Why was it so quiet? It seemed unnatural. It was almost like everything just died down. And frankly, Alistair felt the same way about now. His body was aching and his elbow was itchy, but he hardly bothered with it. This old witch had him patched pretty nicely. He vaguely remembered how they've slain an ogre, lit the beacon and then got assaulted by even more darkspawn. Next thing he knew, he woke up outside of the hut of Morrigan and her mother. She had apparently saved them by turning into a gigantic bird. It was a bit creepy, thinking about it. Right now, anyway, Alistair didn't have the head to think about that.
They were all dead.
All Grey Wardens of Ferelden... dead. Just like that. They were utterly defeated at Ostagar. And Duncan... Duncan was, too... and Cailan... Alistair wasn't fine. For the first time, he had felt like he belonged somewhere and the spawn just took that away, too. He had nothing left. Unsure of his feelings, he clenched his teeth and looked towards the hut. His fellow Warden was inside; Morrigan watching over her. Although Alistair was very sure she was dead, too. That would just make his life more miserable.
"Your thinking is awfully loud, young man. Mind telling the old woman?" Alistair was just a little bit startled and not utterly shocked at that voice speaking. "What do you think I'm thinking about? The Grey Wardens were defeated at Ostagar. Who stops the Blight now? I..."
"Yes, you. You are still here, yes? I may be an old woman, but there are still two Grey Wardens here, yes? Do not give up hope so quickly, young man." Alistair snorted at the Witch. "Two?! My friend is probably dead already; and I don't know what to do! I can't do this! Stopping the Blight? How do I even do that? I can't even stop the rats nesting in my boots!" The old Witch chuckled. "T'is a problem, I see. Do not lose hope, young man." Alistair grunted and turned towards the lake. How could that woman even understand his feelings? He just lost everything he had... the Order; the closest thing he had had to a family; and Duncan... he didn't want to think about Duncan. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be better. Ostagar would have been won; they would have vanquished the Blight and then Duncan would have gone to his Calling; allowing Alistair to say good-bye properly.
He turned his head when he heard the door open. Morrigan came out, looked to her mother and shook her head once. "Ah. I see. How unfortunate. It seems our fate lies in your hands alone, then. You will have no choice but to be prepared. Are you ready to be a Grey Warden?"
Alistair didn't hear her; nor did he care to respond. So she was dead, then. He truly lost everything now. How was he supposed to do all of that; all alone?
It was so awfully quiet.
It was like everything held its breath, waiting for its death.
So did Alistair.
"Alistair? Alistair, wake up!"
He cried out a little and grabbed the wrist of whoever was next to him. It took him whole then seconds to realise it was Leliana. "What...? What happened? Are we under attack? Don't worry, I... I'll crush them with my boot!" His boot was the thing closest to him, so he was intent on using it as a deadly weapon. Leliana made a very irritated face and retreated a bit. "Err... no? We are... fine? You were screaming quite a bit, Alistair, so I woke you up. Are you feeling alright?" Since he was still holding her right wrist, she used her left hand to slowly put the boot back on the ground. As being in awe, he watched her doing that. "It's a good weapon", he said. "They may be rats inside. Or something. Maybe Zevran put something inside." He looked up to her. "Wait... you said I was screaming? At least not shrieking, Morrigan would never stop mocking me then." Still very irritated, Leliana looked at him. "Alistair, are you still sleeping? And let go of my wrist, please." He did as commanded and smiled nervously. "Sorry. I didn't realise."
"Are you alright? Did you have a bad dream? Do you wish to talk about it, perhaps?" Alistair sighed. "I... Sorry. Did I wake you up? I really shouldn't do that. I somehow thought I was over nightmares now." He shook his head. This was stupid. He was stupid. "I was on watch, Alistair. What did you dream about? Maybe talking will help?" Hesitantly, he looked at her. He sighed deeply then and went for the short version. "I dreamt she died. She... she didn't survive Ostagar. Flemeth saved us; but she died. I think... that thought just terrified me. It's really nothing. I don't even know why I dreamt about this." He shook his head and stroked his hair.
