Alistair
She had not spoken to them in days, now.
Leaving the tower had been a mess in and of itself. He had to be the one to pull her out of there. It was three flights down before she stopped resisting him. One flight more before she stopped the screaming. He still had to steady her the rest of the way.
That was when Alistair realized he would need to return, of course, to finish negotiations with Irving and the Knight Commander, and he had not been bloody well looking forward to that exchange. He led her outside the tower, let her sit on the dock with a blanket from his pack so she wouldn't catch cold. Leliana had come down soon—Morrigan close behind—so he had left her in their care while he went back inside, tail practically visible between his legs.
It had been uncomfortable for all three of them, so that made him feel only marginally better. They reconvened on the main floor. That templar had been nowhere in sight, which was a good thing. Alistair didn't know what he would have done if he'd caught wind of him again, but murder was certainly on the table.
Greagoir thanked them, stiffly, for their efforts, and said little else, for which Alistair was also grateful. He pulled the treaties from his pack and showed them to the First Enchanter, rolled out onto a rickety old wooden table.
Alistair had blanked when the old man had asked after Duncan. He must have stared like a proper idiot for the longest time. Thinking on it now, he can't even remember what was said. Vaguely, he remembered the First Enchanter's downcast gaze, a hearty condolence, and a mention of a years-long friendship. Duncan had had plenty of those, Alistair knew. He did not own that grief alone. Regardless, Alistair had elected to move on from the subject without further ceremony. The weight of the old mage's eyes on him in that moment had nearly snapped Alistair in two. No question, truly, who had raised Solena.
Even with mutual loyalty to Duncan, it took some convincing to sway the First Enchanter. Greagoir, Alistair didn't even hope for. He hoped that they would work much like dominoes. Convince the one, and have Irving do the rest of the work for him. Or something like that.
"I cannot claim to know your charges," Alistair had said, "but defeat and death are the apple and the tree."
Irving and Greagoir had stared at him blankly.
"You know, the one it didn't fall far from. Anyway, what I'm saying is…they've suffered loss. Heavy, heavy loss. And they'll need time to recuperate, no doubt, but sooner or later, they'll need something else to fight for—some shred of hope. You let them stew in this state for long, dormant, with no way to move forward from their grief, and you're treading dangerous waters."
Thankfully, Irving had seen the wisdom in that. Greagoir didn't like it, but Alistair knew that he had, too. Irving, however, could not say with any certainty what the mages' force might look like when the call to arms came. Alistair had left with the promise of a hundred-fifty. A hundred templars were certain. The fifty, Irving believed, was an optimistic estimate for battle-ready mages. Whatever he could not provide, Greagoir would make up the difference.
Fifty mages was nothing to turn one's nose up at. And Alistair knew that templars, with their heightened abilities, could be worth at least twice your average foot soldier. And…they were only getting started. Two treaties remained yet, and the promise of Redcliffe's forces. But one-fifty…was not what they had hoped for. And yet, it was certainly more than he had expected after seeing Solena's friend dead on the tower floor that night.
When the treaty business was over, and Greagoir had lost interest and buggered off somewhere, he spoke of Connor. That, he knew, was a far more manageable request. When it came to the…demonic possession bit, Alistair must have sounded quite far out of his element. But he did his best to repeat the vagaries of what he understood from Morrigan and Solena, and Irving had listened intently and nodded like he was comprehending it all, so Alistair must have done something right.
The First Enchanter would gather five of his best, most trusted enchanters, two templars for escort, and as much lyrium as the tower could spare, and follow them back to Redcliffe. That was the deal.
That was what brought them to a camp that seemed far busier than usual, on the first truly cold autumn night of the season. The draft from the lake certainly did not help. Wynne, as one of Irving's gathered five, had cooked for them that night. Most of them sat about the fire with blankets and hot bowls of flavorful soup—with three exceptions. Sten, who had always separated himself a fair distance from the main camp, was no surprise. Neither, really, was Morrigan, who, if it were said that she had been unsociable before, was easily fifty-times that now that a small posse of Circle mages and templars had joined the mix. That, of course, and she couldn't keep her nose out of that damned book. She had remained holed up inside her tent the entire evening—and every evening that preceded it—which was set up where the clearing met the woods. Alistair hoped that perhaps that meant she'd be the first to be eaten if a bear caught wind of their camp in the middle of the night.
And so, that brought him to Solena. Currently, nowhere to be seen.
He knew she had taken her bowl and wandered off into the woods somewhere to be alone. And Alistair knew better than to follow her there. For the first few days, he had. It always ended the same. She would leave. He would wait long enough to give her the space he knew she so desperately needed, but not so long that his palms began to itch. He would find her, sat on a tree stump or by a small pond, knees tucked to her chest and back facing him.
He wouldn't have to say anything, breathe, or make any noise at all. "Please leave me alone," she'd say, not rudely, without turning her head. And, slowly, dejectedly, hoping that she might reconsider at the last minute, he'd turn and go.
He would not dare imagine what she could be feeling, but he knew it was tearing him apart. He ran it back in his head, too. Over and over again. The whole thing. Wondering if he couldn't have done something. Stopped it. He kept coming up inconclusive.
