9 Wintermarch, 9:42
Sweat beaded on Alistair's forehead. His shield-arm suspended in the air while his other held a dull practice sword. He swung and hit one side of the pell. A half-step took him back, and his sword rotated to hit the other side. He grunted at the impact and with a side-step, his shield arm came up to defend his face from his imaginary opponent.
"Block, parry, strike, sidestep," he narrated the choreography of his practice with a distracted mumble. "Another block, swing, hit, backstep. Be careful with backsteps. You have to make sure nothing's behind you." He continued the explanation of his footwork to an invisible audience. He fought alone.
The image of a small child appeared in Alistair's mind. Swaddled in an uncomfortable mishmash of makeshift armor, most likely buckled on him by his mother, the boy sat enraptured with watching his father's practice.
The unexpected thought of teaching his son the mechanics of sword fighting lifted his mood. The possibility had brought him back to the small training yard for the last few days when it became clear they had no idea how long their stay in Ansburg would last. Alistair decided on a new technique to teach his son each day he went out.
The training yard was primarily deserted that afternoon. A few other fighters honed their skills with one-on-one practice, creating a broken rhythm of clanging swords. Three archers took turns at a wooden target propped on stacked hay bales. Each time the archers landed their mark, the wood shifted and pushed the stack of hay closer to the wall. The earthy smell tickled Alistair's nose, reminding him of the barn back in Redcliffe.
The other fighter's presence only made Alistair's solitary practice blaring and awkward. At some point in his past, the judgment of others would have ushered him to leave, but over the years he had overcome those insecurities. The image of teaching his son how to fight provided motivation and helped him avoid other restless feelings worsened by seeing Fiona. He had no idea what to say to the woman who had announced she was his mother.
His mind had wandered, and a heavy swing almost made the pell fall over. Without thinking, he dropped his practice sword and grabbed the beam before it leaned too far. His foot stepped on the weighted base to keep it on the ground.
Free of his sword and no longer envisioning a shield on his left arm made him register his present state. His already snug tunic stuck to his frame as pools of sweat soaked through under his arms and from his back. Alistair grabbed the cloth he had tucked into his waistline to dry off his neck, acknowledging the snugness of his pants. They had been looser when they arrived at Ansburg, after weeks of rigorous traveling and light meals. A sedentary two weeks at the Keep had allowed the extra layer of fat, predominant at his belly, to return.
It had always taken a conscious effort for him to maintain his physique. His fondness for cheese and pastries, and particularly pastries filled with cheese, made any time away from training quickly take its toll. His broad chest and large arms sat atop a belly with more pudge than he preferred.
His thoughts returned to Caoilainn. She had met him when he was in his prime—a twenty-year-old lad, fresh out of Chantry training. Though she maintained her physical prowess without interruption, she had never seemed to mind the minor fluctuations when they were together. In fact, when he remembered their first few nights at Skyhold, she seemed fond of his extra padding.
He decided to retire from training for the day. Letting the towel rest around his neck, he gathered the practice sword and returned to the armory. As his body temperature cooled, the sensation of sweat and crisp air returned his mind to the present. He would soon need to return to the obligations to the Wardens, and for once he realized a genuine longing for his duties as king. Despite the politics and people-pleasing, he would take schmoozing various advisors and dignitaries over this hopeless guessing-game any day.
Alistair felt grateful to be spared the superfluous daily Wardens' briefings. Discussions surrounding how nothing had changed and they had no idea what they were doing were already torturous. The fact Nathaniel led each meeting and Fiona attended made them unbearable.
Fiona had been his only ally in this mess. She had provided support and guidance while he navigated his anger toward Caoilainn and hostility toward Nathaniel Howe. Like a mother figure, he realized the irony. Discovering he was no longer an orphan was not the delightful experience he had daydreamed it would be as a boy.
A voice called from around the corner and a young Warden appeared. "A letter for you, King Alistair."
The young man nodded his head, withholding from any extensive formalities toward Alistair, the king of a nation other than his own. Alistair nodded in return and took the letter.
It was dense, multiple pages of folded parchment, sealed with the Theirin crest. It smelled of Caoilainn's perfume. His heartbeat quickened for just a moment.
After realizing he had bombarded Caoilainn with letters when he arrived in Ansburg, he had paused for her sake, but it was also for his. He had no news. Since his last letter revealing to her what he had discovered about Fiona, nothing happened. The Wardens were at another dead end with their search, and he had not spoken with anyone.
He had not even considered she could reply now. As he made his way to his room, he tucked her letter into his waistline with a free hand.
He reached his destination and unfolded the parchment. "I suppose there is one benefit of being stuck here for so long if I can receive letters." He wanted to provide her with all his attention.
