Fic: Into the Wilds (2/7)
Title: Into the Wilds (2/7)
Summary: AU - Ser Alistair, Templar of the Circle Tower, is sent into the Korcari Wilds on a search for Chasind apostates. What he finds is not what he expects.
Pairing: Alistair/Morrigan
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 1500
Warnings: Violence, rape (in part 6)
Author's note: Many thanks to drakontion for the beta.
Alistair awoke tasting the susurrus of butterflies with a hint of raw marrow and bone meal.
"Gurgh," he announced to the tree in front of him. All at once every muscle in his body railed at his return to consciousness, his stomach attempted to switch places with his throat, and his brain decided to force an escape through his eyeballs, and failing that, pounded away at its imprisoning skull. Alistair tried to stand, but the ground, in cahoots with the rest of his mutinous body, upended him with a sudden twist and tilt. He nearly fell on top of the fitfully sleeping Rood.
He tried to speak again once he had managed to get everything but his rampaging headache back in order. Another croak emerged, and then he remembered that he hadn't drunk anything since before the massacre. Time to find some running water.
But first he checked on Rood, who…really didn't look good. At all. He did seem rather peaky earlier, but surely shock from loss of blood and water shouldn't look like this. The injured man was muttering and trembling, whether from cold or illness Alistair couldn't tell. Where Rood's face wasn't deathly pale, ugly browns and purples mottled his skin, and one large black patch glistened luridly. Alistair touched a hand to Rood's forehead and snatched it back in alarm. Maker, he was burning! And so clammy and yielding, like badly bruised fruit.
No, this was not good, not at all. But there wasn't much Alistair could do besides clean and re-bandage the wounds Rood had hastily dressed during a few pauses in last night's flight.
As he set off with the water skin at his hip and Rood's sword and shield on his back, carefully listening for sounds of trickling water, Alistair wondered when the other Templar had last taken his lyrium, and if withdrawal was worsening his condition. He'd never heard of any symptoms making a man look like that, though.
A stream gurgled close by. Alistair washed himself as best he could, then filled the skin and drank from it every now and then, soothing his headache some. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd taken his own dosage? For once he wished he'd bothered to follow the regular schedule; as much as he hated the glowing blue stuff, now was not a good time for more crazy.
Of course crazy would show up the moment he thought about it. There it was again, butterflies and bone meal on his tongue.
How in the Maker's creation would he know what noise a swarm of butterflies made?
Ohh no no no not crazy NOT CRAZY.
He was not going crazy, he was sensing magic, he had to be. Because only magic felt like that, like tasting impossible things. And he was going to find the source of it, and then he was going to make that source help them.
At the very least he was going to make sure he wasn't losing his damn mind.
Alistair chased that sensation of power like a scent hound, and every so often noted landmarks or set up trail signs the way the Chasind did. While it made no sense, he could swear that when the taste waxed stronger, he would also hear nearby rustling or catch glimpses of dark fur.
Suddenly the feeling swelled and burst, only this time instead of bone meal, Alistair detected a note of sunlight glistening on scummy pond water.
An apostate, it had to be an apostate, and he was getting close.
But the feeling was fast fading. The apostate knew he was following and was now trying to get away. Cursing softly, Alistair broke into a heedless run, desperate for the flavors to embolden again. He could not let this slim chance slip through his fingers, not now, not when he needed -
What - a person! He had no time to react and nearly bowled over the figure. "Oof!" He sprawled onto his hands and knees.
"Have a care where you are going, fool!" spat a woman's sharp voice as he picked himself off the ground.
Alistair blinked and worked his jaw. "What?" he said at last as he looked down into livid yellow eyes set in a pale face smooth as porcelain.
The eyes narrowed, and reddened lips pursed in displeasure. "I see you are even more brainless than you look."
"You know, you don't have to start with the insults. And in my defense, there wasn't anything in the way until you popped out of nowhere. Who are you and where did you come from, anyway?"
The woman folded thin arms across her chest. "I believe those questions are mine to ask, as these are my wilds, and you are the intruder here."
Alistair then noticed how much skin her… outfit revealed, if scraps of strategically draped cloth could be considered an outfit. "Your wilds?" he asked, gaping. Then his mind snapped back into gear, and he nearly slapped himself for an idiot. Of course. She was the apostate he'd been tracking. Had he paid attention, he would've noticed the traces of butterflies and pond water swirling around her.
"They are certainly more mine than yours. Why were you following me?"
"What? Following you? I wasn't - How could I be following you? I just met you!" He tried to look like he wasn't guilty of exactly that.
"Do you think I am so easily fooled, Templar?"
Oh, Maker. She was preparing to cast - primal, ice spell of some sort, judging by the flavor. This conversation was not going to end well. Alistair laughed weakly and began to back away as he held up placating hands.