It was just so senseless. All of it. Niall, Cullen, Uldred, all those mages—the ones that were slaughtered and the ones that chose to follow a madman instead, turned into monsters. It all came back to Ostagar. It made him want to retch.
He knew he couldn't have been a templar. Duncan saved him from that. It had never been right for him, but certainly after the tower he shuddered to picture himself as some Maker-loving, unfeeling mage-killer. That templar disgusted him. Not only for what he'd done, but for everything he claimed to stand for. And the way he'd looked at her.
It was less jealousy than it was anger. They'd snapped him out of his demon-infested prison, but his eyes had still been glazed over as they'd rolled over her form. Worshipping her. Like some eternally forbidden fruit. Bloody repulsive.
He knew she hated him. He saw it in her eyes, every day. Even now. And it had always been there, since the very beginning. That templar followed her everywhere. Alistair just wanted to make her know that he was on her side. That it wasn't…that she didn't have to be…alone, in this. It was hard to do that when silence still filled the air between them.
Irving grew concerned, as well. When Alistair had returned from the woods that first night, the First Enchanter had looked up from his conversation with Wynne with interrogating eyes. Alistair had only hung his head in response. Each time after, they had shared the same exchange.
"She is still unresponsive, your lady friend?" Wynne sidled up to him the next morning as they walked on the road.
"She's not—" Alistair spared a quick glance behind him to see that she was in fact out of earshot. Sure enough, she had strayed to the very back of their company, joined only in stride by Sten. He lowered his voice anyway. "Don't call her that, she's not my anything. But, for your information, no. She's not speaking to anyone."
Wynne nodded, seeming to take in the information slowly.
"Why are you not on a horse?" he asked her, somewhat irritated. Their party had given up their horses so the Enchanters could use them in their stead. The least she could do was take advantage.
She pursed her lips. "I am not so old that I cannot walk, Alistair. My colleagues have far greater need of them than I. I will be fine. And don't change the subject." She pointed an accusatory finger at him. He huffed.
"Everyone needs their space," she said eventually, affirming his thoughts exactly. "Grief is a messy, complicated emotion."
Alistair swallowed.
"When you mourned Duncan," she continued, to Alistair's great dread. "Was she not there for you? A shoulder to lean on? Perhaps, even when you did not want her to be? Did that not still ease the burden of your grief, in the end?"
He shook his head. "That was entirely different. We were both there. We shared in that together. We both lost…"
"Oh? It was my understanding that you were also at the top of the tower when that poor boy was killed. Was I mistaken?"
Alistair grimaced. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"What you're doing. Making sense." He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and quickened his step, avoiding the old woman's knowing gaze. Bloody mages and their looks. They were like to smite a man on the spot.
By lunchtime, they had stopped on the side of the road, tied their horses to a fence and sat down in a field to eat on hard bread, cheese, and the goat that Sten had killed, skinned and roasted. From the small hill they rest upon, there was a clear view of the lake that day. Birds chirped and soared high above them, and the wind had a bite to it but wasn't cruel. The Enchanters seemed to enjoy it well enough, chatting amongst themselves and even laughing every so often as they sat sequestered away in their own little circle. Considering what they had been through, it was a nice thing to see.
On the other hand, none of the members of their party—scattered across the field and hardly even looking at one another—had so much as cracked a smile all week, and they certainly did not start then.
That was when the sister stood, and left unceremoniously towards a small gathering of trees, likely to relieve herself. That's when Alistair remembered—the events of the past two weeks flashed before his eyes. All the business with Connor, and the tower, and then Solena, and it had rendered him distracted.
He stood and followed after her.
Alistair was, admittedly, a loud, lumbering fool in full plate armor, wading through the woods, shuffling leaves and snapping twigs and branches with every step, so it was no surprise that she had been alerted well in advance to his presence. Sure enough, he caught her squatting near a quiet brook.
"Can a lady not receive privacy when nature calls on the road?" she called from below, not turning her head. "Perhaps you boys don't care much, but we still do."
She finished and laced herself up and at last turned around to face him, seemingly surprised to find him still stood there, arms crossed with what he knew was an unpleasant look on his face.
"I know you're no lady. And you've forfeited all right to privacy, as far as I'm concerned."
She furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. "What's this about, Alistair?"
"I don't know what you are, or why you're here, but you need to leave. As soon as possible, I think would be appropriate," he told her. "I saw the body of the spy in Redcliffe. A clean slit from ear to ear. The dead didn't do that. And I know you went back and killed those men from the Lothering tavern. If they'd made it to Denerim, we'd be neck-deep in assassins by now."
The sister assessed him curiously, rolling her eyes over him, before letting out a short laugh. "So, let me see if I am understanding you correctly—you want me to leave because I have helped you too much?"
Alistair opened his mouth. Involuntarily, sputters came out. "I…well, no, I—"
"I'll tell you what. I did kill those men. And I apologize for the subterfuge. I thought it would be easier."
"Easier?"
"Yes, easier. I saw what this…group of yours was, in its early stages. It was my understanding that any of you getting your hands dirty in such a way would have been a messy affair. You had a lot on your plate. You had suffered a great deal of loss. And yet, messy things needed to be done to ensure our safety. We both knew that. But without the appearance of a strong moral code to guide you, I feared for the direction and stability of this party, and our mission, which I am sure we both agree is of paramount importance."
