A/N: Ooooh, this is scary. I just recently began reading fan fiction--seriously, I mean like this week. I've barely scratched the surface of what's out there to read and enjoy, of what I've pointedly overlooked for so long, but I've managed to shed most, if not all, of my pre-conceived notions about it, mostly thanks to some super great stories by Crisium and NotLaura (and a few others almost equally astounding--hats off to you all). I'm a reader by nature, so of course writing appeals to me in theory. I've edited a couple of manuscripts, one that is actually about to be published. I'm an English tutor at the local community college. I've got mad essay skills (even if I do say so myself). However, I'm usually self-aware enough to keep my tentative (and questionable) attempts at fiction to myself. Grammar and mechanics don't carry quite the same level of import in fiction as they do in expository writing, after all. In fact, they can be somewhat of a hindrance. Yet because I find myself in such awe of these writers who somehow manage to take already well-known, well-written, well-developed, well-loved stories and characters and create new stories and interactions amongst those characters, I feel like I have to take the plunge at least once. After all, if I can read what others have the bravery to lay bare from their own private thoughts and imaginations and then have the temerity to critique said others' work, should I not also be bold enough to accept that same sort of exposure? I say this is scary because I'm loath to mishandle something that I personally love so very much. If I do mishandle it, forgive me, but don't hesitate to tell me so (gently if you please). I promise no one will be sorrier than I in such a circumstance.
About this story: So I love, love, LOVE Dragon Age: Origins (three cheers for BioWare & EA, big props to them for their--i.e. not my--characters and world and words--where applicable). I love it perhaps a little more than what might be considered strictly "appropriate," especially in regards to my favorite Grey Warden, Alistair (just ask my husband). I have nothing but respect and adoration and much, much appreciation for the game's writers. I don't really feel so much that the story is lacking anything, per se, as much as I feel that there are some unexplored/undisclosed subtexts that totally speak to me. The following story is what I like to think happens in between all the major stuff, the things that we don't get to hear being said, the transitions that we know take place but that we don't get to witness. Let's call it reading between the lines and hope that that's not too far off the mark. If you're with me so far, let's keep going. But be warned: Here there be SPOILERS.
Lucy Cousland really did not understand how she came to be in charge of this motley crew. Wasn't it just days ago that she had been "Yes, father"-ing and "If you say so, mother"-ing and "I just wish I could go with you, Fergus"-ing? And wasn't it just hours ago that she was distressed and confused and lonely and lost and depending entirely upon Duncan (a total stranger, just by-the-by) to tell her where to go and what to do? And now, just like that, she was supposed to be a leader? A leader to several not-entirely-stable people (and one dog)? Just like that? Really?
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She could admit that she'd been more than a little jealous of Ser Gilmore when she'd heard that he'd be attempting to join the Grey Wardens. Seeing an actual Grey Warden in her home had probably been the highlight of her life up to that point. She was in awe and positively brimming with questions. This Warden, this Duncan, was the embodiment of all Lucy ever dreamt she might become, of all that she honored and held in esteem.
Lucy had always preferred stories about the brave knights and unsuspected heroes who emerged victorious from brutal battles with savage beasts over the dramatic tales of damsels in distress and lusty maidens on the verge of sexual initiation. Not to say that she hadn't read her fair share about the damsels and maidens as well. She had. Oh, of course she had. She was a young woman, after all. A young woman perhaps a little too sheltered and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Often, she could find both knights and damsels or heroes and maidens in the same tale (and in one especially risqué tome, she'd actually found a tale involving all four).
But damsels and maidens aside--and distress and lust, too, if you please--she wanted to be that storied knight, that bold hero. In all honesty, she often wanted to be the damsel or maiden, too…but not for the same reasons. Knights and heroes actually did something in all of Lucy's favorite tales. Well…so did the damsels and maidens. But knights and heroes did something that they might want other people to see and know about. Lucy didn't think any of those damsels or maidens would want an audience to witness their…accomplishments.
