A/N: Written for Shotguninfinity on tumblr. She requested Bethany/Templar!Alistair victorian AU.
A Rose in the Dark
Inspector Alistair Worston (possibly Theirin, possibly bastard heir to His Majesty the King's throne, but he didn't like to think about either) left the Amell estate flustered, red-cheeked, and far too full of good cheese. He tugged at his jacket, at his gloves, at anything he could really reach as he stepped lightly down the stairs and made for the corner three streets over where the hansom cab would hopefully already be waiting for him.
Well. That had been- bracing. Illuminating, even. Miss Solona Amell, and her mother, Lady Rivka- and all the rest. All the rest. It seemed like every lady of standing in Denerim had been in that sitting room, and they had all been looking at him, fumbling with his hat and his coat and the cheese he had been brought by the butler. And all he'd been looking at was Miss Solona.
Miss Solona.
There was no getting around it; she had to be one of the gifted. It wasn't even that her eyes were beautiful, her voice sing-song perfect- though that helped, because what else was she but magical? He let out a little helpless giggle at that, one that had been waiting for far too long. No, it wasn't just that. It was also the signs. Gloves on her hands. The way her mother had worn far too many sunburst amulets, and had eyed the new stranger cautiously. He hadn't given his title, but it was in his bearing at least a little. Not so much as the other men, but he still held his shoulders straight, stood in a way somewhere between a priest and a soldier.
Most missed it. But certain people didn't, and the way Lady Rivka and Miss Solona let their eyes slide over him, then stared when they thought he couldn't see, was telling. Too telling. Pretty eyes couldn't get in the way of duty, no matter how much he wanted them to. It was a complete and utter mess (but what wasn't? His life seemed so prone to messes, of all kinds and magnitudes).
He would have to submit the evidence to the captain that evening, and then he would have to go take a nice long walk. Maybe he would pray. Maybe he would go and hit things in the practice yard. Maybe he would just go to sleep early-
He ran into something. He ran into something warm and soft and suddenly making noise, falling with a yelp. Alistair let out a sharp, "Maker's-!" and then crouched to help the thing- woman, woman, and she was nearly as lovely as Miss Solona, he almost stumbled going to offer a hand- up to her feet. She had a maid's frock on, black dress and high white collar and lace-trimmed apron, and her dark hair was pulled back from her face in careful plaits, topped by a little white cap with long trailing ribbons gone all askew.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and even her voice was lovely (bad luck, horrible luck, messes everywhere, and of course this poor maid had to be one of them, the Maker had a horrible sense of humor, worse than his). She fit her hand in his - not too little, and not exactly dainty, calloused with dry skin around her nails, a few cuts and scrapes here and there - and he curled his fingers around hers, straightening up and bringing her with him.
"No, no. Don't apologize. I wasn't- I'm afraid I was, um, lost in thought." He laughed, moving to rub at the nape of his neck and then realizing he still held her hand. He let go; he was going to burn up with nervous excitement and embarrassment in just a moment. From being in a room with Miss Solona to meeting a pretty girl on the streets-
A street and a half from where his cab might be waiting. Right.
"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, when he realized she hadn't spoken yet. She wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was looking down at the flowers now scattered over the pavement, wet and dirty from a recent spritzing rain.
"What- oh. No, I'm fine. I'm fine, thank you, sir."
He crouched down again without allowing himself time to think, trying to gather up the least dirtied of the flowers. "I really should have been paying attention," he said, glancing up to her.
She was staring. At him, now. "You don't have to do that-"
"What? But I knocked them out of your hands." Her lovely hands. Her slightly calloused hands. Her not-magic-y at all hands, because she met his eyes and she wasn't weighed down with sunburst amulets. (He thought he saw the bump of one just below her dress, just above her bosom, and then he made himself look to her face instead.)
"Madame Flemeth won't want them anyway like that. I'll just explain what happened." She smoothed her hands over her skirt. "But, ah, thank you. It's a nice thought."
"She's your employer?" The name tickled at something in the back of his mind as he stood back up, but he was too busy trying not to make entirelytoo much a fool of himself as he smoothed out his coat and resettled his hat.
"... Yes? I'm sorry, I-"
"My name's Alistair," he blurted. "Though some call me Al. I don't really like that, actually, but- some do call me it."
She blinked, her eyes wide and golden-brown and far, far prettier than Miss Solona's eyes. For one thing, she was actually looking at him. And she was probably not a mage and she was definitely not a lady's daughter, and Maker, she was beautiful.
"And I am sorry about the flowers," he added.
Her lips quirked, and then she laughed, ducking her head to hide her grin. He grinned in turn, hoping she laughed because he was amusing and not because he was laughable. That would have been nice.
And her smile seemed nice enough when she managed to look up again. "Apology accepted. My name's Bethany. My brothers like to call me Beth, but they're both war-headed fools, really."
"Soldiers?"
"The both," she said with a sigh, and then she shrugged. "Can't be fixed, I suppose."
