Writers Block has been attended to, and hopefully won't happen again… but I'm not exactly sure where this is going at the moment. For some reason, that 7th or 8th chapter is always the hardest, you know? Well, I hope I am forgiven for this.
Hm, so… Zevran was sent on a mission to steal the rights to the game… he's been gone for awhile…
~*.*~
Cullen was near bursting with happiness.
Nyra was right there, in his arms, in the real world! She was smiling up at him from beneath the small curtain of her hair, gleaming silver against the rest of the near rustic space around them. As she sighed in happiness, he held her ever closer, contemplating what he should do next. Was it too soon for a kiss? Was he supposed to automatically assume that he should kiss her? But if he did, and she didn't want it, or if it hurt her, or if he did it wrong- He really wasn't experienced in that area- what then? Would everything he had hoped for come crashing down? Would she refuse to ever be near him again? Oh Maker, why was it so damn hot in here all of a sudden?
He looked down at her, seeing the curious glint in her eyes, passing over the cute little smile, those full, pink lips, the rose tinted cheeks… the silver eyes, the soft hair…
He decided it was worth it, even if she rejected him.
He slowly touched her cheek, watching as she leaned into the warmth. He slid his hand down to gently caress her chin, tilting it up to himself. Her eyes widened a fraction, a spark of familiarity coming into her face. He gulped silently, blinked once, stared at her for a second, and then started to slowly descend, lips intent on brushing hers and-
Knock Knock Knock!
That is, until the knocking sent them scattering. They immediately flew apart, as if it was practiced, with Nyra ending up sitting at the edge of the bed, fixing her hair and appearing nonchalant, and Cullen plumping down onto the far left chair, the farthest away from her. She took a second to steady herself, he took a deep breath, and then they both looked to the door.
"Yes? Come in!" she called, smiling gently at the door as it swung open. A young templar, most likely just initiated into the order officially, stepped forward nervously, taking reluctant steps to the young mage. Cullen tensed slightly as he came closer than truly necessary.
"Miss Amell, there's a situation that requires your presence in the lobby. A witch with wild black hair and wicked yellow eyes stormed in, demanding to see you, and was followed shortly by Mage Wynne, Lady Cousland, and a red haired Bard. They're arguing in the lobby with the First Enchanter and Knight Commander Greagoir worried it might turn violent if you are not accounted for soon." He explained in a hurry, glancing back at Cullen curiously. Nyra gasped at the mention of the witch, fists tightening slightly, and she leapt to her feet almost instantly. She surprised them both by grabbing them and throwing them out the door, shutting it behind her loudly. Cullen could hear many things being rifled through in the seconds after, filled otherwise with silence.
"Tell them I'll be down in a moment! Leliana will kill me if I show up in a simple robe…" she called to them, trailing to a mumbling with her complaint. Cullen sighed, shaking his head. He turned back to the knight.
"Go down and explain to them that she'll be down when she is decent, and nothing else, understand? And stay away from the witch; she is a close friend of Miss Nyra's, and she is to be treated as such despite her demeanor… also, she likes to play with… just stay away from her, understood? And don't look directly in her eyes." He advised, sending him off with a pat to the back. He shook his head just as the door was pushed open slightly and his armor came out piece by piece.
"You get dressed too. Wouldn't do to have a templar without armor in the Circle, defenseless now, would it?" she giggled from the other side, shutting it swiftly. He laughed lightly and started to put the plate and gauntlets on. After he was dressed, he waited patiently for his charge to finish, but as the minutes passed he began to worry.
"Miss Nyra? Are you well?" he called through the other side. He heard a quick shuffling and a muffled 'yes' as fabric rustled behind the door. He stood back, awaiting her exit, and he gave a little start as she slipped out quietly, holding a staff and wearing one of the most unique robes he had ever seen. Right next to her Fade Robes.
