Well, here's the eighth chapter of my "three-chapter weekend project". I suppose it got a little... out of control.
Again, thank you, reviewers! This fic has had a great response so far, so I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.
There is a reason for this odd little first paragraph, by the way. All should soon become apparent - just not quite yet, I'm afraid.
The Drunkard
-8-
Not The Only One
She's half-running through the streets of Lowtown to see her mother when she hears footsteps behind her. Suddenly uneasy, she looks behind her, wondering who would be out on the streets at this time of night. Only criminals, surely.
However, it's a lone stranger she sees, and one making no effort to approach her. He notices her watching him; he gives her a brief smile and nod of acknowledgement - as if trying to be polite, a rare sight in Kirkwall - before he ducks into a side alley, his footsteps swiftly fading.
Frowning, she shakes her head, looking around nervously and cursing her own paranoia. He was probably just... taking a walk. Maybe going to see a relative of his own? These ideas ring hollow in her mind.
She hurries onwards, keen to get off the dark streets.
It takes him a moment to pull himself out of sleep, aware of the feeling of hard, cold stone beneath him and the night sky above him. He sits up, cautiously rubbing his head; as he does so, there's a clink, his other hand hitting something.
A half-broken glass bottle.
He stops and simply sits, trying to piece together what could have happened. There was... the letter... he ran... After that, it's a blank, but he can taste bile, has a pounding headache and is pretty sure the bottle explains a lot - though the tingling in his arms is new. He places a hand on the wall, somehow managing to stand up and finally recognising his surroundings. Darktown? How did he - ?
Then he remembers. It seemed like the least likely place for her to come; Kirkwall's most important visitors - and she's the Hero Of Ferelden, not Morgana anymore (he ignores the ache in his chest at that thought), so she will be one of them - don't tend to head straight for its slum.
He looks up at the sound of a uncomfortably familiar voice, realising that he is still leaning heavily on the wall. "Oh. It's you."
The arrogant mage with the ridiculous feathered coat has his arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and is looking at him as if he's an insect - half-interested, half-repulsed. Said arrogant mage continues, "Heard there was someone passed out in an alley. I wasn't aware that it was our very own drunkard prince." He frowns then, looking to his side as if hearing something Alistair can't, and exhales, shaking his head. Then he turns back to him. "What is it this time? Been thrown out of the tavern again?"
Still bent double and with a palm on the wall, he glares at the other man. "No. Morgana... she's coming. To Kirkwall." He suddenly remembers the man's name: Anders, was it?
Something crosses the mage's face then, almost like... panic? He pulls him to his feet. "Come on. This might be important." He spots Alistair's puzzled expression at his sudden change in attitude, and adds, sighing, "You think you're the only one running away from her?"
For once, it seems that he and this mage can actually agree on something.
It's the last thought he has before he falls unconscious once again, barely aware of hitting the ground.
The cloth is growing soaked as she mops her mother's forehead. She is still frowning, occasionally reaching a hand out as if to clutch for something that isn't there; each time that happens, she takes her hand, gently pushing it back down to the bed.
Anders is out; one of the stall vendors leaned in the door and shouted about someone half-dead in an alley.
She looks around at the other patients; most of them have no-one here, no family for their bedside, and she can't help but feel sorry for them. At least her mother has her...
She looks round at the sound of the clinic door being carelessly kicked open - templars? She panics then, at the thought of the faceless metal enforcers destroying what has been built here, and stands to see - she sees a couple of Anders' assistants do the same. Instead, it's Anders himself who somehow manages to get through the door while supporting an unconscious, not-exactly-light, horribly familiar figure. She rushes to try and help him, the name finding its way out of her mouth before she can stop it. "Alistair?" She looks at Anders, adding, "I've never seen him this drunk before."
After Anders and a couple of his assistants manage to lay Alistair on a makeshift pile of blankets, the healer shakes his head. "Not drunk. Well, he was, but..." He frowns, stopping. "This looks like poison."
None of them notice the dark-haired man in simple leather armour, daggers strapped to his belt, watching the proceeedings. He steps away from the clinic, melting back into Darktown's shadows and beginning the journey through its back streets.
