The Fever
Some of you may have read my work over on fanfiction.net (under Willowstead). I've hit some writers block on my still-in-progress piece, so I'm going back to where it started. Well, for me at any rate. As I do, I'm editing like mad, so what you read now is a bit different than what you've read before. And of course, I'm always up for commentary.
OK, now on to the meaty part. Couple of canon changes and additions. Post-Joining there is now a fever, a fun side effect of the taint (what happens when Darkspawn blood hits the brain). Also, I’ve added a hospital tent, because, really, who leaves the injured out in a field?
But the big change means having to ignore a bunch of canon - there are no female Grey Wardens and haven’t been for over a century.
Title: The Fever (Prologue 1 of the Duty Cycle)
Rating: M to be safe, maybe more of a hard T
Pairing: F!Cousland/Alistair
Summary: Elinora Cousland burns with the post-Joining Fever. Alistair tries to make things better.
The Fever
Chapter 1
Night
9:30 Dragon, Spring 2; Day 3
Elinora Cousland lay sprawled on the cot where the King’s men had dropped her, still in her grubby leather armor. The fever had taken her quickly. Sweat slicked every inch of flushed skin, plastering her chestnut hair to her face and neck. Her eyes were open, terrified, staring into nothing. She flinched and twitched at things only she could perceive.
Alistair had seen this before, even though he was relatively new to the Grey Wardens. She was trapped in the fevered nightmare that was often brought on by the Joining. Tradition said she should be left alone, to come out of it or not as her body and will dictated; this was, after all, part of the test.
But for some reason, Alistair felt compelled to stay beside his newest brother-at-arms, well, not brother, exactly. He’d never met a female Grey Warden before, and couldn’t remember for the life of him why not. But here she was, flopped on a cot, seeing invisible bad things and burning up.
Maybe it was simple human compassion.
Maybe it was because they needed Grey Wardens, Blight coming and all.
And maybe, just maybe, it was the luminous blue-green eyes that didn’t see him, or anything in the hospital tent.
Maybe if he helped bring down the fever, she would come out of it faster and with her mind intact. Alistair went the worktable, found a clean cloth and soaked it in cool water. A cold compress couldn’t hurt, and it wasn’t helping much.
His back was to her when she screamed, a wrenching cry that made him drop the wrung out rag back into the basin. He spun, automatically reaching for his sword.
Elinora sat bolt up right on the cot and started tearing at her body. The reality of a cot and simple leather armor was not the one she was living in. Her terrified movements implied she was trying to rip off plate armor, including a thrown helmet that only existed in her mind.
“It burns!” she shrieked.
In the delirious panic, Elinora managed to throw herself off the cot and on to the ground. She screamed again and rolled, trying to smoother the flames that burned her mind.
Alistair fell beside her and started pulling at the buckles and ties that held the leathers in place, her flailing making it difficult. She kicked and bucked, trying to escape what she must have seen as an assailant. He tried to be gentle, but had a feeling he caused a bruise or two. Maker knew she give him a few.
This was no fragile noblewoman, soft skin or not.
Pinning her in stages, he worked quickly. Alistair would get most of Elinora’s rather petite body under his control, leaving one hand free to take off a piece of armor. All he had to do was get the fasteners undone, and then Elinora’s own convulsions would shake it off. Under other circumstances, this could have been fun. As it was, he developed a bruised appreciation for her well-muscled limbs. A blind punch to his eye was going receive comments around the campfires.
That, and undressing a fellow Warden, female Warden, while she was not in her right mind.
Nightmare or no, getting her out of the armor was practical. She would rest more comfortably. In the back of his mind, he heard the puritanical voices of the cloister berating him for undressing a strange woman. He pushed them aside. This wasn’t about sex, it was mercy.
Now if only he could convince himself completely about that.
He was pulling off her boot when Elinora suddenly stilled, body and breath. “Who….” Her eyes refocused on him. “Alistair?”
He only got so far as to open his mouth to reply. With a sigh, she collapsed into the trampled grass.
He had a moment of panic as he reached a shaky hand to find her pulse. It was there, strong and a little too fast, beating under the delicate skin of her neck. He shook himself and finished getting the last of her armor off. Alistair tried to think of himself as a squire, assisting his knight with her armor, all business. Finally, the last piece of leather was cast aside.