So of course, she wanted desperately for a chance to prove herself to the Warden, to show that she was strong and capable. But with her father and brother both headed off to Ostagar, and her mother all but terrified at the prospect of losing one or, Maker forbid, both of them, Lucy resigned herself to simply dreaming and reading about a level of glory that she quite probably would never actually achieve. With a moody sigh, yes, but a quiet and respectful moody sigh. Had she known that her wildest (and vaguest) dreams were about to come true in such a horrific way, she would have sooner leapt from the nearest Chantry spire than wished for adventure and excitement ever again.
She was quite sure that the only reason Duncan had been able to lead her through the servants' exit and out of Highever castle was that she'd spent so much of her life being obedient and agreeable that even the sight of her suicidally brave mother clinging to her blood-drenched and dying father couldn't quite break through her shock and disgust and utter bewilderment to unhinge her deeply ingrained composure. Perhaps that was a blessing, though. If she had actually been able to feel or understand anything at the time, Duncan would've had to physically drag her kicking, screaming, clawing, and spitting from her parents, regardless of the grisly certain death at the hands of Howe's men that awaited her otherwise.
She wasn't sure how long it took them to reach Ostagar. She wasn't even sure that she'd been awake or breathing since leaving the castle. The first thing that she remembered coherently, the thing that finally pierced the fog of her thoughts, was hearing the phrase "Bryce's youngest." When she looked up and saw that it was the king speaking to her, she nearly choked. It was like she had only just opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw upon waking was the most powerful man in all of Fereldan.
Despite the rage and crushing sadness that threatened to overwhelm her at the mention of her father's name, her lifetime of training took over and she managed to be courteous and deferential. Amazing really, since she wanted nothing more than to reach out and slap and shake King Cailan until he understood that her whole life was over, that the whole world was coming to an end, that somebody had to pay, that he had to do something. Now.
Still, somehow, somehow, she managed to hold on to her newly regained consciousness. Maybe it was the king's mention of finding Fergus or of hanging Howe. While the latter brought with it a sort of cold comfort, the idea of telling her brother about what had happened left a thick, sticky, bad feeling in her stomach. Part of her mind insisted that saying all the terrible things aloud would not only make them true, but also make them her fault.
She would have to find him and relay it all eventually, of course, but Duncan was offering new things for her to do in the meantime. Tasks, goals. Do this, go there. Fantastic. Blessedly fantastic. Action. Doing, no thinking. Obeying, no feeling. Rush, rush, rush, no time to grieve today, sorry. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. Maybe never.
Lucy couldn't even muster up enough curiosity to ask Duncan what the ritual he'd mentioned was all about. At that point, she would have agreed to ritual human sacrifice. Anyone who'd really known her would have immediately recognized her lack of questioning as bizarre. Unfortunately, everyone who'd really known her was either dead or somewhere beyond her reach in the Kokari Wilds. When Duncan mentioned taking Enkidu into camp with him, Lucy furrowed her brow and looked up from the spot on her boot she had been busy memorizing in minute detail.
Enkidu? Had her mabari been with her all this time? Yes, there he was, sitting sullenly on his haunches at Duncan's heels. She cocked her head at him and he mimicked her action perfectly. He whined, and Lucy sighed, immediately sorry for having utterly forgotten him until just then. He was suffering, too. Her family was his family. They'd both lost everything, and she'd been allowing him to suffer alone because she'd been too busy…well, too busy doing nothing, actually. Too busy pointedly not thinking, too busy going out of her way to avoid feeling, too busy trying to be not alive.
She squatted in front of the dog and gave him a vigorous scratching around both of his ears. She leaned forward, placing her forehead against his, and whispered, "I'm sorry, friend. I'm back now. I'll try not to go away again if you'll try to help me."
Enkidu barked a quick agreement, and Lucy stood to look at Duncan. Duncan told her that she could find him in camp when she was ready and also to be sure to find Alistair before she did. Lucy gave a brief nod and watched without moving as Duncan led Enkidu across the great bridge that led into Ostagar.
Duncan had told her she could look around a bit if she liked, so she thought she might as well do so while she prepared herself as best she could to face other people. It wouldn't do if she were to find this Alistair and then crack into a million tiny pieces because she couldn't bear the thought of anyone recognizing the turmoil in her soul. Whether that was the result of pride, insecurity, or fierce territoriality she did not know nor care. She knew simply that it was true, and so she would compose herself and shore up her emotional walls before seeking out the man whom Duncan wanted her to find.
