Work Text:
Rain fell on Highever, just like rain always fell on Highever, or so Alistair supposed. He'd never been to Highever, but it was in Ferelden and along the coast, so expecting rain was a safe bet. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders; odds that anyone on these grey and misty streets would recognize him here were slim, but he preferred not to take chances.
There was one person in Highever, though, whom Alistair knew would recognize him. He was also the last person Alistair wanted to see, so naturally he was walking straight up to his doorstep, even though Highever was not remotely on the way to Jader from Redcliffe. But if the Grey Wardens really were missing, Fergus Cousland was one of the few people in Ferelden who might know where they had gone. And there was another matter that Alistair wanted to discuss. Who knew when he might be back home to raise the issue again? The odds that he went to his death in Orlais were high, for any number of reasons: the Calling, the price for desertion, marauding demons falling from the sky. Even if he survived, the Wardens might not let him leave again. No, today was his last, best chance.
The Cousland residence was not hard to find. Not quite a castle, not quite a palace, more than a little like a fortress -- after what had happened to the family, Alistair was hard pressed to blame the teyrn for adding a few fortifications. But Alistair had, with Teagan's blessing, sent a letter requesting an audience in advance, so he was expected, and there had been no difficulty getting past the guard and into the parlor, where he took a seat in a large stuffed chair, next to the fire. The teyrn didn't keep him waiting long, coming into the room only a few moments later, a servant with a tray of tea and biscuits right behind.
Teyrn Cousland stopped as Alistair got to his feet, and they exchanged stiff bows. "Ser Alistair. Welcome to Highever."
"Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace."
The teyrn shook his head, then gestured back to the chairs. "Please, just Fergus. Have a seat." Alistair complied, and Fergus followed suit as the servant set down the tea tray. "Would you like some refreshment?"
"Please." The servant, a young elven woman, poured two steaming cups of tea. Alistair tried to catch her eye with a thankful smile, but she avoided his gaze as she backed away, curtsying. So Alistair picked up the cup and took a sip -- it was hot and strong, perfect on this chilly day. "That hits the spot, thank you."
"I thought it might, given the weather.” Fergus took his own cup, drank, then settled back in his chair, balancing the cup between his fingers. "So, what brings you to Highever, and my home?"
“A detour on my journey to Orlais," Alistair replied. "I intend to rejoin the Grey Wardens." He had considered many opening gambits for this conversation, and ultimately decided the direct route would be best. The last time he had seem Fergus, it had been over Arl Teagan Guerrin's dinner table, and they had all spent the entire evening pointedly not mentioning any topic that might lead back to the teyrn's sister. That dance would never do this time; best to come at the subject head on.
Fergus raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had left the Order."
"I did." Alistair sighed and set his cup down. "Circumstances have demanded my return."
"I see." Fergus shifted in his seat. "So."
"So," Alistair replied with a nod. "I come with a question, and a request. You are within your rights to refuse either, but I figured it couldn't hurt to ask."
"They say it never does." Fergus's mouth quirked into a half-smile; Alistair chuckled under his breath. "Very well, go ahead."
"The question, you can probably guess." Alistair lowered his eyes, then lifted them to meet Fergus's gaze; his eyes were blue, just like hers. "Your sister."
Fergus let out a slow breath. "My sister," he said, in a tone of agreement. "You want to know where she is, I expect. To what end, if I may ask?" He crossed his arms, and the mantle of a protective older brother settled over his shoulders.
Alistair tried for a reassuring smile but failed. After all this time, still, he could barely bring himself to speak her name, so tangled was her memory with love and loss and pain. Add fear, too, with the Calling still whispering at the back of his mind. Did it tug at her, too, this false need to succumb to the taint and end her life? After what felt like an eternity, he managed to rearrange his face into at least a semblance of calm. "I'm looking for the Fereldan Wardens as a group," he said. "The Grey Wardens have left Ferelden, and no one seems to know where they have gone. I hoped that she might've sent word, maybe."
"Ah." Fergus shook his head and dropped his arms. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I did get a message from Elissa that she was preparing a mission that would take her from Amaranthine, but she didn't say where. That was three months ago, with no word since."
"I see," Alistair said, letting the disappointment show in his face, while hiding the brief stab of relief. This was going to be a trip defined by mixed feelings. "I thought it might be a long shot. But I had to ask."
"Of course." Fergus settled back in his chair again, seeming to relax a bit. "And the request?"
"Yes." Alistair took a deep breath, then launched into the speech he had been preparing all the way from Redcliffe. "It's about the Grey Warden, Duncan. Former Warden Commander of Ferelden. I understand you met him, when he came through Highever at the start of the Blight?" He held his breath, waiting for a response; he knew that Fergus would have reason not to think kindly of being reminded of that terrible night. But Fergus merely nodded, his expression betraying nothing, and so Alistair forged ahead. "Duncan was a great man; he rebuilt the Grey Wardens here from nothing, then died in defense of Ferelden. As well, I personally owe him a great debt, and I can think of no better way to repay it than to see a monument to his memory laid here, in the town of his birth. Do you think it might be possible?"
Fergus smiled, with a look that Alistair thought might be relief. "It's not just possible. Work is well underway. Elissa made a similar request at the tenth anniversary of the end of the Blight."
Alistair found himself speechless. "I--" He closed his eyes and looked down, taking a moment to recover himself. "Thank you," he murmured through a closing throat.
"Think nothing of it," Fergus said gently. "Duncan saved my sister's life. He's the only reason I have any family left. I would build him a monument for that reason alone."
"Of-- of course." Alistair took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to clear his head. For so long, he had avoided thinking about Elissa, the good and bad memories too much to bear. Now he would have to face his feelings, his mistakes, his regrets. Better start getting used to it, sooner rather than later. "Despite-- everything, I feel much the same way."
"I thought you might." Fergus averted his eyes. "Elissa-- she didn't tell me much about what happened between you. So I can't answer any questions you might have about whether she'd welcome you back to the Order with open arms. But I suspect that she will at least be relieved to know that you live."
Alistair could only nod. He hadn't expected that Elissa would hate him, at least not enough to wish him dead. Yet the words still came with a tiny thrill -- a thrill of hope that he immediately squashed. He wasn't even sure if he'd want her to care.
"Thank you," he managed again, standing up. "For the answers, and the tea, and for Duncan. I appreciate it all more than I can say."
"Think nothing of it." Fergus set down his tea cup and rose to his own feet. "Will you need lodging tonight?"
Alistair shook his head. "My ship sails with the sunset tide, so I need to be on my way.” And it would be awkward beyond belief to spend any more time than necessary here. "But I appreciate the offer."
"Of course." Fergus held out his hand, and Alistair took it in a quick shake. "Best of luck on your quest. And when you're done, I hope you see fit to pass through Highever again. I'm sure you'd like to see the monument when it's finished."
Alistair met his eyes with a quick smile. "I might just do that." Then he dropped the teyrn's hand and left without looking back.
-x-
As the ship pulled in to the docks of Jader, Alistair was already at the rail, sword on his back, pack hoisted to his shoulder. He did not want to be here in this time, in this place, and he felt the weight of no choices with every rise and fall of the deck under his feet. But here he was. And he had committed to this path, so he'd keep going along it. One foot in front of the other.
That was how he walked down the gangplank to the dock, down the dock to the street, down the street to the nearest inn. All the while, bits and pieces of the song murmured in his ears, reminding him of his grim duty, of the fate he needed to help the other Wardens escape.
He glanced at the sky; almost sunset. "Surely it can wait until morning," he muttered to himself. One last night of freedom, he thought, with a hard chuckle under his breath. Some freedom this had been. Hitching up his pack again, he entered the inn in hopes of finding some dinner.
