Let us talk, you and I. When I began this story, I hadn't quite intended to take it this far. But shortly after developing the characters, this part of the story came to me. Both this part and the part that follows have been written for months. My inner muse demanded it be told no matter what, and so here it is. But I think it only fair that I give you, my readers, a proper warning, and so I shall borrow and paraphrase the words of Mister Stephen King. He wrote this almost at the end of his Dark Tower series (which owns my soul, by the way) and it's far better than anything I could write. My changes to his eloquent prose are in italics.
"And so, my dear Constant Reader, I tell you this: You can stop here. You can let your last memory be of seeing Alistair, Breonna and Rhoswen, together for the first time. You can be content in the knowledge that sooner or later other friends will also enter the picture. That's a pretty picture, isn't it? I think so. And pretty close to happily ever after, too. Close enough for government work.
"Should you go on, you will surely be disappointed, perhaps even heartbroken. I have one key left on my belt, but all it opens is that final door, the one marked THE END. What's behind won't improve your love-life, grow hair on your bald spot, or add five years to you natural span (not even five minutes). There is no such thing as a happy ending. I never met a single one equal 'Once upon a time.'
"Endings are heartless.
"Ending is just another word for goodbye."
You're still with me. I'm sorry. Not sorry for writing this, for it is a tale that must be told, but sorry for the end that it has to be. I will not tell you to enjoy, as I have with everything else, for this is not something one should find joy in. I hope you appreciate it and accept it for what it is.
Chapter 1
Twenty-nine years.
They had been a good twenty-nine years, Alistair reflected, better than he could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams. His country was peaceful and prosperous, his people flourishing. He had friends, men and women who stood by him with support and affection. And he had his family—Rhoswen, his beautiful, golden daughter, grown into a woman now, married to a man who loved her fiercely, and his grandson, Duncan, a smiling, laughing three year old, with an unruly mop of sandy blond hair and his father's bright, blue eyes.
He had his Breonna—his queen, his wife, his heart. She was the fulfillment of every sappy cliché the bards sang of. Before her, he hadn't known what it meant to really love someone. And now? Now, he loved her so much it hurt. A life without her was inconceivable and he silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Maker for allowing him to find her.
So, all in all, they had been an excellent twenty-nine years.
He wanted more.
A long time ago, thirty years had seemed like forever. It had seemed like such an impossibly distant stretch of time. That time was gone now. Every moment of those years was behind him now, filled with memories and love—thoughts that were slowly being submerged by the call in his head.
Alistair rubbed his forehead wearily, not really seeing the papers spread on the desk before him. He hated the call that was always with him now. It buzzed and rasped beneath his skin and in his head until he wanted to tear it out with his hands—anything to make to stop, to make it be quiet. It was there always, serving as a reminder that his tomorrows were rapidly running short, that time was slipping through his hands, seeming to speed up like the last grains of sand through an hourglass.
He hated the call. He hated it because not only did it herald his departure from everything he loved, it also made it hard to think. It crept into his mind, obscuring memories, driving away all thoughts except the one that demanded he find the source and put an end to it. And it made him short-tempered, so easy to anger that not lashing out required him to keep tight control. The taint was a poison, not only of the body, but of the mind, slowly driving him to madness.
With a great effort of will, Alistair pulled his mind back into focus. Dwelling on those thoughts didn't help. He looked back down at his papers, gathering them in his hands. Everything was ready. He'd been in communication with King Bhelen for months, and the dwarven monarch knew to expect Alistair at any time. All of his other personal affairs had been arranged so that the transition after his death would be seamless.
Replacing the papers in his desk, he pushed his chair back and rose. The moment he had been dreading for months was here and he couldn't avoid it any longer. He walked the dim hallways back to the royal suite quietly, trying to think of the best way to break the news.
Passing by a mirror hung on a wall he caught a glimpse of his reflection and paused. The man in the mirror bore only a passing resemblance to the one who had first taken up residence within these stone walls.
The last four or five years had aged him. His hair was mostly gray now, only a few strands of the gold peeking through in strong light. His face was lined, deep grooves beside his nose and mouth, his brow holding furrows even when relaxed. There were dark circles beneath the hazel eyes framed with crow's feet. He knew he looked older than his fifty years, and knew that it was because the taint within him was finally taking its toll, claiming his features before it finally claimed his life.
