Author's note (3/15/17): COMPLETE!
This was written post-Inquisition. This work assumes all origins are valid but not necessarily simultaneous. This is not a "multi-Warden" fic.
Warnings for: necromancy and blood magic, Alistair and Morrigan friendship, magically-entangled romance or lack thereof, nepotistic mages, bastards galore, mage-templar relationships, Antivans, the Fade
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Please enjoy, and if you do, leave a review! This story is also available on ao3.
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Bright Things
by brightlin
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Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
- Canticle of Benedictions 4:11
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Part One : The Usual Suspects
Chapter One : Ogre
It had been his mantra since recruitment: Duncan knows best. The almost-templar had been so, so very grateful to be free of the Chantry and the cold eyes of the Revered Mother. But if faith in the Warden-Commander was his new religion, he was coming very close to blaspheming today.
It began with a roar, the battle at Ostagar. In the shadow of the ruins, an army had amassed. At its head, a golden king prepared to be bathed in glory. Or, at least, this was how Alistair pictured it. He could see nothing from the dank staircase in the Tower of Ishal. "I can't believe he left me behind," he muttered, wiping darkspawn guts off his sword blade. "After everything we've been through."
His companion snorted. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk aloud too much?"
"Oh, that's not very nice!"
"Keep your monologuing to yourself, Warden," she suggested, re-adjusting a poorly fitting leather helmet. She had taken it off some poor dead sod on the ground level, along with a pair of gloves and a change purse. He had protested this desecration of the dead to deaf ears. "Or else every creature in the tower will hear us coming."
Alistair scoffed. "Grey Wardens don't sneak, recruit. They enter battle with honesty, and with, um, triumphant shouts." Oh, yes, that sounded convincing. He grimaced as her mabari chose that moment to join in the baying of the hounds. He swatted at the beast, which earned a growl and almost cost him a hand, but the keening low wail persisted from the back of its throat. He pulled his fingers to his stomach with a yelp.
"Hush, dog," she commanded. It whined. She softly pushed open the door and raised her fist, signaling their little group to a halt. "All that honesty will bring you is a lot of death."
Who did she think she was?! And what sort of game did she think she was playing? All these noble-types were the same. From the moment she had introduced herself as "Lady Cousland, daughter of the Teryn of Highever," he had known just what sort of person she was. Often, bann such and such of nowhere would try and offload his third child on the Grey, if they showed no aptitude for Chantry life and could swing a stick. In Denerim, at least, they could take up posts in the city watch. They complained to him as their daddies pledged donations to Duncan. Bulbous, ruddy faces and thick necks, the lot of them- useless. Some were turned away outright, as Duncan carefully wove his way through Fereldan politics. Others died in the Joining, and ended up in their family crypts, to the relief of their older brothers.
But almost none of them had been women, unless they were cursed with a powerful ugliness. Beautiful daughters, plain daughters, even simple daughters were born to be wives or priests. It was their vocation. Eamon had explained this all to him when he first brought home Isolde. She had been stunningly beautiful then, hard to look at, which nearly disguised her cruelty. She was as close to an evil stepmother as Alistair was ever going to have. (Older, he had fantasized about her creamy shoulders until he spent into a handkerchief, as fervently as some boys worshiped Andraste. Thirteen was a disturbing age, and lonely without girls of their age about.)
Alistair had only seen pictures of the last girl Warden, an elf called Tamarel, the friend of Duncan who fell some months before he was recruited. So what was wrong with this one? The girl was tall, and slender, with flame-red hair cut to her throat. It was uneven, like maybe she had cut it herself. In the dark. With a dull knife. This, he had noticed first. Even now, it poked out under her looted helm, just on the one side.
She might have been pretty, he considered, if she hadn't been covered in gooey bits. He had always preferred blondes, anyway, buxom girls with wide hips. (A distant thought, pushed away: was he like his father?) She had small breasts and skinny arms; he was surprised she could lift the blades she was dual wielding, but she was obviously well trained or some sort of natural.
She turned her head to face him, frowning. A wicked mouth, full pink lips, even if her jaw was too strong to be considered feminine- "Ay, Warden-boy, are you even listening? You're staring."
He swallowed. "You're peeling." Oh, Maker. What a dumb thing to say.
