Nolo, Nolle, Nolui : Chapter 42

[nithu]

Alistair looked down at the sleeping Fearghal. It seemed a shame to wake him, but the sooner they left Haven, the better. He nudged Fearghal's leg with his foot. "Fearghal, I've brought some tea," he said softly.

Fearghal slowly opened his eyes, blinking at Alistair stupidly. "Tea? Is it time for my watch yet?"

"It's morning. Time to get up," Alistair told him, holding out the mug.

Fearghal sat up, frowning and reaching up for the mug. "Thanks. You let me sleep all night," he accused Alistair.

Alistair merely nodded cheerfully and turned. "Breakfast will be ten minutes."

 

Fearghal scowled as he sipped his tea; he felt like he was being coddled and he didn't like it, or rather he didn't like what it implied. Maker's cock! Does he think I'm not capable to even stand my watch?" Fearghal set his tea carefully down on Alistair's bedroll and reached for his padded underclothes, then his armour. When he was done, his tea had cooled and he gulped it down and went outside.

"Look who's turned up, Fearghal," said Leliana, pushing a bowl of porridge at him.

Fearghal looked round and was surprised to see the dwarven merchant they'd originally met outside Lothering. They'd met the man and his son a few times since; he'd always dealt with them very fairly. "Master... Feddic, yes?"

"That's right, ser. Bodahn Feddic, that's me. I'd thought to maybe do a little business up here, they can't get many travellers up this way, but your companions tell me that the locals are not very friendly."

"Indeed," agreed Fearghal. "You might be just the person we need though. Tell me, did you bring your cart?"

"That I did, ser, although there's not as much in it as I'd like."

"Excellent!" Fearghal beamed at the dwarf. He gestured at Brother Genitivi. "The good Brother has a broken ankle. Could we prevail upon you to take him to Redcliffe? We'd make it worth your while, of course."

"I'm sure we can come to an amicable arrangement, ser. Let's settle ourselves and talk terms."

Fearghal and Feddic seated themselves by the fire. The dwarf merchant drove a hard bargain, especially considering that the only place for him to go was back down through the hills to Redcliffe, but Fearghal didn't want to be slowed down by Genitivi; they needed to get the Ashes back to Redcliffe as soon as possible.

While he was negotiating with the dwarf, between mouthfuls of porridge, the others broke up the camp. Morrigan busied herself applying more healing to Genitivi's ankle; it wasn't mended, that was beyond her skill, but it was reasonably stable and should heal well as long as he kept off it. Within the hour, they were ready to leave.

~o~O~o~

They were two days out of Haven when the snow started to fall. Zevran eyed the white flakes with disgust as he pulled an oiled cape out of his pack and put it on. Leliana and Morrigan followed suit and Fearghal picked up the pace, hoping to outrun the lowering snow clouds and reach lower ground. As the snow came down faster and faster, the Antivan kept up a litany of complaint about the freezing white stuff blowing in his face.

"Where's your sense of humour gone, Zev. We used to love snow when we were kids; it was always such fun. I remember Fergus being furious when I used his new shield as a sledge," laughed Fearghal.

Zevran turned round and glared at him. "I fail to see how one could have fun in something that is so cold."

As he turned back to the front, Fearghal nudged Alistair and started scooping up snow, pressing it into a ball. Grinning, Alistair followed suit.

"Er... Zevran... " called Fearghal.

As Zevran turned again, he was hit square in the face by two snowballs. Fearghal and Alistair burst out laughing while Zevran glared at them. "Dear Wynne is right. You are like two children," he informed them with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Can you really use a shield as a sledge?" asked Alistair, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Well, I was only nine at the time. I suspect we'd need bigger shields," said Fearghal, grinning.

Alistair looked disappointed, but peered over the edge of the path speculatively.

"Don't even think about it, fool templar! I am not going to mend your broken legs. Although I suspect if you break your head no-one will be able to tell the difference," said Morrigan waspishly, without even turning around.

Alistair pulled a face behind her back. "How does she do that?" he muttered.

Fearghal shrugged. "Women! They have eyes in the back of their heads." He peered over the slope. "It's too steep here, anyway; maybe when we get lower down."

As they descended, the wind picked up and the snow started to come down even faster. Fearghal looked up at the sky, concerned.

