Rated M – mostly for foul language and violence, like all my other stories.
Bioware created the world I play in – I simply and humbly add to it.
Prologue
9:38 Dragon
So this was it. Slumped forward away from the cold stone wall, sitting in shackles, his head hung in defeat.
No, not defeat, but resignation.
This was what it all came down to. Tristan Amell had wished for death so many times, he didn't think it would ever come. Yet, here it was.
This was his last night alive; at the break of dawn he was going to die.
He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. The Hero of Ferelden, fallen now, sentenced to death. He wondered what the tales of his life would read like. How the bards would spin this sad end. The king, once a great friend, passed the judgment himself. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't bring himself to do that.
Instead, he reached for something around his neck, out of habit. The shackles stopped him midway, painfully chafing against his wrist. It didn't matter anyway, the pouch was not there. They had taken it away from him, right before they escorted him to Fort Drakon through a crowd of angry people, cursing his name, spitting on him, daring him to act like the monster they thought he was. All he gave them in return was a mad grin.
Perhaps he was mad. The people were right to feel disappointed with him, disgraced by him. But they did not know the whole story. They did not know the truth. And now they never would.
And so alone he sat, in the darkness of Fort Drakon, where eight years ago he had slain an archdemon upon its roof, bringing peace if not to the world, then to Ferelden. Days ago, he'd nearly rendered all that null and void. Tristan was resigned to his punishment. His only regret was that common sense had prevailed over baser instincts, which was what had gotten him into this mess.
"For your crimes against Ferelden, your sentence is to be passed out publicly three days henceforth at the break of dawn. May the people of Ferelden be witness to your guilt… and witness to your death."
Death.
It was so final. At the very least, he could be grateful that he was going to see Brenna again. This was not, however, how he ever expected to go. Sure, there was a time when he'd have done anything to return to her sweet embrace. But he'd been out of his mind with grief. Now, his mind was clear. He didn't really want to die anymore.
Tristan expected that Alistair would have at least given him the option of ending things Grey Warden style – deep in the underground, fighting off darkspawn to the death. He supposed he'd lost that right since he left the order. Probably, the accusations against him were the reason. They were serious enough, obviously, or he wouldn't be facing death in a couple of hours. He wasn't yet sure if it was to be ended by a noose or a sword. Either way, it was not an honorable way to go.
He sighed, letting out a deeply held breath. Such a simple, thoughtless action it was to breathe. He vowed to savour every last breath until dawn. He only wished that he could get to say goodbye to everyone who meant something to him – his friends, his family – and tell them the truth. He was not the monster his enemies painted him out to be, though sometimes he wished he were.
On second thought, perhaps it was better not to see his friends and family, for surely they would see right through to his darkness and believe all the things said of him, just as Alistair had. Maybe they even knew what was happening, but were too ashamed to come to him. He wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case. Alistair certainly kept his distance, had not even come to see him while he awaited his end.
Despite all the thoughts racing through his mind, slumber fought to overtake him. Tristan closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall.
Funny, I am to die tomorrow and all I want to do is sleep and bring the hour closer…
There was no use in prolonging the agony. He fell asleep.
…
The darkspawn whispers were louder than normal. The sound augmented into a strange hum, and then into a buzzing cacophony. Tristan couldn't ignore it. He couldn't block it out of his mind, couldn't stop his blood from stirring in rhythm to the noise. He did the only thing he could. He awakened.
It was dark still. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Perhaps only a few seconds.
The taint in him quieted. The beating of his heart calmed. He pushed thoughts of darkspawn out of his mind. They were not his problem anymore. They hadn't been for years, though he always kept note of them, prepared to return to the Grey Wardens should a great threat arise.
As Tristan searched through the chamber of cells he noticed the lack of guards, the absence of their constant footsteps in the hall outside, the studious quiet. Something did not feel right. He shrugged off the feeling, his shackles clinking on the floor with the movement, sending a loud echo through the room. It was probably nothing. What did he care anyway, he was to die soon enough.
