Long prompt is long.
A bit of background, the first part of this was from a "What if?" prompt. Tori asked, "What if Alistair never became a Warden?" and this is what I came up with. I then expanded it so that it fit this prompt.
AddictHe caught sight of them just as they crossed the bridge, coming up the ramp into the main part of the fortress.
It was obvious they weren’t part of any of the forces already gathered and waiting to face the darkspawn horde. Word had been filtering around the camp that Warden-Commander Duncan had found two recruits and they would be arriving soon. And since Commander Duncan had just passed by a few minutes before, and in the company of a rather large mabari, Alistair could only assume these were the recruits.
He shifted minutely, the plates of his well-oiled armor making little sound. For once, he was glad of the oppressive templar helm, as it allowed him to study them without being observed.
His attention was drawn to the man first, a mage—which surprised Alistair slightly. Knight-Commander Greagoir hadn’t been keen on letting the mages already at Ostagar come in the first place. That he would allow one to be recruited into the Grey Wardens was very curious, to say the least.
There was something familiar about the mage, and Alistair frowned, trying to place him. The dark blond hair caught up in a queue, the neatly trimmed goatee, and the dark eyes that observed everything as they looked around…. That was it! Daylen Amell, Irving’s prize pupil. This made things even more interesting. Why would the First Enchanter, who many thought was grooming Daylen to eventually take his position, let his apprentice become a Grey Warden? Daylen also hadn’t been a fully Harrowed mage when Alistair left the tower. A lot must have happened in the last few weeks.
Daylen’s eyes took in Alistair and his fellow templar, Ser Gerard, and then moved past them to the circle of mages working behind them. His lips twisted in disgust and Alistair stiffened reflexively. Daylen had been one of those mages who never liked the templars, and wasn’t shy about letting them know it.
Alistair gritted his teeth against the unfairness of it. It wasn’t like he
wanted to be templar. He’d been just as trapped as the mages in the tower, only now Daylen had found a way out. Jealousy flared through him before he tamped it back down. Railing against his fate hadn’t done him any good at age ten and it didn’t do him any good now. What was done was done.
At least he had this right now. He’d jumped at the chance to come to Ostagar when Greagoir had asked for volunteers to accompany the mages. He was still on guard duty, still watching the mages and it was still just as boring, but he was outside, seeing new places, and with any luck, would get to be involved in the battle. The thought of using his skills for more than hunting apostates and maleficar or ending the lives of the poor wretches who failed their Harrowing pleased him.
The two recruits were walking in his direction, and Alistair got a good look at the second one—a woman dressed in scale armor, her long dark hair caught up high on her head to keep it out of her face. She was pretty, he could tell that much. Very pretty, he realized as they got closer.
Daylen tipped his head down, murmuring something in her ear. She frowned and shook her head, gesturing toward them. The mage sighed, rolled his eyes, and fell a pace behind her. She continued walking towards them until she stood before Ser Gerard and him. This close, he could tell her eyes were a clear, bright blue, much like the sky on a crisp fall day.
She tipped her head to the side, looking at the mages behind them curiously while Daylen studiously avoided looking at them. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Ser Gerard interrupted her.
“The mages must not be interrupted. Their spirits are in the Fade.”
Alistair wanted to curse. The first pretty girl to actually walk up and want to talk to them in Maker knew how long and Gerard was being a right git before she could put two words together. He glared at his brother templar, though the gesture was useless as he still had his helmet on.
“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing for Gerard. “But they really shouldn’t be disturbed right now.”
“What are they doing in the Fade?”
“Perhaps they’re searching for darkspawn.”
Her eyes widened. “Can they do that?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, letting a little bit of a grin creep into his voice. “We’re not really supposed to ask about those sorts of things.”
“I see.” Her voice was quiet, cultured. Alistair realized she must either come from money or nobility to speak as she did, yet still be trained as a warrior. Alistair suppressed another surge of jealousy at the thought of having the freedom to choose your own path like that, of a path that
could have been his, but was denied to him long ago.
“Ser Alistair.” Gerard’s tone was icy and clipped. “Any more conversation and the mages could be disturbed.
Alistair did sigh then. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said quietly, but kindly. There was no need for Gerard to be an ass to someone who’d been nothing but perfectly pleasant to them.
“It’s all right. I understand. Thank you for answering my questions, Ser Alistair. Perhaps we’ll see each other in the battle.”
“I look forward to it. Good luck, my lady. Maker be with you both.”
She nodded and stepped back up to Daylen’s side, the two of them walking further into the camp and heading for the Warden-Commander’s fire.
What he wouldn’t give to join them, to be a Grey Warden like they were going to be. But that was an impossible dream. Even if he didn’t have his lyrium addiction to contend with, there was no way the Chantry or the grand cleric would ever let him go.
