This story started off a prompt on the kmeme (I know, I know) where the prompter requested:
Anon would like to see a happy ending for the 'wandering drunk' Alistair ending. I'd like to see him end up with someone who wasn't in the game. So I'm asking for a original character that can be anything your heart desires anon, as long as its fluffy.
Anon would also like the happy ending not to come the night before going to the calling either. lol Let's give him some time to feel happy. :)
Ravenia and I put our heads together and brainstormed for a while. This was the result. A big thanks to Xandurpein who helped with the fight scenes.
Right now, this story is rated "T," but will eventually move to "M." We plan to release two chapters a day on a M-W-F schedule. If you like it, please drop Ravenia at least a quick note. She did so much for this story and while she'll see the reviews here, I feel badly that we can't release under both names here. Enjoy!
Setting: Six years after the end of the Blight. Ostwick, the Free Marches.
Chapter One
Looking at the cart she used to haul her baked goods to the marketplace, Maeve sighed. It had been a good day and most of her wares had sold. She had coin in her pocket and enough left over for dinner tonight. This was the only part of her day that she hated.
Grasping the handles of her cart, she began to walk home. Maybe if she was quick enough, she could avoid Brin and his gang of petty thugs. It was hard enough making a living here without them bleeding everyone in the market of what little they had.
Familiar laughter ahead of her made her cringe. Bastards seemed to be waiting for her this time.
Swaggering before her, Brin dripped cocky arrogance. He was a nobleman's bastard and better off than most of the people here. The worst of what he and his gang did was they didn't steal for the money. He did it because he was a sadistic prick. Frowning, she stared at the ground in front of her, her eyes seeing only his boots and the lower half of his leggings.
"Well, well, what have we here? The pretty pie lady. And what's in that cart smells so good. A feast for the senses." He stepped close to her.
She hated his insistence on physical proximity, as if by dominating and invading the very air around her, she would fold and give in to him. Touching a lock of the strawberry blonde that had escaped the careful bun at the nape of her neck, he leaned forward and sniffed it.
Frowning, she tried to keep her voice calm. "Just take the damn food and go, Brin."
"Maybe I want more than that, Maeve."
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a portion of her day's earnings—she always kept a small amount hidden in her boot or she'd have starved long ago—and shoved the small collection of coins at him. "Fine, here's what I made today. Keep bleeding me dry and I won't have anything left to buy flour. Then how would you and your gang feed yourselves? Now let me pass."
He laughed. "Getting feisty, aren't you, Maeve? But then, that's why I like you, and that's not what I meant."
His arm went around her waist and she tried to pull back, but there was no escape with the cart behind her.
"Let me pass, Brin. I'm tired and sweaty. I just want to go home." Maybe if she made herself seem less attractive to him, he would drop it and let her go on her way.
He leaned in close, smelling her hair. "But I like how you smell, Maeve."
From behind Brin, a man cleared his throat. "Ahem…I believe the lady asked you to let her pass."
Oh, Maker, Maeve prayed. She had this under control. Please, no, don't antagonize him.
Looking past Brin to the newcomer, she sighed. It was that drunk who spent his days either in the tavern or under the overhang just outside it. His clothes were ill fitting and filthy, and he stank of cheap ale and unwashed flesh. His dirty brown hair hung in uneven, greasy strands to his shoulders. He could barely stand up straight, yet he appeared ready to defend her from Brin and his friends.
"What's this?" Brin asked aloud. "You have an admirer, Maeve!"
His friends laughed at the joke.
"I'm merely asking you to let the lady pass," the drunk replied, with a manner that seemed to belie his unkempt features.
Brin frowned. There was something unnerving about the man's unnatural calm.
"Hass, show this stupid drunk to not interfere with our business," Brin called and pointed at a large, heavyset man among in his group.
"Sure thing, Brin," the man called Hass replied and stepped forward. He crouched and prepared to strike the drunken man.
Maeve squinted to avoid looking too closely. She'd seen Hass dislocate a man's jaw with a single hit of his huge fists before.
Hass stepped in and threw a heavy punch straight at the other man's face, but at the last second the drunk stepped aside and the punch missed. Hass momentarily lost his balance and staggered forward. Then the drunk struck a blow on Hass's temple and Hass simply continued forward to fall into a heap on the ground.
