The whispers echoed in the air, swilling about him like a cloud of dust in the darkness of his mind. The song grew ever weak, and yet it was still there, ominous in the background as it ever was, calling to him. He couldn't recall what time of day it was with the sky as dark as it was, threatening to open up and swallow them all.
Perhaps the sun would be setting about now, it didn't really matter if you couldn't see it. What he could still see was the blood splatters on the flagstone around him. The blood… it was everywhere. He couldn't remember having ever seen this much blood before. It stained his clothes, his skin, his heart.
He laughed, a pathetic sound only barely escaping his cracked lips as he realized he was dying. Oh, so was the winged beast not to far away, he could hear the thing's labored breath. Funny how in the end he would end up dead anyway. Figured really, despite all the careful planning and rituals performed, nothing he ever did really mattered anyway.
Laughter finally gave way to tears as he cursed himself. He'd tried so hard to make a difference and for what? The world as he knew it was about to end, a world that had kept him from his family because of something that had not been his fault. It must have been if he had to be sent away, to be kept a secret. It must have been when he was sent away yet again because of a jealous wife. It was all too good to be true that he could have been a hero, could have been finally accepted by those around him, acknowledged as a person as more than just the bastard son.
He tried to move, pulling himself onto his knees. Pain swept through him again and he lurched forward, clutching his middle as he looked around at the sorry state of things. He'd messed things up again. And royally this time. The witch was gone, the qunari lay dead only a few yards away. His own mabari, loyal to the end, lay by his side, body pierced by dozens of arrows. He'd even seen Riordan fall to his death after giving the archdemon the critical blow that had grounded it nearby.
Enough to ground it, sure, but before he knew it, more darkspawn would come. Healers to be sure. This wasn't the end for them, but he could see his clear as the day as his eyes rested on the body of Leliana, chantry vestments stained in the same crimson splattered on the ground, clutching a steel symbol of Andraste to her chest.
The tears formed anew as he thought about how they'd met, how he'd told her that they would need more than just prayers if they wished to end the Blight. She'd said she could fight, and Maker's breath she could. He'd never realized that she would bring the odd company of a Warden as far as she had with the skill of her bow, her cunning and her love.
He watched her unmoving body a while longer, frozen to the spot, his heart crying out to the heavens. He felt caged, clawing at the walls of a dank prison, wishing to be released from this hell, wishing none of this was real. It couldn't be real, and yet it must have been if it was happening to him. It wasn't like he deserved any better anyway. He'd wanted to believe that none of that was true when he'd met her. It never mattered how wrong things felt anymore, she'd always been there. After Duncan had died, she'd been the only one to care what he wanted, the only one to care about how he felt, the only one to understand the things he went through. She'd given him peace of mind. In peace, vigilance.
Alistair closed his eyes again, he could feel his energy draining as well as his will to continue on. With all he'd lost, let someone else be the king of Ferelden! Let someone else give the archdemon one final death blow! In war, victory.
But there was no one else.
There had almost been. Back before all this, at Ostagar. He had high hopes for the young mage fresh from the Circle tower. The mage had been friendly, excited, ready for anything. And oddly enough happy to meet Alistair and eager to travel with him. He would give anything now to call that man his brother. He could feel another pang in his chest as he remembered the mage dropping the cup, the rest of the contents spilling on the floor. In death, sacrifice.
Perhaps if he had been there, if there had been more Wardens to make it through the joining, if he had taken up Riordan on the offer to make Loghain a Warden his friends around him would not be dead or dying. Or gone.
His half-brother's widowed wife had refused to acknowledge him after he, in anger, had mercilessly executed her father right there in front of her. Riordan had been right all along; his mind had been clouded by hate and revenge. He should have listened.
The whispered speech grew louder, tugging, clawing at his mind as if desperate for attention, a pleading cry for help. The dragon stirred. It lifted its head, looking to the side. Alistair lifted his head as well, looking in the same direction. Metal boots clanged and scraped against the stone, announcing the hurlock now moving towards him. It had a wicked grin on its face as it took its time, letting the executioner's axe scrape against the ground. After all, it had all the time in the world when its prey could barely move.
Finally, the hurlock reached him, raising the axe above its head, catching a small glimmer of light on its cruel blade. Accepting his fate, the Warden closed his eyes and dropped his head. It would all be over soon. For the first time in Maker knew how long, he prayed. But not to the Maker, not to Andraste. No, it was to his fallen companions, asking their forgiveness. He'd failed all of them.
Seconds grew into minutes, and soon he grew suspicious of how long it was taking for the hurlock to bring down his axe. He opened an eye and looked up, seeing the ugly thing frozen in place. It wasn't that it was paralyzed or anything, but the look on its face showed the obvious signs of suffering, he was in pain.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the monster exploded, sending black blood and bits and pieces of foul-smelling darkspawn flesh around it. His eyes widened as the dragon let out a weak roar. Alistair looked around, straining to see the figure that had been standing behind the hurlock.
"Morrigan…" Alistair plead. It seemed rather pathetic of him, but more than just a little fitting that he was there on the ground with her standing over him. Instead of gloating, she looked worried. Perhaps, if only for only a glimmer of a second, she seemed almost human as she knelt down beside him then, applying poultices and using whatever mana she had left to heal him.
"You came back?"
"Of course I came back. You are the one whose hands we left the fate of the world in. 'Tis only natural that you would find a way to completely fail at your job," She paused then, her voice softening for a moment. Perhaps the only time he really remembered her speaking this way. "After last night, I must make sure to see this through. Not just for me."
Alistair groaned, wanting to protest, to say that everything she did, she did for herself, but he had no strength to argue now. "When did you learn to heal?"
"Wynne taught me," Morrigan said, looking away for a moment, toward the steps they had used to gain access to the tower. "We have no time to lose. Can you stand, Warden?"
The man nodded, pulling himself up to his knees. The pain spread through him and he bent over, breathing heavy then. Still, the pain seemed weaker than it had before, further away. He could do this, he had to. He looked around at this dead companions. For them. For Ferelden.
He pulled his shield to himself then, using his sword to pull himself upright and back to his feet. He'd been proud of this armor, the symbol of the Templar Order emblazoned on his chest. He may not have taken his vows, but he'd never forget who he was, what he had trained for. Warden or not, there were things that needed to be done. Things that he would need to live to do.
He swallowed then, turning to Morrigan. "Thank you…" He somehow managed to say, but she was gone again, and he was left alone in the pile of bodies; human, elf, dwarf and darkspawn alike as he made his way to the archdemon.
He lived.