The King of Ferelden was sleeping poorly.

They were at the Dead Trenches again. The horde spilled through the vast canyon that opened at their feet, Melisande looking up at him in horror as the immense number of darkspawn made themselves known. Lurid flames danced, turning horrifying creatures into nightmares.

Then the dragon, the Archdemon, screaming, whispering. It had spoken to them. To the darkspawn, not him. Why would the Maker forsaken thing speak to him? Too soon for that.

But it was… she doesn't love you never loved you only used you only wanted to put you on the throne and abandon you left you the first chance she got just like everyone else.

And he looked at Melisande, to clear his head. She hadn't left him, she was right here. Always. He stood at her shoulder as he always would.

Puzzled at the hair spilling down her back. Why was her hair down? She never took it down. The whole time they were in the Deep Roads, it had stayed braided up and tight, safely out of the way of the grasping fingers of darkspawn. But it was down now, the redgold wave of it, pouring like blood.

No. It was blood. Gushing out over her hands and the sword in his hand, Maric's sword, but she hadn't given that to him yet, not until Redcliffe when they'd talked about making him king, but the blade was sticky and crimson, steady in his hand.

And she was staring at him, hurt and lost and terrified, gray eyes wide, begging him not to leave her to believe her as he pushed her off his sword with his boot over the edge into the waiting gaping smiling maw of the Archdemon who swallowed her whole.

Alistair woke up shouting, the fine wool blanket wrapped around his body and the dark trying to suffocate him. Gasping, he tried to catch his breath, still tasting the fetid air of the Trenches and the bitter surge of adrenaline.

Guards banged on his door. "Your Majesty! Are you all right?"

Was he? Maker, he didn't know any more. He'd had the nightmares. And yes, they'd gotten worse since they'd seen the Archdemon and known it to be real. His had never been as bad as Melisande's, Joined in a Blight. Alistair had figured out the knack of smoothing them out before the Archdemon had risen. But he'd never…he didn't think this one was just a Warden dream. Hunched over his knees a clutching his hair in his hands he tried to calm himself, draw a center. His gorge rose as he closed his eyes and the feeling of bitter satisfaction surged back from the nightmare.

The door slammed open. He hadn't responded and the guard took no chance, slamming into the room, sword drawn. "King Alistair! Sire, are you…"

"Fine. I'm fine. It was just a damned nightmare, guardsman…" He couldn't tell the man's face behind his visor. "Sorry, I…what's your name?"

"Terrance, sire. Are you sure you're…"

The man stared at his king, who was rubbing his hands over his face. King Alistair looked fine, a bit pale, maybe under his tan. And, Maker, the king bore a lot of scars, the muscular torso criss-crossed with lines in varying stages of healing, some still red and tight looking, like they were very recent. The new King of Ferelden was no stranger to battle. Terrance caught sight of curious hazel eyes and blushed to be caught staring, glad of the faceguard that hid his flush.

"It's alright, Terrance. I…did they not warn you, the other guardsmen? I don't sleep well." He hadn't since she'd left him, anyway. "It's alright, man. Go back to your post. I'm fine." No. No he wasn't.

Every time he turned around he was looking for Melisande. If someone asked his opinion, he glanced up to see what she thought. A year of marching at her hip had taught him though, that she would make him answer. So he did. So far it had been enough. Once or twice, he'd even caught Eamon looking at him with something like approval. And where had that been, ten years ago?

The guard withdrew, with a quick bow and Alistair tried to relax enough to sleep again. As soon as he shut his eyes again though, the image of Melisande, hurt and betrayed, flared again in his mind. Blast it all…it was he who had been betrayed. They'd talked it out a hundred times if they'd done it once. Loghain was a traitor. No matter what Cailan had intended with the Empress, none of that could excuse the teyrn's behavior in the civil war that resulted with the Bannorn. Nor Eamon's poisoning. Nor the selling of Ferelden's elves to Tevinter.

Rolling over to his side, Alistair tugged the over-stuffed pillow across his face. How was it, after a year of sleeping on the ground, in the damp, in tents that had been mended and re-mended and that had long since lost what water-proofing they'd ever had, he'd slept better than he did on this stuffed mattress and feather bed?

Easy, whispered his conscience. She was next to you, smelling comfortingly of sweat and leather and knife oil. That leafy scented rinse Morrigan made for her hair. The way her skin could still hold a faint fragrance of clove, even in the Deep Roads when no one had smelled good…including her, but it was still there, underneath the filth.

Andraste's chaste bosom. This was useless.