"Templar? I'm not a -" Nope, not buying it. "Oh, sod it." He dived for cover behind the nearest scrub, narrowly avoiding a blast of freezing air.
The power around him crackled. Lightning next? He scrambled back up and had barely managed to settle his weapons in his hands when the spell struck him square in the chest, ripping a scream from his throat.
For a moment he felt his heart stop and it took all his will not to collapse. Alistair forced his feet to sprint left towards a tree, the witch's laughter hounding him as he fled from another blast of ice. "Too easy!" she cried.
Maker's breath. He needed to take control of the fight, grab some breathing room to focus his will, or he'd be a pretty corpse very soon.
A new flavor - Ah, entropy spell, the kind that drew on his worst fears. Lovely. He stabbed his sword into the soft ground and snatched the biggest rock in sight. "Don't look now but … look now!" Alistair yelled as he hurled it at the chanting apostate. The flying stone startled her enough to break her concentration and stop the spell.
Now was his chance. He mustered all the willpower he could with a deep breath and released it.
A blinding white column of light crashed down into the swamp. Once his eyes cleared, Alistair could see the witch lying stunned a short distance from where she'd stood earlier. "Not a bad smite," he said to himself smugly, and moved to bind her hands behind her with the leather carrying strap he'd cut away from the water skin.
As the apostate regained her senses, Alistair hauled her up to her feet and steadied her with one hand on her shoulder. "I apologize…" he began, and then thought better of it. "Well no, not really." He caught a look of derision. "Alright, it seems like we've had a bad start. Let's try this again, shall we?"
The woman said nothing in response but only glared at him.
"Right, well. My name is Alistair, lowliest Templar of the Circle Tower," he said with a grin and a slight mock bow. "And you are…?"
"Cease your prattle and keep your hands away from me," she snarled and wrenched away from his touch.
Alistair blushed hotly but reached for her shoulder again. "Look, I don't enjoy this any more than you do, but I have to drain your mana. Without the enchanted bracers we'd normally use, I have to, ah, keep… touching you, unfortunately." He felt his ears burn as his flush deepened. "Your… shoulder, it'll be…"
Maker, why did this have to be so awkward?
"I'm trying to be a gentleman, alright? Unless you'd prefer I gag you or keep hitting you with a stick."
The witch continued to glare at him for a while. "You are making a grave error, Templar, if you think to make me one of your caged mages," she said at last.
Alistair sighed. "I'll take that as a sign of cooperation, then." He got a good grip on her shoulder and began to lead her away. "Come on, let's get moving. There's someone I need you to take a look at."
Summary: AU - Ser Alistair, Templar of the Circle Tower, is sent into the Korcari Wilds on a search for Chasind apostates. What he finds is not what he expects.
Pairing: Alistair/Morrigan
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 1500
Warnings: Violence, rape (in part 6)
Author's note: Many thanks to drakontion for the beta.
Alistair awoke tasting the susurrus of butterflies with a hint of raw marrow and bone meal.
"Gurgh," he announced to the tree in front of him. All at once every muscle in his body railed at his return to consciousness, his stomach attempted to switch places with his throat, and his brain decided to force an escape through his eyeballs, and failing that, pounded away at its imprisoning skull. Alistair tried to stand, but the ground, in cahoots with the rest of his mutinous body, upended him with a sudden twist and tilt. He nearly fell on top of the fitfully sleeping Rood.
He tried to speak again once he had managed to get everything but his rampaging headache back in order. Another croak emerged, and then he remembered that he hadn't drunk anything since before the massacre. Time to find some running water.
But first he checked on Rood, who…really didn't look good. At all. He did seem rather peaky earlier, but surely shock from loss of blood and water shouldn't look like this. The injured man was muttering and trembling, whether from cold or illness Alistair couldn't tell. Where Rood's face wasn't deathly pale, ugly browns and purples mottled his skin, and one large black patch glistened luridly. Alistair touched a hand to Rood's forehead and snatched it back in alarm. Maker, he was burning! And so clammy and yielding, like badly bruised fruit.
No, this was not good, not at all. But there wasn't much Alistair could do besides clean and re-bandage the wounds Rood had hastily dressed during a few pauses in last night's flight.
As he set off with the water skin at his hip and Rood's sword and shield on his back, carefully listening for sounds of trickling water, Alistair wondered when the other Templar had last taken his lyrium, and if withdrawal was worsening his condition. He'd never heard of any symptoms making a man look like that, though.
A stream gurgled close by. Alistair washed himself as best he could, then filled the skin and drank from it every now and then, soothing his headache some. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd taken his own dosage? For once he wished he'd bothered to follow the regular schedule; as much as he hated the glowing blue stuff, now was not a good time for more crazy.
Of course crazy would show up the moment he thought about it. There it was again, butterflies and bone meal on his tongue.
How in the Maker's creation would he know what noise a swarm of butterflies made?
Ohh no no no not crazy NOT CRAZY.
