Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Warnings: Mild angst and some spoilery references to the Human Noble Origin. See summary for Author Notes.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
“I thought… If I was brave like Grandfather, I could use his sword and kill the bad people who took Mother…”
“Please… Do not hurt my son! He is not responsible for what he does! He was just trying to help his father!”
“Are you going to teach me to use a sword, Auntie? Then I can fight evil too!”
___________________
Elissa knew what the Chantry taught, what the holy texts all taught, and what they would say her duty demanded of her in that moment - standing above the unconscious form of Connor Guerrin, an abomination, a boy no longer, her blade in hand…
But words, cruel and ironic now in hindsight, and the voices that uttered them pounded in her head, obscuring all other sound. It wasn’t Isolde she saw, cradling her only child to her breast, weeping, wailing and pleading for mercy for her son. It was Oriana, ever her boon companion and more than ‘just’ her brother’s wife, with no weapon but her body to defend her flesh and blood, futile as she must have known it would be.
It wasn’t Connor she saw laying on the ground, or her hand holding the blade that was going to kill him…
It was Oren.
He had been the first, though by far not the last, target of Howe’s treachery.
She had just turned 13, not a woman full-grown. Yet due to her station and flowering, she hardly remained a child either. Her hands were small and delicate, fingers were swift and deft. She had to reach… she had to reach… inside, to turn him around proper, or grab hold of his feet to guide him out. She had to, though she quailed inside and wept. No one else could do it, there wasn’t any more time… She had to do it or they were both going to die. For all the blood she had lost, Oriana might very well die still…
But it had turned out alright, and the reward was a kicking, wriggling, squalling baby in her arms. Her eyes were the first he looked into, her face the first he ever saw. A brief check by the midwife, perfunctory at best, his tie to his mother’s body was cut, and they were pushed back as the rush of activity turned almost exclusively to her goodsister.
Elissa had not conceived Oren. She had not carried him in her womb, nor borne the bodily pain of his birth… She had not done or been any of that. Yet even then, as she washed him, swaddled him, held him to her chest to sing soft, senseless words, she felt the world shift beneath her feet.
It was a fleeting moment, in the same space brief and eternal. Elissa brushed the tips of her first two fingers over his puckered, pouting lips. Her hand turned, thumb brushing over one side of his brow and cheek. Oren’s tiny eyes were open impossibly wide. Was it wonderment, or knowing of any sort? It didn’t matter. His fretful noises calmed to mewling little groans and squeaks, and his expression scrunched and relaxed repeatedly. Were his arms free of his swaddling cloth, little balled fists would have been rubbing at his round, red little face.
“I love you, my little Oren,” she murmured into a kiss pressed on his forehead.
She never told anyone how it was painful to let go of him later. Elissa never spoke out loud, even to herself, about how often in those first weeks and months she would begin to cry bitterly after climbing into bed with Hakkon, her newly bonded, just half-grown mabari, as her only living comfort.
It must be unseemly at best, she had thought, for her to feel as she did. Her love for this infant, her brother’s son… it was intense, unexpected, and distinctly maternal. There must have been something wrong with her painful wanting to feel Oren in her arms again, to comfort, care for, and even nourish him as his mother did.
What right did she have to feel anything beyond what she’d been raised to perceive as ‘normal’, or ‘appropriate’ for a nephew? She hadn’t bred him, borne him, or brought him into the world… She would never be able to protect him like his own mother could…
A traitorous, nagging whisper would always answer back, ‘But you did…’
_________________________
Isolde’s maddeningly pained shrieks, begging for mercy had begun to drag Elissa from the pit of memory. When the world as it now was came back to her sight, she blinked furiously and became aware of Alistair’s presence at her side. His expression was wrought with worry and at the same time, understanding. He’d only ever pushed her to talk about her family once before, and had vowed to never do it again.
“Liss…” he said quietly, not entirely a question or a statement.
“I can’t…” she whispered. Her voice was hollow and gutted. “I can’t do it Alistair. I can’t… I… I won’t!”
He’d drawn her into a bear-hug before she became completely hysterical. The templar in him cursed, but the rest of him sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker.
Anywho, this is what bit me in the rear this morning when I was going to post a few screenshots and some vague, angsty captions on my Tumblr. Enjoy!
Side-note: Alistair's a hunk.