A/N: I wrote this chapter before playing DA2, but I find it really awkward thinking of Awakening-era Anders now. In any case, this fic is clearly not at all compliant with anything post DA:O/DA:A.
With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
Recap - Alistair, Anders, Guillaume, Avernus - chapter 34
[Soldier's Peak - flashback]
Sylvanna: I'll just drink whatever's in this suspicious-looking bottle-
Thetus: *breaks it*
Sylvanna: Aww! Now I'll never get the achievement!
Alistair: Foreshadowing much?
[End flashback]
Guillaume: Avernus. Can we trust him? Haven't you noticed how similar his codex entries are to someone else's? Someone whose name starts with 'A', who also performs unethical experiments?
Alistair: We'll kill him if he betrays us. Just chill, okay?
Guillaume: Fine. In the meantime, I'm locking up this cat.
Pounce: *plaintive meow*
[The Fade]
Morrigan: Ugh. You are the second-last person I wished to see.
Alistair: Oh no you don't! I'm the one who's mad at you!
Morrigan: Be silent, before our daughter finds us.
Alistair: Isn't there a rule about not leaving children unattended?
Morrigan: Indeed. One can never be sure what could happen. For instance, an Old God might abduct the sole heir to Ferelden...
Alistair: ?
[Soldier's Peak]
Avernus: There is a slight problem with your request.
Alistair: I don't have time! Just spit it out!
Avernus: Very well. I need grey warden blood, and therefore, one of you must die. Clear enough?
Complications
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Soldier's Peak
"This procedure requires one of your lives," Avernus said.
For a long, tense moment, none of them spoke. Alistair found himself, much to his horror, instantly calculating who was the most expendable member of their party, as well as the odds of the others agreeing with him.
When it seemed to grow intolerable, Anders broke the silence. "Not to avoid the subject, but where's Pounce?"
Avernus raised a brow. "A time like this, and all you can think about is your cat?"
"We need a moment to confer," Alistair said. "Could we meet back here, at say-"
"Nightfall." Avernus sniffed, folding his arms over his chest. "My preparations should be complete by then. Assuming that you are still willing to follow through with them."
"Right. Come on, you two." Alistair grabbed hold of Anders, who seemed intent on peering under every table and cabinet. "It's a big keep. I'm sure he's just in the kitchens, or someplace warm."
"He missed breakfast," Anders said, smoothing back his ponytail in a distracted fashion. "Pounce is like a warden. He never misses breakfast!"
"Can we stop talking about your cat?" Guillaume scowled.
They convened in one of the upper rooms of the fortress. Anders insisted on keeping the door ajar, just in case Pounce walked by, wanting to be fed. The mage kept glancing towards the corridor, as if he might stroll in at any moment.
Really, it was as though he had lost a child...
"Is Avernus being honest?" Alistair asked. "Does he really need that much blood?"
Anders flopped into a chair, his frown belying his casual posture. "It's possible," he conceded. "Blood magic is needy. Always asking for more, like a clingy lover, or a hungry cat, or-"
"We get the point." There had to be something else they could do. Maybe Guillaume and Anders could travel to Weisshaupt - surely the wardens there were distant enough to be uninfluenced by the corruption of the old god? In the meantime, Alistair could seek his daughter - without benefit of armies or allies, effectively walking blindly into the hands of Morrigan's child.
"I will volunteer," Guillaume said, interrupting everyone's thoughts. "I am the most senior warden here, after all."
Silence. It was the obvious solution, of course, but the thought of voicing it was distasteful. Alistair found himself relieved that Guillaume had reached the same conclusion.
"No one needs to die," Anders said. "Between Pounce and myself, I doubt Avernus will be capable of draining enough to kill."
Guillaume's jaw tightened. "You will forgive me if I do not want my eternal soul compromised by a demon-infested cat," he growled. "If you will excuse me, Sire, I wish to spend some time in the Chantry." He spun upon his heel and left, the door slamming shut in his wake.
"Is it true?" Alistair asked once the footsteps had faded away, his voice low. "Do you think you could save him?"
Anders rubbed his chin. "Probably," he conceded. "Definitely, if I found Ser Pounce-a-lot. Are you sure you haven't seen him?"
"Your cat is pretty distinctive, Anders. I think I would've noticed it - him." Of course, it might have helped had he not fallen asleep and dreamt of running after apostate witches in the Fade.
