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laurelsofhighever · 1 month ago

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 16/? Chapter Rating: M Chapter warnings: Gore, canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

The dead swarmed. They fought poorly, demons that inhabited loose, heavy meat and were unused to the coordination required for jointed limbs, but they cared nothing for injury. In the gasp of striking one down, three more might rush from behind, snarling through broken throats, teeth gleaming with the rot of their putrid flesh. Some were still recognisable in the torchlight but most, corroded by the spirit essence driving them, had decayed to little more than skeletons, their features and vanities sloughed away to leave only vast, clawing hunger.

With a yell, Alistair cut one down in mid-air as it leapt for him. Flames licked up its back, unheeded, the stench of burning, rotten flesh enough to turn his stomach despite the cover of his face mask. He shoved it back. Another shadow loomed up on his right, but before it could strike an arrow took it in the throat hard enough to knock it backwards. Outlined against the patchy moonlight on a nearby roof, Leliana was already sighting down another target.

In the breath of space the creature’s death allowed, he scanned along their line to see Ser Perth and those of his knights still standing on the back foot but holding their ground. Sten was easier to see above the throng, hardly disadvantaged by his lack of armour and swinging his poleaxe in great, fluid arcs that cleaved everything in front of him with terrifying efficiency but left him vulnerable on the flank. And there was Rosslyn. Her dog glued to her side, she knocked back one of last remaining undead with her shield then flicked her sword up in a brutal slice that opened it from navel to chin. A slop of half-melted organs spilled out with its shriek of rage, but before it could lunge, a flash of white steel took off its head.

Turning away in revulsion, she caught his gaze across the battlefield. In the face of shared danger their earlier argument had faded into insignificance, but Alistair was still careful to keep distance between them as he jogged over to her.

“Do you think that was the last of them?” he panted. Around them, other undead were being dispatched, the spirits possessing the corpses forced to flee the damage done to their temporary vessels.

She shook her head. “I saw some pull back when the charge didn’t break through. Something clever has a hand in this.”

“Maleficar?”

“If it is, then –”

A shout went up from one of the roofs – an archer, waving his arms and pointing down towards the village square.

“They’re coming from the lake!”

They shared a glance.

“Take your people,” Ser Perth commanded, already directing the others to shore up the barricade. “We’ll hold here in case it’s a bluff.”

“Stay with them,” she said.

Before Alistair could protest, she had turned, calling Sten and Morrigan to join her in a mad dash down the gauntlet of flickering, smoky torches. Above the sound of clanking armour and the ragged saw of her breath, the shouts of the defenders rose in her ears, drawing her onward.

Most of the torches in the square had been snuffed out. What few remained guttered under the chantry eaves, where a writhing mass groaned against the barricades, grasping to break through to the precious life beyond. Rosslyn barely paused. With a roar, she charged the line; rotting heads swivelled ponderously towards her, just in time to be sliced clean through by her blade, her fury enough to drive them back, gibbering with excitement. Teagan shouted for her defence. The villagers rallied, teeth gritted against the horror of their enemy. Though not well armoured, these corpses were still fresh enough to be recognisable, grotesque, leering husks that parodied the smiles of loved ones as they clawed for their prey and were cut down.

For an eternity the fighting tilted on a knife’s edge, the renewed vigour of the defenders pitted against the gaping hunger of the dead, the litter of bodies between them indistinguishable in the carnage. The twitch of a limb might be an injured comrade reaching for help or a demon clinging to its host, and it did not matter. Rosslyn’s arms ached as she carved through them. Condensation and sweat soaked her armour, her feet numb with cold, her eyes straining through the darkness to mind what she hit. The dead had adapted to the new point of attack and with sheer force of numbers slipped free of the pincer she had intended.

And then a faint murmur reached her battle-clogged ears, a low hum that grew into a cadence of song that seeped through the air, seeming to lend brightness to the torchlight. The walls of the chantry were too thick to tell which canticle it was, but as the music swelled the fighters at the barricade took heart from the voices of their families, the sound of defiance that braved the dark inevitable and strove for the glimpse of dawn at the end of the night. And slowly, bitterly, the wave of undead was beaten back.

