Four days had passed after the siege on the Tower, and finally, the army had seen to all of the dead and wounded.
Alistair sat in the grass overlooking the battlefield, finishing a letter. The sun had finally lanced through the choking haze of smoke and the dark, magic-spawned clouds of the battle, and for the first time since the fall of the Tower it looked like summer again. The army was packing, gathering weapons and supplies as the last of the walking wounded got to their feet.
He had written three letters this morning, and with a final splatter of ink on parchment, he completed a fourth before laying it on the grass to dry. The first missive was a letter to Eamon, telling the regent of the outcome of the battle, with various instructions for Teagan and the cavalry when they returned from the Brecilian Forest. The second was a letter to Wynne, telling her to look after Norice, and asking for a full report on all Tevinter pirate activity in the area upon his return to Denerim. Both of these would be sent with a runner to the capital.
The third was a short note to Simon. Alistair knew that his Warden Commander hated to be sent away on what he thought was a fool's errand, but he explained the risk in leaving Lake Calenhad and its surrounds undefended. He was sending the rest of Simon's Wardens to Redcliffe this afternoon, and charged Simon with holding vigil against further darkspawn attacks in the region. And, while Simon might hate being asked to serve as watchdog, he knew that the Orlesian Warden would at least ensure that Redcliffe was warned in the case of another attack.
As for the fourth letter... well, he would deal with it when he reached Highever. This was the missive which had given him the most trouble, and as he watched the glistening letters dry, he shook his head. The godstone, it seemed, was going to be cause for writing more awkward and unanticipated letters than he had ever believed he would have cause to write. Though, as he watched Neria's Wardens form ranks along the hillside, their green armor glistening in the sun as the halla stood around them, watching and waiting, he considered that despite the difficulty of writing such missives, the outcome was not, in all cases, a bad one.
He collected parchment, ink and quill and stood up carefully, swaying slightly on his newly-mended legs. He felt stronger with each passing day, but Neria had warned him that it would be many days, if not weeks, before his full strength returned. Walking slowly, as though every step was new, he returned to the makeshift tents of the infirmary to collect his shield and sword before joining Lieutenant Basil and the other army commanders in discussing the journey to Highever.
Alistair was dividing the army, with a small force accompanying the more seriously wounded to Redcliffe. Neria's Wardens, his own men from the crown squadron, and two divisions of archers and footmen would go north with the godstone.
Neria approached as Alistair was giving the last orders to his lieutenants, leading one of the halla. She waited in silence as Basil and the others departed, before she spoke.
"Here," she gave a half-nod to the halla. "You'll need a ride. You shouldn't be walking too much yet, not while your bones are still healing."
"You mean..." he hesitated, considering the strange animal. "You mean for me to ride to Highever? On a halla?"
"Yes, I do. Doctor's orders." She looked sideways at the halla, a ghost-smile flashing across her face. The halla turned its head, looking from Neria to Alistair, and though the creature's face was unreadable, Alistair had a suspicion that elf and beast were sharing a private joke.
"I'm not really used to riding without a saddle," he said lamely, adjusting the shield on his back.
"Don't worry. This is Shann. She's the matriarch of our halla clan. She won't harm you."
Maker.
"All right. How do I..."
As had been required of him to oversee the Denerim cavalry, Alistair had learned well how to ride in peace and in battle. But those had been horses, with full saddle and stirrups, not a wild forest beast standing half a head taller than the largest mount in the crown stables.
As if sensing his thoughts, the halla - Shann, Alistair repeated to himself, remembering that the Dalish viewed these creatures as friends and allies, not beasts of burden - stepped forward, fixing him with her large golden eyes. A presence, wordless and alien, but not harsh or hostile, announced itself in his mind. No voice announced itself, but as Shann gazed at him Alistair could not help but feel his apprehensions dissolve.
Neria spoke a single, soft word, and Shann knelt before them in the grass, allowing Alistair to climb onto her back. Then she stood, slowly and smoothly, and began walking down the hillside.
As they joined the army now beginning the journey north, Alistair noticed that he was not the only member of the walking wounded to undergo such treatment. A number of recovering crown soldiers dubbed too uneasy on their feet were now riding halla, escorted by the Dalish Wardens.
Neria disappeared among her Wardens while Alistair rode slowly to the front of the line to lead the army northward. For a time he rode with the crown soldiers, listening to the chatter that naturally accompanied travel slowly pick up and travel through the ranks. He was glad to see the smiles on his soliders' faces as they turned north with a new purpose, and relief in their eyes as mile after mile passed with no new threat from the darkspawn. He could not help but share the feeling, now that they were leaving the blasted remains of the Tower. The sorrow that had held them all in its grip was dissipating, however slowly, as the ghosts of what they had all seen faded with the horizon.
"Your Majesty rides well," a sudden voice jolted him out of his reverie. Neria had joined him again, this time riding a halla of her own. "It suits you far better than I would have thought." Her smile grew then, until it was bordering on a smirk, and Alistair drew breath for a riposte to her half-joke. His reply was cut off by a barking laugh from both halla.
Alistair sighed and shook his head, allowing his own face a brief smile as he looked back over his shoulder at the crown army, the Wardens, and Neria. They all needed to laugh.
#
As he had hoped, the banners of Highever were flying as they approached, the laurel wreath of the Teyrn's family shining brightly under the summer sun. The journey had been uneventful, though Neria hadn't exaggerated when she'd said he would need a ride. Even though his legs hurt from riding, Alistair knew the pain was far less than it would have been had he walked for the three days they had spent hiking through the Coastlands. Gratefully, he stroked Shann's neck, feeling an equally gentle pressure from her presence in his mind, a parting salutation.
"Thank you," he said softly, surprised at how he had come to trust the halla over the course of their journey.
The Dalish Wardens and their halla were an exotic sight in the courtyard of Highever castle, and the teyrn's soldiers were showing good-natured amusement at their unexpected guests.
Teyrn Fergus Cousland met him as Alistair dismounted, grinning as though he thoroughly enjoyed the sight in front of him.
"Your Majesty, what a pleasant surprise."
But as Fergus moved closer, his face fell as he saw the wounds borne by some of the crown soldiers, and the blood-spattered armor they wore.
"Maker's mercy. What happened?"
"It's a long story, Fergus," Alistair said, feeling the grimness and anger of the past several days settle back upon him. "And I will tell it. But first, I need to commission a ship. One that can sail to Orlais."