Alistair lay in bed long after sunrise. He couldn't sleep, and he didn't care that morning had begun to fade into afternoon; fatigue had settled into his very bones. Perhaps this is how it takes you. Exhaustion. It just robs you of sleep until you can't take anymore.
He, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, was dying - with no heir to take the throne - and he didn't care. All he cared about was her. The her.
"Maeve," he said aloud, a sigh, a soft plea. He cared about nothing so much as seeing her again. He wanted to find her, to ask her to join him. They could go down to the Deep Roads, comrades in arms one last time, together til the very end. But he didn't even know where she was, hadn't seen her in years.
He shouldn't regret it. Ferelden was thriving… well, it had been before the war. And it was largely thanks to him that the country didn't side with the Order and dispatch soldiers to hunt mages, and it was his idea to give Redcliffe Castle as sanctuary until the rebel mages became dangerous. Altogether, he and Anora ruled the country well together. It was the only thing they did together, but that suited them both fine.
Still, a part of him did regret it. A part of him hated himself, in fact, for letting her go, for agreeing to marry the Ice Queen. Some days, some moments, a part of him even wished he had died that day.
Of course, he could have, but…
No.
He didn't think about that. Not for a second.
With a groan, he hauled himself out of bed. With a strong cup of tea and the shades drawn, he could probably manage.
He underestimated the difficulty he would face in trying to secure a meeting with the queen. It made him chuckle. What would the people say if they knew the king hadn't so much as spoken to the queen in… a week? Maybe more?
A page suddenly skidded up beside him, panting. "Sire, there's a visitor here to see you." He took a deep breath, his face very red. "She said it was of dire import, and she would speak only to you."
His brows knit in confusion. "Who is it?"
The page sighed. "She would only say that her name is Rose, and that she's from Lothering. She said 'Tell him that, and he'll see me.'"
It took him a second, then it hit him like a hammer. He felt almost dizzy, the way his heart began to pound. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. "What," he murmured, "did she hear me?"
The page cocked his head. "Sorry, sire?"
"Nothing, nevermind. Show her to my study, please. And," he called after the page as he went scrambling down the hall, "you might slow down? I highly doubt anything is on fire."
Although really, you never knew.
He paced. He couldn't help it. However he thought he should act, he couldn't help but pace.
Another knock. His palms were damp, his mouth dry, and he desperately wished he was ready for this, but here it was. "It's fine, just send her in." He leaned back against his desk, as if he could look casual.
When the door opened, his heart stopped.
Maeve.
Streaks of silver decorated her ebony hair, which she wore pulled back from her face, as always. Time had added lines to her face, and exhaustion had added still more.
She had never been more beautiful.
"Maeve," he breathed.
"Alistair." Her voice sounded strained, stiff. It hurt him to hear it.
He offered a small smile. "Or should I call you Rose, from Lothering?"
She returned his smile, but with one laden with sorrow. "I hoped it would work."
They stood in silence, her trying not to look at him, him unable to look away. She wore a simple purple dress that lit up her eyes, but why? Never before had he seen her in anything but robes.
"You're - I mean, you look, um… well."
She snorted softly. "I look like shit and I well know it. I'm exhausted." She scrutinized him. "As are you. It's why I've come."
Equal measures of hope and gratitude washed over him. "Oh, Maeve," he sighed. "I was just thinking about you, actually. I thought we might… you know, if we're both going to the Deep Roads..."
She sighed, but it was a very different kind of sigh. One he couldn't remember Maeve ever directing at him. One that stung like a slap. "This isn't the Calling, Alistair."
His brows came together. "Isn't - what? Isn't how?"
"It's too soon. Much too soon. You know that."
The wound inflicted by her exasperated sigh vanished, replaced by an ache in his heart for her. But as much as he wanted to let her cling to hope, he couldn't. "I know it's early, and I don't know why," he said gently, "but -"
"You don't understand. We all heard it. Every Warden I've recruited since the Blight. Some barely a year from their Joining."
A chill enveloped him. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know, but it gets worse." She finally looked him fully in the eyes, and the sadness, the haunted look in her eyes took the breath out of him. "They're gone, Alistair. Every Warden I know, every Warden in Ferelden, as far as I can tell. Even Nathaniel. They've all gone."
