The first task to be accomplished now that the Landsmeet was over was to see how many ready men at arms the bannorn had, how many more could be called up, and how quickly they could be trained and prepared. Alistair recalled that summer he'd accompanied Loghain across the Ferelden. Looking back, those had been truly good times. Maric and Cailan had both been alive, and they'd probably been as happy as Alistair had known them. And Alistair had been happy. He'd begun coming into his own, and had been given the chance to show what he was capable of. He'd had friends, the respect of those he looked up to. Even with the heartbreak of that first young romance with Lya, there was a part of him that would give anything to go back to that summer. To leave all of this behind and return to times that were simpler, easier, where the weight of everything didn't rest on his shoulders.
Alistair shook his head, dismissing the impossible thoughts. Time didn't run backward and dwelling on it would only make what lay ahead of them worse. Taking a deep breath, he went looking for Loghain. Unsurprisingly, he found the older man in the meeting room they'd converted into a war room. Loghain stood over the table, looking down at the large, detailed map spread across it. There was a box with tokens set to the side where they could plot the movements of the horde and their own forces when the time came, but for now the map was bare. Alistair stepped up to the table as well, gazing down at his country made miniature, everything that Ferelden was reduced to ink on parchment.
"I'd have given my eye teeth for this during the war," Loghain said after a minute of silence.
Alistair nodded. "My father never talked much about it, but from what he did say, it seemed terrible."
"It was," Loghain said simply. "And the alternatives were worse." He glanced up to look at Alistair. "What do you need?"
"That summer we took the survey of the Bannorn's forces? How accurate do you think those findings still are?"
"Ah." Loghain nodded. "I see. That was…." He frowned. "Almost ten years ago now." He fixed his gaze back down at the map. "Longer ago than I'd like. Let's see."
After a long moment to consider the map, he pointed to the western side. "Eamon will have kept his men in good order. He has the resources to support a standing fighting force, and knows well the importance of keeping all of his people prepared." He paused and gave Alistair a considering look. "If you're up for discussing a bit of strategy?"
"Of course," Alistair said quickly, moving up to where Loghain stood. He needed to know all that he could. He planned to leave most of the decisions about Fereldan's forces to Loghain, but….
With his losses so fresh, Alistair couldn't help but wonder how many more were coming. Loghain kept himself in fighting shape, but there was no denying that he was no longer young. His black hair had in recent years had become shot through with silver, the lines on his face deeper. And Alistair knew there would be no keeping Loghain from the battlefield entirely. He knew better than to place himself deliberately in harm's way, but in war there was no safe place. Not to mention that for all Duncan hoped to end the Blight quickly, odds were that this conflict would grind on for years. Loath though he was to consider it, Alistair had to acknowledge the very real possibility that Loghain would not live to see the end of this war. There would be others who could advise, of course, but if there was anyone Alistair wanted to learn from, it was the old general.
"Now," Loghain said, gesturing to the south of the map, "until we can gather more information, we must assume the hoard is still around Ostagar. But they won't remain there for long. When they do leave, they'll begin to…hunt, for lack of a better term, for more populated areas. If this is in fact a Blight—"
"You don't think it is?" Alistair interrupted. "After Ostagar, you still think this is some rogue group of darkspawn?"
Loghain's lips pressed into a thin line. "I thought your Warden-Commander was perhaps exaggerating the threat we faced," he grudgingly admitted. The look he gave Alistair was steady, though. "That did not affect my decisions for the battle. I prepared for the threat we faced." He sighed wearily and seemed to shrink down a little. "Or the threat we thought we faced. There were…too many darkspawn at Ostagar. No one truly knows why the darkspawn do what they do, but there had to be something driving that many of them."
He shook himself and cleared his throat. "Though some might wish to, I will not deny the reality of what is happening. Blight or not, the darkspawn are moving upon us and we must stop them.
