Fanfic -- Of Mud and Mabari (Dragon Age)
Title: Of Mud and Mabari
Word Count: ~4200
Characters: F!Cousland, Alistair, Maric, Cailan, Bryce, Eleanor, Fergus, Eamon, Isolde, Teagan (future F!Cousland/Alistair pairing)
Rating: E
Summary: "It was the glint of fiery red that caught Elissa's eye. As the King and her parents discussed trivialities, Elissa peered around her father into the distance, and spotted the face of a boy--close to her own age, she guessed--spying on them, his copper hair shining in the midday sun." My take on young Cousland and Alistair meeting at Redcliffe
Disclaimer: Anyone you recognize doesn't belong to me!
Note: First Dragon Age Fic that I've actually finished/posted.
The boy peered around the corner of the stables, chewing his bottom lip as he watched the gilded carriage pulled by four perfectly matched palfreys roll to a halt in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle. The horses tossed their heads in protest, the blue plumes on their bridles bouncing. For a moment, he was transfixed by the motion, until the shifting of the gathered entourage diverted his attention. A distinguished retinue was assembled to greet the newcomers, the most prominent among them King Maric himself with his teenage son, Cailan. As a footman rushed to open the carriage door, the boy could see the insignia on the side-two crossed olive branches, painted in hues of blue and grey-and recognized it as the family heraldry of the Teyrn of Highever.
He pressed closer to the great stone wall as the occupants of the carriage emerged-the first evidently the patriarch, bowing to the King before Maric seized his hand in a hearty shake and tugged him forward into a back-thumping hug; a fine lady, the Teyrna, he supposed, who carried herself with such grace; and a dark-haired boy not much younger than the prince. He heard Maric’s booming laughter carried on the wind, and realized that the King had reached into the carriage, lifting a girl from inside and twirling her around a few times, still laughing, before setting her down. She immediately bobbed a curtsy and the boy could see the indulgent smiles on everyone’s faces.
He watched them from a distance as they stood and chatted amiably, fighting the overwhelming urge he had to stuck out his tongue at the turned back of the Arlessa, in all her Orlesian finery. As he saw the King affectionately place a hand on the prince's shoulder, the boy furrowed his brow. He didn’t quite understand the sudden rush of irritation he felt, so he kicked out at a small rock nearby, feeling an immense satisfaction as it tumbled away. As the two boys dashed off, Cailan’s excited voice carried on the wind (Ooh, Swords!), he decided he should take his leave before he was noticed and quickly retreated towards the stables.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
It was the glint of fiery red that caught Elissa’s eye. As the King and her parents discussed trivialities ("The roads near West Hill were nearly washed out," complained the Teyrna), Elissa peered around her father into the distance, and spotted the face of a boy-close to her own age, she guessed-spying on them, his copper hair shining in the midday sun. She stared at him for a brief moment, before her brother’s voice brought her back.
“I hear the Arl has quite a collection in his armory. Perhaps we could…”
"Fergus...," the Teyrna began, the hint of a scold in her voice.
“Yes!” Cailan interrupted, turning an expectant face to his uncle. “May Fergus and I look at your swords, Uncle?”
Maric clapped Cailan affectionately on the shoulder, shaking him ever so slightly. "Bryce and Eleanor haven't even caught their breath yet, and you're already running off, wanting to hit things with sticks."
"Warriors, the lot of them. It's in their blood," Arl Eamon said as he gave the boys an indulgent smile. “Of course you may go. Just mind yourselves, boys.”
“I want to see them, too,” Elissa piped up, all attention immediately focused on her. She gave them her most winning smile as she tucked her hands neatly behind her back. At nine, she already was an indomitable force to be reckoned with, having learned enough airs and graces to please her Teyrna mother, while easily making her indulgent father--and most others--bend to her will.
"I would have taken you for a blushing wallflower, Elissa," the King teased. "Not an aficionado of fine weaponry."
"On the contrary, your Majesty," the Teyrn said. "Elissa shares the same fascination with all things pointy and dangerous, just like her brother."
Fergus opened his mouth to protest, but the Teyrna cut him off. “Take your sister, Fergus. And watch her.”
Seeing the reluctance in the boy’s eyes, his father chuckled. “I’m sure she won’t get in the way, will you, pup?”
Elissa turned a triumphant grin on Fergus, pleased when she saw his shoulders slump in defeat. “Of course not, Father.”
