Chapter Text
GWYN
The Circle mage stalked off. The young knight turned, and Gwyn saw him full-on for the first time. He gave her a wry grin, seemingly unabashed that she had been eavesdropping on their conversation. “One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he drawled.
Gwyn felt herself flushing. Though she herself was being rude, that hardly excused the young man’s familiarity. His flippancy, too, offended. Although the mage had certainly begun the altercation she had witnessed, the young knight had made next to no effort to smooth things over.
So she bowed. “Indeed, ser. With our mages as courteous as that man and our knights as gracious as you, the darkspawn are certain to be swept away before our united front. Good day.”
She moved to pass the young man and evacuate the awkward situation. The day was waning. Duncan had said Alistair was in the encampment. There could not be much more of it where the man could be. She needed to find him quickly. Who knew what Duncan’s ritual would entail?
But the young man did not make way for her. Instead, he blocked her path, rubbing the back of his neck with his gauntlet, a chastened expression on his face. “I suppose I could have handled that better, couldn’t I?” he admitted. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”
Gwyn sighed, resigning herself to a longer interlude with the young man. “Would that make your day worse?”
He shrugged. “Hardly. I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment.”
Gwyn was embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping and anxious to find Alistair, but she found she was diverted by the way the youth mixed bravado and goodwill, as well as the way he showed no deference to her rank or position. She didn’t have any anymore, she realized. As a Grey Warden, she would be the same as commoners and criminals within the ranks. At least it should be an interesting perspective.
“I imagine among mages that must be a worry for you, ser,” she conceded, moderating her tone to be somewhat friendlier. “Fortunately for you, I am no mage, and you are safe from me. Gwyn is my name.”
The youth stood straighter then. All at once, any vestiges of the jester were gone from his mien. He was a soldier coming back on duty. His eyes narrowed, and he looked hard at her. “Wait, I know that name. You’re Duncan’s new recruit from Highever. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”
Gwyn blinked. “You’re Alistair?” She at once regretted the air of incredulity about the statement. What had she expected Alistair to look like, she wondered?
Certainly not like this boy, she admitted. She supposed, if she had been thinking at all, she had expected another man like Duncan, a grim and grizzled veteran on one or the other side of forty. Alistair was young. Very young. She doubted he’d been shaving five years, and very probably he was her junior, albeit not by much.
“Did Duncan mention me?” he wanted to know. “Nothing bad, I hope.” He cracked a hopeful smile, and Gwyn blinked again. For a moment, it had been as if she had looked into someone else’s face. She assessed him more closely. Surely, he was related to someone she knew, though, for the moment, she could not think who. A cadet noble from a lesser-known bannorn, perhaps? A younger son? But he was explaining his role in the upcoming ritual. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”
Gwyn bowed once more. “I am honored.”
Alistair was regarding her with an air of bemusement. “You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens.” He did not sound as though he were worried about it, Gwyn observed, merely as though it had honestly just struck his attention. “I wonder why that is?”
Gwyn drew the Cousland sword from the double sheath upon her hip, hearing her father’s instruction in her head: Don't ever let them sell you short, pup. I taught my little girl to defend her name and her home as well as her brother.
She wondered, if Fergus had been present that night, would her father have still fallen?
She swallowed and turned the blade for Alistair to see, watching the afternoon light play upon the steel. “Don’t fear for me, ser. I can defend myself, aye, and press an attack as well.”
The corners of Alistair’s mouth turned up. His hazel eyes glittered with appreciation. “I’m getting that impression.” Gwyn sheathed her sword. “So, I’m curious,” Alistair said. “Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”
Gwyn had not. She thought by now that Fergus must have, however. What if he too had been slain? “Have you?” she asked, without answering the young knight’s question.
“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was,” Alistair said. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another.”
Gwyn regarded Alistair. There was something—a man who openly confessed fear before a woman, the acquaintance of five minutes, rather than attempting to boast of his feats. Fergus had often confided in her, but he would never be so humble before a stranger. Yet Alistair did not strike Gwyn as a coward. His face was solemn but unwavering—his shoulders neither stooped nor quivered. He was not hunching or flinching away from his confession, and when she looked into his face, he met her gaze without shame.
No—the man was brave and humble, as well as a wit, she realized, for all his youth and inexperience. Gwyn thought she might like this Alistair after all. And it occurred to her that he was rather beautiful, actually. He was tall and well made; with a mobile, expressive face; a strong jaw; and a straight nose. He had a few days’ growth of beard, and his hair was cropped short in the manner of a soldier, but both were thick and fair with more than a hint of red. Of course, he was covered in freckles—his coloring would hardly have allowed for anything different—but they suited him, lending a golden cast to his skin and even more character to his features.
Yet, behind the freckles, Gwyn could not shake a feeling of familiarity about his face. She felt almost as though she had seen Alistair himself somewhere before, though she knew they had never met. The resemblance was so strong, in fact, she felt certain it would drive her mad.
But she had stared at him far too long without speaking—her second faux pas of the day. The tips of Alistair’s ears reddened, and he turned away from her with a laugh. “Anyhow, whenever you’re ready, let’s get back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”
Gwyn gestured toward the main encampment, and they fell into step together. To fill the awkward silence made the more awkward through her consciousness of her bad manners, and intolerable by her inability to determine just who it was he reminded her of, Gwyn asked, “What was the argument I saw about?”
Alistair seemed relieved, too, to have something to say. “With the mage? The Circle is here at the king’s request,” he explained. “And the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are, which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. You see, I was once a Templar.”
Gwyn’s step slowed. That explained much, she thought—both the young Warden’s knightly air as well as his education—and why the mage had seemed so offended by Alistair’s presence. She felt guilty for blaming Alistair so severely to begin with. It seemed as though he had been placed in an impossible position by an authority figure who had sent him with the aim of offending. “That would be awkward,” she conceded.
Alistair shrugged. For all that he could not have helped the confrontation with the mage, it did not seem to perturb him overmuch. “The Chantry raised me until Duncan recruited me six months ago,” he told her. “I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me as her messenger, and the mage picked right up on that. I never would’ve agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same speech.”
Gwyn cast around for a change of topic. Relations between the Chantry and the mages were hardly a subject for introductory small talk. So she asked whether he would be helping the other recruits prepare for the Joining as well.
“Daveth and Ser Jory? Yes. They're wandering around the camp somewhere. Have you met them?”
“Yes, both of them.”
“That makes things easy then,” Alistair said with satisfaction. “They’ll both be back with Duncan by now.”
“I look forward to traveling with you,” Gwyn told him, surprised to find it was true. Alistair, after all, had had no part in her recruitment. It would be nice to have a colleague her age to chat with—a peer. Jory was too old and simple to be a true friend, and Daveth too young and cynical. Alistair, on the other hand, was a breath of fresh air, if a little rough around the edges.
Alistair blinked down at him, seeming surprised—and pleased—himself. “You do? That’s a switch. If you have any questions, just let me know.”
They came up upon Duncan’s fire and engaged him to tell them about the Joining.