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[PheonRen]

This will likely contain graphic descriptions of violence and/or sex. Reader beware.

Contains mostly romance. Will also contain fair amounts of action and adventure.

I've only finished DA:O and not read any of the novels, so if you're a lorenik, beware as well. *chuckles*

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 02:11 .

[PheonRen]

Our story so far: On his way to Denerim, Riordan had found a young mage, Mira, who had escaped the Circle tower before the Templars had closed it off. She was fleeing from the Templars and the Circle, desperate for nothing more or less than freedom.

Taken by her determination—as she had run without even food, and by her pride, as well as her intelligence in avoiding the powerful Templars despite everything, he put her through the Joining. He then sent her back towards Orlais with the young Warden who had been intended to travel to Denerim with him.

Though they began to travel back towards Orlais, the young warden became disoriented. The pair wandered for weeks until finally, they were overtaken by Darkspawn. Mira escaped with her life only thanks to the heroic efforts of the young Darienne. They had formed a strong friendship, though not of a romantic nature, and she was in deep mourning to have lost the first real friendship of her life.

She had lost her family in order to be taken to the Circle to begin with, and the loss of her budding friendship had been hard to take.

Then, she had been lost and alone, wandering with nothing more than her clothes and the meager supplies she had taken, sobbing, from Darienne’s corpse and the Darkspawn that attacked them.

It was thus that Alistair and Wynne found her on their way to Orzammar. Wynne, who was herself old and who saw in Alistair the true King still, had accompanied him in his flight from Denerim when the Warden had set himself up as King and taken Anora to wife.

They had only barely escaped with their lives, and despite all she asked of him, he refused to put forth any effort towards anything but finding Darkspawn to kill. It was his intent to die in the depths of the Deep Roads, fighting Darkspawn to his last breath.

She had begun to give up hope of changing his path, when they’d stumbled across poor Mira, who despite all the odds against her had been fighting Darkspawn on the road. They’d joined the fray and saved her. For lack of anything better to do, they’d turned to take her to Orlais, to deliver her to the Wardens there.

Along the way, Wynne had watched the growing romance between the pair with great interest, until Alistair, in his drive to be a hero—or perhaps to kill himself—had fallen in a fight against rogue golems at some ruins.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 04:55 .

[PheonRen]

Part 1:

Wynne slowly stood up, stretching and obviously seeking to ease the pain in her knees. Mira’s eyes followed her movement, waiting for the prognosis.

“I think he’ll make it. If he wakes up within the next few hours, he’ll pull through.” She met Mira’s eyes. “He’s strong, and I’ve done all I can for him for now. The bones are knit, now we must wait to see how his brain handles the trauma.”

Mira nodded.

“Morrigan’s leftover potions helped a great deal, as well. It’s fortunate we managed to get a poultice set right away.” She stretched, easing her aching back. “I’m going to go rest now.”

“I’ll stay here with him,” Mira responded, looking back down at the sleeping form beside her.

“I thought you might,” Wynne said cryptically as she left the tent.

Mira sat beside Alistair and held his hand. Somehow, it felt like the right thing to do. Her mother had held her own hand many times before the Circle took her, but she doubted that Alistair had ever had this simple kindness extended to him.

So she sat for a time, watching the light of the lamp’s flames dance on the tent walls. At last, as the night drew in deeper around her, she settled against the cot Alistair was lying on. The hours passed, and her mind churned.

She thought of what she’d lost, and she looked over at Alistair’s face, thinking as well of what she’d gained. What she might now lose.

The lamp still burned, casting flickering, dancing light across his face. She felt tightness curl through her stomach, and tears burned against the back of her eyes.

But finally, the siren’s call of thought could no longer hold her, and she laid her head against the cot for a moment. Her eyes sank closed as she leaned awkwardly on it, her head against his arm and his hand held firmly in hers.

Just before sleep claimed her, she whispered softly, “Please don’t leave me alone, Alistair.”

She had no idea how much time had passed when she felt his hand leave hers. Then it landed on her head, warm and heavy.


*   *   *

“Mira?” Alistair felt the soft hair beneath his hand, and tried to ignore the thrill of joy that rushed through him upon finding her holding his hand.

“Alistair?” she said sleepily. Then, “You’re alive!”

She sat up abruptly, his hand sliding away from her head. “Let me look at that wound, and see how it’s knit,” she told him, her voice allowing no room for argument.

“You’re so bossy,” he said with a grin.

She looked at him without humor, “Just let me look.”

She leaned over him then, turning his head slightly, her hands running through his hair in search of the wound that had laid him flat on the field of battle. For a few seconds, he was distracted by that sweet touch…

Then he realized that she’d turned him face to face with her bosom. Soft, pale breasts peeked out the top of a properly modest robe, enticing him with thoughts of what must lie below that very alluring neckline.

He then recognized that he was leering, and how inappropriate his train of thought was. Immediately, he began to sit up so that she could inspect him from a less… interesting… position.

A truly terrible idea, if ever he’d had one. His face met hers with a loud ‘crack!’ and he was almost bounced back down onto the cot, an involuntary “ow!” yelping from his lips as he grasped at his aching head.

“Alistair!” Mira admonished as she held her nose—now gushing with blood. “What were you thinking?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said, feeling suddenly very meek and quite humiliated.

Obviously a bit cross, she said through the blood, “I wasn’t really asking, you know.”

She rummaged in a pack on the floor next to him until she found a minor poultice. Holding it to her nose like the Templars used to do with steaks—claiming they had healing power even greater than the herbal poultices—she glared at him.

Then as the healing magic in the poultice went to work, she sat down next to him and sighed.

“I’m glad you’re awake. Wynne said that if you woke up in the next few hours, that you’d probably be okay.”

Alistair groaned, “I wish I was still asleep, my head is probably going to kill me anyway.”

“I’ll go see if Wynne’s got anything that will help,” Mira told him, leaving the tent.

He groaned again, telling the empty air, “If you must. But she’ll probably make me wish I was dead with her concoctions.” He sighed and waited.

Soon, Wynne ducked into the tent, followed by Mira. “Drink this,” she told him.

He did, gagging and choking on the taste. “You make these things taste like that on purpose, don’t you?” he accused her when he’d recovered.

She took the flask back and started out the door, stopping only to say, “I don’t. But if it will make you duck next time a golem rock comes flying at you, I’ll thank the Maker for doing it.”

“You’re a bad person, Wynne!” Alistair called after her. “A very, very bad person!”

Then as his own voice made his head pound again, he grabbed at it once more. “Ugh, I wish it worked faster.”

“Perhaps if you’d be still, it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable,” Mira scolded him, her voice tart.

“Why’re you picking on me?” he asked, now feeling slightly petulant.

She sighed and sank down next to him. She looked away when she spoke, her voice suspiciously thick. “I thought you were going to leave me alone there for a while.”

His chest tightened. Would she miss him—Alistair—or would she miss her fellow Warden?

“You’re the one that reminded me that the Wardens can be remade,” he told her, fighting the fog that was overtaking his mind from Wynne’s potion.

But it was too late. He slid into darkness, unsure if it was real or a dream when he felt her hand on his bare chest and heard her say, “Yes, but you can’t.” He suddenly wanted to stay in this dream forever.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 02:15 .

[PheonRen]

Part 2:

Mira woke several hours later to find that once more Alistair’s hand lay heavy and warm on her head. She lay still for some time, enjoying his touch, though he had probably done it automatically in his sleep.

