Spiritus Mundi

by Speakfire

The Archdemon is dead and Ferelden survives. But darkness lingers and as they say, without darkness, there can be no light. End-game spoilers. Alistair/Dalish Elf

7. Some Revelation Is At Hand

CHAPTER 6

Flemeth faded, and when she did, so did Alistair's chances of recovering his son. He redoubled his efforts, swinging his sword again and this time, he landed a solid hit.

"Ow!"

"For the love of… I told you to watch his arms! Your Majesty, wake up!"

"Well I didn't take his bleedin' son! Andraste's flaming knickers, it hurts. I think he broke it!"

"Quit your sniveling and move back, you're dripping blood everywhere."

"What's he goin' on about a son for anyway, wasn't the baby a girl?"

"Quiet! He's starting to come around—and for Andraste's sake, Terrance, put your sword away. Your Majesty? Sire?"

Alistair could dimly hear someone calling at him as though from a long way away. He had a pounding headache and Flemeth's thunderous dragon voice still rang in his ears, all but drowning out the worried voice of his guard. Unlike the previous morning when he had jerked awake so fast he found himself disoriented, this time he fought to regain consciousness.

Powell's familiar voice muttered, "Thank the Maker, I think he's waking up finally. King Alistair? Are you all right?" A hand gripped his shoulder and then gave it a wary shake. "Sire? You need to wake up."

Through strength of will, he forced himself to open his eyes and winced in pain at the dim light coming from the lamp. "What is it?" he rasped, and Maker's breath his throat hurt. In fact, his entire body ached, as though he were still feeling the lingering effects of the injuries suffered in his dream, but that was impossible. Blinking his lids to clear away sleep, he focused on the guard standing over him through bleary eyes. "What's wrong?" Alistair asked groggily, levering himself up to one elbow and groaned at the spear of pain stabbed through his muscles.

The balding guard shook his head, answering, "Sire nothing's wrong, it's just…" he hesitated and said, "you were shouting, it sounded like you were under attack."

"I was shouting?" he repeated. Well that explained why his throat felt like it was on fire.

"Loud enough that I'm surprised if you haven't woke up whole bloody castle," Terrance muttered in a nasal tone. The young, sandy haired guard had a bloody rag held up to his nose. When Powell shot him a quelling look, he ducked his head and added with more respect, "Beggin' your Majesty's pardon."

Alistair blinked at the guard, "What happened to your nose?"

Powell cleared his throat and rubbed his bald pate. "We had a really had time waking you up. Terrance got a bit too close when you were thrashing about."

It took a minute for that to sink in. "Wait, I hit you?" Alistair said with disbelief, and reddened when the young guard nodded. "I'm so sorry, I must have been out of my mind."

"That's the Maker's own truth," Terrance immediately agreed, and then backed up a step at the other guard's glare.

"It seemed to be quite a bad nightmare," Powell said, worry fading from his face now that his King seemed to have his senses back.

Alistair dropped back onto the pillow, rubbing his eyes with one shaking hand. Even dream memories from the previous night seemed almost dull in comparison to how vivid this nightmare had been. His hand ached from where he'd gripped Starfang in his fist and beat it like a club into Flemeth's dragon skin, and every muscle in his body ached from where she'd knocked him aside and thrown him against the wall. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his bare chest, halfway expecting to see the dark purple smear of a massive bruise there, but his skin was unblemished outside of the occasional mole, of course. "It was so real—like she was right here…" he mumbled.

Terrance lowered the rag and peered at it, trying to see how bad his nose was still bleeding. A dark trail began to stain his upper lip, and he wiped it up, asking, "Who, Sire? Lyna? Or Flemeth? Hey, isn't that the Witch of the Wilds, from that one legend?"

"Flemeth," the King said distantly and then blinked at the sandy-haired guard. "Wait, how'd you know she was in my dream?"

Powell looked quite uncomfortable at the question and shrugged, "Like I said, you were shouting, Majesty. You shouted Warden Commander Lyna's name a time or two, and something about Flemeth and dragons."

Pressing the blood-stained rag to his nose again, the young sandy-haired guard sniffed, saying, "When you cold-cocked me, you were yellin' at me not to take your son and then…"

"Terrance," the older guard interrupted and gave him a hard look. "Your trap is yapping. You might want to look to that." Powell jerked his head toward the door in a wordless command.

Paling a bit at Powell's glare, Terrance kept the rag up to his nose and gave Alistair a quick, nervous bow. "Ahem. Well then, Sire, since you seem to be all right, I'll just, er, go back to my post." He hurried back outside.

Powell turned his attention back to his King and said formally, "I apologize for his lack of tact, Majesty."

He shook his head and regretted doing so, as it seemed to rattle his brains around in his throbbing skull a bit more. "I can't believe I hit him. I don't even remember doing it."

"Don't blame yourself, Sire. You seemed to be quite out of it. He's young, he'll heal quickly." The guard gave him a slight bow, "I'll leave you in peace. It's nearly dawn, perhaps your sleep from here on out will be more restful." Turning, he walked out the door and pulled it closed behind him.

The thought of falling back asleep and risking yet another dream held no temptation for him. Moving more like an old man than a young king, he edged his way over to the edge of the bed and sat up with a low groan of pain. Though he had no outward physical signs, the last time he'd felt this mentally battered and bruised had been after the battle with the Archdemon. Ironically, that fight had gone much more in his favor. At least I didn't get eaten, he thought to himself with wry amusement and then sobered. Nathan had not been so lucky, and Lyna had not fared much better than Alistair himself.

The only other time Alistair could ever recall such a strong reaction had been that last dream he and Lyna both had right before confronting the Archdemon, when the great dragon had seemed to look directly at them. The beast's booming roar of challenge had thundered loud in both his ears and head, just as Flemeth's just had. That comparison got more disconcerting the longer Alistair thought about it. When he'd yanked his sword out of the shapeshifter's arrow-riddled body five years ago, that was it, the fabled Witch of the Wilds was dead. But after last night's dream, he suddenly wasn't so sure. Was killing a woman—if she could even be called that any more—who had endured for more than six hundred years by possessing her daughters' bodies in a long line of succession really going to be as easy as simply skewering her with a blade?