"No, that sort of thing rarely can." He glanced once more to the flowers strewn at her feet, at the spots of wet and grime now on her skirt (hard to see in the gloomy overcast day, and harder still with the fabric so thick and dull and dark). "... Can I buy you a new bouquet, Miss Bethany? To replace the one I destroyed?"
"That's not necessary. Don't worry."
He met her gaze again. "I know- but I want to. May I?"
Bethany hesitated, then glanced behind her. "You seemed as if you were determined to get somewhere. Quickly."
"Oh, I- it can wait. Is that a yes, then?"
"... Yes, I think it is."
I think it is. Maker, she was getting herself into a mess, she could just feel it. And yet she couldn't quite be moved to care. Running head-first into a handsome man who helped her up even though she was a maid? And offered to buy her flowers (even if they were, ultimately, for another woman)?
That didn't happen every day, and she wasn't about to run. She did enough of that.
Of course, there was always The Risk, the one she had been taught from the day she was old enough to really hear her father's words. Be careful, he had said, of those who would seek to leash you for what you are. Those who could find her power buried under all her careful guards, those who would mark her as mage or witch, those who could take her at any time from her family. Be careful, he had warned her, because he had lived with the yoke for most of his life.
It always chafed, he told her. Even in its absence, the memory of it wore at him.
And so, The Risk: he could be a templar. They appeared as normal men and women, but they had what they claimed was the strength of the Maker's will behind them (which Bethany doubted) and could supposedly smell a mage from five streets away. But she didn't think that templars smiled like that (grinned) or laughed like that (almost giggled) or were quite so bashful. Or earnest.
So she took her chances, walking back towards the flower seller's with him, not quite close but not quite distant.
"What do you do, sir?" she asked, when they had exhausted talking about the weather (wet, chill, unpleasant, unchanging, just the same as always) and about the possible future weather and the weather a week ago. He laughed and rubbed at the back of his neck again.
"This and that. Lately I've been, ah- thinking of working for the police. Maybe."
"You'll excuse me for saying that you don't seem like the sort." Too kind and too boyish, without even the dangerous edge that Carver had.
"I don't? No, I suppose I don't," Alistair said, smile as sheepish as ever. "But it's a job."
She laughed, ducking her head. "No, I understand. Being a maid would hardly be my first choice. But it's not so bad. It's actually... nice, in a lot of ways. Better than a mill, for sure." And far safer, given her employer.
Alistair didn't respond, and she glanced over to him. He had stopped a few paces back and was turned, hand just falling back to his shoulder. He must have waved to somebody. She saw a cab pull away onto the road, but nothing else but milling crowds.
"Alistair?"
"What? Oh, sorry." That boyish grin was back on his face in an instant, and this time when he came back to her side, he offered his arm. "I'll try to be a better escort. Where's this flower seller?"
"Right there," she said, pointing, even as she settled her hand experimentally on his arm.
The table was set out just outside a small chantry (not hers, but a nice one all the same), and the woman running it was tall and red-haired and Orlesian, one of the Sisters all dressed in peach and gold. Her name was Leliana, and she smiled when she saw Bethany approaching. Bethany couldn't help but smile in return.
"So soon? Oh, but what happened to your flowers?" she asked as Bethany let go of Alistair's arm and moved up to the table.
"I dropped them," she confessed with a small laugh, then glanced back to Alistair. He was watching her, gaze not even straying to Leliana with all of her charm. Bethany blushed. He coughed and glanced down.
Maker.
Leliana laughed, bringing Bethany back to herself. "Ah, I see. No worries at all. Has your companion come to buy you more?"
"Um- yes?" Alistair said, sidling up to the table as well. "Whatever she had before. If that's possible. Is it possible?"
"It is," Leliana said, winking and beginning to pull flowers from various boxes, sorting through for ones whose petals were not yet spotted or wilted.
"Oh, good." Alistair's shoulders bowed a moment in relief, and Bethany found herself watching him far too closely. First it had been his smile, and then his jaw, and now his shoulders, and what would her mother say?
The Risk. Right.
Bethany was still staring when she heard the barest whisper from Leliana - "Anything else, sir?"
"Oh," Alistair said, and he looked to her for just a moment. Bethany at least managed to bite down on her squeak, but her cheeks still turned hot and throbbing and she had to look away. She didn't catch what Alistair said next, pulse too loud in her ears, but she did see him come up beside her.
"Ah- for you," he said, and she heard that, and saw the red rose held out to her. It didn't make things better (except that it made everything better). She reached out for it, careful for thorns.
"Me?"
"You. If you'll have it, that is." His smile was tighter than before, and when her fingers brushed his (a little wave of heat, a static shock, a spell gone wonderfully awry), she could feel him trembling.
"What for?" she asked, not pulling her hand back just yet.
"Oh, you know. Using the- thorns. To fight off... robbers. Not that I think you'd be set upon by robbers, and if you were, I'd come to your rescue, but- uh- dust bunnies? Against dust bunnies? Maker, that sounds-"
"Lovely." She smiled and took the rose to her chest, and behind them, Leliana laughed.
Alistair looked up and away, coughing and quite clearly wishing to be left alone, even if he was grinning like a fool again. She stepped past him (close enough that if the hem of her skirt brushed his leg, it was wholly accidental) and went to the table, picking up as well the bouquet.