"Now," once more he gestured to the map, "they are concentrated in the south, but they will not remain there. My plan is for Eamon to keep his forces in Redcliffe, to prevent as much of the horde as possible from getting to the other side of Lake Calenhad. He'll likely need to draw most of his forces farther west, drawing a defensive line south from Redcliffe itself. It will leave most of his arling undefended, but it's where he can concentrate his forces best between Lake Calenhad's southern shore and the northern edges of the Korcari swamps."
Alistair frowned. "Wouldn't the horde splitting be a good thing? Make it easier to fight them?"
Loghain gave a half shrug. "Against a human army? Yes, any advantage to reduce the numbers you face should be taken. Against darkspawn? I don't know. All accounts of Blights tell us the darkspawn won't stop coming until the archdemon is defeated. If we split our own forces to meet them that will likely only leave us less able to mount a more sizable defense later. There is also another consideration." Waving his hand over the whole map, he continued, "While other enemies, say chevaliers, are a blight upon the land, they don't blight the land. I don't know if the areas the darkspawn cross will be fit for habitation after. Ferelden is her land. We need to save what we can."
"I see." There was logic in Loghain's words. "All right. Do you think Eamon has the numbers to prevent the darkspawn from getting through?"
"Given what little we know, I think so. The losses at Ostagar…." Loghain closed his eyes for a moment. "The losses at Ostagar were greater in importance than number. We lost too many good knights, but most of our forces were able to retreat and regroup, including Eamon's. He can also call upon the arls of Western Hills and Edgehall to increase his numbers. If Redcliffe fell, they would be next in the path of the horde and neither have the forces on their own to hold back that assault. Combining their forces with Redcliffe's is the only way they have hope."
Alistair blew out a deep breath. "All right. We'll have to assume that will work then. If it doesn't—"
"If it doesn't, then the western edge of Ferelden is forfeit. We can't afford to split our own forces." Loghain smiled grimly. "Though in that case it will become Orlais's problem sooner than later. And as tempting as that thought is, though, it's a price far too high to pay."
"It couldn't be truly forfeit. There must be something we could do if that happens."
Loghain shook his head. "You don't try to save a limb once it's begun to rot. If Redcliffe falls it will be a tragedy, but not something we can stop."
Alistair considered Loghain's words. There had always been tension between the two men, and Alistair wasn't sure how far back that acrimony ran or what the cause of it was. "This isn't because of how you feel about Eamon, is it?" he asked quietly after a moment.
"No." Looking over, Loghain gave him a measuring look. "I don't particularly care for Eamon, no, but that doesn't mean I want the people under him to die."
"I know, I'm sorry," Alistair said quickly. "It just seems so…."
"Cold? Yes, well, not the first time I've been accused of such." He turned to fully meet Alistair's gaze. "There are hard decisions ahead. War requires sacrifices. You will give orders that will send good men and women to their deaths. Make choices that mean innocents burn in order to preserve supplies. People will beg you for help and you'll have to deny them knowing there is nowhere else they can go for help. Are you prepared for that?"
"No!" The answer slipped out without meaning to and Alistair flushed with shame. What kind of response was that?
"Good," Loghain replied simply. "You never should be. Now the more important question: will you do it anyway?"
Alistair looked back at the map and shrugged helplessly. What choice was there? He was the king. There was no one else to shoulder this burden no matter how much the thought of what was to come left him feeling hopeless. He looked back up at Loghain. "Yes." The word tasted bitter and left him hollow.
With a nod, Loghain directed his attention back to the map. "The Brecilian Forest isn't too far to the east, so I suspect the horde will mostly travel north. Then past the highway," he tapped the center of the map. "The Bannorn. Hundreds of square miles of flat, indefensible farmland. Ferelden's lifeblood."
Looking down at the map, Alistair began to feel sick. The Bannorn was where most of Fereldan's grain was grown. Its value to the country couldn't be counted in sovereigns. The horde would devastate the people that lived there, and if the farmers weren't able to plant and harvest, there was little hope the rest of Ferelden could survive long after.
