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dryad-of-the-dogwood · 5 years

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Hi, guys! Chapter 28 of A Thread of Fate is now live on AO3, and it’s full of everybody dealing with things they’re not totally mentally prepared for because I’m mean to my characters but I swear I love them.

Chapter 28: Finding Footholds

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the unexpected three-day mission, or how little sleep I’d gotten without Nalissa at my side, but I wake actually feeling rested for the first time in days. She fell asleep with her head on my chest like a pillow, and though I seem to have turned toward her in my sleep, she’s still curled against my chest with her face buried in my nightshirt. One of her arms is wrapped around me, and as I brush the hair back from her face, I can’t help but smile.

She’s lovely, and incredible, and she loves me. I’ve never heard those words before, not directed at me, until last night. Remembering them in her voice, with my name attached at the end so there can be no mistake, makes me happier than I knew I could be. She makes me happier than I knew I could be.

Nalissa murmurs something in her sleep, too faint and too muffled to make out the words, but they’re not frightened ones. I hope she didn’t have nightmares while I was gone. With no Ilana to talk her down, I can’t imagine how the Wardens would have reacted.

The Wardens, I remember with a start. The sun hasn’t yet risen but the sky through the window is beginning to lighten, and I can’t imagine Caron is a patient man. If she’s expected again today, he’s probably already pacing.

I work her fingers free of my shirt, ignore her mumbled protest, and kiss the back of her hand gently. “Lissa. Lissa, wake up.”

Whatever she says in response is still distorted by sleep and her face against my ribcage, but I’m pretty sure I hear something about the color of Andraste’s chosen undergarments and a bleeding pyre in there, and I have to stifle a chuckle. Quite the blasphemous vocabulary she has when she isn’t trying to be proper and polite.

“Lissa,” I try again. “My dear, are you supposed to be training with the Wardens again today?”

“’m not a deer, you’re a deer,” she grumbles quite clearly this time, and the accusation is so obviously meant to be an insult that I burst into laughter. That rouses her quickly enough.

“Mm? What happened?” Nalissa asks, blinking up at me groggily, and I can only offer a grin as an explanation. Then she looks around, realizes it’s nearly sunrise, and I can watch the panic creep into her widening eyes. She rolls away and out of the bed so quickly I think her feet hit the floor before I’ve even realized she was moving, swearing softly under her breath the whole way.

“I take it you are supposed to be training with the Wardens today,” I observe as I rise. I turn toward the wardrobe, in the general direction of which I had tossed my breastplate after it tried to murder me yesterday, and freeze.

Nalissa has just yanked the overlarge tunic off her head, tossing it aside to destination unknown, and is wearing only smalls beneath. I watch, entranced, as her fingers deftly tie a knot in the back of her breastband, before I turn away with my face burning to collect my armor from the pile I tossed it into yesterday instead. She has her back turned, likely not thinking of my presence at all, or I doubt she would have allowed me to see the scars she tries to hide.

A stray thought flits through my head of what she might have looked like facing me, before the undergarment was properly in place. I shake my head and try to clear it before Sister Agatha’s voice in the back of my mind can start screeching that I’m a lecher.

Is it still lecherous if the woman that keeps wandering into my mind in various states of undress is engaged to marry me? If I love her, and she loves me too? My heart still does a flip at the idea, but yes, I decide, Sister Agatha would definitely still say so. Regardless, such distractions do not help with trying to put on armor, I remind myself firmly. Quite the opposite.

I make very sure every buckle and link of chain is in place before I turn around again, to make sure she’s had time to dress properly. To my surprise, she’s wearing armor of her own, and as I recognize it, I think my heart stops. Warden armor. She’s wearing Warden armor.

“Nalissa,” I say sharply, crossing the room in haste. “What is this? What did they do?”

My hands tug at the shoulders of the studded leather gambeson, the blue and silver motif of the order that I was once so proud to wear suddenly terrifying me to see on her. Three days I was gone—Caron could easily have organized a Joining in less time than that. If she took it so recently, I wouldn’t sense her yet. I wouldn’t know unless they told me.

“Wh-what?” Nalissa stammers, and her eyes dart between mine in confusion.

“This armor,” I demand, gripping it more tightly, until the edges of the studs start to cut into my fingers. “Why do you have it? What did they make you do?”

“Make me do? I’ve been running drills for them in the morning. That’s all they’ve asked, like we agreed.”

