Author's Note:

This story is inspired by various bits of conversation that suggest that Alistair is dead, when not King, in DAO:Awakenings. I've decided these aren't a glitch or an oversight, but rather part of a far reaching conspiracy. Bioware, please feel free to send me a No-Prize. Also thanks for the characters, who are not my own.

Rated M for a small amount of sex and some swashbuckling violence.


..

Nancora Surana was not ungrateful. The parade had been very nice. After so many months of running from Loghain and darkspawn and bandits and everything, it felt really good to be wanted and appreciated by someone. By a whole lot of someones, in fact. But it had been a long week. There had never been a longer week in the history of the universe, she thought. After all of it, she was nothing if not bone tired, and very glad to be back at camp with her party, reduced in membership though it now was.

She found she was uncomfortable sleeping in a bed, now. They were just so fluffy. When she got to Vigil's Keep, she would have to get used to it again, but for now she wanted the familiar feel of dirt beneath her back, and pitched canvas the only thing between her and open sky. She sat just outside her tent, pulling absently at the sparse grass, and enjoyed the stillness, for once.

Holding a stick, Alistair stood by the fire, poking it. He was pensive, and quiet: it had been a very long week. He caught her looking at him and smiled, a little nervously. "So, love... I've been thinking."

"Alistair." Nancora gave him a lopsided grin. "You know that's never a good idea."

"Right, right, sorry, I know. I'm an idiot." He tossed the stick into the fire, and it caught and burned. "But listen... this is important."

She waited patiently. He looked at her with wide hazel eyes, and Nancora sighed. He was very beautiful, she thought, standing there in the firelight. Things had never been so simple for them as they were in that moment. The Blight was over, the sky was clear, the forest was peaceful and idyllic, and as Nancora breathed the crisp night air she thought she had might never been happier in her whole life.

He said: "I have to leave you."

Shame he had to go and ruin it.

Nancora blinked. "Again?" she said. "But I thought now that you've made your memorial for Duncan..."

He sat down next to her and took a deep breath. On rare occasion Alistair could be deadly serious, and Nancora could see this was one of those times. She found herself digging her fingernails into her thighs. "I love you," he said, rather ominously. "I hope if nothing else, you are sure of that." She nodded suspiciously.

"Here's the thing though," he said. "One of us is supposed to be dead. That's how these things go, that's how Blights end. It won't be long before the Wardens from Orlais start asking us why we're both... you know... alive."

"I thought we were going to play stupid," Nancora said, her eyes narrowing. "Your words. Let them think Riordan absorbed the Archdemon."

"You know that won't work," Alistair said. "Hundreds of soldiers saw him fall off that dragon. There's already a song about it going around the taverns. It's quite catchy."

"Leliana..." Nancora rolled her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," Alistair said quickly. "Everyone knows that it was our team that did the slaying."

"Yes," Nancora snapped, her temper flaring. "Everyone knows we survived. Your disappearing won't solve anything."

"No. Everyone knows that you survived," he corrected. "The parade was for you. And thank the Maker for that, because if the Orlesians realize that no Wardens died with the Archdemon, it will only be a matter of time, Nan."

She felt as though she were being ambushed, and she bit back an irrational feeling of betrayal as he continued. "The Wardens are a scary lot," he said. "I don't like to speak ill of the order, you know that. They have their reasons, most of them justified." He took a deep breath. "But…. you saw how they killed Jory, at your Joining, when he showed the slightest threat. They will do whatever it takes to carry out their mission. If they even suspect that we have made some sort of dark deal with an Old God, they will kill both of us, without question."

At this, Nancora paled. It could be terrifying when Alistair made sense.

He took another deep breath. "Anyway, I think the only thing for it is for me to take off. Best for both of us, even."

There was a silence between them so thick that it could smother a bronto. Neither of them moved.

"Anora," Nancora said finally. "She knows you survived. She'll spoil it, she hates-"

"No," Alistair said, with a shake of his head. "She agreed to go along with it. It's better for her if I don't exist, and no one can raise a revolt in my name." He looked down at his hands. "She's already added my name to the memorial, for Grey Wardens who died in the Blight."

Nancora gaped. "You've already spoken with her?" she asked, her voice starting to screech.

"Yes," he admitted.

"But Eamon-"

"Will play along, too," Alistair said, "since I explained that it is for my safety."

"So you've already told everyone," Nancora snapped. "Except, you know, me."

"Well…" he said, then sighed, then, "Yes."

And he looked at her, his face a mask of sympathy and sorrow. Sorrow, but also certainty; there was nothing Nancora could say to keep him with her. "You've obviously already made up your mind," she said, her voice icy. With her, this was literal; in her anger, her magic would leak out. "I wish you would have talked to me earlier, when there was still something I could say, or do, or. argh! Alistair!" and she felt electricity jumping along her skin and she stopped, tried to breath. Don't lose control. She closed her eyes, calming herself, trying not to feel like the ground was falling away beneath her.

