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In good times and in bad	By : kruemel Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 14749 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Dragon Age and the characters of the game do not belong to me. This is a no profit fanfiction

Chapter List
- 48
- 49
- 50
There's FAN ART for this story! *bounces around giddily* Notevensorry's drawing of Rori during her first night with Alistair: http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/image/110669927343
https://40.media.tumblr.com/3527e4b618e88fc60356f58e8b340586/tumblr_nkjlnvsVTN1u5oyqao1_540.jpg
Check Notevensorry's tumbir and tell the girl how awesome she is, will you? ;) http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/
And here you can find fanart by awesome Erusel: http://onehundred-fandoms.tumblr.com/post/110527524711/sketch-dump-ive-been-reading-such-a-wonderful
Take a look and tell her (?) how fabulous she is.
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@Andrea:Thank you so much for your review. I am glad I managed to make Rori come alive for you like she is for me. She filled in all the gaps while playing Origins for me - and keeps ranting all through DA2 and Inquisition, influencing the choices I make. Alistair and she have a lot more adventures ahead and I hope I can make it as enjoyable to read as you have found it until now.
Anyway, this chapter is smut. And smut. And Awkwardness. Plot? What plot?
Chapter 49
The next morning I butt heads with Rori.
I want to tuck her into bed, feed her with chicken soup, cuddle her or read a book to her... Well, you get the impression.
She wants to kill darkspawn.
"We will not lose this battle just because you stay in bed for one day when you're feeling miserable!" I snap, arms crossed in front of my chest, challenging her to dare and get out of bed. But of course that's just exactly what she does.
"Alistair, we cannot just drop everything we're doing every time I don't feel well! The archdemon won't be so kind to wait for me not to be indisposed," she retorts, her last words sounding quite pressed when she cringes in pain, clutching her stomach. "I'm alright. Everything's okay. This will go away..."
Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, kitten! I'm far from being an expert, but she looks anything but alright.
"Andraste's flaming sword, Rori, do I have to tie you to the bedposts to make you stay in bed?" I snarl, snatching her boots from her when she reaches for them. First she glares piercingly at me, then her eyes grow wide and round, darkening at my suggestion. She chews at her lower lip as she regards me in a way that is completely wicked. Then she cramps again and the moment is gone.
"Oh fuck," she breathes but scrambles after me anyway to retreat her boots. I just won't give them to her. "Fine," she huffs and just marches out of the room barefooted. She's already on horseback when I catch up with her.
For the next few hours - during which she completely refuses to speak with me - I watch her cringe, wince and bend over in her saddle, listen to her curse and whimper, witness her disappear in the bushes every half an hour, see her shiver and growing visibly paler while her eyes turn hazy. She looks as if she's about to faint any time soon. That's when I've had about enough and call for a halt.
"We set up camp here and now," I declare. Rori opens her mouth to protest, but I just drag her off her horse, hurl her over my shoulder - which makes her squeak - and literally drop her at Wynne's feet. "Take a look at her. She's not feeling well." Rori inhales deeply, clearly to start ranting, but I just glare at her in a way that makes her shut up before she even got started.
"Who are you, and what did you do with my sweet, charming Alistair?" she sulks.
From the very beginning when I first saw her, I felt the urge to protect her. Nothing has changed about that. Actually, that need becomes stronger with every day we spend together. In battle I am at her side to aid her and take any blow before it can get through to her. And now it seems, I have to protect her from her own stubbornness. She can snap and hiss and snarl all she wants, I won't let her risk her health, just because she believes she has to pretend to be strong when she is not.
I just leave her with Wynne. Two minutes later the granny mage is scolding my beloved fellow Warden loud enough for the whole camp to hear. Afterwards we are stranded in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain for the whole next day. Wynne is obviously scarier than I am.
Despite Rori claiming she is fine, she is not. Wynne says her whole inner balance got disturbed by something - probably the Joining, but we just cannot tell Wynne about that. I have no idea what the old lady means but it seems to be about Rori's painful cramps and a far too heavy bloodloss. I don't really ask for details and thankfully nobody has the desire to give them to me... Well, Wynne does, but I just hurriedly excuse myself, convince Leliana to lend me the novel of some upcoming dwarven author and huddle in the tent with my pouting girl. Her mood brightens visibly when she's snuggled to me and I read to her.
She could have had all this in the comfortable, cozy and warm suite at the Spoiled Princess, but no! Her Stubbornness just wouldn't listen! So now she has to deal with a soaked tent reeking of wet dog and filthy socks. I give her credit, she doesn't complain. For a stuck-up noble brat she's been doing damn well at coping with the lack of luxury. What Rori does complain about is the potions Wynne mixes for her. Rori has to drink one every hour, which makes for a whole lot of more head-butting with her as she always squeezes her mouth shut to a thin line, claiming she already feels much better.
"Alistair, what's this?" Wynne asks accusingly, when I show up to fetch another of Rori's potions. She holds up a filthy piece of wool, clenched between the fingertips of her index finger and thumb. If she had pincers, she'd not touch it at all.
"It's a sock?" I observe after thoroughly examining it. It looks oddly familiar.
"It's a filthy sock," Wynne corrects me. "How did it find its way to my bedroll?"
"Maybe it likes you? Socks are sneaky like that," I offer. With all the tales she keeps telling when she's tipsy about her former lovers and so on, that sock could belong to anybody! Not that I want to imagine anything like that. Or listen to her when she tells those tales. It's most embarrassing - especially when Zevran is drunk, too. I don't understand half the things they talk about. "Anyway, it's not mine."
"It has your name stitched on it," she points out, glaring at me as she turns the sock for me to read the letters.
