Greetings and postings
Hey all! I've been lurking here for some time, trying to get up the nerve to post my fan fic to sit along side of all of the wonderful ones I've read so far! I haven't done much fanfic in my life, but Alistair is so delightful, I couldn't resist! I wanted to write something from Alistair's point of view early on. And I purposely left the heroine description vague so it applies to all PCs. I hope you guys like it and I'm so glad to have a community of fellow addicts! :D
Unfair
Nothing Duncan had said ever prepared Alistair for this. Duncan had warned him about the joining, sure, and the fact that some would not survive him. He had warned about the nightmares that plagued his dreams and left him exhausted most mornings. He had even warned him about the darkspawn and their repulsiveness and brutality.
But none of it, none of it, prepared him for the woman who sauntered up to him in Ostragar and introduced herself as the new recruit.
It was unfair, really, putting him in this position. Before Duncan found him, Alistair had resigned himself to a chaste life in the Chantry. That unknown part of him, passionate and sensuous, had long been locked away inside his heart, banished there by the constant morality tales, admonishments, and ever-present rules. He had been satisfied with allowing it to remain dormant, to atrophy as he resigned himself to his fate. For who was he to question it? A bastard child twice abandoned,
doomed to live out his days in overlooked and disregarded
Or so he thought. Then Duncan arrived with his shining armor and overwhelming dignity. Alistair had thought it would take intervention from the maker himself to make the Chantry part with one of its recruits. But somehow Duncan had managed it, and as he rode away from the Chantry, Alistair was both exhilarated and terrified of the unknown future that would meet him sooner than he could imagine.
He thought the Joining was the more harrowing experience of his life. He did not know which was worse: the terrifying visions that caused him to pass out and shook him to his very core, or the agonizing death of the proud mage Zeryl, who was so young that his plump cheeks had barely seen a razor. Now fully integrated into the Grey Wardens, Alistair was whisked away from the grisly scene and given a small celebration with the other new recruits that had seen their way through the ritual. The next few months were full of travel and camaraderie. But no women, and certainly none like the latest-and possibly last-recruit that now traveled with him.
The last recruit, the other Grey Warden. She was never far from his thoughts. He found himself replaying their first meeting over and over in his mind. How casually she addressed him! Somehow, she knew his name and he was already at a disadvantage. He cannot get it out of his mind: how she looked as she patiently waited for him to finish his conversation with the surly mage. She was geared for battle, certainly, as was everyone at the camp. But somehow, she wore her gear differently, unable to hide the lush curves of her body. It was all he could do to focus on her face, but even that was a deadly trap. Her bright eyes seared him even as their corners crinkled in amusement at his sarcasm. She had a softness to her skin and hair that practically radiated warmth and beauty. He was done for from that first moment-it wasn’t fair! He never had a chance!
Even Duncan saw it. As they prepared the chalice for the ritual, Duncan had nodded at her and said, almost casually, “Keep your wits about you, Alistair. Let no one distract you from your duty.” Alistair had swallowed hard and mumbled some agreement. How had Duncan known the errant thoughts that had started to plague his mind, the thoughts that threatened to destroy him in the most delightful way? And now Duncan, who might have saved him from this delicious agony, was gone. Duncan, who could have redirected his inappropriate attentions, might have acted as a barrier between them. He was gone, and oh, how unfair it was.
But could Duncan really have stopped him? How could anyone expect Alistair to withstand her? What women had he any experience with? As a child, he took no notice of feminine charms. And by the time adolescence struck, Alistair was deeply isolated in the Chantry. Ah, the Chantry! Truly, no place to meet women. There were a few younger ones around his age, but they were carefully secluded from all the young men, lest there be temptation on either side. Even when he was in contact with a female, they hardly tempted him. Even if his imagination permitted him to visualize what lay beneath those heavy burlap robes, their necks crooked from hours at prayer, and hands red from constant wringing could not hope hold his notice for long.
Yes, the Chantry had done its job well. It kept him pure and naive, and utterly defenseless when confronted by a ravishing woman like the one he was paired with at Ostragar.
So much has happened since that first interaction. How could he have known what lay ahead? How fate would throw them together in the most intimate of circumstances-they must save the kingdom from the archdemon itself! Tied though they were by the Joining, their nigh-impossible goal made them constant companions as they came to rely on each other for guidance and strength. After all they’d been through, how could he feel any less for her?
An even better question: how can he find the courage to tell her?
Now they sit at camp again, as usual, taking their positions for maximum coverage. It will be time to assign watch soon-will she wait with him again as she has these past few nights? He looks over and, as always, she is there, her back to the campfire as she turns her head skyward. Alistair can see that her mind is so far away-no doubt tormenting itself with the violence recent and yet to come. Yet he feels no pity for this woman that he has walked beside these long days. No, it is not pity he feels for her-she with the eyes that burn like the sun even on this dark night. For she is dangerous, yes, as he much as he is dangerous to the horrors that would destroy their land and harm the innocent. But he himself is not so innocent either, as he watches her lithe body turn in the firelight. And suddenly she is looking at him, her gleaming eyes curious and playful. He’s been caught staring again, and forces himself to turn his reddening face away.
