Chapter 10: The Climb
Solona tapped her fingers against the polished wood of the table, impatient as ever in the dungeon's unending gloom. Although she yet still remained in her cell, she knew her freedom was impending.
It had been six days since her pitiful attempt at lock-picking, five since she had come through the worst of the lyrium withdrawal. Through it, Wynne had not left her side. It had likely cost the Senior Enchanter a few of her precious remaining years, but she had stayed with Solona, day and night, in the bitter dungeon air.
At the height of it, Wynne had held her head upon her lap, stroking her hair, and pressing a damp cloth against her forehead - like the mother Solona never had. Her body trembling and heart racing, Solona had wondered if she would succumb to it. She had feared that she would die in the darkness, never to drench herself in sweet sunlight or wrap herself in the wind's embrace. For all that she was the great hero of the Blight, she would wither and rot, forgotten by all those outside the stone walls.
And then, like a fever breaking, she had come through it. The trembling had ceased and the agony dulled. For the first time in months, she no longer felt like she needed the lyrium to breathe. Oh, she still wanted it - staggeringly, achingly so - but she now felt as though she could somehow manage to live in a world without it.
The last few days had been more about recovery than cleansing. Solona's strength and sanity had slowly returned, and with it had come the ennui. Trapped together by choice and by force, Wynne and Solona had little to pass the time. They read and bickered and reminisced about the Circle. In five days, they managed to drive each other mad, make amends, and then chase one another back to towards madness once more.
Wynne had broached the subject of the child exactly once, and then, at Solona's silence, never mentioned it again.
In the final few days, Daro had been allowed to visit. Solona had openly wept as her mabari trotted into the cell, her tears staining his fur as she threatened to crush him in her embrace. Had the hound known that she had lied when they last spoke? Could he comprehend that she had meant to abandon him and rush towards her death? If so, he held no grudges, happily barking and licking her face.
Having her mabari once more at her side had eased Solona's recovery. Daro came and went a half-dozen times each day, bringing a little joy to the dismal prison.
And then, while Solona last slept, with no explanation at all, both Wynne and Daro had vanished, and a vial of lyrium had appeared upon the table.
Her tapping fingers paused as she found herself staring longingly at the blue vial. Her mouth went dry; her throat ached for it. It was a test, Solona was certain. A horrible, stupid test, probably devised by the old hag to torment her.
Solona shook the thought from her head. No. That wasn't fair. Wynne had done what she thought best; she had tried to help. She had done what had been needed to save her - Solona's stomach turned - to save them both.
She looked back at the little blue bottle. She was certain if she could ignore the vial, she would be free of the cell within the day. It called to her, offering relief from the strains that crushed down upon her. It promised to drape Solona in the sweet embrace of the Veil and guide her back to her magic once more. It vowed to cure the ache that clutched at her heart whenever she thought of Alistair. And yet, she ignored it. She wanted the vial, but she wanted freedom more. She would be free of this prison.
At least Alistair had had the good sense to stay away. Solona wondered if before her confinement, they had been apart for more than a day since meeting just a over a year ago. It seemed unlikely. She did not think she could stand to see him again. He broke her heart - tore her up inside and then wondered at the gaping hole stabbed through her. Her fool lover had shattered too much this time; they were beyond repair.
And the child? Solona swallowed at the tightness in her throat before drawing in a deep breath of the stale prison air. The child brought a thousand new complications to her life.
Her hands ran absently over her lower abdomen, before dropping pointedly to her sides. She refused to think of the child.
Time passed with a maddening slowness. Solona stood to pace the room. It had been hours since she awoke. At some point, a guard had arrived with a tray of food that she had no interest in eating. She was restless, bored, and more than a little cross. She tried reading one of the horrible books scrounged up for her, but soon lost interest. She then tried sleeping some more, but found that too eluded her; she was sick to death of books, naps, and lukewarm baths. Giving up on sleep, she remade the bed with the infuriating precision the Circle had once demand. Then, she paced more. Read more. Cursed the lot of them some more.
In the end, she settled for staring dejectedly at the damned blue curtain.
Perched upon a chair with her knees drawn up her chin, she waited. Eventually, her head began to droop. Perhaps she even dozed.