Shifting, she found herself incredibly sore, having slept the whole night leaning across Alistair’s cot. She stretched and snuck a look at him again from under her eyelashes. He was Templar, and thus she should be nowhere near him. She knew, though they’d never discussed it.

She hadn’t told him that she’d run from the Circle, nor had she told Wynne. Though, she was sure that Wynne sensed something familiar about her. They’d never had chance to interact, and Mira had kept entirely to herself when she wasn’t at lessons.

That didn’t mean that Wynne had never noticed her, and since joining the pair, Mira had often noticed the older woman looking at her with a distant look on her face. She shivered, thinking what this man might think of her if he knew she had run from the Circle. If Wynne knew, would she tell?

Would Alistair hate her? Would he drag her back?

And what chance did they have together, with this terrible secret standing between them? She couldn’t tell him, and she couldn’t tell Wynne. She’d simply told them the incident with Riordan in the shortest possible way, not explaining more.

To her relief, they hadn’t asked. But someday, she felt sure it would come up. And then it would ruin everything.

Reaching out, feeling tentative and unsure, she picked up his hand and slowly ran her thumb across the soft skin of his wrist. Then, with a last look at his sleeping face, she stepped out of the tent.

The air was cold, her breath steaming out into the morning like a cloud of magic. They were in the mountains, and had crossed into Orlais two days ago. She tried not to think of being taken to the Gray Wardens here and left.

Alone again. No more free than she had ever been. Frustration, resignation, and sorrow warred in her. She had fled to freedom, only to find that she couldn’t keep it.

Shivering now, she left her thoughts behind to set a fire in the central pit of their camp. Soon it was roaring cheerfully, and she set about preparing for the day. It wasn’t long before some cakes were cooking in the skillet, and the scent of bacon filled the air.

“That smells delicious,” Wynne said as she came out of her tent.

“You look tired,” Mira told her. “I’m happy to keep an eye on things after you eat, if you like. A little more rest will do you good, if we’re to travel again as soon as Alistair is ready.”

“He will be ready today. My magic is restored, and I should be able to finish knitting anything that’s still damaged. But I will rest, it’s a good idea.” And so saying, Wynne began to eat.

Mira left her there, taking food in to Alistair. As she came in, he woke and looked up at her, welcome in his warm tawny eyes. “Is that for me?”

She nodded, fighting her feelings and her fears.

“Really? It smells great! I didn’t know you could cook.” He sat up slowly, careful to keep the blanket from falling away from his waist.

“I think it makes Wynne feel good to cook for us. It’s her way of showing us that she cares.”

“You could be right,” Alistair said. He waved the fork in the air, “But this is good, really good!”

“Thank you,” she told him, then went back out to the fire to get her own food.

When she went back in a half hour or so later, he was sleeping again, and she grinned as she heard a light snore. She’d have to tease him about that later, as she was often regaled by stories of his dwarf companion, Oghren, and his snoring.

She walked back out and found Wynne bustling about the campsite. “Go rest,” the older mage told her, shooing her actively towards her tent.

Too tired to argue, Mira obediently went into her tent and fell asleep nearly faster than she could lay down.

When she woke, she heard voices at the fire. She thought Alistair must be up, so she slipped out of the tent, a smile on her face. To her surprise, neither of the two men sitting at the fire across from Wynne were Alistair.

She noticed immediately that Wynne looked tense and unhappy, but she had no idea why that might be. Feeling defensive of this woman who in only a short time had become almost like family to her, she stepped closer to try to catch what they were saying.

One of the men saw her, and turned to look at her. He was dressed in full plate, though his helm sat on the ground beside him. “Well, what have we here?” he said upon seeing her. He shot a look at Wynne, who looked even more displeased.

“A Gray Warden,” Wynne said, her voice sharper than the cold air around them.

“Is it true that Gray Wardens are above the law in Ferelden?” the man asked, his voice mocking and cold.

Wynne didn’t answer, her lips pursed sharply. She looked at Mira as if trying to send some warning that Mira couldn’t fathom.

The man stood up and bowed to Mira as she stepped towards the fire, feeling much less confident now. “Chevalier Montreux at your service, My Lady,” he told her. Then he walked around the fire, coming near her.

He reached up to run one cold metal gauntlet down her cheek. “What is such a stunning creature doing out here in the mountains with only an old lady for an escort?” Something in his voice made a shiver run down her spine.

Yet she was confused. She had never been called beautiful in her life. This man seemed somehow suave and urbane, and she felt flattered to be spoken to in such a way. Yet his voice and his manner were unfamiliar, she having been cloistered in the Circle for her whole life.

And Wynne was looking at her with a mixture of fear and warning that made her blood run cold. She wanted to cover herself in magic, the most familiar form of protection she knew.

But she did nothing.

“I am going to the Gray Warden headquarters, Ser,” she told him politely. She was of noble blood, but she was a mage. She’d never been called “My Lady” before, and for some reason, she decided not to correct him.

Perhaps it was perversity, but the idea of being called such a title made her feel a little less like nobody.

“Well,” he told her, looking at her with obvious appreciation, “We mustn’t let you travel alone. As a Chevalier, it’s my duty to save maidens and slay darkspawn. The pleasure of the first makes the work of the second so much more bearable.”

The other man laughed, and Wynne positively vibrated with suppressed outrage.

Somehow, despite the seeming courtesy of Montreux’s words, Mira was anything but comforted by this. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Wynne’s sharp shake of the head, covered quickly with a cough.

She realized that, at least for the moment, she would have to comply. But she didn’t mention Alistair, and the men didn’t ask why there were three tents. She couldn’t help but wonder and fear what would happen when he emerged.

Until then, though, she cooked a lunch while Wynne engaged the men in surface conversations about fashions and politics.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 05:26 .

[PheonRen]

Part 3:

Alistair awoke to the sound of strange voices and the smell of food. He was at first disappointed that Mira wasn’t there, but pushed the feeling aside. It was foolish to expect her to be there at his side every waking moment.

He felt rather dizzy and sore, but regardless, went through the motions of putting on his armor. Caillan’s armor was all he had left of his hopes for Ferelden. It was what reminded him of Duncan and those many Gray Wardens whom he’d come to know and then lost.

It was his sanctuary now, of sorts. A sanctuary he could carry with him wherever he went—a bastion against the storms of life.

He lifted his head and smiled as Mira’s voice carried to him from the fire. Perhaps there was another bastion in his life. Only time would tell, but already he felt a growing sense of connection with this new Gray Warden.

Stepping out of the tent, he felt something dark and dangerous pass over his heart. Mira sat at the fire, but not alone. Not even alone with Wynne.

Beside her sat a man who looked like something out of legend or myths. He was large, wearing shining silver armor that glittered brighter than the snow around it. His hair was sleek and black, his eyes deep and warm in a rugged face.

He was the epitome of what Alistair had heard many maidens giggled over and wanted and all dreamed of capturing… “Tall, dark, and handsome.”

And he was openly flirting with Mira, who was smiling at him with a mixture of interest and fascinated fear. Somehow, Alistair didn’t think it would be too difficult for the stranger to wear away that bit of fear.

A knife twisted in his gut, the fresh memory of a man whom he’d come to count as friend, gifting Loghain, the greatest traitor Alistair could imagine, the right and the privilege of the Joining.

Now Mira sat at the fire, flirting and laughing with a strange man. And just last night he’d begun to hope… but no.

For after all, who was he? He was a bastard nobody. He’d always known it, and he should have never forgotten it. He suddenly felt dirty wearing Caillan’s armor.

