Chapter Text
Wynne passed Alana another glass of wine and the rogue accepted gladly. The festivities in Redcliffe were dying down – drinking for almost 10 straight hours would do that to you, no matter your tolerance – but most of her little team were still awake and functional. They knew, after all, that the demon trying to control the town might be gone, but Arl Eamon was still in danger, and they knew too that in the morning, they’d be heading off toward Denerim to find the mysterious Brother Genitivi and the Urn of Sacred Ashes.
For now though, they were enjoying themselves. Leliana and Zevran were falling over each other in the corner of the tavern, his low voice intermingling with her laughter. Wynne was sipping a posh glass of wine with the other representatives from Kinloch Hold, whom they’d be dropping off on their way east to Denerim. In the back corner of the tavern sat Sten, his back straight and eyes staring ahead. His beer was untouched in front of him, but he actually seemed to be enjoying the stories of the soldiers around him, if his tiny smile was any indication.
And Alistair… well, Alistair was at her side, where he always was. She still hadn't quite figured the Warden out. Between his good looks and his quick smile, she was well on her way to developing a crush, and for a while he seemed to reciprocate. Yet since the night she had broken up his fight with Morrigan, things had been awkward, and he'd kept his fumbling, adorable attempts at flirtation to himself. She knew she had kept to herself too – she didn’t know how to fix whatever had come between them.
Tonight, he’d been nursing the same Ferelden pale ale for what felt like hours despite her encouragement to let loose a little. He hadn't talked much despite his proximity, and she’d long ago outstripped him in sheer volume of alcohol consumed. In fact, she may have outstripped everyone, but it didn’t seem to be affecting her too badly. She'd do something stupid by the end of the night if she didn't stop soon, but for now, she was fine.
Alana smiled broadly now, pushing her confusion over Alistair to the back of her mind. She tipped back her fresh glass of wine and drank half of it in one swallow. Damn, but it felt good to be victorious again. They had a long way to go, but the support of the mages could be a huge asset when it finally came down to facing the darkspawn.
She paraded through the tavern, checking in with her companions and the Arl’s soldiers. Ser Perth insisted on buying her a drink, and so did Murdock, and before long she found herself in the midst of telling an insanely exaggerated version of the events at Kinloch Hold. Behind her, though she barely noticed, Alistair was watching her escapades, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Leliana and Zevran in the corner.
“And THEN,” she said, her voice rising above the general din of the tavern. “We found one of the Templars – Alistair! What was his name?”
Alistair joined in reluctantly. “Cullen. We found Cullen.”
“Yeah, yeah, Cullen! So we found him, trapped, and --” She took a huge swig from her mug, sloshing ale down her front, and Alistair stepped in.
“Hey,” he said quietly, pushing himself far too close to her so only she could hear. “Let’s go take a walk, okay?”
She immediately protested. “But – my story!”
“They’ll hear it some other time,” he said gently, tugging on her arm. Her captive audience, now whittled down to only a few people thanks to the combined effects of alcohol and poor judgment, groaned. She frowned at him but climbed down from the chair she’d been standing on. The back of it caught on her boot and she toppled forward, giggling all the while. Alistair caught her just before she hit the floor.
“Definitely hearing it some other time,” he muttered, tucking an arm around her waist to prop her up. He tried very hard to keep her a reasonable distance from his body, the uncomfortable intimacy warring with his feelings of responsibility for her. She, apparently, felt no such conflict as she threw her arm around his neck, still giggling, and waved at Zevran and Leliana.
"Byyyyye!" she called at them, and Alistair blushed as their attention turned toward the drunk Warden.
Zevran raise an eyebrow and winked at Alistair. "This looks like an excellent decision, my friend," he said, his smooth accent adding a touch of sass to his words. "I do hope you remember what I said about arching your back." Beside him, Leliana dissolved into a fit of giggles herself, and Alana waved at her too.
"We're going for a walk, Zev," Alistair grumbled, and moved for the door.
"That's what they all say," Leliana called after him. Thankfully, Wynne intercepted them at the door, quieting the teasing.
