King Without A Castle

By: Syntyche

Four: Blue Hotel

They had traveled for days, for weeks, maybe; time remained a constant blur to the Warden whose existence now consisted of fitful bouts of rest snatched between endless marching and beatings. The Templars escorting him had one job, it seemed: to make sure Alistair could not escape, and they set upon it with such enthusiasm Alistair did not think he would ever live another pain-free day in his life even if they never touched him again.

They stopped at the massive doors to the Aeonar, and Alistair nearly rolled his swollen, squinting eyes at the stereotypical fog that shrouded the high, cold stone walls. Spooooky. He knew, however, that there would be nothing to smirk at here, no laughter emanating from within these icy shadows, only the pleading screams of the unlucky damned. The Mage's Prison was legendary, a tale told in the Chantry to frighten wayward boys and girls into memorizing the Chant, a threat harshly held overhead when normal scare tactics weren't quite enough to quiet childish chatter during class. Even beyond childhood, the fleshed-out whispers of being entombed with captured blood mages, and wraiths and demons that preyed and feasted on the souls trapped within the Aeonar, kept Chantry leashes tightly noosed and Circle mages mostly in line.

The walls rose high, disappearing beneath ever-dying russet leaves that hung limply and unnaturally still from deadening twisted branches. The dense yellow fog that had amused Alistair through his weary pain seemed almost alive, icily cold as it swirled around his feet and tried to steal the warmth already leeching from his body: frigid fingers grasping at him as though the occupants of the prison had turned to mist themselves and clutched for a long-lost savior from their suffering behind the stone.

The open-mouthed circle of Templars, no longer thuggish and self-assured, but quaking with chattering teeth, trembled as the black gate opened noisily in a loud and cruel calling out of the arrival of fresh blood: a hard shove with shaking hands against the small of Alistair's back was all they could manage to announce their presence and their young prisoner, the almost-king, was propelled into yawning darkness fighting to keep his balance and remain on his feet.

He wouldn't die here, but Alistair would soon wish he had.

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It wasn't completely dark inside, even after the heavy door behind him swung shut with a groaning thump and sealed him in. Unseen locks clattered into place as tumblers shifted and Alistair drew in a steadying breath, wincing at the pain shifting behind his bruised ribs and along the burning, festering lines curling around his chest and back. The air was thick, oppressive and rank, and it took more effort than it should have to fill his lungs and release a slow, hitching exhale past his teeth. He wasn't afraid, not yet, though the reaction of the Templars who'd escorted him here warned him that he should at the very least consider it.

But Alistair had seen more, experienced more in his young life than many men thrice his age, and the horrors that had filled his waking moments during the Blight were far beyond even the worst nightmares of the most hardened soldiers. There had been many nights he or Ishmael - or the both of them - had been too overcome by the atrocities they'd witnessed and had simply clung to each other, clasped together against the night but unable to close their eyes, to block out the fire and blood and terror and death they had rallied against that day.

In the dim light Alistair waited a moment for something to happen: a keeper or a guard to appear, a mysterious voice from the shadows directing him on. When nothing happened, he turned back and tried the entry door out of curiosity: he hadn't expected it to open, so he wasn't disappointed when it did not. Alistair felt out a hand for the nearest wall and began to follow the periphery, reasoning standing that, of course, if there was another exit, this was the simplest and best way to find it.

He made it two steps in before he felt a chill overtaking his skin, an icy creeping across flesh that was almost welcome at first as it soothed heated, throbbing areas bruised and torn by unyielding Templar gauntlets, but becoming less appreciated as it tightened the already aching efforts of his chest to draw in air and began to lock muscles long stiff and sore. His breathing slowed to stuttering gasps and Alistair leant his sweaty head against the arm he'd braced on the wall. Inexplicably, the faces of his old companions flashed quickly across his mind and he hoped they were safe, hoped his imprisonment here would buy their freedom though he had spent much time on the journey berating himself for what a fool he'd been to think Anora would keep her word to spare them if he confessed to treason and allowed her to put him away so completely. He hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, still raw and shamed from his encounter with Morrigan, and weary and wounded from the battle of Denerim; Anora had used his distraction to her full advantage to be rid of him. It hadn't mattered to his queen that he'd gratefully stepped aside, that he hadn't wanted to be king; he should have suspected trouble from her at the beginning and thought less of himself, as he'd often had to do, and more of the fallout of allowing her to remain queen. It had seemed such a simple decision, though, and honestly, Alistair sighed, it wasn't exactly easy to make grand, life-altering choices in an instant when your entire life up to that point had consisted of every single choice being made for you without anyone giving a damn as what you actually thought about it.