It was hours later when a creak from the battered wooden door echoed down the corridor. Solona jumped to her feet, her breaths coming short and her heart beating faster.
The iron gate groaned as the guard heaved it open. With a faint whisper, the inner curtain was pulled back, and Wynne stepped through.
She looks old, Solona thought, startling herself with the notion. She realized that this was the first time since awakening from her coma that she had truly regarded Wynne. Now, without the veils of lyrium nor delirium, Solona could see how worn and weathered her mentor had become. The Senior Enchanter walked as though carrying a heavy burden upon her shoulders.
Yet, Wynne smiled to see the seal upon the blue bottle remained intact. "I'm proud of you, my dear," she said with a little nod.
Uncertain of what she was meant to do, Solona nodded back, biting at her lip. At Wynne's gesture, she sat upon the edge of the bed.
Wynne stood over the girl, examining the colour of her eyes, the tone of her skin. Pressing her hand against the girl's forehead, and then down her neck, she nodded at her even temperature. She gave a final nod, and then sat upon the bed next to Solona.
"I have worried that we did wrong by you, my dear," Wynne admitted into the silence. "I've seen a dozen mages fight with lyrium - some even lost - but none were as far gone as you." She shook her head. "Perhaps we should have waited for you to decide. Perhaps your suffering wasn't worth the risk. Perhaps we were doing more harm than good." She shifted on her seat. "But you are stronger than that. You've come through it unscathed." Her gaze was earnest and true. "I'm so proud of you, Solona." She put a hand upon her shoulder. "And I know Irving would be too."
Solona tried not to flinch at the mention of the First Enchanter. She wanted to be angry. She deserved to be angry. They had almost killed her with their impulsive decision. She wanted to rant and scream that they had made her suffer in both body and soul. And the very gall of Wynne to bring up Irving...
Instead she wrapped her arms tight around the older woman. "Thank you, Wynne."
The sound of the old wooden door groaning open once more scattered down the hall. A few moments later, Alistair strode into the cell, smiling wide at the lyrium bottle still intact upon the table. He walked over to the pair, nodding at Wynne, and then leaned down as though to kiss Solona upon her forehead.
She ducked out of his reach. "What are you doing here?" The words were cold upon her lips.
Alistair frowned. "You're leaving today. I'm here to take you to your rooms."
"I'll find my own way."
He failed to recoil at her harsh tone. "Be that as it may, my love, as you have noted so many times, we are, in fact, in a dungeon," he gestured about the room with a sigh. "There's about forty steps up to the ground level and then another forty more up to your rooms."
Wynne held up her hands, silencing them both. "I'm much too old to listen to you two bicker. I'm going. You can figure this out yourselves." With that and a promise to check-in upon Solona that evening, she departed.
Once Wynne had disappeared beyond the curtains, Alistair held out his hand to Solona. "Shall we go, my love?"
Solona scoffed. A month abed in the coma may have drained her, and perhaps the slow laps she had walked about her cell were not as restorative as she would have liked, but if Wynne could make it up the stairs, she certainly could too. Ignoring his objections, Solona shouldered past Alistair, trudged through the open gate, down the long corridor, and out through the cursed wooden door.
For some reason she had expected the air beyond the door to be sweeter as she drank it in. She tried not to scowl as she founded it tasted just as stale. At least, to her mild satisfaction, the guard beyond the door had the decency to look sheepish as he pointed the way to the winding staircase and out of the dungeons.
She came to a halt at the stairs. Cold and grey, they wound up and around, disappearing from her sight. Solona stretched back her shoulders and quickly shook the stiffness from her neck. She could do this. She spent her first twenty years in a damned tower. She had crossed Ferelden on foot a half-dozen times. A few flights of stairs should be easy. With a nod and firm push, she began her climb.
About twenty steps into it, Solona accepted that she had made a horrible mistake. A month in a coma and nearly another in a dungeon - it was too much for her. She panted and strained with each step, her muscles crying out in protest. She was a fool. A rash, prideful fool. She should have sent for Zevran or paid the bloody guard to carry her up.
The air grew suddenly stifling. Cold sweat beaded across her brow and dripped down her neck. Her vision thinned as black shadows seeped into the edges of her sight. It was hard to breathe.
"Sol." Her name seemed to float in from the distance. "Solona. Sol?"