His eyes rested on the flame billowing out of a torch. A guard usually came to snuff it out at midnight. But there it glowed, burning brightly, sending light and warmth to his face even from across the room. The guard must have forgotten his duty. How easy it was to snuff out a flame when it was not needed. Life was the same, easily put out like a flame, like his life.
He should end it all himself, in his cell, and take away their victory. His wrists may be bound in shackles, but his palms, his fingertips were free. Magic could release him to the next world. Suicide was shameful, but he already was a disgrace. Then again, taking his own life would only confirm his supposed guilt.
You've really fucked it up this time, Tristan.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Lighter and quicker than a guard's steps, whoever was coming was not wearing the heavy armour of a guard. Could it be dawn already? There were no windows in the chamber. He'd only guessed at it being night when they shoved a hunk of bread into his cell. Perhaps it was the executioner come to retrieve him, or a sister come to pray for his soul.
He straightened up and waited. His hand twitched. He really wanted to run a hand through his hair, but the shackles wouldn't let him. This was not like going into battle. One expected on the eve of battle that one might die. The anxiousness was like a soothing potion, a way to cope with the possibility of death. Now, it threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he was going to die. There was nothing he could do to stop it.
The chamber door creaked open. He took a deep breath and held onto it otherwise his heart might stammer right out of his chest. He thought he was brave. He thought he could resign himself to this fate, but the hour was near, it was proving difficult to do.
A single figure entered, wearing a mantle over what looked like leather armour, and a hood to conceal identity. It was not a guard, nor a sister, nor the executioner. It was a man. Still, he held onto his breath.
The man closed the door behind him. The resulting thud sent a jolt through Tristan. He didn't let go of his breath.
The man scanned the chamber and its cells. Only one was occupied. He began to walk towards Tristan. Tristan could not see the man's face. It rested in the shadows of the hood, though Tristan could see a short strand of blonde hair.
Alistair? His heart wanted to believe it so, but it couldn't be. The man was leaner than Alistair, hair slightly too long to be his friend. Besides, Alistair had made it clear enough what he thought of him. He doubted the king would visit him in his final hours.
The man took out a set of keys and fumbled with them for a few seconds. He stopped in front of Tristan's cell and then placed a key in the lock. It wasn't the right one and the man hissed a curse. Tristan watched in silence, holding his breath still as the man found another key and tried again. This time the lock clicked. The man opened the cell door.
Tristan could hold his breath, his curiousity no longer. "What are you doing?" he asked the hooded man.
The man entered the cell. "You are an honourable man." His voice was young, confident in tone. "I don't believe you are guilty of what you are accused of. It is ridiculous."
He pushed back his hood, revealing a familiar grin. Tristan knew who he was, had known him since he was a boy. His surprise turned to anger though, realizing how much trouble this could be for the king's squire.
"Do you really know me, Sam?"
Sam strode forward with the grin still stuck to his face, and crouched before Tristan. "I do know you." He lifted Tristan's left hand. He stuck a small key into the shackles, turned it, and the thing came loose, sliding off Tristan's hand to land with a thud on the floor.
Watching Sam with narrowed eyes, Tristan shook his head in disbelief. "So you would betray the king, for me?"
"Hardly," Sam replied. He turned to the other shackle and freed Tristan from that one.
Tristan rubbed his wrists, grateful to be free of the binds, but confusion still ran through his mind. "I don't understand then. What in the Maker's name are you doing?"
Sam stood up and offered a hand to Tristan. Tristan considered the boy – no, he's a man now – wary of what was happening. Did Sam think to free him, or was he here to end it for him? Nothing was making sense at the moment.
"I'm freeing you, on the king's wishes," Sam said. He further extended his hand, a look of slight impatience wiping away the grin.
Tristan could feel a headache coming. He could hardly believe what was happening. Perhaps he was still asleep after all. He chuckled, maybe a little too madly. Ignoring Sam's offered hand for the moment, he continued to sit in the cell. "Now he believes me? Now he cares? Has Alistair even thought this through? If I flee, my guilt is confirmed in everyone's mind."
"Take my hand, Tristan," Sam said, reaching out. "This is not a trick. You have to trust me."
