Note: First I was only going to post the prologue to Remnants Enduring here and let people go the illustrated version for the rest (link on my profile page-all chapters posted), then I was going to post it once a week. Change of plans. I'll be posting at least once a week, but also on thursday or friday, if I can. So without further ado-Chapter Two.

Swinging his legs onto the bed, Alistair pulled a blanket over himself and tried to relax. His thoughts were going places he didn't want to go. Seeing Leliana and Oghren made things he worked hard to push away feel like they'd just happened. Talking to them made his anger feel new and made him miss the companionship he'd once shared at the same time. How was that even possible?

He needed to get at least a little sleep. They had a long journey ahead of them and tomorrow would just be the beginning. Not that he wasn't used to long journeys.

After a glance at his pack by the door, Alistair closed his eyes. At least there was no packing to be done. It had been brought home to him that you never really knew where you stood at any given moment, let alone trust that the situation would be the same at nightfall as it was at dawn. His pack was always ready to go—he was ready to leave at a moment's notice. That worked out fine since he'd never really stopped traveling, not since Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar.

He'd traveled all over Ferelden gathering an army to fight the Blight and had spent most of that journey thinking he'd stay with Kallian when it was all over.

Arl Eamon changed that. He'd been determined to see Maric's only remaining son become king, bastard though Alistair was. Eamon saw that as the best option to end the civil war, continue the royal legacy, and unite Ferelden against the Blight.

Alistair turned onto his side and pounded his lumpy pillow.

That really hadn't been what he wanted. Not at all. It had never been what he wanted. He just wasn't a person who craved power and control—and he'd been told right out that he wasn't capable for as long as he could remember. He was supposed to follow orders, not give them.

Turning onto his back again, Alistair stared up at the ceiling. He'd believed that he couldn't lead, and had little reason to think that wasn't true, not until Kallian had made him look at things differently—there was some irony in that—but he'd seen the lengths to which Anora would go to achieve her goals.

While her methods were far short of Loghain's forays into treason, slavery and poisoning, they came from the same view of the world. She was her father's daughter—certain that ends justified means. Anora thought she was the only person who could properly decide what those ends and means should be, and she did so with a chilly, almost casual assurance that made Alistair uneasy.

No one should be that certain about making decisions that would affect people's lives…that might destroy people, even whole towns like Lothering. They should be worried about the people they were responsible for. Maker's blood! They should be terrified!

It made him believe that she didn't think about those people much at all, not as real people, more like some vague concept of the 'people of Ferelden'—her vassals. Small, unimportant pieces of a larger puzzle. It was all very well to see the larger picture, but the people were important, too. Ferelden was the people, not a tract of land or a concept.

Alistair's mouth twisted. It was laughable that he'd believed that he was a better choice, though. That was as clear as the need to keep his bag packed and trust no one. He hadn't even known that his lover wanted him dead. So much for having any insight. So much for being the kind of person who could rule.

And he still didn't know why she'd done it. He'd loved her right up until the moment she'd spared Loghain and agreed to his execution. Maker, dreams could die so quickly.

He'd willfully ignored the truth. He'd clung to hopes. Foolish and impossible hopes. Alistair realized that now. On some level he'd known that, refusing to discuss matters that would have forced him to look at things clearly.

Raising a hand, Alistair rubbed tired eyes. He would have had to marry and marriage to Kallian would have been impossible. He wouldn't have had a choice. It would have been his duty to try for an heir, and the odds of two Wardens conceiving a child were just about zero. Continuing with Kallian wouldn't have been fair to her, or to the queen he would have had to find.

Still, they might have been able to get past such a private issue. Perhaps there were more of Calenhad's line still living than they knew. He could have had people look, at least before marrying, but there was more to it than that.

Kallian was an elf.

He was a bastard and that would have been bad enough, but a bastard king with an elven queen? It couldn't happen. The Landsmeet would never have accepted it—and Alistair had wanted to be king by that time, Maker help him.

