**This is the sequel to Mother of Griffins. You can start with this story if you want. I try to recap but it might not all make sense.
I love to know what you think. Recommendations, feelings, thoughts any of it. Even if it's an old chapter. Please feel free to leave reviews. They are welcome.
Displaced dirt floated through the air, settling to the ground as the battlefield calmed. Soldiers collected fallen allies, counting casualties as others built pyres. The standing aided the injured, walking back to the supply camp to be healed. Red tinged the creek running through the ravine, meeting up with the larger river ahead. Blood of enemies and allies soaked the ground and dripped into the waterway. Few remaining enemies retreated to the river, only to be taken down by the Inquisitor and her party on their journey to the elven temple. Though the battle proved a victory for the Inquisition, the losses continued to climb.
But Caoilainn lived. The breath of those surrounding the Grand Enchanter while she worked to heal the Warden Commander released in unison, echoing through the gully when Caoilainn's gasp confirmed her survival.
"Maker!" Alistair yelled, watching Caoilainn emerge from his arms. Starving for air, she lunged forward her fingers grazing her neck as she heaved. "Thank the Maker, Caoilainn. You're alive."
It took but a moment for her heaving to mellow, breath caught, quenched by the humid air of the Arbor Wilds. Her palm came to her forehead and slid past her hairline as she observed her surroundings. The dark emptiness that had engulfed her faded away, dissolving. Eyes wide, she reoriented herself with consciousness and the environment.
Body regulated, breathing normalized, and life aligned with memory, she turned to Alistair, resting on her knees. The people surrounding them made space though Fiona stayed nearby to monitor Caoilainn.
Large silvery-blue eyes locked with Alistair's concerned hazel stare. Seconds dragged; her watery gaze, grateful and tired mirroring the energy of the ravine. Her cheeks cooled from the rush of heat flowing through. Alistair's discomfort, present on his face and lined by worry called her attention.
Her history haunted what should have been a loving reunion. She recalled her shame; Alistair's anger from the night before replayed in her mind. 'Ten fucking years, Caoilainn. I'm done trying.'
She had been doubtful of her worthiness for Alistair, and lured into the convenience and chemistry with her Lieutenant; she had cheated. Ten years of infidelity resulted from her weakness of will, compounded by grief, and magnified by her infertility; she had used Nathaniel as a distraction. But Alistair's confidence and his persistent devotion to remedy their relationship won over her defenses, breaking down her walls when he found her at Skyhold prior the journey to the Arbor Wilds.
Though she had still questioned her worth, she told Nathaniel of the end of their casual amour in favor of her commitment to Alistair the night before the battle. But Alistair assumed the worst of the conversation and projected years of repressed anger in one short argument, resigning his willingness to continue their marriage.
Determined to have another chance with him, Caoilainn abandoned her post with the Wardens during the battle at the Arbor Wilds that day. In a decisive moment, she made Alistair her priority and put aside her responsibilities as Warden Commander. It resulted in the nearly fatal blow from which she just woke.
Now having been revived, she knelt across from Alistair, wordless. Her brows wrinkled in a plea, begging for forgiveness as her mouth turned to an awkward grin. Caoilainn laughed, lacking any other reasonable response to the strange emotions troubling her. Her simper, a giggle that grew to an inviting chuckle, asking Alistair to agree with the ridiculousness of their situation.
Alistair did not agree. The sound of her laughter he had but moments ago feared he would never hear again now insulted his presumptive grief. Fear and sorrow had led his imagination to the harrowing reality of life without Caoilainn while he waited for her to survive, and now she laughed. Rather than join the humor, his concern grew annoyed and frustrated. A stern face, displeasure expressed by creased brows and a frown though his playful sarcasm carried through his interruption.
"She thinks this is funny," Alistair's shook his head and spoke to Fiona before scolding Caoilainn. "Not funny, Caoilainn. What on earth were you thinking? Why would you do that?" He referred to her heroic escapades, jumping in front of an enemy who targeted Alistair. It caused the need for her revival by the Grand Enchanter who sat near them in the ravine.
