He thought things couldn't get worse after that.
It was a nice thought. Nice and refreshing. In a morbid sort of way.
Didn't last very long, though.
There are undead and a demon (oh look! More demons!) and Connor, who wasn't even born when he left and who isn't Connor anymore but an abomination. And there is Teagan doing back flips up and down the hall, and that...that...
That might not be on the same level as demons, but Maker help him if it isn't just as disturbing.
The Arlessa is on her knees pleading most eloquently for her son's life, expertly-shadowed eyes wet with tears. He knows it's an act. Of course it's an act. Everything she does is an act. Most likely. Mostly. But she is so very good at it that he almost feels a twinge of pity, hand on the hilt of his sword as he tells her: Yes it will be quick. Yes, he's done this before. No, there isn't any chance of saving an abomination. No. None. Your son is gone. I'm sorry.
He wants this to be done.
He does not want Verissa and Jowan to appear at his elbow with a solution involving blood magic.
He rants, and he rails, and he considers storming out (but where would he go?), but it's like he isn't there again. They all talk over him. One great conspiracy of women. Because it's Jowan who's reluctant and Verissa who seizes on the idea and Isolde who makes it her own. Isolde who is asking to die in the most unholy way possible. And of course Morrigan agrees. Zevran agrees. Even Teagan agrees, with much prodding and pleading and teary Orlesian eyes.
He agrees on an academic principle only – kill the mother to save the child, kill the old to spare the young, alright, he doesn't like it but it's alright. But -!
Blood magic!
Blood magic!
It is wrong and demonic and evil, and he cannot stand by and let it happen. He cannot let Verissa touch it. Little brave Verissa will have demons crawling out her mouth and her pretty grey eyes because everyone knows that this magic corrupts and changes. It is not to be touched. It is not even to be talked about. This is so many different types of wrong (is he the only one here who cares about sinanymore? About morality? Anyone? Anyone?). He cannot just stand here and allow –
And then, somehow, he does.
He has no idea why or how, but he does.
"You Templars are like statues, aren't you?" says Morrigan, leaning coolly up against the wall and far too close for comfort. Her eyes are flat, yellow-gold, predatory. "Be a good little statue and stay still and watch."
Jowan the maleficar has drawn a circle in the ground and Isolde within it is lifted in the air like a rag doll, liquid Orlesian eyes gone wide. There is blood at her mouth and ears and eyes, blood bursting forth from her skin in a flood – he watches as it flies to his mageling in a dark wave and swirls around her and she arches like one demon-touched and then crumples, sleeping, dreaming in spreading pool of sin.
He could have moved.
He could have.
Shame is twisting inside him and he is going to be sick – so he tells himself that this is just like a Harrowing, waiting for the little mage to return from the Fade. Just like the Joining. He ignores the Arlessa's body at his feet. He makes himself tall and still and silent like the Templar he never was. And he waits. Watching.
"Is this not what you wanted?" whispers the witch. "You did say you always hated her." She smiles at Isolde. The Arlessa is pale and tiny and empty. She's drained to white, her open flat-dead eyes rimmed in red.
It's the first time he's ever thought of her as a mother.
"This worked out the best for everyone," purrs Morrigan. "Don't you agree?"
And because Alistair is a good little Templar, he doesn't say a word.