A/N: Today I wrote this when I realized that my depression and lethargy could perhaps be used in a way I hadn't tried before - as the catalyst for something, instead of a drain on my ability. So I began tapping out what was intended to be something tragic, but after only a few sentences I began snickering at a conversation that was happening amongst all my DA girls on the internet. We need a name for ourselves, ladies. This goes out to Jaden Anderson, FenZev, The Original Frizzi, wintryone, Marina Boccuzzi, and Liso66. What began as me too depressed to even want to write turned into giggling and "I think I can do this after all, with a little help from my friends."
This is also the first time I've ventured away from the Lyra Cousland universe. Hope you enjoy. Not sure it all makes sense, but it'll do for a one-shot. :-)
Alistair's eyes opened, drifting upward from where his head had been pillowed on his arm only seconds before. The room swayed before him, bleary eyes blinking, the glass bottle warm where his fingers had gripped it. Had he fallen asleep? He sat up, too quickly, a throbbing in his head, one shaky hand coming up to wipe a thin line of drool from his chin. His face was stubbled, the skin feeling loose and shivery as he scrubbed his mouth, a mouth that tasted like the inside of a drunken dwarf's beard.
"Alistair."
He ignored the voice, his eyes slipping shut again. How many voices had he been hearing, for months now? The sound of her echoed in his brain, calling to him, cajoling him. Her breathless laughter, a whisper, sweet and low, a passionate cry, followed by the imagining of her touch. He groaned.
"Alistair."
"Whoever you are, go away," he mumbled. The voice sounded too close to be imagined, with a distinctive male timbre that he almost recognized.
"I know him," another voice said. Female this time. Sultry, with a lilt. "He used to be a prince, I hear."
Alistair dragged his eyes open, glaring toward the source of the voices. Things were blurry, his vision coated with some vague sheen of ick that turned the world to water. The tavern was a smear of gold, the low light flickering as dark shapes meandered back and forth. He blinked, clearing some of the mist, sharpening the images that stood before him.
A dark haired woman with a bit of... was that blood? Whatever it was, it was smeared across the bridge of her nose. She looked positively savage, the aloof stare on her face doing nothing to soften her hard lines. Her companions looked less than clean, as well - what was it about sword work that covered one with gore?
There were weeks spent in the Deep Roads hovering somewhere in the back of his memory. Weeks, bordering on months, when he hadn't had the luxury of a bath or even enough water to drink, much less wash in. Without Natia to guide them, he doubted they'd have made it out alive...
Her name was painful in his thoughts. Ignoring the conversation that was taking place before him, he took another drink of the swill that passed for liquor. Of all the gin joints in the world, he'd settled on this one.
Kirkwall was far from Ferelden; far from Anora, far from the bone-deep reminders of the one who'd given her life to save him and everyone else in that Maker-forsaken country. He'd arrived in The City of Chains by boat, as did all who came from his homeland. The golden statues that lined the cliffs seemed to be crying as they cowered, their hands covering faces too wrapped in despair to show the world. Alistair could empathize.
She'd been everything to him - a small piece of wonder in the horrific world he'd come to accept as reality. From the tattoo on her face to the way she'd barely come up to his chin, he'd adored her - the first and only woman he'd loved. Such strength... What would she think of, if she could see him now?
Nothing good, he thought, bitterness filling his head as his fingers wrapped around the bottle once more.
"Alistair!"
"Go away, Teagan," he mumbled, the words rolling off of his tongue before he quite realized that he'd placed the annoying voice. He lifted the smooth rim of the bottle to his lips, snarling when it was yanked away.
"Maker's breath, man, look at yourself!"
"Thank you, no," Alistair slurred. "I'm quite happy not seeing the failure in the mirror. Go hump a nug." He hiccupped, the throbbing in his head growing unbearable again, and he sought the comforting blackness of his crossed arms.
"Ferelden needs you," Teagan said, more quietly than before. "You have no idea how long I've been looking for you."
"Ferelden can burn, for all I care," Alistair growled. "They've got Anora. And Loghain. The fantastic duo who saved the world. Oh no, that's right, that was me and Natia."
Maker's breath, but her name ached on his tongue. He reached for the bottle held tightly in Teagan's fingers once again, needing to chase her memory away with cheap brandy. It was held out of his grasp, and he lunged, catching his uncle off-guard. A brief struggle, and Alistair fell into his seat once more, only to find the bottle empty when he attempted to drink.
"You're killing yourself..." Teagan said, sadness etching his forehead. "Alistair - you're better than this."
He shook his head. He was worthless - useless - a nothing, a nobody. The one thing he could have done to save her, and he'd failed. Without the soothing numb that liquor provided, the memories began to come out of hiding, and he pressed his hands against pounding temples, shivering with fear. He couldn't face it, not here, not now...
"I want to do this..."
"No! Alistair, please..."
"Don't you see? It's how I can save you. I love you too much to live without you."