Tristan prolonged the moment, not quite believing this could actually be. When Sam nodded encouragement to him, as if he were a child needing reassurance, he took the proffered hand and let himself be pulled up. He was only embarrassing himself if he continued to act in that way.
"Alistair always believed you," Sam explained. "He struggled with this every single minute of every single day. In the end, he thought it best to let you go, to make it look like you escaped, even if it meant people would only assume your guilt was truth because of it. He wants you alive and free, not dead."
Tristan shook his head. "Then why didn't he come and tell me this himself? Why did he pass the sentence in the first place?"
"You know you put him in an awkward position. It doesn't take a scholar to see that."
"That's what I do best, isn't it?"
Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. "And that is why we love you." Sam laughed and then continued, "He so cleverly got the guard schedules mixed up, so, there aren't many around. Those who are around – loyal like mabari bitches to the king."
"So I escape Fort Drakon, like I did years ago under almost the same circumstances. Then what? Where am I to go? What am I to do? Does Alistair expect me to run away for the rest of my life?"
"He expects you to disappear, like you've done before," Sam answered. It was like a punch to the gut. Nothing good ever came of him disappearing. Sam removed his hand from Tristan's shoulder and looked impatiently at the door. "An old friend of yours is waiting by the docks."
"An old friend?" Tristan asked. He was surprised he still had friends.
Sam nodded. "Captain Alaric will take you to safety."
The old man was still alive. Tristan was not surprised at that, for it always seemed to him that Captain Alaric would only surrender to death once his ship did. Still, Tristan was wary of this plan. He wanted to live, but was it worth it if everyone thought him a monster? And to disappear meant…
"Am I to be exiled then?"
"Once news of your escape hits the streets Alistair will declare you exiled for life from Ferelden – on pain of death should you try and return." Sam nodded sadly. "It is the only way to satisfy everyone."
To leave his home, his friends, his family, he might as well let himself be executed.
"And what of you, Sam? Your part in this proposed escape, won't you be in trouble for this?"
"Only if I am seen. I don't plan on that happening." Sam once again glanced back at the door impatiently. Tristan couldn't let him do it. What if Sam was seen? What if things went wrong? Then not only Sam would pay for it, but maybe even Alistair as well. He couldn't let that happen.
"I cannot let you do this. You might as well tie me back up. I cannot leave my home. I cannot put you in danger." Sam was about to open his mouth in protest but Tristan continued on, leaving him no room for arguing. "I take responsibility for my actions. I will go through with my punishment."
"You did nothing wrong!" Sam protested loudly. "You would rather die on the morrow, like a fallen hero, prey to the slanders of the fool mob who believe every bit of garbage that is fed to them? You would rather let them win?"
Tristan laughed. "I am a fallen hero."
"Not yet, not ever."
"Your faith in me, Sam, I don't know where it comes from. I am tired of running." Tristan turned away and gripped the bars of the cell. He pushed his forehead into the cold steel. He was tired of running. That's all he ever seemed to do.
Sam groaned in frustration. "You're not running, just moving on."
"Moving on to the afterlife."
Sam gripped his arm hard and turned him around with surprising force. "I'm not a little boy anymore. I will drag you out of here. You don't have to worry about endangering me. If you consider Ferelden your home, then show your loyalty to your king. Do as he says. Leave this place and live. You have many years yet in front of you. Do not waste them for this."
The life of a Grey Warden didn't really leave him much time to work with, but Sam perhaps didn't know of that curse. The taint was advancing slowly within him so far. One day, however, it would speed up. His end would be a day of his choosing. If Alistair wanted to command him to live, then he would prove his loyalty. "One last act of loyalty before I am exiled…"
"Yes. Let's go, before the sun rises, eh?"
Tristan didn't know where it came from, but his will to live was stronger than it had been in years, even if there wasn't much to live for anymore. He wrenched his arm away from Sam's tight grip and met the young man's eyes.
"Let's go then."
…
Tristan reluctantly covered his head with the mantle Sam had been wearing. "And if you are seen?"
"I told you," Sam grinned as he checked the hallway outside of the chamber, "I don't plan on being seen. Besides, you're covered up now. Who's going to guess who you are?"
