fic fic fic
*waves*
Hi! I'm Saffi, a student from England who's new to this comm, although I've lurked around for quite a bit :D. That's mostly because I had yet to write or do anything creative involving Alistair, but now... I bring fic!
Okay, it's only one very short oneshot, but I figured I might as well make my entry post a little more interesting than the usual. I took a break from my on-going six-origins-collide epic to do this idea, which I've been thinking about since I did an Alistair/Morrigan prompt some time ago.
Oh wait, that's also an Alistair fic. I could have posted that here. -.-
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Title: The Approaching Dark
Genre: angst - Alistair is not a happy bunny.
Rating: T, probably
Summary: There was only one Warden who survived Ostagar. There's someone pulling him down, and he can't find his way out of the darkness. An AU Alistair oneshot based on events in The Darkspawn Chronicles, and as such contains Alistair/Leliana and an Alistair/Morrigan Dark Ritual.
Woah it looks horribly squashed in my email inbox. It looks fine here for now, but if anyone has problems with the formatting please say so!
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It is dark.
"No candles," he says, and she obliges. The dark is like a living creature now; it presses uncomfortably against him, makes him wish all over again that he'd refused her, and reminds him once again that he should have died at Ostagar.
Except that he hadn't. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? If it had been anyone else who been unfortunate enough to live through it all, then he was convinced that it would have been better somehow. He had thought about it often enough during those sleepless nights, and the conclusion had always been the same. It was some kind of cruel joke that he should have been spared, and he wondered who was laughing.
They wouldn't have known those young templars in the Mage's Tower all by name, remembered sharing messy dormitories and sword practice at ungodly hours of the morning. It was not as if they were happy memories, but they were memories all the same. They wouldn't have had fond recollections of Cullen back in the old days, before his transfer to the Tower. Cullen, who stammered and squeaked every time a pretty girl glanced across the training ground, and who was the only templar he'd ever known who genuinely wanted to help those poor imprisoned mages. Another cruel joke there, as if he'd needed reminding that being chosen to live was a worse punishment than simply being killed.
Maybe they'd fallen just as far as each other.
He'd tried his best to save them, leaving the wretched Cullen in that magical prison begging him to change his mind, but of course it hadn't been enough. It had only been after the battle had cleared that he realised who the abominations had been - the First Enchanter was dead by his own sword, and if that wasn't a failure he didn't know what was. Still, he'd received some form of help from that place, even if he was still wondering how many templars could possibly be left after such a catastrophe.
And she was always there, murmuring about how (for once in his life) he had done nothing wrong, because hadn't those mages deserved it all anyway? She talked about sheep and slaughter until he started to believe it himself, and yet the guilt still remained. She didn't understand it, and laughed unkindly at his discomfort - some kind of civilised weakness, no doubt, and he silently agreed with her because there was no way that this pain could ever be a strength.
They wouldn't have had to see the bloody carnage that was the Dalish camp, knowing all the while that it was completely and utterly their fault. Because surely, some dark part of his mind argued, no-one else would have bent to her wishes like he did. He'd said it, and she'd voiced her approval, and somehow that made it all better. Except for the part where it really, really wasn't, because however much the werewolves had deserved revenge surely this was too far, and because only months of unending pain and bitterness could have led him to make such a suggestion in the first place, and because anything that got her approval could not possibly be the right choice. He'd looked down at the elf warrior at his feet and felt glad that she did not ask for mercy. He didn't think he'd have to strength to deny it.
Leliana had said nothing, and whenever the topic was mentioned her opinions remained silent, but he wasn't sure that her outright disgust would have been worse. She had sung about sorrow and he found he had no tears left to grieve with. But she had let him kiss her and give her a rose, and he thought that maybe he was in love.
They had gone to Denerim to see Goldanna and Marjolaine, neither of which was a terribly successful visit. He'd shut the door on his sister feeling that there was more truth than he'd hoped there was in her philosophy, and when they had killed Marjolaine another twist had lodged in his heart as he dragged his bright, sweet Leliana down with him.