"But you can't," she said weakly, when the panic abated. "Because… because the only reason I told you to do... what I told you to do... that night, was so that we could be together."

At this he turned away. "I know," he said, very quietly. They did not speak of this.

She forced a smile. "Heck, the only reason you aren't King is because I didn't want you to dump me."

He laughed; the awkward moment passed. "Oh, that's cute. And also a little pathetic."

"Yes. Yes it is." Her face softened. Nancora's temper was legendary, but it held a secret that only Alistair knew; it was just a cover. Her eyes started to water. "Alistair…. oh, Maker… should they?"

Alistair looked confused. "Should they what?"

"Kill us." she said. He didn't respond, and she wiped her eyes. "We were very selfish, weren't we? Have we really made a dark deal with an Old God? Damned the world? I don't…"

"There's no point in second guessing our choices now," he said. "I can't… well, there's just no way to know. We just have to live with it, and the only way to do that is for me to leave, now, and continue the ruse."

"Alistair." she said quietly, then met his eyes. "Don't you dare leave me. Not now, not after… well, all of it. It's just too much. Alistair, you're still…" She paused. "You're still a Grey Warden. I need you in Amaranthine."

He smiled; she would try to appeal to his sense of duty, of all things. Unswayed, he bit his lip and gave her his best puppy dog eyes. "It won't be forever," he promised. "You go off and do your Warden-Commander thing at the Keep. For a few, I don't know... years. After a while, I figure everyone will have forgotten about me, because really, they always do, and I can come back and pretend to be a new recruit." His eyes twinkled. "I wonder if it's dangerous to do the Joining twice? I'll have to assume a new identity, of course. Perhaps invent an accent?"

Nancora crossed her arms and sighed. "I really don't think that will work, but I appreciate your effort to console me," she said. "I still think you are abandoning me forever, and I want to chop off you head."

"Please don't," he said. "I like my head, and you are clueless with an axe… you will just make a mess of it." She glared at him, not appreciating his levity. "You know I wouldn't do this if it weren't absolutely necessary."

Well, yes, she did know that, but it didn't make it hurt any less. So much of her life had been very empty, and joyless, and she had gone to great lengths, extreme lengths, to preserve this one good thing, and now he was leaving, just like that, and she felt as though the darkspawn had won after all. She wanted to rage, and fight, and win, but at this moment she knew she could not. She had to let him go.

"Very well, Alistair," she said finally. He started to relax, but she held up a finger, and he froze. It was a very dangerous finger. "However. There's no way I'm letting you run off alone. For years? No, Alistair. It's much too dangerous and you are much too foolish. You'll need help."

Alistair drew back and looked around the camp. For a long time, they had traveled with a large group of varied companions, but now there were only two tents pitched beside the fire; there was only one other person in their party. "You can't be serious. What makes you think...?" Alistair frowned. "Why would he even agree? He swore an oath to you, not me. He doesn't even like me. Does he? I don't think he does."

"On the contrary," Nancora said, and she allowed herself to smile. "He thinks you are ridiculously awesome."

-o-

"So, the saucy minx has cast you out, has she?" Zevran said, the words slipping out of his mouth past a sly smile. He approached Alistair as the other man was packing outside their tent. As was the Antivan way, he came too close to Alistair for his Chantry sense of comfort. Unconsciously Alistair moved a step back from him.

"No... not exactly."

"Still, I am sad to learn that if you are no longer occupying the lady Surana's tent, that I will also be parting ways with the lovely Warden." Zevran smiled again. "But, such is life."

"Thank you, Zevran, as always," Alistair said, through gritted teeth, "for your tact and grace."

Zevran bowed, with flourish. Alistair wondered what it would be like to be Zevran, to treat life like a game and be spared the constant pain of it. In many ways, they were similar. Both had been sold into brutal service at a young age, both having lost their mothers in childbirth. Neither of them had a real home. But while Zevran was a leaf on the wind, content to be blown wherever it willed him, Alistair had desperately fought against that wind, and lost. How long had he waited in the Chantry, hoping that Eamon would come to take him back? How long had he been part of the Grey Wardens, finally finding himself among friends, before the order was obliterated at Ostagar? How long had he been allowed to enjoy his hard-won romance with Nancora before circumstance forced him to leave her?

If his luck continued in this manner, he would grow to truly enjoy Zevran's company just moments before the elf died tragically of syphilis.

"The lady would also like us to take her dog," Zevran said.

Nancora's mabari, his esteemed majesty Ser Poopier, trotted out from behind the slight elf. He seemed to smile at Alistair, and then, perhaps following Zevran's lead, he bowed.

"Aha. So where are the three of us headed?"

"Alas, she did not tell me," Zevran said. "Perhaps she is thinking that you will be telling me, no?"

"I don't really care, Zevran, honestly," Alistair said. "I just need to leave Ferelden. Do you have a preference?"