The next morning, he woke as the sun was rising, and as he prepared for the day, he cautiously unwrapped the one item he'd been most avoiding. A shield. Ever since Teagan had rescued him from Kirkwall, Alistair had worn the heraldry of his patron: first Rainesfere, then Redcliffe. But he'd held on to another shield throughout the years, hidden in the depths of whatever cupboard or chest might be handy. A square silverite shield, painted in blue, silver griffon rampant. Duncan's shield. Elissa had rescued it from a cache in Denerim, then gifted it to him on the eve of the Landsmeet. He had thanked her for it that night, quite lavishly. And then, after the next morning, he had never seen her again.
He turned the shield over in his hands, again and again. He had never carried it into a fight. Was he worthy of doing so? Did he even want to find out?
It was a piece of Duncan and the Wardens, but it was a piece of Elissa, too. It represented everything he had loved and lost -- mentor, family, love of his life. He should have left it behind in Denerim, when he'd renounced the Wardens and walked away from the Blight, but he couldn't bring himself to let it go. Was it an omen, that he had held onto it all these years? A good omen, or an ill one?
He let out a sigh. He'd come this far. And he had no other shield, having left the Redcliffe arms behind on an armor stand in his room at the castle. With a deep breath, he hooked the shield over his back, Grey Warden heraldry facing outward. If he couldn't declare himself here, he might as well not even have come. "One foot in front of the other," he said out loud to the empty room. That was how he walked through the door, down the stairs, out into the street, and in the direction the innkeeper had pointed him toward, when he'd inquired the night before.
It wasn't a long walk through the streets of Jader, although Alistair found himself noting every small difference from Ferelden's cities, and even Kirkwall. More people speaking with Orlesian accents, of course, and occasionally snippets of the Orlesian language. A few masked nobles walked the streets, although most of the people here were common folk -- shopkeepers, laborers, elven servants running errands. Like the inn, the Warden stronghold in Jader was in a working-class neighborhood, facing the edge of town. A Grey Warden banner snapped in the morning breeze, and Alistair paused outside the gate, flattening himself against the edge of the building before the guard could see him. What was he even going to say?
"Psst! You there!"
The voice came out of the shadows across the alley, and Alistair turned to see a man in Grey Warden colors, dressed in heavy armor, sword hilt peeking out over his shoulder, with dark hair and a heavy mustache. Odd, that he hadn't felt the Warden's presence in advance. He suddenly realized that he couldn't sense any Wardens inside the compound either. Maybe the Calling was overwhelming his sensitivity to the taint. "Yes?"
"You are a Grey Warden?" The man looked him up and down. "You carry a shield with our device, but you do not wear the armor."
"It's a long story," Alistair replied. "But yes. I-- I am a Grey Warden." It was the first time he'd spoken the exact phrase out loud since he'd left. It felt better to say that he'd expected.
The man frowned. "I do not know you. Where are you based? Who is your commander?"
"No one. I..." Alistair sighed. "Look, it's a very long story, and I'd rather tell it only once. Can we go inside, and you can introduce me to your Warden Commander, assuming you aren't the Warden Commander, and I'll answer any questions you have?"
"No." Alistair drew back in surprise; the Warden glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Alistair. "It's not safe in there. Come, we'll find a place to talk."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Why should I trust you any more than the Wardens in that building?"
"Because I'm the only one who will admit that we're all hearing the Calling, and that our resulting fear is driving us all down a path of madness." He stepped closer to Alistair, and lowered his already-deep voice even further. "Every Grey Warden in Orlais and Ferelden. Every single one."
"So it's not just me?" Alistair asked.
If the man's face fell just a little at these words, he recovered quickly. "Not just you," he confirmed. "So now. Will you come with me?"
Alistair looked back at the small fortress, then at the Warden. "All right," he said. "Lead the way. But I reserve the right to go talk to the Warden Commander at Jader once we're done. I have information that could turn out to be important to all the Wardens."
"We will trade information, and then we will decide what to do." The man stepped away from the building and held out a hand. "Stroud."
Alistair shook the outstretched hand. "Alistair," he replied.
"Follow me, Alistair." And he turned and slipped down the alley, Alistair a few steps behind.
-x-
"So." Stroud had led Alistair back toward the docks -- coincidentally, or not, returning to the tavern of the inn where Alistair had spent the night. Now Stroud folded his hands on the table and looked across at Alistair, over a large plate of eggs and a tankard of ale. "You are a Grey Warden, Fereldan by your accent, but I do not know you. Curious; I have been recruiting in the Free Marches for some years now, and I would have expected to hear your name at some point along the way."
"I left the Wardens some years ago," Alistair said. "And now I'm coming back."
Stroud raised an eyebrow. "There must be a story there."
Alistair shook his head. "Does it matter? Grey Wardens shed their past when they join. Surely that applies to a return, as well."
"Normally, I would agree," Stroud replied. "But these are troubled times for the Order. Corruption, terror of this mass Calling that has fallen upon us, infighting, dark rituals, blood magic. I have to know whether I can trust you. You might be some agent of Clarel's, here to betray me."
"I'm not sure how I could prove that," Alistair said. "If I'm really a spy, I could be lying."
"Let me be the judge of that." Stroud took a drink of ale, then set Alistair with an expectant look.
Alistair sighed. "All right. Well, I'm not proud of it now, but if you must know I was in Ferelden during the Blight. I was Duncan's second-to-last recruit."
Stroud's brow furrowed. "Second-to-last?"
"Yes." Alistair leaned forward. "You've probably heard of the last. The Hero of Ferelden."
"Ahhh." Stroud's eyes lit with understanding. "You were the other survivor of the Battle of Ostagar."
"Right." Alistair lowered his eyes. "So, then, you may know the rest."
"Not in great detail," Stroud said. "I've met the Hero a few times, but she doesn't like to talk about the time of the Blight. Very focused on moving forward, that one."
"So...." Alistair looked up at Stroud and did not see the hostility he'd half expected. "You don't hate me for walking away?"
Stroud shrugged. "I do not know you or your heart, or your reasons for leaving. Had the archdemon not fallen in Denerim, I might feel differently, but it worked out. Perhaps it was fate, or the hand of the Maker that guided you."
"For what it's worth, I regret it," Alistair said. "My reasons were personal, and seemed so important at the time. Now..." He let out a deep sigh. "I should have set my feelings aside."
"You're here now," Stroud said.
"I wouldn't be if it weren't important." Alistair sat up straighter now, a weight coming off his shoulders with this part of the tale done. "It's about the Calling, and something I discovered in Redcliffe." And he proceeded to tell the tale of his journey to Lake Luthias, his discovery of the vein of red lyrium, his odd conversation with Bianca, the disaster at Redcliffe. "So I thought I would warn the Grey Wardens about this tainted lyrium, and maybe see if anyone knew about a connection to this false Calling I hear."
"A false Calling, connected to red lyrium," Stroud mused. "We are aware of the red lyrium, and of the Venatori. It had not occurred to us, however, that the lyrium and the Calling would be connected. We had another theory. Have you ever heard the name Corypheus?" Alistair shook his head. "He is a darkspawn, but a darkspawn like no other we have encountered."
Alistair half-chuckled. "I could've guessed that much just from knowing that he has a name."
"True enough." Stroud took another sip of his ale before continuing. "Corypheus was held captive in an ancient Warden prison for centuries, but a few years ago, he was released by cultists he had brought under his sway."
Alistair leaned forward. "The Venatori?"
"No," Stroud said, frowning. "Carta dwarves, with the assistance of some rogue Wardens. It was a nasty business, but Corypheus was killed before he could make any further trouble. Or-- so we thought. He has recently been seen, in the company of the Venatori. That, to me, had seemed the most likely source of this Calling. But if you say that the red lyrium may be connected..." He let out a breath. "Your arrival is both fortuitous and ill-timed. I had been researching another Grey Warden matter when an acquaintance, who is not herself a Warden, contacted me for information on red lyrium. It has become clear to me that it is no longer safe for me to stay here, so I've made arrangements to meet her in Ferelden. Perhaps you should join me and tell her what you know, help us in our investigation."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. "I just got back, and now you're trying to pull me away?"
