A.N: I received a few nice, and very much appreciated comments on the first chapter, this is the most I've ever written, ever. I would appreciate feedback, it always helps to have honest critique on things I could improve and things I did well. I give Tabris a name finally, just because I couldn't write that long referring to her only as Warden—I don't care for the default, so I hope you all don't mind that I didn't use it. In case you were wondering, it's pronounced (Bell-EYE) :P I wanted to avoid this chapter being nothing but in game dialogue quoting , (I couldn't find it youtube anyway) but there's a lot of it, so I changed to up…not to mention I couldn't remember it all for the life of me. However, it was necessary to get through, and fill so that I could move on to more angsty, smut filled things to come. Also, I don't own, Bioware does, kind of like my soul.
The name of the place is not a lie, this he knows for sure. Haven, haven for oodles of insanity he thinks musingly—what can a person really expect however when you're dealing with the remains of a holy figure? For Arl Eamon's sake though, Alistair cannot afford to be offset by a few little bumps on the long and winding path: An insidious cult, ruins littered with booby-traps, blood magic, and oh we simply cannot forget dragons. Dragon kin to be exact, everywhere, breathing fire and—Maker's breath the smell, and they hadn't even gotten to her ashes yet, they were just climbing a ridiculously large and cold mountain to reach Andraste's remains.
Things wouldn't be so bothersome though if he hadn't given her that damn flower, rose; excuse me it's a rose. Courage he knows is relative, he can face down hordes of anything really, Darkspawn, legions of undead, abominations and oh yes dragons. When he gets silly ideas in his head though, ones that involve picking roses and saving them to give to her…bravery only extends as far as the thought itself and not the actual process.
Alistair had not been brave when he cornered her at the docks in Redcliffe village; he had in fact been a mess of nerves and wonderings about how he smelled and if he remembered to brush his teeth earlier in the morning.
What really makes him panicky is that the situation is so perfect. The others were away on various tasks to prepare themselves for the quest ahead of them—Andraste's ashes, he almost had to silently agree with Sten when he voiced his disapproval on their current plan, it had nothing to do with defeating the Blight, but it would perhaps save his only father figure, he didn't expect Sten to understand. She and the Qunari, it was almost comical how well they got along, if Alistair didn't know better he'd swear Sten had a crush on their leader. Not their kind of crush though, the Qunari kind, that has absolutely nothing to do with things that having crushes should be about.
Like giving a pretty girl a rose—it's easy right? All you have to do is pick the sodding thing, shove it into their awaiting hands and wait as they fawn all over you. Oh yes, so very easy. He knows that's not how it works, and it's not how he wants things to work between them. If anything at all, could ever work between them.
So when he approaches her on the docks she's standing there as still as can be, staring at the water with an unwavering intensity that he almost considers backing out—too late now though, he's got the stupid thing in his hand and he's sheepishly admiring how her hair looks in the morning light.
"You know, before I became a Gray Warden I never saw a body of water larger than a pond." She turns around to look at him; they've become accustomed to sensing each other with the taint, they know where the other is at all times—he refrains from thinking any deeper into it however.
"Really? You, umm…never got to go to the docks at Denerim? You've never seen the Amaranthine?"
"No." She walks towards the edge and plops down unceremoniously, she begins unlacing her boots and he finds himself once again staring at her with a mixture of awe and maybe horror. His first instinct is to join her, but in this small instance his brain and that other thing decide to fill his mind with their incessant prattling—he holds back, fingering the soft petals of the flower in his palm hoping it would tell him what to do.
Oh, and if she just isn't oblivious to it all, and if he just isn't completely shocked at the sight of her bare legs. Her maroon breeches end at the knee; he follows the tantalizing curve of it and wishes to no one in particular that he could stroke the well defined muscles of her calves.
Bugger, he thinks, and tossing whatever caution he has to the wind he unlaces his boots as well—making a decidedly larger splash when his feet enter the water. He tries not to look at her from the corner of his eye, with her lips parted to taste the air—to taste the atmosphere. It almost infuriates Alistair, he knows enough about people and women that there are two kinds of distinct people in regards to modesty.
