While this is the 2nd chapter of Fracture, I've decided to post it as a separate story, since it can be a standalone piece and it has more Alistair in it, which everyone likes. Yes, shameless of me, but there you go.
o.O.o
Mending
o.O.o
Love is a most frustrating condition of the heart, Alistair was discovering during these past few weeks.
Not that things had ever been easier in the matter, it's just that quite a lot has changed in a very short time. At the beginning, their entire journey had seemed thoroughly hopeless. If it had been just the two of them, perhaps things would have turned out differently, but strangely, it seemed to be for the best. The mage at his side had had a grim view of things, but a determined and stern expression on her face that had gotten them far and faded only for the moments when he made a joke or two for her benefit or simply out of habit.
Nowadays, they were all but finished with the treaties Flemeth had given them, now set on seeking out Brother Genitivi in Denerim to follow any path that might lead to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. All seemed a little easier with the promises of their allies - all indebted to Nimue - and the camp was a lot livelier, a lot warmer with the presence of others, all drawn to this quest for different reasons. It was pleasant, in a fashion, or had been before he had begun to notice that the elven mage smiled not just for him any longer.
By the time he had figured out the reason why this bothered him so much when he should have been glad to see any hint of happiness in her, there seemed to be no time for anything regarding sentiment. Or, at least, so he thought. Maybe this was because he really didn't know how to break the subject to her; exactly how did one tell a woman of a different race, born as one of those he had almost been trained to potentially slay and a companion of scarcely a few months that, insanely, they're glad for the End Of The World As Mankind Knows It because it had led him to her?
"Listen, kid, I'll help you if it gets ya to stop moping 'round so much."
How exactly he had ended up sitting close enough to Oghren (which wasn't an unreasonable distance, mind you) for the dwarf to take notice on his doubtlessly brooding expression was a mystery, but Alistair supposed that, given enough sarcasm, the berserker would retreat back to his booze. Now he simply had to determine whether avoiding the projectile-vomiting would be necessary.
"Um, while I appreciate the sentiment, I don't really think any advice you can offer would be inapplicable to my situation." The templar still vividly remembered the day at the Spoiled Princess when Oghren had demonstrated his 'charm' and 'effect on women' for all of them to see. Needless to say, one didn't know whether to laugh or cry about the fact that this seemed to actually work for him.
The dwarf snorted after taking another more than generous gulp of his brew. "See? That's why you keep whining like that. You're overthinking stuff. Women don't go for idiots who keep fawning all over them. The trick is showing her your stuff."
Now there was a memory even more vivid. No one could say Oghren was a prude.
"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that."
"I mean as a warrior, boy. Though now that you mention it, that might work too." the dwarf admitted with what in anyone else this drunk would be considered a giggle. "'Course, that doesn't seem to be having much of an effect on her, now that I think about it. Or did it?" Oghren squinted a little, but without any obvious effect. "I'd need some more beer to jog my memory."
"How about you go get that beer, while I slowly sneak away and try to forget this conversation ever happened?"
"Suit yourself. Damn, you're almost making me sorry for the boss. No wonder the elf's after her if you wimp out like this. By the time you'd get her out of those robes, she'd be a nutcase."
Getting this kind of talk about a woman he was mostly certain he loved from a highly intoxicated dwarf was possibly the newest low in his life. Perhaps even worse than the time when Oghren - more drunk than usual, if that was possible - had not so subtly insinuated that he (Alistair, not Oghren, because that thought was just cringe-worthy) and Nimue were sleeping together with the use of some highly unusual comparisons, most of them filthier than anything the darkspawn might create... with Nimue just a few paces in front of them, flanked by a highly amused Leliana.
"I really don't want to hear the rest of your undoubtedly well-rehearsed metaphor." The time for a swift strategic retreat was coming and the time was now. "Besides, Nimue isn't one to be impressed by how many heads you can crack."
"True, she can do better than you on a good day." Oghren admitted, knowing something about cracking a head or two himself. "Tough break, you picked a difficult one. Bet she's a monster on other battlefields as well, though." That was much too thoughtful and entirely too disturbing, winks included.
This time, though, the Maker showed his mercy in the small but predictable way the whole conversation ended; with the dwarf passing out after another swing from a different flask right at hand.
