Disclaimer: Bioware owns all, except what I most humbly imagine. While, at times, I will take verbatim from the game, I attempt to use the events of the Dragon Age games, expansions and universe as a loose structure around which to construct my re-imagined tale. If you are looking for a strict canon piece, I have no desire to offend, and so I warn you upfront that I will divert from the traditional tale.
When reading these stories, I hope you can easily imagine it being told by the very best of storytellers in Varric Tethras (from DA:2). In my version of events, Varric meets "The Hero" (Elissa Cousland) in Kirkwall during the time period of DA:2. I mention this only so that readers can understand his connection along the way, and so I don't have to mention and rehash it again and again as I make my way through the tale.
A/N: This little tidbit came from an "Alphabet Challenge". This one is Elissa's. The letter was A, but the word could be either of the two things mentioned within. I'll leave that up to the reader. This is distinctly sad. You have been warned.
Thanks to my readers, followers and reviewers and to my beta artemiskat.
Happy Reading!
-Frayed One
2. The Persistence of Memory
Elissa was ten the first time she tasted it; lukewarm and bitter from the forgotten mug of a guardsman too busy to notice it had disappeared from the table at his side. It was a dare put forward by Fergus; the execution monitored carefully by both his eyes and those of the Howe children. She'd held it in her mouth until no one was looking and then spat it out behind the potted fern in the corner, hoping no one would notice as they were leaving the room in search of the next target on their list.
The second time she was fifteen and drinking straight from a stolen bottle of wine. She'd pilfered it from a Denerim party in the hopes that it would give her the courage to finally admit her feelings aloud to the dark-haired young man sitting at her side; but the dry, sweet liquid still couldn't prevent fear from silencing her voice.
Years later she'd shared a sip of celebratory Verchiel with her mother after Fergus and Oriana finally exchanged their vows. It was sweet and bubbly but did little to soothe her aching heart. The man she loved was gone and it had become clear he would likely never return. She smiled, and clapped, and tried not to let it make her bitter. The flute would be tucked away in a box of mementos, forgotten and eventually lost in the fire that destroyed her home and the girl she had been along with it.
The next time it had been what she could only describe as grain alcohol - poured sloppily into two small, chipped shot glasses by a drunken and decidedly agitated blacksmith on the outskirts of Redcliffe. It burned her throat so badly it made her eyes water, but she knocked it back – and the one that followed it – pretending not to stagger when the alcohol hit her drastically unprepared system. By the time the walking dead invaded the town it was all but forgotten.
Then it was Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve shared with Oghren in the burning, horde-ridden outskirts of Denerim's ruins. "Liquid courage" he called it. It tasted like death, which was fine – she was headed to hers.
It was mug after mug of ale straight from the keg at Alistair's coronation when she'd survived the un-survivable, and anything she could get her hands on after that. The random assortment of bottles she'd collected in her travels; Dragon's Piss, Aquas Lucidae, and eventually Bozzoli Rossa when the alcohol alone wasn't enough to silence the chatter in her mind.
Nothing worked. The hum of the horde was constant, as were the voices of the dead reminding her of all the souls she had damned… of all the times she'd failed. Of every time she'd gone back when she should have walked away, or walked away when she should have stayed forever.
If she could drink enough she could forget.
If she could drink enough she wouldn't care.
If she could drink enough she wouldn't be herself anymore.
She could deny her addiction.
Forget his name and his face.
Forget the sound of his voice.
Forget the way he smelled and the touch of his hands on her skin.
Forget what it felt like to love and be loved by him.
Just forget.
