A/N: Wow... please forgive the enormous delay for this chapter. I had a lot of actual real-life stuff keeping me busy, but if I'm being honest, I also went through a pretty long bout of intense writer's block flavored by anxiety that made even the thought of writing intimidating and painful. In all honesty, this chapter is not as long as I'd intended it to be, but in the interest of actually publishing something and getting back in the game, I'm just going to put it up as-is. I am hoping that finally publishing something for the first time since October will be the boot in my butt that I need to get back on track. As hollow as such assurances are, I CAN assure you that I do not intend to abandon this story, even if it takes me years to finish it - but that said, I'm at least fairly optimistic that I won't let another update linger for so many months. I hope I handled this chapter well, and I hope those of you still interested in this story enjoy! As always, your feedback is priceless to me, and I appreciate every review, favorite, and follow. Thank you for sticking with me and with this story, and I hope you continue to stick around! Thank you all 3

Moira's nose wrinkled as she stepped into the Hanged Man, the pungency of stale beer, sweat, and vomit assailing her senses far more dramatically than before after her brief interlude in well-heeled Hightown. She couldn't fathom why anyone would want to spend any of their sober waking hours here, but then again, she gathered that most of the tavern's patrons were in a healthy state of partial intoxication at all times. Except, of course, for her contact, who amazingly seemed to enjoy the Hanged Man's 'pleasures' at any time of day.

Isabela, already comfortably ensconced at the bar, waved cheerily to Moira as the younger woman closed the door behind her. "There you are, milady," she drawled with exaggerated affectation. "Hawke told me to expect you."

"I assume Hawke told you why I'm here?" Moira sidled up to the bar and, at Isabela's prompting, took a seat next to the pirate. Before she could react, Isabela waved over the barman, who produced a glass of amber liquid and set it before Moira.

"Oh, thank you, but I'm not really in the mood this early," Moira said, eyeing the suspicious liquid with a skeptical eye. Isabela snorted and, with a smile that was somehow both wry and seductive, extended a finger and pushed the glass ever so slightly closer to Moira.

"That's why you're no fun. A good dram of whiskey solves all of life's problems, Lady Cousland. And besides, you're going to need some liquid courage if you want to patch things up with your drunken friend." At Moira's glance, Isabela grimaced. "Yes, Hawke told me about Alistair. I'm sorry I made such sport of him the other night. I didn't know you were friends. We always just assumed he was an addled drunkard who had grand delusions about being a Grey Warden. We didn't really think he'd actually been one during the Blight."

"It's all right. A lot happened during the Blight, but Alistair was a good Warden, once. I'm hoping he can be one again." Moira picked up the glass of whiskey and took a tentative sip. A sour, spicy flavor that Moira imagined was akin to turpentine coated her tongue, and she felt the muscles of her face seize into a pained rictus as she forced herself to swallow the vile concoction.

"Gah, this is wretched," she gasped, staring wide-eyed at the glass as Isabela made no attempt to disguise her laughter. "How do you drink this swill?"

"Very carefully, love," Isabela replied with a wink, downing her own glass in one slug. "Anyway, I made sure Alistair made it safely to bed after your dramatic fracas – and no, I did not seduce him – but when I went to check on him this morning, he was gone. Fortunately for you, I'm resourceful, and I have a lot of friends around town."

"Friends?" Moira raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Well… friends of a sort? Anyway, I asked around about your Alistair, and someone saw him stumbling into the Blooming Rose earlier this morning."

"The Blooming Rose?" Moira prompted, a queasy feeling beginning to stir in her gut. Another tavern? This conversation was going to be that much harder if she had to try to reason with an Alistair deep in his cups…

"Oh, that's right, you're not local. The Blooming Rose is Hightown's 'house of ill repute,' as it were. And far be it for me to judge anyone getting their jollies, but… " Isabela shrugged. "Only if that's what they really want, you know? And I'm not so sure your friend really wants to get his prick wet as much as he wants to forget the hornet's nest of bad memories you and your fellow Warden stirred up."

Moira heaved a sigh, pushing the glass of cheap whiskey away. She'd lost all taste for it – not that she'd had much to begin with.

