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[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt is 'Protective Zevran.'


 
Rinna had always been able to take care of herself, of course. One didn’t make it to their double digits in their line of work without being reasonably self-sufficient, after all. Still, Rinna wasn’t exactly the run-of-the-mill recruit. No, she was special. Her movements were so graceful that she almost danced across the battlefield and there were times when Zevran realized that she was a lot closer than he had thought she was. Her eyes gleamed with justice and her targets never saw her coming.
 
That was why Zevran didn’t understand it, this strange need to protect Rinna. Rinna may not be as talented as he was – well, by his own admittedly biased estimation at any rate – but she was better than most and she’d never forgive him if she knew. Taliesin would never let him hear the end of it and who knew how the Crow Masters who hadn’t even let him keep an old pair of Dalish gloves would handle the news? Well, he would just keep this information to himself, for everyone’s sake…not to mention, of course, that he wouldn’t have even known how to express the sentiment even had there not been so many, many reasons not to.
 
There was just something about her, though…when he saw her standing there alone he wanted to hide her away from the rest of the world. When he saw her hurting he wanted to kill whoever had done that to her. When he saw her in trouble, he had to stop himself from running to her side and fighting with her. It was really a good thing that they hadn’t had any missions together because, despite how much he would enjoy their time together, he was afraid that this strange protective instinct would do something to jeopardize their goal or get one of them into trouble.
 
It wasn’t even just a matter of him wanting to make sure that nothing happened to someone important to him because he thought that Taliesin was probably more important to him than Rinna was and yet…He would be very upset if Taliesin died and would readily take the opportunity to avenge him if he could but he didn’t feel that same compulsion he did where Rinna was concerned. Taliesin was no better of an assassin than Rinna so what was the difference? Why did the thought of anything happening to her make him feel sick while the thought of something happening to Taliesin just filled him with a cold anger?
 
He would have to figure this out or otherwise get past it because this desire to protect Rinna wasn’t going to do anybody any good, not even her.
 

 
Caunira Surana could kill a man with a gesture from hundreds of feet away. She could take out a dozen darkspawn at a time and on the off-chance that she suffered a physical injury she could completely heal it in a matter of seconds. From what Wynne had said, Caunira was one of the top apprentices up at the Circle Tower and he could definitely see why. Caunira could take care of herself far better than Rinna ever could and he had no doubt that, if she so chose, she could kill him without so much as touching him. She had been the death of hundreds and would probably be the death of hundreds more before this Blight business was through.
 
That was why it didn’t make any sense. With Rinna, at least, he felt that if it came down to it he probably would be able to defend her better than she could defend him. With Caunira, it was just the opposite. So why…why did he want to try anyway? When he saw someone (usually a long-ranged fighter or another mage or emissary since close-quarters fighters didn’t often get close to her) going after her in a fight, he went after them without a second thought. If someone got close enough to attack her with a sword or a dagger then they were losing a head and if any of them actually managed to wound her…well, they usually ended up regretting that.
 
For all of that, though, he knew that it was absolutely unnecessary. She had been managing just fine even when it was just her, Alistair, Morrigan, and the dog and she would continue to manage fine even if…when the day came that they were no longer travelling together. More often than not, it was Caunira who was freezing an enemy that was about to land a blow on him. And as far as protection went, she was the one with the skills and the reputation to keep the Crows from coming after him while he could do nothing to stop the darkspawn or the humans from trying to kill her.
 
And yet…and yet it almost felt like Rinna all over again. He still wanted to hide her away so she wouldn’t get hurt, he still wanted to hurt whatever had hurt her, and he still wanted to run to her side and fight her enemies. Unlike with Rinna, however, he actually did. Unlike with Rinna, there were no Crows or unwritten rules holding him back.
 
Zevran still couldn’t figure it out and he was starting to doubt that he’d ever get past it but maybe…maybe that was okay. Caunira could take care of herself, after all, and he’d be there to try to protect her however he could regardless. He had to have learned something from that mess with Rinna and maybe that was what mistakes to avoid. Maybe this time, he could pull it off.
 
Maybe.
 
He had another chance now and it was all thanks to Caunira. He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Anders has a secret.'


“…Do I even want to know?” Nathaniel asked from the doorway, scaring Anders half to death. Still, he played it cool.
 
“Do you even want to know what, exactly?” Anders asked casually, looking and sounding for all the world like nothing was even remotely odd about their current situation.
 
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Nathaniel demanded, rubbing his eyes.
 
“No, I do not,” Anders replied calmly. “Is it important?”
 
“It is three in the morning,” Nathaniel said flatly.
 
Anders blinked. “Really? That’s rather early. Or late, depending on if you went to bed already or not.”
 
“So it is,” Nathaniel agreed. He seemed to be waiting for Anders to say something.
 
“So what are you doing here so early or late?” Anders asked after the silence stretched on so long as to begin to unnerve him.
 
“I could ask you the same thing,” Nathaniel remarked, crossing his arms across his chest.
 
“You absolutely could,” Anders readily agreed. “Except that, you know, I asked first.”
 
“I came down here because I smelled something cooking and went to go see what it was and who was making it,” Nathaniel explained. “That was when I heard the singing.”
 
Anders looked around nervously. “Singing? What singing? Are you sure it was me? And that you’re feeling well? In fact, are you absolutely positive that you’re even awake right now?”
 
“Pretty sure,” Nathaniel replied dryly. “And until I began speaking, I actually saw you singing something about sticking to the status quo.”
 
“And why shouldn’t I want to stick to the status quo?” Anders demanded. “I don’t know about you but my status quo is pretty nice right now. I don’t have to live in the Tower, I’m not being hunted down by templars who look increasingly closer to just killing me, and I don’t even have to hide my magic. Combine that with the pretty girl I’m sleeping with and the seemingly unlimited funds the Grey Wardens keep managing to accrue and this is the best status quo I have ever had.”
 
“Be that as it may, that doesn’t explain why you were singing about it,” Nathaniel said, still appearing bemused. “Or why you were cooking…whatever it is that you are cooking.”
 
Anders looked torn and remained quiet for a moment. Finally, he said hesitantly, “ Can you keep a secret?”
 
“I can,” Nathaniel acknowledged.
 
“Will you?” Anders pressed.
 
“I will,” Nathaniel confirmed.
 
Still, Anders wavered. “Would it be too much to ask you to give me your word as a Howe? That may not mean much to most people but I know it’s important to you and surely you wouldn’t risk further dishonoring it by breaking your promise to me.”
 
Nathaniel rolled his eyes at this childish behavior. “Anders, just get on with it.”
 
“Right,” Anders said, clearing his throat. “I bake. Strudels, scones, even apple pandowdy.” He gestured towards the stove. “Someday, I hope to make the perfect crème brulée.”
 
“Okay…” Nathaniel said slowly. “I don’t see why that’s a big secret. It is a little odd that I’ve known you for four years and yet never knew this about you but other than that, I don’t see what the big deal is.”
 
“I can’t be good at cooking!” Anders exclaimed urgently.
 
Nathaniel looked doubtful. “Why not?”
 
“Because if anyone knew then they’d make me help out when we’re on the road,” Anders explained matter-of-factly.

“So you’re hiding your cooking abilities to get out of work,” Nathaniel summarized, unimpressed.
 
“Precisely,” Anders agreed. “And you can’t tell anyone unless you’re willing to sacrifice your precious Howe honor.”
 
Nathaniel gave a long-suffering sigh. “And the singing?”
 
“You can’t tell anybody about that, either,” Anders replied promptly.
 
“Why?” Nathaniel asked sarcastically. “Are you afraid you’ll be asked to entertain people while on the road now?”
 
“I had not thought to worry about that,” Anders confessed. “Although now that you mention it…but no, that’s not it. I’m a mage.”
 
“And that has what, exactly, to do with singing?” Nathaniel demanded.
 
“I can’t be a mage and a singer!” Anders insisted. “That would be like…like you being a noble and a pick-pocket!”
 
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.
 
“Okay, bad example,” Anders admitted. “But it just can’t be done!”
 