No, "wanted" was the wrong word. He'd believed it was his duty. He'd wanted to help people and he'd come to believe that with work he could rule well.

It might have been just slightly less stupid and awful if he'd anticipated what Kallian would do, but he hadn't. He hadn't let himself think about the future at all. Not further than bringing Loghain to justice and doing his duty to Ferelden, things he'd thought Kallian saw the same way.

He'd kept hoping that there'd be a way out for them, some joyous shifting of the world that would make sharing his life with her possible. He'd hoped for a miracle and ignored niggling fears that he wouldn't find one. By Andraste, that joke was on him. What a mockery those fears of a future without her had been! What an idiot he was.

The world had shifted, all right, but not joyously, not for him. If he'd seen into the future, he would have done a few things very differently, but he hadn't foreseen that the woman he loved might decide that killing him was a fine idea.

Alistair threw the blanket off and sat up, feet on the floor. He bent over, putting his elbows on his knees and rubbed his forehead with both hands. Anora had the throne—she'd won, with Kallian's help. Alistair hoped very much that he'd been wrong about the kind of queen Anora would be.

He no longer knew what kind of person Kallian was.

Dropping his hands, Alistair stared into the darkness of his small room. At least he hadn't given them the pleasure of killing him as they'd hoped. Instead of dying, he'd escaped to across the sea, entirely alone for the first time…ever, really. And in ways that had nothing to do with being solitary.

Then more travel, but so very different than his journeys in Ferelden.

Kirkwall to Wildervale to Starkhaven, then away from the Free Marches through Cumberland and into Orlais at Val Chevin, taking work as a hired sword everywhere he went. And drinking.

He got enough work to live, but just barely. There were things that he just wouldn't do, then or now, and those were the kind of things that were most often offered to a man with no past.

The work he'd found here was honorable at least. He still had no past, but he was no longer a hard drinker, prone to violent outbursts. They knew he was capable and while they thought him odd, they didn't think he'd kill them on the road.

Maker. What a life. The best he could say about it was that people were fairly confident that he wasn't a cold-blooded killer. He'd gone from the last heir of Calenhad's blood to…this.

And now he was going back to help a woman who'd done her best to kill him, with people he wasn't completely sure wouldn't try to do the same.

Alistair stood and went to the door, more tense and awake now than when he'd lay down to sleep. Maker's breath, the more you tried not to think about something, the more you did! So much for rest. Maybe if he walked for a while….

Traveling with Leliana and Oghren again felt like reliving the past in a tarnished mirror. Where once he would have trusted them without question, now betrayal seemed more likely than not. But some things were better. There was no Blight, no civil war. There were no animals acting against their nature, attacking anything in sight. No darkspawn, no werewolves, no soldiers searching for Wardens to kill.

It was peaceful…and weird. It made Alistair nervous, like something really bad was about to happen. That probably said something about him.

He walked well ahead of them. What did you say to people who just watched when someone tried to kill you? Maybe Leliana was right, and they couldn't have done anything. Maybe it was as Oghren had said—they'd trusted Kallian that much, but it still didn't make him nostalgic for old times.

Their presence was still taking Alistair's thoughts back to those times, bringing things to mind that he didn't want to think about, although he was about as successful at that as everything else he'd ever done.

By the time they stopped to eat a simple meal of bread and cheese, washed down with ale that Oghren had bought in town, Alistair was in a truly foul mood.

It didn't help that Leliana kept staring at him—uncomfortable and irritating.

Finding himself hunched over his meal with his shoulders so tight they were up around his ears, Alistair forced himself to relax. He couldn't let traveling with them bother him so much, or this would be a very long trip.

Leliana seemed to take that change in posture as an invitation of sorts, because she started talking. "Did you go to Val Royeaux, Alistair? Did you see the Grand Cathedral?" Her face was bright with remembered pleasure.