"So many people are going to die," he said, feeling utterly helpless.
"Yes, they are," Loghain replied quietly.
Another long look at the map. "Fuck," Alistair muttered.
Loghain's humorless laugh was the only reply as Alistair waited for Loghain to continue explaining how very little they could actually do.
After the impromptu strategy session with Loghain, Alistair found himself in a dark mood. He knew that things were dire. How could they not be? What could be worse than a Blight, after all? But still, he hadn't quite grasped the enormity of what lay before him. It was one thing to know that hard times were ahead, another entirely to be responsible for the fate of one's entire nation.
He declined dinner that night, giving the poor excuse of wanting to look some things over in his study. It wasn't exactly a lie. He did want to dig up the records from the survey. They would still need a current accounting of where the lords stood with their readiness, but it would be nice to compare, maybe see who was more responsible and perhaps given more consideration when it came to battle plans.
Lya didn't seem convinced, but she let his excuses pass without comment, only saying she would make sure a tray was brought to him. He thanked her, ducking out quickly before Braden realized he was there but wasn't staying. Guilt flickered through him and he pushed it down. It would be all right. Braden was going to have to get used to Alistair being more busy now. The boy would be all right.
Closing the door to the study, he leaned against it, letting the door take his weight as he closed his eyes and tried to just breathe for a minute. When he opened his eyes, he was almost startled to find himself in his father's study. Of course, it was his study now, and had been Cailan's for a scant few months, but even though he hadn't been inside since Maric's death it looked just as how he remembered it.
Frowning, he pushed off the door and took a closer look around. The few chairs were pushed out at odd angles, as if they'd never been straightened after the sitter last stood. There was seemingly no dirt on the floor, but the wood of the furniture was covered with a fine layer of dust. An empty glass still sat on the small table between the chairs before the fire. As he looked over the desk, he noticed a few personal notes stacked neatly, and a few broken pieces of sealing wax flecked here and there. Picking up one of the notes in the stack, the paper trembled faintly in his hand as he saw that it was addressed to Maric. The note itself was something utterly inconsequential, but the fact that it was his father's bothered him greatly.
The chair behind the desk, however, was dust free.
A slow sense of dread filled him as he looked around. Everything had been left just as it was the day Maric left for his trip. Not a single thing had been touched. It hadn't even been cleaned properly if the askew chairs and bits of wax were anything to go by. Cailan had been king for six months. Had he made no changes at all in this room?
Was this some kind of shrine? Everything untouched as Maric had left it, anticipating his return. Had Cailan come in here and just sat? Alistair pictured his brother sitting behind the desk, staring out at the room that had been their father's private space. Was it wishful thinking, that maybe if Cailan never changed the room that Maric would come back? Or was it something else? Did Cailan leave it untouched as a way to remember their father? Maybe as a way for him to grieve privately?
Or was it something worse? Given Cailan's odd behavior before Ostagar, could he have left everything as it was to remind himself of what he had to live up to? Of the shadow he had yet to grow out of?
Alistair felt a fresh wave of grief for the loss of both Maric and Cailan, and grief at the struggle that his brother went through, silently and alone.
He couldn't dwell on that right now, though. Sinking down into his father's chair, he let his head fall back to rest against the back of the seat and tried to think.
The afternoon spent with Loghain had pointed out how little they knew about the foe they faced. Loghain had already dispatched men to gauge how quickly the horde was moving and where, but it would be some days yet before they could expect any word back. The scouts had been instructed to use great caution in avoiding even the very edges of the horde. The information they discovered would do little good if they fell victim to darkspawn blades before they could report. But that didn't mean there was nothing to be done while they waited.
