A calm morning on a flat cliff near the ocean well outside of Denerim, the grieving gathered. The Teyrn of Highever, Fergus Cousland, arrived in the city a few nights before. Teagan, the Arl of Redcliffe, had received word from Fergus and arrived the prior evening. They stood on either side of the King in quiet contemplation; saddened faces hardened with intense stares and restrained discomposure, their lips pulled in tight frowns. A small group of Wardens stood behind them in a wider line. Fists rested on chests, maintaining professionalism though many broke the salute to dry their eyes.
The sad ring of cathedral bells echoed from Denerim for a funeral service provided in the city for mourning citizens.
A chilled sea breeze of the Waking Sea came in frequent gusts making the warmth of the sun a precious commodity.
Stacked tree limbs and logs supported a makeshift shrine. Garlands and wreaths gilded wood with flowers in house colors: varying shades of blue, green, red, and yellow embellished by petals and vines. The laurel, mabari, and griffon displayed on heraldic banners draped from the pyre.
Enchanted, made to look pristine in her final state, Caoilainn lay atop the wood altar, resting on a flowery bed. Fair skin contrasted deep blue; adorned in a snug gown, gold trim lined the collar and sleeves. White ribbon laced up the front. The griffon and chalice embroidered on the breast, creating a badge. A floral crown denoted her status as Queen.
Looking up to his sister's final resting place, Fergus' teary glare shifted from sorrow to frustration, to disbelief. The emotions cycled as he observed the altar until he took his turn to climb the steps and give homage. She laid, peaceful, serene on the pyre; cheeks glowed as if she were alive. Fergus rested a flower on her stomach and placed an object beside her. An old doll of Caoilainn's, found locked away with undisturbed belongings in Castle Cousland, never intended to be seen again. The doll wore a blue dress, the laurel sigil stitched in green.
Teagan joined Caoilainn's brother, stuck in viewing Caoilainn's remains, frozen in the sight of his last living relative, now gone. Condolences offered with the company at the altar, Teagan paid his respects with a flower. Suggesting not to linger, he gave a silent squeeze to Fergus' shoulder and two stepped down.
The King walked forward; alone, climbing the stairs of the altar to face Caoilainn for the last time. Keepsakes seemed fruitless, offering a meager memento for selfish reasons. Don't forget about me.But under all the pain, anger, and at the bottom of the deepest sorrow he had never fathomed, he wanted her to know one thing. I will always love you. It was too easy; a message so simple couldn't capture the complicated nature of their relationship. Nor could it validate the storming emotions he now experienced in folds, disagreeing with each other and leaving him in consternation. So he placed two things with Caoilainn: one to communicate his love and the other to honor his pain.
For her: a rose. The hallowed flower, velvety petals bloomed to entice, inviting eyes to appreciate and envy its absolute beauty. In spite of darkness, the plant retained its utter eloquence. "I think the same thing when I look at you." The love he gave, both wise and youthful in nature, sometimes naive and idealistic, had matured with time. Self-taught, learned with years spent by her side and through their distance. His love would always be boundless and eternal.
For him: a letter. Words compiled on parchment, script scrolled down the page. Rolled, tied with a ribbon, and sealed with the Theirin crest. There wasn't enough room on all the parchment across Thedas to capture what he wanted to tell her. But consolidating thoughts to a page, the letter did justice. It was enough. He slipped it under her curved palm. Tucked neatly, close to her chest.
He stroked her hair a final time before his hand brushed her cheek. The coldness of her skin contradicted the glow the mages gave her. Alistair struggled to keep his shoulders straight. Urged to collapse and sob, despite his audience, to pray to Andraste to bring Caoilainn back. It gnawed at his mind and forced his already heavy heart to sink deeper. He was anchored but pulled in too many directions by conflicting emotions complicated by his company and limitations of time.
Goodbye Caoilainn, my Queen. He closed his eyes but it didn't help. A quick exhale met a silent sob, his lips stretched down to a wordless cry. A slow turn of his head said 'no' to this moment while shoulders shook. Then a deep breath, and another. He looked away. Eyes locked downward, he descended the stairs away from her. His fingers to his eyes applied pressure to stay tears without success. Alistair returned to his place between Teagan and Fergus and nodded to no one in particular. Teagan lent a supportive hand to Alistair's back.
