Alone. Maker, he was so alone.
Alistair sat by the campfire, braced against a fallen tree, knees to his chest with his head cradled in his hands as the events of the day replayed in his head. Did he do the right thing? How he wished Duncan were here, but no, there was no Duncan, no one to share the burden of defeating the Blight with him.
Over the crackle and pop of the fire, he caught the occasional sound of his companions – a whine from the Mabari hound in his sleep, the rustle of blankets as Leliana turned over. Sten, as always, was intimidating and distant in his silence, and Morrigan had eschewed the company of the templar and his companions for a spot further away.
Companions….and yet he was still alone. The only Grey Warden in all of Ferelden, and stopping the Blight was all up to him. Up to him. Bumbling, idiotic him. Maker, what a terrifying, nauseating thought. He'd rejoiced when joining the Wardens had freed him from the shadow of his royal heritage. Wardens gave up all claims to titles. He'd thought he'd been safe and that the world would never have to know what an incompetent fool he was, so unworthy of the royal blood in his veins. And now the Maker had played him a merry trick indeed, and put the fate of all of Ferelden into his hands anyways.
Flemeth, at least, had given him purpose, even if she had saddled him with her unbearable daughter at the same time. That purpose had driven him to Lothering before the familiar indecision and doubt had near crippled him again. He had treaties, but what could he, just one man, do with them?
He dreaded the idea of approaching the mages. What was he supposed to do, walk up and say "Hi, I'm a templar trained to hunt down and kill you but would you pretty please help me stop a Blight?" They were more likely to turn him into a toad as soon as they saw him. There were the dwarves in far away Orzammar, but their disdain for the surface world was well-known. No easy allies there. And the Dalish…he spared a moment of regret for the young recruit whose short time with the Wardens had come to such an abrupt end. The Dalish elf had been a gutsy little thing, taking that ogre down near single-handedly in the tower of Ishal. She would have been able to convince her people to fight the Blight and would have been a welcome ally on this impossible mission – but not even Flemeth's magic had been enough to save her when the darkspawn overwhelmed them. He carried her daggers in his pack – if he could find a Dalish clan, maybe even her clan, he planned to return them. It was the least he could do to honor the only Warden he had something to honor with. If only he'd had something of Duncan's…but no. Best not to go down that path again.
He'd taken what should have been the easier road, faced with such daunting options. He'd gone to Redcliffe first, to seek out Arl Eamon's aid, and collected a dubious assortment of allies along the way. The curious Chantry sister who had insisted upon joining him, the inscrutable Qunari giant he'd freed from the cage outside of Lothering, the Mabari that had taken a liking to the lost Dalish recruit and had eventually adopted him instead. But none of them were Wardens, and so the Blight was still his to stop.
Alistair had dreaded the path to Redcliffe, even knowing it to be the surest chance he'd have for finding an ally to combat the darkspawn horde. He'd considered telling his companions about his royal secret as they approached the town, but cowardice and indecision halted his tongue until the moment had passed, and so the secret went untold. All of Ferelden, resting on his weak, weak shoulders and he couldn't even open his mouth and say "Pardon me, I should have told you sooner, but I'm the heir to the throne as well as the last Grey Warden! Lucky me!" He'd almost opened his mouth to say it, but then they'd been spotted on the bridge and whisked down to the Chantry and the world had dumped its problems on him again. As if he didn't have enough to do.
Redcliffe, his childhood home, under siege by an army of dark creatures. And Bann Teagan, who'd known him as a child, begging him for aid against the next attack. He'd wanted to help – Maker, every instinct in him told him that he should help. These were people he knew, that knew him, that expected the mighty Grey Warden to come to their aid. But he was only one – just one Warden in all of Ferelden, and if he fell, who would stop the Blight? He knew what Duncan would have said – one town was not worth the country. Alistair had forced himself to say the words, to steel himself even as he watched the bann's face fall, to stand firm in this decision because being a Grey Warden was all that he had left, and Wardens did what they must to stop a Blight. Even if it meant abandoning an entire town to its fate.
They'd left then – he'd walked away as fast as he was able. Behind him, he had felt Leliana's disapproving gaze and her angry silence. Worse, perhaps, was the approval of the rest of his party, as if it had been a good decision to leave Redcliffe to its fate. At least Leliana had only mirrored what was already in his heart. They'd made camp here late in the evening, when he'd judged that the creatures were unlikely to come so far. Not when there was easier prey tonight. They had eaten a simple meal, arranged tents, and retired for the night in silence. Alistair kept watch, because he could not sleep. And so here he was, head in his hands, and so utterly alone.
Needing something, anything, to do, he put whetstone to sword, beginning the familiar, soothing ritual. A Warden's blade, plain except for the gryphon sigil stamped into the hilt, given to him by Duncan to replace the lesser blade that had been his as a templar initiate. Nothing fancy, and yet the symbol of everything that he was now. A lone blade, seeking the heart of the Blight.