Anders sighed. "I'm sure he'll be here by nightfall," he said, not sounding at all convinced.
Alistair bit his lip. He hated saying this, but Anders, whilst a good mage and warden, lacked a certain pragmatism. "Don't over-exert yourself, during the ritual. If it comes to a choice between you or Guillaume - I think you know what to do."
Anders mulled the statement over, raising a brow. "You've changed," he accused.
Anger flared within him, bitter and hot. Of course he had. How could he not? Between Anora and Elissa, between Ferelden and the rest of Thedas - of course he had changed. He would have been a fool not to.
"I'm going to search for Pounce," Anders said, rising. "Your Majesty," he added, before slipping out of the room.
It was just as well. Alistair had rumours to chase.
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"You're not safe here, Sire," Levi said, trailing after him like a lost puppy. "The traders all report the same thing: you've been passed off as dead, murdered by the Orlesians, and the princess is dead too-"
"Lies." They had to be lies. He believed Morrigan capable of any cruelty, but killing a child who was worth so much more alive? Surely it could not be so.
Levi inclined his head. "Even so - if you have enemies, now would be the perfect time for them to strike. There are so many visitors travelling in and out, it's impossible to keep track of them all."
"I appreciate your concern, Levi. Believe me, we'll leave as soon as we've got what we came for."
Levi blanched. "The blood mage? You're really dealing with him? Well, you know best, Sire. As long as there aren't more demons coming through the Veil-"
"There won't be." It was almost nightfall. He had to find Anders.
Seeing Alistair's expression, Levi bowed himself out, mumbling something about a stock-take. Alistair wasn't listening.
He searched Anders' room first, rapping on the door. It swung open at his touch, so he stepped forwards.
His foot met with tension and he promptly overbalanced, rolling to avoid landing flat on his face. A vile-smelling liquid splashed over his tunic, and he recognised the smell immediately.
Magebane.
From there on, everything else was instinct: his sword, sliding out of its sheath, sweeping towards the soft sound at his right, resistance jarring his fingers as the blade sliced through armour and into flesh. There were two - no, three - in the room, their shapes barely visible despite the sunlight, as silent as cats. He manoeuvred his back to the wall, and called upon the verses which had been drilled into his head:
Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
Light burst in the centre of the room, radiant with justice. It was that light, more than anything, that kept him clinging to the shreds of his faith; made him ponder whether there was, indeed, a Maker, and whether He would look favourably upon what Alistair was about to do.
The assassins reeled, momentarily paralysed. Alistair had faced worse odds before. Clearly these were no Crows, or if they were, their standards had dropped considerably.
He was fast on his feet, when he had to be. Without the weight of his usual armour, there was nothing stopping him from dispatching each of the assassins in turn, with an economy of motion that would have made Leliana proud.
He stopped short of killing the last one, pressing his sword against the man's throat. "Who sent you?" he demanded, his blade drawing a thin red line.
The man's eyes rolled in his head. "Ugfh," he gurgled, and frothed at the mouth, slumping in Alistair's grasp.
Alistair let the body fall with a sound of disgust. He wiped bloodied hands on his tunic, glancing at the remnants of the tripwire.
Anders.
He ran into the corridor, clutching his sword. His own room was empty, as was Guillaume's. Alistair glanced around in despair. Where did Anders say he was going? To find his cat?
His head suddenly exploded with pain, and he doubled over, his empty stomach reeling. Someone had just used magic. A lot of it. The Veil was thin enough at Soldier's Peak; if another demon broke through again...
He picked up the pace, stairs creaking beneath his feet. Another surge of magic set his ears ringing, and he reached out with his senses, uncertain if he truly wished to know what he would find. The Veil still held, but he could feel how worn it was, fragile as a wafer. He had to find the source soon, and silence it.
Anders' taint called to him as he neared, an appallingly strained whisper. He found the mage buried under a pile of bodies: good armour, expensive weaponry; better than the average merc.
"Anders," he said, rolling a corpse from over him and shoving it to one side. "Anders-"
The mage's eyes snapped open. "Behind you," he croaked.
Alistair struck out blindly with the pommel of his sword. He turned to see a woman slumped over by his side, her skull partially collapsed as though she had been crushed by an impossible force, daggers glistening with both blood and a suspiciously dark fluid.
There was no time to pull his blows, not with Anders hurt, poisoned and possibly dying. Alistair slew her without a trace of remorse, barely pausing to tug his sword free from her body.
