Kirkwall was carved out of the uniform dirty white limestone that made up the soaring coastal cliffs of the Free Marches, and might have looked nice if the stone hadn't been stained with centuries of smoke and sewage. Kirkwall Hightown, far above them on top of the cliffs the rest of the city was carved out of, might actually have been white, but the sun was in his eyes and he couldn't tell.
Who takes the time to polish the green off all those Imperium bronze giants on the harbor approach, but can't be bothered to scrub the walls with seawater?
A city where the statues of weeping slaves still held some meaning, of course. This was never stopped being the City of Chains. Chains of iron, chains of gold, literal and metaphorical- it didn't matter. This was the pressing atmosphere of a place no one could escape and where bribery and violence and fear ruled.
He was glad that they were only here until they found their ship.
The wind shifted, coming more westerly than southerly, and Alistair's nose wrinkled at the faint glittering blue-snap-spark smell of lyrium from the Gallows. Kinloch Hold had never smelled of it, or her younger sister-Circle Jainen on the coast of the Waking Sea. That he could find it at all on the wind, even with the ever-sharp sensitivity of a no-longer-using addict, said very bad things about Kirkwall's Templars.
Speaking of chains.
The two Orders you can never quit- Templars and Wardens. Lucky me, I got to join both.
It was always a toss-up which had more of a chance of killing a Templar or Templar trainee Warden recruit- the Joining, or trying to break the lyrium addiction. He'd survived both, and that was pure luck.
Sometimes it seemed that was all his life was- one long string of being lucky to be alive. Lucky to be born the king's bastard, lucky to leave Redcliffe with nothing but bad memories, lucky to survive going lyrium sober, lucky to survive the Joining, lucky to survive Ostagar and the Blight and the Archdemon-
"Ach, the humanity."
He was going to be lucky to make it back to Vigil's Keep without murdering anyone.
On the journey to Weisshaupt, Alistair had been overwhelmed by the thought of the First Warden. He'd assumed that the leader of all the Grey Wardens in the world would be something like Duncan, one of the best men he'd ever meet. The thought of it had sustained him the whole way through the Tevinter Imperium.
Well, that; and the way Theron would just look grave and understanding if he went back to Ferelden after making something up about snowed-in mountain passes or dastardly blood magisters or daring escapes from slavers or-
The look just wouldn't have been worth it, so he'd grit his teeth and put up with the Imperium, and then manfully and virtuously restrained himself from punching the First Warden in the face when he finally met the man.
He'd been no better than the petty nobles in Denerim! He was caught up in local politics in the fiercely- well, everything, Ander did everything fiercely, but most of all it was fiercely petty- political games in Hossberg!
There were somewhere around fifteen hundred Grey Wardens in the Anderfels, those stationed at Weisshaupt had told him proudly, to deal with the constant threat of darkspawn the area suffered. Those Wardens originally from Orlais had had no qualms about additionally informing him that Orlais was important enough to never have less than seven hundred at a time.
Alistair had remembered how hard Duncan had worked to get the mere hundred or so Ferelden had managed to gather at Ostagar, and the friends and favors it was rumored he'd had to call in to add the thirty or so foreign Wardens to field, and had manfully and virtuously restrained himself from kicking the shit out of these smug bastards who had never seen a Blight. He'd seen more darkspawn in a year than any of them would see until their Callings took them to the Deep Roads!
There had been three things working against him in Weisshaupt, for all his status as a survivor of the Blight, and he glumly counted them again as he waited for Leonie and Nelle to report back.
One, he was a bastard. Royal bastard, sure. But bastards got no respect.
Two, he wasn't really old enough to be a Warden. He was young by seniority standards and by actual chronological age. The Wardens, for preference, he learned at Weisshaupt, recruited in the twenty-seven to thirty-two range, selecting for prior field experience and leadership- mages excepted, who were recruited young and sparingly, traditionally one per Circle. It was a mark of both Duncan's desperation and his personal views as part Rivaini and Tevene that most of his recruits in the time leading up to Ostagar had been relatively young, inexperienced, and socially despised.
Three, he was Ferelden. Enough said.
"As so, humanity," one of the other Wardens he'd been allowed agreed with the first to speak.
