"Do you like fighting beside Grey Wardens who want you dead?"Nathaniel Howe whispered, seething. He wanted to push her, make her snap. He wanted to see anger in those eyes, the same anger he felt for her, even if the result of his successfully goading her means him hanging on the gallows of Vigil's Keep. He saw a flicker in the Cousland Warden's eyes, but it wasn't contempt. It was a spark of a different sort. Like when a sudden image of a memory flashes in front of one's eyes.
Standing beside the Cousland, the captain of the guard and Seneschal Varel stared at him as if they wanted him dead. Not as if, they do want him dead. It was all up to her.
"Some of my best friends have wanted me dead," the Cousland Warden informed him, her eyes glinting with irony. Was she smiling at him? "Let the Maker decide his fate, not me. Bring him to the hall for the Joining. If he survives, then he may yet prove he has more honor than his father. If he dies…"
She didn't finish the thought.
Moments later, Nathaniel Howe lay on the cold stone floor of the main hall, drops of darkspawn blood dripping from his unshaven chin. He was unconscious, but alive.
"The Howe will live," Seneschal Varel stated flatly. Indeed, he was hoping that this would be the end for the traitorous Howes. But perhaps the Maker had other plans that he had no way of knowing. He looked at his Warden Commander, with her young face and old eyes. She didn't react, just a simple jerk of her head, indicating a nod. He realized that she still had not rested since she arrived. Her lack of reaction could be exhaustion. But she caught him staring at her and returned his gaze solidly.
"Thank you, Seneschal Varel," Alissandra Cousland said firmly. "You're assistance is much appreciated." She remembered her father's words to her,Give appreciation were it is due. A simple word of thanks goes a long way, especially when managing those serving under you. She stepped toward Oghren, who was already snoring on the floor after draining the whole cup. Bracing her knee and arms, she lifted him from the ground.
"Please, my lady!" Varel exclaimed. "Let me – "
"We have three new Wardens on the floor, Seneschal. I will not let you do all the hard work. You will learn as early as now that I always lead by example. I will not sit on some fancy chair ordering people to do things I can do myself." And with that the Commander of the Grey carried her sleeping comrade, like a captured buck, on her shoulders.
"Anyway, I left the heavier ones for you," Alissandra Cousland quipped while retreating. Seneschal Varel heard a small, good-natured chuckle from her. He had heard much about this Warden Commander, Alissandra Cousland, now honored by many as the Hero of Ferelden. Some were rumors, but her accomplishments proved some stories true. The late Eleanor Cousland, though impeccable of manners and courtly behavior, was a renowned battle maiden in her younger years. And Bryce Cousland was a general under King Maric during the rebellion that overthrew Orlais. It is clear that both the Cousland siblings took after their parents in martial skills and leadership.
But as for her humor and rustic behavior, Seneschal Varel thought that is entirely her own.
Alissandra Cousland dropped the rumbling dwarf on the bed. If she was not too gentle, he didn't seem to mind as his snoring remained uninterrupted. Massaging her shoulders, she left Oghren to his dreams of roasted nugs and Tapster ale and went to the room Varel's servant prepared for her. Not Varel's servant, my servant,she reminded herself. She remembered the conversation with Varel by the Vigil's gates…
"As Warden Commander, you are also our arlessa." Varel said.
"Maker's breath," she muttered to herself, remembering the events early that night. She arrived to an eerie scene, Mairri, a well-meaning warrior beside her, the Vigil quiet as a corpse. They both knew something was wrong. She didn't have time to think then, just act and react. First, there were darkspawn stragglers that she didn't sense, the Vigil taken, Warden's dead, an apostate mage – Anders – held captive by Templars, Templars dead, a crazy dwarf blasting some darkspawn to smithereens, another crazy dwarf – Oghren - fighting a room-full of darkspawn by himself: her mind took it all in stride. Like a machine she took it all in and made a decision; kill, free, kick, open, jump, intimidate. But now comes the hard part, now, when all is done, her mind asks her, did you do the right thing? Could you have done it better?
She looked out the window, spying the Amaranthine coast. But eventually the image faded and all she saw was the events of tonight. After securing the keep, saving Varel from being executed by that hideous talking darkspawn, they didn't have time to clean up or compose themselves when the King arrived. He arrived. Alistair.
"Andraste's holy ass!" she cursed louder, her head thumping against the cold glass window. With the memory came the reminder of the feeling, and, as if she was reliving the moment, she felt as she felt earlier, her heart pounding on her ears, hands shaking a little from nervousness when she kneeled before Alistair:
"King Alistair," Mhairri said in obvious awe, all starry-eyed and breathless. Anders reluctantly kneeled. Then, Varel was gracefully falling on his knees with the practiced gracefulness of a man of his authority. Oghren looked on, probably drunk and wondering why people are kneeling to Alistair. She finally stood up and stared into those gold eyes.
They were the same and unchanged. They were the very same golden eyes that sadly looked at her as he broke her heart six months ago. The same golden eyes that told her duty must come first. The same golden eyes that she chose not to see since she left Denerim after the Archdemon fell.
