Salvation Under a Breath

Disclaimer: Lore, characters and setting belong to BioWare.

Thank you to Melismo for the beta! Check out her Tainted series for yummy Cousland/Alistiar. XD


Chapter III

Alistair spends his first night in Vigil's Keep feeling nothing but her magic on him.

Though the bottle she had flung at him contained lyrium, the amount was not enough to slake his thirst. The simple meal of soup and bread laid in the corner of his cell is untouched, more out of principle than a satiated stomach.

Indeed, his stomach is nowhere near being satified, but everything else in his body calls for the essence of magic, and it is a yearning that consumes him.

He lies on his side, facing the wall, eyes open but unseeing. Hours after seeing her again since his departure from Denerim, he wonders just how much she has changed in such a short time. It was as if she was a different person who wore the same face. A doppelganger, an evil twin, a…

A maleficar.

Truly, he never would have guessed.

Her aversion to blood magic had been obvious from the start, especially during their sojourn in the Circle, where she had singlehandedly defeated all the blood mages and abominations and whatever nasties she had found in the Fade, on top of freeing them all and vanquishing a very powerful Sloth Demon. She had taken one look at the Litany of Adralla and proceeded to sing the entire thing throughout their battle with Uldred. He did not know if it was the Litany itself or just her own voice, but the sound of steel and rending flesh was muted in his mind, all he could hear during that battle was her song.

She had never been more enthralling.

But last night, even the outline of her body against the torch had been delicious torture to him, his hands itching to run his fingers along those curves, to use his fingertips to feel them again after so many months, to dig his nails in and scar her, feel her flesh give and tear beneath his hands. It was a disturbingly morbid thought, but a welcome and common one.

When she had locked him in her embrace of blood and magic though, his hands wanted to do nothing more than rip her throat out.

How dare she. She, who had even condemned her best friend to the judgment of Templars for similar abilities, had the gall to use them against him.

But of course. It was the only way a mage could win against a Templar. Or someone who knew how to be a Templar. It was blood magic or possession. He guessed she chose the lesser of two evils.

An evil, nonetheless.

But on the bright side, he thinks, he had never been more sure of a roof over his head or a source of meals. It was a good change from the months of sleeping in the woods, or even the Deep Roads, or that failed journey to Weisshaupt. The sense of something being constant in his life besides the hunger for both liquor and lyrium unfurled a knot inside him.

Even if it is a prison, it somehow feels like home, if only for the reason she is close by.

"…don't want anything to do with any of you. Ever."

A wry smile crawls up the corners of his mouth, as his own words ring in his head and the look on her face when he made it clear he was leaving. Leaving her.

It is a vision that always felt different each time he revisited. Now, it fills him with regret and shame.

He is completely aware of how pathetic he has become. All his bluster at the Landsmeet is gone. There is nothing left in him but thirst, for things he knew and things he didn't.

Why is he in Amaranthine?

There is nothing in Amaranthine for him. Nothing but her.

Perhaps he had decided upon something in some recent, drunken, lyrium-drowned stupor and had forgotten about. It was not the first time.

His thoughts are shaken by the grating of the bars of his cage. He tenses. He is supposed to be able to sense it, especially after all this time, but a lot about him is changed, is buried, is lost. The feeling of last night's encounter is brought fresh to his mind, his survival instincts activating but unheeded by his body.

She is back, and her body is aflame with taint and blood.

Alistair turns and sits up, gazing at her through filthy bangs and drugged eyes.

And still, just the outline of her body is enough to awaken him. He had not realized it, but he has lain in the darkness, for how long he does not know, just waiting for her to return.

He decides to play nice this time. There really is nothing he could do against her. Not with her as a blood mage and he as a prisoner. He would come to that soon enough. His fingernails would have to wait.

"Commander." He rasps, and by the way she tenses, he knows he has struck the first blow.


He calls her 'Commander'.

She throws linen, soap and a razor at him.

She feels like Wynne.

And he says nothing, no snark, no indulgent laugh, no mocking accent. She could have only imagined it, but she thinks she hears him thank her.

"Clean yourself up. You're a disgrace."

Nothing.

" Try not to kill yourself or get yourself killed while I'm gone. It would be a pity, coming all the way to see me just to die."

Still nothing. It rises her hackles like nothing ever has, not even the Knight Commander back at the Tower and his imperious tone. She is never one to be cruel, not even in necessity, but in this, she cannot help herself. It is as if the venom in her voice is a living thing, a monster she cannot contain.

Her hand itches to hurt him. She bends down, taking his rough, filthy face by the jaw and making him turn his eyes up to her through scraggly bangs. His pupils are dilated, the whites cracked with red.

She pushes his face away, and though she is disgusted, it is almost second nature for her to take him into her arms at that moment, seeing how broken he is. She quashes it, fingers digging into the wound she made at her palm to activate her blood magic. The pain makes her hate sing, and she holds the dissonant note.

Unknowingly, her fingers leave a wet trail of blood on his chin.

"Farewell, Alistair." She grits out and drops a few potions into his lap, sweeping imperiously from the room, trailing fire and the scent of blood.