Alistair looked down on her, saying nothing, in silent, begrudging agreement.
"If it would make you happier, I will be sure to tell you the next time I plan on killing someone."
"I don't know that happier is the word that—never mind. Look, it's not why you did what you did that bothers me. Well, I don't love it. But you had your reasons. I would've killed that spy if you hadn't, and…maybe you're right, about some of that other stuff," he admitted. "But I'm the only person here who has the good sense to ask how you do what you do. Chantry sister, my arse. I was in the cloister. They didn't teach the lady initiates any of that." He gestured vaguely to her whole person. "Maybe you're a double agent. Maybe you've been a spy for Loghain this whole time. What do you say to that?"
She sighed. "Before I devoted myself to the Chantry, I was a traveling minstrel."
He had to stop himself from laughing. "I'm sorry—a minstrel?"
The Orlesian sister narrowed her eyes. "You don't have to poke fun. Yes, I was. Storytelling and song were always my passions. Sadly, they…didn't pan out."
"That explains precisely none of what I just asked you," he noted.
"Minstrel life is messier than one might expect. Particularly the feuds. I…let us say I did not get along well with a colleague of mine. Creative disagreements. You pick up a thing or two. You learn to watch your back. I watched mine," she said, rather ominously. "That was when I decided it was no longer for me. I left for the Chantry, and I didn't look back."
He looked at her expectantly, but nothing more came of it. Then, he simply didn't know where to begin.
"Oh-ho! Alright. You have no intention of telling me, then. I get it."
She crossed her arms. "It's the truth. Just because it's not as glamorous as whatever you imagined—"
"No, no. Truly. Keep your secrets. But I'm watching you. And if you threaten the safety of anyone in this camp, I'll have no qualms about striking you down."
The minstrel opened her mouth as if to say one thing, then clearly decided on another.
"I wouldn't worry too much, Alistair. Just think—if I truly wished you harm, I could have killed you just now. Alone. In the woods." She tapped her finger to his nose, brushing past him as she left. His flinch and shudder were delayed, coming well after she was gone.
That night, the camp was much the same as the last. Solemn, and distant, and cold. The darkened sky marked the end of their fifth day on the road. By Alistair's estimations, with their new company and limited horses, it would be at least another three. Connor could be dead by then. Eamon could be dead. All of them…the whole town could be…just like Lothering.
He lay in his tent, rolled onto his side with the blankets pulled up around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. But even when he closed them now, he thought of death. Nothing helped.
They had not yet encountered darkspawn on the road. He wondered why that was. Perhaps the cold had slowed them down. Perhaps they had taken more losses at Ostagar than he had thought, and the bulk of their force waited within the fortress' frozen walls, rebuilding their strength. But why take Lothering? An easy target, certainly, but a hundred miles was quite the venture for low-hanging fruit. Likely, the spawn had been able to take the village with just a small forward party. The capture of Lothering must have disrupted trade and travel along the West Road. A strategic move, perhaps? But that was madness. The spawn were a hive-mind, and Alistair would have never thought an archdemon to be much of a battle tactician.
At the very least, its screechings that plagued his nightmares remained indecipherable as ever. Worse, certainly, with each sleep since Ostagar. And louder. With every twist and turn in his sleep he saw a different shade of red. He had begun to feel clawing on his skin, only to wake with no marks. He wondered if Solena's were as intolerable. He wondered if the tea she took each night helped her any. Maybe he would give it a go. Anything was worth even a little relief.
He shifted on his bedroll and huffed. He missed her. It was simple, really. And the thought of both the pain and the numbness she must certainly be feeling, it undid him. Wynne—dastardly old woman—had struck a chord of truth. He wanted to be there for her. He wanted to reach out—to repay her even a little for the kindness that she had shown him, even when he hadn't deserved it. This…this isolation from each other would not do. It would ruin the both of them, but him especially. He had to be the bigger person, here. He had to step up and take charge of something, for once in his miserable life.
Before he knew it, he was sat up in his tent, hastily pulling on his britches.
He emerged on a silent camp, save for the crickets. Irving sat on watch, cross-legged by a now reduced fire, his staff laid out across his legs. One of the templars was awake too, poking at the fire repeatedly with a stick as if he were expecting it to do something exciting.
Alistair approached the old mage slowly, but Irving caught wind of his presence early.
"She is awake," he croaked once Alistair was in earshot. "She rose from her tent not but a little while ago. Took off down to the shore, without a word." He pointed north, down the long, tall hill that their camp rest upon. Alistair, hands stuffed awkwardly in his back pockets, nodded his gratitude and started to leave, but the First Enchanter stopped him with a soft tap to his elbow.
"Please, I beg of you," he started. "Do something. I have known that girl all her life. Never have I seen her such. As wise as I would like to think I am, as many years as I've lived, I…haven't the slightest idea how to reach her now. It would seem she does not want to hear anything I might have to say. And in her shoes, I do not know that I can say I would feel differently." He hung his head a bit. "She places great trust in you, young man. I can see that much. I pray that you can find a way to honor that."