"It is not safe for you here," Stroud said. "Not for any Grey Warden. You must understand the panic the Wardens are feeling currently. If every Grey Warden is simultaneously Called, what happens to the Order? What happens the next time an archdemon rises? Clarel, the Warden-Commander for all Orlais, is terrified, and desperate. I have reason to believe that she is planning a large blood magic ritual that would involve many sacrifices." He gestured in the general direction of the Warden stronghold. "You go in there? Odds are, you become one of them."
Alistair sighed and slumped in his seat. "I suppose I haven't got much chance of talking sense into them."
Stroud shook his head. "The time for that has long passed with Clarel, I fear. Other Wardens might listen, Wardens who haven't yet committed to a terrible solution. But alone, you haven't much of a chance. If you come with me, learn what Hawke knows, then we can pool our information and perhaps come up with a better strategy."
"All right." Alistair looked into his glass, swirling the ale in a circle. He'd just gotten up the courage to leave Ferelden, and now he would have to go back. Not to mention-- "The Fereldan Wardens." He glanced back to Stroud. "Are they here?" The sudden image of Elissa in danger, falling in a pointless blood sacrifice, set his heart pounding in his ears. And yet he couldn't imagine Elissa not speaking out against the use of blood magic, even among the Wardens.
"Not here," Stroud replied. "I know they heard the Calling, too -- we received a raven shortly after it began -- and that they had made plans to withdraw from Ferelden. But I believe they were bound for Antiva." His expression sharpened. "Why? Were you hoping to find them?”
Alistair let out a breath. "Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. This is more important." He sat up straight again. "When do we leave?”
-x-
And so it was that Alistair got on a horse and left Jader, less than twenty-four hours after landing there, heading back in the direction from which he'd come. Stroud had already secretly booked passage with a caravan bound for West Hills, posing as a guard, and it was easy enough for him to get Alistair invited along. So once again Alistair put away his Warden livery, stretching a druffalo hide over Duncan’s shield to hide the griffin device, an odd pang of regret in his heart. He’d spent so long talking himself into working with the Grey Wardens again, just to have to renounce them within a few days. It bothered him more than he would have expected.
On the second day of their journey, Alistair rode alongside Stroud, mostly in silence until the moment hung too heavy on him. "So," he said, quietly, so not to be heard above the clopping of hooves and the jingling of tack, "tell me about your contact."
"Hawke?" Alistair nodded, and Stroud continued. "She's one of your countrymen: a Fereldan who fled to Kirkwall during the Blight. We first met while she was on a trade expedition to the Deep Roads. Hawke's brother, Carver, had contracted Blight sickness; a former Warden in their party brought him to us. Carver's a good man, and a good Warden. He was under my command for awhile, and then I handed him off to Warden-Commander Cousland. Last I heard, he was still with her. At any rate, Hawke and Carver stumbled across some red lyrium in a long-abandoned thaig, and she's been researching the stuff ever since." Stroud shot him a quick sidelong glance. "You may know her better as the Champion of Kirkwall."
Alistair almost dropped the reins; he took the excuse of fumbling them back into his grip to look away from Stroud and compose himself. He had, of course, heard of the Champion and her exploits -- everyone had, really. So much for being the most infamous person in the room. "So, she's a mage then?"
"Yes." Stroud raised an eyebrow. "Not a matter of concern for you, I hope."
Alistair shrugged. "I've had good and bad experiences with mages, apostates and Circle mages alike. I try not to judge anyone, really." He half-smiled, thinking of his brief sojourn with Fiona and the mages at Redcliffe. Did that count as a good experience, or a bad one? A bit of both, he supposed. "Also, I spent most of my youth training as a templar. Never took the vows, but I can still set off a smite if necessary. So, if things get out of hand..."
Stroud snorted. "I'd like to see you try it. For a life-long apostate, Hawke is one of the most powerful, well-disciplined mages I know."
"I'm sure it won't come to that," Alistair said. But he was glad to be prepared, just in case. He'd been wrong about not expecting trouble from mages before.
It took two more days to reach the Crestwood region, a hilly area of Ferelden between Lake Calenhad and the coast. Alistair had never been to Crestwood; he knew the old village had been destroyed by the Blight, and he felt a pang that he could not have done more for them, but he and Elissa had their hands full gathering armies, and there were no armies to be found in Crestwood, then or now. The caravan rode down the King's Road, approaching a pass in the mountains. It seemed pleasant enough, and Alistair said as much to Stroud as they rode together.
"So it seems, but the local keep, abandoned during the Blight, has since been taken by bandits," Stroud replied. "These roads are not safe; hence our cover identity as caravan guards. So stay wary."
Alistair looked down the road and caught a glint in the distance that didn't belong. He shaded his eyes from the morning sun, blinked a few times to be sure. "You mean, of things like that blockade up there?"
Stroud stopped his horse, pulling back on the reins, then drew his sword. "Exactly like that," he said, and then he fell back to murmur a few words to the caravan master, stealthily moving his blade from his scabbard to his lap.
Alistair, too, pulled his sword free, wrapping his reins around his left wrist to free his hands, then hefted his shield forward. Duncan's shield, seeing action for the first time in at least a decade; he set it snugly against his arm and let the silverite edges gleam in the full sun. He looked over his shoulder at Stroud. "Ride ahead, or take cover?”
Stroud took a quick glance around; the caravan was fully exposed in the valley, to potential attackers ringing them in the hills on all sides. As if in answer to the question, an arrow flew at them from the right. Stroud easily deflected it with his shield, but more would be on the way soon. "Circle the wagons!" he shouted, all pretense abandoned. "Face outward and ready your arms." The caravan master obeyed, calling commands to the drivers and merchants, who followed directions, bringing wagons into a rough circular formation. Stroud glanced at Alistair. "We stay here, and create a perimeter. Make them come to us. You take the left; I'll take the right."
"Aye, sir." Alistair flicked the reins, and his horse -- a spirited gelding named Reymound, chevalier-trained; though not as steady as Millie, his favorite horse back in Redcliffe, they had become friends on the journey, and Alistair trusted him to obey -- trotted into place and held, ears quivering in anticipation of the fight. "All right, boy," he murmured, patting Reymound lightly on the nose. "Looks like you're ready for some action. Honestly? So am I." His travel since leaving Redcliffe had been uneventful, at least as far as fighting went, and after his plans to confront the Wardens had been so badly frustrated, he found himself filled with nervous energy to burn off. "We'll stretch our battle legs together, won't we?" Reymound nickered, and Alistair smiled. A horse after his own heart.
They didn't have long to wait as another arrow flew by, inches in front of Alistair's nose. He pulled on the reins, pulling Reymound to face the direction from which the arrow had come -- the hills that rose to the left of the caravan. "Heads up!" he shouted, and then the barrage came, most of them bouncing harmlessly off his raised shield as he placed himself between the attack and the caravan. Behind his shoulder, he heard the zing of a bowstring -- one of the merchants, firing back. Alistair pulled back to give the archer a clean shot, then held. The next few moments were a blur of arrows, most of them warded off by his shield and Reymound's lightweight armor. One arrowhead lodged itself in Reymound's neck; he let out a mild whinny of complaint, and Alistair pulled the arrow free, slapping a small poultice atop the exposed wound. "Hold on, my friend," he said, "we'll be fighting soon." Because as soon as the second volley of arrows cleared, a troupe of bandits broke out of the hills, pounding up a cloud of dust all around them.
Alistair smiled. “Our turn,” he said, and then he lifted his sword into the air with a wordless shout, a battle cry intended to strengthen the hearts of his allies and weaken the knees of his enemies. Reymound took it for the signal it was and charged forward, straight at the nearest bandit, a scruffy fellow armed with two long knives. Alistair swung down with his sword and knocked him away, then followed that with swipe onto the shield of the next attacker, all the while holding his own shield up to ward off the arrows that were still flying. None of the bandits were mounted, and Alistair took full advantage of his height and Reymound’s speed to wheel around the impromptu battlefield, then slash down at their attackers from above, making short work of most of the men he encountered.
