The plot thickens as we near the departure from Redcliffe and the start of the elves vs. werewolves subplot that will be marginally necessary as a framework for the whole story. I won't be delving too deep into that, because anyone can just play the game and have a look at it, but there will be mentions of plot-important details later on.
Anyway, Teagan is steadily (and unsurprisingly) winning the poll so far, but votes are still open, right up to the chapter where Nimue will make her final decision – and that one is still long in coming, so feel free to throw in your two bits and make a suggestion.
o.O.o
A Race for Ever After
o.O.o
Alistair would go on to contemplate Sten's pronouncement for quite a while, for good or ill. It wasn't that he cared about whether or not the qunari considered him a man – with the way Sten always seemed rigid, ready to kill and do so without any regard to the consequences, if it was necessary, Alistair wasn't entirely certain that this was the ideal of manhood he should aspire to – but that he kept wondering about the part that related to Nimue.
With the constant brushes with death, eternal running and whatnot, romance should have been the last thing on either of their minds. Yet here they were, safe for the first time in a long time, and perhaps the day had finally dawned to give consideration to such things.
They had known each other for the better part of a year now, ever since that bloodbath at Ostagar and the resulting near-death experience atop the Tower of Ishaal. Compared to their confident and calm leader of today, Nimue had been so scared back then. She had never fought outside the controlled environment of a mage-on-mage duel in the Circle. Maker, she had marveled at everything that wasn't stone or magic, which was the utter opposite of what should be anyone's sentiment.
Today, her hair was longer, her robes different and fit for battle; she knew more about the world than most mages living in the tower ever would… and yet it was still her, deep inside, the wide-eyed fledgling who had to be taught that arrows were something to generally avoid and that ogres weren't simply pictures in books on biology and physiognomy, to study at leisure.
Alistair didn't know what made her the one he had fallen in love with. She was beautiful, certainly, kind even though she rarely received such sentiment in return and no longer a fragile flower, but… all right, maybe there was a lot to fall in love with about her, but he had discovered these things with astonishing quickness; astonishing because she didn't seem to consider any of these traits particularly noteworthy about herself. It was pathetic that, after so long, he still wasn't able to openly confess to her how he felt.
She had liked the rose, certainly, but after that assumption that he was giving her a potion ingredient she couldn't use… suffice to say that Alistair's confidence had received a spectacular whack on the head with just a few words courtesy of Nimue; and she hadn't even done it consciously.
He was determined this time, however. He had faltered for too long and if he didn't make his intentions known soon, it might be too late. Maker knew that there were some matters in which he couldn't compete with the likes of Zevran; he wasn't an elf, nor a mage like Wynne or Morrigan, to understand the intricacies of the arcane. But he, too, had spent his childhood trapped in a place of resentment and bad feelings. He, too, had lost much and gained more upon joining the Wardens.
And it had been him who had brought the first smile to Nimue's face upon mentioning his upbringing by flying wild dogs, so perhaps there was yet a way to hope for the best.
Perhaps he would get the chance to continue with what he had begun before dinner. Maker knew he'd most likely lose his courage if it took any longer, because there was the constant nagging doubt in his mind that Nimue would reciprocate. And, once they left, it would be difficult to get her to stop planning in advance for long enough to pour his heart out. He could, after all, see how excited she was about seeing the Dalish, under all that anxiety.
There were voices coming from a nearby room; Alistair slowed down a little to pass it by without disturbing the conversation. It certainly was much easier to sneak around without armor; Leliana and Zevran had to be truly commended for being able to do so even while dressed in leather and metal. There had to be an art to that kind of thing.
He intended to walk away and look for Leliana to ask her to stop making Nimue so uncomfortable (or try to, at least), but stopped when the muffed conversation became somewhat more audible. Someone had apparently bee in too much of a hurry to bother properly closing the door.
"…suitable. Are you certain about this?"
It was Arl Eamon, without question. Alistair could have recognized the quiet authority in that voice anywhere, especially after the many times he had faced it as a little boy. The days of looking down at his shoes with an attempted casual air were long gone now, but the mild feeling that he should be ashamed of himself for some reason remained.
