Eamon had finally left Alistair to himself again, after a seemingly endless lecture on the current state of Ferelden relations with other nations. To be honest, Eamon seemed rather fixated on the trading losses with Orlais instead of what seemed more urgent to Alistair, the fact that a good chunk of the population of the southern reaches had exiled themselves to the Free Marches.

Alistair pulled the journal he'd been reading late into the night out of the desk drawer where he'd stashed it when his uncle had burst into his room that morning. Flipping through, he found the dogear he'd hastily turned down. He'd just been about to read the part where…

Ah, here it was.

7 Harvestmere

I've finally tracked young Alistair down to the Chantry in Denerim. I was too easily led to believe that the Arl had the best of intentions,that Alistair would be better off with an established family of mark than travelling around with a ragtag bunch of Wardens. And time has slipped by faster than I realized it would. He's a man grown.

Arl Eamon was singularly unhelpful in my search. He may realize my connection with his ward's other family. Fiona was livid when she discovered what had happened and I must do what I can to remedy matters.

I've arrived just in time, it seems. He is scheduled to take his vows after the tournament.

8 Harvestmere

Maker's Breath, what have I done? I was forced to conscript the lad to get him away from the Templars and the Grand Cleric.

This was not what Fiona had in mind, I'm sure. Nor Maric, either. But perhaps, with the dreams that have come, it is what the Maker intended. Alistair may not be the finest of warriors yet, but there is a natural sense of honor and something of steel in him, despite what his raising has wrought. Something that time may hone. He knows who he is…well, he knows of Maric. I have not been able to get him to speak of knowledge of his mother, if he has any. He has the look of Maric about him, too, though bigger and a bit raw-boned. Time will tell if he has anything else of his father, but if tenacity is bred in the bone, he's been given that as well.

10 Harvestmere,

Alistair is not the quietest travelling companion I could have hoped for. But he does have humor. Of a sort.

He will need it, in the coming days, I fear. The Archdemon is rising, I'm sure of it. The dreams have come on too vividly. I nearly scared the boy out of his wits last night with my…well. I am the oldest of the Wardens in Ferelden. It is my duty to kill the Archdemon and take it to the Void with me. I must pass the knowledge on to the other veteran Wardens, in case I fall too soon.

13 Harvestmere

It is done. He lived, thank the Maker. Riordan and Geordi witnessed the Joining of Alistair Fitz-Theirin to the Order of the Grey Wardens. Another recruit, an elf by name of Tavish, did not survive. I am not sure I have ever seen such a horrible death in all the Joinings I have witnessed. I wonder if our supply of the Archdemon blood used in the mixture has become contaminated with the rise of another? A speculation to send to the First Warden.

I must tell the others, while the boy recovers. And of their duty, should I fall. I will send Riordan and Tyrell to the Anderfels tomorrow. I will send letters out as well. Orzammar and Gwaren might have recruits worth having, but I must not waste time in travel to places I will not be welcome. And I should go to Highever. I haven't seen Bryce in some time, he spoke well of a few of the knights he's had the training of and he should know about my fears. And his children are of age now. His youngest, perhaps.

Alistair pushed the journal away so violently it nearly fell off the desk, standing abruptly from the chair he'd pulled up to read in. With Duncan's words thrumming through him, he rose to pace by the low-silled windows of the study that he'd been assigned. Given. Whatever.

She'd been right.

Maker help me. Melisande had been right about the Archdemon. And he'd been deemed too young to know the truth. Or…why had Duncan acted like he'd been looking for Alistair? He'd never said anything about knowing of Alistair's life, just that he was looking for recruits. For people with some inestimable quality. He reeled from that thought to the other.

Meli had been right. What had he done?

After a moment, guilt clawing up at him, Alistair forced it aside.

It…it didn't matter. He'd have been…no, not happy to die. But willing. Willing to die. To save Ferelden? All of Thedas? To save her? Maker, yes, he'd have been willing.

But Alistair could see it now, what had been going on in her mind. It was so easy to forget, when she was just Meli, that she'd been a noblewoman taught politics and a rogue trained to take advantage of every little crack in the armor of an opponent. If she could have Loghain in place to take the blow for them, then they would be free to…

Live.

But Loghain's name would go down as a hero. The little rebellion, the small matter of his traitor's manipulation would be forgotten to history and only the fact that he killed an Archdemon would be remembered. The betrayal. Cailan's death, Duncan's death would all be swept under the rug and only the occasional dusty scribe would recall them.

