~ Alistair ~
"There it is. Lothering. Pretty as a painting," Alistair said, spreading his hands in a grand gesture. Marian didn't respond, and he realized she'd been all but silent for several minutes, letting him ramble on in his usual aimless way. He turned to her, a grin spreading his face, the glib comment on the tip of his tongue halted when he caught her expression. Marian looked... tense. Her mouth was tight, eyes set in an apprehensive stare, her head tilted slightly to the side. One hand plucked a rhythm at the bow-string laid across her chest.
"What's the problem?" She said nothing, continuing to contemplate the town, her frosty silence of earlier returning. Time to lighten the mood a bit. "Let me guess. Jerky ex-boyfriend?" He pulled a knife from the pouch on his thigh, flipping it in one hand. "Say the word, I'll kill anyone you like."
That adorable quirk returned to her lip. "That's your eating knife."
"Is it?" He looked at it, affecting surprise. "Damn! Who stole my pearl-handled murdering dagger? I can't kill anyone with this - I need it to butter my bread with." Sighing, he slid the blunted blade back into its case, where it clinked against his other utensils. I should've pulled out the fork instead, he thought when she shook her head at him, shoulders quivering with silent laughter. Bringing that breathtaking smile to her face was his largest goal at the moment.
"Come on," she said suddenly, hooking her hand through his elbow. "My mother and sister are probably cooking. Are you hungry?"
"Are you kidding? After all the walking we did today? I'm wasting away here."
"You look it," she chuckled. "Skin and bones, that's you."
"Is your mother a good cook? You know what? I don't care, I'd even eat my cooking right now."
Smiling widely, she tugged at him, and he followed, thrilling to the touch of her hand. Lothering opened up before them, the epitome of a small country hamlet. His brow furrowed - it had been a few years since he'd been here, the last bit of his templar training having taken him to Denerim, though he'd spent a good many years in Lothering. To think, he'd never met the Hawke family, in all that time... he looked around, paying more attention now. Did small hamlets usually have so many tents and forlorn people? An overgrown field near the stone steps of the Imperial Highway teemed with - refugees? From the blight, Alistair realized, his heart sinking. It must be spreading faster than we'd suspected. Anyone with a homestead south of Lothering must have run here - though, Alistair realized, the small town was likely to be the next place destroyed, if the horde continued its northward trend. Its dark corruption tingled just at the edge of his consciousness, setting his teeth on edge. Definitely moving - definitely toward Lothering.
"Marian," he said, his feet slowing. "Is there anywhere your family can go? Away from Lothering, I mean. You shouldn't stay here - not with the horde, not with the battle. Too many bad things can happen."
She slowed as well, realization freezing her face. "I didn't even think of that... I just... I just wanted to get home." Her hand dropped from the crook of his arm, pain carving worry lines into her smooth forehead. "Home isn't a safe place now, is it?"
"No," he agreed. Stepping closer, he took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "Do you need help? I don't know if it would be any better than here, but you could go to Redcliffe - I know some folks there. I'm sure I could arrange for... something..."
Those blue orbs flicked up to lock with his, gratitude shining forth. Her hand squeezed back, the pressure fluttering his heart almost as much as the lopsided smile she gave him. A moment later her fingers slid away, and she squared her shoulders. "We can talk to my mother about it - I don't know where she might want to go. But you're right, we can't stay here - I know that much."
"Sister!"
Marian turned away from him just in time to be bowled over by a slim, dark-haired girl who swept her into a tight, rocking hug. She stood taller than Marian - a match for Carver, actually - with the same dark hair as her siblings, the same curving cheek and vivid Hawke eyes. Marian seemed overwhelmed, but shrugged at Alistair over the girl's shoulder with a small smile as she was exclaimed and fussed over. This must be Bethany, for certain. Alistair stayed back, feeling a touch awkward.