The mattered settled, the adults slowly trailed away, the Teyrna shooting one last warning glare over her shoulder at her brood, mouthing “Mind yourselves,” before engaging the Arlessa in conversation about the tea waiting for them all in the study.
Fergus stared hard at Elissa, his brow furrowed in irritation. He was fifteen, after all, on the verge of being a man, and he did not want his annoying little sister tagging along as he befriended the young Theirin prince. He turned an apologetic gaze to Cailan, who wordlessly responded with a small shrug.
"Well...," Elissa began expectantly, wondering why they weren't already on their way. She was quite eager to see the Arl's renowned collection up close for herself. If she were lucky, she might even get to try a few practice swings.
Fergus looked at her for a long moment before glancing in the direction of the castle. He looked back at Cailan, a small smirk forming on his lips. “I have an idea,” Fergus said. “A game."
Elissa's interest was piqued.
"A game?" echoed Cailan. Fergus nodded at him, jerking his head unnoticed in the direction of Elissa.
"A race. To the armory. First one there gets their pick of the practice swords."
Comprehension dawned on Cailan's face. “Glorious!” he exclaimed.
“And…Go!” Fergus yelled, before a protest could even form on Elissa’s lips. The two boys dashed off, Cailan giggling about swords and Fergus running as fast as he could.
Elissa dashed after them, but stood no chance of keeping up. “Hey! Wait up!” she cried, but the boys were across the yard and out of sight before she knew it. She slid to an angry halt, petulantly crossing her arms and staring in the direction of their retreat. Her mind worked hard to recall a colorful swear she had overheard her father say once, but failed miserably, and settled on muttering, “Andraste’s knickers,” while kicking at a rock. She started to follow them, but paused, remembering the boy she had seen earlier. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction she had seen him-the stables-and only hesitated a moment before skipping that way.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
She found the boy sitting in a small nook just inside the door of the stables--over-tall, with gangly limbs and a wild crop of copper hair. His back was turned to her, his attention focused on four or five crudely carved figures. She could hear him mumbling as he picked up one, charging it towards a golem and knocking it down with a muted battle cry.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. He started, the carving in his hand tumbling to join the others on the ground.
“I…I…” he stuttered uselessly, taken completely aback at her sudden appearance. As she took a small step forward, he suddenly remembered himself and sprung to his feet, giving her a small bow. “My lady Cousland,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her feet. He did not see her quickly scrunch up her face in irritation at the greeting.
“Elissa,” she barked.
“What?” He glanced up, meeting her eyes.
“Elissa,” she repeated, more kindly this time. “My name.”
“Oh. I’m Alistair. I’m…”
“The stable boy, yes?”
Alistair felt his face flush and didn’t respond. Fine, he thought. The stable boy it is. She’ll make fun of me and leave.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, gesturing to the scattered figures.
“I was…” He paused, his eyes searching her face for a moment, and finding no judgment there, sheepishly continued. “Playing the Battle of River Dane.”
“Oh.” Her eyes left his and looked down at the ‘battlefield.’ A golem, a dragon, a few soldiers. She looked back at him. “Which one are you?”
“What? No…I…I wasn’t pretending that any of them…I…” She cocked her head slightly, lifting her eyebrows. He sighed. “I was the warrior.” She grinned instantly, sinking down on the ground beside the figurines, picking up the one he had been holding.
“Be careful with that!” he burst out, reaching towards it. He immediately regretted it, and blushed a deeper shade of crimson. “They’re…fragile…is all.” In fact, they were the only possessions he could call his own, and he prized them as such.
“I’ll be careful,” Elissa promised, with all the gravity she could muster, before patting on the ground, indicating he should join her. As he did, she examined the carved stone, running her fingers over the smoothed edges, before gently handing it back to him. Alistair gave her a half-grin before setting it back with its comrades.
“So do you train? Spar? Fight?” Elissa asked, picking up a stray bit of hay. She slowly began fraying the edges as she looked expectantly at Alistair. When he didn’t respond, she continued on. “Because I do. I train with the squires at my castle. I spar with Rory all the time. His father is a knight in our service and he’s going to be a knight, too, one day.”
“Oh,” Alistair said lamely. He wasn’t sure how to respond-he had been deprived of companionship most of his young life, save for the maids and servants. And Arl Eamon, of course. But his opportunities to converse with children his own age had been limited and strained at best.
“Well?” Elissa pressed.
