Learning
I waited until the rest of the party retired before approaching Alistair at his seat by the fire. I'd offered to sit watch with him, since he was still complaining of a headache from the final attack at the ruined temple. Guilt twinged in my chest, but I pushed it aside. A bit of exercise would do him good, probably.
His eyes jolted up to mine as I planted my feet in front of him, and his brow furrowed. I held Spellweaver in my hands, its point touching the dirt in front of my leather boot. Faint lightning crackled along its silverite length, thanks to a minor enchantment Sandal had bestowed upon the strange blade I'd recovered during our quest for the ashes. Despite it only being in my possession for a short time, the sword seemed to mold itself to me, fitting into my grip as though it had been forged with me in mind.
"Teach me," I said.
"What? Teach you?" Surprise curved his lips as his eyes travelled from mine to the blade in my hands. "Kiann, I think it's great that you managed to defeat the reavers with my sword, but swords aren't really a good tool for mages--"
I arched a brow, then launched into the steps of a dance that flitted through my mind. Step, parry, block, thrust, every motion as poetic as the last. I felt for a moment like I was at a royal ball instead of in a clearing lit by golden flames. I lunged forward in the final movement, Spellweaver extended in front of me, and straightened. My lips stretched in a wide smile, and my skin was hot, flushed with triumph.
"By the Maker," Alistair breathed, scrambling to his feet. "How did you...where did you learn that?"
I laughed, feeling lighter and freer and more me than I had in...well, a very long time. "The ruins in Brecilian Forest. Remember the ancient phylactery?"
He frowned. "The one with the revenant?"
"No, the other one. The one I stared at for a long time, then destroyed." I raised a brow. "Didn't you wonder what I was doing that whole time?"
"Debating what you should do with it, I thought."
"No, silly." Before I could think better of it, I smacked a hand against his upper arm. Not a gesture I would normally make, because...well, templar; but tonight, with the thrill of discovery pumping through me, I didn't care. "I was learning. Ancient elven combat magic. Isn't it wonderful?" I poked Spellweaver's point into the dirt, gently, and spun around it. "I can fight. I know...not everything, not even close, but so much more than I'd ever dreamed, Alistair. I know how to wield a sword. How to block a thrust, how to strike, how to parry...combat forms...oh! How to hold a shield! Can I practice with yours?"
"Wait. Just...wait." He rubbed a hand over his brow. "You're telling me that you learned swordplay from a vial of blood?" He blinked. "That's...rather disturbing, actually."
"Not the blood itself, the spirit of the mage trapped within it."
"Oh, well, that makes it so much better."
I frowned and shook my head. "What's the problem? It's a dead art, Alistair. I'm the last--"
"Did you ever stop to think that there might be a reason that magic died out?" He crossed his arms over his chest, the plates of his armor rasping together.
I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. "No," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean it's not useful." My eyes narrowed. "You're just jealous."
"Jealous?" Alistair sputtered. "Why in the Maker's name would I be jealous?"
"Because I just learned how to pick up a sword today and I have better form than you do."
"You have--" The templar snorted with laughter. "Oh, you so don't."
"It's true. I'm an elf. Elves are just naturally more graceful than humans. It's a known fact, don't try to deny it." I mimicked his stance, my arms crossed over my chest, and looked down my nose at him. Or, rather, up. He did have about a foot in height on me. "Ergo, my form will be more innately perfect than yours."
"Maker's breath, Kiann." He ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up even more raggedly at the front. "Form is important, yes, but when you're up against darkspawn or bandits or whatever else ends up trying to kill us, it matters little. You need strength. You need stamina. And even with this fancy new magical knowledge you have, mages aren't equipped for that."
I pressed my lips into a thin line. "Try me."
He stared at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to protest, or refuse, or something. But instead, he threw his hands into the air. "Fine. Fine! But you're going to do the explaining to Wynne when you need patching up."
"All right." A smile danced over my lips. I bounced on the balls of my feet, excitement preventing me from standing still.
"Kiann, I'll try not to hurt you, but--"
"Don't hold back," I told him. "Don't you dare."
"I'm going to end up in the Black City after this," Alistair muttered as he led me a short distance from the fire. We were close enough to benefit from its light, but not so close one of us might accidentally stumble into it. "I hope you're happy."
"I will be," I said with a smile, "when I beat you."
"I don't think so." His eyes glimmered in the firelight as he unlatched his sword and shield from his back. The shield he placed at the edge of our impromptu ring. "Just swords," he said.
