Chapter 5: The Quiet

The rain had peaked and waned from dense, piercing sheets into a cleansing shower by the time the last of the Grey Wardens' companions reached the top of Fort Draken's tower. With brittle bones screeching in protest, Wynne stumbled out to find her fellows standing silent just beyond the stairwell's entrance. She pushed between the silent figures of Shale and Sten, and into the tragedy that waited; Alistair knelt upon the tower's harsh stone, holding Solona's limp form in his arms.

"Solona," Wynne gasped and made to rush to the young mage's side.

Zevran stepped into Wynne's path and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulders. "She is gone," he said.

Wynne shook off the elf's grasp and moved to step around him.

Zevran blocked her movements once more. "No, Wynne ... when the Archdemon is slain, a Warden…" his voice hitched for a moment as he tried to shield his emotions. "A Warden dies," he finished simply. Zevran feigned a cough as he regained himself. "She is dead, Wynne. She is dead," he forced. "Just let Alistair be."

Wynne's gaze fell to where Alistair knelt. The knight still clutched his lover in his arms, gently rocking her lifeless form. His lips moved next to Solona's ears, whispering incoherent words of love, despair and regret.

Wynne nodded, as her own tears began to form; she would give Alistair this moment.

Solona Amell was dead. Of this, she was quite certain. She had cut down the Archdemon and felt its spirit flow through the Taint and into her. She had felt the fire ignite in her blood as her body was consumed in the battle for control. She had felt herself lose. She had felt herself drag the Archdemon down with her. She had felt herself die.

Before her death, the screams of the darkspawn and the winds of the tempest that enveloped her had rung deafening in Solona's ears. There had been the clangs of armor and the scrapes of steel. But now, all was silent.

Solona hazarded opening an eye. There was a grey sky and little else. She lay upon her back, the cold of the earth slowly seeping into her spine. From head to toe, every inch of Solona ached. She frowned. Wasn't death supposed to be free of pain? Slowly Solona managed to sit upright, all of her muscles moaning in protest. She glanced about, weighing how she would spend the rest of Time. This was the Fade, certainly. There was grey earth and grey sky, punctuated only by the occasional bit of grey foliage. And here she was, the Grey Warden, home at last.

Solona had always imagined that the Fade of the Dead was somehow different than the Fade of the Living she had visited several times before. Yet, this was hardly any different than the island where she had been Harrowed. Perhaps the Chantry had been right all along: those that loved and were loved by the Maker would return to his throne in death, and those that shunned him were cursed to wander the barren Fade for all eternity. Apparently being a mage was shunning enough.

Alistair. Her mind came to him at last. Alistair. Her love – her only love. Solona would never see him again. Never hear his sweet words again. Never touch him. Never feel his love again. Her heart ached for him as the Fade grew colder about her. It had been her choice to slay the Archdemon. Solona cringed as she wished she had grabbed Alistair and ran out of the city as fast as her legs would carry her. She was a coward. There was no comfort in knowing that the result would have been the same regardless of her choice – Alistair would have slain the Archdemon, and they would have been separated anyways. And then, alone and imprisoned in some tower, Solona would have withered to her death shortly thereafter. This way, at least Alistair lived – at least Ferelden prospered. It had only been a few minutes since her death, but Solona missed him already; she missed all of her companions. An awful pain welled up in her chest, as Solona wondered if she would long for Alistair for all eternity, or if someday, someway, the pain would fade.

Solona let her eyes flutter closed as she lay back one more. Did she deserve this fate? Perhaps. As a child, she had loved the Maker as the Chantry sisters and Templars had demanded. She had prayed to him every night, asking him to forgive her sin: her magic. As Solona had grown, she came to question the Chantry. Magic was good. Magic was beautiful. Magic was a gift from the Maker. Yet Andraste had condemned the Tevinter Magisters, and with it, all the mages of the Thedas. How many nights had Solona spent in the Circle's Chantry wondering why she should revere the woman who reviled her? And so, Solona had turned her back on Andraste's Chantry, and hence the Maker himself. So, the Chantry had been right all along. The Maker had no home for mages after they left the mortal realms.

Somewhere the Revered Mothers and Knight-Commanders of Ferelden were celebrating her death; one less Abomination now stalked the Thedas. Solona was too tired to fight it now. She longed for peaceful rest - oblivion - yet it seemed so far out of reach. The chill of the Fade weaved itself through her bones. She tried to will herself into endless sleep; it would not come. There was no comfort to be found here.