"If you are truly asking me, most certainly, I would like to return to Antiva," Zevran said. "It is nice there in the spring. But I thought perhaps you would like to go to the Anderfels? That is the home of your Grey Wardens, is it not?"

"Yes. So let's not go there," Alistair said. He stuffed an extra shirt into his backpack, and pulled the drawstring shut. He did not have very much to pack. "Look, we'll have to have a cover story. Wherever we're headed, I'm not supposed to be a Grey Warden."

"Ah, the plot thickens," Zevran said, his eyes lighting up. "Here, I have one. Perhaps you are a noble of the Bannorn, fleeing for his life. It seems all your silly jokes have finally annoyed a mob of peasants into a murderous rage. And I am your hapless servant, free to leave you but unable to picture a life without you. It is funny, but also sad. You could wear an amusing hat."

"Uh, hmm."

"You would be surprised," Zevran said. "The more interesting your story, the more absurd, the less it is questioned. You shall have to have a new name. How do you like Finley? Bann Finley? I shall be Arainan Zevrai, at your service."

"Finley... will be fine. Antiva is fine. Arainan Zevrai... that just sounds like your name flipped around, Zevran." Zevran shrugged. "And I'm not going to be a noble, and I'm certainly not going to be your master because that's just… weird. Can we just be, I don't know, mercenaries or something?" Zevran lifted his hands, as if to say, Eh, sure, I guess, if you want to be boring. "Right then. We should head out as soon as you're ready."

Zevran raised an eyebrow, and glanced over his shoulder at Nancora's tent. Formerly their tent. Alistair gave it a hard look, imagining Nancora sulking inside. He imagined a few other things too, and then he looked away. "No, I don't want to say good-bye. There's nothing more to say."

Zevran laughed, a humorless, wicked laugh. "Don't be an idiot, Alistair," he said. Alistair looked at him blankly. Zevran sighed heavily. "Truly, I do not know how you manage to dress yourself in the morning. Look. What you have to do has nothing to do with talking." He paused, pointedly, without blinking. "Listen, Ferelden, if you do not go to that woman right now and give her something to remember you by, I will be forced to do it for you."

"But-"

"Forced. It would be such a grievously stupid error on your part, I would have no choice but to correct it." Zevran turned away from Alistair, and casually regarded his fingernails. "Now go, or I will continue to insult your manhood until you do."

Alistair hesitated. He did not like being told what to do by Zevran, and certainly not in this, but it did seem as though he had no choice. He opened his mouth a few times, trying to come up with a witty retort to make it seem less like this was Zevran's idea, trying just to say something, finally just saying, "Ah," and then, "Yes." And then he walked, too aware of Zevran's attention, to Nancora's tent.

-o-

Nancora had been crying. Her skin was delicate and pale, and it was always obvious when she got the least bit upset. But she was not crying any more; she looked exhausted, and was lying down, very still, on her bedroll. She is so small, Alistair thought. He had to remind himself sometimes that she was not as fragile as she looked. "Oh, Alistair," she said, confused, then happy, then confused again. "For a moment I thought you were going to leave without… saying good-bye." She sighed. "I'm glad you didn't."

Alistair cringed. He loved her, and she was his best friend, and the person he knew best in all the world, but he still had absolutely no idea what he was doing sometimes. "Of course," he said, smiling weakly. "How heartless do you think I am?"

She smiled. "Come here, you terrible liar, you."

Alistair paused, sputtered, said finally, "So you heard all that, did you?" She nodded, and shrugged, and looked at him with smokey eyes. Somehow his being a bumbling idiot never seemed to discourage her. He was reminded of Leliana telling him that his awkwardness was part of his charm. He could only hope. He settled down beside her, draped an arm over her chest, pulled her close, and kissed her. She kissed him back, warm, and hungry, and then pulled away.

"You should know," she said winkingly, "canvas? Not quite as soundproof as you clearly seem to think." He nodded, deciding not to care, leaning back towards her, wanting. She stopped him again, hand on his chest, flashing a playful smile. "Also? If there's a fire behind it, you can see right through it."

"Uh huh," he mumbled, grasping at her. Why had he thought he could leave without this? He kissed her again, but she held back, just a bit, waiting for something. If there's a fire behind it, you can see right through it. "Oh," he said.

"Yes," Nancora said. "Just so you know. It doesn't bother me, any more, but… just so you know."

Alistair examined the tent walls. He looked over and saw the glow of the fire, warm and diffuse through the canvas. "Huh," and then he considered the dark wall. Briefly he felt very exposed and embarrassed and oh Maker is Zevran really watching us? but then he realized that this was not a new attribute of canvas, and so if it hadn't bothered him when they had been surrounded by a gaggle of very bored and gossipy companions, then he certainly wasn't going to let it bother him now. "Alright," he said. "Best do this right, then."

Nancora smiled. "That would be best, yes."