“I…watch the soldiers.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” he admitted begrudgingly. “They’ve trained me a little.” When she didn’t respond, but continued staring expectantly at him, he furrowed his brow. “I know how to handle a sword, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I see,” she said, her fingers reaching out to touch the stone warrior’s face. “And you think you’ll be a warrior when you grow up?”
Alistair’s mouth opened a bit in surprise at her intuitiveness. “Yes.”
Her eyes met his again and she sighed and shook her head. “You can’t be a warrior…you’re a stable boy.” Her voice was petulant, but sure, accompanied by an emphatic quirked brow and crossed arms.
Her words struck a chord deep within Alistair. It had only been yesterday, after all, that some of the village boys had hounded him relentlessly about being the bastard stable boy. The terrible things they said-about him, about his mother… He glared at her and only hesitated for half a second before hotly retorting, “Well, you can’t be a warrior. You’re a girl.” Momentarily, he was pleased as the smug look on her face faded, but his satisfaction was quickly replaced by terror at the thought of the thrashing he would receive if he had made the youngest Cousland cry. He opened his mouth to apologize, but his voice clicked uselessly. Oh, Maker, he thought. What have I done?
Relief washed over him when her hard stare softened and she grinned at him.
“Then let’s prove each other wrong,” she said, gesturing for him to follow her. She turned and dashed off, not bothering to look back, confident that he would follow her command and trail after her.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
“I found some sticks that would be excellent for sparring,” she said, picking up two fallen branches, which were relatively straight. “Just as fine as whatever is in the Arl’s armory, I’m sure,” she continued on, looking only briefly in the direction the two older boys had gone when they left her. “Now,” she said firmly, handing one to Alistair. He swung it back and forth a few times to test its weight. “Let’s reenact the Battle of River Dane properly, yes? Not with your dolls…”
“Figurines!” he interrupted. She was so surprised at the sudden vehemence in his voice that she almost dropped her ‘sword,’ but she met his eyes and nodded. “Sorry. Figurines, then.” Alistair sniffled in response, averting his eyes. “Anyway, you’re the Orlesians.”
At that, his gaze snapped back up to hers. “But I don’t want to be Orlesian!”
Elissa shrugged and brushed a stray tendril of hair out of her eye. “Well, someone has to be, and I say it’s going to be you.” Again, it was that tone, with such finality, that Alistair found himself acquiescing in spite of himself. “Fine.”
They chased each other about the courtyard, the sticks clicking and thudding against the other as they sparred. Breathless giggles of excitement were swept away by the wind as the ‘battle’ became more intense. They only paused for a brief moment when a poorly-aimed assault of Elissa’s caused the stick to come rapping down on Alistair’s knuckles. After he had stuck the wounded knuckle in his mouth, and submitted to summary inspection by Elissa, they decided it was not life-threatening and continued on, until with one great sweeping motion, Elissa disarmed him, and declared herself the victor.
Alistair accepted his defeat graciously, kneeling at her feet as they recreated the surrender of the Orlesians, offering up his sword as a token of his surrender. Elissa’s face was schooled into an expression of mock gravity as she took the sword. The game over, she turned from him, using the sticks to trace indecipherable patterns in the dirt. “Well done,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “You fight well.”
“You too,” he said earnestly.
She glanced up at him and grinned. “So what do you want to do now?”
Alistair only thought for a moment before quickly answering, “Now, you be a damsel in distress and I’ll rescue you!”
Elissa immediately pulled a face. “No.”
“What?”
“I’m not a damsel. And I’m not in distress. And I don’t need rescuing.”
Alistair blinked in surprise a few times, startled by her suddenly sulky tone. “You got to be Teyrn Loghain and I had to be an Orlesian,” he pointed out. He saw her expression soften, and pressed on. “Couldn’t you be a damsel for just a little while?”
Elissa contemplated this before finally sighing and giving him a nod as she relinquished the sticks to his outstretched hands. “Fine. But just for a little while.” She glanced at the tree in the courtyard. “And I get to climb the tree!”
“It can be your tower,” Alistair conceded. “An Orlesian warlord has you captive in the highest tower and I have to fight my way through hoards of soldiers to rescue you. And slay a dragon.”
“Whatever,” she said dismissively as she started up the tree, the bark scraping her hands and knees as she pulled herself up into the branches. She started to climb higher, but settled herself in one of the lower boughs after glancing down, and realizing that the ground seemed so very far away. She watched as Alistair fought invisible foes, calling to her occasionally that he would save her. “Oh, please, ser knight! ‘Tis terribly wicked here in this…umm…wicked tower!” she yelled to him.