The robes themselves, as a base color, were snow white, carefully bleached to perfection. The material seemed of a thin, light substance, and it hugged her from the waist right up to just above the chest. Her shoulders had armor like pads on them, with lyrium crystals {no doubt from her} embedded into them, instead of the feathered pauldrons he was used to seeing on wild robes. The shoulder pads were a blood red color, as were the triangles adorning the edges of her sleeves, the hem of her robe, and the edges of the hood that fell behind her. The hood itself looked far too large for such a small body, and the sleeve and hem seemed to widen as they got down to their openings. There was a criss-cross pattern of red leather laces in the front, tied of at the tip with pinkie sized lyrium crystals acting like accenting beads. From the collar part of her hood came other crystals, these ones about as big as teardrops, and they cascaded down the front of her robes in little streams, about a hundred or so. She smiled secretly at his admiring glance, though he had been sure that he had hid it well enough, and she put her arms up quirkily, turning around and letting him get a good look. Apparently, the hood had a very long, pointed end. It took him a moment to find words, but when he did, he could have smacked himself.
"You have a very… eccentric style. Beautiful… but eccentric." He commented, puzzled and intrigued at the same time. She laughed aloud at this.
"Well, when you grow up in a Circle and don't have much else to do when you're done with studies, you tend to branch out and find hobbies. I've always loved making things, but clothing was something I couldn't have worn here when I was a simple mage. Now? No one can exactly tell me what to wear unless I'm a case of indecent exposure." She shrugged. "And besides; I like to wear pretty things."
"I suppose you do." Cullen conceded, though his smile erased any doubt of his thoughts. He looked over to her staff, noticing it for the first time as well. "What kind of staff is that? I've never seen one like it in the Circle."
Nyra glanced down at the long wooden rod in her hands. The wood had been a very rare form of infected iron bark, poisoned by lyrium and Fade spirits, Sylvans, and Morrigan had decided it would have some use to them. The color had changed to a glossy black with veins of dark green fungus, which Morrigan had clarified wouldn't harm them, or Bahamut, after it was treated. She had carved it into a long, smooth base with delicate swirls starting about halfway. Near the last quarter of the staff, she had left a larger chunk to carve the likeness of a raven, perching on the edge of a rock with its wings stretched out and forwards, protecting an empty area at first. She had carved little holes in a pattern on the back and in certain areas, including the eyes and the tail feathers, and then Morrigan had simply awaited the time when Nyra had shed or created many lyrium crystals. She took her pick from the different sizes, ground them down with magic, and then fit them into the hollows. The largest piece was a meticulously round orb in the middle of the wings, protected and shining with a strange light. Nyra could never figure out how Morrigan had enchanted it that way, but it glowed in even the darkest of places, providing a star in the night when all other lights grew dim. The entire staff had been fitted with powerful enchantments and runes, though again, Nyra had no clue where their origin was. Morrigan had simply presented it to her with a rare smile.
"Oh, this? It's… a very unique staff. Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds downstairs… she made it for me after I killed her mother." She sighed happily, stroking the stone like surface of the ravens head. Cullen nodded and smiled for a second before realizing what she had said.
"Wait, you what?" he exclaimed incredulously. She cringed a little bit, snapping out of her daze.
"I had to kill her mother, Flemeth. Yes, I know, hog wash and a bucket of lies, but it was true. Her mother really was Flemeth, just… not like all the stories portrayed her. She had been… necessary in our escape of the battle at Ostagar, but when we learned she was… going to do something bad to Morrigan, we acted to save her from her mother. Don't ask me any more for now… please… those were distant times." She flinched, and Cullen could have beaten himself for causing such a reaction. At that time, she must have been… romantically involved.
It made a flicker of anger roar when he thought about what had been done to her. Surely he had been jealous that such an opportunity was given to another man, but he was somewhat content knowing she was at least happy. But to harm her heart so? No, Cullen knew he resented the man before, but now Alistair had given him a reason to be hated. King or no, he had awakened a desire to kill that Cullen had never felt before. He had harmed the most precious thing in the world; he deserved no mercy.
"Let's go… better to not keep them waiting." She mumbled, taking in a few deep breaths to try to settle herself. Cullen watched with concern as she started to show signs of inner conflict, strapping the staff to her back and holding her hands over her heart.
"Are you expecting conflict?" he asked, stepping forward to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked back up at him with glistening eyes.
