Disclaimer-- Morrigan and Alistair's dialogue is modeling from some dialogue lines in the game, but I have tried to keep that to a minimum.

Notes--I seriously considered entitling this fic "Stranded Somewhere with No Pants" because of this chapter. In case you wanted to know.


Light returned as a warmth against his face, a flicker against his eyelids. He realized he didn't feel weightless any more, but was instead pressed quite solidly into something slightly soft overlying something quite firm....a pile of skins on a hard-packed dirt floor. "Somehow," he said, "death isn't quite what I imagined."

"And on what basis do you make such a ridiculous proclamation?" a voice asked, hovering between scornful and amused.

Alistair frowned. It was damned familiar somehow, that voice and that tone...

"Come now," the voice continued crisply, "surely you aren't disappointed to be among the living?"

"Disappointed?" Alistair repeated, remembering the flare of golden armor arching over a battlefield, the white flash of Duncan's mad rush, the red puddle of Elan's blood seeping around him...the dark shadow of the dragon. "It's not like I could have survived the darkspawn, let alone the arch—" he said, arguing with the voice, pointing out that it must be mistaken. He wasn't among the living.

"Yes, well, I suppose you have a point," the voice said grudgingly. "You wouldn't have survived if mother hadn't swooped in when she did."

"Swooping is bad," Alistair muttered thickly. His frown deepened. The words, too, seemed familiar. "Uh, wait. What?"

"The darkspawn," the voice said impatiently. "They overran your position. You very nearly died, but mother decided to intervene for some reason—goodness only knows why—you certainly don't seem worth the trouble to me. I would have rescued your king—he'd have been worth more in ransom."

"What do you mean you would have rescued the king?" Alistair gasped, lurching upward, making the world spin about him.

He found himself staring into eyes like gold seen through smoke, eyes set in a delicate oval face framed with a dark, silky fringe of hair. "Hey! You're the one that had our treaties! You're that sneaky witch-thief."

"I had nothing," the girl snapped. "I took nothing. 'twas my mother. Or did the darkspawn steal what few wits you had to call your own? Witless or not, one would think you'd have manners enough to thank those who tend to your wounds!"

Alistair glanced down and realized with a shock that he was wearing nothing more than his small clothes. His leg had been splinted between two stout branches of wood, and for what he was feeling, he would never have known there was anything wrong with it. A nasty gash along one of his ribs was covered with a compress, and so was a rather large lump on one of his temples.

He blushed from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes, and hastily yanked the furs tucked around his waist up to his neck. "Yes, fine, okay. Thanks."

"Oh, you really needn't bother." the witch-thief snapped, tossing his tunic into his lap.

A series of puckers and welts marked a trail of inexpertly mended rips and tears across it—lingering traces of contact with darkspawn weapons and his own chainmail. The tunic had been washed, but the back and most of one side bore a rusty discoloration that made Alistair's heart twist.

"If you didn't want me to thank you, then why did you bother complaining about it? Or were you just trying to distract me from my questions about the king?" Alistair pulled the tunic over his head, wishing the witch-thief would return his pants while she was at it.

But he wouldn't be able to get them on without help even if she did—not with his leg in a splint—and he'd rather not have help, especially if she was the one he'd have to ask to get it. Even if he did ask, his pants weren't likely to fit over the splint. He could cut the pant leg off so it ended where the splint began, but he knew he'd regret that when the splint came off. He sighed gustily and tucked the furs back around his waist—more tightly than necessary.

The witch smirked at him, but her voice was short with frustration. "Your king and his men were massacred. Mother said there was nothing she could do. The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field. "

"The king was what!" Alistair gasped again, feeling as if he'd been hit in the chest with a particularly nasty mace...which, come to think of it, he had been....several times.

"Killed." The girl said slowly and distinctly, as if she thought him too stupid to comprehend. "The king was killed. As was most of his army."

"Dead," he whispered. The word seemed to echo loudly in the tiny room. "The king is dead. What about...what about...did you—" He broke off at her scowl. " Okay, okay, did your mother see a tall, dark man...in a silver breastplate? And white robes...or robes that used to be white, anyway?"

The girl shrugged. "You best ask mother about that. But I suspect he does not yet live...especially if he was on the field near the king."

Failed. I couldn't even manage to die with Duncan—the only friend I'll ever have. I couldn't even manage to die for my king. I failed them. I failed him.

Alistair didn't know how long he sat in silence before the idea slowly dawned on him. "If the battle was lost...if the darkspawn won...then...they haven't been defeated?"

"That is the general meaning of the word 'won' is it not?" the girl reminded him, thrusting a cup into his hands. "Drink that. Mother says it's to help accelerate the healing."

Alistair downed the contents of the cup. It tasted very much like a sort of warm, flowery tea. It seemed completely and utterly at odds with the conversation. What he needed was some whiskey. The strongest whiskey ever made. "Then the Blight...must still be coming. The...the other Grey Wardens?"

"The Grey Warden Recruit who was here with you before" the witch-thief replied, clarifying, "the one capable of holding a coherent conversation? She is...not well, in truth. But she is here. And she yet lives..." The witch-thief sighed. "Must I really reiterate that the other Wardens do not?"