Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragon Age franchise and I make no profit from this work of fanfiction.
Death doesn't come for Alistair today. Though he's a little unsure of that fact when his eyes reopen. His life hasn't exactly been over-pious but he thinks he's been more than good. And what better thing to find at the Maker's side than a pretty face beset with riveting blue eyes?
That's the first thing that he can make out. Hazy, darkened, and blurred as things are, those eyes looking down upon him are clear. As is the voice that warns him, "Be still."
He doesn't listen, of course. But his attempt to sit up is thwarted by a strong, steady hands on his shoulders. And a very, very, very nasty ache that radiates from his gut up into his chest. It's accompanied by a less intense but still very unpleasant and sharper throb at the back of his head.
"By Andraste." Alistair groans, turning his head with no small effort, into the fabric that it's been pillowed on. It's firm, warm, and smells like valerian.
The Blue-Eyed Woman, or so he assumes, cards a hand through his hair. It isn't a soft hand, but it is gentle. "I did try and tell you," she says, a note of laughter in her voice. She sounds like a chantry after the sacred hymns have been sung on a holy day; smoky, sweet, and infinitely calm.
Belatedly, as he looks back up, he realizes that his head is pillowed in her lap. She's no longer naked—thank Andraste or he might die of spontaneous fever—and wears a overlarge gray shirt. Her unbound and still very damp hair is blacker than pitch, tendrils of which cling to her pale, oval face. The mouth beneath her slightly snubbed nose is wide and tipping at the corner.
Beautiful eyes or no, Alistair really does like the look of her face.
"Stop coddling the cur."
Alistair decidedly does not like the other face that his eyes flick too. It's not unattractive, in fact he could see objectively how the finer, more delicate features might be argued as quite lovely while the Blue-Eyed Woman's would simply be labeled pretty. Her eyes are sharp though, yellow-gold and suspicious. It isn't at all difficult to imagine that those eyes could tear him apart if given the chance.
Considering the rock fist, yes, not difficult in the slightest.
Instinctively, he draws back against the Blue-Eyed Woman; at least as much as he's able which isn't a lot. He's too afraid of his attacker to mind the giggling that comes from his headrest.
"Stop it," the Blue-Eyed Woman orders her companion. Her tone is fond, as if the other woman was not capable of making huge rocks fly at bodies. Her gaze flicks back to Alistair. "I do apologize on my sister's behalf. She never did like being startled. Our eldest brother has quite a few scars for jumping out at us from cupboards."
"And he deserved them all," the witch—no, Morrigan—says with not short order of superiority. She's clothed too, fully in a plain but well-made riding dress. Her hair is also black and her skin also very pale. Alistair doesn't flinch when her prickly glare moves from the Blue-Eyed Woman, to him. Not a bit.
Not that he's going to admit to himself at least.
She sniffs. "As would any vulgar fool who thought to come tramping in on ladies at their bath."
Morrigan is scary but not so scary that Alistair will just let her call him a Peeping-Tom.
"I was chasing my horse," he growls trying—and failing—to sit up and meet her scowl at level. His aching head and midsection as well as the Blue-Eyed Woman's stern grip, keep him down. "Which by the way, where did he go?"
For a moment, panic clutches Alistair's gullet. By her so-far appearances, Morrigan doesn't belay even an ounce of sympathy, be it towards strange men or strange animals. The fire in her gold-yellow eyes actually makes him lean towards the idea that, were the Blue-Eyed Woman not present, she'd roast his flesh and eat it.
As if on cue, Drust appears, nosing Alistair's face like a dog to confirm that he is indeed all right.
"Ugh, stop it!" he orders, unable to will any sort of real command in his voice. Also, his neck is ticklish as all get out, and he can't help from giggling as Drust lips at his collarbone. The giggling doesn't help his aches either. "No! Ouch! Drust—Maker this is all your fault, I haven't forgotten that! Okay, boy, enough!"
Drust notes the seriousness in his voice because he stops after one final nudge to Alistair's cheek. Looking up he finds that the Blue-Eyed Woman is grinning.
"He was very worried," she explains, giving his horse a pat on the forehead. "Morrigan nearly had to throw a vine net on him to get him calmed down. You're lucky for that sort of care."
