A/N: This story precedes the events of No Armor Against Fate, covering three important moments in Alistair and Thora's early relationship. In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that my husband wasn't wild about this chapter, but as I fiddled with it I realized that it's exactly the chapter I wanted to write and tells the story I wanted to tell, so I'm posting it as is with apologies if any of you agree with my husband! Standard disclaimer: the world of Dragon Age and all its denizens belong to BioWare, not to me.
"Listen," Alistair said again to the mage, trying to be patient. "All I'm trying to tell you is that the Revered Mother sent me with a message for you." He sighed inwardly, having known this would go badly as soon as the Revered Mother gave him the task.
"What does she think, that I'm just going to dance because she snaps her fingers?" the mage grumbled. Alistair didn't have an immediate comeback, because his attention was caught by a person coming around the corner of one of the crumbled old walls. It was a small person, little bigger than a child, and Alistair realized with some surprise that it was a female dwarf.
He turned back to the mage, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation, but he kept glancing at the dwarf out of the corner of his eye. He'd never seen a female dwarf before, and this one didn't look at all like he would have expected. Of course, what he mostly would have expected was a male dwarf with longer hair, and maybe without a beard, so it wasn't too surprising that the reality was different.
"Fine!" the mage snapped. "I'll go see what the Revered Mother wants." He turned on his heel, nearly tripping over the dwarf, and spat an extremely rude word at her before storming off.
Watching the mage go, Alistair sighed. "You know, one good thing about a Blight is how it brings people together." Realizing belatedly that he'd spoken aloud, he glanced at the dwarf with embarrassment.
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. "You are a very strange man," she said at last, in a surprisingly rich and melodic voice.
Alistair grinned at her. "I've been told that before," he said. He walked closer, his eyes on her face. She was pretty, he noticed in some surprise, with a sweet mouth and red-gold hair smoothed tightly back. Idly he wondered if she always wore it like that or if she took it down sometimes. He was curious what she was doing here at Ostagar—didn't dwarves mostly stay in Orzammar? And then it dawned on him. "Oh, I know who you are," he said. "You're Duncan's new recruit. From Orzammar!" Great, he thought, I sound like a gibbering idiot. "I'm Alistair, junior Grey Warden."
"I know," she said. "Duncan sent me to look for you."
"He did?" There was an awkward pause—at least, it felt awkward to Alistair.
"I believe Duncan's waiting for us," she said, rather pointedly.
It must be time to take the new recruits out, then. Alistair looked the dwarf over. She wore her armor easily, like she was comfortable in it, but did that mean she could fight? He guessed he was about to find out. "Let's go, then, shall we?"
The dwarf nodded, turning back toward the rest of the camp, and Alistair fell into step next to her, shortening his stride to match hers. "Um, been on the surface long?"
She raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were warm and brown, but serious. Maybe even a little sad. "Only since Duncan recruited me," she said briefly. Alistair wondered what the rest of the story was, and if sometime he would get to hear it.
A piece of the puzzle was revealed as they walked across the camp. There were a couple of dwarven merchants wandering about. One of them saw the dwarf at Alistair's side, and his jaw dropped to the ground. He rushed over to her. "My lady Aeducan!" he cried. Then he stopped stockstill, looking shocked, and whatever effusion he was about to make died on his lips.
The dwarf blushed pink. "I'm sorry," she said quietly to the dwarf merchant. "That person no longer exists."
The merchant backed away slowly. ""Forgive me, Your … uh, um, ser. I didn't mean to—"
She shook her head. "No need to distress yourself," she said. As the merchant hastened off, the dwarf—Aeducan? Was that her name, or some kind of title?—continued her progress toward Duncan's fire as though nothing untoward had happened. It was on the tip of Alistair's tongue to ask about the incident, or to ask what her name was, but she threw him a look that seemed to indicate she wouldn't appreciate being questioned. So he didn't. He might not know much about women, but he knew better than to displease one who wore swords on her back.
Duncan was standing at his fire with Daveth and Jory. Both of the recruits looked down at the dwarf as she and Alistair approached. Jory's look was superior, as always—the big man with the greatsword clearly thought he was better than the dwarf with the crossed swords strapped to her back. Daveth looked at the dwarf with respect. He usually leered at any female in his path, but not at this one.
