Author's Note: I looked on FF for a story that utilizes this theme, and, though I have found some, I wasn't too happy with how they were done. So I'm attempting it myself. Hopefully it isn't too awful.
At a point of technical unconsciousness, in a state in which a person should only be facing an ominous abyss, there was a thought. This certain thought mainly pertained to a reflection upon a mistake which held dire consequences for whom it belonged. It replayed over and over, detailing the gory catalyst with which it became clear to the one who made the mistake.
Even unconscious, he realized just how foolish he had been.
How was he then to go about rectifying this mistake? There was certainly no way for him to venture back in time to see it undone. So it only left the future as a possible means to fix it. That was a problem, you see, for it looked as though he would have no future. There was the battering of his ribs, the tangling of his insides, and the crack of his skull; such hurdles to overcome. If he did manage to recover, it would undoubtedly be a long while before he would be capable of fixing anything.
It was a grim thought, death. He hadn't really thought about it—not when his father died, not when his mother died. Really, he was much too focused on other matters, all which now seemed like mere trifles. He was beginning to travel from that previous thought, the one that was only about his big mistake. He was now moving on to things that seemed much more vital, like whether he was going to live or die.
He didn't want to die. Maker, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live, and he wanted to continue doing so for many long and happy years.
But it seemed like that wasn't going to be the case. Again, there were the various staggering injuries. Just one of them would be enough to be possibly fatal, but all them together would take a miracle to heal… Or a mage. If he was near-death, then the mages must have already gone.
Just how many were dead?
His thoughts went back to the mistake, which replayed over a few more times.
How was he going to live? Was there anything he could do? He couldn't feel his body and his thoughts seemed distant. The only thing he could do was hope that somebody would save him before it was too late. How pitiful—a king waiting for someone to come rescue him. He was sore disappointment to his country… To his father. Perhaps that was why he went and fooled around with one of the maids; to see if she would give him a real son. Well, he got what he wanted, didn't he? A Grey Warden for a son. How exciting.
He really shouldn't be bitter. If anything, he should be thinking positive thoughts and praying to the Maker. He would, if his thoughts didn't seem so incorporeal. It seemed like they were floating around in the darkness—they were there, but he just couldn't grasp them for they were like smoke. Smoke, haze… Something fogging up the abyss, he guessed. He couldn't really see them, but he couldn't see anything. Hell, even the darkness wasn't really black; it was more like just some hollow space.
He was beginning to confuse himself. Was the smoke fading into itself? Or was it "itselves?" He was even more confused now…
The mistake replayed again.
Duncan was dead, wasn't he?
What a depressing thought. He shouldn't be surprised though. He was pretty sure everyone was dead, and he was on his way to join them. Or was he already there? Was this what death was like? He hoped not, for it would seem awfully unpleasant to spend forever in such a disorienting state. And what about the Fade? He'd heard stories about it, and this was not it. Whatever "this" was.
Something felt different. Like an acute awareness now that was previously shut off. He had the sudden tinge of feeling of his body, and what he felt was agonizing. Maker, was he in so much pain. He wished that was still unfeeling and in that disconcerting obscurity.
Everything went numb again and his thoughts disappeared.
There was a similar feeling of regaining awareness, but it was different this time. This time, it was a full recovery from the haziness. Cailan could hear the sounds of frogs croaking and quiet murmurs of conversation, and he could smell the scent of something cooking over a fire. His stomach growled, which led to a chuckle from someone nearby. He began to test his other senses curiously. He moved his toes first, pleased to find them responding. He could feel something soft under his back. What he couldn't feel, however, was the pain from before.
How pleasing.
He decided to test his sight. He eyes were tightly closed, so he attempted to open them. It resulted in only a slight fluttering (or would be called twitching?) rather than anything else. He wasn't sure if he was unable to open his eyes or if he was scared to. He decided that it wasn't either (for both were a bit demeaning) and attempted further. He was met with success as his eyes opened and blurs of sight greeted him. His head swam, but he recovered quickly.
"And look who has finally decided to wake up. We thought you were dead."
He looked up, seeing a woman staring down at him. She was scantily clothed with short dark hair and a noticeably agitated countenance. "Where am I?" he asked.