"You're back! Thank the Maker - Mother's been worried sick! Carver's home already - he got here a little while ago, said you were probably just behind. We've been hearing things, just dreadful things about Ostagar, and how many were killed. They say the battle was terrible, that so many died, and oh Marian! They say King Cailan is dead, and that the Wardens killed him! Is it true?"
"Wait, what?" Alistair stepped forward, all awkwardness melting away. "Who's saying the Wardens killed King Cailan?"
The girl hesitated, leaning back out of Marian's embrace to turn apprehensive eyes on Alistair. "I - I'm sorry, who-"
"Bethany, this is Alistair - he's a Grey Warden. He was trained as a templar before he joined the Wardens." Marian's hand clenched her sister's, and Bethany turned to Alistair, her mouth dropping open. Was that... no. For half an instant he'd thought she almost looked... afraid... but then she was all smiles and chatter, reaching out to shake his hand.
"Hello, yes, I'm Bethany, Marian's sister. I'm sorry, you must think me terribly rude, rushing in and just... scooping her up." The words came out in a hurry. Bethany laughed, her fluting voice somewhat higher and sweeter than her sister's pleasant alto. "I haven't seen her in almost two years, you see, and here in Lothering we've been dying for a bit of news about the battle. She and Carver just - up and joined the army, leaving Mother and me to wait at home with all the other helpless women. But - you're a Warden, Marian said? Then you... it can't be true. Marian wouldn't be calmly introducing someone who'd murdered the king!"
Alistair's head was spinning, Bethany's energy and babble combined with the shocking idea that - the Wardens? Killing Cailan?
Alistair attempted to arrange his face into something friendly. "Please, Miss Bethany, a moment. I - I'm afraid I don't understand. You heard something about how... the Wardens killed Cailan?"
Marian cut in. "Bethy, Mother must be waiting for you. Why don't you run back - tell her I'm home, and maybe we can have guests for dinner? I'll be there in just a bit." Marian's eyes were focused and intense, and then Bethany nodded.
"Of course. I apologize. Don't mind me, Ser Alistair - I hope to see you for dinner." She flashed a white smile, then jogged away without a backward glance.
"Sorry," Marian said. "That's... Bethany."
"She's charming," Alistair observed, his gut churning as her words looped through his head. Wardens killed King Cailan... someone who'd murdered the king...
"Um, I guess Carver's already home, and Morrigan is... somewhere..." Marian took a step back, eyes darting over the town. "Did you see where Cousland went?"
"There, I thought," Alistair gestured toward what looked to be the tavern - likely, it was the inn as well.
"Makes sense," Marian said. She looked uncomfortable, their happy camaraderie from earlier dashed to bits. "Um, look - that's my house - just there, over the bridge - the one with the green door. You can get a room at the inn, and then when you've cleaned up maybe you'll come for supper? You'd probably like some time to wash, I expect - they've got a really nice tub at the inn, or... there's a lake..." she trailed off, one hand cupping the back of her neck. Eyes slipping shut, she released a heavy breath. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me... Come for dinner?"
Alistair nodded. She was flustered. He suspected it was mostly embarrassment over Bethany's prodding questions. Maybe, just maybe, it was... something more, as well? It had seemed like they'd really connected, and that it hadn't all been in his head. Wild hope flared in his heart as he realized that she'd actually invited him to dinner. At her house. With her family. Wasn't that something usually reserved for, well, good friends at the least?
Mind racing, he said something about seeing her later, and watched as she pulled up her hood and scurried over the bridge. The cloak billowed, her rapidly retreating form weaving unnoticed through those who were busy with errands of their own. His eyes stayed with her until the green door shut, and his footsteps were light as he walked away, whistling a jaunty tune.
The tavern was about what he'd expected; a large common room with a huge fireplace, locals gathered in the low, smoky light. Two stories, though - it spoke of prosperity, a well established business with a good reputation, if it boasted so many rooms. I guess it is along a major trade route, Alistair realized. Cousland was within, arguing with the tavernkeep about a room - apparently, Lothering was bursting at the gills, with nothing to spare. Alistair meandered forward, close enough to listen to the man's words.