Would Duncan have approved of his decision today? It was the duty of the Wardens to make sacrifices, the Warden Commander had always said, to take the losses so that the world around them could survive and live as free of the darkspawn threat as possible. But who had made the sacrifice today? It had been hard for him to leave, but it was the people of Redcliffe who suffered. He could hear their screams in the night air – it might have been his imagination, it might have been real.
What did a real Grey Warden do in a situation like this? He hardly felt like a real Warden. He still felt like awkward Alistair the follower, except that there was no one left to follow. Alistair who had failed to save his fellow Warden, Alistair who should have been there to save Duncan or the king, but had failed at that too. Real Grey Wardens acted, they didn't fall into despair in the face of a Blight. Life, it seemed, had revealed him to be a fraud. But those had been among Duncan's last words to him – "Remember that you are both Grey Wardens." It was almost as though he could hear the elder Warden's voice, so real he had to stop himself from looking around to find its source. Duncan had believed in him, had seen something of value in him when he couldn't find it himself. And if Duncan had believed, then maybe, just maybe, it was true.
Well, alright then. It was time for Alistair the Grey Warden to start thinking like what he was, a man who was going to single-handedly save the world, because he had no other choice, and Grey Wardens did what they had to. Just a small thing, saving the world. And he had started by leaving not one, but two villages to die. He had not forgotten Lothering, full of refugees fleeing the vanguard of the darkspawn horde. There had been nothing he could do then, but by the Maker, maybe he could still help the people of Redcliffe. Yes, he might fall in battle, but what good was saving the world if there was no world left when his blade found the archdemon's heart?
So there it was. Alistair the Grey Warden would start by saving the people of one village, and the rest of Ferelden would follow. It didn't matter how, only that he would. Somehow, that one small decision lifted his spirits. He could do this. He had to do this. He finished tending his blade, sheathed the weapon, caught sight of the gryphon stamped into the hilt again. He would do this, and he would make Duncan proud, wherever he was now, Maker rest his soul. The sun's first rays, brightening the sky overhead, mirrored the resolve filling his heart as he roused his party and set off on the road again.
-~0~-
Returning to Redcliffe had not been easy. They had found Bann Teagan, injured and barely alive in the Chantry. There were no other survivors. Despair threatened again, but he had forced it away. Despair would not save Redcliffe, or what was left of it. Nor would it save Arl Eamon, if indeed the Arl could still be saved. Teagan, when brought back to consciousness, had been angry – and rightfully so, in Alistair's opinion. He had made a mistake in leaving, but now he was back to make it right.
Together they had planned to enter the castle, to find the source of the dark creatures and stop the raids where they began. And then Arlessa Isolde had come…Maker, but that woman and her shrill voice could still make him feel ten years old. But he was Alistair the bastard child no longer, and the Grey Warden stood his ground when Isolde tried to relegate him to the side. In the end, though, Teagan had made the decision for him, entering the castle with Isolde while Alistair and his companions used the hidden passage in the windmill to gain access to the castle to make their rescue attempt. He had sworn to rescue them all - an oath he refused to break.
Battling through the undead denizens of the castle had been easier than he had imagined. They'd cut through walking corpses, wraiths and the like with ease. The most difficult encounter had been with the blood mage, Jowan, who had started this whole mess by poisoning the arl. Sten had favored execution, Morrigan escape, while Leliana shared his dubious concern for the mage's supposedly good intentions. In the end, he had left the blood mage in his cell, to let Arl Eamon decide the man's fate when he recovered. It had been, in part, an act of faith that the Arl would recover.
Now they stood in the cellars, before the stairs that would lead to the courtyard and then to the main hall, provided the dark force that held siege here had not barricaded those doors as it had the others in the castle. Alistair regarded the room with a touch of nostalgia – he had spent much time here as a boy, roaming these halls. He had locked himself in that cage in the corner once, "exploring" he'd called it. It didn't take long to explore a cage though, and he'd been in there until the cook had come down that evening. So many memories…this place had been a home to him once. Now it was tainted, touched by darkness like the rest of Ferelden. And it was up to him to end it all. He started for the stairs, up to the courtyard.
They cut down more of the walking dead with sword, shield, arrows, teeth and magic. His companions fanned out, clearing the way to the great front gates, where the Arl's knights awaited entry into the castle grounds. The sick tingle of magic drew Alistair's attention to one side. Standing there was a gruesome creature, half-rotted with disintegrating armor hanging from its shoulders. Despite its decrepit appearance, there was an aura of terrible, evil power emanating from it. The creature bore a dark, tarnished shield and wielded a wickedly edged sword in one hand. A revenant, a being of both physical might and powerful magic. He remembered stories of the creatures from some lesson at the chantry.