She does not hear his reply or sees how his eyes follow her out the door, fingers caressing the bottles absently. Dirty, callused fingers come up to his chin to wipe at the redness left there, then disappear into the ex-Templar's mouth.

His lips quirk into a small, cruel smile, and his tongue comes out to lick at his cracked lips.


Nathaniel adjusts his armor. It is a new set, one he finds lying innocently on his bed. He traces the runes on it carefully, and notes the rarity of the design and material. As of all his things, it came from the Warden stores, which was actually equipment that Commander Neria had collected over her journey during the Blight. When she had told him to go down into the armory and take his pick, he did not realize the value of what she had accumulated.

And this was after all her companions had gone through the stores themselves, selecting equipment as 'gifts' from her, at her insistence. Varel had acted the consummate steward, showing off his Arlessa's belongings proudly, and, oddly, knowing almost all the stories behind each piece.

He looks down at the Howe bow, and he knows its story as well. She had found it along with Delilah's unsent letters, and had asked Master Wade to fix it without even telling him. It had been fastidiously cleaned, by none other than the Commander herself, but she had initially told him that it had been someone else.

And this was after he had snapped at her for asking about Adria, bringing up the most difficult issue between them, that of his father's death.

Looking back at that moment, he could only marvel at his bitterness.

Nathaniel cocks his arm back, bent at the elbow, sharply and repeatedly, trying to make the leather give under his form. It is a difficult thing, breaking in new armor, but this was the best set he has ever worn, and he feels that the skills hampered by ill-fitting armor will be easier to perform in such light and pliant leather.

He sees the Commander stepping out from the prisons, having a quick word with the guard stationed at the door. The man nods and moves to stand in front of the prison door completely.

Nathaniel notes this for later.

She walks towards him, minding the pouches of components at her hip and her pack. She seems to favor robes cut in the Tevinter style the most, most especially a blue-tinged set which he has always seen her wear. Her hair, long and thick is, as always, barely tamed and mostly falling into her face.

To his growing discomfort around her, he finds it rather endearing.

"As always, bright, early and chipper for the morning!" Anders announces his presence with a gratuitous yawn and slings his arm over Nathaniel's shoulders.

The gesture is unwelcome and the rogue shrugs it off none too gently, which sets the mage to chuckling. "Or maybe, foul, sour and surly." Anders clucks his tongue and wags a finger. "Now, remember what the Commander said…"

"What did the Commander say?" comes a soft question.

Anders suddenly straightens and smiles sheepishly at Neria as she strides over, adjusting the belt that holds her blade across her hip. The elf raises a delicate eyebrow and crosses her arms, a smile challenging the taller blond mage.

"That grumpy Wardens get toilet-cleaning duty!" Anders quips, and to Nathaniel's surprise and wonder, Neria's smile breaks into a girlish giggle. She slaps Anders' arm with a delicate hand.

"This isn't the Tower, Anders." She admonishes, then turns to Nathaniel, her face becoming serious. "But I did say something about grumpy Wardens…"

She turns to him, her eyes reading his face, and he tries his best not to scowl, but he feels he lost that battle long ago, and that he is always scowling. He remembers the unsaid apology of last night and forces himself to speak, but a small, sad smile quirks her lips and she shakes her head and looks away.

"Commander, last night…I wished to—"

"There ye are, elf! Where did my durned Legionnaire armor git to?" Oghren bellows as the dwarf approaches them from the steps, clanking noisily in shiny, blue-silver full plate.

"You're a Warden now, Oghren," the Commander begins, hands on her hips as she regards the dwarf, a completely different smile on her face this time, open and teasing. "You're wearing Warden Commander armor now, I thought you'd like it!"

"Ye had it downsized from when pike-twirler wore it, didn't ye?" the dwarf grunts, not seeming pleased at all.

Nathaniel sees her eyes tighten at what the dwarf said, her eyes flickering towards the door to the prisons for less than a second, unnoticeable to anyone who isn't paying complete attention to her elfin face.

"Well, it was either that or Cailan's old armor. Unless we're fighting another High dragon for the scales, I wouldn't want you wearing anything less than the best we have." she tells the dwarf.

"This is supposed to be yers, ye know." Oghren slurs, then reaches behind him to take a slug from a flask. "Ye're the sodding Warden Commander."

"You know I never liked wearing full plate." she explains, and Nathaniel begins to wonder why she ever had to wear a full plate when she was a mage.

"But pike-twirler and I were always right by telling ye, and when ye actually listened, ye weren't as beat up and bloody as ye usually was." Oghren retorts, waving his axe nonchalantly in the air, as if it was a stick to reprimand a child. Nathaniel hears her groan, exasperated, and she motions them to follow her, out the gates.

"That was before I knew how to hold a sword, Oghren." Her voice drops to a whisper, as if she was talking to herself. It feels intrusive of him to watch her at that moment, the look on her face betraying an unknown pain.

Nathaniel looks away, and thinks it is not the right time to be apologizing.

"And ye're supposing that fancy-shmancy girly sword work that giant taught ye will keep the blood off ye better than some dragonscale and a sturdy shield, eh?"

