AU Fic: For Want of a Warden, Part 6

[phoenixblaize]

Keep chugging along here. I would have been done earlier, but my shoulders decided they wanted to hate me for a while. This chapter feels long to me even though I had meant it to be short. Ah well. Enjoy!

Title: For Want of a Warden
Pairing: Eventually, probably Alistair/Cousland (Avelle)
Rating: Rated T for violence.
Summary: When Castle Highever comes under attack by Howe’s men, the younger Cousland flees without the aid of Duncan. Morrigan and Avelle seek rumors in the pub, and things get worse from there. Will the addition of Alistair and a sister of the Chantry make the situation better or worse?

6 - Brawls Always Break Out in Pubs

“So you never came here before then?”

“For what purpose? Drinking ‘tis a foolish distraction.”

You had to wonder if there was anything that Morrigan enjoyed doing-apart from vicious mockery. Not that she struck Avelle as the kind of woman who spent any of her time in a pub like this, impossibly loud between the crowds of unhappy refugees and the just-out-of-tune band’s rendition of I Want to be Your Canary, and stinking of dirt, sweat, and alcohol. It was just surprising that the witch thought all drinking was a distraction. The picture of her, legs crossed reclining in a plush chair with a wide glass of some expensive old spirit seemed to fit Morrigan’s inherent…smoothness. Cleverness? Avelle grasped for the word and found herself lacking.

“It’s not that bad,” Avelle replied. Her point was refuted by a man so drunk he stumbled past them, wiggling and wobbling as if his bones had been replaced by jam. There was a loud clunk as he attempted to open the front door.

Morrigan arched one eyebrow. It was the kind of condescending look a cat would give you every other minute. Cats had a talent for being dignified while being arrogant…much like nobility could be. That line of thought wouldn’t lead anywhere pleasant.

“I stand by what I said,” she added. “So, you have been to this town before, though, right?”

Morrigan nodded, tracing a pattern in the grain of wood of the small table they’d managed to grab before another group of refugees scooped it up. “I would come here more often, if not for their Chantry. It makes the town most intolerant and unpleasant for a person such as me.”

“Yes…well…Are you sure they weren’t just looking at you because of your particular…clothing tastes?”

“The Chantry and those who hold their tenets dear do not look kindly upon those who appear different than they, if that is what you intended to mean,” Morrigan said.

Avelle shrugged.

“Do not tell me you are among those faithful to some powerful mystical father figure that will supposedly reward you for a life of servitude and bowing before him.” The witch’s face twisted, as if saying the words were poison to her.

Avelle’s face fell and she pursed her lips while looking out to the crowded pub. “I believed in the Maker well enough growing up but now…I don’t know. There are too many unanswered questions.”

To her surprise, the witch smiled. It was a genuine one of interest, not the arrogant cat-like one she was already used to. On impulse, Avelle found herself smiling back. “An open mind is one more apt to acquire wisdom,” said Morrigan.

“All of em dead?”

“Nah, they say one of em got out. Hiding out in the wilderness until they can raise a resistance to Teryn Loghain. I hear the new Arl of Denerim put up a large sovereign reward for anyone who could find them. Said they were as bad as those traitorous Grey Wardens what killed the King in Ostagar.”

Avelle squinted at the snippet of conversation that her ears caught. Their Grey Warden was going to be pretty unhappy to hear about a bounty on his head. It was a complication for them, as well. Anyone who became suspicious of Alistair’s Grey Warden status could try to turn him in for a large reward (the merchant sprang to mind, the greedy bastard). It would lead to only more fights, more distractions and more violence.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” she said, managing a half-way decent smile. “There’s a new Arl in Denerim? Are all of the Uriel line gone?”

One of the men she had overheard, a red round faced man with straw colored hair that was a few years short of thinning in the front, smiled. It was a hazy disconnected look of a man who had reached the pleasant phase of drunkenness, somewhere between loudness and sleepiness. “Arl Howe’s been named the new Arl of Denerim, miss, on account of him exposing the traitorous planning of the Couslands to overthrow the throne."

Her left eye twitched involuntarily. Swallowing became the most difficult thing in the world. “What did you say?” she whispered.

Alistair scratched his chin while inspecting the Chanter’s board. There were a few opportunities to choose from, and they needed the money.

