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Alistair looked over at his fellow Warden. Warden felt like a very generous term. Andrea Cousland was a Warden in name and blood only. She had very little drive to defeat the Blight, was constantly bitching about the weather and the hiking and the everything. She got along shockingly well with Morrigan, despite being clearly not too trusting of mages, which was just Alistair’s luck. The only person that seemed to like Alistair was her dog, Prince. Leliana wasn’t too bad, even if she was probably crazy. Sten wasn’t bad, either. But that didn’t make Alistair feel any less alone.
He looked up toward Andrea, who was leading the way from Lothering to the Frostbacks. They’d passed Redcliffe two days ago. Alistair had tried to speak up, to tell his fellow Warden to stop in and see if they could get some support from Arl Eamon, but she’d shut it down. She wanted nothing to do with the Arl, and Alistair couldn’t make heads or tails of her logic. She was clearly a noble—she reminded him of it every other day, at least—but she seemed to utterly despise the idea of reaching out to the human nobility for favors. It was strange. Alistair wanted to know why, but he also didn’t want to get yelled at.
Off to Orzammar they went, then. The trek was a pain and a half. And they were stopping by a small village along the way to pick up a golem. Of course. Perfect priorities. He sighed.
Andrea looked back at him, a scowl on her red-painted lips. He wouldn’t be surprised if she and the witch woke up early each morning to do their makeup and gossip about him. “What?” She asked, squinting at him. She was huffing a little. Her lightly powdered face was coated in sweat and her jet-black hair was falling out of its neat style and sticking to her forehead and full cheeks. “Do you have something to ask me?” She must have heard his forlorn sighing.
“Just, uh, wondering how you’re holding up,” he said, shrugging. He was concerned. Not because he liked her or anything—Maker, strike me down if that’s the case—but it was clear she wasn’t built for this kind of activity.
Andrea scoffed in that very noble way of hers. “Holding up?”
Oh, she’s pissed. Alright. Good going, Alistair.
“How am I holding up?” She stalked back toward him. She was an entire foot shorter than him, but she still managed to make him feel small, sometimes. “Well, my legs, back, arms, and shoulders are aching, I have blisters on my feet and hands, I’m utterly starving, and my thighs are chafing so badly it’s only a matter of time before they’re blistering, too!” She held up eight angry, blistered fingers. They were still pale and soft despite the last few weeks.
“I-” He tried to say something—what, he didn’t know—but she cut him off.
“So, no! I’m not holding up well!” She threw her hands down to her side, two fists bunched up in anger. Despite her powder, her face was pink with exhaustion and anger.
“Do you… wanna take a break from walking?” He asked. Maybe some time sitting beneath the shade would calm the woman down.
“Why?” She asked, looking at him as if he’d just started drooling on his shirt. “So that we have to walk even more the next day to make up for it?” She crossed her arms. “Idiot,” she huffed. Alistair sighed. So much for being nice. “Don’t you sigh at me!”
“I wasn’t-!” He threw his arms up in frustration. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered, his teeth clenched in frustration. “You’re such a princess…!”
She had started to turn around to walk, but Alistair’s comment sent her into another round of ranting. “I wish I was!” She looked like she was about to burst into indignant tears. “No princess is forced to hike through mud day in and day out! It’s criminal to force a noble to wade through such filth like a common foot soldier!”
Alistair felt his own temper starting to boil over. “Do you think I like this?” He asked, annoyed. Every Warden but Andrea Cousland was dead. Duncan was dead. Cailan was dead and heirless. And he was stuck with a party consisting of people who seemed to either outright dislike him or only tolerate him.
By now, they were inches apart, with Andrea shouting up at him like an angry, chubby lapdog. “Have you not been in armor since your teenage years? Are you not accustomed to swinging a sword and holding a shield? Have you never been trained in the art of marching? Are you not, physically, quite suited for combat?” For all her flaws, it was impressive how quickly she could rattle off questions she already knew the answer to. “Oh?” Her voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. “You are?”