He had. He'd gone there hoping for some peace, to lose himself in the beauty that she'd spoken of so long ago. And it was beautiful, the most beautiful building Alistair had ever seen. But he'd found no peace, no sense that the Maker had some plan for him that he couldn't comprehend, no divine revelation to guide his steps. He was as lost there as he was in a tavern or anywhere else he found himself. "Yes."

She was smiling at him, that happy expression still on her face, waiting for him to say more.

"It was very nice. As grand as its name." Alistair stood, brushing bread crumbs from his clothes. "We should go. I'd like to reach the Imperial Highway before dark." Pulling on his pack, he moved back to the road and waited, staring east toward the distant highway.

After that, Leliana wouldn't leave him alone. Not for one blight-ridden moment for the rest of the day. It was "Where did you go, Alistair?", "What did you do?" and "Which do you like better, Orlais or the Free Marches?" As if he'd been on a blasted holiday!

Poke, poke, poke. One question after another, and no matter how short his answers, she kept at it. Maker's breath! Couldn't she tell he didn't want to talk about it? Any of it?

Even Oghren could tell, and gave Leliana a look like she was prodding a mabari with a stick.

She just wouldn't let up. Now she was rambling on about helping Brother Genitivi transcribe the carvings in the first hall of the temple that guarded the Urn of Sacred Ashes.

The temple….

That temple had been the second time that Alistair had seen a side of Kallian that should have given him a warning. The second time, and so close on the heels of the first—what she'd wanted to do at Redcliffe.

There, she would have been quite happy to sacrifice Eamon's wife to save his son and rid the boy of the demon that possessed him—using blood magic. Oh, she'd had plenty of reasons—it was risky to take the time to go to the circle, it was all Lady Isolde's fault to begin with—but the ease with which she'd made that choice…. He should have paid attention to that.

And in the temple, when the leader of the dragon cult, Kolgrim, had asked them to taint the ashes, she'd actually considered it. After all they'd gone through to find the ashes, knowing that the ashes were supposed to be able cure all illness, no matter how grave, she'd been willing to taint them to gain cultist blood magic—keeping a few for herself, of course.

He'd been able to sway her, both at Redcliffe and at the temple, but…he should have learned something. He should have known that there was a problem that he couldn't reason away like her desire to sacrifice Lady Isolde or make deals for blood magic.

It had been much harder to convince her not to taint the ashes than to go to the mage's circle for help and Alistair had wondered why. Both were obvious choices to him. 'Just a notion, but let's not kill the arl's wife with blood magic since we have a choice' and 'Hey, what say we don't taint the most holy relic in existence—one that can cure people, to boot'

Seriously, he couldn't understand why she even considered either. Yes, leaving Redcliffe had been a risk, but now he thought that she just might not have cared that much, whatever happened. What Kolgrim asked was different. Turning him down meant losing power, and she hadn't been concerned that the power would come from blood magic.

Looking back, it all seemed so obvious, but then, with the Blight looming over them, hunted by Loghain's men and assassins, he'd been able to convince himself that there was justification, even if he didn't agree.

He should have questioned her more, shouldn't have made excuses. Maybe he could have kept it all from going so wrong. Maybe he could have changed things. Maybe he could have—

"Tell me, Alistair, what have you missed most about Ferelden? We will have to arrange that for you right away."

Leliana reached out as if to take his arm and he backed away, raising a hand.

"That's enough! That's just…enough." Alistair dropped his hand. "What do I miss? I miss having a life, I miss not looking for the knife that's going to come out of nowhere, I miss not knowing that somewhere, someone is hoping to kill me, and it might just be someone I like.

"Maker's breath, Leliana, what do you think I miss? Baked goods and Fereldan handicrafts? Good fur lined boots? I don't want to talk about Ferelden. I don't want to talk about Orlais. I don't want to talk about the Free Marches. I don't want to talk about anything! Why in Andraste's name won't you leave me alone?