"You fear for her. As do we all. Especially now, no? Everything is so uncertain..." Leliana replied in a soft voice. Ah. Yes. Perhaps the bard was right. Their fearless leader had ventured down the Deep Roads. They hadn't known how long they would have been gone... and Alistair wasn't happy he had been told to stay behind. For all he knew, she could be dead... and he didn't want to think about that. He really didn't. He felt Lelianas hands on his arms and that pulled him out of his thinking. "She will be alright, yes?" The bard smiled warmly at him. "You will see, they'll come back in no time. Good night, Alistair." With that, she left his side to return to her own tent.
They'll come back.
Alistair didn't care about them.
He just cared about her, however cruel that sounded.
After all, she still needed to know...
As so often, he found himself fondling the white runestone she had gifted to him.
They were gone for two weeks now. Sooner or later, Alistair wouldn't be able to take it any longer. He was alone in Camp with Leliana, Morrigan, Wynne and the dog. While he certainly didn't mind Leliana, Wynne or the mabari, Morrigan was driving him nuts. It was also no comforting thought that Zevran of all people was down the Deep Roads. He was capable, but... Alistair had seen how the elf looked at their leader. And he didn't like one second of it. Sighing deeply, he was poking the fire with a stick.
He looked up when he heard movement next to him; expecting it to be Leliana or Wynne and yet it was Morrigan. Much to his surprise, she just looked into the pot silently, settling down. "What? No comment on how sulking I am, poking the fire with a lousy stick?" As if startled, the Witch looked at him. "If you wish: you are a fool, again. Are you satisfied?" Her heart wasn't in it, and somehow that had Alistair worry. "You never let an opportunity pass to insult me. What happened? Suddenly decided I am not so much of a fool?" She shot him an angry glance. "Keep your words, Alistair. You are not my uttermost concern these days." He clenched his teeth. "Do... you think something happened? Down the Deep Roads?" Morrigan looked away. "I do not know. And it is making me anxious." Apart from the fact that Morrigan was actually able to have feelings; it did worry him they shared the same one. He didn't respond to her; he instead stared back into the fire once more. This suspense was going to kill him.
Alistair clenched his eyes shut and just wished her back. There was so much left untold... all because he always panicked in important situations. He always waited. Perhaps he should just take his next chance. As far as he knew, he might never get another one.
Due to Lelianas constant pushing, Alistair found himself in Denerim one and a half week later. He was accompanied by the dog and Wynne, leaving only Leliana and Morrigan at Camp. In the back of his head, he was a bit worried for their safety – if they got attacked, he was the only one to effectively draw the threat of the enemies. Leliana however had insisted that without him there, the darkspawn would hardly mind their camp – and she might even be right.
Alistair hadn't understood why he was supposed to travel to Denerim of all places – they were camping near the Frostback Mountains and Denerim was all the way on the other side of the map. The bard hadn't replied to that and kicked him out. And Wynne kept pushing him forwards. He would never understand women.
"So, we're here now... and want to shop? Seriously? We went this far for nothing?" He groaned. "It will be a good change, Alistair. You worry too much these days. You will get a frown, and this just isn't pretty." He grunted at her direction and simply decided he could use the time now anyhow. Perhaps... yes. Maybe he would find something that said what he couldn't say. He could feel himself panicking. Oh, that wasn't good.
"Hey, Wynne?" He asked like a little Chantry Boy again. And Maker, did he feel like one. That was so embarrassing. "Yes, Alistair?" She replied and looked at him. "Say, err... what... what would you do if someone told you they loved you?" Wynne would know that, wouldn't she? It would be way too embarrassing asking Leliana. He already messed that up pretty badly; asking her about being female and such. "I might check their eyesight first, perhaps. Is this someone I should know about?"
"No. I... I mean, pretend you're a woman..." That made Wynne chuckle. "I am a woman, Alistair. It shouldn't be too hard, but I'll give it a try." Alistair frowned. How was he able to mess conversation up so badly? "Ahhh, that's... that's not what I meant. Just... just pretend you're another woman. And someone told you that they loved you. How would you react?" He shot Wynne a hopeful look; perhaps a bit too obvious. She was thinking for a moment. "Well, that depends. Does this someone just blurt it out? Do I love them back? Give me a little context, Alistair."