“Why not?” Nathaniel pressed.
 
“I…don’t actually know,” Anders conceded. “But it can’t.”
 
Nathaniel began muttering under his breath and Anders was fairly certain that he caught the words ‘crazy mages.’ “So you’re reduced to the singing and the baking in the middle of the night?”
 
“I haven’t been caught yet,” Anders said with a nod. “Well…unless you count by the dog but he can keep a secret.”
 
“Right,” Nathaniel said decisively, spinning on his heel. “I’m going back to bed.”
 
“But…but I haven’t told you about the hip hop and my cello-playing yet!” Anders called after him.
 
Nathaniel kept walking.
 
“If you leave now, you won’t get to have any of the crème brulée!” Anders cried out. “And while it’s not quite perfect yet, it is most certainly getting there!”
 
Nathaniel paused. He turned and inhaled the succulent scent wafting from the oven.
 
He sighed and came back towards Anders. “Alright, fine. Tell me all about your completely unnecessary secret life as a singing cello-playing hip-hopping baker mage. This had better be some good crème brulée…”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'It's Good to be King.'


There were times when Alistair thought back to the past, his past more specifically. It was only natural, of course, but he had triggers. Every time he heard anything about Redcliffe or about the Guerrin family he remembered his childhood at Redcliffe as the embarrassing and unwanted suspected bastard of the Arl. He wasn’t, of course, but he was a regular royal bastard (and he had to credit a certain fellow Warden of his for coming up with that one as no one else in the know had been casual enough about it to make jokes) and his very existence was apparently a dire threat to Ferelden stability and, more to the point, his half-brother’s rule.
 
Every time he was in any way reminded of the Chantry (and as Ferelden was the rather religious birthplace of Andraste whose ashes had recently been discovered), it brought back the decade or so that he had been destined to become a slave to it. There were worse fates than that of a templar, he knew, but that didn’t make being a lyrium-addled templar a good thing and he wouldn’t want any of those lives that would have made being a templar seem that way by comparison. The Chantry was a good life for some, he supposed, but not for him and his lack of choice about the whole affair just made him resent it all the more. He had never had any problems with the Chantry before being sent to live there, after all…but then he hadn’t known very much about it before then, either.
 
Every time Grey Wardens were mentioned he remembered those six glorious months that he had spent among their ranks before they were betrayed by that traitor, Loghain. He remembered their kindness, the first unselfish kindness he’d seen in years. He remembered for once not being the embarrassment, not being the screw-up. He was just one of them and even if he was the youngest and least experienced, he still had a place that he had belonged. He still had a family of sorts, people that he trusted with his life and who trusted his life to them. All the drinking, all the secrets, all the feasts, all the frustrations, all the celebrations, all the fears…the good and bad mingled together and became the first every home he’d ever known.
 
Every time anyone mentioned the Blight – which was at weekly if not daily – then he was taken back to the longest, hardest, most rewarding year of his life. The year they were on the run. The year everything had fallen to pieces. The year that he had to step up. The year that he was only one of two people standing between Ferelden and total annihilation. The year that he had had to stop hiding. The year that he stopped being an unwanted bastard, a failure of a templar, a desperate and unprepared Grey Warden and became a king.
 
It seemed that almost overnight he went from sleeping on the cold, hard ground to having people asking him about thread-counts on his almost painfully soft bed. No longer did he have to attempt to not accidentally poison himself while cooking as there were people hired to do that for him (well, cook at least. These people were not without skill). No longer was he ‘boy’ or ‘bastard’ but ‘your majesty.’ He wasn’t pushed to the side but looked to to take center stage. What he thought mattered and he was called upon to actually decide things. A thoughtless word from him could make or ruin someone’s immediate future. He could have a bath whenever he wanted. The first sign of damage to any of his clothing or armor and someone would promptly replace them with something new. He never had to have to choose between helping someone in need or having a place to stay for the night.
 
Being king…he never would have seen that coming, King Maric’s by blow or not. It really shouldn’t have ever happened but since, between Loghain and the darkspawn (and okay, fine, the Bannorn didn’t exactly help matters), Ferelden was brought to the very brink of total destruction, somebody had to step up. Somehow, everybody had decided that that somebody would be him. He wasn’t raised for it and he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea – he rather found it terrifying – but he was also determined to do nothing less than his absolute best and to listen to those who actually knew what they were talking about, especially in those early days when he didn’t.
 
Somehow, as the days became weeks, the weeks became months, and the months became years, Alistair had slowly began to enjoy his new position in life. The elves were being oppressed again? Invite one to join his council. The people were feeling disconnected from the monarchy? Go out and visit them. Orzammar was working to push back the darkspawn from the Deep Roads? Send some troops to help out. Kinloch Hold too damaged to house the Circle of Magi anymore? Build a new, far less creepy one.
 
There were always sacrifices to be made, of course, and he’d lost a lot in terms of privacy and freedom when he’d shed his anonymity forever and accepted his father’s throne. Still, he always knew where his next delicious meal would come from, he never needed to worry about not having shelter, he could try to make life better for everyone. Not to mention all the little perks his losses were compensated with. When you thought about it, it really wasn’t bad for the son of a castle maid (or was it an Orlesian Grey Warden elven mage? He had heard rumors). And it was certainly good to be king.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt is 'Zevran and Taliesin.'


In only a few short hours, Zevran would be leaving Antiva, perhaps forever. As melodramatic as that sounded, it was true. He was going to the far off dog nation of Ferelden fulfilling a contract that no one else would touch. The fabled Grey Wardens had done something to anger one of the dog nobles and so they were to be brought down. As always, discretion was key, particularly as the Grey Wardens liked to believe that they could not be brought down and the Crows didn’t want to start anything with them.
 
Zevran was looking forward to this, strangely enough. He had no idea how he would stack up against a Grey Warden and from what he had heard there were at least two. In all probability, he would die. If he should happen to live, though, he would have cemented his reputation as one of the rising stars in the Crows. If he couldn’t be free of them then he might as well be celebrated by them.
 
Rinna was gone and no one cared. He was still here and still no one cared. If he died in Ferelden, no one would care about that either. Well…almost. Taliesin was being surprisingly difficult about the whole thing and despite Zevran’s best efforts to avoid him, he was striding purposely towards him at this very second.
 
“Well?” Taliesin demanded. “Is that it, then? Were you really planning on not even saying goodbye before you go off to those barbarians?”
 
Zevran allowed himself a moment to appreciate the irony of a man who was a part of an assassin-run nation calling anyone else a barbarian. “Of course not, Taliesin!” he lied.
 
Taliesin was unconvinced. “Oh really. So why have you been avoiding me then?”
 
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Zevran denied. “I’ve just been busy.” And if he had been avoiding him it certainly wouldn’t have had anything to do with his part in the Rinna debacle and Zevran’s subsequent internal conflict.
 
“I see.” Taliesin clearly didn’t believe him but evidently had more important things to discuss. Oh joy. “I spoke with one of the masters. They said that given the importance of this contract you were allowed complete freedom to pick your own team.” He seemed to be waiting for something.
 
“I am,” Zevran agreed cautiously.
 
“I also learned that you intend to go by yourself,” Taliesin said flatly. “What, do you think you can take multiple Wardens on by yourself? Are you really that full of yourself?”
 
Zevran allowed himself a small smile. “Ah, no. Even I have limits to my confidence although I trust that you shall keep that just between us.”
 
“I give you my honor as an assassin,” Taliesin said solemnly.
 
“Taliesin…assassins have no honor,” Zevran reminded him. “That’s rather the point.”  
 
“Bards have honor, don’t they?” Taliesin asked rhetorically.
 
Zevran shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. If that’s true, that’s terribly foolish of them.”
 
“Only the most civilized assassinations are permitted in civilized old Orlais,” Taliesin declared adopting the most ridiculous Orlesian accent.
 
Zevran chuckled. “Oh, how could I forget?”
 
“Why are you going alone?” Taliesin asked abruptly, bringing them back on subject.
 