Anders levered himself onto his elbows, coughing up blood. "Alistair... the Veil. You have to fix it."
Alistair looked at him with despair, but Anders was right. If a demon made its way through, they would both be in danger.
He let his senses wander, drawing out the shape of the weakness in his mind. The Veil had been mended here before, but the Peak itself remembered the times when it was torn. The demon within Sophia had ruled for two centuries. Such a presence left traces, echoes. Add to that a mage's unrestrained use of power, and - well. It created one ungodly mess.
From across the other side, he could hear whispers, the words indistinguishable. The air around them shimmered, dark shadows pressing up against the edges where the Veil was weakest.
"Alistair, now!"
He focused. The whispers grew more insistent; he thought he could make out a word, here and there: release us, little mortal...
Beneath his watch, the remnants of the Veil knitted together, a mish-mash of painfully thin strands threading over the barest patches. The voices howled in fury, echoing madly within his skull, their cacophony a soaring wave of hatred. He was a king. More than that, he was a grey warden; he had faced an archdemon and suffered a whole Blight's worth of nightmares. The voices of demons meant nothing to him.
He sank to his knees once it was done, hands trembling from the effort. It would have to suffice.
"Anders?" He shook the mage by his shoulders. "Anders, wake up!"
Anders' eyes fluttered, and he coughed, blinking. "I can still hear them," he said in a low voice.
"I know." Alistair slipped an arm around him. "Can you walk?"
Anders clung to him, breath unsteady. "Avernus' tower should have wards. I saw them," he added, leaning heavily on Alistair. "Mine are prettier."
"Uh huh."
A trickle of blood seeped down the side of Anders' face. Alistair sheathed his sword, using both arms to support him.
"People," Anders drawled, "will say we're in love."
Alistair looked at him. His skin was frighteningly pale, clots of blood matting his hair. One arm hung limp at his side, the other pressed firmly over his ribs where blood was soaking through his robes. "Not unless I carry you all the way to the tower," he said, only half-joking.
"Sod that."
Together, they limped down the stairs. If he were an assassin, now would be the perfect opportunity to strike. Alistair remained tense, ears pricked for any sound other than Anders' ragged breathing or their heavy footsteps, but it seemed, for once, that the Maker favoured them.
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"He did what?"
"Young man, please refrain from shouting in my study." Avernus brushed an invisible speck of lint from his desk, and frowned. "And move yourself. My eyes aren't what they used to be, and you are blocking my light."
Alistair remained where he was. "You did the ritual without us? Why?"
Avernus gave up on whatever he was writing. "You'll note that nightfall was some hours ago. Your friend volunteered himself. I saw no reason to delay."
Alistair's hands clenched and unclenched. "Is Guillaume-"
"Dead?" Avernus glanced out the window, eyes scanning the stars. "Probably not. Come back tomorrow morning, you can retrieve the body then."
"You don't even know?" Alistair shook his head, aghast. "Where is he?"
Avernus eyed him over the top of his desk. "I warded the room to avoid contamination. Neither I, nor yourself, nor your fine blond friend who, might I add, is still bleeding out in the adjoining room, will be able to enter until the spell has finished."
Alistair cursed. Avernus returned to his writing.
"At least do something for Anders!" Alistair shouted.
Avernus winced, his mouth twisting in a scowl. "If it will remove you from my study. There are poultices on the top shelf in the next room. The ones sealed with red wax, mind; I wouldn't touch the others."
Alistair stared at the blood mage, who studiously ignored him. Hands clenching into fists, he finally spun on his heel and left, searching for the promised poultices.
Anders was half-asleep on a sofa when he returned, arms filled with dusty bottles. Anders' lids fluttered, and he groaned, one arm curled protectively over his ribs.
"Don't move," Alistair said. He peeled back a corner of one of Anders' bandages, wincing at what he saw.
"You're telling me. Ow! Not so fast! Didn't Wynne teach you anything?"
Alistair gritted his teeth. "I'm trying! Just hold still!"
Anders grumbled under his breath, but submitted to Alistair's clumsy ministrations. He had tentatively suggested taking more lyrium to heal himself, but had dropped the idea at Alistair's look of abject horror. In his condition, and with the Veil so thin... even Avernus' wards wouldn't save them if something went wrong.