If there was any point to this truly dreadful conversation, it was that just circling the issue wasn't doing anyone – least of all him – any good. Not that he had never imagined what it might be like – gah! Too much exposure to Oghren in a small temporal frame was obviously as harmful to one's thought process as Nimue's proximity, though in thoroughly different ways.
No, the time for stalling was past (hopefully). Of course, with Nimue having gone into Denerim with her dog, Leliana and Morrigan, of all people – the former to lead the shopping expedition while making them appear like an ordinary group of young women to better con the merchants, the latter to keep the former's shoe obsession in check and scare away any potential troublemakers – there was still time to spare and preparations that could be done. And what better preparation was there than some information gathering, however slight?
In that case, the person to go to was obvious.
"Wynne, can I ask you something?"
The elderly enchantress had been reading one of the books Nimue had managed to salvage during their travels through various parts of Ferelden before looking up from her carefully-marked page. This was a look she knew all too well and knew exactly how to respond to the unasked question, asked in a child's voice in a mind's eye. Or would that be a mind's ear? In any case, that was unimportant. She had drawn the line at the horrible socks that ended up slithering all around camp.
"If this is about more clothes needing mending, you can turn around and go back where you came from right now." she said, her tone allowing no room for discussion. "I swear, I don't know how you manage to shred everything so fast."
This uncertain posture and shift of weight from one side to another was also something she was familiar with from the days when apprentices had kept forgetting doing their homework and had to admit to their own mistakes.
"No, it's not about that - not this time, anyway. It's..." A deep breath right in the place where Wynne would have expected it. "Well, it's about Nimue, actually."
"Ah." Odd, how a single noncommittal syllable could encompass one's entire thoughts on a matter so broad and complex. "That was my second guess."
Closing her book after making certain she remembered where she had stopped, Wynne encouraged the young templar to sit down and tell her whatever he wished, though she could easily fill in the gaps herself, what with the doe eyes he kept giving the young mage, how concerned he had been when she had been setting Nimue's leg back in place and how grim and miserable he had appeared when he hadn't been the one to carry her all the way to the camp.
"She lived in the mage tower all her life, right? And you lived there too." A nod, then another. "So you must know her quite well."
Wynne gave a small chuckle. Of course outsiders had to imagine that each mage knew every other, locked together as they were. "I'm hardly omniscient, Alistair; there were always many apprentices around, far too many to keep track of. Besides, I haven't always remained there." she pointed out, not unkindly. Irving hadn't been wrong when he had said that she was never one to remain with the Circle when adventure called.
"But you know her better than anyone else here." The childlike insistence, the faith that the information he sought was at hand, these were endearing traits, though Wynne wasn't certain that they would endear the knight to his chosen lady's heart in the matter he so obviously wished.
"If this is an attempt to ask me what her favorite color or flower is, you're out of luck." The flower, she had little idea or interest in, but if she was to judge from the manner of her dress, then Nimue was fond of darker colors instead of the garish shades the Circle clad its mages in. "I would think you'd like to ask her about her past yourself; she did the same without problems, as I seem to recall."
"She jumped a little when I told her I used to be a templar." It had been long ago, yes, but something in her had become alert of him the moment he had mentioned that, despite her insistence that it was merely habit later. "I thought I'd ask you first, so that I don't stumble into some sensitive topic." After all, from what he had seen at the tower, Nimue didn't have the best of histories with templars in general.
"That's very considerate of you." Wynne noted, the crow's feet around her eyes deepening just a little when she smiled. "But Nimue seems to like you well enough to tell you herself, should you ask."
"Really?" The signs that Alistair was indeed the late Cailan's brother were becoming indisputable, considering the puppy-like way he perked up at this snippet of what Wynne had always considered an obvious fact. "She said that?
"She didn't have to. Whatever predisposition she might have had, it's been overcome." Nimue treated everyone with a degree of friendship, but she certainly seemed to have a special amount of affection for Alistair. The elderly mage wasn't entirely certain whether it was because of a deeper emotion on her part or simply the comforting fact that she wasn't the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. She was willing to believe that it was both.