He felt a sharp pang when she mentioned Nathaniel. Were they - Maker, Alistair, are you really worried about that right now?
"What do you mean, gone? Gone where?"
She rubbed her temple, an achingly familiar gesture of distress. "Warden Commander Clarel has called all Grey Wardens to Orlais. She has a plan to end what she's calling the impending Blight. To end all Blights, before they can begin." She sat heavily in a nearby chair. "With blood magic. She wants to perform a blood magic ritual to gain command of a demon army, to journey into the Deep Roads and slay the sleeping Old Gods before they can wake."
Alistair thought 'blood magic' sounded bad enough, and then she added 'demon army.' "I can't… I mean, that's kind of… a lot."
"I know," she said, and frowned. "I'm sorry, I didn't come here to distress you."
He sat on the edge of the chair nearest hers. "What is it you need from me? I'm not sure - with the war going on and all - I'm not sure what help I can offer."
"No, I didn't come for that, either." She looked at him, and for a moment her stony facade cracked. "I came to make sure you're safe," she said softly. "To make sure you didn't answer this false Calling."
"I was stalling," he blurted. "I hoped… I hoped to find you, so that…" He sighed.
She bit her lip, her eyes downcast. "Here all these years I've been trying to avoid the Calling," she said softly, "and you manage to make it something to look forward to."
How desperately he wanted to touch her hand, to take her into his arms. Instead, he sat stiffly, searching for something to say.
"So where did they all go? The Wardens? Surely they didn't -"
"Oh, but they did. Well, I assume they did. None of them left notes. Vigil's Keep, Soldier's Peak - everywhere I went, all I found was Wardens I've never met, lying in wait for me. I don't know if they meant to kill me or only to take me captive. I didn't bother to ask."
"Why would they -"
She uttered a sharp, humorless laugh. "Did I forget to mention? Because I spoke out against Clarel's insane plan, I've been branded a traitor."
The repercussions of this quickly clicked into place. "You can stay here. As long as you need, of course. We'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."
Getting abruptly to her feet, Maeve shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. You stay here, and stay safe. That's all I came to say. The rest of it is my problem, and I'll handle it."
"How? Where will you go now?"
"Wherever I can learn more about what's going on. I just have to keep moving." She looked at him, her expression softening. "Please take care of yourself, Alistair. I'll figure this out. We could use a night's sleep, couldn't we?" She turned to go.
Almost before he realized he was doing it, he crossed the room and gently took her arm. "Let me come with you."
Her green eyes widened. "What?"
"I'm serious. Let me come with you. Blood rituals, demon armies - this affects us all, and you can't stop it alone. I'm still a Grey Warden by blood." He moved closer to her. Too close, dizzyingly close. Maker help me, she still smells the same. "Let me come with you."
That familiar crease formed between her brows. Her haunted look became a tortured look and he regretted whatever he had done to cause it. "Alistair," she murmured.
"Maeve, you're all alone out there, against a threat that could leave the world in ruins. I'm the only other Grey Warden left."
"And what will Ferelden do without its king?"
"Rip itself apart in civil war? Oh wait, it's doing that already. Honestly I think it's out of our hands at this point, anyhow. Anora can manage."
She looked at him, long and hard, then shut her eyes tightly and whispered something that sounded like Maker forgive me. Then she looked at him. The exhaustion had never been so evident on her face, particularly around her eyes, and he noticed for the first time the hollowness of her cheeks. Sleep wasn't the only thing she'd been deprived of as late. "I do… need help. I can't pretend otherwise. Are you sure you're up for it?"
He drew back indignantly. "I train with a blade every day, Maeve Amell. I meditate. I practice. I can do this."
"This isn't the Blight, your Highness." Traces of a smirk touched the corners of her mouth. "This is you and I against every Warden. This is a rebel mage and a former templar traveling together during the mage/templar War. This is long days, sometimes without food, cold nights without shelter -"
"All the more reason you shouldn't be doing it alone."
"Alright. Yes. Join me, and we'll probably go to our unceremonious end, exhausted and hungry. But maybe, just maybe, we'll help save the world. Again."
He smiled, and so did she, and his heart threatened to burst. His hand twitched, crying out to touch her face, cup her cheek, draw her in for a kiss, but he didn't. This is not my Maeve. The icy, jagged thought came to rest in his heart.