Chapter 23: I'm Home
It was well past midnight in Castle Redcliffe. Aria sat in an overstuffed chair in someone's unattended study with a mug of freshly brewed mint tea that had an odd aftertaste. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace behind her as she curled a piece of parchment from a book on the desk she sat at distractedly.
In her thanks for what they had done for her and are attempting to do the Arlessa has opened up what room she could spare that had not been touched by the horrors her son had unleashed in the castle. Aria had agreed gratefully to the hospitality. And Alistair seemed to almost want to cry when she and Morrigan left him to his own devices as the witch demanded directions to the kitchens.
Aria wondered if she shouldn't have left the man alone in his childhood home.
The tea did help. Her organs stopped trying to tear out of her through her throat and her stomach stopped trying to destroy itself. She hadn't gotten sick from the gore, the flesh she burned to ash, or the convulsions she caused through her lighting earlier that day or during the fight to get to the castle.
However, the second she lay her head down to sleep her mind was assaulted by visions of a writhing, roaring, corrupted god tearing her apart. The bodies of the undead from the last couple of days shrieked in her ears and latched onto her to keep her in place as she was torn down to nothing.
She woke up without a sound. Unable to scream in her terror or move for fear the moment she did she would lose anything left in her stomach. It was only when she had a grasp on the twisting tangle in her gut did she slowly sit up in the bed she was sharing with the rest of the women in their group. The Arlessa had been kind enough to send someone to bring the rest of her people to the castle. Now she lay in an obscenely large bed with them her in the center.
She had woken Morrigan up long enough for her to tell her where the herbs she had used for the tea she had made was before letting the witch return to her own sleep grumpily.
And now here she was, sipping her long gone cold herbal tea that helped with whatever all this violence was doing to her stomach finally calming, but too afraid to go back to sleep anytime soon.
The mage wondered if she'd ever get used to killing monsters. Or people. Or the wild animals that attacked them.
Just killing in general she supposed.
Was there any 'getting used to it'? Would surviving this impossible situation never get any easier?
How did Alistair do it? Or Leliana, Sten, or Morrigan?
They didn't appear to have the same gut-wrenching urge to vomit every time they saw the blood of their enemies.
Maybe there was something wrong with her, something that stopped her from being able to turn off her gag reflex at the sight or smell of something else out there that wants them dead.
Maybe she needed to grow up. Was she complaining too much about it? Aria's mind reeled. Was she supposed to change by now? To be better at all this killing stuff.
Aria sighed heavily and set her mug down to bring her hands to her face and proceeded to scrap her fingers through her short hair.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Taking a moment to breathe, to calm her raging, confused thoughts, Aria leaned back in the chair. She uncurled her legs and stretched them out under the desk and focused on the crackling of the fire.
Maybe she should add a new log?
With another deep breath, the elf set her hands on the desk to push herself to her feet. Her bare feet were shielded by the cold of the stone by a thick rug.
She chucked another piece of wood from the small pile a guard on watch politely provided for her when she asked; then turned back to the desk when a glimmer of something reflecting the firelight caught her attention. Curiously, she made her way to the side of the desk and picked it up.
It was an amulet, a silver circle with the chantry's sun symbol on it and a long, thin chain. Tilting her head in silence, she ran a finger across the emblem only to feel little inconsistencies in the engraving. Bringing it closer to her face, brown eyes studied it to find thin, hardly noticeable cracks all along the surfaced. It looked as if it had been slammed harshly against something, only to be stepped on. The silver was still a bit dinged up and dented inward in a way that did not allow the clasp on one end to reattach to the other half.
Not an amulet, a locket.
"Aria? Are you still up?" Came Alistair's voice from the doorway. Aria jumped, the silence interrupted by his tired murmur. Turning towards the door, the elf gave him her own tired greeting. Alistair had long shed his armor in favor of a ratty old undershirt and some worn looking trousers. Aria herself was clad in just an oversized tunic she had picked up from somewhere—possibly Redcliffe village. His bare feet gave a soft pitter patter on the stone as if the chill from the floor didn't bother him. Unlike with the soles of Aria's feet that were still quite soft and littered with blisters near constantly these last couple of weeks.
