We love our tragedies
TITLE: The Prices We Pay
AUTHOR: Ashe; promisethesun
FANDOM(S): Dragon Age!
CHARACTER(S): Elissa Cousland (The Warden)/Alistair
PROMPT: #008 Shackles
RECIPIENT: feilyn
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Mentions of sex and making babies outside of marriage?
SPOILERS?: Yup. Spoilers for... pretty much all of Dragon Age: Origins.
WORD COUNT: 1,165
“I feel like we've been down this road before,” Alistair says, that familiar tone of hurt creeping into his voice.
Elissa watches him as he paces around, watches the way his brow furrows and his mouth tugs into a frown-as if he's unsure of whether he should be thoughtful or angry. She tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear, mulling over her words.
Because we have, she thinks, finally prying her stare away from him and around their bedroom instead.
It's ornate and elaborate and rich, and a hollow pang thrums inside of her as she thinks of how out of place she is here. She's a Gray Warden. A fighter, a warrior. A killer. She feels dirty among the finery of court, but it's where she belongs supposedly. Elissa Cousland is, after all, the Queen of Ferelden. Warden-Commander or not, she is meant to be at her husband's side.
“Elissa?”
She sits on the edge of their bed, feeling older than her nearly-thirty years as she clasps her hands together. “It should be done, Alistair. The bloodline-”
“Forget the bloodline! I can't... This is silly. And I am not going to listen to... Just, what in Andraste's name are you suggesting?” His words are a mess of emotions, and he can't stop pacing.
Elissa lets the silence fall between them. She doesn't need the time to think over her words. Oh, no. She's already thought it over, mulled on it for weeks. They are not getting any younger, not that she is beyond the age of conceiving. At least, she wouldn't be if she had not been a Warden.
“Alistair, please try to hear me out.”
“I believe I did warn you,” he says in return, emotions still flaring.
She stares up at him, feeling the shackles of her position weighing down on her. “My love for you outweighed that.”
Alistair groans, sitting down next to her. “I didn't even want this crown, you know. I would have been very happy with you at the Keep.”
“We were already sacrificing for Ferelden.” Elissa glances at him, a small smile on her lips. “You are a great king, Alistair.”
“I am no such thing. Perish the thought! I have a great wife,” he teases instead in a strained voice.
He's convincing himself, she thinks, reaching her hand out to grasp his wrist, rubbing her thumb over his pulse.
“We are running out of time,” she whispers, fear clinging to her. She's the one running out of time. She can feel it, a call. It's not the Call, but it's something. “We've come this far.”
“You're asking me-me, Elissa-to... With another woman! To get her pregnant!” He pulls his arm back to himself, burying his face in his hands.
It's not as though she doesn't feel pain from asking him to do this. It's buried deep in her soul, the knowledge that he would have to touch another woman, and it's not like how it would be with Morrigan. Once, the witch had said, and a child would be conceived. But they would not be working with powerful witchcraft here. Once was likely not to be enough, but thinking of it... She lets out a shuddering breath, squeezing her eyes shut.
She hates this. She had been so young, riding the high of being the one of the few who could stop the Archdemon, the blasted Hero of Ferelden. Eamon had said that it was Alistair who needed to be on the throne, and she was already of noble blood. Ruling Ferelden would be easy. They already loved their homeland so much; what was a little more? But she never thought that it would be like this.
Ferelden loves her, but she hears their whispers. How she hasn't yet given them an heir. That she can't.
She opens her eyes again to find him staring at her, less angry. He reaches over to move that wild strand of hair behind her ear again, eyes on her face the entire time. She doesn't understand how he can't hate her for pushing him into these things. He won't do it unless she says so, and she knows it. She has power over him that is freely given, and she can't figure out if she loves him for it... Or loathes how weak he can be.
“I know you never wanted to be king, Alistair, but you're here now. You've been here for a long time. The country loves you, and I... I don't want what we fought for to be in vain,” Elissa says to him in a calm, soft voice, taking his hand in hers and gently kissing his fingertips. The skin is rough, something people always exclaim over, as if they've forgotten he's a soldier. “The end will come faster than we know, and we... must be prepared to hand the throne off.”
“But with another woman? What would we tell her?” Alistair runs his fingers through his hair, a sharp edge to his voice now. “No, no. I don't care. I'm not even going to contemplate this!”
“Do you think I like this idea anymore than you do? I want to be the one who gives you heirs, Alistair.” She leans over, pressing her forehead against his broad shoulder, feeling weak and despicable. This is where she should drop it, she knows this. She can't. “You are my husband, the one I love.”
“You ask for impossible tasks, my lady,” he mutters.
“You were able to have sex with Morrigan. Anyone is bound to be better than her, eh?” But her voice stays morbidly calm, no inflection to carry that it's simply a joke what she says. “It will be easy.”
“And what then? Do we pretend it's yours?”
“The country has accepted one bastard prince already, why not another?”
“Does what I want even matter?” He shouts, jumping to his feet and away from her.
She waits until he's left the room in a fit of rage before letting herself cry, the need building tightly in her chest until she can't breathe. The tears slip over her cheeks in hot streams that creep down her jawline and either roll down her neck or splash onto her collarbone. He returns not even minutes later, and she's always known that he would; he can't stay away from her, even when he's angry with her.
He crushes her to him, and she holds on to him tightly, the only one beautiful thing in her life. She's going to be gone soon, she can feel it. Without him.
“I love you,” she whispers in a choked voice, feeling small, broken.
His lips press hotly to her forehead, his fingers buried in her hair. “I love you.”