"Let's hope it will be that easy." Tristan followed Sam out into the hall as he signaled that it was alright to do so. "You said all the guards around were loyal to Alistair. Why are you skittish as a hen?"
"Skittish as a hen?" Sam looked at Tristan askance. "I'm all fired up. This is an adventure!"
"Right. Don't get too excited." Tristan put a hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Something always goes wrong."
"Not this time."
They moved forward, past the offices of Fort Drakon's commander. Tristan risked a glance inside, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood. The commander sat at his desk, skimming over papers. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, but quickly looked away.
They rounded the corner, the guards nodding once to Sam, ignoring Tristan at his side, complicit in the king's conspiracy. Tristan was glad to be escaping this prison, his death sentence, but something didn't sit right with him. It was too easy. Something had to go wrong. He halted Sam.
"Are you sure they will stay quiet about all this?" he asked.
Sam nodded. "They will."
"And if they're tortured? What are they going to say? That I just walked out in the middle of the night, unseen, unstopped?"
"Well, if they are tortured, that is the truth." Sam shrugged. "That sort of stuff doesn't happen anymore, though, not since Rendon Howe. You know this. The king will come up with some horrible escape story, I'm sure of it."
"So he hasn't completely thought this through?" Tristan shook his head in disbelief. If Alistair was found to be aiding Tristan in his escape, it could mean trouble. A lot of trouble. "I can't do this then."
Sam groaned. "He wants you alive. Do I have to convince you all over again?"
"I just don't want to be responsible for more…" he let his thoughts trail off. I don't want to be the cause of more pain, more deaths. He was only beginning to let go of those feelings of guilt after so many years. It had been hard. He didn't want to feel that way again.
Sam sighed. He set his eyes pleadingly upon Tristan. "I am begging you to let us help you for once in your life. You can let that happen you know. Nobody will think less of you."
The boy – the young man – had a point. It was hard to think of him as all grown up, but here Sam stood before him, understanding beyond his years. He was probably smarter than Tristan ever was. "Fine. I'll go."
Sam nodded and then continued forward, through the large door that led into the largest chamber in Fort Drakon – the one in which ballistae sat upon large platforms, as if they had not been moved since the Blight. The guards did not so much as blink as they passed through. Sam tossed the keys he used to free Tristan at a senior looking guard before they left that chamber to reach the front room.
Once out the main door, Tristan would nearly be free and his impending death would turn into nothing but a bad dream.
No, Tristan thought. I go through those doors to a living death. The Hero of Ferelden will cease to exist but the man inside will walk alone, an exile for life. Is this really better than death?
Sam waited, holding the door open and watching him closely, hopefully. Letting his hesitation slip away, Tristan shot forward and crossed the threshold. A living death meant there was a slim chance he could come back and make things right, finish the unfinished business, and clear his name. It meant he could return to Brenna on his terms with his promises fulfilled and with pride.
Sam slapped him on the back once outside. "We need to be quick. There's not much time left."
Tristan looked to the sky. Far in the distance the first semblance of light was invading the dark horizon. Dawn was coming. If he wasn't gone by then, there would be no hope at all.
They broke into a run, a race against time.
When they passed through the courtyard outside the walls of Fort Drakon, Tristan glimpsed the preparations for his execution. If he were braver, he might laugh at the sight of the workers setting up for nothing. But he was not out of the woods yet. Sam yanked him forward when he unconsciously stopped to watch what might have been. The anxious looks Sam flicked toward the preparations brought Tristan back to reality and they continued on their journey toward the docks.
They raced through the streets of Denerim, keeping to the shadows like wraiths. They encountered few people. Those they did meet were lost in their own little worlds, uncaring of the two men running like thieves after a robbery.
The sight of water slowed them into a trot. Freedom was near. The feeling of sea spray on his face made Tristan believe that it actually was happening. The whole escape had been a haze the moment he left Fort Drakon. Now, the sails, the masts of galleys and smaller ships were a beacon of hope. They were so close.
And then it happened. Tristan knew something would go wrong. It always did. Life for him was no smooth sailing.