"Yes, lucky," he says, to achy to keep stem the sarcastic bend of his tongue. "I had a very large cat once that used to show affection by running through your legs when you were on the stairs. Funny how care can be interpreted with making sure you end up meeting hard stone one way or another."
The Blue-Eyed Woman laughs again, deeper and Alistair swears that it's pure music. Also, she snorts like a piglet which only makes her laugh harder.
"Forgive me," she says with a hand to her mouth. "That was..." She giggles again. "My apologies, My Lord."
"Alistair," he corrects her, quickly too. It's also technically true, he wouldn't typically be addressed as my lord; the correct designation for him would be your highness. And Alistair wants to hear that even less. "My, um, my name is Alistair."
The Blue-Eyed Woman's smile deepens and Alistair feels lightheaded all over again. "A pleasure to meet you, Alistair. Even under these...odd circumstances. I am Elissa."
"I am charmed," he says and absolutely means it.
"I am going to vomit."
Yes, Alistair is sure that Morrigan would set him on fire now. Her eyes have narrowed upon him like he carries a plague. Or she wants to give him a plague. And of course, set him on fire.
"Morrigan," Elissa's voice cuts the air, albeit gently. The witch softens, just marginally by all appearances. For her however, Alistair suspects that that's actually a great deal. With a grunt, she nods and pushes up the sleeves on her dress.
"Hold still, I might have cracked one of your ribs," Morrigan instructs, laying her hands on his chest and abdomen. As her cool palms brush skin, Alistair realizes that his shirt and jerkin have been removed. He's been laid (half) bare before two women for Maker only knows how long.
Embarrassment doesn't really have time to set in though. Not with the tingling going on beneath his skin and the sharp series of pops that he feels.
"Ah!" Instinct sends him curling away from the blue light of Morrigan's healing magic. Elissa's strong grip—really absurdly strong—keeps him in place however.
"Make that three, "Morrigan says with a smile on her face that Alistair outright loathes. She quirks a smug eyebrow at her sister. "My aim is improving. Do remind me to rub that in Velanna's face."
"You remind you," Elissa tells her sister, a whisper of exasperation to her voice. "And while I'm not there, please." To Alistair, she says, "Really, you do need to stay still. And don't worry; Morrigan's knows what she's doing."
"Part of the worry," he tells her. Elissa chuckles.
Any brevity the moment might have had is severed by a sharp twist to Alistair's innards. He yelps and looks down at Morrigan. She smirks in return.
"I know what I'm doing," she says with saccharine that drips from her tongue just like poison.
Before he can risk more of her deadly ire, Elissa again intervenes.
"Sister, please," she says. Morrigan rolls her eyes but no more particularly nasty pangs radiate up from his chest. The healing is still damn uncomfortable though. Wynne explained it to him once while she reset his nose when he was twelve. Mana slips beneath the skin, knitting tissue, tendon, and muscle, and setting bones. The needle-like tingling means that it's working, that all of the parts are being sewn back together proper.
Morrigan is not Wynne though, with her gentle eyes, careful hands, and years of trust. Or Rhys who hums and tells jokes while he gets the bone to go back beneath the skin. Morrigan does not like him, is wary of him, and Alistair feels all of that in her touch.
Luckily, before he can lose what (very) little dignity he has left by shrieking and attempting to run off like a small child, he feels the warmth of Elissa's hand upon his. Her palm is as broad as his is and her fingers are only slightly thinner, but they are every inch as hard as his are and Alistair is sure that there is more power in her grip. Indeed, as her fingers slat with his, he finds a resolve beneath them that's on par with Dragon Bone.
She dips her head forward just a bit. "Go ahead, squeeze."
He doesn't question her or think twice. He only clasps a little more tightly as the magic does its mending.
Morrigan does not take long at her work. Still, he can feel that it was well-done. All of the aches are gone, replaced by a slight tingling numbness and his head does not spin when he tries to sit up this time. It does mean that he must release Elissa, which he does slowly.
"Thank you," he says running a hand over the back of his head. Dried blood and matted hair are all that he touches; the flesh has sealed neatly, as if it never split.
Morrigan makes a noncommittal sound, which Alistair accepts as being the nicest thing that he could hope for.