Provoked by the prospect of Caoilainn's death, Fiona's own guilt as an absent mother had produced images of a conversation with her son about loss. She had hoped her words would resonate with him and perhaps he would remember them later. But it had been a vain wish, just a fantasy erased when Caoilainn awoke.
Fiona simpered and occupied herself with the kit of healing elements at her side, attempting to avoid their tiff.
Caoilainn's laughter stopped and her emotions drew inward. A proud chin and bunched lips reserved her expression as she replied shortly, "I saved you."
"Yeah?" He challenged, brows raised. "I can take a beating in a battle, Caoilainn. You know that. That was about something else entirely and you know it."
"You were outnumbered," she added, the maintenance of her composure dismissed his accusation.
"Oh? That, of course. Outnumbered. Because that never happens to me." Desperate for explanations, Alistair's voice rose; his loving and irritated interrogation continued. "I'm a king now not a delicate flower."
A decade had passed since they fought side by side during the Blight. After taking the throne, Caoilainn became Commander of the Grey and dedicated herself to rebuilding the Order. Alistair's responsibilities as Ferelden's King kept him in Denerim.
Silent, stubborn, Caoilainn waited for him to end his line of questions. The teary twinkle in her eye the only clue to the impact of his words.
His arms came to her shoulders. Fraught, he held her, forehead wrinkling with earnest. "Were you trying to prove that you love me?" He asked, and she stared back, her chin nodding an answer ever so slightly. "Damn it, Caoilainn. I know that."
Tears pooled, but her steady frown and serious stare didn't falter.
Overwhelmed with aggravation at her lack of response, he bowed his forehead to meet hers. With a long blink, Alistair released a stretched, tired sigh, revisiting all the sad images that bled through his imagination when he thought he lost her. "I would never forgive you if you had…." He looked away. The end of the statement hovered; the word that followed far too real considering the recent possibility of her death.
Caoilainn's hand rose and met his cheek, her pinky-finger dragging past his jaw, guiding his face to their gaze. "Stop," she murmured with comfort and compassion. The bob of her head and the widening of her eyes conveyed the intensity of her words. "Alistair, I'm right here. I didn't." She respected his difficulty with the word 'die.'
Leaning in, her lips met his. But Alistair did not reciprocate her kiss. He stared back, frowning and surprised by her affection. When she pulled away his arms wrapped around her frame, bringing her in for an embrace. His hand rested on that back of her head; their cheeks touched, and he whispered in her ear. "Don't do that again." Head tilted down and brows raised as his eyes tracked the collection of people standing nearby, he informed, "We have more to talk about…but it can wait until we have less company." He rose from the ground and offered her a hand.
She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear before grabbing his hand and rising. She stood across from him, luring eye contact from beneath long lashes and reminded, "I love you, Alistair."
"I know," he replied with a short-lived grin, avoiding her eyes. Joy hindered by confusion, complex emotions prevented his return of her message.
Her hopeful and apologetic eyes searched him for more, unfamiliar with Alistair's curtness, at least in this context. He gave her another weak smile before the two divided- Alistair back to his advisors and Caoilainn to gather with her army.
Bodies moved to pyres, built and burned in reverence to the dead, observed in silence. The armies marched back to the forward camp through the rest of the day and night. Chattering through their formation, the trip back relaxed but purposeful. The losses, higher than predicted, did not hamper the confidence provided by their victory.
"What's wrong, Lieutenant? You ain't looking so great." Hale questioned Nathaniel on their walk back. He had been quiet since the battle, despite the pleasant environment.
Nathaniel's vision of Caoilainn's death brought to light his own shame for their affair, resulting in a complete emotional shutdown. Old patterns found him: avoiding sadness with casual partners and pushing away those who cared. In this case, Hale. He had projected his guilt onto the young woman, considering the parallels of his friendship with Caoilainn and what seemed to be a growing relationship with Hale. The similarities unnerved him.
"I'm fine," he fell back into the avoidant trait and caught himself. "We'll talk more later." Though he lacked the desire to talk about anything, considering how he imagined Hale's behavior- matching her age, immature and selfish- he couldn't leave her in the dark.
Talking to Caoilainn would no longer be an option. His gaze wandered to the Warden Commander, riding alone at the head of the Warden army. Many senior Wardens approached her to share their relief of her survival. She smiled and nodded, then resumed her slow trot.