For a moment the drunk stood swaying, before he straightened himself and looked calmly at the rest of Brin's gang.
"Now would you please let the lady pass or do we have to have more unpleasantness?"
Brin stared at him slack jawed for a moment, then called to his gang.
"That's it! Thod, Agon, Lanner, get him!"
The other three thugs moved warily towards the stranger, giving him a cursory amount of respect for felling their friend. They had him outnumbered, but none were eager to join Hass on the ground.
The drunk awaited them, seemingly at ease—even if he swayed slightly. Then he took two steps to the right and swung at Agon, a thin dark haired man. Agon managed to avoid the punch, but he stumbled into Thod, his bigger friend next to him. This caused them both to momentarily lose their concentration, and the drunk stepped in and slugged Agon in the stomach.
Maeve watched the fight with a horrified fascination. The stranger seemed to be calm and in control even as he fought three opponents. Then she saw the third man, Lanner, charge at him shouting with flailing fists. The drunk saw him and stepped aside, but this meant he lost eye contact with Thod. The big man crouched and swung his fist in a hook that took the drunk straight in the face.
Maeve shuddered as she heard the sound of what must have been the bridge of the man's nose breaking. She expected the drunk to fall over, but he just stood there swaying and grinning madly with blood running from his nose.
Then she saw movement from the corner of her eye. Brin had carefully circled around the drunk and was now almost behind him. He bent down and picked up a cobblestone. Maeve was frozen with indecision. She knew she should use the opportunity to get away, but if she didn't say anything, Brin might kill the man.
Lanner and Thod spread out and carefully closed on the drunk who still stood rooted there, with blood flowing down his face. While they kept his attention, Brin stealthily approached from behind.
Maeve bit her lip and just as Brin almost was in range, she screamed, "Behind you!"
The drunk tried to turn around, but he was too late. Brin hit him in the head with the cobblestone. Thod stepped in at the same time, aiming his blows at the man's torso. He went down in a boneless heap. Turning as he fell, his leg twisted at an odd angle when he landed.
"That's it! Stop it all of you!"
Thank the Maker, Maeve thought to herself as she heard the new voice. It was Jakon, an intimidating guardsman she became friends with when her husband had worked with him.
"Throw him in jail!" Brin shouted angrily. "He attacked us without any provocation."
"That's not true!" Maeve burst out.
Brin shot her a venomous glance and Maeve realized that she'd be in trouble for not keeping her mouth shut.
"Just get out of here," Jakon commanded Brin and his fellows. Brin looked as if he was going to protest, but then he gruffly ordered Lanner and Thod to pick up Hass, who was still lying in the street, and they all left.
Jakon leaned over the prostrate man, his face hard, but not without compassion.
"Poor sod, drunk and stumbling and yet here he is trying to help. He's seen better days."
Maeve stepped closer, also looking down at the injured man. "Is he hurt badly?"
"No, he'll live, but he's going to be hurting when he wakes up."
"I've seen him around. He's usually pretty quiet and keeps to himself," she said.
He scratched his head. "Well, maybe I should take him to the jail. Judging by the sky, it's going to rain pretty heavily tomorrow, and at least it's a safe, dry place for him to sober up in."
She looked down at the drunk and the injuries he sustained trying to help her. It didn't seem fair for him to end up in jail for doing something good when Brin and his gang had gotten away.
"That jail is so dirty, Jakon. He needs someplace quiet where he won't get picked on. Some of the other guards aren't as nice as you are. Help me get him home."
Jakon looked at her, frowned and then shook his head. "Maeve, Robert would never forgive me if I let something happen to you. We don't know this man."
"Robert is dead and this man tried to stop Brin from hurting me. That says a lot."
"Yes, well, that's hardly a reason to take him into your home," he sighed.
"I'll take the risk. My house is clean and dry, and he can sleep it off there. Not to mention someone should take a look at his face and head. We can't leave him like that."
Jakon frowned again, but Maeve knew he wouldn't argue too much with her about it. In the end, and with a good deal of muttering under his breath, he helped get the drunk in her cart and pulled him to her small cottage.
Once at her house, she pulled out a hand woven rug she used occasionally when she had visitors and they set the man on it.