“I thought that I could hire a team there,” Zevran explained. “It would be cheaper to not have to worry about paying for a team to move to Ferelden and back and having only one Crow would be less conspicuous.”
 
“So maybe having a huge group with you wouldn’t be the best plan,” Taliesin conceded. “But still, the road to Ferelden will surely be dangerous and no matter how good you are, you’re an assassin. You’re not trained for outright confrontation and you’re only one man.”
 
“I shall be fine,” Zevran insisted.
 
“Zevran…please. Take me with you,” Taliesin requested.
 
Zevran tilted his head. Now that was an interesting idea. He had actually been on a job when the Grey Warden contract had been accepted by the Crows at large while Taliesin had not been. He had had his chance to accept the contract before Zevran had even returned but he, like the rest, had turned it down. It didn’t seem likely that Taliesin would have suddenly changed his mind and they had finally outgrown that stage where they had to upstage each other in everything so that couldn’t have been his motivation either.
 
“Why would you want that?” Zevran asked simply.
 
“You might be a little hard-pressed to kill them all yourself,” Taliesin answered. “And who knows what kind of dog backup you’ll find in Ferelden? The two of us, though? We’re unstoppable. Those Wardens will be dead before they even know that we’re there.” Typical bravado from Taliesin. Zevran wondered whether he truly believed it would be that easy.
 
“Just the two of us?” Zevran pressed.
 
Taliesin nodded. “Absolutely. Don’t want too many people holding us back and trying to take all the glory.”
 
As if there was any glory in being an assassin. Zevran wished he could ask whether Taliesin knew that but that would be revealing too much. They hadn’t spoken of the night when Zevran had fully realized just how little glory there was in there line of work.  “Now that is a thought…” he mused slowly. “And I’m sure that we could have fun on such a trip but, alas, I’m afraid that I must decline.”
 
Taliesin almost looked upset. “But why?”
 
Because he didn’t want Taliesin to interfere and prevent him from finding his ending. Because he didn’t want his actions to cost Taliesin his life. Because he still couldn’t quite meet Taliesin’s eyes and if they spent enough time together then the other man was sure to notice and to force him to explain.
 
Zevran smirked at his long-time friend. “Because I’d hate for you to steal any of my glory.”

[Sarah1281]

This guest prompt was 'Naked Landsmeet.'


Loghain was in the middle of evilly denouncing Arl Eamon and his heartfelt appeal for basic decency and the preservation of their cherished traditions when Alistair strode into the Landsmeet. He was a little cold but took care not to shiver for fear that it would make it look like he was afraid of Loghain. He had just known that he would cause a huge scene by walking in late and he thought it would look rather unprofessional but Eamon had assured him that it was important to make an entrance and he had reluctantly agreed that he could hardly make an entrance by showing up three hours early. Anora, despite the fact she had left four hours early, didn’t appear to be in the room. Alistair may not really like Cailan’s wife but he did hope that nothing had happened to her. It was bad enough that she had to have a father like Loghain; she really had been through enough.
 
“Tell us, Warden: How will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?” Loghain turned to face them. “What did they-” He stopped and a look of disgust crossed his face.
 
Alistair rather imagined that a similar look was on his own face whenever he so much as thought of Loghain, never mind being face-to-face with him like he was now.
 
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Loghain demanded, sounding outraged.
 
For once, Loghain actually appeared to be speaking to him. Was that a trick question or something? Suddenly, he wished that he had spent more time listening to Arl Eamon prepare his fellow Anastasia on what to say at the Landsmeet (he had been instructed to keep his mouth shut, accept the throne when offered, and be ready to fight). “I’m here to expose you.”
 
“It rather looks like you’re here to expose yourself,” Bann Ceorlic muttered.
 
Alistair blinked, confused. What heinous crimes had he committed lately? Besides, of course, daring to be a member of an order that was hell bent on saving Ferelden from being completely destroyed by darkspawn despite itself.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anora spoke out suddenly, appearing from Maker only knew where. “Arl Eamon has spoken passionately about the need to keep the Theirin bloodline alive and while I can certainly understand the weight of that symbol, I ask you to look at the boy who would be king and honestly tell me that you think that he is up for the task.”
 
So Anora had betrayed them! Wait…was this a betrayal? She hadn’t actually said anything about Loghain. But why would she turn on them without committing to Loghain’s side? Having two enemies at once was a really stupid idea, even he could see that. What was going on?
 
“Would somebody like to explain what’s going on?” Alistair demanded. Sure, he wasn’t supposed to say anything but no one was telling him anything and he was sick of it.
 
“I think we would all like to know the answer to that,” Loghain drawled. “Tell me, Alistair.” The Teyrn said his name like it was something dirty. “Why did you feel the need to show up to our most sacred of gatherings without so much as an undergarment, especially when you remembered to put on a barbarian hat? Have you no shame?”
 
Alistair froze. No…it couldn’t be. But he’d been so unusually cold all day. He was wearing the hat, yes, he could feel that. But if he weren’t wearing anything else then why wouldn’t anyone have said anything? Why would they have let him make an ass of himself? And for that matter, how could he possibly have failed to notice? He didn’t want to look down but he was a Grey Warden and Eamon wanted him to become king and so he couldn’t afford to shy away from anything.
 
Alistair had glanced down for perhaps half a second before his head quickly snapped back up. His face was burning. Everyone had a very nice view of his entire body. It was bad enough from the back but from the front? And it was so cold, too…
 
“Well?” Anora asked, looking triumphant. “Do you have an answer for that, Alistair, or are you really that ill-prepared for being king? The common man off the street could tell you that it is improper to wander around without clothes on – regardless of headgear – and it’s even worse somewhere important like the Landsmeet!”
 
“I…uh…” Alistair looked helplessly at his fellow Warden. How could he possibly explain this?
 
Fortunately, Anastasia Cousland was one of the most persuasive people he had ever met. Even when Alistair knew that she was just making things up, she still always managed to at least halfway convince him.
 
“Alistair isn’t naked,” she declared boldly.
 
Loghain snorted. “I beg to differ.”
 
“I wish that I could be surprised that you thought so,” she said sadly.
 
Loghain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he all but growled.
 
“Alistair is fully clothed but, well, his outfit is only the finest made by Dalish artisans,” Anastasia lied. “As you may know, we spent some time with the Dalish recently as we travelled the land calling on the ancient Grey Warden treaties. We aided them in the process of doing this and they gave us that outfit as a token of their thanks.”
 
“He’s not wearing anything,” Loghain grated.
 
Anastasia shook her head. “Oh, but he is! It’s just that…well, the Dalish are a little…preoccupied about their past. From what I understand, all living Dalish are descended from noble elven families back when they had their own homeland and so all the Dalish could see Alistair’s outfit just fine.”
 
Anora started to look a little worried. “What are you saying?”
 
“Only someone with noble enough blood – be it elven blood, human blood, or even dwarven blood – can see the fabric,” Anastasia responded. “Normally, Alistair wouldn’t wear fabric that would make it appear that he was naked to commoners out in public but since this is a meeting that only nobles can attend, we rather thought it would be safe. I guess it wasn’t.”
 
“This is absurd!” Loghain said dismissively. “There is no such thing as noble-detecting fabric.”
 
“I-I actually think that I can see it,” Ceorlic inadvertently saved them. “It’s so gorgeous, really.”
 
“I see it, too,” Habren Bryland cried out. “And I want one!”
 
One by one the nobles all claimed that they could see it and gushed over how magnificent it was. Once some among them started insisting that they were noble enough to see it, they wouldn’t dare risk being dubbed as un-noble as Loghain and Anora clearly were and so it looked like Anastasia’s absurd story would actually see them through this.
 
Suddenly, the entire place began to shake and after a moment, Alistair’s eyes snapped open. He was still lying in bed and Anastasia was shaking him awake.
 
“Come on,” she whispered. “It’s time to get ready for the Landsmeet.”
 
Alistair nodded silently as he sat up. First thing on the agenda: locate some pants.