"Is she all right, Alistair?" The old mage looked Alana over. The Warden was examining the buckles on her armor, her face contorted in deep concentration.
Alistair shrugged. "I think so, but I'm going to walk her back to the castle just in case." He felt Wynne studying him, her astute eyes assessing his surely confused facial expression.
"That's probably wise," Wynne said finally, nodding. She did not comment on whatever she saw in Alistair’s face. "Do let me know if she needs help with that hangover in the morning."
Alistair laughed outright at that. "No doubt about that." He pushed the heavy tavern door open and a blast of chilly air hit them. Alana squealed and clung to Alistair for warmth, but he pulled her outside anyway. They walked back toward the main road in silence, Alana stumbling on occasion. She did, however, seem to be sobering up a little; the cold must be helping.
Alistair turned them toward the castle, which was their inn for the evening, but Alana spoke up.
"Can we walk around the town?"
Alistair looked at her. She was standing on her own again, her steps sure and her eyes clearer. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to go to bed?"
She giggled.
"No! Not like that… I mean," he blushed furiously. "Wouldn’t you like to get some sleep? Alone, in your room, no one asking for help in sight…"
"Nope!" She twirled in place, her coordination belying her drunkenness. "Come on, Alistiar, you said you lived here before!" Her eyes lit up and she grabbed his arm, neatly sidestepping all the drama he'd disclosed to her about his upbringing. "Give me a tour of Redcliffe!"
He hesitated. It was cold out, and even if she was recovering, Alana was still quite drunk. But he couldn't deny that he liked spending time with her, even if lately he wasn't sure where they stood.
Beside him, she bounced on the balls of her feet. "Come on, an undead-free tour! I want to see your hometown!" She tugged on his arm repeatedly, and he felt a small smile creep across his face. Even drunk, she still inspired him to follow her.
“All right, I guess we can--” He was cut off by Alana’s squeal of delight and she took off, sprinting down the path toward the town. "Andraste's flaming sword…" he grumbled. "Come back here!”
He gave chase, suddenly thankful he’d changed out of his heavy armor. Ahead of him, Alana disappeared down the last hill into Redcliffe’s Chantry square and he lost sight of her.
She leapt out of the darkness as he turned the corner, and he gave a high-pitched squeak that sent her giggling so hard she almost fell off his back. Instead, scrambling for purchase against his broad shoulders, she pulled herself up until her arms were latched safely around his neck. Alistair managed to regain his balance and reached back for her legs, pulling them tight around his waist to keep her from choking him.
Warmth settled into his chest as she settled herself on his back. She might be tipsy, sure, but this felt more like their old exchanges, that playfulness she’d always shown around him. A lot of things rested on her shoulders – her family’s deaths, Ostagar, and the Blight being only the largest – and she took all that responsibility seriously. But around him, she had laughed and flirted and all around seemed like the young woman she was, and he found himself falling for her even as the world fell apart around them.
Only a few weeks had passed since the night he’d gotten in a fight with Morrigan, a fight that Alana had broken up, but things had changed since then. Alana had pulled away, her eyes not quite meeting his the next morning, and the next night, she'd scooted her bedroll farther away, farther than it had ever been from his. A barrier between them.
He honestly wasn't sure what had caused it either. Sure, they'd been about to kiss when Morrigan waltzed back into the scene, but shouldn't that mean they could just pick things back up later? And then Alana had said it was a mistake, and his heart plummeted into his boots. What had been a mistake that night? The almost-kiss? The possibility of romance during the Blight? Did she have feelings for him but change her mind?
He hadn't dared to move himself closer again the next night, nor any night since.
Alana's warm hand on his head drew him out of his thoughts, and she turned him until he was looking down the main path into the heart of town. "Show me around! I haven't had anything to ride in months!" The double entendre was enough to set Alistair's face aflame, and on his back, Alana dissolved into helpless laughter that draped her body further across his shoulders.
"I'm agreeing to the piggyback ride and nothing more," he joked, and she gave him a noogie, digging her knuckles into his scalp. "Hey! My hair!"