After he had vanquished all of his ‘enemies,’ Alistair stood at the foot of the tree, staring up at her. “Oh, my …fairest…lady. I have come to save you!”
“Thank you, thank you, ser knight! Now climb my tower and rescue me!” she called back, placing a hand on her forehead and sinking back against the trunk of the tree with a dramatic sigh.
“Climb…You want me to climb the tree?” Alistair was quite sure his voice went a bit higher as he spoke.
“Tower,” she corrected, staring down at him. “And yes. I’m a damsel in distress, aren’t I? If I could climb down by myself, why would I need a knight to save me?”
“Oh.” Alistair could not fault her reasoning. And her matter-of-fact tone left little room for debate. He cleared his throat. “Alright.” He dropped his ‘sword’ and awkwardly began climbing the ‘tower.’ He had never been one for climbing, himself-in fact, he did not like heights and took great pains to avoid them. But with expectant eyes staring down at him, he did not have a choice in the matter. He struggled and slid and grunted until Elissa finally had to extend a hand to him to help pull him up the last few feet. He tried to steady himself on the branch and concentrate on not looking down.
“You have saved me, ser knight,” Elissa said, grinning at him.
And then she kissed him.
A small, chaste peck on the lips. Elissa barely had time to see his face go crimson before he tumbled backward out of the tree, landing hard in the mud beneath. “Alistair!”
She hastily descended, stooping beside him. “Alistair!” He was lying on his back, covered in mud, and gasping for air.
Elissa panicked. She had killed him, she was sure of it. She dashed up the stairs to the castle, tears streaming down her face, calling “Help!” as she ran. She did not see the individual she suddenly slammed into as she rounded the corner, but felt firm hands on her shoulders steadying her, holding her still.
“Elissa?” The soft, concerned voice broke through her tear-stained mind, and she tried to calm her sobs as she looked up into the face of a young man.
“Bann Teagan!” she gasped, hastily wiping at her tears.
“Elissa, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve killed him! I’ve killed him!” she cried, her sobs beginning again with renewed force.
“What are you talking about?”
Elissa seized his hand in her own. Startled, Teagan followed her as she led him out into the courtyard. “I’ve killed him,” she wailed, pointing with a trembling finger at the base of the largest tree, before covering her face and continuing to cry. Teagan stared down into the pile of mud with a furrowed brow, and slowly a figure sat up. It took him a moment to recognize him for all the mud.
“Alistair?” he queried.
The boy coughed a few times, wiping at his face, succeeding only at spreading the mud around more efficiently, before looking up at Teagan with guilty eyes. Teagan looked at the still-sobbing Elissa and slowly smiled in realization. Teagan crouched beside her, and gently shook her shoulders. When her hands came away from her face, he pointed and indicated for her to look. Tearfully, the girl glanced at the base of the tree, her mouth falling open slightly when she met Alistair’s gaze. Even through all the mud, she could see the quirk of a small smile on his lips. “Not dead?” she whispered, sniffling slightly.
“No,” Teagan said, standing. “He’s not dead. He’s just had the wind knocked out of him. What were you two doing before?”
Elissa didn’t bother replying, but instead bent down and scooped up a pile of mud, flinging it at Alistair with unexpected force and remarkable aim, as she burst out, “You made me cry!” It hit him square in the face, momentarily re-blinding him. He sputtered as he tried to spit out the mud and wipe out his eyes.
No sooner had the mud left her hands did a reprimanding voice ring out across the courtyard. “Elissa Cousland!”
Elissa’s eyes widened slowly as she turned to see her mother, the Teyrna, standing on the stairs, with most of the same entourage from earlier. Elissa instantly realized that her screams had not gone unnoticed-most of the castle seemed to be standing on the stairs. Elissa felt so foolish in that moment, standing there with her hair wild, her skirts tangled, and mud dripping from her hands, while the others-Fergus and Cailan amongst them-stood there looking so impeccable, staring down at them with disappointment and disapproval written on their faces.
“Explain yourself!” the Teyrna demanded, her hands going to her hips. Elissa opened her mouth wordlessly to respond, but to her surprise, she heard slushing behind her as Alistair slowly stood and stepped forward. “It was my fault, my lady,” he said, his eyes trained on the Teyrna’s feet.
“Alistair, whatever do you mean?” It was the Arl who stepped forward, staring down at the boy, his brow furrowed.
“I was being foolish, my lord. Running about, climbing in the tree. The Lady Elissa warned me, but I did not listen to her. I…fell, my lord, and Elis…Lady Elissa feared that I had been injured. She was trying to summon help on my behalf.”