A group of city guards emerged from an alleyway, just as Tristan and Sam found their way to the harbor. The water lapped behind them, striking against the pier in small waves. Sam stood in front of Tristan, his arm held out to keep Tristan behind. He looked over his shoulder to Tristan, a warning look on his face.
"Do not say anything. These are not the king's men."
Tristan braced himself for discovery. The man at the head of the group of guards was known to him. Ser Conall, the king's dour bodyguard, but definitely not the king's man. He prepared himself to react. He would not let Sam go down for him.
Ser Conall had noticed Sam the moment he emerged from the alleyway. He led his group of city guards toward them, his steps long and loud, purposeful thuds pounding away the wooden planks of the pier. He halted right in front of Sam, looking over the youth with disgust. His eyes reached behind, but Tristan cast his own downwards and stayed hidden in his hood.
"I knew something fishy was going on," Ser Conall said after a long moment of silence.
"It does smell like fish out here, doesn't it? Must be coming from the water," Sam replied with a sideways glance over the pier.
"Don't play stupid with me, Cousland's pet. Who is that behind you?" Ser Conall refrained from unsheathing his sword, but his hand hovered over the hilt in warning.
Sam sucked in his breath, anger visible in the set of his shoulders, audible in the tone of his voice. "I told you before I am no one's pet. This is nothing to do with you. Mind your business and get back to the king."
"No pet is going to tell me what to do…" Ser Conall withdrew his sword. He spat on the ground in front of Sam's feet. His brow was furrowed, his teeth were bared like a snarling dog.
Tristan didn't have any time to react. The hatred between Sam and Ser Conall was plain for everyone to see. It seemed to have reached a boiling point out of reach, out of sight of the king they both served, though not with the same loyal heart. Sam reached for the dagger at his waist, the only weapon he carried at that moment, and shot forward with it raised and poised to stab the knight in the neck. Tristan darted forward a little too late – Ser Conall blocked the attempt, catching Sam's wrist in a twisting grip and pointing the tip of his sword onto Sam's neck.
The recklessness of youth. Tristan bunched his fists in frustration. He thought Sam knew better than that. He'd learned from the best after all. Ser Conall was nothing compared to Sam's mentors. But common sense didn't always prevail.
"Don't play with the big boys if you want to get burned," Ser Conall taunted as he twisted Sam's wrist harder. Sam did not cry out though he grimaced in pain and dropped the dagger. "Now, tell me, what are you up to Longshot? Who don't you want us to see?"
Tristan flexed his hands, readying himself to make things right. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Sam. "You'll let him go…" he commanded Ser Conall.
Ser Conall smiled, his face bunching up grotesquely. A snort of derision released from his throat to his nose.
"… unless you want to be the one to get burned." Tristan stepped forward once and grew a fireball in the palm of his hand. The other guards backed away cautiously.
Ser Conall's eyes flinched in surprise. "It's Amell…" The surprise was quickly replaced by recognition. Ser Conall almost seemed to glow with his discovery. The other guards closed up their formation again, eager not to let the prisoner get away.
"I'm warning you, let him go. Now." Tristan began to shake as he struggled to control the fireball. He had to release it soon. But he did not want to hit Sam. He did not want his actions cause Ser Conall to plunge the sword into Sam's neck. A rage grew inside of him as he remembered a moment similar to this one. He did not want to fail again.
"Do it Tristan," Sam urged, his green eyes steadfast, trusting in Tristan's abilities. The youth put too much faith in him. He didn't know if he could live up to it. But Tristan did not have any time to waste, any time to think things through. It was now or never.
Ser Conall seemed to be caught off guard by Sam's blessing, so much so, that Sam was able to kick the man, twist away and duck, all in time for Tristan to send his fireball swirling towards the group of guards. Most of them got their shields up in time to block the fire. Not Ser Conall.
His screams pierced through the night as the flames crawled over his face. One of his men shoved at the flames with his cape while another ran to the edge of the pier and scooped water up into his shield to toss it at Ser Conall's face to stop the burning.