He waved his hands around. How was he supposed to know that? He wouldn't have to ask in that matter. "I, I don't know if you love them back. Maybe you do. You've... spent a lot of time with that person." He must've seemed desperate; otherwise he couldn't explain that old-Lady-smile on her face. "Perhaps you need to wait for the right moment? How about you get her alone in camp, perhaps giving a gift..." Alistair could feel the worst blush ever across his face. This... why was never anything going as planned?!
"O-oh, I... wasn't talking about me... forget I said anything." The old mage chuckled. "As you wish. I'm heading to the Wonders of Thedas. You can find me there; I am taking the dog with me." And with that; she was off, leaving Alistair alone in the Denerim Market District.
Maker's Breath. He had just been browsing the store of this Flower Girl – and she talked him into Oblivion. He had never been outside of Ferelden; and her talking about Orlais and Val Royeaux wasn't really his point of interest, although she would not shut up about it. Alistair had managed to slip away, luckily enough. Somehow, the Flower Girl seemed to be better off in a tavern, passing over gossip instead of selling stuff.
Sighing, he kept on browsing. He didn't even know what kind of gift to get. It suddenly occurred to him he didn't know much about his Warden friend, after all. She never expressed what her favourite things were or what she did for fun. He stopped in his tracks. Cousland had always stopped and asked them all about their likes and dislikes. She always stopped to pick up a thing she thought someone else could like – she never kept anything for herself. This wasn't fair, wasn't it? She led them all against the Blight, was effectively doing all the work; and never got anything nice for it. He groaned. So what was he supposed to get her, exactly? She was keeping a journal, but last time he saw her writing in it, it still had a lot of pages left. Something else, then? She would also need no other dagger – she just stumbled across gear every fifty steps.
Alistair left the market to sit on a bench nearby. He had to think – maybe she had mentioned something she had liked to do...?
And he realised the only personal thing he knew about her was the fact that Arl Howe killed her family. Great.
He was still sitting there when Wynne came back. "Alistair, what are you doing there? I thought you wanted to buy a gift?" He groaned again and looked at her. There was actually no point denying who he had been talking about earlier. "Just how do you buy a gift for someone you don't know anything about? The most personal thing I know is that Howe killed her parents. I can certainly build on that!" Giving up, he cradled his face in his hands.
The dog twitched his ears at that. He stepped forward and pushed his nose against Alistair's knee and then just used his paw to remove Alistair's hands from his face. He barked happily and went off in a direction; looking back at Alistair. The man was giving him a puzzled look, but got up anyway. Othello was wagging his tail and hurried into a certain direction; always listening to the sound of the man's armour behind him. He effectively led his mistress' friend to a merchant's stall. When he again felt a puzzled look at the back of his head, Othello slowly approached a lute. "So... you're saying she likes playing the lute? We already have a lute in camp... Lelianas. I've never seen Cousland even touching it..." The man said, certainly not understanding. Othello whined and really wished humans weren't so dense, sometimes. Then the old woman seemed to understand: "Perhaps the memory is a painful one, Alistair. The last time she would have picked up a lute would have been before the slaughter of her family." That seemed to upset the warrior: "O-oh, of course, but..." He looked at Othello. "So you as her faithful mabari just suggest I buy her a lute?" Othello barked happily. He could still remember how she had liked playing it. The Lady had wanted her daughter to at least learn that – and so she did. His mistress even kept doing it – not like the stitching. She had giving that up pretty fast. Othello remembered many times his mistress played just for him when he has been younger – he had always liked the attention. It would be nice to hear that again.
The warrior started to sweat now. "B-but what if that just reminds her and... err... she, well... hates me for it?" Othello simply growled. Why couldn't the human just get it over with? Angrily, he stood up on his hind-legs and placed his paws on the man's shoulders. Terrified, the man stared at him. Standing up, Othello was almost as tall as him and due to experience; the dog knew humans would get uncomfortable at that fact. "I... I buy it then, yes?" Othello barked happily and moved away, pleased with himself. The old woman just chuckled. "Aren't you a clever dog." Indeed, Othello was very clever. His mistress always said so. And she tended to be right.
