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andrastesflamingknickers · 1 year

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Jealousy Is A Bitter Flavor Pt. 1

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The blighted woman stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” Morrigan purred with obvious delight. “You're jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

Orzammar was a peculiar place. Impressive, certainly. Alistair was baffled just trying to figure out how people so small could make ceilings so grand, but the dwarves of old had always been unmatched in their architectural skills, or so the legends went, and the dwarves of now were just as impressive with their crafts work, so really, he shouldn’t try to question it too much.

They had been travelling for a good number of months, and after all their hard work, the only one left to call upon for their obligations to the Wardens were the dwarves. Personally, Alistair was looking forward to their help the most; they were more familiar with fighting the darkspawn than any of their allies. That, and dwarves were hardy fighters. He was liking their chances of ending this Blight more and more.

Outsiders were rare enough in the city that they were collecting stares and whispers as they trudged onward. Many recognized them as Wardens, but that knowledge did nothing to curb the suspicion and curiosity.

“Perhaps we should have dressed in the likeness of merchants or of the such,” Morrigan muttered as they walked. “We are gaining a following of onlookers.”

“Really? I can’t picture you in a merchant’s bland tunic,” Elio Tabris said with a short laugh that had a wheeze to it, yet sounded like bells to Alistair. He felt something in his stomach twist as the man sidled up to Morrigan to bump affectionately against her. “I’m sure they’ve just never seen someone quite as lovely as you. Perhaps if you hunched a little and added years to your face, their ogling will cease.”

Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste, “I’d rather not find out if I’ll grow to resemble my mother, thank you very much.”

Elio laughed again, and by all accounts his laugh wasn’t some harmonious, musical thing. Sten had even said one night that the young man’s laughter sounded more like a dying horse than anything else, and yet Alistair couldn’t help but enjoy it all the same. It always brought a smile to his face when he heard the long wheeze followed by several beating chuckles.

But that smile was quick to go away as he watched Elio push himself onto the tips of his toes for some extra height, all so he could give Morrigan a swift peck on the cheek. He was gone with several quick, long strides just as fast, joining Wynne a few paces ahead as the elder woman examined a rune carving of some kind on a wall, too far ahead now for him to hear what the elf was saying.

That twist in his stomach worsened, a bitter poison on his tongue as he watched Morrigan bring a hand to her cheek and smile softly as she watched Elio.

They had been like this for a while, now. Alistair hadn’t thought much of it at first, not when the flirting began. Elio was just like that; he flirted with pretty much everyone in their group, to a point that Alistair was sure that the man wasn’t even aware he came off as flirty. He was just trying to be nice and playful, and was just too charming for his own good.

So, when Elio and Morrigan began their playful back and forth banter, Alistair ignored it as his friend just being friendly, wanting to be on good terms with the maleficar. When Elio began spending more time at camp with her, lingering with Morrigan for talks that went on longer and longer, Alistair shrugged it off. Elio always made time to talk to everyone when they set up camp, Morrigan was hardly anything special in that regard. Their elf was just a considerate fellow.

Andraste’s blood! He even went out of his way to find gifts for everyone, he actually paid attention to their interests, to what they said, and would always find something to gift them. To try and make them all a little happier in these dismal times, he had put it.

He’d even found and returned to Alistair his mother’s amulet. Alistair had honestly never expected his friend to have even paid attention when he rambled on about his pathetic life and how he broke it during a childish fit of anger at Eamon. Yet Elio found it while exploring the castle for clues on what had happened to the boy, and for other way to save him and Eamon, and he had returned it to Alistair for no other reason than that it had been important to the older Warden.

Perhaps that was when Alistair started looking at Elio and seeing something more than a fellow Warden or a friend.

But then he started noticing the way Elio would blush, the way his ears would burn red at Morrigan’s teasing, and the almost loopy smile he’d have when returning to the campfire each night after talking with her. There was an obvious shift to the banter between them, what he had shrugged off as meaningless, idle flirtation becoming something real. Alistair felt the bitter taste return when he remembered the first morning he’d seen Elio returning to the rest of the camp from the tent Morrigan always kept away from the others, the way his hair was tousled more than it normally was in the morning, the way he glowed, and of the hint of love bites that covered his neck that his armor almost completely hid.

As the months progressed, their relationship, whatever it may be, had also progressed—and the bitter seed inside of Alistair, that burned worse than the darkspawn blood during the Joining, continued to grow.

Elio was his friend, and even though he was far from fond of Morrigan, he should be happy and supportive that Elio was able to find joy and love in whatever his relationship with the witch was, be it physical intimacy or something deeper. He should be happy for his friend. But he wasn’t, and Alistair wasn’t sure what bothered him more. That he had chosen Morrigan, out of everyone in their group, to be with.

Or that he chose Morrigan over Alistair.

Biting his tongue, the older warden tried to shake those thoughts of jealousy and bitterness from his mind. Tried to shrug off how much it hurt to see Elio getting so close and chummy and intimate with someone as cruel and vile as Morrigan. Surely the ache in his chest wouldn’t hurt half as much if his friend was wooing Leliana or Zevran. Maker knows the two rogues were both making cow eyes at the man when they thought no one was looking. Alistair was probably no better in that regard.

He watched as Elio began chatting with a young and rather excitable looking dwarven woman for a minute, before he gestured for Wynne to come over. Alistair only heard bits of the conversation, a word here and there, that made it clear the subject was of magic.