The last corpse fell as the first threads of colour wove into the lightening sky, leaving in its wake a stunned kind of silence as those still alive, dazed and exhausted, looked from one to another as if daring their mates to believe the nightmare had ended. Faint whimpers came from the injured, and all around the stench of bodies mixed with that of smoke and the ever-constant moulder of the lakewater, combining into a miasma that emptied the pitiful contents of more than one stomach onto the blood-soaked ground.

Alone in the middle of the square, Rosslyn peeled off her helmet. Her scalp itched with sweat, the pre-dawn air cooling the moisture on her exposed skin and ruffling the hairs at the nape of her neck, and as her battle-blood faded a catalogue of injuries made themselves known – blood dripping down to her gauntlet from a wound to her sword arm, bruised ribs, an ache in her thigh and left shoulder where the still-healing muscles from Ostagar had been wrenched in service to keeping her alive. To cap it all, thirst blistered in her mouth, the hunger in her belly sharp enough to make her grimace.

Pressed into her side as if she might otherwise disappear, Cuno panted through a mask of gore that painted the whole of his face and chest black, though he thankfully seemed to have escaped injury. The faintest touch to his shoulder caused his attention to snap to her with a whine that betrayed his uncertainty, and she put aside her own discomfort to smile at him and lead the way towards one of the livestock troughs by the door of the tavern. Like the barrels commandeered from the storehouse, it had been filled with water from the village stream, sulphurous but clear, which the dog lapped up greedily.

She herself could wait to drink, her main concern for the moment cleaning the stinking mess from his coat. Guilt prickled at the thought of the poor souls cut down during the night, but they were not her charge, and though Cuno had survived the darkspawn she worried about the risk of sickness. With nothing else to hand, she knelt and scooped water up in her helmet, careful not to get it in his eyes as she poured it over and scrubbed the worst from his snout.

“My lady.”

She looked up at Teagan’s approach just in time for Cuno to succumb to the tickle of the water and shake the last of the droplets from his neck. “Gah – dog!”

He lolled a smile and butted his broad head against her shoulder.

“Well met, my lord,” she said, giving in to the request for attention. “We made the morning.”

“So we did,” he answered. “Truly the Maker smiled on us when he sent you in our darkest hour. Your father would have been proud of what you did here.”

She dropped her gaze, taking comfort in the familiar velvet of her dog’s ears, but was spared the need to form a response by the approach of Alistair, haggard and stained but whole.

“Four dead, including Murdock.” He was careful not to look at her. “Another five who might not make it. But I spoke to one of the guards and he says the rest of the castle garrison are accounted for now.”

Teagan nodded. “Then this was truly a victory.”

“We can’t count it as one until whatever is behind this is put to rest,” Rosslyn pointed out. “We need to get into the castle.” She glanced up to where it sat in silhouette on top of the hill, a brooding, angry blot against the morning light.

“Surely these people deserve some small celebration, don’t you think?”

“We must end this,” she insisted. There were still Lothering’s refugees to think about, no more than two days behind.

“My lady, these people didn’t expect to see the sunrise – they’re not soldiers.” Teagan stepped closer as she stood, his voice dropping so it wouldn’t carry. “There is time yet. Let them recover, and grieve for those they lost.”

A flare of anger burnt in the pit of her stomach at the words. What use was grieving when there was work left undone? What allowed these villagers to mourn when she was forced to defer the sundering of her heart in order to save them?

“We need rest too,” Alistair told her. “And time to come up with a plan.”

Disinclined to start another argument, she bit back the retort pooling like acid on her tongue. The urge to keep moving, to charge forward to escape the ruin at her feet, warred with the stiffness spreading through her muscles like rust now that the fighting was over, and she remembered the cautionary tales her parents had told about the limits of endurance and what might happen to one who pushed beyond them.

She turned away. “Fine. But we should have scouts sent to the castle to see if there’s any change on the walls.”

Alistair opened his mouth, but Teagan got there first. “It will be done, my lady, but first – might I beg the liberty of a word in private?”

“… Very well.”

