AU Fic: For Want of a Warden, Part 3
Title: For Want of a Warden
Pairing: Eventually, probably Alistair/Cousland (Avelle)
Rating: Rated E for everyone. This chapter is long, but not bloody or full of swears.
Summary: When Castle Highever comes under attack by Howe’s men, the younger Cousland flees without the aid of Duncan. When they are saved by Flemeth, she wonders why and Alistair has to face the insurmountable task of uniting the lands.
3 - Allies
Reeds wavered back and forth gently in the water while a hazy pinkish sky stretched out overhead, blocked by looming fir trees. Alistair felt like punching the calm waters in front of him. How could it be so quiet-so peaceful-around here when so much death had occurred? The world was in a state of chaos and upheaval, every friend he had-Duncan…all of them were gone! Everything!
Letting out a strangled frustrated cry, Alistair picked up a nearby rock and threw it into the pond, sending a multitude of ripples outward.
The old woman observing him was joined by her “daughter.” The older woman didn’t give any acknowledgement to her, except speaking as if she had been there all along.
“How fares the other?”
“She’ll survive,” replied her daughter. “Though I am surprised you saved some random soldier.”
The old woman laughed a sound that was sharp and more of a bark. “I would think you would know by now, girl, that your mother does not do things at random.”
Her daughter let out an exasperated noise and rolled her eyes. “Mother, she is not a Grey Warden. It is apparent that all of those with him fell at some point before you saved him.”
“And yet, there is use,” the old woman replied. “Within her lies the heritage of many worthwhile leaders.”
The daughter scoffed, and it was a sound that the old woman knew she had learned by watching her. “Surely this wasn’t what you intended.”
At the edge of the pond Alistair collapsed to the ground, holding his head between his hands. The daughter scowled. To display such emotion, especially in front of relative strangers, was a weakness too many would be all too happy to exploit. One would think the Grey Wardens would have higher emotional maturity standards.
The old woman turned her gaze at the daughter, her eyes betraying just how much power and vitality she still possessed. “Intend or not, this is what has been presented to us and we will do with it what will serve us all best. There is still hope.”
The daughter frowned a little, but said nothing in reply. For a minute they both watched with calculating eyes as Alistair’s shoulders shook as he cried for those he had lost. The daughter made a noise of obvious disgust before turning and going back into the hut.
Alistair rubbed his eyes, but it did no good. His head ached from the bridge of his nose to across his forehead, and his cheeks were wet. Why he was still alive made no sense to him. If anyone should have lived out of the Grey Wardens, it should have been Duncan. And those people with him in the tower, he had let them down too, unable to react to the ambush until they were all struck down…
He was a failure. Why was he alive?
She was alive?
Really?
That was a bigger surprise than waking up staring at a thatched ceiling that was unfamiliar to her. There was no pain, though her body felt phantoms of where the arrows’ wounds should have been. Left with nothing but her small clothes, Avelle had been place on top of a bed, with a blanket draped over her and a fire roaring in the fireplace. A black pot bubbled over it. Avelle grabbed her shoulder and looked at it. Instead of a gaping bloody hole there was…just a light white scar, one that could possibly fade with time.
“Ah, you are awake at last. Mother will be pleased,” said a woman’s voice from nearby. Avelle looked to her left and saw a young dark haired woman standing in front of a set of shelves. Her eyes were unlike any Avelle had ever seen, a strange vivid gold, while her manner of dress was done with the intent to draw attention to herself.
At least to a certain part of her…
She sighed and held her head in her hand. It was an inappropriate thing to think of her rescuer. And truthfully, this was the first time she had gotten any rest since before the attack on home.
“Um, yes. Thank you for…whatever it was that you did,” Avelle replied.
This caught the young woman off guard, and her rouge covered cheeks turned another shade. “I…you…you’re welcome. Though, ‘twas Mother who did most of it. She is a far more skilled healer than I.”
“At any rate, you have my thanks,” said Avelle. She rubbed at her shoulder again, still expecting there to be pain where there was none. Her arm held no pain either. “Er…who are you?”
“I am Morrigan,” the young woman said, her tone matter-of-fact. “And you are in the Kocari Wilds, in the hut where my mother and I dwell. You are apt to hear stories from your friend that we are Witches of the Wilds. Whether you believe them or not ‘tis up to you.”
Avelle pushed herself into a sitting position, feeling where the arrow had pierced her leg. Still nothing. “I’m Avelle.” She paused. “Are you saying you and your mother healed me with…magic?”