2 Wintermarch 9:43
A,
It is strange to have you in one place long enough that I can send you a reply. I miss you too.
I cannot believe she told you! Did you know I suspected exactly that? I found documents in my search through the storeroom in Denerim that she and Duncan had joined Maric on a quest into the Deep Roads. How much did she tell you? They met the Architect, the darkspawn I had dealt with near Vigil's Keep. I had drafted up a letter to you about it and everything, but before I could send it, she confessed! I am so sorry, my love. Duncan's secret makes it so much worse.
Carrying a child is much more challenging than I had expected, and it is lonely without you. The morning sickness seems to be gone, and I've felt flutters, jolts of movement, I think. I can't be sure. It's strange and exciting and I wish you were here to share it with me. Sending for Teagan and Fergus was a wonderful idea, particularly as Morrigan has required me to step back from all my work. We had a small scare a few weeks ago, but not to worry, everything is fine now. She has directed me to relax. I cringe as I write the word.
As much as I loathe to admit it, Morrigan's guidance is invaluable. Nonetheless, it should be you here.
I've had difficulty being honest with you in the past, and I am trying to change. I must admit, I'm struggling not to be so angry with you. While I love receiving word from you to know you're alive and well and thinking of me, some of your letters have been downright cruel. I'm so sorry you did not take advantage of the opportunity to be with someone else while I was away. Maker knows I would have no room to judge you. I could never adequately express my gratitude for your commitment, preventing you from doing something so unforgivable. The fact that you do not resent me for your choices is astonishing.
I'm being sarcastic in case you couldn't tell.
I love you, and I'm pregnant and I'm frustrated if not infuriated with your insensitivity.
Which reminds me—of course, I wouldn't do anything to the baby! It sickens me you think I would do something "drastic." I've wanted this for too long to change my mind now. This might be our only chance.
I am committed, A. I am here and I'm trying, and if you continue to doubt that even now, I fear what type of mother you think I'll make.
You wanted me to be honest.
I love you, and I look forward to receiving more letters, but please be sensitive. Please come home soon.
Your love,
C
"Ouch." Alistair chuckled to himself as he read the second half of Caoilainn's letter again. The first page tucked behind the second.
He reclined in his bed with his back against the headboard. His legs extended and his foot crossed over the other at the end of the bed.
It wasn't the type of honesty he had in mind when he had urged her to be truthful. Her history of lying had usually surrounded information she had deemed him unprepared to know, or her misdeeds she decided he did not deserve to know. Caoilainn's willingness to make biting remarks in defense or anger was hardly a new behavior, but he accepted some of his letters might not have considered the needs and sensitivities of his pregnant wife. Yet, he would privately defend their validity.
Despite his concerns about her wellbeing and development, he realized he could not comprehend certain aspects of her pregnancy. Stories of notorious shifts in women's moods, often leading them to intense, nearly comical displays of anger or sadness, did not help him understand what Caoilainn was going through as he wrote to her for the last two months. Alistair cursed himself again for leaving; he did every day this expedition continued with no completion in sight.
He stood with a sigh and stripped off his shirt as he made his way to the basin of water in the corner of the room. With a damp rag, Alistair rinsed off the thin layer of sweat and caked dirt from his limbs, lingering on his neck to ease tense muscles. The demands of tempering his frustration and impatience with the quest and his companions required constant maintenance; he felt it through his body, aching with exhaustion. He splashed water on his face and brushed it out of his beard. When he closed his eyes, he desired to leave them closed, to succumb to a nap or deep sleep where he could forget about everything; to dream of Caoilainn and their baby.
The fantasy of a nap coaxed a chuckle from Alistair. He hadn't experienced anything resembling a nap, let alone a good night's rest since Caoilainn told him she was pregnant. Sleep only became more difficult the longer this mission continued. For now, he knew he would need to eat first.
He pulled a clean tunic over his head on his way out of the door. Following his usual routine, he joined the modest line for food when he reached the dining hall. It was as crowded as it could be under the current circumstances. Few wore their Warden uniforms, casual attire of tunics and breeches allowed Alistair to blend in with the rest. None noticed him, or at least none cared, a marked change from life back in Denerim. Though he didn't miss the needless fanfare, he missed the company. Even in Caoilainn's absence, he had enough meetings to fill his schedule and provide some level of socialization.
When it reached his turn to take a plate, he noticed the Wardens ahead of him passing a flask between them and pouring considerable contents into their drinks. He couldn't look away, his eyes glued to their activity.