So… now what? Solona contemplated staying there forever. If she truly was unable to fall into an everlasting sleep, then how should she spend the wasteful hours of Eternity? She sat up and looked towards the horizon. In the distance was the Black City, supposedly viewable from all the Fade, and yet forever unreachable. The Chantry said that the Taint started there, as somehow the Tevinter Magisters breeched the spirit realms and set foot in the Maker's sanctuary: the Golden City. A thought rose to the surface of Solona's mind. Should she go there - to the Black City? Solona wanted to see it - feel what had condemned all of her kind. Maybe she should go find the Maker while she was at it, give the fool god a piece of her mind. Of course it was impossible, but with the rest of Time on her side, surely she would make some progress. And if not, would it matter? A perilous journey would certainly distract her from some of the aching longing for Alistair that twisted in her heart.

And –

Solona choked for a moment. What happened if she died in the Fade? Obviously, she was already dead, but what would happen now if an army of demons tore into her flesh? When she had lived, the worst that she faced was awaking in her mortal body, back safely in Ferelden. But now, there was no mortal body awaiting her. Would she perhaps drift into some secondary Fade? The land of the Dead's dead? Or would she just remain torn in bloody pieces until the Maker rebuilt the Fade and the Thedas anew?

An eternity inside a demon's belly – the thought was too awful to bear; Solona shook the dismal prospect from her mind.

With a sigh, Solona stood up to survey about her - and jumped sideways with a start. Lying motionless upon the grey Fade earth was a faint entity. Had it been there the whole time? She could not tell. Solona stepped carefully forward to regard it. It was a spirit of some sort. A shapeless, massless creature - more trick of light than solid structure. It rippled in the Fade's haze, as if deciding upon a proper form.

It was sometimes hard to remember that not only demons roamed the Fade; there were also spirits and of course mortals like Solona herself. Most spirits chose to pass mortals unnoticed and uninterested, but there were those like Wynne's benevolent spirit that would offer aid to lost humans.

Solona leaned in closer. It certainly did not seem dangerous - more curious than frightening. She sighed, wishing she had a stick to prod it.

The haze began to collapse in upon itself. It slowly grew shape and organization, until at last it reached its final form. Solona stared wide-eyed as a tiny infant appeared before her. She stepped back once more, looking about for signs of foul-play. There were no other creatures about; Solona was alone, save for the tiny babe.

The child was new born – a few days at most. It was wrapped haphazardly in a white linen sheet. Cubby fists brushed against pink cheeks, as the infant regarded Solona with big, blue eyes. It seemed harmless – defenceless, more so.

Solona crouched down next to the cooing child, wondering how it came to be here. Perhaps it had been lost to the darkspawn horde… she stopped herself. It was too horrible to think about. Solona sighed. So this was it then? The Maker sent mages and babies to rot together? She could almost reconcile her own fate here, but leaving an innocent child to the wastes of the Fade stripped the Maker of all Divinity in her eyes.

The glaring question was, of course, what did she do with it? The chill in her bones told Solona that she should not – could not – stay here forever. But what of the child?

A frown curved its way across Solona's lips. She did not like children. It was really that simple. At the Tower, Irving had done his best to maintain the sick façade that the Circle Tower was more a school than a prison, and had once assigned Solona a trio of Junior Apprentices to mentor. She had seen about 17 summers at the time, and they - wretched, unwashed mice – could not have been more than 8 years of age. Solona had hated the way they needed. They needed her help with every spell. They needed to be herded about like cattle. They needed a snack. They needed a nap. Eventually, Solona pawned her wards off onto Jowan, before they drove her ma.

And yet this babe seemed so very different. It certainly needed more than any apprentice she had been saddled with, but for some reason, Solona felt that she was willing to give to this child. Perhaps it was its innocence or maybe even just the fear of an eternity alone that drove her.

Solona sighed as she reached a decision. With a careful spell, she summoned a tiny ring of embers midway up the skirt of her robes. The flames lasted barely a moment before extinguishing themselves, severing a foot or so of cloth from her garment. She gathered the fallen cloth and fastened it about her shoulders into a sling. Carefully, Solona lifted the infant and its blanket into her sling, and secured it there.