"Thanks, Isabela. I guess I'm headed back to Hightown. Oh, and do me a favor, will you," she said, sliding off the barstool. "If you could keep your 'friends' from spreading the rumor that the Hero of Ferelden was seen sauntering into the town brothel without her fiancé, I'd be quite appreciative."

"Hmm," Isabela trilled, an avaricious gleam in her eye. "Exactly how appreciative are we talking here, my dear?"

"Oh, for the – are you extorting me?"

"I'm not extorting you," Isabela replied smoothly. "But my 'friends' will certainly expect me to bribe them in return for their silence, so… maybe you could consider this a middleman's fee?"

Moira uttered a disgusted noise that came out halfway between a growl and a scoff, but nevertheless slipped a few sovereigns from her purse and slid them across the bar to the pirate, who snatched them up with an smile.

"Cheers, love," Isabela chirped. "It'll be as though you were never there."

"Thank the Maker," Moira groused. "And… thanks, Isabela."

"Until next time, Lady Cousland." With a parting wink, Isabela returned her attentions to the bar, and Moira slipped out of the Hanged Man and back into the streets of Kirkwall.

So. To convince Alistair to return to Ferelden, she had to track him down in a brothel, where he was perhaps already drunk, and possibly extricate him from the clutches of a Kirkwall harlot – which would probably mean another bribe, to compensate the lady for her lost wages – and convince Alistair to let bygones be bygones and return to the country from which he'd been banished with the man he hated more than anyone else in Thedas.

Moira was beginning to miss the darkspawn.

At least the Blooming Rose was slightly less seedy than the Pearl – Moira supposed she had to give it that much. In a way, though, that almost made it worse. Moira had no sooner stepped in the door than her eyes were drawn immediately to the unpleasant sight of a corpulent man in expensive but ill-fitting clothes pawing desperately at an obviously bored young elven woman, who quickly and dispassionately removed his hand from her breast.

"I told you already, fifty silver only gets you a sit and snog. You want to touch my titties, cough up the sovereign."

Moira didn't stay long enough to listen to the man's sputter of faux outrage, suppressing a disgusted noise as she approached a woman who looked like the madam.

"Excuse me –"

"Right," the madam briskly interrupted. "You look like you can actually afford the Rose, so go ahead and pay up with me first. The boys – or girls, if you prefer – are all out in the lounge. You're free to choose anyone who isn't already with a customer. If you're feeling bold, we also offer a deluxe service for two sovereigns."

"Er, I'm not interested in your 'services,'" Moira said, feeling her face redden. "I'm actually here looking for someone. I was hoping you could help."

The madam gave her a flat glare that landed somewhere between boredom and hostility. "Milady, I've never seen you before, so I'll only say this once. We provide discreet and pleasant companionship for those who can afford to pay. Emphasis on discreet. We aren't in the gossipmonger business, and we certainly aren't in the business of betraying our clients' trust. If you're looking for your wayward man, you can look elsewhere. I'd go broke in three nights flat if I tattled to every jilted housewife in Hightown."

Moira closed her eyes and suppressed a sigh of irritation. "You misunderstand me. I'm not a jilted lover, and I really don't care who does what here with whom. But I have a friend in trouble, and I think he may have come here. Please."

The madam's glare only just softened. "Listen, you wouldn't be the first woman to come here with a clever sob story. Like I said –"

Moira gritted her teeth. This was going nowhere. Maker above, this was going to end up costing her more than hiring a ship for the refugees. "You said the 'deluxe service' was two sovereigns? Well here," she dipped her hand into her coin purse, "how about three? I require a very special deluxe service, you see. There is a man here – Fereldan, reddish-blonde hair, young and fit. He's probably drunk and he might have been crying. He probably had no idea how to hire a whore, so you took his sovereigns and steered him towards one of your more patient girls. I need to talk to that man, now."