"Enough with the bandages," Anders ordered. "Andraste's tits, I feel like a parcel wrapped for Satinalia. All you need is a bow and a card with some sort of jolly slogan. Happy holidays, darling... have a half-dead apostate, just what you always wanted."
Alistair snorted. "You're not half-dead. And you're not an apostate, you're a grey warden."
"Once an apostate, always an-"
"Shouldn't you be resting?" Alistair tried in despair.
Anders quietened. The fire crackled in the hearth, and outside, an owl sounded a long, lonely call. "Not yet."
Alistair glanced at him. Anders' fingers twitched, as if aching to fiddle with something. Maybe he ought to try to find that damnable cat. It would undoubtedly make the whole situation a lot less dire.
On second thoughts, stumbling on alone, in the dark, in a huge fortress filled with people who potentially wanted him dead was possibly not such a great idea.
Anders cleared his throat. "Did the ritual kill-"
"No," Alistair said, hoping it was true. "Guillaume's still alive." Probably.
"Hmm. In that case, do you know who was after us?"
Alistair had taken a closer look at the assassins, or at least, at what they were wearing. He would recognise Wade's mark anywhere. The armourer had suffered a disagreement with Osric years ago - something about his artistic integrity, no doubt. Wade and Herren had moved back from Amaranthine to Denerim, swiftly regaining their old clientele. Anyone of consequence in the capital wore designs by Wade.
Did that mean...? He could scarcely believe it, but nothing else seemed to quite add up. Did Hernays want him dead so badly? And what of his daughter, what plans were in store for her?
"They weren't Antivan," Alistair said.
Anders chuckled, and then coughed, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth. He eyed the resulting blood specks with what seemed to be resignation. "Clearly, else neither of us would be here."
That was enough to give Alistair hope. Maybe they had killed all of them. Maybe he could sneak out of here, tonight, and-
And do what? Morrigan had given him no indication of where they had taken his daughter. For all he knew, she could be half-way to Tevinter by now.
A stuffed dog, discarded beside a small hand, outstretched, blood seeping through a bright blue pinafore, golden curls meticulously clean, a fly hovering, pausing, settling upon one unblinking eyeball...
"Alistair. Alistair."
He looked up with a start. "What?"
Anders peered at him. "Copper for your thoughts?"
Alistair sighed. "Bad news. I-" He stopped. The story sounded ridiculous, even to himself. He considered for a moment, and then launched into it, fumbling with the words. His daughter, Morrigan and the Fade, meeting with Levi and discussions with the other traders. Anders nodded grimly throughout, though Alistair suspected that much of his earnest concentration was simply to distract himself from the pain of his injuries.
"She won't be harmed," Anders said. "Not if she's with the Old God."
Alistair grimaced. "I hope you're right."
Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. "They're sisters, aren't they? Morrigan wouldn't dare harm her. You'll see."
Somehow, that made it sound even worse.
Anders settled back into his cushions, eyes blinking shut. "We'll find her when we find the Old God," he said, the words slurring together. "One big, happy family."
Alistair took a chair by the fire. His hands felt useless, empty, so he set his sword across his knees, wiping off the blood that had dried upon it.
He snuck a glance at Anders. The mage's head lolled to the side, his chest rising and falling with gentle movements. It felt familiar, this vigil. Same story, different mage. It gave him an odd feeling, a tightness behind his ribs that he tried to ignore, concentrating on polishing the tiny nicks and blemishes on his blade.
He could sneak out, in an hour or so. Anders would never wake in time, and by then, he could be gone... somewhere... chasing a rumour across the Bannorn.
Alistair sighed. He wasn't going anywhere. Anders trusted him, as odd as that seemed; a former apostate and a would-have-been templar. No demon was going to peek through the gossamer-like Veil on his watch.
He only hoped he was doing the right thing.
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A/N: With many thanks to: Asher77, Auroraas, interesting2125, KyaniteD, Metroidvania, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
Imo, Isolde provides a precedent for blood magic requiring a life, singular (rather than taking blood from multiple sources - since there were several young, healthy people at Redcliffe who could've been suitable, the warden's party aside). Quite possibly Avernus knows far more than Jowan, and could manage, but I expect that he prefers to take the path of least resistance considering that he doesn't value other people's lives very highly.
Of course, Alistair probably should have discussed this with Avernus earlier, but the poor boy had other things on his mind.
I know Anders seems to get hurt a lot, but it's mostly because he's not the POV character. Also, mages are incredibly squishy.