"You're lucky I died in my Circle robes, and not the Tevinter set," she muttered.

With that, Solona turned towards the Black City in the distant horizon. It was said that no unwelcome mortal could reach it from the Fade, but Solona was certain her magics were strong enough to guide her. She would reach the city and confront the Maker for his injustices. Or at very least, she would spend the rest of eternity trying.

The rains had ceased, leaving only a cool breeze to chill the bones to the Warden's companions. Time itself had stalled. Around the tower, they slumped in silence. They could find no words nor actions to right the wrong before them. Except for one.

Daro skirted to and fro before Alistair's shaking form. The mabari whined and barked, trying to make the foolish human understand.

Alistair ignored him.

Daro whined and scrapped his paw against the tower's stones. With a short bark he paced about a small circle before tugging once more upon the hem of Solona's robes.

"She's dead!" Alistair screamed, kicking out at the hound. "Leave her alone."

The hound cowered for a brief second, before running off towards the silent crowd of companions. Daro barked at the sullen group, but none would pay him any heed. Finally, he slunk behind Wynne, and gave her a steady push with his head.

The old mage stumbled for a moment before regaining her defeated stance. Daro barked and nudged Wynne once more.

Wynne was not ready for this. It was all so wrong. Part of her cried out, protesting that this was all real. Perhaps if she just waited and closed her eyes the world would right itself, and ... Wynne shook herself; she was much, much too old to live in daydreams. "Yes," she nodded to the hound. "It's time."

With tired body and broken heart, Wynne strode towards the sobbing king. "Alistair?" she hesitated. "Alistair, my boy, we should ... " her words trailed off. Anything she said now would be hollow and heartless. She squeezed her tired eyes closed for a moment, blocking out all the anguish that radiated into her. No. This had to be done. "Alistair," Wynne sighed. "We have to go now."

The boy only shook his sandy hair and clutched tighter to Solona.

Wynne felt cruel for even trying. "Alistair," she said again, this time placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder, "It's time to let go."

When she received no response, Wynne knelt down in front of him, with Solona's silent form between them. The old mage felt the prickle of tears well up into her eyes once more. It wasn't fair. Solona was so young; she had so much potential. And now the poor girl was dead.

"Alistair," Wynne voice sounded hollow in her own ears. "I know it hurts, but..." she stopped. There was really nothing at all she could say. With hands that felt weighted with a thousand years of strain, Wynne reached out to run a gentle trail along Solona's brow.

Wynne gasped as she pulled back her hand. She blinked for a moment before regaining herself and placing her palm firmly over Solona's forehead. Her breath quickened as she fought to the find the words.

"She's still here," Wynne choked. "I can feel her, Alistair. She's still here."

The knight turned to Wynne with eyes wide and jaw hanging lose in disbelief. His hands leapt to Solona's throat, feeling, praying for any sign of a pulse.

"She's just barely hanging on. I think I can..." Wynne began, as a pale blue light began to glow around her hands. It travelled down across Solona's brow and into her chest, where it began to shine white and strong.

The commotion and light drew the Wardens' companions near; behind them crowded their remaining allies. Together they huddled over the Wardens with sort breathes and prayers upon their lips.

The light upon Solona's chest grew stronger by the moment, until when at last it was too bright to watch, a faint thump against Alistair's fingers caused him to cry out in hope and relief and panic: a pulse, where there was none just a moment before.

"Heal her! Wake her up!" he demanded, irrational and shouting at the old woman before him.

Wynne shook her head; more grey locks fell free. "She's too weak. We need to get her inside." As she moved to stand, exhaustion flooded the healer and her knees gave way. A young mage shot out from the crowd and grabbed Wynne's arm, steadying her old mentor.

"Petra." Wynne said with a faint smile.

Shale pushed forward, extending her stone arms out to Alistair. "I will take It below," the golem announced, and was promptly ignored. Alistair only clutched tighter at Solona.

All fell silent when a faint gasp broke from Solona's lips as she took her first breath in what felt like an eternity.

"Solona!" Alistair shouted. "I'm sorry. Oh Maker, I'm sorry. I love you. I need you." he continued to beg, shrugging off any who attempted to remove the Warden from his grasp.

"Alistair, we need to get her inside," Leliana pleaded upon deaf ears.