"Sounds good to me," I said. I smiled, and attacked.
Our swords rang against each other, a counter melody to the rumble of the fire. Laughter bubbled up from my gut, robust and real. A smile darted across Alistair's face as he heard it, quickly replaced by a stern look of concentration as he engaged me with all of his skills. He didn't hold back, as I'd asked. After a few moments, I noticed a gleam in his eyes I hadn't seen before, and he gave me a nod of acknowledgment as I continued to meet and parry and block his blows with ease.
I felt alive. That was the only way to describe it, and even that didn't quite encompass all of the emotions roaring through me. With every step, every clash of blades, I felt strong. In control. Powerful. Not in a "quake before the might of Kiann" kind of way, but in a quietly confident, "I can do this" way. It was like...like a part of me had been missing until now, until this, a part that I hadn't even known existed. And with it snapped back into place in my psyche, everything was different. I was different.
I wasn't scared anymore. Whatever Duncan had seen in me...maybe I was starting to see it too.
My sword flattened against Alistair's and I darted in close, our blades crossed between us. Sweat glistened along his brow and his eyes blazed with some emotion I didn't recognize. The tang of sweat and metal and man surrounded me, not unpleasant. Definitely not unpleasant. Unbidden, my eyes drifted to his lips, so close to mine. He really did have very nice lips: strong, full but not too full, quick to smile. That last bit was the best part.
I caught my lower lip between my teeth as I wondered what he'd taste like.
No. Uh, no. Templar, remember?
I staggered back from him and Spellweaver dropped from my nerveless fingers. "Well, I..." I cleared my throat. "That was educational."
"Right. Educational." I couldn't quite tell in the dim light, but were his cheeks flushed? He latched his sword to its place on his back, then strode forward to retrieve Spellweaver for me, his movements jerky, uncertain. So different from the confidence he'd displayed during our sparring. He held it out to me.
"Yes, certainly. I, uh...thanks." I gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and tapped its point into the dirt repeatedly. "How are you feeling?" I asked suddenly. "Better?"
The look he gave me was somewhat pained. "Oh, the headache's gone."
"Good. That's good." Maker's breath. Could this be any more awkward? "I guess I'll, uh, head to bed." The tips of my pointed ears burned as I realized what I'd said. Totally inappropriate images flashed through my mind: sparring with Alistair of a very different sort.
Dear Andraste.
"Right." He coughed and busied himself with retrieving his shield. "Good night, Kiann."
I whimpered. And fled to my tent.
###
The sun was high overhead, terrifically warm, but a foreboding chill seemed to dwell along the path as we approached the tiny village of Redcliffe. I glanced at Alistair. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet and reserved as we trudged down the road to his former home. I chalked it up to bad memories. I knew he was an orphan and that Arl Eamon had taken him in after his mother died, but it sounded like his childhood had been a lonely one. As separate as I'd been from the rest of Ferelden, growing up in the Circle, at least I'd been accepted. From what Alistair had told me, he never had been.
A militiaman stood in the middle of the stone bridge before us and I strode forward, determined to demand an audience with the Arl. A hand tugging on mine pulled me up short and I glanced down, surprised. Alistair's armored fingers lingered, tracing the lines of my palm, before he pulled away.
"Can we talk for a moment?" He glanced at the militiaman, at the ground, at the rushing waterfall--anywhere but at me. "I, uh, have to tell you something that I...probably should have told you earlier."
"Alistair..." Maker, but the man had the worst timing. "Can it wait? We need to get to the Arl with the ashes. We're so close now."
"Right. Yes, of course." He nodded.
"Once we're back at camp, I promise you'll have my full attention."
"Your full attention, is it." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Heat flowed over my skin. Was he--was he flirting with me? In front of Leliana and Wynne? "Well, you have more things to teach me, right?"
Leliana smothered a giggle behind her hand. Wynne suddenly found the patterns of the clouds fascinating. Belatedly I realized that what I'd said could be taken in so many ways that I had absolutely not meant.
"Like fighting! Swordplay." Oh, Andraste's mercy, that could be a euphemism. "I mean, stroking with my sword--striking! Striking!" I groaned and covered my face with my hands. "I give up."
"My dear Warden," Leliana said between snorting giggles, "I had not thought that anyone could be more adorably awkward than Alistair. I'm happy to report that you have proven me wrong."
"Wonderful. I'm so happy. No, really." I sighed. "Let's just go save the Arl."
