Rain poured from the dark clouds hanging low over the peaks. Blinding flashes of lightning streaked beneath them as thunder rumbled ominously through the valley. With a mournful howl, the wind swept down from the Frostback Mountains, the force of it turning the rain into sharp missiles, relentlessly pelting exposed skin. Caught in the storm, Alistair could scarcely remember the last time he'd seen the sun. He shivered as another blast of frigid air slammed into him. The rain had long since soaked through to his underclothes, the damp cloth and leather chaffing unpleasantly as the day wore on. The stink of wet armour and sweat clung to him, but he was too tired to care. His limbs trembled from exhaustion, from the constant fighting, but he couldn't afford to stop and seek shelter. Redcliffe wasn't far and he was already two days behind schedule. It had been a fruitless trip to Orzammar. The king had granted him an audience out of respect for the part Alistair had played in securing his throne but had ultimately declined to help. With the Blight over, they felt no obligation to involve themselves in another conflict. At least until it landed on their doorstep.
The villagers here were beyond caring, the demons had already found them. Bloodied and broken they lay scattered, eyes vacant, faces contorted by the pain of their final moments. Some still gripped the weapons they'd seized in a futile attempt to protect themselves and their families from the monsters. At the edge of the carnage, the body of a small girl sat propped against a tree, eyes closed as if in sleep, her dark hair still neatly plaited with bright ribbons, her doll just inches from her fingertips. But her limbs were grotesquely twisted, head bent at an unnatural angle. Heart breaking for the loss of innocence, he moved her gently until she lay on the ground, righting her limbs as best he could. Placing the doll on her chest, he whispered a prayer for them. Of their homes, only burning timbers remained. The fires guttered under the persistent rain, painting the landscape with a hellish glow. There was nothing he could do for them now.
Step by gruelling step, he forced his feet to keep moving forwards. Deep gouges scarred the tree trunks on either side of him, littering the ground with chunks of bark. Whole pine trees lay across the road in places, ripped from the ground and tossed aside like kindling. The destruction lessened as he moved higher, out of the valley until finally he stood at the crest of the hill, gazing out over Lake Calenhad. Inky black in the gloom, lights from villages holding out against the chaos flickered like beacons along its shore. Despite the weariness dragging at him, Alistair hesitated. He may have been late but he was in no hurry to return to Redcliffe, to endure the pitying looks, the judgemental sideways glances. But at the very least, warmth and a dry change of clothing awaited him at the castle.
Suddenly, an enraged roar split the air, punctuated by a bolt of lightning. Adrenaline flooded his veins, staving off the debilitating effects of his exhaustion, giving him the strength to draw his sword once more. The path was slick with rain, the footing treacherous as he hurried down the hill towards the rising sounds of battle. Grasping his sword with both hands, Alistair stormed around the bend, heart racing, completely unprepared for what awaited him.
An ethereal figure faced the demon threat, light against the embodied darkness. With blood curdling shrieks and hisses, the creatures lunged forward, slashing with tooth and claw in frenzied attack. Long, lean limbs, clad in the finest dragonskin armour moved with deadly grace, striking out at the enemies surrounding her, parrying their attacks. Two blades of red steel, a longsword and a dagger, glowing as eerily as their owner, felled the monsters with terrifying precision. Only one person carried those weapons. He should know, he'd buried them with her.
As the last demon fell in a twitching heap she dragged her sword free, flicking her wrists to remove any trace of blood from the steel. Heart thudding painfully, he was unable to tear his gaze away as she slid the blades into their sheaths before turning to him. The impact of her gaze was like a punch to the chest, driving the breath from his lungs. Her lips moved, but the wind stole the words away. Weak-kneed, he found himself grateful for the small mercy. This vision was simply another cruel twist from a grief wracked mind, or worse, a demon's temptation.
Another flash of lightning, a crack of thunder and she was gone. Vanished. But the bodies remained. Alistair shook his head, trying to focus. It wasn't possible, yet the demons were slain. His gaze drifted to the sword in his hand. Blood stained the blade. Had he done this? His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until his fingers ached. Clenched teeth held back the despair that fought to be given voice. Maker help him, his mind was more broken than he'd realized.
Anger at his weakness spurred him forward, urging him towards Redcliffe. Eventually, the storm's fury began to subside until only the gentle patter of rain broke the forest's new, unnerving quiet. Even the wolves were silent. Tension crawled along his spine, eyes probing every shadow until the trees finally gave way to fields and he began to pass regular patrols of the Arl's men. Despite the security provided by its proximity to the castle, an air of fearful expectation hovered over Redcliffe village. The streets were largely empty, save for the soldiers keeping watch, a far cry from the lively atmosphere that existed during times of peace. It reminded him of his first homecoming of sorts and the hordes of undead that had greeted them. He'd rather face that again than deal with the sundering of the veil. At least they'd known how to destroy the Archdemon, despite being unaware of the crippling cost. Repairing the barrier to the Fade was something far beyond his ken.
Following the path, Alistair kept his eyes fixed on the towering gates ahead, vividly aware of the sharp drop on either side of the drawbridge. Despite himself, his spirits lifted as he passed through the gatehouse. Once he had been a barely tolerated presence, shipped off to the Chantry at Isolde's screeching insistence when she tired of the rumours. Now, the gates opened with welcome, the Arl and Teagan proudly claiming kinship to him… most of the time. That had been her doing.
Shaking off the thought, he strode across the empty courtyard, giving a curt nod of thanks to the guardsman who jumped forward to open the keep door. Stepping into the great hall, he found Eamon standing by the fire, shoulders stooped. The mabari resting by the Arl's feet raised its head at the intrusion, ears pricking forward. Scenting Alistair, it settled again, dropping its massive head onto its front paws. The years following the Blight had taken their toll on the Arl. Greying hair had given way to white, while deep grooves bracketed his mouth and permanently furrowed his brow. To Eamon's credit, his mind remained as agile and sharp as it had always been, even though the burden of responsibility sat heavier on him each day. Would it have been different had Connor remained here instead of being sent to the Circle? Alistair had no way of knowing, nor had the choice been his to make.
