#i love the little unnerving ways it shows they are still actually CONSCIOUS beneath whats going on. like enough to resist it sometimes

[qoldenskies]

FIRST DRAFT DEFEATED!!! its 54k words currently

[laurelsofhighever]

Just the Place

Have a piece of Alistair x Cousland fluff! This is pre-relationship, set between chapters 26 and 27 of my longfic, The Falcon and the Rose, so minor spoilers I guess? It’s not much to worry about. Just a day out escaping the pressures of nobility and skipping stones

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Alistair should have known better than to think a night’s rest against even the fluffiest of pillows would inure him to the uneasy feeling that had settled in his stomach the day before when he had first caught sight of Redcliffe’s keep through the trees. It was a place too familiar, too full of memories, of people who had known him before his title and even before he had made a name for himself under Teagan’s instruction, and before the sun had even poked above the hills he was driven from panicky dreams where Isolde laughed with the golden eyes of a witch. The connection his slumbering mind made to Flemeth unnerved him, enough that his valet remarked on his taciturn expression as he was handed his clothes to dress for the day.

Too queasy for breakfast, and unwilling to see the wariness and resentment in the faces of the servants who had once considered him little better than dirt, he took the guard route along the wall and down into the courtyard, thinking to head towards the stables. Master Dennet, Eamon’s horsemaster, met him with a nod of recognition but nothing more. Of all the people Alistair had known in his old life, Dennet alone had never bothered with propriety, or speculated about just whose bastard he was.

“Got no room for gawkers, Your Highness. Their Graces don’t much like being kept waiting for their breakfasts.”

“I’ll give you some help, if you like,” he offered, and got only a shrug in return. Still, it felt good to do honest labour, to use his hands for something other than swordwork or practicing his letters, and the friendly bumps the horses gave him as he doled out their morning feed made him smile.

Once they were all munching away, however, their contentment infectious and the quiet of their presence soothing, it only made him more reluctant to squeeze himself in between Cailan’s forced cheeriness, Isolde’s piqued formality, and Baudrillard’s determination to be a sycophant. Perhaps he should go to the village. It was unlikely he would receive much of a reception there, but as he stepped out from the gallery and through the gate in the curtain wall, the pre-dawn chill had already started to dissipate, the sky clear blue and cloudless. Birds would be singing among the trees, while the breeze that blew in off Lake Calenhad during every summer would keep the heat from growing truly unbearable. Sneaking a few hours of freedom couldn’t hurt, surely.

A thunderous bark stopped him in his tracks as he was walking under the shadow of the barbican. He turned just in time to stop himself go flying as a large brindle mass collided with his legs, with a rich echo of laughter following on behind. Cuno chuffed and turned to sit on Alistair’s foot so he would have better access for a scratch to the shoulder, his wide doggy grin and lolling tongue betraying his delight in the attention.

“Aw, who’s a good boy?” Alistair asked him. “Have you been for a walk?”

“We were just about to go on one.”

He looked up to find Rosslyn smiling fondness at her dog, with all traces of the previous days’ journeying scrubbed from her features and her usual attire traded out in favour of longer, more formal split skirts. Her gaze, when she raised it to meet his eye, skittered away in a blush and a self-conscious move to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

He swallowed. “Good morning.”

“And to you, Your Highness,” she replied, with the note of mirth she reserved these days for the times they could not forebear an audience.

Alistair’s mind stumbled on how to keep the conversation going. He wanted to, but he had been careful to avoid thinking about her at all since waking, since their parting the night before and the hours afterward while the memories lingered, denying him rest. The skin of her hand had been so soft under his fingertips, and he had focused entirely too much on the hushed part of her lips as he had pressed a kiss across her knuckles. He had wondered, in the darkness, what she had been thinking in the moment, whether she would chastise him on their next meeting once the shock of his forwardness had worn off. Now she stood before him, still smiling – not trying to run him through – he decided to take it as encouragement, or at least approval.

The guard on the gate coughed, and he blinked.

