"Alistair?" A female voice called from the entryway of the stable. "King Alistair?"
"What?" Alistair replied, displeased with yet another intruder to his sour disposition as he prepared to mount his horse. He did not turn to face the speaker. Placing one foot in the stirrup, his other leg readied to swing over the saddle.
"May I have a word?" She asked. The cadence flowed, emitting authority and decision through a thick Orlesian accent.
An audible harrumph preceded his turn, amused with her audacity to approach a king with such assertiveness. Alistair's pompous sneer joined a cocked brow and met the face of the woman. An Elf stared at him, short though older than he, dressed in mages robes. He recognized her. Why is she here?
"Ah… Grand Enchanter Fiona, isn't it? Who gave Redcliffe to a Tevinter Magister? Who I expressly banished from Ferelden? Yes, right. How can I help you?" His gaze traveled back to his stirrup, and he lifted his foot. "Or not."
"Now it is only Fiona," the woman corrected. Her hands met as she stepped closer, wringing with unease as her brows bunched. "The Circle will find a new Grand Enchanter when it is reinstated."
Alistair glanced to Fiona and sighed. The sudden timidity of the woman who approached him contrasted his snide demeanor. It became a challenge to justify his spite. "Well, in the meantime I hope the Inquisition treats you well enough." He took the position to mount yet again, eager to abandon this already perplexing interaction.
He looks so much like his father. Fiona stumbled to find words. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and reminded herself why she desired this conversation. It might be the last chance she'd ever have to speak with her son. "Forgive my forwardness, your Majesty," she voiced. "I know your wife sought a cure for the Calling."
Alistair stopped mid-motion, releasing the horn of his saddle and turning to face Fiona. His horse neighed at his indecision. A sneer morphed to a frown and Alistair's brows creased ever so slightly. He stepped toward her, towering over the small woman. "And what do you know of the Calling?" The intensity of his question loomed in the silence that followed.
"I…," she started. The speed at which she wrung her hands increased until she forced them down to her sides. "It doesn't matter. But I know the difficulty this presents to you and your grief."
"Do you?" He imposed, unable to believe anyone could understand him. Bitterness conflicted with the desperation. "Do you know what it's like to lose the person you care about most? To spend every moment hoping you're about to wake from a bad dream? Do tell, Fiona. How would you know that?"
Fiona stalled, cringing; her eyes misted, gazing at the giant man above her. With a slow breath she blinked to focus. "The Maker plays clever tricks, King Alistair. I know profound loss and the unfathomable sadness that accompanies."
Tears welled in Alistair's eyes. Through his stubbornness, his emotions visibly stirred. Fiona recognized the deep sadness in his gaze akin to her own, but it vanished to frustration and riled confusion. "What could you possibly know about profound loss?"
Long unspoken words failed to pass her lips; she had much more to say than her will granted. Her brows furrowed together, empathetic and sorry. "More than you could imagine, your Majesty. I came to speak with you before you departed because I know the difficulty of this decision. If you find a cure… do you choose to live longer with this sadness? Or do you follow the fate ordained by the Order and allow the Calling to take you?"
Alistair's jaw set, teeth clenched; he rubbed the building tears from his eyes with his thumb and middle finger. Dry laughter sounded as his hand brushed away and a sad grin pulled at his lips. "Hah, yes. I suppose I face quite the conundrum. Thanks for pointing that out."
She gave an apprehensive smile, soft and caring despite his unpleasant behavior. He took a moment to breathe. It seemed to calm him.
Through a low tone, almost a whisper, she gave guidance. "The sadness will worsen before you heal from it. But remember: you will heal. You have much left to gain and much left to give in this life."
The wisdom she offered echoed through the stable. He stared back, dumbfounded by the unconditional endearment.
She felt the upheaval of emotions; a unique kind of love far more complicated than what could be captured in words. It's not the right time. Pulling together her composure, Fiona continued, "Again forgive my forwardness." Her chin lifted and her posture straightened; confident gestures of her hands illustrated her speech, rolling along with her words. "Notwithstanding my banishment from your kingdom, should you find yourself in need of the consult of a former Grand Enchanter, I offer my services to you, King Alistair." Fiona bowed her head.
Brows creased with confusion before he nodded in return. "Um, sure…" he meandered. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Fiona, former Grand Enchanter." A feeble smile followed his gratitude.
Fiona bowed once again and left the bewildered Alistair alone in the stable.
Horses mounted, carts loaded, Ferelden and Grey Warden armies gathered to depart from Skyhold. Though they traveled together, the two armies separated naturally. Nathaniel, stepping in to lead the Wardens, and Alistair at the head of the Ferelden Royal Army, his advisors by his side. The Inquisitor, having returned from Skyhold a few days prior, approached the King of Ferelden first.
"Thank you for your service to the Inquisition," Alanna addressed Alistair, who sat atop his horse waiting to depart.
"Thank you for accepting our aid," he replied, diplomatic and rehearsed. A blank but tired expression met the eyes of the Inquisitor. "Pardon our early departure. Under other circumstances, we would stay to help."
"You need not apologize. You and your soldiers," she glanced to the armies from Ferelden gathered outside the gate, "have made a significant dent in Corypheus' military. We could not have done this without you." She chose her following words with painstaking care. "The sacrifice your kingdom has suffered will not be in vain."
Alistair's reserved gaze shifted to sorrow before his focus returned. He nodded to the Inquisitor.
Walking from one army to the other. The two men's obvious avoidance of each other forced a greater distance for the Inquisitor's walk. Alanna addressed Lieutenant Howe, and her cousin stood nearby. "And to you, Lieutenant," she bowed her head, "thank you for the support of the Grey Wardens."