Only Wynne's voice managed to make its way to the knight. He glanced up as the mage turned to her apprentice.

"Petra," he heard Wynne whisper, "I need you to..." but could make out no more. The young mage looked shocked, but nodded in agreement as she began to call upon the Fade.

And then Alistair's world went black.

Solona had marched towards the Black City for some time now. How long exactly, she had no way for knowing. Perhaps it had been a day, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps a year, perhaps a lifetime.

Beyond the constant, nagging fatigue that laced itself throughout the Fade, Solona never actually grew tired nor hungry. At one point, she had tried to sleep - more out of ritual than requirement. She had lain down upon the dusty Fade earth with the babe at her side and shut her eyes. Eventually, when nothing at all transpired, she rose and continued on her way.

Solona looked down at the child in her sling. It too seemed unable to sleep. It never cried, nor fussed. It just lay in the sling, inquisitive eyes fixed upon her. Now and again, it would wave a chubby fist and coo, but nothing more.

It could have been much worse, Solona concluded. Death, that is, could have been much worse.

Yet then again, Life could have been so much better. How could she have died so young, and yet amassed so very many regrets? She should have learned more Blood Magic. She should have taken Morrigan's dark offer. She should have broken out the Tower with Jowan years ago. She should have kissed Cullen. She should have slapped Anora. She should have never let Alistair take the crown. She should have - Solona stumbled for a moment with a frown. This wasn't helping anyone.

They said that some factions of the Dalish had come to believe in reincarnation. Perhaps she would get another chance to live without remorse - but that was nothing but a foolish hope. Solona shook herself from the memories, and continued on towards the Black City with a quickened pace.

Far behind her, a scent of demons gathered.

The first rays of sunlight found Alistair Theirin passed out in a barren hallway. The future king had alternated between fitful sleep and anxious staring at the locked door before him since their arrival at the palace.

It had been four days since the defeat of the Archdemon. As soon as the palace had been secured, an armed escort of nearly fifty soldiers and mages had moved the fragile form of Solona Amell across Denerim to a lavish stateroom. Wynne had protested at first - the Warden was still much too weak to be moved - but eventually all agreed that it would be cruel to expect Solona to heal in a prison tower.

Upon their arrival, it had taken less than hour of Alistair getting in the way - sitting next to Solona, trying to hold her hand, asking her to forgive him, begging her to wake up - before Wynne ordered Petra to engage in high treason once more, and hex the future king into sleep for a second time. The story of how a half-dozen tiny mages proceeded to drag the sleeping sovereign into the hall and dump him unceremoniously there would circle the dormitories of the palace guard for years to come.

Alistair was forced to sit and stare at the locked door from the hall as a constant string of mages filtered in and out in shifts. Apparently only mages could open the enchanted door, leaving Alistair to alternate between shifts of frantic pacing and frenzied hammering upon the barrier, demanding that Wynne let him in. Of course, the mage did not. Oh, he could have gotten into that room. He could have called in the templars and had them tear the palace apart. He could have charged into the room and pulled her into his arms , and ... she would have hated him all the more for it. If she ever woke up.

At some point, Arl Eamon had arrived and taken a silent seat next to him. Alistair failed to acknowledge his uncle, manically tapping away at his chair arm instead. Eventually, the Arl could wait no more. "Alistair, my boy," Eamon began. "People are starting to return to Denerim."

The king did not so much as grace his uncle with a glance. "Wonderful..." Alistair muttered, staring onwards at the locked door. His tapping fingers kept a steady pace.

The Arl tried another route, "We've received word that the Orlesian Grey Wardens should be here within a week."

"Great."

"The nobles are requesting that your coronation take place as soon as possible; they want to return to their homes to rebuild."

"Stupendous."

"The palace is overrun with darkspawn and we're all going to die."

"Thank Blessed Andraste."

"Alistair!" Eamon finally shouted, giving the Warden a slight shove.

Alistair blinked for a moment before turning his grim gaze towards the Arl. "What?" he asked coldly.

"You have to snap out of this, my boy." Eamon urged. "There is an entire country to rebuild; your people need you."

"No. They need someone to sit on the throne and look pretty. You can run Ferelden without me, Eamon," Alistiar mumbled. "Solona needed me, and I spat in her face."