The madam stared at the three sovereigns in her hand for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face – but then she snapped her palm shut and slipped the coins into her own purse. "As it happens, I did see such a man this morning," she said cagily. "Poor bastard was already drunk. He asked for a 'sweet girl.'" She snorted. "I told him he came to the wrong place for 'sweet girls,' but he didn't seem fit to wander off anywhere else, so I sent him to Elise. She's good with the young dumb ones." The madam jerked her thumb towards the upstairs rooms. "Elise's room is third on the left. Door'll be locked. Talk to your lad, but if you do anything to Elise, three sovereigns is just the beginning of what you'll owe me."

"I don't intend to 'do anything' to either of them. But thank you." Retreating from the madam, Moira grimaced as she made her way up the stairs, past the debauchery taking place in the downstairs lounge. A distant memory, shaded with guilt, snaked its way into her mind – the Wardens' campfire, somewhere in the Hinterlands, after a day of fighting darkspawn. Alistair awkwardly asking if he could sit near her, and proceeding to tell her, with fumbling starts and pauses, that he found her so lovely and so kind. Moira, with a familiar crush of anxiety and fear, explaining to him that her love for him was only the love she felt for a brother, not a lover. He'd handled it well, played it off as a joke, but then when she'd chosen Loghain over him –

No. I didn't 'choose Loghain over him.' I never asked Alistair to leave. The memory of Alistair at the Landsmeet, bitter and angry, soured her wistful memories of his gentle campfire confession.

Before she could continue her line of thought, she arrived in front of Elise's door. Sighing, she rapped briskly on the door. Predictably, an annoyed female voice responded.

"I'm working – find someone else!"

"Your madam sent me up here," Moira replied. "I need to talk to Alistair. Please. I've already paid for my time."

She heard nothing but silence, stretching out for what seemed like several minutes, and she'd resolved to knock again when the door creaked open and a very irritated young woman glared out from the other side. She was, Moira was bizarrely thankful to note, fully clothed.

"The madam sent you up here because you paid her?" Elise said, her voice full of suspicion. "That's not the Rose policy – look, if you're his girl, that ain't my problem –"

"Relax. I'm not 'his girl.' I'm just a friend. And just in case the madam doesn't share the wealth," With a grimace, Moira pulled another sovereign out of her purse and gave it to the girl. "For your discretion, and some privacy. Take the hour off. Go get some fresh air."

The girl looked at the coin in her hand, then shrugged. "If you please. Between you and me, he doesn't really want to be here anyway. I kept asking if he was ready, and he kept just wanting to talk. He just seems… lonely. Poor blighter."

Moira sighed, her irritation from earlier melting away. "I'll take care of him. Thank you, Elise."

Moira stepped past Elise as the girl left, and entered the room hesitantly. Alistair was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, also fully clothed, his head in his hands. She stood there awkwardly for several moments, formulating and discarding at least six different overtures – now that she was finally alone with him, she found that she had no idea what to say, how to begin to bridge the gulf between them.

Alistair's voice, when it came, was bitter and brittle.

"Come to have a laugh? At the… what was it Loghain called me? The man who would be king? The great Prince Alistair Theirin, heir of Calenhad, wallowing in his own misery at a whorehouse?"

"You know that isn't how I feel," Moira said, her words soft with sympathy.

"Do I? I've come to realize I don't know much about you at all. Maybe I never did." He lifted his head from his hands, and in his expression Moira saw neither belligerence nor self-pity. His eyes were steeled with a calm resignation, which Moira found somehow far more tragic.

"That's not fair, Alistair. I never lied to you or deceived you, not once. I'm no different now than I was before the Landsmeet."

"So all the sympathy you offered me, when I confided in you – trusted in you – what was that, then? Or did you just forget about all that when you saw a chance to get the 'greatest general in Fereldan history' on your side? It's not the first time I've been thrown away like trash – you'd think I'd be more used to it by now. For some fool reason, I actually thought you cared."

Moira's anger surged at Alistair's cutting sarcasm, even as a small, rational part of her knew that he was deploying the only self-defense mechanism he knew how to wield. "I did care! I cared so much that I listened to you night after night, whinging on and on and on about Maker-forsaken Duncan – the man who watched my family get butchered, who dragged me away from my bloody, dying father! Did you ever bother to ask about them, by the way? Did you ever bother to care about my dead parents, my lost brother, my family's lands being plundered by Rendon Howe? Don't answer that."