The list of reasons the Grey Wardens would have been better off never stepping foot into Skyhold ran through Nate's mind. But he gave a tight-lipped smile and a simple bow. "Wardens serve where service is due," he mumbled.
The Inquisitor's eyes traveled to her cousin and upon landing she took the few steps to Hale. "Is it safe to assume we will not see you with the Lavellan Clan anytime soon?" Though spoken with love, Alanna's words did not hide the enmity the entire clan felt toward Hale's behavior.
"I'd say that's a safe bet," Hale replied with a grin, her devilish stare darting to Nathaniel.
"Shame," Alanna assessed, her soft gaze intensifying as she followed Hale's glance to Nathaniel. Suspicion merged with professionalism; she scanned the Warden Lieutenant presence.
The involuntary raise of his brow paired with the smirk pulling at the corner of his lip opposed his sullen attitude. And? What are you going to do about it? Nathaniel mused what he desired to say in reply to Inquisitor Lavellan's accusatory glance.
Displeased, Alanna returned her gaze to Hale. Though she desired to scold her cousin, Alanna did not wish to have their last interaction end in harsh words. "My dear, sweet cousin. Please be safe. I miss you."
"Right, yeah. Miss you too, cousin," Hale dismissed the sentiment.
The Inquisitor finished bidding farewell to the Ferelden forces as they marched from Skyhold toward Ferelden.
Since it seemed more than the last month had consisted of marching, the armies had less vigor. Mountains morphed from cragged, icy peaks to bulky stone covered in lush forest. Snow melted, frigid temperatures mellowed to cold as the altitude lowered, the climate changing. The march, estimated to take weeks, proved more arduous than the other direction. Weather beat down the armies; snow and hail later replaced by wind and rain. Claps of thunder in the distance echoed the rumbling of synced steps.
Efforts to stay energized waned as the processional traveled through the northern side of Ferelden toward Denerim. A guarded cart carrying the deceased Queen tucked between the two armies. Mages continued alternating spells to preserve her and ward away spirits. Watchful eyes of both the King and Lieutenant Howe kept those with the charge of caring for the body alert to any potential dangers.
Her smile. Ashen-blonde locks cascading down her face, haplessly pulled back by her loose braid. Silvery-blue eyes that usually pierced right to his soul; now squinted, wrinkling with her toothy-grin. Sunlight cast down on her, highlighting her features and coaxing them to glow. Her head tilted back and in an instant- blessed Andraste- her mouth opened without her control and the most pleasant notes of laughter danced from her lips.
Bold and self-assured, Alistair grinned beholding the magnificent sight that was Caoilainn laughing. A bad joke, a witty remark, a silly sound effect following a clumsy step; the source didn't matter. It took little time to learn upon meeting the anxious woman of her proneness to uncontrollable fits of giggles at his expense. Proudly, he gained some level of mastery over the craft through the years of their marriage in between her sadness, and despite her secrets. Often lost in her head with worrying and planning, his consistent victory at entertaining her never ceased to astound Alistair. As though he enthralled her; for those fleeting moments when he had her laughing, nothing else existed. The world around them melted: the Blight gone, their pasts erased, responsibilities obsolete. His ego stroked with each note; pride compounded by much needed giggles.
"I haven't seen you laugh like that in ages," he admitted the night before they left Skyhold. The closest he had ever come to confessing the power her laughter gave him. A cruel jest: being deprived the sustenance of the sight and sound of her reckless abandon for the last five years, then given a small taste, only to have it ripped away forever.
Alistair's horse trotted along, marching with the rest of the Ferelden army. Thoughts of Caoilainn, images of their last few moments together flashed in his mind, and as bittersweet reprieve more pleasant memories sprang forth. Boundless love that flourished in the darkest circumstances and prevailed through unlikely odds. Dashes of arguments, long held resentments few and far between, followed only by angered thoughts remorsing the lack of clear resolution. Cycling over and over until his eyes blurred, dry until the sting of tears brought his awareness back to the present.
"Don't leave me," she whispered. The words replayed piercing his chest each time. I'm still here, Caoilainn. Come back to me. "Yes, my King." Memories of sweet murmurs whispered in his ear, the lovely sound of her response to his command. Unmitigated love denounced any shame for recalling wanton interaction. Instead, it exacerbated his longing. Short-lived nostalgia, interrupted by his heavy heart building pressure each time he returned to reality.
Advisors came to speak with him. Blank nods, and short answers satisfied their expectations, or they stopped trying. Either way, they allowed him to return to his thoughts.
The wheels of the cart near him turning endlessly, horse hooves clopping, and soldiers marching created a blaring hum infiltrating his reverie. Repetitive, unwelcome noises disturbed his sad solitude and reminded him of the harsh truth. On occasion, Alistair's concerned gaze traveled from the cart to the Warden Lieutenant on the other side. He often found the man studying Caoilainn's cart with equal intensity. Enraged, but without the ability to demand otherwise with tact, he stored his reactions and prepared to take any opportunity to make the man's life miserable, given the chance.
Reluctant to admit the anger Alistair felt toward the Lieutenant accounted for both Caoilainn's and Nathaniel's part in the affair, Alistair harbored wrath. As Caoilainn could no longer take responsibility, the burden fell to Howe. A history of bad blood now magnified by the ten years Alistair spent making presumptions of their tawdry activities.
Days carried into nights and the same repetition of thoughts filtered through until he found some semblance of sleep, only to wake and repeat the next day of the march.
Her smile. The recalled sound and image of Caoilainn's laugh provided empty respite.