He was not going crazy, he was sensing magic, he had to be. Because only magic felt like that, like tasting impossible things. And he was going to find the source of it, and then he was going to make that source help them.
At the very least he was going to make sure he wasn't losing his damn mind.
Alistair chased that sensation of power like a scent hound, and every so often noted landmarks or set up trail signs the way the Chasind did. While it made no sense, he could swear that when the taste waxed stronger, he would also hear nearby rustling or catch glimpses of dark fur.
Suddenly the feeling swelled and burst, only this time instead of bone meal, Alistair detected a note of sunlight glistening on scummy pond water.
An apostate, it had to be an apostate, and he was getting close.
But the feeling was fast fading. The apostate knew he was following and was now trying to get away. Cursing softly, Alistair broke into a heedless run, desperate for the flavors to embolden again. He could not let this slim chance slip through his fingers, not now, not when he needed -
What - a person! He had no time to react and nearly bowled over the figure. "Oof!" He sprawled onto his hands and knees.
"Have a care where you are going, fool!" spat a woman's sharp voice as he picked himself off the ground.
Alistair blinked and worked his jaw. "What?" he said at last as he looked down into livid yellow eyes set in a pale face smooth as porcelain.
The eyes narrowed, and reddened lips pursed in displeasure. "I see you are even more brainless than you look."
"You know, you don't have to start with the insults. And in my defense, there wasn't anything in the way until you popped out of nowhere. Who are you and where did you come from, anyway?"
The woman folded thin arms across her chest. "I believe those questions are mine to ask, as these are my wilds, and you are the intruder here."
Alistair then noticed how much skin her… outfit revealed, if scraps of strategically draped cloth could be considered an outfit. "Your wilds?" he asked, gaping. Then his mind snapped back into gear, and he nearly slapped himself for an idiot. Of course. She was the apostate he'd been tracking. Had he paid attention, he would've noticed the traces of butterflies and pond water swirling around her.
"They are certainly more mine than yours. Why were you following me?"
"What? Following you? I wasn't - How could I be following you? I just met you!" He tried to look like he wasn't guilty of exactly that.
"Do you think I am so easily fooled, Templar?"
Oh, Maker. She was preparing to cast - primal, ice spell of some sort, judging by the flavor. This conversation was not going to end well. Alistair laughed weakly and began to back away as he held up placating hands.
"Templar? I'm not a -" Nope, not buying it. "Oh, sod it." He dived for cover behind the nearest scrub, narrowly avoiding a blast of freezing air.
The power around him crackled. Lightning next? He scrambled back up and had barely managed to settle his weapons in his hands when the spell struck him square in the chest, ripping a scream from his throat.
For a moment he felt his heart stop and it took all his will not to collapse. Alistair forced his feet to sprint left towards a tree, the witch's laughter hounding him as he fled from another blast of ice. "Too easy!" she cried.
Maker's breath. He needed to take control of the fight, grab some breathing room to focus his will, or he'd be a pretty corpse very soon.
A new flavor - Ah, entropy spell, the kind that drew on his worst fears. Lovely. He stabbed his sword into the soft ground and snatched the biggest rock in sight. "Don't look now but … look now!" Alistair yelled as he hurled it at the chanting apostate. The flying stone startled her enough to break her concentration and stop the spell.
Now was his chance. He mustered all the willpower he could with a deep breath and released it.
A blinding white column of light crashed down into the swamp. Once his eyes cleared, Alistair could see the witch lying stunned a short distance from where she'd stood earlier. "Not a bad smite," he said to himself smugly, and moved to bind her hands behind her with the leather carrying strap he'd cut away from the water skin.
As the apostate regained her senses, Alistair hauled her up to her feet and steadied her with one hand on her shoulder. "I apologize…" he began, and then thought better of it. "Well no, not really." He caught a look of derision. "Alright, it seems like we've had a bad start. Let's try this again, shall we?"
The woman said nothing in response but only glared at him.
"Right, well. My name is Alistair, lowliest Templar of the Circle Tower," he said with a grin and a slight mock bow. "And you are…?"
"Cease your prattle and keep your hands away from me," she snarled and wrenched away from his touch.
Alistair blushed hotly but reached for her shoulder again. "Look, I don't enjoy this any more than you do, but I have to drain your mana. Without the enchanted bracers we'd normally use, I have to, ah, keep… touching you, unfortunately." He felt his ears burn as his flush deepened. "Your… shoulder, it'll be…"
Maker, why did this have to be so awkward?
"I'm trying to be a gentleman, alright? Unless you'd prefer I gag you or keep hitting you with a stick."
The witch continued to glare at him for a while. "You are making a grave error, Templar, if you think to make me one of your caged mages," she said at last.
Alistair sighed. "I'll take that as a sign of cooperation, then." He got a good grip on her shoulder and began to lead her away. "Come on, let's get moving. There's someone I need you to take a look at."