CHAPTER 9

..x..

A series of knocks awoke Teagan from his slumber, causing him to sit up with a start. Huffing out a breath, he climbed off the bed, tiredly adjusting his gray undershirt for modesty's sake while seeing it was still dark outside the window. He opened the door to find one of his brother's surviving soldiers standing in the hall, prompting a concerned look from him. "What is it, man? Did something happen?"

The soldier took a few breaths, spent from running. "The Grey Wardens have returned, my lord. And one of them appears to have been seriously injured."

"What…? Where are they?"

"They've just arrived at the castle entrance."

Teagan patted his arm and both made haste down the hallway and to the gates. The group of travelers was just dismounting when he and the guard exited the castle and climbed down the stairs to meet them. "Lady Everil!" called the bann, jogging to her.

"Bann Teagan…" She handed the reins to one of the soldiers and looked at him pleadingly. "I apologize for the intrusion but we're in desperate need of help."

"What happened?" Teagan worriedly approached her.

She swallowed and turned to Zevran, who was still atop his horse. A motionless Alistair was leaning heavily against his back, breathing laboriously through parted lips.

"Andraste's mercy…" Teagan went to him, horrified by the sight of his torn, bloodied armor. He glanced over his pale face, noticing a thin layer of sweat upon his brow. "He's feverish…" he breathed out, then spun to address the guards standing by, pointing to one of them while barking commands. "You go fetch the town's healer! And you two help bring him inside! Hurry!"

Wasting no time, the men did their bidding, nearing the horse and carefully taking hold of the Warden. They hastily carried him into the castle, while Everil and the rest of their companions followed. He was taken to the closest room in the family quarters and laid over a bed. While Teagan lit the fireplace in the corner, filling the chamber with much-needed warmth and light.

Everil trudged to Alistair's side and began to undo the buckles on his armor, briefly glancing at her companions as she worked. "You can all go rest for the night... I'll take care of this."

"Are you... sure?" Morrigan asked softly.

"Yes... go."

The witch hesitated, sending Alistair a brief look before walking out after the others. Everil unclasped the damaged plates on his chest and grunted when lifting them, revealing the torn gambeson beneath. An uncomfortable weight pressed against her heart, hands shaking as she stared. Had it not been for his armor, he would have probably died instantly. She gulped, attempting to block her own terrible thoughts while placing the ruined metal on a nearby table.

"What happened out there?" Teagan quietly questioned.

"It's a… long story," she sighed wearily.

"Did you call for me, my lord?"

They both gazed at the door as an old woman sauntered in, wearing a sleeping robe, furs, and a large bag at her hip. She bowed to Teagan, long, white braid nearly touching the floor. Everil recognized her, having seen her tending to the villagers inside the Chantry before their battle against the undead.

He motioned for her to come closer. "Yes, Vellore. The young man here needs your help."

Everil stepped aside, letting her approach her fellow Warden. The old woman made quick work of the straps holding his gambeson in place, then used a small knife to slice open his undershirt. She inspected the angry scars that marred his skin, a confused expression dawning on her. "These look healed."

"We used magic on the field..." Everil replied weakly, feeling helpless. "It wasn't enough…"

"Ah, I see." She placed a wrinkled hand on his forehead, feeling heat against her palm while looking him over once more. "These claw marks are significant... What were you fighting?"

"A dragon."

Both Teagan and Vellore gave her surprised looks.

"A dragon...?" he echoed in disbelief.

"Yes…" Everil seemed unwilling to explain further. "We weren't prepared for it."

"An infection courses through him and blood loss keeps him from waking… I can craft something that may help him, but I cannot say how effective it will be." She checked his pulse and sullenly shook her head. "He is too weak…"

"No," Teagan's firm tone left no room for failure. "Ferelden's stability may rest on this boy's shoulders. You must save him."

She tensed at his words, then nodded slowly. "I will do my best…"

Everil glanced at him, knowing he was referring to the throne in spite of Alistair's refusal to claim it. She didn't comment, however. Too worried and worn out to care about politics at the moment.

The healer prepared a mixture of herbs, wine, and honey, eventually forming a thick, red liquid. Her weazened hands gently lifted Alistair's head and made him swallow it, some trickling down his chin. She then removed the bloodied clothes and cleaned his scars, using more herbs to reduce scarring before bandaging them to keep the medicine in place. His bloodstained clothes were replaced with a white undershirt, allowing his body to breathe as sweat coated his skin.

"It is done." She wiped her hands with a rag, addressing the two. "Now we wait and hope he makes it. The potion should help him regain some of his strength… but it will all depend on him."