"No... I just… none of them know the situation… and I don't think I'm strong enough to explain. Right after I killed the Archdemon, I had felt like the strongest person alive, able to do anything… and now I feel like the weakest thing in the world… I try to bring myself up and… and-," she tried to explain, hands fluttering around, emphasizing words that tripped over themselves. Cullen frowned and held a hand up, stopping her rant and making her eye him with doe eyes.
"We don't have to do this now. I could go down and report that you've been ill lately and have fallen back asleep." He suggested, but she shook her head, still ever silent. "Are you sure?"
"Yes… let's go. Better not keep the ladies waiting, eh?" she giggled humorlessly, painting a smile on her face and putting a false glimmer in her eyes. It held for a moment, presenting a picture to the world, but Cullen simply looked at it and frowned. He could tell she wasn't prepared for any explanations.
"Miss Nyra…." He sighed. He shook his head briefly and looked back into her eyes. Her mask started to crack under his gaze, first her eyes, then her smile. She looked around slowly, her lip delicately caught between her teeth. Cullen looked around slightly, making sure no one else was around, before he took a step forward and embraced her. She startled slightly, gasping in before hugging onto him like he was the only steady thing in the Tower. After a few seconds, she released him and smiled shyly, turning gracefully and moving purposefully through the halls.
They silently made their way through the halls down to the entrance. As they came upon the open door, they heard shouting from several parties bouncing off the walls. The windows surrounding them were just after dusk, barely dark enough to let the torches carry the light. The huddle of people in the middle of the room was edged by templars nervously fingering the pommels of their blades, and many angry women shouting obscenities at Greagoir and Irving. Cullen recognized all four of the said women, among them Mage Wynne.
"Where is she? If you did something to her, Greagoir, I swear to the Maker!" Wynne stormed, face flushed and arms crossed. Cullen could feel his own ears heat up as if it was him receiving the scolding.
"Oh hush, you insufferable woman! We haven't laid a finger on her!" Greagoir shouted right back. Nyra's eyes widened, and Cullen found himself reaching for the pommel of his sword, just in case.
"She is almost here, I assure you, she's just been through many things in the past few days, and she is unwell at the moment. No, I cannot explain it as well as she could, so if you would simply wait for a few minutes, she can tell you herself, alright? I wouldn't want- Oh thank the maker!" Irving sighed, slouching slightly as the women turned sharply from him towards Nyra. Cullen suddenly felt anxious as their glares pierced through him and softened when they came to the girl.
Leliana gasped, Cheryl's eyes widened, and Wynne's hand flew to her mouth in horror.
"You're hair…." The Bard whispered, coming closer and putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Cheryl just gulped and shook her head, eyes full of pity, while Wynne stared and stared at the girl. Whatever argument she had must have died on her lips.
Cullen stepped back as they rushed forward, allowing them to embrace and comfort their friend, but when they had all converged, the Witch of the Wilds waved them aside and stood directly in front of Nyra.
"Tell me who has done this to you, for their death shall be unpleasant, grotesque, and possibly lasting the better part of a year." She glared, crossing her arms over herself. The witch waited for an answer, but when Nyra looked down and aside, her expression changed subtly and….
She hugged Nyra?
"Come. Let us talk somewhere private, away from these pathetic, sniveling boys." She said comfortingly, taking Nyra and leading her up the stairs. Nyra, however, paused and looked over to the templar. Cullen had been observing everything and decided to think objectively the moment he saw the tears on her face.
"Miss Nyra, perhaps you wish to retire to the greenhouse with your… friend? Alone?" he suggested, looking back at her other friends. Leliana simply nodded and took Cheryl away to the corner, nodding to the mage as they left, and Wynne simply came forward and patted her shoulder.
"If you need me, I will be in the library. Be gentle, Morrigan." And with that, she dashed ahead of them and up the spiraling tower. Morrigan glanced petulantly at Cullen before leading her up. As the knight started to follow, Greagoir's voice whispered into his ear from behind.
"Progress is going smoothly, yes? We'll need her with us as soon as possible. That witch will have her paranoid and suspicious of everyone else in no time…." Greagoir mumbled under his breath. Cullen nodded slightly, bowing his body and then running up after the girls.
Why did everything seem to get worse when it was already looking up?
~*.*~
Morrigan did not know what to do.