Morrigan’s eyes narrowed to a glare that reminded Avelle of a predatory bird. “And what if we had? Would it cause you discomfort to know the methods of which your life had been saved?”
She sighed. “No,” said Avelle, “it doesn’t matter. That doesn’t stop me from wondering why, though. What happened?”
“Your signal was sent, but it did no good,” said Morrigan, shrugging as if it were a trivial subject. “The man who was meant to help quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. All Grey Wardens and your King have perished in the fight.”
Avelle’s mouth hung open, words just out of reach for her mind. The King had died…all of those who were meant to relay Howe’s treachery…all the Grey Wardens. Wait. All of the Grey Wardens?
“When you say all the Grey Wardens, do you also mean the one that was in the tower when you found me?” she asked.
“’Twas not me who found you, ‘twas my mother. Anyway, if you mean the suspicious dim-witted friend I mentioned before, no, he is still alive. We told him of the battle’s outcome…he is not taking it well,” said Morrigan.
“I can’t imagine why.”
Morrigan frowned slightly. “If you think blubbering about losing his friends would do them a service, then please, encourage him to continue on with such childish behavior. I would think that they would prefer him to take action against their mutual enemy.”
Avelle pushed the sheet back and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Considering the circumstances, she was feeling physically better than she had in what felt like at least three lifetimes. Arguing with her would-be-savior would be a bad idea. “Whatever. I’m sure he will in due time.”
Sensing that this avenue of conversation was leading nowhere, Morrigan shrugged and motioned to the chest at the foot of the bed. “I would suggest gathering your things-I have placed them in that chest-and then speaking with Mother. Once you have, then you should best take your leave.”
“And you?” said Avelle, walking to the chest and opening it. She sighed; she would be wearing hole filled armor for the foreseeable future. There was nothing about this that didn’t feel vaguely unsettling.
Morrigan smiled. “I will remain here…and make something to eat.”
When Avelle stepped outside she was surprised that it was light out, everything in a sort of haze that was at once peaceful and far too isolated. She had no idea how much time Morrigan and her mother had spent healing her and the Grey Warden. Days seemed most probable. Avelle frowned. Time had all together stopped its sense and she no longer felt its comfort. Everything stretched and shortened into one sequence of events, punctuated by pain and darkness.
The Grey Warden was standing at the edge of a pond, his back turned to the hut while an old woman (who it was safe to assume was Morrigan’s mother) stood a few steps away. She was the one who spotted Avelle first, and a pleased grin spread across her face. Avelle thought of the expression a cat had when it caught a mouse.
“Aha, there is the other one. See, lad, you are not the sole survivor,” she said.
He turned to look at Avelle, his expression a mixture of emotions; relief, shock, grief, it was impossible to read them all. “You! I…I thought you were dead for sure!”
Avelle almost shrugged but it came off more like a slight twitch in her shoulders instead. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”
The Warden sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking almost panicked. “I can’t believe this. If not for Morrigan’s mother we’d be dead on top of that tower.”
The old woman smirked. “Do not speak of me as if I were not present, lad.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t know what to call you. You never told me your name.”
She waved dismissively. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose that will do.”
The Warden’s mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide. “Flemeth? The Flemeth, of legend? Daveth was right. You’re the Witch of the Wilds!”
Morrigan’s mother, Flemeth, narrowed her eyes at the young man. “And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic and it has served you both well, has it not?”
Avelle pressed her fingers against her left eyebrow and felt a dull ache. Flemeth was some legendary witch, a story a lot of children were told to scare them or entertain them. Something about having a lot of daughters and eating children, stealing their beauty or some such. Mum had told the story once, Avelle was sure of that and felt another dull ache, this time in her heart. Taking one look at this Flemeth, though…
She hasn’t stolen anyone’s youth or beauty lately. Short supply out in a swamp.
Did it matter? It was clear that this Flemeth knew magic and, with Morrigan, had used it to save her life and the Grey Warden’s. There was a reason for it, and that was far more pressing than whether she was some legend brought to life.
“I don’t much care whether you’re a Flemeth or the Flemeth. I appreciate what you and your daughter have done, but…why?”
Flemeth smiled. “Ah, yes. That is the heart of the matter for you, isn’t it?” She wrapped her bony fingers around Avelle’s shoulders (she expected an involuntary shiver to go down her spine and was surprised when none happened), and looked back at the Warden. “Will you excuse us for a moment, lad?”
“Uh, er, well, I-I suppose. I’ll just…wait here then,” he stammered, his discomfort with the situation clear.
When Flemeth had guided Avelle out of earshot of the Warden, she stopped and held a hand out towards him. “Do you see that young man there, girl?”
