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“Do you think you’ll be able to bring me home to the clan after all of this is over?” Alistair asks as they sit together by the campfire, Cyrand’s head resting on his shoulder. Everyone else is either asleep or absorbed in their own activities, ignoring the two Wardens. At Alistair’s question, Cyrand scoffs.
“Not likely.”
Alistair doesn’t know if he should be superficially or seriously offended by the reaction. He was kind of joking when he asked, but then again… Cyrand had come with him to meet his family, or what little remained of it. It seems only right that he should return the favor when the two of them have the chance. And call Alistair old-fashioned, but he can’t shake the feeling that meeting Cyrand’s family is something he needs to do.
“Why not?” Alistair asks with a pout, though he’s careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He doesn’t want to cause a scene, especially if there’s a serious reason for Cyrand’s answer.
“For starters, it’s my duty as a Dalish to keep my lineage alive. No matter how you look at it, I’m not going to have much success at that with you.”
From anyone else, the words would have sounded harsh, but Alistair recognizes them for what they are: a joke. Sure enough, when he looks down at his Warden, Cyrand is grinning up at him.
“Fair enough,” Alistair says, chuckling, “though Maker knows I’m willing to keep trying.”
“Says the Chantry’s premier blushing virgin,” Cyrand teases, turning to softly kiss Alistair’s neck as he pokes at Alistair’s side. Alistair jumps in surprise, yelping a sharp “HEY!” in protest. He crosses his arms and pouts at Cyrand, but that just makes Cyrand laugh, and before he knows it, Alistair is laughing again, too.
“Seriously, though, Cyrand.” Alistair starts again once they’ve settled back down. “Would they really disapprove of us – of me – so much? After all, you’re a Grey Warden now. Surely your clan recognizes that your duties as a Warden come before your duties as a Dalish.”
“I’m fairly certain that falling in love with my fellow Warden wasn’t part of the job requirement,” Cyrand says. Another joke, but his smile is fading. “And even if it was…”
The elf sighs and sits up, and Alistair reflexively scoots closer to him to make up for the lost contact. He watches, confused, as Cyrand turns to him and asks:
“Do you know why the Dalish hate your kind so much?”
Once, Alistair would have protested at that, pointed out that not all humans are so cruel to the Dalish. But after all he’s seen on their journeys, especially the disrespect Cyrand gets from townsfolk nearly no matter where they travel, Alistair has the sense to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he replies, half-jokingly, “Because we stripped you of your homelands and your culture?”
Cyrand huffs a small, quick almost-laugh at that, smiling despite himself. Alistair can’t help but smile at that, too. Even when Cyrand tries to act like he’s tired of Alistair’s foolishness, the elf can never truly hide his fondness for him.
“That certainly is a part of it,” Cyrand says, gently wrapping one slender arm around Alistair’s shoulders. “But this story is older than that.”
Judging by Cyrand’s tone, it sounds as though he’s about to share some of his people’s history, the kind that the Dalish keep only to themselves. Alistair leans in, eager to hear whatever Cyrand is about to say. A part of him has always been fascinated by the Dalish culture, though he felt growing up that the stories he heard were misinformed at best and outright lies at worst. Cyrand doesn’t readily share his stories with anyone at camp, but when he does, Alistair is careful to listen to them as closely as possible. He can’t tell if he’s hungrier for the stories themselves or for the knowledge they provide -- knowledge that will hopefully keep Alistair from stumbling over his tongue and royally offending Cyrand.
Besides, if they’re going to stay together, Alistair thinks it’s only natural that he should try to learn as much of Cyrand’s culture as the elf is willing to share. Call him old-fashioned.
Before he begins his story, Cyrand sits up a little straighter and clears his throat. When he begins speaking, his voice is deeper, richer than usual; Alistair recognizes it as the tone Cyrand saves exclusively for when he’s sharing stories from his life before the Joining.
“In the days of Arlathan, before the People were driven from their homeland by the Tevinter Imperium and forced to wander the ruins of our own civilization, we were immortal,” Cyrand says. “We did not fall ill or grow old; we could spend years just greeting one another; when we grew tired of life, we simply slept, our minds wandering the Fade until we saw fit to return to the waking world.”
Alistair murmurs a soft “wow” as he cuddles closer, resting his head on Cyrand’s shoulder. The two of them are mirror images of their positions only a few minutes earlier, and Alistair thinks there’s something symbolic in that. Something about how he can always count on Cyrand to be there supporting him, just as Cyrand can rely on him for the same.