It's an empty victory that she's won, but it's important nonetheless.
AUTHOR: Ashe; promisethesun
FANDOM(S): Dragon Age!
CHARACTER(S): Elissa Cousland (The Warden)/Alistair
PROMPT: #008 Shackles
RECIPIENT: feilyn
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Mentions of sex and making babies outside of marriage?
SPOILERS?: Yup. Spoilers for... pretty much all of Dragon Age: Origins.
WORD COUNT: 1,165
“I feel like we've been down this road before,” Alistair says, that familiar tone of hurt creeping into his voice.
Elissa watches him as he paces around, watches the way his brow furrows and his mouth tugs into a frown-as if he's unsure of whether he should be thoughtful or angry. She tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear, mulling over her words.
Because we have, she thinks, finally prying her stare away from him and around their bedroom instead.
It's ornate and elaborate and rich, and a hollow pang thrums inside of her as she thinks of how out of place she is here. She's a Gray Warden. A fighter, a warrior. A killer. She feels dirty among the finery of court, but it's where she belongs supposedly. Elissa Cousland is, after all, the Queen of Ferelden. Warden-Commander or not, she is meant to be at her husband's side.
“Elissa?”
She sits on the edge of their bed, feeling older than her nearly-thirty years as she clasps her hands together. “It should be done, Alistair. The bloodline-”
“Forget the bloodline! I can't... This is silly. And I am not going to listen to... Just, what in Andraste's name are you suggesting?” His words are a mess of emotions, and he can't stop pacing.
Elissa lets the silence fall between them. She doesn't need the time to think over her words. Oh, no. She's already thought it over, mulled on it for weeks. They are not getting any younger, not that she is beyond the age of conceiving. At least, she wouldn't be if she had not been a Warden.
“Alistair, please try to hear me out.”
“I believe I did warn you,” he says in return, emotions still flaring.
She stares up at him, feeling the shackles of her position weighing down on her. “My love for you outweighed that.”
Alistair groans, sitting down next to her. “I didn't even want this crown, you know. I would have been very happy with you at the Keep.”
“We were already sacrificing for Ferelden.” Elissa glances at him, a small smile on her lips. “You are a great king, Alistair.”
“I am no such thing. Perish the thought! I have a great wife,” he teases instead in a strained voice.
He's convincing himself, she thinks, reaching her hand out to grasp his wrist, rubbing her thumb over his pulse.
“We are running out of time,” she whispers, fear clinging to her. She's the one running out of time. She can feel it, a call. It's not the Call, but it's something. “We've come this far.”
“You're asking me-me, Elissa-to... With another woman! To get her pregnant!” He pulls his arm back to himself, burying his face in his hands.
It's not as though she doesn't feel pain from asking him to do this. It's buried deep in her soul, the knowledge that he would have to touch another woman, and it's not like how it would be with Morrigan. Once, the witch had said, and a child would be conceived. But they would not be working with powerful witchcraft here. Once was likely not to be enough, but thinking of it... She lets out a shuddering breath, squeezing her eyes shut.
She hates this. She had been so young, riding the high of being the one of the few who could stop the Archdemon, the blasted Hero of Ferelden. Eamon had said that it was Alistair who needed to be on the throne, and she was already of noble blood. Ruling Ferelden would be easy. They already loved their homeland so much; what was a little more? But she never thought that it would be like this.
Ferelden loves her, but she hears their whispers. How she hasn't yet given them an heir. That she can't.
She opens her eyes again to find him staring at her, less angry. He reaches over to move that wild strand of hair behind her ear again, eyes on her face the entire time. She doesn't understand how he can't hate her for pushing him into these things. He won't do it unless she says so, and she knows it. She has power over him that is freely given, and she can't figure out if she loves him for it... Or loathes how weak he can be.
“I know you never wanted to be king, Alistair, but you're here now. You've been here for a long time. The country loves you, and I... I don't want what we fought for to be in vain,” Elissa says to him in a calm, soft voice, taking his hand in hers and gently kissing his fingertips. The skin is rough, something people always exclaim over, as if they've forgotten he's a soldier. “The end will come faster than we know, and we... must be prepared to hand the throne off.”
“But with another woman? What would we tell her?” Alistair runs his fingers through his hair, a sharp edge to his voice now. “No, no. I don't care. I'm not even going to contemplate this!”
“Do you think I like this idea anymore than you do? I want to be the one who gives you heirs, Alistair.” She leans over, pressing her forehead against his broad shoulder, feeling weak and despicable. This is where she should drop it, she knows this. She can't. “You are my husband, the one I love.”
“You ask for impossible tasks, my lady,” he mutters.
“You were able to have sex with Morrigan. Anyone is bound to be better than her, eh?” But her voice stays morbidly calm, no inflection to carry that it's simply a joke what she says. “It will be easy.”
“And what then? Do we pretend it's yours?”
“The country has accepted one bastard prince already, why not another?”
“Does what I want even matter?” He shouts, jumping to his feet and away from her.
She waits until he's left the room in a fit of rage before letting herself cry, the need building tightly in her chest until she can't breathe. The tears slip over her cheeks in hot streams that creep down her jawline and either roll down her neck or splash onto her collarbone. He returns not even minutes later, and she's always known that he would; he can't stay away from her, even when he's angry with her.
He crushes her to him, and she holds on to him tightly, the only one beautiful thing in her life. She's going to be gone soon, she can feel it. Without him.
“I love you,” she whispers in a choked voice, feeling small, broken.
His lips press hotly to her forehead, his fingers buried in her hair. “I love you.”
It's an empty victory that she's won, but it's important nonetheless.