Levering himself to his feet, he walked barefooted across the cold stone floor to his clothing trunk and began to get dressed. The events of his dream replayed in his thoughts. It had started off innocently enough. For sure, it wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of being nothing more than a Grey Warden, or of having made a family with Lyna, children and all. Nathan as his son was a new feature, but not unexpected given the events of the last couple of days. That first knock on the door had shifted the fantasy from sappy, idyllic bliss into something more ominous and foreboding. Flemeth was creepy enough in the flesh but in this nightmare, she had been far more dreadful and powerful as well. The Witch of the Wilds may have been vulnerable to attack in her physical form, but in regards to her spiritual form in the Fade, the opposite seemed to be true.

That's why she was after Nathan, he abruptly realized. It was just as Wynne had suggested. The boy would be a source of unimaginable power to any maleficar, and in the hands of someone like Flemeth of all people… Alistair shivered at that notion. The Witch of the Wilds being invulnerable in both the Fade, as she had appeared to be, and in the waking world as well would most definitely be a nightmare brought to life.

He finished pulling his boots on and ran a comb quickly through his hair, sighing. Perhaps his dream had been just that, a dream, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, not with the lingering effects of Flemeth's pounding voice still throbbing dully in his head. The image of Nathan being swallowed whole by the shapeshifter flashed in his mind again and he had a sudden urge to check on the boy to make sure he was all right.

Terrance was nowhere to be seen when he opened the heavy wood door to his bedroom and went out into the hall. At his inquisitive look, Powell explained, "His nose wouldn't stop bleeding and one of the maids got a look at him and nearly fainted. He's gone to get Merrill until it stops." The guard paused before saying, "There was a bit of a din coming from Wynne's room as well. I checked in on her straight away and everything appears to be fine. It just seems you weren't the only one having nightmares last night."

Alistair hurried down the corridor to the mage's room before the balding man had even finished his explanation. He could hear a child's crying through the heavy wood door and the quiet sound of Wynne's voice as well. Not even bothering to knock, he entered the room.

Wynne was sitting on the edge of the bed with Nathan cradled in her lap, doing her best to calm the sobbing boy down. "We didn't wake you up, did we?" she asked when she saw him, her face strained with worry.

"I wouldn't have cared if you had," he told her and made his way over to the bed to sit down beside her. Nathan started at the sound of his voice and began struggling to get free of the mage's arms, his small face streaked with tears. Alistair instinctively reached out to take the little boy from her and held him to his chest, soothing him, "It's all right, it was just a bad dream, you're fine…" The words seemed rather ridiculous to say out loud but that didn't matter, because they seemed to be helping none the less. The wracking sobs were subsiding, though the child still clung to his neck with desperation and his tunic was soaked clear through with tears.

The mage pulled the wet fabric of her sleeping gown away from her shoulder with one hand, while wiping sleep away from her eyes with the other. Her long grey hair flowed down her back, free of the bun she kept it in at all times during the day. "He woke up a short while ago, screaming. I've been trying to calm him down, though with less success than you're having," she said with rueful humor, watching the man and child.

Nodding over Nathan's head, Alistair confided, "I had one myself, bad enough that Powell and Terrance had to wake me up. I was shouting loud enough in my sleep that they thought I was under attack, which, in a way, I suppose I was, since that's exactly what was happening in my dream." Grimacing, he patted the boy on the back, careful to avoid his shoulders. The boy's weeping had subsided to loud sniffles and ragged hiccups.

"What happened to Terrance, anyway? I saw his nose was bleeding, but was otherwise occupied at the time." Wynne reached out, brushing her hand over the child's head. "I wonder what his nightmare was about. I suspect it was more memory than dream, perhaps something of his ordeals before we found him in the road."

Coughing, the King admitted, "I uh, kind of hit Terrance. Accidently, of course. Powell said when they tried to wake me, I was thrashing around and got him good. I don't even remember doing it," he said, embarrassed. "I suppose I thought he was Flemeth." The instant he said the name, Nathan shuddered and started crying again.

Wynne's eyebrows rose at the boy's reaction and her blue eyes rose up to meet Alistair's. "He knows her name? She was dead before he was even born, how would he know her name?" she wondered, sounding confused.

"I'm not sure," he replied as he tried to still the child's tears again with quiet sounds. When he had been a child, sometimes the older children would try to scare little ones by telling them that Flemeth was coming to steal them away, so perhaps he may have heard her name in that regard. Thinking for a moment, he lowered his head a touch to ask, "Nathan, did you have a nightmare about Flemeth too?"

The child nodded into the crook of his neck, his small body shaking.

Alistair paused, closing his eyes and almost dreading the answer to his next question. "Were Lyna and I both there with you?" The hairs on the back of his neck rose when the child trembled and nodded again.

"Are you thinking you both had the same dream? What happened in it," Wynne asked uneasily, looking between the two. As a mage, she was even more familiar with the dangers of the Fade than he.

"It started out simply enough." He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment as he explained the ridiculous fantasy that the dream had began with. "I was just a Grey Warden in my dream and Lyna and I were, uh, married. Nathan was our son."

The grey-haired mage nodded once, and there was something sympathetic in her eyes when she regarded him. "Not an uncommon vision for you, I would think, is it? Wishing you were back to being just a normal person that no one looked twice at? I myself have had countless dreams in which I was nothing more than a simple peasant woman, not a mage, able to raise my son in peace," she said and gave a sad shake of her head. "Waking up to reality always seems more difficult afterwards."

The boy had calmed down again and shifted in Alistair's arms, turning sideways on his lap to rest his cheek against the man's chest. His small face was streaked with tears and he rubbed his runny nose with the back of his hand, sniffling noisily.

Sighing, the King shook his head. "No, it's not the first time I've had dreams like that, though of course this was the first one where he was my son."

"Tati," Nathan whispered longingly, glancing upward at him.

The paternal term of endearment hung in the air for a moment and Wynne stiffened a little, pursing her lips. "Go on about the nightmare."

