fic: diligence (alistair/mahariel, e)
Oh, lordy. You know what w0rdinista was saying on midwintersthaw today about time crunches? It's all true. It's also why this is a written-on-lunch-break special. flail. ;) self, you know better...
That said: I'm pleased with how this turned out. Behold: a few thoughts from Mahariel's POV on Alistair and the matter of diligence, for the Seven Heavenly Virtues challenge.
and I'm running back to work now, and then off to write epic battle scenes omg.
Title: Seven Heavenly Virtues: Diligence
Author: pagerunner_j
Rating: E
Characters/pairing: Alistair/Mahariel, just barely.
---
Alistair puzzled her, more often than not.
His attitude was so glib sometimes, so sarcastic, so teasing, in ways that jarred considering the severity of their situation. Other times, he'd brood and mope over memories in ways she had never been allowed. It frustrated her. At the worst moments, it infuriated her. He could be such a child, in so many ways. Such a terribly, terribly human child.
And yet once set to work, even when he was playing the fool, he would do his duty, and go through almost any lengths to get it done -- even when she expected him, with that attitude, to shirk it.
The dichotomy struck her as deeply strange.
She'd watch him sometimes dealing with those in need, to whom he could be shockingly respectful -- easier when they're all shems, I suppose, she'd cynically thought early on, but was shamed into rescinding that when she saw his even-handed treatment of the dwarves and even another clan of Dalish elves. He followed through on every little errand, even when she thought them a waste of time herself. He defended those in need, he set himself to righting every wrong he could, and he never let anything go unfinished.
Sometimes, considering how much there was to be done, it could be completely maddening. But she had to admit there was a certain... dogged persistence at work, even to the mundane tasks.
She was watching one of those now, in fact, as he sat in camp cleaning and mending armor.
Everyone in this party took care of their own armor; it was a matter of simple responsibility and common sense. They'd had an encounter with giant spiders on the way here, though, which caught her armored but ungloved, for she'd been harvesting plants for various potions and didn't want to risk crushing anything; sometimes a delicate touch was best. The unfortunate blend of spider blood, ichor and poisons wreaked unexpected damage to her skin instead. Her hands even now were wrapped in bandages and poultices, and she felt no little bit angry at how useless it made her.
Alistair, though, had taken up her tasks for the night without complaint.
He tended to her armor before even touching his own, and bore her nervous instructions -- this is irreplacable Dalish crafting, she reminded him; be careful -- with only an understanding nod. Especially after seeing what happened to her hands, he was fastidiously cleaning every last bit of the leather so nothing could be left to harm her. After a while her own sharp tongue stilled, and then she merely observed a while, slowly growing uncomfortable, feeling she ought to say something.
"You are always very... thorough," she said at last. It didn't sound like much of a compliment even to her own ears, but he smiled a little anyway, as if it were. There was silence again for a while before she added, "Why?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Would you like me to stop?"
"No," she said a bit peevishly. "I only wondered where you picked up such habits. Did the templars manage to influence you after all? They tend to be...." She paused. "Persistent, from what I've seen."
"Amongst other things," he said dryly. "But I had to be, long before that."
She realized she'd barely asked him about his previous life. She simply hadn't been interested. Now, though, she heard herself asking. "Who was your clan, before?"
This time, the look on his face was almost bitter, to hear his family described so. After some time of storytelling, she began to understand why. His foster mother, if she could be called such, sounded like a taskmaster indeed. He described it all and left her shaking her head. "Why," she asked at last, "did you not rebel?"
He laughed, picked up a soft cloth, and began polishing. "Where would I have gone?" He used her own word: "A child, clanless?"
"Rebelling," she said pointedly, "does not necessarily mean running away."
"It would have meant being turned out," he said. "Isolde would have found some way. She eventually did succeed, you might notice."
She frowned. Her own clan would never have been so malicious about it. Transgressors were punished, of course, but only the most severe things would render you completely banished. She couldn't even imagine.
Alistair studied the look on her face, momentarily unreadable in a deep and somehow unsettling way. He did have worryingly perceptive moments now and again. He shrugged, though, and returned to his work. "It wasn't all bad," he said. "There is satisfaction in a good job done well. In fact, it was usually more satisfying doing exactly what she wanted just to irritate her, since Isolde always expected to be disappointed. Boy," he added ironically, "did I show her."