Alistair's eyes widened. Then he opened his mouth. "I…yes, of course, I…yes," he said, or something like it, and Irving nodded his approval that he might leave. Alistair took off in a fast walking pace that soon became a brisk jog, carefully balancing himself as he traversed the steep hill, already seeing her in the distance. A dark figure, dressed in a deep blue shift that blended with the depths of the lake. The moons were hardly visible that night. Her hair was the only beacon he had—she remained still, and the slightest sliver of light glinted upon the top of her blond head and on the right side of her face. Her arms were crossed over herself in the cold.
She was watching the horizon when he approached, sand shifting slightly under his boots.
"Alistair, please go."
"No. Not this time."
He heard the sharp, pained intake of breath that followed, as if he had injured her with his defiance.
She angled her head a bit to throw her words over her shoulder. But he had beat her to the punch. They began speaking at the same time, battling for the air.
"I really can't do this with you anymore. Please, just—"
"Look, it's alright that you're not…alright, I—"
They both stopped, and he sighed. She turned the slightest bit towards him now, and he considered that a victory. Alistair could see the right half of her face now, and he could see that she had not been crying. It looked now as though she were waiting for him to speak, so he decided to take that and run with it. He did not know if another opportunity would ever present itself.
"No—no one in their right minds would be alright after what you've just been through. Bloody, everything is just…fucked, alright? Fucked, is what it is. And, without a doubt, nothing that I say here is gonna change that. I just…" he took a deep breath. "I wish you wouldn't do this. I understand. This. I mean, I do. I know what this is. And I know no one can tell you when to pick yourself up and move on, but I just wish you wouldn't do it alone."
He let her stare at him for a moment. Catch up with what he had said. He watched as she processed it.
"That's very kind of you," she began. "But I promise, I'll be alright. When we arrive back in Redcliffe, I'll be ready."
He stepped towards her. "No—bloody—sod Redcliffe!"
She snapped her eyes up to his, as if to alert him to what he had just said. But Alistair didn't take the time to be surprised at himself.
"Alright? And stop fronting—you don't need to do that," he continued. "Not for me."
"I just wanted to assure you that—"
"Is that why you think I came down here? For you to reassure me?"
She faced him completely now, eyebrows narrowed.
"I'm not glass, Alistair. I'm not going to break on you."
"And if you did, it wouldn't matter."
That stuck. She softened.
He started again. "I didn't come here to talk about Redcliffe. I came here because I am currently operating under the suspicion that we…are…friends. And, I…care. Very much. About you, and knowing that you're…alright." He cleared his throat, perhaps awkwardly. "And I couldn't stand the silence."
"You were there for me," he reminded her, "back there. In the Fade. I would have been lost. All of us would've been lost if it weren't for you. I don't know how you did what you did, but I'm fairly certain that I owe you my life. Going on…three times over now, if my math's right. Maybe it's more than that, I don't know. But it's not because I owe you! Or anything like that, I just—" he rushed to clarify, stumbling over himself. "I'm here because I want to be. And because I think that, maybe, neither of us have it all together right now. And I just thought that if we're going to be, for the time being, a couple of broken people, that we might as well bloody do it together."
Her mouth sort of hung open, and like before, she just stood there staring at him, causing Alistair to immediately reevaluate if his impromptu speech had been nothing but a bunch of incoherent grunting noises. But soon after, she seemed to collect herself.
"Um," she said, her voice sounding shaken. Alistair thought it might have just been his imagination. "Would you…sit with me?" She gestured to the sandy shore beneath them.
Alistair looked at her, clad in only a shift and shaking, and him now starting to feel the bite, his back teeth chattering as he spoke.
"Aren't you…aren't you freezing?" he managed.
"I…yes, a little. Yeah."
"Let's go back to my tent," he suggested, and immediately wished he had his sword to impale himself on. She had turned stiff as a board. "Fuck. No, I didn't—I didn't mean, just—Andraste's bloody knickers, I only meant—"
And then he saw she had managed the slightest of smiles. He stopped.
"Alistair, I know. It's alright."
His fingertips ghosted against the familiar dip of her back as he led her back up the hill, to camp. All at once he was greeted with a pleasant feeling that he could only describe as serene, which also felt strangely like happiness. With each step, she began to huddle closer to him to share their heat—so close that he could soon smell the woodsy scent of her hair—grass and pine—accompanied by the spray of lake water. Shyly, she spared a glance up at him and found him staring back down, and for once he did not panic and look away.
Irving lifted his head at the sight of them appearing up the rise. Alistair desperately avoided the old man's eyes as he guided the woman in front of him to duck into the flaps of his tent. He hastily followed in after her, cheeks scorching, finding it fortunate indeed that the Enchanter had not roasted him alive with a thought.
With shaking hands, Alistair gathered up three of his blankets from his bedroll, folded them each in half, and draped them across her shoulders. He saved the last for himself.
"Do you really have a sister?" was the first thing she asked as they settled themselves, sitting cross-legged on the soft ground.
Alistair frowned. "I dunno. Maybe. Teagan believes I do. Half-sister, on my mother's side. Says she lives in Denerim with her children."
"Do you think she's anything like she was in your dream?"