"She's been..." A glance down, not entirely shamed, but certainly unhappy. "Well, a little busy lately, that's all."
He didn't need to say anything more; a commotion further in the camp signified that the person in question had returned with her entourage and some fresh supplies. One didn't have to be a genius to guess who was the first to attempt to relieve Nimue of whatever she was carrying, her cloak included, especially since Alistair himself wasn't nearby to step in.
"I think I understand. I share your concern, but Nimue makes her own choices. Whether or not they're correct, they have been made." Wynne was still distrustful of parts of their entourage, but even among the rest of the misfits, Morrigan and Zevran certainly stood out as the most obvious suspects. Neither was willing to discuss their individual reasons for staying or continued cooperation and they each had their individual means of deflecting questions – biting contempt in the case of the former, shallow yet constant flirting in the latter case.
In many things, they were polar opposites. If there was anything they most certainly shared, though, it was the keen interest both had in Nimue.
"It's just that she seems to be putting a great deal of faith into someone who tried to kill her not too long ago." Alistair muttered, trying not to watch the mage scurry around with sacks and boxes too obviously. Which was kind of hard, considering how close Wynne was.
"Well, it's good that she has someone to protect her so valiantly, then."
Predictably, the Grey Warden's face reddened and he completely missed the gentle teasing in Wynne's voice. "It's not that! I mean, she's what's keeping us all together and if she was gone, then... then everyone would expect me to know what to do and I really, really don't fancy being the last Grey Warden around and leading people against the Blight."
Considering the current – rather steady – state of things, one could only hope that it wouldn't come to pass. While a good lad, Alistair wasn't yet leadership material. Besides, Wynne had certain doubts as to whether everyone would consent to follow him as easily as they had accepted Nimue.
However, whatever reassurance she intended to give wouldn't have fallen on fertile ground when she opened her mouth to speak and closed it an instant later; Nimue had discarded the heavy cloak to allow for more dexterity while sorting out supplies… and apparently, Leliana had made good on her promise to make her go shopping for shoes. Only they hadn't stopped at shoes. The robes she now wore were closer to Tevinter in design, which actually said more than enough.
Wynne wisely decided to return to her book before Alistair managed to regain the power of speech and run off mildly embarrassed by her knowing smile. Later on, though, he made it his business to confront the newly revealed Ultimate Evil; this being Leliana.
"You picked that as functional armor for her." Now he knew why all Circle mages wore those high-collared ankle-length robes. Because they might unintentionally break the templars' brains otherwise.
Repeating the statement several times was enough for the bard to understand what was actually going on while she kept tuning her lute with an air of impish casualness.
"It isn't supposed to be armor, Alistair." she explained patiently, already an expert on the matter. They had tried armor and Nimue had said straight away that she would end up splattered in combat with such weight on her. "It's a mage's robe and the proprietor mentioned all sorts of effects it can have on the wearer, all of them highly useful. I actually thought you'd rather like it." The mischievous glint in her eyes surfaced strongly enough for even Alistair to partly notice it. "Or maybe you do already, no?"
The length of the robe allowed for swifter movement without the risk of tripping over heavy fabric, but the smooth leggings ending above her knee and the mere strap of fabric that created a skirt-like effect might cause others to walk into walls.
And the stockings... dear Maker, this was how male teenage mages had to feel when surrounded by groups of desire demons.
"But it doesn't offer protection from stray arrows and leaves her... her..." And, naturally, the bodice seemed to have been made to accentuate everything that screamed that she was a woman, from her slender throat to the more obvious feminine features a little lower. "It leaves her exposed to enemy fire!
Leliana grinned openly, quite certain what this kind of stammer meant in a man. "Ah, you do like it! Should I go tell Nimue that it has your approval?"
It might be a sign of lust, but the pink tinge Alistair's cheeks gained at the very idea crossed the absence of a different sentiment out. Gathering all his composure, the templar swallowed and looked straight at her with a very forced defiance that made it obvious that the statement would waver if he were to look anywhere near Nimue.
"I was completely wrong about you, Leliana. You are entirely insane, in the worst possible manner. I think I actually preferred the Princess Stabbity version I imagined to this!"
