After he lost sight of Leliana between the buildings, Alistair cast a final sobering glance towards the pyre. As he turned towards the cart, a sly and tiny voice within him whispered that the assault on the town had at least distracted from his return and delayed their arrival at Redcliffe Castle. The next moment, he felt a stab of guilt between his ribs; ashamed of his own relief.

That's the Theirin in me, he thought, with a bitterness that stung like vinegar. All kings are selfish. Thank the Maker I'm half-commoner.

Morrigan and Sten were still waiting beside the cart. Morrigan had retreated in subtle inches away from the crowd beside the pyre. She wore the face of a cat that had been interrupted from its nap by the sudden arrival of a Mabari pup; wary and disdainful. When Alistair reached to take the mule by the reins, she cleared her throat pointedly.

"Once your ' sister-Warden' has finished her do-gooding, we'll be off, I take it?"

He glanced at her, winding the reins around his wrist. The air grew heavy around them as the cloud thickened overhead; a wintery drizzle was imminent. This scattered the crowd from the pyre: they broke away in miserable clumps, hunching their shoulders against the damp.

"Off? Off, where? Come on, old fellow."

The grey-whiskered mule began to trudge after Alistair, the cart creaking in its wake. The tavern, if he remembered correctly, was the thatched two-storey structure perched on the nearby slope; the upper part supported by a forest of wooden struts. Despite its prominent location it seemed to have escaped damage, save for a broken beam on the second floor. An array of window boxes, their contents finished off by winter frost, disgorged wilting tendrils over the stone. Above the door hung a wooden panel with a flaking and faded emblem: a bird perched atop a ship's lantern.

"Forgive me." Morrigan's pointed remark chased him. "I thought that our task was to gather Ferelden's forces, defeat the Archdemon and end the Blight. I was not aware that we were going to lend assistance to every cause in the nation along the way."

"The bas-saarebas is right." The Qunari added his own unamused voice to the witch's protest. "The Archdemon will not linger while we waste our time."

"One night won't make a difference," Alistair replied patiently, leading the mule around a pothole. "We'll help them with…. with whatever's attacking them. It's the right thing to do. Then, in the morning, we'll go and see Arl Eamon."

Morrigan let out a snort to illustrate exactly what she thought of the young Warden's suggestion.

"And anyway, if we defend his town, he'll be more inclined to help us," he added as the tavern grew in size before them. "He'll owe us a favour."

The Qunari would have protested longer if he had not realised that such a plan would allow him to assess the fighting capabilities of his new 'unit'. Out of the four humans, only the sword-bearing male seemed to have any potential on the field. Sten viewed magic as a capricious and inferior substitute for brute strength; also, the dark haired woman did not seem particularly reliable. The religious heathen with the bow and arrow spoke with assurance, but was untested. He had already dismissed their mender as a non-combatant: healers belonged in infirmaries.

The stables were built onto the side of the tavern and were sizable; as one would expect for a prominent trade town such as Redcliffe. There was no boy in attendance, though most of the other stalls were occupied. Alistair, after unfixing their mule from the cart, paused in astonishment at the quality of the grazing horses.

"These are thoroughbred Fereldan Forders," he said in wonder, leading the mule towards the far end of the stables. "Purebred. They cost an arm and a leg."

He admired the muscled haunch of one resting mare; she flicked her tail and ignored him.

Morrigan looked supremely uninterested. She had entered the stables with reluctance, picking her way across the straw-strewn cobblestones.

"And there's six of them," Alistair continued, patting the mule on the neck after tethering it in place. "I wonder who they belong to?"

"Are you proposing that we steal them then, and sell them for gold?" enquired an acerbic Morrigan. "A sound plan, though a little ruthless for the likes of you."

"Believe it or not," he replied, drily. "That's actually not what I'm proposing."

A slap of anxious boot against stone signalled the return of the stable lad; fourteen, solid-built and twitchy as a runaway nun. He grew more nervous still when he caught sight of the Qunari, the warrior and the yellow-eyed witch, the pitchfork slithering from his hands.

"Sorry," he stammered, in a voice on the verge of breaking. "I thought perhaps - you were trying to steal the bann's horses."

"We aren't horse thieves," replied Alistair gently, recognising elements of his younger self in the gangly-limbed youth. Beside him, Morrigan let out an unhelpful cackle. "Wait, they belong to a bann? Which bann?"

He waited with breath hovering on a knife-edge: unsure what he wanted to hear in response. Sure enough, the lad gave the answer that Alistair had been anticipating.

"Bann Teagan Guerrin, ser knight. He arrived three days ago, after he heard that monsters were comin' from the castle."