“I didn’t expect to see you so early, Your Ladyship,” he said, trying to ignore the sudden flare in his cheeks. “I hope you slept well?”

She nodded. “Arlessa Isolde is very generous in her duties as a hostess – I’ve wanted for nothing.” The wry smile faded. “I went looking for you, actually – to tell you the army won’t be arriving until this afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you missed me.” Of its own accord, his hand reached up to run through his hair, his mind preoccupied with deciding if it would be a step too far to admit the real reason he had gone to the stables and all but lurked there until it became weird. Helpless, he gestured to the broad stretch of the road beyond the gates. “Just thought I’d stretch my legs, you know how it is.”

“You’re going without an escort?” she teased.

“Only to the village! And it’s not like I’m unarmed.” He tapped the sword hilted at his side, and smirked. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you come with me? You’re practically an army unto yourself, after all. I could… show you the village? If you’re not already busy, of course.”

She smirked. “A chance to see all your old haunts? Cuno would enjoy the exercise, I suppose.”

The dog gave an excited bark.

“That decides it – shall we?”

They stayed comfortably close but did not touch as they followed the road that wound from the top of the hill down to the village nestled at its base, passing idle conversation back and forth as Cuno trotted ahead with his nose to the ground and then came galloping back to chide them for being so slow to catch up. The day rose with birdsong and dappled sunlight, and Alistair had to keep forcing his eyes back to the road ahead. Rosslyn clearly noticed; she kept peering at him strangely whenever he caught his eyes lingering too long, but didn’t comment, and he was grateful. Though the bite in them could last against such a bright day, Flemeth’s warning still preyed on his mind, worse for the truth he saw in it.

When they rounded the last bend and the first buildings of Redcliffe came into view, the windmill on the stream’s edge and the pub leaning its gables over the road, they stopped for a moment to take in the view.

“Did you miss it?” Rosslyn’s voice was quiet.

“Would it make me a bad person if I said I didn’t?” he shrugged. “I guess I must have been happy sometimes, but I don’t remember much. The revered mother was always kind to me. And Arl Eamon did look after me.”

He noticed the way her lips thinned at that, true thoughts held back for politeness’ sake. To cover, he cleared his throat and looked out over the tiny collection of buildings that had once been the farthest reaches of the world.

“What do you want to see?” he asked. “There’s the chantry, the smithy, the docks – it’s not market day so there won’t be much to see in the square, but maybe –”

“Where do you want to go?” She had linked her arm through his, bringing her face close enough, tilted up at him, that if he were to just lean forward…

“Um.” He turned away. Through the fog in his mind, he tried to work on the problem, to think of something that might hold her interest somewhere where they wouldn’t be fodder for the gossipmongers. “I know just the place.”

With a grin, he slid his hand into hers and stepped off the path to lead her down away from the village. Curiosity lit in her grey eyes as he glanced back to make sure she was alright, the dog at her heels brushing past to scout out the trail ahead. Over the years the vegetation had crowded in and frost-cracked boulders had broken from the cliff above, leaving only narrow deer tracks winding through the trees. He couldn’t really get lost, but more than once they had to double back when the questing branches of saplings condensed into thickets rife with brambles.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Rosslyn laughed when the ground finally levelled out beneath them. The path was wider here, more distinct, and he recognised the craggy face of the rock ahead, cut into the likeness of a horse’s head by the accidental work of time and weather.

He turned back and grinned. “Not much further.”

The last step was a steep climb down a narrow gully carpeted with old leaves, and a two-foot drop down a bank dotted with blue vetch and embrium. Cuno had already raced ahead and found the water, and was splashing through the curling edge of the small waves that washed over the shore.

“Well, what do you think?” Alistair asked as they made the final jump. “Do you like it?”

“It’s… Alistair, it’s beautiful.”

He beamed. The narrow strip of pebbled beach bled into sand towards the water’s edge, overhung with lush greenery that filtered the sunlight and offered hiding spots for the birds flitting along on their own business. Instead of the stink of fishguts that pervaded the village docks in high summer, here the scents of clean water and wildflowers filled the nose. A breeze stirred against his face and when he looked he found Rosslyn had turned her face into it and closed her eyes, a smile playing about her mouth. Their hands were still joined.