"Have you any idea who I am?" Aedan's voice was low and insistent, the two gold sovereigns he held between thumb and forefinger tapping the counter. "Does the name of Cousland mean nothing to you?"
"About as much as the name Theirin," the tavernkeep shrugged. "Okay, you're noble. Congratulations. Bread's two bits, you can have stew for three more. And just as I said before-" he leaned in, his words coming slow and clear, pronounced so Cousland couldn't possibly misunderstand. "-all, of the rooms, are full. If you can find space on the floor tonight, you're welcome to spread your blanket there. Two silver for that."
Aedan's handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Fine. You're passing up good business, but fine - who am I to teach you how to make a living?" He strode to the center of the tavern and called for attention, raising the coins up to glint in the firelight. "Countrymen, it seems the innkeep has run out of rooms. But if anyone should wish to sell me their room, you'll find me not ungrateful." One coin flipped into the air, ringing slightly as it left his fingers, the sound cut off when his hand closed around it again. Instantly, three men clambered forward, offering Cousland the use of their beds. Smirking, he threw a haughty look at the innkeep, who just shrugged and turned back to his other customers, unimpressed with Aedan's machinations.
Alistair made his way to the bar, not bothering to ask about a room - he had money, but not enough to throw around as Aedan was. He did ask about the tub, however. Usually, he was happy enough to make do with any local waterway, but it was winter, and the opportunity for a hot bath was too good to pass up. Plus, he was going to meet Marian's mother, right?
The innkeep told him two others were waiting for the tub, and charged him five coppers for its use - a bargain, as far as Alistair was concerned. He ordered a mug of ale and made his way over to Cousland, content to wait for his bath. The nobleman's coins had bought him ample space at a table, along with a few loaves of crusty bread, a tankard of ale, and a bowl of rich-looking stew. Alistair perched on the edge of the bench opposite, wondering if he dared snag a piece of Aedan's bread.
"Good stew?" Alistair took a sip. The ale was good - an autumn brew, he was willing to bet. With... a taste of apple? Interesting. Perhaps it was a town specialty.
Cousland snorted, dunking a slice of bread thick with butter into his bowl. "Fair. Where do you plan on sleeping?"
Alistair shrugged. "Probably outside." He wondered if he should mention Marian's dinner invitation. If he wanted to be courteous, he supposed he should - though it wasn't his house, nor his right to invite someone else.
"I'd offer you a space on my floor, but it turns out it's all bunks. Sharing the room with five others." Cousland shrugged. "It's a bed. Sorry, if I'd thought of it I suppose I could have gotten us each a bed, but you're used to sleeping on the ground, right?"
"...Right." No way was he inviting the ass to dinner.
Cousland grunted, sopping up more stew, and Alistair finished his ale. Neither spoke again, both content with the ambient noise around them in lieu of conversation.
Late afternoon was passing into evening when Alistair stepped up to Marian's green door, fresh from his bath and wearing the only clothing he had with him that wasn't meant to go under his armor - homespun trousers and a simple, long-sleeved shirt. Not much could be said for them, other than that they were clean. One hand raised to tap against the wood, then dropped again before any contact was made. Both hands shook themselves out, clenching then unclenching, then rubbed down the front of his pants, fingers spread wide. The hands raked back through his hair, then he muttered a curse as he realized he'd probably stood it on end again, and after a careful combing, too.
Just... knock, Alistair thought, and released a shaky breath before his knuckled lifted once more, heart thrumming in wild cadence.
The door flew open, Bethany's bright smile a welcome greeting. "Ser Alistair! Please, come in." She stepped back, and he smiled nervously as he ducked into the cottage.