She was hoping he had changed. She was hoping that he would be unrecognizable to her, unfamiliar. She was hoping he would be a completely different man. That would make things easier, she thought, if he was just a stranger to her and she could look at his eyes and not see the man she loved, it would hurt less.
But he was still Alistair. Fancier armor on the outside, but still her beloved in the inside. He stared at her with eyes full of concern, softening as he held her gaze and spoke to her, asking if she was hurt. His eyes once again filled with sadness and compassion, apologizing to her for this new challenge thrust upon her. Does he not know that it hurt her more, to see that he still cares for her so, but they could not be together?
When the female templar tried to take Anders, it was Alistair who intervened and reminded her of the Right of Conscription. As the templar grimaced at her, Alistair gave her a conspiratorial smile, as if it were old times, and they were still at camp conspiring to irritate Morrigan by stuffing dirty socks in her pack. She couldn't help but return the smile, damn that smile.
But that tiny moment was instantly gone. For Varel, unknowingly stole the smile from both their faces when he congratulated the King on his betrothal.
"Oh. I, uh – thank you, Seneschal," Alistair had struggled to compose himself. Eyes and head falling, but he looked up and peered at her from beneath his lashes as if both wanting and not wanting to see her reaction. It was such a boyish gesture. It was such an Alistair gesture. She wanted to throw her arms around him then and there. But she didn't. Instead, she made her face an unreadable mask and stared at a point above his forehead, looking and not looking at him. "If the problems in the Bannorn, and here in Amaranthine, are resolved in time, you are all invited to the wedding. It would be a privilege for the Hero of Ferelden and the brave new Grey Wardens to honor us with their presence." This was Alistair, the statesman, speaking.
"You want her to attend your wedding? Hah! Don't hold your breath… er… your majesty Alistair," Oghren blurted then. He was clearly too drunk to be polite. Then again, he was already lacking in propriety even when sober. Alistair looked momentarily pained by the comment before composing himself. She knew it was incredibly vindictive to feel a surge of pride that moment, that Oghren, one of their original companions is taking her side and defending her.
I'm being childish, she told herself. Alistair doesn't want to marry Anora. He loathes her. He is doing this for Ferelden. It was easy to be bitter. To focus on merely her hurt. But the truth was, when Alistair wished her goodbye that night, she saw his hesitation. She saw his hurt more than her own. For a millisecond he looked like he was about to hug her, his face even leaning as if to touch his cheek to her cheek. But the air became heavy and tense, and he caught himself, he saw understanding dawning on Seneschal Varel's face, Ander's raised eyebrows and her body tensing before him. He stepped back and offered his hand. They shook hands like acquaintances. Like two people who are barely friends. How far it was from the truth, she thought, as his hand took hers and she remembered cold nights made warm by that hand on her back, on her face; that hand pulling her towards him as he pressed urgent kisses on her neck, her face, her lips…
"I will do my best, my King," was her last word to him. She used her coldest tone – polite, respectful, amiable but cold. How hurt he looked when she said that, her hand shaking his in her most businesslike way. But I did it for you, Alistair. Better you think that I have grown cold toward you than you know the truth, and suffer in doubt and guilt, over your decision. I did it for Ferelden, so that her King will become strong and not be frozen in grief and lost sentiments.
Alistair didn't know the extent of her suffering all those months ago. She made sure of that, for she knew his kind heart would be too affected had he seen her in her wretched state, crying and raging in her bed. Only Oghren and Zevran saw her then. She pleaded them to go; Zevran to his dreams of travel and treasure, and Oghren to his plans of a family with Felsi. But they were both so loyal, not wanting to leave her side when she was not yet set to right, as Oghren said.
They travelled together to Lake Calenhad, depositing Oghren to Felsi's waiting arms and sharp tongue. Then, off to Redcliffe, where they are always welcome.See, my dear Warden, Zevran had told her, when their entrance was greeted by squeals of joy from the children and waves and shouts from the adults. You are loved by many. Why give your heart to one who turns it away, when there are so many willing to give you theirs?
It was poetic to her that she, who helped save Redcliffe, was in turn saved by Redcliffe. Her stay in that town helped her get back on her feet. For the first time, she no longer woke up, only to remember what she lost and cry in bed all morning. Her appetite returned, as well as her thirst for adventure, for food, for travel, for books and learning, for talking to strangers, for life. It wasn't just the place but the people of Redcliffe that helped her out of her rut, some more than others.
"Did you ask Teagan to flirt with me?" she asked Zevran.
"No! Why would I do that?" Zevran blurted out.
"He's been paying extra nice attention to me. Flirty attention."
"And why would I instruct the new Arl of Redcliffe to do such a thing?" Zevran huffed at her, though not losing the naughty glint in his eye.
"To make me feel better? To distract me? To make me feel desired again?" she counted out her reasons.
"No, my dear. If I thought that tactic would work, I would do it myself rather than delegate such a lovely task to another man," Zevran replied, winking at her. "Seriously, my lovely Alissandra, how twisted do you think I am, accusing me of matchmaking you with your former lover's uncle?"