There would also need to be an inventory of supplies. How many soldiers they could call upon and their readiness was crucial, yes, but they needed to know so much more than that. Ferelden would not only need to supply an army for Maker knows how long, but also provide for all the people that would be displaced once the horde approached their homes, and the areas were evacuated. Such a task would stress even the most conscientious of banns and arls, and there were too many who were far from that responsible, let alone those who simply didn't have the resources to stockpile. Not just arms and armor, but food, clothing, medicine, tools. Everything from swords to cooking pots would need to be supplied, and then they would need the carts and animals to transport them, and then the supplies that they would need.
And there again was the dire thought of what would happen if they couldn't plant in the spring. Not even during the height of the Orlesian invasion had Ferelden stopped producing her grain. With a Blight, what farmers would work their fields with the threat of darkspawn erupting from under their feet? They were fortunate now that the harvest was nearly done. Measures could be taken right away to store and ration for maximum efficiency. But if there wasn't a harvest next year….
Famine was one thing Alistair had never considered possible to happen to Ferelden.
There was also the matter of trade contracts. Ferelden sold a lot of her grain in trade and the current contracts would need to be broken. There would be penalties, but there was no choice. As it was, he was fairly certain Ferelden would need to start importing food staples. Being able to feed his people was far more important than putting the nation in debt. It would cause problems later, but he couldn't afford to worry about that now.
His thoughts turned to Anora. She had always been the diplomat out of all of them and had always had a head for trade. She had contacts and expertise. If anyone could figure out a way to do this with as little damage as possible, it was her. As much as he hated the thought of burdening her with this right now, he knew her well enough to know she needed something to keep herself busy. And she was her father's daughter. Ferelden needed her and she would put her country before herself.
His mind wandered back to what would happen to his people as they evacuated. Most Fereldans would probably choose to stay as close to their homes as they could, hoping for the best in the face of even the worst enemy. But not all would.
The question of refugees weighed heavily on Alistair. The safest place for his people would be out of Ferelden, but the thought pained him. How could he ask people to not only abandon their homes, but their homeland as well? And where would they go? Orlais was obviously an option for those in the west, but the idea didn't sit well with him. It seemed like handing Celene and her court a victory, saying without words that Ferelden could not take care of her own and that they would be better in Orlais. The Empress would likely seize that opportunity for political capital. A debt like that to Orlais was not one he wanted.
For the rest, their only escape would lie across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches, a far more difficult journey, and one that made it less likely that those who left would return. And would his people even be welcome? Alistair couldn't say that he would be pleased to have a flood of scared, desperate people pouring into Ferelden, so how could he ask the same of the princes of the Free Marches? It was even more troublesome when he thought about the general state of some of the cities, especially Kirkwall and Starkhaven. To say there was unrest was putting it mildly. While better than a darkspawn horde, it was like jumping from the fire to the frying pan.
Not only that, every able-bodied person who left was one less person left to defend the country. He couldn't fault anyone for wanting to leave. It was the sane thing to do. If he could, he would take Lya and Braden and go anywhere he could in order to keep them out of harm's way. It's what Alistair would do, but as king, that wasn't an option. And as king, he had to think of the future of his country over the needs of the individual people. He had to figure out how to keep his people here, but also how to keep them safe.
Alistair dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his forehead. He didn't know how he was going to do this. Of course, he wasn't alone, and those around him would be doing everything they could to get through this. But in the end, it would be his responsibility. Every home burned, every life lost, every little hurt and indignity his people would suffer would be on him.
Alistair wasn't alone, but he sure felt like it.
When he eventually emerged from his study, their rooms were dim, the lamps turned down low. There was an untouched tray on the floor next to the door and he winced. What little hunger he'd had had vanished once he entered the study and it was yet to return. As quietly as he could, he picked up the tray and took it to the door, handing it off to one of the guards who took it without question.
Lya had managed to get Braden settled into his own bed. They'd moved it back into their own bedroom after Maric died, everyone taking comfort from the closeness. And with recent events, he didn't think Braden would be moving back to his own small room adjoining theirs anytime soon. He stood beside Braden's bed for a moment before crouching down, being careful not to make any sound to wake the boy.