The interior was warm, a cheery fire burning in the corner hearth. A few threadbare but comfortable looking chairs were ready for curling into, and a large bookshelf set against the wall held numerous tomes. Through an open door, the smell of roast chicken hit his nose, and his stomach promptly began gnawing on itself. He swallowed, hoping to calm his eager digestive system, concentrating instead on the room before him. Someone had knitted a rather lumpy blanket, which was folded neatly and laid over the back of one of the few seats. From a rug set before the fire, a mabari hound stretched and then trotted over, keen interest in the large, liquid eyes.
"Dread, sit," Marian called, and Alistair's eyes lit up as she came through the kitchen door.
The dusty, bloodstained garments had been exchanged for a form-fitting outfit - some sort of thigh-length tunic, belted over tight black pants tucked into sturdy boots. In truth, he barely registered her clothing - Marian might have been wearing a flour sack, and he'd have thought she looked great. She grinned up at him as she knelt by the dog's side, practically dwarfed in its shadow.
"This is my mabari. Dread, meet my friend Alistair."
The dog snuffled his hand, then lifted a paw to shake.
"I think he likes me," Alistair chuckled, taking a knee and sliding his fingers back through Dread's fur, paying special attention to the spot behind the dog's ears. Marian's smile turned his bones to jelly.
"He likes everyone Marian likes," Carver drawled, entering the room with a bowl of something in his hand. "Beth, you did the canning this year? Alistair, come try these peaches."
Dinner began shortly afterward, and it couldn't have been better. Marian's mother Leandra was all smiles and welcome, gracious to a fault. The food was to die for; Alistair couldn't recall the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal. Leandra was attentive to Alistair's plate - she seemed determined that he be pleased with what she called her "simple" table, though he assured her over and over that he was used to much plainer fare. Conversation was lively - what with two of Leandra's children spending two years away she and Bethany were eager to hear about everything they'd been doing. Ostagar didn't come up - perhaps they'd already told Leandra of what had happened. Alistair was content to listen, soaking up the feeling of family that pervaded the very walls of the cottage. Just sitting with them was a treat.
When dinner was over - too soon, in his opinion - the family retreated to the small sitting room with cups of tea. Marian stretched out before the fire with Dread, and Carver took a cross-legged seat nearby. So cozy, all of it, with Leandra asking if there was anything else she could get anyone and Bethany bringing a plate of cookies from the kitchen to be passed around.
Marian would never know what kind of a gift she'd given him - how could she, when she'd had this all her life?
After he'd lingered as long as he felt was proper over his cup of tea and at least half a dozen cookies, Alistair pushed himself out of the plush chair, regretting the evening's end. Thanking them all for a lovely dinner, he shook hands with Carver, then kissed the hands of the ladies, catching Marian's eyes with what he hoped was a significant look.
"See you tomorrow?" he murmured, grinning and squeezing her hand when she nodded, eyes sparkling.
"I'd like that," she said simply, and the family bade him goodnight as they walked him to the door.
The night was crisp, clear, chilled - Alistair's breath plumed in the frosty air. He nipped back to the inn before he lost what inner warmth he'd collected from the Hawke residence, grateful that the winter had been dry with relatively little snow. If he was going to sleep in a field, he'd rather not have to tunnel out his bed.
The innkeep's wife asked him of his plans, and when Alistair told her she insisted that he take a spot on the floor of the tavern. He protested, telling her he had no coin to pay for it, and she patted his cheek, saying only that he reminded her of her son, and to please allow her to provide him with a bed for the night, free of charge. He thought of Cousland, paying ten times the original price for a bed, and couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Maybe the Maker likes me after all, he thought as he settled down.
Since the tavern floor had become a campground, most of the town's drinking had been taken elsewhere, though there was plenty of quiet conversation. The fire was banked, embers glowing, all of it so warm and drowsy that Alistair should have been able to go right to sleep.