Sweat-soaked skivvies clung to her, both miserable and provocative. The wet linen adhered to her like a second, grubby skin. He considered removing them, but that was a step he just couldn’t take. She would just have to survive clammy underwear. He picked her up, gentle as a newborn babe, and lay her back down on the cot.
The fever burned on, now maybe just a little cooler. He covered her with the thinnest blanket he could find and finished getting that cold compress, just a rag soaked in cold water. He draped it over her forehead, his hand resting on it for just a moment too long.
There. He should go. She was as taken care of as he was capable of, and more than she should be. The Joining was meant to test the mettle of those who sought to be Grey Wardens. Surviving the fever-dreams brought on by the taint with her mind intact was the last stage.
Grey Wardens saw awful things in the course of their duties. Best to see if a recruit could handle it before being put into a pitched battle. And then there was the past. Not that they talked about it often, but many Wardens saw those moments of revisiting what was as the way to let it go.
Not that some things could be let go.
He should go.
Still, Alistair couldn’t pull himself away, and hunted for excuses to stay besides her. Her armor had been thrown all over the tent. It needed collecting and cleaning. Alistair drew on every ounce of fussiness he could find until each strap gleamed. The compress needed to be re-wet every once in a while, so as to keep it cool. He even managed to get some water down her throat. Propping her up against his own body, he trickled it into her mouth. Stroking her throat caused the muscles to reflexively swallow. More water ended up dribbled on her chest than in her mouth, but it was something.
And though he wouldn’t confess it to Andraste herself, he was enjoying the contact with her soft skin. Never had he been so physically close to a woman, especially one that wasn’t going to laugh at him. The Templars were very segregated and fraternizing was greatly frowned upon. He had not had the opportunity to become familiar with the female of the species, and frankly, he was more than a little terrified of them. With Arlessa Isolde as his first model, it shouldn’t be surprising.
Alistair had made an effort to avoid the opposite sex most of his life. He knew where babies came from and how the act of sex worked. What he knew of love came from songs and stories, and were generally not considered the best sources. With the expected life and duties of a Templar, he figured that it was enough and not something he would really experience.
But he wasn’t in the cloisters anymore, was he?
Not that the Grey Wardens were all that much different. He had never met a female Grey Warden and Duncan never mentioned any. As far as Alistair knew, the beautiful creature fetched up against him was the only one.
With a small, regretful sigh, he slid out from behind her and eased her back down on the cot. He watched her chest rise and fall. Inhale. Exhale. All right and proper. And hypnotizing.
“Thought I would find you here,” a gruff voice rasped from the tent flap. Duncan strode in, a bowl in his hand.
“I…uh… was just…” Alistair stammered, guiltily turning away from the memorizing rhythm of her breathing.
“Of course you were.” Duncan smiled slyly. “Here, eat this.” He shoved the bowl of stew into Alistair’s hands. “I was hoping the Cousland girl would be awake and ready to eat, but the fever seems to have taken this one badly.” Duncan knelt, feeling for her pulse. He raised an eyebrow at Alistair, then gave the girl a pointed look.
“She was having a nightmare, threw herself out of bed. She screamed out about burning and tried to rip off her own armor. That’s why she’s undressed.” Alistair tried to hide his blush behind a bite of stew.
“All by herself?” Duncan asked coolly. “Its just as well.” He opened one of her eyelids, and then pressed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “You should stay with her. Once she comes out of this she’s going to need food and water. And if the fever dreams come back, it would be good to have someone to put her back in bed.”
Alistair saluted as formally as he could with a bowl in his hand.
As he rose, Duncan shook his head with a small smile as he turned to leave. He paused at the tent flap and gave Alistair one last inscrutable look. “That’s nice work on the armor.”
Alistair, for no reason he could fathom, blushed again.
The night drifted by. Noises coming from camp were the only things that gave Alistair any idea of the time. At first it was busy; soldiers talking over dinner, taking care of the chores of army life and maybe just a bit of drunken gambling. But all that faded as the men turned into their blankets and only those on watch stirred. The quiet was eerie and unnatural, and only broken by the sounds Elinora made in her plagued sleep.