“Look out!” The call came from the caravan behind him, and Alistair pulled Reymound around just in time to see a bandit with a pole axe charging in his direction. He pulled Reymound back to get him out of the way of the axe, then swung out of the saddle onto the ground, rushing inside the reach of the pole axe to smack the bandit in the side with the flat of his shield. The bandit immediately dropped the pole axe in favor of a pair of curved swords, clashing them together in the bright sun. Alistair lunged with his sword, but the bandit was too fast, catching the blade in the hook of one of scimitar; he twisted it around, presumably a move to disarm Alistair, but he held firm and yanked his sword free. With another yell, he brought his shield in for another attack; the bandit got a blade up in time, and it clanged against the shield face, cutting a deep gash in the hide. The bandit slashed again, and this time the hide came clean off, revealing the blue griffon underneath.
The bandit stepped back, a surprised grin coming over his face. “A Grey Warden, eh?I hear there’s a bounty out for one of your kind. If you’re hiding, maybe it's you.”
Alistair was surprised enough to let the shield drop for a moment, then quickly brought it up again as the bandit lunged forward, just in time to block the sword. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorted.
“A likely story! Outlaws know their own kind.” The bandit raised his voice to be heard over the din of battle. “Hey, boys! This one’s a Warden, maybe got a price on his head. Take ‘im alive!”
Alistair glanced around to take stock of the battlefield. They’d already taken out most of the bandits — maybe three remained besides his opponent, and one was already under Stroud’s sword. After finishing his swing, Stroud caught his eye and nodded, pointing toward the hills with his chin. Right — the caravan was only a day out from the town, and likely these bandits would consider him a higher prize than any of the goods in those wagons. So he stepped backwards to Reymound, keeping the bandit at bay, jumped up on his back, and then broke away, goading Reymound up the hillside. Quickly, but not too quickly — if he was playing bait, the bandits needed some hope of catching him. He scoped out the the trail, then took the least efficient route possible, winding around bushes and trees on his way up the ridge.
From the shouts and scrambling behind him, it seemed to be working; he glanced over his shoulder long enough to see the leader, who had snatched the pole axe back up, and the other two bandits a few steps back. And, rushing up behind them, Stroud, not compelled to take the winding path. The training bandits only just had time to whirl around and see him there, jumping off his horse and onto their heads. Both of them were down and then the leader fell, too, with Stroud’s sword buried in his back.
He exchanged glances with Alistair again before getting back on his horse. Without a word, the two of them continued up the hill, leaving the caravan and the beaten bandits behind. Time for the two of them to strike out on their own.
-x-
It was a few hours of hard riding — not speedy, but cautious, through difficult terrain — before Stroud paused. “Here,” he said. He pushed through a thick stand of trees and into a small clearing with a brook running along its edge. He dismounted and began rummaging through his pack. “This spot is well hidden from the road; the horses will do well here, if we give them enough lead to forage and reach the stream.”
Alistair obeyed, hopping off Reymound and tying him to a nearby tree, letting out the rope. Fortunate that they’d kept a store of food and oats in their saddlebags, not left all their supplies in the caravan. “And us?”
“There’s a cave just around the bend,” Stroud replied. “No room for the horses inside. I suppose we could give them their heads and let them find their way home, but I want to be able to move quickly at a moment’s notice.”
“Understood.” Alistair returned to Reymound’s care; once he was settled, he followed Stroud out of the glade and back into the scrub, where a five minute walk revealed a fissure in the hillside. They went inside, down a twisting tunnel and past a wooden partition into a hollow that had been furnished into a barracks: a few tables and chairs, three sets of bunk beds up against the wall. Surprisingly well-appointed for a cave in the middle of nowhere. “Is this a Warden hideout?" Alistair asked.
Stroud shook his head. "It was a secret meeting place for your countrymen, actually. During the uprising against the Orlesian occupation. Crestwood was a staging area for a few of the early battles. Duncan mentioned it to me once, and I stored it away as a useful hiding place.”
"Oh." Alistair sat down in the chair, heavily. Had Maric been here, used this spot? Or maybe-- he jumped out of the seat as though he had been poisoned at the thought. "Great," he muttered under his breath. "I'm never escaping that bastard's legacy."
"Hmm?"
Alistair turned to Stroud and noted the raised eyebrow. "Oh. Nothing."
Stroud settled down in another chair. "Well. We may have some time to wait, depending on how long it takes Hawke to get away. How are you with waiting?"
"Better than I used to be," Alistair replied. "My templar teachers would agree."
Stroud smiled. "I brought a few books and my woodworking tools. I expect we'll find some way to pass the time."
-x-
Alistair read The Tale of the Champion, two history books by Brother Genetivi -- he wondered how the brother was doing, whether he'd been at the Conclave and, if so, whether he'd escaped -- and a terrible adventure novel. He and Stroud took turns hunting for game and gathering plants, made stealthy forays into town to buy supplies for the horses, sparred a few times, talked little but fell into a quiet companionship. Two weeks and three days after their arrival, Alistair had almost finished Hawke's story for a second time when a soft series of footsteps echoed down the entry to the cavern.
He set down the book and looked up. "Is that..."
Stroud, who had been lounging by the fire, held up a hand for quiet as he got to his feet and crept toward the door. Alistair went the other direction, taking up his sword to get behind the rock formation in the middle of the room, where he could be hidden from view but still see the entrance. The footsteps grew louder, and Stroud took a place next to the door, flat against the wall.
Then the door swung open, revealing a woman dressed in full plate armor, a two-handed sword strapped to her back. She stepped into the room and looked around with a curious expression. Stroud stepped out of the shadows and pulled his sword; as she turned to face the sound, he pointed the blade directly at her chest.
"It's just us." It was another voice, another woman, taller than the first but slighter of build, speaking as she followed her companion into the room. Alistair let out a breath; this must be Hawke. "I brought the Inquisitor."
Stroud looked to Hawke, then back to the Inquisitor, and slowly lowered his sword. "My name is Stroud," he said, gesturing for Alistair to join them in the open half of the room, "and this is Alistair. We are at your service, Inquisitor."
Alistair set his own sword back in its sheath and stepped free of his own hiding place, nodding at the two women. "Ma'am."
Hawke flicked her eyes toward Stroud. "Another Grey Warden?"
"Yes." Stroud gestured to Alistair, who turned around to flash the device on his shield. "You can trust him as you do me."
"And I ask that you trust the Inquisitor and her companions as well." Hawke turned to face out the door, and nodded, and three more people came inside: another human woman with a mage staff, a heavily-armored human man, and a male dwarf. The man had a beard; the dwarf did not.
"All right." Stroud nodded around the motley crew, then returned his attention to the Inquisitor. "So, Inquisitor. What brings you here?"
"I need your help adding all this up," she said. "Most of the Wardens disappear, then I run into a darkspawn magister named Corypheus. Do you think the one might have something to do with the other?"
"Mmm, I fear it may be so," Stroud replied. "When Hawke slew Corypheus, Weisshaupt was happy to put the matter to rest." He began to pace around the cave, heading toward the table where he had spread out his notes and maps after he and Alistair had arrived, and turned away from Hawke and the Inquisitor. "But an Archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal, and I feared Corypheus might have that same power. My investigations uncovered clues, but no proof. Then..." he took a breath, and looked up. "Not long after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling."
"I recall that," Hawke said. "But I don't recall hearing you telling me about all this."
"It was a Grey Warden matter." Stroud looked sideways at Alistair. "I was bound by an oath of secrecy."
"Is the Calling a Grey Warden ritual?" the Inquisitor asked.
Stroud took a deep breath. "The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight has come to claim him." He turned back, facing the Inquisitor again. "It starts with dreams. Then come the whispers in his head. The Warden makes his farewells, then goes to meet his death in the Deep Roads."
Hawke shook her head. "And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing the Calling right now? They think they're dying? And this is all because of Corypheus?"
"It may be," Stroud replied. "But my colleague has another thought." He angled his head toward Alistair. "Tell them."
