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“Would you do something for me?”
Alistair would not remember any of this later on, Aedan would come to find. Most likely, his mind had gone with the first arrow across his chest. Or the second.
Or maybe Aedan himself had only dreamed the whole scene. He had lost enough blood by then to warrant it, if Morrigan’s account of the puddle she had later found him laying in wasn’t at all exaggerated. That Alistair still had strength enough to speak by then, with his body so torn and pierced that only support from the stone wall kept him standing, and Aedan strength enough to hear him over the roar of Ishal’s fire and the clamor of the battle below, was enough already to warrant a doubt. Still…
Something in the way those brown pleading eyes had remained seared into Aedan’s mind for years down the line told him that perhaps this had been more than the blurry vision of a dying man.
“After all of this is done,” Alistair muttered, “When you make it down. Would you tell Duncan...”
His gaze wandered off as blood started trickling down his face from a mean cut on his scalp. He wiped at it, clumsily, as a child would rub sleep from their eyes.
“Would you tell him-”
He swayed on that last word. Aedan meant to lift his arms to catch him, but found he couldn’t raise them high enough - probably on account of the two black arrows of his own, sunk deep between his shoulders. So instead, he let Alistair crash into him, and awkwardly eased him down as best he could, all but slumping to the ground with him in the process.
“Don’t talk,” Aedan groaned, tugging and pushing to get the much taller man sitting with his back to the wall.
Alistair, pliant, made no move to resist. Already Aedan could hear another wave of Spawn make their way up the tower’s stairs, their steps booming with echo - or maybe just within his own faltering mind.
“Save your strength,” he quietly told Alistair, as if there were any point to it, as if they weren’t both already all but dead.
Alistair didn’t show any sign he had heard him. He just blinked up, blurry eyes dazedly searching for Aedan's.
“Would you?” he asked again, with an urgency that made Aedan’s chest cave, "Please."
Aedan didn’t have the heart to tell Alistair he hadn’t even managed to speak the words he wanted so badly for the Warden-Commander to hear. The Spawn were getting closer. What would have been the point?
Why did Aedan even care so much in the first place? As soon as the first arrow had hissed through the air, moments earlier, he should have just relished the chance for the fighting to finally stop. He’d tried to, really. Just drop his shield and let a Spawn blade return him to where he was meant to be, far away from this tower and at the Maker’s side, with his family.
But the way Alistair fought had held him back. The ferocity of if, maybe - the despair. And there Aedan still was, much to his own confusion, gathering the strength to stand back up and, he too, fight for a lost cause.
Alistair wasn’t ready to let him go yet, however. No without his answer. He grabbed weakly at Aedan’s wrist, holding him there.
“Please,” he said, one more time.
Feverish. Two big tears rolled down those freckled cheeks.
Unable to raise his hand to soothe them, in his fogged up mind Aedan settled for the second hazy instinct that came over him. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Alistair's burning forehead.
“I will,” he lied, “Now rest.”