Chapter Text
Lothering is the same dull greens and grays and browns as Ostagar. Black smoke plumes into the air, reeds are trampled underfoot, and everything and everyone carries a faded look of wear. After days alone as a small group in the Wilds, Lothering is overwhelming, and Grace finds herself on edge. She feels like this is a place where she will need to prove herself. She can tell Morrigan, used to being alone with her mother, is just as off put by the town. It is crowded with refugees and loud with fights and pleas and general chatter. They allow Alistair, a people’s man, to lead them to the city center. Grace knows this rankles Morrigan, but the mage follows just the same.
Along the way they stop bandits, reunite lost children with their parents, break up fights between shopkeepers and patrons, and learn of the Blight from the refugees. Alistair does this all naturally, of course. Morrigan complains about their goodwill, and yet her staff is there with them, her hard glare turning conversations in their direction when Alistair’s warm smile does not do the trick.
Grace cannot seem to do more than follow along, keep her head up, and try not to trip over her own feet. It is not until they come to the Chantry that she finds any sort of confidence in her motions.
The Chantry is familiar. Safe.
They speak with the Templars there and learn that Loghain has declared the Grey Wardens traitors. It hurts more than she anticipated, hearing this. Is this the price of duty, she wonders. She did not think it possible, but the Grey Wardens seem more alone than ever. Purged of their forces and severed from their honor by the man who brought their demise upon them. It puts a yellow, curdled feeling in her stomach.
They learn that Arle Eamon is deathly ill, so much so that there are knights searching for mystical ashes to cure him. Grace can tell that this alarms Alistair. The Arle was something like family to him, Grace had surmised.
Grace does not know what to do with the information about their new status as traitors and the ailing Arle, but she does know that they should speak to the Reverend Mother. Or rather, she finds herself wanting to. When they approach, Grace asks for a blessing, though she sees the way the idea makes her companions squirm.
Grace repeats pieces of the Chant of Light with the Mother while they kneel on the heart-achingly familiar red crushed velvet carpet together. She waits for the easy comfort, the peace, the safety. She instead finds that the Reverend Mother’s words ring hollow. The room is stuffy, the ground is hard beneath her knees, and Grace is tired.
There is no peace from this blessing, and Grace wonders if there ever was.
Grace did not think that she had anything dear left to lose, but leaving the Chantry she realizes she was wrong.
Of course she was wrong.
She wouldn’t be making the same mistake again.
They receive a key from the Mother, at least. A key to more help. They discover more companions for their quest. A Qunari who had been locked up for supposedly murdering a family, his cage opened by the key Grace wielded, and, nearby, a cloistered sister, of all people.
The Qunari is blunter than even Morrigan, no nonsense, and Grace finds his demeanor immediately disarming despite Alistair’s concerns. That aside, Pup takes to him instantly, and that is proof enough of character for Grace. He calls himself Sten, and Grace can imagine how a figure of his size, strength, and stature could be a great benefit to them on the road.
The Sister, Leliana, is unlike anyone Grace has ever met. Delicate frame, features, and fingers, and yet when she reaches for Grace’s wrist to get her attention her skin is callused. She says that she dreamt of them, that she was told by the Maker to join them and help end the Blight. Grace sees the skeptical look Alistair and Morrigan share, a rare moment where their thoughts align, but Grace can’t help the flare of affinity she feels towards Leliana for her faith. The way Leliana speaks of the Maker, this dream, is staggeringly more comforting than the Reverend Mother’s blessing.
Grace wishes her own dreams were as golden, though she does not wish them to be similarly prophetic. Not with the number of Darkspawn that haunt them each night.
That night they sleep in a field and Grace is reminded of Fergus. Her family went on a rare summer holiday one year and found themselves in a similar field where they basked beneath the afternoon sun. No cold stone walls around them. Just the fresh scent of wheat and the feel of dirt beneath their fingertips.
Grace is surprised by how much this night, with Alistair and Morrigan, Sten and Lelianna, Pup curled up at her side, feels like that trip. There is hope for the day ahead, the comfort of being around those you trust.