Nyra would not stop crying over her previous mate, and though the witch knew that the idiot fool would break the poor girl's heart, she held her tongue to say so. Nyra did not need truth forced on her when she already knew it openly enough, yes? Morrigan believed she had run too much snot from her nostrils already anyways.
But still she would not stop crying. Morrigan awkwardly put her arm around the sobbing girl's shoulder, rubbing small circles of the little healing magic she knew into her arms. That seemed to calm her excessive noise making, but her eyes were still flooding tears.
"I… do not know what to say. I have never had such a relationship before, though I still believe that we should go back to Denerim so I can wrap him in silk before devouring him slowly for what he has done. Would that not make it better?" Morrigan asked, gazing at her with concern. Nyra sniffed a little, shaking her head. Morrigan sighed in pity. She had believed it to be an excellent idea. "Then I truly do not know what to do. Is there something you can think of?"
"Make me forget him?" Nyra asked hopefully. Morrigan paused, thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head.
"Tis' not good for one's health to be smacked repeatedly on the head until one's memory is lost. Death is a distinct possibility I cannot allow." Morrigan frowned, scowling a bit. "No magic I know of can make one forget something that was such a crucial part of one's life, in such a way as yours was. Without your experience with the blundering idiot, I am sad to say I do not know what would have become of Ferelden. Now, a simple question or two to sift through it all. Love is no longer with you, at least for the moment?"
"No."
"And she disappeared shortly after you slew the Archdemon?"
"Yes." Nyra said, her lip starting to tremble once again. Morrigan rubbed her shoulders absently as she took a moment for her thoughts.
"Alistair acted differently the moment you two were alone?"
"No, I saw his entire expression and attitude change the moment I was done casting my spell. I hadn't really looked away from him…." She hiccupped, taking out another, less damp handkerchief.
"Odd… did he exhibit any signs of such behavior before the battle? Before it all?"
"No, he had always been… he had always been so gentle!" she cried, leaning back into the witch. Morrigan sighed as another torrent of tears ran their way down her robes. If she hadn't been the one true sister she had ever found, Morrigan would have snapped at her already for being a blubbering buffoon. As it was, she could not, and she dealt with being the towel.
"It does not make sense. Even I could see the fool's devotion… something went wrong. It had to have, or else this situation would not have occurred. Love may have the answers we seek, though I know not how to reach her any sooner than you. Though this ritual sounds daunting, I will never the less be taking second in it to ensure your safety in the Fade." There, that sounded like the right thing to say, Morrigan thought. She had planned on shadowing her, but if her presence was known in the ritual, then all would be well.
"You can't follow me into the fade. It's a solo act, just like the Harrowing." Nyra sniffed, rubbing her eyes again. "It should take place within the next few days, hopefully. I just wish that it could all go back to the way it was before. And I don't even know what's happening with Cu-."
Morrigan waited for her to finish, quirking a brow when the mage's lips tightened and she looked away. "What is it?"
"I… I don't really know… I just have a feeling that somewhere along the line, a mistake was a made, you know? Have you ever had that feeling?" She asked, quiet and almost to herself. Morrigan thought on it for a few minutes before responding.
"I had often felt that way while I was being raised by mother, though I could not explain it then and nor can I explain it now. Was it that I felt she should have raised me with this love that is spoken of? Or that she should have been a normal mother? There were numerous questions to ponder, each more wild then the previous. But… I believe I can empathize, if not sympathize. Tell me what is strange; I may be able to assist you." Morrigan said thoughtfully.
At this, Nyra seemed to pause. Morrigan became worried at first, then wary, and finally suspicious as the minutes ticked by. When Nyra looked up, she had her own contemplative look on her face.
"Maybe… maybe things weren't meant to be the way they were." She murmured, getting up and leaving the room quickly. She paused at the door and threw over her shoulder, "Thank you. I think I know what I need to do now."
And with that, Morrigan was left alone in a strange room surrounded by plants… with one of them trying to eat her slippers.
~*.*~
Cullen was feeling odd.
He watched her cry from the corner window of the garden area, itching to help her in any way he could, but he knew he could not. At least, not while the witch was trying her absolute {grim}best. Her tears awoke both a tender side to his feelings and a beast seeking the destruction of the cause.
