Part 9:
"You don't like being dirty, do you?" Alistair asked when Montreux's attention was momentarily diverted to Ambrose.
"I despise it," Mira told him. "I… well. The place I lived was always meticulously clean."
He wondered, but he didn't ask. He could only assume that she'd grown up in the Circle, but he had no way to know. Who knew what all had happened during the recent upheaval.
He felt a sense of inevitability draw over him. She would never live this life. She was beautiful. She deserved beautiful things. She deserved to be safe and live in comfort.
She deserved to be clean.
There wasn't a way to live this life and stay clean. It was simply impossible. It couldn't ever be done. Fighting was dirty, and messy, and it was tough. It was a hard life, and maybe women in general weren't cut out for it.
It made sense, in a sexist sort of way. He felt a bit embarrassed to even think that way, but the fact was that she really wanted a life different from the only thing he had to offer. But she was a Warden. Surely Riordan saw something in her that was worth having on the battlefield besides just magic?
"Alistair?"
He looked at her, trying to breathe again as his air was stolen by her beauty—even dirty and dusty and covered with droplets of stinking gore.
"What?" he asked, and realized he sounded cross. Too late now, though…
She looked away, color rising across her face. "Nothing, sorry."
"No, go ahead and ask me. I'm just thinking too much, that's all. It's stupid, I really shouldn't do it at all."
She shook her head. "It's nothing, really." Then she pointed ahead, "I think I see the town."
He frowned. She was trying to distract him from whatever she'd wanted to say. He'd scared her off. And now there he was frowning again!
The path narrowed, and he placed his hand on the small of her back to help guide her along the trail. She flinched, and he felt like a bumbling fool. She didn't want him to touch her, that much was clear.
Miserable and even more upset, he followed her down the path, negotiating shortly with the Innkeeper for two rooms. One for him, and one for the women. He left the Chevaliers on their own—they were not part of his party, even if they had forced their way into it.
The rooms were good ones, closest to the baths. That should make Mira happy, at least. It wasn't as if he were able to do it. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so… good. Maybe that was the problem.
The Chantry had always warned him that he would come to no good in life.
He watched her and Wynne go into their room and turned to go into his own.
"Alistair, please—" she was cut off as the Chevaliers walked past into the baths.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Well, I was going to say, you please take your bath first. Mira and I need to have a little talk. Okay?"
"Sure," he said. "Whatever you like."
She said nothing more, simply shutting the door and leaving him standing silently in the hallway.
He sighed and went inside. Some time later, the Chevaliers walked past, talking and laughing, heading down to the common room for an ale. Or food. Or something. He didn't want to think about it any further.
He went and had his bath, though it did little to nothing to ease his aching heart. He had lost Duncan, and then he'd found the Warden he'd followed to be a callous, hard man. This same Warden had charmed the Nobles of Ferelden with lies and trickery, to the point where they accepted him when he overthrew Loghain.
But that hadn't been the worst part. Although he had deposed Loghain, he'd actually turned the man into a Warden! He had rewarded him after his horrible, vile treachery!
Now this.
His life was falling apart. He sat quietly in the baths, head in his hands. Then finally, with a sigh, he went into his room with a light knock on the door to let Mira know the room was clear for her use.
He heard the doors open and close, and laid back to try to take a bit of a rest. He had a feeling that it would be a long night of tossing and turning for him.