Archers lit their arrow from both ends of the Warden line. Nathaniel among them, his blue and white fletcher decorated the end, chosen with purpose for her. Arrows loosed, and Nate sent his with the love he never expressed to Caoilainn. Love as a friend, his closest in fact, despite his sister Delilah; he cared for Caoilainn unlike anyone else in his life. Also, an apology aimed with his arrow. For his reckless, prideful, and foolhardy libido causing crossed boundaries and shared misdeeds, and for his part in whatever harm resulted from amorous games.
Hale's curious eyes studied Nate's reverie after she loosed her arrow.
The flames ignited on impact. Fire quickly spread across the wood, the pyre ablaze with a roar. The body vanished from view as the bonfire grew, reaching up into the clear sky at the cliffside. Smoke climbed from the flames, creeping its way beyond the tall flicker into the open blue and cloudless skyline. It could be seen from the city, and well beyond.
The attendees stood in reverence of the blaring pyre. The sun traveled across the skyline; late morning made way for afternoon. One by one guests stepped away, following a quiet trail back to Denerim. The Wardens left first, Nate the last among them. Teagan and Fergus gave Alistair mumbles of condolence and shared pain before departing. 'It will be okay.'
They left Alistair the last standing at the pyre. Evening crept in and the fire weakened. The chill became cold, and waves crashed louder as the roar of the fire ebbed.
Tears spent and mind filled with contemplation, alone, he walked back to the palace. Joining Teagan and Fergus, they all shared a meal and shots of whiskey. A tradition passed from the Mac Einrag's, the maiden family of Fergus' mother, they drank toasts to honor Caoilainn. In spite of sadness, they found laughter as Fergus told fond tales of Caoilainn's childhood antics.
But humor didn't linger when Alistair's guests left. As though the work spent adjusting when Caoilainn ran away was for naught, he started over. And it was harder this time, when reminders of the ultimate failure of his persistent love found him. She's never coming back.
Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and months to a year. Alistair met life without Caoilainn without grace. Often, locked in his room when despair returned in full force. Forlorn bouts worsened by alcohol traded with periods of stability. But he managed as King, fulfilling and delegating responsibilities when needed.
Tense communications continued with Warden Commander Howe, and arguments erupted whenever the two men spoke about procedure. But as an independent body, not ruled by the King of Ferelden, Alistair had little say in what Howe did with his army. Their rivalry never diminished; animosity towards each other a vice of both men gripped with unrelenting obstinance. Alistair had no reason to visit the Grey Warden base and Howe made a point to avoid Denerim. When the need of a Warden in the capital occurred, Howe sent only his most obnoxious Lieutenant: the fiery Elf girl.
Rumors spread the son of Maric might banish the Grey Wardens as the clash between the Warden Commander and King became well known. The blame fell to Howe's family history, regardless of the warmth Nathaniel received in Amaranthine. But as one of the last Wardens before Caoilainn resurrected the Order, compiled with her well-known love for the Grey, Alistair tolerated Nate as Commander, at least for the time being.
The bags from the mission to Orlais were left packed for years until Alistair gained the courage to open them. Untouched belongings, time frozen since the quest to Orlais shattered one bag at a time as he unpacked memories. The armor, what he wore the day she died; the clothes touched her body when she took her last breath. Her belongings, Grey Warden tabards, her hair brush, the robe among other things retained her essence. Faint reminders of her scent lingered despite years packed away. Tears returned, the pain real yet again.
Through unpacking of bags, he found the pack of his personal items from his room at Skyhold: a comb, a container of the wax and oil product he used in his hair, and a few shirts. At the bottom, he found a tiny vial.
"Yet another reason for you to decide what to do with that bottle at a later time."
Morrigan's words echoed in his mind. The bottle, a supposed cure for the Calling. Thoughts of his fate, his sacrifice as a former Grey Warden furthest from his attention now returned.
To his dismay, his history as a Warden and his part in ending the fifth Blight seemed insignificant to his duties as King. And now he faced the small vial, the supposed cure to the Taint, and his conversation with Morrigan resurfaced.
"You're a good king, you know. She knew that…. This will be the cure she sought. Now for you."
Though Morrigan did not confirm the ingredients of the potion, his assumptions weighed heavily on his decision. Long held beliefs and first-hand experience of the risks of blood magic gave him pause. A price always had to be paid. Like the Joining, swallowed darkspawn blood and magic created a lifelong commitment to the Grey. Shortened lifespans and the Calling were payment for the ability to bond to other Wardens and sense darkspawn.
Morrigan had advised of redemption and responsibility. Caoilainn had pursued her mission with tenacity and unapologetic self-interest, for them.