Leliana winked. "He's a darling one," she murmured, and Bethany shook her head.
"Stop that."
The Orlesian lifted her hands. "I am but a simple Sister and saleswoman and storyteller, filled with tales and hymns naught else. On your way, then, your mistress won't like you out so long."
"She'll find it amusing, I'm sure," Bethany said with a shake of her head. "But thank you, Leliana."
"Any time, Miss Bethany." Leliana nodded her head in farewell, and Bethany turned back to Alistair, who still looked about half-ready to die of embarrassment and happiness.
"So, where were you on your way from, anyway? With all of your hurry that could wait?" she asked, balancing the bouquet in the crook of one arm, the rose in her hand, and slipped her other hand back against his elbow.
He beamed and led as soon as she'd taken the first step in the direction they needed to go. "Oh. Well, that is- I was running an errand for somebody."
"You're a very generous man," she said, curling her fingers tighter and smiling so wide that her eyes crinkled.
"I am," he returned with a laugh. "Or I try to be, at least. It's working?"
"It's working."
He ducked his head, blushing and thumbing at his chin with his unoccupied hand. "Good. But where was I- oh, running errands. I was by the Lady Rivka's house, which is far too large and far too... too."
"A lady's house?" Bethany asked, blinking. Well. That was- unexpected, to say the least. "A soon to be police officer, at a lady's..."
"Oh, no! Nothing like that. Delivering a message, really; that's all. Seeing if there was work for this... friend of mine to do. Being a helpful hound. Eating all of the cheese." He pulled his arm closer for just a moment, and she tugged against him playfully. "All of it, it's a wonder I'm not asleep now."
"Yes, that makes you a helpful hound," she said, shaking her head. "But really, a lady's house?"
"Really," he replied, and his solemnity only lasted until she began giggling and he couldn't help himself, joining in.
He walked her to the foot of the stairs up to the townhouse doors, then stood awkwardly, she a step up from him and a little too close.
"So, ah," he said, then failed to find any other words.
She blushed, smiling and ducking her head. In the crook of her arm was tucked the bouquet, pale and vibrant. And she still held his rose in her fingers, a flash of brilliant red against her pale skin and dark dress, and curls of her hair had come loose from her braids.
"If," he tried again, "I wanted to see you again-"
"Not here," she said with a little shake of her head. "Or, maybe here, but don't come to the door. She'll tease you until you want to die, and her daughter is... ah. No, don't come to the door." She smoothed out her apron, sliding her hand over the fabric a few more times than was strictly necessary. "But there's- my family lives in Lothering. The apartment's there."
"Your war-minded brothers wouldn't chase me out with brooms? Or worse?"
"The worst you'd face would be maybe being lashed to a lamppost in winter," Bethany said with a grin.
"Oh, those." He shrugged. "I've never had the pleasure before, myself."
"Neither have I," she said, and he noticed she was beginning to blush.
Wait- what, exactly, were they talking about?
He cleared his throat. "So, Lothering-"
"Oh, right. Lothering. Ah, fifth tenement down after the mills, on Imperial way. We're on the second floor, door on the right. Um- there will be a dog."
"A dog, in that part of town?"
"He doesn't particularly like it. But Garrett - my older brother - doesn't trust him anywhere else."
"Well, I like dogs." He was grinning again, like a fool, but the Maker gave strange blessings in the best of places. He looked to her hands, wondering if maybe he could take one again-
"'Tis an odd sight, to see you consorting with idiots, Bethany," came a woman's voice, and he only then noticed that a window had been opened a story up, a dark-haired and golden-eyed woman leaning out of it. She looked- bored. And more than a little disgusted. "Come in, mother would speak with you."
She looked as if she might swoop down at any moment. And Maker, the way she was dressed - she was wearing no corset and perhaps no stays at all, and the neckline of whatever she did wear was gaping down-
He looked back to Bethany. "Ah. I'll- I'll see you later, then. Miss Bethany."
"Good luck with the police, Mr. Alistair."
"Just Alistair-" he said, and she grinned and nodded, retreating to the door.
"Alright, 'just Alistair'. I'll be waiting."
She slipped through the door and the window above came down with a crack, but he was left standing just below the first step, remembering the rose in her hand, and cursing himself for not asking for a kiss before she left.
"A strange choice," Madame Flemeth said as Bethany arranged the flowers on the mantle.
"Surely you mean a foolish one, mother?" Morrigan said, settled by the fire with a grimoire open in her lap. Her odd, old clothes gaped low in the front, and Bethany glanced over with a moment's envy at the freedom of it before she remembered to be embarrassed. "He would only be a distraction."
"Ah, but distractions can be quite welcome," Flemeth said with a chuckle. "And what do you think, Bethany? Will he be a suitable distraction?"
"Are you asking," she tried slowly, still too flustered to feel up to her employer's riddles, "whether I like him, or whether I will aim higher?"