Leaving the two to their conversation, Alistair tried to busy himself with their surroundings. Tried to distract himself by marveling at the wonders that was the architecture of the thaig, of the light and warmth they had despite being so deep underground, and just how much more structurally sound everything down here felt in comparison to topside. He tried to keep his attention on everything but the pain in his chest and the source of the ache.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Eventually his gaze landed on Morrigan who was admiring the statue of one of the dwarven Paragons. Or, perhaps admiring wasn’t the right word. Knowing Morrigan, she was likely judging and mocking it, Alistair wasn’t even sure she had the capability to genuinely admire and praise something.

In spite of common sense, Alistair approached the witch. “So,” he started, keeping his voice quiet enough that it wouldn’t catch Elio’ attention, though he was sure he could be yelling, and his friend wouldn’t noticed. Too engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with Wynne and the dwarf. “Dare I ask? What’s the deal with you and him?”

Alistair knew better than to ask, knew that this topic was in dangerous waters. Leliana had tried to broach the subject not too long ago, while they were making the long hike up the Frostback Mountains just to get to Orzammar in the first place. She had asked Morrigan about her relationship with Elio, and while Alistair knew it was a private conversation, he had eavesdropped anyways. Morrigan had denied there being any love, claimed it was purely passion—and that that made it superior to one of love.

He didn’t agree with the sentiment.

He didn’t like the implications, either.

Elio was clearly head over heels for her, for reasons he would never understand. He had seen the looks he gave the witch, the soft expressions, the silly smiles, the look of pure adoration whenever she wasn’t paying attention. If Morrigan didn’t love him back, then she didn’t deserve to be with him. Disregarding Alistairs own feelings on the relationship, his friend didn’t deserve someone who didn’t love him back, someone only wanted him for the physicality of a relationship.

Morrigan looked at him with a look of disdain he was all too familiar with from her, a mutual animosity between them. “Him? Him, who?” she asked, her brow quirking and her tone taking on exasperated confusion. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him by purposely pretending not to know, or truly didn’t get who he was referring to. “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Alistair gestured to where Elio was, attention too engrossed with his own business to notice their own conversation. “You and Mister Let’s-Make-Kissy-Faces over there,” he said, and tried to ignore the following twist to his chest as he said it.

The blighted witch stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” she purred with obvious delight. “You are jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

He hated her so, so much. “I’m not jealous!” Alistair argued back, louder than he meant to, feeling his face flush at her teasing. What did Elio see in this wretched woman? “I’m horrified!” Horrified that his friend would ever find her likable to such a degree. She had a pretty face, sure, but a pretty face didn’t change the fact that she was a horrible woman who took pleasure from tormenting others.

“Those blushing cheeks of yours tell a different tale,” Morrigan smirked as she reached out, pointing at his face, a glimmer in her eyes that always told him there was trouble afoot.

Alistair took a step away from her, his blush worsened, and he hated that it was because she was right. “These blushing cheeks are terrified that you’ll suck all the blood out of them once you’re done with him,” he lied.

Morrigan laughed again, bringing a curled finger to hover over her smirk. “If I feel the need to suck on anything of yours, Alistair, you will be the first to know,” she said, and the flush in his face began to pale at the innuendo, at the thought of him and her together. “Though I am sure it is not me you would prefer to do the sucking. Perhaps you would rather join in the next time he and I share a bed, so that he might touch you the way he touches me?”

Just as fast the flush was back with an even greater intensity as Alistair stuttered and spluttered, his mind fraying at the seams, trying to find the words to respond to what she had said, trying to even comprehend what she had said. “I—no, that’s not—you know that’s not—” he started and stopped, verbally flailing pathetically like a drowning man.

It only served to amuse the witch even more as she turned her attention to Elio, who it had seemed had finished up whatever business he had with the dwarf and Wynne. “Or better yet, we should go and tell him together of your touching concerns,” she said, taking a step towards them as she said it, and looked back at him with a predatory smile. “Perhaps he will pay more attention to you if you ask him nicely.”

Alistair turned his back to her, “Uh-huh, I think we’re done here,” he said, and it was the only thing he could think of to end this wreck of a conversation before it got worst. The more she had spoken, the more he wanted to bury himself deeper into the ground. He knew he shouldn’t have talked to her, why, oh, why did he go ahead and do it anyway?

“Done before you started, in fact,” Morrigan added, just to rub salt into his wounds.

When he turned to look back, she had left and had joined Elio at his side, the two of them and Wynne discussing something between just them. The only comfort Alistair got from the sight was the look of annoyance that flashed across Morrigan’s face, telling him that she, at the very least, didn’t like the conversation.

For a moment, Elio looked up and their eyes met, and Alistair felt warmth blossom in his chest at the smile his fellow Warden gave him. But that warmth was gone just as quick when Elio turned his gaze to Morrigan—busy arguing with Wynne over something Circle-magic-mage related to even notice him—and his smile grew softer, lovelorn. Alistair wanted to throw up.

“Right,” Alistair said, pushing those feelings down deep inside of himself as he approached the rest of the group. “What now? By the sounds of everything, we’re not going to find much support from the dwarves until their whole kind debacle is solved. So, what’s our plan?” he asked, and tried not to think of how Orzammar’s civil war of succession hit a little too close to home with Ferelden’s civil war of succession.