“Your Highness.” He bowed formally enough that Alistair shifted on his feet, then led off not towards the lakeshore but along the wall of the tavern yard, following it into a natural dead end where the drystone met a smooth face of rock that stretched up twenty feet to catch the first red rays of the sun. They were out of sight here, with only the dawn chorus of birdsong for company. Instead of speaking, Teagan fiddled with the buckle of his helmet, his brow knotted in a frown as he picked through whatever he wanted to say.

“Well, my lord?”

“Forgive me,” he said. “It is difficult to know where to begin. I have no sway over you as a guardian, but I hope you will take what I am about to say as coming from a friend.”

She tensed.

“Your… altercation with His Highness yesterday – no, let me finish – it was obviously borne of frustration. I have noticed too that Alistair is reluctant to take the authority that is his by right. Were we not on the edge of a Blight I would say that might be enough to bar him from the throne.”

“He has it in him,” she replied, firm. “And better him than a traitor who fled battle and left so many without defence.”

Teagan sighed. “That is not the issue. His Highness was right. Loghain has the ear of the Landsmeet, and what’s left of the army is at his command. To march straight to Denerim, especially with the Blight on your heels, would be foolhardy in the highest degree.”

“Loghain had my family killed,” she snarled. “He left Cailan to die. My duty might be to the Blight, but Alistair’s isn’t.” Her fists clenched at her sides to resist the need to pace. “He could go. If he stopped hiding, the people would rally to him, I know it.”

“Such faith in him, my lady,” he said, offering her a sad smile. “And yet you do not see the true reason why he will not do what you have demanded of him.”

“What reason?”

“His duty to you. It’s plain that he cares for you.”

Something seized in her chest, jagged enough that she turned away. “I’m nothing anymore. Just a Grey Warden. Besides, I…”

“There were rumours of a dispute between the two of you before he left for Starkhaven. It’s none of my business,” he added, at her sharp look, “but if there was anything to what I heard, then I would say those feelings remain, and considering your circumstances, any grudge might swiftly turn to regret if one of you were to fall.”

He was right. His expression held nothing but sympathy as he said the words. And yet the ties to her old life had withered the moment the darkspawn blood had touched her lips, and daring to hope otherwise would only rub grit into the wound. Lifting her chin, she schooled her features into the polite, political expression she had been taught to wield at the Landsmeet.

“I appreciate you taking the time to advise me, my lord, it was kindly meant,” she said. “But whatever my feelings, they mean little in the face of the Blight, and they are not your concern.”

“He does more good for Ferelden at your side.” His expression turned to one of pity. “It’s not fair for you to take your grief out on him.”

“I have no time for grief.”

She saw in his eyes he had more to say, but even if she could no longer claim to be a noble, as a Cousland she still commanded enough deference that he held his tongue and let her retreat towards the centre of the village. The few left uninjured had been set to the drudgery of clearing away the signs of battle. Bodies were being piled to await the cart journey to the pyre at the top of the hill, their smell masked by the incense the revered mother wafted over them with a low, murmured prayer.

Most of the survivors had crowded into the chantry. They sat in small knots, families and friends taking respite together while volunteers – the too old or young to fight – ghosted between each little island bearing waterskins or platters of simple food. Among them was Helena, pallid but smiling with relief as she rocked her child, and the elf Berwick, a little apart from everyone else. His gaze met Rosslyn’s for a brief instant before flinching back to the bandage he was carefully winding around his arm. Further in, the five most severely wounded lay on makeshift pallets under the benevolent gaze of Andraste in her shrine.

Morrigan stepped out from the shadows and up to Rosslyn’s side. “It seems ‘twas a waste of sleep to have kept the fools alive all night.”

“How so?”

“I offered my abilities as a healer and the revered mother, foolish woman that she is, decided she would rather her charges die of blood loss or infection than be treated by a mage free of the Chantry’s leash.”

“She might have given you a little more courtesy, considering,” Rosslyn grumbled.

“Her words have no power to hurt me. Yet…” For a moment, Morrigan struggled. “I have noticed you do not seem as uncomfortable with magic as most I have seen.”

A shrug. “Among my mother’s people, magic is a skill like any other.”