She hazarded another step, her foot sliding upon its rough surface. The already spinning horizon tilted hard before her.
Warm arms embraced her just as her vision went black.
A half hour later, Solona awoke to the stroke of gentle fingers against her brow. She heard music - a song - being whispered to her. As she struggled back through the heavy blackness, she listened to the vaguely familiar tune, trying to place it. Her mind was too fuzzy to sort the words, but the cadences still managed to dredge up some long-forgotten memories. She remembered the echo of the song against dead stone, the long coils of white smoke wafting upwards from endless rows of flickering candles, the scent of wood polish as she fidgeted on a hard pew.
She groaned as she placed it: it was Chantry hymn.
Prying open her eyes, Solona found herself in an unfamiliar room. She huffed at the sight; she was getting really damn tired of waking up in strange beds. Her eyes focused on the dark figure hovering over her: Alistair.
Of course it was Alistair.
"Why, in bloody Andraste's name, are you singing Chantry songs?" she muttered, struggling to sit up.
Relieved to see her awake, Alistair sat back upon the bedside. He shrugged. "They didn't exactly teach us tavern ditties in the Chantry. I know about a hundred hymns though. I could probably do a nursery rhyme or two if you like."
She blinked blurredly, her eyes no longer used to the bright light of day. "That doesn't answer why."
"You told Leliana that you liked it when she ..." he trailed off. After everything he had said and done - the hurt, the rejection, the imprisonment and more - Alistair chose now to look embarrassed. He blushed as he spoke again. "Look, just, never mind. Forget I tried." He sighed before forcing a smile. "Besides, why can't we have nice, normal conversations anymore?" he lamented. "Like: 'Why, thank you, Alistair, for catching me when I blacked-out'," he imitated her voice in falsetto. "And then I could say something like: 'Oh you're very welcome, Solona. I was happy to help.' And then you'd say: 'And I'm sorry for being so stubborn. I would have cracked my pretty little skull open if you hadn't been there to catch me in your strong, manly arms and carry me up the stairs, and -' " He stopped at her look of disgust. "No?"
"No."
"Ah. That's too bad, really. You know, you were dead for barely twenty minutes on that tower and now you're just no fun anymore," he teased.
Solona scowled in response, not in any sort of mood for jokes. She opened her mouth to speak - to spew insults or demand a better explanation, but the brush of magic against her skin stopped her dead.
The Veil stroked against her.
Magic.
Sweet, Maker blessed, magic. How could she have forgotten it?
Choking, she grabbed blindly, greedily at the Veil, clenching a thirst she had not thought she would survive. She cast any and all spells she could think of, lighting crackling through the air. She bathed herself in fire, feeling clean for the first time since she awoke from her coma. A low moan broke past her lips. She felt better than she had in months. Her body was still heavy with fatigue, but her magic sang stronger than ever. She felt alive.
Leaning back against the headboard, she let the rush of it soak into her veins, bathing in the afterglow. She had missed it more than sunlight. Coming back down from the high of it, she glanced at the bedclothes, pleased to see they were not scorched. Despite her resent abstinence, she had not lost any control.
To her eternal annoyance, she looked up to find Alistair beaming back at her. "Feeling better, love?" The cocky bastard had not so much at flinched at her display. After all her scorn, how could he be so certain her magic would not harm him? His confidence was infuriating.
"Where am I?" she changed the subject.
Clearing his throat and feigning nonchalance, Alistair answered, "These are your rooms." The nervousness in his voice only added to her suspicions.
Solona looked about the room. It was huge and lavishly decorated. Warm sunlight poured through the vast windows that covered the far wall. A pair of elaborate doors opened onto a grand balcony, overlooking the vibrant green of a private courtyard. She recognized a few pieces of matching furniture from her cell: the dressing screen with delicate birds painted upon it, the high-backed chaise with little embroidered flowers.
It was definitely not the Wardens Compound.
"Where am I?" she asked again.
He looked away. "These are the, ah, Consort's Chambers," he muttered.
The string of curses that followed would have made Oghren proud. With Alistair blocking one side of the bed, Solona shuffled gracelessly to the far side and dropped her bare feet onto the floor. The soft plush of the carpet between her toes only further antagonized her.
"Where are you going?" asked Alistair as she stood.