He waved Leliana towards the gates, ordering her to let the knights in. He and Sten faced the revenant warily, trying not to place themselves in the way of Morrigan's magic. The Mabari growled menacingly at his side. Alistair raised his shield before him, sword at the ready. Even still, he was unprepared for the strength, the speed, of the monster before him. The first blow numbed his shield arm. The second knocked him flat on his back, blasting the air from his lungs. Where were his companions? He tried to recover, to rise from the ground. The revenant's weapon arced towards his unprotected head and he could do nothing, nothing to stop it. He saw the flash of the blade, then…
-~0~-
He woke with a gasp. A dream. Had it all been just a dream? He lifted a hand to his head – no gaping death wound met his touch. Everything remained fuzzy, it had all seemed so real. He reached for a discarded shirt, wiping away some of the sweat, then shrugged the garment on, deciding some fresh air would help clear his head. He lifted the canvas entrance of his tent and slipped outside.
"Alistair?" He froze at the sound of the now-familiar cadence of his name framed by the soft Dalish accent.
"Kara…" Her name escaped his lips as a whisper. His gaze found his fellow Grey Warden seated by the fire. Immense relief filled him with enough force to make his knees go weak and Alistair found himself momentarily paralyzed, unable to speak or move or do anything other than feel. Alive, she was alive and he was not alone, not alone at all.
She tilted her head, paused in the act of scratching the great Mabari at her side. "Is everything alright?"
"Ah, fine. Just a…bad dream." He couldn't quite bring himself to explain. I dreamed you were dead and I was all alone. He'd sound like a love-sick fool, even if he didn't quite mean it that way. Fortunately for him, nightmares came with the territory for Wardens, and she nodded without comment, not pressing for details when none were offered. He'd never thought he'd be grateful for darkspawn dreams.
"Mind if I join you?" He wasn't ready to give up her company, not just yet, and especially not if it meant returning to a world where the responsibility of defeating the Blight was his and his alone. She shook her head and motioned him closer, and he took a seat nearby. Though her features were hard to distinguish in the flickering light of the fire, there was that intangible something to her, the shared taint in their bloods that would eventually be their deaths but tonight meant solidarity and fraternity and the knowledge of shared burdens.
As they sat in comfortable silence, Alistair contemplated the last vestiges of his dream. He glanced over at his companion, lost in her own thoughts and wondered, for the first time, if she agonized over her choices the way he had, in his dream, at Redcliffe. She made being a Grey Warden look so easy. He'd known men who had been Wardens for longer who would not have managed nearly as well. Like him. He realized suddenly how lucky he'd been, they'd all been, that this woman, barely more than a girl, had been there at Ostagar, had survived her Joining, survived to be with him. She had held them together through so much, been so strong, even when he had thrown the full responsibility of leadership at her. Alistair the follower…just like in his dream. But maybe it was time for him to be Alistair the Grey Warden, to be more help than he had been. Stronger than he had been.
Kara's soft voice broke his train of thoughts. "I think I should tell you…how grateful I am for your company. I do not think I could do this without you."
He fought back a laugh of disbelief – she was grateful for him? When she'd done twice as well on her own than he had, even in his own dreams? "You know," he said slowly, "I was just thinking the same thing. Given the circumstances, things could have been so much worse." Maker, that was an understatement. How could he tell her just how thankful he was – that she was here, that she was who she was? He admired her so much…
"I'm so grateful you're you, instead of….some other Grey Warden. Umm, that sounded better in my head." He ran a hand through his hair sheepishly, trying to find the right words. "I just mean to say that I've really come to care about you." Andraste's ashes, that was worse, not better. He hadn't thought he could make it more awkward. Care about her? What in the Maker's name did that mean? Even he wasn't sure. He could feel his cheeks flush in embarrassment, and looked to her, hoping she hadn't noticed in the dim light of the fire. She smiled at him, but a shy, flattered smile rather than a mocking one.
"When we left the Dalish behind, I thought I would miss being with my people. And I do, but not as I expected. I think…I think it's because what you said before, at Ostagar, is true." She met his gaze then, more vulnerability in those grey eyes than he was accustomed to seeing. She was so good at hiding everything inside, behind the intricate Dalish tattoos that marked her face. But not, it seemed, tonight. "Do you remember? You told me the Grey Wardens could be my new clan, that I would find family in them. And even though it's just the two of us, I know I'm not alone, if I'm with you. Ma serranas, Alistair…thank you, for being my clan."
It was his turn to be touched. Maybe they really did both need each other. He'd just embarrass himself further if he tried to say it though. "Now we just need to be rid of that pesky archdemon, and everything would be back to normal, right?" he quipped instead. His sally earned another smile from the auburn-haired elf, but one that quickly faded.
"Do you really think we can do this? Defeat the archdemon, just the two of us?" There were others, of course, in their party now. Leliana, Wynne, Sten, Morrigan, even a Mabari hound. But Alistair knew, as she did, that in the end, it would be up to the Wardens and no one else. Though she sounded uncertain, he no longer had any doubts. The terrible emptiness of his dream was fading away, but the resolve that he'd gained – that remained, at least a little. Duncan had believed in him, and now Kara needed him. They were Grey Wardens, the two of them, and Wardens did what they must. They would stop the Blight, together.
"I know we can," he told her, feeling more sure of himself than he had since Ostagar. More sure, perhaps, than he had ever been in his life. "We're Grey Wardens. That's what we do."