"I didn't –" Moira's anger had shocked Alistair out of his complacency. "You have to know I cared, Moira!"

"Do I?" She threw his own words from before back at him. "Because I sure don't remember any concern for my dead family – all I remember is being told to chin up, be a good Warden, focus on the mission. Forget about my brother's wife and son, lying in a pool of their own blood in their bedchamber. Do you know how old my nephew was, Alistair? He was five. Five years old, and Howe's men cut him down like a lamb at slaughter. He was five." She was raging now, unstoppable, and in her pain she neither noticed nor cared about Alistair's increasingly horrified expression. "And my brother? He's alive, by the way, no thanks to you. Howe set an ambush for him and men, but he made it to the Korcari Wilds and spent the rest of the war recovering. But I didn't know that, not after Ostagar. I had no idea where he was, or if he'd lived, but I do remember you telling me we had no time to look for him. No time! We had time to find your bloody ungrateful bint of a sister, but no time to find the rightful Teyrn of Highever! But yes, Alistair, please, tell me how much you bloody cared about my family." She was weeping now, but she could no more stop the torrent of words than a broken dam could hold back a raging river.

"They were my family, Alistair! My real, honest-to-Maker family, but I couldn't even take the time to mourn them because being a Grey Warden was just too bloody important to worry about a few dead nobles caught up in a bicker over land and titles, wasn't it? And you know what? You were right. Being a Grey Warden, stopping the Blight – it was the most important thing for us all. Pity you forgot that when you threw a tantrum because I failed to weep sufficiently for your dead surrogate father who you'd known all of six months. Maker, you're right, what a monster I've been."

"Moira –" Alistair's voice was shaky, broken, but she wasn't finished yet.

"So no, I don't 'know that you cared.' You know what I do know, Alistair? I know that not a week after losing my family, Duncan made me a monster, and the only man – the only one – who could have understood how that felt, who could have guided me through it and reassured me, completely abdicated his authority. I needed you, Alistair, don't you understand that? But you were too great a coward, and now you dare to judge me for the decisions I made in your stead? How fucking dare you."

Finished at last, she stared at him, breathing heavily, the righteous outrage evaporating from her like steam from a kettle that has boiled off. Slowly, as she came down from her towering rage, regret seeped in to fill the hollow where her fury had vacated. She closed her eyes, cursing herself. Damn it. She'd come here to convince Alistair to join her, not to heap further scorn on him; but even as she felt remorse, she also felt a weight lift from her chest – the festering wound at the core of her broken relationship with Alistair had finally been lanced, and she felt all her lingering animosity seeping away, the infection drained from the lesion.

"Alistair, I'm sorry –" she began.

"Look, I was scared!" Alistair said, his eyes pricking with unshed tears. "Maker damn you, Moira, I'm sorry! You're right… I'm sorry I didn't ask you more about your family while I made you listen to me reminiscing about Duncan. I'm sorry I put my own pain above yours. I'd be sorry I let you take command, but I think we both know I made the right decision, don't we?" He stared at her in wistful sorrow. "I told you – I'm not a leader! I never have been! But you – Maker's breath, look at you!" He gestured wildly at her. "You were born to lead – I knew that the minute I saw you. You were everything I wasn't – confident, assured, brave. I'm a bastard and a disgrace, and there's not one minute of my life I was allowed to forget it. Maybe… maybe I did idolize Duncan too much, but he was the first man who ever treated me like I had something to offer. Maybe he was just using me too, like everyone else, but at least he was better at faking it than Eamon and the Chantry." Defeated, Alistair slumped back to the bed, the fight drained from him.

"You're right. I'm pathetic, and I'm exactly where I deserve to be. Just go. Leave me alone to the fate I've earned."

Moira's heart broke, and before she knew what she was doing, she was on the bed next to Alistair, wrapping her arms around him.