She ignored him, balancing carefully on shaky legs. Most of her clothing had been removed, leaving her only in a thin shift. She scanned the room looking for the Circle robes she had worn for her dungeon departure.
"My rooms are just through there," he said, gesturing at the pair of large carved doors. "Eamon will have a fit, but if you'd rather stay there, I'm more than happy to oblige-"
"The Wardens Compound," she interrupted his musing. "I'm going to the Wardens Compound." And away from all this, she added to herself.
Alistair sighed in reply, shaking his head. "You couldn't make it up twenty stairs, Sol. The Compound is on the other side of the palace. How far do you think you'll make it before you pass out again?"
Standing now, Solona's blood rushed away from her head, leaving her dizzy and weak. Her knees threatened to buckle as she reached a hand back to steady herself upon the bed.
He was right. She glared over her shoulder at him, ungracious in defeat. With a huff, she sat back down upon the edge of the bed.
"Look, Sol, just rest here for another couple hours, eat something - anything - and then I'll take you to the Wardens Compound, okay?"
She eyed him, suspicious. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she spat.
Alistair rolled his eyes. "I'll have the guards take you in a gurney. Or I'll find Zevran, if you really want. Or I'll hook a chariot up to your blasted dog. Whatever you want - I swear it, okay? Cross my heart, hope to die, Morrigan stick a needle in my eye," he said, one hand tracing an X across his chest.
Solona slid back onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Crossing her arms before her, she conceded. "Fine."
"Alright then," said Alistair, rising and walking to the door. He left for a moment, presumably to request some food, before returning to sit once more at her bedside.
Solona tried her best to ignore him, pretending to stare out into the courtyard. She used to enjoy their quiet companionship - the nights where they could sit in silence next to the campfire and just bask in the warmth of holding a loved-one near. He would wrap an arm about her, lacing their fingers together, and stealing quick kisses when he thought no one was looking.
She swallowed the lump that began to rise in the back of her throat, praying that he would look away before she grew weepy at the memories. Yet his attention did not waiver. "You're just going to sit there and stare at me until food arrives?" she bristled. Spite was easier than sorrow.
"Yep. And while you eat it too."
Undeterred, Solona resumed her staring. Across the room, a finely carved clock sat upon the mantel, ticking madly back them. It mingled with the silence, all too quickly becoming suffocating.
"Don't you have kingly things to do?" Solona finally asked. "You are still king, aren't you?"
He laughed. "Yes, with the crown, the throne, the tights, the whole thing really. 'King Alistair the Foolish, first of his name,'" he lamented. He shifted from the chair to sit upon the edge of the bed. "But even kings can demand a day off now and then - no matter how cross it makes Eamon." He glanced at the low afternoon sun. "Well, a half-day, anyways."
She gave a noncommittal "hmph" in reply.
"Speaking of kingly duties, there's going to be an official celebration for the end of the Blight in a couple weeks." His voice was cautious. "If you're feeling up to it, you should attend."
"I'd rather not," she replied curtly. It was petty, she knew, but she didn't want any part of the celebrations. She couldn't do it. She couldn't stand next to Alistair and feign good cheer. Somehow the happiest days of Solona's life had been during the Blight. There had been horror and sorrow and fury too, but those nights, weaving their way along the King's Highway, Solona had been free. She had known companionship, love, joy, hope. And now, it was over.
"It's for Duncan and Riordan and all the Wardens who died at Ostagar." Alistair paused as though trying gauge her reaction. "Oghren, Sten, Shale - they'll all be there. It might be your last chance to see them." He shifted himself into her line of vision. At her silence, he continued. "I'm going to give the Wardens Amaranthine," he explained. "Please, just come, accept Amaranthine on behalf of the Wardens, smile and wave at your masses of adoring fans, you know, that sort of thing."
For all that she may have had mixed feeling on Duncan, Solona could not deny that Riordan had been a good man, a brave man, who died trying to spare her life. As for her companions, she had known from the start that one day, in either victory or defeat, they would all part ways. And yet she missed them already - even Sten's stern admonishments and Oghren's drunken antics. Not saying goodbye was one of the few regrets she could easily avoid.
"Just for a little while, maybe," she conceded.
It earned her a smile from Alistair. "You know, it's tradition for the great hero to request some sort of boon at these." He tried to take her hand.