He hadn't had the chance to speak with the Arl ever since the announcement that he would be resuming his candidacy for the throne. Which had been an order, not a request. Now, Alistair wasn't prone to eavesdropping, nor did he encourage it, but politeness ordered that he wait for the conversation to be finished before entering. He, too, had words for the Arl after all – Eamon had to be informed that his candidacy for the throne was null and void and that they needed a better argument, even though he had accepted with a stammer when being faced with this surprise.
The rhythmic tapping of footsteps continued, which meant that at least one side of the conversation was rather disinclined to listen to the topic at hand.
"Quite." Which was why Alistair was entirely surprised by the person who was apparently unnerving the steadfast Arl to be his own brother (the Arl's, not his. That would have been decidedly disturbing, given his deceased state.) "In fact, I can hardly think of a more suitable woman myself." Teagan spoke calmly, as usual, even if he were faced with an incoming storm. Which, given his calm during the Redcliffe invasion, was practically a standard for the man. He was likely the one sitting – or standing – motionlessly in attention, allowing his brother space and movement. "Have you any alternatives?"
The pacing stopped; Alistair had the vivid image of the Arl turning and facing his verbal opponent in his mind. "You have, I assume, considered the drawbacks of having her as a wife?" There was a certain bluntness to the question, despite the polite delivery.
The final word had Alistair intrigued. Wife? Was Teagan finally considering marriage; had a woman finally captivated their stubborn perfectionist to the point that he was willing to tie the knot, so to speak? If so, the heir apparent felt rather childishly giddy (which he was aware of). He would have a field day with this if it was true, because there had always been very few opportunities to tease his step-uncle, even when he had been little and more open to mindless mischief.
"There are fewer than you would assume." Teagan continued, apparently still not budging. He was being way too calm about this, though, so Alistair began having the slightest doubts. After all, no one had yet explicitly said that he would be the one marrying, and if the recent months had taught the former templar anything, it was that making assumptions was a dangerous business. As quietly as possible, he edged closer to the door, dimly aware of the lack of movement inside. "Besides, her achievements speak for themselves and far outweigh any concerns anyone might have. And those barely matter."
The pacing resumed, slower this time, accompanied with a half-hearted sigh.
"Maric's fascination with elves seems to be spreading in the family, I see." Eamon noted after a deep breath, as if saying the words was akin to climbing a tall mountain.
Contrary to what Morrigan might claim, Alistair wasn't nearly as naïve (or stupid, to use her word) as people might assume. At least, not when faced with large chunks of fact. The mention of his ill-fated father was enough to give him pause, but connecting the words in a sequence (drawbacks-wife-achievements-elves) wasn't beyond his capability. His throat felt dry, but he didn't dare move; even without his usual armor, Alistair suddenly felt noisy and too clunky, the slightest movement presenting the risk of discovery.
Nimue. They were talking about Nimue. She was the only elf he was aware of that would give one pause with her skills and abilities… but to consider her a wife-candidate…
Alistair felt as if a large chunk of iron had been dropped into his stomach, like swallowing a sword in the literal, non-metaphorical way. Dear Maker, if both Eamon and Teagan had noticed how important Nimue was to him to the degree of discussing the possibility of their marriage…
Maker knew he had considered it. Back while trapped in the Fade, he had seen the image of his sister and her children, but, as time passed, Alistair began to wonder how come it hadn't been accompanied by that of a wife (her) and children of his own to complete the illusion of bliss. That way, he surely wouldn't have listened to the pale specter telling him that it was all just a lie and would never have experienced the reality of things. He thought of Goldanna often, even today, now with bitterness, but thought of her nonetheless.
But to hear others consider the woman he loved a bridal candidate, like this was something others could decide (as if buying a prize horse, really…) was both eerie and frightening and Not Good At All, because it could mean Nimue herself had noticed and…
Teagan's calm laughter woke Alistair from this revelry. The former templar hadn't even noticed one of the servants pass him, but his fears of discovery were to prove unfounded, since the maid ignored him like she would a part of the furniture. Worse still; she didn't even stop to dust him or anything; he might as well be made of air.