She twitched just a little at this, drawing the inevitable parallel. Cleaning her armor was something she'd only reluctantly asked for -- but it was true that in the past she'd handed Alistair more than a few petty tasks herself, just to get them out of the way. She did know he'd see them all through to the end, no matter how irritating, and indeed, he'd borne them without complaint. But... had she in fact been doing the very same thing as Isolde?
And was he deliberately baiting her about that now?
Alistair looked up, eyes twinkling. She huffed out an indignant, defensive -- and possibly just a little bit guilty -- sound. He smiled, though, and continued.
"You're also right," he said. "The templars were the same. Duty, dedication, diligence, determination... they liked the letter D, I guess. Anyway. Yeah, it breeds habits. But they weren't wrong. Not about that, anyway. And the Wardens... they never give up."
He said it so simply, but there was a depth to it that shook her, too. She thought about it, looked at her hands, and felt suddenly as if she had. This was a small thing, but....
She thought back about all Alistair had been struggling with since losing almost everything at Ostagar, and yet he soldiered on regardless. All things considered, the times he'd expressed his emotions over it were... understandable. And the fact that he could laugh at anything at all spoke more of strength than of silliness, now that she considered it from a different angle.
She wondered, too, if a life as out of his own control as Alistair's was had driven him to seek out what control and completion he could, even in small ways.
Alistair didn't see her expression just then, for he was busy buffing off a final spot on the armor. After a moment, he held it up for inspection. The finely-crafted leathers shone subtly in the flickering firelight, good as new. She reached out one bandaged hand, frustrated again that she couldn't feel it properly, but the job looked fine indeed.
"Thank you," she said.
"No thanks needed," he said softly. "This was a favor. We're better off working together, you know."
She cleared her throat. Somehow they'd become rather close during all this, sitting just a few paces apart -- she on a stump, he on the ground just nearby -- and the proximity was suddenly rather impossible to ignore. She looked at her hands. He'd been quite focused on trying to get her to warm up to him, too, and it was beginning to feel ridiculous that she had been resisting so long.
"I thank you nonetheless," she said. "And... I'm sorry."
He looked genuinely puzzled. "For what?"
"For... being difficult."
To her surprise, he laughed. One of his hands settled over her own, looking so very large even over the bulky bandages, but feeling... pleasantly warm, and more gentle than she would have expected from someone who fought and worked as hard as he did.
"I know you think I'm difficult too," he said, a little ruefully. "But... we'll get there, right?"
"Get where?"
"Ah, it's just a saying."
"But you obviously have some goal in mind. And you work at your goals."
"Yes. Well." He was on the verge of stammering -- and he'd so often do this, too, show such utter awkwardness over silly things: most unbefitting of a warrior, really -- but then suddenly he seemed to choose something, and he swept forward to kiss her right cheek. She was so startled she didn't even move, but she felt everything: the surprising softness, the heat of his breath, the tiny sigh when he withdrew. She could also feel that she was, to her own shock, blushing.
And that twinkle in his eyes was back, along with the teasing little grin.
"I'd say my goal is to move about... oh, two inches to the right of there," he said.
She tried to give him an arch reply. She wasn't sure she managed to keep her voice level. "What, another human with an elf-ear fetish? Really, Alistair--"
"I meant my right," he said.
She was suddenly glad his hand had hers captured, or she would have reached up to touch her own lips at that. Oh, she thought, and rather to her own embarrassment, heard herself say it: "Oh," she murmured. Barely. Now she was stammering.
Alistair's smile shone brighter than the fire.
"I better go tend to my armor," he said. He released her hands at last, as if he thought he must go before he plunge too deeply into what he'd so recklessly -- but tantalizingly -- started. "Just... I hope you're--"
"Yes," she said, to whatever he was hoping. Then she realized she'd best clarify. "I mean...."
He grinned and ducked his head. "It's all right. We'll talk later?"
Agreement, to her surprise, came easily. "Yes."
He smiled again, in an expression that suddenly looked so much less childish and much more intriguing than it had not long before. Then he gathered his things and headed off. Watching him go, she suddenly found it impossible not to draw parallels again:
Alistair did follow through on his promises. And he was diligent about completing what he started, in every way.
