Redcliffe

Alistair:

Alistair remembers Connor as a toddling child, fair-haired and friendly. Eamon's pride and joy, for none of Isolde's other children survived the first weeks after birth.

This Connor is a child only in form, and Alistair's heart clenches in his chest to hear a demon's voice issue from the boy's mouth. To see Teagan like a puppet on the dais, rictus-grinning with wild eyes. To feel the demon's presence press upon the Veil - unnatural, forced, wrong - with senses honed by the templar-training he has only in the last night and day come to appreciate as useful.

Abomination, he thinks, and it hurts the pit of his stomach. Oh, Eamon. My lord arl, if the poison doesn't kill you, this will.

Beside him, Kallian Tabris watches Connor with the patient intent of a hunting hawk. Still and unflinching, even when Isolde says, "This is an elf, Connor," and the demon's voice drawls with dark satisfaction about cutting off ears.

Alistair's gut turns over. He can feel blood trickling down his calf from the wound he took last night, soaking the bandage. It burns under his weight. They are exhausted, all of them, even tireless Sten: another pitched fight will be too much. He focuses all his weary will upon the Veil, even as Kallian says something and Isolde replies, even as Morrigan speaks with a trace of fear cutting the amusement in her voice: "So. The boy has become an abomination and sundered the Veil."

Distantly he hears Isolde's protest, Morrigan's cutting judgement. Kallian is silent, waiting. Watching for weakness. But Alistair's attention is not in Redcliffe's great hall. He is not a templar, but he trained as one. He knows the focused meditation, as much weapon as defence, that can - however briefly - seal the Veil between the Fade and the waking world. It is easier with lyrium, so much easier, but even without it -

"Morrigan!"

He knows she won't understand the warning. It's all he can do to give her one anyway.

The demon runs, and in his - its - wake, Teagan collapses, puppet-strings cut. Alistair sinks to his knees, suddenly too weak to stand under the weight of his armour. His head swims. Kallian's hand is resting on his shoulder, a steadying grip: he leans into it, needing the connection. Needing the solidity.

"Templar," Morrigan spits. But after a moment: "Still. I suppose 'twas better than the alternative."

It must be hysteria that makes him laugh.