This short story was written based off of an idea that was posted on the BSN Forum's Alistair Gush Thread. Alistair and F!Cousland lose the duel at the Landsmeet and are sentenced to death for treason. This is not a happy story. It is very dark and sad. Please, do not read if this isn't your thing. Lord knows I thought I was going to throw up writing it.
Thank you to Addai67 for beta'ing it for me. I would tell everyone to enjoy, but... Yeah...
I do not own any of the rights to Dragonage, its story or characters.
Alistair leaned his head against the rough stones of the cell wall and wondered how exactly it had come to this. The events of the day replayed themselves endlessly in his head, and he couldn't help but try to think of some way it could have been different. He knew it was futile. No amount of thinking would save him from the headman's axe in the morning, but he was powerless to stop himself.
If Loghain hadn't forced the fight even though they had won the vote….
If he had insisted on being the one to fight Loghain….
If Lya hadn't stumbled, losing her balance and giving Loghain the crucial opening….
If he hadn't yielded for her when Loghain held the tip of his sword to her throat….
That image haunted him—Lya prostrate before their enemy, the sword pressing into her neck. Even then she had been defiant, snarling up at Loghain, daring him to finish it. Alistair had surrendered for her, knowing it meant they would truly lose, but also knowing that if he hadn't Loghain would have cut her throat right there in the Landsmeet chamber.
Underneath all those thoughts was his worry for Lya. No, not worry—terror. His own body ached from the beating the guards had administered, and he knew Lya was likely to receive the same treatment. However, unlike him, she was a beautiful woman and he knew there was a good chance that whatever the guards did wouldn't end with simple physical violence.
He found himself holding his breath, listening, ears straining to pick out the sounds of screaming. The silence was deafening. He didn't know whether it was because they were too far apart, if she was being tough and refusing to scream or—Maker, please—if she was being left alone. He prayed it was the last one.
His hands balled into fists of anger and he pounded them on the stone floor beneath him in frustration. Alistair felt the rage in him threatening to explode, and he took deep breaths. Losing his mind and screaming would accomplish nothing. Waiting and praying didn't seem to be accomplishing anything, either, but at least he didn't look desperate or scared doing that.
To his shame, his stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and no one had brought him anything to eat, not that he really expected them to. Why waste perfectly good food on a man who was only going to die in the morning? But he was still hungry. He tried to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, focusing on templar meditations to calm himself. It helped a bit, and was more useful than spending his remaining time on second-guessing everything he had done.
The hours passed slowly. Alistair had no way to tell what time it was. He nodded off once or twice, always jerking himself awake before he fell completely asleep. His guard also seemed to get restless, walking back and forth, or leaning against the wall to break the tedium of his duty. Alistair was just starting to nod off again when he heard the door to the cells open and looked up.
His guard turned as the door opened and several figures entered. The cell he was in was relatively dim and the sudden bright light from the hallway was blinding. He couldn't tell who was coming in—only that it appeared to be several guards. Alistair got to his feet. It didn't feel like morning to him yet, but if they were coming for him now, he would leave like a man. They wouldn't drag him out like a dog.
"What's all this, then?" his guard asked.
"Orders," one of the guards who entered said. "We're to leave them alone until morning. Unlock the cell."
Alistair's guard grunted. "Seems a shame to waste her on him."
"Queen's orders."
The guard grunted again and fit a key into the lock, turning it with a resounding clank. The door was swiftly pulled open, and before Alistair could move towards it, the other guard roughly shoved a smaller, unarmored figure into the cell. They stepped back, relocked the door and filed out.
Alistair barely registered their departure, his eyes fixed on the dark-haired figured kneeling on the floor of the cell. He dropped to his own knees before her, reaching out and pulling her into his arms. "Lya!"
She clung to him with a wail, her arms holding him tightly and her body jerking with sobs. He lifted her, moving to a corner of the cell. Sitting with his back pressed into a corner, he pulled her into his lap and rocked her. With soft words and gentle hands, he comforted her as best he knew how. Eventually, her crying eased, trailing off into a few lingering shudders. Alistair pressed a kiss against the top of her head.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "They didn't…hurt you, did they?"
She shook her head against his neck. "No," she said hoarsely. "They didn't touch me."
The relief that swept through upon hearing that made Alistair light-headed. He had been sick with worry about her, that she would be subjected to pain and humiliation before their execution.
"I'm so sorry, Alistair," she said. "So damn sorry. This is my fault. If only I'd—"
He stopped her by the simple expedient of placing his lips over hers. "Don't do this. Don't do this to yourself, Lya."
"But it's my fault!"
"No!" He shook her slightly. "This is not your fault! You did nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing!" Rocking her slightly, he tucked her head under his chin. "You did so well, Lya. So good. I couldn't be more proud of you. I just wish I had some way to get us out of here. I'm sorry I can't save you."