Braden's blond hair was every which way, and his little limbs were sticking out from the light blanket covering him. His cheeks were flushed and he slept the sleep only the very small and innocent knew. Gently, Alistair tugged the blanket free and covered Braden back up, and then took a moment to cradle his son's head.
He wanted Braden and Lya out of Ferelden, as far away as he could possibly get them. But it wasn't possible, even if Lya would agree to it, which he knew she wouldn't. It would look so cowardly. How could he stand before his people and ask them to sacrifice when those he loved most were in no danger? And he didn't know if he was strong enough to be parted from them for that long. So they would stay and Alistair would live with that terror for every moment until this was over.
A touch on his leg had him glancing over. Adara sat there, looking at him with soulful eyes. Alistair felt another pang of guilt. He'd been neglecting Adara the last several months. Yes, he was around and she protected Braden, but she was still his mabari. "I'm sorry, girl," he murmured, reaching out to scratch her ears. "Things are…hard right now." Adara simply leaned her weight against him, the apology all she needed for all to be forgiven.
Alistair stayed there for long minutes, petting his dog and watching his son sleep. He noted with sorrow that the brown dusting of fur across Adara's face and head was mostly all white now. She was getting old. A lump rose in his throat as he remembered that day in the kennels when she became his, at the tiny puppy who wanted nothing from him but love and pork bits.
He glanced over at Golanth, sleeping on the other side of Braden's bed. He was older now, too. Alistair knew that the two of them would defend Braden no matter what came, but it wasn't fair to ask that of them, especially Adara. When it was time to send his family away, he knew he couldn't send her with them. But his son would need protection, would need someone loyal to death by his side.
It was too late to do anything about that, so with a last scratch to Adara's head and a gentle touch to Braden's, he stood and made his way to his own. Even in her sleep, Lya turned to him as he slid between the sheets. Carefully so as not to wake her, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as if that could somehow protect from what was to come.
The next morning he awoke early. The first touches of light barely visible on the horizon. He slipped out of bed the same way he'd slipped in. Alistair could feel the tiredness pulling at him, but he ignored it. It was something he'd have to get used to. There would never be enough time for all he needed to do.
With a silent gesture, Adara came to her feet and trotted beside him as he walked through the castle and outside. The kennels were quiet as they made their way inside. A lot of the war dogs had gone to Ostagar and most had not returned. Those that had were kept separate now as some had begun to grow sick, further thinning their numbers. The mabari left behind had been too young or too old or too valuable to the kennel master to risk. Adara looked around and gave him a questioning look.
Alistair dropped to one knee to look into his dog's eyes. All mabari were intelligent and he hoped that wouldn't fail him now. He remembered the one moment when she'd imprinted, the uncanny way Alistair had been able to feel what she felt. It had never happened again, but the memory stayed with him. "I don't know if this will work, but I feel like I need to try. Braden needs someone to protect him. He's so little, just a pup. We need to find him someone to keep him safe. Can you do that?"
Adara tilted her head and Alistair could feel her thinking. Slowly, she turned around, looking and then sniffing at the too empty pens.
"Ser?" the sleepy voice of the kennel master called to him. Alistair didn't say anything, just glanced over and the man stumbled slightly in surprise. "Sire! I didn't know—" Alistair cut him off with an upraised hand and turned his gaze back to his dog who was padding softly up and down the kennels, looking for something that might be impossible to find.
It took long enough that Alistair knew it to be a vain hope. But then Adara stopped, looked intently into one pen, and sat down, glancing back at Alistair. He moved to join her, to see what she had found.
A red brindled mabari looked back at them. He wasn't a puppy, but not yet full grown. He cocked his head curiously at them, getting to his feet with a stretch to come over and give them a sniff. His tail wagged faintly as they looked at him.
Alistair looked back at the kennel master. "For my son," he said by way of explanation. "Can you spare him?"