Alistair's arm tightened around the child and he swallowed down the lump in his throat before continuing, "Someone knocked on the door and when I opened it, it was Flemeth. To make a long story short, she turned into a dragon and attacked us. She said that I had something that belonged to her, and her voice…" He shuddered at the memory of the booming voice. "I could hear it and feel it in my head. It was so loud it the force of it alone almost knocked me to my knees. Lyna and I tried to fight her, for all the good that did. She knocked both of us aside and then picked him up and ate him. She just swallowed him down whole."

Nathan whimpered as he spoke, hiding his face in the man's shirt again and clinging to him.

Wynne rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, crossing her arms and resting her fingertips on her chin in thought. "You say she spoke to you?" she asked, turning towards him. "What did she say, can you remember?"

He nodded and shifted the little boy on his lap, holding him protectively. "How could I forget, the way she was pounding every word into my head like a hammer, I've still got a headache from it," he added with a wince. "She said that our weapons couldn't harm her in the Fade, and that certainly was true. My sword had no effect on her. I felt like I was trying to chop down a tree with a rotten stick. Lyna's arrows either bounced or shattered into splinters against her hide."

"That's it? She said nothing else that might give us a clue as to her intentions?"

"Her intentions seemed pretty clear to me,she was after Nathan and was willing to do anything it took to get him," Alistair pointed out. "She said she had waited for him for five centuries and through two Blights. And she called him something—Urthiel? Urthmal? Urth-something or another, anyway," he said, noticing with vague awareness that the boy had gone still in his arms. "You know how bad I am with names, assuming it was even a name she called him by. It could have been a curse word, I suppose."

The mage sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily, confessing, "I have always wondered if that would be the end of it, when we killed Flemeth. The battle seemed remarkably easy—or easy as far as killing dragons can be referred to as such."

"Easy," he repeated, giving her an incredulous look. "I seem to remember her picking me up and shaking me like I was a Mabari's chew toy before you hit her with a spell that knocked me free. She broke three of my ribs, if you will recall."

"Even so," Wynne said with a dismissive gesture, "if it were as uncomplicated piercing her with a blade or arrow, Flemeth's name likely never would have become legend. I should have known better, especially after reading her grimoire."

"What, you mean in regards to her taking over her daughter's bodies over the years? Lyna told me that's what she had in mind for…" he had to force himself to say the woman's name, "Morrigan." Nathan squirmed restlessly in his lap and he loosened his grip on the boy so he could slide down to the floor if he wanted to. "Anyway, why haven't you said something before now, if you didn't think that was the end of it?"

She was about to respond when someone knocked on the door. They both looked in that direction, and Wynne held her hand up, beckoning him to wait a moment as she went over to answer.

Lyna was waiting outside, flanked by the two royal guards on either side of the door. The elf tugged on her ear tip, her pale green eyes slipping past Wynne to where Alistair sat on the bed with Nathan. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said haltingly, dropping her hand down.

"Not at all, dear," Wynne said, shaking her head. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you, for some reason. Let me guess, you had a bad dream about Flemeth?" She stepped aside to let the other woman into the room and was about to close the door behind her when a great black snout blocked her. Lyna's Mabari hound Bowen followed her into the room, nudging his head up under her hand.

The woman's stunned expression would have been amusing, under different circumstances. "How did you know?" Lyna demanded, her jaw slack with surprise.

"You weren't the only one to have had a bit of a run-in with her last night," Alistair informed her with a grimace. He reached out a hand toward the Mabari, offering it for the animal to sniff. "It's good to see you, boy. I was wondering where you'd gotten off to—did you raid the larder and get banished already?"

Bowen gave a sad whine of assent in response to the King's question, leaving Lyna's side long enough to nuzzle his hand gently before cocking his head inquisitively at Nathan, who looked back at him with equal amounts of curiosity.

Wynne reclaimed her seat on the mattress beside him with a weary sigh. "Your timing is impeccable, Lyna, as it saves us from having to go over everything twice," she said with a hint of a smile.

"Wait, so you're saying that you dreamed of Flemeth last night too?" the elvish Warden asked.

Indicating Nathan with a slight shift of his arms, Alistair nodded. "We both did, and not only did we dream of Flemeth, I suspect we all three had the same dream. Where we were all three at the Keep in Amaranthine, living happily ever after and all that when someone knocked at the door…"

"…And it was Flemeth, who shifted into a dragon and attacked," she continued the story when he paused for a breath, her eyes wide. "You were really there, in my dream."

He frowned at her, "I'd say it was the other way around, that you were in my dream."

"No, it must have been my dream, because I've dreamed that before," she flushed, tucking her hair behind her ears with a quick gesture and avoiding his eyes.

"You have?" It was childish, especially in light of the fact that he'd made a similar confession only a short time ago, but Alistair couldn't help feeling inordinately pleased by her admission. Still, he was honest enough to be compelled him to say, "I've had similar dreams myself, so it still could have been my dream."

Wynne rolled her eyes, "What makes you two think that the dream was either of yours? It could have just as easily been Nathan's dream, could it not?"

Lyna's expression softened as looked at Nathan's face, noting his puffy eyes and the lingering traces of tears on his cheeks. "You poor thing," she said sympathetically, "you must have been scared out of your mind."

"He wasn't the only one," Alistair muttered under his breath, remembering his blind panic when Flemeth had grabbed the boy up in her claws.

Straightening up a touch in the King's lap, Nathan looked from Lyna to her Mabari and back again.

"Would you like to meet Bowen? He's the bravest, smartest companion I've ever had," the elf informed him with a smile, her gaze flicking up to Alistair's for a moment as she added with light humor, "present company included. Just hold out your hand like this, so he can get to know you." She demonstrated, stretching out her hand, palm down.

Ever the opportunist, Bowen nudged his large head beneath her hand in a silent plea for attention. His request did not go unanswered, as she chuckled and scratched him right between his ears until the beast sighed with bliss.

"Don't let his size fool you, he's a complete softie," Wynne said with amusement. "Unless of course, you threaten to give him a long fluffy tail and antlers." The dog chuffed at her haughtily and turned his head to regard the child with a curious look.

Nathan extended his small hand, holding it still for the Mabari. The dog sniffed it then gave it a cursory swipe with his tongue, wagging his short stubby tail. Bowen proceeded to snuffle the boy all over, making him grin for the first time all morning as he stroked the war dog's head.