Alistair busied himself with small tasks, ones he could easily set aside if Elinora needed him. His own armor was in need of cleaning and not the most comfortable thing to spend the night in. He took it off, much more comfortable in a simple tunic and breeches, and started to work.
Dreams came and went all night. She fought a battle, and with her brother. She thanked someone for the flowers (she liked flowers, good to know) and sang a children’s song about a happy pig. Alistair caught himself wondering about where she was in these dreams. Sometimes one dreamed of things from their past, sometimes of things from the Warden’s past, history long since dead. Some dreams were nothing more than the hallucinations brought on by the taint and one’s own mind.
It seemed the worst was over, but she found another violent battle. This time she was running, her bare feet pounding the cot. She stopped to fight, her arms swinging what appeared to be a sword and dagger. With every imaginary wound, she cried out with pain, then got back to fighting.
This battle was different from the others. There was desperation, as if the world was collapsing around her. In her dream she dodged a blow, which tumbled her off of the cot again. She pulled herself off the ground and with her arms raised and reaching, cried out for her mother and father. She lunged in a final attempt to hold them, but found Alistair instead. He cradled her to his body as hers was wracked with sobs.
“Elinora?” She made no more response than to continue to cry. “Lady Cousland?” The sobbing got worse. He felt useless, but followed his instinct, holding her, whispering soft reassurances and rocking just a little as if she was a child. The choking sobs eased into simple tears. Those eventually subsided as she slipped into a more natural sleep, curled up in the safety of Alistair’s arms.
He should put her back into bed, but somehow he couldn’t let go of the fragile girl in his arms. Fragile. It wasn’t a word he would have attached to her earlier, but at this moment the slightest wrong move could send her back into the nightmares. He risked reaching for the damp rag. She stirred a little, but he was able to get hold of it and gently clean her tear-streaked face.
Once more he tried to convince himself to put her back to bed, and once more he decided to stay right where he was. He wrapped the blanket around them both. Even if he didn’t know much about women, but he knew that a human being in pain needed help. He couldn’t undo whatever she had seen, but he could provide comfort.
Big, strong arms could hold as much as they could fight. And he wouldn’t let go until this battle was done.
An uneasy sleep eventually took him, his head leaning against hers. That night he dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens with Elinora’s face.
OK, now on to the meaty part. Couple of canon changes and additions. Post-Joining there is now a fever, a fun side effect of the taint (what happens when Darkspawn blood hits the brain). Also, I’ve added a hospital tent, because, really, who leaves the injured out in a field?
But the big change means having to ignore a bunch of canon - there are no female Grey Wardens and haven’t been for over a century.
Title: The Fever (Prologue 1 of the Duty Cycle)
Rating: M to be safe, maybe more of a hard T
Pairing: F!Cousland/Alistair
Summary: Elinora Cousland burns with the post-Joining Fever. Alistair tries to make things better.
The Fever
Chapter 1
Night
9:30 Dragon, Spring 2; Day 3
Elinora Cousland lay sprawled on the cot where the King’s men had dropped her, still in her grubby leather armor. The fever had taken her quickly. Sweat slicked every inch of flushed skin, plastering her chestnut hair to her face and neck. Her eyes were open, terrified, staring into nothing. She flinched and twitched at things only she could perceive.
Alistair had seen this before, even though he was relatively new to the Grey Wardens. She was trapped in the fevered nightmare that was often brought on by the Joining. Tradition said she should be left alone, to come out of it or not as her body and will dictated; this was, after all, part of the test.
But for some reason, Alistair felt compelled to stay beside his newest brother-at-arms, well, not brother, exactly. He’d never met a female Grey Warden before, and couldn’t remember for the life of him why not. But here she was, flopped on a cot, seeing invisible bad things and burning up.
Maybe it was simple human compassion.
Maybe it was because they needed Grey Wardens, Blight coming and all.
And maybe, just maybe, it was the luminous blue-green eyes that didn’t see him, or anything in the hospital tent.
Maybe if he helped bring down the fever, she would come out of it faster and with her mind intact. Alistair went the worktable, found a clean cloth and soaked it in cool water. A cold compress couldn’t hurt, and it wasn’t helping much.