The girl (woman?) rolled her eyes. It was too dim to see what color they were, though they were small and set perhaps slightly too wide. Her skin was, as noted, peeling substantially. She touched her face. "There was sun on the march south. I'm fair, and no good for sun." She paused. "No good for marching, either. I've got blisters like you wouldn't believe."
"Really? I'd've thought a noblewoman would own good boots!" C'mon, Alistair, what are you doing? Change the subject! Offer her some ointment. No, don't do that. Give her a foot rub? Yup, that's worse. As he puzzled over this, his Warden senses began to nag him, elevating from a general sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to an urgent one. "Yeah, anyway, well, we've got company." Great. I sound like a halfwit.
With a sigh, and a dour look, she sort of melted back into a shadows of the next room, which was a skulky rogue trick, if you asked Alistair, and more than that he could not say. There was more fighting.
He couldn't keep an eye on her and the dog and the mage who had joined up with them, but she could handle herself. Duncan had chosen her and she had survived the Joining, which meant something, certainly. Perhaps the taint liked the novelty of a woman. She made him feel, well, weird, like when the Revered Mother would punish him extra even though he hadn't done any worse than the other boys. It was a sensation he associated with embarrassment and dislike. (And though he would never admit it, longing for acceptance.)
The mage perished, but took down three with him in the doing. There was no time to mourn. They hadn't even asked his name. He had some Circle trinkets with him, which Alistair pocketed, to return to First Enchanter Irving.
These staircases were becoming a struggle to climb in the weight of his armor; he felt hot and fatigued. But the battle was picking up below them, by the screaming sound of metal and death in the valley. "We're late," she said. Her every step was demonstratively tender.
Alistair would have been sympathetic, remembering his first long trek in the company of the tireless Grey Wardens... but that she had offered none to others. She had been like this in the Wilds, too, bossing them into a forced march through the soft, swampy ground. Ser Jory had complained ceaselessly; he was used to riding, when in heavy plate. Some good it got him. Last day alive. Could have stayed at camp, drank ale, wrote a letter to his lady wife...
"You're right," he huffed. Try as he might, he was straggling below her. "But we're going as fast as we can. Some of us aren't in light armor." Duncan probably could have cleared the tower, lit the signal, and made it back to the field to see Loghain's men join them. That thought only added to his frustration. How many other fighters were experiencing their last moments because they were late to the signal?
She had the audacity to laugh. Maybe she was deranged from the Joining. He had heard of that happening in Orlais. "Keep up, Warden-boy! We've nearly done it."
"It's not-" bristled Alistair. "I'm not a boy."
"You sure? You look like you should still be in short-pants. Were you a squire? Do templars have squires?"
"It's Ah-lees-tair," he enunciated. "Just call me Alistair. Maybe you've forgotten already, but we're meant to be brother and sister in arms. Or perhaps you would like me to call you my lady?"
"Point taken." The rogue had reached the threshold of the top floor. "Truth be told, I'd been calling you Oliver in my head. Had it wrong! Alistair. Alistair." She smacked her lips, tasting the word. "If you must call me anything, you may call me Elissa. But I already have a brother," she said, "and I'm not looking for a bunch of darkspawn-chasing monks to replace him." Her voice trailed away as she put distance between them.
Ugh, Maker's breath, what a difficult woman. "Lissa, I'm not trying to... That's not what I- Ogre!" He was barely through the door when the creature charged him. How has an ogre climbed to the top? he thought carelessly, as though his brain refused to comprehend the danger. Do ogres use stairs? Perhaps they rig a pulley system?
"I see it! Move!" She was- where? To the right? Running as though her feet weren't bleeding. Her pet was angry and excited, snapping at the air.
Ogres were stupid but absolutely deadly, powerful enough to turn your bones to jelly. He rolled, dodging as though his life depended upon it. "Even fully armored, these monsters can still break your every rib with the concussion of the strike. With its prey thus stunned, it will paralyze the spine with the bite of its jaws." Death would come first too fast and then too slowly, immobile and pissing yourself, screaming with ragged lungs.
He tried to orient himself to the scene. Heart pounding. Peripheral vision shot. One blow would kill a flimsy girl like her. He needed to keep its attention. Duncan's instructions continued in his head. "Wear it down from behind. Then strike at the throat. The arteries there are the kill spot." He had been trained for this. Theoretically. There were pictures, training dummies. But had never seen a living one in the flesh. "Stay behind it! The neck!" They only come out for a Blight.