"Take me around, noble steed!" She bounced on his back, her boots digging into his sides, and he couldn't help it. He wanted to be around her, spend time with her, give her a piggy-back ride if she so desired. So he did, leaning forward so she could sit up straight and taking off at a slow jog. As he moved, he settled his hands to grip her thighs so she didn't fall off his back. At least, that's what he told himself.
Stories spilled unbidden out of him as he maneuvered the torch-lit narrow streets and run-down docks that made up Redcliffe. What his life had been like in the castle as a child, before Isolde took such a strong dislike to him. Exploring the nearby hills with other young Chantry-given boys, many of whom were just as lonely as he was. His favorite fisherwoman to visit, old Nell, who had given him sweets before sending him to run errands for her in town. He even told her about the abandoned kittens he'd discovered behind the Chantry, the ones he'd brought his rations of milk and porridge to for almost a month until they were big enough to mouse on their own.
Alana seemed to love all of this. With each new story, she leaned closer to his ears to ask questions or giggle at her imaginings of his life. She ran her hands through his hair and gently turned his head, begging him to show her all the places he talked about. Her warmth on his back, even as it grew sore from carrying her, made everything tense between them disappear.
Finally, after they'd been exploring the town for almost an hour, Alistair let her slide from his back. "I can't carry you anymore," he explained, suppressing a groan as his muscles released after being in the same position for so long. Alana pouted.
"Fiiiiine," she whined, but took his hand and pulled him toward the Chantry square. "Let's sit then, so you can tell me one more story."
"We should go back to the castle. It's getting late," Alistair insisted, though silently he sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the Maker for whatever had so changed her mind about him.
Alana was not deterred. She tugged on his hand, squeezing his fingers until he sat down on the bench next to her. The Chantry towered above them, its sunburst symbol easily visible in the light of the full moon.
"Tell me a story," she insisted. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and yawned.
"I think I've run out," he said seriously. His hands lay awkwardly in his lap, fingers picking at his nails, as he tried to decide what to do with them. They itched to touch her, reach for her hands, cradle her against him, but that seemed improper still.
"That's not possible!" She nearly shouted it in his ear and then lurched upright. She burped suddenly, and almost fell over backward with her ensuing laughter. Alistair was strongly reminded of just how much she'd had to drink, not least because he could smell it on her again.
"Okay, one more, and then bed," he gave in. "But you have to ask a question or something, I've told all my good stories."
"Okay, I'll think," she said, and she scrunched her face up in the most exaggerated thinking expression Alistair had ever seen. She even put her index finger on her chin. Alistair laughed despite himself then; she was drunk, sure, but she was adorable. He felt his heart flutter in his chest.
"How did you end up in the Chantry in Bournshire?" She asked suddenly, and Alistair had to stare hard at her for a moment to be sure he'd heard her right. He'd only mentioned that once, weeks ago when they'd first entered Redcliffe, and even then… it was a tiny town, little more than the monastery he'd been sent to, and he had never imagined she'd remember this detail about his insignificant life.
Apparently, even though she'd pulled away, she'd still been listening as closely as ever.
The realization made him smile, even if this story wasn't a particularly happy one.
"Well, I told you about how Isolde didn't like me, right? Thought I was Eamon's son, so she was suspicious of what I represented?" Alana nodded, her deep blue eyes wide as she listened. He told the story carefully, choosing his words to avoid rousing pity. It had been a hard life for a child -- he'd lived in the local Chantry for several years after Isolde became pregnant and demanded Eamon remove him from the castle, and then when the Revered Mother in Redcliffe decided he showed marginal intelligence, she had shipped him off to Bournshire for Templar training. He had always privately wondered if she hadn't just wanted to get rid of him, both to avoid angering Isolde and to keep him from screaming into the silent Chantry just to see who would come running.
Alistair grinned at the memory. He had been a spirited lad, that was for sure.
With no warning, Alana leaned over and grabbed his shirt, pulling him into her. Their lips collided, and behind them so did their teeth. It was a hard kiss, no romance, all desperation, and it sent Alistair scrambling, his story forgotten.
