The next morning greeted me with the slate gray of a coming storm outside my window. I briefly noted how the mage and apprentice dorms never had such luxuries as a window to look out. I was told at one time they had windows, but after so many suicides they were forced to brick up the remaining glimpses of freedom to the mages. My eyes shuttered again.
I looked again to the empty spot on the bed where my assassin had rested. He had slipped in during the night to warm me, and I inviting his presence like a weary salve to my aching soul, then disappeared again before morning. As always. My spirit companion had been noticeably quiet since our journey to the tower. Ever since the topic of the attack and Greagoir's poor attempts at reconciling normal routine with the Circle were discussed, she had fallen to a distilled murmur. I couldn't quite place her feelings - if she had any at all - but I was almost certain I felt a sense of apprehension every time I came to discuss it with someone else.
If anything, it was a welcome quiet from the constant attacks on my subconscious. I couldn't focus, and my nightmares had worsened lately. I labored between a dim, hazy world and my darkening visions that haunted my every step. Morrigan had taken a clear notice, and made her thoughts quite audible that she considered Wynne remaining at the tower a bad decision. I overruled, and insisted that Wynne stay. The tower needed her more than I did. She could give the remaining apprentices some level of normalcy, at least. I knew the children would welcome her presence.
Despite Morrigan's disapproval, I could sense in the back of my mind perhaps she was right. I wasn't sure what disaster might come of losing our senior mage, but I was certain between my own medical knowledge, Morrigan's herbal and healing magic skills, and Alistair's…. "tending-a-cut" experience we could manage. I repeated this to myself until I was certain it was the right decision.
He's here..
My quiet companion breathed the words into my ear just in time to turn and find my formerly disheveled templar standing in my doorway with a concerned yet guarded frown on his face. He was holding something.
"Cul-" I paused, my glance turning to the package in his hands. He had a silken cloth draped over it, and an armored glove covering the letterings. A book. "What's that?" I questioned in a light, yet inviting tone. I had hoped whatever disturbance possessed him the night prior had left. It had been my foolishness to push him too far too fast - I had to remind myself that he was still a nervous man at times, despite the fact he'd adopted a rather formal face since obtaining Captaincy amongst the tower ranks. All of the knights looked to him for direction and example now - in the broad light of day, he was no longer my templar. He was the Captain.
I nodded in respect to his presence, as an added gesture.
"Irving found this amongst his private library," he handed the book to me. "He thought it might help you on your quest," he added as an afterthought. I noticed a barely-constrained attempt at calm in his voice. He was anxious and unsettled, I could sense it in his gestures and stance. I placed the book on the bed along with my other things I had been taking inventory on and stepped forward. He took a half-step back towards the ajar door.
"Cullen-" I paused when he held up a hand.
"Please, I want to keep this civil, Isthalla," he sighed and knitted his brow in frustration. His eyes were pleading and weak, and I could see how much he detested every word coming out of his mouth. "What transpired last night was a grave mistake on both my part and yours." He paused, affected by some thought I could not see. His expression pinched. "And highly inappropriate." I scoffed, unable to keep my silence.
"Do you honestly believe that?" I bared him a disbelieving expression. He kept turning wary eyes to the hallway, and in my frustration I stormed past him and slammed the door shut. I didn't give a damn if the whole tower saw. He bristled in sudden alarm once I'd separated us both from the outside of the world, yet immediately I watched his posture change once more.
"I can't!" he ground out in desperation, his face beginning to contort in frustration. "Isthalla, do you not understand the implications- the danger-"
Not that you don't want to… I mentally added.
Anger flared inside of me, and on impulse I reared my hand back and slapped him hard across the face. He nearly stumbled to the floor from the abrupt smack - though I imagine it didn't wound his flesh nearly as much as his pride - then held his cheek and looked at me in complete shock.
"I refused to be toyed with, Cullen, so do not take my affections lightly," I demanded in a thick, angry voice. "I will not be abused by your indecisiveness, so quit making excuses. Make. A. Decision."
He rose from his posture in that moment by the light of my threat, his eyes widened and mouth still hanging in uttered surprise from my brash words. As plainly as I'd laid it out for the man, he still could find no words to offer me, and stood there in fear as he battled himself over whatever sense of morality he still foolishly clung to.
I grew impatient as he continued to stand there in dumbstruck silence, and uncrossed my arms.
"Fine, then-" I resorted in a frustrated huff before grabbing him by the edge of his cuirass and pushing his weight against the wall. He shifted loudly against the stone, his metal armor grating against my ears, as I grabbed his face with both of my hands and yanked him forward into a kiss. He went completely rigid at first, still trying to tether himself to his sense of decency, then fell back into a neediness that tore at his body like a disease.
As frustrated and angry as I'd been, I felt it leave me the instant his hands grasped my face. His hands slipped to my back and held me close - a far cry from the aggressive and unpracticed gestures from the night previous - while I found my own arms winding lovingly around his neck. Warmth bloomed in my chest and face, tingling my skin. Though he held me close, there was a gentleness to his grasp I could not contend with. It quieted me to a near murmur, relinquishing my usually assertive lead to his calm demeanor.