For women, there's the kind that know they're beautiful. They go the extra mile to bat an eyelash, graze a hand against an unsuspecting arm, blow a kiss and wink with the promise of more. Then there was the second, women who either don't know they're beautiful or just didn't care. He thinks she's the latter, with the premise of not caring, but she should care.
She needs to know that she does cause the eye to wander, eyes like Bann Teagan's, eyes like Ser Perth's and all the obvious leers at the tavern—and from certain Antivan assassins.
They sit in silence for moments that stretch on like hours, he hadn't meant to sit so near to her but he notices the scant appearance of goose-flesh as his thigh comes into proximity of hers, oh just thinking of the implications…and of course he thinks about them, and the heat rises to his cheeks and he forcibly will's it to go nowhere else.
"So, umm, we'll be heading off soon then?"
She nods and slowly churns circles around with her toes, "I can only hope that this brother Genitivi figure is still alive and can point us in the right direction, if not, we'll be wasting a lot of hours chasing a fairy tale." Her voice softens a pitch from its usual taciturn as she turns to look at Alistair, "Someone like the Arl though should not waste away into nothingness without having every option exhausted for him."
Like how even though the Circle Tower was more than a day's ride away from Redcliffe, she had utterly refused using blood magic to free Connor from the demon in the Fade. Alistair would have been lying if his heart hadn't skipped two or three beats at her fierce insistence, but even he knew that travelling away from the castle was unwise. It wasn't like she did it because of him, and even if she had, he's sure she'd never admit it. It was like the boy in Lothering and the missing daughter of the smithy, and all the people she went out of her way to help—when she didn't have to, when they gave no reason, and when it wasn't the best of plans.
Swallowing his fear and tucking it away somewhere away where it wouldn't interfere with what he was about to do, he cleared his throat and withdrew the rose from behind his back.
"Here," he holds it out to her and she accepts it mutely, gingerly. "Do you know what this is?" She stares at him blankly, and her eyes shift to the drooping rose.
"Is this your new weapon of choice?"He tries not to laugh manically at his own anxiety, but he's relieved that at least she's feeling playful.
"Yes! That's right! Watch as I thrash our enemies with the power of floral arrangements!" He brandishes a pretend bouquet, parrying an invisible enemy. "Take that! And that! Feel my thorns wretched Darkspawn!" Her eyes are wide with something he is unfamiliar with, but it's neither good nor bad and hope blooms inside of him. "I will overpower you with my rosy scent!!" Her lovely hand, the one not holding the rose has risen to cover her mouth as she appears to be beset by giggles—he stops and the sight of this pleases him more than anything ever has before.
"Or you know it could just be a rose. I know that's pretty dull in comparison."
"You've umm, been holding on to this for a while now haven't you?" She has a smile, or what he thinks is a smile on her face. So he tells her when he picked it, in Lothering, after watching her extend kindness to people who hadn't deserved it, and people who needed it the most; and yes, he tells her that even in a place like Lothering, in all the muck and despair something beautiful can exist.
Something beautiful like her, unexpected but beautiful nonetheless, and his heart won't stop beating in his ears—and the lovely expression still remains on her face even if he isn't sure quite what it means. Her eyebrows finally quirk up, the corner of her mouth upturned in a grin, "So are you telling me I'm some sort of gentle flower?" No, no, no, I'm trying to tell you that you're beautiful and special and, and…
Alistair coughs and scratches the back of his head to cover for his embarrassment, "I guess it is a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought…here I am, doing all of this complaining and you haven't exactly been having a good time of it yourself." He doesn't avoid her steady gaze as he remembers to speak clearly, concisely and for Maker's sake—don't fidget, it's such a feat though with those intensely dark orbs of hers considering him. "You haven't had any of the good experiences of being a Gray Warden, no one has thanked you, no one has congratulated you…it's just been fighting and tragedy. I just thought that maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful person you are to find in all of this…darkness."
There it is again, the silence, palpable between them as he fights to keep from biting his fingernails or inadvertently pick his nose from nervousness. She raises the rose to her lips and brushes it idly across, OhbytheMaker, time has frozen and if he isn't jealous of a flower. Her eyes close and they're heavy lidded and flutter gorgeously as she slightly inhales what scent is left of it—and when she opens her eyes to look at him, and yes, she's really looking at him she really smiles.