So he pondered killing the king for what seemed like hours.
The classic scenario of him sneaking into the kings chambers and slitting his throat, bashing his head in or choking him to death were first. After concluding the castle was far to secured, he dwelled on the kings most likely routine and schedule. Killing him in the baths was… plausible, but not likely. The gardens would be excellent as long as they didn't have men stationed around the perimeter, but again, he doubted it. If the king were to go on a hunt, he might be able to take him out from afar, or track him until he came upon a group of darkspawn and was distracted enough to be shot in the back.
Screw this, just hire someone to do it he thought after he exhausted his options.
And suddenly, he felt a lot happier.
"And of course the theory is sound, but if you add too much heat to the spell, it can melt some of the weapons imbued. The safest solution is always electricity, bearing in mind that it should be used most carefully when one is armored in met- Oh. Ser Cullen. What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be with Miss Amell?" Mage Tallin asked as she stumbled upon him, coming from the Garden area.
"Oh, yes, I was just waiting for her. She is currently visiting with her friends in the garden-," he started to say, turning to look in, only to find something was amiss. Morrigan was busy making potions… and Nyra was nowhere in sight. "Naturally."
"Oh, well, she had just passed us not two minutes ago. I believe she had gone to First Enchanter Irving's office. She said something about fixing a spell she needed?" Tallin said ponderously, looking back to her friend. Mage Karol, it seemed.
"Yes. She seemed rather preoccupied. She also had this look on her face, as if she had been stung by a wasp." The young mage shrugged. "I assumed that she had been in an argument earlier. Might as well ask… her." She pointed, nose twitching a bit towards the feral mage in the Garden Room. Cullen frowned, but nodded his thanks. As the two mages left, he started to make his way to Morrigan, eyes tight.
"Apostate." He addressed her bitterly. She glanced briefly up at him, disdain clear on her face.
"Whatever it is you think to get from me, little templar, be warned; I do not frighten easily." She said as she continued to mix her potions, the occasional smell of medicine and herbs wafting up to meet him. Cullen crossed his arms, trying to find the best solution. He could not bare weakness in front of her, and gentleness in her eyes was such. Better to be firm.
"Mage Amell did not alert me that she was leaving. Where has she gone?" he demanded, slow and distinct. Morrigan smirked darkly up at him.
"I ate her. Her sniveling became quite annoying after the first few minutes." She challenged, putting down her potions and crossing her arms. He glared at her in silence, eyebrow raised and his frown growing ever lower. She sighed heavily after a couple of seconds. "I know not where she went. All I know is she ascended this gilded Cage, muttering something about how everything was not as it should have been. It's not as if she could leave without causing a riot, I am sure. Tis not my business, and neither, should I think, is it yours."
"I'm her guard." He ground out.
"Are you now? Or are you her watcher? A Keeper, perhaps? To watch the dear warden, the mage, the most powerful of us, in case she were to turn abomination? To keep her here, oh so very 'safe' from harm?" The witch drew ever closer, her words tantalizing in a way they should not have been. Cullen felt himself grow angry and confused, but felt no magic being drawn on here. "Or, perhaps, you are yet another dog; looking to replace the last one she kept by her side? Looking to claim her as your own, now that no one is in the way? Do not think I wasn't aware of your watching of her. Do not think our first encounter was forgotten, when the Cage was possessed of demons. You were of want of her then; why should that have changed now?"
"You're wrong." He managed to force out, trying to keep her gaze. She laughed at him, her smirk turning into a derisive sneer.
"Am I now?"
"We have sworn oaths to the chantry-" he started, but found the lump in his throat stop him from continuing.
"Indeed. And, of course, oaths are always kept, yes? Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about, you poor, blundering fool." She smiled, her condescending voice pushing him over the edge. He reached out with his mind and attacked her mana supply, smiting her with holy fire and grinding his teeth, taking her by the arms.
"You strive to far, witch!" he growled, continuing the drain, feeding his own power as she gasped at the loss of hers. He could feel her sudden fear and outrage, but it paled in comparison to her feeling of helplessness.