“I was just-!”
“Then don’t talk to me about your aches!” Her voice cracked on the word talk.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair could see Leliana watching on in horror. Oh, right, he remembered, she hasn’t seen Andrea try to rip me a new one, yet. Well. Better sooner than later.
Andrea was still going. “I have none of your qualities, Alistair, and you have none of mine! But only yours are, in any way, applicable in our current situation- no, our current disaster!” She let out a clenched-tooth scream of frustration. “It is taking all the willpower I have not to throw down this damned sword and shield every step!”
Alistair was done. If she wanted to be a child, then he was going to leave her be. “Fine,” he said, his calm tone clearly making a blood vessel somewhere on Andrea’s body burst. “My lady.” He threw her sarcasm back in her face. “Your suffering is clearly the only one that matters. Do pardon me for assuming otherwise.” He took a step back. Then another. “My deepest, most sincere apologies.”
“Don’t talk to me.” Her voice was low and sharp and angry. She turned on her heel and kept walking.
Alistair was more than happy to oblige. He was more than happy to never speak to the bitch again, but it seemed like the Maker had other plans. Morrigan walked past him, shooting him a glare, as if he was the one that started everything. Prince ran up to Andrea’s side, pressing his nose against her palm and receiving a few gentle, affectionate scratches behind his ears. Alistair let his pace slow a little, putting more of a much-needed distance between himself and the two raven-haired ladies. It would never be enough.
• ° • ♡ • ° •
He watched from across camp as Andrea assembled her tent. Leliana, ever the compassionate one, helped the lady set it up. He rolled his eyes. He was sick and tired of Andrea getting all the sympathy just because she was clearly not built for the life of a soldier. He watched her move about camp, clearly exhausted. She was dressed in common clothes pulled tight over her soft, plump body, her long black hair hanging low over her shoulders. She would’ve been pretty if her personality wasn’t such a blight upon Alistair’s life. He tried to ignore her and settle in for the first watch.
Around an hour later, the woods had fallen quiet. They were maybe a day’s walk from Honnleath, the place where this supposed golem was, and even further from Orzammar. Alistair wasn’t looking forward to it. Going deep into the mountain, having to come face to face with the place where Duncan said all Grey Wardens ended up eventually, once the Taint became too much to bear. Andrea didn’t know that. She’d never asked. She never asked him anything about the Wardens. He rubbed at his eyes. They’d started to water. Again. He needed to stop thinking about the Wardens.
He stood up, deciding to go for a quick walk around the perimeter to clear his head. Maybe do a lap. Or seven. He went slowly, trying not to rattle his plate armor and cause Andrea to wake up and yell at him again for interrupting her beauty sleep. He rolled his eyes.
As he neared Andrea’s tent, walking slowly and quietly, he heard faint whispering. He stopped dead in his tracks. He could’ve sworn he saw both Leliana and Morrigan go to their own tents. He crept closer.
“Please,” Andrea whispered, seemingly talking to someone. “I can’t do this without you.” Alistair’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Fergus.”
Fergus? Alistair was confident that there wasn’t anybody in the party with that name.
“I never should have let you go,” Andrea whispered, and Alistair heard as her voice broke. “You could’ve-!” Her voice was very clearly wet. She was… crying. “Oren, he-!” She was sobbing now. Heaving, pathetic sobbing. As much as he hated her, Alistair’s heart ached to hear it. As slowly as he could, he kept moving. It felt wrong to keep listening.
He got a good two dozen feet away from Andrea’s tent before he dared to breathe too loudly. He doubted she would’ve heard his armor clinking or sensed another Warden in her state, though. He looked back at her tent, feeling a rare sense of pity for the woman. For the first time, he realized he never knew why she, of all people, was made into a Warden. Perhaps this Fergus or Oren had something to do with it. He was sure he’d find out. Eventually.