On their way back, they managed to acquire a ride. So this time, it would just take a few days to get back to camp. With any luck, Cousland and the others would be back already. Alistair had to admit, he was a bit anxious. The lute looked ridiculous in his backpack and he was just slightly annoyed. How was he going to give it to her, anyway? Here, I bought you a lute because your dog said you liked that. Of course. Alistair groaned. Why did the Chantry not teach how to woo someone successfully? No, instead he had been forced to learn the Chant of Light. Perhaps he should try throwing the Chant at the darkspawn and see what happened. Maybe they made a poof sound and were gone. That would be quite funny, indeed.
This time, they were just five days on the road. Not getting attacked on the road apparently increased travelling speed. After all, they always got ambushed. One time by a bad assassin, then there were darkspawn, crazed animals... so much to interrupt quiet travelling. Maybe getting ambushed wouldn't have been so bad... then at least Alistair wouldn't have to think so much.
"I am quite glad to be back at Camp so soon. Sure, a bedroll is not really comfortable, but it is better than the ground." Wynne sighed and Alistair pouted. "I asked you if we should buy that blanket. But you said no. And besides, isn't the dog your pillow? Isn't it me who has to use a stone as pillow?" The mage punched his arm. "I am an old lady, Alistair. And the dog isn't made for cuddling." The dog barked there and wagged his tail. He was made for cuddling. His mistress would always cuddle with him.
Alistair sighed. "It shouldn't be long now. At least we didn't have to walk all the way." Their ride had dropped them at a path that would lead to the gates of Orzammar. Their camp was about half-way up; and they should make it before nightfall. "Do you think they're already back?" He then asked looking at Wynne. She just shrugged her shoulders. "I cannot say. Finding a Paragon cannot be easy. And Maker only knows where this Branka woman is; if she's even still alive. I simply wonder what happens if they are just able to locate her remains. How will they decide then who becomes king?" Alistair didn't respond. He hadn't thought about that. If that was the case, it was just a matter of time – and who hired the better assassin. He sighed. That could take months and they really hadn't the time. The Archdemon wouldn't just wait patiently until Orzammar got its shit together. If worse came to worst, they would just have to do without the dwarves. They would face it. They would see this Blight through, they just had to.
As the sun was setting, the Camp came into sight. Alistair was actually quite relieved. He loved Wynne, yes, but sometimes it was nice to just... not talk to her and to spend time with Leliana instead. Maker, he even missed Morrigans remarks. As they neared the camp, the dog suddenly tensed, winced and dashed away. Alistair was startled and looked to Wynne, question in his eyes. The mage shrugged her shoulders, but took upon a quicker pace.
Leliana was running towards them and stopped just in front of Wynne, out of breath. "Thank the Maker, you're back! Quick, Wynne, come with me!" She didn't explain further and grabbed the mage's hand and ran back. Alistair felt his heart sink. Cousland had insisted – quite some time ago – that Morrigan would learn a bit of healing magic; in case Wynne wasn't available. The witch agreed, but Wynne remained the main healer of the group; Morrigan just in case things went really bad. Something had happened.
Cousland.
He knew very well it could be Zevran, Sten or that drunken dwarf, but somehow... somehow he just knew it was Cousland.
She was dead. Dying. Whatever. She wouldn't come back. She left and there was nothing he could do. She had left and he still hadn't said anything. She would never know now. The lute in his backpack was so very heavy now – he would never know if she would have liked it.
Did you ever lick a lamppost in winter?
She had smiled at that; even snorted. The memory seemed so hollow now. She wouldn't snort again. No one would appreciate his stupid jokes anymore now.
His hands were trembling but he barely noticed. He should have said something sooner. Now she would never know and he would die alone. Alistair was so deep in thoughts he didn't even notice how Zevran came running. Once the elf tugged at his arm, he was startled. "What are you doing here, my friend? Come on, now!" Alistair didn't even have time to respond before he was dragged away. It should certainly worry more how easily the assassin had been able to approach him – and yet it simply didn't.
The camp came into sight quickly – Alistair saw the Qunari stand closer to the tents than he usually did. He could also almost make out an expression that could nearly be called concern. And that sadly made things even worse. If even Sten of all people was worried... Maker, couldn't just a nice little Hurlock pop up to kill him?