She pulled back, crossing her arms tight against her chest. "You know what I want."
"I'm not so certain what you want any more," he sighed beneath his breath.
Solona sniffed, feigning a lack of surprise. "The Circle's independence from the Chantry."
"Ah," he gave a joyless laugh. "If that's all then..." He shook his head. "I don't think that's mine to give. You'd be better off asking for a title or lands or a fortune or something."
"Why bother? So long as the Chantry holds the Circle, I can't have any of those."
"Ah, but you're not of the Circle anymore," he corrected. "You're a Warden, remember? So, how about that pony you've always wanted instead? Forty-foot statue in your honour? National Amell Day? Lifetime supply of cheese?"
She glared at him.
"Alright, the Circle then, I'll work on it." He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "Actually, I have something for you now," he admitted. He rose to fetch a small stack of papers from the table and handed them to her.
Solona leafed through the documents, a furl upon her brow. Whatever she had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this; they were lineage papers for a half-dozen mabari from the Royal Kennels. Having had precisely one pet in her entire lifetime, Solona was far from an expert on animal husbandry, but she supposed from the precision and ornate design of the documents that these hounds were prized animals.
She scanned the papers once more before setting them onto her lap; they were all female. "You know, when Eamon said you needed a well-bred wife, this probably wasn't what he had in mind."
Alistair laughed - an honest, genuine laugh. When had she last heard him laugh so freely? Had it been so long since they were truly happy? Fixing her scowl, Solona quickly swallowed her nostalgia.
"Ahh, my sassy lady returns," he smiled.
She ignored his mirth. "What are these?" she asked. "You want a mabari?"
He shook his head. "Well, no, not really - but I thought ... I thought maybe Daro would, ah..." he trailed off, a faint blush painting across his cheeks.
"You're pimping for my dog?" she asked, incredulous.
"What?! Andraste's ass, no!"
"But you don't want a mabari?"
He cleared his throat before continuing. "No, ah, not right now. But I thought, it would be nice if our child had one. You know, a loyal friend to grow-up with, that sort of thing."
Solona froze, her breath catching in her chest as the papers slid forgotten off the side of her lap. "Don't," she warned him.
Alistair shifted closer, bending slightly to meet the level of her eye. "Can't we at least talk about the child?"
She swallowed, staring straight ahead. No words could find their way into her throat, her indecision and fears choking her. It had been barely an hour since she was freed from the dungeon. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to accept that she was going to have a child with the man she no longer trusted. She wasn't ready to shoulder the responsibility of another life. She wasn't even certain she could manage her own.
"Sol," Alistair breathed, moving closer still. "I love you." He brushed against her. "And I love our child. Maker, you've no idea how happy I am about this." He dared to lay a hand against the plane of her still flat stomach.
She slapped the offending limb away. "Stop it," she hissed.
He pulled back the slightest inch. "I know you don't want to believe it, but child or no, I wouldn't have lasted another week without you." He gave a sad little smirk. "I would have come crawling back, begging for forgiveness." He laughed, low and joyless. "Sort of like now…"
He tried to cup at her cheek, but she turned away.
"You can't stay mad at me forever, you know," he ventured.
She forced a scoff. "You've no idea."
"Nope," he countered. "And you know why?"
He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, his weight dipping the mattress and pulling her down closer to him. Before she could stop him, he kissed her, a quick, playful peck. She felt his slight smile against her lips as he withdrew. "Because you love me too."
Frost blossomed upon Solona's fingertips as she pushed him away. She managed to stop herself before she sprayed her fool ex-lover in a layer of ice. She realized she had to act calmly, rationally, so that Alistair would accept her words. "Things change. What we had before is gone." The words cut at her throat.
"That so?" he challenged. "Look me in the eyes, tell me you don't love me, and I'll leave you alone."
Solona let her eyes drop closed for a moment, and quietly drew in a deep breath. When she was certain her voice would not catch, she spoke. "I don't love you." She stared hard at him, morbidly pleased at how even and clear the words sounded.
Lightning quick, he snuck in another kiss before she could turn away. He gave a cheeky smirk. "Thank the Maker you're a horrible liar."
She clenched her firsts, holding back the ice that threatened to form once more.