There was too much excitement in his blood, however. Dinner at the Hawke residence had just... gone so well! Marian's family was open, warm, friendly - they'd made him feel welcome right away, and the small interactions he and Marian had had throughout the night - a shared smile, a brush of fingers when she passed him a dish, her hand in his as she'd tugged him into the parlor. He'd never felt more alive; sleep was the furthest thing from his ability at the moment.
After tossing and turning for awhile, he flipped the blanket back and sat up. Maybe a walk would cool his blood. Or a sprint. Or a flat out run. One way or another, he intended to exhaust himself enough that sleep wouldn't be so elusive.
Tying his cloak around his neck, he slid a dagger into his boot - just in case - and headed out the door into the chill night. The moon was nearing full, silvering the late-night air. He wandered, his mind so full, the thoughts so beautiful... the future could hold anything. Carver and he were both Wardens - it only seemed natural that once the blight was over, the two of them would return to the Hawke family. Would Marian wait for him? Should he speak to her about it? The idea of declaring himself was both thrilling and frightening. He pictured the scene... what would he say?
There was nothing he could promise her - he couldn't even be sure that he would return. There was a more than even chance that he'd die before the Archdemon was dealt with. Then there was the issue of the shortened lifespan, and children... I can't give her anything, Alistair thought, heart sinking. Maybe it would be better to say nothing... but suppose he did live. Didn't he deserve a chance for happiness? Why shouldn't he try and find it with Marian?
The village was quiet, the largest sound being his boots treading the dusty road. Lothering boasted a small lake - perhaps he'd go there, sit for a bit, think more sappy thoughts... they twisted within his head, naggy as a sore tooth. He didn't mind. He was relishing the fact that he felt this way for someone. That there was a chance that this someone might feel the same way for him.
He wandered toward the lake, leaving the village itself behind, his eyes skittering to Marian's home. Through the curtains the lamps were still blazing - likely they were all still awake. They'd probably be up talking for hours yet, catching up after years of being apart. How he wished he could join them.
"You're a murderer."
"They have told me this, yes."
Alistair's attention was snagged by the sound of voices, carried on the breeze. Faint, but clear - he knew that musical tone. Marian?
For the first time he noticed the slim cage on the very edge of town. Standing within the bars was the largest man Alistair had ever seen - seven feet, at least, his skin silvery in hue, rows of white braids plaited along his skull. He was shirtless - well muscled, it was plain to see, but absolutely barbaric looking.
"And you feel no regret?"
The giant's face was stony; brooding, a perpetual scowl chiseled into granite. "I regret their deaths."
"But not the fact that you did it." Marian Hawke sat on the ground before the cage. That forest green cloak was gathered around her, joining her with the night. She had yet to notice Alistair. He ducked into the shadow of a nearby doorway, and for the next few minutes he watched in awe as the tiny woman lectured the giant barbarian.
She told him of her family, of the things she'd done in the war. She told him of life in Ferelden, of the harm the blight could do, of her brother and of the Grey Wardens. She told him of the way she'd seen Cailan, crushed to a pulp by an ogre on the battlefield of Ostagar. Of the way Cousland had saved her from the flying boulder.
Alistair waited, hoping she'd find a reason to mention his name. But then, what have I done that's worthy of being told about? Not much, he thought.
"Alistair... he's another Warden," Marian said, and he jumped. "I don't think I've met a man with a kinder heart. He tries to be tough, but he's... nice. A great fighter, though, and really talented with a shield... But, see, there's only the three of them. Against all of the darkspawn, against the Archdemon... so that's where you come in."
"What is it you're doing?" Alistair stepped out of the shadows, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Marian's raven head spun in his direction, eyes widening. One hand came up to swipe her eyes, then she gestured him over. "Sit with me?"
"I thought you'd be in bed," Alistair said as he folded himself beside her.
"Can't sleep," she muttered, studying the ground. The man in the cage said nothing - just watched them, lavender eyes intense with scrutiny. It was decidedly... creepy, Alistair thought. What manner of creature had metallic skin, white hair and purpley eyes?