"You could claw your way to the top, should you wish," she said with a noncommittal wave of her hand. The old witch looked like any other woman of advanced years, long white hair pulled up in elaborate whorls, but Bethany's father had once told her that Flemeth was another name forAsha'bellanar, otherworldly and dangerous. Flemeth called herself an old hag who talked too much.
Bethany erred on the side of caution, and was silent.
It earned her another chuckle, low and roiling, and Flemeth stretched out in her sitting chair. "But would you like it there? I rather think you will stand in the darkness, when the time comes. You will watch."
"'Tis an accurate description of her," Morrigan said with another turn of a page, a twitching of her fingers until the flames in the fireplace danced blue and green.
Bethany said nothing still, turning from the mantle and keeping the rose held between her fingers. Flemeth's eyes drifted to it, and she grinned.
"A rose growing in the dark, all thorns and pale petals. Yes, I think he is a suitable distraction."
He finally found his cab half an hour later, but he was still so giddy with the meeting - the rose - the name and address and knowledge - that he barely noticed how late it had grown until he stepped out into the murky sunset of downtown Denerim, just outside the building that served as headquarters. It was three streets down from the nearest chantry, on the corner of Kinloch Lane, nondescript, repurposed. It had a yard out back with high walls around it for privacy. And it had what amounted to his place, a single room (better than the barracks in the other districts).
It also currently had Captain Greagoir waiting for a report.
He was sitting in the meeting room along with one of Alistair's fellows, a slightly older man named Cullen who looked more than a little irritated at Alistair's lateness. Alistair smiled thinly in return, taking his seat and looking over Greagoir.
"Sir. My best guess," he said, clearing his throat, "is that Miss Solona Amell may be one of the gifted. I didn't see anything directly incriminating, but..."
Greagoir lifted his eyes from the reports he'd been pointedly reading from the moment Alistair walked in. "She had the look?"
"She wouldn't meet my eyes, and her mother had festooned the house with sunbursts."
Inspector Cullen frowned and looked down at his file, while Captain Greagoir folded his hands beneath his chin. The room fell silent, and Alistair tried to think of nicer things that Miss Solona Amell in chains. Bethany. Bethany no-last-name, maid and young woman and holding his rose in her hands. The thought had him drifting, and he started as Cullen spoke.
"The Amells," he said, "attend services on average once a month. They are hardly... dedicated."
Greagoir sighed. "It does seem suggestive, doesn't it." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I had hoped we could avoid a public situation like this. It's always so tricky."
"Sir, if I may?" Cullen said, sitting forward. "It may be easiest to do this in an even more public situation. There will be distractions, and a little drama at a social gathering is not unheard of. There is also always the chance that Miss Amell's opinions differ from Lady Amell's."
Alistair thought he heard something there, a hint of knowing, but he didn't comment on it.
Instead, he said, "Well, if there's a party, I don't think I'll be invited. Inspector Cullen should take over; he's a better dancer, anyway."
Cullen shifted uncomfortably, and Greagoir quirked a brow. "Is that so? Well, then. I think I might be inclined to agree. Inspector Cullen, if you would look into the Amells' social schedule for the next fortnight? Let us finish this as quickly as we can."
It was when Leandra had given up and Garrett had taken over pulling the laces on her corset taut that somebody knocked on the door. It was a little hesitant, then a little over-determined, and a little bit too long, and she blushed down to the neckline of her chemise. She could only imagine one person of her acquaintance knocking like that. Of course he had to come calling now. In her smalls and still thinking of Flemeth's words - a suitabledistraction.
It was Carver who got to the door of the apartments first. He paused, then turned to Bethany. Her room had been too small to lay out all of the kit she was being tied into, and so she stood in near-direct line to the door.
"Whoever it is can come later," Leandra said, frowning, and Bethany shook her head.
"No, no, let me see what he wants. I think it's, ah, Alistair." She'd told them about him the other night (to about the reaction she had expected), but Carver still frowned in confusion, and Leandra pursed her lips.
She tried to walk away, but Garrett's hands still on the laces at her back stopped her short. "Right, because the day we send you into society is the day you go opening the door in your underwear for a working-class man. Maker, Beth-"
Another knock, and Carver just huffed and opened the door.
"Yes?"
Alistair peeked in past her twin, and then turned bright red and looked down at the floor, at his hat in his hands. "U-uh- I can- come back later-"
"Yes, do," Leandra said, and Bethany glared, then stepped back to stomp on Garrett's foot. He hissed and let go, and she strode over to the door, grabbing up the ratty dressing robe that had been mother's decades ago, pulling it on and clutching it closed.
"Yes, Alistair?"
He wouldn't look up. "I- I was going to ask if you'd like to go on a walk tonight. Possibly go see a play?"
She could feel Leandra glaring at her back, but she ignored it, straightening her shoulders.
"I would, but I have other engagements," she said, reaching out to lay a hand on his wrist. "Another time? Once I have gone through the dances of being introduced to society."
His head shot up at that. "You're- oh. Oh. Maker, I'm sorry, that explains-" He swallowed, then looked to her mother. "Mistress, I am sorry. Just like me, making assumptions and- um. I'll just- I'll be going-"
Bethany tightened her hold just a fraction, and murmured low enough for only his ears, "I'll be at the Lady Rivka's ball tonight. They're- family. Perhaps there's another errand you could run...?"