Blast! "Oh. Ha, ha. Ha. Part of templar training, back at the Chantry. The men were... always getting their socks mixed up." And their handkerchiefs. Their smallclothes. Their shirts. I got my name stiched on almost all my clothes. It took me ages to do so. Every time I stiched my name on another cloth I so wished my name was Ron or Ben or Joe or anything else blissfully short. There was a templar named Ed in my garrison. Everybody envied him! Try to stich 'Alistair' on a sock. You'll get what I mean. "Anyway, uh, sorry about that." I grin sheepishly at her, shrugging apologetically while I wonder how in the name of the Maker my sock got to end up in Wynne's bedroll. I blame Barkley. That dog keeps dragging my things around. "I'll take it from you right now." I hurry to retrieve the sock form her as Wynne pointedly glares daggers at me while waving it in front of my nose. "One of my socks is feeling a little damp anyway. A change would be nice." It's raining buckets and I've been wading through puddles to get here to fetch Rori's medicine.
I hop on one foot, pulling at my boot, when Wynne's shocked expression stops me for the moment.
"You're going to put it on?" she exclaims, truly horrified. "It's filthy!"
"And dry," I point out. I can neither see it's filthy nor smell it as long as I keep my boots on. So who cares if it's not entirely clean? "We're not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury here."
Wynne shakes her head in disgust."What hideous habits you've picked up."
"Do you have Rori's potion ready?" I ask, ignoring her grimace when I pull the damp sock of my foot and replace it by the filthy one. Not that the damp sock is any less filthy. I dare say it's actually filthier which makes the one I only just retrieved even more an improvement.
Wynne wordlessly hands the cup to me. "How she endures your smelly socks is compeltely beyond me."
"The dog sleeps in our tent," I remind her. "Best way to fight an awful stench is to overlay it with something smelling even worse."
"Ewww, her dog is filthy, I can smell him fifty yards off!" Wynne shudders. "I have to ask her if I can bathe him."
"If you do so, could you wash my socks, too? Hey! ... don't hit me! I'm off... now."
Three days later we finally arrive at the gates of Orzammar. Rori is riding with me, sitting in the saddle in front of me like a child - the only way Wynne allows her to ride because she is afraid Rori could fall off her horse. Wynne's healing has helped her but the mage says her body has to get used to yet another change and it will take some time for her to get adjusted.
"Look at all those people hawking their wares! It's almost like a little city," Leliana remarks as we ride up the slope at the Frostback Mountains.
"Oh, my. I didn't expect it to be this crowded," Wynne agrees. "Not that time of the year."
"And still it's far less than last time we stopped by," Rori observes, pointing out the abandoned stalls and merchants leaving.
This cannot all be about the first snowfall. We heard some rumours about Orzammar being closed down on our way but we didn't really expect it to be completely cut off the surface.
"Most traders aren't allowed into Orzammar, so they just sort of... gather near the doors," I explain. "There's no laws up here at all, I'm told."
"Now, it seems, there's nobody allowed in," Rori says gloomily, leaning her head against my chest. "That's not good. Do you think the dwarves at least will come out if we ask nicely? I don't necessarily have to go underground as long as they send an army to the surface."
We lead our horses to an inn with several stables, a place where merchants can leave their mounts and carts when entering the dwarven city. Now there's enough space for a group three times as big as ours and the dwarven innkeeper is more than delighted to welcome us and our coin.
On entering the inn, Rori gets shoved aside so hard by a fumingly angry dwarf on his way out that she tumbles backwards and comes to land in the lap of yet another dwarf, sitting comfortably in an armchair.
"Bartrand tosses a lot of things at me... they are seldomly as lovely as you are," the dwarf remarks with a pleasantly deep chuckle when Rori scrambles off him, blushing a deep crimson as she apologizes over and over again. I always thought all dwarves wear beards - well, not Sandal, but he's a kid - but this one doesn't. He has his sandy hair pulled back in a ponytail and wears a shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, showing off a great amount of chest hair. "Oh, don't be sorry. If anybody should be, it's Bartrand. I for sure am not. I've not had many better things just falling into my lap." Now even Rori's ears are a brighter shade of pink.
I sneak my arm around her waist possessively, causing the dwarf to chuckle with undisguised amusement.
"Why was he so angry?" Rori asks when the dwarf invites us to take a seat and have a drink with him.
"My brother is angry most of the time and even he doesn't know why. I wouldn't waste any thought on him if I were you. But if you have to know: Orzammar is closed. The king died and they can't decide on a new one. That's bad for business. Bartrand came all the way from Kirkwall for a deal and now it's not happening. Sucks to be him." Raising a hand, the dwarf motions to the waitress for more drinks to be served. "Varric Tethras, rogue, storyteller and, occasionally, unwelcome tagalong." He holds out a hand for us to shake.
"Rori Cousland, Grey Warden, stuck-up noble brat and, most of the time, major pain in the neck."
"Alistair, Grey Warden, almost-templar and, occasionally, deliverer of witty-one liners and bad news."
"Fereldan Grey Wardens, huh? Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"We hardly ever do, what we are supposed to do," Rori replies sweetly, sipping her wine.
"Ha!" Varric laughs, his eyes glinting with mischief. "So, it is said you got a Blight taking place. What do you intend to do about it?"
"End it of course," Rori says matter-of-factly and with her very own determined stubbornness.
"Now, I get the feeling you have a grand tale to tell," Varric chuckles, leaning back in his armchair with his fingeres steepled in front of his chest. "Mind if you fill me in on your adventures so far?"
"Mind if you refill our glasses before?"
- 48
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- 50
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In good times and in bad