"Easier said- hup-" she gasped in ragged breaths, "-than done- Andraste's tits!"
The room was circular, but full of obstacles and barricades. They tried to keep pace with each other, counterclockwise, one in front and one behind. Dodging the charges. Taunting the creature. "Wear it down," Duncan said. But they were getting twice as tired as the ogre, and at least half as dizzy. It could see much better in the dark than they could. Their weapons barely penetrated its dense flesh.
"This is ridiculous. I'm going to make a feint."
"What?"
"Cover me."
"What are you going to do?" He pivoted, blocking a fist with his shield.
"Oy, ugly!" she shrieked, drawing the attention of the ogre.
"Sure, that's helpful, make it even madder."
"You've got a better plan?"
"I can think of a few."
Elissa seemed to stumble. But instead of recovering, she crouched, leaving herself vulnerable. 'What is she-?' Alistair broke his concentration. It happened so fast that he didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.
WHAM! It felt like he had been struck by battering ram in the side. Sharp, dizzying pain, bone splintering like glass, the taste of copper in his mouth... He bounced off the wall. He couldn't breathe! Maker, please, air! He vomited weakly, red frothy ooze, his solar plexus hitching with every attempted inhale. He began to black out.
He thought he heard his name. "Warden! Alistair!" Elissa cried, hanging off the back of the beast. "You- oh, shit- you alive?" She was ten feet away, maybe, though the room was spinning and it was hard to judge. Her helmet flew off as the ogre bellowed and struggled to displace her. The mabari was clamped deep onto a muscled elbow, likely cutting to the bone, snarling as its body was whipped about. "This is not going to plan!"
He could not speak, but, propped on his good side, he lifted the injured arm to show he was still there. The motion was agonizing. Did she know what to do? 'She hasn't had any training. She's only been a Warden for a few hours. I was supposed to protect her. Going to die going to die- No, I- The tower was supposed to be secure.'
Her red hair flashed, a lick of fire curling up. 'Andraste's holy fire-' and she hung on for dear life. Her sword was hilt deep through the shoulder, her only handle. Perhaps it was the Maker's providence, perhaps it was dumb luck, but her dagger found a weak place in the ogre's leathery skin, and penetrated the brain stem. It roared, sinew tearing and bile erupting. She was flung free; her dog dragged the monster down and went for the throat.
His companion was so small, really, couldn't have weighed more than eight stone, and like a flat pebble on the water, she skidded across the smooth floor. Her body was heaving, twitching silently. He finally found his breath, croaking, "Lissa?"
'We can't both be- someone has to-'
It was a whole minute before she responded, in a voice of mirth: "Fine, I'm fine!" Maker, she was laughing again! "Saw my life in front of my eyes, but I'm fine. Suddenly I'm grateful Mother spent so much time teaching me to dance, ha ha!"
"What?" The woman was unhinged. Surely. "Never mind. I thought you were hurt." His stomach was rolling.
She pulled herself up on a column: wobbly knees and unsteady breath. "Disappointed?" The dog gave a happy bark. It was smeared with the blood of the ogre; it was consuming the eyeballs and the flesh of the face. Frightening creature.
"No. But I thought I was going to have to drag myself to the signal fire."
She sobered, hurrying to his side. "I thought it was just the wind knocked out of you."
"Yes, that and a bit more." 'What is that wheezing noise? Oh, that's me.' Elissa hovered over him. Her eyes were big pools. From here, he could see the color, green. "You look a little frazzled. Don't they cover combat medicine... in that... manor of yours?"
"Mother Mallol said I was a lost cause. Decent grasp of anatomy, but no bedside manners. No, um, patience. Should I take off your breastplate?" Her hair fell toward his face in sweaty ribbons.
"I don't know. My ribs, my shoulder, my arm... I think the armor might be holding me together."
"There's blood in your mouth. On your teeth." She touched his face, to wipe his cheeks. Her hands were not soft like he expected, but rather rough with calluses and chewed nails.
"That means there's blood on the inside. Could be bad." He coughed. "Feels bad. Do we have any healing potions?"
"No, but I can look for one. There are plenty of bodies-"
"Elissa, go light the signal fire. Duncan and the king need us to do it. I'll be fine. We'll find a healer after the battle is over."