She found a quiet place across from what a guard told her was the Tower of Ishall (strictly off-limits, he'd said) and sank down onto the ground and sobbed. She sobbed for her mother and father, she sobbed for Oren and Oriana, she sobbed for Ser Gilmore, and Nan, and Aldous, and all the others. She sobbed for Fergus. Mostly, she sobbed for herself. Her body rocked and shook with the sadness. She moaned and wailed and growled and cursed (as quietly as she possibly could, which really wasn't very). She pounded her fists into the ground beneath her. She kicked her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. She yanked at her hair and rubbed at her eyes and clawed at her leather armor. She wrung the grief out of herself like she would have wrung water from a cloth. She gave herself this release and then collapsed onto her back, staring into the sky above. A wonder that the sky still held its place in this world gone so wrong.
As she lay on the ground, completely unmindful of anyone who might pass by and see her in such a state, she measured her breaths. She did not close her eyes. Instead, she focused on the sky and on taking the next breath. When she no longer felt as though her chest was caving in, when she no longer felt the sting of tears in her eyes or their burning path down her cheeks, when she no longer felt that her head might explode with the sheer incredibility of everything that was happening, of everything that had already happened, she sat up and looked around.
There in the grass at Ostagar, beside a crumbling pillar, Lucy resolved to live, to do what she must do, to make it to the next day, and the next, and the next until there were no more days. She resolved to be her parents' daughter, to make their sacrifice worthwhile. She would not dissolve or become someone other than, less than, who she had been raised to be. And they had raised her to be strong and good. They had raised her to make the right decisions, to be just and fair, to make the most of whatever she happened to be faced with, to set goals and to attain them.
Lucy's immediate goal was to become a Grey Warden, and that required following Duncan's orders and instructions. So, with grim determination, she did.
The determination lasted, the grim, however, did not fare quite so well nor nearly so long. In fact, the grim began to slip away the very moment that she spotted the man whom she assumed to be Alistair arguing with a man in a…dress? No, not a dress. A robe. A mage's robe.
Upon speaking with Alistair for the first time, Lucy's signature curiosity began to emerge from within her battered mind, and each moment she spent in his company lured it further and further out of its hidey-hole. She questioned him to an extent that might have sent many others running for the hills, yet he managed to remain gracious and even encouraging.
When she heard herself laugh at something he said, she thought at first that the she might have actually, finally lost her mind. She couldn't see anyone else near to them who was laughing. Lucy stood, mouth agape, eyes reflecting her confusion. It had been her laughter she'd heard, and it was genuine. She hated herself for being able to laugh, and she hated him a little bit for making her laugh. Didn't he know that her world had recently crumbled down around her ears? Didn't he know that she could never experience happiness again? Didn't he know that her heart and soul were shriveled and dead? How dare he make her laugh?
Lucy tried to hang onto the offense and horror, but it quickly began to fade away (hot on the trail of all her grim). By the time she had met Ser Jory and Daveth and they had together gathered the necessary darkspawn blood and retrieved the Wardens' treaties, she was beginning to feel something like a normal person. Not really the same person exactly, but a person, nonetheless.
Nary a whimper escaped her lips as she watched Daveth succumb to the poison she was about to follow him in drinking, and she barely flinched when Duncan killed Ser Jory. She made it through the joining ritual and survived the shock and pain of it all. It was all as nothing compared to what she had so recently experienced, or more accurately, what she was still experiencing. She met with King Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, and Duncan and nodded in all the right places and said "Yes, Your Majesty," and "I'll do my best, Your Majesty," and she even managed to not roll her eyes at Cailan's ignorance or Loghain's arrogance. With Alistair and Enkidu at her side, she fought her way to the top of the Tower of Ishall and lit the beacon just as she'd been ordered to do, and she didn't cry out when she saw the tide of darkspawn surging up from the lower levels of the tower and realized the inevitability of being overwhelmed by their numbers.