He froze mid-protest, then slowly nodded. Carefully, he slipped his hand from her grip, and took a step back. "Ah, right. I'll- leave you all. To this. Good luck, Miss Bethany. Maker be with you." He smiled, and she felt her blush renew; she dipped a courtesy and he made a slight strangled sound, then turned and hurried down the hallway with only a few hesitant moments where he almost looked back.
Leandra took her elbow and pulled her back into the room, sighing and correcting, telling her that if she ever let a man not her husband see her in such a state of undress again-
And Bethany didn't care. Because she knew that Alistair had a reason to visit the Lady Rivka, and she had a feeling she might see him there for just a minute. See him, while decked out in the best finery her mother and brothers could afford.
It was a nice thought, at least.
Technically, it was Inspector Cullen's case now. And Inspector Cullen would, in fact, be at the party. Alistair managed to worm his way in, though, last-minute and breathless and a little too obvious that he was going for reasons other than work.
Bethany Hawke, in an evening gown, all silks and laces and-
Out of his reach, if this all worked. Maker, his luck was horrid. But at least she wasn't Miss Solona, who might end the night with her blood in a tracking phylactery and at risk of being removed from all her finery.
He tried not to think about that part and straightened his waistcoat.
He pictured her entering the ballroom with his rose in her hair, then remembered it had been almost a week and the rose was surely dead. A dead rose wouldn't be particularly flattering, and it wouldn't even have the benefit of smelling good. And she should smell good, and-
Maker.
He downed his cup of punch and tried not to look too awkward or anxious or conspicuous, but it was hard when all else he could do was stare at the doors.
And then she was there. The doors opened and the footman announced, Miss Bethany Hawke. He froze in place, hand halfway to a cheese plate, because her dress was deep teal silk, low cut and perfect, and there was a red and blue kerchief around her throat as if it were a necklace. Her hair was curled and plaited and meticulously arranged, her face powdered and painted, and she moved with a grace he could barely comprehend.
And most importantly, there was a rose tucked into her curls.
He wanted to go to her, immediately, but she was met by Miss Solona and Lady Rivka. The two looked a little nervous and uncertain, and Bethany looked uncomfortable, but soon she was being ushered around and introduced to anybody and everybody. Alistair kept watching.
He watched, too, when Cullen approached the three women and asked Miss Solona for a dance, and when she accepted. He watched Lady Rivka shift her attention to her daughter once more. And he watched Bethany find him in the crowd and begin crossing the room.
Alistair couldn't help his smile, and he set down his cup and the morsel of cheese he was holding and went to meet her.
"You look- you- wow," he said, stumbling over his words and not caring for an instant. "You look amazing. You look-"
"Like a lady?" Bethany suggested, and she dipped a curtsy, and it was so much different than her curtsy earlier that day. Just as playful, but without being able to see her corset, without her family watching, alone in a wash of people-
"Definitely like a lady," he said, and offered his hand. She took it, and he raised her gloved hand to his lips, hoping, praying, that he had it all right. Given the way she blushed (he could see it even through her paints and powders) and stepped a little closer, he thought he did. "You're beautiful," he murmured, lowering her hand but not letting go. "And if a policeman could ask a lady to dance..."
"You could ask this one," she assured him, and he couldn't help a grin from flashing over his face. He knew he should have let go of her hand, then; they were not a man and a woman on the street, and rules of propriety were in play that he barely knew.
He didn't let go.
"Only if it's the Remigold," he said instead, laughing. "That's the only one I can assure you I can dance."
"It's a good thing I know it, then," she returned, and she laced her fingers with his.
He knew he was grinning ear to ear, and that this was not quite what they were supposed to be doing - Cullen could see, or Lady Rivka, or any number of people, and she was supposed to be a part of society now - but he didn't care. He plain didn't care. If he could have whisked her out the door at that moment and taken her away- or even just gone on a walk- or kissed her (Maker, kissing a girl, a pretty girl, would she even let him?), he would have.
Instead, a scream pierced the air, cutting through the strings and the chatter and the sound of too many bodies.
Then the hum of magic, live magic in the room, lit on every nerve in his body and his eyes widened. He let go of Bethany's hand and whirled to face the source, hand going for a sword that wasn't there. Cullen had his, though. Cullen-
Cullen was on his knees in a quickly widening circle of emptiness, blood spilling out along the floor. Solona's hands were wreathed in flame, and Lady Rivka was-
Dead.
Her throat had been slit and her body hung in the air like some twisted puppet, her blood staining the air and making it shudder with power. Alistair swore, running for the sick tableau.
A hex fixed his feet to the ground before he could take more than three steps, though, and behind him Bethany said only, "Alistair!" She was at his side in an instant, and his heart stopped when he saw her hands wreathed in the faint but ever-present, throbbing glow of magic.
Probably not a mage, he thought, weakly.