"The truth is the last thing anyone wants to admit, I realize. I think the color really suits her, though; it brings out her eyes." she mused mercilessly, lost in thought for a moment. Pale blue was rather fetching with a combination of fair hair and a pale complexion, no doubt earned through years of being locked inside a sunless tower. "I couldn't get her to buy extra pairs of shoes with it, unfortunately. Maybe I can get her to promise to go properly shopping once the Blight is over. At least a simple dress, blue with silver and golden flowers. I can just about imagine it now..."
"I'm sure she'll thank you for that idea." He shouldn't have spoken, since breaking Leliana's train of shopping-engaged thought meant that she could return her full attention to the matter of his apparent mesmerized state, which she was quick to point out. "You're an evil mastermind, I see that now. Next thing you know you'll confess to being the archdemon in disguise."
"Well, someone seems to be thankful for the new attire, at least." the bard noted, glancing over to the spot where Nimue was mixing some spare health poultices.
The mage was sitting cross-legged with a pile of flasks and ingredients, a small knife in her hand, cutting the elfroots with rather uncanny precision. What Leliana was referring to, though, wasn't this – a common occurrence nowadays, since there was always a need for healing salves – but rather the fact that Zevran had appeared almost out of nowhere and struck up a conversation with their leader. Nimue's back was turned to them, so it wasn't entirely obvious what was being said or how she was reacting to what was likely the newest attempt at seduction, but judging by the fact that the assassin didn't move from the spot at her side for some time and remained smiling in a way that was mildly shark-like...
"Ooh, that's a grim look." Leliana noted when she returned her attention to the now-gloomy templar. Angst wasn't the easiest of emotions to deal with, especially if this was indeed first love for Alistair, as she supposed. "If you want her to notice your feelings, you have to do something about it."
There was no need to tell Alistair, of all people, but the bard actually had her own reasons for approving of the developing relationship between their leader and her would-be assassin; it seemed that, for some reason, whenever targeting Nimue was an option, Zevran focused all of his efforts on her alone and temporarily ignored her and the other women of their little group. Which was most pleasant, since Leliana wasn't interested, minimal physical attraction aside. Besides, one could only wonder how long Morrigan would hold out until she put a stop to being baited through drastic measures.
Not that Alistair wasn't a friend who deserved happiness. It was just a little more convenient for her if things remained this way.
"I refuse to speak with you any further." said friend proclaimed grumpily. "You'll just twist everything I say around to fit your own wicked plans."
Leliana shrugged. "As you wish. You know, I actually intended to talk to Nimue about this and try to needle some information out of her, but I guess you wouldn't be interested in hearing what I know so far."
"I'm not listening to you." Alistair insisted adamantly. And this resistance lasted for a valiant ten seconds, in total. "So, what does she see in a man like Zevran, exactly?" he asked then, attempting to sound casual. He hadn't supposed that Nimue would actually discuss these things with someone, but Leliana was a likely candidate, being close to her age, female – they had established that much – and a generally sweet person.
Hook, line and sinker.
"Well, they're both elves, for one thing. I suppose it's easier to form a connection with someone of your race, especially when traveling with a band mostly consisting of humans." This was a possible factor, but considering the fact that the Circle treated both elves and humans equally, Leliana had a different theory. "But I've given this a bit of thought and I think I've figured it out."
"Well?"
A mahogany eyebrow rose in mock surprise. "Suddenly you're interested? Or are you just trying not to determine whether her leg is fully healed or not? You can see relatively well from this angle...
"Just... just answer the question!" There was no escaping the trap now, which Alistair realized only after it had firmly closed around him. "You can't leave a thought hanging like that."
"Hah." Leliana smiled, but continued. "What I mean is, Nimue has lived in a single sealed-off tower for most of her life, yes? The only world she knows is now gone and she is free to see what is beyond the walls she had come to accept. I find it very natural that she would find someone as widely-traveled as Zevran interesting. That's what they mostly talk about, actually." she added as evidence and out of kindness, to satisfy part of the curiosity around her. "From what I understand, it takes some effort, but Nimue has been steadily prying stories out of him."
Alistair blinked, apparently highly surprised by this. "Really? I mean, that seems a bit odd, considering that no one else has had much luck in determining his actual motives."