They wouldn't have had to rip away their soul, one little bit at a time, and end up with the final conclusion that the poison in his blood was more important than slavery and torture and lost souls in limbo. He'd always thought of himself as a good man (boy, really), or at least a man who could still see goodness like a bright light to navigate with far away in the distance. The elves were almost murderous in their human-hating attitudes even if the werewolves hadn't been mentioned, and he could almost justify choosing the other side. But this... The golems were strong and more than a match for a horde of darkspawn - he'd tested their strength first-hand, after all - and he had the responsibility of the entire order of Grey Wardens. He needed them.
He'd have gladly surrendered his right to leadership to anyone, had anyone been a Warden. He missed the military obedience of the templars and he missed the absolute authority of Duncan. If Duncan, say, had made his decision to keep the damned Anvil, then Alistair would have had it easy - he would have maybe voiced his concerns over the morality of this, taking his bearings from that clear light in the distance, and he'd have kept his promise to be good and just and ethical while Duncan chastised him and firmly stuck by the Anvil. Then they would have made the right choice - because Duncan was his commander, and he was always right - and Alistair could have fooled himself that he was still a good person at heart. Even if being a good person at heart meant being too much of a coward to actually stand his ground and fight in its name.
Now there was no such safety net. He'd made his choice, and he had resigned himself to being a Grey Warden first and a good man second (or never at all). The way back to Orzammar seemed darker than before.
She'd smiled (it wasn't a warm smile, but it still held approval) and he'd fallen deeper. He still couldn't decide which was worse, the smile or the mocking laugh. Leliana had been unhappy but she'd said she still loved him - they'd work through it. He'd given her the flowers he'd found in Redcliffe and the forest and put aside for later, and they'd made love.
They wouldn't have been the heir to the throne, that was for certain. Arl Eamon had said that the country needed him, and he had spent too much energy being glad of someone finally telling him what to do to worry about the real meaning of things. He proposed to Anora and marvelled that this would have been unthinkable a mere year ago. He was going to be king, and he found himself slowly accepting this fact. Anora was intent on being the real power, and as far as he was concerned she was welcome to it. He knew enough about hard decisions and shouldering responsibility now. But Leliana's smiles held less happiness for him now, but in the end she'd agreed grudgingly to let what they had continue (he'd thrown it away, hadn't he, but his blood held his responsibilities all too well...). Somewhere he knew he was making a mistake, and somewhere he knew that he should have refused Eamon's words and that all he wanted was to run away with Leliana and let the world die by itself - but of course he couldn't do that. It was madness. He was the only one left. Even so, the world had seemed lighter then, and he had allowed himself to hope that maybe it was going to be alright. Maybe it was all going to be worth it.
.
He fucks Morrigan (because he couldn't have called it 'making love' even if he'd tried) and the dark is in her voice and crawling over his skin and now he can't even open his eyes to escape it. He can say that he's doing this because Ferelden needs him and he's the King, or because Leliana needs him, but he doesn't even believe it himself. Ferelden has Anora, and Leliana... Leliana had said that it wasn't worth the price. But she said it with tears in her eyes, and even though some part of Alistair knows that this is the worst betrayal here in the dark with Morrigan, he can convince himself that a chance - even for a relationship with guilt and darkness running through it like the taint in his veins - is better than nothing at all. She's probably better off without him, anyway.
Even so, he can't distract himself from the real reason, and that's the simplest of all - he wants to live. After all the loathing and remorse that his life had ever come to this, it's shameful that he can't even do the honourable thing and take himself out of the picture. He wants to live, even if he doesn't know why and even though he knows that he shouldn't want to, and he doesn't flinch from Morrigan's touch because she's the only one in the world who's further down the path than he is. In a twisted way, there's no guilt in lying with her. She's drawn him in like a fly to a flower, and he knows it.
Beautiful and offering the sweet nectar of life; they don't see it, but the only person she serves is herself. Alistair smiles grimly at the analogy. How long has she been planning this?
Maybe he just wants to see himself suffer.