He had nearly lulled me into silence when his lips pulled away and he rested his forehead against mine, shuddering on a shallow but quiet breath. His eyes were shut. I felt myself entirely calmed, loose in his grasp and at the whim of his movement. Then, ever so slowly, he reached up and pressed a calm, chaste kiss to my forehead. He touched a gloved hand to my face, and somehow it felt much more personal than before.
"I love you, Isthalla," he breathed. He opened his eyes, forehead still pressed to mine, and told me this. I had imagined him saying it before, true, but hearing it aloud made my heart stop and throat tighten. My heart began to beat in rapid pace as I realized his eyes were strained in sorrow. The next words burrowed into my chest like ice, forever stinging me with memory.
"But I cannot do this," his voice shook in the slightest with his request. "Not if it threatens your life. No matter h-how much I-" he paused, swallowed his breath, "or you may want it." He strained to keep me grounded, but already I felt my mind going numb. She was laughing at my pain as it sunk deep into my heart and embedded itself. He was not being finicky, nor acting on a whim. Every word spoken was serious. His arms continued to anchor around me, and suddenly I felt trapped there - desperate to escape from the thing that now hurt me more than anyone else.
"Leave me," I stuttered out, still floundering through premature grief and confusion. I began to ease away from him, not wanting his sad eyes and face near me anymore. He called out my name, begging me to stay calm, but all I could hear were those frigid words of rejection burning in my mind and cutting me open all over again. "Leave me!" I screamed at him, throwing my fists into his armored chest until my hands throbbed. He released me on impulse, if only to save myself from breaking my hands, though in an instant the grief overwhelmed me once his embrace left.
"Just go," I said with a withering, seething breath as I crumpled into my form, eyes burning into the floor as I fought back tears. "I don't ever want to see your wretched face again! LEAVE!" I burned with anger and hurt, throwing my fury in his face with every bit of courage I could muster. He looked stung by my reaction. I didn't care. I never wanted to see the loathsome bastard again.
I did not manage to conjure a worse threat, for when I raised my head again from a wall of hair, he had absented himself from the room - leaving the door barely ajar. I held my stomach and curled over myself, weeping quietly as it finally sunk in that this would be my last memory of the man I had once loved.
You deserve to be alone.
By the time Morrigan had returned, I had packed my things and waited at the door. Her half-cocked smile quickly died when she caught sight of my face, but knew better than to speak. I could hear nothing but a low ringing in my ears, and my vision continued to unfocus. My body felt numb.
We walked two floors down in complete silence, and it was only when I reached the front gate that I caught sight of him standing timidly in the entrance to the foyer, hands grasped against the doorframe. I burned my hatred into his frightened eyes for all I was worth until the great doors to the Circle shut behind us and separated me from my templar forever.
Damn you,
Damn you to the lowest pit of the Black City
you bastard.
That evening in camp my anger had lessened, though the dull, empty feeling remained in my stomach. I stared into the fire, my mind adrift, as the world around me shifted. Leliana and Morrigan played fetch with Luther, and across the camp Oghren had climbed atop a log and told a rather loud story of triumph to Sten, Bodahn, and Sandal. Zevran lurked along the outskirts of camp like a restless wolf, endlessly playing with his dagger in one hand and occasionally looking my way. I paid him no mind.
After a while I heard Alistair stumble from the underbrush behind me and take an awkward seat on the log. I had no fight left in me to send him away. Instead, I hunkered into my arms and continued to stare at the fire in hopes he might just disappear by desire alone.
"Hey," he greeted me with the feeble foolishness often unbecoming of him. I felt detestable and bitter, though grief silenced my reckless ire to nothing more than a dull murmur. I said nothing to him, my lips tight and knuckles white.
"Hey uhm," he picked back up when I made no notion of conversation, "I was hoping you'd like something- or rather, I-I wanted to give you something…" My attention shifted, appallingly, to the distraction on my left that now sought to produce something from his belt satchel.
"Here, look at this-" he dropped it into my hands before I could object. I stared down at it as a foreign object - a rose, by the looks of it. "Do you know what this is?"
"It's a rose." I said quite plainly.
"I picked it in Lothering," he continued - clearly not picking up on my disinterest in putting up with any form of conversation tonight, "and I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?"
My attention shifted suddenly to his poor attempts at poeticism with his speech, and I realized to my disdain just where his conversation was heading.
Oh Maker's blood, are you joking?
My aggravated face for his unwanted affections must have somehow been mistaken for sincerity or surprise or some other form of foolish pitying, for he continued unabashed and I found myself withering inside with frustration.
He smiled and looked at the fire, shrugging to himself. Still ignoring my rigid posture. "I-I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't."
You should leave THIS alone, Alistair.
Please stop.
I knew he meant well, I did, I tried to tell myself that. But that same prickling sensation build at the back of my neck and threatened to overwhelm me with a hungry fire. She was hissing and laughing at him, just beckoning me to taste blood on my teeth. I struggled to hold my breath and lightly pressed two fingers between my brow.