"Come now, brother, surely it isn't entirely incomprehensible to you." Bann Teagan had apparently gotten out of his seat in a gesture of approachability. He usually did that when attempting to calm the storm. If so, then he was on his (their?) side, and the weight of the sword lessened. Alistair briefly, nonsensically, wished that he could sneak around as easily as Leliana and enter the room unnoticed to get visual confirmation of this tell-tale fact. "Besides, I fear the choice isn't yours."
"Nor yours at this point." There was a hint of resignation in Arl Eamon's voice, just like when he was forced to let a particularly devious kind of mischief go due to lack of evidence. Strangely, Alistair felt almost giddy behind the anxiety. This was going a little too well, but who was he to complain? "Very well; I can accept it." Childishly perhaps, but triumphantly (which was all that mattered), Alistair made use of the fact that no one else was around and punched the air in triumph. "You know I wouldn't want to deprive anyone of their happiness. You do understand, though, that this will cause problems."
"We have so many of those; I can't imagine we wouldn't be able to handle it." That was the first sign of sense in the conversation from the point he had started listening in, Alistair thought. Now wasn't the time for marriage anyway, but it was actually kind of wonderful to see that things might yet work out. of course, there was always the problem that Nimue was just dead-set on picking the worst times to either run off or go save the world or something, but after the Blight, that would be fixed. If Arl Eamon supported him, he could handle proposing to a woman.
The hero of Ferelden.
He hoped.
This really wasn't the time for this kind of fear. Maybe it would be easier after facing the archdemon.
"Don't tell me you haven't noticed how taken Alistair is with the girl."
Alistair perked up, somewhat confused. Wasn't this the very point of the conversation? Was short-term memory really that bad in this family as age progressed? Yes, he would have to be taken with a woman to consider marrying her – which was the topic in question. Perhaps he had missed a sentence? Maker knew that wouldn't be too difficult, with all the thoughts and fears swirling in his mind at the moment.
But Teagan apparently didn't lose his calm or his apparent good mood so easily, because his tone never wavered. "It would be difficult to miss." Alistair felt his cheeks heat up a little at the remark. That didn't have to be a good thing, with the way Nimue always seemed determined not to notice. Well, not determined per se, just not noticing. "I assumed that you intend to speak with him regarding the matter."
A talk? Now that wasn't good, Alistair realized with a sinking feeling. Talks always meant he had done something wrong. Perhaps he was misinterpreting things? He understood that a non-human woman could hardly be considered a candidate for queen, but he had sort of supposed that considering Nimue a suitable (gulp) wife for him meant that they were finally seeing the foolishness of this whole make-Alistair-king-because-that's-such-a-bright-idea thing. Hopefully, he wasn't.
"It might not be necessary, given your sudden interest." Arl Eamon sounded just the tiniest bit grim, but there was a spark of relief in his voice. Not quite as if he had avoided a particularly well-aimed arrow… but present nonetheless.
While Bann Teagan didn't chuckle once more, Alistair could practically hear the smile in his voice. But he didn't understand; interest? In his marriage? Not that it wasn't bad, it was just… unexpected.
"Not as sudden as you'd think. And, before you suggest it, it isn't a ploy simply to get Isolde off my back regarding her twittering cousins." he added, the shudder he had likely suppressed passing to Alistair. Dear Maker, he could still remember the wonderful visits… and their rather creative methods of getting the young and very eligible brother of the Arl to notice them.
He had had nightmares of that for months. Possibly lifelong scars, you never knew. But seriously, the nails…
Gah!
Alistair forced himself to resume listening to the conversation rather than descend into the depths of despair over the peculiar Orlesian methods of catching a man's attention. Certainly it was more beneficial to his own mental health and therefore a good idea.
Peculiarly, Arl Eamon seemed to have resigned to all this far too easily and no longer sounded as grim as before. Possibly because he, too, remembered the horrors of unmarried young Orlesian women hungry for prey all too vividly. "I wouldn't blame you if it was, but I will have objections if you say as much to her." And Lady Isolde, with her forced ignorance of their antics… odd that a woman who had been so quick to point out Alistair's every last fault could so easily ignore those of her own relations. Each to their own, one supposed. "Maker help me, I actually see your point. Very well; you have my blessing." Eamon finished, not nearly as dejectedly as he perhaps would have wished.