Perhaps he would have realized darker things were happening with Anora if he hadn't been too busy being self-absorbed and guilt-ridden. He might even have been clued in from Ishmael, if only Alistair could have shaken the unwarranted, aching feeling of betrayal every time they spoke. She'd begged him to follow through with Morrigan for them, and if he'd only been able to see it in simple black and white as she had, perhaps he wouldn't have been so cripplingly blinded by contrition for so long afterwards.

Forehead braced against his forearms, eyes closed, Alistair allowed himself the smallest half-smile. He was very good at carrying guilt and it seemed that here was no exception. And - hooray for him! - it looked like he would have plenty of time to dwell on his many shortcomings and failings.

The Warden shivered hard at another draft of bitter wind. Maker, it was getting so cold. Alistair shook his head sharply and prepared to move forward, feeling the stone carefully with splayed fingers chilled and numb.

To his surprise, the wall curved around until he found another door: he pushed and pulled against it, listened intently for traces of noise behind it, felt for air coming from beneath it, but there was nothing and Alistair realized there must be a magic seal in place for the door to be fortified so. Further exploration revealed that the anteroom was a small prison of its own: no light, no sound, nothing but his own labored breathing to break the unearthly silence.

Resigned, Alistair slid down to a seated position against the wall, curious and confused and wondering how long his captors intended for him to wait here, or if this was actually simply his new cell - and if this was it, this unyielding boredom and solitude all there was to the fabled Aeonar, well, the minute he was released from here he was definitely writing an open letter to Chantry schoolchildren about the misconception of the prison as terrifying and horrific while in actuality it was just a boring and cold and stinky sort of place.

Sadly, however, there was no misconstruction of the prison's purpose, and when Alistair's captors finally retrieved him from his deliberately solitary interment some three dark and horrid days later, the young Warden discovered that his true hell was about to begin.

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The entire prison made her uneasy in a way she couldn't place.

She wanted to cackle in enjoyment at the blatant fear of the boorish Templars accompanying Alistair, but surprisingly wisdom prevailed over open enjoyment and mocking of the foolish and Morrigan held her tongue, instead watching intently as Alistair was shoved through the opening and the door slammed shut behind him. She hadn't even considered entering the prison with him: too much danger lurked within for her to follow even if she cared to, and the witch certainly did not. Demons she had little problems with, but cast-off Circle mages? Disgusting.

Though perhaps she should be proud that the little bleating sheep must have grown a slice of backbone to be sentenced here thus so.

Morrigan had a brief moment to make a decision that she really did not even need to consider: the Templars were making a hasty retreat and though the witch had been annoyed and revolted by their brutality and stupidity, they were a safer way of traveling than through these unknown paths alone.

An unwanted, quick swishing churn of regret was all she felt as she turned her back on the man who had saved her life many times and indeed fathered the child she strove so desperately to keep safe. She knew she was leaving him to a hellish fate he had somehow managed in his typically clumsy way to bring upon himself, yet she told herself that perhaps once she found the Dalish she sought she could pass a message on to Ishmael Cousland, or Leliana … anyone who may have cared a whit for Alistair's fate, perhaps, and they could charge in to save the foolish Warden.

Alistair would just have to survive until then.

… Though she had her doubts he would manage it.

A flutter of dark wings and she was gone.

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"So, as far as vacation spots go, I must say that this isn't very promising… I'm sorry if that lets you down, really, but as for your hospitality this place is sorely lacking…"

Alistair was babbling; this, he was quite aware of.