"And no one was as determined to outlast any possible innuendo that could be thrown at them. It apparently takes quite a lot of focus and energy. Sometimes I wonder where she gets the patience." Leliana herself had given up on trying and chose instead to simply observe, which was proving to be rather more productive than her previous strategy.
"So she's only interested in knowing more about the world?"
"That's one way to put it." Leliana admitted, but clarified nothing.
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question, but if it were, the answer would most certainly be frustrating.
Once more, the bard looked up from her music, her eyes kind now. "So you really care about her that much?" Even that wasn't a question entirely, especially when the answer was obvious. "You should tell her. I mean that, Alistair." she emphasized before he could wheedle his way out of this. "She was about as sheltered as you in matters of affection, so she will be utterly blind to it unless she's presented with it openly. And if you wait, you might miss your chance. Because I very much doubt Zevran will." she added, just in time to accentuate this point by witnessing the aforementioned assassin pull their mage-leader to her feet in a surprising feat of politeness and take her a bit further away from the camp for a rather surprising purpose.
Not the obvious one, which was the most surprising thing, even though it might have been clear simply thanks to the obvious fact that Nimue was hardly an exhibitionist.
It all started in the middle of the conversation happening on the other side of the camp. After finishing sorting out all their supplies and selling some stuff to Bodahn in exchange for different ingredients that simply weren't available in Denerim, Nimue, the apothecary part of their healing team, had proceeded to go about her usual business of converting raw ingredients into healing potions. As noted before, biology as in healing through magic had never appealed to her, but chemistry and the effects of various ingredients mixed together was a different story. Wynne usually helped her with the more complex concoctions, but after this amount of time on the road, she could have likely mixed these simple potions with her eyes closed.
That didn't mean she wasn't thorough or precise with the process. It was the one time when she actually got to use a blade, small yet sharp as it was, and it was the one physical weapon with which she was greatly proficient, partly due to the few early years spent living in an Alienage, partly because of her own fondness for thoroughness.
Thus interruptions mid-brewing weren't exactly welcome, even if she had mostly finished by then. However, she knew that it was no reason to panic that the archdemon was coming, because it was only Zevran with the usual carefree smirk and, judging by these indicators, this conversation was going to involve a comment or two (at the very, very least) about her new attire.
Damned fibula fractures. Damned Leliana and her precise reasoning. She should have guessed that the bard had had some ulterior motive beyond empty compliments when noting that this would be useful and practical and look good.
"This is most certainly a pleasant change." True enough, the familiar feeling of having every inch of her skin scanned thoroughly passed through her even before she looked up from her work. The most unnerving thing about having an assassin intent on bedding you wasn't the whole he-might-be-planning-to-kill-me thing, but the very, very intense stares. Nimue doubted that this could be attributed to mere hormones on her part. "Odd though she might be, Leliana does have excellent taste."
"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to have your approval." she noted with an attempt at a carefree smile, but wasn't allowed to return to her work just yet.
"The thrill is all mine, I'm sure. I see she even managed to convince you to invest in jewelry." The pendant around her neck was no longer the one filled with darkspawn blood, but one bearing a stronger enchantment and certainly much finer crafted. Then again, the surroundings it was being displayed with would have made even a plain bit of metal look appealing, most likely.
"Is there something in particular you want or are you here simply to inspect my neckline?"
"Oh, I do want something, most certainly, and it even involves your neckline... and having those fetching robes discarded in favor of better appreciating it later on."
It was no longer as easy to show nothing but disinterest and maybe a hint of playfulness; perhaps their quest was wearing down on her or, more likely, she felt more exposed in this Leliana-imposed fashion change. Both were equally true answers.
"Do be serious." she asked instead, putting away her knife for the time being, lest she cut her fingers off by accident.
"Such matters are hardly subjects for jokes, dear Nimue." Strange that she would be embarrassed by her own physical appeal… then again, mages were hardly taught to use their appearance to get what they wanted through persuasion. Zevran wouldn't be surprised if that was a little easier for her from now on, assuming she kept these clothes. He would have to make certain the previous ones stayed well out of her reach and that of Wynne. "But there will be time to discuss that when you're finished here. What I intended to suggest was that I've noticed that you have a rather steady hand with that knife you're using. Perhaps you would care to learn how to use it for defense purposes as well."