Blessings to help were always good, however. Perhaps the battle could yet be won.
"I didn't require it, but I'm grateful nonetheless. What do you intend to tell Alistair?" There was silence for a second or two, which could only mean contemplation. Fortunately, once more, Bann Teagan rushed to the rescue. Or so it seemed. "Eamon, I would hardly wish to hurt him in any way, but I don't believe Nimue is even aware of the extent of his feelings."
Now it was getting a tad confusing. She wasn't aware, but she had consented? She wasn't aware, but she could? And what would hurt him if she did?
Eamon, for his part, had resumed his slow, steady pacing around the room, if only for a little while. "It is an infatuation with a woman who has been a steadfast companion in a most dire time in his life. Understandable. Regrettable, but understandable." Their eavesdropper would have bristled, if he had the ability to do so quietly. Regrettable? Infatuation? If this was what Eamon believed, why had he agreed? Obviously, he hadn't known Nimue long enough to understand that falling in love with her was as natural as breathing to any creature. "Alistair is dutiful, above all else. He will understand; he must, if he is to be king. And you marrying the Warden might actually quicken and ease the pain, given time."
The world of protests and arguments came to a grinding halt so suddenly, it almost shattered.
Alistair went utterly still, uncertain if he had heard correctly. But the words were echoing in his mind so loudly, they almost drowned out all semblance of thought. Marriage. Nimue. Bann Teagan.
Bann Teagan wished to marry Nimue.
The sword in his throat seemed to pierce every vital organ, starting with his lungs. Alistair almost felt faint. Part of him wished to storm into that chamber and start yelling – he didn't know what, simply let out all of this, because there was pain in all the places it mattered – but something (duty, perhaps) restrained him, reminding him of the consequences of eavesdropping, the impoliteness of it all and how it wasn't really their fault, except that it was.
If Nimue had passed him at that moment, she might not have recognized him, from the white horror in his face to the rage in his eyes. For several eternal moments, any semblance of whatever made Alistair himself had been shed, before the pieces returned to their place, one by one.
It was a slow thing, this return of the mask hiding the raw current of emotion.
"I will tell Nimue of this, assuming she consents."
He had asked her already. Which explained…
Temporarily, Alistair's heart abandoned its post in his throat. But Nimue hadn't yet consented. She had been asked, most likely, but she hadn't consented yet. He didn't know what to make of this; certainly, she could have told him of this peculiar offer. But Nimue, with her penchant for seeking out peaceful compromises, had likely not wished to hurt him in any way (which meant she knew) or didn't think it was any of his business (which would mean a twist of the knife). But once he was himself again, Alistair immediately grabbed the former conclusion and held onto it for dear life.
"Uncertain of yourself, brother?" If this was indeed teasing, then it meant that Arl Eamon had truly exhausted his arguments against the notion. Which bode ill for him indeed. "If she has conquered you this way, she deserves you."
This wasn't the time to face the Arl with his pronouncement of not wishing to be king. This was hardly the state he could enter in, after all, with the whirlwind of emotion passing through him. If there were darkspawn at hand, perhaps even they would have backed away, either because of the intense hope or crushing despair fighting for control over Alistair's expression. Whatever willpower he had, he summoned it up to try and sneak away and look unperturbed to anyone he might encounter in the corridor.
Then, once out of earshot of the room, he sprinted away to find Wynne, mirroring Nimue's own move of a few nights ago without even knowing it.
o.O.o
On the other side of the castle, Nimue was cursing her gown once again and racing through the corridors as quickly as her bare feet allowed her. after the horrible torture of the heels, being allowed to run without pain was possibly the greatest reward anyone could have given her.
"…rself, disgusting creature." Nimue sped up a little. That was her cue to make a fast entry, as soon as possible. "Get out of my way or be blasted out of it."