[Maria13]

Really fun, the emperor who has no clothes turned into a political metaphor...



Well done, loved the last line about locating pants!



Now tell me, did Alistair flake out again or did someone put him up to this?



(Maker, English is full of double entendres...)

[SRWill64]

lol...this is hilarious...but I had an idea it was a dream. Being nake in public is a very common dream and Maker knows I've had my share of them....all equally embarrassing. Poor Alistair!

[Sarah1281]

I've seen the Warden basically forcing Alistair to show up without armor because she was planning on sparing Loghain and marrying Alistair to Anora and didn't want to lose the gear before but aside from that, there didn't really seem to be a reasonable way to get him to show up sans outfit. I mean, was someone going to mug him on the way there? Thus, dream.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Blood Magic.'


Anders had never been a fan of physical pain. There was the obvious reason that it hurt, of course, and then there was the fact that it looked bad and could maybe even scar. Besides, when he got hurt that just meant that he was doing something wrong and he hated that feeling. When he got hurt and others didn’t, it usually meant that they were doing something better than him and that was something that he couldn’t stand.
 
Somehow or another, his distaste about injuries had led everyone to believe that he was being called to be a healer. Since healers could take care of injuries in a heartbeat and make sure that their own injuries were treated long before there was a risk of scarring, Anders had to say that he honestly didn’t mind. Of course, the more he studied healing the more he came to dislike injuries (it was a vicious cycle, really) and so the idea of purposely injuring oneself had just struck him as completely unnatural even without all the sanctions the Chantry had passed.
 
In the healing area of the tower, a girl with tiny scars all over her body and who had always worn clothes that made sure to cover every last one had just been brought in. She had had a temperature and when her sleeves had been rolled at one point the scars had been discovered. Further investigation revealed further scars and the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter themselves had been summoned.
 
Anders hadn’t been paying much attention until those two got there and then everything started happening all at once. There was a lot of shouting and, despite the girl’s illness, the templars hauled her off. It was difficult to hear over everyone talking at once but Anders did manage to catch one thing: blood magic.
 
Anders face twisted with disgust at the thought and Senior Enchanter Wynne spotted his expression.
 
“I take it that you do not approve of blood magic then?” Wynne asked conversationally.
 
Anders shrugged. “I think that you would be hard-pressed to find someone who was not themselves a blood mage who did.”
 
“You’re probably right,” Wynne agreed. “Poor Tanna. I never even would have suspected. I mean, there was the fact that she insisted on covering up so much of herself but I had just thought that might be some self-image issues…”
 
“What do you think that the templars are going to do with her?” Anders asked, biting his lower lip.
 
Wynne suddenly looked every day her age. “If she’s lucky, she’s already dead.”
 
“And if she’s not lucky?” Anders pressed. He wasn’t really sure that he wanted to know but just the same he knew that the curiosity would keep gnawing at him until it drove him mad.
 
“If she’s not lucky then it may be some time before she’s at peace,” Wynne replied quietly. “She had to have known the risks when she became a blood mage and I know that but…Greagoir is there now and so hopefully it will go as smoothly as possible. She was fortunate to have been discovered in the tower.”
 
“She didn’t really look dangerous,” Anders said, frowning.
 
“A mage should know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving,” Wynne returned. “So why do you dislike blood magic, Anders? The Chantry teaches that it is evil, of course, but you’re not particularly reverent.”
 
“I’m not,” Anders admitted. “Something about the way that the Chantry also teaches that I’m a danger to the world and need to be locked up doesn’t really sit right with me, I don’t really know why.”
 
“Then what is it?” Wynne pressed, her lips pursed in silent disapproval of his words.
 
“Blood magic can be used to hurt a lot of people,” Anders replied. “I mean, we’ve all heard the stories about ancient Tevinter, right? And even if all of them aren’t true they still serve to make people more afraid of mages. If it weren’t for the fact that everyone thought that we could control their minds then they would probably be a lot less scared of us. Every blood mage that’s out there now is just further damaging our reputations and convincing the Chantry even further that keeping such close surveillance on us is necessary.”
 
“Mages turn to blood magic to try and seek freedom and only inevitably make things worse,” Wynne mused. “Yes, I’ve seen that happen time and time again.”
 
“And also-” Anders cut himself off.
 
“And also?” Wynne repeated encouragingly.
 
Anders blushed. “I’d rather not say.”
 
“Oh, come now. I would hardly laugh at you for opposing blood magic, no matter what your reasons might be,” Wynne assured him. “Even if you only opposed it because you passed out at the sight of blood, I would still not laugh at you.”
 
“I don’t pass out at the sight of blood!” Alistair exclaimed.
 
“I know you don’t,” Wynne agreed. “It was only an example.”
 
Anders exhaled. “Right then. I really hate injuries of all kind.”
 
Wynne nodded. “That’s not unusual in a healer.”
 
“The thought of injuring yourself on purpose, even to power a spell…” Anders trailed off, shaking his head. “I just can’t imagine. I mean…ew. Just ew.”
 
Despite her words, Wynne looked like she was fighting a smile. “So you have this great philosophical justification to explain your distaste for blood magic…and you also find it gross.”
 
“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”
 
“I’m not,” Wynne insisted, the corners of her mouth twitching up all the same.
 
Anders eyes narrowed and he refused to speak to her for the rest of the week.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'Mother.'


Alistair had always sort of figured that the best day of his life would be something that he would have to decide years into the future – perhaps at the end of his life – and that would require a lot of careful thought. In practice, he was twenty and hopefully nowhere near the end of his life but he still knew without a doubt that today was the best he had ever or would ever have.
 
It wasn’t like he had had a bad life, far from it. He was a bastard whose father had no interest in him and whose mother was long dead so he could have easily just been thrown out on the streets somewhere and expected to make his own way in the world but that hadn’t happened, not at all. He had spent the first ten years of his life with Arl Eamon in Redcliffe and then when Isolde became pregnant he had spent the next ten years in the Chantry training to be the world’s worst templar. It was a dubious honor, to be sure, but he firmly believed that it took talent to be just that horrible at being a templar. He had all the right skills, of course, he just had the wrong everything else. He wasn’t reverent enough, his sense of humor offended the others, he lacked a sufficient fear of mages, he might have called the bottom of the templar uniform a skirt in the Grand Cleric’s hearing…he and the Chantry really weren’t a very good fit.  
 
Today, though…today he had been told that by the Warden-Commander Duncan that he had a place among the Grey Wardens if he wanted one and while he didn’t know much about the order he knew that it had to be better than this. If he fell in love with a beautiful woman one day, if he had a five children, if he was finally seen as something other than King Maric’s by blow then he knew that it would all be thanks to today when he would leave the Chantry and so it couldn’t possibly be greater than this day.
 
“Absolutely not,” the Grand Cleric said flatly.
 
Alistair stared at her, aghast. “What? But that’s not fair! I-”
 
Duncan put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me handle this,” he said softly.
 
Reluctantly, Alistair nodded. Maker knew that the Grand Cleric hated him so Duncan would probably have more luck. He would have thought that the Grand Cleric would be jumping at the chance to get rid of him so why was she being so surprisingly difficult? Was she that possessive of her Chantry personnel? It wasn’t like Alistair had even wanted to be here in the first place, he just had little choice as a ten-year-old whose guardian dropped him off. He hadn’t signed anything, however, and he certainly hadn’t made any vows.
 
“With all due respect, your Grace, the Grey Wardens need recruits,” Duncan told her. “The darkspawn have begun to move and, though it is too soon to tell, a Blight may be coming. We have to be ready.”
 
“Ignoring the fact that the darkspawn haven’t plagued the surface in over four hundred years, I hardly see what that has to do with the matter at hand,” the Grand Cleric replied curtly. “Surely you can deal with this possible Blight or incursion without Alistair.”
 
“We could,” Duncan agreed. “But if everyone said that then we would have no Wardens at all.”


“ ‘Everyone’ is not saying that,” the Grand Cleric said sharply. “I am and my objections must be given greater consideration than most.”
 