"Ah, there you are Alistair. We were beginning to worry." A welcoming smile lit Eamon's features but did little to disguise the concern in his eyes as he took in the sight of his bedraggled nephew.
Alistair pointedly ignored it, "The dwarves refuse to help. The King made a show of discussing our request with the Assembly but the answer was no from the start."
"Ah, it is as we expected then," Eamon's disappointment was evident. "I had hoped that their debt to the Wardens and our allegiance during the Blight would help sway them to our cause, but it appears we are on our own. We must move ahead without them. Anora believes she can restore order by mustering the army around Denerim. However, I am not so certain."
A muscle ticked in Alistair's jaw at the Queen's name. Maker, he couldn't stand the arrogant woman who'd sworn she could rule so much better than he. Not that he'd wanted the crown to begin with. If the situation hadn't been so dire, he would have taken perverse pleasure in hearing of her struggles. But all the hardships he and his companions had suffered, the sacrifices they'd made to end the Blight would be for nothing if they couldn't stop the demonic onslaught now. So he changed the subject, "Where's Hawke?"
"A few days ago we began receiving reports of skirmishes to the south. She and Lord Vael went to help. If all goes to plan, they should return in a day or two."
That suited him just fine. The pair had more than proven themselves capable warriors in Kirkwall, but he could live without seeing the besotted looks they aimed at one another when they thought no one was watching. In the depths of his guilty heart, he begrudged them their happiness. Memories of bright ribbons flashed in his thoughts.
"Demons have been attacking the villages to the north and Thale has been burnt to the ground. The people deserve a proper burial."
"I'd thought the extra patrols would protect them." Eamon's expression twisted with resigned grief, "I shall send men in the morning, it's the least I can do. Go get some rest Alistair, there's nothing more you can do tonight."
With a murmur of thanks, Alistair made his way up the stairs to the guest wing. With each step, his armour felt more restrictive. He couldn't wait to rid himself of it. Inside the room, he unbuckled the straps, sighing in relief as each piece came off. Free of the confining metal, he poured himself a stiff drink. With a respectful knock, the door to his chamber swung inward. Bryn, the castle's steward, levelled a look of consternation at the man he'd known since boyhood. With an imperious wave of his hand, the grizzled old man directed servants hauling buckets of steaming water to fill the bath.
Seating himself by the fire, Alistair paid little attention to the activity. Arms resting on his thighs, he watched the flames flicker and dance. The encounter with the demons had shaken him. That he could no longer tell reality from the fevered imaginings of his mind made him a liability and that was something he couldn't afford. He had a purpose and without it he would be lost to the darkness that lurked in his soul, waiting to engulf him. Perhaps the vision had simply been the product of an over-tired mind and a good night's sleep would restore him to some semblance of normalcy, whatever that was.
A plate of bread and cheese appeared at his elbow, stirring him from his reverie. Bryn's doing no doubt. He was as much a mother hen as Wynne had been all those years ago. The thought of even such simple fare was enough to turn Alistair's stomach but out of courtesy he forced himself to eat a couple of bites. The brandy he used to wash them down was infinitely more palatable, burning a path to his gut.
Finally, the door closed, leaving him to bathe in peace. One of the serving maids had lingered, coyly offering to help him bathe and… relax. A dark scowl had sent her scampering away like a terrified rabbit. Stripping off the remainder of his clothing, Alistair sank into the water, the warmth driving the chill from his skin. Using the small bar of soap, he scrubbed the dirt and grime from his body until his skin and scalp tingled. Feeling altogether more human, he tilted his head back against the tub's rim, feeling his strained muscles slowly begin to ease. His eyes slid shut as he drifted, seeking peace.
Soft, strong hands massaged his back, kneading the knots of tension until they melted away. A husky laugh at his ear, hair the colour of spun gold spilling over his shoulder as she pressed a kiss to his neck.
Bolting upright, Alistair swore as the sudden movement sent water sloshing over the edge of the tub. Stepping out, he dried himself briskly before padding over to the bed. Ignoring the cool air, he dragged on fresh clothing with jerky movements. Momentary peace forgotten, frustration seethed through his veins. The temptation to fall into the dark oblivion of sleep, to forget, pulled at him like a siren's song but the dull glint of his armour dumped in the corner drew his eye. Inclined to leave it for the morning, he hesitated. He could hear her gentle, chiding voice in his head, reminding him that he needed to be prepared. Images of burned homes and broken bodies rose unbidden. The enemy would not hesitate to bring the fight to them. Muttering a curse, he grabbed a stool, dragging it across to his gear. Sitting, he began methodically checking the steel plate. Links were buckled or broken, dents and scrapes marred the once pristine surface and small areas of rust were beginning to form at the joints. The armour he had been gifted looked as worn and battered as he felt. To have it repaired would cost a small fortune but come morning he'd get it done.
Something flickered at the edge of his vision, an indistinct shadow drawing his attention. Glancing across he saw nothing but an empty room. Fed up of questioning his own sanity, he returned to the bed. But rather than sprawling out, he lay on his side, hand resting on the empty space beside him. As if she would appear and slide beneath the covers to curl up against him as she'd once done. As if to do otherwise would be a step closer to forgetting her. In mocking betrayal, his heart beat remained steady and strong, though it's very reason for doing so had been ripped from him. It was a punishment – for what he did not know – trapping him in this interminable misery without her. It should have been me. With that final maddening thought, sleep claimed him.