She hesitated, her fingers braiding through his own as her head tilted upward, those impossibly green eyes deep and worrying. The light of a thousand flames shone on her hair, mixed with soot and ash as it drifted down, powdering their shoulders. The air was foul, the evil stench of the Archdemon rank in their noses. Impossibly huge and terrifying, the beast lay prone on the roof, slight tremors rocking the gargantuan frame as it struggled to find strength to rise once more. All that was needed was a sword - and the lethal hand with which to wield it. All that was required was a life - one of theirs, and no one else's.
"A kiss goodbye, then?" her voice, so soft and musical, begged. How could he refuse?
The times they'd loved, shielded only by thin cloth walls in the middle of the bannorn, they came rushing back at the touch of her lips. Her name, breathed softly as he moved within her, the sound of her pleasure as he coaxed her to completion. The way their fingers had entwined as they strolled through the forest, the triumphant gleam in her eye when she felled a darkspawn, the way she'd laughed with him, played with him, cried with him...
"Natia... I'll always love you," he murmured, the words as sweet as wine in his mouth.
"And I you," she whispered back, then her eyes widened as a gasp slipped from her throat. "Ancestors, what's that?"
His head whipped to the side, and then the breath rushed from his lungs as a dainty foot hooked behind his knee and pulled him to the ground. He crumpled, legs buckling beneath him, and then he heard a faint "I'm sorry," as something hard and painful at the base of his skull blackened his world.
"Alistair!"
His uncle's voice shattered the memory, but instead of being grateful, it killed him a little more. "Damnit, Teagan!" he shouted. Or, he thought he shouted. In truth, it was more of a whine, combined with a sob. "Let me be! I can't... do this. Not anymore. Not without..."
"He's a sodding mess, isn't he?"
That smooth voice was back again, and he turned his aching head on the owner of the smeared nose.
"Fuck you," he gritted. "What gives you the right... to judge me?"
"Nothing," she agreed as she slithered onto the bench opposite him. A quick motion with two fingers, and one of the bar wenches scurried over, a foaming tankard of ale set down before the mercenary woman. She took a long pull of the brew, sage eyes raking over the mess that passed for himself these days. "But if you think you're the only one with problems, you're sadly mistaken, friend."
"Not your friend," he scowled. He caught the eye of the barmaid, hoping for another bottle of rotgut, but Teagan held out a warning hand, and the girl stepped back again, unsure. He laughed then, the sound cruel and mocking.
"My... uncle... thinks he knows what's best for me, apparently."
"You know, you'd almost be good looking, if it weren't for the dolor that clings to you like last week's dinner," the woman drawled. "My sister died for me, you know."
Alistair hesitated, the words shocking. In one breath, she flirts, and then talks of her sister's death? "I -"
"She loved me. Saved me, and my brother, and my mum. We'd all be mincemeat right now if she hadn't done it." At this, her voice did grow soft, those icy blue eyes melting just a touch. "Her name was Bethany." The woman slid her tankard across the table, beer sloshing over the edge as it touched his fingers. He flicked distrusting eyes across the table, one eyebrow quirking upward when she loosed a gigantic belch. Hardly a lady, this one.
"I'm sorry for your loss." His tongue felt thick, and he wondered again just what this woman was doing here, why she was bothering with him.
"As am I," she said simply. "But her memory lives on in me, and I do my damndest every day to keep her alive in my heart. I want her to be proud of me."
"Nice to have a goal," he mumbled, and drank deeply of the tankard. It was thin, piss-poor, and watered beyond belief - how anyone expected to get drunk on this shit he had no idea.
"So tell me your story, and I'll buy you a drink. Maybe later, you'll shave, and we'll see if there's a man under all that scruff." He looked up in surprise at the interest painted across her voice. Teagan stepped forward again, one hand held up.
"I don't think that's a good -"
"Shove it, Teagan," the woman said pleasantly. "Or join us. Either way. But I'm not about to leave my new friend to drink alone."
"We're not -"
"Friends, I know. Heard you the first time." She reached for the mug of beer, her eyes casual as she lifted it up to slake her thirst. "But we could be. Friends, I mean."
"Whyever for?" he demanded, incredulous. It would be impossible for her to find any kind of redeeming quality in him, any reason why they should continue this brief association they've struck up. Though, the idea of having someone to drink with...
It was an appealing thought.
"Didn't you have friends once?"
"Once," he muttered.
"And none of them are here with you?" She clucked her tongue. "Bastards. Varric!"
A sturdy dwarf strode over, open interest in his eyes. "This the lost prince? Andraste's fiery tits, what I wouldn't give for that story."
"He's about to tell it," the woman said easily. "I'm Hawke, by the way. I like killing things. If what I've heard about you is correct, you've got quite the history of murder and mayhem, yourself. Who knows, we might just get along famously. So what do you say, Alistair - shall I get you a drink, and we can find out if you and I can be friends? Or shall I leave you to your pushy uncle?"
Alistair furrowed his brow, confused by this strange turn of events. He'd been alone - and happy to be so. Miserable - and wallowing in it. And now... some of the woman's other companions began making their way over, and he found the company wasn't as unwelcome as he'd expected.
"Bugger off, Teagan," he said. "Or get your own drink. You know, your choice."