Leliana's eyebrows pulled together, etching sharp lines between her eyes, and she put her hands on her hips. "I care about you, Alistair, and I will not leave you alone, no matter how much you might wish it! You have already been too alone for too long." She tapped her head. "You live in here and nowhere else. It's not good and it's hurting you, I can see that. I'm not let you stay alone with us."

Alistair glared at her for a moment, completely unable to think of any response, and then said, "You'll have to." With that, he turned away and sped up his pace to put some distance between them again.

She could have caught up, Alistair knew that, but she didn't. Well…good.

Even though they'd gotten an early start and made good time, it was plain that they wouldn't reach the Highway until well past dark. They set up camp in a clearing off the road and made a simple dinner of roasted meat bought in town that morning, reheated on the fire.

Alistair didn't want them to think they couldn't say anything to him at all—he just didn't want Leliana picking at him, so he told them what he knew about dangers on this stretch of road, mostly small groups of bandits preying on travelers.

They set up a watch schedule and Alistair volunteered to take the second, then went to bed right after eating. He didn't like the way sitting around the campfire made him feel or what it made him remember. He didn't like the awkward silence that he'd created, but he didn't want to talk, either. He was tired of wondering if this was just another betrayal and, once again, he was too stupid to know it.

Alistair lay on his bedroll, looking at the stars late into the night, sleep eluding him, and tried not to remember other nights in camps he'd shared, when he neither felt nor slept alone.

They reached the highway the next morning and started north. That spark of hope Alistair had felt back at the inn when he'd agreed to take a chance on Anora's summons was getting hard to hold onto. He couldn't help but feel like he was ignoring the obvious—fooling himself when the smart thing to do would be run like the Maker had given him wings.

When they stopped for their midday meal, he took his food and walked away, staring down from the highway into the trees below while trying to convince himself that he wasn't journeying toward execution. Anora could have meant what she said in her letter. Leliana and Oghren could be telling the truth, at least as far as they knew. This could be his last chance to do something worthwhile. It just seemed so…lucky, and anything that had ever been lucky had turned out to be anything but. Maker, he was a slow learner. He just asked for it again and again—and this time would be no different, just because he couldn't bear to lose this chance.

When they made camp that night, Alistair ate as quickly as possible then picked up his sword and shield. "Uh…lots of bandits around here. I'll just…" He waved a hand toward the edge of camp and headed away from the camp.

As he left, he heard Leliana's voice. "Oghren, we can't let this go on."

"Leave him be, Leliana. He's here. That's enough for now."

The day that followed was much the same. Walking, eating, watches—it began to seem routine. Alistair started to feel a little more comfortable with his companions now that Leliana was forgoing her inquisition. No more sure of them, but it wouldn't do to let that show, would it? If he was going to do something stupid, at least he could do it in a smart way.

With that in mind, he stayed at the campfire that night and let Oghren give him an ale. He listened to their conversation and watched for signs of duplicity. He didn't see any—but would he? He'd seen no such signs from Kallian, either.

Tall grass slapped against his legs. Roots grabbed at his feet as he ran toward the river.

His breath was loud in his ears—the panting gasps of a man who'd run for too long.

He could hear them in the distance. His pursuers—Anora's guards, soldiers and tracking dogs. He couldn't shake them.

Maybe they'd lose his scent here. He'd go into the river and hope for the best. He could only run for so long. The sharp pain in his side and the shaking in his legs—he was almost done in. Had to lose them here. Had to.

No moon, that was good. They couldn't see him.

There was the bank—he made it. Thank you, merciful Andraste!

Alistair threw himself over the edge, running, stumbling, falling into the water.

Oh, Maker! So cold! His breath froze in his chest and he forced himself to keep breathing by effort of will. Breathe, sod it—move!

He waded out into the river then swam for the other side, letting the current carry him further downstream—closer to the sea, to escape, and to freedom.

Stay in the water—no scent…. Stay…moving faster than running…. Stay…. No. Enough. Have to get out. Too cold. Hard to swim. The current…too strong.