Meanwhile, Tristan helped Sam up from the ground. They were no longer surrounded by the guards, the chaos Tristan caused with his magic distracting them from their duty.
"Captain Alaric is waiting," Sam noted. He motioned toward a ship not far off. The Empress's Wine was pulling up anchor, its gangplank hovering on the pier, waiting for Tristan.
"What about you?" Tristan asked as Sam pulled him in the direction of the ship. He looked back once and saw the guards still putting out fires. Ser Conall sat slumped on the ground, his face held in pain. "You've been seen."
Sam didn't answer, only lead them to and on the ship. Tristan caught sight of the leathery old captain and heard him telling the crew to pull out. But it did not register in his mind. He watched as Sam tossed the gangplank over the edge of the ship with another sailor. He heard the creak as the ship began to move, felt the floor beneath him roll with the waves.
"You can't come," he told Sam.
Sam turned to him. He rubbed his neck where the knight had pressed his sword to, perhaps checking for blood. When none appeared on his fingers, he massaged his wrist. "I have to now…"
Tristan walked over to the railing. He shook his head in disbelief. He always got somebody in trouble. When would it ever end? Sam would surely be exiled now, too. Alistair would have to or else risk discovery of his own part in this escape.
"Melisende will hunt me down and kill me for dragging you into this," Tristan said as Sam joined him at the railing.
Sam laughed. "You know she would have done the same thing I just did."
"I know." Tristan sighed. Out of all his friends, he was certain that she would not doubt him for one second. If she had been in the city when everything had happened, she would have stood by his side. She must have rubbed off onto Sam. "She taught you well."
"She was not the only one to tell me to do what was right. I had many great teachers." Sam pointedly fixed his gaze onto Tristan's and then looked away at the increasing distance between the ship and the pier. "Truthfully, I am not at all sad to be leaving Ferelden. Maybe I am even a little happy that it worked out like this."
Tristan felt the surprise overcome him. "Even so, I am sorry to have put you in this position."
"Don't be." Sam turned to him once again, tapping the railing once. "Ferelden will always be home, but, it has gotten very sour lately. I was supposed to be knighted last year, after Alistair returned from Orlais, but that never happened."
"Why not?" Tristan asked. He had not been in Ferelden at that time.
Sam shrugged. "A certain somebody decided for Alistair that I was not ready, that I spent way too much time in the shady parts of the city when I was not serving the king. I was forced to stay behind while he was in Orlais. But serving the king is so boring. I never get to go into battle. I can't even enter tourneys. And the ladies of the court, well, they see me only as a peasant brat to look down on."
"I'm sorry, Sam." Tristan felt his heart breaking for the youth. All he wanted to do was prove himself. Maybe now he finally had, he'd perhaps never be able to return to Ferelden.
"I am not disappointed at how things worked out. I knew there was a chance Ser Conall might show up. I am glad that he did. I get to have the life of adventure I always wanted."
Tristan frowned. Even if Sam thought everything had worked out, he knew the youth would one day regret it. This was his home. A life of adventures was not as great as some people made it out to be. He knew this himself. Tristan couldn't give Sam what he was looking for, even if he unintentionally already did. "And you think to get that with me?"
"Of course." Sam slapped him on the back. "Who better?"
"You'd do well not to place me so high up on a pedestal. I will only disappoint you in the end."
Sam shook his head and then reached for something beneath his leather cuirass. He seemed not to be able to find whatever it was he was searching for and as Tristan watched him in curiousity, the youth finally pulled something out. He held it out to Tristan palm up. Tristan felt a lump in his throat as he realized what it was – Brenna's old pouch.
"Sorry I couldn't get Vigilance…" Sam said.
Tristan retrieved the pouch. He never thought he would see it in this life. It felt so good to hold it again. He felt like Brenna was with him once more. "This means more than anything, anyway. A sword can be replaced, this cannot be. Thank you." Tristan placed the pouch around his neck and tucked it under his tunic where he could feel it resting against the beat of his heart.
Denerim was fading away in the early morning mist. The night sky was disappearing as dawn finally broke through the horizon, brightening into day. He could have been dead by now, but for the loyalty of friends. Friends only yesterday he thought did not exist anymore.
