"The Taint… it's a death sentence."
The words he'd spoken so long ago rang through King Alistair Theirin as he fled the palace. His flight had been carefully planned, coordinated, and now it would be executed. He recalled a time when he was never one for making plans. A time when he was young, trying to save the world with the help of his friend, another Grey Warden. Those were the days, when the Calling seemed like a far off worry.
The King was a Warden once, and while he no longer killed darkspawn on the regular, he still carried within him the Taint, a dark curse gained during his Joining. For years, he'd ruled Ferelden, set up high by his Warden friend, with whom he'd shared the victory. But for reasons unknown, the Hero of Ferelden had vanished, and now Alistair was alone. He quickened his pace through the dark halls of his grand estate, making for the escape tunnel only ever used during times of siege. He wore a dark cloak over a set of slim, light plate armor. It was made of Silverlite, and it seemed to gleam brightly in the darkness of the torches he passed. His only other equipment was a strange, glowing sword upon his belt and a rucksack filled with a few keepsakes. A large sack of provisions would be waiting next to the hidden entrance to the escape tunnel, courtesy of the cook, who had been ordered to comply with the King's wishes with the utmost discretion.
'The hefty sum of gold I've left her should be thanks enough,' Alistair thought, stroking his beard as he went, 'if only I could've thanked her in person….'
He continued his march, his thoughts swirling as he thought about the past few years. The icy cold grip of the Taint had seemed to creep through his limbs more and more with each passing day leading up to his flight, and though he wished he could be cured of his burden, he supposed it was fitting that he return to his roots as a Warden before his death. The kingdom would awaken tomorrow morning to find themselves Kingless, the last heir to the Theirin bloodline seemingly gone without a trace. Still, the King's final wishes would likely be adhered to, as his sister, Goldanna, and her children would inherit the throne.
'No one else could pull this country up by its bootstraps,' Alistair thought with a sad smirk as he recalled his sister's fieriness.
She knew all too well the poverty and depravity suffered by those living in Denerim, and she would likely have several wonderful, innovative ways to deal with these issues. Of course, that was assuming she was left to her devices as the leader of the Kingdom.
"Ugh, those Bans," Alistair groaned as he thought about the lords and ladies of the land that would be most upset by the change in leadership.
Sure, many of them would comply with Alistair's parting wishes, but some of them were bitter, power hungry wyverns that would either call for a vote to replace, or seek to influence, his sister. Not that she'd take any of their lip, if Alistair knew her as he thought he did
And then his thoughts drifted back to simpler times once more, when he was a young man; his friend, the Hero of Ferelden, at his side as they fought to avoid disaster. Sure, they were desperate times, and Morrigan had been a complete and utter bitch, but Alistair couldn't help but smile as he thought of all the good times they'd had. Even in the darkest of times, when they were underground in the Deep Roads, fighting for their lives, moments of warmth and happiness were found amongst their group. Wynne, Oghren, the Hero of Ferelden, Alistair, Sten, Shale, Morrigan, Zevran, Leliana, all of them, their faces smiling against the firelight as they took solace in each other's company. And then, like dust to the wind, the smiling faces Alistair had known and grown to care for all scattered, leaving him alone to govern, to rule, and to unite. Not a day had gone by that Alistair didn't miss them, and now, as he walked to his death through the long dark corridors of the palace, his course set for the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads, a tear fell from the corner of his eye. It had been a good life, at least he would go out the way he was meant to.
"Going somewhere, King Alistair?"
From around the corner at the end of the hall came a shadowy figure. The King did not break his stride. The only thing that mattered was that he be dead before the Taint took him, one way or another, assassin or darkspawn, the King didn't really care.
"I was just on my way out," Alistair said, drawing his sword.
How could the person have known him, if he was not an assassin? And yet, as Alistair approached the figure, he felt as if he were missing something, something that he should've known. That voice was familiar, like from a long forgotten dream, and what was more: the figure before the King was corrupted with the Taint as well, he could sense it. Realization clicked into place and the sword almost fell from the King's hand as he came to a stop short of the corner, the dark figure still obscured as it stood outside of the torch light.
"Is it really you," Alistair asked quietly, trying to peer at the face of the figure.
The shadow stepped forward quietly, and the torch shined upon a hooded and cloaked man. He pulled back his hood to reveal a face Alistair had once known very well.
"Yes," said the man, his neatly trimmed goatee just the way Alistair remembered.
"The Hero of Ferelden returns at last, eh? What brings you here," the King asked, shoving his glowing sword back into its sheathe.
"I've come to join you," said the Warden, "I've felt the Calling for some time, and I knew that you would soon be on your way to the Deep Roads."
He left out the part where the King would fight to the death so as to avoid turning into a darkspawn, but still, Alistair couldn't help but smile. The Hero of Ferelden was a mage, and as such he always seemed to know things he shouldn't… like the route the King would take leave his palace unnoticed.
"And now what? Will you escort me to my death? Are you here to counsel me as my advisor," Alistair asked, stung by the anger he felt at his friend. They had been the best of friends, they'd saved the world, and then the Hero had simply vanished.
"As I said, I've come to join you. My time is finished and I thought… well, a familiar face and some good company before I die would be most welcome. It's been far too long since we last fought, side by side. What do you say, Alistair? Does one more battle for our lives sound like a good time," the Hero of Ferelden asked, eyeing his friend's stony expression.
"You've been gone for years," Alistair said quietly, not looking at the Warden, "you set me up to take the throne and then you left to explore and have more adventures. Part of me wishes I could still recall my Templar training so I could nullify your magic and break your nose…. And the other part knows it would do no good, and is simply glad to see you again."
"Well, feel free to break my nose," the Hero said laughingly, holding out his arms wide, "I won't stop you."