“Did he Join you?”

She shakes her head and frowns, looking uncertain. “Caron? We sparred the first day, but—”

“No, a Joining ritual. A chalice—did he have you drink from a chalice? A great silver one with dark liquid inside?”

“What—no,” she objects, and finally I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. Nalissa’s shoulders though remain as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Alistair, what just happened?”

“Nothing,” I answer quietly, leaning my forehead against hers. She hesitates, then reaches up to drape her arms around my neck, and I relent with a sigh. “The Joining is… it’s how Wardens are made. I saw you in that armor, and I thought… I was afraid he had tricked you somehow.”

She kisses me gently, if very shortly, and smiles. “Well, if it helps you feel better, I’m typically not one to accept strange drinks from men I already don’t trust as far as I could throw them.”

“Good, because let me warn you, it tastes terrible.”

Nalissa laughs and leads me downstairs by the hand. She only lets go at the door just before we exit to the training field, and pauses to prepare herself. I watch her roll her shoulders and check that her hair is secure in its high ponytail, then take a deep breath like she’s about to dive underwater. It’s a strange experience, watching as she dons the mental armor I spent weeks convincing her she could let go of around me.

When she steps outside, it’s with that proud tilt to her chin and a commanding stride that somehow makes me feel invisible, following in her wake. Caron is nowhere to be seen, I notice. Didn’t she say she sparred with him the first day? I wonder just how that went, for him to agree not to be here. I bet she stomped him, I think with a grin. I really was lucky to get to lose that first match while no one was looking.

And Andraste’s ashes, if Nalissa isn’t good at this. She has the Wardens pair off for practice, then marches up and down between them, rearranging the pairs. It only takes a minute to realize what she’s up to. She’s matching greatswords with dagger users, axe wielders with shieldbearers—pitting speed against reach and defense against power. Everyone has a match-up where they’ll struggle, she says, but struggle is a chance to improve. And I wonder how many of these weapons she’s actually used herself, because she seems to have advice for everyone. When she comes to Oghren and me, we’re no exception.

“Your axe is dual-bladed, Warden Oghren,” she points out with an arched brow.

Oghren grunts and rolls his head to one side, as if trying to crack his neck. “Aye.”

“Yet you only seem to use one blade against a single opponent. If you miss a strike, you dodge and reposition. Habit, I assume. But if you have a opening to bring the other blade to bear, it’s a simple matter to hook it on the edge of an unsuspecting shield. Trust me, shield users do not adapt quickly to having it yanked off their bracers.”

Oghren twitches his moustache in thought, then agrees it’s a sensible suggestion. Nalissa nods and adds, “Do try not to actually break any arms in here though. Save that for the darkspawn.”

“I’ve managed not to break him so far,” Oghren grumbles, and when Nalissa turns to me, she’s wearing her serious face still but there’s a twinkle in her eyes.

“You heard the man, Warden Alistair. He’s coming for your shield. Don’t let him.”

“Fine advice; should’ve thought of that one myself,” I joke, and one side of her mouth curls into a smirk. I find that it makes me want to kiss her in the middle of the practice field.

“I’ve seen you spar,” she points out, neglecting to mention that it’s typically been against her. “Somehow, I really don’t think you need step-by-step instructions.”

Nalissa gives me a wink that makes Oghren snicker, and then her head snaps to something behind me. “Oy, Warden Tarvell! Keep swinging that wide and you��ll disarm everyone except your opponent…”

Oghren eyes her as she leaves and then raises his brows at me. “I always knew you liked being bossed about, but that one could order a dragon to flee and the beast’d probably consider it.”

He gets a chuckle out of me, but not enough of a distraction to catch his axe on my shield, which I’m pretty sure is what he was aiming for. “She can be very persuasive. But she could also probably slay the dragon, if she really put her mind to it.”

“Maybe. After how she handled the boss, most of these blighters would probably follow her to fight one.”

Of course she did, I think a little proudly. She’s incredible. I check over my shoulder that she’s still out of earshot, then whisper, “How did that go? She didn’t quite say, except that he never came back after.”

“Little lady’s a sodding acrobat is how it went,” Oghren says, then gives what I can only shudderingly describe as a really low-pitched giggle and adds, “Lucky you. I bet she can do some fun things with those legs.”