"Do I? Or have I walked into an area you had thought no one knew of? A safe haven, far from reach, out of mind? May hap you were busy thinking about it while she ran up to see the head bird?" she snapped at him, successfully wrenching herself from his grasp when she finished. He immediately put on his cool, unfeeling templar mask and bowed slightly, mockingly.
"Thank you so very much for your cooperation." And with that, he left.
~*.*~
"Leliana, I don't think that would make her feel better…." Cheryl sighed, frowning at the numerous dyes the Orlesian bard seemed to be making. Leliana, after leaving Nyra to go with Morrigan, had decided to try her best to find a solution. So she turned towards what she knew; Orlesian style and fashion. Particularly dyed hairs and rouges of all varieties. Cheryl hadn't seen so much makeup since her mother had made her dress up for the Conte De Lance from the free marches, trying to impress him enough to take her hand in marriage. After the initial pass he made at her "remarkable bosom", he fled with his hands tucked between his legs in fear. Her mother stopped making her use make up after that.
"Well, what if she needs a change from all of this? We could always do just a strip, just a little, to see how she feels about it. If that does not work, I am sure we could make a trip to Orlais and show her the wonders of shoes…" she paused, looking down at Cheryl's road worn boots. "Wonders that seem to have escaped Ferelden somehow."
Cheryl puffed at that. "I will have you know, Fereldans can make gorgeous shoes. We're just constantly at war, needing… boots instead of frivolous things."
"There is never an excuse for lack of good shoes."
"These are good shoes!"
"No, my dear Cheryl, those are in fact not good shoes. They are battle boots. And they smell more atrocious than your dog." Leliana snapped, pointing to the lounging Mabari. Tiamat looked up immediately and whined a little. Cheryl bit back a retort when Tiamat leaned over to take a sniff of her boots, then pulled his head back frantically, scratching away at the offensive odor.
"Fine. So Fereldans tend to go more for practicality than anything else. The point I was trying to get at is, pushing her problems or the not so good things in front of her face right now, well… could probably just make it that much more unbearable for her." Cheryl sighed again, taking a seat on the guest bed. "All we can do is be there for her. Perhaps a little girl bonding time? Without the hair dyes?"
"Tch, alright, but I still think she would look good with strawberry blonde hair." Leliana conceded, putting the brightly colored jars away.
Tiamat seemed to heave a sigh of relief after the argument ended.
~*.*~
Nyra knew something had gone wrong.
It all started when Love had first come into her life, a solid presence, more or less. Love had been gently prodding, encouraging her to do certain activities. Train this mage in healing magic; go read a book now, you need the rest. Suggestion after suggestion, all of which Nyra had followed. Really, it was a reminder of her normal routine.
But there was a reason why Love had pushed her in that direction.
When Duncan had pushed her into becoming a Grey Warden, Love had fought with him on it. She had even visited him in the Fade to plead with him. When he didn't budge, she asked he at least take a templar as well. He informed her that they already had someone trained in the templar arts. Love couldn't find an argument to persuade him, and she eventually gave up on the endeavor. Love had been despairing ever since they had gotten to Ostagar, always letting slip they should have still been at the Tower.
That had been when a new path had formed to the side, Nyra ventured.
Together, the remaining Wardens went to Lothering, along with the dogs and Morrigan. They had recruited Sten the Qunari, and Leliana the Lay Sister. They made their way to the Tower almost immediately after that, and…
The Tower. Love had been agonizing over the Fate of someone, a man. Who, Nyra had never guessed. She had seemed shocked to see Cullen in a Cage, and even greater her shock for Alistair's sudden attraction to her. Love had been doubtful at first, but eventually encouraged the union. Throughout Ferelden, Nyra had felt safe and warm with Alistair {a twinge pulled at her heart from the thought}. He held her lovingly, he spoke sweet nothings {empty promises…}, and he kissed her and brought out the tenderest of feelings. Love had been content.
And then… there was that night.
Just after saving Redcliffe, they had stopped to rest at a cozy inn along the way. They had already visited Denerim once, they had saved the Werewolves and the Elves, and they were about to go in search of the Ashes of Andraste. Alistair had been silent, especially after she had given him his mother's old locket. He had seemed to avoid her for days on end, only speaking when he needed to shout something in battle, or give short, terse directions. When they arrived at the inn, he left hurriedly for his room with Sten.
