Part 12:

Alistair stood in the hallway. Food made its way down his face and off of his armor onto the ground. Why did it always seem to end this way? He sighed. It wasn't even good food.

He almost went to bed, but then realized he should have a bath. Grabbing the Templar robe he'd kept, he headed for the bathing room. Stripping quickly, he lit only one candle. He intended to just get the food of off himself, then go to bed.

The hearth fire had almost died, since the Inn only kept it up for the evening hours, not into the night. But the water in the buckets was still hot enough to give him a quick bath. He sank into it, leaving the buckets unfilled, too drunk to care how rude it was.

That was the good thing about being a cheap drunk. One hearty ale and he could forget everything. He only wished he'd gotten to finish it up. He'd be happily snoring on the table downstairs, rather than awake and trying to forget what he'd just said.

Had he really said it out loud? Had he really thought such a thing? About Mira?

A slight sound in the room was all that alerted him. It was enough, even in his drunken state. He bellowed, letting magic infuse it from his training as a Champion. He heard a body hit the floor, and someone cursed as the magic staggered him.

But Alistair was down to his undercloth, and nothing more. He was in serious trouble here. He was in range of his weapon and shield and he grabbed both in the few seconds the bellow had granted him.

Then there were running feet in the hall outside, and even as Alistair lowered himself to one knee to keep the shield between him and his attackers, his back to the wall for added protection, the door flew open.

The others flowed in, and the fight was on in earnest. What surprised Alistair the most, though, was that they'd come to save him at all. He would have let himself rot in the deepest corner of the Fade.

There were more in there than he'd thought possible, and he found that he was having difficulties standing up to them. He feared he'd be unconscious soon. Pain tore at him, driving the alcohol from his system in a surge of adrenaline.

He dodged an uppercut, sleekly cutting off a dagger thrust with the shield. Then he hacked low with the sword, taunting the assassin as he fell, his belly open and screams turned to strangled gurgles as his guts spilled out the new opening in his abdomen.

He stepped over the fallen man, closing on the next. With an upward slash, he drew the rogue's attention to his sword. Then he used what strength he had left to batter once, twice, then three times at the other man with the massive shield.

The would-be assassin fell to the ground, writhing, with multiple broken bones and a punctured lung. He was out of the fight and an assassin with a crooked nose was even now trying to circle around Mira, who had turned into a savage bear.

Before he could make it there, though, she swiped with one powerful paw and ripped the man's face open, blood spuming across the room in a slow arc. She lunged forward, her jaws fixing on his throat until she pulled back, bringing blood and flesh with her.

He stared at her in shock, the battle over with that last act. A shiver ran down his spine as she growled and dropped the gory bundle of dripping flesh. The bear stared at him with too-intelligent eyes, and started for the door.

Then more battle in the hallway caught their attention, and they all ran for the door. There, the Chevaliers were engaged with four more assassins, to their surprise.

These were quickly dispatched with the five of them added to the fray. Although Alistair wasn't sure who was fighting whom.

The battle was over then, and Montreux turned to them. "I'm glad to see you all alive. These men approached us earlier, wanting us to help them kill you."

"I don't trust you," Alistair told the other man.

"Alistair, you're drunk. Perhaps you should go to bed," Wynne told him.

He shot her an angry look, then decided she was right. "I'm fine," he told her.

"You told him you wanted me for yourself," Mira accused him, surprising Alistair.

Then he remembered. That was the conversation he'd overheard!

"Of course I did," the suave Chevalier said, walking over to her. He reached out and ran a hand down the side of her cheek, human once more. "Only a fool wouldn't want you."

He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, "But I want you to come to me willingly."

Alistair wanted to hit him. He wanted to sink the sword into his black, black heart. He was a lying liar.

Everyone was staring at him. Had he said that out loud?

"Had a bit much to drink tonight?" Montreux drawled. "I suggest you watch yourself while in Orlais, Ser. Most Chevaliers will not be nearly as forgiving as am I."

Then the man turned back to Mira. "I hope to see you in the morning, My Lady."

She muttered something Alistair couldn't hear, and then stood stiffly as Montreux took her bloody, messy hand and pulled it towards his lips. He stopped when he saw the blood there, and then lowered her hand, patting it with his other one. "Perhaps another time, no?"

Then he went into his room, followed by Ambrose, who shot a superior, amused look at Alistair before going into his room.

"You should really stop drinking, Alistair. Everything you think falls straight out of your mouth the second you think it. No matter how unrealistic, stupid, inane, or even downright insane it is." Thus saying, Leliana followed the other women into the room, closing it behind her.

The lock on the door sliding home made him cringe. It sounded final and cold.

He caught Oghren and Zevran looking at him with looks mingled with pity and disgust. "What?" he snapped, wobbling into his room, not bothering to lock it behind him.

The clatter of his armor as it was dumped just inside the door startled him, and then he heard the lock click home.

Moments later, he covered his head with a pillow as Oghren's snoring erupted from the stuffed chair near the door. Why were they even bothering?

But sleep claimed him before he could ask the question. Or not. He wasn't sure.