While Morrigan might specialize in entropy spells, she was perfectly capable of making good on that threat. While a good blast to the head might change something regarding Oghren's mindset, it could change it for the worse, which wasn't something to aspire to. Besides, the last thing they needed after saving the damned castle was to have it blown up. They were short enough on cash to decidedly not need to pay for the rebuilding of a whole castle.
The snort-like giggles that were coming from the general direction of the possible heart of the hypothetical crater were not a good sign at all. "C'mon, ya wildcat." Oghren's slurs were even more unfocused than usual, which could mean any number of unpleasant things in this context. "You know you want a piece of ol' Oghren…"
Fortunately, the threat of such great monetary loss was enough to make Nimue sprint as if the very archdemon was behind her, forgetting any semblance of propriety or grace (useless, really, since neither would get her any refunds if the castle was blown up untimely.)
With that in mind, she managed to dash into the room just as Morrigan was about to either give a highly biting retort or blast Oghren out of existence. Fortunately, the rushed but timely entrance was enough to stop whatever was about to come to pass, even though Nimue was entirely out of breath when she grabbed the doorframe for support.
"Stop… whatever it is you're doing…" she managed to wheeze out, gulping for air as if she had just nearly drowned. Her head was almost spinning a little, but it would all be worth it if she was still there in time to prevent an untimely murder. "I'm here…"
The room appeared mostly intact, save for the chair where the dwarf and his hefty supply of alcohol was currently residing. They had apparently entered through the other exit, though how Oghren had come to be in this part of the castle when the wine cellar was so distant was a mystery. Morrigan, for her part, looked distinctly annoyed (more so than usual) and ready to pop a vein, preferably someone else's. Other than that, her boots betrayed a trek through mud-ridden territory, even if she wasn't otherwise haggard in any manner.
And though it was customary for the swamp witch to look at Nimue as if she were the only one with at least a scrap of sanity in their group, this time, the relieved glance was so profound that only the highly-intoxicated dwarf could have missed it.
"At last you arrive." Credit had to be given to the fact that Morrigan didn't allow any such relief to show in her voice. That she began to ignore Oghren's existence with all her might could have something to do with it, of course, because she refused to look in the dwarf's direction. "Let us go somewhere I might vomit without fear of contamination. This very chamber has been tainted by that thing's presence."
Before Nimue could catch her breath, though, Oghren's vision apparently regained focus as he squinted at her. One had to wonder how he kept his eyes from popping. "'S you, Nim? Y' better not wind up going sensible an' not actin' like every Ancestor-damned wench in Orzammar."
Maybe there was supposed to be something symbolical about the way the berserker shook his tankard around, but Nimue didn't see it. "We're not in Orzammar anymore, Oghren."
"Aye, and a good thin' that is, too. Blight-spawned poetess." The dwarf muttered that last remark more to himself than to her, but Nimue had heard enough references to the woman to know exactly who it was. Being mistaken for her was a rather unflattering memory, after all. Oddly though, the dwarf went abruptly back to those snort-like giggles and changed the topic with a wave of his tankard. "'Course, the mutt'd be damned surprised if ya turned out like that…"
The servants would kill him if they found out that he had brought ale to the residential quarters and spilled enough to fill a tub, Nimue mused as she watched the erratic movements of his hands. Best leave now before things got ugly and the borrowed dress (hateful as it was) got ruined by the liquid. Perhaps it was worth more than the castle in sentimental value, which would be most difficult to replace.
"I'll, ah, check up on you later. Or rather send someone to do so." Nimue murmured instead of a goodbye and promptly backed out of the chamber. Morrigan hadn't bothered with goodbyes – given her lack of fondness for the dwarf – and was already waiting outside, arms crossed in her usual manner.
"You either have impeccable or horrible timing." Curiously, either of these had the same reasons behind them, from Morrigan's point of view. "'Twould be no loss if we were to dispose of the dwarf. He is no longer useful to you in any way." He had only been useful for telling them about the Ortan Thaig, really; they should never have taken him along beyond that.
Since they were talking and walking at the same time, perhaps the witch missed Nimue's light shrug. She would have interpreted it as a blasé attitude instead of an attempt to justify his presence otherwise.
"He's eager to fight on the front lines and knows how to swing his axe. At the time being, that's enough for me."