"Is that all that can be done…?" Everil desperately asked.

"Yes… I am sorry," Vellore replied sympathetically. "He seems to be a strong lad, however… You must have faith in him. I shall return at sunrise to check on his condition. Just be patient and let him rest."

"Thank you, Vellore…" said Teagan, at which she bowed her head before making for the door.

Curses… Everil cast her eyes upon the floor, hands closed into tight fists. There it was again. Powerlessness. An all too familiar feeling she despised.

The bann easily noticed the tension on her shoulders. "You look tired... Perhaps you should go to sleep. Some rest would—"

"No," she cut in, a little too forcefully. "I'm staying with him."

He nodded in understanding, resting a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture that did nothing to make her feel better. "I will post a soldier in the hall. Send for me or one of the servants if you need anything."

"Thank you..."

Teagan gave Alistair one last, worried glance and stepped out of the chamber, leaving her alone with him. With shoulders slumped and a heavy heart, she took off her gloves and pulled up a chair to sit next to him. She gently placed her hands over his, grip tightening upon noticing just how cold his fingers were.

"I'm sorry… This is all my fault," she murmured miserably, the pressure in her chest almost suffocating. "Had I been more careful… You wouldn't have… You…" A tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another, and another. She just couldn't fathom continuing on without him by her side. Without his shoulder to lean on or his arms to hold her through the toughest times. She needed his smile, his silly jokes, and his calming voice whenever he said everything would be all right. And her heart broke as she whimpered and wept, terrified by the very thought of losing him.

I love him... she finally admitted to herself, the sobs racking her body. Maker, I love him so much…

"Alistair…" Everil pleadingly choked out his name, leaning over to rest her forehead over their hands. "You have to fight… I need you… Please… don't leave me…"

The rest of the night dragged on, her gentle crying filling the silence in the room until her own exhaustion claimed her.

.x.x.x.x.

Cold, ominous darkness surrounded him as he took tentative steps through towering walls. It was difficult to see past a few feet, but Alistair easily recognized the baren bones of Ostagar as black shadows hauntingly shifted over them like ghosts in the night. He could hear the clash of metal resounding in the distance, joined by men's battle cries and the roaring of monsters. He continued forward, following the noise through what he could tell was yet another nightmare. Gradually, the sounds of battle became louder, the shadows stretching upwards, cast by the fires raging on the battlefield.

Fear gripped him as Alistair emerged from the sidelines, Grey Warden armor reflecting the glare of the burning ground and corpses before him. Through the blazes, he could see the king's soldiers swinging their blades at the darkspawn. But one by one they were run through by jagged swords and their limbs were mercilessly torn from their bodies as they screamed in agony. His jaw tensed, unable to tear his eyes away, his stomach twisting at their gruesome deaths.

A familiar, monstrous roar was heard over the wails, shaking him to the core. Alistair's head snapped in its direction just as a body came flying from behind the flames, landing like a rag doll at his feet and splattering blood over the dirt. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his gaze to it and his heart wrenched upon seeing who it was.

King Cailan's lifeless eyes stared back at him, red oozing from his open mouth. His armor was warped and his torso crushed as if something had squeezed him to death like a tin can. Alistair took a step back, horrified.

They may have never had a relationship as brothers, but he'd been the only other person with whom he'd shared a connection through his father's blood. He'd related to him in his admiration towards Grey Wardens and their tales. And he'd respected him as his king and as the man who'd supported their cause from the very beginning, regardless of his naive quest for fame and glory. With all of his faults, Cailan hadn't deserved to die like this, left behind and betrayed by his own wife's father.

An angry cry drew his attention to a man a distance away. The leader he followed blindly before his death. Alistair wanted to look away, to not witness how he died. But the archdemon relentlessly whispered in his mind, making him see what happened that fateful night through its many eyes.

He watched Duncan charge at the same ogre that killed their king, pure rage driving him on. He leaped and buried his blades up its chest, climbing it as if it were a mighty mountain. Growling in anguish, he twisted a dagger over its heart, blood gushing out of it until the monster dropped heavily onto the ground. Life left its soulless body as the Warden-Commander sat up atop it, breathing heavily and reaching for an injury on his side.

Bloodied and visibly exhausted, Duncan turned his eyes to the sky and stared. Alistair followed his line of vision to the Tower of Ishal, where the beacon burned brightly against the darkness of the night. Maker, no… His attention returned to his former leader, utterly powerless to help him in a memory that wasn't his. Maker, I don't want to see this...

But it was then that he witnessed Duncan's shoulders slump when he realized the treachery that had doomed them all. His commander stopped fighting. Despondent and angry as a hurlock came charging at him with its axe.