"You know, back home, in the Alienage I worked in a hole in the wall in Denerim. There was a man once—well I guess he wasn't more than a boy and I was but fifteen summers, he was a minstrel and Maker—the poor man could hardly carry a tune…but he tried, and he never stopped even when they booed at him and he was covered in ale and rubbish." She pauses and blows a stray piece of hair out of her face that Alistair silently curses that he wasn't fast enough to think to tuck it behind her ear. "One night, when we were closing he came over to me and thanked me for never laughing at him, or being cruel, and that—and that he was sorry the both of us had to work in the wretched place. He plucked a flower from his hat and gave it to me…I never saw him again though."
He wonders at first what that's got to do with anything, but it slowly dawns on him what she's trying to say.
"I'll never laugh at you Alistair, at least, not when you're not trying to be funny. And…thank you, I don't quite know what to say, but, thank you nonetheless." Alistair expects her to get up and leave right then, but she doesn't—what he doesn't expect and it catches him completely off guard is that she's leaned over and pressed her lips ever so lightly, a flutter of a butterflies wings, on his cheek.
It's over before he even realizes what's happened, and she's picked up her boots and leaves without hesitation—the sound of her bare feet slapping hurriedly on the deck.
"I shall never wash this cheek," he says aloud and grins, picking up his own boots he hurries after her so they can be on their way.
Alistair is still grinning like a fool, even if he's so cold he can't feel half his body. Morrigan is yapping unremittingly about the cold and Alistair for being stupid, and for the whole of Ferelden for being stupid and that their Maker was stupid as well. They were halfway up the mountain where Andraste's remains lay within their grasp when she turned around and looked at Morrigan, with what would suffice as a glare of death.
"Would you stop your prattling, please?" She says nothing else, but the effect is Morrigan's mouth hanging open and her eyebrows up to her hairline. It's things like these, moments where she speaks and it's so profound simply because of the sheer force behind her words—all the while not raising her voice, or filling it with any malice, Alistair thinks back to what Duncan said about her: "She keeps her composure; she will be useful in disarming hostile situations in the future." He feels his good mood wilt at the thought of Duncan, if only he could have been here to see how disarming she truly was.
"Need I remind everyone how unwise it is to linger in one place for too long? Morrigan keep your complaints to yourself for now, Alistair keep your wits about you, and Belai, lead on." Wynne snapped at them, her gaze steely on their leader and her teeth chattering, Alistair refrained from making a comment about old bones and continued to trudge up the mountain—knee deep in snow.
He remembered at Ostagar how embarrassed he was when he had forgotten her name, Belai Tabris, the surname wasn't of much consequence now though, this he knew bothered her, which he understood, he was more than willing to ignore Theirin even though that name had never truly been his. The both of them were so used to just being referred to as Warden, or a moniker of the sort that names lost their importance over time—a lot of things got lost in service to the Grey Wardens.
The group came to a set of doors at last, Alistair moved to the front with Belai as Wynne and Morrigan held back to prepare for anything magical in origin that could spring forth from the door, but as the two of them pushed at the entrance it gave way without resistance.
"That was—surprising." Belai said loudly over the wind, she tentatively stepped a foot inside and he followed suit, swords in hand and shields at the ready.
When they were all inside the doors shut firmly behind them in a gust of wind, Alistair gaped at the cavernous like hall, ornate pillars erected with symbols of Andraste and the Maker. "What is this place?" They all remained silent and walked slowly in wonder, "It's different from the rest." As soon as the words left his mouth flames sprouted from torches at the end of the room, and what looked like a man appeared before them, dressed in a design on armor no one had set eyes on before in thousands of years.
"I bid you welcome, pilgrims." His voice floated in the air and rang in their ears jarringly, somehow outside in the midst of a blizzard seemed more appealing to Alistair. Stepping forward Belai removed her cloak and bowed to the apparition, "Well met Ser, we have come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, might I know your name?" She asks, standing up straight again to see the man's intention.
"I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes." He raises a hand to his chest in greeting, but his gaze is unwavering on them, "I have waited years for this."