"What's his story?" He lifted his chin at the giant, and Marian told him. Sten - it wasn't really his name, apparently, more like a title, whatever that meant - had slaughtered a farmstead, killing men, women and children alike. All because of a lost sword.
Alistair was horrified. Marian only seemed fascinated.
"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked of the giant, curiosity coloring her words.
"I was locked in the cage by your leaders."
"No, I mean in Ferelden."
Sten said nothing, just continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring the small woman who sat before him.
"Ask him a riddle," Alistair whispered, and Marian smacked his chest with the back of her hand.
"I want him to go with you and Carver," she whispered back.
"What? You can't be serious!" What can she be thinking? "You just told me he's a killer! He cut down an entire family - not exactly a stable personality. You want - that - to haunt my sleep? To possibly murder your brother and me both?"
"Shut up. You wouldn't let that happen," she said, brushing his concerns aside like so much dandelion fluff. "You two will need help against the darkspawn... who better than an angry giant?" She stood, brushing her hands against her cloak. "I'll be back tomorrow, Sten... we'll talk more then."
The giant's eyes darted to her, but he said nothing.
"Come on," Marian said suddenly, her small hand slipping into his own. "We need to talk, and I need a drink."
"The tavern's closed," Alistair said, but she shook her head.
"We're not going to the tavern. Just come with me." She tugged him along, urging him into a jog, then a run. The wind whipped across Alistair's face, exhilarating, cold as ice and sending his cloak flapping.
"Marian-" he laughed, feeling a bit breathless, and not because of their sprint.
She ignored him, pulling open the door to a huge, paint-faded barn and yanking him inside. Agile as the squirrel he'd teased her about being, she shimmied up the edge of a dividing wall, disappearing into the hayloft. He was about to call up to her, something about how it was a lovely trick she'd managed, when a rope dropped over the ledge, complete with knots for gripping.
Her raven head poked over the side. "Come, Ser Warden. Join me if you can." A roguish smile lit her face. Alistair needed no further invitation - climb a rope, for the chance to be close to her? Hands burning against the hemp, he managed to pull himself up, tumbling gracelessly into the hay a few moments later. Marian snorted with mirth, having helped him with the last bit of heave over the edge.
"You've got hay in your hair," she said, picking bits of it out with lithe fingertips, her affectionate attention bringing a blush to his cheeks. The light was faint - a lone lamp burned, suspended from a beam. It was plenty warm in here, though, smelling sweetly of hay and the clean odors of healthy farm animals... in fact, Alistair was surprised no one else had snuck in here to sleep.
"Barlin's got the place surrounded with traps," Marian said then, as if reading his mind. "But I'm a fair hand with traps, you see." She leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "I made most of them."
"Really," Alistair said faintly. Marian shrugged, pleased, then her hand delved beneath the hay, coming up with a bottle after a moment of searching.
"Right where I left it," she murmured, brushing straw from the darkened glass. Flipping a slim blade from her belt, she jammed it into the cork and levered it out, then put the bottle to her lips and took a long pull. Alistair's brows lifted as Marian's eyes closed, her enjoyment of the wine clear to see. The bottle lowered at last, and she offered it next to Alistair. He took it, the stray thought that her lips had just been on the rim of the bottle taking center stage. Flushing a little, he sipped, finding it a bit sweet for his tastes, and much, much stronger than he'd expected.
Marian grinned at him as he coughed, the honeyed liquor burning his throat. "They call it ice-wine. Good, right?"
"Fantastic," he rasped, wishing for his waterskin. "It's pretty strong for wine, isn't it?"
She took another long drink, her sinful moan of pleasure doing... strange things to him. "You start with fruit, honey, and hops, and once it's wine you freeze it. Throw out the ice, and this is what's left." The bottle lowered, her head tipping back as she sighed. "I've missed this. It's made by a friend of my mother's."