"No!" Alistair reacted and reached for him in a pointless attempt to save him. But the hurlock struck, and he could only stare in horror as his father figure's head was severed from his body. His shaking hand was still outstretched when Duncan's corpse fell on a pool of its own blood and his head rolled towards him. And he couldn't think. Couldn't see anything past those dead eyes that looked back at him, devoid of the warmth and strength they once held. The sight brought back his grief, his pain. And the searing anger he felt towards the man who'd left them to die.

The roar of a dragon rumbled through the sky like a crack of thunder, drawing his stunned gaze. A great beast flew over him, red scales shimmering from the flames below. It soared towards the Tower of Ishal and easily broke into its walls while more darkspawn killed what was left of the soldiers around him. The men's screams filled his ears in a maddening crescendo until each one was silenced by the enemy. And then there was nothing but death left as the howling wind flapped Ferelden's broken banner. It stood like a tombstone over the corpses, the bodies lying in pieces and left to rot amidst the frigid ruins.

.x.x.x.x.

Alistair's eyes snapped open and he instantly regretted it when sunlight sent needles through his skull. He weakly reached for his head, groaning softly and feeling ill. Ugh… Damn that bastard for making me see that…

Swallowing a few times, he noticed a bitter taste clinging to his tongue, hinted with honey and grass. And he became aware of the burning pain on his left flank—as if the muscles had been torn apart and put back together again. Memories flooded him, reminding him of the same amber eyes and crimson scales from his nightmare. He fought through the pain and sat up, breathing heavily. Then his heart's erratic beating slowed gradually when he scanned the familiar room, confusion replacing the momentary panic. Where am I…?

A quiet whimper pulled his gaze to the side of his bed, then his features softened at what he saw. Everil was seated in a chair, resting her head on the mattress and over folded arms. Chocolate locks framed her flushed, dirt-stained cheeks as she slumbered, breathing softly through parted lips. There were dark circles under her eyes, which he noticed with slight concern. She looked drained and deceptively vulnerable while lying there, seemingly defenseless.

A small smile spread over his lips and he carefully ran his fingers through her hair. "Everil..." he called groggily, throat still a little raw.

She stirred, mumbling incoherently. Then her eyes slowly opened and trailed up to his face, dazed and half-asleep. Incredulity crossed over her features before realization settled in, her gaze widening in disbelief.

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Hey…"

"Thank the Maker!" Everil shot up and threw her arms around his neck, drawing a slight grunt out of him. "Ah! I-I'm sorry!" She tried to pull away but he gently grabbed her arm.

His brow furrowed, now able to see the large, dried bloodstain covering the front of her armor. "Whose blood is that? Are you all right?"

She blinked and smiled helplessly. He was the one who'd been injured and yet here he was, worrying about her. "It's yours…" she replied quietly, taking a seat at the edge of the mattress.

His eyebrows rose. "Mine? Was it... that bad? How long was I out?"

She anxiously licked her lips. "You were out for two days…"

"Oh…" he muttered uncomfortably and glanced about the room. "Where are we?"

"We're in Redcliffe Castle. We brought you here after the battle."

Alistair paused, trying to make sense of things. "Does... that mean you were able to defeat Flemeth?"

"Barely… but yes."

"Wow… That means we may have what it takes to kill the archdemon, after all."

Everil chuckled weakly. "I don't know… Flemeth didn't have an army of angry monsters following her every whim."

"Aww…" he chortled. "And here I thought I was the pessimist between the two of us."

Relieved beyond belief, Everil's smile broadened, his laughter once again nearly making her weep with joy. After nearly losing him, she wanted nothing but to be with him for as long as possible. And so intense was the need to tell him how she felt, how deep her feelings for him truly were, that she didn't care if the timing wasn't perfect. The Grey Warden summoned her courage, awkwardly taking his hand in hers. "Alistair…"

"Yes…?" His expression sobered and their eyes met.

"I…" She wore her bottom lip and bashfully turned her gaze away, cheeks a rosy shade of pink. "I… I—"

But the moment was broken when someone opened the door, startling them away from each other. "Andraste's mercy, you're finally awake!" Teagan walked in, followed by Vellore. "Somehow I knew you wouldn't die so easily."

"Heh… Well, apparently it's not for lack of trying," Alistair jested with a half-grin.

"So I see…" The bann approached him, pretending not to notice their joined hands.

"I must say, I'm impressed you're even sitting up right now," Vellore declared as Everil moved aside, allowing the woman to get closer and touch his forehead. "Hm… No fever." She stepped back, curiously tilting her head. "You are a Grey Warden, yes?"