There wasn't time for Alistair to consider this phenomenon. Duncan nodded at him. "Are you ready to take the recruits into the Wilds, Alistair?" he asked gravely.
"Ready, Duncan." Alistair stood a bit straighter at this demonstration of the older man's trust in him.
"We're going into the Wilds?" Jory sounded displeased.
"There be witches in those Wilds!" Daveth exclaimed nervously.
The dwarf said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on Duncan, her face retaining its serene expression. Alistair vastly preferred her silence to the shrillness of the other two recruits. He found himself taking a step closer to her, allying himself with her rather than with the other humans.
Duncan handed out small glass vials, one to each recruit. "Each of you will need to fill one of these vials with fresh darkspawn blood. Also, somewhere in the Wilds there is a strongbox that can be opened only by a Grey Warden. You need to get to that strongbox and retrieve the papers within it."
Daveth and Jory looked eager. This was the mysterious and exciting Grey Wardening they had signed up for. "What kinds o' papers?" Daveth asked.
Looking at Daveth, Duncan hesitated for a moment. Then his gaze moved to Alistair, and to the dwarf, and something in his shoulders seemed to relax. When he spoke, it was the dwarf he addressed. "They are treaties," he said. "They bind our allies to send troops to help in the event of a Blight."
"How will we know where to look?" she asked.
"Alistair will lead you to it," Duncan told her. Alistair's heart swelled with pride, until it dawned on him that Duncan was speaking to the dwarf as though she was the leader of the mission. Who was this woman, anyway?
The dwarf went through the gates first. Daveth and Jory hung back, looking respectively scared and unhappy. After a few steps, when she realized the men weren't following her, the dwarf turned to look at them. "Let's move!" she said. Her voice snapped with undeniable command, and all three men obeyed her instinctively.
Alistair's attention was caught by Daveth, who was walking close beside him.
"You know who she is?" the cutpurse whispered. "Dwarf back in camp told me—she's a ruddy princess! Commander of the Legions of Orzammar."
"What?" Alistair's first reaction was disbelief, but then he remembered the dwarf who had nearly knelt in front of her back in the camp. Watching her, Alistair could believe she'd been a commander. And she was certainly pretty enough to have been a princess. "But what's she doing on the surface?"
Daveth shrugged. "Dunno. Can't have been good, though—Orzammar doesn't kick you out unless there's no other choice."
Watching the sway of her hips, obvious even in the armor she wore, Alistair wondered what someone so lovely could have done to be exiled from their homeland. Suddenly she stopped moving, drawing her swords. Alistair was startled—he hadn't felt any darkspawn approaching—but understood when the first wolf cleared the trees, lunging toward her. She cleaved its head from its body in a swift motion that had all three men staring at her. The other wolves followed quickly, and soon all four were fully engaged. Alistair hated fighting wolves—his shield was less of a weapon and more of a hindrance in their case than when fighting men or larger creatures.
At last the last wolf went down, skewered through the spine by the dwarf's sword. She pulled it back out, wiping it neatly with the grass. "In Orzammar, we have to carry our own cloth to clean off our swords in battle. This is much easier. No time to waste, men," she added, leading the way through the brush.
Alistair caught up with her in the next clearing. "You don't seem too uncomfortable in the Wilds," he remarked, and immediately kicked himself. Why couldn't he ever say anything interesting to her?
The dwarf tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. "I suppose it would make more sense if I was," she agreed. "Still, it isn't too far off from the Deep Roads. Things creep around in the shadows, things brush your face when they hang down, things grasp at your ankles as you walk past. Of course, they're different types of things." She looked around appreciatively. "And here you have … sun. And air, and birds that sing." She plucked a flower from the ground. "And flowers. I'd never seen flowers before I—left." She stowed the flower away in her pack. "Your shield is an effective weapon against smaller creatures, you know. You're not using it that way."
The sudden transition startled Alistair. "I can't really hit them with it, you know," he said. "I'm too tall."
"Yes, but you can make better use of your shield than you did. Remind me when we get back to camp, I'll show you some pointers."
He felt a flash of annoyance. Who did she think she was, telling him how to fight? But if she'd truly been a commander, maybe she did know. His thoughts were cut off by the tingle that meant darkspawn. He shouted the word, watching Jory take a step back and Daveth look apprehensive.