Alistair used the last of his strength to fight his way out of the current and drag himself to the bank. He crawled through the mud and weeds, collapsing on the shore, his teeth chattering, his body shivering.

He'd made it. Thank the Maker, he'd made it.

As soon as he could move, he'd go north east to the shore. He couldn't follow the river—it would take him to the Howe estate and they were certain to have no love lost for the bastard heir who'd killed Rendon Howe.

When he struggled to his feet, his legs shook and he barely managed to pull himself to the top of the bank.

A stick cracked. Nearby, in the trees. Alistair's heart jumped.

He saw movement. A shadow came forward.

"Alistair, we found you at last! Praise Andraste!"

Leliana! Who was that with her? Oghren—and he was smiling.

They hadn't abandoned him—they hadn't turned against him like Kallian. He wasn't alone. "I thought you'd all…. I…. Maker's breath…." Alistair's legs buckled, exhaustion and relief sapping what remained of his strength. He dropped to his knees, his vision blurring.

Leliana spoke again, close this time. "You thought what, Alistair? That we'd betrayed you?" She laughed, the lilting giggle he'd heard so often before. "We did."

Pain ripped through him. Not the pain of betrayal that he'd felt every moment since the Landsmeet, but a blade.

Alistair tried to get to his feet, to pull his sword. His arm wouldn't work. It hung limply at his side. He turned his head to see her holding a dagger, his blood dripping from it.

She kicked him in the face. Alistair's head snapped back and he fell to the ground.

Still smiling, Oghren swung his battle axe. The giant blade sped down toward his head—

"No!"

The struggles of his dream moved his waking body so that Alistair was sitting bolt upright, his breath heaving in his lungs, when his eyes opened to see Leliana and Oghren staring at him.

Oh…Maker.

Alistair threw off his blankets—no easy thing since he'd thrashed around to the point of knotting them around him—and walked away from the fire, into the night. He stopped only to grab his sword.

It was early evening the next day when they reached Val Foret. If it had just been Alistair and Oghren traveling through Orlais, they could have gone into town and stayed at an inn, but since Leliana was with them, they decided to leave the highway at the exit on the far side of the city to camp for the night.

Leliana was still believed a traitor to her country, and thought she might be recognized in a town that did so much trade with Val Royeaux and where she had spent as much time as she had. While Alistair thought that unlikely after all this time, he didn't say anything. He knew how she felt.

As they headed down the ramp and into the forest, Alistair was still thinking about Leliana and this…thing they had in common. They'd both been betrayed by someone they loved, he by Kallian, Leliana by her mentor, Marjolaine. It was Marjolaine who'd been the real traitor and had framed Leliana for the crime.

Leliana had loved her. She'd never said exactly what their relationship was, but it didn't matter, did it? Love was love when it came to betrayal—friend, family or lover. Alistair wondered if she'd asked herself what she could have done to make—

The path in front of them filled with bandits. Alistair cursed himself for letting his mind wander.

There were lots of them, and more came out of bushes at their sides. One spoke, "Your packs and weapons, if you please, and you'll go on your way unharmed."

Oghren pulled the battle axe from his back. "Not a chance, you nug-sucking worm."

Drawing her daggers. Leliana took a determined stance. "Andraste have mercy on you."

They both looked at Alistair expectantly. Leliana gave him a wink.

Alistair lifted an eyebrow.

Leliana's brow furrowed and the little smile that had come to her face when she looked at him faded. "Nothing, Alistair? Really?" She let out a sigh. "You used to be so much fun."

She turned back toward the bandit who seemed to be leading the group. "We will allow you to leave if you go now."

The bandit grinned and gestured at the men surrounding him. "You're outnumbered. It will be you in need of mercy, and you'll find none if you don't do as I say."