Alistair obliged, repeating an abbreviated version of the tale he'd told Stroud back in Jader. The Inquisitor exchanged looks with her companions a few times during the telling, and when he got to the part about his return to Redcliffe, she nodded. "I'm familiar with the Venatori's invasion of Redcliffe, and the involvement of red lyrium there."
"Yes, Teagan told me," Alistair said. "I wish I had been there to help."
The Inquisitor shook her head. "They'd probably have just killed you, or forced the red lyrium on you. You say you're templar-trained?” Alistair nodded. "Corypheus has allied himself with a group of templars, and he's been feeding them red lyrium." She looked at Stroud. "These same red templars were with Corypheus when he attacked and destroyed Haven."
"Destroyed? The whole town?" Alistair thought back to his travels to Haven: doing battle with cultists, discovering the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The news of the failed conclave was bad enough, but now the town too? Then he remembered Fiona, who had said in her letter that she would be joining the Inquisition at Haven, and a jolt of fear coursed through him. “Did you get your people out?”
“Most of them,” the Inquisitor said. “But the town itself was a total loss. We were outmatched. Corypheus had a dragon with him -- a dragon that seemed an awful lot like an archdemon. We had to use catapults to bring down the mountain and secure our escape through the old temple passages."
"An archdemon?!" Stroud caught Alistair's eye; Alistair shook his head, and Stroud acknowledged him with a faint nod. "No archdemon has risen; we would know. But even an ordinary high dragon under the sway of Corypheus is bad news. Especially if the Wardens succumb to the Calling." He shook his head. "You cannot imagine the panic that this mass Calling is causing. If all the Wardens fall, who will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear."
Hawke snorted. "And so they do something desperate. Which is, of course, what Corypheus wants."
"Indeed," the Inquisitor said. "So, you said all the Wardens are hearing the Calling. You hear it, too? Both of you?"
Stroud inclined his head. "Sadly, yes. It lurks like a wolf around the shadows around a campfire. The creatures that makes this music has never known the love of the Maker... but at times, I almost understand it."
"The dreams started a few months ago," Alistair said quietly. "The music, not long after. I was in Ferelden, not Orlais, but my story is much the same."
"And you, Blackwall?" The Inquisitor turned to look at the other human in her party. Alistair lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Stroud, who seemed equally surprised. So, the Inquisitor had a Warden in her party already; why, then, had she needed to seek out Stroud? He hadn't sensed the taint in this Blackwall, but then he hadn't been able to feel Stroud at first either, although by now they had attuned. Most likely the fake Calling was getting in the way.
The man looked up, expression placid. "I do not fear the Calling," he said. "And worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve."
"Bold words," Stroud said. "I only wish the other Orlesian Wardens could heed them."
"So how could Corypheus do this?" the Inquisitor asked.
"We know little about him, save that he is dangerous. He is a magister, as well as a darkspawn, and speaks with the voice of the Blight." Stroud gestured toward Alistair. "Or perhaps he has harnessed the power of the tainted red lyrium. Either way, he awakened the Blight that lives within us and used that voice to create the false Calling."
"So, the Wardens are panicking," the Inquisitor mused. "What might they do, if they think they're all about to die?"
Stroud began to pace again. "Without Grey Wardens, there is no one to slay the next Archdemon when it rises. Our Warden-Commander, Clarel, spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent all future Blights. When I spoke against this plan, my comrades turned on me." He shook his head, then pointed toward the map. "The Grey Wardens are gathering here, in the Western Approach. I had been planning to investigate, but..." Stroud caught Alistair's eye. "A less familiar face might do better."
Alistair nodded. "That's sensible," he said. "I can leave right away."
"I'll go with you," Hawke said.
"Good thinking," said the Inquisitor. "You can investigate together, then one of you can come back and meet us at Skyhold, let us know where the Wardens are gathering."
"A fine plan. So we head into Crestwood, then go our separate ways." Stroud rolled up the map and handed it to Alistair. "It is an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. Go there, and then let us know what you find."
Alistair took the map. "I'll do whatever I can to stop this," he said.
Stroud clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you. I am glad you returned to us."
"Believe it or not, so am I." Alistair looked at Hawke. "Ready to get out of here?"
Hawke stepped aside to let him pass. "Lead the way."
-x-
The Western Approach was a desert. Hot, vast, the unrelenting sun beating down on Alistair's head and leaving him near-blind with its brilliance off the pale yellow sand. He could not imagine a place more different from the hills of Ferelden, and he said as much to Hawke on their third day trekking through the shifting dunes.
"I agree," Hawke said, pausing to adjust the cloth that she'd wrapped around her head to keep out sand and sun. "A far cry from the green fields of Lothering. I lived there for many years," she added, almost an aside.
"I--" Alistair just stopped himself from saying I know; Hawke seemed like a private person, given how little she'd spoken little about herself on their week's journey -- or about anything at all, really -- and although Alistair appreciated the quiet, it was a little awkward, given that he'd just read a retelling of her life story, cover to cover, twice. It felt unbalanced, and yet he didn't want to get into the details of his own biography. And who knows; if her brother was under Elissa’s command, maybe she'd already heard it all anyway. "I've been there," he said instead. "Just ahead of the Blight. It was awful, knowing that the horde was coming and that we couldn't do much to stop it."
Hawke glanced at him. "You were in Lothering just before the Blight? Perhaps that's why you look so familiar to me. As though I should almost know you, but not quite."
"Could be," Alistair said, keeping his voice bright despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “We passed through after Ostagar, spent most of a day there." More likely, she'd seen Cailan from a distance, or a portrait of Maric, though the family resemblance to his father was less obvious. But no one on this mission knew about that little connection, and he was going to keep it that way.
"I might also have met you with the Wardens," Hawke said. "Do you know my brother Carver?"
Alistair shook his head. "I haven't been with other Wardens in a long time." He left his words flat, inviting no further comment, and Hawke seemed to take the hint, facing forward with a soft word to her horse.
The next time they spoke, the grey stones of an ancient fortress were rising in the distance, perched atop a hill that had been eroded to stones. Hawke pulled up her horse and turned toward Alistair. "Venatori banners," she said. "Not the Grey Wardens. Are we in the wrong place?"
Alistair pulled the map out of his pack and unfolded it enough to check. "No, that's Griffin Wing Keep. But if the Venatori are holding it..."
Hawke picked up the thread. "That's more evidence that the Wardens and Venatori are working together."
"Or the Wardens are being used by the Venatori." Alistair frowned. "Although I don't always hold the highest opinions of the Grey Wardens and their methods, I'd be surprised if they were knowingly working with such a dangerous and violent order. Then again, if they felt it was the only way to stop a Blight?" He shrugged. "They might. It's hard to say."
"Either way, I don't like it." Hawke unhooked her spyglass from her belt and peered into the distance. "I think I see a few people in Grey Warden blue. Your thoughts?"
She passed the spyglass to Alistair, who took a look. It took a moment for him to adjust to the distant vision, but once he did, the tell-tale flash of color was obvious. The person wearing it was slight but tall, with a shaved head; he thought it might be a woman, but it was hard to tell at this distance. "I think so," he said softly. "Could be Clarel, based on Stroud’s description. Those are armored Grey Warden mage robes, and the device on her chest is a commander's sigil." He handed the spyglass back to her, and she closed it up with a nod. "I wish we could listen in."
"As do I," Hawke said. "But even with magic, we would need to get a great deal closer, and I don't think stealth is a speciality for either of us."
"Hah. No, not I." Alistair looked toward the fortress again, shading his eyes with a hand. "Well, let's watch for awhile, see what we can learn."
"Here?" Hawke's brow furrowed; then she shrugged. "All right. Let's at least find a spot in the shade." She headed a nearby rock formation, and Alistair followed. It wasn't much shade, but it was enough for their horses, at least, to take a small refuge from the sun. Alistair pulled out his water skin, took a small sip, and settled in to wait. The two of them took turns with the spyglass, mainly watching the woman who might be Clarel; after half an hour, Hawke nudged Alistair and pointed at the tower. "She's leaving. Gathered up a large pack, then vanished from sight."
