Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: Did anyone ever wonder exactly why Teagan isn't married except at the end of Origins – where he's the heir of his brother and has to have heirs of his own? Well, I invoke creative madness in order to find a reply~ By the way, there is hidden meaning to this. I'd like to know if the message goes through.
In this chapter: If you do not see it, you will not want it.
006.
Redcliffe castle was comfortable. Thick and solid stone walls, build centuries before by the Avvar, a stronghold which kept Ferelden protected from enemies which existed and often which did not care enough to be seen as enemies. It is cold, build mostly for protection and hardly for comfort, all of it finer granite and impressive wooden doors, fluffy dark carpets and paintings of nobles whose names are long forgotten.
Teagan likes the old castle. It houses his childhood within its walls, the memories of a time when Eamon was only a brother instead an Arl, when he still had a family, when the castle itself was far richer in people than it is now. It's not even the fact that the demon – Connor – has killed half the staff in its confusing games. The noble can remember a time when a child could run all around the main floor with not so much as a yell against it. It held more life, more happiness, a mothering presence and a scolding father.
That is why he left. Of course he could have remained in the village. Any threat he could have meant to Eamon's rule had been thoroughly destroyed by his father's teachings when a child. Blood is blood. Thicker than water, goes the saying, stronger than anything else, any bond or promise. Teagan would rather allow himself to be killed if there was the smallest chance of being forced to raise arms against his older brother. Redcliffe is Eamon's and his alone and that's fine.
But Isolde. Isolde was also Eamon's. It couldn't be his, shouldn't be his and would never be. That is exactly why he left. Because his brother deserves a proper family, to be a scolding father with a mischievous child underneath his wing while watching a mother – a proper mother presence – protect the one proof he existed. The one who will repeat his name and remember his gestures as Teagan remembers his own father's. Recliffe Castle deserves to be alive as it once was which leaves no place in this family for him bar that of a visitor. He is aware of it, gossip repeats it and Rainesfere is safe. She never did like it. Too muddy for a former Orlesian.
Family is also the reason why he returned. Duty claims one Guerrin should defend the village, as so many of his line had done in the past. When one wages war, another follows. When one cannot, the other takes its place. When has his life not been ruled by duty? Duty to his family, duty to his country and king. Duty is the highest value he struggles for and family his most precious possession. Two hours after knowing his brother is sick, the Bann is already on his horse, forgoing safety, forgetting guards or soldiers which might accompany him. He doesn't seem to know better only he does. Family and duty, they rule all his actions.
None of those explain why he's standing in that hallway, staring at a impassive door as if it will suddenly spun open to receive him. It is half closed, the lock clearly open while light drifts from the interior. There are also voices and a soft thud, constant and rhythmic, five by five sounds before stopping and restarting once more. Without realizing it, Teagan begins counting the mild sound in his head. One, two, three – Why is he here though? There is nothing that can be done during the night. – Five. Stop. One, two, – The small group will leave in the morning for the circle, two of them will stay behind. Mages will help them. – Four, five – Only he doesn't trust mages that much, they began all of this. – Two, three, four.
"Now that is a large amount of pacing." Alistair's voice interrupts him abruptly and the man turns sharply in his place. It takes a while until he notices the words weren't for him even though he did start to pace. It comes from the room which he had been watching.
Teagan also notices the beats have stopped, interrupted just as he was.
"I cannot stop." Both Wardens then. It is no real surprise. The guest room had been assigned earlier and it is not that late in the night. If they had decided what to do to save Connor during the morning, the whole party would be halfway to the Tower by then. He remembers vaguely that both him and Isolde had attempted to make them leave immediately. Family and duty, he whispers to himself. Otherwise he would have remembered the group has spent the last few days fighting for them, running like madmen while dealing with nightmares he cannot begin to understand. They had no right to ask more from them except that they did and still do.
"I am worried," the female voice continues. "If I stop, I begin thinking too much."
"As opposed to pacing while thinking too much. Totally makes sense." Another thud, stronger this time. By the groan of pain, Teagan deduces the elf threw something rather solid at his nephew and shakes his head, allowing the faint hilarity to reach him. These days, he takes it where it is found, fleeting as it is.
The pacing restarts.
"When I move, I think about other things. Count the steps, count the tiles, count the books, watch the paintings. I don't wonder." One, two, three, four and five. Stop and restart. "We should have left at once." Abrupt stop. "We cannot rest while there is a demon on the top floor. We cannot even relax without a weapon at arm's reach. Why not leave immediately? We could be approaching the…"
"Aaaand stop right there. You feel like being shot in the dark? Fancy passing out in front of the Gates? The Templars would love it. Grey Warden cannot finish a track without fainting. First lines on gossip tomorrow, Tasha." Shame. Teagan doesn't remember the last time he felt it – except he does. Alistair is a relative, adopted or not, and he loves Connor in his own way. Even Isolde – that shame weights, pulls against his stomach, joins the more recent one – knows enough of her adoptive nephew to be aware the man would do anything to save him. And while Alistair wants to the best for his family, he still worries, he still thinks forward and of others. Says the words Teagan should have said earlier. And worse of it all, he knows her name.
Shame can be physical, the noble learns when Tasha laughs, tired and barely audible through the thick door. It sounds more like something to put another at ease than a real bout of laughter.
"And now that you have finally stopped giving me a migraine," Alistair picks up, obviously much more at relaxed than his companion. "Maybe you should, I don't know, sit down? Just a suggestion, don't feel pressured to rest or anything."
A pause before the pacing resumes but this time, he can hear her laughter better. It is less forced, far more pleasing.
"You can't talk. That flower will be destroyed if you keep thumbing it like that." One, two, three. "Put it in water or just away. It's too pretty to be ruined."
Four, five, stop and restart. One.
"Do you know what it is?" Two, three, four.
Five, stop and restart. "Your new weapon of choice?"
It has been too long since Teagan has seen Alistair. The last time, he had been nine years old with scratches in his arms, mud on his hair and an infectious laughter which made half the servants sigh for the man he could become in the future. His uncle didn't get to see him grow up, couldn't manage to stop Isolde from sending him away, giving him to the Chantry where anyone could see he wouldn't be happy. He is familiar with the boy but knows little of the man he became. A man stumbling like a child and rushing awkward words in a situation Teagan is not supposed to hear. To know about. He doesn't want to know about this.
There is this ringing in his ears and he can only hear that there is no more pacing. He is not supposed to hear anything else.
And so Teagan walks away, forcing his own body to ignore the last words, the last whispers of a male voice – one, two, three, his steps echoing down the hallway and down up the stairs, into his old room and the thump of his door against its hinges – because, for whatever reason, he is remembering another woman and another man of his family, more intricate words and flowing poems taken from the castle's library.
If he is not there, he will not wish it. Desire it. Miss it.
Except he does.
Note: Prompt 006 (Thud) from Troyed community table of prompts.