The man nodded after a moment. "Not enough hounds to spare for anyone else, but for you and your boy, ser, aye, we can spare him."
He should feel guilty. Already this one precious resource—something so innately Fereldan—was spread too thin. And he was stealing a bit of it away for pure selfishness. But he could do nothing else. He owed it to the defenseless boy sleeping in his bedroom to give him every chance to face whatever the future might hold.
"Thank you." The words weren't enough, but he had nothing else. The kennel master simply nodded, however, and came over to unlatch the gate. The brindle glanced at the man for a moment and then turned back to look at Adara. Without a word from Alistair, she trotted off toward the castle, the brindle's black stockinged legs hurrying to keep up with her longer strides. Alistair followed, allowing himself a smile and deep wave of affection for his hound washing through him as they re-entered the castle.
Lya was awake when he returned to their bedroom, though barely. Golanth jerked his head up and the movement caught her attention. She frowned slightly at the third dog that entered their room and looked up at him, question unspoken.
"For Braden," he said.
She looked back down at the brindle. "Do you think he'll imprint?" she asked quietly.
"Adara does."
With a soft, fond smile in Adara's direction, Lya nodded. "After breakfast then? Give Braden a chance to be fully awake?"
"Of course." He looked to where their son still slept and realized he couldn't recall the last time he'd woken Braden in the morning. More guilt to be added to the pile. "You go ahead. Take your time. I'll have water drawn for a bath for you. I'll take care of him when he wakes up."
It was a testament to how much Lya had been shouldering the responsibilities of their son when she simply nodded tiredly and padded into the bathing chamber. Alistair went to the door and quietly requested water for her bath. He held the door open a moment longer so all three dogs could slip out to go outside.
When Braden did wake up, he grinned up at Alistair, reaching up with his arms into the unmistakable gesture of a child to be picked up. "Daddy!"
"Hey, there," Alistair said, easily lifting him up. "Did you have good dreams?"
Braden nodded and started to babble out a story that Alistair couldn't have made heads or tails of if his life depended on it. It didn't matter. He just enjoyed the simple joy of his son as he helped him out of his nightshirt and into his clothes. Lya was waiting for them at breakfast, and Alistair helped Braden with his, taking the occasional mouthful of bread, cheese and ham for himself.
When they were done, Alistair picked Braden back up. "I have something for you." He looked up at Lya. "Are they…?"
She nodded. "They came back a bit ago. Let me get them."
As she went to the door, Alistair set Braden back down, staying crouched on his heels as the three mabari re-entered the room. Adara and Golanth immediately headed for the table in hopes of scraps, but the brindle paused, head cocked. Slowly, he padded over to Alistair and Braden. He felt Braden go very still as boy and dog regarded each other. Braden reached out and the brindle sniffed his hand.
With a squeal, Braden launched himself forward before Alistair could stop him, wrapping his arms around the brindle's neck. He looked back at Alistair with a look that could only be described as pure joy. "Daddy, I love him!"
Alistair felt relief flood through him. At least at one small thing he'd succeeded. "That's wonderful! You're very lucky to have a mabari all of your own. You're going to have to think of a name for him, you know."
Braden turned back to look at the brindle. "A name?"
"Yes," he explained. "He'll want one."
A serious expression on his little face, Braden turned back to regard his mabari again. He frowned, thinking. Then he grinned. "Dog!" he shouted.
Alistair looked at his son and then at his wife—who just nodded knowingly—and then back to his son. "Dog?" he asked hesitantly.
The brindle—Dog—barked and Braden giggled. Alistair just shook his head. "I'm…not really sure why I expected anything else."
"He is only three," Lya said softly, coming to Alistair's side as he stood up, both of them watching as Braden and Dog started tussling. "Three year olds are simple people. Although if anyone asks, he got that from his father's side of the family."
