A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

Warning for terrible melodrama.


Recap - Alistair - chapter 26

[Denerim palace]

Grand Cleric: Our defeat at Redcliffe was incredibly embarrassing to the Chantry, and I lost my favourite templar. I'm going to make your life unbearable until you fix this.

Alistair: How was any of it my fault?

Grand Cleric: Everything is your fault.

Alistair: Was the rumoured immolation of a Chantry sister my fault?

Grand Cleric: You have nothing on me, Theirin.

Alistair: I hate my life.

[One fortnight later]

Templar: The wardens betrayed us, but they're all dead now.

Alistair: Where have I heard this before?

Chancellor: We should reach a compromise with the Chantry.

Alistair: I'm going to come up with a brilliant last-minute solution that fixes all of our problems.

Chancellor: I would feel better if you shared this amazing idea with me.

Alistair: I'll get right back to you on that.

[Palace nursery]

Baby Theirin: *yawns*

Alistair: Who's my only hope for the future? Is it you? I think it is!

Baby Theirin: *wishes dad wasn't so embarrassing*

Ominous Shadow: *lurks*

Alistair: My warden-sense is tingling...

Baby Theirin: Spiders?

Alistair: No, sweetie. Daddy's not nerdy enough for spandex.

Baby Theirin: Yet.

Alistair: Shush.


Brothers in Arms

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Denerim

"You're supposed to be dead."

The man lurking in front of Alistair inclined his head slightly. He took a cautious step forwards, light falling over his features, and Alistair retreated, mirroring his pace. His daughter wriggled uncomfortably against his arm, chubby fingers trying to pinch at his tunic.

The intruder was the only other warden in the room, as far as Alistair could tell, but that was no guarantee that they were alone. He glanced into the corners where the shadows were deepest, forcing his breathing to remain deep and even. "The templars said you were dead," Alistair repeated. "You know, if you wanted to schedule a meeting, my chancellor would've been more than happy to make you an appointment-"

"Too risky." Guillaume Falaize of the Orlesian Order shook his head, holding up empty palms in an appeal for peace. "Brother, I can only imagine the rumours you must have heard, but believe me when I say that the wardens are not to blame. May we speak in private?"

A rustle sounded behind Alistair and he shifted slightly to expand his field of view without taking his eyes off Guillaume. To his side, the nursemaid cleared her throat and timidly stepped forwards, blinking sleep from her eyes. He disentangled his daughter and handed her over, the girl screwing up her face in disappointment. "Take her to her mother's room," he ordered. "And bring some guards with you."

His daughter began to gulp, eyes wide and glossy, and Alistair braced himself for the inevitable tantrum. The nursemaid hustled her out with one last disparaging look towards Guillaume, and once the door closed shut, the first indignant wail pierced the air.

He ignored it. Not for the first time, Alistair wished that he had a sword belted at his hip. "Why are you here?"

Guillaume's gaze darted to the door. He was fully armed, clad in some sort of dark leather that melded with the shadows until they were almost as one, twin daggers sheathed at his back. "Your Majesty, this room is not secure-"

"Answer the question."

Guillaume sighed. "Your life is in danger, Sire. You cannot stay here."

Alistair quirked a brow. "Right. So, instead of remaining with my personal armed guard, in my heavily defended palace, you propose instead that I-"

"Brother-"

"Wait, let me guess." Alistair held up a hand imperiously. "You suggest that I run away with you in the dead of the night - the King of Ferelden absconding with an Orlesian who just so happens to be the head of an Order wanted for betrayal? That won't look suspicious at all."

Guillaume glared at him. "I have information for you," he said tersely. "Something that none of your templars were able to attain. Your guards cannot protect you from the false god."

He could call for aid, if he chose to. He imagined the guards running to his side, swords at the ready, surrounding the Orlesian in a circle of glittering steel. They would take him to Fort Drakon, most likely - the grand cleric wanted a reason for why the Maker's grace abandoned their forces on the field, and what better scapegoat than the grey wardens?

"They say all the wardens perished, after turning on their own." Outside, the sounds of wailing died away, and Alistair's shoulders slumped imperceptibly in relief.

"Most of our brothers and sisters did not survive." Guillaume folded his arms across his chest, his face grim, as though recalling the sounds and sights of the battle. "The mage Anders is alive. I cannot confirm whether there are others."