“But of course,” Duncan assured her. “Perhaps you could tell me why it is that you object to Alistair becoming a Grey Warden?”
 
“It’s not the boy specifically,” the Grand Cleric explained. “Maker knows what kind of a templar he would be.”
 
“Then what’s the problem?” Duncan pressed. “Surely it cannot be that you did not want a member of the Chantry to become a Grey Warden as you did hold a tournament for my benefit.”
 
“That is true,” the Grand Cleric conceded. “But it’s not quite the same. Unlike the others, Alistair has been right on the verge of becoming a templar for months now. He knows nearly all of our secrets and yet he hasn’t taken his vows. If we were to let him go, our most sacred secrets would be at risk. The Chantry is not prepared to have all of our secrets laid out to bear.”
 
“I can assure you that the Grey Wardens know something about the importance of secrets,” Duncan was quick to tell her. “And we wouldn’t dream of trying to start problems with the Chantry by publicizing any sensitive information.”
 
“It’s all well and good enough for you to say that,” the Grand Cleric argued. “But I hardly know you and this would be one of the biggest security breaches we’ve ever had. I know that I said that you could have your pick of the templars but you simply cannot have Alistair.”
 
Alistair’s heart plummeted. He had long since resigned himself to a life of misery in the Chantry but still…he had almost let himself believe that it could be different, that he could have a new life, a better life. Somehow, coming so close only to fall short at the end was so much harder than never allowing himself to believe at all.
 
“I’m sorry,” Duncan said quietly.
 
Alistair simply nodded miserably, not really having anything to say.

Then Duncan continued. “Your Grace, I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
 
That made her suspicious. “Wouldn’t come to what, exactly?”
 
“Normally I would respect your wishes no matter what Alistair might want but there are extenuating circumstances – including this darkspawn threat – to consider and so I’m afraid that I’m going to have to invoke the Rite of Conscription. Alistair is coming with me,” Duncan said firmly.
 
Alistair couldn’t believe it. First he was going, then he wasn’t, now he was going again. This emotional up-and-down couldn’t possibly be good for him but at that moment he really didn’t care. It was true after all! He was going to get to escape from this horrid place!
 
Alistair glanced back at the Grand Cleric and for a moment he thought that she was going to have Duncan arrested. Her face was white with rage and her nails were digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
 
Alistair felt terrible. He really hadn’t meant to get Duncan into trouble. He opened his mouth to tell them that it was fine and that he would stay with the Chantry when the Grand Cleric spoke again.
 
“Promise me, Alistair, that you will not ever share the secrets you’ve been taught or the templar skills that you have learned with anyone no matter how great you think the need is,” the Grand Cleric ordered.
 
Alistair wasn’t about to question his good fortune. “Y-yes, you Grace. Of course.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt is 'Jealousy.'


Ahria Tabris kissed him softly and Zevran could feel a burning stare on his back. She giggled and then practically floated off to her tent. Zevran watched her go for a moment before turning to the semi-hidden observer.
 
Alistair was still staring at the spot where Ahria had been standing. There was a dark look in his eyes and he was absentmindedly shredding the rose in his hand. Zevran vaguely wondered where he had found such a thing as he hadn’t noticed any of that kind of flower during his time with the Wardens. Perhaps it had been found earlier and Morrigan or – more likely – Wynne had preserved it for him.
 
“Hello, Alistair,” Zevran greeted. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
 
Alistair shrugged noncommittally.
 
“What are you still doing up?” Zevran continued, completely undeterred by the less than encouraging response.
 
Alistair mumbled something indistinct.
 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Zevran said apologetically.
 
Alistair cleared his throat. “I was planning on talking to Ahria.”
 
“So why didn’t you?” Zevran pressed. “I know that she and I had been talking for awhile but you could have caught her before she turned in.”
 
Another shrug. “I wasn’t really in the mood to talk by that point.”
 
Oh, so Alistair was perfectly capable of giving hints but refused to take them, was that it? Was Zevran going to have to actually come out and ask the other man about his jealousy? Well, if Alistair could ignore such blatant hints than Zevran could feel free to as well.
 
“But I noticed that you were waiting there for at least twenty minutes,” Zevran reasoned. “If you did not wish to speak to Ahria after all, why wait?”
 
“So you knew that I was right there?” Alistair demanded, suddenly angry.
 
Zevran tilted his head. “Of course I did. In the assassin business, not paying attention to your surrounding means that if you don’t happen to get killed then you at least deserved to be.”
 
“I…see…” Alistair said in the same uncertain tone he always used when Zevran spoke of his background. “Why didn’t you say anything then?”
 
“Ahria and I were talking,” Zevran explained. “And if you needed to speak with her you could have either come up to her right then or waited as you chose to do. I had assumed that if it were more important than what I was saying you would have felt comfortable interrupting.”
 
Alistair frowned but said nothing.
 
Trust a Ferelden to make him be blunt despite the way that that was screaming against all of his hard-learned instincts. These people were his allies for now and his protectors; he really did not need them to wish him dead. “I haven’t known Ahria long-”
 
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Alistair muttered under his breath.
 
Zevran wisely chose to let that go. “And so I was interested in hearing your opinion of our illustrious leader. I understand that you were actually the Senior Warden and no matter how much you might hate to lead, I’m sure that you wouldn’t put someone completely inept in charge.”
 
“Maybe, maybe not,” Alistair said vaguely. “Ahria isn’t incompetent, though, not nearly.”
 
“Then what is she?” Zevran prompted.
 
A small smile broke over Alistair’s face as he thought about her. “She’s…she’s just great. She’s really pretty and she knows how to wield daggers better than anyone I’ve ever met. She’s the most stubborn woman I know and without her I doubt I would have made it past Lothering. I didn’t even have a plan until she suggested the treaties, you know. I probably would have given my life trying to defend that little town and ending up not really doing much good.”
 
“You like her,” Zevran said gently.
 
Alistair started. “O-of course I like her. She’s my fellow Warden and the best friend I’ve ever had.”
 
Zevran stayed silent, waiting.
 
Alistair fidgeted under the elf’s stare. Finally, he continued with, “And so maybe there have been times when I’ve thought about her like…that but practically the first thing I learned about her was that – and I quote – she’d ‘rather slit my own throat with a rusty spoon than even consider ever touching a human.’ I think it might be because of whatever happened when she was recruited but she doesn’t like talking about it.”
 
Zevran nodded his agreement. Ahria hadn’t told him either but that made sense. Even the elves who were insistent on mating with other elves so as to make sure to not have a human child usually weren’t that vehement about it without reason. “So there really is no hope?”
 
Alistair laughed bitterly. “No, none. Even if it weren’t for you, she’d prefer the rusty spoon to me no matter how close we might get.”
 
Zevran really wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I’m sorry’? It seemed appropriate for the situation but he really wasn’t. He liked Ahria and was glad that she wasn’t interested in Alistair and wouldn’t be interested in Leliana either.
 
“I-I am glad that she’s not alone, though,” Alistair said hesitantly. “I mean, I’d prefer that I could be with her but since I can’t…I just want her to be happy.”
 
Zevran examined Alistair closely, trying to gauge his sincerity. Satisfied with what he found, he gave a brief nod. “You’re a good man, Alistair.” He wondered if he would be that dignified if he ever found himself in that kind of a situation. Not, of course, that he ever planned on allowing himself to get into that kind of a situation but there were so many things about his life that were completely unplanned that it was best not to rule anything out.
 
Alistair’s face twisted into a mirthless smile. “Lucky me.”

[LupusYondergirl]

Happy birthday!

(I would have done something more triumphant than the sentenced to the deep roads bit, but armor takes forever to do and it wouldn't have been done in time)

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Tranquil.'


When Anders was seven years old, his mother took him to Denerim with her after making sure that he understood that he was to stay with her at all times and to not go running off and get lost. He had spent most of his life in a quiet village and so the atmosphere was a little much for him. There was so much to see and the noises and sounds threatened to overwhelm him so his mother took him into the nearest shop.
 