But the weathered map of his face also held the results of the good times. The lines around his mouth and eyes were more from smiling and laughing than worry and stress. The taint hadn't taken the crooked grin or the teasing spark in his eyes. It hadn't taken his ability to laugh and love.
Not yet, anyway.
The sitting room was lit by a single lamp when he entered. Breonna was seated on a sofa, legs curled under her as she watched the small fire burn in the hearth.
"When were you going to tell me?"
He started slightly and then sighed. He crossed the room and sat beside her, easing himself down and catching her hand in his.
"Right now, actually," he said. "You knew?"
"Of course, I knew." She turned towards him, lifting her other hand to run through his hair. "Oh, Alistair, how could I not know? After all these years of sleeping beside you, do you think I wouldn't notice when your sleep became restless and disturbed? Or not notice when you become quiet and withdrawn? Did you expect the sudden flurry of activity—letters back and forth, sparring in heavier armor than you've worn in years—to go unnoticed? Do you think I didn't care when you looked distant and worried, and that even when you told me everything's all right, your smile was strained? I just wish you had told me sooner."
He stroked his thumb over her hand. "I didn't know how. I still don't."
Her hand squeezed his. "Then don't. You don't need to say it." A slight pause. "How long?"
"I don't know. Two weeks, maybe three. It's…getting harder to ignore, but I still have some time."
"I see…." He could hear the sorrow in her voice, knew she had hoped for more time, and it was killing him to hurt her like this.
Silence stretched between them. "I don't want to tell Rhos," he finally said. "I just want to spend what time I have left with all of you without this hanging over everyone's heads. You'll…you'll have to explain to them after I leave."
"I will."
She leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder. Sliding his arm around her, he rested his head on hers, and there they sat, long into the evening.
It was heartbreaking to watch him.
Ever since the night Alistair had told her what being a Warden meant, part of Breonna had been preparing for this. But nothing she had ever envisioned had prepared her for the reality of it.
He said he wanted to spend the rest of his time with his family, enjoy them, and she made sure that's what he got. Every time an advisor or noble came, she either handled the matter herself or put them off. She didn't care if the business of running the country came to a halt. This was Alistair's time and the rest of them could go hang if they didn't like it.
In these final weeks, he showered his family with attention. Always an affectionate man, it was the little differences that struck her. The way he tucked Duncan in at night or the way he treated Rhoswen as if she were his little girl again and not a woman grown. The way he would find Breonna at odd times and places just to simply give her a kiss and a hug.
The way he managed to always touch part of her whenever they were together and how, at night, he held her as if he were afraid to let her go.
It made her heart ache to know that he was doing this to give them memories. He was leaving them with these last, best parts of himself to take his place when he was gone. And as much as that realization hurt, it wasn't what caused her the most pain.
Alistair was losing himself.
She hadn't noticed the first sign right away, until a chance comment from Duncan called her attention to it.
They had been in Rhoswen's rooms, just talking quietly when Duncan asked, "Grandpa, what are you looking at?"
Alistair started, gaze focusing on his grandson. He gave a faltering smile, shook his head and wiped his mouth, and then smiled widely at the boy. "Nothing, Duncan, I was just thinking. Come here. Let me read you a story."
After that, it had been so easy to see that Breonna kicked herself for missing it. Alistair would grow quiet, contemplative, eyes staring into the middle distance. The haunted look in them made her shiver. When he got that look, it was obvious that he wasn't completely present with them—that his mind had drifted to some dark corner where they couldn't follow.
The second sign was his temper. Alistair had never been a man easily given to sharp and biting comments, usually forgiving and understanding no matter the situation. But now she saw the effort it took for him to rein in his anger, to not berate someone for an honest mistake. And she knew it upset him. When he couldn't quite control it, he was always visibly contrite and apologetic.
The last sign was one she was incapable of missing. As his taint progressed, he became more desperate to have her physically. The wild passions of their youth had cooled, becoming something more like banked coals ready to spring to life when they wanted rather than the raging torrent it had once been.
She delighted in the passion and despaired at it all at the same time. The same loss of control she saw in his ability to focus or control his temper was present in their lovemaking. He gave her pleasure, but there was something wild in his eyes now, his hands rougher on her body than they had been in years.
