bioware for creating such colorful characters that they practically beg to have stories written about them!
|.-o-O-V-O-o-.|
"Do you stare at everybody like that?"
Her voice, the laughter scarcely hidden in the inquiry reached him from across the campfire. At first his heart rose, just at hearing her voice, yet when he saw at whom the question was directed, his heart instantly dropped. Zevran. Teeth clenched up and his body tensed. He knew he should have protested more loudly at her choice to have the elf join the party after spoiling the assassin's attempt to kill him and his Grey Warden sister.
Wait, no, his fellow Grey Warden. His feelings for her had grown beyond what any brother should feel. Was "fellow" even a better term? It had a sort of masculinity feel to it…but she was far from masculine, not with her curves, her grace. But the way she moved on the battlefield, the way darkspawn, man, and beast fell before her…THAT wasn't entirely ladylike either. But there was no denying she was a woman.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts as her laughter echoed across the camp. She always made him feel so addled. Instead of clear thinking, however, memories came, filling his mind of days past.
|.-o-O-V-O-o-.|
The rose in Lothering.
It had stood out amongst all the squalor that was that little village. Truly, that place was nothing but filth, grief, and desperation. He was surprised to see the rose still intact, as surely some other romantic should have picked it by now to give to his lover. Maybe this place killed all romantic feelings. Surely if they stayed here for awhile, maybe even the small flame in his heart would be extinguished. Thankfully they were suppose to leave early the next morn.
For the first time he felt a stirring in his heart as he look at the newest Grey Warden. How she had treated the elvish family, how she had given a bit of coin to a child who was most likely an orphan, but didn't know it yet. She had even taken the time to free a murderer, not once thinking of running him through though some in their small party had wished it so. Instead, she brought the murderer, a qunari named Sten, into their party. He had had his doubts, but he respected her ability to trust in the good of others. Well, he mostly respected her decisions. Why she had kept that witch Morrigan in the party was beyond him. By the Maker, how he hated that woman.
The night before they left, Alistair made up his mind to take the last good thing that was in this town. How to get it without being seen, especially by Morrigan, was the challenge, however. Money was tight, but the Chantry, after all this party had done for them and the village had finally pulled some strings and the local inn had given them a room. Large it was not, but bare it most certainly was. Leliana and his fellow Grey Warden were downstairs in the main hall, presumably to try to glean any useful information from the locals. More than likely the Warden was enjoying the bard's company, as she so rarely had the chance to talk with another woman. Maker knew, Morrigan had little interest in the sort of things Alistair imagined women would like to talk about, the crazy harpy.
The mabari hound was sleeping contently by his mistress's designated sleeping area. Sten, the rescued murderer was in one corner of the room, apparently in meditation. At least he wasn't looking at Alistair. His eyes were so creepy.
Morrigan was in the opposite corner, reading a book and seemingly oblivious to the three other occupants. Hopefully she would remain so. Alistair rose and started to nonchalantly walk towards the door.
At least he thought it was nonchalantly.
Apparently it wasn't. Or Morrigan felt like pestering him. Either was likely.
"I hope you aren't planning on drinking. Hangovers are a bit beyond my ability"
"No, I'm not. " He really should have stopped there. But the jesting in her voice always got to him. "But what is this? The daughter of the Witch-of-the-Wilds is unable to cure something as mundane as a hangover. Perhaps we should rethink having you along."
"Did I say it was beyond my magical ability? No, I did not. What I meant 'twas beyond my ability to care." She smirked, knowing she won this exchange and went back to her reading as if nothing had happened.
Andraste's Flaming Sword, I wish she would go away! With fists clenched he opened the door and walked downstairs. He eyes focused in on the door, and he started walking in that direction, trying to ignore everything around him. Why was he so nervous? Did his hands feel a bit sweaty?
"Alistair? Why don't you join us for a drink?" she asked with a smile, sitting next to the bard and completely unaware of the sudden pounding in her fellow Grey Warden's chest. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker for having the bar noise at a dull roar, as surely she would have heard it had the place been quiet. Surely.
"Uhm, no, I think I-I need a bit of fresh air. Your mabari, well, I think he got into something rather stinky, and then there is the Wit-err, Morrigan who is probably learning a spell to turn me into a toad as we speak. And the qunari? Well, he's just—Well-Fresh air would really be lovely, I think. Erm. Yes"
Leliana and she exchanged a glance, and not for the first time in his life he regretted not being privy more to the secrets of women. What could such a glance mean? But then the Warden smiled and waved him on. "Do not tarry too long, else I will send Morrigan to find you" Her eyes flashed with laughter. Her beautiful, soulful eyes, who have seen Maker only knows how much horror.
He smiled weakly, and then sought the door with extra speed, gasping at the fresh air as soon as he was outside. The pressure in his chest was nearly unbearable. But how the cool night air calmed him down. At least sort of. The image of her laughing eyes prevented his heart from calming itself completely.
It was a full moon, so finding his way around the dark wasn't too difficult. The rose, as he remembered it, was just outside the fence near a farmer's field. The real reason it probably hadn't been touched is that some bandits had harassed anyone who came out that way. Had, being the key word, as earlier that day his sword had sliced through several of them.
The rose was perhaps even more beautiful with the moonlight glinting off its deep red petals. He drew his sword and made a swift cut, letting the rose fall into his hand. He cradled it for a moment before suddenly realizing he had no place to put it. He had brought no bag nor cloth to wrap it up in. He slapped his head, which actually hurt a bit more than he expected due to steel on his gauntlets.Oh Maker! Why am I such a fool?
Well, his plate armor had some areas where he could possibly keep it. It would only have to make it back to the room, after all….not that far….
