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Watching Loghain’s army march in the opposite direction from the top of the tower was surreal. Alistair could only stare after them, unable to properly process what Loghain had done. Someone grabbed his wrist, jarring him from a stupor, and he turned to see a rain-drenched and wide-eyed Aedan.
“Alistair!” Aedan had to shout to be heard over the sound of the storm and battle below, and Alistair got the sense he had yelled his name a few times before he’d noticed. “We have to get to Duncan and the king!”
That snapped Alistair out of the confusing, whirling thoughts. Aedan was right. Duncan would need them, now more than ever. Cold rainwater trickled down the back of his neck, and he drew his sword.
Kip began barking and snarling viciously and they turned to the door— their only escape from the tall tower— just in time to see a horde of dark spawn break the door down and pour into the chamber.
Before Alistair could even blink, a handful of the genlocks got a shot off and Aedan went down under a flurry of arrows that thumped into him with a sickening sound.
“No,” Alistair barely managed to gasp before he had to lift his shield to ward off a blow from the first hurlock that had already reached him.
They were overwhelmed within seconds. Alistair fought for his life, keeping his shield up and swinging his sword to exhaustion and burning muscles. He was shaking with fatigue by the time he fell to one knee beside Aedan’s sprawled and still form, but he managed to keep his shield up as he was battered by the clubs and maces that the darkspawn wielded. It was only then that he noticed the arrow buried in the meat of his thigh, and another just above his hip. He didn’t know if they had come from the same volley that had struck Aedan down or if they’d been lucky shots during the fight after.
What he did know was that he wasn’t going to last much longer. The soldier and mage that had joined them to battle their way to the top of the tower were nowhere in sight, and he had no way to know if they were dead or alive. He wasn’t sure where Kip had gotten too, but he could still hear her barking and snarling and the screeches of her victims. Aedan should have been at her side with whirling daggers and well-placed flask grenades, but Alistair now looked down to see a horrific amount of arrows buried in the ex-noble’s shoulder, chest, even one that had completely skewered itself in his neck. There was a puddle of blood pooling under him, and more trickled from his nose as his chest weakly spasmed. His eyes were barely open enough for Alistair to see unshed tears glimmering in the torchlight, and he already had the waxy appearance of a corpse.
This was all wrong. Lighting the signal fire should have been a safe job, and ushered in Loghain’s army to crush the darkspawn against Cailan’s army. They’d return to Duncan once the armies had wiped out a larger portion of the darkspawn horde, and he would take them on to defeat the archdemon and end this Blight.
The weapons continued to batter down on him as the darkspawn roared and screeched in victory, and Alistair could feel his shield breaking under the assault.
I’m sorry, Duncan.
Thunder boomed, loud enough that the stone of the tower vibrated beneath him, then the sound of stone walls being struck with enough force to bring them down came as the darkspawn screeches took on a more frantic tone.
Before Alistair could see what was causing the additional commotion, something hit him like a huge hand, slamming him to the floor with bruising force. He heard himself wheeze as if from a distance, and his vision cleared enough for him to make out his broken shield beside him, and beyond that, Aedan’s bloodied corpse.
Hot breath washed down the back of Alistair’s neck, and he knew it was the end. He regretted failing Duncan, and the whole of Ferelden, but it was out of his hands now. It was up to someone else to end this Blight, and he didn’t envy them the job one bit.
Whatever it was at his back pushed down on him, crushing the breath from his lungs, and everything went black.
***
Alistair awoke with a gasp, nearly flinging himself upright before the weight of his injuries tried to drag him back down. Acting purely on instinct, he kicked out with his feet to push himself backwards, and then there was a confusing tilt before a heavy landing and he found himself on the floor. His heart was racing, his breath coming in huge gasps, and it took him a long moment before he realized he was curled up beside a small cot with his back pressed against a wall. His ribs ached and his neck was stiff, and his arms and legs felt like jelly that trembled near violently when he tried to move them.
“Be still!” A vaguely familiar voice ordered from nearby as something clattered and moved in the more dimly lit part of the room, “You’ll only injure yourself further, you fool.”
“What— Where— Ah—”
Each wheeze made his ribs ache more, and moving his arm to a more protective position made him suddenly and very aware that his shield arm was at least badly bruised if not fractured. Panic hummed in his veins as he hunched around the pain, and he tried to take a few deep, calming breaths.
