"Warden Commander…" voices mumbled. "The Queen…" Murmurs created a low lull through the gully. "Mother of Griffons."
As the war calmed, the final enemies picked off one by one up the remainder of the path to the Temple, people gathered around Alistair holding Caoilainn's slack body.
The quiet voices paid feeble homage to the King's suffering.
He shook, quaking with ragged inhales and sobbing exhales. "No…," he called weakly, squeaking. "Caoilainn…." Alistair's shaking cries of pain reverberated through the ravine, sharper, stabbing deeper than any blade.
Soldiers in blue and white gave the Warden salute; Ferelden soldiers lowered their heads in respect; Highever men wiped their eyes before resting their hands on their hearts. A harsh truth of the loss Ferelden just experienced rang through the calm surrounding the King's lamentation.
Whether to honor his sorrow or for lack of courage to interrupt, the soldiers left Alistair alone. Oblivious to the presence of people or lack thereof around him, and lost within his sadness, Alistair held on to Caoilainn as long as he could. The effort to commit to memory the way her body felt in his arms provided little solace. She was dead. Her body devoid of the bold and elegant spirit he recognized. Broken, irreparable, and missing something that could never be replaced, the gaping hole deep within his chest, permanently incomplete, longed for her to return. He felt small. Lost, like a little boy far away from home.
Unmoving, hunched over Caoilainn, sitting on the ravine floor, he stayed until the sun set. The heat of the day subsided.
Damn it, Nathaniel thought. No one deigned to approach Alistair, and the body would need to be moved before nightfall. Soldiers collected wood for a pyre to burn comrades lost in the battle. The numbers of the deceased climbed.
Nathaniel stepped near Alistair, hesitant, unsure how the man would hear his voice considering their last interaction. "We need to get her out of here. The Inquisition is building a pyre."
Alistair ignored him. Instead he stared off in the distance, holding on to Caoilainn. Eyes red and puffy, filled with an absent gaze; tired, numb.
An amalgam of emotions filled Nate, both contradicting and complementing the sorrow he bottled, and all of it more than he wanted to examine. At the moment, irritation with Alistair rested at the surface. Though the man suffered a great loss, his behavior was shortsighted and self-indulgent.
Nathaniel gestured to Val and Isenam, meeting their eyes and pointing to Caoilainn. "We need to take all the bodies to burn before night falls or we risk attracting scavengers or worse, demonic possession."
"No," Alistair's voice resounded. Decided and certain in his statement, his tone rang of bitterness. "She had to die in Orlais; she won't burn here too."
Nathaniel's hand met his brow, and he sighed. His patience with the King grew thin. "Her body won't make it back to Skyhold, let alone Ferelden," he explained, failing to hide his irritation, "your Majesty." He added the title in an attempt to show respect, but his annoyance remained audible.
Alistair's head turned to the man behind him. It took every effort to withhold the list of insults he had for Nathaniel; to refrain from setting Caoilainn down and throttling the neck of the Warden Lieutenant. Head hot, dizzy with rage, Alistair's words boiled. "She is the Queen of Ferelden. Born daughter of Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever and sister to the current Teyrn. She is…" He paused, realizing his words, "was Warden Commander to the Ferelden Grey Wardens. She will receive a proper funeral and it will be in Ferelden."
"But," Nathaniel interrupted, still unconvinced the King understood the irrational nature of his demand.
"I don't care if you have to beg the Inquisitor herself to escort her body. Make it happen."
Val, who had remained silent through this discussion, crossed his arms and glowered at the King. A deepened frown and pinched brows marked Isenam's disapproval; he took a challenging step toward Alistair and spoke up. "Grey Wardens don't serve-"
An outstretched arm stopped the Elf, Nathaniel intervened. "Not now," he said. "We'll do this for Caoilainn." Then he signaled for Wardens to take care of the body.
Grey Wardens gathered around Alistair to lift Caoilainn, moving her away from the battlefield and the rest of the casualties. Alistair let them; then he rose. Shadows cast across his face, exuding animosity as he walked toward Nathaniel.
"Yes. Do this for Caoilainn- my wife in case you forgot." Alistair looked down his nose and pointed his finger at Nathaniel, jaw locked, grinding as he scowled. "She is only Warden Commander or Queen to you. Get this done, Lieutenant Howe. And I never- Do you hear me? Never want to hear you speak her name again."