Avelle frowned. “Is that a trick question, ma’am?”
“Ha!” Flemeth barked laughter, but still motioned toward him. “That there is the very last Grey Warden in all of Ferelden. He now carries a burden far too great for just one to carry.”
“I see.”
The old woman shook her head. “No, right now I don’t believe that you do.”
Now she was playing games with her. Avelle was brought back from the brink of death to play mind games with a lonely powerful witch and her caustic oddly dressed daughter. This had to be what madness felt like. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, now I don’t because I’m closing my eyes.”
Flemeth’s tone became sharp. “Don’t use your witticisms on me, girl. My daughter has a sharper tongue than yours has ever been.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…” Avelle sighed. “What do you want from me? You must or you wouldn’t have saved me. You could have just saved him.”
At this, the old woman’s eyes lit up and her face broke into a slow and yellow tooth filled grin. The effect was just a bit off-putting, just as everything in this place felt. “Too true. Tell me, girl, what is that you want?”
This felt like another trick question. Her mind screamed that what she wanted, really wanted, was her family and home back. She wanted the life that she had before all this had happened, where she had been the silly goof off younger sister teaching her nephew to fight with wooden swords and somehow losing at chess to her hound. An unbearable ache and homesickness filled her. That was what she wanted but knew was impossible. It seemed more likely that Flemeth was asking her what she wanted that was still within the realm of reality. Family still screamed at her, loud and clear.
“To find my brother,” she replied. “He’s out there in the Wilds. I have to find him and warn him.”
“That is an immediate want, and not one that would sustain either of you in the long run. Both you and he are the last of a long line, as prominent in Ferelden as any other. If the land was swallowed by the true threat, warning him of one man’s betrayal would mean very little.”
Avelle gaped. “You…wait…”
Flemeth smirked. “Whether I am merely a Flemeth or the Flemeth, I am both old enough and powerful enough to know a great many things.”
“The…true threat?”
The old woman nodded. “You wanted to know why you are here and this is it. Ahead of that young Grey Warden is an insurmountable task to unite the people of Ferelden against the true threat…the Blight. If he fails, the land will be swallowed and all will perish, including your brother."
“But what am I supposed to do? I am no Grey Warden,” Avelle replied.
“You want answers, don’t you? Grief that holds its tight grip to you could destroy you if you do not leave it for later, in the dark shadows before you take vengeance, as my mother once said. Duty must come now. Go with the Grey Warden and aid him. Consider it repayment for a life saved. See how his journey will lead you to answers for questions you had yet to ask,” said Flemeth.
“But my brother…”
“You would throw aside the good of all the people on the slim chance of seeing your brother once more? Or are you ready to live up to the name that you wish to redeem?”
The voice of her father echoed in her mind. Couslands did their best, their duty, for Ferelden…
Their talking had been going on for several minutes, and the young woman looked miserable for almost the whole time. Even in his own confused grief, Alistair felt for her. When they had been in the tower her behavior had been…erratic, at best. Something had happened before the battle even started. Now she looked much like he felt; grief, sadness, and a sense of being lost.
Duncan…everyone…gone. If he had been there maybe he could have done something, anything, to help Duncan. If Alistair could have traded his life for Duncan’s, he would do it in a heartbeat. To die from a betrayal like that, by someone like the Hero of River Dane, it was unimaginable.
Alistair felt his hands ball up into fists. There was no excuse for what he had done. There never could be.
Flemeth (he thought he might as well refer to her as that, regardless) guided the young woman back toward him. Their talk was none of his business, he supposed, though it still made him uncomfortable. The both of them, Flemeth and Morrigan, were apostates outside of the Wilds (and the former possibly some sort of abomination) and his life was in their debt for a reason.
“Everything all right?” he asked. It wasn’t subtle, but what else was there?
“Indeed,” Flemeth replied. “Now, let us attend to your journey, lad, shall we? It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”
The young woman grimaced a little. “The lands are hardly united.”
Alistair felt his fingernails dig into his leather gloves. “Thanks to Teyrn Loghain…We had almost won! Why would Teyrn Loghain do this?!”
Flemeth rested her chin against one of her hands and thought for a moment. Or pretended to think. With this woman it was impossible to tell. “Now that is a good question. There are shadows that lie deep within men’s hearts that are darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he thinks this is an army that he can out maneuver, when he doesn’t realize that the evil behind it is the true threat.”
There was only one answer to that statement. “The Archdemon.”
The young woman’s eyebrows knitted together and her expression looked puzzled. “Isn’t that a…dragon? Or…” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know.”
