A Dead Man's Shoes

Alistair

He barely seems to have relaxed when it's already the next morning, the four of them rushing to pack up, strapping weapons to their hips... well, and back, in Morrigan's case, but the less he thinks of her, the better.

Morgana does it with ease, a far cry from the skinny, nervous mage who almost used to double up with the weight of a weapon at first; he'd had to keep her using the dagger for weeks longer than they both wanted because of it, and her frustration showed through in their lessons. He watches her as he does the same, eyes switching from his sword to hers, and is uncomfortable to find his eyes lingering on her for longer than is strictly proper. Shaking his head, remembering a conversation that seems so long ago now - "... Not that I'm some sort of drooling lecher..." - and turning his eyes to the forest around them instead, he walks to join her.

"We better get going," she says, giving him a small smile and then, frowning, she murmurs, "You were right."

"About?"

"The armour. I think it is rusting." She contemplates the trees ahead of them with a sigh, jumping at Leliana's hand on her shoulder, and the two women lapse into a muttered check of supplies. Morrigan is skulking in her own little corner, glaring at him when she spots him looking at her. He rolls his eyes, again waiting and trying not to show his boredom.

Wait.

He looks round in surprise as he catches the word "swimming", seeing Morgana finger-combing ragged hair in discomfort, her voice dropping even lower. Then Leliana hugs her tightly, and she looks at him over the bard's shoulder with such a wide-eyed expression of surprise that he has to restrain a laugh. Unfortunately, a little of it escapes, and Leliana turns to him, face serious.

"Surely you did not swim from birth, Alistair?" she asks, voice faux-understanding but hands on hips. Morgana stands behind her, arms crossed, shaking her head at the misunderstanding and fighting a smile.

"Pretty much," he replies smoothly, adjusting his gloves before finally looking up. "Wild swimming dogs from the Anderfels, remember?"

A snort from their leader, and then her eyes are back ahead of them, and she's calling to them, "Onwards, I think."

Morrigan reluctantly walks over to join them, him speeding up to fall into step with Morgana, and there's a pause as they walk together; he darts the occasional glance to her, because he's been on the receiving end of far too many of these silences not to know one.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, the question falls from his fellow Warden's lips. "Swimming dogs?"

"They were. Well, as much as a four-legged animal can swim, which is... quite well, actually. Many found the sight of a toddler doggy-paddling like a mabari oddly comical." He fights to keep his tone light - because, while perhaps not from the Anderfels, the mabari at Redcliffe had been his companions as much as the people. Well, that's what a childhood in stables does for you.

"Hmmm." Scepticism still soaks her voice, but she lets it drop, the smile, too dropping from her face as she asks him, "How long until we're at the Dalish camp?"

"Not long. Maybe a day." He's guessing, and this forest is all starting to look the same (everything's vaguely threatening and... green), but he tries for a fair answer.

She nods, shoulders seeming to sag.

"Zathrian?" he asks.

She looks him in the eye, and he finds an odd hollowness building in him at the sadness in her eyes. "They'll think we killed their keeper. And we can hardly tell them that he was a vengeful maniac who nearly sacrificed his people for a twisted anti-human agenda."

"Well, we can, but I can't say I'm that good at running from lots of scarily accurate arrows." He lets out a rough, forced laugh.

She is quieter as she continues. "Then the dwarves. After that..." He finds himself tensing involuntarily at what she's about to say, praying she'll stop, change the subject, anything, but she finishes, looking straight at him, "... the Landsmeet."

He fights not to grind his teeth, refusing to look her in the eye. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want to be king. Ever. Don't..." He swallows, cursing his voice for deserting him. "Don't make me."

"And what if I don't?" Her voice is hard, tired. "Loghain keeps his traitorous arse on the throne, decrying Orlesians while darkspawn reduce Ferelden to ruins?"

"We'll think of something," he replies lamely. "Now can we talk about something else? Please?"

"You're a prince, Alistair. You can't just try and run away from it."

He shakes his head. "No. I'm a bastard and a Warden. This was never how it was meant to be. I'm not an heir, I'd just be stepping into a dead man's shoes."

"That's what heirs do. But you're not going to talk sensibly about this, so what's the point?"

"Why are you so bothered, anyway?" he snaps, regretting it the moment he closes his mouth and he sees the hurt flicker across her face. It turns to confusion, and now it's her avoiding his eye.

"I... I don't know," she answers quietly, and they walk on in a bitter silence.

A chapter because, well, things can't be perfect between our Wardens all the time, and if there's one certain way to rile Alistair up, it's to try and broach the subject of his heritage.