"Hey. That's not why I'm here," she said. "I'm here because you are my friend. I never stopped caring about you, Alistair, not once, not even after you left. I was angry at you… still am, I suppose," she said, allowing herself a soft rueful chuckle. "But I never stopped caring. Not even after I became… closer… with Loghain." She felt him stiffen at the mention of Loghain, but the teyrn – and her relationship with him – would need to be addressed eventually. "The truth is, you were a good Grey Warden. It's not your fault you weren't ready to lead." Of course, neither was I, but what's past is past.

"Isn't it?" Alistair repeated dully. "It's what Duncan would have wanted. I let him down, just like I let everyone else down. Just like I let you down."

Even the hypothetical thought of Duncan daring to judge Alistair sent a surge of anger through Moira. "Duncan let you down," she said fiercely. "His foolish pride got him and all the other Wardens killed. Ostagar was a lost cause from the beginning, Alistair. I know that now, and Duncan had to have known it too – but his obsession with 'Grey Warden secrets' got everyone killed."

Alistair cast a glance askance at Moira. "Seems a little convenient to omit your darling Loghain's complicity, doesn't it? You know, his 'master plan' that was supposed to win the battle."

Moira sighed – she really didn't want to debate the merits of Ostagar with Alistair, not when they at last seemed to have achieved the tentative beginning of a peace. "Loghain made a tactical decision to retreat when the battle was going badly," she said. "Alistair… did Duncan ever tell you why Wardens were needed to defeat a Blight?"

Alistair frowned at her, confused by the seeming change of subject. "Well, our connection to the darkspawn obviously gives us a clear advantage – "

"That's what I thought, too." So it was true, then – Duncan had never explained the truth to Alistair, either. A newfound anger towards the dead Warden-Commander blossomed within her. So much for being a trustworthy father figure. He had no intention of telling Alistair about the 'sacrifice' until it was too late. She explained to Alistair the dreadful truth that Riordan had imparted upon her and Loghain in Redcliffe, and when she was finished, she was surprised to note that Alistair didn't seem overly upset.

"I guess I always figured it had to be something like that," he said quietly. "Otherwise, any talented warrior could destroy the Archdemon – if it were just a dragon, that is." He sighed. "So Ostagar was just a diversion without the Archdemon, after all. What a pointless waste of life." Despite his words, Alistair's tone was measured and even. "Riordan took the final blow, then?"

This was the part of the conversation Moira had dreaded the most. Moira hadn't told Stroud the truth – though he seemed a decent man, she knew that the truth about the Sacred Ashes was a precious commodity. But Alistair had already seen the ashes, and knew of their power – and besides, she owed him at least the chance to make the same decision that Loghain had made. If he did, of course, she was back to the start in her search for a Warden-Commander for Ferelden, but Alistair deserved to know the truth. And so she told him of what had happened when she killed the Archdemon, how she had been lost within a prison of her own mind, with nothing but a fragment of the Old God's soul for 'company,' and how Leliana had led Loghain back to the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. She told him how the ashes had awoken her, had purged the Archdemon from its prison in her soul, and had also cured her of the taint. When she was finished, she saw Alistair regarding her with an expression of awe.

"The ashes can cure the taint?" he said. "So… the Wardens could be freed?"

"We… haven't told anyone else," she said. "Leliana has taken the ashes somewhere safe. You know as well as I do that Andraste's ashes – the most sacred relic in Chantry history, harboring miraculously curative properties – would be fought over by every power in Thedas. They can't be revealed, Alistair. But… if you wished to rid yourself of the taint, I am sure Leliana would be willing to take you to them."

Alistair's expression was unreadable. "A cure for the Calling. So many Wardens have talked about it, but, to know it's real..." He sat back on the bed, brows furrowed in thought. "You know, it just occurred to me that I didn't feel you or Loghain in the taint. I guess I was so deep in drink that it never occurred to me to wonder why."

"If you want the ashes, Alistair, all you have to do is say the word. I'll contact Leliana."

Alistair looked at her thoughtfully. "It's not just a cure for the Calling, though, is it? It cures the taint itself. Once you take the ashes, you're not a Grey Warden anymore. Are you?"

"No. I'm not. Neither is Loghain," Moira admitted.