"If he gives you the slightest trouble, Maeve, you come get me," said Jakon.
"He won't."
With a shake of his head, Jakon left while she pulled the cart into the little shed adjoining her house and Maeve went back into the house to stare down at her guest.
"Well, what am I to do with you?" she asked.
He was filthy and stank of cheap ale, sweat and the odors of the odd and disgusting jobs he must have engaged in to support his drinking. The type of work no one else would do except the drunks who didn't have any other recourse. If he was going to recuperate here, he would have to be cleaned up.
Rebuilding the fire, she grabbed a large pot and went outside to ladle some water from a large rain barrel into it, came back in and placed it on a hook at the end of a metal arm. Then she pushed it over the fire to heat. While she waited, she cut herself some cheese off a wheel that was fast diminishing, broke off a small piece of bread and sat on a stool eating while the water was heating.
Brushing her hands off, she gathered what she would need. Some rags and a strong lye soap to start with, and then a set of Robert's old clothes and small sharp knife. What the drunk was wearing wouldn't be suitable for rags even if they were cleaned and there was no point in trying to salvage them.
When it was ready, she poured some of the water into the bucket and brought it over to where he lay on a pallet on her floor. Frowning, she looked at him. She sighed at the thought of trying to wash his hair and beard. Those would have to be cut before she even attempted to wash them.
Maeve fetched her scissors, a comb and Robert's old razor, and kneeling beside him and using two fingers as a guide, began cutting his hair short. With horror, she realized that his hair was infested with fleas and other parasites. She shuddered and bit back a gag, but didn't stop. It had to be done and doubtless his garments were as filled. Once his hair was done, a sharp razor put to his cheeks and chin soon had the beard removed. She gathered the waste in a rag and flung it into the street outside.
Dipping a rag into the bucket and rubbing some of the strong soap on it, she started with his hair, washing away the dirt and accumulated body oils caking it. Once she got it clean, she saw that it wasn't the brown she'd thought, but more of a dark honey blond. She washed his face, cleaning away blood from where he'd been struck in his nose during the fight.
Biting her lip, she checked to make sure he was still unconscious, and then quickly and carefully reset his broken nose. He flinched and groaned beneath her hands, but mercifully didn't wake up. She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful she'd already had that experience from Robert.
Moving down his neck and shoulders, she cut off his shirt, and after carefully noting his bruises and cuts, continued his bath.
Some of his wounds looked old and the evidence he had seen better days was written on his body. Old battle scars—long healed—crisscrossed his torso and arms, and while he had the paunch one would expect from someone who had spent several years in the bottom of a wine bottle, his muscles were defined enough to show he'd once made his living as a soldier. Her fingers lingered over them, pondering where he had fought so hard. Maybe Ferelden? There'd been fighting there a few years ago—mercenaries would have done well then. Robert certainly had.
Maeve wondered what had driven him to this point. Surely he'd known better days in his youth. She removed his boots and trousers, noting with a flush that he was a bit better endowed than her husband had been. Inappropriate, Maeve, she scolded herself and turned back to the task at hand.
Trying her best to ignore that, she used the rest of the water in the bucket to finish getting him cleaned up. Fortunately he and Robert were of a similar build and the clean clothes would fit him. Finally, she took a small file she used for herself and carefully cleaned under his nails.
Once she had him cleaned and a fresh shirt and trousers on him—no easy chore, she'd forgotten how much of a dead weight a large, unconscious man was—and some bandages on the worst of his injuries, she felt better. He'd probably go right back to drinking tomorrow, but for tonight he had a dry roof over his head, clothes on his back and a clean pallet to lay on instead of a dirty tavern floor or the hard ground.
Looking down at her handiwork, she was very pleased. Tilting her head to the side, she looked at him carefully. Despite his current state, he was surprisingly handsome.
Gathering up the remnants of his old garments and holding them at arm's length to toss into a bin outside for burning later, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders to stave off the evening air and stepped outside. She should go over to the apothecary to pick up some delousing treatment and maybe something to ease his hangover, as she suspected it would be pretty bad tomorrow. If she was going to help, she might as well go all the way.
She wondered briefly why she was going through so much trouble for the stranger and then shook her head. Whatever he was, she'd be a lot worse off if he hadn't intervened tonight. It was the least she could do.