I wrote this months ago, and somehow forgot to post it here. It was written in response to this Tent-Party prompt:

Alistair ends up with the Wandering Drunk ending, but the Warden (male or female, any race. Have fun!) has a small crisis of guilt a few years later and seeks him out. It doesn't end well. Alistair blames the Warden for how miserable he's been and takes it out on him/her. I'll leave the details to you, though I'd prefer it if no one died and Alistair wasn't painted as an enormous villain.

Duty

The tavern could have been anywhere in Orlais. Muck and filth led up to the worm-eaten, rickety door and was continually tracked into the building by the clientele. The timber walls stunk of piss and vomit from those who had reeled outside and got no further. The taproom was dark and smoky which was probably an advantage, saving the man who entered from seeing the faces of those who huddled over their grubby tankards and avoided each other's eye.

This was not a place people came to socialise, but merely to drink until they could forget everything. The Warden had seen far too many of these shitholes in the last week and was in a foul mood, grief and rage twisting in his gut and fighting with this duty.

Fate had a sense of humour, but he'd known that for a long time.

At the sight of his fine armour and weapons, every head in the room came up and then dropped again even quicker. The innkeeper scurried over; bowing until his nose nearly touched his knees. What did Monseigneur desire? A drink? Of a surety, the best the house had to offer. The wine he produced was thin and sour, but likely far superior to the swill everyone else was drinking.

Does Monseigneur require anything further? Silver coins shone in lean fingers, silverite gauntlets having been discarded for the moment. Information, siegneur? What do you wish to know? The Warden described the man he wanted and the innkeep smiled, his eyes on the little pile of silver. The Ferelden clochard? A complicated Orlesian shrug informed the Warden that the innkeeper could not imagine what such a fine chevalier could want with such a one, but that he was happy to serve. He pointed to a table in the back corner, and caught the coins dropped for him before the armoured visitor moved away.

The figure slumped against the wall, eyes closed and fingers wrapped around a filthy tankard, was barely recognisable as Alistair Theirin. Memory presented the Warden with a picture of a tall, broad warrior in fine plate. An open-faced young man; he had been the spit and image of his royal father, despite his darker colouring. This pitiful specimen appeared shrunken by comparison; maybe due to the shabby clothes he wore or the wastage of his fine musculature, or perhaps both. His hair was long and lank, made mousy by lack of washing. Shadows lay under the closed eyes and there were bitter lines around his mouth, making him look older than his years. Only his bone structure; his cheekbones, the line of his jaw and, most of all, his nose proclaimed his Theirin heritage.

The tall, armoured Warden regarded him for a moment in silence before throwing his gauntlets on the table and sitting down. The crash of metal on wood made Alistair start violently, his eyes flying open; he blinked, his hand reaching automatically for a sword that wasn't there. Bleary, bloodshot eyes narrowed, focussing on his visitor and the bitter lines around his mouth deepened.

"You."

Wintry blue eyes surveyed angry human wreckage. "Rest assured that I'm just as pleased to see you, whelp." Loghain's voice was harsh; cold as a fireplace in an abandoned house. "Although I shall be ecstatic not to be forced to chase you any further along a trail of Maker-forsaken cesspits." His lip curled distastefully. "Considering the swill they sell, I'm astonished to see you still live."

"Sorry to disappoint. Have you finally come to change that?" The tinge of hope in the hoarse, ruined voice made Loghain's eyebrows twitch down.

"On the contrary. It seems that on this occasion I've been cast in the role of saviour. I can assure you, no-one is more conscious of the irony that I am." Bitter self-mockery drew similar lines on his face to those of the younger man, but these were bitten far, far deeper. "I am ordered to escort you to Ferelden so that you may take the throne." He ignored Alistair's shuddering, indrawn breath. "Although we may wish to stop along the way and buy a scrubbing brush; I can't imagine how else we'll get you clean."

"What? You think I'll- But-" Alistair didn't appear in any danger of getting a coherent sentence out any time soon, and Loghain sat, externally calm and internally raging, waiting for some sense to emerge. The younger man stuttered to a halt, choked by the dozen or so responses all jostling for attention, until he finally focussed on the one brought to prominence by the hated blue eyes regarding him. "What the fuck happened to Anora?"