"I think we need to start looking for somewhere to camp. This looks like it's going to get worse before it gets better."

They managed to find some level ground amongst the trees and got their tents up as swiftly as possible.

~o~O~o~

Alistair's eyes flew open, the piercing scream of the Archdemon still ringing in his ears. He lay still, taking slow, deep breaths, felt his racing heart slow. He turned his head towards Fearghal in the dark; if he was dreaming of the Archdemon, Fearghal probably was too. They often awoke from the darkspawn nightmares at about the same time. There was no sound from Fearghal, none of the laboured breathing that usually signalled his tormented dreaming. In fact, there wasn't even the quiet, rhythmic breathing that indicated a more peaceful sleep.

"Are you awake, Fearghal?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake the other man if he truly was sleeping peacefully.

Alistair heard Fearghal sniff and clear his throat.

"Yeah, I'm awake. Nightmare?" Fearghal's voice was thick and husky. "I heard you thrashing about; I wasn't sure whether to wake you or not."

"That's okay. You know, by the time we finally meet the Archdemon, it'll feel like meeting an old friend."

Fearghal gave a soft snort of laughter. "You can invite it round for tea."

Alistair sniggered at the unexpected image of the huge Archdemon daintily holding a china teacup. "What about you? You dreamed of it too?"

"I... no," sighed Fearghal. "I've been awake for a while."

"Are you all right?" asked Alistair hesitantly.

"I was dreaming about my mother."

"Oh, sorry," mumbled Alistair. "Is she who you have nightmares about?"

Alistair heard Fearghal turn over, could feel warm breath on his face as Fearghal sighed heavily; he hadn't realised Fearghal was so close.

"It kills me that the b-best I can hope for is that Howe gave her a quick d-death." Fearghal stopped, fighting to hold back tears. "I saw what Howe's m-men d-did to Oriana, to th-the other women... She wouldn't leave; she told D-Duncan that she would s-slow us d-down... " Fearghal stopped, gasping for breath; trying to say the words hurt so much. An anguished sob broke free as he remembered his mother crouched beside his father, a look of fierce determination on her face.

Alistair tentatively stretched out his hand, rubbing Fearghal's shoulder. It felt like such a futile gesture in the face of so much pain, but he didn't know what else to do. He remembered the way he'd held Fearghal up on the mountain, how Fearghal had been able to give in to his misery. Alistair was uncomfortable with such physical intimacy, even if it was innocent, and, given his feelings for Fearghal, he wasn't so sure it was, but he couldn't just listen to the other man suffering so and do nothing.

He edged closer to Fearghal, pulling him into a hug. "Stop trying to hold it all in," he whispered.

Fearghal felt something in him give way as he was pulled into Alistair's arms; it was impossible, unnecessary somehow, to keep in the pain and the grief and the fear. He laid his head against the broad shoulder, acknowledged the comfort of the strong arms enfolding him, and set his tears free. The intensity, the sheer enormity, of his grief scared Fearghal, yet at the same time he was sustained by the embrace. For the first time since that night at Castle Cousland, he felt safe. There was almost a dream-like quality to lying cradled against Alistair, weeping.

Alistair murmured quietly, the words meaningless, their sympathy not. Of their own accord, his hands stroked Fearghal's back, feeling the tension leaching out of the man in his arms. As Fearghal relaxed against him, Alistair felt some of his own apprehension dissipate. He felt a certain frisson at holding Fearghal in his arms, but beyond that he realised that he'd never held anyone like this, or been held. It was a sobering thought. He pushed aside thoughts about his feelings for Fearghal and just savoured the embrace.

Eventually, Fearghal's weeping subsided. Alistair felt Fearghal move against him.

"I... thank you." Fearghal's voice was so soft, Alistair could barely make out the words.

Alistair expected Fearghal to pull away, but he didn't, seemingly content to rest against Alistair.

"If you want to talk about her... " offered Alistair. He felt Fearghal tense.

"I don't want to remember her like that," he mumbled.

"Then don't," shrugged Alistair. "Remember her as she was. Tell me what she was like."

Fearghal was quiet for a moment. He relaxed against Alistair, remembering his mother. "She could be a bit of a battleaxe. She met my father during the rebellion, fighting in the rebellion."