Alistair smiled as well and glanced at Lyna over the top of the boy's dark head. She was studying Nathan, a pensive expression on her face. "Is something wrong?" he asked, a hint of worry clouding his tone.

Lyna looked up at him, blinking a bit, and gave a slight shake of her head. "Not at all. I was just thinking, is all." Her gaze dropped down to the boy again and she thoughtfully observed, "I was just looking at his eyes. He has old eyes. Marethari, the Keeper of my Clan, would have taken one look at him and said, 'He has the wind in his eyes.' I'd heard her say it, but I don't think I really understood it until now."

Tilting her head, Wynne repeated the words to herself. "I don't think I've heard that phrase before," she admitted, "though I suspect I can get the gist of the meaning, just from what you have said about his eyes. I've thought the same."

"I don't know what either of you are talking about," Alistair said with exasperation, not quite able to believe they had noticed something about the boy that he had somehow missed. He moved the boy away from himself, just enough so that he could see his small face.

Nathan shifted his gaze away for a few moments, but when the man put his finger on the child's chin with gentle insistence and nudged it upwards, he gave a soft sigh and looked directly at him.

His eyes weren't hazel at all, Alistair immediately realized, and wasn't quite able to believe that he had ever thought they were. Instead, the irises were a molten gold color, flecked through with dark mahogany specks, and there was something in them, wisdom and regrets and other hidden depths that made the boy seem far older than his size and appearance would indicate him to be.

"The phrase 'he's got the wind in his eyes' means he's seen things few have seen and live to tell of. Things that have changed him from what he might have been into what he is now," Lyna was explaining. "I would never have thought I'd see such an expression in a child's eyes, though I expect Keeper Marethari might say the same thing about us now, if she looked at you or I, Alistair. Perhaps you as well, Wynne."

Bowen moved away from the bed, returning to his master's side and laid down on the stone floor with a heavy sigh.

"Given what we know of the child, perhaps the adage is not untoward," the mage said kindly, reaching out to pat the boy on the back.

Alistair removed his fingertip from Nathan's chin and cradled him close to his chest again in a hug. Lightly soothing his hand over the boy's head in an affectionate gesture, the man rested his cheek against the dark hair and held him in a protective embrace.

"So," Lyna said, her tone all business as she straightened, looking between the former templar and mage. "Flemeth may yet still be alive, despite the fact that we left her great carcass rotting on the ground outside her hut five years ago? How can that be?"

Wynne rose to her feet and made her way over to the vanity. "I have been asking myself the same question, and the most obvious conclusion is that the spirit that has maintained her, be it one of vengeance or rage or something darker, survives even when her mortal body lies slain." The mage sat down at the chair and stared in contemplation at her own reflection for a long moment before angling her point of view to look at them through the mirror. "Ironically, she and I are rather like opposite sides of the same coin," she said with a sad smile.

"What? Opposite sides of the same coin?" Alistair repeated. "You and Flemeth are nothing alike!"

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Wynne said, "Are we not?" She picked up a hairbrush and started to brush out her long grey hair, explaining, "We're both possessed by symbiotic spirits that have kept us alive when we both would have otherwise died. Mine is benevolent. Hers is not. Yet in the end, the result is the same. We both live, well past our time. Her far more so than myself," she allowed.

"I can see the comparison," Lyna said, twisting one of her braids around her fingertip.

Sputtering, the King shook his head, "I don't think there's any comparison at all. Yes, you might have died without your spirit's intervention, but it doesn't compel you to take the bodies of other people by possessing them, or make you immortal. If anything, using your spirit's gifts weakens both of you, isn't that what you told us? That if you did too much for too long, you'd…" he couldn't bring himself to say the word. Losing Wynne would probably be even worse than losing Duncan had been. She was the closest thing to a real family that he'd ever had.

"Yes, it's true that I would die, if I overexerted myself," she said bluntly. "Flemeth's spirit is far more powerful than the one that sustains me though, and she has had hundreds of years to hone her powers." Wynne set the brush down and twisted the length of her hair into a long, thick rope, asking, "You said that she told you that weapons would have no effect on her in the Fade?"

"More like trumpeted it," Lyna said, wincing in recollection of the dragon's mighty voice. "But we know her physical form can be killed, albeit with difficulty. A dragon is a formidable opponent. Why would her spiritual form be any different? I mean, yes she's old and powerful but everything has a weakness, there must be some way to kill her in both this world and the Fade."

Nathan squirmed, restless, and edged his way off of Alistair's lap. The boy made his way over to where Bowen lay and sat down on the floor next to the dog, petting his sides in long slow strokes. The Mabari wagged his short tail and sighed happily, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed.

"Well we'll just have to figure it out, then. If we can kill her spirit in the Fade, then she won't be able to take on any other hosts, I'd think. It seems like that'd be the key to getting rid of her once and for all," Alistair said, "and we need to figure it out soon, before she gets a chance to get her grubby paws on Nathan."

Lyna looked down, watching the boy as he continued to pet the war dog. Puzzled, she asked, "What exactly is it about Nathan that would make Flemeth so interested in him? He's what, four years old? Five at the most? Too young to be a mage, surely. And he's not a girl, so I would say that automatically exempts him from being one of 'Flemeth's Daughters'."

Wynne was tucking her hair into a bun and froze momentarily at the question.

Tapping his fingers on his knee, Alistair wasn't quite sure of the best way to explain Nathan's gifts. Certainly, showing would be far more revealing than telling, but what could he do? He certainly wasn't going to throw the boy in front of a runaway carriage to test their theory. "It's… difficult to explain," he said lamely.

Crossing her arms, Lyna raised an eyebrow at him. "Difficult to explain? Well then, can you show me?"

"That might be difficult to do as well," Wynne said and made a face. "Not to mention dangerous." The mage tucked one last bobby pin into her bun and turned around in her chair.

Alistair exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "There's no really easy to tell you and I don't really want to show you in a way that you would believe." He scratched the stubble on the side of his face for a moment, figuring the best way to do it was just to dive right on in. "What would you say if I told you that a few moments after I saw this boy for the first time, he was in the middle of the road being run over by a horse and wagon."