"That's one mercy." Experienced wardens like Anders were rare, and healers even rarer. "What about the accusations of treachery?"

Guillaume glanced away for a moment, though whether the gesture was betraying guilt or regret, it was impossible to say. "That is why you must leave the palace. The false god has some kind of hold over grey wardens, something to do with her connection to the darkspawn, Anders believes. We know of a way to disrupt her power-"

"Hang on a minute." Alistair's face twisted into a scowl. "Am I in danger from the people around me, or is the country endangered because you think that I'm going to be subject to some kind of... mind control thing? Look, I've put faith in weird scenarios before, but you have to admit that this one sounds insane-"

"Neither threat can be ignored," Guillaume snapped. His eyes darted to the doorway, his hands clenching briefly into fists. "Anders and I have a plan. I am begging you, Brother, as one warden to another, to trust me. We were on the field. We heard her Call." His voice became low, the light shining dully over the week-old stubble on his face. "There is one thing she wants more in this world, and that is-"

"A fully-jointed golem doll for Satinalia?" Alistair suggested, before he could help himself. "A mother who isn't a crazy bitch?"

Guillaume sighed. "She will stop at nothing to get at you. Armed guards, fortifications - these mean nothing to her. I know you are due to meet with the grand cleric," he added, changing tack. "In all honesty, Sire, what were your intentions? Simply throwing battalions at the problem will not suffice, and yet, I suspect that was precisely the Chantry's directive, was it not?"

Alistair frowned. There were several options available for dealing with the Chantry and the divine, but none of them were particularly appealing. He had intended to sleep on the issue, in the hope that the Maker would give him a 'sign', as Leliana would have said. Admittedly, it wasn't one of his most brilliant plans.

"Bring Anders to the palace," Alistair suggested. "I'll send you an armed escort to make sure the both of you arrive safely, without interference from the Chantry. We can discuss this scheme you have for suppressing the Old God, and then-"

The door to the nursery slammed open, light spilling into the dim room.

"Your Majesty!"

The king's guards stood at attention in the doorway, their swords drawn. Alistair blinked in the harsh light, his eyes protesting against the sudden brightness.

"We've been informed of a breach in palace security - there he is! In the name of the king, you are hereby under arrest, Guillaume of the Grey Wardens-"

Alistair held his hands out placatingly. "Let's not do anything rash-"

He heard the tinkle of breaking glass, and then a greenish cloud emerged around his guards, the fumes making his throat tighten and his eyes water. He gagged, coughing heavily, momentarily blinded by the noxious gas. In the confusion, he felt something brush against his hip, and then move past him as the cloud began to disperse.

His guards reached him, their eyes reddened and streaming. "Sire - are you hurt?"

Alistair glanced down at himself, still coughing. There was a scrap of parchment sticking out from his belt that had not been there a moment ago. He surreptitiously tucked it away, disguising the gesture as an attempt to straighten his tunic. "I'm fine. The Orlesian - where did he-?"

"We'll find him," the guard said grimly, and then shouted orders to his men. The others dispersed, leaving five alone with Alistair. The little nursery began to feel oppressively crowded.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He was probably about to do something he would regret immensely - but wasn't that what ruling was all about?

"I'm coming with you," he said. At his guard's dubious look, he added, "the search will be faster if I'm there - grey wardens can sense each other, after all." That was a well-known fact, wasn't it? Not that many warden secrets were terribly secret any more... "Escort me to my rooms first so that I can be properly armoured."

"Yes, Sire." Alistair could sense the man's disapproval, but to his credit, the guard was too well-trained to voice it. "Doyle, Williams, with me," the guard barked, and two more joined their retinue, making their party eight altogether.

"The more, the merrier," Alistair muttered under his breath. He set a pace towards his chambers that men in full plate would have been hard-pressed to follow, the scrap of parchment clenched tightly in his fist.

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In hindsight, perhaps Guillaume should have dragged the mage along.

His only hope now rested with the bond they all shared through the taint, and the king's own desire for adventure. With luck, it would lead Alistair to the meeting place he had arranged with Anders, scribbled on the parchment that he had left tucked in Alistair's belt.

It was a slim chance, to be sure, but any hope was better than no hope at all.

