Chapter Ten : Pretty
Some slow firing part of his brain refused to recognize that Elissa Cousland had just revealed his most important secret, as though she was commenting on a change in the weather. And in the same sweeping statement, she intended to banish him from his beloved homeland. His mind stuttered. This isn't happening, he decided, because it couldn't be. She would never... Sten called her "callous" under his breath, when he disagreed with her commands, but that was just his stubborn Qunari nature.
Right?
Alistair let out a tentative laugh. "You're joking, Elissa. You can't really believe that I would let you bundle me off to Val Royeaux while you lot take on the darkspawn. I'd miss out on all the fun." He smiled thinly; he was pleased with his answer. It was the right amount of cautious amusement, so that when she revealed this all to be a prank, he could laugh along with the punchline.
From behind, she laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. For a split second, he imagined he could feel the heat of her touch, but this was impossible, of course, with so many layers of armor between them. Just a fantasy. "And what will you do when Loghain sets a price for the head of a bastard prince, hm?" she said softly, so only he could hear. "Will you watch us be picked off, one by one, defending your pretty face? Or would you prefer we die all at once?"
The blood in his veins turned to ice. Not a joke. "How... How could you ever say something like that?" he asked, in a strained whisper. His jaw flexed, molars grinding. His imagination ran fertile, supplying gruesome scenes: a knife in the back here, a poisoned arrow there. The tools of the assassin, as she had once so casually described. Her dead weight collapsing on top of him...
"They're your friends. They would die for you," she said coolly. He could feel the teeth of the wolf on his neck.
"And you?" His voice broke.
"It would be my duty, my dear cousin." Venom on her tongue. She slapped his shoulder twice, and walked on by.
Time began again. Other voices whirled into life, reacting to his secret like players on a stage. He could hear them recite their lines, but could not respond. The sun on his skin was cold.
"Wait a moment," complained Morrigan, "you mean this fool is our future king?"
"Oh, but it is so romantic..." Leliana sighed, breathy, "A handsome Grey Warden is the secret prince. They will write such lovely songs about his story."
"Swoon later, Sister Leliana. We'll get you some paper later and you can write them yourself," suggested their leader, pushing through them to take a place in the front.
Under the boughs of the mature oaks of Redcliffe, a shadow crossed Alistair's face. The others laughed and told jokes amongst themselves, overly loud. He wished them all away, so he might have time to think. Could she be right? Was he putting them all in danger simply by being Maric's son? This, this was why he didn't want people to know. They always treated him differently. No one was the friend of a bastard prince. I could leave, he thought, but the idea twisted his guts, made him ill. I should leave and find some darkspawn and... and... And the only end to that train of thought was his own death. He wasn't prepared.
But Orlais? Under the thumb of the empress? Was that the only solution, really? Surely he could go to Antiva, Nevarra, the Free Marches? And be a coward, leaving his country to death. The ruler of a pile of ashes. They said that the winner was the one who outlasted his enemies, but what use was a poisoned throne to an unwilling victor?
If Duncan were here, he wouldn't have to go away, would he? Would Duncan send him to the blue empress, wrapped up like a package in fancy paper? The man had deliberately kept him from the fight at Ostagar. He was honorable, but also clever: sure-footed in politics, able to weather the fragile arrangement between Ferelden and Weisshaupt. Perhaps he would agree with Elissa's assessment of the state of things.
He could not see clearly. The future was muddy waters and they were up to their necks in the current. All he ever wanted was to do his duty and be a good Warden. Duty. She used the word like a vicious curse. Why did she hate it so? He remembered it being something to do with her father.
He stared at her back, willing his feet to keep pace with his companions. The way she walked always distracted him- her backside swayed pleasantly, as though she wore a full skirt which swished against a marble floor, and not skin-tight leather trousers. He had never seen anything quite like it growing up; the sisters, present company included, walked with purpose, like men.
