Prince-to-Prince: Confessions of a Deposed Bastard

theparagonofmanliness:

It was apparent this line of questioning was discomfiting to Alistair.  Varric simply nodded as he ordered a bowl of The Hanged Man’s (in)famous “stew”, studying the man intently. He had heard rumours of Loghain’s misdeeds before the Landsmeet; that he was trying to kill the (then-soon-to-be-)Hero of Ferelden, something that had nearly caused a civil war amidst the Blight.  Something had been amiss in that showdown at Ostagar: he had learned enough from Aveline and Carver, that Loghain had quit the field, leaving Cailan’s forces overwhelmed and allowing the horde to march on Lothering.

There were even whispers of darker things, that Loghain had aligned himself with unsavoury sorts in an effort to fund an army, and the war against the Darkspawn.  Varric mused quietly as Alistair seemed to struggle with his thoughts.  There were so many questions he wanted answered - so many things that would make a fine addition to his story about the Hero of Ferelden.  It would be as close as he could get to speaking with the Warden like he spoke with Hawke.  Granted, he wouldn’t be there first-hand for anything, but a storyteller always knew a good, reliable source.

Well, reliable enough, usually.

The ruckus in the main room was growing louder, but it didn’t bother the dwarf.  He nursed his ale, waiting for Nora’s return.  He should’ve asked for a bit of that “stew” himself.  He patted Bianca sadly, mourning a missed opportunity.

After a significant silence, Varric spoke.  ”You know, Alistair, legends have a way of coming undone.”  He paused, letting the words sink in.  It wasn’t as if he wanted to start a war with Loghain, per se, but there were legends, and there were legends.  The truth was often far more interesting than the romanticised rendition, though not necessarily preferable.  Case in point: Hawke.

He looked meaningfully at Alistair, smiling just a bit.  ”Sometimes, the best stories have more truth than people realise.”  The dwarf leaned back in his ‘throne’, putting his feet up on the table.  ”So why don’t you tell me what really happened?” he ventured, speaking smoothly and easily.  Varric kept his tone light: this was a conversation, not an interrogation, and he didn’t want the prince spooked.

“I already know,” he added, “that Loghain quit the field. I’ve got a buddy in the City Guard — the Captain, actually — who was at Ostagar.  The Champion — Hawke — his brother was there too.”  He took another swig of ale, chuckling softly.  ”They all met on the outskirts of Lothering, apparently, trying to escape the Horde. Quite a grand tale, that.  I won’t bog you down with the details, but Hawke tells me they met a dragon.  Someone named… what was it?  Flemeth, I think.”  Varric eyed Alistair covertly, looking for a reaction.  He already knew who Flemeth was (as far as you could know, really), and her part in the Hero of Ferelden’s tale.  He was just trying to establish some common ground… and maybe put Alistair a little off-guard.

“So what’s your side of things?” he smiled, finishing the rest of his ale and attempting to catch Nora’s eye.  It was important he keep the conversation at hand seemingly unimportant, so he acted as flippantly as he could.  ”Let’s go back a bit — ‘The beacon is lit!’ — Your turn.”

While Varric broke their silence (one that Alistair couldn’t tell between companionable and awkward, having long since lost his judgment on that matter), inviting Alistair to provide what “really” happened, the waitress returned to their table with a steaming bowl in hand. She gave him a quick terse smile when he thanked her and took the spoon she offered him before turning away back to the rest of the loud rabble in the room. Without regard for how hot it might be, Alistair dug in, shoving in spoonful after spoonful.

Varric continued, recounting a very truncated version of Ostagar. It had been a while since he heard anyone say it out loud though, and one spoonful of the dubious food went down harder than the rest. His heart felt a painful twinge at the mention of Lothering, and he was amazed he could still feel that much for a village he had no choice but to leave behind. Leliana had told him he needed to steel himself to such realities.

I find it better sometimes to just be a little weak. I’m all right with that, really.

Alistair shoved in another spoonful. It was thick, the texture of tar really, and only had the barest hint of flavor that he suspected was a spice of some kind. His younger self had been all right with being weak indeed. Weak, naive, and stupid. Not that he was any better off, but he figured he could probably cross naive off his list of qualities. Weak and stupid he probably had doubled down on, waking up in a pool of them every morning and tripping over at least one of them before falling unconscious at night.

At the mention of dragon, the current spoonful of “stew” in Alistair’s mouth felt twice as thick and once he heard Varric say “Flemeth” it felt like lead. He sat with it stuck in there, between chewing, choking and spiting, before he managed to slowly chew and send it down the hatch. As far as embarrassing it was a distant second to his earlier choking on his own ale. Obvious, probably, but at least less so than sending booze up one’s nose.