"Find a cure... . I love you." Caoilainn's last words played through his mind.
"Find a cure… I love you."
"Healer!" Someone yelled through the commotion
The Inquisition soldiers escorted a mage to Alistair, and the waning chatter of the battlefield returned around him. Limp in his arms, eyes closed, Caoilainn did not breathe. Regret for his anger the night prior faced the genuine potential for her death. Vivid and guilt fueled images, provoked as preparation for grief flashed before him, creating all too lucid nightmares. Now the visions reversed: the lonely cure faded, the way she looked on the pyre, the march back to Denerim, and his conversation with Morrigan and the young boy, back to where he knelt on the battlefield. Emerging from his anxiety, he faced reality: Caoilainn and the possibility for her life.
Seconds felt like hours, like days, like years each moment she failed to breathe.
Ushered in by soldiers, the Grand Enchanter wrung her hands, speeding through fallen bodies and the mass surrounding the King and Queen.
"My apologies. I was healing the wounded at the supply camp. It kept me from the battlefield." Fiona's remorseful waking-dream washed away; the idea of sharing her grief with Alistair nothing but a sad and shame-filled fantasy. A meager hope she might comfort her son, giving what little she knew of motherly love; and perhaps, an inkling of her words lingered when this dream version of her son sensed their connection.
Fiona feared she was too late to save his wife. "How is she?" She couldn't meet Alistair's eyes.
"I don't know. She's not- she's not breathing." Alistair gave a trembling whine, stammering. Face shining, soaked from tears and sweat, he glanced to Fiona with bulging eyes, urging her. "You have to do something." Blood soaked from Caoilainn's chest, drenching Alistair's arm. Caoilainn's hand in his.
Fiona gave a silent nod. I'll try. She kept her doubtful thought to herself and passed potions to soldiers, giving quick directions while she charged a spell.
"Where did you go, Lieutenant?" Hale jogged up behind Nathaniel, who had frozen in his tracks. Dismayed, his hands rested on his head. The fearful furrow of his brow created worry lines prominent through the wrinkles on his face.
The guilt-ridden trance flashed before Nate and dissipated, replaced by chaos. Caoilainn, the threat of her death, an absolute end far too feasible. Bug-eyed, frantic, he ran toward her, attempting to see through the mass of people surrounding. "I need to see her! Is she okay?"
"Keep him out!" Alistair growled as he rocked Caoilainn's frame. Glaring at the direction he heard the voice. The King's Guard closed the circle, keeping Nathaniel from viewing.
"Fuck's sake, Lieutenant," Hale rushed to catch up with Nate, catching her breath. "She'll be fine."
"Hale, no," he turned toward her. His expression more emotional, pained than she had ever witnessed of him. "I saw it… her death. I was made Commander. And I was a miserable asshole to you."
"Uh-huh," Hale rolled her eyes and patted his back. "Right yeah, you're starkers. You'd be bleeding from the lip if you're an arse to me. And a little soon to be raving mad about a promotion now, aren't ya? Calm down, mate. She ain't dead yet."
Nate's head turned, attempting to shake the frightened delusion from his mind as he waited for any news about the Warden Commander.
Fiona closed her eyes, her hands resting on Caoilainn's chest. She called upon the Fade and applied a spell. Blue, healing light sent from her hands and throughout Caoilainn.
While she worked, distressed words spilled from Alistair's mouth. "I was sure I lost her." He looked down to Caoilainn, "I played it all out. Scenarios and what would happen. It wasn't pleasant at all. I was a very sad king," he shook his head in recollection. "Maker, it was so horribly real."
With an exhale, Fiona finished her spell. The woman checked for Caoilainn's breath; her ear hovering over Caoilainn's mouth. Sighing again, Fiona shook her head and replied through a distracted mumble. "The Maker plays clever tricks, King Alistair." Another spell recharged. "Clever tricks, indeed." The mage's hands hovered over Caoilainn's wound; this time, green light emitted casting healing mana into Caoilainn's body.
Breath held in anticipation, eyes fixated on Caoilainn. Observing her, watching her body for any signs of change. Alistair gripped her tighter, brushing back her damp hair from the clotting wound on her forehead. Blinking often to moisten dry eyes, he feared he might miss something in the split second his lids closed.
One moment it seemed as though Caoilainn was gone, and then she was not.
Her hand flinched against Alistair's, clutching his palm with force; she gasped as her eyes opened.
The Mother of Griffons lived.