"Then I don't want it," Alistair said decisively. "It's… Maker, it's bad enough I abandoned you during the Blight. You thought killing the Archdemon would destroy your own soul, and yet you struck the final blow anyway." He looked to Moira, and for the first time, she saw true remorse in his eyes. "So… I left you alone to face that fate. I truly am sorry, Moira. I was so proud to serve as a Grey Warden, and yet I turned my back on everything the Order stands for. I don't think there's any way I can ever atone for that."

"That's not true," she said quietly. "Wardens are needed in Ferelden still. The Blight may be over, but pockets of darkspawn remain, and… the Order needs a leader. You know how delicate the political situation is, Alistair." She regretted that particular choice of words as soon as she spoke them, seeing his brows furrow into a scowl of resentment.

"I'm banished, remember?" he said bitterly. "Even if I wanted to come back to Ferelden – and I'm not saying I do, after what happened at the Landsmeet – why should I expect a warm welcome? Queen Anora would probably prefer an Orlesian Warden-Commander to me. At least an Orlesian isn't going to openly foment rebellion, in her eyes."

"You're wrong about Anora," Moira said. "She'll listen to reason – and more importantly, she'll listen to me and to her father."

"Oh, Loghain wants to be pals now, too?" Alistair snorted. "Fat bloody chance."

"I'm not sure 'pals' is the right word, but he agrees that you're the best choice to lead up the Wardens in Ferelden," she said, and was confident that she was only mildly exaggerating.

"Well, I'm so relieved to have his vote of confidence. It completely makes up for all the months he spent trying to have us killed in increasingly inventive ways." Despite the derision he was heaping upon her fiancé, Moira was almost relieved to hear Alistair's sarcastic asides – it was the most he'd sounded like himself since the Landsmeet.

"Please, Alistair," she said, taking his hands in hers. "Think of this as a fresh start. Come back with us – rebuild the Order in Ferelden, but do it your way. No more secrets, no more lies. The Grey Wardens can be a force for good, and I know you're the right person to remake the Order into a beacon of hope."

Alistair snorted. "Wow. Hell of a speech. How long have you been practicing that one for all your adoring and eager recruits?"

"Only since this morning. It was nice, wasn't it?" She smirked. Maker, it felt good to banter with Alistair. She knew it would never feel like 'old times' again, but this felt like a new beginning, which was almost better.

"Could use a bit more pizzazz," he said drolly. "Don't forget the action and adventure, with a dash of mortal peril thrown in for spice."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, rising from the bed at last. "Besides, I already got you one recruit. I'm doing more than my fair share."

"Oh?"

"A young mage – her name's Bethany. Her family's from Ferelden, but they fled to Kirkwall during the Blight. She was infected with the Blight sickness, and her brother found a Grey Warden to perform the Joining on her. She's a sweet girl, Alistair – you'll like her."

Alistair pulled a face. "You sound like the village grandmother trying to set me up with her homely spinster granddaughter."

Moira punched him in the arm. "Stop it! Bethany is neither homely nor a spinster. And I'm not setting you up with anyone! I'm just saying, she's young and she was just Joined. She needs someone to look up to, someone who can give her advice on being a Warden and help her get used to her new life. I think you can be that someone."

"Yes, yes, I get it. One gentle but wise mentor, coming right up. I suppose we might as well get on with it, then." Alistair shrugged, and looked around his surroundings as if for the first time. "Oh, we've been in a brothel chamber for quite some time, haven't we? I hope Loghain isn't the jealous sort – I'm sure the Hightown gossipmongers are all a-titter."

"I already thought of that," Moira said. "If Isabela can be trusted, all the gossipmongers have been paid generously for their silence." As Moira and Alistair departed the room, she caught a glance of Elise, waiting impatiently on a divan just outside the chamber.

"'Bout time," she grumbled, slipping back into her room and shutting the door behind her with a loud click.

"Isabela… she's the pirate with no pants, right?"

Moira laughed out loud. "The one and only."

For the first time since the Landsmeet, she had hope for her friendship with Alistair – and hope for the Grey Wardens.