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[Siduri]

This is basically playthrough fic: my gimmick is to take the conversations between Alistair and the PC and flesh them out in a way that shows how much more is going on beneath the surface.

This is my first post to this forum, so please let me know if I need to add anything in the way of disclaimers, etc...


Between the Lines - Ostagar

1. “Look there,” Alistair said, gesturing toward the three hanged men, strung up across the swampy bit of land that passed for a path. Daveth and Ser Jory flinched away from the sight, but Elissa headed closer, staring intently at the swollen and purpled faces.

“Poor slobs,” Alistair said--just to say something, really, because the moment was stretching out and becoming strange. “That just seems so…excessive.”

She whirled on him, her face filled with a shocking fury. “These are men,” she hissed, “they have families--“

“I--“ Alistair stuttered, taking an involuntary step back. She looked at him for a moment longer, as if trying to discern whether he was a man or darkspawn himself; then the cool and beautiful mask settled over her face once more.

“My brother,” she said, “was sent out to scout these Wilds.”

“Oh,” Alistair breathed. “Oh, Maker. I’m sorry.”

She turned away. When she started walking again, the three men followed her in silence. There were more corpses as they went, and Elissa stopped and stared into each of the bloated faces.

Alistair watched her with a strange sort of envy. He wished he had a sister like that, someone who’d spit fire on his behalf. But if he fell in this battle, there would be no one out there searching for his body. Goldanna, he thought--and made himself a promise that he’d finally seek her out, once the fighting was done.


2. Elissa Cousland had balls of red steel. The only one of her group to survive the Joining, and--when the screaming had stopped and Duncan helped her to her feet--all she had to say was “It’s over. I’m fine.”

Alistair had hoped he wouldn’t have to watch any of them die, but if there could only be one survivor, he found himself glad it was her. Even if she did think he was an Andraste-touched fool. She didn’t say a thing when he handed her the pendant containing the dark blood that mingled now with her own: only fastened it about her neck in silence, her face unreadable as always.

He’d learned she was a Cousland just before the ceremony, while he and Duncan were preparing the chalice. He’d asked about the brother, and in a few brief words Duncan had sketched out for him the betrayal at Highever. It made sense then, the weird calm that she carried with her, and the frightening rage that he’d glimpsed beneath.

“If she survives,” Duncan said, “I hope you can help her to see that her duty here comes before whatever thoughts of vengeance she may have. I am afraid at the moment she may view us merely as a means to her own ends.”

“I’ll do my best,” he’d said. “But I don’t think she likes me much. And frankly she scares me a little.”

“At Highever,” said Duncan, “she was a girl like any other, albeit one with uncommon potential.”

Right, thought Alistair, girls are scary: but he’d kept his mouth shut and done what was necessary for the ritual.

I can handle myself better than most, she’d said when he’d told her women were scarce in the ranks of the Wardens. He was, for her sake, glad to see it was true.


3. She snapped at him again after the war council--the war council she was called to, and he, of course, was not--when he protested that his place was on the battlefield with the rest of the Grey Wardens, not holding a torch from the safety of the tower walls. “Stop your whining. We have an important job.”

“I get it, I get it,” he grumbled. “Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“I think I’d like to see that,” she said dryly, and Alistair did a double-take: Was that a joke? From her?

“For you, maybe,” he said, and found he was keeping his voice soft, almost as if she were an ill-used horse and he was afraid she might spook. “But it has to be a pretty dress.”

And then she actually laughed: a brief, startled sound, as if she’d never expected to laugh again. Alistair decided on the instant he was going to make Elissa Cousland laugh as often as he could.


4. But in the tower everything had gone to hell. “Maker’s breath!” he swore. “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place,” she said with that same deadly calm, and this time he was the one who snapped.

“Right, because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about this later.”

She eyed him for a moment, just long enough for him to start to feel bad--how must it be for her, fresh from the Joining and plunged into a burning hellscape--and then shrugged the shield from her back. “Here. Take this. It’s better than yours.”

He accepted it reflexively, and could tell as soon as the weight settled into his hands that she was right. It was made of grey iron, balanced for both attack and defense, and bore the Cousland family seal: probably a family heirloom, and certainly a finer shield than any he had ever borne. She was already unbuckling the longsword she wore as well. “This too,” she said.

He had wondered why she was lugging around an extra sword and shield, when Elissa herself seemed to prefer to fight with the absolute largest weapon she could find. It was a little ridiculous in the Wilds, watching this slip of a girl trying to swing a Chasind greatsword that was bigger than she was, but it probably had to do with why Duncan had chosen her. It was spirit more than skill that determined who would survive the Joining, and afterwards there were physical changes: already she was swinging that greatsword with a strength that seemed unnatural.

“This--“ he said. “I can’t take these.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “They’ll keep you alive. You can give them back when the darkspawn are dead.”

“All right,” he said, and thought no more of it at the time. It was only much later that he realized-- it was there in the burning tower, with a gift of arms, that he became her knight.

Modifié par Siduri, 21 septembre 2010 - 11:52 .

[mousestalker]

You may want to redo the formatting, it looks borked in my browser.