“Welcome to the Wonders of Thedas,” the most monotonous voice Anders had ever heard greeted them.
 
Anders had never heard of this store but he knew what Thedas was and so he immediately looked around, trying to spot the wonders. He had just reached for a little golem doll when he saw a head preserved in what appeared to be honey and quickly turned away and came face-to-face with a pair of glass slippers resting against a large jade oval-thing. He saw chisels and carvings done on stone, wood, and metal. There was an entire table full of a tube coming out of a bowl along with some containers of some dried leaves.
 
He would have kept looking around if his mother hadn’t pulled him with her to the front to speak with the store proprietor.
 
“Welcome to the Wonders of Thedas,” the proprietor repeated in that same dead voice. “How may I assist you?” He was wearing mage robes and had some sort of marking on his forehead but though Anders had never actually seen a mage in person before, he had expected them to look a little bit more…real. Anders himself sometimes thought that it would be cool to be a mage and to be able to shoot lightning out of his hands and heal himself when he got hurt but since if he was a mage the evil templars would come by and take him away forever, he was perfectly fine not being one. He would be even gladder not to be a mage if all mages were like this one.
 
Anders tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “What’s wrong with him?” he whispered.
 
Unfortunately, the mage appeared to hear him. “Nothing is the matter with me.” No change in inflection whatsoever. That was just not right.
 
“Then why don’t you talk like a normal person?” Anders challenged.
 
His mother looked horrified. “Anders! Don’t be rude!”
 
“I am not offended,” the mage assured his mother, his words coming out at the same slow pace as they had before. “I am one of the Tranquil.”
 
“What’s a Tranquil?” Anders pressed.
 
The Tranquil decided to answer Anders’ question with one of his own. “Do you know why mages are feared?”
 
Promptly, Anders responded with, “Because the Chantry doesn’t want to lose the power they have by being the ones to control the mages and so they take the dangers an untrained mage poses and lock them in a tower forever. It also lets them keep an army.”
 
His mother gave him a look that suggested that she would dearly like to throttle him but said nothing. Apparently that was one of those things they talked about at home that he wasn’t supposed to tell other people about.
 
“Magic is dangerous,” the Tranquil said as flatly as he said anything. “Aside from the tyranny that mages have displayed in the past, magical power attracts demons and spirits who seek to possess us and turn us into horrible creatures called abominations. Even those without much magical talent can be possessed and any mage can learn blood magic from these demons even should they escape possession. There is only one way to cease being dangerous and that is to become a Tranquil. I give up my magic and my emotions and I am content to no longer be such a risk to myself and others.”
 
While his mother bought a cheap trinket since they had stopped by here anyway and she always felt guilty if she wasted the proprietor’s time, Anders continued to stare at the Tranquil in horror. He thought it was kind of weird that you couldn’t get rid of magic without emotions. He thought that if he were a mage then maybe he might be willing to get rid of his magic to avoid being kidnapped by the evil templars but he could never give up his emotions as well. Did this man give up his voluntarily or did they ever force people to do that?
 
The Tranquil proprietor didn’t seem to care but then he didn’t have emotions so how could he have a problem with it? Fear and anger were emotions, after all, as was longing for the way that it used to be. Somehow the thought that someone could hate the idea of being Tranquil more than anything and had to be tied down to have the process down and then once it was over was perfectly content was one of the creepiest things about it. Anders almost wanted to ask the proprietor what had happened to him but decided against it. Either he was the kind of person who had no problem giving away his emotions forever or he was a victim who didn’t even understand why he should be pitied.
 
Anders did know one thing, though: should he ever turn out to be a mage becoming a Tranquil was the very last thing he’d be willing to do.

[Sarah1281]

LupusYondergirl wrote...

Happy birthday!
(I would have done something more triumphant than the sentenced to the deep roads bit, but armor takes forever to do and it wouldn't have been done in time)

This is amazing! Thank you so much! 

[LupusYondergirl]

I'm glad you like it! :wizard:

[Sarah1281]

This guest prompt was 'A great many things were assumed that have not held true.'


Alistair didn’t like to think of himself as a judgmental person and yet he could safely say that he knew quite a bit about assumptions.
 
When he was born it was assumed that he’d be a threat to Cailan’s rule and so he’d be best tucked away with Cailan’s mother’s brother. It turned out that though his existence wasn’t the best kept secret, those who didn’t want Cailan to rule turned to Bryce Cousland of Highever instead of the not-quite-prince. And maybe Rowan’s brother wasn’t the most sensible choice to send a bastard child of her husband’s no matter how many years she’d be dead by the time he’d even been conceived. Not to mention that as far as secrecy went, an Arl was kind of an unlikely choice.
 
Living at Redcliffe, it had been assumed that he must have been Eamon’s bastard for all that Eamon never admitted it. Eamon had told him the truth about Maric – despite Maric’s wishes, from what he understood – the moment that he had first asked about his parentage. Because the whole point of sending Alistair to Eamon had been to keep Maric’s involvement a secret, Eamon never commented on the rumors and he was never openly asked.
 
It had been assumed that Alistair could have a nice, happy life unburdened by royal responsibilities or the stigma of being a bastard. Alistair really had to wonder if the people making these decisions for him had ever actually spent any length of time with a child or remembered being children themselves. It was one thing if he had been an acknowledged bastard under the protection of his noble father. It was quite another if everyone thought Eamon was ashamed of him and thus wouldn’t care in the slightest if he was perpetually the outcast.
 
It had been assumed that Eamon could be trusted to raise him until adulthood and make sure that he was ready for a commoner’s life. Well…Alistair was pretty sure that that was the plan at first. Then Isolde had come into the picture and even if she didn’t like him and had also firmly believed the rumors of him being her husband’s bastard (for all that he clearly wasn’t a favored son), Alistair still felt that the plan had remained unchanged. Then Isolde had gotten pregnant and feared that the child Eamon had sleeping in the stables and refused to acknowledge might put her own child’s inheritance at risk. Ten was something, he supposed, and he would always be grateful for Eamon for taking him in for that long but it was hardly old enough to go off on his own.
 
It had been assumed that the Chantry would be a good life for him. The Chantry always made sure that those in its service had a place to stay and enough to eat as well as a proper education. It wasn’t just the poor whose parents had died or couldn’t afford them who joined the Chantry, either, but some non-inheriting nobles like Bann Alfstanna’s brother. Alistair had never really just how irreverent he was until he was sent to live at a Chantry and the mandatory not-really-necessary lyrium addiction and arbitrary rules combined to ensure that he was probably better off back in the stables.
 
It had been assumed that the Grey Wardens were obsolete because all of the darkspawn had been killed in the last Blight or, failing that, were simply a dwarven problem. The darkspawn were always a dwarven problem but Alistair had seen firsthand just how badly their first line of defense against the darkspawn was failing. If Bhelen couldn’t turn Orzammar around (and given his complete and utter lack of morals, he’d better be some kind of dwarven messiah) and the city eventually fell then who would stop the darkspawn from regularly harassing the surface world even in the absence of a Blight? Oh, and speaking of…it was really hard for Alistair to see Grey Wardens as ‘obsolete’ when they were the only ones who could sense darkspawn, fight them safely, and kill the Archdemon. Thinking that the Grey Wardens were obsolete and acting accordingly had nearly gotten Ferelden annihilated and there were still at least two Blights to come. Hopefully the Fifth Blight would serve as a cautionary tale but Alistair knew that people had a short memory. He’d do what he could to make people remember them but he would be lucky to see it to fifty.
 
It was assumed that Teyrn Loghain was a great hero who loved Ferelden more than he hated Orlais. Alistair freely admitted that he didn’t really understand Loghain and, to be honest, he didn’t want to. He didn’t agree with the king and didn’t trust the Wardens so he let thousands of his own men die needlessly? What kind of monster did that? Alistair couldn’t deny that Ferelden might still be an offshoot of Orlais if it weren’t for him but that didn’t give him a free pass on everything else. Loghain may have even loved Ferelden but nothing could eclipse his hatred of Orlais and fundamental flaw was why he couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. It was why he was so dangerous and why he had to die. Sure he might have said that suddenly he understood that the Grey Wardens were right and that he had surrendered but Alistair really thought that the past year had spoken for itself and the last thing he wanted was to give Loghain the chance to finally finish what he had begun at Ostagar.
 