"Look, this isn't how I imagined any of this," he said, gesturing about the room. "I wanted us to run off together after the Blight – let Eamon be king and go to Soldier's Peak or Weisshaupt or Orlais or, I don't know, just disappear for a while. Get married. Be a family." His head dropped slightly. "I kept having these dreams where we'd leave the Wardens and have this little cottage in the Hinterlands with our children and your blasted dog," he confessed. "You know I never wanted to be king. And I never, ever, wanted to hurt you. But it's done now and we can't go back. I'm king until they kick me off the throne, but I'm yours until I die."
He was so close now, Solona could feel the brush of his breath against her cheek. Although they did not quite touch, his warmth engulfed her.
"Please, Sol, come back to me. Be my wife."
Solona's heart burned at his words. It wasn't fair. He betrayed her, abandoned her, imprisoned her. He didn't just get to force his future upon her. Did he truly think her so foolish that she had forgotten that he only came back to her because of the child? The child she wasn't sure she wanted.
And what of the kingdom? Ferelden was still fragile, bandaged but yet bleeding in the wake of the Blight and the civil war. There were likely a dozen or more allies of Loghain lurking in the shadows, waiting for any excuse to usurp their bastard king - not to mention the constant threat of Orlesian expansion or Chantry interventions. The closer Solona stood to the throne, the more they endangered the fragile peace Alistair had built from the shards of her broken heart. To stay with him would make it all for naught.
"We can't be together. You need to move on. Find someone else." She managed to force the words out through her clenched teeth. Her advice sounded strangely simple to her, hypocritical as it was.
"You died for me, Sol. How could I ever love another?"
"You left me once already. You'll figure it out soon enough again," she said, voice low and cold.
Before he could protest, Solona turned over to lie upon her side away from him. She didn't want any of this. Her magic drew tight about her, cloaking her, shielding her, running hot and cold and comforting through her veins.
Alistair cleared his throat. "Let me give you some advice as someone who has already succeeded in hurting his lover: when the regret comes - and it does come - it's hard and fast and suffocating."
He stroked at her back. Her magic didn't burn him. It should have burned him. She didn't trust him anymore.
"But I promise you this, Sol, when you're finished being angry and the regret comes, I'll still be here. I'll still love you."
A knock on the door and the arrival of the food saved her from any more discussion.
True to his word, after Solona had silently picked at some minimal amount of food and feigned resting for an hour or so, Alistair had gone to find Zevran. Of course, he had had no real idea of where he might find their ex-Crow companion. After wandering the outer limit of the palace grounds, Alistair made his way back to Solona's – or at least the Consort's – Chambers. He was unsurprised to see Zevran already waiting there.
Solona and the elf had laughed and embraced like old lovers. Seeing Zevran seemed to reignite some spark of life within her; she glowed. It was exactly the sort of reunion that Alistair wished they had shared.
She had insisted upon walking at least part of the way to the Wardens Compound. With her arm around Zevran's shoulder and his hand snaked about her waist, they made slow but steady progress across the palace. While they walked, Zevran regaled Solona with stories of his adventures - both old tales of his time with the Crows and new exploits from their time apart. She had smiled, radiant as sunshine at the assassin's stories. Her mabari skipped merrily around the pair, happily barking now and then at the sight of his recovering master.
Alistair had followed dejectedly a dozen or so paces behind.
When she tired, Zevran quite literally swept her off her feet and carried her the remainder of the way. She had laughed and called Zevran 'her knight', her words stoking Alistair's jealousy.
The Wardens Compound was a lonely place these days. The contingent of Orlesian Wardens had stayed only briefly before moving on to Amaranthine, leaving only the handful of returning serving staff to haunt its corridors. Aside from them, the keep was all but deserted. Built to house a hundred or so of Ferelden's Grey Wardens, the Compound was a fine old monument of stone. The bunking quarters, offices, kitchen and armoury were far from glamorous, but once, as a new Warden, they had felt like home to Alistair.
It was there that Alistair had left Solona and Zevran a few days ago, and it was there that he returned to now. When they last spoke, it had been abundantly clear that Solona did not want him around. And that was fair, Alistair conceded. She was still hurt, confused, and angry; he could understand that.