In the past during Caoilainn's absence, he had resorted to drink. Anger and sadness compelled him to find an escape from reality. His drunken stupors ended in the loss of consciousness, then faded into the deepest, dreamless sleep. The repose from anxiety-ridden insomnia and tainted nightmares justified the hangover and horrible mood he always faced the next day.
He hated that Alistair; a sop with no will to care for his own cleanliness, unworthy of his own attention, let alone anyone else's. He looked back on that period, grateful Caoilainn hadn't witnessed him at his lowest and most hopeless point of life. Even if her actions had sparked his spiral into apathy, he preferred her not to witness his embarrassing loss of control.
As alluring as a stiff drink seemed, he resisted inquiring about the flask. He could not go back down that path. Not now.
He sighed with relief as the line moved and it was his turn to take a plate. The unruly Wardens and their contraband wandered into the dining hall and out of Alistair's vision.
Studying his food with more attention than his path, he walked away from the serving line and almost walked into Hale.
"Oi! Watch it, mate!" She yelled, taking a step back from her path and glaring at him.
Halting, Alistair balanced his plate before its contents landed on his chest or Hale's face.
Alistair realized he had never been in such proximity to the aggressive young woman. She was taller than other elves he knew, but that didn't mean much. Her loud demeanor compensated significantly for her slight stature. It made Hale's blow against Hawke and her assertiveness in general even more impressive.
Aside from their dominant energy, Alistair could identify no other similarities between Hale and Caoilainn, and he found something comforting in the fact.
He gave a guilty frown to the spunky young woman and his head tilted to the plate. "Sorry, distracted. Look, they're serving white cheddar with apples." Hale probably would not understand the joy these simple menu items gave him.
Dead-faced, Hale returned his enthusiasm with an annoyed blink. "Come on. The mages've found somethin'." Her head tilted toward the door, a gesture for him to follow her.
Hunger from training made his stomach growl. An uncontrolled whimper escaped Alistair as he glanced at his plate and back to Hale. He might have pouted. He wasn't sure.
With a groan, Hale barked, "Shite, just bring it with you!" She swiveled and called as she stomped away, "We've gotta hurry."
Alistair followed the young woman, stealing bites of cheese on their speed walk to a meeting room. He made sure to sample only tiny bites so he could savor larger portions when he sat down. The apples looked crisp, white, and watery insides with green skin. He swallowed to keep from drooling.
They rounded a corner and reached a room filled with the other members of the travel party and the other Warden leaders seated on the outskirts of the room, facing inward. This was not a room for large meetings, he noticed. It was filled with bookshelves and dusty books, an extension of the adjacent library. Lit only by candle votives and no windows to allow in the natural evening light.
The mages chatted with Nathaniel Howe, and the Warden Constables spoke with the other Warden Commander. Upon entering the room, Hale plopped into a seat in the corner and folded her arms over her chest. Finally freed from her task of fetching Alistair, apparently. Confused, Alistair remained in the doorway with his plate of cheese.
"Ah, now that the King is here, we can begin." Nathaniel Howe spoke over the commotion, a hint of annoyance audible in his tone.
Alistair's eyebrows raised, and he sidestepped to the nearest seat. In his fixation on the food he was about to eat, he had not registered the significance of the mages having found something, anything. He avoided seeking updates about their quest. It was just as much to avoid listening to Nathaniel Howe as to avoid the feelings of desperation stirred by the inevitable news they had found nothing and would be in the Free Marches even longer.
At this point, it was unbelievable something substantial even existed.
"We decided our news was worth an urgent meeting," Philippa walked away from her conversation to the center of the room, glancing around at her audience as if she were a professor at an academy.
With the room's silence, she continued, "I've made a discovery with the help of my dear friend, Fiona."
From her corner of the room, Fiona frowned. She kept her narrowed eyes on Philippa and spoke with enough volume for the room to hear. "I would attribute the majority of our progress to Morrigan."
"You spoke to Morrigan?" Alistair stood, plate in hand, and took a step toward the center of the room. "Did she say anything about Caoilainn?"
Hands outstretched, Philippa gave Alistair an endearing smile. "Trust me, your majesty, I asked, and she did not answer."
The loud sound from Hawke, part cough and part laugh echoed her statement. "I must have missed that part!"
Pursing his lips, Alistair returned to his seat.
Philippa did not acknowledge the comment. The heel of her boot clicked against the tile as she took another step forward, away from Hawke and Fiona. Her chest lifted a fraction as she inhaled. "It has come to our attention that the spell we developed and perfected to cure their majesties can be adapted for the entire army."
"You had to take the longest route possible to travel here from Ferelden to determine as much?" The Warden Commander from the Free Marches replied in a displeased drawl, the curl of his lip punctuating his tone. "You must be joking."