“It is said that long ago the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tervinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface. An Archdemon is an Old God, found and tainted by darkspawn. Believe that or not, history says it is fearsome and immortal thing,” said Flemeth to her and spoke the final words with a more pointed edge, “And only fools ignore history.”
But he was just one man, one Grey Warden. Alistair sighed and shrugged. “What am I supposed to do? No Grey Warden has ever fought against the Archdemon without an army of a thousand men at his back. Not to mention…” He paused. How was he supposed to say this out loud, and to relative strangers? Then again, what choice did he have? “I don’t know how.”
Flemeth arched an eyebrow. “What, kill the Archdemon or raise an army? Because it seems to me those are two different questions, hmm? Have the Wardens no allies these days?”
“I-I…I don’t know! Um, I think the Wardens from Orlais have been called, and if Arl Eamon knew of what Loghain did he would-”
Oh…oh. That was it! Arl Eamon. A slow smile of realization crossed Alistair’s face, breaking into a full blown grin of relief. The young woman raised her eyebrows, but remained silent.
“He wasn’t at Ostagar. He has all his men!” Alistair declared. “And he was Cailan’s uncle. I know him, and he is respected in the Landsmeet. I could go to him in Redcliffe and appeal to him!”
The young woman crossed her arms with a thoughtful expression on her face. “How long has it been since the last Blight? A very long time, right? I don’t suppose anyone would believe you until it’s too late and some corrupted Old God is knocking on their doors with a very large claw.”
She was right. He would still need more than just Arl Eamon’s men, even if he were able to convince him. More people would be needed, more allies, but who was there to call…upon…Alistair’s eyebrows shot up as the idea rattled through his head. “The treaties!”
“The wha?” said the young woman.
“The Grey Warden treaties! In times of need we can call upon allies. Dwarves, elves, mages and other places! They’re obligated to help Grey Wardens during a Blight!”
Flemeth crossed her arms, rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon and who knows what else? This sounds like an army to me.”
“What choice do I have?” said Alistair. “Only a Grey Warden can defeat the Archdemon, but I cannot do it alone. I need allies! I…I have to do something!”
“So you are set then, ready to be a Grey Warden?”
Had Duncan asked him something similar once before? It felt familiar, but at the same time Alistair was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Being a Grey Warden was the only thing he had ever been in his life that he felt proud of, unequivocally. He would spend his life fighting the darkspawn and saving lives wherever he could. That was what he had been made for, what he was always made for. Was he ready to do this himself? No, very much not. Anyone listening him were likely to lose something important and question why all the cheese was gone. But…he had to try. It’s what Duncan would have wanted, and it was part of being a Grey Warden.
Alistair gulped. His throat seemed parched. “I am a Grey Warden so I’m as ready as I can be.”
Oh, but what to do about the young woman from the tower? Whatever reason Flemeth had saved her for had been shared between them. And Alistair wasn’t sure if it should, or did, involve him. He couldn’t ask her to join him on some impossible task just because she had fought with him briefly. Risking her life like that…it wasn’t his choice. She deserved some measure of safety, at least for a while.
He turned to her. “Look, thank you for everything you did in the tower…um…heh, I just realized I don’t know your name.”
She smiled at him, but it was small and lay on top of her apparent sadness. “Avelle.”
“Avelle."
"And yours is…?”
“Alistair. A-anyway, I think…I think that once we get to the nearest town, you should find your way out of Ferelden. Get as far away as you can. You’ve done much already and I couldn’t ask you to join me on this,” he added.
“No!” Avelle replied, almost not even waiting for him to finish. “I-I mean…You’re only one Grey Warden. You’re going to need help to even get to the Archdemon. I promise not to slow you down.”
Flemeth clasped her hands together and smiled. “Good! Now, there is one more thing I can offer you.”
Before she could go on, the door to her hut opened and her daughter Morrigan came out. She held her head high, and her lips were curled into an arrogant sneer. No doubt she had just stolen something from somewhere, being the sneak that she was. “The stew is bubbling mother dear,” she said as she strolled over to Flemeth and the others. “Shall we have two guests for the eve…or none?”
Flemeth smirked. “They are about to leave shortly, girl, and you are joining them.”
“Oh what a shame-WHAT?!” It took a second, but the look on Morrigan’s face when she realized what her mother had just told her was priceless. Despite everything going on, Alistair struggled not to chuckle at her. Of course, a second later Alistair was hit with the implications of what Flemeth had said.
Morrigan, traveling with him and the young woman? Oh, this was a disaster in the making. That witch-thief, she was nothing but trouble.