"Safe," she replied, walking over to where the soup was cooking. "Much safer than lying nearly dead on a battlefield of hungry darkspawn, I should say. You're very fortunate that the others convinced Mother to save you. 'Tis unlike her to be so generous."
He remained confused. "What?"
She sighed. "You're in the Korcari Wilds," she explained. "The other one is outside. You should join him if you feel well enough to do so…" She observed him through narrowed eyes and fierce scrutiny. "Yes, you should be well enough. Mother is good with healing magic. You look a lot less dead now."
He blinked. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?"
"I remember some things. There was an ogre and—"
"Spare me, I don't care for the details," she said, stirring the pot over the fire. "All you need to know is that you lost and the darkspawn won. Most everyone died, and those who didn't are long gone. Pity, though. To think you would be betrayed—"
"Betrayed?" he interrupted. "What do you mean by betrayed?"
She stopped stirring. "'Tis not my place to tell," she said. "Your brother should tell you. Again, he's outside mourning."
His brother? "Do you mean Alistair?" he asked incredulously.
"I don't care for his name," she said harshly. "I only know that he is your brother. Do you have more than one? Well, your father was a king; they're a bit infamous for their wandering desires, so it wouldn't be too shocking to discover a whole army of them."
He ignored her, instead focusing his thoughts on the fact that his brother was outside and probably waiting for him. He never really cared for his brother, never really liked him, which left unsure how to feel about the fact that he, out of everyone, was alive. Well, he should be happy, right? But that didn't mean he really was. He wasn't sure how to go about speaking to him (which he would inevitably have to). He never really had to speak to him before.
Cailan got up sluggishly, groaning a bit at his back's stiffness. The woman seemed a twinge amused by this, but she was soon distracted by other matters. He watched her add a few ingredients to the pot as he completely rose from the bed. She stirred the pot, and he left the house. Once outside, he understood what she meant by "mourning." Alistair stood by the water, looking out into the swamp with a crestfallen expression. His shoulders were slackened, heavy with the weight of grief. An elderly lady watched from a distance, remaining silent and observant. The king figured that she was the younger woman's mother—the mage who healed them. Cailan looked around awkwardly, unsure of how to start a conversation or if he should start one at all.
"You're awake."
He nearly jumped at the suddenness of Alistair's words. "Yes." He looked around again, nervousness radiating from him. He cleared his throat. "You're alive."
Alistair chuckled with a hint of darkness. "Yes, I am," he said, "but I can't say the same for the others." He turned around and faced Cailan, a look of sore disappointment and sorrow. "So many died. So many good men and woman are gone forever."
He didn't know what to say, but somehow the words "I'm sorry" slipped from his lips.
"What are you sorry for?" he asked sharply. "Are you sorry for losing the battle? Or are you sorry for all the mistakes you made?"
"I—"
"Or are you sorry for the fact that you're still alive to face the consequences?" Cailan was not expecting the frigidness of his half-brother, and it left him nearly speechless. Alistair's face softened, and he rubbed the back of his head. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that… I'm the last."
"The last…?"
"I'm the last Grey Warden in Ferelden."
So they had all died? Cailan was in near turmoil, and it showed on his face as he ran a hand through his hair. It was his fault, he knew this. He had made so many mistakes, which resulted in the near destruction of Grey Wardens in Ferelden and so many other soldiers. There was no way he could make up for this. All he could do now was return to Denerim and figure out a new strategy to stop the Blight. Without Loghain, would he even be able to convince his soldiers to follow him again?
"What are you going to do?" Alistair asked.
"Me?"
He gave him a curious look. "You're the king," he said. "This is your territory, right?"
"Well, yes, but I normally had Loghain help, but since he's dead now—"
"He's not dead," corrected the old lady. She took a few steps towards the men. "No, Teyrn Loghain is very much alive. Do you not remember? He abandoned you to the darkspawn."