It was assumed that Alistair’s mother was a serving maid up at Redcliffe castle. Well…not so much assumed as outright told to Alistair. He’d even met his supposed half-sister and had been supporting her and her children since the Blight ended. By now, he was really an uncle to those children and Goldanna herself had finally deigned to be civil and that wasn’t about to stop. Just the same, one day an Orlesian elven Grey Warden mage named Fiona had come into his life and, well...Even if that could never become public, Alistair did still get some perverse satisfaction over how much Loghain must be rolling over in his grave.
 
It had been assumed that Alistair would never be king. Really, this assumption sat just fine with him and he sometimes half-suspected that he had been purposely raised so that he would be a terrible one. Just the same, Cailan had failed to trust non-traitorous bastards, to have an heir, or to live to see his twenty-sixth birthday and Loghain had failed to both not be a traitorous bastard and to NOT drive the country to civil war in the middle of a Blight. Really, somebody had to step up and by the time the Landsmeet rolled around Alistair was feeling a lot better about his inability to do a worse job than some of the so-called leadership he’d seen.
 
It had been assumed that Alistair would never be able to have a child and so, despite everything, the Theirins really would end with this generation. As Alistair watched his five-year-old daughter holding her baby brother in her arms for the first time, he decided that, of all the assumptions he’d both seen disproven and actively proven false himself, this was his favorite.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'Jealousy.'


Alistair didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t move from that spot or else he’d surely be spotted. He had only been admiring the swords in the armory for a minute and he had even taken care to make sure that no one was in it first! Unfortunately, he had soon heard noises and since, strictly speaking, he wasn’t allowed in there he hid in the large vase in the corner of the room. An armory was a rather strange place for a vase, yes, but Arl Eamon hated it and since Isolde’s mother had bought it for them he couldn’t get rid of it and thus tucked it reasonably out of sight in here.
 
Alistair couldn’t see a thing unless he stuck his head up for a glance which he had when he first climbed into the vase. Ten-year-old Cailan had dragged a grinning older blonde man into the room and a slightly irritated man with shoulder-length black hair and shiny silver armor followed them in. Alistair had no idea who that second man was but the first looked enough like him that he knew that this must be King Maric. His father…sort of. If it hadn’t been for this man, he wouldn’t exist but Alistair had always kind of thought that being a father was about more than just that.
 
“This is the best room I’ve ever been in!” Cailan declared happily.
 
“Is that so?” someone asked, amused. Alistair thought that that was probably Maric since the other man didn’t look at all amused. So that was what his father sounded like.
 
“Cailan, the armory at the palace is twice as big as this,” the other man pointed out.
 
“Yeah but I can see that whenever I want to,” Cailan argued. “You guys never let me come to Redcliffe.”
 
Maric coughed. “It’s not like we’re trying to keep you away from Redcliffe or anything, Cailan. We’re absolutely not trying to hide anything from you, I can’t believe you’d even say that-”
 
“What your father means,” the other man cut in. “Is that since you’re his only heir he can’t afford to have anything happen to you and travelling is dangerous. Not to mention that Denerim is the capital and your uncles can go there to see you.”
 
“Yes, that is absolutely what I meant,” Maric agreed, sounding relieved. “Thank you, Loghain.”
 
“Happy to help,” Loghain said dryly. Alistair thought he had heard of this Loghain before. He was big in the rebellion, wasn’t he? And a commoner like Alistair for all of his royal blood.
 
“I know all that,” Cailan said, clearly trying to sound grown-up. “But that just means that when I can go places like this then their armories are much cooler even if they are smaller.”
 
“Do me a favor and don’t tell your uncle that you think his swords are better than my swords,” Maric said, sounding almost pained. “He will never let me hear the end of it.”
 
“Huh?” Cailan didn’t get it. Alistair didn’t either.
 
Apparently Loghain did, however. “I am, as always, impressed by the maturity level of our most prominent citizens.”
 
“If you want to, we can always blame the Orlesians for preventing any of us from having a real childhood," Maric offered.
 
“Maric.”
 
“Oh, right. What was I thinking? You always want to blame the Orlesians,” Maric teased.
 
“Father, this shield is bigger than I am!” Cailan exclaimed, sounding a bit strained.
 
“Don’t try to pick it up!” Maric cried out. “You’re going to hurt yourself! Hold on!”
 
“No, I’ve got it-” Cailan started to protest.
 
“It was going to crush you,” Loghain disagreed.
 
Cailan laughed. “Imagine that: the Prince of Ferelden crushed to death by a giant shield in an armory! What would people say?”
 
“ ‘Where did his poor Father go wrong with him’?” Maric guessed.
 
“Why did we let this man reproduce?” Loghain ventured.
 
“This shield is awesome,” Cailan announced. “And it’s so shiny. I can see my face in it and everything!”
 
“Are you…are you playing with your hair?” Loghain sounded pained.
 
“No,” Cailan said a little too quickly to be believed. “And even if I was…remember, you braid your hair.”
 
Maric chuckled. “He does have you there.”
 
“That’s not playing with it,” Loghain protested.
 
“Do we believe him, Cailan?” Maric asked conspiratorially.
 
“Not even a little,” Cailan replied.
 
“There you have it, Loghain. Sorry, but you’ve been outvoted. You do play with your hair,” Maric said, not sounding even vaguely sorry.
 
“I hate you both.”
 
“One of these days I should really start looking into finding a new best friend,” Maric mused. “Preferably one that doesn’t hate me. What do you think, Cailan?”
 
“Good idea. Maybe we’ll find one in the kitchen,” Cailan suggested brightly.
 
“Is that your way of saying you’re hungry?” Maric asked him.
 
“Now that you mention it, I do smell cheese…” Cailan trailed off. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”
 
Alistair heard the sounds of thundering footsteps receding. That was only the second time he’d ever been in the same room as Cailan (with the first being when Cailan hadn’t even seemed to notice him the day before when he eagerly demanded to know where the armory was) and the first he’d ever been in a room with Maric who definitely hadn’t noticed him. That was good, though. It would just be awkward for everybody and he had no idea what to say to the royalty who just happened to share his blood or the war hero he knew nothing about.
 
Still…seeing – or rather hearing – them sound so happy and playful…it reminded him of the other children he’d seen with their families. It wasn’t like he wanted them to be miserable or anything it was just…he wanted so badly to be a part of that and he knew that he never would, never could. He wondered if this was jealousy. Even if he had hidden just so that he wouldn’t be noticed, he still hated to be invisible.
 
Alistair judged that enough time had passed and stuck his head out of the vase. Maric and Cailan were gone but Loghain was standing in the doorway looking right at him.
 
“Interesting hiding place,” he said simply before he too turned and walked back to that happy little family scene that a quirk of fate had decreed that he could be a part of but not Alistair. Never Alistair.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'What do you do with a drunken sailor?'


It wasn’t in Anders’ nature to turn down free sex. This had gotten him into quite a bit of trouble in the past and he really should have learned from these experiences – or so he mused when dealing with the consequences of this policy – but somehow he never did. It wasn’t exactly something that he was proud of but he was hardly ashamed of it, either. It was just one of those things about him, as constant as being a mage.
 
Anders had few constants when he was on the run and hated virtually every constant he had when he wasn’t and so the few he could find in freedom were important to him. That was why he was seriously wishing that he had never met Lydia (if that was even her real name. As he was currently calling himself Nathaniel he was in no position to judge).
 
It wasn’t that Lydia looked to be underage; there was no way an underage girl had a body like that. It wasn’t like she had an annoying voice. Sure, it wasn’t particularly appealing but it was just a normal-sounding voice and he could quite easily listen to it for the few hours that he’d know her. It wasn’t even that she had an ugly face (or that that would have stopped him because he had dealt with that on more than one occasion in the past and had had a very nice time regardless). Quite the contrary, in fact, because Lydia had smoky grey eyes and the plumpest lips he’d ever seen. Her teeth were sparkling white and perfectly straight. Her long red hair was cascading down her shoulders and looked so soft and inviting. Most importantly, she clearly wanted him.
 