She did touch her lips this time, and smiled.
For the first time, she began to think that wasn't a bad thing at all.
That said: I'm pleased with how this turned out. Behold: a few thoughts from Mahariel's POV on Alistair and the matter of diligence, for the Seven Heavenly Virtues challenge.
and I'm running back to work now, and then off to write epic battle scenes omg.
Title: Seven Heavenly Virtues: Diligence
Author: pagerunner_j
Rating: E
Characters/pairing: Alistair/Mahariel, just barely.
---
Alistair puzzled her, more often than not.
His attitude was so glib sometimes, so sarcastic, so teasing, in ways that jarred considering the severity of their situation. Other times, he'd brood and mope over memories in ways she had never been allowed. It frustrated her. At the worst moments, it infuriated her. He could be such a child, in so many ways. Such a terribly, terribly human child.
And yet once set to work, even when he was playing the fool, he would do his duty, and go through almost any lengths to get it done -- even when she expected him, with that attitude, to shirk it.
The dichotomy struck her as deeply strange.
She'd watch him sometimes dealing with those in need, to whom he could be shockingly respectful -- easier when they're all shems, I suppose, she'd cynically thought early on, but was shamed into rescinding that when she saw his even-handed treatment of the dwarves and even another clan of Dalish elves. He followed through on every little errand, even when she thought them a waste of time herself. He defended those in need, he set himself to righting every wrong he could, and he never let anything go unfinished.
Sometimes, considering how much there was to be done, it could be completely maddening. But she had to admit there was a certain... dogged persistence at work, even to the mundane tasks.
She was watching one of those now, in fact, as he sat in camp cleaning and mending armor.
Everyone in this party took care of their own armor; it was a matter of simple responsibility and common sense. They'd had an encounter with giant spiders on the way here, though, which caught her armored but ungloved, for she'd been harvesting plants for various potions and didn't want to risk crushing anything; sometimes a delicate touch was best. The unfortunate blend of spider blood, ichor and poisons wreaked unexpected damage to her skin instead. Her hands even now were wrapped in bandages and poultices, and she felt no little bit angry at how useless it made her.
Alistair, though, had taken up her tasks for the night without complaint.
He tended to her armor before even touching his own, and bore her nervous instructions -- this is irreplacable Dalish crafting, she reminded him; be careful -- with only an understanding nod. Especially after seeing what happened to her hands, he was fastidiously cleaning every last bit of the leather so nothing could be left to harm her. After a while her own sharp tongue stilled, and then she merely observed a while, slowly growing uncomfortable, feeling she ought to say something.
"You are always very... thorough," she said at last. It didn't sound like much of a compliment even to her own ears, but he smiled a little anyway, as if it were. There was silence again for a while before she added, "Why?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Would you like me to stop?"
"No," she said a bit peevishly. "I only wondered where you picked up such habits. Did the templars manage to influence you after all? They tend to be...." She paused. "Persistent, from what I've seen."
"Amongst other things," he said dryly. "But I had to be, long before that."
She realized she'd barely asked him about his previous life. She simply hadn't been interested. Now, though, she heard herself asking. "Who was your clan, before?"
This time, the look on his face was almost bitter, to hear his family described so. After some time of storytelling, she began to understand why. His foster mother, if she could be called such, sounded like a taskmaster indeed. He described it all and left her shaking her head. "Why," she asked at last, "did you not rebel?"
He laughed, picked up a soft cloth, and began polishing. "Where would I have gone?" He used her own word: "A child, clanless?"
"Rebelling," she said pointedly, "does not necessarily mean running away."
"It would have meant being turned out," he said. "Isolde would have found some way. She eventually did succeed, you might notice."
She frowned. Her own clan would never have been so malicious about it. Transgressors were punished, of course, but only the most severe things would render you completely banished. She couldn't even imagine.
Alistair studied the look on her face, momentarily unreadable in a deep and somehow unsettling way. He did have worryingly perceptive moments now and again. He shrugged, though, and returned to his work. "It wasn't all bad," he said. "There is satisfaction in a good job done well. In fact, it was usually more satisfying doing exactly what she wanted just to irritate her, since Isolde always expected to be disappointed. Boy," he added ironically, "did I show her."