Closing his eyes, Alistair tried to focus his will. The power came to him fitfully and he felt a flutter of nerves. It had been too long since he'd used his templar skills, but he hadn't wanted to advertise his past. This should have only taken an instant, but he couldn't seem to…. Maker, he needed to do this—they were as dangerously outnumbered as the bandit had said.

Then the power flowed freely. He pulled his hands in, tightening his control, and spread his arms. Bright white light formed around him, spread, and crashed down on the bandits from above. It was stunning in both force and intensity.

He pulled his shield onto his arm, drew his sword and launched himself forward.

After that, there was no thinking, no remembering, no comparing past and present—just the chaos of battle—blood rushing, heart pounding, instinct to survive. He drove his shield into the still dazed bandit leader, knocking him to the ground, then turned and thrust his sword through a bandit to his left. The man dropped, dead or dying. Alistair wrenched his sword from the bandit's body, swinging his pommel back to smash it into another on his right.

Leliana finished him off, blades flashing. She gave Alistair a smile before attacking another.

Alistair glanced to his other side and saw Oghren bring his axe down on a bandit, one dead on the ground beside him.

They always did work well together. Time hadn't changed that. Nor had his doubts about them.

He swung his sword toward the leader, who had picked himself up from the ground and leapt toward him, parrying the man's blows, catching one with his shield, then running him through.

Turning toward the few surviving bandits, Alistair gathered his will again.

The men looked at Oghren with his bloody axe, at Leliana, who'd paused, daggers raised. Then they looked at Alistair, light rising around him, and bolted for the woods as fast they could run.

Laughing, Leliana began wiping her daggers clean. "Just like old times, no?"

Alistair took a rag from his pack and carefully wiped the blood from his blade before replacing it in his scabbard. When he was done, he stared at her. "No. Not like old times." He headed away from the road, into the woods. "Let's find a place to camp."

Splintmail was easier to move in than plate, but it sure was hard to clean. Alistair frowned and angled his breastplate toward the fire to get more light. There was still dried blood there where the strips of metal overlapped. He folded an oiled cloth to get a narrow edge and rubbed the offending spot. This armor was barely adequate to begin with. Rust would just make it worse. There. That was better. He set the breastplate aside. Now the gauntlets and greaves.

He heard a twig snap and looked up.

Leliana.

Well, that was just way too much like his dream. But she had wine, not daggers.

She sat down beside him holding two metal cups.

"What's this?"

"Some very nice wine. It won't be long before Orlesian wine is an expensive luxury again. We should enjoy it while we can."

"Oh. Well…thanks." Alistair put the gauntlet down and took the cup she held out.

They drank in silence, the night quiet and still except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional snore from Oghren.

"Do you truly hate this, traveling together again?"

He turned to look at her. She was watching the fire, but he could see the tension in her face. "I don't…hate it."

"You're very quiet. It's not…. I miss your silly jokes."

Alistair pulled his mouth to one side. "That's new." He took a sip of wine, looked down at his cup and thought about how to answer her. "I like the idea of having a purpose again. I don't know what Anora has planned, but…at least I'm doing something. The thing is—"

"You don't trust us."

"No." The silence stretched out and Alistair found himself not wanting to leave things on such a harsh note. After all, he didn't know they planned on betraying him. "Not entirely." He put his cup on the ground, his eyes on it, rather than Leliana. "I don't trust anyone, not even myself."

Turning his head, Alistair looked at her.

She was frowning.

"Leliana, when Marjolaine all but guaranteed your death, what did you think?"

Her frown deepened, creasing her brow, and she tilted her head. "I was heartbroken, of course."

"No, that's how you felt. What did you think—about her, and about…yourself?"

"I…. Well, I felt like a fool. I wondered how I could have misjudged her so and not seen what she was capable of, or what…. Oh."

"It's not just Kallian. It's Loghain, it's Howe, it's…. People are smiling while they stab each other in the back, and I never see it coming." Alistair shook his head. "I don't know how to live in a world like that, Leliana. I just don't. Can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Certainly, Alistair." She pointed to his cup. "Would you like another cup of wine?"