She cannot bring herself to be confident in their chances of success yet, but there is a kernel of hope buried deep within her that she finds herself longing to nurture. Would it hurt to begin hoping for their success? Believing that there is a world in which they all survive and end the blight? It would be naïve, surely, naivety being something she had not been afforded since the attack at Highever, but maybe she has the space for that naivety now in the company she has gathered. They will give her grace, she thinks.
It takes a full hour of heated words, much back and forth as tempers wear thin and new personalities chafe, but they eventually come to a fragile consensus the next morning. They will travel to Redcliffe. They need to confirm the rumors of Arle Eamon’s sickness themselves, and discern whether he will be able to help them in the fight to come.
When they leave Lothering, Grace finds herself surprised that Sten and Leliana really do intend to travel with them, though she does not say this to them. She welcomes them by repairing the holes in their socks that night. She lets herself use colored thread and Leliana’s grin at the sight is a great reward indeed.
The road from Lothering is long, but it gives them all time to become even better acquainted, this being particularly helpful in light of their new additions. They learn to fight together, the number of Darkspawn felled by their hands steadily growing, and they learn how to handle traveling in such close proximity with people who had been strangers not that long ago. They learn how to shoulder the weight of the responsibility thrust upon them without buckling under the stress. There is not much more you can ask of a group of people under such circ*mstances, Grace thinks.
Grace warms to Leliana quickly. There is an air of mystery about the woman. There are a handful of nights where Grace is weary of this mystery, and intimidated by Leliana’s beauty, but all it takes is a conversation around the fire, a little bit of blushing from Grace as she gets used to Leliana’s crystalline blue eyes, and a conversation about the Maker for any stiltedness to dissolve between them.
It is unlike any conversation Grace has had about the Maker in her entire life.
Blasphemy, Morrigan would tut with a wry smile if Grace mentioned it to her.
It did not feel like blasphemy though, it felt like the closest thing to truth Grace had felt in a long while.
Grace was raised to fear the Maker, in a way, and to beg for His voice. They said the Maker abandoned them. They are not worthy of his attention. Born from this unworthiness and sin were the Darkspawn. Grace was also taught to fear the Fade, as that is where she would be left to wander for all of eternity should she not be good enough in the Maker’s eye. And so Grace had to be perfect. Grace had to hold the Chantry’s teachings in her heart always. The Maker was a shield from loneliness, yet always just out of her grasp, too far away to ever hope to reach. Yet still she reached and reached and reached until her knees hurt against the floor of the Chantry and her nails pressed little crescent moons into her palms.
Grace was tired of reaching.
The Maker Leliana speaks of seems to be a different being entirely. It is clear that Leliana has an impressive grasp on the teachings of the Chantry. She has the entire Chant of Light memorized, and Grace is in awe because if not from the Chantry or the Chant of Light, where could Leliana’s feelings about the Maker come from?
From the earth, says Leliana. From the song of birds and the warmth of the sun on your cheeks. The Maker is everywhere, she says. The Maker is in the laughter of a good friend, the press of a hand into your own, a smile that shows all your teeth.
Leliana’s expression is bright and unburdened as she speaks, and Grace is bitter, for a moment. Her childhood feels corrupted, the fear she had been taught having festerted for so long. Mortal guilt disguised as devotion. She does not want it to be so, but Leliana’s words feel right and just and while she listens Grace thinks that perhaps the world, and certainly not the Maker, is not so black and white as she was taught. That much she can admit, for now. It is a small concession, but one that is a heavy weight lifted from her chest, giving her more room to breathe and be.
Alistair joins Grace and Leliana most nights after they set up camp, content to sit against a log or large rock, arms braced behind his head, eyes closed against the warmth and light of the fire as Leliana regails them with folktales. Sometimes, if she had been especially stuck in her head that day and needs to feel grounded, Grace will sit close enough to him that their bodies are lined up ankle to shoulder. He will slump against her, his head landing on her shoulder one night, breath tickling her neck. There is an ease about him when they are near to each other that feels won, as though she had done something right to earn this contact from him.
