Of a Kind
a Dragon Age fanfic by Risu Yoru
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Mainly because I spend my time playing video games and not recognizing my full potential.
Summary: Lost moments between Alistair and Aeducan (or, y'know, moments that had me shaking my monitor, demanding for them to be seen but noooooo).
Warnings: I like sap. And fluff. And angst. And this is a Work In Progress. And there /will/ be spoilers.
Chapter One: Stranger in a Strange Land
"Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it."
~Jerome Jerome
Ostagar:
Y'know, in all fairness, Alistair hadn't expected the new recruit to be…well…pretty.
Not that there was any reason why she shouldn't have been, mind you! He was completely open-minded as to the prettiness or non-prettiness potential of his fellow Grey Wardens. Really, as long as they could wield a stabby weapon of choice, his fellow Wardens could be as ugly as mules for all he cared (and come to think of it, a lot of them were. Like, a lot of them.) So Alistair should maintain Grey Warden professionalism and not even factor the physical appearance of a recruit into his personal assessment of their character or prowess or whatever.
Buttttttt…wellllll…when one is told that the latest recruit from Duncan's apparent Quest to Wardenize Ferelden hails from Orzammar…look, Alistair had seen dwarves before. A few of them had worked under Arl Eamon at Redcliffe. They. Were. Not. Pretty. Those dwarves sported thick beards and huge noses and always smelled of soot and ale. They were nice enough folk, he supposed—they had never swatted him for playing in the smithy or chided him or anything like that. In fact, they had seemed content to ignore him (which is awesome when you're five and enjoy running with shearers). But, really. Those Redcliffe dwarves? Not pretty.
However, the dwarf that accompanied Duncan back to Ostagar? She was actually…quite…pretty. In a miniaturized, delicate, tiny-person type way. To be honest, Alistair had not realized she was a dwarf when she introduced herself. Maybe one of the soldiers from Highever brought a sibling with them (okay, okay, a short sibling) or maybe she was under a spell that shrank her to give her better access to crippling the knees of darkspawn or…something. But this beardless, delicately-featured, tiny (and pretty!) person a dwarf?
A pretty dwarf??
She was Duncan's newest and final recruit before the battle??
"I should've recognized you right away! I apologize," Alistair had said, wondering if the Maker would strike him with lightning for the white lie. The Maker didn't. The Maker must've understood. The dwarf—
Lana! he corrected himself, She introduced herself as Lana.
Lana hadn't noticed his slight discomfort either. Instead she had smiled and told him that she looked forward to traveling with him. Which, you know, was almost as shocking as her being a dwarf. Even Duncan got irritated with him when they traveled together. By the third day, someone was always threatening to have a mage magic his voice away. Or worse.
But back to the present, here was Alistair, in the Wilds, with a pickpocket, a whiny knight, and a pretty dwarf. There was darkspawn blood and Grey Warden treaties to find and that was a far more noble thing to think about than all the mutterings of Daveth about how the pretty dwarf—Lana!!—was just the perfect height for—
"That is the most vile and disgusting notion I have ever heard," said the Redcliffe knight—what was his name? Jerky? Jassy? Borey? No, Jory! That was it! Jory.
Daveth just grinned (and when was he not grinning? Alistair wondered), and held up his hands in a mock helpless gesture, "Well, what can I say, ser knight?" he asked, "I'm just a fellow!"
Ser Jory did not grin back. In fact, Alistair doubted that the man's facial features were at all capable of contorting themselves into something that could resemble a grin. In their brief travels together, Alistair had come to realize that Jory had the sense of humor of a log. A dead log, at that.
"You should still have some basic respect for a fellow recruit," Jory was saying. Well, no, not so much saying as lecturing. Jory and the Revered Mother sounded as though they could be the best of pals,"I'm sure she worked very hard to impress Duncan enough into recruiting her."
"Of that I have no doubt," Daveth said and tipped Alistair a huge wink, "What about you, Warden ser? What's your opinion on…" Daveth trailed off and blinked. He looked left. He looked right. He then looked at Alistair, his expression extremely confused, "Oy. Where is our Dwarf of the Hour? Am I too tall? Can I not see her?"
"Daveth!" Jory snapped.
"What? It's an honest question!"
"It's rude!"
"She's short!"