Normally, Anders would have been delighted. Unfortunately…well…
 
“Oh the pirate’s life is the life for me!” Lydia sang out a little off-key. “Please, Maker, let Nathaniel sleep with me!”
 
Anders covered his face with his hands. He had actually been involved with drunk sex before although usually both parties were wasted. Just…not quite this wasted. “Why me?”
 
The bartender chuckled. “Not to worry. At the rate she’s going she’ll be passed out soon enough. You’d think that a sailor and a regular would be able to hold their liquor better but no matter how many times Lydia comes in here, she still starts to get tipsy before she even finished the first glass.”
 
“I’ll be a better time than my mum! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Lydia belted out.
 
Some of the other patrons began to cheer and clap to the rhythm – such as it was – to encourage her. She really didn’t need the encouragement.
 
“Where is she even getting these lyrics from?” Anders wondered vaguely. Why was he even still sitting here? He needed to make his escape. Somehow, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to look away from this brewing disaster.
 
“She’s making them up on the spot,” the bartender decided. “I’ve certainly never heard them before and some of them are awfully specific.”
 
“I am a girl not a giraffe! I’d love to touch his magic staff!” Lydia chimed in.
 
“Like that,” the bartender said helpfully.
 
Anders froze. How had she known? He had to get out of here. A quick glance around showed that no one seemed to be particularly alarmed but Lydia’s revelation that he was a mage.
 
“ ‘Magic staff’, huh?” the bartender scoffed. “That’s original.”
 
Anders relaxed. So she wasn’t outing him as a mage after all, she was just continuing to talk about sex. Which he most definitely wasn’t going to be having with her. Seriously, there was nothing even remotely sexy about giraffes. In fact, he was almost getting embarrassed sitting here listening to her sing about him. And was there something the matter with him that when a pretty girl – even if she was too drunk to sleep with – spoke about his ‘magic staff’ his mind first jumped to magic? By the Maker, he wasn’t getting old, was he? Perish the thought.
 
“I’d like another drink,” he said aloud.
 
The bartender quickly passed him one. “I can just imagine.”
 
“Oh, what do you do with a drunken sailor? If we have enough fun we’ll need a healer!” Lydia crooned.
 
“That didn’t even rhyme,” the bartender noted. “Have no fear, she should be out soon.”
 
“Fortunately she seems to have forgotten all about me for all she won’t stop singing about me,” Anders returned, concealing a wince. He was a healer and all of the probably accidental allusions to him and magic – because what kind of a drunk was subtle? – were driving him almost to distraction.
 
“Tonight you’ve had a bit of luck,” Lydia sang determinedly even as she began to sway on her feet. “Now, Nathaniel, let’s go and f-”
 
Mercifully, that was when she toppled over.
 
Another pretty redhead who looked like she could be related to Lydia stood with a sigh. “I’ll take her home.”
 
Anders didn’t allow himself to feel safe until Lydia had been carried out of sight.
 
“I’ve got to tell you, Nathaniel, that that is some timing,” the bartender marveled. “If she’d stayed on her feet any longer, your virtue might have been in jeopardy.” She said it with a straight face, too.
 
Anders sighed. “It’s really too bad that she turned out to be a lightweight. I was really looking forward to getting some action tonight.”
 
“I was, too,” the bartender confided. “Unfortunately, whenever Lydia comes by all the guys either leave or never take their eyes off of her.”
 
As Anders nodded sympathetically, a thought occurred to him. The bartender was a girl and not a bad-looking one either. She wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t looking for anything more than he was willing to give her. He looked over at her again to try and gauge his chances.
 
Fortunately, she seemed to have the same idea.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt was 'It was the hardest thing I ever did in my entire life.'


Everyone was staring at him. Everyone was always staring at him ever since he had become king and this was even more jarring considering that he had been quite pointedly ignored before somehow stumbling onto the throne.
 
Alistair had never been one for speeches but today was the unveiling of the far-too-big statue for the man who had died to end the Blight and so despite the fact that he would have rather slept with Morrigan than be here, he had had to say a few words in the man’s honor. Eamon had written his – mercifully short – speech and then Anora had insisted on proofreading it as Eamon hadn’t been particularly fond of the dearly departed either.
 
Alistair had barely been able to force the words out but now it was all over. Wynne was looking a little sickened at the proceedings and he couldn’t blame her. If he didn’t know full well that he’d be lectured about it later, he wouldn’t have bothered trying to keep his face impassive either.
 
Finally, the ordeal was over and Alistair followed his beloved wife into the carriage they were to take back to the palace.
 
“That,” Alistair said with complete seriousness, “was horrible. In fact, I’m reasonably sure that it was the hardest thing I ever did in my entire life.”
 
Anora gave a long-suffering sigh. “Alistair, please. It was a five-minute speech with plenty of dramatic pauses. The kindest thing you were required to say about him was that Ferelden would miss him greatly.”
 
“And I’m still rather amazed that I didn’t get struck down by the Maker after such a blatant lie,” Alistair declared.
 
“I’d say given the crowd we saw today, Ferelden will miss my father even if you happen to disagree with their opinion,” Anora argued. “Why must you be so difficult about this?”
 
“Why did you make me have to say vaguely nice things about him?” Alistair countered.
 
“Because if I hadn’t then the people might have thought that you weren’t honoring our hero’s sacrifice,” Anora explained patiently.

“I’m not,” Alistair said flatly.
 
“You don’t have to prove it,” Anora sniffed. “Now, as difficult as I’m sure this was for you it is quite over now so-”
 
“It’s not really over,” Alistair interrupted. “I will have to carry the memories of this terrible day with me for the rest of my days and I’m sure that it will haunt my dreams as well.”
 
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little?” Anora asked skeptically.
 
Alistair considered it for a second. “No, I do not,” he decided.
 
“You basically described how horrible the Blight was, how desperate we all were, mentioned that my father killed the Archdemon, and said that the people would miss him,” Anora pointed out. “That’s hardly glowing praise.”
 
“As a warrior who knows exactly what it feels like to be stabbed, I feel obligated to inform you that every word I said felt like I was being impaled,” Alistair replied.
 
“And you’re absolutely certain that you’re not overreacting?” Anora inquired.
 
“Positive,” Alistair confirmed. “And that statue is just so big, too. Did you have to put it above the Orlesian Embassy? The Orlesian Ambassador looked like he was going to wet himself.”
 
“It’s what my father would have wanted,” Anora said virtuously. “Actually…I remember that he and King Maric were talking one time. Maric was complaining about having a new statue of him crop up every time he turned around and then he asked my father what he would think about a statue of him. He said that he honestly couldn’t care less and then Maric joked that the one statue of him he’d actually like would be right where our new one is because that way he could always keep an eye on the Orlesians. My father replied that somebody had to.”
 
“I’m not surprised,” Alistair muttered. “Of course, it’s taller than most buildings so I’m afraid that I’ll need to avoid that part of the city for about…forever.”
 
“Just so you won’t have to see my father’s statue?” Anora demanded.
 
“Just so I won’t have to see your father’s statue,” Alistair agreed.
 
There was a pause. “And you’re sure-”
 
“Yes,” Alistair cut her off again. “I still don’t feel that I’m overreacting. Why do you keep asking that?”
 
“No reason,” Anora claimed. “I do hope you have some time this afternoon because we need to go over the budget.”
 
Alistair shook his head. “We’ll need to postpone that, I’m afraid.”


“Why?” Anora inquired. “What will you be doing today?”
 
“I was just forced to listen to nice things being said about your father for two hours and actually had to contribute at one point. I am going straight to bed,” Alistair declared, secure in the knowledge that he was being the bigger man here and absolutely not overreacting in the slightest no matter what Anora thought.