He flung the blanket back and got up and dressed, resigned to finding something…anything that would distract him.

He reached for his armor, picked up the vambrace and stopped. He had a brand new suit of armor hanging on the rack. Shining. Prettied up, here and there with gilt. No dents to be hammered out. Not a scratch to spend an easy hour by the fire polishing out. The armor of the Warden Commander that Meli had given him was…where? He'd yanked it off days ago, casting it aside in his pique and someone had tidied it away.

There had been some talk of retrofitting some of Cailan's armor to fit him. Hopefully, that had been nipped in the bud. Bad enough he was using the damned sword that belong to their father. And he had yet to pick up Duncan's shield since that afternoon in the throne room. "I will not serve beside him." Never mind what he'd sworn, to Duncan. To her. And since, Alistair had been borrowing from whatever guard or soldier watching him spar or practice.

Melisande had Cailan's shield too, had brought it from Ostagar and he'd been informed that it was delivered when his own things had arrived. He'd banished it to the armory, with Cailan's shining armor.

Alistair dropped the vambrace back onto the rack. There was no reason to wear this. He ended up just grabbing one of the simple linen tunics he'd scavenged out of the packs that had arrived just after they left and pulling on the soft elkskin boots someone had left by his bedside. Kings, he supposed, weren't meant to go gadding about their palaces in stocking feet. He looked at his long feet. At least this pair of socks didn't have holes.

The boots fit. As far as Alistair knew, he'd never been measured for them. He and Melisande had spent three hours in the bootmaker the first time they were in Denerim, trying to fit him in ready-mades. But here these were. The life of a king.

There was a guardsman, Terrance again, he thought, following at a discreet distance behind him as Alistiar trod the halls. What sort of trouble he was supposed to be getting into Alistair wasn't sure. But, he at least had some guard against getting lost.

Alistair found himself, half a candlemark later, in the working rooms of the palace. He'd followed his nose to the kitchens, only to find a flustered scullery maid and her beau doing something rather unsanitary on the butcher's block.

He grabbed one of the loaves to munch while he explored. "Terrance? Do you want anything?"

Startled, the man stammered. "Uh. Um. No. No, sire."

"Alright, then." He gave the erstwhile couple what might have passed for a jaunty wave had he been smiling. "Carry on, I suppose." Not going to be eating anything butchered here, for a while.

Turning down a long, narrow corridor, he found himself in a wide open space, lined with arched nooks. He stopped to brush crumbs from his chest. "What's this, then, Terrance?"

"Storage, your majesty."

Alistair wasn't sure what caught his eye. Something gleamed, though, in the flare of torch that Terrance had lit when the king had ventured below stairs. "Hey, bring the light up."

The closest nook was full of crates. With the Grey Warden sigil burned into the side. This must be the cache of things Loghain had confiscated from the Warden barracks. Where Riordan had found the items needed to complete a Joining.

He slid the top of the crate nearest him and stared into the contents before pulling out one of the bound ledgers, also emblazoned with the sigil. Hesitantly, he finally opened it…almost expecting one of the Grand Cleric's bolts of lightning to zap him as he did it, and flipped through, stopping abruptly when he recognized the handwriting. Duncan. Alistair stood closer to Terrance's torch and read.

We must do more recruiting if we are to present a strong enough force to meet the horde that will build if I am correct. I should not have hesitated in calling for reinforcements from Orlais, despite the Teryn's objections.

A bit farther on, the tone was less impersonal and Alistair could almost hear Duncan's voice in his ear.

I did not expect the dreams to begin again. I did not believe I was so old, already. But they are here. And the Archdemon calls. Quietly, but I hear it. Maker, guide me. The others are dreaming, too, though. And that means it is not merely my own Calling that is keeping me awake. I hope the coming days do not prove me out as a fool for not recruiting more widely.

The page was dated 5th Haring, Dragon 29. Only a couple of months before Alistair had been rescued from the Chantry. There was a pile of the ledgers, including one that caught his attention. Flicking through the loose pages told him yes. This one would have the entries from around the time he'd been recruited. The one from while Duncan had been at Highever, when he rescued Melisande, was missing. The head Warden had likely kept it with his own gear, those things that had rotted on the field at Ostagar.

Alistair hesitated. He wasn't a Warden any more, by his own hasty declaration. He didn't have a right to these. To read what Duncan had been thinking. But…

Gathering up the top three ledgers from the pile, he closed the crate and then Alistair nodded to Terrance. "Come on. I've wandered around in the dark long enough for one night."

Gratefully, Terrance followed his king back up the stairs.