"I had another nightmare." She explained, running her fingers across the amulet. Alistair walked over and noticed what was in her hands.
"What's that?" he asked, leaning his hip against the desk with her. Looking up, the mage lifted her hands to show him the amulet and watched the man's tired smile drop.
"Alistair?"
The man takes the necklace from her and suddenly, this grown man looks like a lost boy, eyes brimming with confliction.
"This…this is my mother's amulet," He furrows his brow as if he'd never seen such a thing. "It has to be, but why isn't it broken?" He looks to the mage.
"Where did you find it?"
Aria gestured to the desk they leaned against.
"Here, at the desk…your mother?" she asked.
The blond man breathed through his nose a long, drawn-out breath.
"If it was found here, then the Arl must have found it after I…threw it at the wall. And repaired it?" His brow made deep ridges on his forehead, lips pursed.
"I-I don't understand…why would he?" He grips the amulet tighter, as if afraid to let it slip away once more. And then Aria understood.
Hesitantly, the elven woman brought a small hand to his bicep and gave him a comforting squeeze. Troubled brown eyes locked on to hers, mouth parted to say something but closed seconds later.
Aria looked at the amulet, then back up to her friend with a knowing look.
"I think you mean more to the Arl than you think."
Alistair looked at her a moment too long, turning away in a way so Aria didn't notice the blood rushing to his cheeks and ears through the dim firelight that provided the light in the study.
He cleared his throat.
"I guess you could be right."
Aria, confused as to why he turned away, just nodded and released his arm. She yawned then and picked that moment to pick up her mug to sip at her tea.
"What's that you're drinking?" Alistair asked as he turned himself back to focus on her. The mage shrugged.
"I…my stomach, it's always unsettled. Morrigan made me some tea to help me deal with it."
"Oh well…I guess that's nice—for Morrigan I mean."
Aria laughed lightly.
"Don't be mean, she's worried about me. It's nice of her."
Alistair snorted.
"Right, sorry if I cannot connect Morrigan and nice in the same context together." He bumped his hip into her slight frame.
"You should head off to bed, we'll be traveling all day to get to the Circle. Considering how you left, I think it's safe to assume you need to be at the top of your game when we get there."
"Funny, I didn't think I had game." Aria shrugged back.
"Says the girl who survived a direct hit from an Orc that sent her flying."
Aria's lips twitched; before she turned completely away from him she paused.
"Hey Alistair?" she spoke up. The Templar gave her an expectant look. Opening her mouth she went to ask how do you do it? But nothing came out. Her curious expression waned, lips thinned. Then she shook her head.
"No, nevermind. Good night Alistair."
Confused, but unsure if he should ask about her behavior, he nodded.
"Good night Aria."
Alistair was left alone in the study, looking at his mother's silver amulet in peace. With a reverent expression, he carefully opened and closed the two halves that clasped together to make a locket. Inside he could still see the faded sketch of what he knew was supposed to be his mother. But the years had not been kind to the little image and all he could really tell apart from the aged parchment was the top of a head of black hair. The face was faded from what Alistair had assumed was King Maric caressing a thumb over the place where her face would have been drawn.
Years ago, he thought as a young boy that his father had rubbed the image raw from missing his mother every time he had looked at the image before giving it to him.
When he had gotten older and his regrets for losing the amulet grew, he had wondered if Maric had even known he existed, or if he had cared for his mother at all when she was alive.
Footsteps sounded just outside the room and broke him from his thoughts. They stopped at the door frame.
"Oh…Alistair, you're still up?" It was Lady Isolde. She stood against the door frame in a plush robe and slippers, her hair loose from their updo. She looked older than he remembered without her face painted with that Orlesian makeup she probably still shipped from Orlais.