Those were relatively valid reasons, considering that they might need to throw anything they could at the archdemon before slaying it. Still, Morrigan had to wonder if it was truly worth all this trouble. If she could only find a way to render the dwarf catatonic and transport him around like that…
"Have it your way. But you look… exhausted." The witch's expression softened, if only a little. Needless compassion aside, Nimue wasn't an annoying presence and much closer to her own mindset than her actions might suggest. "More so than usual. Has the old woman been lecturing you again, or is it the idiots vying for your attention?" She counted all the others among them, not only the men attempting to crawl into her bed (no matter what pretty words they tried to justify themselves with). Getting meatshields to follow her meant that the elf had to be accommodating to all their opinions. An utter waste. "If so, I do hope one of them finally killed the others."
"No such luck." Amazingly, Nimue didn't even try to make some sort of case for them; she simply shrugged the remark off. Someone must have frustrated her greatly today if she didn't even spare the witch a look suggesting the need for a timely rescue. "In any case, I'm fine… well, as fine as I can be." she added once she realized that lying to Morrigan would be outright pointless. In an effort to steer the conversation away from possible nihilistic but justified advice, Nimue changed the topic. "Do you have any news? Have you found out something?"
"Very little, unfortunately." Morrigan herself was displeased with this. It wasn't her own fault; after destroying the demon, they had been forced to leave right away to save the Arl and by the time they had returned, most traces had been cleared off. "The villagers have been most diligent in their efforts to destroy all evidence of the attack. I suppose that they will try their best to pretend it never happened once we leave. What I have found is the remains of the residue aura of the demon." she added, the only fortunate news she could bring. "'Twould seem that the corpses it animated had a unique scent, so to speak, which was a signature of the demon. It lingers, which is surprising."
Nimue's frown resumed. While this was a good sign in terms of extermination, it also signified that the Veil had become considerably weaker since the beginning of the Blight. The trigger of Connor had been strong, along with that in the Circle tower, but the residue might suggest that there could yet be more of these incidents, regardless of the strength of the instigator.
"Do you think it might be a symptom of the Blight?" the elf asked, biting gently on her lip as she tried to remember all the books she had ever read on possession, demons and abominations. "Decay coming together?"
Morrigan considered the idea, though it did seem a little unlikely to her. "Perhaps. I know you managed to destroy the demon, yet… it is simply odd." she amended. The child possessed and saved seemed to have mostly returned to normal, yet the witch couldn't help the thought that perhaps he had been left in the demon's possession for a little too long. They should have just taken the opportunity of the blood magic ritual when a willing victim was at hand and solved things right away. The results would have been the same. "I would remain cautious as we venture into the forest."
"I thought you, of all people, would be looking forward to it." Again, the topic was shifting. My, but the elf's interest to a particular topic was fleeting today. There would be retribution for this soon, no doubt. It would be easier on them all if she'd just let Morrigan kill them and reanimate them as corpses. Their use would be intact still and their quasi-witty input much more bearable (meaning nonexistent). "The open sky once again, the woodlands…"
"Foolishness." the witch said, with a small snort. This was Nimue's perception of the wilderness coloring her own opinion of the forest. It was like asking her if she liked returning to the tower. "The Brecillian Forest is nothing like the Korcari Wilds… and I am no elf, to rejoice at hiding amongst trees. Not that I wish to offend, given your previous… limitations." Morrigan added carefully. Cages she was all too familiar with.
Fortunately, Nimue waved her hand in a dismissive manner. She obviously wished to spare the tower no further thoughts. "It's the past. Could we work on that next shapeshifting form once you're done vomiting, though?"
This time, Morrigan contented herself with raised eyebrows and decided not to question what had brought this sudden restlessness and wish to isolate herself to the elf. "Uncertain of your own abilities, are you?"
Nimue, for her part, gave the tight smile she usually reserved for settling disputes with words when she would have much preferred to use a well-placed fireball. "No, just trying to hide from Leliana."
Which, given the all-too-giddy and possibly lyrium-addled glint the Orlesian seemed to have in her eyes whenever looking at the elf nowadays, was entirely understandable.