Alone, his back to the fire, Alistair covertly gazes at the soft red rose in his hand and bides his time.
Unfair
Nothing Duncan had said ever prepared Alistair for this. Duncan had warned him about the joining, sure, and the fact that some would not survive him. He had warned about the nightmares that plagued his dreams and left him exhausted most mornings. He had even warned him about the darkspawn and their repulsiveness and brutality.
But none of it, none of it, prepared him for the woman who sauntered up to him in Ostragar and introduced herself as the new recruit.
It was unfair, really, putting him in this position. Before Duncan found him, Alistair had resigned himself to a chaste life in the Chantry. That unknown part of him, passionate and sensuous, had long been locked away inside his heart, banished there by the constant morality tales, admonishments, and ever-present rules. He had been satisfied with allowing it to remain dormant, to atrophy as he resigned himself to his fate. For who was he to question it? A bastard child twice abandoned,
doomed to live out his days in overlooked and disregarded
Or so he thought. Then Duncan arrived with his shining armor and overwhelming dignity. Alistair had thought it would take intervention from the maker himself to make the Chantry part with one of its recruits. But somehow Duncan had managed it, and as he rode away from the Chantry, Alistair was both exhilarated and terrified of the unknown future that would meet him sooner than he could imagine.
He thought the Joining was the more harrowing experience of his life. He did not know which was worse: the terrifying visions that caused him to pass out and shook him to his very core, or the agonizing death of the proud mage Zeryl, who was so young that his plump cheeks had barely seen a razor. Now fully integrated into the Grey Wardens, Alistair was whisked away from the grisly scene and given a small celebration with the other new recruits that had seen their way through the ritual. The next few months were full of travel and camaraderie. But no women, and certainly none like the latest-and possibly last-recruit that now traveled with him.
The last recruit, the other Grey Warden. She was never far from his thoughts. He found himself replaying their first meeting over and over in his mind. How casually she addressed him! Somehow, she knew his name and he was already at a disadvantage. He cannot get it out of his mind: how she looked as she patiently waited for him to finish his conversation with the surly mage. She was geared for battle, certainly, as was everyone at the camp. But somehow, she wore her gear differently, unable to hide the lush curves of her body. It was all he could do to focus on her face, but even that was a deadly trap. Her bright eyes seared him even as their corners crinkled in amusement at his sarcasm. She had a softness to her skin and hair that practically radiated warmth and beauty. He was done for from that first moment-it wasn’t fair! He never had a chance!
Even Duncan saw it. As they prepared the chalice for the ritual, Duncan had nodded at her and said, almost casually, “Keep your wits about you, Alistair. Let no one distract you from your duty.” Alistair had swallowed hard and mumbled some agreement. How had Duncan known the errant thoughts that had started to plague his mind, the thoughts that threatened to destroy him in the most delightful way? And now Duncan, who might have saved him from this delicious agony, was gone. Duncan, who could have redirected his inappropriate attentions, might have acted as a barrier between them. He was gone, and oh, how unfair it was.
But could Duncan really have stopped him? How could anyone expect Alistair to withstand her? What women had he any experience with? As a child, he took no notice of feminine charms. And by the time adolescence struck, Alistair was deeply isolated in the Chantry. Ah, the Chantry! Truly, no place to meet women. There were a few younger ones around his age, but they were carefully secluded from all the young men, lest there be temptation on either side. Even when he was in contact with a female, they hardly tempted him. Even if his imagination permitted him to visualize what lay beneath those heavy burlap robes, their necks crooked from hours at prayer, and hands red from constant wringing could not hope hold his notice for long.
Yes, the Chantry had done its job well. It kept him pure and naive, and utterly defenseless when confronted by a ravishing woman like the one he was paired with at Ostragar.
So much has happened since that first interaction. How could he have known what lay ahead? How fate would throw them together in the most intimate of circumstances-they must save the kingdom from the archdemon itself! Tied though they were by the Joining, their nigh-impossible goal made them constant companions as they came to rely on each other for guidance and strength. After all they’d been through, how could he feel any less for her?
An even better question: how can he find the courage to tell her?
Now they sit at camp again, as usual, taking their positions for maximum coverage. It will be time to assign watch soon-will she wait with him again as she has these past few nights? He looks over and, as always, she is there, her back to the campfire as she turns her head skyward. Alistair can see that her mind is so far away-no doubt tormenting itself with the violence recent and yet to come. Yet he feels no pity for this woman that he has walked beside these long days. No, it is not pity he feels for her-she with the eyes that burn like the sun even on this dark night. For she is dangerous, yes, as he much as he is dangerous to the horrors that would destroy their land and harm the innocent. But he himself is not so innocent either, as he watches her lithe body turn in the firelight. And suddenly she is looking at him, her gleaming eyes curious and playful. He’s been caught staring again, and forces himself to turn his reddening face away.
Alone, his back to the fire, Alistair covertly gazes at the soft red rose in his hand and bides his time.