Just last night, he had slipped his hand between her thighs, felt her come to life at the stroke of his fingertips. She was pure fire at her core. He'd never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her. He'd never done those things- Fucked her sweet and bright while she crooned in his ear. The memory stirred life back into him and he quickened his pace, carrying with him confusing desires: want, and hate. To span her slender waist with his large hands in front of them all, to expose her secrets like she had done his, to claim her and kiss her until she begged him to stay.
How does she do this to me? he wondered. She twists me up inside. I hardly know myself.
Months later, he developed a reoccurring nightmare about the events at Redcliffe. How could they have known? Busy with their petty squabbling over lines of succession, they had been oblivious to the dangers which awaited them in his childhood home.
It began with a frightened youth called Tomas, not much older than a boy yet, perched atop the gate into the village. When Sten gave the wooden door a shove, he bounced back with equal force, his teeth rattling with magic.
"Go away!"
"Hullo, friend!" Elissa called up, when his sunburned face peeked over the battlements. "Are you the guard? Do you mind opening the gate? We've come a long way to see your arl."
"You're armed," replied Tomas warily. "You're not refugees. Are you bandits? I-I've got rocks. I'll smash your heads!"
To her credit, Lissa did not laugh in the face of his blustering threat. She crossed her arms and bowed politely, as though addressing a superior. "We are Grey Wardens, here on the business of the Blight."
His face shifted to hope. "Grey Wardens? Then you've heard? You've come to help!" Tomas ducked out of view, and Alistair correctly supposed he was climbing down to unlock the barricade.
"Come to help with what?" asked Elissa as they passed through the gate. The large old windmill, standing at the top of the hill, came into view. Even from here he could hear the familiar creak; the sound was as comforting as the view of the castle afar. Alistair knew, every native knew, if Redcliffe stood, so did Ferelden.
"You don't know? I thought- Does no one know? We sent for help-" he chattered, slamming the gates closed after Morrigan. The enchanted sigil sealed them tight with a soft orange flash. He felt the magic like any templar, a flickering under his skin.
Alistair frowned. "What's wrong? Something must be wrong in the village if you're using the sigils. Is there a sickness? A plague? Only the arl has the authority to activate them."
Morrigan met his eye, a smile playing about her lips, and he saw that she understood what he was saying, without having to spell it out. "You're using them to repel more refugees," she noted.
"For their own good!" replied the boy, clearly distressed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "We're not keeping the Blight out. We're keeping the monsters in!"
"Monsters?" repeated Leliana, alarmed.
"I need to stay on watch. Warden, you should go talk to Bann Teagan. He's in the chantry, on the other side of the village."
Though she clearly had a hundred questions, Elissa nodded swiftly. "Bann Teagan, then. Thank you, friend."
On the other side of the windmill, a cluster of men in massive white plate, carrying the shields of Redcliffe, sat beneath a tree. A few were dozing, under the watchful eyes of their brothers on guard. It reminded Alistair of the fitful, stolen moments of sleep in the days after Ostagar, fearful of the things that crept in the swamp. He guessed that these men had been awake all night. The only one he recognized was the man in old Chevalier's armor, Ser Perth, who was engrossed in a book of the Chant.
At the crest of the hill, they could look down upon the whole village. It still stood, much as he remembered it, though it had been so long now. In the Hinterlands, where humans had lived since before written history, tradition was old and magic older. In hidden places, shrines to Avaar gods co-existed with monuments to the Elvish god Fen'Harel, known to the Dalish as the Dread Wolf. The Alamarri had grown to love the Wolf, and took His children to raise them as their hounds.
Here, the people did not thatch their cottage roofs with dead chaff. Instead, they cut the living sod from the green earth and let the grass grow tall above their round huts, building tiny hills. It was an art form Alistair had witnessed only once as a child, during the wedding of a very young couple. The bride was swollen with child, pink-faced and pretty with her blonde hair done up in plaits. The villagers came together and erected her a new home, cut the sod with knives which were curved like bear claws, and laid it across the supporting beams. The new family had to tend it carefully in the coming weeks, to keep it alive. If they were successful, and the grasses stayed green, then the union was a blessed one, and the Mother would come from the Chantry to consecrate their threshold.