"You've been waiting for us?"
"You are the first to arrive in a very long time." He gestures to their surroundings, although ornate it is littered with cobwebs and the scant appearance of bones and Alistair's stomach turns over at the sight, hoping they don't have to kill anymore undead. "It has been my life, my duty, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste." Belai nods slowly and Alistair is counting in his head how many years it's been since the Exalted March, and who exactly this man is in relation to Andraste.
"For years beyond counting I have served, and I shall remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea." Morrigan sighs and rolls her eyes, leaning up against a pillar she looks at her fingernails with interest as Wynne carefully watches for any sign of malicious intent from the specter. Wow, Alistair thinks, and here I thought life in the chantry was dull.
"You should know Ser that the Imperium's strength has waned in the time you have been here."
"It is no matter; I will serve until every trace of them is wiped from the world." The Guardian and Belai talk about the cultists they had encountered, he speaks slowly but with conviction and the moments that pass seem agonizing to Alistair. Last resting place of Andraste or no, this place still gives me the creeps, and after years of doing nothing but killing the unworthy and having conversations with the Maker—this Guardian knows how to drone.
"What an example the Chantry has had to live up to," Morrigan whispers to him, a smirk on her face, "It would make this spirit proud to know they're doing Andraste's memory justice." Alistair scowls and opens his mouth to retort when he stops and listens intently to their conversation again.
"—and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy."
"I need the Ashes to cure a noble man, a man who needs to live in order to stop the Blight Ser."
"All must prove themselves worthy." Oh this was a riot; Alistair just hoped no more dragons were involved in this proving. "But, it is not my place to decide who is worthy of Her. The Gauntlet does that."
The Gauntlet, Haven, more crazy. One day they'll have gone over their limit of how much they can handle.
"And if we are worthy?" Belai asks quietly, something like hope thick in her voice.
"Then you may take a small pinch of Ashes." Alistair and Belai both sigh in relief, he flashes a grin and she shyly returns it, hesitantly.
"But, if you are not…" The Guardian interrupts, "You will not leave this place. The Gauntlet separates the true pilgrims from the false, you will undergo four tests of faith and then we shall see how your soul fares."
"Then we are ready, we shall take these tests." The Guardian nods, but does not move so that they may proceed forward, he is staring at Belai, scrutinizing her, examining them all Alistair supposes—wondering if we'll leave this place alive.
"Before you go, there is something I must ask of you, Belai Tabris. I see that the path that led you here has been marred with tribulations, there is suffering in your past—your suffering, and the suffering of others."
"You may ask Ser," Belai replies, but her voice is not without fear as his ghostly eyes bore into her—Alistair is torn between surprise at the request, and the question itself, she had never talked to him explicitly about all that happened before Ostagar.
"By the time you reached Shianni, she was broken, brutalized. You were too late." He watches as her lower lip begins to tremble, her eyes narrow and her hands have balled into fists at her side, but he doesn't know what to say.
"Tell me, pilgrim, did you fail Shianni?" This is when Alistair, Wynne and even Morrigan watch as their reluctant leader loses all trace of composure, her placid façade crumbling beneath a question that none of them understand. He is helpless, helpless as choked sobs are pushed down into the very deep of her, her eyes screwed shut to hold the thoughts at bay—he wishes he could hold her, but Alistair knows it's too bold of a thought, even if it's the only thing he can think to do.
"How—how do you know of this?" She whispers, eyes glazed in unshed tears.
"Everything that you are is laid out before me, plain to see—it is in the lines of your face, the harrowing in your eyes and the scars on your heart. Do you believe you failed Shianni?"
"Yes," it comes out like a scream and a whisper, "But I tried—by the Maker I tried, I told him to take me! To leave her alone, to leave them all alone!" She is pale and the dark circles under her eyes are more apparent than ever as her whole body trembles. "I could have run faster, I could have stopped him."
"Then you regret what was done, but you should not let your past failings govern the actions of the present." Morrigan moves to her side and waves her arms is frustration at the Guardian.