“So you just… Never died?” Alistair asked quietly, already feeling spellbound by the story. “That’s incredible.”
Cyrand smiles and nods, stroking Alistair’s shoulder with the hand wrapped around him.
“They did not see it as incredible, for it had always been such with the People. It was no more remarkable than you find your own lifespan.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. But wait…” Alistair frowns then, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What changed? You aren’t still immortal, are you…?”
Cyrand shakes his head, still smiling, but the smile has taken on a certain melancholy now.
“We began to lose our immortality when we came into contact with the shemlen. Do you know what that means, ‘shemlen?’”
At the shake of Alistair’s head, Cyrand continues, “It means ‘quickling.’ The People called humans such because, unlike us, you all seemed to live and die in the blink of an eye. In the time it took the People to settle a simple business transaction, an entire generation of humans could be born, grow old, have children, and die. That was part of the reason the elvhen didn’t get along with the first humans they met. The People saw everything the humans did as being too rash, too sudden, with no appreciation or patience for life. They couldn’t understand that, for the humans, this rashness was born of necessity and not foolishness.”
Alistair has no comment or joke in response to this. He just nods, watching Cyrand with enraptured eyes as the elf talks. It’s rare for him to share quite this much of the Dalish history, and Alistair doesn’t want to miss a word of it.
“The more the People interacted with the humans, the more they found themselves… Affected by the shemlen. It seemed that being around the quicklings was quickening the People, too. For the first time, the elvhen began to grow old and die. If that wasn’t enough, the People fell victim to human diseases, as well… When the shemlen realized the effect they had on the People, they weaponized it. All of the People were quickened into mortality within only a few human generations.”
Cyrand’s voice, gradually softening throughout the story, is now little more than a raw murmur. Alistair can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard such sadness in his Warden’s tone, but even still, the same quiet power of Cyrand’s voice remains as he continues the story.
“Ever since then, the People have been doomed to mortality. Many Dalish point to the quickening as the initial reason the Tevinters were able to destroy our civilization so quickly, and so it becomes one more reason that the Dalish resent humans today.”
There is a long moment of silence between them then, broken only by the crackling of the campfire and Dreyhart’s distant barking. Alistair sits in thought, taking in the story and its implications. He glances up at Cyrand to see him simply gazing into the fire, eyes piercing and blank all at once with contemplation. His white hair looks almost pink in the firelight.
They sit like that for a moment longer, Alistair just thinking and gazing at Cyrand, Cyrand doing the same as he stares into the flames. Finally, Cyrand turns to Alistair and gives him that same sad smile again.
“So, there you have it. Before Tevinter, before the March on the Dales, before any of it… The Dalish hated humans because they stole our immortality. And to be with a human is not just giving up your history and culture, but giving it up for the very force that helped to steal it from you in the first place.”
“Wow…” Alistair isn’t sure what else to say. “It’s quite a story, Cyrand. Thank you for sharing.”
Alistair breathes a heavy sigh then. Cyrand has never intentionally made him feel guilty for being a human, but he can’t help the feeling sometimes, especially when Cyrand shares tales like these.
“On behalf of my people, I guess I owe you an apology.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but Alistair can tell from his own tone that it falls heavier than intended.
Cyrand tuts softly as he leans in and kisses Alistair’s forehead. “You don’t owe me anything, Alistair. You weren’t there, after all. For that matter, neither was I.”
“That’s true, but still…” Alistair frowns as he trails off. “I just… Wish it could have had a happier ending, that’s all.”
“Who says it doesn’t?” Cyrand asks, a note of mischief entering his voice.
Alistair tilts his head in confusion, but then Cyrand leans in again, and this time Alistair meets him halfway. Once they pull away, Cyrand says, “I’m glad we aren’t immortal anymore. It means I don’t ever have to live without you.”
Sweet as Cyrand’s intentions are, Alistair can’t ignore the pit in his stomach that drops when he hears that. They’re still in the middle of a Blight, after all, and every day brings new dangers. Even if, Maker willing, both of them make it out of this intact, they’re still Grey Wardens, and Grey Wardens are not known for riding off into the sunset to live happily ever after.
Still, Alistair thinks as he pulls Cyrand closer to himself, they’re here now, together, and that’s something. And if he has anything to say about it, he and Cyrand will get their happily ever after, complete with the greatest sunset anyone has ever seen.
Call him old-fashioned.