[Siduri]

Yep, it sure was borked. Is it better now?

[Yankee23]

I like this. I hope you do more. And the formatting looks ok to me, so whatever you did worked.

[mousestalker]

Much better. And the story was fun as well.

[Siduri]

I wrote up the next bit...


Between the Lines - After Lothering



1. Elissa and the swamp witch were getting along beautifully. At this rate, Alistair thought darkly, they’d be braiding each other’s hair and engaging in pillow fights by the next full moon. Not that he wouldn’t have paid to see that. Especially naked pillow fights...under the moon...

Pull yourself together, Alistair. It helped if he imagined that in the Revered Mother’s voice.

No matter how often he tried to warn her about the witch, Elissa persisted in treating Morrigan (and her mother) with the most careful of manners: and they, in return, were perfectly nice to her. But the witch took a wicked delight in pestering him, especially when he was lost in thoughts of Duncan.

One of the last things Duncan had said to him was I hope you can help her to see her duty. Elissa Cousland was the only other Grey Warden left in Ferelden now, the last of what had been for such a brief time his only family. So he kept a careful watch over her: taking, when he could, the blows that were aimed at her--even though she seemed to delight in charging headlong into the worst of danger.

He was awake, watching, when she woke screaming from the first of her nightmares.

“Bad dreams, huh?”

She looked, in the ruddy light of the banked fire, so young, and so vulnerable. The porcelain mask had cracked. She stared at him, her eyes huge and afraid. “It seemed so real…”

“Well, it is real, sort of.” He told her what little he knew, about the archdemon, and how it would call to the Grey Wardens through their tainted blood. She only listened. He wondered if the way she looked in fire’s light was how Duncan had met her at Highever: a girl like any other. “Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too.”

She opened her mouth to say something: but bit it back. Instead she buried her face in her hands, scrubbing briskly at her eyes and cheeks. After a moment she raised her head to look at him again. “Thank you, Alistair,” she said simply. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners.” He almost winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth, because he’d left such an opening: You think you’re witty, do you?

But she didn’t take it. “Do you want to talk about Duncan?” she asked gravely.

His eyes burned with sudden tears, forcing him to stare into the fire until they were gone. “You don’t have to do that,” he said roughly. “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

She tilted her head. “He was like a father to you. I--understand.”

And then he was talking, about how it felt to know that Duncan had died alone--and about how wrong it was that a great man had died, and he, useless Alistair, was left alive. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I understand completely. My entire family was murdered just recently. I left my parents there, in Highever, for Howe’s men to butcher. I don’t know that I had any choice, but still--I left. I lived, as they wanted.  And they died. Maybe I betrayed them. I don’t know.”

It might be the longest speech he’d ever heard out of her mouth. “How stupid of me to forget,” he murmured. “Here I am going on and on about Duncan and you…I’m so sorry.”

She turned her face away, just a fraction, and he could almost see it settling across her features--the still, beautiful mask. “There’s no need to apologize,” she said. “I just wanted you to know that I understand. And I’m sorry about Morrigan. She doesn’t--she can’t--she doesn’t have any idea.”

Alistair sighed, and gave up trying to understand women. “Thank you,” he said, and in that quiet darkened moment it seemed to be enough.


2. There were other conversations by firelight, after that first night. He found himself looking forward to them. Morrigan kept to herself; it was most often him and Elissa in the quiet of the night, looking over their weaponry or making small repairs to their armor. She asked about the Grey Wardens, and he told her what he could. He asked her about Highever, Duncan’s city, and she told him of its ancient castle and its bloody history. He even told her a little bit about his childhood--about growing up a bastard in Redcliffe, although not whose bastard he had been.

He should have told her. It was selfish not to. But she was thawing perceptably: smiling more often at his silly jokes, even venturing to make one or two of her own. He could see, now, the girl behind the icy mask, and he liked her. It could all change once she knew the truth about him. And though the road to Redcliffe wasn’t long, he wasn’t willing to lose even one of those easy, companionable nights. There was little enough to look forward to these days.

He put it off till the very last moment. Redcliffe Castle itself was in view when he finally stopped her. “Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, uh, should probably have told you earlier.”

She eyed him warily. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I’ve never liked it, that’s for sure.” He took a deep breath, and laid it out as plainly as he could. “I told you before that Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the palace and he took me in? The reason he did that was because…well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan…my half-brother, I suppose.”

She looked at him in stunned silence. He ran a hand through his hair. “I--just say something, all right?”

“So…” she said slowly. “You’re not just a bastard but a royal bastard?”

Relief exploded out of him in laughter. “Ha! I guess I am at that. I should use that line more often.” He felt his shoulders unclenching as he scanned her face: was she not angry? Truly? “Everyone who knew either resented me for it or coddled me,” he said softly. “Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know, as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

“It was Cailan who kept you out of the fighting,” she said thoughtfully, “and it raises my opinion of the man, too. At least he knew better than to risk the entire Theirin bloodline on the front. Maybe he wasn’t as foolish as he seemed.”

Alistair blinked. “You didn’t like Cailan?”