He shook his head and laughed. "I sure bloody hope not. I don't know how I'd feel about a demon for a sister."
She smiled again, gently. "I don't mean that. I mean…everything else."
"Beautiful and warm and kind with mince pies baking in the oven at all hours? Doubtful."
"But that's what you hope she'd be like." It wasn't really a question. His dreams had already betrayed him in that respect.
"I think that's what everyone hopes their family would be like. The reality is never so ideal, is it?" He asked, rhetorically. She shrugged limply.
"I wouldn't know," she told him.
It was then that his stupidity truly began to set in. He bumbled out his response.
"Do you…not…do you not know your family?"
"I was taken to the Circle when I was a baby. They could be anywhere. They could be dead. Or want nothing to do with me."
He immediately recounted all his whining and moaning—about Duncan, and Eamon, and Isolde and Teagan. She had listened to all of it. Not once had he asked after her. Very suddenly he wanted to bury himself alive.
"Sometimes I think I remember my mother," she admitted, quietly. Suddenly, to him, she seemed very small. "There are…flashes. I don't know how reliable they are, though."
Alistair worried his lip, pondering whether or not to speak. Despite his better judgment, he did.
"You have flashes and I have a locket I pissed away when I was too young to care. All I know is I'd do anything just to know what she looked like. I understand how that feels."
She gave him a sympathetic look. "What about your father?"
He grimaced, looking down at his hands. His fist clenched, and unclenched. "A passing soldier. A raper. Some married prick noble. I don't know, I don't care. I'm a bastard. Who he was makes no difference."
After a deep breath, he looked up at her again. It wasn't supposed to be about him, anyway. And he very suddenly desired to spend no more time speaking of his parents. "Did you never ask about them? To Irving?" he managed.
"Mages aren't allowed to inquire about such things," she said, looking down and running her fingers across her knuckles.
"What about now?" he asked. "You're not in the Circle anymore. Do they keep records? Would anyone…know?"
She bit her lip. "I don't know."
"I'm sorry," he said, after an unbearable pause, unable to come up with anything else.
"Don't be," she shifted her blankets a bit. "You may have had your freedom, but neither of us knew our parents. You know what that's like. What it is to not know your place in the world."
He thinks he nodded.
"And now you have a chance to find that out for yourself!" She reached for his hands—folded on his lap—and placed one of hers atop them. She searched for a way to look directly in his eyes. "I think that's wonderful, you have to go and meet her!"
For a moment, he tried to picture it. Showing up at a door to a long-abandoned house. Or, the door opens, and promptly slams in his face. Or worse than that, he's invited in, invited to sit down and offered tea, and there are children that look vaguely like him crawling all over him and tugging at his arm, and Goldanna is sat across from him with eyes that are kind but ultimately disconnected—scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel for polite chatter and personal inquiries with no genuine care for what the answers may be. They would stand, and share in an uncomfortable embrace. Or maybe they wouldn't even do that. He would leave feeling hollow. Empty. Feeling nothing one way or the other.
No. He couldn't. How old would she be now? Twenty-five? Thirty? She had children. A family. A life that had nothing to do with him.
"I don't know," was what he said instead, even though he knew his answer.
"What? Why not?"
"The whole thing will be bloody awkward. We don't know anything about each other. She doesn't even know I exist. What—am I going to knock on her door and say, 'Hi, I'm your brother!' ? No. What do you even say to something like that?" He ran a hand absently through his hair.
"I don't know. No one does. But every relationship has to start somewhere, right? What's the worst that could happen?"
Before Alistair could give his numerous answers, from outside the tent came a muffled, "Solena? Child?" that could only have been Irving. "I've made your tea."
She opened the tent flap and grasped the stone cup in two hands, mumbling a quick thank you, followed by an equally hurried, "good night". For the brief moment that his face was in view, Alistair could see Irving craning his neck to assess the inside of the tent, and confirming for himself that Alistair was still in possession of all of his clothes.
But then the flap closed and they were alone again. Solena blew on her tea, then looked at him.
"Don't throw away this opportunity, Alistair. Please," she said, her plea earnest.
They sat in silence as she drank.
"Does it really help?" he asked offhandedly.
She peered up over the cup. "The tea?" she asked, lifting her mouth from the rim. "Yes. Why?"
"With…with all of it? Even the nightmares from the Taint?"
"I don't dream," she responded simply.
"I may have to try it then. What's in that?" he gestured.
She began to explain that on the road, the easiest thing to make tea from was spindleweed leaves. Many other types of herbal teas would not work—and spindleweed was easily attainable. At the tower, however, she had used tea tree leaves.
It was then, with great struggle, that she mentioned him by name. He would bring it to her at night sometimes, she said, when she was up late studying in the library and grew hungry. Along with raspberry scones, and apple bread, and small peppermint candies. She did not say it with fondness—a tone that implied that she now wished she had never accepted the gifts in the first place—and after that, she spoke no more of the monster.
Instead, Alistair asked—cautiously—for her to tell him about Niall. She took a shaky sip of her tea, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and continued with hesitant eagerness. She told him about Jowan, and another mage named Anders, and their generous inclusion of her into their tight-knit brotherhood. Niall had tutored her and engaged with her in lengthy late-night debates on magical ethics and Circle politics. Jowan had befriended her—attached to her hip, in fact. He walked with her to every class. And Anders had given her her first sip of mead. Once, she recounted, he had offered her a puff of elfroot, which she had declined. This caused Alistair's eyes to bug out of his skull.