"Lady Isolde, good evening." He murmured stiffly. The two eyed each other tensely, but the Arlessa must not have been in the mood to play her part as she breathed out slowly; her shoulders slumped. Alistair pulled out the desk chair for the older woman who looked up at him gratefully before she slumped into it.
"What in the world are you doing up at this time?" she asked again. The man shrugged.
"It's been a long day, but I don't know, maybe it's because I'm back here again. It's hard to sleep with all the memories jumbled up in my head." He fingered the amulet in contemplation before making the choice to hang it around his neck.
Isolde noticed and her expression stilled, then morphed into what the man could only guess looked like regret.
"That amulet…"
"My mother's, Aria found it in here. She actually left earlier to try and catch some sleep…She has nightmares." He murmured, full of regret. Again there was a long, contemplative silence between them. Her eyes were focused on him the entire time.
"How…how have you been since…" She started. So surprised, Alistair had no time to hide the incredulous raise of his eyebrows.
"Since you forced me out? Dunno, trained with the Templars for a while—that was boring. Then I decided to have a go at a tournament, got my butt thoroughly handed to me by my betters—oh but was still recruited by the Warden-Commander Duncan. That was fun. Ah, and then I fought in a nasty little battle where my mentor was killed and only I and a little elf girl with clear anxiety problems were the only survivors of our highly exclusive darkspawn murder fun club!" He snarked.
"I'm doing just fine thank you."
"I…oh…" The Arlessa murmured in way of nothing else to say to that.
"Yeah, oh."
Isolde eyed him with a pained expression before looking down at her lap and buried her head in her hands. All composure lost.
"I think I owe you an apology that's long overdue." She moaned.
"How do you think I'm—wait what?" Alistair's back went pin straight at her unexpected words.
"I thought you were Eamon's boy. I've always thought you were a product of my husband having an affair." She admitted. "It's taken me so long to see that's untrue, it took me having my Connor to really think and realize I had let a perfectly good opportunity to raise a child and I squandered it by running you out. And now my child is in such a precarious situation and certainly, this could have all been avoided had I had a clearer head."
Alistair made and openly confused face.
"I—What? What does our history have to do with what is going on right now? Explain to me, I've been told I'm quite dense."
"If…Maybe if I hadn't been in such a rush to get rid of you Connor, my Connor could have had an older brother in you. Surely I would have been able to keep a clearer head with someone else on Connor's side?" She mumbled into her hands. Alistair wasn't sure about that, but he didn't say anything to the grieving woman by his side.
"I wish I could have done so much different Alistair, starting with you."
His heart felt like it was being prodded with a dozen pinpricks at once, his throat was closing up and he swallowed by force to make the feeling go down.
"I don't…it's not like I hate you. Sure I was miserable throughout my training, but it wasn't like I blamed you for very long. I was an angry kid for so long that it just got exhausting. Once I accepted what was going to be my life I could deal with it. And then Duncan happened. If you never sent me away, I may never have been able to meet that man, Andraste guide him. He was honestly more of a father to me than Eamon was for a long time."
Isolde looked up at him through misty eyes.
"The news of Ostagar reached even here. It must have been so hard."
Scratching nervously at the back of his neck the blond looked away.
"I mean, if Aria hadn't survived I don't think I could have made the final choice to do all this. Using the treaties, or meeting the people that are with us." He frowned.
"But I am going to avenge Duncan. That would never change, Loghain is going to pay for betraying the Grey Wardens and getting Duncan killed."
A hand reached up to give his arm a squeeze.
"I—I know Eamon will agree with you. And, I will follow my husband. We are on your side, Alistair." The Arlessa admitted. He grasped her hand and gave a grateful smile.
"Why Lady Isolde, this sounds like we're friends now."
"…Welcome home, Alistair." She answered him. A strangled choking noise came from the back of the blonde man's throat.
"I…I'm home, Lady Isolde." He used a bare hand to wipe at the tears that decided to escape his eyes along with a watery chuckle.