He shifted again, straightening and trying to at least
look the part of a dutiful templar. He would simply do his duty and make the best of it. Though the odds were ridiculously small, maybe he would see her in the battle tomorrow. The thought made him smile.
~*~
The battle had
not gone as any of those gathered at Ostagar had expected.
Alistair stumbled blindly forward, putting one foot in front of the other through a sheer effort of will. His shield had been dropped somewhere in his mad flight from the slaughter the battlefield had become. His sword was clenched grimly in one blood covered gauntlet while his other hand pressed against the wound at his hip, trying to apply pressure even as more of his blood leaked out to soak the purple fabric of his templar skirt.
The world was growing hazy around him—his vision kept swimming in and out of focus. Pain and hunger were taking their toll on his exhausted body. He’d had a pack at one point, filled with food and bandages, but it hadn’t been with him during the fight and there had been no chance of going back for it once the killing began.
As bad as that was, he had another, far more pressing concern.
He was out of lyrium.
That had also been in his pack—the fine, powdery substance he had to take every day lest he go mad. Well, he didn’t have his lyrium and probably wouldn’t have his sanity for much longer. He had to get somewhere, find some shelter, before he succumbed completely to the delirium. Weak as he was, he might not survive the withdrawal, but he wouldn’t have any chance at all if didn’t find a little safety, from both the darkspawn and the elements.
Almost like a prayer answered from the Maker, he came around a bend in the road, and there, set a little way back, was a small cottage. He hastened forward, hope lending his tortured limbs a brief spurt of energy.
Alistair nearly fell against the door, pounding weakly, hoping whoever was inside could help him. There was no answer, so he pounded again. And again, no answer. Dimly, he was aware that whoever owned the cottage was gone, either fled from the darkspawn, on some errand or dead. He groped weakly for the latch, and almost cried when he found it wasn’t locked and the door swung open.
Without the door to support him, he fell across the threshold, landing on his hands and knees on the worn floorboards, his sword clattering to the ground beside him. He crawled forward, managed to get up on his knees and shut the door, and then collapsed against it. His breath came in ragged pants as he sat slumped there.
Armor. He had to get his armor off. He was sweating, almost feverish, and the armor was becoming unbearable to have on now that he’d stopped moving. But his hands were shaking so badly that it took far too long to get it off. By the time he managed the last buckle and shed the breastplate and chain skirt, he was weeping.
He tried desperately to gather himself. One deep breath, then another, and another. Slightly more clear-headed, he crawled to a chair and pulled himself up, swaying unsteadily. Water. Food. Bandages.
Again, the Maker must have been watching out for him. A bucket by the hearth was half full of water—warm, not fresh in the slightest, but it slaked his thirst. A search of the cupboards yielded some dried meat, some wax sealed jars of preserves and some cheese—which was perfectly edible after he sliced away the layer of mold that covered it. Bandages came in the form of an old sheet that he tore into strips. Wadding one strip, he pressed it to his wound and managed to secure it with other strips.
He was sweating and shaking by the time he finished. He had enough awareness to know he was going to collapse very, very soon. Stumbling, he managed to make it to the other room in the cottage that held a single bed. He collapsed upon it. If he was going to die, it could be at least somewhere soft.
~*~
He would never remember much about the next few days, only vague snatches. He remembered seeing things that weren’t there, of screaming awake from nightmares he couldn’t remember. He remembered raving—begging and babbling to people who weren’t there to please,
please just give him some lyrium. He would do anything, just please make the pain go away.
When Alistair heard sounds at the door, he almost hoped it was the darkspawn come to finish him. Maker knew he couldn’t last much longer. He heard the door creak open and the sound of cautious footsteps entering the cottage. The muted sound of voices came to him as the people—people, not monsters, unless they were the monsters of his own mind made real—wondering at the armor and sword.
Oh, right, those were his, left one the floor where he’d dropped them a lifetime ago.
There was a growl, then a bark, and the sound of footsteps coming closer.
“Hafter, what are—Daylen! Come here!”
Running. Someone falling to their knees beside the bed. A cool hand on his brow. He opened his eyes, the motion an agony, and all he could see was a pair of bright, blue eyes. Where did he know those from?
The world began to fade away again, the fire and need in his blood dragging him back down. He tried to listen, to concentrate on what was being said, but it was too much effort and he caught only snatches.
“Who is…did he get here…”
“Alistair, the…in Ostagar before…”
“…wrong with…”
“Lyrium…addicted, if they don’t…”
“Can we help? Will he…”
“…less than a year, might be fine if…”
“We have to…can’t leave him…”
The voices faded away, the pain and blackness swallowing him up completely.