The emotional temperature dropped significantly, the chill seeming to emanate from the older man's very soul. When he answered, his voice was as harsh and cold as ever, but with a hollow texture that suggested the aforementioned abandoned house had been situated in a cemetery. "She's been assassinated." In a clipped, unemotional tone he continued, "The Bannorn is in uproar, with half a dozen candidates being put forward, none of which have a blood claim." Loghain regarded the flush of fury which was rapidly overtaking the flush of drink in the ravaged face before him. "Eamon has people in four countries looking for you, but it was the Warden Commander who heard that you were here in Orlais. As I was the only person close enough to get to you quickly, she asked me to do so."

The anger in Alistair's hazel eyes flared higher at the mention of the Commander. "And sh- you think I'm just going to crawl back like a good little puppy dog, right?" His hand twitched to reach for the tankard before him, but it was empty. "Is that it? I'm expected to 'fess up what a silly little boy I've been and everything will be forgiven?" His voice was gravelly with anger, but cracked slightly at the end.

Loghain shrugged, uninterested. "I can't imagine why you'd think forgiveness is either offered or thought of. The country is tearing itself apart and you are the last of the Theirin bloodline. Provided you sit on that throne, get a wife and produce an heir, nothing else matters." His eyes dropped to the tremor in Alistair's hands. "After that, you can drink yourself to death for all anyone cares."

The fingers of two large hands tightened on the edge of the table. "You can stick your Theirin bloodline. No-one cared enough about my blood to cut your traitorous head off so that I'd stay. Anora had no royal blood and apparently that wasn't a problem. If it wasn't a problem then, it isn't a problem now, either."

Loghain snorted contemptuously. "You know, Maric was fairly stupid at your age, but you far exceed him. When you threw your little tantrum, Anora's claim to the throne became uncontested. That isn't the case now; they have half a dozen candidates, and the Landsmeet is tearing itself apart over who to support. So you will come back to Ferelden with me and take the throne, even if I have to carry you in a sack. Perhaps then I can be left alone to go back to my own duties." And be left to grieve my daughter and try to forget that the country she and I loved is in the hands of a drunken sot.

Alistair's eyes were drawn to the blue and white insignia adorning a ring on Loghain's finger, and his face twisted with a new pain. "Oh yes, Warden duties; because you're sooo deserving, right?"

"Deserving?" Loghain shook his head in disbelief; unable to fathom how the boy could still believe such things. "None of us get what we deserve, whelp. But, in truth, being a Warden has probably come closer to giving me what I deserve than anything else in my life." A brutal, ugly life and an uglier death. I was denied redemption; that I definitely didn't deserve. "I do my duty, just as I always did. And so will you."

"Duty." The word was a curse in Alistair's mouth and the words poured from him like acid. "I did my duty. Everything and everyone I cared about died, because of you. I traipsed back and forth across Ferelden for two years, doing my duty, holding my tongue, turning a blind eye while bad things happened to good people, telling myself that the Commander had no choice; that she had to make those decisions in order to get to you. That she had to be tough in order to end you, and to end the Blight." The tension went out of him and he just looked weary, his eyes too old for his face. "Then, when we had it all, she betrayed me. Betrayed Duncan's memory, and brought dishonour to the Wardens by recruiting you." He shook his head slowly. "I'm finished with duty. So, go back to yours; kill darkspawn and leave Ferelden to sort its own problems out. It's not Warden business, not your business, not anymore."

"Is that your final word?" Alistair's outburst seemed to have had no apparent effect on Loghain; the question was asked coolly and he waited patiently until the younger man nodded, his haggard face set hard. "Then there is no more to be said." Loghain stood abruptly, ignoring the momentary tension in the seated man opposite, picking up his gauntlets from the table and pulling them on.

He loomed over Alistair, looking down into the face of his best friend's son. "I pity Ferelden," said Loghain and crashed a mail-clad hand into the side of Alistair's head.

Ten minutes later, with a poultice and some rope from his pack, and the jovial assistance of several men happy to help for a couple of coins, Alistair was slung across a horse like a sack of spuds. Loghain took the reins and began what was likely to be an uncomfortable and irritating journey. He rolled his eyes to the heavens. "You'd better not be laughing at me, old friend," he murmured. There was a painful obstruction in his throat, quickly swallowed. "Look after Anora for me."