"But you don't look-"
"Signal the teryn. Do your duty. Please, for me." He must have imagined the look on her face then, like she'd seen a spirit. Giving orders made him queasy.
"Damn my duty!" she spat back, but obeyed, leaving him on the cold, hard floor to collect a torch.
The whole room filled with bright things, the shadows driven away. The sound of battle was clearer from here, louder. Hot bile rose in his throat; it hurt. It hurt so bad that when his nerves went dead from shock, it was a blessed relief. He smiled when she returned. His vision was swimming; she looked glowing, magical... red and gold. "You look like the Bride of the Maker." He grinned sloppily to the woman who cradled his head. "I take it back. You are pretty." She had a beautiful silhouette. "Good nose."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Her voice was strained. Was she stroking his hair? "I think you're hallucinating. Hush, Alistair, save your strength. I'm sorry, I couldn't find a potion. But I won't leave you alone for this."
Suddenly, he knew. 'I'm dying,' he thought, but could not muster up any fear. And what's more, he knew she knew. He should have been scared, but he was too tired to be. Didn't have time. Everything floated, calling to him down from a great distance. He wondered what kind of eulogy Duncan would give him. Duncan who was- "What's happening out there?"
Elissa was petting his hand, speaking to him of things he barely understood. "My mother refused to leave my father. She died protecting him, so that he could know a peaceful end. I wanted to stay. Duncan wouldn't let me."
Alistair struggled to follow this abrupt confession. "Your parents are...?"
"My father said it was my duty to be a Grey Warden. I think I might have hated him, the last moment I saw him. I didn't know. I didn't understand." He found it hard to reconcile this soft-spoken woman with the laughing valkyrie of battle. He found it hard to think at all.
"You never said any of this to us. Daveth had... had money on you being..." He caught himself. It wasn't a polite thing to share with a lady. "Duncan said it was your story to tell. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss."
"I was never supposed to be here. I was so angry. But I think I got it, when I killed that, that- thing. I've been trained to be a soldier. To do my duty. To protect Highever. But it's all gone. Rendon, he- betrayed! He was like my uncle. Nathaniel, Delilah, Thomas," she shook her head. "If I hadn't been so... well, I would have been one of them."
She spoke for a while, sad but soothing, telling him how her mother had been a talented archer, and had pressed her to be clever if she could not be strong; how this Nathaniel had taught her all the rogue skills that her mother found unbecoming: how to pick a lock, how to pick a pocket, how to lie convincingly. He went away to become a knight in the Free Marches. Alistair got the impression that she might have been in love with this boy. He began to fade out when she told him of Fergus. Her brother? They had drilled at swords together... He was cold, cold all the way through, and couldn't get warm...
The trumpets sounded, and then, like the dark fingers of the archdemon himself, a wailing began on the wind.
"Elissa, what's happening?" He couldn't feel his fingers. There were noises below them. "You looked out."
"You shouldn't have to..." She ran her fingers over his closed eyelids. "I'm sorry."
He could hear the panic in her breathing, but it seemed so distant. Muted. "What's happening?" he repeated.
"The army has been routed," she said. "The darkspawn have the field. I couldn't see what happened. We are surrounded by the bulk of the horde. There's no chance of escape for us." Noiseless tears were rolling thick down her cheeks, as though she didn't know she was crying, and forgot to sob. She licked the salt from her lips.
"Loghain failed?" That seemed impossible, as impossible as the Grey Wardens falling. "What about Duncan? What about the other Wardens? And Cailan?!" Ugly pain in his side, his body simply refusing to allow him to sit up. Something pricked in his eyes, blinding him. "Could you see?"
"Alistair, I-" A crash. She jerked upright, looking to the door. She lifted her hands, and he saw that they were dripping, red and slick, with fresh blood. 'My blood.' "Ah. I've left my father's sword stuck in the ogre. Well then."
"What's...?" The question hung on his lips. Without her to support his neck, he could no longer lift his head. And what he could see stunned his tongue.
"Not to worry, Warden dear, just some visitors." There was only time for her to square her shoulders to face their new enemies. The arrow split the air, hissing; it buried itself in her white throat. A bloody rose bloomed from the strike, and she crumpled down upon him. He was sure she was dead before she fell; the body was heavy enough to jolt his injuries, and he cried out wordlessly. The pain was too much, and he accepted the rushing darkness. The dog howled, lunging and snapping at their murderers.
In the beginning, they died.