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peopleofthedas2011-11-21 07:09 pm
lenticularstudy) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-11-21 07:09 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Smile (K)
Well, I'm still very new here, so here's a first attempt at posting a fic. Hope you enjoy! Any opinions appreciated.
Title: Smile
Characters: Alistair, Urthemiel
Rating: K
Summary: At Vigil's Keep, fifteen years after the Blight, Alistair receives a mysterious and surprisingly young visitor...
A/N - Canon: Assumes that "the Hero's disappearance" of DA2 has been resolved.
Title: Smile
Characters: Alistair, Urthemiel
Rating: K
Summary: At Vigil's Keep, fifteen years after the Blight, Alistair receives a mysterious and surprisingly young visitor...
A/N - Canon: Assumes that "the Hero's disappearance" of DA2 has been resolved.
Smile
Vigil's Keep, fifteen years post-Blight
Vigil's Keep, fifteen years post-Blight
He looks up at the knock on the door to his office, swiftly removing his feet from the desk just before the door creaks open and a Warden sticks her head cautiously in.
He hasn't had a moment of rest today, and he reflects that it's utterly unfair that he feels so old, and so tired, when he hasn't even hit forty yet; Grey Wardens aren't allowed desk jobs, however. For a moment, his mind is on Duncan again, older than he is now and yet fighting to the end.
He shakes his head slightly to clear it of memories, and looks at the young, fresh-faced and very nervous recruit, who clears her throat before saying, "Someone to see you, ser."
He stifles a sigh at the honorific - even after these years, a small part of him is still the junior Warden, out there with his brothers and sisters and ignoring the politics of it all. "Not the Commander?"
She shakes her head. "Asked for you specifically, ser."
Him, the second-in-command? He nods. "Right. Show them in, if you would."
A swift, respectful nod, and she ducks out of the door.
He wonders why a Chasind would want to see him - for his visitor almost certainly is; she's wearing that folded cloth that Morrigan (his mind winces at the name and the memories it brings) always seemed so keen on, only far more modest, covering everything below the neck, and in white. He's surprised to see a simple, serviceable pair of leather breeches and boots below it. Wavy, off-blonde hair falls down her back.
She's staring at the floor, appears to be shivering slightly, and he frowns - it's hardly surprising, her odd robe leaving her slightly freckled arms bare. Then she looks up, and his heart nearly stops in his chest.
Her eyes - they're Morrigan's, those narrow, golden hunter's orbs.
She can be no older than fifteen, he realises, seeing the features still stamped with traces of childhood, and, recalling the dates, bitterly acknowledges that that makes sense. She makes no move to speak, simply staring at him, and eventually he stands, the scrape of his chair the only thing that breaks the silence. He doesn't miss the two shuffled steps backward she takes, and the realisation is sharp and cold in his stomach: she isn't shaking from the temperature. She's terrified of him, almost as scared as he is of her.
He approaches her slowly, palms up in surrender, and sees her back hit the door with a sharp thud; she seems to have lost what made her come here. He stops a couple of feet from her, hoping not to frighten her. He swallows, mouth dry, those golden eyes still shining in the firelight as they watch him warily, and finally manages to coax words from his mouth. "Are you...?" His voice fails him, and he simply stares at her, recognising the narrow nose and the graceful neck; she has plenty of her mother in her, his influence almost invisible except for the hair, and he's relieved. He clears his throat, tries again. "Would you like to sit down?"
She nods, seeming to release a breath, and, on still shaking legs, makes her way to the chair at the other side of his desk.
He makes his way to his own chair, and waits for her to say something, anything.
There's a moment before she says quietly, "I think... I think you're my father." Her voice is higher than her mother's, still young, but he recognises the familiar inflections.
He laughs harshly and nervously, a habit that's never worn off, and sees the surprise cross her face. "Well, that's odd, because so do I."
"Mother didn't want me to come." She looks away. "She wouldn't tell me who you were."
Well, that makes sense, he thinks sourly. "So... why are you here?"
She stares at her clasped hands that twist in her lap, chewing on her lip. "She told me accidentally, during an argument, called you... things unworthy of repeating."
He can't help his involuntary wince.