"What? Your mother fought in the rebellion?" Alistair had come across women warriors before, but they weren't nearly as common as men, especially amongst the nobility.

"Oh, yes. She could be so fierce sometimes; nothing seemed to frighten her. With a bow, she could probably have given Leliana a run for her money; certainly, in her prime she could have done." Alistair could hear the pride in Fearghal's voice. "She could be very intimidating; she had little patience with pomp and ceremony, and didn't suffer fools gladly."

Unthinkingly, Fearghal shuffled slightly, settling himself more comfortably against Alistair. "We clashed a lot. She could be so stubborn." Fearghal sighed sadly. "It seems so stupid now; such a waste. I found my father much easier to get along with. Once Mother made her mind up about something, there was no reasoning with her."

Alistair couldn't stop a small huff of laughter.

"Oh, don't!" groaned Fearghal. "You have no idea how many times I went to my father, complaining about her latest edict, only for him to say, 'You're just like her, you know.', like that explained everything!"

Fearghal chuckled softly. "You must think she sounds awful! She felt very strongly that privilege was a responsibility; that it carried obligations. She was always busy; organising all sorts of things. She always knew who was struggling, where help was needed. She was very good at it and she enjoyed it too, but... sometimes I think she'd have been just as happy working a smallholding somewhere. She loved to garden and resented anything that took her away from her roses.

It was an escape for her, I think. I remember Father telling me that the groundsman they used to have, before I was born, was scandalised to find to find her digging her own rosebeds. She was out there, in her garden, at every opportunity. I can remember trailing around after her, poking about in the dirt, when I tiny. Thankfully, she wasn't one of those fussy mothers; she never minded how filthy I got." His voice took on a wistful note. "Leliana told me that her mother used to smell of Andraste's Grace; mine used to smell of roses."

Fearghal felt a flash of disappointment as Alistair pulled away suddenly and sat up. "What's the matter?" he asked, confused.

"Just give me a minute," muttered Alistair. He crawled down his bedroll and grabbed his pack, rooting through it. The sky was just starting to lighten, but it was still gloomy inside the tent. Finally his hand lighted on the item he sought and he pulled it out, turning back to Fearghal.

"Here," he said, thrusting it at Fearghal.

Frowning, Fearghal took the small box that Alistair held out to him. He opened it and gasped at the smell that wafted up. Roses! The aroma was delicate, but so evocative, Fearghal almost cried out. He shuffled to the front of the tent and undid the ties, to admit a little more light. Inside the box was a perfect red rose, the petals thick and velvety. Fearghal ran a finger over the petals, then lifted the box closer to his face, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes; it was almost as if his mother was in the drab tent with them. He could hardly believe that if he reached out his hand, he wouldn't touch her; any moment now, he would hear her say 'Oh, Fearghal!' in that way she always did, a mixture of exasperation and amusement in her voice. The smell transported him to summer days in Highever, when he would sometimes wander her garden, the air heady with the scent of roses.

"Where...where did you get this?" asked Fearghal, his voice thick with fresh tears.

"Lothering. I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place filled with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The thought that the darkspawn would come and their taint would destroy it was just... " he shrugged. "I was worried that it would start to fade, so I asked that dwarf to enchant it for me; you know, the merchant's son, the simple one."

Fearghal nodded. Reluctantly, he closed the lid and tried to hand it back to Alistair. Alistair pushed it back at him.

"Oh, no! I mean, keep it," protested Alistair. His hand wandered up to his neck and he fingered the amulet that Fearghal had found and given to him. He saw Fearghal hesitate. "Please, keep it. That's why I fetched it out; I want you to have it."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you." Fearghal rubbed his hand over his face, determined not to start crying again. Instead, he leaned towards Alistair and caught him up in a hug.

Caught by surprise, Alistair froze for a second, then relaxed and hugged Fearghal back. After a moment, Fearghal released him and moved to put the box in his pack. Alistair reached for his armour and started to buckle it in place.

~o~O~o~

As they descended the snow gave way to rain. Fearghal trudged along the muddy path, Bane prancing at his side. Damned hound's completely oblivious to the weather! Fearghal scowled, feeling the rain drip down the back of his neck. He knew that the padded jerkin he wore under his armour would be damp tonight and he would face the usual dilemma of either sleeping in damp clothes, or taking it off and losing the extra warmth it provided. His cheeks felt cold, almost numb. He was glad he hadn't shaved at all since the morning before they'd arrived at Haven. At least half of his face was reasonably warm.