Honest money, really. Not second hand stolen money.

That was the heart of the matter. As valid as his companions’ opinions had been when scavenging from the fallen highwaymen, he didn’t want that to become habit. Witch-thief would never mind, willing to grab anything that wasn’t nailed down, he figured. But Avelle…he didn’t think she should make that kind of behavior routine.

He perused the options before him for a few more minutes before grabbing all of them written out on scraps of parchment and stuffing them into his pack, which was now full to bursting with supplies for the road. A little bit of honest work helping people would make them all feel on more solid ground.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Alistair stopped at the lip of the stone bridge that led to the other side, such as it was, of Lothering. He looked towards the voice and saw three elves staring at him with hopeful nervousness. The man, he guessed father of the trio, stepped forward.

“Could you spare a few coppers?” the elf continued. “We were robbed on the way here by a group of bandits. They even took our daughter’s lamb! Not many people want to stop and help the likes of us…”

Even a little girl’s lamb! Alistair’s stomach took an unpleasant lurch. He reached into the pouch Avelle had found and pulled out a handful of silvers and coppers. He didn’t bother to count it as he put them in the elf’s hands. “My friends and I took care of some highwaymen just outside of town, but in case your things aren’t there you should have this.”

The wife’s entire face lit up, her eyes tearing at the sight of the coins in her husband’s hands. “We should go there right now and see if anything of ours is left. Oh bless you, ser! Thank you so much!”

Their daughter beamed up at Alistair. She had a smile that caused dimples in her cheeks and made her eyes crinkle. It was a pure child smile, and there was just something so warming and sweet about it. “Thank you, ser. Maybe I can still find my lamb.”

Alistair grinned and waved as the family turned and began walking towards the Imperial Highway into town. “You’re welcome! I hope you all find the lamb!”

It just wasn’t in him to tell them that he hadn’t seen any lambs when they had fought those men. After the struggles they had been through, they deserved a little bit of hope in that matter. And just because he hadn’t seen it didn’t mean they couldn’t find it, right?

Oh, I’m kidding myself. Surely the lamb is dead, but at least they might find some of their old belongings…

That was heartening, just a little bit. Giving them some of their found money also went a long way. Odds were good that some of it had been that family’s anyway; Alistair was just returning it to its proper owner. With the Chanter’s board jobs, they would be getting more soon anyway.

The pub wasn’t hard to miss, being the only building that had any life to it. Even the front was crowded with people talking in hushed whispers, a few refugee tents, and the occasional passed out drunk. Alistair chuckled. What had been that Warden’s name again? Gregor? Gregoir? That man was incapable of becoming passed out. Not so much for these poor folk. He didn’t blame them, though, situation being what it was. As long as they sobered up in enough time to hightail it ahead of the horde, drinking away a few of your troubles wasn’t the worst way to handle it.

Something hit the doorframe with a loud crash cracking into uncountable pieces that clinked to the ground, as Alistair opened the door and walked into the pub. He didn’t get very far. The interior of the pub was an indistinguishable mess. Men were fighting everywhere, punches and kicks thrown, drinks spilled, and tables overturned. Pubs were rowdy, yes, but this one seemed to be going for the Most Disorderly Pub in Ferelden Medal.

In the middle of this was-

Alistair sighed and found himself hoping he hadn’t seen what he just saw, though he already knew it to be true.

-Avelle, kneeing a leather armored man in the stomach while Morrigan, still seated at a nearby table, tripped another man who was running towards Avelle. How this had started a pub-wide riot, Alistair had no idea, but this was just…there weren’t words. It had to have been Morrigan’s fault. She had absolutely no social graces. Those were words that weren’t in her limited vocabulary. And she never had a friend. Yes. Avelle just had to be attempting to diffuse a situation and…doing it terribly.

He sighed, putting a hand on his forehead and running through his hair. Then he realized that he probably had just mussed up his hair and well, wasn’t that just dandy. What now?

A voice on the other side of the room called out, “There! It’s him!”

Ah, that ‘now.’