Lyna blinked at that. "I'd say that it was a good thing you had Wynne with you, or he might not be sitting here beside me on the floor petting Bowen."

"That's the trick of it, though. I didn't heal him," the mage told her before her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. Hopping to her feet, she hurried over to her clothing trunk and began to root through it, searching for something.

"Not to mention, it wouldn't have done any good if you had, because healing doesn't work on him," the King pointed out.

Furrowing her brow, the Warden tried to make sense of their words. "So you're saying that this child was trampled by horses and came away unharmed? That's impossible," she stated, shaking her head. "I am not sure what you think you saw, but at the very least, he'd have broken bones, cracked ribs, scrapes, possibly even hoof shaped bruises on his body."

"You mean hoof shaped marks like these?" Wynne asked, turning around and holding up the dirty white smock Nathan had been wearing when they found him. The distinct impressions of two hooves were clearly visible on the fabric.

"I…" Lyna seemed at a loss for words. "Yes, something like that," she said faintly and looked from the smock down to Nathan. "Maybe the horseshoe markings were on the clothing before you ever saw him in the road," she suggested.

"I might have thought the same had I not seen the horse knock him down and run over him with my own eyes," the ex-templar said, shuddering at the memory. "Believe me, it's not something I ever want to see again."

The grey-haired mage shrugged and tucked the smock back into her pack before pulling out a change of clothes for the little boy. She walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, calling, "Nathan, would you please come here? It's time to put on some clothes, and then we'll go down and get some breakfast."

Nathan gave Bowen one last pat on the head and got to his feet, padding across the floor to stand in front of the mage. "Brace yourself," Alistair gave Lyna the grim warning.

"Lift your arms up and turn around," Wynne ordered and he obliged, raising his arms up over his head so she could pull his sleeping gown off with ease.

Lyna had been given a vague explanation about the scars on the boy's legs, but seeing them was another matter. She hissed out an elvish curse, her eyes blazing with anger and turned away, clenching her fists.

Nathan worried his lip, peering up at the elf uncertainly before turning to receive a hug from Wynne. The boy rested his cheek on the mage's shoulder and looked at Alistair with a sad sigh.

The King scooted close enough to reach out and tousle the boy's dark hair with affection, reassuring him, "She's not mad at you, she's mad at who did that to you. Just like we were."

"Oh!" Wynne made a small sound of surprise when the child drew back from his hug and examined the marks on his shoulders. "Look, Alistair, they're almost healed already," she said, pointing out the wounds, or what was left of them. They'd still leave nasty scars behind of course, but even so, at least they had healed without complications.

"Who or what did that to him?" Lyna asked tightly, her entire body still taut with anger. "Those are spider bites, you know that, right?"

"I know. I've got scars exactly like that, remember? From when we went to the Deep Roads," he reminded her.

Frowning, the elf inquired, "Wait, if he got run over by horses and didn't get hurt by that, how come he's got spider bites all over his legs?"

Wynne shrugged, pulling a shirt over Nathan's head. "As you said, everything has a weakness. Spiders may be one of his. It's not something we're eager to test the limit on, honestly, the extent of his invulnerability—if it's even extensive enough to be called that. The wounds on his shoulders were much worse two nights ago, and my healing magic did nothing to improve them. If he's immune to healing magic, then he may be immune to all magic, and there's just no real way of knowing without risking harming him in the process. As you can see, he's been hurt quite enough." She finished dressing the little boy and levered herself to her feet, saying, "Now, if you two would give an old lady some privacy, I'll finished getting dressed and we can head on downstairs for breakfast. It's a bit early yet, but I'm sure they've got something for early risers."

"The early bird gets the worm, but the late mouse gets the cheese," Alistair quipped, taking Nathan by the hand and leading him toward the doorway. "We'll meet you downstairs," he said, holding the door open for Lyna (and by default, Bowen as well) before following her out into the hallway.

Nathan reached out to take Lyna's hand as well, walking between her and Alistair, Bowen trailing a few feet behind. His royal guards followed at a discreet distance. The King glanced downwards at the boy and the first part of the dream came to mind again. "It wasn't such a bad dream to start off with, was it?" he asked, giving her a sidelong glance with a crooked smile. "Being married to me the Grey Warden, raising our son in peace and quiet, and all that. Before you know who came along and ruined everything."

"Mmhmm, it wasn't a nightmare that early on, no," Lyna allowed, smiling down at Nathan. "But seriously, that's how I knew it was a dream. Your lamb and pea soup never tasted that good when we ate it at camp," she teased and then laughed brightly at his affronted expression.

---

Alistair spent most of the day doing the sort of kingly stuff that he went out of his way to avoid doing when he was at home in Denerim. He attended administrative meetings with Arl Teagan and local Banns from the area surrounding Redcliffe (four of whom had brought their daughters with them in hopes of catching the King's eye). Chancellor Eamon, anticipating his eventual arrival, had sent a courier with a satchel stuffed full of letters and documents that were 'for the King's eyes only'. He replied to so many of them that his hand cramped. He worked out the ache by spending a bit of time sparring with his royal guards, doing his best to ignore the audience that gathered to watch.

Two of the Banns' daughters were particularly persistent. He could hardly take ten steps in any direction without encountering one, or worse, both, of them. Both girls were pretty enough he supposed, but he just wasn't interested. Not now, and quite probably, not ever. He made the mistake of confessing to Lyna at lunch that he was starting to feel hunted, and instead of helping him dodge them, she told them where to find him next. The elf was evil. Pure evil. No doubt she'd learned at least some of that from Wynne.

There was a mid afternoon lull in his obligations, and Alistair took full advantage of it by hiding in the stables, figuring it was probably the least likely place fancily dressed noblewomen would come looking for him. With any luck, they were allergic to manure, or better yet, hay. He told—ok, who was he kidding?—no, he begged his guards to make themselves scarce or inconspicuous enough that no one would suspect they were posted on duty, and then retreated upstairs to the safety of the hayloft.

He flopped back onto the hay and closed his eyes, losing himself in the familiar odors of the place that in many ways had been more of a home to him than Redcliffe Castle itself. A slight rustling nearby in the loft caught his attention and he froze. Maker's breath, had they found him already? Surely his guards would have warned them off. Weren't they supposed to protect him from all danger, up to and including predatory noblewomen?