"Mages smoke elfroot?" he asked, incredulous.
She nodded and failed to contain her laughter.
"Why? What does it do?"
"It's like a…a—um, relaxant? I guess?"
"You're joking."
"No! No, I'm not—Maker knows we're all so high-strung in the Tower, we could use it."
"And you never…?"
"No, no I didn't."
"You sound like you regret that."
"I…maybe, I don't know. Maybe I should've taken it. He was always saying I was so wound-up and uptight…"
"First of all, not true. But second, do you think we should try it?"
"Like now?"
"Yeah!"
"No—" she burst out laughing. "Maker, we have to be on the road again tomorrow!"
"Alright, fine," he conceded. "But when this is all over, you and I have some unfinished business to take care of, just remember that."
Her fit of giggles petered out, and she began to move and adjust her position in the tent to one that was significantly closer to him, which set him a bit on edge. But it wasn't until he realized that she was attempting to lie down on his bedroll that he well and truly froze—face plastered in a half-smile that he was sure gave way to a great deal of nervousness and uncertainty.
She placed her blankets down where his head usually rest and propped herself up with one elbow, sighing and seeming to relax. He had just begun to relax as well, when she asked:
"So, you were in the cloister until you were, what, ten? Twelve?"
"Give or take."
"And then you were in the Wardens."
"My life story."
She looked up at him with wide, mischievous eyes through heavy lashes. It set off a thousand warning bells.
"So…then, have you never…?"
He just barely prevented himself from choking.
"Never? Never what? Never…"
"Sex," she offered easily.
He regretted inviting her here instantly. Irving really was going to murder him. Alistair closed his eyes and, preemptively, began picturing anything but what she looked like laying on his blankets, in his tent, staring up at him like that, asking him about…that.
"I…I mean I've…I've certainly thought about it. I'm not…you know." He had been doing quite a lot of thinking of late.
"Oh. I see. You lack the proper parts, then."
He glared down at her. "You've been spending far too much time with Morrigan."
She began giggling again, so much so that she rolled flat onto her back with her hands pressed on her ribcage, and it was rather hard to be mad at her after that.
"No. No, I haven't, is the short answer. Laugh all you like."
"No! Alistair," her giggling withdrew and she reached out to touch his arm in what he could only assume was an effort to show her sincerity. "Alistair, really, I'm not laughing at you. I mean that. I think it's sweet."
"Oh, good," he deadpanned.
"Don't be like that. There's nothing wrong with being a virgin."
"What about you?" he encouraged the diversion away from himself.
"Oh. Yeah." She spoke after a brief pause. "Um, I've only…once, I mean. And it was…Maker, a mistake. But, nonetheless…"
Images of the templar with his hands and breath all over her bare skin flashed in his mind, and he began to rub his forehead, willing them to leave him. "Actually, I'm really sorry, maybe I…maybe I shouldn't have asked that."
"…Oh! Oh, no, I—" she said, seemingly surprised. "No, it wasn't…it was, uh, Jowan, actually."
He looked up at her and realized his mouth had slacked open.
"Oh, please no."
"Look, I told you: a mistake. I was seventeen, neither of us had…you know, and we both just wanted to get it out of the way. It was…awkward, and terrible, and we never really spoke about it again, and if I had to do it over, I'd never have said yes. But…there it is."
"Well, now I don't feel so bad, then," he quipped. She smacked his arm.
"You wretch. It was—"
"A mistake, yes, so you've said." He offered a half-smile. "So, there was no…feeling behind it then? Please don't tell me you're secretly pining after that man."
"No." She glared.
He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright!"
"His palms were all sweaty, and he kept doing this awful thing with my breasts—like he was kneading dough—and it took him a while even to get it up…"
"Oh, Maker, stop, stop!"
"…and the actual penetration was just really too dry when it came down to it, and he was really kind of shit at the whole thing. He was making these strange movements, kind of like a fish out of water, and ultimately out of sheer pity and a need for it to be over I had to fake my—"
"You've made your point. Please, stop, it's so awful," he groveled, palms covering his face.
She snickered. They both wore smiles then that faded gradually with each passing moment—not looking at each other but instead at random, nondescript corners of the tent. Solena cleared her throat. Another few moments passed before she reached behind her for her cup, and began to sit up.
"I should…um, I should get going."
"Can you tell me something, first—please, it won't take long," he found himself asking. She had already raised herself up to her knees and had almost reached for the flaps, but turned and paused to hear him out. He stared at her directly in the eyes. "What do you plan on doing, once we get to Redcliffe? What's going to happen, exactly?"
She sighed. "Well, Irving and the other mages will use the lyrium to…send me into the Fade. I'll find the demon possessing Connor, and…force it to leave. Or kill it."
"Solena, you can't go back in there," he said at once.
She looked at him—her face somewhere between confused and affronted. "We came all this way to save that boy. Now you're telling me you don't want this?"
