Rating: E for Everyone!
Characters: Alistiar/Cailan
Summary: Alistair and Cailan have a conversation before the battle at Ostagar.
Disclaimer!: it's so standard, you can all chant to it – "Bioware Owns All!"
GreenerAlistair tugged on the damaged leather in frustration, ignoring the Ash Warrior's chuckle.
"Hairy beasts, why do they always seem to single me out as a chew toy?"
The soldier shrugged, affectionately tracing the paint on his mabari's shoulder. "My father said they were smarter than men; unnaturally so. Could be they know you are destined for greatness and want to make a memorable impression."
The young warden snorted. "More likely they just want to make impressions on my armor straps."
"Truthfully, I'd blame the cheese I keep seeing you sneak from the Quartermaster."
A sharp bark of agreement made Alistair jump back warily.
"Yes, well. I should be heading back…things to do…and fewer…dogs …"
The Ash warrior smirked and scratched behind his hound's ear as Alistair walked quickly away.
---ooo---
Frenzied searching of his tent scored a leather repair kit and the former templar settled comfortably by the fire. His needlework would have made Arlessa Isolde's face prune, but Alistair didn't mind. Darkspawn didn't complain about crooked stitches.
A messenger arrived just in time to hear an unmanly yelp as Alistair stabbed his thumb with the bladed needle. "Ser?"
Swallowing a number of colorful curses that he'd learned from Eamon's stable boys, the grey warden looked up. The familiar tabard that marked a royal page was as welcome a sight as another piece of ravaged splint mail.
"Ser, are you the Grey Warden known as Alistair?"
Frowning harder, he nodded at the elf and tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The messenger squared his shoulders. "His majesty requests that you attend him at his pavilion. I am to escort you as soon as you are ready."
Alistair scrubbed at his unshaven face, a litany of expletives circling in his mind. It seemed the Maker had a terrible sense of timing. And humor.
"Alright, just give me a moment to..." with a frustrated grumble, he tossed the damaged breastplate aside and pawed at his spiky hair. "Lets go. Don't want to keep the King waiting, he might get upset."
The page flicked an unsure glance at the warden and then strode purposefully through the tangled morass of mud and tent poles. He didn't look back to see if Alistair followed, apparently not caring either way.
---ooo---
The army's tents spotted the hills surrounding Ostagar, clustering around camp fires and rainbows of noble banners. King Cailan's enormous pavilion nestled in the ruins themselves, sprouting like a giant yellow mushroom from the crumbled marble. Teryn Loghain had his tent in a place of honor, but even it fell under the shadow of the king's embroidered behemoth.
When Alistair and the page arrived, guards in royal livery motioned them through the heavy door flap without a second glance.
The air inside the tent was golden with diffused sunlight and the tang of mulled wine. Carved furniture, tapestries and heavy Orlesian carpets gave the illusion of a palace sitting room, ruined only by the mud that caked Alistair's boots. With a mournful glance at the thick pile of furs spilling from the royal couch, the junior warden tried not to think about how his own bedroll hid nothing but rocks.
The king was leafing through a pile of scrolls on a table engraved with silver filigree. Without looking up he said: "Thank you, and please wait outside. I wish to speak with the Warden alone."
Feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, Alistair watched the guards file out of the pavilion.
Once they were gone, Cailan scrawled a final signature and set his papers aside. "Would you like a drink? Some wine perhaps?"
"Thank you, your majesty, but no."
"Something to eat then? Fruit, dried meat? The veined blue cheese is from Val Royeaux and rather good. It isn't what I could offer in Denerim, but my steward does what he can."
Alistair bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. He was determined not to fall to the king's charms. Or cheese. "I…your majesty is too kind."
"Please, none of that 'your majesty' stuff, I get enough of it from everyone else. It's just us here and we're brothers after all."
"I…of course…"
Cailan remained silent for a time, studying the younger man. "You may not believe me, but I do remember you. We met at Arl Eamon's once for a moment. I fear that I was not the most gracious at the time."
"Think nothing of it, your—Cailan. We were children and swords were much more…exciting."
A self mocking smile tugged at the king's lip. "Still, it was not very princely of me."
Alistair shrugged, determined to keep from showing the resentment he had buried since that day. "It's the past."
"Would that some of the Banns shared your generosity, they curry grievances like fishwives trade gossip."
The warden chuckled despite himself. "Fishwives make the best spies, it's known."
Cailan fell into a thoughtful silence again. As the quiet stretched, Alistair wished that he had accepted the offer of wine if only to keep his hands from fidgeting.
"Is there something you wanted, your majesty?"
The monarch blinked, and dropped his eyes to stare at the ink stains on his hands. "Loghain has taken exception to my call for Orlesian Wardens to help with the defenses here at Ostagar. He believes that Fereleden forces are enough. He thinks I give too much credence to the legends of the Grey, and that my fancy has made me forget the fact that the Wardens in question are Orlesian."
Cailan stood and began to pace, his boots practically soundless on the thick carpets. "Loghain is a hero yes, and a good general. But I think his prejudices have made him blind."