But it was too late now. He walked bravely towards the fire, greeting Wynne warmly. She was ever with him, since he’d helped restore the Circle. He felt certain that he could trust her, and his heart warmed a bit to realize that at least there were some people—so very few—that could be trusted in the world.

“And who is this?” said the jovial man at Mira’s side. “Is this your husband, then?” he asked, leaning towards Mira, clearly uncaring as to the response.

“No,” Alistair said.

“Yes,” Wynne said at the same instant.

Alistair looked at Wynne and blinked. What in the Darkspawn horde had come over her?

“He’s her fiancé,” Wynne told the stranger. “Alistair, this is Chevalier Montreux, and that is Chevalier Ambrose. Sers Montreux and Ambrose, may I present Ser Alistair Theirin.”

Alistair was set aback by Wynne’s introduction. He had never claimed his father’s name, and didn’t plan to start now.

“Ah, a Noble, is it?” Chevalier Montreux asked.

Hearing the disappointment in the Chevalier’s voice, Alistair was reminded of what Leliana had once told him; that the Chevaliers in Orlais were above the law. They took what they wanted, when they wanted it, and any who stood in the way were killed.

Suddenly, the scene took on a far more ominous, even frightening atmosphere. For Wynne to behave as she was, using his father’s name to establish him as a Noble; meant that something was terribly amiss.

He thought then that it was possible that Mira wasn’t betraying him. Rather that she was either being manipulated, or coerced. But what could he do?

“My what?” Mira said, her voice shocked. “Alistair?” She was looking at him as if she didn’t even know him. A flash of hurt flickered through him. Did she not trust him to do his best to protect her?

“Mon cherie, this is not your betrothed?” the cunning Chevalier Montreux asked Mira.

Seeing something in Wynne’s face, Mira said, “We were keeping it a secret for now. Until it could be announced more formally.”

Her performance was weak, though, and the grin on the Chevalier’s face told Alistair that he also noticed it. His heart, had it been possible, would have sunk several feet farther.

The Chevalier wanted Mira, and the deeper they got into Orlais, the easier it would be for him to take her. By now, Alistair understood her reactions. She spoke often of freedom, and he knew that, by claiming her as his betrothed, it had looked to her like he was trying to steal her freedom—what little of it remained until they reached a Gray Warden station.

But she may well have just traded him in for a man who would destroy her freedom in ways Alistair would never have dreamed of doing. For a moment, Alistair considered pulling Maric’s sword out and finishing it all then and there.

He didn’t, though. Because it wasn’t his choice. And because he was a foreigner here, which meant he could be under laws he didn’t know or understand. Also because, what if she really did like this man, and want to be with him? There were too many factors involved for him to simply attack them unprovoked.

A big part of him, the jealous part, wanted to do it anyway. Especially when she smiled as the Chevalier handed her plate back to her.

It took all of his courage not to stomp too hard as he walked over to the fire to take some food; although the fact that his head was pounding again helped to keep the stomping to a minimum. Fortunately. Somehow, he just knew that if he showed how upset he was, Montreux and probably Ambrose as well would laugh at him.

He ate around the cold knot in his belly as he listened to Mira responding to the Chevalier’s story about an Orlesian donkey or something. Thinking of the alternative way of saying it, he thought perhaps the man was telling his own story—the story of an Orlesian Ass.

The thought made him grin, and he looked up and caught Mira’s eye. She smiled back, and of a sudden he felt lighter.

Maybe he would just have to show her who was better for her. Bringing his food over, he sat down beside her.

Then, feeling suddenly both very brave yet very foolish, he took the opportunity the situation presented. She could hardly object if he kissed her right now, after agreeing to at least play his betrothed.

So he did.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 06:30 .

[PheonRen]

Part 4:

“I forgot to tell Wynne that we wanted to keep it quiet for now. Can you forgive me?” Alistair asked her, his golden eyes so close to hers, his breath mingled with hers.

Then he kissed her.

She’d never been kissed before. In fact, it was rare that anyone touched her at all.

It was shocking. It was beautiful. It was strange. His lips caressed hers, then his tongue slid across them. She gasped… and then he was inside her. Their tongues touched, and he teased her with his.

She didn’t know when her hands moved, but she noted distantly the feel of his soft skin against her fingers, realizing that he had shaved recently, registering this in some dim part of her mind.

Then he was gone, and she was left dazed and confused.

“So, do you?” he was looking at her expectantly.

She blinked at him. He was asking her a question, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was. He expected an answer, and all she could do was gape at him like a nightfish caught in the glare of a lamp.

His eyebrow rose, and he asked her again, “Can you forgive me?”

“Yes…” she breathed, still lost in that bewildering, sudden kiss. Then, trying to pull herself together, she added, “Of course.” She probably would have forgiven him for anything—anything at all—in that moment. Certainly for whatever it was he was asking forgiveness for. If only she could remember what it was!

“Good,” he told her, a grin that bordered on triumphant flickering across his face.

He was so confusing! Somehow, she thought she should slap him for that look, but she couldn’t make her mind wrap around the reason why.

He went back to eating, and she watched him for a few seconds, realizing she was actually jealous of his food! Then, belatedly, she became aware that she was being incredibly rude, and turned back to her own food.

Conversation flowed around her, and she tried to eat, finding her food to be surprisingly uninteresting and almost foreign now. No wonder people did that so often!

Although, she thought honestly, she would never get anything done if he did that to her a lot. Or ever, really… she was surely going to be useless the rest of the day, as she already couldn’t concentrate on a thing that she was supposed to be doing.

Had someone asked her a question? Ah, yes. The Chevalier wanted to know if she was excited to see Orlais’ capital.

“I know little of Val Royeaux, Ser. Although I have always heard it is extraordinary.” Though she spoke her answer to Chevalier Montreux, every bit of her being was hyper-aware of Alistair beside her. Would anything besides him ever truly be extraordinary to her again?

The man continued his conversation, and she managed to murmur the proper phrases as he spoke, earning her smiles and the occasional pat on the hand. Still dazed, she found herself smiling almost nonstop.

But for some reason, Alistair was becoming more and more taciturn as time went by, withdrawing from conversation. She felt him withdrawing from her, as well, and slowly the elation and the smile began to fade.

What was wrong with him? Perhaps he didn’t like kissing her.

The thought deflated her. He was playing his role, that was all. He had no idea that he had turned her entire life and her whole world upside-down with that single kiss.

He heaped more food on her plate, and she found she was really quite hungry. Starving, almost.

Beside her, the Chevalier frowned, watching her eat. “I’ve heard it’s unhealthy for a woman to indulge in excessive consumption,” he told her.

She almost choked on the bite she was swallowing. Had he just indirectly called her a pig?

“It’s part of being a new Warden,” Alistair defended her. “Every new recruit experiences incredible hunger. I hardly think you’re in a position to fault her for it.”

Humiliated, she managed a small smile of thanks to Alistair, and then excused herself. The Chevalier looked pleased, and she wanted to slap his smug face. How dared he make such a comment to her?

She went into her tent and began to pack for the day’s journey, short though it would likely be. She was tearing down her tent when she saw Alistair doing the same. Even in heavy plate armor, he drew her eyes like a magnet.

Somehow, the day felt like a disaster, and it was barely more than half over.

And Maker help her, but she was still starving!

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 01:22 .

[PheonRen]

Part 5:

The Chevalier was going to be nothing but trouble, Alistair thought. But still, he had to allow Mira her own right to choose her future. In Orlais, even the Wardens were below the Chevaliers, if they were not of noble blood. Everything here was different.