The enormous lake, which glittered like a sea, was the natural end to the village: on three sides rock, on one side water. Fishing was the village's primary occupation, and the air always smelled of the morning's catch. But the wind brought them other smells- rot, and wet smoke, and blood.
"That gate was blood magic," Morrigan commented quietly, giving Alistair a side glance. "I assumed, with your Chantry's stance on the practice, this would be illegal."
Sten gave a disgusted grunt. Elissa was curious, and looked behind them, but they were far enough down the hill that the gate was no longer in sight. "Really? Was it the boy? He didn't look like a maleficar. He looked like he was going to piss his trousers!"
"No," Alistair corrected. "Not like that. The sigils hold some truly ancient wards in place. It's old Avaar magic, I think. That was just a little one compared to some in the foundation of Redcliffe Castle. When they all were still working, from what I know of the legends, they made the place unassailable. They must have begun to flicker out in the days of King Calenhad."
"But they're blood magic?" Elissa pressed. "Keep in mind, I don't have the training in magical theory you two have. I mean, I can only tell an apostate from a Circle mage by the clothes."
"Yes. Ah. Arl Eamon has some interesting books on sigils and runes in his library if you ever want to-"
"He is dancing around the question," Morrigan interrupted. "Most amusing. He went on and on about Bethany Hawke being a blood mage, when he himself was raised under similar protections."
Alistair flinched. "It's not the same. I... I never once saw them used. My knowledge on them is theoretical, but- Only a Guerrin can use them. It's keyed into the blood. Eamon never told me, outright, because I was not his heir nor family, but I must have read every arcane tome he had. Twice. Teagan would... Teagan would smuggle them out for me." He shook his head. "Teagan must have activated the one at the gate."
"Something is seriously wrong here," Lissa sighed. The village was too quiet. Frightened children huddled in their mothers' skirts, in darkened doorways. Near the square, a stack of charred corpses still smoldered. "We're being watched. There's a plague, or something worse. Don't drink the water until we know," she advised.
In the Chantry courtyard, some men practiced with their bows. But these were not soldiers, just ordinary fishermen, and their aim was poor. "Where are the rest of the knights?" asked Leliana, dodging a stray arrow which wobbled into her path. "Are there no templars to protect this sacred ground?"
"All questions for Bann Teagan," Morrigan answered her, grimacing as they entered the chantry.
This one was more ornate than the one in Lothering, with magnificent blue and red stained glass on the wall of the ambulatory, behind the altar. It was also darker, with fewer candles to light the whispering droves of refugees. They huddled with their belongings all along the nave, praying and crying to the Maker in the same breaths. It felt distinctly like sacrilege, to interrupt their fervor. But the sight of a familiar face drove him onward. His boots clinked against the stone floor.
"Uncle Teagan!" He rushing to greet the man.
"Why, Alistair, is that you?" responded the other, with surprise and joy, turning aside from his aide. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"
Bann Teagan Guerrin was approaching middle age, but had always appeared younger than he was. In looks, he favored his sister, the late Queen Rowan, with a sharp nose and cheekbones. His auburn hair was long enough to plait on one side, and these days he sported a beard, but the eyes were ever the same. They embraced for a long moment, and Alistair felt evermore at home again.
"I came to speak with Eamon, but then we heard he's fallen ill," Alistair explained. "The southern gate was warded, uncle. What's going on?"
"We? Ah yes, you've joined the Grey Wardens, haven't you?" Teagan sighed. "Rarely is there a time when being a templar would have been less dangerous. But Ferelden will have need of your talents." A dark look crossed his face. "No matter what the Regent believes."
"We were hoping to have Redcliffe's aid in the coming fight, but it seems you may need our help instead," Elissa added, catching up.