"Your Majesty?" a woman asked hesitantly.

The voice didn't sound like either of his tormenters, but he wasn't taking any chances. "He's not here," he said.

There was a long period of silence then the rustling got louder. A moment later, the Warden Fiona's head popped up over the edge of a nearby hay bale. Her dark eyes widened at the sight of the Ferelden monarch sprawled out on the hay.

Alistair couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker, it's just you."

She blinked. "Were you expecting someone else, Sire?"

"Shhh, don't call me that, they may hear," he whispered, gesturing at her to keep her voice down.

"Who will?" she asked, baffled by his odd behavior.

The words had no more than left her mouth when he heard giggling voices coming from down below. "Ewww it stinks!" Violet pronounced. "Are you sure he came in here?"

"Well I didn't see him come in here, but I recognized two of his guards outside," Penelope informed her haughtily. "Where he goes, they go."

Fiona had heard the two intruders as well and kept still and silent. With any luck, the two women would lose interest and leave any moment now.

"I saw them as well, but one was sleeping and the other polishing her sword. Did you see that woman's hands? She has the most awful scars. Honestly, if my hands were that badly scarred I don't think I could ever show my face again," Violet confessed in a loud whisper.

Alistair ground his teeth at the careless cruelty in the noblewoman's words. Tamara had received those scars pulling burning debris off of refugees who were fleeing Denerim ahead of the darkspawn.

"Who cares about her hands, when she gets to guard the King of Ferelden?" Penny pointed out and then gasped, "I wonder if she's ever seen him naked?"

"I bet she has," Violet responded, sounding utterly scandalized before she muttered, "That lucky sow."

Flushing bright red, he had to stifle a groan of mortification. He couldn't believe they were talking about seeing him naked.

"Shhh, did you hear that?" Penny asked sharply. "I think it was coming from the hayloft. I'm going to climb up and look," she announced, and a moment later, the ladder creaked from the girl's weight as she began to climb up.

"I'm up here," Fiona announced without warning, making her way over to the edge of the platform.

Penelope emitted a muffled squeak of surprise and landed on the ground with a thud.

"It's an elf?! You there, Elf! What're you doing up there?" Violet demanded. "Stealing something, no doubt. I know how you elves are."

"That is Senior Warden Fiona to you," the mage said, the words dripping ice while she rose to her feet so that the griffon emblem on her chain shirt was clearly visible, "and what I am doing up here is my business and not yours."

Both girls gasped in unison, and Penny stammered, "Begging your pardon, Warden. We were, uh, just looking for King Alistair."

Fiona smirked with disbelief. "I see. And do you really think that the King of Ferelden would be found in the stable, of all places?"

"See, I told you he wasn't in here!" Violet furiously whispered. "We're sorry for disturbing you," she said in a louder voice. "Come on, Penny!" The girl grabbed hold of her friend's arm and together they hurried out.

After all sounds from the two women had faded, Fiona cleared her throat and sked with genuine curiosity, "Is this a common occurrence?"

"What, people talking about seeing me naked? I certainly should hope not!" Alistair exclaimed, feeling as though his face was on fire with embarrassment.

Her lips twitched with the effort of trying not to smile. "I was referring to you being chased around by young noblewomen to the point where you hide in the stables."

"The chasings, no, not since I first became King, thank the Maker. Getting married put a stop to that." That had been one good thing about marrying Chana, at least. He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "Hiding in the stables though, more than I care to admit, especially here at Redcliffe, which makes little sense, I suppose. You'd think I'd have been smart enough to choose a better hiding place than this as a boy," he said with wry amusement, opening his eyes to look at her.

Fiona edged her way around a bale of hay and sat down on it. "Why would this be a bad hiding place?" she queried.

It felt a bit disrespectful to be stretched out on his back with her staring down at him, so Alistair sat up and shifted backwards, using a bale as a backrest and loosely rested his arm on a knee. "Because it's rather pointless to hide in your bedroom when you're in trouble, I suppose." He made a face, looking around, "Though I suppose 'bedroom' doesn't really work, does it? It's got neither a bed nor a room."

The elf mage had turned around to pick up her staff from behind her and stiffened at his words. Frowning, she propped the staff against her leg and said with disbelief, "This was your bedroom? The stables?"

He shrugged, correcting, "As I said, not a bedroom, but yes, this was where I slept as a boy, as far back as I can remember. I was raised as a commoner, after all, or didn't you know that?" By now, he'd have thought everyone knew at least that much about him, even as far away as Weisshaupt.

"I knew you were raised as a commoner, but the vast majority of commoners sleep on beds, not in the stables," Fiona returned in a sharp voice, her fingers tightening around her staff. "When Lyna told me that Arl Eamon had raised you, I assumed she meant that you stayed in the castle, perhaps living amongst the servants."

"Ha! I should have been so lucky. Nope, only the finest beds of hay in all of Ferelden for the bastard son of a king," Alistair said cheerfully. Her expression was one of pure outrage and he tried to lighten her mood by pointing out, "Honestly, I think I'd have preferred the stables anyway. At least out here, I could get some privacy, right? The servant quarters were pretty cozy and there were always people coming and going at all hours of the day and night."

Fiona did not seem to be mollified in the least, and she seemed to be even worse than hiding her emotions than he was. Anger, frustration and—was that guilt?—played over her features in turn, and the silence that followed was filled with tension. Eventually she broke it, asking, "Were you mistreated?" her dark eyes studying his face as she waited for his answer.

He blinked at the ridiculous question. "Was I…? Of course not! Eamon is a good man," he stated firmly. "Do you really think I would have made him my Chancellor otherwise? I was fed, taken good care of, given proper schooling and I had a roof over my head, and that's more than many orphans get. No, I wasn't raised as his son, or as a prince either, but I wasn't beaten or abused, if that's what you're wondering."

She nodded, breathing a visible sigh of relief, a bit of the tension melting away from her petite frame. The elf cast her gaze downward, passing her staff from one hand to the other and framed her word slow and with care, "I… apologize if my questions seem very forward and intrusive, your Majesty. It's just that... as both a mage and a Grey Warden, having a child…I find myself especially sensitive to…" Her voice trailed off and she shook her head, not quite able to go on.