She was surprised but not panicked when she woke up in the witches' hut an unknown length of time later. She was inexplicably pleased to discover that Alistair had also survived the tower, but she thought she hid it well enough. She successfully suppressed a traitorous surge of…glee? no, surely not that…at his obvious happiness and relief when she emerged from the hut. It was difficult (watching his expression was a little like seeing her first sunrise), but she did it. She did not fall to her knees in thanks to the Maker that Enkidu also survived the ordeal. She did not fold and break when she discovered that nearly everyone at Ostagar had been slaughtered or spirited away by the horde. She did not storm and rage over Loghain's betrayal. She did not whine or complain or argue when the old witch insisted that she and Alistair take the younger witch with them. She listened to what both witches had to say and was mindful to be appropriately grateful and courteous and kind. When Alistair made no decision but only looked to her, she decided for them both.
They made it into Lothering proper before Lucy's intense introspection was interrupted by the witch's cruel voice saying more unkind words. Doubtlessly to Alistair. Again. Morrigan got no rise from Lucy and would not deign to speak to Enkidu, so her sole form of entertainment for the duration of their trek to Lothering had been mocking and taunting Alistair. Until their entrance into the village itself, Lucy hadn't spared a thought as to why Alistair wasn't bothering to stand up for himself, to tell the witch to shut up, to back off. But that voice, that voice that simply dripped with disdain, finally sliced into her thoughts and made her pay attention.
Until that moment, Lucy had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts and megrims that she'd never spared a thought for poor Alistair. From what she understood, Duncan had been something like a father to him, the Grey Wardens his only family, and he'd just lost it all. Had she honestly thought that she was the only one capable of feeling the pain of loss and loneliness? As soon as she was able, after calling Morrigan off of her apparent favorite punching bag, Lucy pulled Alistair aside and asked if he needed to talk. As it turned out, he did. She listened and sincerely commiserated. Her heart broke for him a little. A truly astounding feat in and of itself, considering the number of pieces it had already been reduced to.
She would pay much more attention to her traveling companions' feelings from now on (including Morrigan's because, no matter how she might protest the fact, Morrigan was a person, too). Now that she remembered that someone other than she had feelings, she planned on retaining the memory. And she withdrew further from her personal fog.
She made it through Lothering, somehow collecting two more outcasts and unwanteds. A murderous qunari and an addled lay sister, no less. She faced soldiers and peasants alike who were out for the blood of the Grey Wardens who had betrayed the king and their own brethren at Ostagar. She hardly cared why anyone would believe something so absurd. She helped as many people in Lothering as she could, even taking the time to learn trap-making for the sake of one pitiful, terrified woman. She was particularly proud of convincing Morrigan to use her herbalism talents to help the many refugees crammed into the village. She sorted out petty squabbles and hunted beasts of both the human and animal varieties. She silently bore Morrigan's jibes about wasting time and energy on such trivial pursuits. Lucy did all this despite knowing that all she did might truly be for naught. She knew that Lothering was a lost cause, but she had to try, damn it.
So she tried. She tried to help and she tried to make herself stay attuned to the people around her. Her companions. An ex-templar, a witch, a qunari, a lay sister of the Chantry (although, Lucy had never seen this sister's like before and seriously doubted that she had yet told all she had to tell), a mabari hound, and the sole surviving daughter of the noble Cousland family. Quite a group. Eclectic to say the very least. And why, oh why, did she get the feeling that she wasn't even nearly done yet?
She had apparently also gained a pet merchant and his son at some point. She hadn't the energy or heart to question their presence, so she let them be. In any case, it might come in handy having the fellows so near to hand.
That first night in camp, she took time to seek out each member of her traveling party and make a point of getting to know them better. And if she spent an incongruous portion of her evening speaking to Alistair, what of it? They certainly had enough over which to bond. Who could fault her?
No, she did not know how she had come to lead these people (and dog), and she did not know why the task of leading should fall to her. But since it had, she swore to herself that she would take care of these people. No matter what they had been before, they were hers now, and she was determined to protect what was hers no matter the cost to herself. She had already lost everything that had ever mattered to her once. She would not relive that kind of loss ever again. Not ever.
Thanks for bearing with me thus far. I know it's a whopper. If you like it, let me know, and I'll try to carry on. If you hate it, let me know, and I'll punish myself accordingly. Or, you know, try to get better or something. All thoughts welcome and appreciated, but kindly remember that this is my first time. Is it weird that I kind of feel like I just gave birth? *shrug* I just hope it's not an ugly baby ;)