“I liked him fine. I especially liked the way he said He will hang when I told him about Howe. Put an admirable crispness into the words. I just wish he’d kept himself alive to back them up.” She caught herself then, biting her lip in sudden chagrin. “You weren’t--close, were you?”

“We never spoke,” he said. “Well, maybe once. Maric and Cailan had come to Redcliffe to visit the Arl. I was very young then. We were introduced. I believe I said, ‘Greetings, your Highness.’ He said, ‘Ooh! Swords!’ and ran off to the armory. So, yes, that was the extent of our relationship. We drifted apart after that. Very sad.”

She didn’t laugh. “Does Loghain know? About you?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He was King Maric’s best friend. I don’t know if that means anything, though. I certainly never considered the idea that it might be important.” Alistair shook his head. “At any rate, that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.”

“It’s important, Alistair,” she said. “You’re the heir to the throne.”

“Let’s hope not. I’m the son of a commoner, and Grey Warden to boot. It was made very clear to me early on that there was no room for me to be raising rebellions or any such nonsense.”

“Raising a rebellion,” she pointed out, “is exactly what we happen to be doing.”

He sighed. “Can we just move on? And I’ll pretend you still think I’m some…nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

At that she looked--sad? Why would she be sad? “That’s not really what you think, is it?” she asked, with an uncharacteristic gentleness to her tone.

“No, I…I suppose not. At least I have a chance to make things right. And I’m not alone.” He turned away then, before she could see him getting all maudlin. He might be back in Redcliffe, but he wasn’t a child anymore.

Modifié par Siduri, 23 septembre 2010 - 03:05 .

[Siduri]

Between the Lines - Redcliffe

1. Redcliffe was in shambles. Stories of the walking dead; a demoralized militia barely holding to its chain of command; terrified villagers waiting only to die. And in Bann Teagan, a leader entirely insufficient to the task. He was a good man, but with the eyes of an adult--and a soldier--Alistair could see that his weakness would doom the village. He’d even refused to institute a conscription.

Elissa took command at once, bullying, bribing, and exhorting Redcliffe’s defenders into something like fighting shape. Every able-bodied man would be on the lines. It seemed to come very naturally: the teryn’s daughter, showing her breeding. It was a side to her that Alistair would not have guessed at. Yes, their own rag-tag band of misfits accepted her leadership, but who else would they follow? The swamp witch? It was true that Alistair himself might have led them, but frankly he’d sooner defer to the dog.

He’d seen her in battle. She was a force of destruction, but she fought with no subtlety, no finesse, and certainly no thought for the safety of herself or others. It had forced him to become a more mindful soldier, to compensate: she didn’t carry a shield, so he tried to use the one she’d given him to keep her from harm. He hadn’t thought she’d ever noticed.

But that night, as the dead rose up and bore down on them in a wave of horror, she turned to him: “Alistair,” she said. “Protect those men, not me.”

He only nodded. And then it was battle. For some of it they were shoulder to shoulder; for some of it, back to back. And for some of it she was running across the battlefield, delivering terse orders: “Morrigan! Healing, over there! Archers, hold your position!” It was so unlike how she usually fought: as if she was, with great effort, holding herself back from the release she found in battle-frenzy. When he understood what she was doing he tried to help, by keeping an eye on the battlefield himself, and going where he was needed before she had to direct him.

And they saved the village. Saved them all. As dawn came, and the dead fell back to earth, he saw her eyes sweep slowly over the barricades. She was counting heads, and he counted with her. They hadn’t lost a man. He wouldn’t have thought it possible if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

She turned to him, eyes shining. He threw an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him, just for a moment. “I think we work well together,” he said.

Bann Teagan tried to give her a helmet. After the ceremony, she insisted that Alistair take it. “I can’t see through that thing,” she said. “Feels like I have a bucket on my head.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” he said. “You’re just worried that it will mess up your hair. Girls.”

That won him one of her rare grins. “You’re twice the girl I am,” she said.

“Oh, three times, at least. My hair’s much prettier.”

“It is,” she agreed. “How do you get it to do that flippy bit in front?”

“He uses my poultices,” Morrigan broke in tartly. “He thinks I don’t know, but I do. My elfroot salves are intended for your wounds, Alistair, not for your hair.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alistair said loftily. Not only was elfroot wonderful for manageable hair, it also added shine.

Morrigan snorted. “And I should get the helmet. If not for my magic neither of you would be alive, let alone that herd of bleating sheep they call a militia.”

“You know what,” Alistair said, with a pleasing sense of being the bigger man, “that’s probably true. Do you want it?” And he held it out to her.

“Of course not,” Morrigan said witheringly. “It would ruin my hair.”

So he kept the helmet. Turning it over in his hands, it made him think: perhaps leadership isn’t so bad after all. He’d seen, now, what it could do.

Modifié par Siduri, 25 septembre 2010 - 06:11 .

[LadyDamodred]

I've always enjoyed little vignettes and original scenes that expand on what the game gives you.



Very nice. Keep 'em coming.

[Siduri]

Thank you!

[Jadiefever]

I'm of Lady D's opinion. I like it a lot.