Alistair squinted upward through the glare. "Alone?"
Hawke shook her head. "No, one of the Venatori followed her. Hold on." A few more minutes passed, and then Hawke handed the glass to Alistair. "Yes. Now they're at the gate."
Alistair looked through the spyglass and saw the commander and the Venatori appear out the gate at the base of the rock formation. At least a half-dozen Wardens were with them. "With several Wardens," he told Hawke. "Half a dozen or so? Two are mages, the rest in heavier armor. I wonder if they're preparing for that ritual." He watched closely. "They're talking about something. The Commander seems pretty heated. I guess the magister is trying to reassure her? Hard to tell. Okay, the party is breaking up."
He gave Hawke a turn with the glass, and she watched intently for a moment. When they did leave, even at a distance Alistair could see that they had gone in two groups -- one toward the south, the other more in a more easterly direction. "Two groups," Hawke confirmed. "The Warden Commander, if it is indeed her, went alone, on horseback, to the south. The Venatori is leading the other Wardens on foot."
"Toward the Tevinter ruin." Alistair consulted the map again and confirmed the direction. They had scouted that ruin just after sunup and found it empty; it looked like the Wardens were finally headed that way. He looked at Hawke, who had folded up the spyglass. "And if I have my directions right, Clarel is on her way to Adamant Fortress."
Hawke put the spyglass back in her back. "That's enough to take back to Skyhold," she said. "Do you want to go, or shall I?"
Alistair grimaced; he'd hoped to avoid Skyhold, but it seemed there was nothing for it. "If it's as dangerous for me as Stroud thinks, I probably shouldn't go up against the Wardens alone. You follow the Venatori and the Wardens. I'll go to the Inquisition and tell them what we've found out so far.
"All right." Hawke stood up and brushed the sand from her legs. "There's an Inquisition camp to the southeast; perhaps they can send a raven, save you the rest of the trip."
"Maybe," Alistair said. But he wasn't hopeful. Facing the demons of his past felt more inevitable every day.
-x-
The closer Alistair drew to the Inquisition camp, the more he realized that a raven would not be nearly enough to explain everything he and Hawke had seen and heard in the Western Approach. So after dropping by to send the most urgent part of the message, he kept riding, coaxing Reymound through the desert and south, taking the long week's journey to Skyhold.
The path wound up through the mountain pass, its twists and turns finally revealing a massive fortress perched atop the mountain, the largest keep that Alistair had ever seen. That was the only thing stopping him dead, the intimidating pile of rocks. Not any fear of what he might find inside.
Alistair took a deep breath. He'd braced himself for so many encounters on this journey that hadn't come to fruition -- the possibility that Elissa would be in Highever, the Grey Wardens in Jader and again in the Western Approach. But no hope of a reprieve this time. Whoever else might be inside, Leliana was almost certainly there, and he would not be able to avoid her. Not one of the Inquisitor's primary advisors.
Maybe it wasn't too late to turn back. Surely his message had already been received.
No. No, he had to do this. He snapped the reins and clicked his tongue, and Reymound trotted briskly forward, heedless of his rider's hesitation. At least he could count on the horse to keep moving. Together they rode up the steep path, and soon they were at the gate -- open, but with guards on either side, wearing the armor of the Inquisition. One of them raised a hand as he pulled up. "Afternoon, traveler," he said. "What business brings you to Skyhold?"
Alistair pulled back on the reins, bringing Reymound to a halt. "I have a message for the Grey Warden, Stroud." He flashed the sigil on his shield. "Urgent news of an investigation we're doing for the Inquisitor."
"He's not here, I'm afraid," the guard replied. "He left with the Inquisitor some days ago. If you have important intelligence to share, you should speak with the Nightingale." He gestured to the right. "Stables are over there. Once you've seen to your horse, look for Scout Harding in the central courtyard -- she can arrange an audience.”
"Thank you." Alistair swallowed back the sudden rise of fear and followed the guard's directions, first leaving Reymound with a groom and a few gentle pats, then asking for a general description of Scout Harding. It transpired that she was a dwarf with red hair, relaxing with some of her fellow scouts in front of the tavern. As he approached, she noted him and sat up.
"Hello, stranger," she said. "What can I do for you?"
"Are you Scout Harding?" he asked.
"The one and only," she replied, standing up with a smile.
"Great." Alistair glanced up at the keep. "I'm a Grey Warden working with Stroud. I had a message for him, but the guard suggested that I take it straight to the top."
"Ah. You must be the other Warden from Crestwood." Alistair nodded. "Good, we've been hoping you might come back with more information. That raven alone was enough to alarm him and the Inquisitor, so they left straight away, but I know the advisors had more questions." She scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, tied it to a raven's leg, and tossed the bird up toward the highest tower. "So she knows to expect us," Harding explained. "Follow me."
They walked up to the keep, into a very imposing great hall, through a door and up a curving staircase. The first landing was in a library filled with mages; Alistair had time to wonder if Fiona was among them but not enough time to look as they passed through. Just as well; one reunion in a day was more than enough. The second flight of stairs took them to an open, airy round room, with straw on the floor and dozens of ravens up in the eaves. There was a desk by one of the windows, and a hooded figure sat there, bent over a document. Harding approached her while Alistair stood at the top of the stairs. He closed his eyes for a moment, felt the breeze through an open window, took one last uncomplicated breath. Then he opened them and started walking toward the desk.
The figure stood up, hood falling back to reveal dark red hair and a face set with big blue eyes, wide and glittering. Leliana lifted a hand to her mouth, and they both froze.
Her hand slowly dropped. "Alistair?" she breathed.
He nodded. "It's me."
"Alistair!" And then, she moved all at once, nearly leaping over the desk to throw her arms around him. "It is you. It's really you!" Stunned, he returned the embrace, awkwardly patting her shoulders. She squeezed him hard. "Stroud told me -- but I never guessed he meant you! Praise the Maker, you're alive and all right." She leaned back and looked up at him with an expression of concern. "You are... all right?"
"Close enough," he said.
"Then I don't feel so bad about doing this."
She let him go, and then she slugged him in the stomach, hard. "Oooof!" Alistair stumbled back but kept to his feet. He breathed through the pain for a moment, then looked up, catching her eyes. "I don't suppose I have to ask what that was for."
To his surprise, she laughed. "I don't suppose you do." Her eyes turned serious. "We were all so worried."
Alistair snorted. "Sure you were."
Leliana shook her head. "Of course we were. But no matter. You're here now, and by the looks of things back with the Wardens. You can tell me the story later." She perched on the edge of her desk. "For now, catch me up on everything you saw in the Western Expanse."
Alistair obliged, fleshing out the details he had only sketched in the brief note. Once he'd finished, Leliana stood up with a frown.
"We'll need to tell the other advisors," she said. "Harding?" Alistair started as Leliana turned toward the dwarf; he'd forgotten anyone else was present. "Please find Cullen and Josephine, and Cassandra if she's in residence today, and ask them to meet me at the war table in fifteen minutes."
Harding saluted Leliana with an arm across the chest, then trotted down the stairs; Leliana looked back at Alistair. "I hope you don't mind telling the story again," she said. "As you may have heard, the Inquisitor went to the Expanse just based on the strength of your note -- Stroud was particularly alarmed by even your brief description. I'm glad he was."
"So am I," Alistair said.
"Come, we'll meet the others." She smiled up at him, expression suddenly warm. "Then I'll buy you a drink and you can tell me what you've been up to for the last decade."
Alistair shuffled back, away from the warmth of her glow. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." She laid a hand on his arm. "It's been too long." Before he could respond, she pulled away and headed down the stairs, and he followed a few steps behind.
-x-
The tavern at Skyhold was surprisingly large and well-appointed — it would have been perfectly at home in any good-sized city in Ferelden — with three floors, a diverse clientele, and a young woman playing the lute at the foot of the stairs. After dropping by the bar for two pints of ale, Leliana led Alistair up to a quiet corner on the second floor, far from any other patrons, and sat across from him at a small square table. “So,” she said.