Elio hummed, a hand to his chin as he thought about it. “I really hate being in this position,” he said after a long pause, moving his hand from his chin to his head, running it through his chestnut brown strands of hair. “We need the dwarves help in battling the darkspawn, but it’s as they told us over and over; the treaty only says the king is obligated to help us, not their Assembly or whatever. Until a new king is chosen, it’s unlikely we’ll be getting their help at all.”

“The dwarves are in a never-ending war with the darkspawn, is it little wonder that our Blight might seem inconsequential to their foolhardy Assembly?” Morrigan asked with a slight scoff. “I dare say they might be rather happy that the darkspawn have migrated to the surface. It makes for emptier tunnels, and an easier time for their own futile attempts to reclaim their ancient thaigs.”

“I’m sure they’re not celebrating Ferelden’s turmoil,” Elio said with a soft smile before shaking his head, “But, back on the topic at hand, she’s right. The Assembly isn’t obligated to help us, and right now the Blight is the least of their concerns.”

Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really hate to say it, but since they’re in a deadlock on finding a new king, we might have to step in and put someone on the throne just so we can get the treaties fulfilled.” He hated saying it. The Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to be involved in politics; they weren’t supposed to get involved in matters of civil dispute. But… he supposed they were both rather piss poor wardens in that regard.

Elio just had a knack for getting involved in every little problem. It was like he was a bloodhound when it came to people in need, and Alistair had yet to see him actually turn down helping someone, no matter how out of his way it was. On one hand, Alistair admired that part of his friend—it showed that he truly did have a heart of gold. He wanted to make the world better, not just in protecting them from darkspawn, but in the little things, too. On the other hand, it got frustrating being dragged into every little problem that were really none of their concern.

Helping Orzammar get a new king was a massive overstep, one that Alistair knew Duncan would never have approved of. But it was necessary. Right now, it was the only way he could think of to get the dwarves aid in the Blight.

“You’re right,” Elio agreed, which soothed some of the guilt Alistair felt. “The downside is, we don’t actually know enough about either candidate or of Orzammar in general to be able to choose who would be best for us and the people.”

“In that case, just take a copper and flip it,” Morrigan said as she placed a hand on her hip, her other raised, drawing loops in the air with her finger. “It should make little difference to us whether tis the blood son or the advisor who sits on the throne, they will both be obligated by your precious treaties to aide you.”

Wynne had a disapproving frown at the notion. “Something like this is far too important and delicate of a matter to leave up to something as simplistic as a toss of a coin,” she scolded, though it was clear Morrigan wasn’t even listening to her. “I suggest we ask around, try to learn more about this Bhelen and Harrowmont before we make a decision one way or the other.”

And that was part of why Alistair liked Wynne. She was so sensible, far more than many of their companions were. Always a soothing voice of reason. “I agree with her,” he said, raising his hand up slightly. “I’d like to make sure that whoever we lend our support to isn’t anti-Grey Warden, that we can trust will actually follow through with their promise of aide.”

Another moment of silence filled the air around them, broken only by the sounds and chatters of Orzammar itself, before Elio broke it with another hum. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ll split up, ask around, and meet up at the tavern after a while to put together everything we’ve learned. Then we can make a decision. That sound okay with everyone?”

With no one having any arguments, they all split off to investigate different parts for the next handful of hours, careful to avoid Dust Town on their own.

Alistair was a generally friendly person, but the dwarves weren’t necessarily as open to his friendship as most were, and he was hardly a pro at bargaining. But there were enough locals who seemed fascinated by him enough, whether by being human or by being a Warden, that he was able to get bits and pieces, much of it contradicting due to the nature of the ones telling him being biased to either Harrowmont or Bhelen. Nevertheless, he took what information he could find and stitched it together like a poorly made patchwork quilt until he could get some semblance of a picture of what was going on.

The old king was dead, that was a set-in stone fact.

What was heavily debated was the cause of his and his older two sons deaths. The oldest one was killed by fratricide, the middle son given the blame and without so much as a proper investigation or trial, was sent to the Deep Roads in exile to die. Harrowmont’s following believed Bhelen to have been involved, that he was the one who actually killed the eldest, and they claimed that even the old king had suspected his son’s involvement, and that was why he chose Harrowmont as his successor instead.

On the other hand, Bhelen’s supporters accused Harrowmont of weakening Orzammar. That he took advantage of the king’s failing health to plant the seeds of lies and doubt in his mind, and that he was never actually named successor—he was the only one in the room when the king died, no one could prove or disprove what Endrin said to him in his final moments. What Alistair found most concerning were the whispers that he’d further worsen the divide between nobles and casteless, and that he would rather cut the city off from the surface entirely, even at the cost of their own wellbeing.

Bhelen was called a reformist, which was good, that he wanted to strengthen their ties with the surface where Harrowmont wanted to weaken them. But he was possibly a murderer, possibly behind his brothers and fathers deaths. Harrowmont, for all that he could find, seemed like a man of strong morals, and seemed more politically savvy, but he seemed to cling dangerously tight to traditions.

Personally, the more he learned and listened, the more he wasn’t sure about either side. They were reasons to support and oppose in equal measures. Freaking politics, second only to the Darkspawn in his list of things he hated.

After a few hours, Alistair made his way back to the inn that Elio had chosen for them to stay at for the night. There was little else in terms of information he had been able to find, to the point he felt like he was just wandering around like an aimless idiot. He did, however, come across a merchant during his search, and even managed to buy something at a discount. Or the merchant told him it was a discount, for all Alistair knew, it could have been double the price. Which was fine, he was willing to pay triple the price for it.