"Is there any religion that does not thrive upon guilt like a glutton? No? I thought not. One wonders what this Guardians purpose is--be wary of his traps." Belai hardly pays attention to Morrigan's surprising show of concern, she is somewhere else, far from here and Alistair can stand it no longer and reaches out to clasp her shoulder.
"No one's perfect," she turns her head to look at him, her frown deepens and she shrugs his hand away.
"And what of those that follow you?" The Guardian interrupts before Alistair has the time to feel hurt at her rejection, he feels the spirit turn its eyes to him.
"Alistair, knight and Warden…you wonder if things would have been different if you were there with him, with Duncan on the battlefield. You wonder if you could have shielded him from the killing blow, you wonder what would be if it had been you that died upon the battlefield, and not him."
Alistair swallows, he does not need to think on this question because everyone knows that he does, it haunts him every night in his dreams that are overrun with Darkspawn and despair. "I…yes, if Duncan had been saved, and not I, everything would be better," I wouldn't be here listening to you, I wouldn't be here watching as she suffers and I stand here in my own doubts, unable to console her. "If I had had the chance, maybe…" he trails off and remains silent, it is all he will give the spirit, The Guardian already knows the answer.
"Ask your question, Guardian, I am ready. " Wynne speaks up sternly, her mouth set in a firm line of determination. And he does, but Alistair barely hears them, he is too focused on thoughts of his death and not being here with her, watching as she is motionless and lost in her thoughts as he. It takes Morrigan's voice ironically to stir him from his stupor.
"Begone, spirit. I will not play your games." The Guardian nods silently, saying that he will respect her wishes and he moves out of the way.
"The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek." A flash of white light fills the room and the door to the next room is open, none of them move, save for Belai who's summed up enough of something to continue—but she is not the same, rage radiates from her in a way Alistair has never seen, and he is cautious to speak of it.
So they move on, through the room of spirits who ask riddles about Andraste and Alistair is useful in ways that don't involve a sword or a deflecting comment, the entire time hoping that she will go back to simply being cool and reserved—not boiling with anger and distant. They are all on their last nerves when they move on to the next room, which has nothing inside of it save for a woman.
An elven woman with bright red hair, whose eyes are the same shape as Belai's, Alistair's heart sinks in his chest.
"Hey." She says, her arms folded protectively across her chest, they all stand back and give her space as she comes to stand in front of the spirit.
"Shianni?"
"Who else? It's good to see you. I suppose." Shianni's likeness steps closer to Belai, close enough for her to reach out and touch. Belai stares straight ahead, as if to look through her instead of at her.
"Life's been good to you cousin, hasn't it? You're respected, even amongst the humans…" She gazes lazily at them, and Alistair stares back hard. Shianni's face twists into a frown as her attention is back on Belai.
"Do you remember us cousin? Where you came from and what we're still going through back home?"
"How could I forget?" She answers bitterly, "Every night and every day I wish I could go back and change things, I never wanted this, and you should know that."
"No you don't," Shianni laughs, "You don't feel much anymore, and when you do it's not of us. You've moved on, past the horror of that night, past the horror of all those nights." She takes another step, her nose within a hair's breadth away from Belai's and Alistair moves to do something when Wynne's hand tightly grips his arm, "This is not your battle, do not interfere."
"I envy you, you know," she says, just above a whisper, Belai doesn't flinch. "You've gone on to other things, things that I can only dream of." A glare of light from torches in the corner reflect off an object in the spirit's hand, she lifts it up and dangles an amulet in front of her, whispering it over Belai's neck where it lays between her breasts. She steps away.
"You have a great task in front of you cousin, take this. You should have it, seeing you now; it gives me hope…for all of us." Her hand moves to the amulet and she grips it tightly, nodding her head slowly as Shianni moves further away until she disappears into nothingness, out of sight and out of mind.
"I won't forget." Belai says, exhaling a shaky breath. She turns around to look at them, "Let's go."
But it's on their minds, and it's on his especially, he knows and he feels so many things as they press forward. It's hurt, its fear and its sorrow—but it's not for himself, it's not for Duncan and the other Grey Wardens they left behind, no, it's only for her as he sees her palms bleeding from the force of her nails driven into them—and all things he fails to understand because she doesn't say a word to them, to him.