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Shades of Grey	By : myghinmin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3773 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Title: Shades of Grey
Story Rating: M (mature). NSFW (not safe for work) due to sexual content in chapters five, seven, and eight, and for torture in chapters eleven and twelve.
Chapter Rating: T (teen).
Chapter Warnings: None.
Word Count: 2425 words.
PC: Fem!Amell Warden, deceased.
Pairing: Zevran/Alistair.
Spoilers: End-game spoilers. Set post game.
Summary: She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.
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[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]
The moment of triumph came the first time they stepped into Denerim. Their group split up, and when it was all over and done with, only the assassin, the templar, and the mage were standing together. The three of them exchanged looks, and she tossed her head, brushing her hair back as she strode into the marketplace. Both men followed her, well aware that they were at her mercy when it came to decisions.
Except that Alistair stopped in front a house. Children were playing in front of it, and he couldn't help himself. He knew the house, the location at least. He knew who lived there. Sweat beaded up; his hands were clammy. She noticed. Of course she noticed. She saw everything that went on with those who traveled at her side. The Antivan noticed as well, although he didn't say a word. She cast him a glance, and he slipped away, giving them some semblance of privacy.
She was with him as they confronted his sister, as he reached out, only to have his hand slapped, his charity thrown back in his face. She watched him at his most humiliated, and when he couldn't stop the tears from spilling over, she was the one who reached up, who wiped them away. She was the one who held him, and whispered quietly to him that it would all be okay.
It marked the first night since Redcliffe that Zevran was not asked to join her.
[[ ... Chapter 6 ..... ]]
He was frowning, kneeling in the courtyard as he studied the footprints left in the dirt. It was easy enough to read, since it was clearly swept each morning. The only tracks there had been left within the past few hours. He reached out, one of his fingers lightly touching the outer edge of a particularly deep print. Then he sighed and stood back up, his eyes cutting over to the sword and dagger laying close to a tunic.
It didn't look like a struggle; it looked like a sparring match had taken place. He glanced back down, trying to figure out what exactly had interrupted the two. There was no blood, so it hadn't been a wound. Yet, clearly, one of them had felt the other incapable of walking, because only one set of prints led back into the keep.
He was still frowning when the doors opened, and a blond stepped out. Alistair was still shirtless, his tunic being in a wad near the blades, and he had clearly been exerting some kind of energy; sweat still clung to him. They both grinned at each other and clasped arms, a warrior's greeting, although everyone knew it was only for show.
Bann Teagan Guerrin was no warrior.
"Alistair," he said, breaking the silence first. It was only fair. He had not warned anyone of this trip, after all; it would hardly be sporting to expect the full treatment a guest would get. "How have you fared these past weeks?" It wasn't the right thing to say; he saw that immediately. Alistair seemed to simply shut down, the grin fading, the light in his eyes darkening. The rumors were true then.
"As well as can be expected, I suppose," the blond said softly, looking past Teagan toward the two men he had brought with him. It had been at Eamon's insistence. No one wanted Rainesfere, a tiny province of Redcliffe squeezed between the Frostback Mountains and Lake Calenhad.
There was silence, and then Teagan slapped Alistair's upper arm playfully before motioning his men into the keep. "No point in standing around out here. Let's go in and find somewhere to settle down for the evening." He didn't wait for Alistair's invitation, because he knew that it would never even occur to the younger man that he was supposed to be the one to extend it. He was still not really aware that he was the Warden of Ferelden. When someone said Grey Warden, it was Alistair they thought of, not Amell.
By the time they were settled in for the night, Alistair had left them, offering to give them some time to clean up. There were plenty of rooms open; clearly, the keep could house many wardens, because this didn't even include the barracks for the recruits. They had passed those on the way in. Teagan lifted a hand to touch the stone walls lightly, studying them. It made him think of Redcliffe, although he wasn't certain it was that it actually reminded him of Redcliffe, or that he simply compared all castles to Redcliffe.
By the time that they had each hauled up enough water for their own baths, Teagan realized that he was starving. He wasn't about to wait around for Alistair to find him and offer anything either. He headed down the stairs, leaving his men in the rooms to finish whatever they were doing. He didn't care. He had come here on a job, and he wasn't leaving until he was sure he'd managed it. Those men would be leaving on the morrow in any case; there was no point in trying to keep up with them right then.
He found the kitchen easily enough, and his brow furrowed as he realized that there was no one there. No one at all. He frowned again. It seemed that most of this trip was going to be frowning. Then again, where princes were concerned, wasn't frowning normally the best course of action? Eamon had certainly employed it often enough to get results. He had almost managed to get a king out of carefully positioned expressions of disappointment.
"Alistair will not hire servants yet," a voice called from the doorway, and Teagan quickly turned, his eyes raking over the lithe form. "He says that they are unnecessary with our numbers being so few." A sardonic grin was on that elvish face. It was the Crow, the one that she had picked up; the one that Alistair had grated against every chance he got. He couldn't remember the name that went with that particular grin. "I think that it would be lovely to get a proper meal once in a while. Alistair's lamb is enough to make anyone beg for something else though."
"Is it now?" Teagan smiled, trying to picture Alistair cooking. To be honest, he didn't really know much about the man that he had become. The last time they'd seen one another was Recliffe, and before that, he'd only seen Alistair, covered in mud, while he tried to explain to Eamon that he had not been fighting, but instead fell. For all the child's good-natured smiles, he'd not really gotten along with any other children in the castle. It had manifested a number of ways, from fights to getting locked in cages for an entire day.
"Oh, it truly is awful." The serious expression is what did him in, Teagan decided, unable to stop the laugh that escaped him. The elf was nodding just slightly, as though his words were Maker-inspired, infallible.