“And the Chantry does not object to this?”

“The Chantry holds no sway over the Clayne,” Rosslyn said. The comment stuck in her mind like a burr, snagged on the thought of her grandparents isolated across the Waking Sea by winter storms. Had the news reached them yet? Did they mourn, or did they blame her too?

“I have heard a little of the Clayne,” Morrigan said, interrupting her thoughts. “Wilder than even the Chasind, I was told.”

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “You should rest – eat. We have to push on to the castle before noon.”

With a nod, Morrigan pointed to a space underneath a mural of Andraste’s first vision of the Maker, where the rest of their party had settled in various attitudes of exhaustion. The dog, not accustomed to standing on ceremony, chuffed when he spotted Leliana and lumbered over to flop dramatically in her lap.

“Oh, there you are!” she cried, giving in to Cuno’s bulk with a hesitant pat to his shoulder. “We saved you all some breakfast.”

It was simple fare, a thin oat gruel stirred through with butter and a floss of salted pork. A far cry from the hearty breakfasts served in the castle and barely enough to fill the stomach, but Rosslyn swallowed it down nonetheless. As the warmth of the meal spread through her limbs she felt herself becoming indolent, her eyelids drooping under the toll the night had taken.

An eruption of giggles jerked her back into wakefulness, and she blinked her eyes open just in time to see two small girls with eyes large and round as coppers squeak and dart behind a nearby cabinet.

“Begone,” Sten growled at them. “I am not to be gawked at.”

“You do not need to fear, little ones,” Leliana told them gently. “Sten will not harm you. He is one of the ones who helped defend you last night.”

“On the contrary, they would be wise to be cautious when facing a soldier of the Beresaad.”

The sister considered his folded arms and the deep wrinkle of his brow. “No, I think you are a big softie, really.”

The scowl deepened. “I am not.”

“I saw you yesterday morning, you were picking flowers.”

“I do not know what you mean,” he retorted.

“Don’t play innocent with me,” she sang. “I saw you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “They were medicinal.”

“Softie!”

The accusation earned a mutter of something in his own tongue, but when he did not grow fangs or burst into flame, the two children seemed emboldened enough to come out of their hiding place. For a long moment they stared, heedless of being staunchly ignored.

“You’re really tall,” the elder one finally said.

“Perhaps by your standards,” Sten replied, still without looking at them.

“I’ve never seen anyone taller than you,” the child continued. “What’s that stuff on your face?”

His nostrils flared. “It is vitaar. My people wear it to help them fight.”

“Is it like kaddis then?”

“I do not know what that is.”

“Oh.” Unperturbed, the child swished the tattered ends of her skirt around her ankles. “Mama says the undead would have eaten us without you fighting. She told us to come and say thank you.”

“I have no interest in thanks,” came the response. “I did as I was ordered.”

Rosslyn smiled to herself. Sten’s answers were the curt, irritated rumble of an old hound wanting to be left to his nap in the sunshine, but still patient enough to be trusted with a tumble of weanling pups tugging at his ears. When the girls’ mother finally called them away, she shrugged deeper against the wall. Pins and needles throbbed along her legs, but short of removing her armour, it was yet another discomfort she would have to live with.

A scrape of metal on stone alerted her to Alistair’s presence. He had sidled closer, a sullen edge to his look that she was too tired to parse.

“So…” he began, in a tone aiming for nonchalance, “what did Bann Teagan want to talk to you about?”

Heat flushed her face. She looked away, shaking off the echo of Teagan’s assurances, the suggestion that Alistair’s feelings were what held him back from his birthright. Closing her heart to the possibility was so much harder with him in front of her, more so with the memory of her snarling accusations still fresh and written in every tense line of his face.

“It’s… nothing.” She dropped her gaze to her gauntlets. “Nothing that matters for now.”

“I see…”

Teagan was right, and she should have admitted it, but with her courage held by so fine a thread and with so much left still to do, how would it help? He was lost to her, whether by her side or on his way to storm Denerim, a fact leant an extra sour air by the previous, gruelling night and the catalogue of hurts that she had accumulated since Ostagar.

No. It was better to simply rest, and then move on.

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