They still had to fight and train, but beyond that, they lived at the whim of the Chevalier that had chosen them. So Mira could feasibly become both mistress and Warden, just as any other Warden was allowed to have what life he chose outside of the Gray Wardens. Most didn’t, because it was too difficult a balance, but some few did.

He wished that he’d never brought her here, but it was too late now. He began to load his tent and supplies onto the packmule they’d purchased for the trip, pausing only a moment when he found her already there, loading her own gear.

He focused on keeping his hands off of her—he had to, because all he wanted to do was touch her. Despite his good intentions, every touch between them burned itself into his mind. A hand grazing as he locked a strap, or bumping into her as he worked another strap beneath the mule brought its own sort of delicious agony.

Yet as he worked, he couldn’t help but wonder. She had responded to his kiss, he was certain of it. It wasn’t his first kiss, though it was the first one he ever initiated. She was obviously not practiced at it herself, by any means, but in her inexperience, she had responded. Hadn’t she? Or maybe he was mistaking reluctance for inexperience.

He suspected Montreux would know. The thought angered him, and distracted him.

Perhaps he was being unfair. The life of a Chevalier’s mistress was quite lavish, according to Leliana. She would have fine surroundings, be showered with gifts and expensive clothes and bright baubles.

If Leliana’s stories were to be credited—and he’d never caught her in a lie—the mistresses of the Chevaliers tended to have even more gems and fine clothes than Anora herself, Queen of all Ferelden.

But it was a gilded cage, and little more. They weren’t free until their “patron” tired of them. And the worst part, the part that twisted his stomach into terrible knots, was that they were obligated to meet his needs as a man.

Even thinking of it at the time had enraged Alistair. But now that he could see the possibility on the horizon for Mira, it was eating him alive.

Still, though, if she cared for him, and if she wanted that kind of a life, then it wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it? For her, anyway. Many women considered it to be a great honor to be claimed by the Chevaliers.

He jerked too hard on a strap, earning himself a quick kick to the shin of his plate boots. He murmured an apology, soothing the mule gently in apology. It was hardly the mule’s fault that Mira was infatuated with a beast of a man!

Hope curled up in him again, as if determined to live according to its own will and not the unpredictability of reality. She had responded to his kiss. She really had. And she was looking at him again from under her eyelashes, and behind a strand of soft blond hair.

She looked at him a lot. That was a good thing, right? He knew because he looked at her a lot… he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He saw her shiver, and pulled a cloak back out of one of the packs, resecuring it behind him. This time, when he draped it around her shoulders and tied it for her, it wasn’t an accident when he let his hand rest against her throat as he tied, and then as he smoothed the cloak across her shoulders.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 02:03 .

[PheonRen]

Part 6:

She didn’t know what to make of him. He walked behind her with Wynne, the pack mule trailing behind him. She could feel him there, and underneath the voices of the two men who walked with her sandwiched uncomfortably between them, she could hear the distant murmur of his voice.

That kiss was still distracting her. And his unexpected kind gesture in draping a cloak around her had tugged at her heart. She wasn’t used to anyone even noticing her.

But more than that, she’d felt the heat of his hand on her skin as he tied it. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering what it would be like to feel his hands on her, to feel him—

“Beg your pardon, sir?” she asked stupidly, for perhaps the fifth time.

Montreux had just asked her a question, and she’d not followed it. He smiled indulgently at her, the way one might look at a particularly slow witted person. She gritted her teeth, aware that he had every right to think that of her, given her behavior.

“Is the landscape very much different here than in Ferelden? I’ve heard that it’s nearly inhospitable there.” He repeated his question for her.

“No, Ser. I find it’s actually little different. Perhaps once we are out of the mountains, it will be otherwise.” She had to focus not to turn around and look at Alistair. He had never bored her with pointless, meaningless questions and conversations. Did the man really have to ask such an obvious question? Did he think the mountains looked different from one side to the other?

“Yes,” he agreed with a drawl, “I suppose you could be right.” He then launched into a long discussion of the various sights of Orlais that it was absolutely necessary for her to see, finishing up with, “and of course, it would be my very great pleasure to take you there, and show you…. A great many things that you do not yet know about.”

Now, he was leering at her. Without a doubt.

She was suddenly uncomfortable in the extreme. She didn’t know for sure, as she didn’t understand the joke, but she was sure something was amiss. She recognized the looks the pair were throwing to each other over her head, she wasn’t as stupid as they thought. She might not understand the perverted joke, but she knew one had been made.

“I believe I’ll go and speak with Wynne for a few moments,” she said stiffly. “If you’ll pardon me.”

She found herself deftly pulled along by a well-placed, strategic arm. “Now come, I believe she’s in deep conversation with your fiancé,” Chevalier Montreux told her in a smooth, almost oily voice. “Surely you wouldn’t wish to be rude and intrude on them? Perhaps he is seeking advice on how to handle such a… prize… on your wedding night, eh?”

He leered again, and she went from uncomfortable to nearly terrified. It was altogether inappropriate that he should say such things to her!

And deeply disturbing in its own way. She found herself responding to the thought, the idea, with a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. But it felt wrong, walking beside this man and having that gut-fluttering reaction.

She found her strength and her will through sheer determination. She’d always been socially awkward, so she didn’t care if she seemed so now, though it was somehow more humiliating with this very polished and arrogant man.

“I’ll take my chances,” she told him, making her voice as cool as she could.

Pulling away, she stopped and waited for Wynne and Alistair, while the pair ahead slowed down considerably. It was obvious even to her that they didn’t want her to have the private talk with Wynne that she really wanted.

She felt that something terrible was happening, but she knew she was too naïve to really get it. For her, that made it that much more ominous and frightening.

Somehow, she’d felt that becoming a Gray Warden made her stronger, made her better, made everything in the world that much brighter—despite the darkness she felt coiling inside her, somewhere just outside of her conscious awareness.

Instead, she was just as naïve and dumb as ever. She was further out of her element than she’d ever been. She was fearful and felt isolated and alone, surrounded by four people as she was.

If only she could talk to Wynne without the Chevaliers hearing.

If only she’d stayed in the Circle where it was safe. With only abominations, demons, and undead to deal with, rather than frightening, cryptic men with too much charm and a hard edge of cruelty.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 03:10 .

[PheonRen]

Part 7:

“I think you underestimate her strength and intelligence, Alistair,” Wynne told him. “She’s stronger than you realize. I certainly agree with you that his motives are unquestionably bad, but it’s Mira that I think you are mistaken about.”

“But do you know what he wants to do to her?” her asked, seething and gritting his teeth. “And she’s just walking along with him, like she doesn’t even care!”

“It’s easy to see that she’s uncomfortable, Alistair. If you aren’t able to see it, then perhaps you’re looking at the wrong things. I don’t think that her hips can give you as much information as you seem to think.”

“What?” he objected. “No, no, no. I wasn’t looking at… you know… her hind-quarters.”

“Certainly,” Wynne said, her voice swimming with insincerity.
“I gazed...glanced, in that direction, maybe, but I wasn't staring...or really seeing anything even.” He was definitely flustered at this point, nearly having forgotten what they’d been talking about. He glanced again and felt his face go red.

“Of course.” It was a bit too smug, he thought.

“I hate you. You're a bad person.”

They walked along in silence for a time, until he brought it up again. “What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we… I don’t know… rescue her, or something?”

“Nobody likes it when others interfere without certainty, Alistair. We should wait to find out what she wants from us. But I fear for her, too, and I’m not certain how much time I still have left.”

“I know I have to let her make her own decision,” Alistair said by way of agreement, refusing to even think about losing Wynne.