Alistair noticed that he couldn't see Wynne, Leliana or Morrigan somewhere. He looked at Zevran, who was standing next to him. "Is... is..." He couldn't say anything. Zevran seemed to understand anyway. "She will be fine, my friend Alistair. She is our very strong fearless leader, no? Fear not and sit with me." It was clear to Alistair that Zevran tried to distract him. And no matter how suspicious he had been – Alistair was grateful. Still, he didn't wish to be distracted. "No, Zevran. I'm sorry, but..." He glanced back to the tent. He heard the elf sigh and felt a hand on his shoulder. "Do not worry, my Grey Warden friend. As far as I can tell, the wound itself was not severe – it is simply the lack of blood. We should probably have checked ourselves for wounds more often." The elf shook his head and moved away.
Alistair gulped. What could possibly have happened in the Deep Roads that nobody would notice a bleeding wound? He almost didn't dare ask. And he wouldn't. Well, at least not Zevran. He looked towards the tent again.
The dog scuffed at his legs all of sudden and Alistair patted the animal's head. "She'll be fine." In truth, this was more for himself than for anyone else. And Alistair knew that the dog knew. He didn't care, though. Alistair sat beside the mabari and smiled just a little when this large dog climbed his lap. That animal was quite heavy. How did Cousland endure that? Well, she was possibly used to the weight already.
Something tugged him, didn't it? He could really swear...
There, again. Harder this time? And, uh, why was his back hurting? Was his face wet? Maker, did he fall into the river and passed out? It wouldn't be the first time, honestly. Ugh, tugging again. Maybe he should get out... wait, nothing else was wet. Just his face. Maker's Breath, did he face-plant into the river? This would be quite embarrassing; Morrigan would have a fit for days.
He groaned and moved upwards, slowly opening his eyes, expecting to see lots of water and – stared into the dog's face.
"What?!"
He jolted onto his feet and crashed into Leliana, who had been tugging at his shoulder. "Sweet Andraste, did the dog just lick all over my face?!" Alistair shrieked, pointing at the culprit and looking at Leliana. The bard huffed and rubbed her chin. Did he hit her? Maker, she looked like he hit her. Ouch. "Err... sorry for hitting you all over the face?"
"It shall be fine, Alistair. You fell asleep draped over our lovely mabari friend and he simply tried to wake you up. As did I, by the way. Anyway", the bard said, clearing her throat. "Our fearless leader has awoken and wished to see you right..." Leliana didn't even get to finish her sentence, since Alistair rushed past her incredibly fast. Sighing, the bard patted the dog's head. "Let us simply hope he will have enough courage someday soon, yes?" Othello happily barked upon that remark. He really hoped that too.
Alistair stopped in front of her tent and cleared his throat. Once. Twice. Or maybe even thrice. "C-can I come in?" Maker, did he sound like a little Chantry boy. "Of course, Alistair", was the response from within. She sounded fine... her voice sounded like always. Maybe Zevran had been right after all? He flapped the tent and went inside. Cousland was sitting on her bedroll, being hold up by a few furs. She was looking better than he had expected. She smiled at him and just then he realised he was still standing; so he hastily sat down, next to her... a bit. Maybe too close. And still, he wanted to be closer, like... oh, he could replace the furs, couldn't he? Please.
"You, ah... wanted to talk to me?" He asked in a boyish voice and looked anywhere but her direction. Was he being pathetic? Oh, dear Maker, yes he was. He was just so pathetic. Pathetic. Argh. Andraste's knickers!
"Yes, I wanted that, Alistair. Will you look at me; or am I going to talk to your cheek? Your... very red cheek, as well?" That statement made Alistair blush even more and he turned his face around. Damn her jolly mood... but she wasn't being jolly. Her expression was rather... serious. "Is everything alright?" Something did happen in the Deep Roads. And he was rather unsure if he really wanted to know what it was.