"May I?" he asked, and she pressed the bottle into his hands again. He tried another sip, more cautious this time, rolling the heavy, sweet liquid over his tongue.
The bottle wasn't large, but even so, he was surprised to find it empty after a bit more sharing and mindless chatter. Marian seemed distracted, her fingers kneading into the hay they sat in, and when she discovered the bottle was empty she fished another out of her hidey-hole.
Alistair chuckled. "How many of those are in there?"
She grinned at him. "Six, I think? Unless Carver got to them first." Her words were a touch slurred, the alcohol playing with her quick reflexes. She didn't seem all that impaired, though, and had no trouble working the cork free.
"You said you wanted to talk," Alistair reminded her after she'd taken another drink.
"You need to take care of my brother," Marian said. Apparently, she needed little prodding - at least, once she loosened up a little. "My mother..." she laughed, but the sound didn't even approach pleasant. "Mother is furious with me."
"Why with you?" Alistair asked, brows furrowing. "It isn't like you pushed him to Join. He was actually really nervous to tell you, you know. Honestly, I was a little angry when I found out he'd done it without telling anyone. I mean, he could've-" he cut himself off. Civilians weren't supposed to know certain things about the Wardens. He'd have to watch it - the wine was loosening his tongue.
Marian threaded her hands back through her midnight hair, gripping the roots. She hunched over crossed legs, the top of her head the only thing visible in the darkness as she clasped the back of her neck. "You missed quite the shouting match. We barely had you out the door when she laid into us both, but me more than him." Eyes shining like fine jewels, she locked gazes with Alistair, mouth twisting as an angry laugh spilled from her lips. "No, I know why she's mad at me. I was supposed to take care of him. Carver and I - we used to dream about being in the Wardens. It was a - a juvenile fantasy. A dream of heroes. He got the chance, and he jumped at it, I guess. I don't think I even blame him... not really." The bottle touched her lips again, long swallows of pain-killing anesthetic gliding down her throat.
Alistair didn't know what to say.
He ended up not saying much - Marian did the talking, confiding in him, telling him about her childhood and the closeness she and Carver had developed over the years. Bethany had always been the baby, she said, the one who needed protecting. They'd moved around quite a bit, though she stopped speaking when this came to light, and questioned Alistair about his own childhood. He kept things as easygoing as possible, telling her mostly about happy memories of Redcliffe - there was enough sadness tonight without him adding to it.
When the third bottle of wine made an appearance, Alistair was tempted to take it from her. She was so small - he knew his own tolerance, and it had gone up considerably since he'd become a Warden. Something about his metabolism made it difficult to get drunk; he just burned through the alcohol too quickly. But this stuff had him buzzed, and Marian had drunk twice as much as he. If she had any more, he saw two potential outcomes - violent illness, or a three-day hangover. Possibly both.
"I just... I miss my father," she mumbled. Somewhere during the second bottle her cloak had been tossed aside, and now she flopped back into the hay, ebony head making a striking contrast to the golden straw. Her eyes darted, then stilled, a deep breath escaping her. "You know, all I've ever done is take care of people. It's all I do. I take care of my mother, I take care of Bethany, I even take care of Carver. Father - he told me to. And it was hard, Alistair! It was so... so hard, at first. And do you know how hard I worked to learn that bow?"
"Really hard?" Alistair suggested. In a moment of extreme daring, he scooted close and stretched out beside her, pillowing his head on his arm. The ceiling wasn't all that interesting, but he studied it nonetheless - it's what she was doing, as well.
"Really, really hard," she agreed, her words somewhat thick. "It takes years to get good with a weapon like that. Years, do you hear me? And I bled. My hands - it hurt." She sounded frustrated - petulant, a child who needed comforting.
Alistair nodded, chancing to turn his head. They were so close. It was already warm in the barn, but she was a living flame, mere inches and a bit of cloth the only things separating him from the radiating heat of her body. Guilt assaulted him for thinking such base thoughts, and he flushed a bit, embarrassed. She continued to stare at the thatched ceiling, oblivious to his attention, her shadowed profile mesmerising him as a list of frustrations poured from her lips.