The dwarf tried to get the waitress’s attention again, and offered the former Grey Warden an opportunity to jump in. Except…

“You did say beacon, right? For a moment I thought I heard bacon.” He coughed. “Maybe it’s just the food talking.”

Should he go farther than that? What happened after was so intertwined with Flemeth and…Morrigan, ugh, that it felt like betraying some sort of secret to speak of it. As far as Alistair could remember Flemeth had never sworn them to hold their tongues about them, although it had been prudent to do so at the time. Nobody wanted to know you were traveling with an apostate or a “Witch of the Wilds.” Nobody really wanted to know you owed your life to them either. They were sneaky, powerful, and to this day Alistair couldn’t say that Flemeth was…well, good. That the Champion of Kirkwall—Hawke—had met her almost at the same time they had…It just made Alistair’s head hurt more. She had an agenda. That was all he could say and really, again, why did it matter to him? What she did wasn’t his problem.

Alistair swallowed another spoonful of stew and then took in a long breath. Maker’s balls, he had no reason to stay quiet. He’d probably yelled out half of this crap when he was pissed in this very room over the last several years. His life was no real secret, not with his half-assed attempts at disappearing. And here was someone who wanted how he’d seen it, and without rolling their eyes or clucking their tongues in disgust at his demeanor. Maybe it was worth saying it in full, just this once.

“Alright, so like you said the beacon was lit. Right after that we got a liberal sprinkling of arrows in ourselves and we died.” He put the bowl down on the table and leaned back in his chair. “You can imagine how surprised I was when I woke up. We’d been rescued and healed by Flemeth, who spent the whole time as an old lady and no time as a dragon. I guess that’s how she got us off the tower, though. Oh, and her…kind of daughter helped, but she was about as pleasant as a hailstorm. Funny how much that Flemeth gets around. Must be the wings.”

@Alistair

theparagonofmanliness:

kirkwallswag:

willworkfordrink:

Wonderful! That means I can stop the panic attack I was having.

Soooo, I have a surly elf, a renegade mage, a dwarf and some guy I’ve never met before coming with me to this party. Anyone else?

Have you asked Rivaini?

If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about…I think I might start taking bets on how long it takes until someone is scandalized. It’s very easy to make nobles uncomfortable.

Oh, and I’m Alistair. I think I said that already. Did I? I think so.

(Source: ihateyoualliwasaslave)

@Alistair

theparagonofmanliness:

willworkfordrink:

He’s not going to do that…is he?

I wouldn’t do that.

Wonderful! That means I can stop the panic attack I was having.

(Source: ihateyoualliwasaslave)

@Alistair

ihateyoualliwasaslave:

willworkfordrink:

He hasn’t run around the city yelling about my colorful stupid exploits yet. That’s pretty good compared to some people I knew.

That is because he hasn’t finished printing out several hundred copies of it for distribution.

He’s not going to do that…is he?

@Alistair

theparagonofmanliness:

ihateyoualliwasaslave:

Varric doesn’t respect anyone’s privacy. Neither does Hawke, for that matter. Or Isabela.

…

I just take an interest in my dear friends, is all!  I’m wounded, Elf.

He hasn’t run around the city yelling about my colorful stupid exploits yet. That’s pretty good compared to some people I knew.

Anyone want to crash a party with me?

kirkwallswag:

theparagonofmanliness:

willworkfordrink:

Believe me, I don’t repeat my mistakes. I just constantly find new ones to make.

Don’t worry about it, Alistair. Bianca’ll set you straight soon enough.

Anyway, what’s this party? Is this one of your fancy-shmancy parties in Hightown, Hawke? 

What else? You’d think these nobles would have something better to do than get dressed in the stiffest finery and throw the most awkward and boring parties.

You’re coming by the way, Varric.

So it’s one of those stinky-cheese parties? They always sounded really boring when I was a kid but I’m telling you the cheese scraps I got afterward were fantastic.

Anyone want to crash a party with me?

theparagonofmanliness:

willworkfordrink:

I’m sure Varric just hasn’t mentioned me because he values my privacy. And that most conversations don’t end up being mentioning me. Thankfully.

*cough* Sorry, Bianca. I mean…um…special? Shiny? Singular? Please let me know if I’ve stuck my foot far enough in my mouth yet.

Bianca doesn’t mind shiny.  And she forgives you. Everybody gets one.

Believe me, I don’t repeat my mistakes. I just constantly find new ones to make.

(Source: kirkwallswag)