Was this the last he would ever see of his home? He wasn't sure how he felt at this moment. It was such a strange mingling of emotions – relief, guilt, sadness, hope. He'd escaped death yet another time. As he studied Sam watching Ferelden shrink into the distance, he couldn't help but wonder at what price did this new freedom come?
…
The question plagued Tristan's mind as the Empress's Wine rolled out into the Waking Sea. Sam may have said he was not disappointed to be away from Ferelden, but how long would the lad feel that way? How long before resentment toward Tristan would set in? He couldn't bear to be the cause of such inevitable disappointment. Sam wanted adventures, Tristan wasn't sure he could give it to him especially since he did not even know where they were heading.
When things on the ship were calm and under control, when they all let out a sigh of relief that they were not being pursued by anyone, Captain Alaric came to greet Tristan. He wanted to know where they should head.
"You're the captain, I thought you would know," Tristan replied.
The old man held his hands up in admission. "I volunteered to take you away. Lucky I was already in port when all this went down. Nobody told me where to take you."
"Well, before all this shit went down, where were you heading?" Tristan asked.
"The Free Marches."
Sam came up behind Tristan, shaking his head. "No, you don't want to go there Tristan. After what happened with the mages, you wouldn't be safe there."
Anders… Tristan thought guiltily. He'd been surprised when the news filtered through to him, long after it had happened. He could understand the reasons why his old companion had done what he did, but… it was not right. And now mages everywhere were paying for his foolish actions. But who was he to judge? He'd just about done something very foolish himself…
"I heard the Templars have been going even harder on mages than usual. It isn't safe anywhere for a mage." Captain Alaric folded his arms. He seemed to be deep in thought. "But Orlais… there is chaos in that country as well. It might be the perfect place to hide and find a living too. And if you were discovered, chances are they wouldn't hand you back over to Ferelden. Pride would stop them from helping their ancient enemy."
"Orlais? In chaos?" Tristan asked.
Captain Alaric lifted a shoulder. "Not quite sure why or what is going on. But I heard whispers in the port of a possible civil war brewing."
"Then that can work." Sam excitedly hit Tristan in the shoulder. "Couldn't it?"
Just what is Thedas coming to?
Tristan didn't know if he wanted to go to Orlais. It was not his first choice. Yet, like Sam said, it could work. A land in chaos was always an easy place to blend into. The Free Marches was having trouble, too, but they didn't have the same scruples as Orlais when it came to dealing with Ferelden. They would not hesitate to hand him over to Ferelden – many Free Marchers were Ferelden expatriates after all. Antiva was not an option for him – he'd angered the Crows – and neither was any place close to that country.
"Then Orlais it is," Tristan agreed.
"Orlesian lasses," Captain Alaric grinned, "always up for a good trick. You picked wisely."
"What is this trick you speak of?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowed in curiosity.
Tristan grinned. He had a sudden flash of memory from his time with Leliana. "Oh, I know what he's talking about…"
"You won't tell me?"
"You'll find out yourself. It's better that way." Tristan patted Sam on the shoulder and walked away. He heard Sam asking the Captain, and when Captain Alaric started to explain, Tristan chuckled at the sound of footsteps catching up to him. Sam appeared by his side.
"You're right. I really don't want to hear of the sexual exploits of an old man."
Tristan arched a brow questioningly toward him, wanting to see the youth's reaction to Captain Alaric's words.
"He says it happened the last time he was in Val Royeaux – last year." Sam shuddered in disgust. "Oh the images… they must be removed from my mind…"
Tristan burst into laughter, wincing in amusement at the expression on Sam's face. He had to admit, he didn't really want to think about old Captain Alaric in that way either. "Well, you wanted adventure."
"Excuse me while I go vomit." Sam cantered off to the railing as the laughter continued to bubble out of Tristan.
Wanting a moment for himself, Tristan crossed to the other side of the ship. His laugher subsided into nothing. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He gripped the railing hard, letting out his breath as the wind brushed against his face. When he opened his eyes again, they rested in the direction of Orlais.
A new beginning… or a new end?