~*~
When he came to again, someone was supporting his head, a cup of cool water being held to his lips. He drank greedily—he was so thirsty—and his head was lowered back down. This happened several times, someone holding him, forcing him to drink water or broth, a soft voice murmuring encouragement. He cried, trying to voice his gratitude, and the voice just hushed him, and told him to sleep.
He finally woke completely from what he realized, as his eyes blinked open, was a natural sleep. The overwhelming need, the craving for lyrium was gone, or at least so muted as to just as well not exist. He was tired and achy, but nothing worse than when he was just recovering from being ill.
Alistair struggled into a sitting position and took stock of himself. He was clean, the wound at his hip completely healed, a scar the only sign that it had ever been. He was also stark naked and a hot flush heated his face.
“Ah, I see you’re awake.”
He jerked toward to door. A woman was standing there, looking at him, a slight smile on her face. She walked into the room and he hastily pulled the sheet up and over his chest. There was something familiar about her and he tried to place her.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, feeling his forehead and his pulse, looking intently into his eyes.
“Do I know you?” he blurted.
She smiled. “We met briefly at Ostagar,” she said.
That was it. She was one of the two Grey Warden recruits.
“I’m Elissa,” she continued. “We’re on our way to Lothering. We were looking for a place to spend the night and we found this house—and you. You were in really bad shape and we couldn’t leave you to die, so….”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If you’re up to it, I’d like to get you out of this bed and have you tell us what happened.”
Up to it or not, he wasn’t going to remain an invalid. Elissa had scrounged up some of the former inhabitant’s clothes, and though they were a tight fit, they met his needs. Elissa helped him into the other room where the rest of her group was—her mabari, Hafter, the other Grey Warden, Daylen, and an apostate by the name of Morrigan.
In between eating mouthfuls of stew, he told them what happened. How the darkspawn had flanked the mages, attacking them before they could even join the battle. How he and his brothers had stayed behind to give the mages time to escape. He told them how he had tried to follow once everyone around him had been cut down, but his injuries, and then the lyrium withdrawal had hampered him. He wasn’t even sure how he managed to flee from the battlefield.
In return, the Grey Wardens told him what they knew. That Teyrn Loghain had betrayed them, and the king and all the rest of the Wardens were dead. They had treaties and were gong to use them.
“One is for the Circle Tower. We could go there first and see you home,” Elissa offered.
“No!” The outburst startled them all. “N-No, I….” He licked his lips. “If I go back, I’ll have to start taking lyrium again, and I…I don’t want to. Please. Don’t take me back.”
Alistair could hear the pleading in his voice and it made part of him sick, to beg like that. But he didn’t want to be addicted again. He’d lived first hand the consequences of what having that addiction meant and he was terrified of having it again.
Daylen tilted his head, considering him. “He’s probably assumed dead. No one would ever know unless we go around telling people.”
Morrigan scoffed, but Elissa just nodded. “I have no problems with that. We should still probably go to the Circle Tower first, but we can take him with us to Lothering.”
“What about Arl Eamon?” The question was out before he could stop himself and he cursed himself for opening his mouth.
“Arl Eamon?” Elissa asked.
“He’ll help you,” Alistair said. “He’s a good man, and from what I heard at camp, he still has his whole army. He’ll help you against Loghain.”
“And how do you know this Arl Eamon well enough to say that?” Daylen asked.
“Aside from the fact that he’s Cailan’s uncle…he raised me. At least until he sent me to the Chantry.”
He could sense the shock from all of them. Elissa frowned and rubbed her forehead.
“I’ve never met Eamon myself,” she mused. “If he raised you, Alistair, it might be helpful to have you there. And if you survived Ostagar, then you can fight. Would you come with us? We need all the help we can get.”
Go with them…. He licked his lips. There was danger in going to Redcliffe, not the least of which was the Chantry. He’d taken his vows and he was pretty sure templars weren’t allowed to go rogue. He didn’t want to be anywhere where there was the chance he could be dragged back into the order and his addiction. And there were…other considerations.
“If it helps,” Daylen drawled, “we won’t let the big, bad templars get you. Not that I like templars, but Elissa’s right. You’d be useful. Help us and we’ll help you. Unless….”
Daylen grinned evilly. “Unless you want us to tell the templars where you are. And then they can take you back to the tower and all that lovely lyrium.”
Alistair’s hands curled into fists and a shudder went through him at the thought. “I’ll go," he said hoarsely. “Whatever you want. Just don’t make me go back.”
“Excellent!” Elissa said. “We’ll spend the night here and be on our way tomorrow.”
She chattered on about needing more supplies and getting him new armor, but Alistair wasn’t paying attention. He was wondering if he’d just traded in one prison for another.
Well, he thought ruefully,
at least this one wouldn’t come at the cost of his sanity. Hopefully.
Modifié par LadyDamodred, 27 novembre 2010 - 07:31 .
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