It wasn't intentional. And it got worse as the days passed.
In the end, he lasted a month, a stretch of time that was hard won. It ended the night he woke, shouting wildly and falling from their bed, desperately caught up in the throes of his nightmare. Breonna slid from the bed to kneel next to him, catching his shaking body against hers and rocking him.
"I can't anymore, Bre," he whispered hoarsely as he clung to her. "I-I can't. I tried, I tried so hard, but I can't anymore."
"Shhh, it's all right. I know."
"Everything's all ready set. One more day to…to say goodbye and then I need to go."
She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He had this planned out, planned to go off to Orzammar alone, and there was no way she was going to let that happen. A day was all she needed to make sure her own plans were in motion.
Two mornings later, the courtyard was abuzz with activity as the royal guard mounted up and the rest of the supplies were readied. Breonna watched from a window as wagons were loaded and their carriage readied. Alistair might be going to die, but there still basic necessities that he and his men would need. She nodded to herself in satisfaction as a few extra trunks were brought out. It was time.
She turned back to face Rhoswen, her daughter's face pale in the morning light. Yesterday, she had taken Rhoswen and Roland, Rhoswen's husband, aside and explained exactly what was going to happen. Her daughter had been horrified, objecting at first when Breonna made it clear that they were not to let Alistair know that they knew. But duty and respect had eventually stilled her objections, and she accepted the burden her mother placed on her.
She picked up the heavy, fur-lined cloak up from across the desk and put it on. Walking forward, she embraced her daughter. "You know what to do?"
"Yes, Mother.
"Good. If you need anything, ask your Uncle Fergus. I love you, Rhos."
"I love you, too, Mum. Tell Fath—tell Daddy I love him, okay?"
Breonna wiped the tears from her daughter's cheeks. She was so young for this—younger than Breonna herself had been when she married Alistair. "He knows, baby, but I'll tell him. And he loves you. I'll see you when we get back."
Rhoswen nodded, reaching out to adjust her mother's cloak before stepping back. Breonna quickly made her way through the halls, exiting the palace into the bitingly cold winter air and coming down the steps. Alistair was questioning one of the guards, asking about the inclusion of the latest trunks. When she came forward and touched his arm, he fell silent, looking at her with appraising eyes and frowning.
Drawing her off to the side, he asked quietly, "What are you doing?"
"I'm coming with you."
"Bre…." He was torn, his love for her warring with anxiety on his face. She knew he didn't want her to see him at the end, wanted her to remember him they way he was now.
"I am not letting you go alone, Alistair," she said sharply. "I may not be able to go with you until the very end, but I will be there, by your side, for every second possible."
He just nodded, his gloved hand cupping her cheek and she leaned into the touch. Instructions were given to finish loading the wagons, and then he helped her into the carriage. When they were settled, and everything was loaded, the procession headed out.
"Rhos knows," she said finally after a long silence.
"I thought you might have told her," he murmured.
"I only told her yesterday. She's too much like you. She can't lie to those she loves." Alistair chuckled at that.
"How are you going to…explain? I was going to have Bhelen give my guard a story, but with you here…. How are you going to explain why I don't come back, Bre?"
"You are coming back."
He frowned, his brows drawing together. "Bre, you know I'm not. What—"
Holding up a hand, she stopped him. "You are. You're not the only one who's been in contact with King Bhelen." His eyes widened. "I've also talked to the Legion of the Dead and the Circle Tower. We're not leaving you in the Deep Roads, Alistair. The Legion will follow you and bring you back."
"I see." He was quiet for a moment. "And how will you explain my death?"
"Heart attack," she said shortly. "That's what the mage is for. They can heal wounds even on…even on a…." She swallowed back the bile in her throat. "They can heal wounds. We're bringing you back home, Alistair."
Another long moment of silence passed before she heard him rasp, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." And then with a wail, she buried herself against his chest and sobbed.
I did want to say there is a new piece of artwork for Chapter 7 of OPT: Emergence by SilentDreamer linked on my profile. It wasn't ready when I published last week, and though I updated that chapter, I wanted to make sure that I did let everyone know. I place this note here because it didn't belong with what I was saying up top.
