Alistair (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-08-05 08:47 pm
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-08-05 08:47 pm
[milliways] au week
They've gotten most of the bodies out and given them proper funerals. The intact ones, anyway. Alistair's said a lot of prayers over a lot of corpses in the past several weeks; after the first ten or so, he couldn't bring himself to look at their faces. He's pretty sure the stink's never coming off his skin.
Tonight, when he walks into the hastily-assembled barracks on the opposite shore of Lake Calenhad, he finds himself blinking at the bright light of Milliways rather than the torchlight of his quarters. Quietly, he slips inside and makes his way to the bar. First, he strips off enough of his plate so he can move a bit more freely. Then: a candle, a small statue of Andraste, and a bottle of something dark and strong-smelling that promises to knock him flat if he doesn't respect it.
Alistair knows there's a small chapel out in the forest. It's covered in Earth iconography he doesn't understand, but it'll do. More prayers first, and then, if that doesn't work -- he already suspects it won't work -- disrespecting that bottle until it gives him the hangover he deserves.
So there he is ten minutes later, head awkwardly bowed before a makeshift altar to Andraste, running through what feels like the thousandth time he's recited the Canticle of Trials since returning to Ferelden. The bottle, unopened for now, rests at his feet.
"...I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains."
Tonight, when he walks into the hastily-assembled barracks on the opposite shore of Lake Calenhad, he finds himself blinking at the bright light of Milliways rather than the torchlight of his quarters. Quietly, he slips inside and makes his way to the bar. First, he strips off enough of his plate so he can move a bit more freely. Then: a candle, a small statue of Andraste, and a bottle of something dark and strong-smelling that promises to knock him flat if he doesn't respect it.
Alistair knows there's a small chapel out in the forest. It's covered in Earth iconography he doesn't understand, but it'll do. More prayers first, and then, if that doesn't work -- he already suspects it won't work -- disrespecting that bottle until it gives him the hangover he deserves.
So there he is ten minutes later, head awkwardly bowed before a makeshift altar to Andraste, running through what feels like the thousandth time he's recited the Canticle of Trials since returning to Ferelden. The bottle, unopened for now, rests at his feet.
"...I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains."
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Alistair digs his free hand into his hair, shutting his eyes.
"What are you apologizing for?"
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Alistair's silent.
(Cullen's not wrong. That's the worst of it.)
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"You've still helped."
Soft.
"I know what happened, at least."
And he drinks.
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Maybe he should get the rest of Trials out of the way before he finishes drinking himself into oblivion.
With care, Alistair scoots to the front edge of the pew. He rests his arms across the back of the bench in front of them; lets the bottle hang loose from his fingers; lowers his head to his arms.
...Where did he leave off?
"Do not grieve for me, Maker of All.
Though all others may forget You,
Your name is etched into my every step.
I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself."
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In the place of Cullen:
Nothing.
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Alistair rubs his hand over his face, lifts his head.
The pew's empty, save him. The candle flicks shadows over the statue of Andraste.
Everything's silent.
I shall endure.