"No, I…" he twisted his face, thinking. He didn't know quite what he was saying, himself. But he knew what his gut told him. "I appreciate all you've done. I mean, you can't possibly know…all of this, it's…frankly, it's so far beyond what I expected was going to be possible, once I found out about Connor's…predicament. You're one of the most selfless, brave, determined people I've ever met. But what you've just been through…Solena, you can't. It could kill you. And I'm not sure…I'm not sure this is worth that."
She shook her head. "He's a child. We have to do something, and it can only be me."
"Why? Why can it only be you? Why can't one of the other mages do it?"
"Alistair, just…trust me, alright?" her voice almost sounded angry. He didn't like that. "I'm Connor's best chance of coming out of this alive. I'll be fine."
It was clear that she was choosing to end the conversation there. Before she left, she turned back to him again.
"Thank you. This was…thank you." She looked at him one last time, and he nodded in turn with his best attempt at a smile.
The flaps closed, and he was back to being alone again with his thoughts. Sleep eventually found him, and at first he was not so restless as before. But still, in the Fade, he dreamt of her. Of watching her go where this time he could not follow. Of watching her die in front of him. For him. Because of him. Duncan and the Wardens, Lothering, and then Redcliffe, the boy on the cart and Connor too, Teagan, and Isolde, and Eamon, and finally, her.
When he woke again it was with a tortured shout in a pool of his own sweat, chest heaving and breathless, and with his head in his hand pinching his eyes shut, he sobbed.
He helped the last of the enchanters up onto their horses, made sure they were saddled correctly, and told the lot of them to move out.
It was a later start than he had wanted. Solena had slept longer than the rest, and none dared wake her. None except Bodahn's boy. Not that he could help it, Alistair suspected. He had had a breakdown of sorts that morning. Alistair could still hear the screams. Panicked—terrified—and loud. Certainly among the most awful sounds he'd ever heard, one right after the other, each the same length and pitch as the one before it. Birds flew in flocks out of the trees around them. The entire camp had stopped in their tracks to turn and look. Solena had groggily emerged from her tent. They all watched from a distance as a nervous Bodahn tried desperately to talk him down. Eventually, it worked. Irving then seemed to engage the two in lengthy conversation, while Sandal was still breathing heavy and looking rather petrified.
The event had left the camp spooked, to say the least, but they did their best to carry onward.
Not long after midday, they found themselves at last entering the Hinterlands. That seemed to set everyone at ease a bit. Alistair found himself towards the back of the party, falling in line with Sten. The hard giant remained stoic as ever, front-facing and unfazed by seemingly anything around him.
"How are you holding up, big man?" Alistair asked him. He was already well enough aware that shooting the breeze with the Qunari was a fruitless and often painful effort. But still, it made Alistair feel better to check in on him every now and then.
"Your eyes fail you, human. I am holding nothing," he said, and Alistair immediately hung his head.
"No, I meant are you alright? Are you sleeping well, are you eating well, how are you feeling?"
Sten narrowed his eyes. "Feeling?"
"Yeah, I thought as much. Alright. Good talk, Sten." Alistair sped up his walking pace immediately. Not only to be done with the most horrid exchange of his life, but also to catch up with Irving's horse, which was now so situated in their lineup as to be out of earshot from Solena. Bodahn and Sandal rode on their black, long-haired pony adjacent to him, which hauled their wagon along behind it.
"Good afternoon, Master Alistair!" the merchant greeted cheerily from the other side of the Enchanter.
"Bodahn," Alistair nodded his acknowledgement. "How's your boy faring?" He glanced at Sandal, who seemed to be sucking idly on his thumb.
"Oh, much better, thank you. I swear to you, I don't know what had him so spooked! He's never done that before!"
"Not to worry. We're just glad he's alright," Alistair assured the dwarf.
"Perhaps he overheard what happened in the Tower! Dreadful thing, that. My condolences, all." He nodded in Irving's direction.
"I was just telling Master Feddic how remarkable his son truly is," Irving spoke. "Never in history has the Circle recorded another instance of a dwarf being able to manipulate magical artefacts successfully. And I reiterate once more how delighted the Circle would be to house Sandal for a few months, and explore his talent further. Once we have fully rebuilt, of course."
"We thank you once again for your kind offer First Enchanter, but I've brought up the matter to him several times already, each to the same response. Sandal's made up his mind, I fear."
Alistair noted the drool that now ran down the corner of the boy's mouth.
"Very well." Irving smiled. "Do not hesitate to contact me should he ever reconsider."
Bodahn smiled kindly in turn and soon began chatting away with another Enchanter in front of them who sounded as though he had been saving up a rather long list of questions to ask about the young dwarf prodigy. Alistair moved closer to Irving's horse and lowered his voice slightly.
"Has Solena told you of what she intends to do?" he asked Irving.
"Yes," sighed the First Enchanter. "She asked for none of my input."
"We cannot allow her to re-enter the Fade. Not after what happened in the Tower," Alistair insisted.
Irving seemed to look around for Solena as well, as if she might pop out from anywhere just to yell at them both for conspiring.
"On that, we agree," Irving said, speaking lower. "I would volunteer myself, but I would personally feel better overseeing the ritual. I still believe that is where I will be most useful to the assurance of Connor's safety, as well as that of whosoever ultimately enters the Fade attempting to save him."