They were a sorry bunch, and that was saying something, because Alistair knew how low his standards were. He'd lived through the Blight with a witch, a mabari, a Chantry sister, a sixty-something dying healer, a drunk dwarf, a magical hunk of rock that had actually ignored darkspawn in favor of fighting birds, and a turncoat assassin.
The Wardens at Weisshaupt had been completely appalled when, during his month-long stay, he'd been obligated to tell the story of the Fifth Blight for the archives. The only thing he'd lied about was omitting Morrigan's mysterious ritual, and crediting Warden Riordan with landing the killing blow, since he had conveniently died fighting the Archdemon. He really hadn't wanted to explain that they'd agreed to use the magic of a Witch of the Wilds to avoid dying to the fiercely pious Ander. Ferelden knew the truth, and it would go in their national records and the ones the Wardens kept at Vigil's Keep. History would show he lied, but he hoped people would realize why.
Once the slightly-altered true story had gotten around, he'd had to endure a lot of comments about the fact that there had only been two Wardens in the entire country for months, and that they'd tried to handle the Blight all on their own, the two of them just barely past their Joinings, and taken people they'd just happened across on the road as their assistance instead of trying to get some real Wardens.
But Alistair was ready to trudge back up that blighted mountain with the dragon on it to swear by the Maker on Andraste's Urn of Sacred Ashes itself that the First Warden and the others at Weisshaupt hadn't cared one sodding bit that he'd come on Theron's request- as a Commander of the Grey, which was supposed to mean something- to get more Wardens than the dozen the Orlesian Commander had sent as a sort of apology for not being any actual help during the Blight, and instead had used him and Ferelden as a convenient dumping ground for a bunch of people no one else wanted.
Presumably the First Warden had decided that some waffly Orlesians and a bunch of wild heathen barbarians from beyond the Wandering Hills wouldn't tread on the Fereldans' tender sensibilities because everyone knew Fereldans didn't have any manners to offend.
Alistair didn't know which group he disliked more. The Orlesians were, well, Orlesian, and reminded him unpleasantly of Arlessa Isolde. Leonie and Nelle were okay people, but they weren't really suited for this job. Leonie at least had the excuse that her brother was also a Warden- though Gerod was maybe the least likable one Alistair had ever met, thank the Maker the First Warden had sent him ahead through Orlais to requisition more of their Wardens for Ferelden.
The wild heathen barbarians all came from the coastlands of the Volca Sea north of the Wandering Hills, up in the Feral Fjords, and Alistair wasn't sure why any of them were Wardens in the first place. He'd heard one of them, Lockhard, actually pay lip service to the Maker and Andraste to a Chantry sister's face, but Lockhard was an Ander who'd defected to the heathens, so he had the force of habit to contend with. There were seven others, six men and a woman, who so far had taken their superstitions more seriously than anything else and seemed to pray to the Old Gods.
He thought that was what they were doing, anyway. They prayed in their own language, to stylized wooden idols of humanish horned figures with dragons at their feet, which meant nothing to him but were carefully wrapped in the finest Tevinter silk brocade when not in use, and the only word he'd caught clearly from their secretive services was 'Duma'- Dumat, clearly, the Dragon of Silence and the first Archdemon.
Hopefully they'd stop. He'd had his lifetime's fill of weird religious dragon cults in Haven, thank you very much.
At least the Orlesians would pray contemplating the campfire or a ship's lantern like normal people.
The woman, Mhequi, made some comment to her fellows, and Andreas laughed. He was the one who'd made the first humanity comment, and Alistair was inclined to be annoyed about it, out of spite. The wind hadn't shifted, and he could still smell lyrium- it was even stronger, now, and he was getting a headache.
He tried focusing on the docks instead.
They were mostly full of sailors and longshoremen at the moment, but there was a scattering of trinket peddlers and prostitutes and clumps of scowling mercenaries, better armed and armored than anyone else but his own group of Wardens.
Oh, and yes, there were the shady suspicious types! Here in Kirkwall they were probably smugglers and potion-dealers, but one or two of them could be outright thus, maybe even a few thieves taking a break in no-theft territory.
At least docks were the traditional no-theft territory in Ferelden. The longshoremen were very territorial, and sailors got touchy about having their shore leave cut short by having their coin stolen.