The Arl flopped down in his own chair. He was too tired and too old to deal with this. He wanted nothing more than a good night sleep and a few hours with his wife and child. It would be so very easy to just leave for Red Cliff. In the end, Eamon's diplomatic side won out; he attempted to reason with Alistair. "Solona's actions were her own choosing. She did what she did so you could be on the throne - so you could look after Ferelden."

The tapping halted. Eamon sat up; perhaps he had actually reached the boy.

"What would I even say to her if ... if she wakes up?" Alistair asked.

Eamon stooped once more; his attempts remained futile.

" 'Hello my love, sorry I called you an Abomination'?" Alistair began to tap at the chair's arm once more. "Or how about: 'My, my, don't you look lovely today Solona? Thanks for dying for me. Incidentally, could you just do me a favour and just disappear somewhere?'"

"Would you rather tell her that she risked death for nothing? That you would let the throne fall to chaos and all her pains - in body and soul - were for naught?" the Arl demanded, his voice a combination of desperation and irritation.

"Oh? Yes, I think my dear lady would love to hear that Alistair pissed on her heart for a cause without conviction," came a voice from across the hall.

Alistair and Eamon spun about to see Zevran and Leliana leaning against the far wall.

"Zevran...that was ... unkind," Leliana chastised half-heartedly.

The elf only shrugged in response.

The two rogues had been present the most of any of the companions. Of course Wynne was only a few yards away, hidden behind the dark door, but Alistair had not actually seen her for days. Apparently Oghren had grown restless within a few hours of waiting and declared that he was going hunting for straggling darkspawn. Unwilling to do nothing but wait for Solona's recovery or demise, Shale and Sten had silently joined him.

"How long have you been there?" Eamon demanded of the pair. The Arl had seen them fight loyally at Solona's side time and again, but he could still not bring himself to trust them. An Antivan and an Orlesian could hardly have Ferelden's best interests in mind. If he could, he would have them respectfully removed from the palace. Yet, Alistair insisted that the so-called Chantry sister have free reign of the palace - and it seemed that no lock nor guard could keep the elf from wandering at will.

Zevran shrugged once more. "Oh you know. We go here. We go there."

Eamon could only shake his head as he rose to his feet. With the foreigners hanging about, there was no point in trying to discuss anything official with the boy. "Alistair," he said, "I'm going to start making plans for a coronation. Solona knew this is for the best." He gave Alistair one last long glare, "Think about what she really wanted."

Silence filled the room after Eamon disappeared through the passageway. It was sometime later when Leliana began to hum a soft tune and strum sweetly upon her lute, pushing back the oppressive quiet. The notes seemed to drift below Alistair's skin and release some of the turmoil seething there.

It was some long hours later when the door to Solona's chamber suddenly slammed opened. Wynne had barely slept more than a few hours since their arrival at Denerim, yet neither her fatigue nor her age prevented her from rattling the door upon its hinges. She stamped to where Alistair sat, ashen grey, even in surprise. Without warning, Wynne lifted a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. Tears streamed down from the corners of her eyes.

"Wynne," Alistair choked. "Is she – "

The mage silenced him with the accusing thrust of a finger. "Tell me you didn't know," she rasped, face red in fury. "King or not, I will take you over my knee…" Wynne shook herself from the thought, and jabbed her finger sharply into Alistair's chest. "Swear to me you didn't know."

Alistair stammered for a moment. "I didn't know!" he exclaimed, and then crossed his brows. "What, exactly, didn't I know?"

Wynne trembled as she ran a hand through her snowy hair; her fingers caught in the snarled ends that sprang free from her bun. With a cold breath, she lowered her hands to her side. Of course the boy didn't know. There was no way that he, or Solona or anyone else for that matter, could have known. She drew another long breath, forcing herself to be calm.

"Solona is with child."

A/N: Thanks to those that take the time to review. Also, my apologies, I don't have a Beta Reader anymore. Shocking, no?

Anyways, it always bothered me that if you were a Human Noble, you could get around the whole Tainted childbirth thing with a sex joke... but if you were a Human Mage, it was utterly insurmountable. On that note, this is warning that the story henceforth won't be about the Wardens' happy family time - there's still darkspawn running amuck! And besides, Solona can't just forgive Alistair that easily...

This is probably all out of date now that Awakenings has been released...Oh wells.