He shook his head.

"Well, I would, and when I return, I will help you finish cleaning that armor."

Alistair watched her walk away. No…he didn't hate this. He just didn't want to start thinking it meant something, or could last.

It took eleven more days to reach the port of Val Chevin. It would only have taken eight and a half to reach Val Royeaux, but it was just too risky, for both Leliana and Alistair.

Alistair's mood swung back and forth like a pendulum. Some days his doubts were all but overwhelming. On others…he let himself hope. He let himself believe that everything was as it seemed. On those days, he felt better than he had in years—and that scared him back to the doubts.

One night, Oghren had mentioned that they'd been searching for him for close to a year. A year. That was as long as it had taken Kallian and him to go from Ostagar to the Landsmeet. And they'd spent all that time looking for him.

Alistair tried not to let that influence him, but it did. It felt like that had to mean something, that it couldn't have just been for money. He found himself trusting them more, and that scared him even more than the hope.

They boarded a small cargo ship bound for Ferelden. It was a rustic vessel without proper cabins. The hold was divided into four sections with cargo fore and aft, crew and passengers in the center. The cargo turned out to be grain, which seemed odd to Alistair. Ferelden exported grain, it didn't bring it in from Orlais.

They were the only passengers, other than two men who had the ragged and furtive look of those fleeing an unpleasant fate.

Alistair knew that feeling. He'd probably looked much the same on his previous journey across the Waking Sea.

The winds were against them, unusual for this time of year, or so Alistair gathered from the cursing of the crew. It took twice the usual time to reach Jader, a trading city north of Orzammar—almost four days. They docked only briefly as the ship's cargo was bound for their last port of call, Denerim, and then set off for Highever.

Alistair found that he was sleeping better. Maybe it was the sea air. And maybe his friends hadn't written him off with an "Oh, well…what's for breakfast?" That helped, too—the more time Alistair spent with them, the more he was able to believe that might be true.

Maybe it was the new sense that he might find a purpose once again, something honorable and right. He reminded himself that it was Anora who summoned him, and her request might be more in line with a Mac Tir version of honor than his own.

He held onto that idea of purpose, nonetheless, because with unaccustomed rest and hope, came relief from the thoughts of failure and loss that plagued him.

That was not to say such things ceased entirely. The night after leaving Jader, he showed that to everyone.

Ostagar—the tower of Ishal…. Smoke from darkspawn fires, the smell of blood, guts open to the air. Screams and battle cries. The roars of monstrous things.

Alistair charged up the last flight of stairs, heart pounding, frantic. They had to get to the beacon—Duncan and the king were depending on him. Maker, let them be in time. Panic shortened his breath and he knew that if they weren't, Duncan and Cailan would both die, the Blight would cover Ferelden and it would be his fault. This time he wouldn't let them down, this time—

The door wouldn't open.

Eyes wide, he looked at Kallian. Her red hair was piled high on her head, and she was wearing a fancy dress of elven design.

She smiled. "Don't worry, Alistair. All will be as it should be."

"But…it's been at least an hour. We need to light the signal! The king is depending on us!" He shook the door handle. "It should be me down there—I should be the one to die, not Duncan, not Cailan! Everything would be better if I was the one who died."

Kallian's smile widened. Her dress changed into the armor of a Warden-Commander. She touched the door with one finger, and it swung open.

As Alistair ran inside, everything changed. He wasn't in the tower any more, he was on the battlefield, surrounded by darkspawn—hurlocks, genlocks, ogres, shrieks—an army of blighted monsters swarmed around the smaller force of Wardens.

He looked up at the tower above to see that somehow the signal had been lit. But no one came. The huge army that had waited to reinforce them had abandoned them, just as it had been before. Loghain had abandoned them.

Nothing had changed. He'd failed again.

Alistair drew his sword and attacked the closest darkspawn, but the wounds he gave healed as fast as they were made.