~*.*~
"Night." He said loudly, so all of the group could hear. Everyone nodded or murmured the same, except for Nyra. She blinked away tears of sadness and frustration at his sudden attitude. She gathered her things, huffed to her room, and then unfolded herself… to cry and sob herself to sleep.
A knock had sounded round an hour later, jolting her upright and forcing her to dry her eyes. After a few moments to collect herself, she bade whoever it was to enter.
It was Alistair. He had just bathed, fitted in fitting clothes and holding his mother's locket in his hand. He was fiddling with it much like he did that runic coin of his, whenever he was nervous or worried about something. She hated to admit it, but he looked handsome with his hair spiked up, still slightly damp, dark auburn almost, and his scruff shading his face dramatically in the candlelight. His warm brown eyes were lidded in thought, and the circles underneath them betrayed he hadn't slept much lately.
"Hello, I was ju- Wait, h-have you been crying?" he stuttered, stopping mid speech and gazing worriedly at her face. She blinked away more tears and shook her head, standing up to get around him.
It didn't quite work when he stopped her before she reached the door, embracing her steadily and warmly. He smelled like pine needles and soaps, clean and yet still somehow his own scent. She couldn't take it and burst into tears into his shirt, causing him to hug her closer and wander to the bed to set them down.
"Nyra, what's wrong? What happened?" he fretted, brushing away her tears gently and and pulling her face up to meet his gaze. She gulped and tried to look away, but eventually she snapped her eyes back to his.
"I thought I had d-done something to make you h-hate me… you've b-been avoiding me, and… you've been so distant lately. E-everytime I had tried to talk to you, y-you would j-just… just cringe and mutter an excuse…." She stuttered, sobbing harder. Alistair had gotten off the bed instantly, kneeling before her to take her face in his hands. His face was pained and serious, his eyes trying to find hers.
"I didn't mean to just shut everyone out… especially you. I've just been thinking a lot lately, and… the reason is actually why I came here tonight." He sighed, suddenly drawing in and taking her hands. "I need to tell you something I… I probably should have told you earlier."
"I'm… not going to like this, am I?" she asked slowly, looking down into his eyes.
"I don't know. I doubt it. I've never liked it, that's for sure. Well, did I tell you how I knew Arl Eamon?"
"I think you said he raised you."
"Yes, well- wait, no, let me finish." He inhaled deeply before letting out in a torrent, "I'm a bastard, my mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle, and she died when I was born. Arl Eamon took me in and raised me, before I was sent to the Chantry. The reason he did that was, well… because my father was King Marric. Which made Cailin my… half brother. I suppose." He looked up at her worriedly, somewhat nauseous, and she stared back at him with wide eyes.
"Doesn't that make you heir to the throne?" she croaked, coughing to be able to speak properly. Alistair looked like he was in pain as he answered.
"Maker's Breath, I hope not! I don't think so… you don't think so, do you? I'm a bastard, and nobody even knows about me. I would have told you, but… it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailin's rule, so they kept me secret. I never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know as long as possible. I'm… sorry." He sighed, shaking his head and hanging it down. Nyra looked down at him, at everything he was, everything he was afraid of, and realized the silence had been out of fear, the fear of not knowing how she would react.
"I think I understand." She murmured softly, tilting his face up. He looked relieved when the words left her lips, and all the tension seemed to seep away from his posture.
"Ah, good. I'm glad. It's not like I got special treatment for it anyhow. The Arlessa, she heard the rumors being spread about that… that I was Eamons bastard. They weren't true, of course, but they existed, and she hated me for it. So, as soon as she could, off I was shipped to the Chantry." He paused. "I didn't want you to know because… I didn't want you to think differently of me. I didn't know how you would react, and it was eating at me for weeks… I still should have told you sooner. Can you ever forgive me?"
Nyra paused for a moment, looking into his eyes. Oh, they were so open and sincere, naïve almost.
"There's nothing to forgive, Alistair. Next time something's on your mind, never be afraid to tell me. Alright? I'll be there every step of the way." She said soothingly, standing up. He hastily got to his feet and smiled, bowing his head slightly and chuckling.