Colors appeared brighter than ever before and perfumed scents of nature filled Caoilainn's nose as if for the first time. The sea of greens surrounded them, delicate vines drooped from boughs, and flowers grew from cracks in trees. A new experience, marching back to the forward camp with a different appreciation for life. Each breath filled her lungs with clean air, nature nourishing her soul, rejuvenating her.
That is until she coughed. A quiet fit to clear her throat, it lasted longer than expected and the itch never seemed to disappear. Between the noise and activity of the march, no one noticed, and it passed. My body is still healing. She assumed a reasonable explanation and played off the symptom though she rode with less vigor.
Other things occupied her mind. Alistair's distance. It was unusual, unlike him to withhold affection, to not reciprocate an 'I love you.' She feared his commitment to the decision at the end of their argument the night before. Daring feats had not been enough to prove her love and devotion. We'll work this out. She reminded herself. Of course, their resolution wouldn't be simple, she had to remember this as she prepared for their conversation.
The ride back to the forward camp drained the already tired armies. Well into the night, they arrived. Tents set and camps divided with minimal effort despite the dark, almost a habit at this point in their journey.
Upon arrival, Caoilainn found a place to bathe and change. Washing the dried blood over healed wounds and cleaning her hair from the dirt and leaves matted in. She brushed tangles out with her fingers and braided her ashen-blonde locks. Groomed, clean, her armor presentable again, she set to find Alistair.
Desire for integrity and absolution drove each step. The decision to end her adulterous trysts with Nathaniel brought with it resolute commitment and certainty of her love for Alistair. She had lost this clarity long ago; after their coronation, when her sadness grew to resentment, then merged with guilt when the affair began. Now determined to reclaim what she lost, freed from internal questions of loyalty, and willing to accept whatever consequences Alistair would require to absolve her misdeeds, she found his tent.
Her nervous heart pounded, unsure how he would receive her. Shoulders back, chin held high, her confidence masked her anxiety; deliberate steps brought her into Alistair's tent. She moved the flap and entered without asking.
Eyes homed on him sitting on his cot, removing his boots. He glanced up when she entered before looking back to his feet without speaking.
"You wanted to talk?" Caoilainn inquired; she braced herself for his response.
This is new. Alistair noticed the change in her behavior as out of the ordinary; Caoilainn rarely sought conversation risking potential for conflict. Having kicked off his boots, he leaned back on the cot. His palms rested behind him, and he gave a lazy grin as he evaluated the situation. "You're eager to talk and I didn't have to hunt you down. I could get used to this."
Caoilainn's cheeks flushed for a moment before she took a few long strides toward him. Feet pressed into the ground in a wide stance, she crossed her arms. A half-smirk broke through her serious posture. "I do, Alistair. I want to put the past behind us."
His head nodded side to side, weighing her response before he gave his. A crooked smile, partly a frown, and a raised brow examined her reaction. He needed to tell her the truth, regardless of its unpleasantness. "If only we could put the past behind us. I wish it were that easy. Caoilainn, I'm so happy you're alive. Truly. But I'm still angry about Howe. Livid, even." The temperature on his face rose with his tone. His breath caught, "When I thought I lost you, I realized all the things I wished I'd said. The things I needed to say."
It would be easy to forgive her. Effortless pardoning of her transgressions might permit them to bury the past and live happily ever after. But he had tried that already. He knew about her affair from the beginning. Feigning ignorance with hopes she would cease her illicit interactions only enabled her to continue. Even upon finding her at Skyhold, he diminished his anger and attempted to placate. The night before the battle, Alistair's rage finally boiled to the surface. With it, he found vivid obstinance.
No longer willing to pacify for her convenience, even if it conflicted with his relief for her survival, he did not abandon himself.
She met his rise and fall of anger with an astute nod. Alistair had told her of his feelings days ago but he minimized it in efforts to rekindle their love. She realized this now. Prepared to accept the consequence of her actions, but also desiring to reason with him, she searched for words in her reply. "I haven't… been with him since you came to Skyhold, Alistair. I told him we're through."