It wasn’t anything especially fancy, but it was a necklace with a stone carved to look like a dog in the center. Elio liked dogs. He’d talked at lengths during the first few days after the mabari joined them about how he had always wanted one as a kid. But you don’t get dogs in the alienage unless they’re with the guards and dragging people out of their homes by the jaws. Other than that, there was always the occasional starving stray that never stuck around for long. He’d been so happy when the mabari, named Garahel; after the hero of the last Blight, had chosen him as its new master.

It was stupid, Alistair knew this, and yet as soon as he’d seen the stone dog necklace, he had to buy it. Elio was always giving them gifts, and yet he wasn’t sure if any of them had ever gotten him something in return. There was a swell of guilt that rushed through him at the thought.

When he finally reached the tavern, after only getting lost once, he was unsurprised to find that Elio was already there. He was, however, surprised to find him in an argument with a drunken dwarf at one of the tables.

Or perhaps argument wasn’t the right word. The man was flushed in the face and yelling, and Elio was just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, staring the dwarf down as he was being yelled at. There was a tightness to his expression, and he kept gripping his own bicep between clenched fingers, all signs Alistair knew and recognized as his friend trying his hardest to stay calm, to not start yelling back at the dwarf—or worse.

For as much as he came off as cheerful, as easy to get along with, and was shown to be exceptionally kind; Alistair had met few who possessed the same level of rage that his fellow Warden harbored. Part of Alistair couldn’t blame him for the anger, he’d be angry too if he had gone through everything the other had. Regardless, Alistair had learned rather quickly that just because Elio was better at hiding his anger and better at controlling it than most, it didn’t mean the wrath was not there. When that anger came out; blood was spilled.

An angry Elio was a more terrifying foe to fight than the darkspawn.

Which was why he was immediately worried that a fight was about to break out, that Elio was about to do something that would, at the very best, get them exiled from Orzammar.

He quickly made his way to them.

“We need someone like Harrowmont leading us! Bhelen is nothing more than fatricidal scum! Tyrant in the mah-making!” the dwarf screamed, broken by a hiccup as he pointed at Elio with a glower. “If you’re gunna side with Bhelen, then you’d be better off dying. I don’t care Warden or not, you go against Harrowmont an’ I’ll kill ya myself! Right here!”

Elio said nothing, but his lip curled back with a wordless snarl.

Alistair shouldered his way between them with a wary laugh, “Hey, friends! What’s going on over here?” he asked, nervous energy biting at his words. “Getting rather worked up over here, I hope my friend here isn’t causing you any problems.”

“Causing problems?” The dwarf repeated with another hiccup. “Asking about Bhelen, and—and whether he’d be better—your friend’s askin’ for a knife is what he’s doing!”

He must have said something wrong when asking around, with such high tensions it was little wonder some might be a bit testy about the topic. Through in the excessive amount of alcohol the dwarf smelled of? More volatile than a puddle of oil. Still, this situation was still salvageable.

“I’m sure he meant nothing bad by it,” Alistair said, glancing to Elio who remained silent, wisely biting his tongue so he wouldn’t say something to make matters worse, though the fire in his eyes was burning intensely. Just as fast, Alistair turned his attention back to the dwarf before he could get trapped by his gaze. “We’re new to the city, as you can tell, we’re just trying to get a grasp of the situation, that’s all.”

The dwarf had the audacity to actually spit onto the floor, a big wet glob that just about hit Alistair’s boot. Absolutely disgusting. But he forced his expression not to show those thoughts. “Being new an’ dumb ain’t an excuse for being dumb,” the drunkard said, as if that made any sense. He looked them over once more before nodding to the bar counter. “Give me a few silvers for a few more rounds an’ we can call this dispute resolved. How’s that sound?”

Sounded like a scam as far as Alistair was concerned, but if it would keep the peace, then he was willing to give up a few silvers. Knowing their luck of being attacked, and of Morrigan and Elio’ questionable habit of ransacking the corpses, they’d make back whatever he gave up quickly enough in resold equipment and valuables.

So, he passed him twenty silvers, more than enough to keep him nice and drunk, and hopefully unconscious.

The man took it happily enough, stuffing the coins into his own coin purse, and made his way to the counter. Not before, of course, giving Elio one last nasty look. “Next time watch your fucking mouth. Keep saying that shit about Harrowmont, and next time I won’t be so nice. I’ll clip your damn tongue,” he threatened before staggering off.

Elio growled lowly once he was gone, but then let his shoulders slump as tension rolled off him. “Usually, I’m being threatened about my ears being cut. Tongue is a first,” he muttered before shaking his head. Just as fast that anger was stuffed deep into whatever internal locked box he had and a smile was on his face. “Thanks for the help, Alistair. Maker’s breath, your timing was miraculous.”

He felt his cheeks flush at the praise. “Well, I guess we were lucky I showed up when I did, aren’t we?” he puffed up his chest in pride.

It didn’t take long after that for Wynne and Morrigan to wander in, and once they had joined them, the four had taken a seat at the corner, furthest from any prying ears, to discuss what they had found.

For the most part, their information all seemed to be the same, if not worded differently here or there. Half of the public was in favor of Bhelen for his progressive stances and disproved of Harrowmont for his isolationist policies. The other half preferred Harrowmont for the stability he’d bring, while despising Bhelen for whispered involvement in his brothers’ deaths. Alistair wasn’t quite sure yet who was the better option.

