A phantom dragon's maw crushed Theirin's chest as he stumbled through the now fire lit halls of the Grey Warden headquarters. Each breath he took, as he made his way back to his assigned room, came out in a quiet shudder. He willed away the sting of tears, allowing the hot flesh about his eyes to burn without the warm rivulets of relief. He had listened to the elder Grey Warden's words with a stone face, it was essentially an addendum to what she shared with Stroud and the rest of their mix of Fereldan and Free Marcher Wardens regarding her clandestine mission that involved Alistair's Father, King Maric, and a venture into the Deep Roads. That information in itself was enough to disturb Alistair, the first time he heard it, but it was far more personal once the Elven woman, Fiona, revealed her brief relationship to his Father.

The records she produced, from the same stack of tomes that Bethany and himself had drawn from the library there, told of a fair-haired elven-blooded child born in Orlais. Two tiny inked foot prints shared space on a parchment bearing the date, the child's name, and Fiona's own signature written in a shaky, looping script. This, and only this, was the reason she even dared to speak to him outside of the chambers of the meeting they had held the day previous. What bothered him the most out of the whole of the possible revelations the Mage shared was that she included Duncan into the subterfuge of his upbringing. That the Mentor he'd grown so close to in such a short amount of time could've been party to any of what she spoke of beyond the official events in the Deep Roads regarding the free-thinking Darkspawn Emissary.

Alistair looked out one of the few windows that lined the corridor that containted his party's sleeping quarters and spied the gray skies. He had no clue as to how long he had sat in the library alone with the woman, it had certainly felt much longer than his time locked up within a cell inside Fort Drakon. He shut his eyes and squeezed his eyelids tightly, the sensation of heat from the blood that collected beneath his features reminded him of that time in Orzammar where his instincts nearly made him chase a dropped silver piece into the glowing pools of magma. Theirin didn't want to feel like this.

Before he could even open his eyes again he had already walked past his own door, coming to a stop before his casual tormenter's room. He didn't know if he'd share anything he was told but Alistair knew the young Mage could lift his spirits or at least make him feel like someone worth a damn.

"Bethany", croaked between raps on the wooden door.

No response.

He knocked again, a little harder this time, putting more of his flesh and less of his armor into the meager blows.

Again, no response from inside.

Pretense be damned, he tried to door handle and the door freely opened beneath his grasp. Any bravado borne of his hurt sunk into the shallows of mind as he peered into the darkened room.

"Housekeeping?" he called out in nervous falsetto.

"Go away", a weak voice intoned.

"I would but this room is filthy with - smallclothes? I'll go ahead and avert my eyes."

"Alistair?", Bethany's question issued from the deep shadows of her room. The light that poured in from the hall did little to reveal much other than the clothing and belongings that were strewn about.

"Yeah?"

"Close the door."

"Alright", he said followed by shutting himself out of her room.

With the Maker turning a blind eye to everyday events across the face of Thedas it seemed like another force was at work savaging the dead horse that was Alistair's life. The Archdemon slain, and the Blight sufficiently quelled, for a brief moment in his ambling back to his own room the last Theirin considered taking his calling a couple decades early since the highlight of his existence was the aforementioned events.

By the time he found the roomkey on his person, Bethany's door creaked open and a pale, work-rough hand beckoned him inside. Wearily he made his back to her door and stepped inside. The room was now lit, albeit dimly. Alistair shut the door behind himself, this time, and found Bethany sitting next to a discarded envelope on her bed. The ink-stains that ran down her cheeks in a melancholy fashion were now accompanied by actual tears. Suddenly Alistair felt a bit - contagious.

"So", he began. "Are you alright? Well you're obviously not alright nor okay. Uhh, I'm gonna assume it has something to do with that envelope there and since fate or destiny or, heh, the Elven Creators seem to be intent on kicking me, and now my friend, while I'm down. So I want to say I'm sorry. Its probably not any of my fault - whatever it is that is making you upset but I'm sorry and I'm here for you and I'll shut up now. Sorry. Yeah... okay. Now."

Alistair remained standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying his best not to keep babbling forth every notion that crossed his mind. Bethany leaned over a bit and in a wooden motion knocked the envelope to the floor, then patted the space next to her. The ex-Templar hesitated a moment his thoughts crystalizing as he realized that he is alone in a woman's bedroom, her unmentionables splayed about willy-nilly and she was asking him without words to come to join her on a bed. He fought back any thoughts of that fateful night's ritual and just took his friend's invitation for what is was.

Alistair sat down, the small bed held both their weights comfortably. Together they sat in the faint light of the wall rune that cast a wisp of illumination instead of flame like the runes set in the walls of the creepy Nevarran Warden Compound.

"My Mother is dead", the young woman stated like someone would say the sky is blue or water is wet.

Her companion nodded.

"Apparently my brother had been looking into a string of missing women and by the time Hawke stopped the..."

Bethany trailed off for a moment to clear her throat and wipe away her tears.

"The monster, he had already claimed our - my Mother as his last victim. I know that we're Grey Wardens and we're not supposed to let our past lives still effect us so I'm not going to ask Stroud to let me go see her grave. She's dead. She's suffering no more. Just like Carver, like Father. Nothing can hurt them anymore."

The warm sensation returned to Alistair's eyes and again he refused to shed any tears. As much as they'd be for Bethany's loss they'd still be - tainted by what he was told eariler, and he'd not let himself accept what he was told to be true. He simply couldn't.

"Alistair?"

Not wanting to betray his feelings he merely grunted in response.

"Will you - will you stay with me, tonight?", Bethany turned her head and looked into his eyes awaiting his response.

"Stay...?"

"With me. Here", she emphasized the word 'with'.

The older man locked eyes with her, his mouth slightly open as he seemed unable to find his tongue, and she continued.

"I think I need to do something other than wallow. Any time I'm alone I just focus on how miserable I am and how miserable I made my family over the years with my magic. How we always had to run and hide, never being normal. I don't want to think anymore - I don't want to feel right now. I want you, here."

The woman beside him leaned forward into his precious, shrinking personal space. He watched as her bottom lip trembled, her face filling his field of view.

"Stay", was the last thing she whispered.