"What is it you're asking me?" Alistair said with a measure of confusion.
"The Grey Wardens are of, but also separate from, the kingdoms they serve. You are a Ferelden Warden, yet you would answer a call for help from Orlais if they asked, correct?"
"Of course—"
"Then I have to believe that the Orlesian Wardens would feel the same about coming here. Blight or no, the Grey Wardens are defenders of the people, not politics. Loghain will have to accept that if he wishes to remain my general."
"You don't mean to replace the Hero of River Dane do you?"
Cailan focused back on Alistair. "If he does not see reason, then I may be forced to. The Wardens are great fighters, I have every confidence that your forces will help win this war and bring fame to us all."
The younger man swallowed hard, suddenly glad that he hadn't eaten anything as his stomach churned.
"Uh…thank you…"
Cailan's blue eyes reflected golden in the firelight as he studied his brother. "Truly, I…envy you. To be a Grey Warden and travel the world, fighting darkspawn, slaying archdemons. I can think of nothing more glorious than to be living legends."
"You could always ask Duncan to conscript you."
Mortified by his outburst, Alistair was surprised when Cailan simply laughed.
"Loghain would have a seizure. I'm half tempted to take your suggestion just to see his face when he found out. Though in truth, it would mean Anora would get her chance to finally rule in the open."
At Alistair's confused look, Cailan continued. "I may be king, but Anora is the one with the head for politics. Sometimes I think that she is to me as what Loghain was to our father. I would much rather be here in the field with my people than tied up in some noble's dispute over shipping rights." He sighed deeply. "Being a Warden must be so much simpler."
Alistair chose his words carefully, mindful of the Order's veil of secrecy. "Wardens are not all glory and songs. There are a fair share of…drawbacks…to outweigh the advantages."
"Yet you would not trade that life for what you had before?"
"Being a Warden is…well, I never felt like…like I had a real family until I joined. I mean, Arl Eamon was always good to me, but..." Alistair flushed, having revealed more than he had intended.
A flicker of sadness crossed Cailan's handsome face for a moment. "I am sorry."
Alistair opened his mouth to give a flippant dismissal, but the sincerity in the king's eyes made the words die unspoken. After a few moments, he managed to regain control of his voice. "I…often wondered what..what kind of man my…our… father was."
Cailan smiled sadly. "He was a good man. He wanted what was best for his people, even if that wasn't always what was best for his family." The king looked at his brother closely, as if matching the features in his memory. "You would have liked him."
A firestorm of buried emotions billowed up in Alistiar's chest unexpectedly at Cailan's declaration.
The king looked at his hands again. "I asked Father once why you couldn't visit. I had never had a sibling, someone I could talk to who wasn't a tutor or possible political ally. Father said your mother's wish was that you never be trapped in court life. She wanted you to have a life of your own, one free of intrigue and politics. Something that I could never have."
Cailan's smile was rueful as he continued. "You say that the Wardens are not all glory and songs, well…I don't get to wear my fancy armor all the time either. In some ways I wish my mother had the same view of things as yours."
"Funny that a scullery maid would be so politically savvy."
"A maid?" Confusion rippled Cailan's brow. "Alistair, your mother was—"
"A thousand pardons, my king, but the Revered Mother seeks an urgent audience."
Frowning at the interruption, Cailan nodded at the guardsman and sighed. "Never a quiet moment," he mumbled.
A woman in gilded robes that surely weighed more than she did shuffled slowly into the pavilion, her sharp face wrinkled with age and scorn.
"Good King Cailan," she nodded respectfully to the monarch and then turned on the younger man. "Grey Warden Alistair, I need to speak to the king about important matters above your station. For you, however, I have a message for the senior enchanter at the Circle encampment. Tell him I wish to speak to him right away. I would go myself, but these old bones don't like the idea of slipping in frozen mud."
Alistair squirmed under her piercing gaze, memories from his troubled youth in the Chantry flashed through his mind in a guilty sequence.
The Revered Mother's sharp voice caught him before he could escape through the tent flap. "Do not let the prat give you any excuses, even if he is on his way to warm Uldred's bedroll himself."
Stunned by the woman's brusque manner, Alistair could only blink and nod his head. Casting a quick glance at Cailan, the warden couldn't help but think this was another example of why he should be thankful to his low-born mother.
---ooo---
Alistair's bones felt like ice as he watched the flames swirl around Cailan's pyre, charring memories both good and bad.
A small hand tucked into his and he unconsciously clutched her fingers like a lifeline.
"He was proud of you."
Her words shattered the paralysis holding him still and he turned to catch her liquid gaze.
"That night, here in Ostagar when…when he assigned us to light the beacon for Loghain."
Alistair's confused frown spurred her to continue.
"You said that King Cailan and Duncan kept you out of the fighting because of your blood. It isn't true. Loghain wanted to use his own men, but the king refused him. Cailan said: 'We should send our best. Send Alistair and the new grey warden.'"
A fine tremble shook his limbs as her words washed through the anguished barriers in his mind.
"He believed in you." She tightened her grip on his hand, willing him to hear the truth. "And so do I."