In the end, however, after weighing everything they knew, Elio chose Bhelen. It was decided that they’d seek him out in the morning, figure out what they had to do to help put him on the throne so they could get the alliance sorted out and go back to dealing with the Blight. With any luck, they could get everything sorted out in a day or two, though Alistair knew better than to hope for something like that.

There was little else to do for the night. Their task for the day completed, their rooms paid for, and the rest of their party camped outside the gates informed of what was happening. The group had the rest of the night to do as they pleased.

Alistair allowed himself a single drink. For the confidence only alcohol could bring, before seeking Elio out. The necklace bounced about in his pocket with each step, and he felt giddy for the chance to give it to him, to see that same look of surprised joy that Alistair always felt receiving a gift from him mirrored on his friends face. Perhaps it was the buzz of ales coursing through him, but Alistair even felt bold enough to try and… well, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe flirt? Maybe ask for a kiss in return? He’d figure it out, he just knew he felt confident enough to try.

It took a little looking to even find where Elio had gone. He hadn’t been in the tavern, nor in the rented room. Alistair had thought for a moment perhaps he went to the surface to visit with the others. But, no, he found the man in question just outside the tavern.

Outside with Morrigan.

His stomach dropped.

Hiding around the corner, Alistair unashamedly spied on the two as they interacted. He watched as Elio pulled from his own bag a small, golden hand mirror. A lovely piece of craftsmanship that must have cost a pretty silver. Maybe even some gold. Even from where he hid, he could tell the mirror was clear and smooth, that it’s silver surface was as flawless as it could be.

He couldn’t hear what Morrigan had whispered, but he had seen the look of awe and amazement as she took the gift from Elio’s hands.

“A pretty mirror for a pretty woman,” Elio said with that all too familiar lovelorn look on his face. “I’d remembered you telling me about the mirror you had found—and I’m sure it’s not the same, but I thought of you when I saw it.”

Morrigan’s thin fingers traced the edges, her expression softer than anything Alistair had ever seen. A softness he suspected she only ever showed Elio. “Such a romantic,” she teased, her voice gentle, far from the haughty, sarcastic bite she generally had.

“You know me, a sappy romantic at heart, always looking for ways to woo you,” Elio joked back, and yet Alistair knew it wasn’t a joke.

Their voices dropped back to whispers, too quiet for him to hear. But he could read their body language and expression well enough that he didn’t need to heard the words they said. The touches and smiles spoke volumes. His chest burned worse than any wound he received as he watched the two draw closer and closer to each other, foreheads connecting before they went in for a kiss.

Alistair hated what he was seeing. He hated how happy Elio looked, how he melted and swooned to the woman’s every touch and word, and how gentle and soft Morrigan was to him when she was nothing but a viper to everyone else. He hated how happy they seemed to be with just the two of them.

Most of all, he hated the vile, wretched feeling of jealousy that ate away at him from the inside.

With the necklace heavy like lead in his pocket, Alistair turned on his heel and marched back into the tavern before he could see anything else. He ignored Wynne’s concerned look as he made straight for the bar, giving up silver and coppers for tankards of ale, hoping that the alcohol would make him forget, would make him numb to the ache in his chest.

Hoping that when Elio came back inside with Morrigan in tow, the sight of the two of them wouldn’t feel like a sword driven through his chest.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Origins #alistair x warden #alistair theirin #Male Tabris #Morrigan #City Elf Origin #fanfic #Told you I was writing that onesided Alistair/Warden fic #A two parter of alistair just being in love and longing and it's #unrequited

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bluerose5 · 1 year

Text

Revelation

Word Count: 3,448

Summary: Alistair finds out the truth about his parentage.