Alistair took a deep breath, tyring to use the funk of city streets and the docks' tar and fish and brine to mask the lyrium stench from the Gallows, but it only got sharper- clearer. Closer.
He locked up on reflex, conditioning from the months of being forced off the lyrium taking over, and stopped breathing. He kept not breathing right through getting lightheaded and his vision swimming.
Eventually, he blacked out, and came to half-standing a minute or so later, wild heathen barbarians holding up by the arms on both sides and another bracing his back.
"Constable?" Andreas, on his left, asked.
"There's-" Alistair wheezed, and immediately regretted it. They lyrium was still there, now joined by a different, similar, still-familiar smell of sparking coppery dust.
Oh what a great place Kirkwall was, there was an apostate around here too! And the lyrium in the Gallows was strong enough that merely the smell of it was reactivating some of his Templar abilities!
He was going to be sick over the side of the boat for days, and would probably still be shivering and twitching at odd moments when they put port in Amaranthine.
Jonas, on his right, said something to the others in their language, and Rhannur Nastasa and Ragnar Disar peeled off. There were only four of the barbarians who had surnames, excluding the formerly-Ander Lockhard, and Alistair still hadn't figured out why Ragnar, Rhannur, and Andreas's were Tevene. The wild heathen barbarians were all as fluent- if not moreso- in Tevene than in Ander, which made absolutely no sense to him; and certainly they were better at either than the common Thedan trade tongue native to the Marches and a cousin to Ferelden. He had no idea what the wild heathen barbarians hoped to accomplish when they wouldn't be able to speak to anyone on the docks. That was why he'd sent Leonie and Nelle to ask about the ship to Amaranthine.
But it looked like he'd underestimated the presence of Tevenes in Kirkwall. He watched as Rhannur approached a nervous-looking young woman and said something that made her startle; and Ragnar caused a ruckus around one of the shady-looking characters until the longshoremen got involved, and then slipped away.
"Lyrium trader," he said upon returning, and the others nodded sagely. One of Rangar's pockets was bulging.
"That's illegal," Alistair mumbled, still trying not to breath.
"Tied well, Constable," Ragnar told him. "No fear."
Doubtful, Alistair tried, and found that the only lyrium he could smell was from the Gallows. And the wind was shifting again, finally.
Rhannur ambled back.
"Lyrium?" he asked Ragnar.
"Lyrium."
He grunted.
"As so thought."
"How did you know?" Alistair asked.
Fjerdi shrugged. Mhequi and Jonas exchanged a look. Rhannur and Ragnar fidgeted slightly in place. Andreas cleared his throat.
It was Torin, still supporting him from behind, who spoke up.
"Clear," he said. "Have cousins who are strange near Tevene traders. Lyrium sensitivity not to lark over."
"Lyrium… sensitivity?"
He'd never heard of such a thing.
"Not know about that here?" Torin asked. "Ach! Can kill you."
"If have it much strong sorcerer can do it," Rhannur said. "Looked. Not her. As so thought."
"You knew she was an apostate?"
"As so I did. Smelled her, yes?"
"Wait, how can you-"
"Half my family smells as she," Mhequi told him.
"Much of my hold," Fjerdi added.
"Both my parents," Jonas said, his tone a mixture of pride and shame. The others made sympathizing noises.
"Duma's luck, Jonas, Duma's luck," Andreas said, shaking his head sadly.
"You could all smell that?" Alistair asked, shocked.
"Are Voshai," Torin said, like it was supposed to explain everything.
"What?"
"Are Voshai," he repeated. "As you're Fereldan. Voshai smell magic."
"What, really?"
"Voshai sailed to Laysh," Andreas said with a shrug. "Smelled magic. Heard lyrium song. Much sailed home. We stayed. Found Tevene, trade for more lyrium. Some born now have lyrium sensitivity, smell too strong, hear too strong. Can die."
"It's not a 'sensitivity'," Alistair told him, and took a deep breath of lyrium-free air. Kirkwall didn't smell half so nice without the Gallows for comparison. "Just… keep that away from me. And get rid of it, it's illegal!"
Ragnar's expression fell.
"But is best offering!"
