There will be some re-writing of past chapters I'm not entirely happy with. Content shouldn't change, presentation may - my style has changed a lot since I started this project, and I think it shows. I may cut out some of my more rambling author's notes.
I'm also bringing back a few elements from the earlier chapters; future instalments should be closer to some of my original ideas for this story, though many won't be as sombre as this one.
Double update today, by the way.
Resistance
Alistair
When they make camp for the night, she removes her armour and sits by the campfire, frowning down at the treaties, and he thinks he sees her fingers shake on the weathered old parchment.
She looks up at his approach, and yes, her hands are definitely shaking.
"Found another one of Zevran's diagrams?" he tries hopefully, but it doesn't raise a smile.
"We have to go into Orzammar," she says, her tone one of grim finality. "Underground."
A small part of his mind (that he really hates) wonders what the problem is - she's used to being trapped by stone, she's grown up in the Tower, for Maker's sake. So what is it?
He sits next to her, thinking it over; the firelight catches something, and he sees a small vial next to her foot. He recognises the slight blue glow all too well, and swallows at seeing what could have so easily have been his leash. He silently thanks both Duncan and the Maker. Again.
The Chantry catches up with him then, and he realises. "The lyrium down there?" The stuff unnerves him, can drive a man insane, but apparently mages are much more sensitive to it; unrefined lyrium can kill someone of magical blood.
Odd. What with the sword and the armour, he finds himself forgetting where she's come from, sometimes. He half-smiles at the memory of trailing, bloodstained blue robes and a blunt dagger, but it swiftly drops from his face as he takes in her expression.
She nods, taking a deep breath, but she's still shaking, and she looks to the vial before she can stop herself.
He stretches to pick it up, twisting it casually between two fingers and watching the liquid flow inside the glass, the blue glow it throws onto his hand. Eyes nearly as blue as the lyrium follow every movement, and he sees the swallow she tries to hide. He briefly considers what it would be like if he had become a templar; if he was sitting here, unafraid of the stuff, with that kind of power over a mage...
Then he sees the fear in her eyes, wonders if she's thinking the same thing, and feels sick. He remembers the addled minds and shaking hands of his elders, the tang of it on their breath and his fear of them... He drops it with an exhalation, eyes shutting at the brittle clink of glass hitting the ground.
Imprisoned by lyrium and the Chantry, or politics and a throne. Where's his choice, his freedom?
Opening her eyes, he looks at her.
Head cocked to one side, she's watching him, a slight frown on her face, no doubt confused as to why he's acting so strangely, and, shaking himself out of his morbid thoughts, he gives her an attempt at a smile. "Look, we... we should only need to go to Orzammar. It's not like we'll be in the Deep Roads themselves." He suppresses memories of the dwarven ruins, of his fellow Wardens trying to explain what he, the novice, was feeling. Maybe a story for later; maybe not. He'd rather not fray her nerves further. "And even if we were, you'd have to be taking it in." Mages don't take it like templars; it's too strong in powdered form, hence the potions.
He really wishes he didn't know that.
"Is that what you were told?" Her voice is quiet, nervous.
He nods. "That, and that the Maker would smite anyone who didn't wash behind their ears."
A moment of slightly disbelieving silence, and then she smiles. "Knew you were in there under the serious templar." She grows serious. "Thank you. They never thought we'd be near raw lyrium, and they don't prepare you..." She trails off.
He belatedly realises that she was asking him, because of his training. He half-expects resentment, fear, tensing at memories of the days after they first met, but instead she's giving him a small, nervous half-smile, and says once again, "Thank you. Really."
She trusts him, it hits him suddenly, and he reaches out a hand to hers, to reassure her, to thank her, something...
Of course, it's then that the peace of the camp is broken by an unfamiliar cry. "Warden!"