His back was to her when she screamed, a wrenching cry that made him drop the wrung out rag back into the basin. He spun, automatically reaching for his sword.
Elinora sat bolt up right on the cot and started tearing at her body. The reality of a cot and simple leather armor was not the one she was living in. Her terrified movements implied she was trying to rip off plate armor, including a thrown helmet that only existed in her mind.
“It burns!” she shrieked.
In the delirious panic, Elinora managed to throw herself off the cot and on to the ground. She screamed again and rolled, trying to smoother the flames that burned her mind.
Alistair fell beside her and started pulling at the buckles and ties that held the leathers in place, her flailing making it difficult. She kicked and bucked, trying to escape what she must have seen as an assailant. He tried to be gentle, but had a feeling he caused a bruise or two. Maker knew she give him a few.
This was no fragile noblewoman, soft skin or not.
Pinning her in stages, he worked quickly. Alistair would get most of Elinora’s rather petite body under his control, leaving one hand free to take off a piece of armor. All he had to do was get the fasteners undone, and then Elinora’s own convulsions would shake it off. Under other circumstances, this could have been fun. As it was, he developed a bruised appreciation for her well-muscled limbs. A blind punch to his eye was going receive comments around the campfires.
That, and undressing a fellow Warden, female Warden, while she was not in her right mind.
Nightmare or no, getting her out of the armor was practical. She would rest more comfortably. In the back of his mind, he heard the puritanical voices of the cloister berating him for undressing a strange woman. He pushed them aside. This wasn’t about sex, it was mercy.
Now if only he could convince himself completely about that.
He was pulling off her boot when Elinora suddenly stilled, body and breath. “Who….” Her eyes refocused on him. “Alistair?”
He only got so far as to open his mouth to reply. With a sigh, she collapsed into the trampled grass.
He had a moment of panic as he reached a shaky hand to find her pulse. It was there, strong and a little too fast, beating under the delicate skin of her neck. He shook himself and finished getting the last of her armor off. Alistair tried to think of himself as a squire, assisting his knight with her armor, all business. Finally, the last piece of leather was cast aside.
Sweat-soaked skivvies clung to her, both miserable and provocative. The wet linen adhered to her like a second, grubby skin. He considered removing them, but that was a step he just couldn’t take. She would just have to survive clammy underwear. He picked her up, gentle as a newborn babe, and lay her back down on the cot.
The fever burned on, now maybe just a little cooler. He covered her with the thinnest blanket he could find and finished getting that cold compress, just a rag soaked in cold water. He draped it over her forehead, his hand resting on it for just a moment too long.
There. He should go. She was as taken care of as he was capable of, and more than she should be. The Joining was meant to test the mettle of those who sought to be Grey Wardens. Surviving the fever-dreams brought on by the taint with her mind intact was the last stage.
Grey Wardens saw awful things in the course of their duties. Best to see if a recruit could handle it before being put into a pitched battle. And then there was the past. Not that they talked about it often, but many Wardens saw those moments of revisiting what was as the way to let it go.
Not that some things could be let go.
He should go.
Still, Alistair couldn’t pull himself away, and hunted for excuses to stay besides her. Her armor had been thrown all over the tent. It needed collecting and cleaning. Alistair drew on every ounce of fussiness he could find until each strap gleamed. The compress needed to be re-wet every once in a while, so as to keep it cool. He even managed to get some water down her throat. Propping her up against his own body, he trickled it into her mouth. Stroking her throat caused the muscles to reflexively swallow. More water ended up dribbled on her chest than in her mouth, but it was something.
And though he wouldn’t confess it to Andraste herself, he was enjoying the contact with her soft skin. Never had he been so physically close to a woman, especially one that wasn’t going to laugh at him. The Templars were very segregated and fraternizing was greatly frowned upon. He had not had the opportunity to become familiar with the female of the species, and frankly, he was more than a little terrified of them. With Arlessa Isolde as his first model, it shouldn’t be surprising.
Alistair had made an effort to avoid the opposite sex most of his life. He knew where babies came from and how the act of sex worked. What he knew of love came from songs and stories, and were generally not considered the best sources. With the expected life and duties of a Templar, he figured that it was enough and not something he would really experience.
But he wasn’t in the cloisters anymore, was he?