He takes it about as well as one would expect.

~~~

"I had a feeling that I would find you here."

Dazed as he was, the abrupt intrusion of another’s voice startled Darrian back into a state of awareness. His finger struck a sour chord upon his lute, an old gift given to him by Leliana after the Fifth Blight.

He glanced up and caught sight of Alistair, leaning against the entrance to his study.

A flickering fire crackled close by. Its orange glow danced against the backdrop of darkness. Shadows whispered playfully to each other with glee as golden light caressed the lines of Alistair's face, bringing out the warmer tones of light brown skin.

Darrian stared at him. His body grew warm, but not only because of the heat that emanated from the flames.

Memories from the last time they were alone together teased at his mind, and his heart raced.

After a moment, deft fingers continued to pluck at the strings to form a song. This time, slower, more alluring.

"Well, you found me," Darrian agreed. Bright yellow eyes pierced through the night, reflecting the light when hit at just the right angle. "Question is, what are you going to do with me, now that you've found me?"

Alistair cleared his throat, then stepped forward into the room.

"I'm still trying to figure that one out," he said, sheepish as he approached. "So many options…"

When he trailed off, Darrian laughed under his breath.

"I might have an idea in mind."

"Just the one?" Alistair whispered, tender yet reverent.

Each word held the weight of a prayer.

Darrian’s heart sang in delight.

"Maybe more than one," Darrian allowed. Then, he shrugged. "How the rest of the night goes will determine if you find out what they are."

"I'll keep that in mind," Alistair said, taking a seat at his side.

"You'll get your fancy clothes dirty," Darrian warned.

"Ha! As if Mistress Virdan would ever allow even a single speck of dirt on the floors in her household!"

"Point taken," Darrian chuckled.

They settled in at each other's side, snuggled up to one another by the fire.

Darrian continued to play his lute while Alistair stared down at him, as if he had hung the moons and the stars in the sky himself. Elvish lyrics flowed free from his lips, lamenting all that was lost to the past while preserving hope for a better future.

Alistair combed his fingers through brown hair, pressing a kiss to Darrian’s temple.

His lips lingered, but he waited for Darrian's song to trail off before speaking. Tender words caressed warm skin.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed.

Darrian glanced over to meet honey brown eyes.

"So are you."

When Alistair responded by clearing his throat, Darrian asked about it.

“Something wrong?”

“I, uh—” Alistair stammered, then chuckled nervously. He glanced elsewhere, anywhere, unable to maintain eye contact. “It’s just that not many people call me that, you know. Strong or handsome, maybe, but I don’t hear ‘beautiful’ too often.”

Darrian tsked. “What a shame.”

He set his lute aside to angle himself more towards Alistair, right before he tossed a leg over his lap to straddle him. Wrapping his arms around his neck, he pressed his forehead against his, each word whispered into the space between them.

“I mean, you are those things,” Darrian praised. “Strong and handsome.” He toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “But you’re also beautiful, smart, compassionate…”

Alistair shivered in delight, coaxing a smirk from Darrian.

“You don’t say.”

“On the contrary, I do say so,” Darrian teased, rewarding him with a sweet, albeit brief, peck. “And I’m always right.”

“Always, my love,” Alistair readily agreed, clever man that he was.

This time, they both closed the distance, sealing their lips into a kiss.

Darrian didn’t even so much as look up. With a casual wave of his hand, a blast of force magic slammed against the doors, effectively closing them to give the couple some much-needed privacy.

Alistair hummed as they broke the kiss. “Show-off.”

“As if you’re not impressed,” Darrian responded.

After a moment, Alistair conceded.

“Okay, yeah, that was pretty impressive.”

“Uh-huh.” And because he couldn’t resist, Darrian gave him one last peck before he got to his feet. “Stay here.”

“Must I?” Alistair widened his eyes, bottom lip poked out into an exaggerated pout.

When he grabbed Darrian’s hand, Darrian raised an eyebrow at him, amused.

“Yes, you must,” he answered. He slipped free from Alistair’s hold with ease, approaching the large, ornate desk. “I have something for you.”

“A gift?” Alistair questioned, incredulous. “Darrian, you didn’t have to.”

“But I did,” he stated, leaving no room for argument. “Besides, I didn’t spend a single copper on it.” He wrenched open one of the drawers, then dug around inside. “It’s a family heirloom.”

Carefully, he lifted out an expensive, silk cloth, which he brought over for Alistair to see. Kneeling at his side, he unfolded the edges to reveal a necklace that matched the one currently around Darrian’s neck.

Tiny links of silverite were infused with threads of bright light that bore the markings of the Beyond. Touched by the Fade, the necklace's very essence pulsed with power and magic alike. A large, uncut gem formed the piece's pendant. And within that gem, there laid a rune that glowed like fire.

Multiple shades of purple, pink, blue, and orange swirled together in a chaotic inferno.

Darrian offered it out to Alistair, lips parted around a shaky breath.

"In some cultures, they call this the Dragon's Eye, a special form of sending crystal. It has been passed down throughout my family for generations, ever since the fall of the Dales and possibly since Arlathan itself, or so they say," Darrian explained. "During the time of the Dales, my ancestors used it to communicate over long distances. They would use it to speak to each other, yes, but it also exchanged so much more than that. Experiences, emotions, thoughts, and memories."

Darrian swallowed thickly.

"You know, in my mother's family, relationships of three were always viewed as typical, expected. The mind, the body, and the soul. There is an imbalance without one or the other. I have one necklace." He reached up to cradle his own gem, then released it. "Zevran has the other, and now I want you to have the last."

Alistair gaped at him.

"Darrian, I—" Not even taking into account the cultural significance amongst elves, Alistair knew well enough that Darrian viewed the value of jewelry through the eyes of his Rivaini heritage. Each piece was meaningful, symbolic of one's status and connections. "I don't know what to say."

"That's easy," Darrian laughed, although with a slight tremor to his voice. "Say that you'll accept."

Alistair felt his heart hammering away in his chest, but his encouragement was all that he needed to nod in agreement.

