:::
He tells her everything.
It is surreal, speaking of his other so openly. He watches Wynne's expression as he spouts every recallable memory, readying himself for her disbelief, worry, scrutiny, something, but there is none. She gifts him only softs smiles as he runs at the mouth.
"…and when we got to the tower," he recalls, "I had hoped that, maybe, she'd be there."
She nods as she listens. "But she wasn't?"
"No," he answers. "She is… ways away from Ferelden."
"I see," Wynne replies. "I doubt that makes what is to come any easier for you."
Her voice tugs at something as she speaks his name. There is something hanging at the end of her words, something he doesn't want to address.
He shrugs, his gaze now studying the dirt trail before them. "When is anything 'easier' now-a-days?"
"Alistair..."
He does not turn to look at her as he says, "Yes?"
There is a pause. Wynne stands beside him, her presence is soothing despite the growing tension.
A hand rests against his shoulder, gentle, but firm. "Never mind, Dear. Let's catch up with the others."
He nods, and they trek forward.
:::
The night's fire does little to keep him awake.
Alistair stares listlessly at the flickering red and gold hues, letting his mind wander to thoughts that he's been trying all this time not to think.
He knows what Wynne was going to say, and he's starting to realize that he can't pretend what awaits him isn't real.
:::
"Are you alright?"
Leliana stares at him from across the campfire, her eyes fixated on the half eaten bowl of stew in his hands. "You seem… distant."
Alistair can't meet her gaze. He chooses instead to fill his mouth and shrug his shoulders. He knows it will not sate her, but it is all he can do to avoid the inevitable questions that will plague him.
"The journey leaves us all tired and distant," Wynne speaks, turning towards him. "Perhaps you need rest?"
Alistair swallows and nods. "Perhaps I do."
She nods. "Go on then, child."
He lets his bowl drop to the ground, Amell's mabari can have his left overs for all he cares, and mouths a quick, "Thank you" to Wynne. Nothing else in the world sounds quite as good as resting his head and slipping away from all of this.
Well, almost nothing.
:::
Their stay in Redcliffe is short lived.
Arl Eamon urges the party to move to Denerim immediately, and although Alistair agrees that the Landsmeet can wait no longer, he is hesitant.
"You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins."
The Arl's words are a nightmare realized. All those years hiding his father's sin, wishing to be more than just "the bastard son of Maric", and now he must use that branding to save his country. Try as he may, the reality of what may come will not disappear. He cannot make the fact that he is to take claim of Ferelden's throne go away.
Maker, he never wanted this.
:::
"Someone's been quiet lately…"
He stares at her writing for what feels like ages. There is a teasing lilt in the way the letters curl, but the frailness of each word's lining shows she's growing uneasy by his silence.
He hates this. A screaming need to reassure her pangs him, but he cannot lie to her. He cannot pretend to write her as though he isn't heading to what may be his bloody coronation.
What in Maker's name will he tell her if this actually goes through? What will become of them if he becomes king?
A swift, cool movement brushes his skin, and he watches as her words begin to wash away, and, without another mention of his absence, Lissie begins to mark her stars across his wrist. Each grazing of her quill is soft, like a gentle caress. He takes this moment to forget what awaits him in Denerim, and memorizes what it is like to feel her touch.
:::
It feels so strange to be at this estate.
Alistair slips away from Amell and the Arl to walk the familiar halls he once played in as a child, at least when permitted. There are still familiar faces found amongst the servants, despite the grey in their hair, and he wonders if any might recognize him. Most likely not. Hopefully not.
A song catches his attention as he passes by the kitchens. He hasn't heard it in years, but just the faintest hum of it is enough to revoke an overflow of memories. Days of knobby-knees aching as he ate cheese and bread by the kitchen doors, listening to the Elvhen maids sing; of crying as he huddles next to a sleep dog, humming to himself to calm his shaking. Yet, the memory that strikes him hardest most of all, is staring in awe at the first set of black stars on his arm, recalling the words of a song once forgotten. Maker, this is too coincidental.
"The ladies here are lovely, no?"
Alistair practically jumps at the sight of Zevran, and the sound of his laughter causes him to groan.
"You know," he says, his smile far too wide, "if you are needing a moment with one, or two, I have no problem assisting you in—"
"What?" Alistair baffles. "N-no! Maker, please stop talking!"
"Ah, my sincerest apologies." The elf's smile turns into a bemused smirk, and he can feel his ears turning red. "You seemed very… enraptured, so I assumed."
The singing ends at the sound of their presence. Alistair silently mourns the loss of the hymn as the servants work in quiet. With a sigh, he rubs his wrist half-heartedly, wishing more than anything that familiar itch would come to him.
But even that voice has gone silent.
:::
Alistair ducks behind the nearest thicket.
The guards outside of the Arl of Denerim's Estate nearly catch sight of him, but the Queen's handmaiden is quick to make a distraction.
"You know," he whispers to Amell, standing close to his side. "When we came to find allies against Loghain, I never thought his daughter would be a likely candidate."
"Maker save the Queen, I suppose?" she chuckles, and darts to the next hiding spot.
Though it proves difficult to laugh at her quip, he still finds himself muttering, "Or Grey Wardens, anyhow."
:::
There is so much corruption within the walls of this estate.
The further he and Amell go, the more he is left stunned at the level's of Loghain's treachery. How far will this man go to take Ferelden? Allowing his own daughter to be imprisoned, letting the children of others be held captive, tortured even? He is left outraged.
He cannot let any of this go. It'd destroy him to not see this man bleed for what he's done.
:::
They were so close.
He wasn't ready for that damned ambush. The battle… Maker, they didn't stand a chance.
The last thing he remembers seeing is Ser Cauthrien standing above him, light shining off the edge of her blade.
:::
:::
He wakes inside a prison cell.
He is cold, covered in sweat and something that smells vile. The memory of saving the Queen is hazy, but he is sure they were successful, weren't they? Maker, everything hurts.
A scream echoes, and he is quick to his knees. Terror strikes him as he quickly realizes he has been stripped to his small clothes. He has no weapons, no protection.
This is not good.
There is a stirring at his side, and he looks to see Amell. There is no noise coming from her.
He crawls to her, pushing against her side softly. "Hey, hey!"
She doesn't respond, and so he pushes harder. "Hey!"
Suddenly, she whimpers. She curls into herself before opening her eyes, but she is breathing.
"Thank the Maker," Alistair whispers. "Are you alright?"
She sits up slowly, still disoriented.
"Look," he whispers, scanning the area for any guards. "I heard screaming a moment ago, I think we're in some kind of torture chamber—"
She focuses in on something, and points to his arm. "What is that?"
His brow furrows before looking down. "What's wha-"
The entirety of his wrist is covered in ink. Instinctively, he pulls himself away, hiding the markings behind his back like a child.
"It's nothing," Alistair says. "What's important is figuring out how we're going to get out of here."
He tries not to think of the others waiting for them, of the fate of Ferelden if they don't make it. He tries not to think of the markings on his wrist, and the girl who made each one.
"What do you think we should do?" he asks.
Maker willing, he'll soon get the chance to read what those markings have to say.
:::
"Alistair."
They walk in unison beside the other soldiers, closing in on their escape. He dares a glance Amell's way; she looks strange in a warrior's armor.
"What?" he whispers.
"When we get out of this," she says, quieting as a soldier says the password, and the gate to their freedom opens. "I want to know what you're hiding."
The sunlight hits him, and his stomach is in knots.
"Alright," he says, and they run.
:::