"Promise me," she said suddenly. She rolled, propping on her side, lifting up on one elbow. He sat up as well, mirroring her position. She didn't continue, just studied his face, sapphire eyes searching for something in his own.
"Anything," he murmured.
"Take care of Carver," she begged. "Don't let him die. I don't... I've already lost my father. I can't lose someone else."
Alistair hesitated. Such a promise... could he, in good conscience, guarantee her brother's life? Who knew where the blight would take them, what they might have to face. "If you promise me something in return," he said at last.
"What?" she asked, suspicion denting the spot above her nose.
With a breath for courage, Alistair scooped her hand into his own, lacing their fingers. "Leave Lothering," he begged. "It isn't safe. I'll talk with your mother about it if you want - tomorrow. But don't stay, Marian. Take Bethany and Dread and your mother, and run." Dare he kiss those fingers? No, not quite. His heart was practically leaping from his chest as it was, the wine burning out of his system with the aid of adrenaline, his head growing more clear by the moment. "I want to know you'll be alright. Make me that promise."
"I promise," she whispered. "Now you."
He tightened his clasp. This wasn't a formal commitment - not even close. He had yet to even bring up words of love, but the moment felt so powerful, so right. It was the closest he'd come to a romantic encounter - ever. Her face, so sweet and serious, so close to his own, their hands entwined. It was as if there were no one else but the two of them in the whole world...
"I'll keep him alive. I promise," he whispered. And I'll come back as well, he vowed silently. When this is over, I promise you, I'll come back.
"Thank you," she murmured, giving his hand a squeeze. Another second, and she slid her fingers away, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "Sorry... I didn't mean to get all intense on you. You must think I'm pretty silly."
"You? Nah," he grinned, regretting only a little that the moment had been broken.
"You're a good friend," she said softly. "I'm glad we met, Alistair."
"I am too," he agreed, then inspected her, wondering just how drunk she was. He was inwardly wincing at the idea that she might not remember the moment they'd had - he knew he'd never, ever forget the moment, or the look in her eyes. "How's your head?"
"Mmm. A little... heavy," she chuckled, then yawned. "I don't want to go back to my house... 'spose I should though." She curled down into the hay, snuggling herself in, her actions at complete odds with her words. Maker, but she was adorable. It wouldn't be difficult to lay back beside her, fall asleep next to Marian, dream of the life they might have after the blight was ended...
"I... should go," Alistair uttered, and began looking for the rope down out of the hayloft. "Make sure someone hasn't stolen my blanket back at the inn."
"If you're going, I'm going, too. I'm gonna have to go home sometime," she sighed, and pushed to her feet. She lurched, and Alistair grabbed for her hand, helping her sit down again. A throaty laugh tumbled from her throat as one hand pressed to her forehead. "Um... wow," she laughed. "Yeah. I'm drunk."
"Couldn't feel it til you tried to walk?" he suggested, amused. "Well then. I suppose we'll have to stay here until you can climb down."
"You need to get back, though-" she objected, but stopped protesting a moment later when he snagged her cloak and spread it over her, helping her settle back into the hay once more. He took up his former position at her side, wishing he had the gumption to take her hand again. But alas, both her arms were beneath the cloak, with only her chin pointing out.
"I'll stay awake," he promised. "You sleep for an hour - then we'll both go."
"It's... nice in here," she admitted, her words stumbling into each other. "Warm. And... you're nice." She yawned, then curled herself into a ball, not quite cuddling with him, but close. Alistair startled at how close she'd come, trying to decide what to do. Put an arm around her? Move back? Hold still? He was an agony of indecision.
A moment later, when she still hadn't moved, he whispered her name. "Marian."
No response.
Swallowing, heart thumping, he curved one arm around her, then leaned in to kiss her forehead.