Guillaume rounded a corner, quieting his breathing. He pressed himself flush against the wall, the sound of voices reaching his ears, followed by low murmurs and a barely suppressed giggle. Wonderful. A lovers' tryst. If only they would hurry up and move on-

"Pregnancy suits you," a man's voice murmured. This declaration was followed by another chuckle, and what could only be termed a moan. Guillaume inched closer to the light, wondering if he could risk a short sprint whilst the couple were otherwise occupied.

From his position, he could see the man's back, his bald skull gleaming in the candlelight. The pair shifted, pausing for breath, and the woman took a step away, elegant fingers raised to her rouged lips.

Guillaume caught full sight of her face. A stab of pain lanced through his heart, his breath catching in his throat.

"Liselle!"

The man pivoted, his face reddening at the intrusion, but Guillaume only had eyes for one. He drank in the sight of the crow's feet at her eyes, the finery draped on her shoulders, the prominent swell of her belly. Her mouth widened into a little 'o' of surprise, and he strode forwards, not caring who saw him.

Her hands fluttered protectively over stomach. "Is it truly you?" she whispered, her Orlesian coloured with an ugly Fereldan twang.

"You're him," the man spluttered, a trembling finger pointing at Guillaume. "You're the warden they've been talking about."

Guillaume wasted a brief glance on his face. He was old, far too old to be cavorting with mistresses at this time of night. The man was well-dressed, a finely engraved scabbard slung at his hip - from his gaunt frame, Guillaume guessed that the blade was merely ceremonial. "Liselle, what are you doing? Who is this man?"

"Guards!" The bald man began to frantically search for an escape, his hands cupped around his mouth as he yelled. "Guards! The intruder is here!"

Guillaume clenched his hand into a fist and swung it towards the man's head. It connected at the back of his skull with a solid noise, and the man toppled over, unconscious. Staring down at his face, Guillaume finally remembered where he had seen that nose before - during the Landsmeet, when he had first arrived in Denerim.

This man was one of Ferelden's elite.

"Brother - what did you do to him?"

Guillaume grabbed his sister by the elbow and steered her into a nearby alcove, praying that the guards would be slow to respond. "He'll live," he said. "What are doing here, Liselle?" He gestured sharply at her obvious girth. "I thought you left Orlais to escape all of this-"

"I thought you were dead." Her eyes began to fill with tears; he choked down his guilt, focusing instead on his anger as she touched his face. Her hands were soft where they had once been tanned and calloused from honest work, and he grasped her wrist, removing her palm from his cheek.

Liselle only stared at him in confusion. "It's been ten years. When the chevaliers took you away, I heard they were going to execute you-"

"That doesn't matter." Guillaume cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth. "What are you doing with this - this whoreson?" He gestured savagely towards the slumped body which was now beginning to stir.

Liselle raised her chin defiantly, eyes filled with a stubborn fire that he knew all too well. "Our child will be treasured - fed, clothed, educated - what we never had!" She reached towards him. "Don't you see? This is better-"

"Being an adulterer is better? Better than what?" He drew back from her grasping hand as though she were a darkspawn. "You should've let the chevaliers take you, Liselle. You're no better than a common whore!"

Her palm met his cheek, metal rings leaving marks on his face. She was breathing quickly, flushed with what he could only hope was shame.

"Bann Ceorlic!"

Sounds of armoured footsteps drew near, the alcove brightening as lit torches were brought into the room. "He's alive, thank the Maker."

Guillaume took one last look at his sister. She failed to meet his gaze, her eyes downcast; wondering, no doubt, when she should betray his location to the guards. His chest tightened, his vision dimming for a moment, and then the moment passed.

When she next looked up, he was gone.

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They had been searching for hours, with the entire palace sealed up, before Alistair finally voiced what they had all been thinking.

"He's already gone," he told his guards, the seven who had insisted on accompanying him. "Let's take our search to the city."

One of them cleared his throat discreetly. "Sire, we cannot possibly allow you to comb the whole of Denerim-"

"I know him," Alistair insisted. "There are a few places I want to check. Have the horses saddled and ready in ten minutes. Oh, and ask the kitchen to prepare something for the road."

The message was passed along, and they headed towards the stables at a leisurely pace.

The night air was pleasantly cool, a bulbous moon making their task all the easier. Alistair closed his eyes briefly before raising them skywards. "Andraste, grant me strength," he murmured under his breath.

"Sire?"

"Is that the food?" he asked quickly, as a groom shoved a parcel into one of his saddlebags. "Great. Let's head towards the city gates."