"I'm not a knight," Alistair replied automatically, the thoughts in his mind galloping loose. The name had echoed in his ear before it had been shaped in the youth's throat; it was the name of a man who had been the closest thing to a surrogate uncle that his childhood self could claim. Bann Teagan claimed close kinship to the arl, sported a formidable reputation as a semi-reformed reprobate, and was by all accounts the best horseman east of the Frostbacks. Twenty years ago, to great scandal, the arl's younger brother had cast off the burden of his family name and gone to ride horses in the Ostwick races. Increasingly licentious stories about his antics in stable, tavern and bedchamber crossed the Waking Sea and were eagerly dissected by Fereldans in all parts of society. Eventually Teagan Guerrin returned from the Marches on the request of his brother, had exchanged his saddle for a bann's seat south-west of Redcliffe, and had (mostly) reformed his behaviour. There had been a time when every lord in the nation had tilted their unwed daughter towards Rainesfere; but the new bann seemed well-committed to bachelorhood and eventually the stream of petitioners slowed to a trickle, though they never stopped entirely.

Alistair focused on wrapping the reins around his wrist, feeling the animal pinch of the leather. Teagan Guerrin had been a perennial presence at Redcliffe Castle during his childhood; clattering without announcement into the stables on a sleek new charger, trailing breathless squires and clerks.

Where's young Alistair? the bann used to demand, leaping down from the saddle with the agility of a man a decade younger. I won't have anyone else looking after my new mare. Isn't she a beauty?

Good to see you, lad. Have I shrunk, or have you put on another few inches? Ha! You'll be picking plums for my brother without a ladder soon.

It had once been Teagan's intention to take Alistair on as a squire. The bann had seen great potential in a boy who had the build and strength of one four years older, and who treated horses with the same respect as any landed peer. Teagan had even begun to train the young Alistair in the use of a sword; bringing him a wooden practice estoc from his own armoury . Yet ultimately the bann's scheme had not come about, and the little boy had found himself banished within the cold and desolate walls of a monastery. Even after it dawned on the young Alistair that Teagan was not coming to collect him; each time that the clatter of approaching hoofbeats drifted over the stone, his heart seized with a masochistic hope.

"Is… is the bann inside?" Alistair asked, realising that the stable lad was gazing at him with naked trepidation.

The boy nodded, eyes sliding towards the grey stone face of the tavern wall.

"Yes, ser. Though I think he's meetin' with Mayor Murdock at the moment. Will you… will you be staying?"

Alistair gathered up his thoughts, filling his lungs with a slow and measured draw of air. His sister-warden called this taking an anchoring breath, as though the air - by some obscure alchemical process - had thickened to lead within her body. He thought of Flora in the Chantry, crouched on the flagstones above her wounded, the flawless cast of her face lurid with gold and gore. He hoped that Leliana had managed to placate the protests of any attending priestesses, or (worse) Templars.

"Right," he said, checking to make sure that his sword still hung sheathed at his side. "Feed and water for our mule, and tell anyone who looks at our cart that it's owned by a Qunari. Morrigan?"

"Hm?"

It was difficult not to shrink before the witch's beady eye; somehow, Alistair managed it.

"Could you- " he lowered his voice, waiting for the lad to reach the far end of the stables. "Could you fly up to the castle, and… do a bit of surveillance? Have a peek in the windows, that sort of thing?"

"You want me to look for these ' monsters', I take it?"

"Yes," he replied simply, waiting for either a protest or a flat refusal to be given orders.

To his surprise the witch begrudgingly inclined her head, lips folding into a slitted line. It was a tacit acknowledgement that his idea was a sound one; Alistair was so astonished that he almost fell into the flank of Teagan Guerrin's expensive mare. He watched Morrigan leave with Sten striding in her wake, fencepost propped on his shoulder. The Qunari had stated bluntly that, if they were still intending on participating in the town's defence that night, he would be conducting his own enquiries into the nature of their foe. Alistair was unsure how the inhabitants of Redcliffe would respond to interrogation from a seven foot tall, crimson-eyed Qunari, but tactfully decided to let Sten discover this for himself.

The interior of the Gull and Lantern ignited a faint flickering of memory at the back of Alistair's mind. In reference to its name, some nautical embellishments had been added to the standard tavern decor: a fishing net hung over one wall, while an amateur's painting of a bird on a marooned stump resided above the hearth. A staircase rose to an upper balcony that ran the length of the tavern, tucked in the cavity below were several freestanding kegs. Most of the tables stood empty; a morose barmaid stood behind the bar, polishing tankards with a grubby rag. She cheered visibly when she saw Alistair, hastily flicking the grey cloth out of sight.

"Can I help you?"

Alistair's hand went reflexively to his pocket, forgetting for a moment that they were destitute travellers who had spent much of their journey eating scavenged food . To his startled and barely suppressed delight, a full coinpurse had been subtly placed there sometime that morning. He was unsure whether to be grateful to Leliana for her bountiful supply of coin, or alarmed by her sleight of hand near his breeches.

"Could I get some bread and cheese? Enough for five," he said, hastily removing his hand as her eyes lit up at the clink of coin.

There came a creak from the floorboards overhead, and the air dried in Alistair's throat. He wondered if that had been the sound of the bann's chair shifting; if it would be followed by footsteps and voices growing louder, like men approaching through a tunnel. He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and drew out the coinpurse.

"And some ale, please."

He'd be damned if he was going to squeak breathlessly at Teagan like a mouse. He was no longer a boy of ten, he was a man of twice that and a Grey Warden too, although - thanks to Mac Tir - such a title no longer bore accolade, only a regicide's black cap.