The two of them continued to bicker, but Alistair ignored them. Daveth was right. Where was the dwa—Lana. Where was Lana? She couldn't have already been eaten by a darkspawn, could she? He would have been able to sense that. Did a wolf or Chasind or whatever else was living out here swoop down and pluck her up as a tasty treat? How would he explain to Duncan that his final recruit had been reduced to wolf kibble or worse? Had she just wandered off and they not seen her? Was she short enough for that or was there indeed foul play?
Alistair drew his long sword, which immediately shut up both Daveth and Jory, "Stay here," he said quietly. Maker bless them, they just nodded and cast their own wary glances about the forest. Alistair began to backtrack, doing his best to ignore his inner-Duncan that was chastising him for leaving recruits out alone in a darkspawn infested forest.
They cannot sense the darkspawn. They will have no warning of an attack. They are your responsibility, Alistair. You have to prepare them for the Joining tonight. This is your duty. You cannot abandon it or them. You have to--
Well, I already lost one five minutes from camp, he groused. What am I supposed to do? He still was sensing no darkspawn, but well…he had only been a Warden himself for six months. Maybe he couldn't sense them in small numbers yet. Maybe his senses needed fine-tuned. Maybe he was just overwhelmed by all the other life in the forest. Could that be it? Were his Warden senses stifled? Or you know, maybe—
Waitaminute.
"By the Maker…" he murmured, slipped the sword back into its sheath, "Really?"
Across the clearing, Lana stood still by the gates leading to Ostagar. Actually, she was leaning up with her back against the gates, looking extremely confused.
She wasn't the only one.
"Are you…okay?" Alistair called to her, "Did you see something or…something?"
Her head shot up at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide and…fearful? Alistair wasn't sure. But for a moment—just a moment—he saw a terrified woman, looking extremely out of place in her battered iron armor. But the next second, the terror was replaced by an embarrassed smile and well, the armor didn't look quite so dented and pitted. It's not like she had encountered any monsters or anything out here yet. What was there to be scared of?
"I'm sorry!" she called back, and Alistair could see her flushing from across the clearing, "It's just…all these plants. Do you just walk on them?"
Alistair was even more confused. There were some trees by the gate, but why would she be asking if trees were for walking? Surely, even in Orzammar they knew what trees were. They had to, right? They traded in wood. Did the dwarves think wood just sprang into existence, all pulpy and splintery?
"The plants!" she repeated, pointing to the ground, "I've never seen so much of this!"
Alistair still couldn't tell what she was looking at. Not the trees, they were over there. There were a few wild flowers about and some cattails by the marsh, but Lana was still by the sodding gate and—
And just like that, it clicked.
"You mean the grass?"
Lana nodded, managing to flush even brighter, "Duncan and I stayed primarily on the roads when we left Orzammar," she said, "Is there a…secret step or something you surfacers do to avoid smashing so many plants?"
Surfacers. Just something about the way she said it. As if he were the stranger in the world and it was perfectly normal to question grass-walking etiquette. Really, who put thought behind whether or not it was acceptable to walk on grass?
But then again, how much grass was in Orzammar?
"No, no secret," Alistair said as he walked across the small clearing, "Just crash and smash to your heart's content. It's quite therapeutic actually."
Lana was still piled up against the gate, trying not to crush more grass blades than she had to. She still looked slightly wary.
Alistair put on his Most Charming Grin and held out his hand, "I promise you—you have not lived until you've trampled across a grassy field on a summer's day."
And for a moment, just a moment, Alistair is not in the Wilds, holding out his hand to a nervous dwarf, but he is instead in Redcliffe, covered in mud and running for everything he is worth. He can hear Teagan, also covered in mud, crashing along and cursing behind him, but he doesn't care. He will not go to the Chantry, he will not, he will not, he will not! and if he has to run pell-mell without his shoes across Ferelden, well that's just the way it is going to be SO THERE.
Lana's small gloved hand slipped into his own, snapping him back to the present. She smiled shyly at him, but oh bless the Maker, she also stepped away from the gate. She took a tentative step, winced as though she expected the grass to cry out in pain, and then gave a small laugh when nothing happened.
Alistair grinned, "See? Trample and crush. Now…why don't we find Ser Patronizer and Ser Pervert and get on with your Joining then, eh?"
Lana nodded and began to stride purposefully across the clearing, towards the marshes. Alistair suppressed a small feeling of amazement at her complete attitude shift. Unbelievable.
He also suppressed a small sigh of disappointment when she let go of his hand. But who could fault him for that? She was, after all, a very pretty dwarf.