“Elissa was afraid he was dead, brother,” Teagan said, his gaze darting between the two children, noting the shocked expression on Elissa’s face at Alistair’s words. Ever intuitive, Teagan could guess the truth of the matter, and felt a burgeoning sense of pride at Alistair’s actions. “He must have fallen from the tree, and knocked the wind from himself.”
“Foolish indeed, boy,” Eamon chided. Alistair kept his head bowed and nodded.
“That boy is more trouble than he is worth,” hissed Isolde. Elissa saw Alistair’s body grow more rigid as the Arlessa spoke. “I have told you, Eamon, that…” Eamon’s raised hand silenced her.
“You are lucky Elissa was here, Alistair. And you are also lucky you were not seriously injured. This behavior is unacceptable. You will go back to the stables and I will come out and deal with you presently, do you understand?” Eamon’s voice was stern.
“Yes, ser,” Alistair said quietly.
“That still does not explain the mud that mysteriously came flying from Elissa’s hands,” the Teyrna said, her gaze severe as she stared down at Elissa.
“Now, Eleanor, the girl has had a fright,” the Teyrn said, stepping forward, and placing a hand on Elissa’s shoulder. “Haven’t you, pup? Let’s go in and you can get cleaned up.”
“Really, Bryce…” Elissa heard her mother mutter as they started up the stairs.
As they started through the castle doors, she glanced over her shoulder and watched as Alistair trudged back to the stables, leaving a trail of mud behind him.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
For the remainder of her visit to Redcliffe Castle, Elissa did not see Alistair.
Sure that there was more to the mud-covered stable boy's story, the Teyrna had not let Elissa out of her sight. Despite Elissa's best efforts, the opportunity to dash away to the stables did not present itself until the very moment they were walking to the carriage to leave on the fourth day.
Despite the disapproving glare the Teyrna leveled upon her, Elissa wrenched her hand away from the firm grasp of her father, and bolted toward the stables.
“Alistair!” she called, expecting the copper-haired lad to answer her commanding bellow. When he didn’t immediately respond to her call, her brow furrowed and her gaze swept the tidy stables. “Alistair?” she queried to the empty recesses of the stalls.
Still receiving no answer, she strode to the spot where she had found him before, the hay pressed down, his figurines still set out in different battle stances than those she had interrupted. She looked down at the carved greenstone mabari she held for a long moment-kept in her pocket for the last four days in the hope she would see the boy again. Hafter, she called it, after both the first Teyrn and a mabari she had once heard the King speak of. Her father had bought it for her on one of his trips to Denerim and it had quickly become one of her favorites. She rarely went anywhere without it.
She ran a finger over the mabari’s face before decisively setting it down in the midst of the other carved creatures, at a position of prominence, where Alistair was sure to see it when he returned. She grinned down at the menagerie, before turning and sprinting back to her waiting entourage and carriage.
Her father stared at her for a long moment, studying her pleased countenance before echoing her own wide smile and gently lifting her into the carriage. “Leaving Hafter for Alistair?” he whispered to her as he sat her down upon the plush upholstery. Her wide blue eyes met his as he climbed into the carriage, her face betraying her surprise at her father knowing the stable boy’s name. He ignored the unspoken question in her eyes as he affectionately brushed back a few wild tendrils of her hair that had come undone when she was running. “It was very kind of you.”
“Really, Bryce, don’t encourage her,” her mother said as she met Elissa’s eyes. “She ran about like a Chasind barbarian, and it was most unbecoming.” Her mother’s words had a sharp edge, and Elissa had the grace to bow her head, the picture of chagrin. Little to the Teyrna’s knowledge, it was as much to hide Elissa’s pleased grin at her father’s words as it was to please her mother.
▪ ▪ ▪ ▪ ▪
After the battle, filled with elation that Redcliffe Village still stood, and everyone lived, Elissa seized Alistair by his breastplate, slamming her lips against his. It had only been earlier that day that she had learned of Alistair's past--that sweet, blushing, stammering Alistair was the stable boy from so many years ago.
As she pulled away from him, panting slightly, his eyes bulged in surprise and she could see he had gone beet red.
"I...you...I've...we...never," he stammered, blinking rapidly.
“Don't be so surprised--it's not like it's our first kiss. And you didn't fall out of a tree this time,” she whispered before grinning and turning away, not bothering to look back, confident that he would follow her as she walked away.