Cousland hesitated, looking away this time. "I... yes. I mean, no. It's... something we encountered in the Deep Roads." She began chewing on her lips. "You mean Branka?" Alistair asked. "That dwarf, Oghren, told us all about it... more or less. He got drunk, vomited and well... maybe he's dead now." Cousland shook her head. "No, it's not Branka. Branka was simply insane. And insanity I can handle. It's... something else." She looked at him now. "Do you know where darkspawn comes from?" Alistair frowned and scratched his cheek. "Err... no? I can't say I have. Why? Is it important now? I thought we kill the Archdemon and are done with this Blight? Or... maybe the Archdemon spits them out, like you know, babies? Ugh. Think of that. Archdemon-babies." He heard his friend sigh. It was a sigh of utter defeat. "I'm having a problem here and you make jokes? I want to be serious now, Alistair, get a grip!"
Her jaw was clenched and she was really not in any mood for his silly jokes. "Alright... then where do darkspawn come from?" Without a word, she reached over for her backpack and pulled out her journal. "Did you find any new form of darkspawn?" He asked. Cousland would try and just sketch down new kinds of darkspawn they encountered. Why, she didn't say, but he also didn't care. Her sketches weren't the best, but then again, they were alright. She flipped over to a page and handed it to him. He looked down. "Ugh. That's... a certain way of beauty." That... thing had... four sets of breasts? It seemed to be pretty large... with tentacles? And a very... very beautiful face. "You think I could invite her over for dinner?" He was joking again. Maker, he couldn't stop, because he didn't want to think about why she showed him that.
"It's called a broodmother", she said. Alistair looked at her. "They breed darkspawn. Over a thousand in their lifetime, if I am correct." Alistair handed the journal back. "So... they make darkspawn. And you're telling me so I know if they're running amok they will throw darkspawn babies at me? Considering they can run at all." She shook her head and her eyes had a grave expression. "It's... not their... existence. It's... how they come to be. You see, Alistair... if one gets infected with the Taint, they turn to ghouls eventually, yes? It's just... a broodmother is nothing else. Despite everything, she is a ghoul." He blinked. "What's that supposed to mean? That thing's breeding darkspawn and you want to call it a ghoul? Why would you..."
"Her name was Laryn. She was a dwarf of House Branka."
His eyes went wide. "What are you..." She interrupted him: "She was alive, Alistair! She was... a living person; with husband and family and everything! When they went into the Deep Roads, they... they got captured by darkspawn. Branka wanted to find the Anvil of the Void, but... Caridin had set up traps. So she needed more... fodder to overcome those traps. And thus, she allowed Laryn to become a broodmother... she willingly sacrificed her whole house looking for that damn thing!" She was clutching her tunic now and Alistair realised this wasn't about Branka. "How did she become a broodmother?" He asked silently. It was rare their leader showed any emotion – at least such a strong one.
"They... the darkspawn, they... they kill the men. They're merciful. The women however, they... they are fed. Darkspawn tissue. That mutates them; and gives them cannibalistic urges. They simply keep on eating, even their own kin... Laryn tore away her husband's face and drank his blood, Alistair. As they feed, they grow, until they are more like them... and then they make more of them."
That certainly didn't sound nice and happy. More like ugh, really. "You asked me once why they were so few females among our ranks. What if... what if it's because of that? Just think of it... ending up like that? Breeding the very things I have fought all my life? I could end up like that..." That last sentence was barely a whisper.
"No!" Alistair burst out and confused, she looked at him. "I... I won't let that happen. You've got enough breasts already and nobody likes tentacles. I, ah, mean... I won't let that happen." Cousland smiled at him. She looked so small all of sudden. Maybe... maybe he should try to be a man, just this once. After all, she did get to be a man way more often than he did.
He came closer until he pulled her into his arms. Maker, she smelled good. "I won't let that happen to you. I promise. No, I swear. I swear this won't be your fate. And if I have to kill you myself. You can trust me, yes?" He felt her arms around him now, too.
"Thank you, Alistair", she said silently. "I'll protect you, too. My ever-shining knight in dirty armour."
Alistair held her tighter and pretended not to notice his collar getting wet. He would keep her safe. If anything in this world was worth living for, it would be her.
One day, she would enjoy playing the lute again. He would make sure of that.
He was, after all, a man of his word.