The man striding towards Cullen wore a perfectly cut suit and moved as if he hadn't just killed a woman of standing, killed a living, breathingperson. In one hand he held up a cane, twirling it to create a shield that blocked the gout of fire Solona sent his way. In the other he held a knife.
"I didn't know," he said, his voice carrying, "that you consorted with templars, dear Solona."
"Uldred, stop this!" Solona cried, the air thickening and becoming heavy. Alistair struggled, trying to find the will to dispel Bethany's hex.
"You have to let me go!" he hissed. "Bethany, please- I need to stop him-"
Bethany looked at him with wide eyes. "You, too?"
A templar. A mage. It can't work-
The man - Uldred - laughed, and it pierced through every thought. "No, dear Solona! Dearest girl. Wheels are already in motion. Would you stop this now? Would you stop our ascension? We shall become glory."
The Veil shuddered and bowed around them, sucking sound from the air for just a moment before it all came back in a violent rush, and Alistair could only stare helplessly as the first clawing forms of demons slunk into being. He could only hear the screams, the stampeding of feet, the swearing and sobbing as people tried to force their way through the door. And through it all, Bethany stood at his side, holding him fast and staring. She stared as people were dragged down, as their heads were dashed against the polished floors, as the demons tore them apart.
"Do something!" he cried. A shade sprung out of the ether beside them, and Bethany whirled, knife-sharp shards of ice jumping from her hands and tearing its shadow-form to tatters of Veil. The hex around his feet faltered.
"We need to get out," Bethany said.
"We need to keep order!"
"There's no time! There's only us!"
The air split with a crack and Solona screamed. Bethany swore and dropped the hex on him, bringing up instead a shield against the sudden surge of too-hot air. Where Uldred had stood now towered a pride demon, and it howled and dove for Solona, abandoning Cullen- still pinned but blessedly alive.
She only dropped the shield to conjure instead a roiling ball of flame, to send it glancing from creature to creature, until it crashed over the pride demon's back, sending falls of sparks to the polished floor. It screeched, but it didn't slow, and Solona, on the ground in all her finery, barely managed to roll between its legs. Other demons clawed for her, missing by inches. Alistair ran for Cullen, if only to take up his sword. His world narrowed to that single point, but Bethany shouted his name-
Bethany. Mage.
No time.
He dove under the swiping claws of one creature, knocked another to the ground as he barrelled forward. The pride demon had turned around, advancing on Solona and on him and on Cullen. Behind him, Bethany let loose another spell, this time directly into the creature's throat. It made it stumble back, but little else.
He was going to die.
They were all going to die.
Maker-
An unearthly roar shook the very walls. It came from beneath and all around them, the cry of a great beast angered and enraged. The other demons who had flowed to surround Cullen and Uldred swirled up and up to the ceiling. Alistair stumbled to a halt and stared as, as if from the very air, the form of a dragon took shape. It roared again, then brought one clawed foot down on the demon, knocking it to the floor.
The hold on Cullen shattered, and in an instant Solona was at his side, helping him up and back as the dragon snapped at the demon's throat.Dragon, Alistair thought, weakly. Dragon. And a demon. And Maker, Bethany's a mage-
Bethany was a mage.
But he couldn't take her in now, couldn't stand the thought, and it wasn't his assignment. This wasn't his. He fell back, finding Bethany and taking her wrist. The demons hadn't touched her, thank the Maker, and even now they tried to attack through scale and hide. Solona had staggered, dragging Cullen, halfway to the door, and the surreal and horrible battle continued, magic crackling until the discharge was tangible.
"We need to get out-" he breathed.
"I know!" Bethany was the one to drag him to a hallway, away from the bodies, away from the nightmare. "This way, there's a door in the cellar- if we can get to the cellar, we can get out, and we'll be safe-"
"The cellar-"
"People saw me cast, Alistair. People- you saw me cast-"
"I don't care," he said, blurted, as she dragged him into the bowels of the estate. Through winding hallways, down stairs, and finally into the cellar. He let go of her as she began to check the walls, fingers frantic.
Above them, the house shook.
He looked to the stairs, then joined her at the wall, following her lead in pressing stones. "Bethany-"
"Later, later," she said. Her hands were trembling, and the rose had nearly fallen from her hair. "I don't want to die-"
"What's going on?" He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to pretend like nothing up there had happened, that it had been the nightmare of a moment, a templar's fears made visible but not real, not real. He'd seen at least six people fall. Six. And a dragon. No, it was impossible.
But Bethany trembled and sang of magic in every rise and fall of her chest, and he couldn't ignore that. He couldn't ignore the steady throb in him that answered the lingering traces of her spells. She bit at her lower lip and he was transfixed.
"I don't know. Not all of it. I don't know. Except that Aunt Rivka is dead and Flemeth is up there-"
Flemeth. "Maker, the Witch of the-"
"My boss," she said, then shouted in triumph as she found the stone that pressed and gave enough leverage for the hidden door to swing open. "Here, we go down this way."
This wasn't how she'd imagined it.
It had started out perfectly. Alistair had been waiting for her, and he had been handsome and bashful and had kissed her hand and asked her to dance. That was right. That was what she had hoped for, or a short walk, or a brief touch. The promise of the night had been almost too much.