Not that the Grey Wardens were all that much different. He had never met a female Grey Warden and Duncan never mentioned any. As far as Alistair knew, the beautiful creature fetched up against him was the only one.
With a small, regretful sigh, he slid out from behind her and eased her back down on the cot. He watched her chest rise and fall. Inhale. Exhale. All right and proper. And hypnotizing.
“Thought I would find you here,” a gruff voice rasped from the tent flap. Duncan strode in, a bowl in his hand.
“I…uh… was just…” Alistair stammered, guiltily turning away from the memorizing rhythm of her breathing.
“Of course you were.” Duncan smiled slyly. “Here, eat this.” He shoved the bowl of stew into Alistair’s hands. “I was hoping the Cousland girl would be awake and ready to eat, but the fever seems to have taken this one badly.” Duncan knelt, feeling for her pulse. He raised an eyebrow at Alistair, then gave the girl a pointed look.
“She was having a nightmare, threw herself out of bed. She screamed out about burning and tried to rip off her own armor. That’s why she’s undressed.” Alistair tried to hide his blush behind a bite of stew.
“All by herself?” Duncan asked coolly. “Its just as well.” He opened one of her eyelids, and then pressed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “You should stay with her. Once she comes out of this she’s going to need food and water. And if the fever dreams come back, it would be good to have someone to put her back in bed.”
Alistair saluted as formally as he could with a bowl in his hand.
As he rose, Duncan shook his head with a small smile as he turned to leave. He paused at the tent flap and gave Alistair one last inscrutable look. “That’s nice work on the armor.”
Alistair, for no reason he could fathom, blushed again.
The night drifted by. Noises coming from camp were the only things that gave Alistair any idea of the time. At first it was busy; soldiers talking over dinner, taking care of the chores of army life and maybe just a bit of drunken gambling. But all that faded as the men turned into their blankets and only those on watch stirred. The quiet was eerie and unnatural, and only broken by the sounds Elinora made in her plagued sleep.
Alistair busied himself with small tasks, ones he could easily set aside if Elinora needed him. His own armor was in need of cleaning and not the most comfortable thing to spend the night in. He took it off, much more comfortable in a simple tunic and breeches, and started to work.
Dreams came and went all night. She fought a battle, and with her brother. She thanked someone for the flowers (she liked flowers, good to know) and sang a children’s song about a happy pig. Alistair caught himself wondering about where she was in these dreams. Sometimes one dreamed of things from their past, sometimes of things from the Warden’s past, history long since dead. Some dreams were nothing more than the hallucinations brought on by the taint and one’s own mind.
It seemed the worst was over, but she found another violent battle. This time she was running, her bare feet pounding the cot. She stopped to fight, her arms swinging what appeared to be a sword and dagger. With every imaginary wound, she cried out with pain, then got back to fighting.
This battle was different from the others. There was desperation, as if the world was collapsing around her. In her dream she dodged a blow, which tumbled her off of the cot again. She pulled herself off the ground and with her arms raised and reaching, cried out for her mother and father. She lunged in a final attempt to hold them, but found Alistair instead. He cradled her to his body as hers was wracked with sobs.
“Elinora?” She made no more response than to continue to cry. “Lady Cousland?” The sobbing got worse. He felt useless, but followed his instinct, holding her, whispering soft reassurances and rocking just a little as if she was a child. The choking sobs eased into simple tears. Those eventually subsided as she slipped into a more natural sleep, curled up in the safety of Alistair’s arms.
He should put her back into bed, but somehow he couldn’t let go of the fragile girl in his arms. Fragile. It wasn’t a word he would have attached to her earlier, but at this moment the slightest wrong move could send her back into the nightmares. He risked reaching for the damp rag. She stirred a little, but he was able to get hold of it and gently clean her tear-streaked face.
Once more he tried to convince himself to put her back to bed, and once more he decided to stay right where he was. He wrapped the blanket around them both. Even if he didn’t know much about women, but he knew that a human being in pain needed help. He couldn’t undo whatever she had seen, but he could provide comfort.
Big, strong arms could hold as much as they could fight. And he wouldn’t let go until this battle was done.
An uneasy sleep eventually took him, his head leaning against hers. That night he dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens with Elinora’s face.