Another early morning. Another night of tossing, turning, and ultimately waking up with a stifled scream in a bed meant for two, but with only one body occupying it. Alistair sat up, scratched the developing beard on his face and grimaced as the sunlight stabbed through the window, glaring and taunting him once more. How much sleep had he gotten? One hour? Perhaps two? Maybe.

He rose from the bed, rubbing a bruise on his side from recruit training the day before. The purple and green smudge was tender to the touch, which shook the sleep from his bones, but not the stiffness. He stubbed his toe on one of the legs of his nightstand, cursing it angrily as he continued across the room, to the vanity that had a small basin and mirror on top. He gazed into the mirror. Alistair looked much older, though it could be the beard he was growing. But it was also the bags developing under his eyes, the unkemptness of his shaggy hair, the way his skin just looked tired and rough. The last couple of months hadn't been good to him. He shook his head, contemplating a haircut and a shave, but ultimately decided against it, and washed his face. He got into his Grey Warden armor and felt disgust rise in his throat with each buckle secured. He choked it down as he adjusted his shin guards, knowing the feeling will pass. He deserved to wear this uniform, after what he helped accomplish, after all he went through. Yet, the disdain towards the blue stripes and the insignia on the chest piece was always present, a phantom pain that he just couldn't shake off.

The Grey Wardens gave him a purpose, a new family, a better life than anything the Chantry could have given him had he taken his Templar vows instead of going off with Duncan. Yet, the Grey Wardens also took his life span and shortened it with The Joining, with the taint he had to ingest. The Grey Wardens had also taken her when she-

Alistair felt the disgust replaced by anger and before he could stop himself, he smashed his fist on top of the vanity, knocking the mirror face down. He heard it crack and growled. He picked it up and set it right. A gigantic line that started in one corner, ending in the other, with various smaller cracks branching out here and there. His broken reflection staring back at him with an expression upon it that scared even him. Eyes that didn't feel like they belonged to him, full of rage and pain, peered back at him. He looked away and sighed. A knock on the door, and one of Aemon's maids, a young elf girl, peeked her head in. "Is everything alright ser?" She asked.

"Yes," Alistair replied, getting his emotions under control. "Mirror just fell."

"A cracked mirror is five years bad luck ser," The maid said, her voice shaky. "I'll get you a new one right away."

She closed the door. Alistair shook his head and took in a few breaths, steadying himself further. He was grateful that Eamon's staff didn't linger long or fuss over him. A small comfort, that he would be sure to thank Eamon for at some point. He looked back at the mirror and sighed heavily. Five years bad luck, he thought. I've already been put through the wringer, what're a few more years going to do to me?

He grabbed his sword and shield and left his room. The castle was quiet, empty feeling now. It was a blessing and a curse. The barracks at Vigil's Keep, where Alistair was stationed to train recruits and go on assignment when needed, was noisy and always buzzing with activity. It was suffocating at times, especially when the recruits asked him questions about the Archdemon. He would rather not think about that these days. The quiet of the castle was welcome until he was moving about it. Isolde didn't seem to like his presence there. Her frigid glare, her tone of voice, were all enough to make him feel like an intruder.

He made his way into the kitchen and found a small plate with two pieces of toast on it, both smothered with butter, along with a small cup of coffee, lightly sweetened. The cook knew what he liked and always left it out for him, knowing he didn't like to eat in the dining room. He dunked the toast in the coffee and ate, looking around mindlessly. Until Eamon appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. His beard had more white hairs in it, and his face was sporting more wrinkles, especially around his eyes.

"Ah, there you are," He said, a warm smile. "Layla said your mirror broke. She replaced it, good as new."

"That was nice of her," Alistair replied, finishing up his breakfast. "Apologies for breaking it in the first place."

"You know you are welcome in my home," Eamon said. "You don't have to eat in here."

"I prefer the atmosphere. And the smells."

Eamon's eyes lowered. "I know things haven't been, well, since Denerim-"

Alistair's jaw clenched. He wanted to avoid this conversation at all costs. And when Isolde entered the kitchen, he was for once grateful to see her. She was dressed in an emerald green dress, plunging neckline adorned with fancy embroidery. She grabbed her husband's arm. "Eamon, we're going to be late visiting with Connor," She said. Then she took notice of Alistair, her face turning cold. "Alistair."

"Isolde."

Eamon sighed. "Hasn't this gone on enough, Isolde?"

The icy glare was now transfixed on her husband. She let go of his arm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're not fond of Alistair being here, but he has done so much for our family-"

Isolde let out a snort of disapproval. "Yes, so much for our family. He and that, that mage woman got Connor sent-"

Alistair felt the sting of her words and he couldn't stop himself. "That mage woman had a name you know," He snapped, his voice low and full of venom. "Her name was Autumn and in case you forgot, she saved Connor's life by driving that demon out. She cured your husband of his illness by obtaining a pinch of Andraste's ashes. She died for Ferelden! Now I would love to stand around while you continue to blame me and everyone else for your son being a mage and being in the circle, but I have recruits to train and Grey Warden business to tend to. Excuse me."

He stormed past Isolde and Eamon, his head down so neither could see the hot tears in his eyes. His windpipe felt constricted, his breath finding it difficult to escape. His heart was spinning in his chest and jumping to every corner of his ribs, wanting to escape, wanting to stop hurting. He slipped out the entrance to the castle and nearly fell down the steps, turning left and stopping under a tree he remembered climbing as a child. He put one hand on the tree and bent forward with his other hand on his knee, trying to breathe, to get control, get all that was running around in his head to stop. The tears were running down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. He wanted to say much more, to yell, to make Isolde feel the hurt he felt. She could disrespect him all she wanted, but she had no right to disrespect her. To disrespect Autumn.

"Shit." Alistair growled. His hand balled into a fist and he slammed against the trunk of the tree as he tried to contain himself. He didn't want to fall apart. He couldn't fall apart. Not again. He stood up straight and closed his eyes for a moment, able to breathe again. He composed himself, went to the stables and got the horse that Eamon gave him, saddling him up, and then rode away. Back to the wardens, back to where he was needed.

Or at least those were the lies he told himself each day he went back.