When I Look at You (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Leadership

There was silence in the room for a few moments before Arl Eamon continued, "You must be exhausted. Shall I ... uh, have Alistair show you to your room?"

"Yes, thank you." Una wasn't tired, not yet—exhilaration was still coursing through her veins from the climb, the trek through the city, and the confrontation with Loghain and Howe—but she very much wanted to be alone with Alistair. "We'll get started on the nobles tomorrow morning."

"Yes, best to do that when you're rested and looking your best."

She stifled the irritation she felt at his words—after all, how many times had her mother carped on the importance of looking nice when you were asking for something? Much as Una had never wanted to admit it, her mother had always been right about that. Presentation did make a difference, and it was still possible to look one's best while wearing armor.

Alistair still hadn't spoken. The meeting with Loghain had taken all the strength he had, it appeared; he was ashen-faced, his eyes far away. Una took his arm. "Shall we?"

"Right." It was a pale imitation of his usual cheery way of speaking, but he did rally enough to wish Arl Eamon a good night and guide her through the halls.

"Did you come here as a child?" Una asked.

"Hm? Oh. Um, occasionally, when I was very small. I think they changed the dining room," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Alistair, are you all right?"

He glanced at her quickly. "No, I am bloody well not 'all right'!" he said in a furious whisper. "I just had to stare down the greatest traitor in our country's history, a man who took the lives of every Grey Warden in Ferelden—or tried to—and let him walk back out of here unscathed."

Una nodded. "I know."

"Do you know what that feels like?" His voice was rising, and he had stopped in the middle of the hall.

"Think about it, Alistair. Who was standing there next to Loghain? Yeah, Loghain's a big traitor, and he left people to die on the battlefield. Rendon Howe smiled in my father's face, knowing that he was about to murder everyone in Highever Castle—including a child so young he couldn't even pronounce 'sword' correctly, much less lift one in his own defense—and I had to stand there and let him claim my family's title! A little less self-involvement would be appreciated."

He stared at her for a moment, then opened his arms. As Una pressed her face into the corner between his neck and shoulder, he whispered, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"I know you weren't, and you have to start thinking. A leader puts the needs of his people above his own."

"Cairados?"

"Cousland. My father taught me that."

"I wish I could have met him."

"I do, too. He would have enjoyed teaching you about leadership and the responsibilities that come with nobility." Una thought, but didn't say, that those were the lessons Eamon was surely supposed to have taught Alistair, lessons he had utterly failed to impart to his young charge.

"Una, I'm not sure about this. Do you think—"

"What?"

"Come with me." He led her down the hall to a large room with a warm fire. Una eyed the large bed longingly—she wasn't sure which she looked forward to more, making love or sleeping. Both sounded quite fine to her. But judging from Alistair's uncomfortable expression, she wasn't likely to experience either one until she dealt with whatever was bothering him. "I've been thinking ..."

"What?" She softened her tone as he swallowed and looked away, his cheeks flushing. "Alistair, what is it? You can tell me anything."

Still not looking at her, he blurted out, "I don't want to be king."

Una winced. She wished he had a choice. Here was another instance in which being raised properly would have helped him—he would have understood the necessities that came with being responsible for the people. She didn't say that, though. Not yet. "What brought this on?"

"I've been watching Arl Eamon. He makes it look so easy, ordering people around and making decisions and talking to the nobles and ... I don't know how to do any of those things."

"You'd learn faster than you think."

"But I don't want to learn!" He clenched his fist, looking at it. "I'm good at fighting—it's the only thing I was ever able to do well. I can't lead, I can't think properly. Don't you see? I'm not king material."

Una was stunned. He hadn't talked this way in ages, not since the beginning. What had changed in the brief time they'd been apart? And then the answer came to her: Arl Eamon. Alistair saw the older man as a father figure, but Eamon had spent most of Alistair's youth training him not to believe in himself, so that he would never cause trouble for Cailan's rule. Una thought suddenly that Alistair's denial of his intelligence sounded more like a description of Cailan than it did of Alistair.

She went to him, putting her hand over his clenched fist and squeezing it. "You are good at fighting, but that's far from your only talent. And there is nothing wrong with the way you think. You enjoy learning new things—I've seen that, and you care about people, about listening to what they have to say. I knew Cailan, and none of those things were true of him. He hated learning, he never listened, and he was far more interested in what he had to say than in what anyone else was thinking. He was a disaster as a king, Maker rest his soul. You wouldn't be."

He glanced at her, and she could see the cowed little boy deep in his eyes. "You think so?"

"I know it." Una gave his hand a little shake. "Much as I didn't want to be a noble's daughter, I was one, and I learned a lot from my father. Do you think I would dishonor his memory by championing someone to lead our nation who wasn't fit for it?"

"It could be just my bloodline you're after," he muttered, looking half-ashamed that he'd said the words even as he was speaking.

She swallowed hard against the angry words that rose automatically to her lips. "I am a Cousland," she said at last. "Your bloodline is nothing next to mine. But I was taught that a man's ancestors are less important than his actions. Look at Cailan and Anora, for the Maker's sake! One came from the precious Theirin line, one from the line of a smallholder of the Bannorn, and who made the better ruler? Not the Theirin. ... Well," she amended thoughtfully.

Alistair looked up at her.

"Anora hasn't done much since Cailan died. Maybe they needed each other? Or maybe her father was too strong for her. My point stands, though. I don't care about your bloodline. Especially knowing as we do that you're the last of it." It hurt to think about that—she would have loved to have children, to see her father's eyes in those of her son, or her mother's face in her daughter's, and know that her parents, her family, the Cousland tradition would all live on through her. But that was a grief to be dealt with at a later time. Una switched her grip on Alistair to his shoulders instead, holding him still so she could look him in the eyes. "I believe in you, Alistair. I always have, and I always will. But you make it very hard for me when you refuse to believe in yourself."

Alistair's reached up, taking her hands down off his shoulders and holding them in his. "I believe in you. Is that a start?"

"For now. And only because I'm exhausted." Una smiled at him. "And because I haven't had a proper kiss yet."

"Well, allow me to remedy that."

The kiss was soft and sweet and reassuring, but as she laid her head on his shoulder, safe in his strong arms, Una couldn't help but wonder how they were ever going to get through the Landsmeet if Alistair's resolve and courage wavered every time she went away from him.