“Do you?” she asked him, her voice carrying doubt.

“Of course I do,” he told her, a bit huffily.

“What if she makes a decision you don’t like?”

He didn’t like the question. “I’ll have to live with it, I guess,” he finally answered.

Then he saw Montreux put his arm around Mira and practically drag her along for a moment. She went white, and then turned red, and his fists clenched at his side.

“You’re going to dent them,” broke into his thoughts from Wynne’s direction.

“What?” he asked, feeling stupid.

“Your gauntlets. If you keep clenching them like that, you’re going to dent them.”

“That’s silly,” he told her, distracted for a moment.

“Perhaps,” she replied easily.

“You’re not worried about her at all, are you?”

“Of course I am. But I trust her to make the right choices for herself. Can you say the same?”

He wasn’t sure. He looked back at her, and was pleased to see Mira waiting for them to catch up. She fell in between him and Wynne, as the Chevaliers slowed down to allow them all to catch up.

Unexpectedly, she grasped his hand, something perfectly natural for her to do if she had indeed been his fiancé. He couldn’t help but react by curling his hand around hers and looking at her with a smile.

She blinked at him for a second, then smiled back. A slow, bright, warm smile that opened up his heart just a bit. It felt good; it felt right to be holding her hand.

Well, it did at first, but the closer they got to the other two men, the harder she held on. Until the plates of the gauntlet began to rub together and bite into his hand a bit.

Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “You’re going to dent it.”

“What?” she asked him, and he grinned down at her.

“My gauntlet,” he said softly to her. “If you keep holding onto it that tightly, you’re going to dent it.”

When she once more blinked at him in surprise, he laughed. She grinned back, easing the pressure on his gauntlet significantly.

She had a beautiful smile. He wanted to see it more often.

Modifié par PheonRen, 06 décembre 2010 - 03:39 .

[PheonRen]

Part 8:  (This section contains gore)

She didn’t know what it was, but a pressure began to build inside her. It was an unaccountable rage, a sort of strong uncoiling of that “thing” inside her. She’d felt it before, and each time…

“More Darkspawn,” Alistair said beside her. “They seem to crop up everywhere, don’t they?”

She thought for a second that he’d gone somewhat crazy, until the ground erupted beneath her, knocking her backwards as a Hurlock emerged.

She didn’t pause to wonder how he knew, Darienne had always seemed to just know, as well. Several other Darkspawn surged up from the ground, and Alistair threw back his head, a discordant, sharp bellow rolling out from him, enhanced by magic.

She moved away, and tossed a glyph at Wynn’s feet that would knock any attackers backwards. Protecting the healer always came first for her. Then she turned her attention inward, and called to the ancestral spirit of the spider.

As it dropped over her and her body changed, she turned her thoughts once more to the battle, loosing a jet of webbing onto the Hurlock in front of her.

She watched in fascination as Alistair slashed at a Genlock. The diminutive creature slashed with its sword, but Alistair swung hard with his shield, catching it beneath the jaw. Its head snapped back, and she had to work to ignore the foul-scented blood that sprayed into the air, landing on her with a patter barely heard above the sounds of battle.

The two Chevaliers were locked into battle some yards away, and she realized that they were in trouble. A part of her wished she could just let them die, but she knew she didn’t have it in her—no matter how nasty the man could be sometimes—and moved to help.

She called once more to the ancient animal ancestors, and sent the spider back to the void. Then she targeted one of the attacking Hurlocks and focused until her magic took control of his mind. When he was confused enough by her psychic attack, she delved instantly into the monster’s mind and made his nightmares real to him.

He stood quaking in terror, even as Alistair arrived and slashed his head off in a single swing.

Blood rose again to blanket the air, heavy and dark. She shuddered to think what that blood alone was capable of, if handled or ingested without the help of the mages.

At last, the battle was over, and she slipped slightly in the cold blood of the monstrous Darkspawn as she moved to inspect one and divest him of his coin and a health poultice, covered in slimy, thick blood. She cleaned the package off before tossing it in the packs.

“The Darkspawn are coming into Orlais?” Ser Ambrose said incredulously. “I thought the Blight had been stopped in Ferelden!”

“The Archdemon was killed,” Wynne told him, “but that doesn’t mean they’ve all crawled back into their holes yet.”

“I want a bath,” Mira said. She always felt that way after a fight with Darkspawn. Dirty, from the inside out.

Alistair gave her an odd look, before turning away, and she felt hurt. Had she said something wrong? Bits of blood, brain, and bone clung to her and her garments, and she wanted to be free of the stench. Was that so bad?

“I agree,” Wynne said to her, her voice comforting. “A bath would be lovely. I believe there’s a small town not far ahead. We could clean up at the inn there, if they have one. If not, the Chantry usually has a place for travelers to use for such things.”

“Excellent idea, ma’am. We should get a move on,” Montreux agreed, sweeping his hand widely ahead of himself, indicating that Mira should precede him.

She could think of no way to politely refuse, so she gritted her teeth and started walking. To her surprise and pleasure, Alistair fell in beside her before Ser Ambrose could take up his position on her other side.

She wanted to take his hand again, but his presence alone was bracing. It would have to do, because she was too dirty for anyone to want to touch her. Somehow, it never occurred to her that he was dirty as well.

Modifié par PheonRen, 07 décembre 2010 - 04:15 .

[PheonRen]

Part 9:

“You don’t like being dirty, do you?” Alistair asked when Montreux’s attention was momentarily diverted to Ambrose.

“I despise it,” Mira told him. “I… well. The place I lived was always meticulously clean.”

He wondered, but he didn’t ask. He could only assume that she’d grown up in the Circle, but he had no way to know. Who knew what all had happened during the recent upheaval.

He felt a sense of inevitability draw over him. She would never live this life. She was beautiful. She deserved beautiful things. She deserved to be safe and live in comfort.

She deserved to be clean.

There wasn’t a way to live this life and stay clean. It was simply impossible. It couldn’t ever be done. Fighting was dirty, and messy, and it was tough. It was a hard life, and maybe women in general weren’t cut out for it.

It made sense, in a sexist sort of way. He felt a bit embarrassed to even think that way, but the fact was that she really wanted a life different from the only thing he had to offer. But she was a Warden. Surely Riordan saw something in her that was worth having on the battlefield besides just magic?

“Alistair?”

He looked at her, trying to breathe again as his air was stolen by her beauty—even dirty and dusty and covered with droplets of stinking gore.

“What?” he asked, and realized he sounded cross. Too late now, though…

She looked away, color rising across her face. “Nothing, sorry.”

“No, go ahead and ask me. I’m just thinking too much, that’s all. It’s stupid, I really shouldn’t do it at all.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really.” Then she pointed ahead, “I think I see the town.”

He frowned. She was trying to distract him from whatever she’d wanted to say. He’d scared her off. And now there he was frowning again!

The path narrowed, and he placed his hand on the small of her back to help guide her along the trail. She flinched, and he felt like a bumbling fool. She didn’t want him to touch her, that much was clear.

Miserable and even more upset, he followed her down the path, negotiating shortly with the Innkeeper for two rooms. One for him, and one for the women. He left the Chevaliers on their own—they were not part of his party, even if they had forced their way into it.

The rooms were good ones, closest to the baths. That should make Mira happy, at least. It wasn’t as if he were able to do it. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so… good. Maybe that was the problem.

The Chantry had always warned him that he would come to no good in life.

He watched her and Wynne go into their room and turned to go into his own.