Alistair snorted, and his head leaned back before returning to their conversation in a biting tone. "You know, I figured as much. And yet, I'm still angry." He paused, again noticing when he spoke of the anger, his anger grew. Leaning forward, his elbows rested on his knees, fingers touched, and he shook his head. "Of all the men, Caoilainn. I can't stand him. He's a miserable excuse for a man. And what you did was wrong."
Within his vision of Caoilainn's death, Alistair projected Nathaniel as far too bold in his demeanor, speaking of her as if they were friends. He abused his position as Caoilainn's successor as Warden Commander and made Alistair's work as King with the Wardens even more difficult. The bitterness of the memory still lingered but Alistair kept the images to himself.
"I know that," she answered. Chin lifted higher, taking his words with vigilance. His expression of anger had reason to be far more reactive, and she appreciated his tamed demeanor. "And I'm sorry."
"And I believe that to be true," he squinted, studying her bold elegance returning with full force. Her apology didn't seem to make him any less embittered.
"Alistair, I still have to lead him," she shared her concern, uncrossing her arms and opening her palms. She pleaded, rather than growing defensive. The ease at which she could act on her volatile nature and yell, lose her temper and ignore Alistair's emotions tempted her. But she acknowledged escalating their arguments had never been effective; it did little more than create dissonance and rarely provided resolution. Despite her frustration with Alistair's resistance to her apology, she remained calm. "He's my best Lieutenant. When I go back to Vigil's Keep-"
"You keep saying that," Alistair interrupted, referencing the conversation they had by the pond a few days prior. His nose scrunched and his hand lifted to illustrate his quotation of her words. "'When I go back.' How are you so sure you'll go back?"
"What do you mean?" Her brow furrowed, and her head tilted to the side.
"Well, you're here for Morrigan to find the cure, right? That's kind of the whole reason we're in this mess. So what if she finds it?" He took a moment to study her body language in response to his critical evaluation. "Caoilainn, we won't be Grey Wardens anymore."
Her shoulders slouched and her eyes grew larger but she didn't reply.
"There it is. That's what I thought," he grinned, but his words stabbed with resentment. He pointed at her. "You haven't thought that far ahead." The anger made him bolder, he named her shortsightedness.
Caoilainn couldn't lie. She hadn't considered the rippling effects of being without the Taint. The lack of forethought embarrassed her. "It's hard to imagine life without the bond."
"Tell me about it," he gave a sour chuckle, forehead lifting. "I've done it since you left the palace. But my blood still craves it." Alistair had never explained the challenges of being without the Wardens to anyone; another area of long-held resentment toward Caoilainn he had denied himself.
"Oh…," the news hit her with force; yet another reminder of her selfishness. Her life revolved around the Grey Warden connection, its significance something she endorsed to her army. But she never considered what it would be like for Alistair to live without it. "You never told me."
"You never asked and I couldn't reach you."
Shaking her head, she closed the space between them and knelt at Alistair's feet. Her head ducked beneath his, her hands rested on his knees, looking up from her place beneath him. "I'm sorry. I know that's not enough but I'm so sorry for everything. Alistair, please forgive me." Give me the chance to make it up to you.
His palm cradled her cheek, and he dipped his head. A sad but playful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No matter how angry I am, it won't stop me from loving you… and that's despite my best efforts. But I need time, my Queen." His last statement was final.
Lips tightened in a grim smile, she gave a short nod. A sinking feeling in her chest pulled her attention away. She used his knees as leverage and rose from the ground. "We'll talk more at Skyhold?"
"We will," he confirmed, leaning back on his cot again. "For now, I want to focus on getting out of Orlais."
A chuckle escaped her; the only response she could think of under these circumstances. Resigned of efforts to pursue him further, and uncomfortable with her obvious inexperience with Alistair needing space, she turned to walk from his tent.
Before Caoilainn could take a step, Alistair pushed off his cot and reached for her hand. He pulled her in, arms wrapped around her waist, requiring hers to reach around his neck. His nose nuzzled into the crook of her neck.
Silence held respect for pain and shared wariness of the path toward resolution. Their embrace released, and she withheld a sigh. Reluctant, heart heavy, Caoilainn returned to her tent. He needs time, she assured herself in response to thoughts of his dejection and her wish to allay his pain.