"Here." Behind him, Elissa stands and goes toward the pond and some gear that sits at its edge. From it, she pulls a square of undyed cotton and dips it in the water. Alistair does his best not to stare at her long, strong looking legs or backside as she does; especially with her shirt covering just below her thighs.
Very, very supple thighs. They had been warm to rest his head against. Not to mention firm.
By Andraste, it's as if Morrigan knows where his thoughts are straying because those citrine eyes have narrowed on him again and Alistair swears that he smells brimstone. He very nearly jumps out of his skin when Elissa starts dabbing at the back of his neck with her cloth.
"Sorry, I didn't think about warming it up first," she apologizes, oblivious to his real reason for squirming.
"It's—it's all right," he tells her. "I can—"
"Nonsense." Elissa dismisses his attempt to take the cloth away with a light swat. She kneels beside him and Alistair is determined not to look at her lest some new part of her body mesmerize him. "You can't even see it. Besides, I'll be quick, I promise."
"I, um, thank you." And he tries not to shudder as she goes about cleaning him.
"You're very welcome," Elissa says. Even without looking, Alistair can feel her smile and he has to fend off the onslaught of gooseflesh. Morrigan's nose wrinkles.
"You know, healings always leave me disoriented," Elissa says, continuing at her work. "Morrigan, perhaps you could fetch our new companion a few poultices for the road?"
"I don't believe so, no—"
"That's really not necessary—"
He blinks at Morrigan and she scowls at him outright. Again, Elissa is oblivious to the discomfort/ire playing out before her or she is purposely ignoring it. By how she handles her sister, Alistair would place his bet on the latter.
When she speaks again, Elissa's voice is warm but carries a certain inflexibility that leaves no room for argument. "Well, I think it would be a very nice gesture."
Andraste preserve, he will not make it out of here alive. One woman will end him with violence if the other doesn't with kindness.
Morrigan's response is what Alistair expects it to be. Angry, growly, certainly full of disgust that is centered upon him. He just can't comprehend the actual words that she happens to be using.
Standing up, she crosses her arms and levels her glare at Elissa. "Tá tú ag iarraidh a chodladh leis."
Alistair isn't stupid, but his strengths are very much set in languages that he has fluency in. Antivan he's picked up a-plenty, thanks to his brother's maternal heritage and a long friendship with Zevran. Bits of Orlesian have filtered through court, strenuous as their ties with Ferelden are. And he's heard Nevarran enough to recognize it (probably). Whatever tongue Morrigan is speaking now though, it is lost on Alistair.
And of course, Elissa replies in the same tongue (again probably).
"Morrigan, a cheapann do thoil." He glances back to see that Morrigan's sister has crossed her arms. She looks like Teryna Rowan explaining to her husband why he in fact cannot spit at the Orlesian emissary. Fond but clearly tired of this being an subject that must broached so often. "Tá sé an rí mac is óige. Tá mé ag iarraidh a chinntiú go bhfanann do cheann deas ar do shoulders nuair atá againn a thaispeáint ár n-aghaidh sa phríomhchathair."
And like Teyrn Loghain, Morrigan appears very skeptical of the reasoning being presented to her. They could have a very close competition on glowering the moss from a rock, Morrigan and Loghain.
"Chomh maith leis sin, tá ba mhaith liom a chodladh leis." Alistair swears that there is mischief in Elissa's eyes when she says that. Not that he minds; said eyes flick briefly to him and he's all but scrabbling to remember his name. "Ach breathnú ar air."
Evidently, whatever it is that Elissa says, it is humorous enough that Morrigan, despite her pinched face, gives a snort of laughter. A pout quickly reforms but she yields.
"Ugh. Gach ceart ansin." She says, throwing up her hands, she picks up her skirt, grabs a nearby staff along with a neat leather satchel, and picks her way out of the clearing. "An bhfuil mar is mian leat, Deirfiúr. Mar a dhéanann tú i gcónaí."
Elissa laughs. "Go raibh maith agat, Morrigan. Is breá liom tú!"
"I know!" Morrigan calls without looking back.
"I…do not understand what just happened here," Alistair says, blinking in the direction of the leaves still rustling from Morrigan's departure.