"'Twas... unpleasant. She said that if I was so determined to find you, I could myself. And I ran, and I... I did." Even with her mother's arcane speech, there's something painfully familiar in the way she seems to stumble over her words; without thinking, he finds himself wordlessly sliding his untouched mug of tea across the desk. She eyes it for a moment in silence, and then, seeming to have decided that it won't jump up and bite her, takes the handle. Something seems to change in her face, and she finally looks at him, a long look, as if to make sure he's real. "I'd been to a few villages, heard the tales..." A smile grows on her face, her eyes sparkling, and he fights his shock; he knows it so well, that wide, ever-so-slightly awkward grin. It's utterly and totally his. "My father, the Grey Warden, a hero of the Fifth Blight."
He'd expected anger, rejection, a wrathful Old God... anything but this strange young creature with her mother's eyes and his smile, looking up at him in what he can only call awe. "I wouldn't believe everything you hear," he replies, trying to keep the shake out of his voice. "I wasn't exactly heroic. Just... in the wrong place, at the wrong time, I suppose. Look, are you... Urthemiel?"
She shakes her head. "I have his soul, but my mind is my own." It certainly is, he thinks, as he catches the swift, speculative glance she throws at the cheese platter on his desk.
"I see," he says cautiously, because he really doesn't, and he still doesn't really understand why she's here. "But... why here? Why now?"
"I... wanted to see for myself what was true. Just once." She looks back at the door, and there is fear in her eyes. "I must go. I will need to find Mother again, and..."
"On your own?" He suddenly finds himself concerned, and it hits him: this is his daughter too, no matter who her mother is, and this may be the only chance to see her he has, and the thought of her walking out onto the cold streets of Amaranthine and just disappearing hurts.
It's smaller now, but she gives him that smile again as she stands. "I have made it here on my own. It shan't be that hard to return."
He stands with her. "You could stay, if you need to. We could find something. I don't know..."
She shakes her head, and there's a moment of silence before she tentatively steps forward and hugs him - it's awkward, as if she's unused to it, and he gingerly pats her on the back before she steps away. "Thank you," she murmurs.
Something occurs to him. "You never said your name."
Another shake of her fair head, the small, sad smile still there. "It isn't important."
She opens the door, and he calls after her, "Will I see you again?"
"I... cannot say. Goodbye, Father."
His heart clenches at the unfamiliar word, and he walks to the door, opening it, needing to see her one more time; there is no girl in the corridor, however, and he's wondering whether he imagined it when he spots the dove, flying through one of the Keep's many windows.
He stands there until she fades from sight, then walks out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. One of the recruits looks at him questioningly. He gives him a smile, refusing to allow it to shake, and walks as calmly as he can down the corridor, towards the training ground and the woman the others think of as the Warden Commander.
He hasn't had a moment of rest today, and he reflects that it's utterly unfair that he feels so old, and so tired, when he hasn't even hit forty yet; Grey Wardens aren't allowed desk jobs, however. For a moment, his mind is on Duncan again, older than he is now and yet fighting to the end.
He shakes his head slightly to clear it of memories, and looks at the young, fresh-faced and very nervous recruit, who clears her throat before saying, "Someone to see you, ser."
He stifles a sigh at the honorific - even after these years, a small part of him is still the junior Warden, out there with his brothers and sisters and ignoring the politics of it all. "Not the Commander?"
She shakes her head. "Asked for you specifically, ser."
Him, the second-in-command? He nods. "Right. Show them in, if you would."
A swift, respectful nod, and she ducks out of the door.
He wonders why a Chasind would want to see him - for his visitor almost certainly is; she's wearing that folded cloth that Morrigan (his mind winces at the name and the memories it brings) always seemed so keen on, only far more modest, covering everything below the neck, and in white. He's surprised to see a simple, serviceable pair of leather breeches and boots below it. Wavy, off-blonde hair falls down her back.
She's staring at the floor, appears to be shivering slightly, and he frowns - it's hardly surprising, her odd robe leaving her slightly freckled arms bare. Then she looks up, and his heart nearly stops in his chest.
Her eyes - they're Morrigan's, those narrow, golden hunter's orbs.