“I realize it’s like asking a Revered Mother not to Chant, but could you not be crude? For once? Tell me what she did.”

“What do I look like, a match caller at the Proving Grounds? She danced around all light-footed like she belonged in the circus, knocked him on his ass, and put a dagger to his ribs. Anything fancier than that, you’d have to get someone else to tell you.” I’m just about to sigh and give up when he adds thoughtfully, “But to be honest, I think it was the scars that won her respect more than the dueling.”

“Scars?” I ask curiously.

The obvious answer doesn’t occur to me, because she’s so careful to keep them hidden, so ashamed when they’re spotted. I don’t even imagine he means her scars from Fort Drakon until he mumbles, “You know,” and makes a nervous gesture toward his back like he’s afraid she’ll catch him looking if he’s not quick about it.

That actually does stun me long enough for him to hook his axe under my shield, but I recover quickly enough to cross my sword under the axe head and pin it in place long enough to free my shield. I backstep quickly out of range and give him a serious look. He frowns but gives up the attack.

“What do you mean, her scars won her respect? Who saw them? How?”

“Damn near everyone with eyes, I imagine,” he says with a shrug that tells me he has no idea how serious that is. Something of what I’m thinking must show on my face, because he holds up a hand warily. “Now, it was just the back of her shirt that tore. Nobody saw any fun bits. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here telling you if they had, I’d be standing back and waiting for the explosion—”

“Comforting, Oghren,” I say, a little more sharply than necessary, and I receive a scowl for it but I don’t care. “What did she do? She doesn’t let anyone see that, she must have been mortified.”

“For a minute, she tried to cover ’em up again,” the dwarf admits. “Can’t see why. Warriors should be proud of their scars. But then she changed her mind and showed the boss what for, and marched out of the arena like she owns the place.”

I glance over my shoulder at Nalissa again, this time with more appreciation than anything else. I’m not surprised, exactly; that would be the wrong word. My Nalissa is stronger than even she knows she is. But Oghren’s story is a far cry from the girl I met a few months ago, who froze up and nearly broke down at her scars being revealed to just me and Venya, and that has me nearly bursting with pride for her.

The deeper wounds from her imprisonment, I think, may finally be starting to heal too.

I’ve just dismissed the Wardens and started toward Alistair when I spot him as the crowd clears. My heart kicks into panic mode before I can stop it, but this time I’m prepared enough to force a deep breath and focus. It isn’t Rendon Howe. Rendon Howe is dead, and he never wore his hair that long, and his chin was weaker and his nose more hooked.

Listing the differences helps, a little, but still it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep a straight face. He wasn’t here for drills, and I suppose that makes sense considering he has a bow and quiver over his back instead of a close-range weapon. But that means he’s come at the end of training on purpose, and considering he’s looking straight at me, I don’t really have to guess what that is.

Alistair, sweet as he is, appears at my side while I’m distracted and speaks to me gently. “Lissa? Are you okay?” He keeps his voice low enough that no one else can hear, takes care not to touch me, and I know he’s worried. There are still enough stragglers putting away training weapons and packing up shields that if I lose myself again, it could be very problematic. I nod sharply, the motion maybe a little more jerky than usual, but I keep my spine straight and my eyes level. It is long past time, I think, that I took control of my fear back from Rendon Howe.

“Lissa,” says Nathaniel Howe, and even though the voice is different too, a cold chill runs down my back that I do my best to ignore. “Good morning.”

“Nate,” I answer, crossing my arms to feel more held together. “It’s… been a long time.”

Nathaniel tries for a smile. “Yes. Last we met, you were still a tiny, freckly kid hiding from your tutor and sparring with squires, and now you’re training Grey Wardens. I’m sure the old man’s glad his lessons didn’t fall on completely deaf ears.”

A sudden image of how Aldous’ beard used to twitch as he tried not to smile at my shenanigans strikes an unexpected chord of homesickness in my chest. The old scholar said something very much like that the last time I spoke with him. “I’m sure he would be,” I say, and my words come out a little more clipped than before. “If he hadn’t been murdered in the library with the guests.”

Nathaniel fidgets with one hand on the strap of his quiver, looking exactly as uncomfortable as one would expect from the turn in conversation. “I, ah, meant to speak with you about that. If you have a moment?”