Of course he immediately started to rethink this choice when he managed to place it near his abdomen. He had already been planning on sucking in his gut to ensure he didn't crush it. However the thorns on the rose made him suck it in even more. Blighted thorns!
He quickly scurried back to the inn. He unthinkingly drew in a deep breath before opening the door and instantly cursed under his breath as a thorn poked at him, probably drawing blood. Instead of inhaling, he exhaled, planning on rushing back to the room.
Apparently the Maker was planning on having a little fun at his expense.
"Feel better, my friend?" her voice easily carried over the noise of inn. He looked over in the Warden's direction, seeing nothing but her smiling eyes as she took a drink of ale. Leliana was watching him with some curiosity.
"Oh, erm, yes, much better. Beautiful night, isn't it? Well, time to get back to the room. I saw a spot of blood I must have missed while cleaning my sword..." The lie just sort of spilled from his lips, and he was rather surprised. Even more surprised when it seemed it was accepted. At least at first.
"Indeed? What were you doing drawing your sword? Were you attacked?" The concern started to rise in the Grey Warden's voice, and it pained him. As did the fact that he was probably turning blue due his avoidance of breathing. He took in a shallow breath and winced a little bit at the sharp bite of a thorn.
"Wait, are you hurt? What happened out there?" She started to get up from the table.
"No! I mean, no, I am feeling…fine. I wasn't…attacked. I just-I just like to look at my sword in the moonlight. Moonlight on the metal is so…." He started to grasp at straws, his arms waving about frantically trying to grasp a poetic image. He failed. "sooo…enchanting…." He failed miserably.
The bard snorted and looked quite amused at the answer. In his companion Grey Warden the only response was a raised eyebrow. And he thought he saw perhaps a bemused smile. Ugh, he'd done it again. He wanted to shove his foot in his mouth, but he figured that would only further his embarrassment. It was still a tempting thought, however.
"Very well. Have a good evening, Alistair." She waved her hand and turned back to Leliana, to resume the conversation he assumed he had interrupted.
He darted back to their room, closing the door a bit too loudly, and drawing the stares of its occupants. He smiled nervously and mumbled an apology before sitting down on his bedroll. He grunted as the rose's thorns bit even more sharply into his abdomen. Relieved at sitting down, he then gingerly pulled the rose out from underneath his breastplate.
And then the realization hit. Just what was he going to do with this? He was no expert florist, nor gardener but he imagined the rose wouldn't last very long. The thought of approaching his fellow Warden with it so soon caused his hands to sweat a little bit. Again.
"What do you have there?"
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. By the Maker, why? Why?
"We call it a rose. I imagine you've never seen one, seeing as you come from a swamp."
The sarcasm in his voice drew Morrigan closer to him, like a fly to honey. How she loved to torment him! She closed her book and slowly approached him. The thought of having the apostate hovering over him quickly got Alistair to stand on his feet.
"I know what a rose is, and plenty grow near my home, thank you. Why do you have it? Do you make bouquets? T'would be a most fitting pastime for you." She crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly.
"No, not bouquets. I can make a wicked floral arrangement though. Nobles from all over would come to ask me to make arrangements for them. It's true! Ferelden castles can be so drab, you know." He paused a moment and rubbed his chin, acting like he was pondering the thought. "Well, actually, come to think of it, you probably don't."
She nodded, noting the avoidance of answering the first question. Perhaps she should repeat it. "Clever. Why do you have it, again?"
His mouth went dry and his mind blank. "It was the one thing of beauty in this town." Of course. Truth always was a good way to go with Morrigan. He mentally berated himself. Good thinking Alistair.
"So you took it? How selfish of you. Now this town has nothing!" She made a tsking sound and slowly shook her head from side to side. "What, pray tell, will you do with it?"
His hands started to fidget and he looked nervously around the room. The qunari and mabari were not looking at him, thankfully enough.
"I-I don't know, amazingly enough. Real shocker, I know…." He let out a weak laugh.
She cocked her head to the side, looking at him intensely for a moment. It only made his fidgeting worse. Then, with a quickness he was not expecting she grabbed the rose out of his hand and waved her hand above it. Briefly, the rose seemed to glow, before returning to its original deep red.
"There. The decaying process is slowed. It should remain fresh for the next few weeks, which is probably how long it will take for you to figure out what to do with it."
Alistair was shocked. Flabbergasted, even. Where had this sudden act of kindness came from?
"Uhm. Thank you. Morrigan. That was quite unex-"
"Of course I will require you do something for me"
Of course he would. He winced a little, thinking of all the possibilities, the quite unpleasant possibilities, before nodding his head in assent.
"You will wash yourself daily. You stink worse than the dog and I will not be able to sleep tonight unless you do so. "
"Tonight?"
"Indeed. We are fortunate enough to have a small washroom attached. Use it." She turned to go, with a wicked smile on her face. "Oh, and you must wash daily until you figure out what to do with the rose. Else I will tell all" She smiled saucily, and turned to resume her study.
|.-o-O-V-O-o-.|
That was several weeks ago. He had to admit he did smell better, though washing daily was sometimes rather a rather blighted nuisance.
The rose was still as fresh as the day he had picked it, and stowed safely in his pack. He gently picked it up, and caressed its soft petals. Tonight. He would do it tonight.
He saw the assassin bow with a devilish smile on his face, causing Alistair to feel a small amount of rage. Is this jealousy? It quickly dissipated, however, when he saw the other Warden walk back toward his side of the campfire, a small smile on her face.
He panicked a moment, and felt his hands start to sweat, as if on cue. Wait, tonight? Does it really have to be tonight…tonight is…so soon…and…and- Unconsciously, he thrust the rose in front of him, catching the other Warden by surprise., as well as himself. He could feel a drop of sweat run down his face. Slowly. As if mocking him.
"Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?"