"Of course I will. Here." He turned so that his back was to him. "Mind putting it on for me?"

"I'd be happy to."

Reaching around him, Darrian fixed the necklace's position, then clasped it into place around his neck. Once he released it, the pendant fell down against Alistair's chest. He grabbed the stone and appraised its weight within the palm of his hand.

Darrian embraced Alistair from behind, his chest to Alistair's back, as they both stared down at the gem together.

"How does it work?" Alistair wondered.

"It's activated by a special phrase," Darrian said.

Brushing his lips along the shell of Alistair’s ear, he whispered it to him, but he tried to warn Alistair before he got his hopes up.

"Just don't be surprised if nothing happens." Not that his words stopped Alistair from immediately repeating it. "It's only supposed to work for…"

Darrian trailed off in shock, blinking owlishly at the now-glowing stone.

Maybe—Maybe it was a delay. From when Darrian said the phrase, but it never did that before. Never, not once. The response was always instant.

Alistair, oblivious to his sudden distress, beamed over his shoulder at Darrian, only to freeze when he caught sight of his expression.

Darrian looked as if he was going to be ill.

Turning towards him, Alistair took him by the shoulders.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, the necklace forgotten as he took Darrian’s face between his hands. "What happened?"

"Say the phrase again," Darrian instructed, not once looking away from that glowing light.

"Wh–What?" Alistair stuttered, caught off guard by the strange request. "What does the necklace have to do with—"

"Just do it," Darrian pleaded. "Please. Trust me, okay?"

Taking a second to consider, Alistair lifted the Dragon's Eye up into his hand again.

This time, when he recited the phrase, the light was snuffed out like a flame.

Okay, so that disproved his theory about the delay.

Darrian struggled to come to terms with that.

"Will you tell me what's going on now?" Alistair asked. "Don't keep me in the dark here. What? Is it the necklace? Do you want it back? Are you having second thoughts? Because you know that I would never pressure you into parting with something so speci—"

When he started to take it off, Darrian reached out and placed his hand over his, stopping him in his tracks.

"Alistair, that's not—" Shaking his head, Darrian choked on the words, at a loss for what to say. "Alistair, the necklace only responds to those of elven blood. Its magic was specifically attuned to elves."

A beat of silence followed before he could finally respond, Alistair's expression one of disbelief.

"What?" he scoffed, eyes narrowed in response. "You're joking with me, right?"

Darrian tried not to get offended by that, realizing what a shock this was to them both.

Realizing how his words might have come across, Alistair quickly backtracked, "Sorry. Not that there's anything wrong with being elven, but you're being serious right now, aren't you?"

"Why would I even joke about that with you?" Darrian retorted. "I was just about to tell you not to expect the phrase to work, specifically because I thought you were a full-blooded human."

Alistair winced.

Clenching his jaw, he got to his feet and stormed off into the hallway. The door to the study crashed against the wall, Darrian hot on his heels.

"Where are you going?" Darrian demanded, refusing to leave his side. "Ali!"

"I need to know for sure," he grunted. "I trust you, I do, but I—" He pinched at the bridge of his nose with a frustrated growl, his gait quick yet determined. "I need to be certain."

He took a sharp turn into the kitchens, where several servants still lingered, enjoying their fill of food and liquor.

As soon as Alistair burst into the room, their conversations came to an abrupt halt. They jumped down from their perches upon the counters, wide-eyed with fear and shock.

"Your Majesty," a young, human man greeted with a bow. "What, uh— How can we be of service this fine evening?"

"I don't care about you enjoying your free time in here," Alistair assured them. He all but snatched the necklace off in his hurry to unclasp it. "All I ask is a favor. Here."

He grabbed the man by the hand and pressed the stone into his palm.

The others —with an older, elven woman amongst them— glanced nervously at Darrian.

"Alistair," Darrian chided. "You're scaring them."

"Just give me a second, please," he begged them, now frantic. Once again, he returned his attention to the man. "Repeat after me."

Confused by this unusual turn of events, the servant did as his King commanded.

When Alistair spoke the phrase aloud, both his and Darrian’s necklaces emanated an undeniable glow. However, when the man repeated his words, they didn't react in the slightest.

Grumbling to himself, Alistair snatched up the gemstone then approached the elven woman, who tensed once he drew nearer.

Alistair took a deep breath, his voice soft and gentle.

"Please, if you don't mind," he said, "take this necklace and say the exact same words that your companion here just did."

Searching Alistair's gaze for any signs of deception, the elven woman eventually took pity on him and grabbed the chain from his hand. Slowly, deliberately, she enunciated each word to perfection.

Both necklaces didn't hesitate to respond, each light dying out quickly.

No one, except for Darrian and Alistair, seemed to realize the significance of what had happened.

Trapped in a daze, Alistair mindlessly thanked them, stumbling his way out of the kitchens.

Darrian smiled sheepishly at those gathered.

"As you were," he told them.

He retrieved the necklace from the servant and chased after Alistair, but the latter had only barely regained his senses by the time Darrian caught up to him.

Matching his stride, Darrian followed his lead.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

For the longest time, even Alistair didn't know.

Then, out of nowhere, he stopped in the middle of a corridor.

His expression darkened. Rage simmered within his eyes.

He turned on his heel without warning, storming off in the library's direction.

"Alistair…" Darrian trailed off, cautious about his next move. "Talk to me."

"We'll talk soon," he promised. "Right now, I need to pay someone a visit."

As soon as he entered the library, understanding dawned on Darrian.

Eamon glanced up from the book he was reading, curious about all the commotion.

Darrian closed the doors behind them before the yelling could start.

"Were you ever going to tell me the truth?!" Alistair snapped, to which Eamon raised a brow in question.

Slowly, he closed his book and set it aside.

"The truth about what, exactly?" Eamon asked, eyeing Darrian with disdain.

"Oh, don't play dumb." Alistair sneered. "I doubt it was from the Theirin line. No, no, no. They're too prideful to let something like that slip, which leaves my mother."