Alistair touches my elbow, his hand warm even through the studded leather. When I glance at him, his eyebrows are pulled low over eyes still watching me with concern. I don’t think he doubts me, he was always far too upset with Fergus for doing that, but he’s probably worried at the prospect of leaving me to a private chat with someone I’ve so recently tried to murder.

I give him a faint smile and a nod, then gently but firmly remove his hand and squeeze it for reassurance. “I’ve got this,” I tell him quietly, purposefully choosing any phrase but I’m fine because I’m fairly certain he doesn’t believe that one anymore. “I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

He hesitates only for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead and reminds me in a somewhat louder voice that he’ll be within shouting distance if I need him. He spares only one glance toward Nathaniel as he turns to leave, but it looks very much like a warning. Alistair’s faith in me makes me feel bolstered, and even though I don’t think I need it, that he’s still so ready to defend me makes me feel safer, even as he walks away.

“He really loves you,” Nathaniel says aloud, something like disbelief in his voice as he stares and shakes his head. So I’ve just realized, my mind snarks, but I don’t say it and so he continues on. “I’d assumed it was arranged, him being the king. That he only defended you as the future queen. But you’re actually in love.”

Something about his tone says without words, “That explains a lot,” and I wonder again about the mission Alistair still hasn’t found time to tell me about. But I can’t see any reason to lie, so I admit, “It was arranged. I almost decided to overthrow Fergus and refuse. I’m glad I didn’t.”

The last part comes out sounding surprisingly soft, and I force a cough to cover it, like I might have been losing my voice. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to admitting… anything about how I feel for Alistair, to anyone except him, and even that is so new it makes my heart race just to remember. I’m failing miserably at remaining stoic, I realize. I’m probably blushing, and definitely not completely hiding my smile, and I can’t allow that to be a weakness for someone to exploit.

“Well, I’m… glad for you,” Nathaniel says slowly, but though he seems sincere despite his struggle with the words, he is a Howe, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever trust anyone with that surname again.

Etiquette dictates I should thank him for the sentiment, I know that, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps that particular lesson Aldous and Mother tried to teach me didn’t stick so well as they would have hoped. So I shift my weight from one foot to the other and ask abruptly, “What is it you want of me, Nate?”

He pauses before answering, looking just as uncomfortable with this entire conversation as I am. Odd, considering he’s the one that sought it. Finally he sighs and gestures hopefully toward one side of the training field, past the few Wardens still inspecting bruises and stowing equipment, and I follow him cautiously away from the wall of the keep.

Nathaniel leans against the wooden fence separating the training grounds from the courtyard proper and stares toward the sunrise instead of looking at me. “I’ve, ah… heard rumors since my return to Ferelden.”

“No surprise there. I’m sure Arl Bryland is already telling people Alistair and I have eloped and are honeymooning in Orlais, dueling grand dukes and winning honor for Ferelden.”

He snorts, then shakes his head. “That does sound like something he would say, but not the rumors I meant.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and despite all the differences I keep trying to focus on, his eyes are the same steel gray as his father’s, and I pull my elbows more tightly to my sides. It’s a poor defense, but it makes me feel a little better. “I’ve heard… disturbing things, about my father. And about you.”

I find that my mouth is turning dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again. “That he tried to murder my entire family and everyone loyal to us? Not rumors.”

“That much Delilah has told me,” Nathaniel admits, and a sense of dread settles in my chest like a terrible premonition. “Whatever… became of him while I was gone, I’ve come to accept that there was more to it than just making the wrong decisions in a war.”

“Good,” I snap, a little more viciously than I meant to, but he doesn’t falter and that gaze is starting to make my hands itch to hold a blade.

“Is it true, that he didn’t kill you intentionally? That he kept you prisoner during the Blight?”

I look away from those chilling eyes, needing to focus on keeping my breathing even. My nails feel like they’re cracking against the metal studs on my upper arms, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip. “I’d really prefer not to talk about that,” I manage to say, but my voice comes out too high and too thin to sound firm.

“Fucking Maker,” Nathaniel swears. I hear the creaking of wood and react on instinct, one hand flitting to the knife pouch at my hip, but his bow isn’t even in his hands. Instead he seems to be trying to wrest one of the fence slats from the post, and judging by the sound, the fence objects. His back is to me again, for which I’m grateful, but still he hisses, “He really did it, didn’t he? It wasn’t just… death as acceptable losses. It was murder. Torture. Senseless violence. That’s what he became.”