She struggled against him, struggled to pull back so she could look at him. He loosened his hold slightly.
"But you don't know," she whispered, her breath hitching on a renewed sob.
"What don't I know, Lya?" he asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"Anora's not going to kill me," she said in horror. "She thinks I'm still useful, that the Bannorn will resent the idea that the last Cousland was executed like this. She's going to leave me imprisoned, a pawn to be used when it best suits her."
"What?" he gasped. "She's not going to kill you?" When she shook her head, a second wave of relief surged through him and he gripped her more tightly. "Thank the Maker!"
"Alistair, no! Don't you understand? She's still going to kill you!"
He looked down into that well-loved face. Her face was drawn, pale, dark circles ringing her red-rimmed eyes. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes and his heart ached that he couldn't help her.
"I know," he said quietly.
"I asked her to spare you. I begged her, on my hands and knees, on my belly, I begged her not to do this! And she said no!"
She was crying again, and Alistair hushed her. "It's okay, Lya. It's okay."
"It's not okay! How can you say that?"
"It's okay because you'll still be alive." When she would have protested, he laid a finger across her lips. "Don't let them beat you, love. Don't let them win. Stay strong, for me, all right?"
She nodded slowly and his vision shimmered. He was scared, he wouldn't pretend he wasn't. Risking your life in battle was one thing. Facing your execution was something completely different. But he wouldn't let her see him break. So he sat and held her.
"Promise me something," he said suddenly. "Promise me you won't be there tomorrow."
"I won't leave you to face it alone, Alistair."
"If you want to be with me, be with me here." He tapped her chest, just above her heart. "But I don't want you there to see that. And if they make you go, promise me you won't watch."
"Alistair…."
"Promise me!"
Her nails dug into his back and her whisper was almost unheard as she breathed against his neck. "I promise."
Neither of them slept. Sleep meant missing some of their last few hours together and they weren't willing to lose that for fleeting physical comfort.
He wasn't sure who started it, whether it was her mouth against his neck first or his hand cupping her breast through her shirt. It didn't matter. Within moments, they were clawing at each other, moving desperately. There was no joy in it, but he needed to feel her against and around him.
Lya cried. She cried as she ran her hands over him, cried as she came gasping his name, cried as curled against his chest, huddling against him.
They didn't speak much, not really. There were whispered words of love, of grief. A name murmured against skin. At one point, she swore vengeance on all of them. He stopped that quickly, not because he didn't want it—he did—but because he didn't want it stealing any of their time.
"Don't let it destroy you, Lya."
"It's a little late for that," she remarked bitterly.
"No." He tipped her face up to his. "You're going to live, so live. Live for me, for us. No matter how much I want it, I'm not going to be there to share your life with you." His hand on her face shook slightly. "So…so, please, try to be happy."
When her hand came up to wipe gently across his cheek, he realized he was crying, too. "Don't be sad, Lya," he whispered. The full impact of what he was losing, not just his life, but their life together, hit him. "Please don't be sad. I love you too much for you to be sad over me."
She was crying again and nodded mutely, unable to speak through her tears. "I love you," she croaked out as he drew her close again.
For the rest of the night, they stayed huddled together in the dark, within the damp stones and cold iron bars of the cell. They both stiffened when the sound of boots approached the door. As it was unlocked and guards came in, they stood. When they opened the cell and came in, Lya refused to let him go. The guards had to pull her off him. He forced himself to be still, to not give them any reason to hurt her. She resisted, snarling as her berserker rage took over. He struggled against the guards binding him.
"Lya, enough!" he shouted over the scuffling and cursing of the guards. She turned towards him. "Enough. Don't do this." The fight left her, shoulders sagging. She allowed the guards to take her arms and lead her from the cell.
The guard captain cleared his throat once she was gone. "It's time," he said.
Alistair nodded and moved forward on his own, despite the panicky tightness in his gut. The guards formed around him as he was led through dim hallways and out into the brilliant morning sunlight that flooded a small courtyard.
The space was mostly empty, only a few guards standing at attention and a large hooded man waiting by a squared off stone. Alistair noted neither Anora nor Loghain was there, which was good, if surprising. It was better this way.
The guards pushed him towards the block and Alistair stumbled forward. He felt the gritty stone beneath his knees through the thin material of his pants.
"Alistair!"
His name called out from somewhere above him, and he turned, twisting in the guards' grasp until he made out the pale smudge of a face looking through a barred window. He waited, resisting the guards' efforts to move him until he saw the figure turn, presenting her back to the window. Then he relented, allowing them to bend him over the block.
The executioner took a few practice swings with his sword and Alistair tried to calm himself. He focused on Lya, on the knowledge that she was still alive, she would still live, that for her, hopefully, the end would be better.
And, he thought, as the executioner stepped up beside him, it was worth it.