Nimue blinked a lot when surprised, but she couldn't blink away the slightest pink tinge that remained around her cheekbones. "Magic is my strength and even if I did learn something, there are others more proficient with blades here that would be quicker to react than me."
"That might be true, but it's safer to rely on yourself only in case your magic fails or becomes depleted." The staff she carried wasn't effective on a short range and it never hurt to be prepared. Not that saying as much wouldn't be hypocrisy on his part, seeing that she was the one who had caught him – or rather made him – unprepared. "As a precaution."
The mage raised her eyebrows, her composure regained entirely, along with her natural quick thinking. "Since when are you so forthcoming with help?" she asked, fixing him with an attempt at a penetrating stare.
"Well, learning this would doubtless require a, shall we say, hands-on approach?" Faint, but there, that blush, even as Nimue rolled her eyes good-naturedly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It is best to learn that way when there is little time to spare."
She didn't buy the rather well-acted voice of How Dare You Accuse Me Of Plotting, I'm Deeply Hurt Now. "You want something in return." She wasn't asking.
Zevran flashed her a grin. "So suspicious."
Rightfully so, in her opinion. "No, merely cautious. I thought that's what you wanted me to become. Cautious."
"And eloquent as well. A sharp tongue so wonderfully trained; one wonders just what else you could do with it." Finally, her mask of coldness cracked entirely and Nimue buried her face in her hands to stiffen her relatively silent laughter. It wasn't meant to be flirty or mocking; simply an expression of amusement. A shame she tried to hide it so. "Indulge me, if you will. You need a little rest from all the stressful shopping. An hour of frowning at all that elfroot can hardly be a good sign."
"True." Nimue admitted, her spirits lifted. Momentarily, she actually forgot about her own question, this being the matter of payback. "You want to teach me now?"
"No time like the present, wouldn't you say?" Zevran's voice was jovial as he pulled her up to her feet and almost dragged her off to an emptier space than the crowded camp. "First we must determine the extent of the damage."
The only person who remained carefully observing the situation was Leliana, even after the others take notice but lose track once it becomes clear that nothing too scandalizing was happening and therefore there was no need to intervene. The whole 'lesson' didn't take too long, since, naturally enough, all that's necessary to teach the mage is how to swiftly draw the knife and use it for one precise blow – the only chance she's likely to get, if an enemy gets this close to her without being blasted apart by her magic. As for the 'hands-on' approach, Nimue chose to bite her tongue for once and bear it, or so she believed the situation to be.
The matter of repayment was repeated to her only afterwards and she folded her arms knowingly, as if to say she had been expecting exactly this. Almost everyone was asleep at that point, including Alistair, who would have been the likeliest reason for refusing even considering whatever would be suggested to her.
"There is something I have wanted for a while now." A something which had promised to give the matter due consideration. The carefully neutral expression he received in return was almost worth a good laugh in itself. "Come, now, there is no need to appear so grim. If you are not of a mind, it is no tragedy, but to waste such beauty on merely fighting and travelling is surely a crime."
Nimue didn't bother asking if he was actually serious, because she had confirmed that theory when she had first asked. Initially, she had hoped to receive this matter of comfort from someone else – and her self of a few years past would have no doubt been astonished and laughed herself to tears at the thought of caring for a templar – but she understood well enough that if she were to give her love (if she was capable of it, even) to Alistair and one of them survived, that person would be utterly broken by the ordeal.
Better to be a coward and not risk such wounds. Better to think of the heartbreak she would no doubt experience if they both survive and he takes up the human throne in Ferelden – each unlikelier than the former, but still possibilities.
Better to seek warmth and the illusion of love and belonging with someone who wouldn't so easily be broken by loss, who understood her way of thinking and could forgive her for having weaknesses and feelings that made her a person.
She had wasted enough opportunities to make her own happiness, as she had told the sloth demon in the Fade. And, whatever Wynne might say, she had a right to be selfish, like everyone else.
"Then why are we still talking?" she asked with a little more bravado than she believed herself to be feeling, much to the assassin's obvious surprise – something she would remember with glee later on.
And then, with a single kiss, the world fell down.