So, he gave her the time and space she wanted. For five days, Alistair threw himself into his royal duties, suddenly the very model of a monarch. He understood that when the day came for him to announce his marriage to Solona and their expectant child, he would need to already hold the regard of most of the nobility. He had to show himself as competent now if they were to have any hope of being accepted later.
Alistair wound his way around the training yard, stopping at the entrance to one of the bunking halls for junior Wardens. Like the rest of the Compound, it had been ransacked not long after Ostagar. Anything of value had been pilfered and sold, leaving only the toppled wooden frames of the bunks and few empty footlockers to haunt the dusty hall.
As his mind wandered on Solona, Alistair's feet drew him deeper into the chamber and to the site of his old bunk. Righting the battered wooden frame, he sat down heavily upon it. Its familiar creak was strangely comforting. He reached down to grab an old grey blanket, laying crumpled and forgotten upon the dirty floor. As he pulled it into his lap, he noticed the "A" sloppily embroidered into a corner. He gave a sniff of laughter; those old Chantry habits died hard. Absently, he shook the blanket free of dust. He frowned as he folded it, suddenly irrationally worried that Solona was cold at night.
He had managed to wrangle a few details out of Wynne following her daily visits to the Compound. Solona was apparently in as good as health as could be expected, though fairly sullen in spirits. For a woman once so desperate to be free of the dungeon, she rarely left her rooms. She still refused to acknowledge the child and Wynne had not yet seen fit to force the issue.
Alistair had truly wanted to give her as much distance as she liked, but in the end, he found that he simply missed her too much to stay away. Although Solona may not have accepted it, she was his wife. They had survived a Blight, they loved each other, and they were having a child. They should be picking out baby names, and making love day and night - not hiding away on opposite ends of the palace. He understood that they were still a long ways off from that, but for now he would overjoyed to just hold her for a few minutes. Even a kiss upon the cheek would brighten his day.
And yes, he was certain that despite her claims, she did still love him. She had confirmed it twice since the Landsmeet: once upon Fort Draken as she went to her death, and again upon first awakening. Alistair was certain that if he was persistent in showing her his love and devotion, she would come around.
Decided, he stood, tucked the blanket under his arm, and headed towards Solona's room.
She had chosen modest accommodations, outright refusing the Warden Commander's Chambers. Instead, she took a small but bright room likely meant for a visiting guest, far away from the kitchens and serving quarters. For whatever reason, Solona seemed determined to distance herself with any sort of command.
Alistair paused at her closed door. She was in – the staff had confirmed it.
He knocked at the door. "Sol?"
There was no answer.
"Solona, can we please just talk?," he called, knocking again.
He tried the door, but found it locked. Pressing his ear against the door, his breath hitched as he thought heard a moan. The hairs upon his forearms prickled at the touch of magic. He strained to hear through faded wood panels; the sound of his own blood seemed to roar within his ears. There was another moan. Something was very, very wrong.
"Sol?!" he shouted, banging now.
A pained cry cut through the door, followed only by thick, horrifying silence.
Alistair's heart skipped in panic. Tossing the blanket aside, he threw his shoulder against the door, once, twice, three times with no result. Stumbling back, he kicked hard against the lock, setting the door shuttering upon its hinges. He kicked again and again until the wood about the lock fractured. Bracing himself, Alistair threw himself at the door.
As the door gave way, Alistair stumbled across the threshold to see a man lift Solona from her bed and into his arms. She moaned, unconscious, as the man held her against his chest. Red blood streaked the lower half of her shift and the white linens upon her bed.
Behind them, a Veil tear rippled gently in faint shades of blue.
"Solona!" Alistair shouted at her, drawing his sword.
The man gave Alistair one careless look before stepping through the Veil tear, Solona grasped securely in his arms.
AN:We finally made it to the turning point! Yay! It only took four more chapters than I had planned. This took forever to finish and I wanted it to be over so we can move on. This chapter was even further delayed as I wanted to finish rewriting Chapter 1 before posting it. So, yay, new Chapter 1 too.
I've always liked the idea that a mage's magic won't hurt someone she trusts (unless she intends it). So, one of Solona's companions can walk through her Inferno unscathed, but if she really wanted to, she could still freeze them solid. (Mainly because I'm bad at games and I need a way to make myself feel better about always play with Friendly Fire off ...)