The dwarf fought the darkspawn with the skill of a seasoned warrior. Which she was, Alistair reminded himself. It was difficult to look into her beautiful face, even blood-spattered as it was, and remember that no matter why she had been allowed to—forced to?—leave Orzammar, Duncan had recruited her for a reason.
They completed their mission, finding the treaties in the hands of two strange swamp witches, and returned to camp. Duncan received them at his fire, studying them all. Alistair was familiar with that gaze—he had seen it turned on many people in the six months he'd known Duncan, and he shivered, not wanting those dark eyes to pry inside him and find his secrets. Secrets? Alistair frowned at the thought. He'd never known he had secrets—everything he was had always been open for Duncan to see. But now …
Without thinking, Alistair let his eyes wander from Duncan's face to the shining red head of the dwarf who stood next to him. He thought she was the prettiest, most intriguing woman he'd ever met. And after today, she must surely think of him as a prize idiot. He had a sudden vision of her at the Joining, her eyes rolling back and shining white, and he shivered. Maker, don't let her die, he thought, and then wondered if the Maker had any oversight over dwarves in the first place.
The recruits were given an hour to prepare themselves for the Joining, and they scattered. Daveth started chatting up the blonde soldier he'd been talking to since his arrival in Ostagar. Jory went into his tent, folding his belongings precisely, stowing them neatly into his pack. What did he think, that he was going home? Alistair felt apprehension build up in his stomach. Jory really didn't understand what he was here for. It seemed unlikely to go well. He looked around for the dwarf. He saw her at the kennels, digging the flower she'd plucked in the wilds out of her bag and handing it to the kennel master. Alistair felt a heated rush of jealousy that startled him. Why was she giving a flower to that man? Had she known him before? Did she like him?
Get a grip, Alistair! This was hardly the time or place, and it was none of his business anyway. It was just … that Alistair wanted to see her look up at him with the interest and respect she was showing the kennel master. Growling at himself in annoyance, he turned and headed to the area set aside for the Joining, beginning to lay out the items Duncan would need, trying to ready himself for the possibility that she might die.
The recruits drifted in slowly. First Jory, looking impatient. It was ever more obvious that somehow Jory had failed to understand the commitment he was making, and Alistair was torn between sympathy and irritation. Didn't the man realize what an honor it was to be chosen? And if all he wanted was a safe life at home with his wife, why hadn't he stayed there?
Daveth slunk in next, ostentatiously adjusting the leather codpiece under the skirt of his armor. Apparently he'd caught the blonde soldier at last, Alistair thought.
The dwarf was the last to arrive. "Am I late?"
"No, Duncan's not here yet. Soon, though." Without meaning to, Alistair asked," What were you and the kennel master talking about?"
"He has a sick mabari," she answered readily. "He'd asked me before we went into the Wilds to keep an eye out for that flower I picked up; he hopes it can cure the dog."
"The dog? The flower was for the dog?" Alistair coughed slightly, hoping she hadn't noticed how inappropriately relieved he was. "Er, I didn't know the dwarves had mabaris."
"We don't. Orzammar's overcrowded as it is, the last thing we need are giant dogs as tall as we are." She looked tired, suddenly, and sad. "But I've read about them, of course. And if you can heal suffering by simply plucking a flower, why wouldn't you?" She said it matter-of-factly. "The kennel master says the dog should survive, now. And if—" Whatever she was going to say was cut off by the arrival of Duncan.
"It is time," Duncan said.
The preparations were made, the Joining chalice prepared. Alistair spoke the words, his eyes on Duncan to keep his mind off what might happen when the three recruits drank from the cup. Duncan handed the cup to Daveth, who drank and died. Jory backed away, the reality of what he had agreed to finally clear, desperately begging for his life, and, decisively, Duncan ran him through. The blood was still seeping from Jory's lifeless body when Duncan turned to the dwarf.
"The Joining is not yet complete. You are called upon to submit to the taint, Thora."
Thora, Alistair thought inanely, her name is Thora. Every sense was focused on the beautiful face as she took the huge cup in her tiny hands and drank deeply. Duncan caught the cup as it fell, and Alistair could feel each beat of his heart thudding in his chest as the dwarf—Thora—staggered backward, her hands to her head, her face filled with pain. With a cry of anguish, she fell forward into Duncan's arms. Duncan's hand touched her face tenderly, and Alistair found his own hand reaching out in an echo of Duncan's movements.