It didn’t really seem to help, but he forced himself to focus and tried to take in more of his surroundings, pushing the pain down to deal with later.
He didn’t recognize the building he was in; a well tended fire crackled in a fieldstone fireplace and the furniture was roughly made, but it was the smell of strange herbs and something acrid that overwhelmed him. Someone moved on the other side of the cot he’d fallen off of, startling him badly, and he flinched back before recognizing Morrigan, the witch of the wilds that they had encountered at the Gray Warden tower. His eyes caught on more movement behind her, and he saw her mother pull an arrow out of what looked like a corpse, but it was familiar—
No. No, don’t think about that.
Alistair slammed his eyes shut and his head thumped against the wall, as if he could block out his suddenly very overwhelming thoughts and reality.
Definitely don’t think about how everyone who you cared about and who gave a damn about you is now dead.
Alistair lurched up off the ground, using the cot to drag himself upright before stumbling and dropping heavily to one knee when the arrow wounds made themselves known again by flaring pain in his hip and thigh.
“Do not—!” Morrigan’s voice was shrill, and despite having a good six inches of height and at least another 50 pounds of weight on her, she was not the least bit afraid of him. Morrigan moved as if to grab his arm, but he flinched strongly enough that he fell back against the wall again.
“Don’t—” Alistair lifted his good hand defensively to fend her off, and heard the panic cracking his voice. He took another shuddering breath and shook his head, and Morrigan thankfully kept her distance while keeping a wary eye on him. “Don’t touch me.”
He spotted his trousers hanging off the back of a chair and lurched upright to snatch them up, and then his shirt. Morrigan sighed loudly and put her hands on her hips while rolling her eyes.
“You are not yet fully healed! You’re going to hurt yourself further if you persist in this manner.”
His clothes were slightly damp, and the lack of bloodstains around the torn edges indicated that someone had already expertly washed them. He yanked them on despite the dampness, feeling like he was pulling on at least a thin layer of armour over the raw and fractured state of his mind. His shield arm ached abominably, but he was able to use the stiff fingers to dress himself. He automatically looked around for his armour, but it was laying on the floor in a pile along with… with pieces of leather armour, and he could see more blood and grime without even picking it up. He left it all where it lay and forced himself to look at the other cot in the room.
To his shock, it was Aedan, unconscious but somehow breathing and laid out on a cot that was just barely wide enough for his broad shoulders. A brief flicker of hope ignited in Alistair’s chest; he wasn’t alone, he wasn't the sole survivor of a horrific event that had essentially ended life and the world as he knew it. Before he could really feel relief, though, he was hit by the memory of how Aedan had looked like a pin cushion during his last moments of consciousness at the top of that tower.
The arrows were gone now, but blood still trickled from wounds and Aedan’s weak breathing was wet and painful sounding. It didn’t seem possible for anyone to survive such injuries; not even plucky ex-noble rogues. Flemeth was working quickly and without any particular gentleness, packing arrow wounds with some sort of herbal poultice. Aedan stiffened on the cot, his back arching in response to the painful-looking treatment, before he coughed wetly and choked on his next breath.
“Mother,” Morrigan started with a warning note in her voice.
“I’m aware.” Flemeth said waspishly. “If you’ve a mind, I could use your assistance.”
Blood suddenly flowed from mouth, nose, and throat injury alike, spilling across Aedan’s waxy skin. He coughed and choked and his breathing stopped, and in a fit of mortal terror Alistair fled out the nearest door rather than stay and watch Aedan die again.
It was dark outside, but he could tell the sun would be rising soon. The air was crisp and cool, but surprisingly not as cold as he expected of Ferelden for this time of year. It took him a moment, but he finally recognized the hut as belonging to Flemeth, the same one that they’d come to in search of the Grey Warden treaties.
Oh, Maker.
Alistair limped to the edge of the water and looked out across the small lake. His breath was still coming in huge, shuddering gasps that made his whole body ache. The thoughts that his mind was trying to protect him from were beginning to sink in. They were all dead, and he’d been too cowardly to keep vigil while the last of them died. He was used to loneliness, but this went deeper, leaving an aching void in his chest that felt like he could fall into forever if he let himself. Duncan, the entirety of the Ferelden Order of Grey Wardens, Cailan, Aedan, every soldier and civilian at Ostagar that had been relying on them…
Dead and gone, while the darkspawn raged on and the Blight spread with it across the country. He knew there were more Grey Wardens in other countries, but the nearest was Orlais, which meant this was beyond catastrophic. There was no way he’d be able to reach them in time to return with help. Even if he had all the knowledge and experience of the most grizzled Warden, he was still alone.