"What is, Zev?" The voice that interrupted them was cold, and for a moment, the Bann didn't recognize it. When he turned and saw Alistair there, he felt strange, as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. That disapproving glare was Eamon's own, and Teagan found it just a little disconcerting how easily it seemed to come to the younger man.
"What you call your cooking." Zev seemed highly amused at Alistair's timing, and Teagan quickly averted his face so that the almost-Templar couldn't see the smile on his features. The last thing he needed was Alistair getting defensive on him, much better to let him be defensive against the elf and look to Teagan for support.
Alistair sputtered for a moment, and then he scowled and muttered, "There's nothing wrong with my cooking. It's just simple." He didn't wait for Zevran's response; instead, he looked over at the Bann instead. "What are you doing here, Teagan?" he asked, his gaze suspicious. It hadn't been that way before the Blight, but then again, none of them had survived the Blight intact. Everyone had lost something.
Teagan sighed faintly, knowing that he couldn't put it off forever. "There's been trouble, Alistair. I don't know how much you've heard, but a great many of the Banns are concerned that you are unfit to lead the Wardens. No one has heard directly from you since the Blight. The only reason no one is here to take you down is the overwhelming support from Eamon and the Cousland youth. Fergus, I think it is?"
A slow nod let him know the blond was listening, in spite of a distracted expression. Zevran, however, was the one leaning closer, his dark eyes concerned. "Could they actually do anything? Alistair is a Warden; there is no changing that."
"That's true; however, they could request a new head Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress. It would take a few months, but it is an option. One that several Banns are beginning to support." Teagan leaned back as he spoke, stopping only once his hip had settled firmly against a counter top.
"You couldn't just write this? You had to come all the way out here to tell me in person?" There was no attempt to hide the disbelief, neither in his voice nor on his face. "Tell me Teagan... why are you here? You could have just sent someone if you wanted."
A bland smile crossed his face, and the Bann lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Eamon," he said simply, and a knowing look crossed Alistair's face. "He's still not pleased that you're here instead of in Denerim, but he's not about to let anyone overthrow you here." He crossed his arms, studying the two men in front of him curiously. Of all of the Warden's companions, he'd never expected the elf to be the one to stay. There was something going on here that he didn't know, and judging from their exchange of looks, something significant.
"You make it sound like I'm ruling here. It's not like that--"
"It's exactly like that, Alistair. I've told you before, kings make for excellent business. Even almost kings." Then Zevran was moving, checking the coals in the fireplace. If they were going to eat, someone was going to have to cook.
"It was never anywhere close to that. We supported Anora the whole way through. She knew I didn't want to be king. Eamon knew that as well." The glare was turned back onto Teagan, who simply decided it was in his best interest to attempt to find something that could be fixed into a passable meal. There had to be meat and potatoes in this kitchen somewhere, no Ferelden kitchen would be without those two staples.
"He did. He honestly expected you to bow to him in his demand that you claim the throne though." Potatoes were discovered, and Teagan tossed them, one at a time, to Alistair. The blond didn't even argue, just scowled again before he found a knife to peel them with. "I think you would have, too, had it not been for--" He caught the warning look from Zevran and hesitated. The name hung, unspoken in the air. It shimmered and twisted, almost begging to be acknowledged.
All three of them remained silent.
Teagan glanced over. Zevran had found meat somewhere, and he was already slicing it. There was no telling how or where the meat was kept, but when Teagan took a piece to help cut, he realized that it was cold, almost frozen. The Antivan must have seen his confusion, because he offered a little grin. "There's an enchanted room just over there. It keeps things cold. Wardens are useful in many ways, it would seem."
"It would seem so," Teagan agreed, and the three of them fell silent as they worked. Finally, they got dinner into a pot over the fire, and the Bann took up the task of watching it. Alistair had an iron stomach and wouldn't think twice about over cooking, or even burning their dinner. "How many Wardens do you have, Alistair?" He shot another look toward the two men. Zevran looked at ease, feet propped up on the table, while Alistair kept giving him dirty looks that the elf was pointedly ignoring.
"Six," the Antivan replied when it became clear that Alistair was more concerned about his feet being on the table. "All from Denerim."
"I thought Anora sent twenty five men with you." A shrug greeted his words, and Teagan frowned. "Out of the twenty five, only six were suitable?"
"Only six became Wardens," Zevran corrected smoothly. "The others were... not as determined." Another significant look between the two, and Teagan could feel his control slipping. There was more going on here than anyone had known. More than anyone had even guessed.
"Where are these six?"
"Out. We've had requests for some assistance with a few Darkspawn bands in the south. The Orlesian Wardens are with them."
Teagan narrowed his eyes at Alistair, who had apparently given up trying to get Zevran to move. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, looking at the table. "Alistair," he began carefully, "how many did Duncan have before Ostagar?"
Another moment of silence, and then the former prince murmured, "About two dozen."
Conversation died then, as Teagan's two men, Colban and Dubne, apparently discovered the kitchen. If they were surprised to see their Bann sitting at the fire, stirring a pot, they didn't show it. They were good men, and now that Teagan had seen how much work he had ahead of him, he knew he couldn't ask them to stay the whole time. He would send them home; both of them had wives, and they had accompanied him from Redcliffe to Denerim before this excursion to the Wardens' Keep.
Dinner was simple-- a hash made from potatoes, meat, and onion-- but it was filling, which was all that mattered. To Teagan and his men, it was wonderful, as the first meal after being on the road always was. By the time they were all done, the visitors excused themselves. His men headed out to survey the keep, and Teagan sat down at the desk in his room. He quickly penned a letter. He would send Colban and Dubne out on the morrow to deliver it to Eamon; it was full of notes and requests. If they were going to get Alistair fit to lead the Wardens, they were going to need help.
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Shades of Grey