"Every step?"
"Of course. Somebody needs to teach you to dance."
~*.*~
He had danced with her in their room, no music playing, just their heartbeats to set a rhythm. Love had been especially quiet, but ever since… she had been a little distant. And whenever Alistair had held Nyra close, Love would seem to diminish instead of flourish.
Nyra knew something was wrong, but for the life of her, she couldn't see what. She needed to see, and soon.
So here she was, in the chamber, holding the essence of the tainted flowers in her hands. The crystals had already been set up per her instructions, along with the lyrium and various other ingredients on the podium. She had run to her room to grab her traditional mage robes, finding that if she would be going through this again, she would go back to the beginning. Hopefully, just maybe, she would find what went wrong, and why she felt so dull inside. Why Alistair {wince} stopped loving her.
"I don't know what may become of me… but whatever does, at least my heart can finally rest. One way," she said, just as she poured the taint onto the pile of lyrium. As it started to fizz, she felt the cloying smoke rise and cover her, sending her though her dreams and nightmares, good, bad, and indifferent. The last words, she thought in her mind, but they sounded aloud like a plea for help.
"Or another."
~*.*~
Denerim
Alistair gasped as he awoke.
Everything was as it should be in his room. He tried to assess the threat that had awoken him, but no darkspawn could be felt, seen or heard. No assassins in the closet. The fireplace was still burning warmly, the room in place as it was when he drifted.
But no, there was something wrong. There had to be.
He got up, wincing at the chill of stone on his bare feet. He padded over to his wardrobe and put on his {disgustingly} gold threaded night robe. He paced around the room, checking everything, making sure nothing had been disturbed. After minutes had passed with nothing amiss, he started to worry someone had been at the door. He went to it, checking on his guard briefly. They had nothing to report, looking surprised when he asked if they heard anything. He had started to thinking maybe it was just him when he heard a whisper on the wind, coming from his window.
I don't know what may become of me….
He dashed to the window, flinging the tall glass open and glancing around wildly.
…But whatever does…
Her voice… it was Nyra's voice. He looked around wildly, staring down as a soft pink glow enwrapped the old vines on the side of walls, settling just beneath the sill. "Nyra?" he asked softly, suddenly feeling a pit drop in his stomach, his heart pounding a mile a minute.
At least….
He doubled over in pain, barely catching himself on the window, the glow intensifying.
… My heart…
Panic flooded him. He could feel her near, could feel her pain, her heart, smell her floral scent embrace him, feel her tender lips on his.
…Can finally…
Her tears, the memories of the tears he caused when he hadn't believed her, when he had accused her of evil things, dark things….
…rest…
"Nyra…. Oh, Nyra…." He cried, his tears falling upon the stone, dripping into the glowing substance, onto the wilted vines. He felt her heart shatter as he smote her, and he hadn't cared at all. How in the name of the Maker had he not cared?
One way….
"I'm… so… sorry…." He sobbed, eyes tight as he feel back into the room, the window slamming shut behind him. He fell into a fitful sleep, hard and heavy, without any knowledge of what was going on in other places. Leliana and Wynne exchanging stories. Cheryl petting Tiamat, playing with one of her favorite daggers. Zevran in a cloak, traveling on the dark, stormy road. Morrigan lurking the Tower, seducing the men with a simple, tempting smirk. Not Sten devouring cookies, nor Oghren drowning in his own ale.
Not even Nyra, crying, sobbing on the cold hard ground of the Tower, trapped in a nightmare to free herself for good or ill. Nor, as it turned out, did he know of Cullen bursting forth, uttering a cry and scooping her into his arms, rocking her back and forth before falling under some heavy sleep himself.
And no one knew, and never would know, of the single rose that grew from the dead vines at the window of the King, the man who lost everything.
...Or another...
Because the Maker had others plans.
N/A Sorry again about the extreme delay. I think I salvaged chapter 5 rather well, and finally found the inspiration to write some more~! However, it would be easier to continue if I had feedback from some of the readers. I had hoped for more in the past 6 months or so, but only one really came forward. Thank you for reading, but remember, reviews fuel me to continue making the best I can! Loves, peace~!