Other nights Grace is the one drifting to sleep to the sound of Leliana’s stories, Alistair’s deep voice murmuring silly interjections that she cannot make sense of, but feel roll pleasantly through her bones when it is her with her head on his shoulder.
Leliana and Alistair bond over their care for Grace, in a way. It is an easy friendship that blooms between the two. For if Grace is so entranced with Leliana, then surely Alistair should be too, and vice versa.
Morrigan and Sten strike up something that nearly resembles a friendship. Grace, Alistair, and Leliana watch on amused as the two sit together some evenings if only to avoid the chatter from the others. They take bets on what the two must talk about. Gutting Alistair in his sleep, of course, says Grace. No, says Alistair, clearly they’re discussing the best way to cook an egg. Scrambled, of course. Ah, says Leliana, perhaps they are composing sonnets.
Sometimes when Grace is especially tired, tripping over her own feet on the road, Sten will pass her an extra share of hard cheese or bread. He will insist she needs her strength and he cannot rely on a woman who would be so weak in battle. She learns to not argue with this and swallows down whatever he presses into her hand. She feels stronger for this care, and for knowing him.
They are ambushed several days before they reach Redcliffe. After long days of working together as a team against all manner of horrors, it is almost easy to defend themselves against a handful of hired assassins. They take them all out until only one remains alive. He tells them he was sent by Loghain and Howe. The brief mention of Howe from the assassin’s lips has Grace at his throat, knife poised, legs straddling him in the dirt. She registers Alistair’s voice, alarmed. She is seeing red, yes, but then there is something about the assassin that makes her hesitate.
His hazel eyes remind her of Fergus.
“I swear my loyalty to you, Grey Warden, in exchange for my life,” he says at her hesitation.
“Your loyalty appears to mean very little to you,” she sneers, unaware that her face had been able to make such an expression until that moment.
His chuckle is surprisingly carefree despite their position, his throat bobbing against her dagger. She watches a thin trickle of blood bloom there, but she does not ease up, yet.
“I do not think he knew there was more than one Cousland left alive.”
Grace flounders for a moment. Fergus is alive? And how does he know who she is? But then he gestures to her family’s sword swinging at her hip, the crest on the handle. It is little more than a prop, but she had carried its weight with her since Highever. It felt like penance, in a way, the heft of it while she tried to be quick and nimble with her daggers.
“And?” She says, voice wavering.
“And I heard what Loghain did to you. I may be an assassin, but I cannot stand behind betrayal.”
“What do you know of betrayal?” She seethes.
“Enough to know that it is a rotting thing, not easily digested. Not returning implies my death and thus I am no longer bound. I will accompany you on your journey and I will help you enact your revenge, Lady Cousland.”
Grace stands and looks at him laying in the dirt, submissive to her will. It does not feel as gratifying as she would have liked. She offers him a hand.
“We shall see, but if you are to help me enact my revenge, I should at least know your name,” she says as he comes to stand.
“Zevran,” he replies with a wicked smile and Grace gets the distinct impression that she and Zevran will get along just fine.
The entire camp is weary of Zevran. There is no reason for him not to slit their throat in the night. Alternatively, there is little reason for him to do so. Grace watches him juggling daggers one evening and it reminds her of Ser Gilmore. It is enough for her to approach.
“Ah, our Lady Warden has graced me with her presence.” He bends low in an elaborate bow before plucking up her hand and brushing a dry kiss against her knuckles.
It is enough of a mockery of court life that it earns a genuine laugh from her, nearly a snort with how abruptly it spills from her body. It surprises even herself. Laughter has not been easily found, lately.
Zevran teaches her some of the Crow’s techniques with daggers, and tells her of his life. He is shockingly honest and open. It is the best thing he could have been given his circ*mstances, but something tells Grace that that is just who he is.
There is more trust to be earned between the two of them, but Grace is the first of all the camp to leave behind her weary glances at the assassin.
They continue forward.