“So,” Alistair replied, looking down into his ale. He took a small sip, then set it aside. Better to keep a clear head for this conversation. The three hours at the War Table had been tiring, stressful, and contentious, as the Inquisitors advisors had interrogated him about what he’d seen and argued about next steps. The room had been small and stuffy, and he’d go back there in a heartbeat. “Um. How are you?”
“Well enough.” Leliana took a casual drink of ale. “Busy with the Inquisition. Still in mourning for the Divine. She was very important to me, and I miss her desperately.”
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “I didn’t know much about Justinia, never paid much attention to Chantry politics unless I had to. But she seemed like a good woman, who really cared about helping people and finding a peaceful solution to the conflict between the templars and the mages.”
“Yes.” Leliana looked away, a deep sadness crossing her face. “I don’t know when we’ll see her like again.” She let out a breath, and then turned back to Alistair, smiling. “But we didn’t come here to talk about me. Where in the world have you been? What happened to you, after Denerim?”
“I…” Alistair swallowed. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. Leaving was a mistake, I know that now.”
“You were hurt and angry and felt betrayed. I understand.” Leliana reached across the table and laid a gentle hand on his. “Eventually, Elissa did too.”
Alistair winced. “I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.” He pulled his hand away. “I walked out of the palace and down to the docks, and I got on the first ship bound for anywhere. Its destination happened to be Kirkwall, so that’s where I went. I found a room at a tavern that would take refugees from Ferelden, I picked up a bottle, and I didn’t put it down again for four years.”
Leliana nodded soberly. “What got you out of there?”
“Not what, who. Teagan Guerrin. You remember Teagan?”
“Of course. How did he find you?”
Alistair found himself smiling. “He decided I had sulked for long enough and made it his business to find me. It only took a few months to track me down — given the closed borders, and fear of the Blight, only so many ports were taking ships from Ferelden at the time. He offered me a place in Rainesfere, and I accepted. I’ve been his man ever since.”
“So. That’s why you were in Redcliffe.”
“Yes.”
Leliana pushed her chair back from the table. “You’re fortunate that your run-in with the Venatori was so brief. The story the Inquisitor told about her vision of the future chilled me to my bones.” She glanced up at Alistair. “I’m glad you’re here to help us fight them.”
“Believe me, if the Venatori are using the Wardens in the way we think they are, I’m glad to do it.”
Leliana lifted an eyebrow. “And you care so much about the Wardens?”
“Of course I do.” Alistair sat back in his seat, considering his words. “I left the Grey Wardens because I felt betrayed. Not just by Elissa, but by Riordan, and through him, by the Order as a whole. That’s not a reaction someone has when they don’t care.” Leliana nodded, and he continued. “And now that I know the Calling is false, that other Wardens might be fighting the same enemy, I can’t turn my back on them any longer. And, well.” He glanced down into his ale, then pushed it aside. “I’ve grown up a lot, these last ten years.”
“We all have,” Leliana replied gently. They sat in silence with their drinks for a time; Alistair nursed his, but Leliana had emptied her tankard before either of them spoke again. “So,” she said. “Do you want me to contact her?”
Alistair swallowed, hard. “Do— do you know where she is?”
“Not precisely, but I have a way to reliably send word. And I do know what she’s doing. Her errand is not so different from yours, really.” Leliana leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table, and lowered her voice so that Alistair could barely hear it. “She has a lead on a cure for the taint. A real one, not the half-measure the Wardens created in the Joining.”
“So…” Alistair’s mouth went dry, and he took a long drink of the ale. “So when Wardens reach the end, and start hearing the Calling—“
Leliana finished his thought. “They could take the cure and retire.”
Alistair pushed his chair back from the table and looked up at the ceiling. He had been able to keep the music at bay for most of the day, but now it came crashing in, pushing at the insides of his skull. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, meditative breaths, just like he’d been taught as a templar. A minute later, he opened his eyes and looked back at Leliana. “I understand what you’re truly asking me. And I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I need to find her, help her. If what I know can help her find the cure… I have to try.”
“All right.” Leliana’s smile was crooked. “I’m sorry to see you leave so soon, but I agree — you should go, and tell her what we’ve learned, and offer whatever aid you can. The information she found led her to Antiva. Let me see if I can get you her last letter in the morning — it may be useful.”
“Yes. Meet me at the gate tomorrow. One other thing, before I go.” Alistair paused; was it worth asking about this? “The former grand enchanter, Fiona. Is she here?”
“Yes,” Leliana said. “She typically spends her days in the library. May I ask why?”
“I knew her in Redcliffe, and I wanted to say hello.” And to ask her if there was something, anything, he could use from her experience to aid Elissa in her quest. But if Leliana didn’t know about Fiona’s connection to the Wardens, he wasn’t about to spill the beans. “I’ll find her in the morning, before I go.”
“Good. But I hope you’ll stay in the tavern for a bit longer.” Leliana’s smile was warmer now. “I’m taking supper with the Iron Bull and his mercenary band, and they’re a most entertaining set of companions.”
“All right, I will.” Alistair laid a hand on Leliana’s. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, squeezing his hand back. “I’ll be right back, just need to put in the order for supper.”
-x-
True to Leliana’s word, dinner had been a jovial affair, full of stories and playful teasing. Alistair hadn’t said much, and he hadn’t been asked too many questions, so he’d mostly been able to sit back and listen. The Iron Bull and his Chargers enjoyed a clear, easy camaraderie; Alistair felt the occasional pang of jealousy, but less than he might have even a few months ago. The weeks of fellowship with Stroud, the reunion with Leliana, and even the motions toward friendship with Fiona back in Redcliffe had reminded him what it was like to be part of a community — not at a distance, but as a genuine member of the team. Perhaps he could find that with the Wardens. Perhaps he actually wanted to.
He’d been given a small room off the Skyhold courtyard, where he’d slept better than he had in months. He rose just before sunrise, untroubled by nightmares, and spent an hour of contemplation in the garden before heading into the library tower. There were fewer people than there had been yesterday, and for a moment he wondered if he’d arrived too early, but then he saw Fiona sitting by a window, reading by the morning light. He stepped quietly up to her chair, then cleared his throat. “First Enchanter?”
She looked up and met his eyes, expression betraying no surprise. “Alistair. Welcome to Skyhold.” Snapping the book close, she gestured toward the chair next to her, and he sat. “I heard about your meeting with the advisors, and with Stroud.”
Alistair raised an eyebrow. “You’re well informed.”
Fiona smiled faintly. “I didn’t know Stroud as a Warden — I left the order too long ago — but he knew of me, and sought me out with questions similar to the one you asked me once, about curing the taint and ending the threat of the false Calling. It was quite disheartening to learn that so many Wardens are hearing it, though a bit of relief to know it’s not specific to you.”
“I felt much the same way,” Alistair said. “It’s a bit reassuring. But it’s even more terrifying, given how the Wardens are reacting. I presume Stroud told you what he knows of Warden Commander Clarel’s plan?”
“Yes.” Fiona sighed. “I’ve met Clarel briefly, and know her a little. I would not have expected her to panic, except I’m all too familiar with how these Venatori operate.” She glanced away. “They recognize your desperation, offer you what seems a perfect solution, and remind you how little choice you have.” Her voice turned soft and bitter. “I should have known better, and so should Clarel.”
Alistair wanted to retort an angry agreement, but he found he couldn’t muster up too much heat. Desperate people made bad decisions; had he done any better when he’d been tested? Instead, he only nodded. “Well, the Inquisitor stopped the Venatori who lured you into temptation. Perhaps she can pull Clarel back from the brink as well.”
“I truly hope so,” Fiona said. “Will you be joining them?”