"What about her?" Eamon got to his feet but ultimately kept his distance. "Alistair, you already know the truth. You're not making any sense."

Now, that tore through the remnants of Alistair's patience.

Everything was happening too fast. Usually, Darrian was the one in charge, but the whole world had been turned upside-down. Nothing made sense. Everything was out of control.

Usually, it was Alistair who had to hold Darrian back from acting on violent impulses, not the other way around.

Alistair took a threatening step forward, but Darrian acted on instinct, fast enough to insert himself between him and Eamon.

He placed his hands on Alistair's chest, which got him to stop at least, but he didn't once look away from Eamon.

"Really, Uncle?" Alistair let out a bitter laugh. "So, what? The fact that I'm—" He paused as he processed the truth. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. "That I'm elf-blooded conveniently never came up before?"

Eamon pursed his lips, then glared at Darrian.

"You," he spat. "You're the one behind this, filling his head with this–this nonsense!"

Alistair interrupted before Darrian could muster up a reply.

"Don't. Don't you dare blame this whole mess on him!" Alistair tried to lunge forward, and it was a pure miracle that Darrian managed to keep them apart. He dug his feet into the floor, sweat beading at his hairline. "All these years have been nothing but lies. Is my mother even dead?"

Eamon's silence was answer enough.

Instead of confirming or denying, however, he tried to shift the attention —and the blame— elsewhere.

"It was your mother's decision," he eventually said, "to keep the truth from you. She did not want your elven heritage to… hinder you."

"That shouldn't have been up to her. I deserved the truth!"

"Maric’s wishes were always to respect her choice on that matter. I was one of the select few who had access to that knowledge. I promised to keep it to myself, and I would not go back on my word."

"Of course not," Alistair said. "Not when it could prove to be an inconvenience to you and your ambitions. Because, let's be honest, your loyalty has always been about preserving Ferelden's archaic traditions and your precious fucking bloodlines. If I had not been a Theirin, would any of you have even spared me a second thought?"

When he didn't immediately answer outright, Alistair grunted.

"Thought not."

Darrian swallowed past the lump in his throat.

He wasn't one to run away from confrontation, but his head was spinning like mad.

They needed to get away, take a second to catch their breath.

"Alistair, come on," he whispered. "Let's just go."

Something he said, perhaps the sheer informality with which he addressed their king, got under Eamon's skin.

Finally, he snapped.

He rushed forward and grabbed ahold of Darrian’s wrist, yanking him towards him.

"This is all your fault!"

He raised his hand to strike a blow, but it never came.

In the blink of an eye, Alistair had shoved him back against the bookshelves, his forearm pinned against his throat.

His expression was absolutely murderous, seething with a rage that threatened to boil over at the drop of a hat.

He leaned in and whispered, his voice quiet yet dangerous.

"Get out of my castle, or else."

Eamon sputtered, but the fool was determined to have his say.

"That elf of yours is poisoning your mind against what is right." He wheezed out past the growing pressure upon his throat. "And you're letting him."

"That's no longer your concern." After great effort, Alistair released him, jerking his chin in the direction of the door. "Get out of my sight."

"Nephew," Eamon protested. "I—"

"Leave," Alistair snarled. "Now!"

Apparently, even Eamon knew when not to press his luck.

He scampered out of the room, his hand at his throat.

Bruises were already blossoming in their wake.

Darrian used his magic to shut the door behind him.

Left alone together, Alistair backed himself up against a wall and slowly sank to the floor.

He buried his head into his hands.

When Darrian approached him, Alistair rubbed his hands down his face with an exhausted groan.

He glanced up at Darrian in concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Darrian knelt at his side.

"Pretty sure that I should be asking you that."

"Right," Alistair said, "but seriously, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." He blew out a shaky breath. "That's good, at least."

Rather than fill the silence with empty talk, Darrian offered him his presence instead. He snuggled up to his side, clinging to him as if his very life depended on it, his head upon Alistair's shoulder.

He waited for Alistair to speak, patiently awaiting the moment when he was ready.

After several minutes, he whispered, "I know that it shouldn't change much of anything. I'm still me, after all, but still…"

"It changes everything," Darrian finished for him.

Alistair simply nodded in agreement.

"Yeah." He turned to Darrian. "Surely, you have an opinion about all of this."

"I do."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What do you think?"

Darrian shrugged.

"You're the first person of elven blood to rule in Thedas throughout recent history. Of course I have opinions, but I cannot—" He corrected himself. "I will not allow my emotions to cloud my judgment about this. No matter how you feel about the role now, I had a hand in you becoming king. Back then, I put my own desire for vengeance ahead of what you wanted at the time."

They locked eyes, all of the air in the room leaving in one fell swoop.

"I won't let that happen again," Darrian said. "You have options. You could keep the truth hidden. You could go public with it. I could fix up a sort of phylactery to find your mother. It doesn't matter. Whatever you want, I will support you fully."

Alistair considered that.

Soon enough, he turned his back to him.

"May I have my necklace back, my love?"

Darrian’s heart skipped a beat.

He made quick work of fastening it into place again. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his throat.

As they settled down, side-by-side yet again, Alistair held his head high with pride.

"You're right, you know. I have options laid out in front of me now." Reaching out between them, he placed his hand on top of Darrian’s. He gave it a firm squeeze. "But I won't hide who I truly am."

Darrian turned his hand over, and they laced their fingers together.

"If anyone wants to take everything that we've built away from me, away from us, all because I'm of elven blood…"

Alistair lowered his voice in warning.

"Then I'd like to see them try."

#dragon age #dragon age origins #darrian tabris #alistair theirin #male warden #king alistair #hardened alistair #aliwarden #alistair x tabris #bluerose writes

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