.
.
Hi! I'm Saffi, a student from England who's new to this comm, although I've lurked around for quite a bit :D. That's mostly because I had yet to write or do anything creative involving Alistair, but now... I bring fic!
Okay, it's only one very short oneshot, but I figured I might as well make my entry post a little more interesting than the usual. I took a break from my on-going six-origins-collide epic to do this idea, which I've been thinking about since I did an Alistair/Morrigan prompt some time ago.
Oh wait, that's also an Alistair fic. I could have posted that here. -.-
.
Title: The Approaching Dark
Genre: angst - Alistair is not a happy bunny.
Rating: T, probably
Summary: There was only one Warden who survived Ostagar. There's someone pulling him down, and he can't find his way out of the darkness. An AU Alistair oneshot based on events in The Darkspawn Chronicles, and as such contains Alistair/Leliana and an Alistair/Morrigan Dark Ritual.
Woah it looks horribly squashed in my email inbox. It looks fine here for now, but if anyone has problems with the formatting please say so!
.
It is dark.
"No candles," he says, and she obliges. The dark is like a living creature now; it presses uncomfortably against him, makes him wish all over again that he'd refused her, and reminds him once again that he should have died at Ostagar.
Except that he hadn't. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? If it had been anyone else who been unfortunate enough to live through it all, then he was convinced that it would have been better somehow. He had thought about it often enough during those sleepless nights, and the conclusion had always been the same. It was some kind of cruel joke that he should have been spared, and he wondered who was laughing.
They wouldn't have known those young templars in the Mage's Tower all by name, remembered sharing messy dormitories and sword practice at ungodly hours of the morning. It was not as if they were happy memories, but they were memories all the same. They wouldn't have had fond recollections of Cullen back in the old days, before his transfer to the Tower. Cullen, who stammered and squeaked every time a pretty girl glanced across the training ground, and who was the only templar he'd ever known who genuinely wanted to help those poor imprisoned mages. Another cruel joke there, as if he'd needed reminding that being chosen to live was a worse punishment than simply being killed.
Maybe they'd fallen just as far as each other.
He'd tried his best to save them, leaving the wretched Cullen in that magical prison begging him to change his mind, but of course it hadn't been enough. It had only been after the battle had cleared that he realised who the abominations had been - the First Enchanter was dead by his own sword, and if that wasn't a failure he didn't know what was. Still, he'd received some form of help from that place, even if he was still wondering how many templars could possibly be left after such a catastrophe.
And she was always there, murmuring about how (for once in his life) he had done nothing wrong, because hadn't those mages deserved it all anyway? She talked about sheep and slaughter until he started to believe it himself, and yet the guilt still remained. She didn't understand it, and laughed unkindly at his discomfort - some kind of civilised weakness, no doubt, and he silently agreed with her because there was no way that this pain could ever be a strength.
They wouldn't have had to see the bloody carnage that was the Dalish camp, knowing all the while that it was completely and utterly their fault. Because surely, some dark part of his mind argued, no-one else would have bent to her wishes like he did. He'd said it, and she'd voiced her approval, and somehow that made it all better. Except for the part where it really, really wasn't, because however much the werewolves had deserved revenge surely this was too far, and because only months of unending pain and bitterness could have led him to make such a suggestion in the first place, and because anything that got her approval could not possibly be the right choice. He'd looked down at the elf warrior at his feet and felt glad that she did not ask for mercy. He didn't think he'd have to strength to deny it.
Leliana had said nothing, and whenever the topic was mentioned her opinions remained silent, but he wasn't sure that her outright disgust would have been worse. She had sung about sorrow and he found he had no tears left to grieve with. But she had let him kiss her and give her a rose, and he thought that maybe he was in love.
They had gone to Denerim to see Goldanna and Marjolaine, neither of which was a terribly successful visit. He'd shut the door on his sister feeling that there was more truth than he'd hoped there was in her philosophy, and when they had killed Marjolaine another twist had lodged in his heart as he dragged his bright, sweet Leliana down with him.