"D' you want some company? A bonny young man shouldn't drink alone."

Alistair retrieved his thoughts before they could wander into the dark, thorny thicket of vengeance. When it came to the traitorous general, his mind felt like - as his sister-warden would put it - a box of fish hooks.

"What? Oh," he said, realising that she was smiling at him. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Do you have any smoked kippers?"

The smile inverted into a scowl.

"No. I'll bring your ale over."

Irritated she turned away, flicking her cleaning rag with a dismissive huff. Alistair wondered if he should apologise - though he was unsure for what - then turned towards the interior of the tavern. There were a few morning drinkers hundred against their tables, their rigid backs a ward against unwanted company. Several of them had weapons at their sides that still bore remnants of the previous night's violence.

He went to a table in the corner, where he would have a good view of both door and stair. A fire chewed through several mossy logs in the hearth; the crack and spit of splitting wood set his teeth on edge.

Calm down, he told himself, sternly. You're a Grey Warden. You've faced down Hurlocks in the field. You've faced an ogre - well, been chased up a tower by one.

Alistair wished that he had his sister-warden's dispassionate features: the more nervous Flora became, the stiller her face and the colder her stare. He felt sure that his apprehension was obvious to the other patrons in the tavern, even though he was not quite sure why he was so nervous. It was not his fault that he had been sent away after all, and it had not been his choice to stay away for so long.

If Eamon's Orlesian wife had not-

"If the dead weren't walking each night," came a wry observation from the top of the stairs. "I'd say that Maric himself had risen from the tomb and come to the Gull and Lantern for a pint. But I'm not sure that such a comment would be appreciated in the current circumstances."

Eamon's younger brother descended to the tavern floor, accompanied by a stocky man in ill-fitting mail. Time had been kinder to the bann than to others in the twilight of their fourth decade: the neatly trimmed hair was still more russet than grey, and the lean figure only just past its prime. The distinctive Guerrin eyes, green as peeled grapes, were sharp and focused, despite resting on bruises of weariness.

Alistair rose to his feet, taken aback by how pleased he was to see his old - acquaintance? Surrogate uncle? The closest thing to a father he'd had, before Duncan?

"And the height proves it," finished Teagan, taking the last two steps in one and striding towards him. "Welcome back to Redcliffe, Alistair."

The bann covered the distance between stair and table in a few strides; he had a horseman's length of leg. He clapped Alistair with easy familiarity on the back, then leaned back and eyed him from head to toe. The grin subsided into a more wondering smile and he shook his head, half-laughing.

"Maker's Breath. You've turned into the spit of your father. So much for keeping it a secret, eh?"

Alistair made himself smile back, feeling his stomach clench unpleasantly. Fortunately, the bann was preoccupied with matters more immediately pressing than the parentage of the young man before him.

"Murdock, we'll run through tonight's defence plan later."

Teagan Guerrin drew up a chair beside Alistair as the mail-clad mayor took his leave. Now they were sat closer, Alistair could see the crease of exhaustion scored across the bann's brow; the crimson imprint of a sword-hilt within his palm. He looked older than he had done on the stairs; the crisis in his brother's arling had taken its toll.

"I heard that you were recruited into the Wardens," the bann said, accepting his own tankard of ale from the barmaid. "Though you aren't dressed the part. I thought Wardens wore blue and silver?"

"The Wardens aren't exactly popular in Ferelden at the moment," replied Alistair, wondering where to begin. "Thanks to Mac Tir. We thought it best to keep a low profile."

Teagan took a measured gulp of ale, gathering his thoughts before replacing the tankard on the table. The other patrons had gone very quiet, their heads canting towards the hearth.

"Yes. I've just returned from Denerim," he said, evenly. "Loghain Mac Tir had a lot to say about Ostagar, and his part in it. I'm not sure how convinced I am by his version of events. He wasn't amused when I pointed this out, of course."

Alistair's fingers clenched the handle of his own tankard; mellow liquid jolted over the rim. He resisted the urge to grip the bann by the arm and thank him profusely for his scepticism. His eyes felt oddly hot, and he was grateful for the distraction of the barmaid clattering a covered tray of food before him.

"But," Teagan continued, after draining the rest of his tankard in several hard gulps. "That'll have to wait. I take it you've heard about our problems here?"

Alistair gave a tentative nod.

"Redcliffe is under attack," he ventured, watching the bann return his tankard to the table with a resigned thud. "By... 'monsters'?"

The bann let out a brittle and humourless laugh; it sounded like the skeletal rustle of autumn leaves underfoot.

"It's a long story. And I still don't know half of it. Are you prepared to suspend disbelief for a time?"

"Let's find my sister-warden first," interjected Alistair swiftly, taking hold of the food tray. "Then at least you'll only need to tell it once."


AN: The first Alistair focused chapter! My Alistair comes across a little more bitter/resentful than the way he does in game, but I always like to change things about characters to suit my ends, hehe. Bann Teagan has arrived! Hurray! I much prefer him to blah Eamon. Though I wanted to have Flo and Alistair doing their own thing this chapter so Teagan meets Alistair in the tavern instead of the Chantry.