No. It didn't matter. Right or not, this changed nothing. It was worse. The idea of following them, of allowing Loghain the honor…bile boiled up in his throat. The scraping as the door opened across the flags drew his attention.

A servant, one of the elves, peeked into the study. "Your Majesty? The Arl of Redcliffe is waiting your pleasure, sire, in the Red Chamber."

With a sigh, Alistair answered. "Yes. I suppose he is. Show me."

Hesitantly, the elf asked. "Are…are you well, Your Majesty?"

Alistair blinked at him. "I'm….yes, thanks. What's your name again?"

The elf's long, delicate ears turned a deep pink. "Ferron, sire. "

"Lead on, Ferron. I'm right behind you." He picked up the journal and tossed it back in the drawer before following the slight fellow to yet another of Eamon's lectures.

The meeting did little to distract Alistair. He looked up with a sharp glare and a growled "What?" when the arl went so far as to reprimand him for doodling on the lesson on imports in front of him. Alistair apologized, but Eamon seemed to back off from his intended scolding and the seneschal excused himself abruptly.

A few hours later, Alistair found himself at table finally, but he couldn't seem to find his usual interest in a meal. He tore into a chicken leg, anyway, chewing and tasting nothing as the daughter of someone he was supposed to care about went on about…surely she wasn't really telling him about the shade of her pet rabbit's fur?

It wasn't as if Melisande was alone. She had Zevran and Sten, Leliana and Wynne, even Shale and Oghren would defend their Warden with their last breaths.

After dinner, he brooded through the introductions Eamon found it necessary to perform, nodding absently at the Bann of Someplace and the Ambassadors of Far Away and Really, Who Cares.

No matter his own intentions, though, it seemed the Fade had other ideas about letting Alistair ignore Melisande's actions.

He'd barely closed his eyes when he was sucked into another violent dream.

This one came only in flashes, painted in bloody red light like the fading glare of a sunset.

Melisande, defiant and smiling fiercely on the battlefield, grey eyes flashing. And Loghain beside her as they battled towards the Archdemon on the plains below Redcliffe. The teyrn holding his own as she dashed and parried, and wove her way closer and closer to the Archdemon.

Then a mocking laugh when they stood, almost victorious, over the creature's horned head. The teyrn walking away and Melisande shouting after him. The tainted dragon stirring and Melisande's desperate face as the clamoring horde threatened to overwhelm her. And her bright Topsider's Honor gleaming in the garish light as she struck the blow and died screaming and still defiant and alone.

Alistair woke, sweating and sick at heart again. And this time, he did not resist the urge to grab his armor and dress in the still, fire-lit room buckles and braces closing under his practiced fingers. No matter what she'd done…he couldn't leave her with only a traitor to watch her back.

He hesitated for a moment, then slipped his lucky token and the white rune she'd found for him into the pouch at his belt. Spying a glint on his desk, he picked up the Warden's Oath and watched the glass dangle from its leather thong. One of the servants must have found it, when he'd ripped it from his neck and thrown it to the side after he heard about Loghain surviving the Joining.

It was Meli's. In a rare moment of sentimentality, they'd traded the tokens not long after they'd entered the Dead Trenches. "In case..." she hadn't finished her sentence. But the horde of darkspawn following the Archdemon had shaken them both. Even after Ostagar, Alistair had never dreamed there were so many of the creatures.

He held the small vial in his hand, the blood it held dark and sludgy. Melisande had worn it and then his with full knowledge of what she would be called to do. He closed his hand around the charmed glass and whispered, an old prayer coming to his lips unbidden, before he slipped the thong over his head and tucked the vial into his underjerkin. Then he scribbled a note to Eamon, apologizing and naming the arl regent and ruler in his stead, with Anora to take the throne, if Alistair did not survive the battle. He left the note under the small circlet he was supposed to wear for times of state, until the coronation.

By some miracle, it was Terrance who had guard duty over his sleeping. Alistair didn't know why the fellow seemed so enamored of him, but he'd been walking with rogues too long not to take advantage of it.

"Terrance. I need a favor." He dropped his voice low and watched the guard's soft brown eyes go wide with only the slightest of guilty consciences. Ah, the Maker had probably damned him to the Void years ago, anyway, all the screaming in the Chantry he used to do.