"She lives." There was a wealth of relief and pride in Duncan's voice, and Alistair felt tears stinging his eyes as he closed them in a silent prayer of gratitude. He hovered over Duncan's shoulder, waiting to see the brown eyes open. At last they did, fluttering slowly and then looking up, sharply into Alistair's own.
"Welcome back," he said, and kicked himself again. She'd just been through an incredibly tense experience, she needed wise guidance and reassurance, and what could Alistair offer? Welcome back. How meaningful.
Duncan looked at her sympathetically. "I am called to be present at the Council of War. Your presence is requested as well, I understand," he said to her. Somehow Alistair wasn't surprised that Cailan didn't want him at the table, but the omission stung, as well.
"May I—have a minute?" The dwarf's voice was faint and hoarse.
"Of course." Duncan bowed to her before turning on his heel and walking toward the council area.
"Are you all right?" Alistair asked the question without thinking. She seemed so stunned and shaken, standing there in the midst of the carnage. "Of course you aren't." He stepped closer, reaching out, wanting to touch her, to reassure her.
"Is it always like that? I am … no stranger to death. Or to sacrifice. But that—is not what I expected." She closed her eyes.
"In my Joining only one of us died. And it was still horrible." He didn't want to tell her that the Joining was only the beginning. There were so many things she would have to know—Alistair was glad that Duncan would be in charge of giving her the full extent of the bad news. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked instead.
She reached out and touched his hand. At the contact, Alistair felt a jolt of lightning that took his breath away, a response that was obscenely inappropriate given the two dead bodies they were standing next to. "I appreciate your concern," she said. "I just … need some time to think."
"Um, sure," he said as she withdrew her fingers from his hand. "Anytime." His skin tingled where she had touched it, and he could feel her nearness now, the taint in her blood calling to the taint in his. He was used to feeling the other Wardens in his blood, but this was different—this was a heavy, almost intoxicating pulse. He swallowed, hoping she didn't notice the effect she was having on him. "Duncan … and the King are probably waiting for you."
"As you say." The dwarf squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath, and then she turned and went in the direction Duncan had. Alistair watched her go, admiring her strength, before he turned to his own task, that of cleaning up the bodies and preparing a pyre.
When Jory and Daveth were ready to be seen to the Maker, a ceremony that would have to wait until after the battle, Alistair found Duncan and Thora at Duncan's fire, talking quietly about the council meeting. Thora looked at Alistair sympathetically, and Duncan avoided his eyes.
"What?" Alistair said, looking from one to the other.
"The King has personally requested, Alistair, that you and our new recruit here be given the honor of lighting the fire at the top of the Tower of Ishal to signal our reinforcements."
For a moment, Alistair couldn't believe what he had heard. "I'm not going to be in the battle?"
"It is the King's wish, Alistair," Duncan said, his voice fraught with meaning. "It is not for us to go against his wishes."
"But—I wanted to fight with you!" He knew as soon as he said it how much of a spoilt child he sounded like, but since he had known there was to be a battle, all he had wanted was to fight at Duncan's side. He resented being kept out of the line of fire, pushed aside like a little boy.
"Alistair!" Duncan's voice was harsh with reproof and surprise, and Alistair flushed. No matter what his feelings were, he didn't want his last words with Duncan before the battle to be complaints and disappointment. He glanced at Thora, who watched him with understanding, and he felt reassured that she would be with him throughout the battle.
"I'm sorry, Duncan. You're right, it isn't my place to argue with the battle plan." He grinned suddenly. "But just so you know, if they ask me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line."
"Now that I'd like to see," Thora said, her warm voice rolling over Alistair in the darkness of the busy camp.
He turned his smile on her. "Maybe for you," he said. "But it would have to be a pretty dress."
Suddenly, unbelievably, she laughed, a rich deep chuckle, and Alistair was stunned at the immediate physical response he had to the sound—it was as though she had touched him intimately. He stared at her, trying to remember how to breathe, and a single thought formed bright and shining in his mind. If he had anything to say about it, if his future was ever his to decide, he'd like to spend it all making this beautiful woman laugh.
He collected himself enough to commend Duncan to the Maker, and be commended in return. When he finally turned to face his destiny, pointing black and sharp into the sky, Thora was at his side, just as she should be.