"Well, there's also you, Oghren." though her voice is still a whisper, it is tinged with hope. "You'll keep them off me, won't you?"

The dwarf chuckles, and straps his two-handed axe to his back, metal sliding against leather.

"Don't have to ask, Commander. Oghren's always got yer backside." The dwarf replies, followed by the naughty sound of "Hardeeharhar."

"And here I thought he was still sober." Anders shakes his head in disbelief, and the Commander smiles, wide and beautiful.

"He wouldn't be Oghren if he was." She starts to pat the dwarf's head, then thinks better of it, and pats the new shoulder of the Warden armor instead.

"Ready, Nathaniel?" she turns to him, finally, tilting her head at him, and with nothing but the apology on his mind, he can do nothing but nod tersely.

"Splendid."

Once again, she leads their group out of the safety of the Keep, the early morning sunlight warm on their faces. Nathaniel catches her sneak a quick glance back, her eyes looking past him to the prisons yet again.

He does not see the look on her face when she turns back towards the road, her eyes dark, her mouth set into a thin line of determination.


Kal Hirol is a festering wound.

Their descent into the gaping maw in the Knotwood Hills is an ominous prelude. Though Anders tries to dispel the heavy air of the Taint and something even stranger with smart comments, it does little to alleviate anyone's mood, especially Neria's.

Being Warden for over a year makes her the only one who is able to sense the darkspawn accurately, and the numbers she can feel below and beyond her are staggering. Aside from the undercurrent of the Taint flowing in her veins, there is something wrong with this place.

Of course, the veins of rotten-smelling yet pulsing flesh pods and pools of creeping congealed blood tell her that there are broodmothers within the thaig, but armed even with that knowledge, she feels an odd edge to the Taint. More than an incessant tug, a resonance with the darkness inside her, it feels jagged, frayed, as if the Taint was eating itself alive in her veins.

It unsettles her so much that she forgets about the man in the dungeons back in the Keep, and singlehandedly dispatches the hurlocks they find dragging a Legionnaire by the ankles.

Summoning the difficult enchantment to give her body magical strength and dexterity, her running jump puts her right on top of the darkspawn, ice exploding around her in a large, deadly radius. She lands spectacularly, going down on one bent knee, absorbing the shock of her fall and gaining momentum. Spellweaver slides from its scabbard at her side in a single motion, and at the exact moment, she focuses all the magical strength in a rolling wave from her center of gravity to her sword arm.

The technique shatters two frozen hurlocks, and with dexterity unnatural yet completely becoming on her delicate form, she pivots on her bent knee, the air shimmering around her as if white-hot, the follow-through of her blade responsible for freeing the dwarf completely.

Then she spins, reaching behind her for her staff, pointing it far off where an emissary stands, conjuring lightning. She feels heat rush past her, and after Anders' fireball knocks the genlock emissary off its feet, it lays writhing, flesh and the blood within it boiling, the tell-tale flames of blood magic rippling across her bodice.

She cannot control the ribbons of red, draining magic that seem to leak from her body involuntarily, and she stands amidst the melting blocks of darkspawn flesh, breathing hard for several long moments. She can still feel it, the strange, disjointed quality of the Taint around her, and her Warden senses are thrown in disarray.

She can feel them crawling deep in the thaig. But with them, there is something else, and she tries to focus, tries to sift through the familiar taint of hurlocks, shrieks, emissaries—but is met with a bloodcurdling, animalistic screaming and tearing in her head.

She drops her sword and staff, her hands coming up suddenly to cover her ears involuntarily, and the Wardens crowd around her, their faces worried and on edge as well.

"I know you can't sense them very well, but do you feel anything different?" she asks the rogue, mage and warrior before her. Behind them, the Legionnaire eyes her carefully through a horned helm.

"I feel like I'm about to be flogged." Anders says, glancing around him, then, noticing the Legionnaire behind them at last, after his Commander's spectacular display in rescuing him.

"Or like I've drunk a batch of dwarven ale that's gone bad." Oghren adds, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. He spits on a melting darkspawn head, a foul taste in his mouth.

"Nathaniel, you're the newest Warden, can you feel anything?" she turns to Nathaniel, who notices that she has not a spot of blood on he. He is in awe yet again, and it takes him a moment to reply.

"There is something amiss here…More than the darkspawn. We should be more careful." The rogue glances around furtively, noting the shadowy corners. "Perhaps it would be better if you allow us to help next time, Commander."

It was as if she had only realized what she had done, dispatching a team of darkspawn all by herself, wasting mana and stamina when there were three other perfectly-capable and dependable Wardens behind her, all taller and thicker-built than her.

"Oh. Yes, certainly. I'm sorry, everyone, I don't know what came over me." She shakes her head, trying to dispel the shock of the scream in her head. It bothered her more than she showed, and it was wise of Nathaniel to point out her mistake.

But still, slicing through darkspawn flesh never felt so good, and she felt some of the frustration from Alistair leave her.

Bending down to pick up Spellweaver and her staff from the ground, she sees the Legionnaire come up to them and remove his helmet.

To show a smiling, tattoed face, framed by two pigtails.

"Hurr, now that's a nice set of buns right there."


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