The entire pub fell quiet. The man Avelle had kneed in the stomach remained fallen on the ground, but several men in matching armor made their way across the mess towards him. They were some of Loghain’s men from Ostagar. There was nothing good about this, and seeing Morrigan rise from her chair and take out her staff while Avelle’s hands hovered over her swords didn’t do the tiniest bit to ease this feeling. From seemingly nowhere a redheaded Chantry sister sidled up next to Alistair. Instead of easing his concern, her presence only seemed to double it. If anything happened to her because of Loghain’s men…

“Well men, look at what we have here. We must be blessed,” said the commander. He was the only one not wearing a helmet, too interested in showing off that rather impressive display of stubble. Give it a week’s time and it might become a full fledged manly beard.

The helmeted soldier next to the leader squinted at Alistair. “Didn’t we spend all morning asking around for a man of this description? And everyone said they hadn’t seen him?”

The commander frowned. “It seems we were lied to."

“Maybe your description was off? My hair is quite difficult to describe in detail,” Alistair replied, smiling. “Look, I know that you’re Loghain’s men and you were obviously looking for me because I’m…er…”

“Gentlemen,” said the sister, and Alistair jumped a little when he realized he had already forgotten she was there, “now there is no need for trouble. Surely this is another poor soul seeking refuge.” Now, that was strange since her accent was obviously Orlesian...

Alistair scratched his neck as the leader pointed back to Morrigan and Avelle, who were both still looking one second away from stab-spell-killy mode. “What, like them? We started talking about Teyrn Loghain and the brunette started throwing punches. That sound like a poor soul to you? You step aside, sister, or you align yourself with these traitors.”

There was a pained ‘oof’ sound from behind Loghain’s men. They all turned to look and saw Avelle had kicked the man on the floor in the stomach. She stared back at the rest of them with an unnervingly blank expression.

“Traitors? This is ridiculous!” Alistair said. “It was Teyrn Loghain who retreated, who pulled his men out and abandoned our King. If that doesn’t fit the description of traitor what do you think does?”

The commander scowled. “No! I was there at Ostagar with the Teyrn when he saved us from the treachery of the Grey Wardens. He saved us from a trap. I would follow him gladly!” He pulled his sword from his sheath; it glinted orange from the fireplace light nearby. “Enough talk. Take the Grey Warden into custody! Kill the sister and the others.”

“Right. Let’s make this quick,” said the soldier.

Grabbing his sword with one hand, Alistair ushered the sister behind him with the other. “Stay behind me! I won’t let them touch you!”

Blast it, no time to pull out the shield…

“But I-” the sister started but was interrupted by the commander lunging forward, attempting to run her through. Alistair swung his sword out to parry and was surprised when the leader cried out in pain. He looked down to see that the sister had ducked down and stabbed the man in the foot with her own dagger. How had he missed her dagger? How’d she learn to fight for that matter?

“Duck!” yelled Morrigan, and Avelle dropped down as a streak of lightning crackled over her head. The soldier in front of Avelle shook and convulsed and that continued even after the young woman twirled both of her blades and sliced them forward, leaving the man without a head. A few seconds later an icy cold rush of wind passed through the room and the soldier on the ground was now also a block of ice.

The commander’s second, the soldier who had been beside him, screamed and shoved his shield at Alistair to bash him into unconsciousness. The first one managed to connect with his nose and it sparked into white hot stinging pain that he was sure would be bleeding if it wasn’t already. There weren’t a lot of options open to him…

Alistair looked down at the soldier’s feet as the man prepared to bash again. It was a terrible stance. A weak stance.

When the soldier charged, Alistair put his foot out and hooked it around the soldier’s. He then pulled forward and felt little resistance on the soldier’s part, just a scream of attack that squeaked higher into one of surprise. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, where Alistair kept the point of his sword aimed at the soldier’s exposed heart.

“All right, all right!” said the commander from in front of them, kneeling down to tend to his bloody foot. “You win! We surrender.”

The sister smiled with satisfaction and looked at Alistair. “Good. They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now.”

“I suppose,” replied Alistair, “but there’s no prison to lock them up in, is there? All I saw was some cage a little farther down the road. It wouldn’t be large enough for all of them…unless they wanted to squeeze and hold their breath.”

Avelle’s blades still remained at the ready in her hands, and her face was as blank as it had been before. “They’re willing traitors. Kill them all or they will return and kill you.”

A sad frown formed on the sister’s face. “But they have surrendered. There is little to be gained from such brutality, is there not?”