With unspoken defiance, Nathaniel glared back; brow creased, grimacing. Neither man shifted as they stared each other down. Sheer hatred passed through the silence, and even when Nate eventually nodded, his expression unchanged. Eyes narrowing, Alistair turned on his heels.
He made only a few steps before Nathaniel called, "She chose you, you know." Alistair froze mid-step but did not turn to face Nate. "For good."
A combination of distraught hopelessness, nausea and another rush of tears filled his mind. Alistair lowered his head for a moment, blinking. Tempted to sigh, to fall apart and allow grief to overtake him yet again; but he took a deep breath and marched onward. He didn't wish to give Nathaniel the opportunity to witness the impact of his words.
The puzzled glance of Isenam shifted from Alistair to Nathaniel, who ignored it and offered strategy instead. "Our mages should be rested enough. They can freeze her body on the way to Denerim. Don't look at me like that." Isenam's raised brow triggered a response from Nate. "It's low enough level magic; they can alternate."
"I'm less concerned for the mages than your standing with your King," Isenam replied, his faint Orlesian accent decorating his words. "What was that-"
"Stop," Nathaniel lifted his hand and looked at the ground. "It's nothing."
The Lieutenant's closeness with the Commander was common knowledge considering his status of the first new Wardens after the Blight. But his interaction with the King suggested more. Out of respect more than lack of concern or curiosity, Isenam nodded to Nate and gestured for Val to follow. The pair climbed up the embankment to the mages who were now conscious and recuperating.
The other losses of the Inquisition's battle were collected and burned on a pyre in a distant field. Bodies lay separate from one another. Stones divided them though they shared the same fire. Soldiers from all armies gathered to pay their respect, bowing their heads and quoting from the Chant of Light.
The armies traveled through the night, marching back to the larger forward camp before returning to Skyhold. Commander Rutherford ordered a band of Inquisition soldiers to remain, supporting the Inquisitor and her party who had made their way into the Temple during the battle.
Subdued and solemn, despite their victory, the march back seemed to take longer. Communication remained in hushed whispers though many came to give their condolences to the King. The animal that was the Grey Warden army moved with less unity than it had the other way. Wardens walked with blank stares, stunned by the reality of their loss. The mages proceeded around a covered wagon, emptied of armor and weapons, carrying Caoilainn's body. Magic cooled the body, effectively preserving her. Philippa took it upon herself to orchestrate their task, casting magic to keep away demonic spirits. Rather than taking Caoilainn's horse for himself, Nathaniel led the Grey Wardens by foot. When it was time to set up camp for the night, the Warden Commander tent remained packed.
Hale walked near him, keeping quiet company in deference to his silence. On the first night he welcomed her to his tent, she joined, worried for him, aware of the pain he was not addressing. It looked similar to what she experienced when she lost her father. But Nathaniel did not speak of Caoilainn's death. Intimacy replaced conversation, and satisfied needs lent immediate distraction. Afterward Nathaniel turned away from Hale; choosing isolation to escape her affection and the threat it presented to his well-guarded walls. Unsure how to respond, Hale left him alone. But on the third night she curved against his back, pressing her warm body to his. She wrapped her arm around his torso and clung to his chest. Without hesitation, Nathaniel's fingers laced with hers, holding her closer as he released a heavy sigh. Hale suspected the exhale spoke more than he would admit with words, but she chose not to push him. Caring in her own way, she stayed close from then on.
By the time the armies returned to Skyhold a few weeks later, most soldiers were conversing, testing at the idea of casual conversation even through the somber atmosphere. The gates of Skyhold opened that afternoon, allowing the leaders to enter. The larger groups stayed outside, setting up their tents for the night.
Shortly after their arrival, Leliana proceeded from the main hall to greet them. Her brow wrinkled, worry cast across her face. She met with Inquisition members, asked them questions. They all nodded back and her frown set further. When she finished checking in with them, she approached Alistair who had dismounted from his horse and was speaking with his advisors with his arms crossed, guarded, professional.
"I'm so sorry," Leliana muttered, her hand reaching toward his arm.
He flinched, forearm arm lifting on impulse; his fingers extended, rigid. A deep breath preceded his reply. "You know, I'm still not sure how I'm supposed to respond when people say that," Alistair replied, his gloomy, tired frown strengthened. His sarcastic humor morphed to cynicism. "'It's okay'? Because I'm- it's not. 'Thank you'? I'm not feeling very grateful at the moment. She's gone, Leliana and there's nothing anyone can do about it."