Alistair remembered a discussion with Wynne from long ago and had a flash of intuition. "You had to give up your child?"

Fiona's head jerked up and she stared at him for a long moment before giving him a slow nod. "My son," she finally said, shifting her gaze to her hands and exhaling. "Yes. I gave him up, with the expectation that he would be taken good care of. I thought I was making the right decision at the time." She continued with obvious difficulty, "It's just that, now I'm realizing that I had no way of knowing for sure how he was raised, since I was completely uninvolved in his life."

"I'm sure he's grown up to be a fine young man," he reassured her. "A nice, interesting fellow, no doubt. With a great personality."

"Nice, interesting, and with a great personality?" she echoed, wrinkling her nose. "That's rather superficial. I think I'd prefer kind. Trustworthy, perhaps compassionate. Honorable, for sure."

"Ah yes, and we can't leave off his lovely sense of humor." Alistair grinned, gesturing with his hand, "There you go. He could be any one of those things. Or possibly even all of them."

She seemed to be biting the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile. "Mmm," she said noncommittally.

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit before curiosity got the better of him. "So, what brings you to Ferelden, if you don't mind me asking? Are you planning on joining the Warden Keep at Amaranthine?"

Fiona sighed at the question. "It's been a long time since I traveled anywhere, to be honest. Since I was recalled to Weisshaupt Fortress, actually."

"Recalled to Weisshaupt Fortress," Alistair echoed. "That sounds ominous. Why were you recalled?"

Pursing her lips, she shook her head. "There was an incident here in Ferelden." The elf put the barest hint of inflection on the word 'incident'.

"An 'incident'. I see" Just from the way she said it, he could tell there was a definite story there. "What happened, or is this one of those 'Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies' kind of incidents?"

She seemed to be debating how much to say and gave a little shrug. "To make a long story short, Grey Wardens died, and Duncan and I very nearly joined them." Fiona shot him a sidelong glance, "King Maric was involved as well, actually."

Alistair straightened, exclaiming, "That's where I know your name from! You were with Duncan when he first met Maric, weren't you? He mentioned something about the King helping you with some Grey Warden business, but never went into any more detail than that. I'm very sorry I forgot," he said apologetically. "I'm terrible with names."

Fiona gave him a small smile, "It's quite all right. I'm not really anyone worth remembering."

"And that was the last time you were in Ferelden? And then you were recalled to Weisshaupt? How long ago was that, exactly?"

She hesitated before responding, "Twenty-seven years ago, give or take."

His eyebrows shot upward, "Twenty-seven years ago? Maker, when they recall you, they really recall you." The King tilted his head, "Coincidentally, that's right around the time I was born."

"Was it?" Fiona asked vaguely, not quite looking at him.

If she was traveling for the first time in nearly thirty years, that could only mean one thing. His tone was subdued when he asked, "How long before you'll go?"

"Before I'll go? Go where?"

"To answer the Calling," he replied, as though the reason was obvious. "That's why you left Weisshaupt, isn't it?"

To his surprise, she said, "No, actually, it wasn't." Pensively rubbing her hand up and down her staff, she explained, "When I was in Ferelden before, with Duncan and Maric and Kell and the other Grey Wardens, things happened." Her elven face was both sad and regretful when she peered at him, "It's difficult to describe the exact series of events, but the end result was this, that I am immune to the Calling. I will never hear it. That's why they recalled me to Weisshaupt Fortress, to study me and see if my condition, if it could even be called that, could be replicated to save other Grey Wardens from that fate."

Alistair grimaced, running his fingers through his hair. "Since I haven't heard anything about a miraculous cure, I'm going to guess that they haven't been able to repeat it?" He didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the day when he'd hear the Calling. It would happen when it happened. But that didn't mean he wouldn't jump at a chance to skip over the one-way trip to the Deep Roads, given another choice.

"I'm afraid not," she said with genuine regret. "As much as I wish otherwise. I've spent the last twenty-seven years stuck at the Fortress, waiting and hoping they'd find something that would at least help delay it. I think I've read every single codex entry, lore book, grimoire and risqué novel in the Library there at least twice. In between being used as a pincushion, that is, from how much of my blood they've taken and studied over the years. When Lyna announced that she'd be returning to Ferelden, I told them I was coming with them. They didn't really want to let me come, but I was quite firm." Her expression was stony when she said that last part.

"Well I hope you're enjoying your first vacation in nearly three decades. Such lovely sights to see here in Ferelden, though I'm not sure that I'd have put the Redcliffe stables on the list," he confessed, chuckling.

"My trip has been full of surprises so far," Fiona said, lifting her small chin and giving him a faint smile.

Alistair regarded the elf curiously. He had pegged her as a bit odd after their first meeting, but she wasn't so bad really once you got talking to her. He couldn't imagine being cooped up anywhere for such a long time, he'd have been bored out of his mind. Toss in having blood drawn at regular intervals and it made a life of boredom as a Templar seem almost kind in comparison.

The thought of blood made him think of Nathan, and than in turn made him think back to how the day had started with the nightmare about Flemeth. "I've got a question for you, Fiona. You said you read a lot of histories and the like while you were at the Fortress? Did any of them happen to mention Flemeth? Or, more specifically, how to kill her? Like, permanently, once and for all?"

Fiona rubbed her chin, pondering his question. "I'll have to think about it. I know there've been quite a few accounts in which she's been killed, but she always seems to return a few years later, so it'd be difficult to separate fact from fiction. All of them seem to agree on one thing though, and that's that the abomination that possesses her is very powerful—a spirit of vengeance and retribution. Cormac supposedly slew her and burned her at the stake, along with her daughters, but she keeps coming back, or so it seems anyway. Why?"

"Just trying to plan ahead," Alistair said with a grim smile. He drummed his fingers on his knee, replaying the nightmare's events one more time in his head and thought of another question. "Do you know what Urthrial means?" He frowned, "No that wasn't it, it was, hm, Urmethel? Uthamel?.. blast it, what was it she said…"

"Urthemiel?" she suggested.