“Alistair, please—“ she was cut off as the Chevaliers walked past into the baths.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Well, I was going to say, you please take your bath first. Mira and I need to have a little talk. Okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you like.”

She said nothing more, simply shutting the door and leaving him standing silently in the hallway.

He sighed and went inside. Some time later, the Chevaliers walked past, talking and laughing, heading down to the common room for an ale. Or food. Or something. He didn’t want to think about it any further.

He went and had his bath, though it did little to nothing to ease his aching heart. He had lost Duncan, and then he’d found the Warden he’d followed to be a callous, hard man. This same Warden had charmed the Nobles of Ferelden with lies and trickery, to the point where they accepted him when he overthrew Loghain.

But that hadn’t been the worst part. Although he had deposed Loghain, he’d actually turned the man into a Warden! He had rewarded him after his horrible, vile treachery!

Now this.

His life was falling apart. He sat quietly in the baths, head in his hands. Then finally, with a sigh, he went into his room with a light knock on the door to let Mira know the room was clear for her use.

He heard the doors open and close, and laid back to try to take a bit of a rest. He had a feeling that it would be a long night of tossing and turning for him.

Modifié par PheonRen, 07 décembre 2010 - 07:07 .

[PheonRen]

Part 10:

Mira was finally getting to take a bath. She had insisted that Wynne take her bath first, so that she could go and eat and get back for a rest more quickly. Besides which, their talk had been… enlightening.

In a very ugly way. She understood now what the Chevalier wanted from her. She understood his rights. She understood her lack of them. She understood a great deal more about some of the things he had said to her.

And she was scared. She was, actually, very scared. She didn’t know how she was going to escape this situation. Wynne hadn’t pointed it out directly, but had indirectly expressed that if Mira wanted… someone else… she should probably focus hard on figuring out a good excuse to go back to Ferelden.

The problem was, for Mira, this was an issue in and of itself. Once simply one of many faces in the mage’s Circle, she was now an outlaw, a renegade… an apostate.

It was almost an epithet, that word. It even sounded coarse and harsh when said aloud. And it was hers now.

She had deferred to Wynne when Wynne made her points about returning to Ferelden. But she knew she could never go back. She would be hunted and caught. And probably even Alistair, who claimed to no longer be a Templar, would hate her for what she really was.

She couldn’t stand for him to find out. He would definitely hate her.

She looked up with a wan smile when Wynne popped her head in.

“Baths are ready for you, Warden.” Wynne often called her that, as if she could encourage and strengthen Mira’s resolve with just that one word.

She was right, and Mira stood up and grabbed the pack containing clothes and bathing supplies. Locking the door behind her, she went into the baths and poured the waiting buckets into the tub.

Soon, hot water was easing her. She released her hair and it flowed out into the water around her. It was her only rebellion against Circle rules. They wanted hair short, or bound. So hers was bound. All the time.

But it was hers, and it was long like she wanted it. The others told her it was wild and ugly and out of control. And maybe they were right. But it was like her mother’s. That made it worth every bit of mockery that she took about it.

When she was done, she realized she hadn’t brought her brush, and decided it was the best idea to go to her room and brush it there, anyway. Another traveler might like to use the tub.

So she quickly washed the dirty robe in the vacated bathwater, and rinsed it with some of the water from the spigot. She had already filled the buckets she’d emptied, and they sat at the hearth heating for the next person to need the baths.

Content that she had finished, she went back down the hallway to the room she shared with Wynne. But as she sat down to brush her hair, she realized that she had left her hair clasp in the baths. Hoping no one had found it, she hurried out to retrieve it. It was a short way, and there was a lantern hanging at the other end of the hallway, so she didn’t take the lamp with her this time.

As she moved down the hallway, she heard the Chevaliers coming up the stairs, clanking and clanging in their armor as they came. They stopped at the top of the stairs as someone else came up to them, and started talking.

Not wanting them to catch her in the hallway, and hoping they couldn’t see well into the shadows, she scurried into the baths and clipped the hair clasp quickly into the top of her hair. It wouldn’t hold, of course, but it didn’t need to past her getting back to her rooms.

She stepped back out, and headed for her room, the trio still talking at the other end.

She didn’t make it. As she passed the small alcove between her rooms and the baths, she was grabbed by powerful arms that wrapped around her like steel. Her scream was prevented by the hand across her mouth, and she found herself suddenly with her back against the wall and her body wedged between a side wall and the decorative table in the alcove.

In the gloom, she could barely make out Alistair’s face. He pressed against her, fitting them both—barely—into the tiny alcove. His finger pressed against his lips, and she nodded.

Then his arm was around her, under her wet, messy hair and pressing against her back. It was like a hot brand against her skin, and she realized that she was wearing a very light robe—her magical robe being in her rooms to dry from being washed. He was wearing a robe, as well, heavier and thicker than the one she was wearing.

“Listen,” he told her softly, so quiet she barely heard him.

She strained her ears towards the men down the hallway.

“—‘s the one we want. I’m sure of it. We tracked him here. We have to kill him and the mage he’s with.” The voice was unfamiliar, with an accent she didn’t know.

Her eyes flew to Alistair’s, and he nodded. She felt it more than saw it, but her heart sank. They were after Wynne and Alistair.

“You can have them. But I want the young one.” That was unquestionably Montreux.

“She’s the one we’re after,” the man sounded irritated now.

“I thought you wanted the old one?” Montreux asked.

“She’s as good as dead already. She’s too old to be a threat, and she’s got no claim to the throne by right or by blood. The mage is an apostate, and a valuable one to the Queen’s enemies. She’s to die as well.”

Mira gasped, surprised. How could she be a threat to the Queen? They did mean her, didn’t they?

“What was that?” the man sounded worried, almost alarmed.

Mira’s heart raced, and she tried to stifle the sob of fear that was rising in her throat.

Then she didn’t have to try anymore. Alistair’s lips slipped over hers, and she was lost again in his touch, his taste, his arms around her. She felt his body against hers, so powerful even in his robes.

The thunder of her heart roared in her ears, and she clung desperately to his chest where her hands were trapped between their bodies.

Dimly, distantly, she heard, “There’s no one there. You’re hearing things.”

“We’d better take this elsewhere, anyway. Just to be sure,” the unfamiliar voice said.

The sounds of footsteps drawing further away were lost in the feel of Alistair’s tongue slipping between her lips, teasing and tempting her own. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her head still so that he could plunder her more deeply.

She could only hold on, else the world fall away from her and she be lost in the Fade, dreaming of this man holding her forever.

His other hand pulled her slightly away from the wall, still wrapped around her waist. She felt herself pulled more snugly against his body, felt him jutting against her through the cloth of their robes.

She moaned, and realized that his idea of kissing her to keep her silent wasn’t working out the way he intended. Her breathing was ragged, and loud, and she couldn’t hold back the soft sounds that were rising from her as he kissed her fiercely, possessively.

It wasn’t like him. Yet it was so very like him in another way. So like him to do the unexpected.

Then the moment was shattered before she could lose complete and total control and try to climb him in her desperate need.

Her hair clasp fell, far too loose in her hair to withstand the movement of her head and his hand. As it clattered to the ground, they broke apart, both panting and shocked.

“I—“ she said, confused and dazzled. Uncertain.

“It’s okay,” he said raggedly, his voice husky and deepened. “I think they’re gone. For a while now, really.”

He stepped closer to her, his face thrown into harsh relief by the distant lantern at the top of the stairs. “Look,” he started, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I know you don’t want me to touch you, you’ve made that—“

It was her turn to touch his lips with a finger.