He yanked himself away from her as fast as he could -- so fast, in fact, that he fell backwards off the bench they'd been sitting on. That didn't stop him. He pushed himself up and kept scooting backward, away from her. She stared after him, her eyes still wide.
Maker's breath, what had that been? She kissed him? His brain focused on that detail and didn't let up, not when he was scrambling in the dirt, not when he'd made some excuse as he'd stood and left, not when he was finally sitting in his room at the castle, his head in his hands.
She kissed him.
---
Alana sat in the Chantry courtyard staring at the space beside her for a long time after Alistair sprinted away up the hill.
She was humiliated.
She had been listening to Alistair's story, she really had! Trying to maintain the proper facial expressions even though she was imagining just how cute a 10-year-old Alistair had probably been was difficult, but she'd been making it work. However, the longer he spoke, the more she lost herself watching Alistair's face and hands, the wild gestures he made as he got excited, the shape of his lips as he described how lonely Bournshire had been.
She shouldn't have been imagining what else he could be doing with those hands, those lips, but she couldn't help it. Or rather, all the alcohol she'd consumed couldn't help it. And then when he smiled! Her heart was forfeit, as was her judgment, apparently.
So now she sat, staring at the space he'd left and wondering if she really had ruined it forever this time.
After weeks of things being awkward between them, tonight had finally started to feel like normal. Granted, she'd had a lot to drink and Alistair had certainly seemed upset with her when he dragged her drunk ass out of the tavern, but their exploration of Redcliffe had been fun. She had loved riding on his back, her hands buried in his hair, and it hadn't taken long for Alistair to relax and smile like he used to.
The distance between them was her fault, she knew that. She had been so close to giving in to her feelings, to him, when Morrigan sauntered back through that clearing, and she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't. Not until the Blight was over, the archdemon slain. Not until her family was avenged. And of course by then, Alistair would probably be sick of waiting for her and move on, pushed away like everyone else in her pre-Grey-Warden life.
She sighed and put her face in her hands. Back in Highever, back when she was just Alana Cousland, she had never wanted to be hard and cruel like she was. She had never wanted to drive suitors and friends away, never wanted to learn to hide behind a mask and keep herself forbidden, never wanted to learn to defend herself. But she had never had a choice.
Being a rogue came naturally to her: the stealth, much like her never-questioned noble façade, and the swift move to strike, leaving her victims gasping and wondering what went wrong. Now that she was a Grey Warden, she could flaunt those skills beyond the noble parties and balls of Highever, and she’d been fairly successful. A mage rebellion suppressed and an army acquired, a little boy freed from the clutches of a demon, a town saved from undead. Through it all, she’d kept her cold, noble mask in place, always maneuvering to make allies and never friends, always in control and removed from the emotions of it all.
It had to be done, and she hated it.
Alistair was the first person who had ever acted like she was something different. The first person who had wanted to get to know her and not just feign polite interest in her answers. The first person who had treated her like she mattered as opposed to like a trophy to be held aloft and protected. He had talked to her like a person, flirted with her like a woman, and never once asked how much her dowry was or if she was still a virgin or any number of other horrific questions she'd endured as a noble daughter.
He treated her like she mattered, an entirely foreign concept in her former life.
She could be who she wanted with him, and he would never question her otherwise. And deep down, she wanted to be real, to laugh and tease, to really feel what it was like to live and have a life where she might actually be happy.
It didn't seem fair to put all that on Alistair. She had gotten used to the idea of normal as being able to have fun, a normal where she could flirt and enjoy her life between battles. A normal where she didn't have to fight off suitors or keep herself locked away.
But all that could never be normal. Once the Blight was over, she would return to Highever and take up her role as Teryna, and for that she would have to be as hard-hearted as ever. Until then, she had no choice but to focus all her energies on saving Ferelden, and nothing else.
Certainly she could not afford to spend her energy on Alistair, much as she might want to.
Alistiar: The distraction she didn't need.
Alistair, whose smile she couldn't ignore.
Alistair.
The man she was falling in love with, and she had just driven him away.
It will be better this way, she told herself. With a grunt, she forced herself up and stumbled up the hill to the inn, where she promptly collapsed in the corner booth and went to sleep.