"Who?" Teagan squinted in concentration. "I know you. You're the youngest..." Abruptly, he dropped into a deep bow. "Teyrna Cousland, I had no idea you were even alive. If the Landsmeet knew- your family's friends would never have allowed Howe to seize Highever. My self, and my brother, go without saying."
Lissa clicked her tongue and returned a brief curtsy, which looked odd in her Warden armor. "I deeply appreciate the sentiment, Lord Teagan. But no need for us to stand on formality. After all, didn't we dance together at Cailan's wedding? You may not remember; I was the scrawny one with two left feet."
If Lissa's the teyrna, doesn't that make her higher ranking than Arl Eamon? Alistair mused, uncomfortable with the intense look Teagan was giving her. Okay, yeah, now he's kissing her hand. That's not okay.
"Never, my lady. It was I who knocked us into the punch table."
"Was it?" chuckled Elissa, taking back her hand. "I like your version of events better. But I confess I'm unsure... Have you married, Teagan?"
Yesterday she couldn't remember his name. Now she's so sweet on him it's like he's her long-lost lover, Alistair fumed. Wait. They haven't... have they? No.
"I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure. If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself," he stammered, emboldened by the careless charm of her flirting.
"Flatterer," she smiled. "Truth be told, I never expected to find you here. Last I knew, you were in Denerim. I wrote to you there."
"Really?" he blushed. "I mean, I was in Denerim, until after Cailan's funeral. I usually act as my brother's agent in the Landsmeet. But Isolde wrote to me, telling me how ill he had become. A coma. At first it was just a terrible thirst, but... no magic or medicine seemed to help him. She sent all the knights away, on a quest."
"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," supplied Alistair. "I met Ser Bryant in Lothering."
"Yes, quite. I only got here myself yesterday." Teagan pursed his lips. "But the castle had been sealed. No one has been allowed inside for over a week. I could not..." he looked away.
"Your blood could not undo them," Morrigan suggested. "Because Eamon is the elder brother."
"How did you-" Teagan looked alarmed. "A friend of yours, Alistair?"
"Allegedly," he replied. "She worked it out for herself."
Teagan's shoulder's slumped. Resigned, he continued, "I tried, and I failed. No one has had communication with the castle since the wards went up. Perhaps everyone had contracted the sickness, and sought to quarantine themselves. Perhaps they are all dead. But last night, I saw for myself what has frightened the people of the village. The dead rise, and come from the castle gates. They slaughter the women and the children. Ser Perth and his men are the only knights here; for two nights they have held off the advance, but they are exhausted, and the dead do not tire. This morning, I warded the village gates myself. At least, this foul curse shall not extend beyond Redcliffe."
"A necromancer, or a demon," pronounced Morrigan thoughtfully. "Probably both. It would take immense power to summon an army of the undead, and control it. Only the sun protects these people now; they will not last another night."
"What do you suggest?" asked Lissa, pulling them away from Teagan.
"I suggest we make good use of the daylight remaining and leave," the witch replied, simply, tapping her staff on the floor. "We cannot hope to win this fight."
"No!" Alistair sputtered. "We can't leave them!"
"Your arl is dead. There are no soldiers here for Redcliffe to give," reasoned Sten. "Or are you now in favor of suicide missions?"
"This is my home. I could never abandon them. If you go, I'm staying." He turned to their leader. "Lissa, you understand. You could have never left your parents..."
She scowled, running her fingers through her red curls. "I would have fought to the death. Do we have to make that choice here?"
I can't leave them, not now. He grabbed her wrist, forced her to look him in the eye. Not after everything we've been through. "Please, Lis?"
She tilted her head. He could feel the ugly tension between them, growing all day. Maybe he had misjudged her. But- Elissa bowed her head, smiling strangely. "Remember what I said about your pretty face?"
Some dialogue © Bioware/EA and quoted, no ownership implied. Reviews are deeply appreciated.