"I suppose I thought the darkspawn might've come and their taint would destroy it," his attention drifted to the outlying trees, and in the distance stood the unmistakable silhouette of the tower on a backdrop of dark blue, cloudy skies. My stomach sickened at the sight. "I've had it ever since," he added, turning back to me. My thumb and forefinger had since been removed from my forehead, but the dry and ire-filled strain on my face remained. I did not want to have this conversation right now, for the love of Andraste.
"Why are you telling me this Alistair?" I shook my head in impatience, waiting for him to pick up on my please-drop-this-before-I-strangle-you posture. He took it for some sort of girlishly feigned stupidity. The fool.
"I… thought you should have it, actually," he began. I had to withhold the strain in my voice. "In a lot of ways, I think the same when I look at you."
Maker's dick, you incomprehensible idiot.
I wanted to be patient, Maker I wanted to find some shred of morality and kindness left in me - but my tongue was dry and my heart had withered. I was weary, more so than I had ever been. My heart and mind were spent, and my sanity was robbed of me.
I could hardly think straight on my own lately, much less to deal with the inane prattling of a lovesick companion wrought with attempts at romanticism. Where in Maker's name did he get the idea to do so? I hadn't been anything more than tolerant, if not acceptable. I had never once given excuse to invite this annoyance. Regardless, he soldiered on through his stuttery confession as would be expected.
"That is, that they are quite beautiful yet prickly at times, well - not to say you aren't a nice person, but-" he fell into his familiar rambling state of nonsense, and I found my patience thinning. I sighed and looked down at the thing in my hands, more frustrated than guilty.
"What am I supposed to do with it, Alistair?" I asked quite irritably. He began to sense my mood as the conversation shifted to a dead halt, his valiant attempts giving way to sheepish confusion.
"Oh, well.. I don't know really," he paused, his expression falling. "I don't suppose you can really… do anything with it. I guess it is a bit silly."
I could feel a headache forming, and in the back of my mind I still heard my templar's biting words of rejection breaking my heart in two. My skin began to burn. I picked back up on Alistair's conversation as he lapsed into a poor attempt at backtracking his conversation to something a little less exposing, though it was already too late.
"I just thought maybe.. I could say something. Tell you-" he paused, sighing and dropping his head. "What a rare and wonderful.. thing you are amidst all this… darkness."
Great, now I'm a 'thing'.. I sighed.
What a lovely sentimental fool!
My spirit companion was as annoyed with him as I was. I wanted him gone. Immediately. I was angry and tired and in no mood to deal with this right now. If that meant hurting his precious, childish feelings then so be it.
"So you give me, what? A flower?" I scoffed. "For dealing with incomprehensible darkness and being plagued by sleeplessness, an arch demon, hordes of darkspawn, and civil war - a flower." I shook my head and scoffed at the notion. I dropped it back in his hands and sat up, turning my head away.
Now it was his turn to act offended. He rose to his feet and looked at me with incredulity, his mouth contorting. "Well, if you want to put it that way, then fine! I suppose I did - after all, it's just a stupid sentiment of how I feel," his voice colored with embarrassment, though he was doing it to himself the longer he stood there shouting at me for Maker knows how long. His face turned a promising shade of red, and I found a cruel enjoyment at watching him suffer the way Cullen had made me suffer. "Just forget I said anything at all, I'll go throw it in the lake for you." My patience finally snapped with those words.
"Oh, GROW UP Alistair!" I rose to my feet in sudden anger. My shout had rang across the camp, and everyone else had stopped entirely to witness our ridiculous fight. Alistair paused then, his face and posture lessened in light of my newfound rage as he looked down at me in shock. I felt the fire burning in my veins, threatening to burst. My mouth contorted into a snarl. "You act like a kicked dog whenever you don't get your way!" I continued, no longer able to keep back my aggression. I wanted to hurt him with my words, wanted to make him suffer. "Guess what? This world will never revolve around your pathetic feelings, and neither I - so feel free to take your wretched sentiments to another unfortunate woman, I don't give a damn! I don't want anything to do with them!"
By the time I heard the unreasonable vindication to my tone, the damage had been done. My anger was not for Alistair, not even remotely. I was furious with myself, and more so with another object of my frustration. Cullen. But by the time I caught up with myself, I could see that I had wounded him beyond repair. Rather than angrily retort as I had come to always expect, he retracted into himself and looked down, completely heartbroken.
"W-Well.. you can't blame me for trying, can you?" were his only weak words of defeat before he sulked off into the woods, leaving a stepped-on rose in his wake. Everyone in camp was staring at me now, completely shocked by my display. I straightened and looked about me, realizing how horrid I truly must have looked. The only one in agreement with my speech now lay in the spiteful voice of my companion, cackling mad in my head.
He deserved it, the stupid wretch.
Stop it, he did not.
Cowarding, pitiful whelp. Serves him right!
No one deserves that treatment.
Well that didn't stop your templar from treating you so, now did it?
She silenced me with her last words and, feeble - meek - I slunk off in the opposite direction of the woods and farther away from the silhouetted tower in the distance, needing to find myself alone in the dark to collect my thoughts.
You deserve to be alone.