He snuck a sideways glance at Alistair who plodded alongside him, equally as uncomfortable and unusually subdued. Alistair had also stopped shaving and brown fuzz covered the lower half of his face. Fearghal grinned at how unexpectedly scruffy Alistair looked. He'd given up trimming his hair weeks ago and it almost touched his collar. The beard on his face was a shade darker than his hair, but still had a touch of gold in it. Fearghal had to admit that he found Alistair's scruffiness strangely appealing. He frowned.

Alistair stared into the distance, almost oblivious to his companion. When he'd held Fearghal, it had genuinely been out of a desire to comfort him; he hadn't allowed any other thoughts to intrude. On the road, though, his mind kept wandering; remembering how good it had felt to hold Fearghal, how right. He couldn't help but imagine holding Fearghal close and, instead of comforting him, kissing him. A part of him was flattered that Fearghal trusted him enough to let him comfort him, but it made it so difficult. I want him! The thought was both shocking, yet there was a sense of relief to finally admitting it to himself. Maker's breath, what a mess! What the hell am I going to do?

Comments

[elysium_fic]

I like the way you worked in the rose!

YAY, Alistair! NOW we're getting somewhere!

[nithu]

Thank you :) I really wanted Alistair to be able to give him the rose.

And yeah, Alistair's making progress. It made me fill up a bit when I realised that Alistair would never have been cuddled, in any context :'(

[elysium_fic]

Oh golly, now I'm gonna get all wibbly.

[nithu]

I'm glad it's not just me. What a pair of silly moos we are!!

[elysium_fic]

Nah. Definitely not just you. Nor just you and me.

I don't like to think of it as silly, I like to think of it as "empathetic."

[nithu]

Well, yeah... but I always end up slapping myself upside the head, muttering, "It's not real you know."

[scarylady]

You're still a terrible head-hopper, luv. After beta-ing for you I'll never be able to overlook it again.

Lovely chapter though, with cuddles and roses. This is good.

[nithu]

Sorry :( I shall try and keep it under control in future. In my defence, this and the next chapter were already done before you pointed it out. I just can't seem to help getting in everyone's heads!

[darkrose]

Hey, I burst into tears every time I read a fic where Alistair sacrifices himself. Sure, he's just a collection of pixels, but he's an awesome collection of pixels!

[nithu]

I don't know why, but I've always felt really stupid crying at films, etc. Books are more likely to make me cry, probably because I have to use my imagination more. The only 2 films that have ever made me cry are 'Sophie's Choice' and I always cry at the end of 'The Railway Children'. I will let myself cry at documentaries though o_O

[darkrose]

Our Alistair's growing up! He handled that so well. And nice way to get the rose in there--Fearghal doesn't strike me as the kind of guy you'd give flowers to.

The thing about Alistair not being held really makes me want to punch Eamon in the face a couple of times.

[nithu]

Yeah, I couldn't see Fearghal receiving flowers in normal circumstances!

Maybe it's because my own son is 10, the age that Alistair was sent to the Chantry; he's an easy-going lad that loves cuddles and when I'm writing about Alistair's past, the contrast always gets to me :'(

[scarylady]

And Isolde. Especially Isolde.

[nithu]

In some ways, I agree. On the other hand, Isolde was being true to form, whilst Eamon always professes affection for Alistair. His words are hard to reconcile with his actions.

[scarylady]

The affection of a cold man will never seem particularly affectionate to the rest of us. I've always seen him as being true to form, also, in the main. There has only ever been one thing in his life that he has broken form for and that's Isolde. Marrying an Orlesian when he did was not true to his cold political form; putting the King's bastard into a Templar uniform wasn't either. Both of those things he did for her.

[leilana]

Finally getting close?!! Yep, I been lurking. As always, I love the way this is written with Alistair's perspective and how vulnerable Fearghal is. Coddling and cuddling are both good sometimes. The tears made me go all gushy-awww.

[nithu]

Thank you :) Yes, they are getting closer. Close? Well, it's all relative, eh?