His brow creased at the question. "I am."

"That may be the reason why you survived… Your curse may have just been a cure."

"So the taint saved my life? Now, there's something you don't hear every day."

"In a way, yes…" The old woman went to a nearby table and placed her bag over it, producing more herbs. "Your body is likely a bad place for that which causes infection. Nothing can survive in your bloodstream for long."

"Ah… That's right. Lucky me," he said with a humorless smile. "Does that mean I'm well enough to fight? I don't much care for lying around doing nothing when there's a Blight that needs stopping."

She shook her head while crushing some plants in her mortar. "You were at death's doorstep when you came here and it's only been two days. While I understand you are feeling able thanks to my treatments, I would like to keep an eye on you for at least two more days."

"Two more days...?" Alistair repeated with a troubled frown. "But—"

"No buts, Alistair."

"Huh?" His eyes went to Everil, who regarded him sternly. "B-But... We still have to get what we need and the trip to Orzammar is gonna take several days. You saw the Blight on the way here... We don't exactly have the luxury of time."

She folded her arms, standing her ground. "I'll take care of preparations while you rest. Besides, you won't be able to fight even if we were to set out right now."

His nightmare replayed in his head as if triggered by her denial. Images of Duncan's severed head and lifeless stare flashed in his mind, causing his chest to constrict as frustration quickly took over. He couldn't fail him. He couldn't let his death be in vain. Now wasn't the time to be weak and confined to a bed. People were dying out there and the Blight wouldn't stop and wait for him.

"No, I can still wield a sword," he insisted, leaning forward towards her. "Please, you have to believe me."

"Alistair, listen to her," Teagan interjected.

She sighed, giving her head a shake. "Even if you were able to kill a genlock with your bare hands, I would still say no. I won't risk you getting injured again in your weakened state."

Alistair pressed his lips together and inhaled, suddenly angered by how easily they questioned his ability to do his duty. "You may be leading us, but I'm also a Grey Warden..." he said, pinning her with a hard look. "I'm prepared to lay down my life in battle if it helps end the Blight. It's my sworn duty, for Maker's sake! You can't just order me to sit here and ignore it!"

She blinked slowly, dumbfounded and with a sunken heart at his uncharacteristic outburst.

A sudden jab in Alistair's sore side produced a pathetic yelp out of him, making him fold over in pain. "What was that for!" he snapped at Teagan through gritted teeth as the man withdrew his hand.

"Fine…" Everil said softly, trying to ignore the ache in her chest that he'd caused. "If you want to die so badly, then do whatever you want." She stalked around the bed, picked up his damaged armor, and while her arms could barely carry it, left the room with her head held high. Meanwhile, Alistair watched her leave, unable to respond.

Vellore clicked her tongue, speaking under her breath. "Foolish lad…"

"Seriously… that hurt," he told the bann as the pain gradually ebbed away.

"I should have struck you instead," Teagan retorted angrily. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"What are you talking about?"

Teagan resisted the urge to smack his own forehead at his idiocy. "You should have seen how worried she was when she brought you here. Each time I tried to get her to leave this room and rest, she refused. She was by your side the entire time you were unconscious, crying her heart out when she thought no one was looking, waiting for you. Or did you think she was still wearing that bloodied armor simply because it pleased her?"

His eyes went wide. "Oh…"

Teagan continued, folding his arms while glaring disapprovingly at him, "And yet you tell her that you would foolishly throw your life away over your own, foolish pride. I don't know what type of relationship you two have right now, but she clearly cares deeply about you. I dare say she even loves you, though now I cannot see why."

An incredible guilt weighed over Alistair upon hearing just how far his foot had gone into his mouth. And weariness let itself be known as he mulled over his words. He was truly tired and weak, both physically and mentally. Weak enough to have lost control over his emotions and lashed out like a wounded animal at the only woman who'd ever seen him for who he was. The only one who cared for him as she did. For Maker's sake, he'd never even seen her cry, not even after her family died. And yet she'd shed tears he clearly didn't deserve. And she may actually love him?

Alistair stared down at his fists, gripping the sheets over his lap, wondering if their feelings for each other had grown that much. If love was now drawing them closer to one another, or if it had been for a long time without them noticing. If he'd just been too afraid to admit it to himself and to her.

After a short moment of silent contemplation and with Teagan's scrutinizing gaze upon him, he discovered the answer.

"Uugh…" he groaned, running a hand down his face. "I'm a damn idiot, Teagan… A true imbecile."

"Yes…" Teagan sighed and smiled. "I couldn't agree more."