They set a brisk pace, with Alistair's stallion trapped in the centre of the formation, lantern bearers riding to the front and rear. He pondered the logistics of the operation. He had never attempted evading his own escort before, much as he had longed to - the nobility and the nation had seen to that. It was strange how an Orlesian had finally convinced him it was time to break the rules - or perhaps not so strange, considering some of Maric's legendary adventures. There was a droll joke somewhere in that, but for the life of him, he could not work it out.

"Let's dismount and continue on foot," he ordered, when they neared the gates. "Williams, watch over the horses."

One of the other guards coughed. "Sire, perhaps it would be best-"

Some drunken passersby had begun to stare, startled to find themselves face to face with a bann's ransom in fine horses. Williams drew his sword, and the onlookers moved away.

"Come on," Alistair said, forcing cheer into his voice. "We'll catch the man and then head back before anyone misses us, right?"

One of the guards sighed. Before anyone could object, Alistair began to sprint, navigating the streets of Denerim with only his rusty memory to guide him. How long since he had last visited his city, where he had lived and governed for over ten years?

Too long, clearly, as he reached a dead end. His guards caught up to him, sans Williams, the men looking around the alleyway in confusion.

"Sire, perhaps we should return to the horses-"

"Forgive me," Alistair murmured. He reached into a pouch, finding a vial, and tossed it into the midst of his guards, one hand held firmly over his nose and mouth. A cloud of vapour rose up when the vial shattered on the ground, and his guards began to cough, one of them staggering and collapsing with a metallic clatter.

Silently thanking Zevran for teaching him the basics, Alistair used the diversion to sneak past his entourage, heading back towards the horses.

Williams turned to him as he approached. "Sire! What happened to the others-"

One blow from Alistair's shield sent the man reeling, leaving him free to climb up ungracefully into the saddle of his horse. "Sorry," he offered, as Williams groaned and stared up at him with an expression of confused betrayal. Thetus had given him that kind of look whenever he had been less than forthcoming with the dinner scraps; a terrible analogy, really, and Alistair shook his head, the reins biting into his palm.

He clicked his tongue, heels digging into the horse's flanks, and they headed towards what he sincerely hoped would not prove to be another gross failure of judgement.

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"I told you I should have gone with you. I would've dragged him out first try, and we'd be halfway across the country by now-"

"Anders, shut up."

"Am I late?" Alistair asked, reining in his stallion. He had grown sick of dirt roads and interminable darkness on the route outside of Denerim, his doubts increasing with every step. Guillaume glanced moodily over his shoulder, but Anders broke into a grin, stepping forwards with his arms open.

"Not at all!" the mage said cheerfully. "Welcome to our den of iniquity!" he declared, gesturing to a meagre campsite where three horses were tethered.

"Trousers?" Alistair quirked a brow, looking Anders up and down.

"Apparently mage robes are too memorable," Anders said with a melodramatic sigh. "I don't know how you put up with it - what with the chafing and the-"

"I am glad you could join us, Your Majesty," Guillaume interrupted. His eyes scanned the darkness behind Alistair, as though a hundred guardsmen were about to leap out at them at any second. "You should lose your horse. He's too noticeable as royal property."

Alistair sighed, dismounting and taking his belongings from the horse's saddlebags. "Go on, you," he said affectionately, and gave him a pat on the neck. The horse snorted at him, and then wandered off in a trot, heading back along the path they had taken. With luck, he would reach the guards again before someone stole him, but knowing Denerim, that seemed a naive hope at best. Alistair quashed a flicker of guilt as he turned back towards the other wardens.

"So, this information you have about the Old God had better be good, or I'm placing you both under arrest."

"You can try," Anders chuckled, leading a horse towards Alistair.

"Let us talk on the road," Guillaume said. "We should head away from Denerim before someone finds you here."

"And we should do something about your hair," Anders offered. "You look too... kingly."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

Anders began to rattle off a list of everything wrong with Alistair's hair, his mother, and his royal personage in general. Alistair could not help himself; he began to laugh, his blood humming with the feeling of - closeness? Companionship?

Despite everything, Alistair found himself happier than he had been for a long, long time.

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A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.

Liselle is one of the Orlesian shopkeepers in the Denerim marketplace. She mentions fleeing Orlais with her brother, but in this 'verse the chevaliers (and later the wardens) got to him first and he never made it to Ferelden. Until now.