It was simply a part of his nature, Arl Eamon's young wife used to tell him, like breathing (too loudly, but the dogs had never complained) and eating (too much, but since it was often rare after the arl's marriage Alistair had learned early to take advantage of proper meals) and he'd be lucky to ever be rid of the urge to chatter when he was shy or nervous. In the end, it had turned out that it was just easier to be rid of him than to expect him to change and he'd been duly shipped off to the Chantry. Better, perhaps, than sleeping with the dogs, but after his first few canings for talking (too enthusiastically, but the silence otherwise was so oppressive) and questioning (too much, but so little of it made sense or had even seemed practical), Alistair had certainly begun to wonder miserably which he'd prefer if he'd even had the choice. At least the dogs had liked him.

He'd often thought he might just choose to run away, but his teachers hadn't hesitated to use the threat of sending bad little orphans off to the Mages' Prison to keep him in line and in his chair. He'd been smart enough to realize that a prison for magic users was not a good place for a Templar to be and had stayed put in his hated Chantry schooling, only leaving the Chantry - joyfully, unquestioningly, with a profound sense of relief - when Duncan had conscripted him into the Grey Wardens. Not because he'd been the best, of course, but he'd moved on happily without bothering to question the Warden's motivations, and he'd only looked back dutifully when Duncan had suggested he keep up with his Templar studies. The request had served him well, even though it was partially the reason he was here - couldn't let the official Templars know one could still holy smite the hell out of a magic user even when not addicted to lyrium. Alistair knew he would be forever grateful to Duncan for taking the few things of his training that had brought him some small happiness and having him focus on those.

Alistair had known there would not be Templars patrolling these desolate and godless halls of the Aeonar, but he hadn't actually stopped to consider what would…

The Warden closed his eyes and swallowed hard as a ghostly touch prodded at him again; beyond merely icy, the frigid fingers slipped through his shirt, through skin and sinew as he was moved forward. All around him was agony: welling up from tortured, twisted beings wrapped around themselves in a vain attempt to keep the monsters out; in the screams of those who only wished they were dying, begging for an escape from the constant torment; in the moans of the starving, those seeking flesh or food to fill the emptiness gnawing at them. The wraiths and demons that stalked these halls fed on them all, stole their sanity in driveling bits as they cried for a release that would never come, a merciful death they would never be granted because the benevolent, merciful Chantry had found a way to stretch simple anguish into unending suffering.

"So, what do you do for fun around here?" Alistair asked lamely, the babbling kicking in again after his momentary lapse into introspection. He'd been in solitary confinement for three days, after all, and though his voice was hoarse now, scraping up from his dry throat, it still brought him some measure of comfort to speak aloud, to take away from the grimness of the situation with a wry comment or a silly remark. It was an exasperating trait of his he'd looked on with some bitter deprecation, but most of his colleagues - save Sten and Shale, and Morrigan of course - had somehow found endearing. "Is there a game night, or maybe a welcoming ceremony - " Alistair snapped his mouth shut as he was grazed by the icy touch again, this time at the base of his skull just below the edges of his tawny hair. The shudder that gripped him lasted a little longer, his shields quailed a little harder, and Alistair straightened his back against the onslaught even as he realized that, just like the poor tormented souls surrounding him, he wouldn't hold out for long against the continued assault. He was fairly certain the Arcane Horror drifting at his back was smiling in its wicked way and he did his best to ignore it.

As he had often in the past several days of traveling and waiting and suffering, Alistair thought of his friends, wondered if he'd spared them at all from an unhappy fate at Anora's hands. He thought of Ishmael, pictured her short red hair sliding through his fingers as he soothed her to sleep in the dark of night. His fingers twitched unconsciously at the memory, a futile recreation of a gesture now denied. Loneliness overwhelmed him, and he found himself missing his lover, missing Leliana's bright smile and sweet voice, missing Wynne's indomitable mothering and amused scolding.

Would they ever find him? Would they even know where to look?

Alistair hung his head, grit his teeth, and marched on.

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