Fear shortened his breath, cold sweat beaded on his brow, the hand that held his sword started to shake. He couldn't let them all die. Not again. This time he was here—he had to do something!

Looking around wildly, Alistair saw the Wardens who'd become his family under attack, horribly outnumbered. All called for his aid—each one expecting him to save them. Their screams filled the air, their blood sprayed over him until his armor was red with the blood of friends. It ran into his eyes, warm and salty, stinging.

Alistair tried to run to them. His muscles knotted with the effort, but his legs wouldn't work, no matter how he strained. They were slaughtered, ripped apart by the darkspawn. He could see his failure in the eyes of his brother Wardens as they died, and his throat tightened with shame and grief.

Then he saw the king, Duncan fighting by his side, battling an enormous ogre. It reached out and grabbed Cailan, lifting him into the air. Its massive fist tightened with excruciating slowness, crushing the king's shining gold armor and the man who wore it—the half-brother whom Alistair had never really known.

Cailan let out a long, terrible cry then went limp, blood running from his mouth.

The ogre tossed the king's broken body aside and turned to Duncan.

Now it wore Cailan's armor—it was unbeatable, impervious…. Duncan would die, and Alistair could do nothing but watch.

No!

Dread twisted Alistair's stomach. He struggled to move, panic lending strength to his efforts, and little by little, he began to move.

Duncan leapt into the air, sword in one hand, knife in the other, and drove the sword into the ogre's neck above the armor.

A fatal blow! He'd been wrong—Duncan wouldn't die, Duncan—

He heard Kallian's voice. "You can't change the past, Alistair. Duncan is dead. The king is dead and I chose a queen instead of you. But it would still be better if you die. You know that, don't you? What have you to live for? You're no Warden. You're no king. You're nothing at all—just a sad failure of a man."

When the ogre fell, the surrounding darkspawn dragged Duncan from the corpse, bringing him down by sheer number until he disappeared beneath them. When they drew back, he was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

Oh, Maker, no.

Alistair's eyes stung and the weight of his sorrow and disappointment dragged him to his knees.

As he stared at Cailan's lifeless corpse, the ogre rose from the ground, alive again. It picked Alistair up and slammed a gauntleted fist into him again and again, then threw him to the ground, pinning him down with a giant hand.

Alistair turned his head away from the ogre's nightmarish teeth toward Kallian. "Help me! Kallian, please!"

The ogre hunched over him, ripped open his breastplate, and then plunged a hand into his chest, cracking ribs like sticks.

Kallian crouched down next to Alistair, reached into his chest and ripped the heart from his body. "You won't need this anymore." She gave it to the armored ogre, who crushed Alistair's heart as it had crushed the king

Alistair screamed, his body feeling his heart's destruction even after it had been pulled from his chest.

He was still screaming when he awoke with everyone in the shared sleeping space staring at him, and crew members peering through the open doorway.

Andraste's mercy, this just couldn't be worse.

Making every effort to avoid the gaze of those who watched, Alistair pushed his way through them and made his way up to the deck. He put his hands on the rail at the ship's side and stared into the water, breathing deeply and trying to calm himself.

It was a long time before he noticed that Oghren had come on deck and was holding out a blanket. Or that he was freezing, clad only in the pants he'd slept in.

Wrapping the blanket around himself, Alistair turned away from the water and looked up at the stars.

Oghren leaned against the side of the ship and handed Alistair a flask of some kind of liquor that was so harsh and potent, it made his eyes water. They shared the flask in silence until the sun rose.

As the sun appeared over the horizon, Alistair glanced at Oghren and cleared his throat. "I'd…like to get off at Highever. It would mean walking to Denerim, but with the three day stopover there, we wouldn't lose that much—"

"Not a problem."

"We should ask Leliana if—"

"She won't mind."

"Thanks." Alistair looked out across the sea and tried to calculate the distance to Highever.

Oghren took his flask and drained the last of its contents. "I'm sick of this tub, anyway."