“That’s not true,” she told him. “That’s not true at all. I don’t want—“

“There you are! Come see who’s here, Alistair!” Wynne broke in from the other end of the hallway. “You come, too, Mira.” She sounded happy, excited.

Alistair looked at her for a second longer, before walking off down the hallway. “I’ll be right there. Just going to put my armor on.”

Wynne disappeared, and Alistair’s door closed behind him.

Mira laid her hand across her fluttering belly. She didn’t want him to touch her when she was dirty because she didn’t want to make him dirty. She didn’t want to taint the boyish kindness that was Alistair.

And she didn’t want to go with the Chevalier, either. A tremor of dread ran through her. She had to get away from them all. She had to escape the Chevalier, and she had to save Alistair—from her.

She took a series of deep breaths, the kind that she would have taken to prepare herself for battle or for especially difficult magic rites. Then, thus girded, she headed to the common room to find out who their guests were.

Modifié par PheonRen, 07 décembre 2010 - 07:52 .

[PheonRen]

Part 11:

Alistair stood for a moment against the door, trying to gather his thoughts. Maker, but he wanted a drink.

He started pulling on armor as fast as he could go. He had to go warn Wynne that there were assassins on their tail—and most likely the Chevaliers, as well, who for all intents and purposes, seemed to be collaborating with them.

He was unsurprised by the fact that Mira was an apostate, except that he wondered why and how she could be so innocent, not being part of the Circle. But given that he now knew he was the target of Anora and Royce’s manhunt, he knew he couldn’t trust what he thought he knew about her.

She might be naïve, but he knew for sure that he was. The only person he trusted was Wynne, and then only barely. She had started nagging him about drinking and about his duty lately.

He ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t drink that much. Not really.

Not compared to, say, Oghren, anyway.

And he had no more duty. No people, no clan, no one. Even Wynne admitted she would be gone soon.

Now he was escorting some insane apostate mage around and trying to save her from herself—when he didn’t even know if she wanted to be saved at all!

Darkspawn take it all, he needed a drink!

Pulling his gear on as quickly as he could, ignoring the cold of the wet tunic and breeches, he stopped just long enough to lock the door behind him. He clomped down the hallway, hearing voices below in the common room that seconded as a tavern.

Familiar voices. Welcome voices. He stomped down the stairs, happy at least to see the irascible Oghren, and the sweet but intimidating Leliana. He almost didn’t mind that even Zevran was there.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asked, happy to see them.

“We’re coming with you.” Leliana said, her voice accepting no argument on the matter.

“Been hearin’ tales that ya been actin’ like a big baby and drinkin’ like a sodding puddle,” Oghren growled, scowling at Alistair like a thunder golem.

“You can still drink me under the table,” Alistair told him, “so I’ve got a lot of making up to do.” He waved the barmaid over and asked for an ale.

“I’ll be drinkin’ ye under the table when I’m dead, boy,” Oghren answered dismissively.

“Come on, Oghren. I’ve already got Wynne on my case, surely you’re not going to natter at me like a mother, too?” he was irritated, the joy he’d felt at seeing his friends diminished by what amounted to Oghren telling him off.

Then Mira joined them, and ordered some food. Alistair studiously ignored her, though he couldn’t stop being aware of her. Every sense screamed her presence.

The introductions were made, and then Mira’s food was there, and his ale. He drank it like it could save his life—though at best it could save his heart.

He caught Oghren looking at him with a look of disgusted irritation. “Don’t swill it, boy. If yer gonna be a proper broken-down drunk, the least ye can do is ta drink it properly!”

“It’s my ale, Oghren. Go to the Darkspawn if you think you’re going to tell me how to drink it.”

“Ye keep drinkin’ like that, and ain’t no decent woman ever gonna get with ya. Prolly not even the indecent ones, neither.” And Oghren laughed.

“Weren’t you the one that told me that ‘freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose’?” he asked the nattering dwarf.

“Tis true, I did said that. But ye ain’t s’pposed ta listen to me, boy! Ye ain’t no dwarf, ye can’t drink like that, yer body can’t take it.”

“I’m going to die young anyhow, so what does it matter?” He took another draw off the ale.

“Listen, boy. When Branka was down there in them deep roads, I weren’t happy. I couldn’t move on cause I didn’t know what was up down there. An’ I couldn’t have her with me, neither.” He sighed and shifted on the bench, drinking from his own glass.

“Ye gots people what’s depend on ya. Ye can’t be drunk all the time. Ye needs yer wits about ya.” Oghren drank another chug of ale. “Ye might not have family, an’ that’s sodding crappy. But ye gots others, and ye needs ta pull yerself together for them.”

“No one’s relying on me, Oghren. And nobody really cares, nobody really knows me,” Alistair said.

“I care,” Mira said softly.

The thick ale was already affecting him, he realized. But he couldn’t stop the anger that welled up in him.

“What do you know about it? Have you ever cared about anyone in your life? You’re a mage. Do mages even feel anything at all? I mean, look at Wynne. She’s following some deadbeat loser drunk around, and it doesn’t bother her in the least. And the only reason you’re around me at all is because you need someone to get you to the Wardens—the OTHER wardens!” He thumped the cup of ale on the table and glared at her through a red haze.

Her face got whiter and whiter with every word, until she looked as pale as a wraith. When he was done speaking, she stood up and slapped him, the sound resounding bitterly in the small pool of quiet that had fallen over their table.

“Don’t you talk about Wynne that way, or I’ll blow your head off with a fireball!”

He felt like someone had hit him in the stomach with a Nug Crusher. What was he saying? What was he thinking? She was right, he shouldn’t have talked about Wynne that way.

“He’s drunk, Mira. I’ve come to expect these things from him. Perhaps we should retire to our room to eat.” Wynne stood up, graceful and serene as always.

“Wynne—“ he began.

“Leliana, we have three beds, would you care to take the third?” she cut him off, dismissing him as if he weren’t even there.

The Bard got up and followed the other two women, grabbing Mira’s plate and taking it with her. Alistair realized the delicate mage had almost missed another meal. Thanks to him, this time.

He dropped his head in his hands, and shot Zevran a look of pure spiteful fury when he laughed. “You’ve gotten better with the ladies, Alistair. I never thought I’d see the day!”

Then he strolled off towards the rooms, no doubt having one as near the women’s quarters as he could get.

Oghren stood up, too. “Freedom’s just another word for ‘sodding lonely,’ boy,” he told Alistair before walking off up the stairs in the wake of the vanishing Zevran.

Alistair dropped his head into his hands, pushing the flask of ale away. Then it struck him that he hadn’t told them about the conversation he’d overheard earlier. And now he couldn’t remember what it was. Someone wanted to kill him, didn’t they?

Modifié par PheonRen, 08 décembre 2010 - 07:13 .

[PheonRen]

Part 12:

Alistair stood in the hallway. Food made its way down his face and off of his armor onto the ground. Why did it always seem to end this way? He sighed. It wasn’t even good food.

He almost went to bed, but then realized he should have a bath. Grabbing the Templar robe he’d kept, he headed for the bathing room. Stripping quickly, he lit only one candle. He intended to just get the food of off himself, then go to bed.

The hearth fire had almost died, since the Inn only kept it up for the evening hours, not into the night. But the water in the buckets was still hot enough to give him a quick bath. He sank into it, leaving the buckets unfilled, too drunk to care how rude it was.

That was the good thing about being a cheap drunk. One hearty ale and he could forget everything. He only wished he’d gotten to finish it up. He’d be happily snoring on the table downstairs, rather than awake and trying to forget what he’d just said.