Still giggling, Elissa returns to swabbing the last remnants of dried blood from his nape. "My sister agreed that she would whip up a few potions and poultices for the road—so long as she does not have keep your company any longer." She pats his shoulder and angles herself forward so that he can see her without over-straining his neck. "Don't take it personally; Morrigan dislikes most folk that she meets."
A chuckle escapes Alistair as he rubs the damp path that Elissa has made between the base of his skull and the tops of his shoulders. "Has she hit all of these other folk with boulders though?"
She shakes her head, grin wider than ever. "Not all, only a few. Actually, just you and a fellow in Tantervale who snuck into her bath to try and woo her with poetry."
"Your sister is...quite protective of her bath time."
"That's the polite thing to say, yes."
"Well, I aim for polite," Alistair says. "Aside from, you know, accidentally barging in on women as they bathe."
Elissa tosses her head back as she laughs. It's deep and clear, like rainwater as it falls into the basin of the large, inner-courtyard fountain back home. As almost all things about her, it makes Alistair's heartbeat a bit more erratic and his ears feel a bit too warm. And then she causes his stomach bottom out with the words, "You are adorable."
The last person to call Alistair adorable was Wynne. Wynne has helped to raise him. Wynne knits him scarves, and cleans spots off of his face. Elissa is perhaps the prettiest woman who's spoken to him as a person in his whole life. He doesn't want to be adorable to her.
Maker, why couldn't her sister have been merciful and just killed him?
Mid-spiral into despair, the lidded slant of her eyes and smirk when she spoke finally registers. Alistair blinks at Elissa who continues to smile (though now she appears to be trying not to giggle as well).
"I um—I'm sorry, but are you...are you flirting with me?" he asks. "Is this—? Are we flirting?"
Now she is giggling and Alistair wishes again that Morrigan had gone ahead and ended him while she had the opportunity. "Well, I am," she says swiping an errant tendril out of her eyes. "What you're doing...Yeah, I wouldn't really call that flirting. Still cute and all but, you know, if you have to ask I think it's immediately right out."
"Oh." He swallows hard, disappointment flagging the jittery lightness in his chest. And then he remembers. "Cute?"
Again, Elissa laughs and it's somehow more calming. "Yes," she says slowly, as if to a child. He ignores that part. "Do you live in a village of blind people with no mirrors hanging about or something?"
Close, he almost says. Just the royal palace where every lady from the age of fifteen to one-hundred-and-fifteen is too busy fawning over Cailan.
"No," he says instead, "I just...It's a little...Pretty girls just usually have better things to do than notice me." That isn't a lie. Technically speaking.
Her smile deepens and a coil deep down in Alistair's gut positively shivers. "Pretty girls where you're from are daft then."
Maybe Morrigan did kill him. Maybe he's died and this is some weird punishment that he's undergoing, crossing the Fade to get to the Maker's side. Or, just a thought, maybe Lyna's people have the right of it, and since he's human Falon'Din has left him to wander. Perpetually tortured by his own awkwardness.
The light brush of fingertips against his elbow jerks Alistair back to reality. Concern, he finds, has once more lit those big blue eyes when he refocuses on Elissa.
"Are you—?"
"I'm a virgin."
For a moment, he does not believe that the words actually left his mouth. He needs to believe that they did not. But then the corners of Elissa's mouth twitch and she's laughing hard and loud with that occasional snort and dear Maker, just let him die.
"I should go," he says, scrabbling to stand. "What happened to my shirt and jerkin? You know what, never mind, keep them. Drust!" His horse, who has occupied himself with eating clover at the edge of the clearing, barely looks up.
"Wait!" He thinks Elissa says. Maybe. There's really too much of a frantic pounding in his ears to tell.
"Sorry again for interrupting your bath." He turns praying that all the blood rushing to his face at least gives him a merciful end before he further humiliates himself by tripping. "I'll—"
She grabs his hand. It's a loose and light grip, a subtle point to the fact that he can break free at any moment. He does not though; instead, Alistair turns back. Elissa stands, keeping hold of his wrist as she does. In the brief moment before she speaks, he takes stock of her form a new.
Despite being barefoot, she is taller than he is. Alistair is not sure how much his boots add but he'd wager that without them, she would yet have a good three inches on him at the very least, and he isn't small. She's built for the height; broad shouldered with muscles that are obvious even through the material of the shirt she wears. There are curves too, her hips are wide and full and her breasts are...very full as well.