Alistair snapped his fingers, "That's it! That was what she said! Urthemiel, yes. What does that mean? Is it an Elvish word?" he inquired, looking at her. "A curse or something?"

Fiona seemed amused by the question, "It's not elvish, or a curse either. You really don't know, do you?" She asked disbelievingly.

Hoping he didn't look as confused as he felt, the King shook his head. "No, I really don't know what it is. If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," he pointed out with a hint of exasperation.

"I apologize, it's just I'd figure that you of all people would know, since you killed him. Urthemiel is the name of the Old Tevinter God of Beauty, the one who would eventually become the Archdemon of the Fifth Blight and the high dragon you slew on top of Fort Drakon, though I'm not quite sure how you're here talking with me, if that's the case." Fiona studied him, her eyes shadowed.

It took a minute for her words to sink in and he rolled to his feet so fast that his stomach lurched. That may have been a physical reaction to the full meaning of what he had just been told, though. "Wait, let me get this straight," Alistair said, holding up a hand as he worked his way through it again. "Are you telling me that Urthemiel is the name of an Old God?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Fiona said with a hint of impatience. "And Urthemiel was the Archdemon from the Fifth Blight. If you didn't know that, where'd you hear the name?"

He swallowed, drawing on every bit of his Templar discipline to keep from flying apart at the seams. The blood rushed through his head, muffling the sound of his own voice as he spoke, "Flemeth. She, ah, said the name to me once. A long time ago," he lied, though it did seem like an age had passed since that morning. "That's why I was asking about her."

"Oh," she said and cocked her head at him, asking with concern, "Are you all right? You're looking a bit green around the gills all of the sudden."

"Yes. I mean, no." He shook his head, "I really don't feel well at all, actually." That part, at least was true. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but would you excuse me?" Without even waiting for her response, he started climbing down the ladder from the hayloft and made his way out of the stables.

Tamara was sitting on a stool by the fencepost. She took one look at the King's face and jerked to her feet, giving a quick sharp whistle. A breath later, Welborne joined them. "Sire?" she said tentatively, resting her hand on her weapon as she moved into flanking position at his shoulder.

"Where's the boy?" Alistair asked as casually as he could manage, walking with quick long strides across the courtyard toward the steps leading up to the castle. Gauging from their expressions, he failed on sounding normal. It had to do with the fact that his lips felt numb with shock.

The guards exchanged quick, worried glances and Tamara said, "I believe he's with Lady Kaitlyn and her son. The boys have been playing together all day. Sire, what's wrong?" she demanded.

He had to bite back an almost hysterical giggle at her question. "What's wrong? What makes you think something's wrong?" The female guard gave him an incredulous look and he held up his hand before she could say anything more, ordering, "Don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question." Jogging up the stairs to the massive double doors, he paused long enough for one of the Redcliffe guards to pull open. When they passed through, Alistair told them, "I'm going to my chambers. Would one of you fetch Nathan and bring him to me? I'd get him myself but I don't really want to worry anyone."

"Beggin' your Majesty's pardon, but you're doing a piss poor job of that," Tamara stated bluntly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The King reassured them, "I'm fine, I just got a bit of unexpected news, is all." There was the understatement of the century. "I swear to you, I'm in no danger, I'm just feeling a little stressed at the moment, and it's showing."

Welborne split off from them to go retrieve Nathan and somehow, he made it to the door to his room without encountering Violet or Penelope. He ducked inside, leaving one very tense royal guard without, and then paced back and forth, waiting for Nathan—for his son—to arrive.

Alistair felt caught up by such a whirlwind of emotions, he hardly could even describe how he was feeling. Once he had gotten over his initial self disgust and loathing at consummating the dark ritual with Morrigan, he had forced himself to give little thought, if any, to the child that would come from such a union. In truth, he never allowed himself to think of it, of him, as a child at all. It was easier that way, easier for him to consider it as nothing more than a monster like the Archdemon itself had been, inherently evil.

Because if he ever had thought of it as being born as nothing more than a baby, a newborn child with a clean slate, what kind of man would that make him? What kind of man would willfully let his child be raised, unhindered, by a woman and apostate he knew—he knew—could not be not be trusted. By a woman, who by all indications, had subjected the child to years of torture to the Maker knew what end? The worst part of it was that he had never bothered to look for them, or even let himself wonder about the care his child was receiving. His discussion from earlier with Fiona came to mind. How could he ever know what of person his child would grow up like, or the kind of treatment he'd receive, if he remained completely uninvolved in his life?

A quiet knock at the door brought him out of his reverie and he walked over to answer it. Captain Lyndon himself escorted Nathan into the room with one hand and had his other on his sword. The man carefully examined the room for any sign of a threat before bowing slightly and ducking outside to join Welborne and Tamara.

Alistair rested one hand on the door handle, telling the guards, "I'm not to be disturbed under any circumstances." He started to close the door and then reopened enough to amend, "Unless it's Warden Commander Lyna. If she comes by, send her in immediately."

Shutting the door, he released the handle and made his way over to Nathan, kneeling down on the thick rug right in front of the boy until he was at eye level. Alistair looked into those liquid gold eyes, Morrigan's eyes he now knew, sprinkled with a generous amount of particles in the same mahogany brown of his own. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he said hesitantly, "Urthemiel?"

There was a flicker of recognition of the name, but the child lifted his hand, pointing at himself. "Nathan," he returned, setting his jaw stubbornly.

Alistair gave a weak laugh at the correction and raised his hand, resting it on top of the boy's head to tousle with affection. "I'm sorry, Nathan it is." He sobered, sliding his large hand around to cup the side of the child's face as he said, "I've figured out your last two secrets, haven't I?"

The boy darted his gaze away, anxiously worrying his lip with his teeth and his small face held so much fear, uncertainty and absolute longing—as though he wasn't even sure he was worth being loved—that it brought tears to Alistair's eyes. "Tati," he whispered.

Raising his other hand, he rested it on the child's thin shoulder and slid his thumb across Nathan's cheek. "I am so, so sorry, that I didn't try to find you sooner, son," Alistair said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Nathan threw his arms around his father and hugged him as hard as he could.