He ought to say something. Explain.

“I went exploring a lot. Being raised by dogs, you get a lot of slobbery love, but they’re not big on the child supervision. And sometimes the castle could get…” He had wanted to get away from thoughts of the castle, so he reached down and plucked a round, flat rock from the ground at his feet. “I used to spend hours skipping stones.”

“What’s your record?” she asked.

“Twelve.”

“Impressive.”

He tried to pout. “You can do better, can you?”

“Alistair, I grew up by the sea.” There was the flash of a smile as she let go of his hand and stooped to find a rock of her own. “I can certainly try.”

“Care to wager, dear lady?” he teased, to cover his disappointment.

With a lift of her chin, she closed the space, spinning the stone between her fingers as she weighed the challenge, but even though he tried to meet her gaze, he faltered when her tongue poked out to wet her lips.

“A drink in the tavern?” she suggested.

He managed to nod. “That sounds reasonable.”

Satisfied, she wheeled to face the water and took up a stance just shy of the waterline, wrist poised with the edge of the stone pressed against the tip of her first finger, but as she drew her arm back Cuno trotted over and butted his nose in polite enquiry against her hand, in case the stone was really just a treat for him.

“You know, it’s cheating if you wait so long I don’t even get a turn,” Alistair pointed out.

“So is distracting your opponent.”

“Are you being distracted by little old me?”

She merely rolled her eyes. A moment later, the dog went charging into the water after her cast stone, a great plume of white spray rising around him until he stood chest deep in confusion, trying to work out where his prize had gone. It made nine skips before being caught in the lap of a wave and sinking to the bottom.

“I do believe your technique is looking a little rusty, Lady Cousland.”

“Is my technique what you were looking at?” she asked lightly.

Alistair’s ears burned, but he ignored the flutter in his stomach as he stepped up next to her. “Among other things.”

He watched her reaction only long enough to make sure he hadn’t taken the comment too far, then let his stone loose with a flick of his wrist. Ten skips. When he glanced back, she was fighting to contain a grin.

“Well we can’t just go by a single result,” she said, as if it were unthinkable.

He laughed. “Perish the thought.”

Still smiling together, they turned aside to search for more stones. Most weren’t suitable, either too large or too thick or not circular enough, and so after a while the game became less about skipping than remarking on ones with interesting shapes or patterns, and throwing them for Cuno to hunt through the water.

“Alright, last one,” Rosslyn decided, lining up one final shot as the climbing sun loomed down almost directly overhead.

Alistair stepped close, one hand going to steady her lower back. “Go for it.”

She cast, and got fourteen.

“It looks like you win.”

“I don’t think I want to leave just yet,” she admitted, without moving away. “It’s nice here. The view is wonderfully free of Orlesians.”

“I always thought so – it does add to the charm.” He glanced further up the beach. “We could sit?”

Nodding, she followed him a little way to a bleached log that must have been deposited during a winter storm at some point after he had gone to Rainesfere, and together they made themselves comfortable against it. In the silence, the world surrounded them, the sound and smell of water and the slight dig of hard-edged stones against the backside.

“Is everything alright?” Alistair asked after a while.

“Hm?” Rosslyn blinked away from her contemplation of the horizon and sighed. “I was just thinking. This place reminds me of home a little. It’s not quite the same, but it feels familiar.” With a pink stain blossoming in her face, she ducked her head away. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Her hand lay between them on the shingle.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he told her. “I… you should get to be happy.”

The softness in her gaze nearly undid him, but then she dropped it to where his fingers had found courage to curl around hers, and his breath stilled in his chest as she pulled his hand into her lap, as her thumb stroked over his knuckles. She opened her mouth and drew in a breath. He waited, only for her to sigh again and shake her head in a self-defeated huff of laughter, and settle her cheek against his shoulder.