Nathaniel How cleared his throat. "If you will remember, their majesty's cure caused the problem to begin with. We did not understand the scope of the damage to the Order until we reached Weisshaupt. So no, recreating the cause of the problem to fix it did not seem a logical strategy—"
"We didn't have enough blood." Philippa interrupted, speaking to Warden Commander Llewellyn and the Warden leaders. She looked over her shoulder to Nathaniel and added, "I see no need to defend ourselves, Warden Commander."
Nathaniel's brows lifted and he nodded to the woman. He seemed more interested in the fact that she called him Commander than her announcement of their missing ingredient.
"Um," Alistair raised his hand from his seat by the door. "Hi there, me again. Am I the only one concerned with how we suddenly have enough blood? That would be an exceptionally large amount of some very bloody magic to cure all the Wardens across Thedas."
"If it settles those concerned, the initial spell required a small amount of blood from a magical source," Philippa said, explaining the initial cure in the vaguest terms. "A source we did not have access to, particularly not in the volume needed for so many people. We now know of another option."
"A cured Warden," Fiona added, closing her eyes for a long moment before opening them. "We would need the sacrifice of a cured Warden."
The room fell silent. All eyes landed on Fiona, expecting her to state the only conclusion her statement and body language could communicate. Only the distant voices of Wardens walking through a nearby hall interrupted the stillness.
Frozen, Alistair stared at Fiona. The weight of her announcement pressed the air from his lungs. Knowledge of what this meant did not make it easier to comprehend. He did not breathe or blink.
Fiona's eyes locked with his. "It will be me."
He inhaled. Swallowing to ease his dry throat, Alistair's mouth opened.
"Wait, wait, wait," Alistair stood again, this time leaving his plate on the seat. He stepped forward, his hands illustrating his attempt to negotiate a solution. "That's such a drastic solution. No one must die. Can't we each give half… the blood?" He cringed as he completed the question, shocked at himself for suggesting his participation in blood magic.
"Unfortunately not, your majesty," Philippa shook her head, "it must be a sacrifice. There's no question of who it must be."
Alistair's hand lifted to his brow and he whispered, "No." His stomach turned and he suddenly regretted nibbling on the apples and cheese before the meeting.
Solemn but dutiful, High Constable Cohen redirected the conversation, "We cannot perform any sacrifices without knowing it will work. Can we test the spell some other way?"
"I agree with Constable Cohen," Bridgette twitched her nose in concern as she mirrored Cohen. "We musn't try anything that could hurt any person or the Order any more."
"We've considered as much," Philippa looked away from the king to speak with the other leaders. "We can test the spell on volunteers with a smaller quantity of Fiona's life force."
"You mean her blood." The bubbling of Alistair's anger made his temperature rise and his face felt damp from sweat condensing on his skin. He tried to remain silent, to allow the meeting to continue, but with the news of Fiona's sacrifice and now the method by which she would die, he could not abide. "Is no one else concerned about the flippant use of blood magic? How often do sacrifices occur without a hitch?"
The usual dismissive and snarky attitude of Hawke was replaced with gravity. "I've got my hold-ups, but it's our only option. We've researched everything."
Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest, glancing in Alistair's direction but not brave enough to make eye contact. "You've already been through this exact spell. It means you've benefited from blood magic, and I'm sure it wasn't the first time."
"Right." Alistair's eyes widened, exaggerating his frustration. "And there was a giant hitch! Remember, the entire order is crumbling."
"That was because Caoilainn left, not you." Nathaniel shifted on his feet and stared at the ground.
"Excuse me?" Alistair took a step in Nathaniel's direction.
"Stop," Warden Commander Cohen lifted his hands and joined Philippa at the center of the room. "At this point, the least we can do is try, your majesty. We will test the spell with the new donor and determine the outcome, then we will proceed."
"The donor has a name," Alistair muttered under his breath and made an agitated exhale.
Clearing his throat, Nathaniel talked over Alistair's comment, "I'll volunteer for the trial of the cure."
A small gasp came from Bridgette and she whimpered, "no." Her lips parted as if to retort his decision or her perhaps to put in her name as a volunteer. She did not get to speak.
The young woman had been quiet since she arrived with Alistair, but Hale declared without rising from her seat in the corner. "Me too."
Nathaniel Howe and Hale locked eyes in silence; the connection visible to everyone in the room. He replied to her with only a grave nod.
Before the meeting was dismissed, the mages organized a plan to test the spell the following evening. Still adjusting to the discovery of Fiona as his mother, he learned blood magic would take her life the next day. He couldn't stomach it. Alistair didn't return to his room before nausea overtook him. He retched into the wastebasket at the Revas wing of the Keep.