But the Maker had a twisted sense of humor, and now, slinking into the sewers beneath Denerim, she trembled and ached with the knowledge that it had all been lost. So many lives- her cousin's secret- her secret-
He said he didn't care, but she knew better. Templars always cared. Templars could do nothing but care. And he was a templar.
Maker, Alistair was a templar. The Risk, realized.
She tried to remember what her mother had told her and what Garrett had drilled into her. Look for the red lanterns; they would lead the way home. They would be unlit but there. The only light came from the pale glow around her right hand, and she sought them in the gloom.
There. A flash of red. She pushed on towards it even though she wanted nothing more than to curl into the smallest possible space and hide. Flemeth, up above. Flemeth, in a form not her own. Maker - it would ruin things. It would ruin so much. And why would Flemeth have been there?
"Bethany-" Alistair said, and she glanced back.
"I know the way out."
But he stopped walking, and she slowed as well, turning. They stood on the narrow walkway alongside the flow of fetid water, but her skirt hem was already soaked. All her mother's savings - or what seemed like it, anyway - wasted. The whole night, wasted. She was supposed to look for a husband who could bring their family back up in standing; she was supposed to correct the 'wrongs' of her mother's elopement (though Bethany could never be convinced to disapprove of her father). She wasn't supposed to agree to dance with a policeman (templar), and she wasn't supposed to ruin the dress.
Lady Rivka would have died either way, though. And this way, she was alive. Alistair was alive. And she knew what she faced.
"Alistair?" she asked, and his brow darkened.
"I... you're a mage," he said, but there was no trace of anger or disgust there. Just confusion. Surprise.
Bethany nodded. "I always have been."
"I didn't know. Maker, I didn't know- that's not why I-" He reached out for her, and she flinched. He dropped his hand. "I promise. I swear. Upon all the vows I took even when I didn't really want to- I didn't know. And I don't care."
"Of course you care," she said, and she reached up to touch at the rose in her hair, close to falling. Carefully, she pulled it free. It was his rose, preserved a few days beyond when it should have wilted, and she cupped it gently in her hands. "Templars care."
"Well, I care- but only because I don't care. I mean, I should, but I don't. That means something- right?" He stared down at the rose, then glanced up to her. "Please tell me that means something. Up there- I would have protected you."
She could only stare, helplessly, hands beginning to tremble again. "And what will you do when we leave down here?"
"Take you home, or wherever else you want to go. Keep you safe. Renounce my vows and court you like- like a gentleman. If you'll have me. I'll face down Flemeth if I have to, to bring you flowers."
"Why?"
It was the heaviest simple question she had ever asked. She stared in the dark towards him, the only light coming seemingly from the rose in her hands until she tucked it back in place. He followed her every move, then stepped forward to take her hand in his.
"Because I want to. Because I- I like you. Can't I like you? Don't you-"
"Maker, yes," she said, tightening her fingers around him until his lips parted just a little. It was just another breath to step forward, to rise onto her toes, and to kiss him.
Their hands clasped between them, his other arm went around her, pulling her close. The kiss was unpracticed and fumbling and she couldn't help her small laugh, didn't mind his answering chuckle. Both sounded thin and a little uncertain, even to her, but she clung to it as she clung to him.
When he pulled away, it was only an inch, two at most, and he grinned.
"Bethany," he said, then laughed. "I never really wanted to be a templar, anyway. Too much-"
He froze, smile falling and brow furrowing, and then she heard it too. Breathing. Footsteps. And then-
A near-human shout filled the sewer tunnel and Bethany pulled away, turning on her heel and pulling fire to her hands, sending the dark fleeing to sharp shadows. There were five of the things coming towards them, nearly human but not, glassy-eyed and foul and bounding across slippery stone like it was nothing, like wolves over the heath.
"Are those- Maker, are those darkspawn?" Alistair whispered. "Those don't exist. Those don't-"
"And neither do dragons!" Bethany said, looking frantically to him. "Get behind me!"
She pulled power from the air, sending a wave of flame out from them. It licked at nearly caught on the grease-slicked waters, and it took the first of the darkspawn down with a howl.
"Why didn't I bring my sword?" Alistair hissed, and she shook her head, backing up and trying to freeze them in place.
"Why am I in a silk gown? My mother's going to kill me, if we survive this-"
The darkspawn closest to her broke from her hold and she shouted as it lunged. A tightening of her fingers and she drove sharpened air up into it, knocking it off stride and drawing blood. She felt it rain down on her and fought on, ignoring it and using the power in her veins to rip the beast in two, to hold its heart until its heart stopped beating.
But there were three more, and they were fast, and she couldn't fight them all off. Behind her, Alistair shouted her name; she heard the sound of fist on flesh as she went down, head cracking on the stone beneath her. She crackled with energy, panicking and letting it flood out of her in a great wave.
The demons had never gotten so close, and she could only see herself torn to pieces, half-eaten or dragged into the sewage. She fought even as she tasted blood in her mouth, heard her dress rip. Flames poured from her, ice shards leaped from her fingers into twisted flesh, and pain lanced through her stomach.