"I know," Leliana replied, crossing her arms to protect against Alistair's vitriol. "I have sent ravens to Weisshaupt and Fergus on your behalf. When I received word of her death, I thought of the only way I knew to help."
"Right," Alistair looked away, brows creasing as if a headache was forming. "Fergus and Weisshaupt. Thanks Leliana." His detached expression, eyes distant, wandering off toward his room near the tavern illustrated the bland gratitude he offered. Thoughts of contacting Caoilainn's brother or the Grey Warden headquarters had not crossed his mind. It seemed Leliana assumed as much when she took it upon herself to send letters.
Without another word, he wandered to his room. The plans to return to Denerim after restocking supplies and resting had already been finalized with his advisors. Alistair had no other Kingly responsibilities to address and he desperately needed to be alone. He found the room and entered.
Their bed was still unmade. Water cold, the bucket he used to wash her the night before they departed still rested on the floor; the washcloth draped over the side. Air stagnant, heavy with silence, lingering with memories of their time together. Energy invested, thoughtful actions taken to rebuild their marriage filled every aspect of the room; there had been hope. And now there was none.
He inhaled; swirling emotions of anger, mourning, and aching desperation for Caoilainn's presence pulled at his mind. It weighed on him, urging him to sit before he collapsed. Slow deliberate steps through the debris of their memories -his memories now she was gone- and he sat on the bed. With his elbows resting on his knees, his hands lifted to his face, and he rubbed his eyes, attempting to collect himself.
Then he took a deep breath and fell back on the bed. Sore from the expedition, bruises from combat still present on his body, and especially drained from heartbreak, he needed to rest. Silk and lace textures brushed his fingers and his hand blindly searched for the source. He picked up the fabric and lifted it to his eyes. The robe. The gift he gave her on the day of their coronation cascaded from his hand.
The fabric crinkled in his fingers as he brought it down to his face. It still smelled of her. Clean sweat and leather. She worked so hard. Perfumed scents of honeysuckle and jasmine accented her commitment to duty with poise. Tears welled.
Emptiness shattered his pessimism. Unable to project his pain on anyone else, Alistair lost control. A long, lonely groan escaped him, and he heaved, sobbing into the robe. Fully clothed in armor, Alistair rolled onto his side; his knees curled in toward his chest, and he wept until he fell asleep.
No one, save for a few pages saw the King of Ferelden for the next few days. Alistair would stop a page in the hallway near his room to request a meal occasionally. He did not leave to speak to his advisors, nor did he call for water to bathe. Attendants could not enter to provide him with clean linens, nor would he answer to any of the visitors who called for him.
Until he heard a knock on the door and a familiar voice. "Alistair," the annunciation of his name disclaimed any question of the speaker. "Alistair, I want to speak with you."
"Go away, Morrigan," Alistair answered, not shifting from where he lay on the bed. The armor had been discarded on the floor; he now wore just his tunic and breeches.
"Alistair, I only need a few moments. You can continue wallowing in self-pity when we are done. I'm not arguing your right to grieve." The voice resonated from the hallway through the door. He sighed. Though her words were softer than he remembered her speaking, they retained her bitter bite.
Morrigan heard steps from within the room, and a moment later the door clicked open. He stood at the doorway, eyebrows raised waiting for her to explain her visit. Eyes bloodshot, dark circles beneath them, and wrinkles that suggested age far beyond Alistair's years. He was pallid, gaunt, and his hair disheveled.
"May I come in?" She inquired cautiously, attempting to see the state of his room from over his shoulder.
"What do you want?" He interrupted her gaze with his head, blocking her line of sight.
Morrigan lifted a brow, her impatience growing with Alistair's resistance enhanced by her caution of his present state. "I want you to meet someone." She shifted her body, and a boy peeked around her legs to see Alistair.
Alistair's eyes grew wide and darted from Morrigan to the boy and back again. "No, Morrigan. Now's definitely not the time. I'm not ready." He backed away from the door and attempted to shut it.
Morrigan put her hand up to stop the door from closing. "You're leaving tomorrow. 'Tis as good a time as any."
"Am I?" Genuinely confused, Alistair pondered out loud, glancing at the ceiling as he did so. "Ah, yes I am…. All right, fine. We'll talk." He sighed and stepped away from the door, allowing Morrigan and Kieran to follow him. "You know, I expected him to be more demonic. Tentacles… fiery breath and all that."
"He is a normal boy, Alistair," Morrigan clarified, impatience growing in her tone again. "And he can hear you."