He hated this. You don’t kill surrendered men, everyone knew that. It was just a terrible thing to do. Jail, the preferred option, wasn’t open to them. Yes, killing them was, in its own way, practical. That was the only good thing one could say about it. Alistair couldn’t do it. They were blind followers of a traitor and would have killed both of his companions and an innocent sister just to get to him but…he just would not murder men like this.

Avelle’s grimaced, but didn’t reply. The look on Morrigan’s face beside her told all he needed to know about what she thought: she agreed with Avelle. The witch was a bad influence, he was sure of it.

“Go back to Loghain,” Alistair said, the solution coming to him as he spoke. “Tell him…tell him that I know the truth. We know the truth. Others are going to, as well.”

The commander looked up at him and nodded. “Yes, yes! I’ll tell him. We’ll tell him. Right now!”

“If I see any of you again, you’re dead,” said Avelle.

“Uh, right. Got it!” said the commander, as Alistair pulled his sword away from the soldier’s throat and the man scrambled to his feet. They and the remaining survivors rushed past them and out into the dirt road, the wooden door slamming behind them.

Alistair returned his sword to his sheath. He supposed he should be proud that he managed to fight without his shield, although it was shameful that he wasn’t quick enough to draw it. That was something that needed to change. The sister next to him smiled at him, putting her own weapon away.

“I apologize for interfering but I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” she said.

“Well, I appreciate the effort, sister. Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.

Her smile turned knowing. Behind her the still conscious patrons and refugees started turning chairs and tables back over to their proper places while the band started back up with a jaunty tune. “We weren’t born in the Chantry. Some of has more…colorful pasts before joining. Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the Lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was.”

“Was it compulsive diffusing of pub brawls the reason why they kicked you out?” asked Avelle, who had finally put her own blades away. Alistair released a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

Leliana laughed, and that was a relief. You’d figure any sister would be a little lacking on the side of having a sense of humor. Alistair hoped what Avelle had said was a joke, at least. “No, I was not kicked out. I have decided to leave for a…higher calling, if you will.” She looked back to Alistair. “They said you are a Grey Warden."

He shrugged. “Oh, they said a lot of things that aren’t true. I’m sure if you kept them talking they would have said I like to wear hats made of frilly lacy things and pink ribbons. That’s not true, by the way.”

“Ah, but I am sure that particular part is true. I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That is why I’m coming along,” said Leliana.

Morrigan squinted and frowned while Avelle just looked confused. Confused just about summed it up for Alistair.

“Most people wouldn’t jump at the chance to follow around a Grey Warden to the far corners of Ferelden, especially when they’re considered traitors,” he said.

Leliana smiled and shook her head. “As you have been able to tell, I am not like most people. You will need the help, no doubt. That and the Maker wants me to go with you.”

All three of them stopped and stared at the sister in silence for a second. Alistair’s eyes flickered from Avelle to Morrigan and back to Leliana. For once Morrigan’s expression matched his own.

“Right…Alistair, back away slowly and don’t make eye contact,” Avelle whispered.

“And I thought we were full up on crazy…” he muttered.

Leliana’s eyebrows knitted and her smile turned nervous. “I know that it sounds absolutely insane, but it’s true. I had a dream…a vision, of the darkness that threatens to swallow all of us and in that appeared a light…I didn’t know what it meant until now. If I follow you, I serve the Maker’s will and his holy plan.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes and made a noise of disgust.

“Well…” Alistair started.

Avelle leaned towards him, putting one hand up to block her face from Leliana. “Don’t consider this. She is one Archdemon short of a Blight.”

“Yes, but her crazy is more like ‘oooh pretty colors!’ than ‘I am Princess Stabbity! Kill! Kill!’” he whispered.

Leliana’s declaration was…weird, to say the least. However, the sister knew how to handle a dagger and Grey Wardens were supposed to accept help wherever it was offered. Hell, if given the choice between tactless apostate and Princess Stabbity, he already knew which one he felt more comfortable with. A little excess devotion to the Maker wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

He grinned at Leliana and opened up his arms wide. “When you say such absolutely insane things, how can I refuse your help?”

Morrigan crossed her arms and frowned. “You cracked your head worse than Mother thought, or not enough. I would be happy to oblige if it wasn’t enough.”