She can be no older than fifteen, he realises, seeing the features still stamped with traces of childhood, and, recalling the dates, bitterly acknowledges that that makes sense. She makes no move to speak, simply staring at him, and eventually he stands, the scrape of his chair the only thing that breaks the silence. He doesn't miss the two shuffled steps backward she takes, and the realisation is sharp and cold in his stomach: she isn't shaking from the temperature. She's terrified of him, almost as scared as he is of her.
He approaches her slowly, palms up in surrender, and sees her back hit the door with a sharp thud; she seems to have lost what made her come here. He stops a couple of feet from her, hoping not to frighten her. He swallows, mouth dry, those golden eyes still shining in the firelight as they watch him warily, and finally manages to coax words from his mouth. "Are you...?" His voice fails him, and he simply stares at her, recognising the narrow nose and the graceful neck; she has plenty of her mother in her, his influence almost invisible except for the hair, and he's relieved. He clears his throat, tries again. "Would you like to sit down?"
She nods, seeming to release a breath, and, on still shaking legs, makes her way to the chair at the other side of his desk.
He makes his way to his own chair, and waits for her to say something, anything.
There's a moment before she says quietly, "I think... I think you're my father." Her voice is higher than her mother's, still young, but he recognises the familiar inflections.
He laughs harshly and nervously, a habit that's never worn off, and sees the surprise cross her face. "Well, that's odd, because so do I."
"Mother didn't want me to come." She looks away. "She wouldn't tell me who you were."
Well, that makes sense, he thinks sourly. "So... why are you here?"
She stares at her clasped hands that twist in her lap, chewing on her lip. "She told me accidentally, during an argument, called you... things unworthy of repeating."
He can't help his involuntary wince.
"'Twas... unpleasant. She said that if I was so determined to find you, I could myself. And I ran, and I... I did." Even with her mother's arcane speech, there's something painfully familiar in the way she seems to stumble over her words; without thinking, he finds himself wordlessly sliding his untouched mug of tea across the desk. She eyes it for a moment in silence, and then, seeming to have decided that it won't jump up and bite her, takes the handle. Something seems to change in her face, and she finally looks at him, a long look, as if to make sure he's real. "I'd been to a few villages, heard the tales..." A smile grows on her face, her eyes sparkling, and he fights his shock; he knows it so well, that wide, ever-so-slightly awkward grin. It's utterly and totally his. "My father, the Grey Warden, a hero of the Fifth Blight."
He'd expected anger, rejection, a wrathful Old God... anything but this strange young creature with her mother's eyes and his smile, looking up at him in what he can only call awe. "I wouldn't believe everything you hear," he replies, trying to keep the shake out of his voice. "I wasn't exactly heroic. Just... in the wrong place, at the wrong time, I suppose. Look, are you... Urthemiel?"
She shakes her head. "I have his soul, but my mind is my own." It certainly is, he thinks, as he catches the swift, speculative glance she throws at the cheese platter on his desk.
"I see," he says cautiously, because he really doesn't, and he still doesn't really understand why she's here. "But... why here? Why now?"
"I... wanted to see for myself what was true. Just once." She looks back at the door, and there is fear in her eyes. "I must go. I will need to find Mother again, and..."
"On your own?" He suddenly finds himself concerned, and it hits him: this is his daughter too, no matter who her mother is, and this may be the only chance to see her he has, and the thought of her walking out onto the cold streets of Amaranthine and just disappearing hurts.
It's smaller now, but she gives him that smile again as she stands. "I have made it here on my own. It shan't be that hard to return."
He stands with her. "You could stay, if you need to. We could find something. I don't know..."
She shakes her head, and there's a moment of silence before she tentatively steps forward and hugs him - it's awkward, as if she's unused to it, and he gingerly pats her on the back before she steps away. "Thank you," she murmurs.
Something occurs to him. "You never said your name."
Another shake of her fair head, the small, sad smile still there. "It isn't important."
She opens the door, and he calls after her, "Will I see you again?"
"I... cannot say. Goodbye, Father."
His heart clenches at the unfamiliar word, and he walks to the door, opening it, needing to see her one more time; there is no girl in the corridor, however, and he's wondering whether he imagined it when he spots the dove, flying through one of the Keep's many windows.
He stands there until she fades from sight, then walks out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. One of the recruits looks at him questioningly. He gives him a smile, refusing to allow it to shake, and walks as calmly as he can down the corridor, towards the training ground and the woman the others think of as the Warden Commander.
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