She twitched just a little at this, drawing the inevitable parallel. Cleaning her armor was something she'd only reluctantly asked for -- but it was true that in the past she'd handed Alistair more than a few petty tasks herself, just to get them out of the way. She did know he'd see them all through to the end, no matter how irritating, and indeed, he'd borne them without complaint. But... had she in fact been doing the very same thing as Isolde?
And was he deliberately baiting her about that now?
Alistair looked up, eyes twinkling. She huffed out an indignant, defensive -- and possibly just a little bit guilty -- sound. He smiled, though, and continued.
"You're also right," he said. "The templars were the same. Duty, dedication, diligence, determination... they liked the letter D, I guess. Anyway. Yeah, it breeds habits. But they weren't wrong. Not about that, anyway. And the Wardens... they never give up."
He said it so simply, but there was a depth to it that shook her, too. She thought about it, looked at her hands, and felt suddenly as if she had. This was a small thing, but....
She thought back about all Alistair had been struggling with since losing almost everything at Ostagar, and yet he soldiered on regardless. All things considered, the times he'd expressed his emotions over it were... understandable. And the fact that he could laugh at anything at all spoke more of strength than of silliness, now that she considered it from a different angle.
She wondered, too, if a life as out of his own control as Alistair's was had driven him to seek out what control and completion he could, even in small ways.
Alistair didn't see her expression just then, for he was busy buffing off a final spot on the armor. After a moment, he held it up for inspection. The finely-crafted leathers shone subtly in the flickering firelight, good as new. She reached out one bandaged hand, frustrated again that she couldn't feel it properly, but the job looked fine indeed.
"Thank you," she said.
"No thanks needed," he said softly. "This was a favor. We're better off working together, you know."
She cleared her throat. Somehow they'd become rather close during all this, sitting just a few paces apart -- she on a stump, he on the ground just nearby -- and the proximity was suddenly rather impossible to ignore. She looked at her hands. He'd been quite focused on trying to get her to warm up to him, too, and it was beginning to feel ridiculous that she had been resisting so long.
"I thank you nonetheless," she said. "And... I'm sorry."
He looked genuinely puzzled. "For what?"
"For... being difficult."
To her surprise, he laughed. One of his hands settled over her own, looking so very large even over the bulky bandages, but feeling... pleasantly warm, and more gentle than she would have expected from someone who fought and worked as hard as he did.
"I know you think I'm difficult too," he said, a little ruefully. "But... we'll get there, right?"
"Get where?"
"Ah, it's just a saying."
"But you obviously have some goal in mind. And you work at your goals."
"Yes. Well." He was on the verge of stammering -- and he'd so often do this, too, show such utter awkwardness over silly things: most unbefitting of a warrior, really -- but then suddenly he seemed to choose something, and he swept forward to kiss her right cheek. She was so startled she didn't even move, but she felt everything: the surprising softness, the heat of his breath, the tiny sigh when he withdrew. She could also feel that she was, to her own shock, blushing.
And that twinkle in his eyes was back, along with the teasing little grin.
"I'd say my goal is to move about... oh, two inches to the right of there," he said.
She tried to give him an arch reply. She wasn't sure she managed to keep her voice level. "What, another human with an elf-ear fetish? Really, Alistair--"
"I meant my right," he said.
She was suddenly glad his hand had hers captured, or she would have reached up to touch her own lips at that. Oh, she thought, and rather to her own embarrassment, heard herself say it: "Oh," she murmured. Barely. Now she was stammering.
Alistair's smile shone brighter than the fire.
"I better go tend to my armor," he said. He released her hands at last, as if he thought he must go before he plunge too deeply into what he'd so recklessly -- but tantalizingly -- started. "Just... I hope you're--"
"Yes," she said, to whatever he was hoping. Then she realized she'd best clarify. "I mean...."
He grinned and ducked his head. "It's all right. We'll talk later?"
Agreement, to her surprise, came easily. "Yes."
He smiled again, in an expression that suddenly looked so much less childish and much more intriguing than it had not long before. Then he gathered his things and headed off. Watching him go, she suddenly found it impossible not to draw parallels again:
Alistair did follow through on his promises. And he was diligent about completing what he started, in every way.
She did touch her lips this time, and smiled.
For the first time, she began to think that wasn't a bad thing at all.