They wouldn't have had to rip away their soul, one little bit at a time, and end up with the final conclusion that the poison in his blood was more important than slavery and torture and lost souls in limbo. He'd always thought of himself as a good man (boy, really), or at least a man who could still see goodness like a bright light to navigate with far away in the distance. The elves were almost murderous in their human-hating attitudes even if the werewolves hadn't been mentioned, and he could almost justify choosing the other side. But this... The golems were strong and more than a match for a horde of darkspawn - he'd tested their strength first-hand, after all - and he had the responsibility of the entire order of Grey Wardens. He needed them.
He'd have gladly surrendered his right to leadership to anyone, had anyone been a Warden. He missed the military obedience of the templars and he missed the absolute authority of Duncan. If Duncan, say, had made his decision to keep the damned Anvil, then Alistair would have had it easy - he would have maybe voiced his concerns over the morality of this, taking his bearings from that clear light in the distance, and he'd have kept his promise to be good and just and ethical while Duncan chastised him and firmly stuck by the Anvil. Then they would have made the right choice - because Duncan was his commander, and he was always right - and Alistair could have fooled himself that he was still a good person at heart. Even if being a good person at heart meant being too much of a coward to actually stand his ground and fight in its name.
Now there was no such safety net. He'd made his choice, and he had resigned himself to being a Grey Warden first and a good man second (or never at all). The way back to Orzammar seemed darker than before.
She'd smiled (it wasn't a warm smile, but it still held approval) and he'd fallen deeper. He still couldn't decide which was worse, the smile or the mocking laugh. Leliana had been unhappy but she'd said she still loved him - they'd work through it. He'd given her the flowers he'd found in Redcliffe and the forest and put aside for later, and they'd made love.
They wouldn't have been the heir to the throne, that was for certain. Arl Eamon had said that the country needed him, and he had spent too much energy being glad of someone finally telling him what to do to worry about the real meaning of things. He proposed to Anora and marvelled that this would have been unthinkable a mere year ago. He was going to be king, and he found himself slowly accepting this fact. Anora was intent on being the real power, and as far as he was concerned she was welcome to it. He knew enough about hard decisions and shouldering responsibility now. But Leliana's smiles held less happiness for him now, but in the end she'd agreed grudgingly to let what they had continue (he'd thrown it away, hadn't he, but his blood held his responsibilities all too well...). Somewhere he knew he was making a mistake, and somewhere he knew that he should have refused Eamon's words and that all he wanted was to run away with Leliana and let the world die by itself - but of course he couldn't do that. It was madness. He was the only one left. Even so, the world had seemed lighter then, and he had allowed himself to hope that maybe it was going to be alright. Maybe it was all going to be worth it.
.
He fucks Morrigan (because he couldn't have called it 'making love' even if he'd tried) and the dark is in her voice and crawling over his skin and now he can't even open his eyes to escape it. He can say that he's doing this because Ferelden needs him and he's the King, or because Leliana needs him, but he doesn't even believe it himself. Ferelden has Anora, and Leliana... Leliana had said that it wasn't worth the price. But she said it with tears in her eyes, and even though some part of Alistair knows that this is the worst betrayal here in the dark with Morrigan, he can convince himself that a chance - even for a relationship with guilt and darkness running through it like the taint in his veins - is better than nothing at all. She's probably better off without him, anyway.
Even so, he can't distract himself from the real reason, and that's the simplest of all - he wants to live. After all the loathing and remorse that his life had ever come to this, it's shameful that he can't even do the honourable thing and take himself out of the picture. He wants to live, even if he doesn't know why and even though he knows that he shouldn't want to, and he doesn't flinch from Morrigan's touch because she's the only one in the world who's further down the path than he is. In a twisted way, there's no guilt in lying with her. She's drawn him in like a fly to a flower, and he knows it.
Beautiful and offering the sweet nectar of life; they don't see it, but the only person she serves is herself. Alistair smiles grimly at the analogy. How long has she been planning this?
Maybe he just wants to see himself suffer.
.
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