The last thing she knew was Alistair's cry, and then silence.
Darkspawn. There were darkspawn in the sewers, and they had nearly killed Bethany. They had nearly killed the woman he had found and nearly lost and then followed and now-
He cradled her in his arms, hoping that most of the blood - all of the blood, Maker, please - wasn't hers.
She was pale and unresponsive, lips parted and eyes closed, blood across her face and lips. Her dress was torn. The rose was gone. The darkspawn around them were all dead, their necks broken or their skin burned to nothing, but her breathing was shallow. Too shallow.
The Maker hated him.
He held her as he stood, stumbling up and looking around. The only light came from her, and it was fading fast, the last bits of magic clinging to her fingers and eyelashes. He didn't know where to go. He didn't know where she had been going, or where they should go now. If there were more darkspawn-
But he had to get her out. He had to get her somewhere safe. He began to walk, following the wall and praying that somehow, somewhere, he would find something.
He didn't know how long he had walked when he heard a sound, a faint murmur. He stopped and looked down to her, but in the blackness he couldn't even make out the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat. Instead, he pulled her closer and ducked his head.
"Bethany?" he whispered.
She whimpered in response, wordless and pained. In his hands, she trembled, and he felt for the first time how warm she was, how over-hot, and his stomach twisted. Darkspawn, the old stories said, twist men to horrors. Darkspawn are not born as men are. Darkspawn...
"I'll get you out of here. I'll keep you safe," he breathed, even as the fear began to take hold, to root his feet to the ground. "Maker help me, I'll fix this. You saved my life- Bethany-"
She only whimpered.
Ten more steps. Fifteen. Twenty. He lost count when he focused on her breathing instead, the rattle of it, the uneven hitching. The sounds she made were almost lost, her movements small and fading.
Please.
Light flashed in the dark, and Alistair had to close his eyes against it. Too bright, too sharp, and too good to be true. There was a voice then, footsteps, somebody coming close-
"You, there!" It was a woman's voice, harsh and cold, and he flinched and opened his eyes. She was tall, her dark hair long and pulled back into a bun, clad in the uniform of His Majesty's army. And she was pointing a sword at him.
Behind her were two men, one with tanned skin and a gold earring, the other nearly lost to the shadows. Both wore flashes of blue and silver, and both watched him. Watched Bethany.
He looked back to the woman, swallowing. "Please- we were attacked- She's-"
"Blighted," the woman finished, looking back to her companions. "Commander?"
The man with the earring frowned, then rubbed at his temple. "How long ago?"
"I don't know." Alistair looked between them frantically. "Can you- were those darkspawn? What's happening-"
"She will die if you don't come with us," the woman said. "Follow."
The safehouse was near Ostagar district, and it was sparse. There were six beds, no more than cots, and a side room that served as an armory. The woman - Cauthrien - guarded the front door, saber sheathed at her hip. In the kerosene lantern light, he could see now the details of her regalia - the medals pinned to her chest, the elaborate epaulets, the fine wool of it all. Cauthrien - General Mac Tir's right hand, in the papers near constantly. She was as cold and distant as any daguerreotype of her.
But this was not the army's holding. Grey Wardens held the place, and he would have wondered at another myth come to life had the night not been so long, so agonizing. Grey Wardens. Darkspawn. Dragons. Bethany - mage and lovely and good.
And dying.
The man with the earring, dressed in Rivaini clothing - Duncan - hovered over her. She breathed in fits and starts of agony. Her skin had turned ashen, her veins spidering dark over her skin, and Alistair fidgeted.
"Is it too late?"
"No," Duncan said, "but what I ask of her is a great burden. And I will ask it of you as well."
"Ask it," Alistair said, shaking his head. "I'll do it."
"You help us fight the coming war. The darkspawn are growing in number, and soon they will not be confined to simply living below the city. Soon they will take to the streets." Duncan met his gaze, held it. "You fought off darkspawn without a weapon. I have a feeling you can be of help."
Alistair nodded, slowly, then started as the back door opened. Nathaniel entered bearing a chalice. It looked old and out of place, antique, maybe even foreign, and it was filled with something dark and fetid that looked too much like blood.
He watched, motionless, as Duncan took it from Nathaniel's hands, as Cauthrien left her post to join them. She bowed her head and murmured words he couldn't catch. Duncan helped Bethany sit up, tipped her head back, and poured the contents into her mouth. He saw her throat catch, her shoulders twitch, and then she shuddered and lay still.
Duncan settled her back down. "She will live," he said, and then turned to Alistair.
Alistair swallowed. "I have to- drink that?"
Duncan inclined his head. "Cauthrien will say what has been said from the first," he said, approaching and offering the chalice. Alistair swallowed, then glanced to Bethany. Her chest rose, slow and even. He wanted a chance. He wanted the option. He wanted them both to live, and if this was the price-
If this was what he would be now-
Killing horrors was a price he was willing to pay.
He reached out and took the chalice, staring into it as Cauthrien began,
"Join us, Brother..."