"Your blood smells familiar," Kieran piped up, addressing Alistair, curiosity and wonderment filled his tone. "I can hear it."
"Oh boy," Alistair's eyes grew larger, and jumped to Morrigan for help. Morrigan did nothing more than smirk and shrug her shoulders. With a deep breath, Alistair looked back to Kieran and spoke. "Well, that's a personal problem of mine, you see? It's best not to talk of it. Right then?"
"You're funny… but very sad." A knowing grin tugged as Kieran shared his observation of Alistair before glancing at Morrigan. "You didn't tell me kings could be funny too, mother."
"Most aren't," Morrigan's smirk continued. "This one is an anomaly. All right little man, say goodbye to the funny king and return to your studies."
Kieran's brows furrowed and his shoulders slumped with exaggeration. He looked to his mother, frustrated as if his studies were a punishment. With a wave of her hand, Morrigan gestured for Kieran to follow through with her order.
Kieran rolled his eyes from his mother to Alistair. "Goodbye, funny king," he drawled sullenly and then marched from the room.
Dumbstruck, Alistair's eyes followed the young boy as he walked away until Morrigan's voice intruded his thoughts. "You are a good king, you know," she said as Alistair sat back down on the bed. Morrigan stood across from him near the door. "She knew that. Caoilainn didn't believe she was enough for you."
Forearms resting on his legs, his head shook. "Well she was wrong on all accounts. I must not be that good a king or she'd still be here. It's my fault, Morrigan. If I hadn't chased her here to Skyhold, if I hadn't been in that ravine, this wouldn't have happened."
"Of course," Morrigan agreed. "And by that logic, if the Warden mages held their strength, there wouldn't have been an impairment in defense while you were fighting. You wouldn't have been overwhelmed and she would have stayed with the Wardens."
"Morrigan," he groaned, rolling his eyes up at her.
"No, listen," she scolded. Her brows furrowed and she rested a hand on her hip. "'Tis a shame she is lost, but you chased her because you loved her. She ran from you to find a cure for the Calling because she loved you. The only reason she would not have searched for the cure is if she was never a Warden and had never met you, Alistair."
He sighed, tears stung at his eyes, glassy as they gazed in pain at Morrigan. The irrefutable truth in Morrigan's words hurt, firing up his anger with the unjustness of it all. "And what is it good for now? She's gone. She didn't find the cure."
"She is gone, 'tis true. But I bring what may be a hollow redemption for Caoilainn," She pulled a small, corked bottle from her pouch and set it on the counter near the sink basin. "Don't ask me what's in it, but I believe this will be the cure she sought. Now for you."
Alistair's brow creased and his eyes narrowed, following her hand to the bottle then back to Morrigan. His voice rose as he snapped at her. "Really? It was that easy? And you bring this to me now… after she's gone? This would've been helpful before she..."His unwillingness to say the word 'died' forced his tangent to a halt.
Morrigan remained cool, unchanged in the face of Alistair's lividity. "I found the information I needed for the cure in the Elven Temple."
"Keep it," he looked away, glowering with distrust. "I don't want your blood magic."
"Alistair," she made a request, her tone simultaneously nagging and pleading him to listen, "don't make that decision now." Permanent decisions made in states of emotional pain served no one.
"Fine," he gave a curt reply, sneering. "I'll decide not to drink it later, when you're not looking." His mind wandered, and his brows lifted in inquiry. Persistent cynicism faltered and for a moment genuine interest overtook him. "What did you mean by redemption?"
With a sigh, Morrigan explained. "She chose you, Alistair, over the Grey Wardens. Once and for all. 'Twas no simple task for the Warden Commander," Morrigan stopped to observe Alistair's reaction, and continued when he seemed to need more. "It seems she decided your life was more valuable to her than her own. And yet another reason for you to decide what to do with that bottle at a later time."
Alistair stared back, his gaze blank and brows furrowed, perplexed by her words. The door clicked behind Morrigan as she exited, leaving Alistair alone with his thoughts yet again. Turmoil of anger, now with Caoilainn, added to the grief. That wasn't your decision to make, Caoilainn. He stood and walked to the sink, lifted the bottle, ready to throw it on the ground. The warm glass of the tiny vial hummed against his skin. But you made it. Alistair stopped mid-motion. He went to set the bottle back down, but the sight of it reminded him what Caoilainn presumably died for. And as if the bottle stared at him, drilling a hole into him, he needed it out of his sight. Alistair tossed it into a bag of his personal items to deal with later.