"No, I don't suppose you would," Alistair said with a smirk before stepping forward and hugging his comrade.
They broke apart and Alistair sunk his fist into the Hero's gut, making him double over.
"That's for running out on me," Alistair said, smiling more widely that he had in years.
"Argh… you still hit like a girl," the Warden coughed as he pushed himself upright.
"I'm older now, my strength had faded a bit," Alistair said tiredly before he gestured for the both of them to continue their pace as they made for the secret tunnel.
As they walked, Alistair glanced at his friend, taking in the changes in his posture and age. He was an Arcane Warrior, and probably the last there ever would be to be taught by one of the original elvish purveyors of the specialization. He was slim and slightly taller than the King now, his goatee, once dark and full, was now faded and lined with gray, along with his long hair. On his back he carried a large staff lined with shining runes and on his waist was a sword that glowed with the same eerie power as his staff. His armor was slim and scaled, much like Alistair's, yet it was also different in that it was worn and faded. It was the same armor he'd worn long ago, back when they'd found ironbark for a Dalish craftsman.
"Is that Master What's-His-Names armor," Alistair asked in disbelief.
"Varathorn," the Warden said with a smile, "and yes."
"You still wear that? Why?"
"It's light and strong. As a warrior and a mage, I must be agile, yet strong. And besides, isn't that the set of armor I bought for you after we defeated the Archdemon?"
"It is," Alistair admitted with a chuckle, "how'd you remember?"
"You may think I've been away having adventures… but I've been paying close attention to you and your rule, your Majesty," the Hero said as they went, now coming close to a large statue of some ancient monarch or another, "not a day has passed I haven't thought of all of my old friends."
"Don't call me 'your Majesty'," the King sighed, "it's just Alistair, to you. And I haven't forgotten them, either."
"So, Alistair, shall have one more adventure together? I can't say I'm keen on dying, but it'll be a right sight better than submitting to the curse of the darkspawn," the Hero noted.
"One more adventure," Alistair muttered to himself as they came to a stop before the tall, regal statue of a crowned man with a sword in his hand.
Alistair felt it, the rush of adventure! It was wonderful, and he hadn't felt it in years! With his ties to the throne broken, he was a free man, nothing held him back. There was only one journey left for him, and he had an old friend with whom he could embark upon said journey.
"Aye," Alistair said, reaching out a hand to the Warden, "I'll travel with you."
"Good thing," the Warden said, roughly grasping his ally by the forearm, "because we were prepared to drag you along with us."
"Us," Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow as he released the Hero and pulled on the torch bracket to the left of the statue, causing a small stone door to open in the base of the statue's pedestal.
"Us," the Warden said again, smiling at the freshly opened portal.
And there, within the darkness, was a shuffling sound. Alistair stared down into the darkness until another shorter, fouler, familiar presence bustled from the doorway.
"Oghren," the King asked incredulously.
"Hey there, little pike twirler," Oghren said, shaking spider webs and dust from the braids of his hair and beard, "long time no see."
And so the trio set off, all three of them traveling together as they once did. They slept outside, making camp, entering taverns and getting thrown out of them, not to mention complimenting every young woman in every passing village. They sang war songs around the camp fire, hunted their own game and survived off of the land as they once did.
"Just like old times," Oghren said happily.
However, the closer they got to Orzammar, the entrance to the Deep Roads, the more and more frivolous they became, for it was the only way to ward off the demented iciness that bled through their veins, courtesy of the Taint. Their stay in Orzammar was short lived, and filled with merriment, laughter and reminiscing. Even though many years had passed, they were still heroes of the dwarven folk, and anonymity was difficult to upkeep when you'd saved the Kingdom. The final night passed in a wondrous haze, and yet for all the drink they'd consumed and all their happiness that evening, they still awoke early the next morning, wide eyed, solemn, and grim. Instead of pulling on their comfortable, luxurious clothes, the three Wardens pulled on their armor, strapped on their weapons and strode out of the civilized portion of Orzammar, heading for the Deep Roads.
Darkness, absolute silence, and an awe inspiring amount of dwarven architecture and lava made up the deep roads, along with plenty of darkspawn. As they slaughtered their way around the Deep Roads, no real destination in mind, each of the Wardens, now stripped of titles, heroic deeds, and noble ranks all thought about their loved ones at home. They thought of better days, loves lost, time stolen by necessity and duty, and the never-ending tide of darkspawn that threated to overtake them.
"In war, victory," Ohgren roared as he cleaved his foes in twain.
"In peace, vigilance," King Alistair cried as his blade severed limbs, leaving lines of blood in its wake.
"In death, sacrifice," hollered the Hero of Ferelden, an ethereal blade in one hand and lightning shooting from the other.
And for all the greatness of the trio, for all their might and their knowledge, for all the lives they'd touched and the lives they'd taken, they could not stand forever against the darkspawn horde. Their fight ended when each of them fell, surrounded by an army of slain darkspawn, but they thought not of their own lives as they faded, they thought of those who had lived to see a brighter future because of their sacrifice.
Hey all, just another short fic, this one is Dragon Age, for those of you who don't know. I felt that it would be interesting to explore Alistair's experience with the Calling, so boom, fanfiction. I never played Dragon Age Awakening, though I have played Origins, DA2, and Inquisition. Personally, I think the sequels are great and all, but Origins is just... amazing, the characters, the story, the world, is so deep and interesting I can just pour over the Codex and read for hours! Anyway, my Warden was always a male mage, good friends with Alistair, who was always made King, and pretty much always an Arcane Warrior. Don't get me wrong, I've played through as a warrior and a rouge, but the mage is just awesome. One more thing, I know the ending is cheesy and vague, but I just neede to get some kinda closure, lay off me.