"Teagan is not his uncle. Well, sort of…"
Back in the present, Alissandra smiled, remembering Teagan's compliments and admiring gaze. If she had been less distracted with mending her heart, she would have been inclined to return the favor. But things were still too confusing and complicated then. And soon, even the simple comforts and charms of Redcliffe began to fade, as memories of Alistair came surging back. Having one's heart broken is like fighting the undead, she remembered thinking. You think it's gone but then it rises again, and again, and again.
She remembered dragging her feet from Redcliffe to Highever to find her elusive peace of mind. Zevran followed her, of course. In Highever, her brother had successfully begun rebuilding, and the daily tasks she helped him with as lord of the castle and arling returned her mind to its old sharpness. They were close, her brother and her, but despite their closeness he never spoke of Alistair to her, though the rumors surged throughout the land of the King and the Hero of Ferelden.
It was like a fairy tale, many young ladies swooned. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before some bard or playwright would take the cue and write about the tale of the Blight and the vanquishing of the Archdemon. Eventually, somebody did.
In Highever's town proper, the market district was bustling. The open ports and trade routes were busy again and merchants lined the streets, selling their wares from Antiva, from Orlais, from the Free Marches. Open Market Week was Fergus' idea, it was the arl of Highever's message to Ferelden that all business and trade are welcome. Highever has recovered from both the Blight and Howe's corruption, Fergus said. It was in the market that Alissandra and Zevran came upon the puppet show.
Children wailed, some in surprise, some in delight, some in fear, as a lifelike Archdemon puppet swooped down the stage. Zevran chuckled and Alissandra watched with curious interest as puppet versions of themselves and their companions bobbed around the stage fighting the puppet dragon.
"I love you, Warden!" a squeaky-voiced King Alistair puppet screamed at the brown-haired puppet that looked like her. The crowd suddenly became quiet, as if the moment was sacred. Children held their breaths and the older women murmured - some even glancing at her. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, embarrassed that a precious moment in her life is now being toured among all of Ferelden to see.
"Will you be my queen?" puppet Alistair squeaked.
"What?" Alissandra herself squeaked. Zevran merely stared, wide-eyed.
"I cannot! For I am a Grey Warden. My duty is more important than love. My life is adventure. And no man shall keep me from my true soulmate…"
Alissandra stared incredulously.
"… the open road."
"What, that is utter bull – "
Zevran dragged her from the market to the back of the nearest building. Tears were beginning to well in her eyes once again.
"Zevran! Did you see that…"
"I know. That puppet of me is quite handsome."
"Zevran! This isn't funny."
"My dearest Alis, it is a doll show for children."
"People will watch that and they will think it was I – "
"It doesn't matter…"
"Yes, it does," she yelled at him. "I was the one rejected. Not him. He left me. He – "
Zevran cut her rant, his lips pressing gently but firmly on hers. At first her hands tried to push him away, but the kiss deepened and she felt her resolve melting, her hands eventually wrapping around his neck. Zevran was her friend, most loyal and dear to her, but she would be lying if she said she had not stared at those lips and not wondered how they would feel. He pressed on, hands wrapping around her waist, their bodies melding and she responded, opening her lips finally to receive his eager tongue. Weak-kneed and out of breath, she pulled away.
"Alissandra…"
"Zev?"
"I have waited, here at your side. I gave way to him back then, for I knew he loved you and you loved him. But when he left, I hoped. It is not something I am used to – hoping – but I risked it nonetheless."
He kissed her again, as if to emphasize his point. It was no longer gentle but desperate, as if what his words could not explain can be conveyed in that kiss. "When I found you in Denerim, crying, again, on the floor, I wanted to take you then, make you mine, remove your pain, replace it with pleasure. But I waited. It has been five months now, my dearest. Will you not let him go? Let it all go."
"Oh, Zev," she sighed at the memory. The rain began to fall on the glass windows, blurring her vision of the sea. Instead she saw her own face, her reflection being felted with rain, like tears they ran down her mirrored cheeks.Some of my best friends have wanted me dead, she had told Nathaniel Howe, without even thinking twice. Zevran – her best friend. Suddenly, the grief of seeing Alistair again was miniscule as the memory of her last moment with Zevran came to her.
Author's Notes:
Thank you for reading this. This is my first try of writing fan fiction. Some notes that you may find helpful regarding this story:
- I am an Austen fan and will spend a lot of time in dialogue and character development instead of paragraphs of action and head-chopping.
- In this story, Alistair did not go through the Dark Ritual. Loghain was made a Warden and ultimately sacrificed his life.
- Alistair was not hardened before the Landsmeet. You will find in later chapters that this had an affect on his decision-making skills during the beginning of his reign.
- The main character, as a result of Alistair not being hardened, was the one who took the brunt of making the hard decisions during the Blight. As a result, she was the one who became hardened.
- There will be chapters seen through Oghren, Anders and Nathaniel's point of view. I would like to focus on how the friendship will eventually develop between them and the main character, their different ways of seeing things and their own unique personalities. Also, the story is about the legacy of the Grey Wardens and these three are Grey Wardens too. =)