Cailan was not expecting to hear that. Loghain had left him to die? He left him? He could hardly comprehend it. Loghain was his father's best friend, a hero of Ferelden, yet he abandoned his king? It didn't make sense, not at all. "Are you sure?" he had to asked. He knew it was true (the witch had no reason to lie), but believing him to be dead seemed so much simpler, so much more real. It was like a bad dream, to wake up with such devastating losses and to find out the man he trusted most—his own father-in-law—saw fit to leave him to die in the midst of a cataclysmic battle. It was overwhelming, and Cailan hadn't the faintest idea what to do.
The woman laughed. She had no idea just how deeply upset the king was. She seemed to be amused by the whole situation, as though it had no effect on her. Thinking about it, Cailan realized that it didn't. She really had no reason to get involved, and still she did and took the time to save his life. "Yes, I'm quite sure. He ordered all of his troops to retreat," she told him.
"But why would Loghain do that?" Alistair demanded.
She seemed dismal as she spoke, which made Cailan wonder how she truly felt about the entire matter. "Now that is a good question," she said. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."
"The archdemon," Alistair breathed.
"What could Loghain hope to gain by betraying me?" Cailan asked.
"The throne?" his half-brother suggested simply. "He's the queen's father. Still, I can't see how he'll get away with trying to kill you."
The woman's brow quirked, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "You speak as if he would be the first king to gain his throne that way," she hissed. "Grow up, boy!"
"If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it!" the Grey Warden objected. "The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!"
Cailan gave him a curious look, perplexed at the notion of a "civil war." He crossed his arms of his chest, feeling confident for the first time since seeing the horde charge at him. "What civil war?" he asked haughtily. "I'm the king. It's as simple as that. There's no need for conflict. All that I need to do is return to Denerim and tell the Landsmeet what happened—if even that. There is no question to my throne. I'm not dead yet."
"Such determination," the woman said with a wry smile. "How intriguing."
Alistair was visibly concerned with something. His brow was knotted together, and his mouth hung open as though he was about to say something. He closed his mouth and licked his lips before finally speaking. "I'm not sure that will be enough." He glanced cautiously at Cailan, unsure how the king would take what he had to say next. "It seems like Loghain is really determined to have you out of the picture. I'm sure that as soon as word spreads that you're alive, he'll come up with some rumor to discredit you in the eyes of the people. Considering what happened at Ostagar was technically your fault, he could probably get away with saying anything."
Cailan flinched at the Warden mentioning that Ostagar was his fault. He knew it was true, yet it still stung like a fresh wound. "Then what do propose we do?" he asked.
"I think we need to go see your uncle, Arl Eamon," he said. "He'll believe you if you tell him what happened, and he'll be on our side when we call a Landsmeet."
The king seemed tentative at the thought of seeing his uncle and of returning to him with his tail tucked between his legs and asking for help. The arl had warned him to not join the Grey Wardens on the battlefield for fear that he would be injured. To admit that Eamon was right and that he had nearly died would certainly damage his pride, but he really hadn't any other options, now did he? And he would have to acknowledge his mistakes at some point (though he really didn't want to).
He conceded, sighing with obvious disdain. "Yes, you're right," he admitted. "We need to go see Eamon first."
"It would seem that you have a plan," the mage noted.
Cailan nodded to her, smiling that charming smile he was well aware he had. "Yes. Thank you for everything you've done for us…" He trailed off pointedly, and the mage knew what he was asking.
"Are you searching for name?" She thought for a second. "Names are pretty but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."
"The Flemeth from the legends?" Alistair's eye widened with a sense of awe. "You're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"
The king had heard of Flemeth, but he had always figured her to be an old wives' tale. He looked her up and down, assessing her. He didn't believe that she was really Flemeth, but rather an old witch deciding to assume the title and permit herself some false authority over those who wandered into the Wilds. He didn't say this. She did save his life after all.
"And what does that mean?" She lifted her chin defiantly, as if daring Alistair to challenge her. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?" His half-brother looked away guiltily. "Now… before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you."
The younger witch emerged from the house then, walking up to the group. She eyed Cailan and Alistair warily before addressing the other woman. "The stew is bubbling, Mother dear," she told her. She glanced again at the two men. "Shall we have two guests for the eve or none?"
Flemeth had a hint of smile, as though she was planning something. Cailan didn't like it. "They'll be leaving shortly, girl." She paused. "And you'll be joining them."
"Such a shame—what?"