Maker, she could hoist him over her shoulder like a ragdoll.
Maker, he would enjoy being hoisted over her shoulder like a ragdoll.
"I'm sorry." Her apology crashes through that image, adding guilt on top of embarrassment once he sees genuine contrition in every line of her face. "Really. I shouldn't have laughed. And it wasn't because you said you were a virgin, honest. It was..." She bites her lower lip, trying to offer another smile. "Just the way you tossed it out there. And maybe a little disbelief."
That takes him aback. Not enough to jerk his hand away (but that's neither here nor there, nope, not at all). "What idiot my age would lie about being a virgin?"
"Not an idiot," Elissa says. "But maybe a handsome young man who doesn't know how to politely tell an overly-forward young woman that he just isn't interested in her advances?"
Again, the bottom of Alistair's stomach goes straight out while something akin to a ball of lightning pops in his chest.
"I, um..." Maker, his mouth is so dry that he expects his tongue to crumble. "I think I'd still have to call him an 'idiot'. At least if the woman in question is anything like you."
She chuckles. "You know, I think we can go ahead and suspend the pretenses. I'm interested in you."
He swallows, trying to laugh. "The, um, forwardness is appreciated. Really. It's nice." At his pause, Elissa raises a single brow. "Oh, right! I'm interested. Definitely interested. In you. So much. I mean, have—"
"Alistair?"
"Yes?"
"Do you want me to kiss you?" She's grinning, and he can see her shaking and flushed in an attempt to restrain any further outright giggling.
"Maker's Breath, please, before I make a bigger ass of myself."
"Well, it's a nice ass," she says, giving his complexion just enough time to turn a very bright shade of beetroot before closing the distance between them.
Before this moment, Alistair has only kissed one other person in his entire life, his friend, Lyna. They were drinking and being goaded by Zevran and Cailan. What he remembers of the incident, fogged from rum as he was at the time, was enjoying the warmth of Lyna's tongue but disliking her copious use of teeth and the sloppy-wet feel of it. Her mouth had veered from his often, once even going over his nose and he had pushed her away after that happened. Lyna seemed fine with this and announced that if she had not already preferred women that she definitely did now. Lyna was not a nice drunk.
This kiss with Elissa though, it's...He's never even dreamed of something like this.
From the very start, she has control and he is happy to give it. Tilting her head, she moves into his personal space. The hand on his wrist slides down to link their fingers together while the other cups his jaw. It anchors him as she slants her mouth to his.
Close-lipped at first, she presses gently, as if to let the heat of her sink into him. Her tongue comes after a moment, slipping past the seam of her lips to test his. Shuddering, he opens to her and the reward is well worth it.
She tastes sweet, like perhaps she ate fruit not long ago; sweet berries or pears. There is something else though, beyond that sweetness that he can't very well describe. It's like the way that she laughs or the color of her eyes. It's simply her, and as is overwhelmingly the case with things concerning Elissa, it bewitches him.
"Mmm..." She draws back after a moment, how long he can't say, his head is spinning from both lack of air and arousal. The delight in that sound however, Alistair does not miss, nor the curl of her reddened mouth. "Not bad." In she leans again, but does not take his mouth. Instead, she skims the line of his jaw up to his ear. He shudders again and grasps her waist to keep himself upright.
"Do you have a bedroll in your pack?" she asks, nipping his earlobe. It sends a jolt down his spine straight to his lower belly.
"Do I have a bedroll?" He repeats it mostly because right now, his whole head has gone fuzzy. Who knew that his earlobes were that sensitive? He didn't.
The lovely tugging that she's doing with her teeth comes to an abrupt halt. Drawing back just enough so that she can look him in the eye and flag an eyebrow.
"Yes, a bedroll," she says, a bemused little smile taking hold of her lips. "You don't want to be on your back on the ground the first time. I'd grab mine, but that'd mean going back to my camp and listening to my sister and the rest of the group clucking at me over my impulses. Also, it's a walk and you're here so..." She shrugs.
That hits it for Alistair. Bedroll. She wants to...
Andraste, he must have gone to the Maker's side. He's never even had a dream where he is this damn lucky.