“No. I have another errand.” Alistair leaned forward a little. “I’ve just learned that my former… comrade, the Hero of Ferelden, is in Antiva, seeking out the origins of the Joining ritual, in the hopes that she might learn how to undo it. So you know why I have to ask you again.” He reached for her hand and took it in both of his. “If there is anything, anything at all, that you can share about how the taint was removed from you, I have to know. Please, Fiona. I’m begging you. You must know something that can help!”
She closed her eyes and turned away, but not before Alistair noticed a tear roll down her cheek. “Oh, Alistair. If only I—.“ She pulled her hand free as she stood and walked over the window; when she spoke again, he could barely hear her voice. “I would move the skies and the earth to take this pain from you, were it in my power.” She turned back to face him again, eyes still wet. “Are you still hearing the song?”
“Yes,” he said gently. “It is easier to ignore, to will it away, now that I know it’s a fake. But I still hear it. Every moment of every day, and the dreams— most nights the dreams still come. And to know that every other Warden in Ferelden and Orlais is facing the same demon? I would do a great deal to stop it.” He joined her at the window. “And if you feel the same, I don’t understand why you won’t tell me your story.”
Fiona looked away again. “Because I’m afraid to tell it to you,” she murmured. “Because it opens a door you have no way of knowing is even there, a door that neither of us will ever close again. Because having finally found you, I’m terrified to lose you again.” She took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling. “But I suppose there’s nothing else for it now.”
Alistair stared down at her. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No. You wouldn’t. Everyone else who knows it is sworn to secrecy or dead.” She sighed again, then motioned him back to the chair. “You will want to be sitting down.”
Alistair sat, but Fiona remained standing, hands clasped behind her back. “Many years ago, when I was still a Grey Warden, new to the order, I went on an expedition to the Deep Roads. We were joined by an outsider to our order, but one who had familiarity with the areas we were exploring. The king of Ferelden, Maric Theirin.” She turned to look out the window. “It is a long story, so I will not bother you with the details, but the two of us became separated for the others for quite some time, faced many dangers together, and we… grew close.” She lowered her eyes, fingers twisting together. “Some months later, I traveled to Denerim to bring him his son. Our son.”
“Wait.” Alistair narrowed his eyes and peered at Fiona, trying to guess her age. If she had been new to the Order, if she’d known Maric then… “You’re saying— you’re— you’re…” Alistair’s head swam with the impossibility of the truth that was sitting in front of him. Of the… mother? that was sitting in front of him? He lifted a hand up to his chest, to the symbol of Andraste that always hung around his neck, beneath his tunic. “No. No. My mother was a human serving maid at Redcliffe Castle, who died when… who died— Eamon told me— everyone told me—“ He shook his head violently. “I don’t understand. Why—“
“To protect you,” Fiona said gently, “and to protect your father from the danger you posed. Was it a mistake? Possibly. But I was no longer a Grey Warden; I had to return to the Circles, or run and be branded an apostate. I couldn’t have kept you in the Circle, and being on the run from the Chantry is no life for an infant. And I didn’t want your life tainted by my elven heritage. So I told Maric to let you believe your mother a human, and otherwise to make his own decisions about your care, believing him to be in the best position to balance your needs with his. Perhaps it is he who made the wrong choice; there is no one else left but you who can say.” She lifted her eyes to him, and tears sparkled in her lashes. “Regardless, I am sorry.”
Alistair reached behind his neck and pulled a chain over his head, then nestled the cracked and mended amulet that hung off it in his hand, closing his fingers around it before opening them again and holding it out to Fiona. “Is this yours?”
Fiona reached out and took the amulet, turning it over in her hands to examine it closely. “I don’t recognize it,” she said. “Were you told it belonged to your mother?” Alistair could only nod; in response, she shook her head. “To be frank, I was never the greatest believer in Andraste. I don’t recall owning a token of this sort, and can’t imagine I would have done so. I’m sorry.”
She handed the amulet to him; it was all Alistair could do to take it back without throwing it against the wall, as he had so many years ago. That had been the act of an impulsive and angry child, not a grown man who had learned to manage his emotions. Instead, he tucked it into his pocket as he stood. “I don’t know what to think, or say. Whether to thank you or to curse you or to walk away without another word. I wish I had known all this a long time ago.”
“I do, too.” Fiona swiped at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, or your father, or the arl — though I don’t know how much the arl was told. Teagan at least betrayed no sign, if he knew.”
“Teagan would have told me,” Alistair said, though as he spoke the words, he wondered at them. What reason would Teagan have had to hide this truth, once Fiona came to Redcliffe? No, he decided. In the end, he had to trust someone, and Teagan was the only real option. “He would have told me,” he said again, with more conviction. “Eamon, though—“ He glanced at his pocket. “I don’t doubt he swiped that amulet from some conveniently-dead serving maid to give the story the ring of truth. To make me feel less alone.” He snorted. “So much for that.”
“I know this will be little comfort to hear from me,” said Fiona, “but you were not alone. Duncan knew of your birth, and he vowed to watch over you.”
“Duncan?” Alistair slid back down into the chair, all the strength taken from his legs. “He…. knew?” It was a whisper, all he could muster. “I assumed from the start that he knew my father’s true identity, but— you?”
“Yes. We were young Wardens together, ready to save the world. He was on the mission with Maric, too, and stationed in Denerim when I brought you there.” Fiona looked down. “I know your tenure with the Wardens ended badly, but…”
Alistair shook his head. “I don’t blame Duncan for that and never did. For awhile, the Grey Wardens were the only family I’d ever had. And maybe— maybe they can be again.” He took a deep breath. “I always wanted a family, you know, more than anything else in the world. I finally found one, and then I threw it away.” He looked up and, unclenching his hand, held it out toward Fiona. “I think I’ve learned not to make that mistake again.”
Fiona reached for his hand and took it with a fierce squeeze, then turned and met his eyes at last. “Alistair,” she murmured, eyes bright with tears. “My dear sweet boy. How much I have missed you.”
And the two of them fell into a companionable silence, sitting together in a quiet corner of the library, hands joined, for a very long time.
-x-
It was some hours later that Alistair gathered some provisions for the journey, picked up Reymound from the stables, and headed out the Skyhold gate. He was not terribly surprised to find Leliana there, waiting, Scout Harding on horseback at her side.
“You got a late start,” she commented.
“Yes, well. Something unexpected came up.” Alistair glanced over his shoulder and up at the library; he couldn’t see Fiona, but deep down he knew she was there at the window, watching. After she finished telling the tale of her Deep Roads adventure, they hadn’t said much more to each other; it didn’t feel like there was much more to say. But he had promised to write, and something about that felt right. He supposed Leliana would discover the truth of their connection eventually. “I hope I didn’t leave you waiting.”
Leliana shook her head. “I asked to receive word as soon as you headed for the stables. I wanted to see you off, and to give you a present.” She gestured to the scout. “Harding is headed off toward Antiva anyway, on another errand for me. I thought you might appreciate someone to watch your back.”
Alistair looked at the dwarf, who nodded at him. “Of course,” he said. “Always good to have company on a long ride.” And he realized he meant it. He’d been alone for more than long enough.
Harding grinned. “Glad to hear it.”
“And one other thing.” Leliana stepped closer and held up a rolled sheet of parchment. “Here’s a copy of that letter I told you about. I hope it helps you find everything you’re looking for.”
Everything he was looking for. It took at effort not to turn around and look at the tower again. He’d stopped searching for family, and then by chance he’d found it anyway. Maybe other things he’d stopped looking for might present themselves, too. “Thanks.” Alistair took the letter and slid it in his pack. He’d read it later, maybe. If he could get away from the scout for a few minutes. “For everything,” he added.
She smiled, and rested her hand on his leg, right above his boot. “I’m glad you came,” she murmured.
“Me too.” Alistair laid his hand atop hers, and swallowed down the lump forming in his throat; who knew when he might see Leliana again, if ever? But to see her, to know that redemption might be possible, was the greatest gift he’d ever been given. “Good luck.”
“You too.” She squeezed his leg, then pulled away; Alistair twitched the reins and Reymound began a brisk walk, Scout Harding just behind him, and he rode through the gates without looking back.