“He wasn’t called the Butcher of Denerim for nothing,” I whisper hoarsely, and this time when he looks at me, his eyes aren’t so much like his father’s anymore. They’re downcast and regretful, an emotion I never saw Rendon Howe wear.

“Why? What did he possibly hope to achieve?”

He sounds desperate to understand, and as much as it makes me feel sick to think about, I consider the answer. Highever itself wasn’t it; I don’t think it ever really was. I was only ever a means to an end, and chances are Howe only enjoyed hurting me so much because I reminded him of someone else. It isn’t something I should have to try to explain to anyone, but Nathaniel does deserve the truth. And in the end, it’s just another thing his father has forced upon me to deal with.

“I… I think it boiled down to resentment,” I try to reason. It’s difficult to try to apply logic, especially when each revolting memory threatens to pull me in, but I try. “He was angry—furious—with Father. Decades later, and he still blamed him for ‘stealing glory’ at White River. For winning the favor of the king and the freeholders. For becoming a teyrn when H—he only ever became an arl. He thought he deserved everything that was my father’s, so he took it away. At first, I think… I think he only meant to make me beg to die. But then something changed. Loghain started losing supporters and ground, I suppose, but I had no idea. He just swore I would never know peace again until I married his son and handed Highever officially back to Amaranthine.”

Nathaniel gives me a look so near to disgust that I could almost be offended if I wasn’t preoccupied being terrified of my own thoughts. “He wanted to force you to marry me?”

“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “Thomas. It was always Thomas, until he and Lady Eliane died. Then… then it was him, until he died too.”

“Are you… you’re saying my father tried to torture you into marrying him.”

I realize abruptly that my face is stinging in the chill morning air and turn away to dry it discreetly. “He was mad, by that time. More so than before. Grasping at straws, with all his plans coming undone around him. Everyone thought Fergus dead, and me the only heir, and with Loghain’s support failing…”

Nathaniel takes a deep breath and a long exhale before he speaks again. “I didn’t want to believe how far he’d fallen, but the… things I’ve heard, and what they’re all saying about scars, I had to ask. Maker, I’m sorry.”

My fists clench at the mention of those marks, and I give him a piercing look. “Don’t you dare. Your father did quite enough to me, Nate. I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need anyone contributing to the rumors I’m—I’m weak or an invalid or—”

“What?” he interrupts, and actually scoffs at me like I’m being ludicrous. “Lissa, not a damn person in this keep thinks you’re weak. They’re talking about how you must be stronger than any of them. That you’re a better duelist than Emile—and for the love of the Maker, do not tell him I said that or he will send me on pointless scouting missions twice a week for the rest of my life.”

“I… what?” I stare at him, unable to connect the words with what I’m sure I’ve seen in the eyes of some of these men, but he just shakes his head at me.

“They think whatever happened to you is deplorable, but that’s all. I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, but there’s not a Warden who saw that fight that wouldn’t throw down a gauntlet at the first man to call you weak. Emile included. He might be too proud to admit it, but I know him. He was impressed.”

I can’t decide if everything he’s saying is the truth or not, but I appreciate that he says it anyway. So I swallow my own pride and offer the apology I really should have given him when he first approached. “I’m sorry for how I reacted, in the dining hall. I wasn’t in a—I didn’t recognize you—”

Nathaniel holds up a hand to silence me and offers a wan smile. “It’s fine. Your fiancé explained. A little angrily, not that I didn’t deserve it, but it’s what convinced me you probably wouldn’t stab me if I approached slowly enough.”

“Probably not,” I allow, trying for a smile too. I’m probably about as successful as he is. “I’m… also sorry your father wasn’t who you thought he was.”

“No,” he answers quietly. “He hated my mother, and sent me away to the Free Marches in a glorified exile because he preferred my brother. I should have put it together a long time ago.”

I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to want a response. One polite nod later, he turns to leave, and I take his place leaning against the fence and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t quite manage it until a short while later, when a voice whispers my name and then a familiar pair of arms circle my waist from behind. Alistair’s chin rests on top of my head and I lean back against him with a sigh. I’ll work out what to tell him about all of this later; for now, I just hold onto his forearms like they’re the only thing tethering me to the world.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #alistair #alistair theirin #cousland #nalissa cousland #alistair x cousland #nathaniel howe #fanfic #my fanfic #writing #my writing #a thread of fate #ao3

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