Oathkeeper

The sword glimmered in his hand, awash in promises and hope. It caught the setting sun in a marvelous way as he stood on the ancient Imperial Highway, inspecting the sword up close for the first time—Oathkeeper, it was called.

Alistair felt more than a little guilty about that.

Here he was, Grey Warden, Blight-battler, beating out a steady rhythm away from where he was needed most. A storm of swords and claws was about to descend on the town of Lothering, and where would the Grey Wardens be? Hiking in the opposite direction.

Taking this sword from Lothering was tantamount to taking away its hope. It was a gift from the Chantry, "a small token for all that you've done for us," as a sister had put it. He had wanted to do more, to be quite honest. In a village as small and sad as Lothering, there had to be more, but the Chantry had nothing more for him to do and his tasks ahead numbered beyond counting.

So he set out, however reluctantly, with a new sword in hand. He had needed it, his old one all but falling apart in his hands after being blackened by the corrosive blood of darkspawn far too many times. The fresh blade had belonged to a templar once, whether lyrium-addled in Orlais or lying in an early grave courtesy of a blood mage, he did not know.

Alistair knew there was something important in this sword. It wasn't just the way its enchantments made it glean. No, it was the love with which is had been maintained. Little signs of wear and tear caught his eye when he really looked for them and the nature of the sword's make betrayed its true age, but the Oathkeeper was an otherwise exceptional sword.

Someone must have loved its last wielder a great deal to keep it in such fine shape. For the sister to have given it to him freely and without a moment's hesitation…Alistair felt more than a little humbled.

The sister had entrusted him with all her love and all of her hope.

He looked down the long stretch of the Imperial Highway, where a Witch of the Wilds, a lay sister of the Chantry, a war hound, and a tight-lipped qunari all followed a single figure without question. Maybe they weren't taking the hope out of Lothering. Maybe it was simply moving in another direction.

Alistair eyed Oathkeeper again. It was a fine sword, beaming even against the twilight. If he was feeling poetic, he might have said something about beacons in the dark.

"Oathkeeper," the name felt good on his tongue. He wanted to live up to that name. "Let's make an oath, then."

With a dramatic flourish that would have made him feel silly if not for the fact that he was (almost) certain the others weren't watching, Alistair pointed his sword south, past Lothering and Ostagar, into the very heart of the horde.

"I swear upon this sword that, as long as I draw breath, I will do everything in my power to end this Blight and bring Teyrn Loghain to justice for betraying the Grey Wardens and allowing the darkspawn to come this far. I will devote myself to saving Ferelden from these dark times."

"That's nice and all, but we should really get going."

The sound of the other Warden's voice, carrying on the wind, was nearly enough to make Alistair jump out his skin.

A little composure and one sheathed sword later, Alistair hurried after his fearless leader, but not before casting one last look at the town shrinking in the distance.

"I will do all of these things and more. I promise."