Had he really said it out loud? Had he really thought such a thing? About Mira?

A slight sound in the room was all that alerted him. It was enough, even in his drunken state. He bellowed, letting magic infuse it from his training as a Champion. He heard a body hit the floor, and someone cursed as the magic staggered him.

But Alistair was down to his undercloth, and nothing more. He was in serious trouble here. He was in range of his weapon and shield and he grabbed both in the few seconds the bellow had granted him.

Then there were running feet in the hall outside, and even as Alistair lowered himself to one knee to keep the shield between him and his attackers, his back to the wall for added protection, the door flew open.

The others flowed in, and the fight was on in earnest. What surprised Alistair the most, though, was that they’d come to save him at all. He would have let himself rot in the deepest corner of the Fade.

There were more in there than he’d thought possible, and he found that he was having difficulties standing up to them. He feared he’d be unconscious soon. Pain tore at him, driving the alcohol from his system in a surge of adrenaline.

He dodged an uppercut, sleekly cutting off a dagger thrust with the shield. Then he hacked low with the sword, taunting the assassin as he fell, his belly open and screams turned to strangled gurgles as his guts spilled out the new opening in his abdomen.

He stepped over the fallen man, closing on the next. With an upward slash, he drew the rogue’s attention to his sword. Then he used what strength he had left to batter once, twice, then three times at the other man with the massive shield.

The would-be assassin fell to the ground, writhing, with multiple broken bones and a punctured lung. He was out of the fight and an assassin with a crooked nose was even now trying to circle around Mira, who had turned into a savage bear.

Before he could make it there, though, she swiped with one powerful paw and ripped the man’s face open, blood spuming across the room in a slow arc. She lunged forward, her jaws fixing on his throat until she pulled back, bringing blood and flesh with her.

He stared at her in shock, the battle over with that last act. A shiver ran down his spine as she growled and dropped the gory bundle of dripping flesh. The bear stared at him with too-intelligent eyes, and started for the door.

Then more battle in the hallway caught their attention, and they all ran for the door. There, the Chevaliers were engaged with four more assassins, to their surprise.

These were quickly dispatched with the five of them added to the fray. Although Alistair wasn’t sure who was fighting whom.

The battle was over then, and Montreux turned to them. “I’m glad to see you all alive. These men approached us earlier, wanting us to help them kill you.”

“I don’t trust you,” Alistair told the other man.

“Alistair, you’re drunk. Perhaps you should go to bed,” Wynne told him.

He shot her an angry look, then decided she was right. “I’m fine,” he told her.

“You told him you wanted me for yourself,” Mira accused him, surprising Alistair.

Then he remembered. That was the conversation he’d overheard!

“Of course I did,” the suave Chevalier said, walking over to her. He reached out and ran a hand down the side of her cheek, human once more. “Only a fool wouldn’t want you.”

He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, “But I want you to come to me willingly.”

Alistair wanted to hit him. He wanted to sink the sword into his black, black heart. He was a lying liar.

Everyone was staring at him. Had he said that out loud?

“Had a bit much to drink tonight?” Montreux drawled. “I suggest you watch yourself while in Orlais, Ser. Most Chevaliers will not be nearly as forgiving as am I.”

Then the man turned back to Mira. “I hope to see you in the morning, My Lady.”

She muttered something Alistair couldn’t hear, and then stood stiffly as Montreux took her bloody, messy hand and pulled it towards his lips. He stopped when he saw the blood there, and then lowered her hand, patting it with his other one. “Perhaps another time, no?”

Then he went into his room, followed by Ambrose, who shot a superior, amused look at Alistair before going into his room.

“You should really stop drinking, Alistair. Everything you think falls straight out of your mouth the second you think it. No matter how unrealistic, stupid, inane, or even downright insane it is.” Thus saying, Leliana followed the other women into the room, closing it behind her.

The lock on the door sliding home made him cringe. It sounded final and cold.

He caught Oghren and Zevran looking at him with looks mingled with pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped, wobbling into his room, not bothering to lock it behind him.

The clatter of his armor as it was dumped just inside the door startled him, and then he heard the lock click home.

Moments later, he covered his head with a pillow as Oghren’s snoring erupted from the stuffed chair near the chair. Why were they even bothering?

But sleep claimed him before he could ask the question. Or not. He wasn’t sure.

Modifié par PheonRen, 09 décembre 2010 - 02:23 .

[PheonRen]

Part 13:

“What’s the news from Ferelden, Leliana?” Wynne asked when the women were safely within their room, cleaning themselves with basins of water pumped out of the single cold hand pump in the room.

“Terrible,” Leliana told her. “Anora has already passed several laws that have come down hard on the necks of the Freeholders. Most of the nobles support her actions, because it strengthens their lands. But it forces the Freeholders to claim fealty until death by the end of the next year.”

“What? The Freeholders claiming fealty? That sets us back some three hundred years!” Wynne was outraged, Mira realized, having never heard so much emotion in the older woman’s voice since she’d known her.

“It gets worse,” Leliana went on. “She’s got many of the less scrupulous Banns entirely in her camp, and most of the nobles as a group. But she’s stepping hard on the commoners, and the military are very unhappy as well. Most of them are of commoner stock, and their families are suffering already after just a few weeks of her uncontested rule.”

“Royce,” Wynne said, her voice decisive as well as derisive.

“Yes. He was always like that,” Leliana agreed.

“Who’s Royce?” Mira asked, feeling confused by the conversation in general. She’d never done well in politics.

“He’s the Warden that Duncan rescued when the Couslands were attacked,” Wynne told her. “We followed him, thinking that he would help stop the blight and help restore order to Ferelden. In the beginning, we all believed in him.”

“But he was cruel from the beginning,” Leliana told her. “He was always stealing, cheating, lying, and bullying—when he wasn’t outright extorting. He is not a nice person, and since he’s noble, he holds the commoners in very low regard.”

“Oh,” Mira said, her voice sounding small and still confused.

“When Arl Eamon called the Landsmeet, Royce allowed Riordan to put Loghain through the Joining, rather than have him put to death. He considered it a good strategic move, the more Wardens to kill the Archdemon, the better.” Wynne continued.

“Aye,” Leliana added, “and he then set himself up as King, and took Anora as his wife to strengthen his claim. When at last the time came to kill the Archdemon, he sent Loghain to his death. Mostly because Morrigan wouldn’t pay him to help her perform her ritual. She said it couldn’t be done that way, but he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care. If there was nothing in it for him, he cared nothing for it.”

“And now he’s King, with nothing to stop him from his extortionate ways.”

“I didn’t expect him to act so quickly to oppress the people,” Leliana said sadly.

Wynne just sighed and shook her head. “We should get some rest now.”

Soon they were in their respective beds, little more than cots, really. But it was the closest that Mira had come to a bed since she’d fled the Circle. The comfort of it should have drawn her quickly into sleep, but it didn’t.

Instead, she rolled and tossed and tried not to think… which only made her think more.

Modifié par PheonRen, 09 décembre 2010 - 03:30 .

[PheonRen]

Well, it doesn't look like anyone's even reading, so I think I'll ask the Mods to delete this. I'm feeling pretty silly at this point, I just realized I'm posting away for nothing, lol.

Silly writer feels silly.

[PheonRen]

In honor of the single PM I got (chuckle) and because the mods don't seem to respond at all to requests (grumble), I thought I'd post this link to the story which I am putting up on fanfic dot net: http://www.fanfictio...1/Come_What_May

For that 1 person, maybe 2, from here who are reading it.

All the best to all, and Merry Christmas!