"How to keep demons away not having it?" Rhannur demanded.
"Could grow medicine plants!" Torin exclaimed. "Have to keep it!"
Mhequi looked a bit bemused.
"Are not going to smoke it?" she asked.
It made Alistair feel a lot better that the other Voshai seemed just as taken aback by that comment as he was.
"Why do that?" Jonas asked, puzzled.
"Is how is done at my hold," she said. "How at yours?"
Apparently, the information was too technical or too secret to say in Thedan Trader, because they all switched back to their own language.
And now he was left out of the conversation. Again.
There were no ships to Amaranthine.
There were no ships to Amaranthine.
"There can't just not be ships to Amaranthine!" Alistair exclaimed in frustration, and Leonie cringed back a bit. "It's the most important port in Ferelden!"
"The Harbormaster said-"
"Well then he had to have been wrong!"
"He's the Harbormaster-"
Nelle mumbled something.
"What?" Alistair demanded. "What was that, Warden? Speak up!"
"Th-there aren't any ships to Amaranthine b-because Amaranthine burned."
"It what?"
"The Harbormaster said!" Leonie burst out. "He did! It got attacked by an army of darkspawn and the Warden-Commander got there too late with the arling's soldiers and there was no one left and they burned it and marched back to Vigil's Keep and fought another army!"
But they had just killed the Archdemon!
"How long ago?"
"Five months?"
It took a month to sail from Denerim to Cumberland and about another month and a half overland from Cumberland to Weisshaupt. He'd been a month in Weisshaupt, and then it had been another two and a half months to get back here-
He had been in Cumberland five months ago! He should have turned around and-
Alistair had the sudden realization that it had been almost a full year since the Archdemon had been killed. It had taken six months for the First Warden to confirm that Theron would be Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and send word that they were sending resources to help rebuild the Wardens' presence. He and Theron had spent those six months stumping for recruits amongst the Ferelden knights and the stragglers of the other armies after the rest of their companions had left.
Well, Zevran and Shale had stayed, because neither of them had anywhere else to go. Zevran had worried over his unfinished business with the Crows for two months until Theron had somehow convinced him that it was okay for him to leave, so long as he promised to be safe and come back. Alistair had no idea how assassinating assassins was supposed to count as 'being safe', but really, that was between Theron and Zevran.
By the time the assassin had left for Antiva City, Shale had already been sent on to Soldier's Peak. The golem had been taking out it's avian vendetta on Denerim's pigeons, and Theron had had to ask it to leave to preserve the meat staple of Denerim's poor. No one would care if Shale went around crushing birds in the mountains.
Maybe he should stop by Soldier's Peak and ask Shale to come back. Or maybe not- he was a little scared of Shale. He hadn't known the golem that long.
More importantly, they needed to find a ship to Highever- no, Highever had been burned, too, when Rendon Howe had gotten delusions of grandeur. Denerim was taking forever to rebuild and that was with the royal treasury behind it, Highever wouldn't be finished yet, if reconstruction had even started.
And now Amaranthine had burned. Where in Andraste's name were the trade ships supposed to dock?
Maybe there were ships to Jainen or West Hill.
This time Alistair went out to ask about ships himself. It took a while, but he eventually found a small boat that was going home to West Hill, and paid their passage on it.
True to his suspicions, he was sick over the side of the boat all three days at sea, getting rid of the aftereffects of the Gallows. But he didn't get the shivers and never twitched, which improved his mood slightly.
Even better for his mood was the feeling of getting off the ship in West Hill and seeing good, proper weathered wood houses- the better ones half-timbered with plaster- lining dirt streets with deep ruts you could turn your ankle in and little puddles of filthy water, cold and unpleasant under a weak sun.
Gray, brown, muddy, overcast, smelled like wet dogs and sheep- there really was nothing like being home.
"Ugh," said Nelle.
Stupid pampered Orlesians.
"No rock," Fjerdi said, sounding lost and sad.
Jonas made a scathing noise and gestured broadly at West Hill.
"Fire," he pronounced ominously.
"Yes, yes," Alistair said, in too good a mood to be put out by the other Wardens' opinions. "It's boring and bland and bleak and you'll be depressed in no time, but it'll be fun!"