Grace learns to handle the nightmares. She learns that instead of flailing, she needs to float through them, as though on her back in the ocean. In such a metaphor, the ocean is certainly one of blood, wicked creatures circling beneath her, the chittering of darkspawn so close to her ear that she feels nauseous. But float she does. And on the nights it becomes too much, when she can no longer keep her head above the acrid water, there is Alistair.
She wakes to his fingers brushing across her cheekbones, his whispers of comfort grounding. And then they kiss. Once. Twice. Three times, sometimes, whatever it takes to fill the void and bring warmth back to their souls.
It is never more, and they do not speak of this comfort in the daytime.
Soon, there comes a night where Grace is able to return the favor.
She snaps awake, the screech of the Archdemon ringing in her ears, and there is no Alistair to calm her. Instead she counts to ten, breathes in and out deeply, pinches the soft skin of her arm to remind herself she is awake and alive and well. As well as she can be, at least.
Alistair, only a few feet away, is still asleep. His face is pained, his breathing shallow and rapid, his hands twitching at his side, and Grace knows precisely what he’s feeling.
She shuffles over to him, lifts his head to lay in her lap, and runs her fingers through his hair, murmuring to him to wake up.
You are safe.
I am here.
It is just a dream. A Terrible dream.
When he wakes his lashes are damp with tears, but his body sags with relief when he looks up to find her hovering above him. She bends down to brush her lips against his forehead. His skin tastes of salt and woodsmoke. His hand comes up to brush against her cheek for a moment.
It is that night that he tells her about his father.
“I am a bastard.”
Grace cannot help the small quip, “Tell this to Morrigan and she would say we have known all along.”
Alistair rolls his eyes good naturedly, and his small smile makes Grace’s heart glow. She still counts those smiles as wins, though they are earned easier and easier as time passes. She is selfish with them, placing the memory of each one in a pretty tasseled beaded bag held in her heart to keep her warm.
“Yes, well, even worse, I am a royal bastard.”
Grace pales.
Alistair, seeing this, sits up beside her and clasps her hands in his. Their knees press together.
“It is of no consequence. I only thought to warn you in case Eamon, or worse, Isolde , says something,” he says, face wrinkling at the mention of Eamon’s wife.
“No consequence?” She breathes in disbelief. She does not know whether to feel frightened or angry. “King Cailan is dead, a traitor’s daughter sits on the throne.”
“And would King Maric’s bastard be any better?”
“Yes. Yes, if it is you, Alistair.”
“And now you are just trying to flatter me,” he teases, hand reaching up to brush a lock of hair behind her ears. The shake of his fingers betrays his anxiety. That is all it takes for her blossoming anger to wither. She knows Alistair must have suffered enough malice for his birth.
Grace looks at him then, really looks at him like she rarely allows herself to. She sees something royal in his nose, maybe, or perhaps in his easy charm. The slight point to his ears hints to his mother’s heritage. Grace remembers his story of being shipped off to the Templars. An excellent way to handle a bastard, many would think.
She looks at him, knowing this now, and finds that all she really sees is Alistair, same as before. Grace vows to herself that she will help him through this trip to Redcliffe in any way she can.
Grace begins to see how Alistair’s identity pains him. Each day they get closer to Redcliffe his shoulders sag a little more and he is less quick to snark at Morrigan. He stops sitting to listen to Leliana’s stories in the evening, instead wandering off with Pup for hours at a time. Each night Grace awakes with nightmares, his kisses seem to become more desperate, his fingers gripping her a little tighter for a little longer each time.
“You would make a great king, Alistair,” she tells him one night.
“I am a Grey Warden, and that is all I need,” he insists.
“And that is what Ferelden needs now. But later it will need a king.”
“Allow me now, then.” He murmurs as he presses kisses down her throat, across her collarbones and the swell of her breasts. “I do not wish to think of later.”
Her life seems to split into two paths at that moment. The path of duty, and the path of the feelings she is cultivating for the members of her party. For Alistair. These paths are parallel, for now, but Grace knows they will not always be. It is a thought that is quickly smothered when Alistair’s lips connect with hers once more.