Alistair bit his lip in thought. At the head of their company came a flash of raven-black hair. He shut his eyes and sighed.
"I suppose now would be a good time to ask you if you believe this will even work at all," he said.
"In confidence, because I trust you, I will tell you that this is not something ever attempted at the Circle. When a mage becomes possessed—when he becomes an abomination—he is executed promptly. Such a risk in security…well. You witnessed what happened at the Tower. And what has befell Redcliffe already. Had I told Greagoir the whole truth of this excursion, he and a small army would be storming the castle as we speak, slaughtering the boy and the whole noble family, most like. The mother for harboring him, and the uncle and father for risk of demonic influence. That would be the end of it."
Alistair winced, and resisted forming his hands into fists. "But?"
"But I agreed to this…unusual request for the love I bear that girl. And with the sympathy I carry for the child—young, with an extraordinary gift and none to guide him. Eamon has been a friend to the Circle, his young wife's errors in judgment notwithstanding. It could work, yes. I hope sincerely that it does. But I guarantee nothing. And, if I may make a gentle suggestion: you may wish to prepare yourself now for the worst."
At that, Alistair's walking pace began to slow and Irving went on ahead of him. Apparently he must have looked stricken enough, as Leliana sidled up next to him to ask if he was feeling alright. He waved her off dismissively, and began to take the old man's suggestion to heart.
One heavy foot in front of the other, he forced himself all the way there. Soon enough, he was standing above the blue flame of her campfire wearing a look on his face that must have been a painful sight—jaw clenched tight and eyes sharp as knives.
The witch did not acknowledge him, though she doubtless knew he stood there waiting. She was too busy intently searching the pages of her blasted book, probably looking for a spell that would incinerate him to a pile of ash on the ground. She lay with her knees out to one side, atop blankets which were littered with pages upon pages of notes and strange-looking drawings. Her tent had, he noticed, been set up strategically so that no one at the main camp could look over and observe her activities. Namely, Irving. Every bit of it unnerved him. The secrecy, the bizarre symbols and markings, and the feverish intensity with which all of it consumed her.
"Can you look up from there for one bloody moment so I can talk to you?"
Even though she was turned away from him, he saw her freeze, and then slowly snap the cover shut. She turned her head, expectantly.
"Yes?"
He breathed deep and steeled himself.
"I need you to enter the Fade in Solena's stead, when we arrive tomorrow."
She scoffed, which was more or less what he had expected. "And why would you even begin to presume that I would agree to do that?"
"Because you owe her for that book you hold in your hand that you keep fawning over. And you know as well as I and everyone that if she goes back in there, she could die."
"As could I! And as for your first brilliant conclusion, it is you that has come to ask me this, not her. If this were something she wished of me in exchange for allowing me to take the book—which, by the by, I just as soon could have taken by force without her permission—then perhaps my answer would change. Perhaps not. Regardless, your incessant need to coddle her like some delicate flower in the hopes that she may one day take you to bed is nauseating, and your blatant lack of regard for whether I live or die or run off to live with the hill tribe cannibals has been, as always, well-noted. Now, if you would please leave—you are blocking what little light the setting sun still affords me."
Soon, he heard the sound and felt the dull pain of his back teeth grinding against each other. He swallowed stiffly and loosened his jaw, though the witch's mere proximity set every part of his body aflame, screaming at him not to let his guard down, lest she decide to unhinge her jaw and eat him alive in one bite.
"You're selfish. You're a selfish person," he told her.
"You're a child."
"Oh, you're not even human!" he shouted. "A little boy could die tomorrow, and you don't care! A woman who has been nothing but kind to you—defended you when all I ever wanted to do was send you back home to your stinking swamp and evil hag of a mother—is probably going to die trying to save him, and not only will you do nothing to try and prevent it, it doesn't faze you in the slightest! You just sit out here, every night, half a mile away from everyone else doing Maker knows what, reading out of a book that I'm willing to bet contains more blood magic than I'm comfortable with. Well, I've got news for you: you and that mother of yours? You're one in the fucking same, as far as I'm concerned. I don't see a shred of difference."
In front of him, she transformed into a wolf. Pale limbs became dark grey fur, though the same yellow eyes remained. It shook him for a moment, and would have probably scarred him for life had he not witnessed her do it earlier, once or twice, sneaking away from camp in the dead of night to hunt or…do whatever she did. The wolf snarled and barked. He backed away an appropriate distance, but not so much that it looked as if he were running away. He glared back.
Eventually, it seemed she grew tired of the game. She turned tail and ran into the woods behind her, shrouded by cover of darkness.
"Leave, then!" he cried out after her. "I hear the Void is lovely this time of year! Tell your mother I said hello!" He picked up the discarded pages on the ground and waved them above his head. "You forgot your black magic!"
When he was certain there was no way she could still be listening, and he no longer cared enough to waste the breath, he discarded the papers back on the ground. Rough palms rubbed at his scalp and face as he paced absently in a circle, his footing lazy, and tired, and thoughtless.
"Fuck," he swore, long and sharp. This time, to no one.
A/N:
I am rachelamberish on tumblr.
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