His knees went weak and he sat down heavily on the ground, not caring that the grass was damp enough to soak through the material of his trousers.
Something huffed somewhere nearby, startling him, but he quickly recognized Kip when she came and gently nudged him with her nose. She was damp and dirty, and apparently had just arrived after walking there alone. How the mabari had known where to find them, he’d never know. He didn’t even know how they had gotten there.
The big war hound nudged him with her broad forehead, hard, and huffed at him as if impatient. He automatically put his hand out to stroke down her side, looking her over for any obvious injuries, but other than a scrape here and there she seemed fine. She shifted restlessly on her feet, sniffing him and then the ground as she looked for her real target.
“He was hurt,” Alistair managed to say before his voice broke, and he couldn’t speak anymore.
Kip sat down next to him with a whine, leaning into him hard enough he had to brace himself to hold them both up, and she licked a slobbery tongue up the side of his face.
It was gross, and she smelled like a wet dog, and she was a huge mabari war hound that was not a pet or lap dog, but Alistair wrapped his good arm around her and buried his face in her fur. She whined again but leaned harder into him and stayed put.
“What are you doing out here, boy?”
He didn’t know how long they had sat out there, but Alistair thought his heart leapt into his throat as he jolted, unaware that the old woman– Flemeth– had somehow snuck up on him. Even Kip startled a bit, but it might have been in reaction to him jumping. She still growled quiet and low in her throat, but other than tossing a disdainful look at both Alistair and Flemeth, she didn’t move from where she sat. Alistair had to blink, feeling like he had somehow woken up while already being awake, but everything was still bleary. He’d been hugging Kip and leaning heavily on her, so his front was warm but now he was becoming painfully aware of how cold the wet ground was.
“I said: what are you doing out here, boy?” Flemeth strode up to him. Despite being an old woman in rags, something about the look in her eye and the way she moved tweaked something in his hindbrain and Alistair found himself leaping to his feet without consciously meaning to. Being upright so suddenly made his head swim, but Kip pressed against his legs and steadied him while he swayed.
“I’ll— we’ll be on our way, soon, I just needed to—”
“What, without your Grey Warden armour and weapons?” Flemeth’s yellow eyes seemed to glow from within, and despite her being even a little smaller than Morrigan he felt like a mouse under a hawk’s hungry gaze. “I thought you were a noble Order with a sense of propriety. Now that you’re upright, it’s your responsibility to deal with the deadweight I dragged off that tower.”
Alistair closed his eyes, swallowed. His fingers dug into Kip’s warm fur, and she headbutted his thigh.
“Yes, I just… need to gather my strength before I can bury him, and then we’ll—”
“Bury him?” Flemeth scoffed. “There’s no need for a funeral, Warden, although we may need to burn some of your gear. The Blight taint is strong in dark spawn blood.”
Alistair was struck speechless for a moment. Part of him wanted to believe her, but no one could survive injuries like those inflicted on Aedan. Flemeth was just standing there, looking at him, a smirk on her face as she looked at him expectantly.
“Don’t toy with me.” He finally managed, looking away from that mocking stare. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Ha!”
Flemeth’s scoff was followed by the sound of the hut door creaking open, and Kip gave a soft ‘boof’ before trotting away from Alistair. His side felt cold once she was gone.
Alistair couldn’t move, could barely breathe, until Aedan stepped into his line of sight. The newest Grey Warden still looked half-dead on his feet and had bandages wrapped around his throat, but he touched Alistair’s elbow with a look of concern on his face and opened his mouth to speak before grimacing and reaching for his own throat.
“Don’t try to speak, yet.” Flemeth chided him. “You must let it heal, but be warned: your voice may never come easily again.”
That knowledge made Alistair flinch, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Aedan, relief crowding his lungs in his chest.
“You’re alive.” Alistair finally managed to say. “I didn’t… I thought you were… Are you alright?”
Despite everything, Aedan’s smile was still the best thing that Alistair could have hoped to see.
***