"Bedroll, right!" he says, all but jumping back (and tripping in the process), looking wildly about for Drust. He notes Elissa giggling again but he pays it very little mind, what with the mission that he has been given.
Still at the clover patch, Drust has stopped eating to take stock of what Alistair is doing. There's a certain glint to those big brown eyes, one that's both amused and judging.
"You brought me here, don't even," Alistair informs his horse as he rushes to get his bedroll.
Drust, never one to just comply, turns, angling himself so that he can't get the bedroll right away. He flicks his tail, pawing at the ground, while nudging his middle, where the big strap of his saddle is none too subtly.
Alistair rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine." And he unbuckles the saddle, removing it along with the blanket, bags, and most importantly, the bedroll. When he's finished, Drust leans over to nuzzle his hair. The horse version of a good-luck back pat.
"Don't go far!" he warns as Drust trots out of the clearing. "Your curiosity almost got me killed once today!"
His response is a whinny that seems to say, "True. But look what else it got you."
A fair point.
He turns back toward Elissa, who is kneeling at the pond's edge going through her own belongings. The sun is at its peak and beneath it, she glows gold at the edges.
A very, very fair point.
Elissa is drinking something when he returns with the bedroll. It's small, a vial maybe the size of his little finger, filled with dark purple liquid. Whatever it is, she makes a face after downing it all.
"What's...?" He motions with is shoulder to the vial that Elissa is tucking back into her pack.
She double takes. "Oh, the tincture? That's going to make sure that you don't put a baby in me." Her nose wrinkles as she glances back at her belongings. "Sour stuff."
The revelation that she's taking precautions to keep from becoming pregnant slams Alistair with the gravity of the situation. He is in the woods with what is really a total stranger about to lose his virginity to her. The bells of his self-consciousness start to ring.
Her sister tries to pound you into dust, literally, and now you're going to sleep with her? What's the thought process here? Are you that desperate?
They could be bandits. Or kidnappers. Pretty faces can lie, have you learned nothing from all of those games of Wicked Grace with Anora and Lady Gyllianne?
Do you really want this to be how your first time goes? Strange woman in the woods? How is this different from when Cailan tried to buy you a prostitute?
"Alistair?" Elissa's voice and the light touch of her hand to his break through all of the panicky voices second-guessing in his head. Worry again lines her bright eyes, the kind that he doesn't doubt. She tilts her head and squeezes his wrist.
"We don't have to sleep together, you know," she says it quietly, gently even. Her thumb strokes the back of his knuckles. "Maybe your first time isn't this. Maybe your first time has roses and silk sheets and true love."
Landry had mocked Alistair with words very close to those once, after he politely turned away the prostitute that Cailan had snuck into his rooms. He had heard the gossip from his brother's idiot friends for months. How he wasn't much of a man or must not like girls. Most of it was ignorable; after all, the majority of Cailan's friends are complete and utter morons. Some of it had stung though, much as he hid it and as used to being the backend of the noble house's jokes that he is.
But Elissa isn't mocking him. She is not a pretty girl paid to smile and show up naked on his bed either. Nothing about her is being bought and she doesn't even know who he really is. What she wants from him is him. And he wants her.
He's the bastard Prince always backed into the shadows. Roses and silk sheets and true love are laughable for him. But he can at least have this.
Without a word, he drops the bedroll and pulls Elissa back into his personal space. He kisses her, probably not well, but he gives it his best. It is apparently enough, because while she's tense at first, surprised, a moment passes and she's melting into it. Melting into him. And more than anything in his life, Alistair is sure that this is the right decision.
She's grinning when the kiss ends, wide and earnest and sweet, it reaches up into those impeccable eyes. Oh yes, he is sure of this.
"Those are all nice, lovely things but I think that I'd settle just for you," he says. Elissa raises an eyebrow at that and he very nearly swallows his tongue. "I mean—you're not something anyone just settles for. You are—you're beautiful and nice and—"
"Alistair."
"Yes?"
She wraps her arms around his neck, rubbing her nose to his. "You're much better at kissing than flirting. Let's do that instead."
He can't stop himself. "Really? I—"
Considerate as always, Elissa prevents further mortification. Her lips cover his firmly, though not roughly and now Alistair is the one that is melting. Happily too.