That got the ghost of a laugh, quickly swallowed as it hit both of them that there was no father's side of Braden's family left. "Alistair." She slid her arms around him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's all right," he said softly, returning the embrace. "I know."
They fell back into silence, watching as their son and his new protector played.
A hand touched the back of his neck and Alistair jerked his head up, startled. He was in his study, resting his head in his hands, and hadn't heard the door open.
"Sorry," Lya said quickly. "It's just me. I thought you heard me come in."
He shook his head. "No, I've been…." He trailed off, unsure how to finish.
"Lost in thought?"
"No, just lost," he laughed humorlessly. He shook his head, forcing the current problems to the side for at least a moment. Turning, he reached out to Lya, settling her on his lap. "How are you doing?"
Lya shrugged. "I don't know. It doesn't seem real, somehow. I keep expecting Cailan to breeze through. It seems so quiet now."
Alistair grimaced. She wasn't wrong. In many ways, Cailan has been so much like their father. He had been loud and boisterous, and his presence had filled the space wherever he was. His absence left a noticeable void.
"And then I keep thinking about Fergus," Lya continued. "Or forgetting. Maker, I keep forgetting that he's-" She shook her head. "I don't know how Oriana and Anora are doing this."
All Alistair could do was shake his head. He didn't know either. To think of losing Lya like that…. No. He wasn't even going to finish that thought.
He pulled his wife a little closer. "Did you need something?"
"I came to fetch you for supper. You missed lunch. I don't want you missing too many meals.
Food. Right. He didn't feel hungry, but she had a point. He had to eat. "I'll be along shortly. Just need to get a few things done."
Lya gave him a long look and then shook her head. "I wish I could believe you. Come on. This is enough for today. Eat and then spend some time with your son. He misses you."
Alistair looked away guiltily. Braden was perceptive and he knew things were wrong. Dog helped distract him, but he still looked at his father with too innocent eyes filled with questions whose answers he couldn't understand. It was too much effort to try to be happy around him, to pretend all was well, so he'd taken to working late, staying away until after Braden had been put to bed.
Ashamed, he kept his gaze diverted and shook his head. "There's too much to do."
"Alistair," Lya said gently, "it can wait."
"No, it can't." Taking a deep breath, he carefully shifted Lya off his lap. "We don't even know how much time we have before the horde reappears. I'm coming to dinner, but after I have things to do."
Lya was silent for a long minute and Alistair looked over at her. Her face, pale and drawn, was also angry. "It can wait," she replied more firmly.
Now irritated himself, Alistair got to his feet. "No, it can't. Ferelden needs me. My people need me."
"Your family needs you!" she snapped. "Your son needs you! I—!" Her voice cracked and she blinked quickly, recomposing herself. "You're hiding in here."
"I am not!"
"You've had the same papers on your desk for the last two nights I've come in here!" She gestured pointedly at the stack of documents. "You're still waiting for information. There's nothing you can actually do about any of this right now."
She stepped closer and reached up to carefully smooth a wrinkle from his shirt. "You're hiding," she repeated gently. "And I don't blame you. Who could? Things are awful and they're going to get worse. I know keeping busy helps. I know Ferelden needs you. And I know she's going to ask more in the future." She shuddered. "Ferelden asks so much of her kings, it seems."
"And her queens," he added softly, thinking of Moira and Rowan, then Anora, and now his own queen.
"And we give willingly, it seems." She didn't sound angry or sad, just resigned. And then she shook her head. "There will be time enough to be busy. Later. We need you now while we can have you."
Alistair reached up to cover Lya's hand on his chest with his own. She had a point. "Okay," he agreed. "You're right. We have a little time."
She pressed tight against him. "Thank you."
Alistair swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. This was all wrong and there was nothing he could do about it.
Information had begun to trickle in and Alistair found himself spending more time in the war room with Loghain. Teagan joined them, as did a handful of older, more experienced northern banns. Bryce Cousland had sent word that he would also be joining them shortly, and that he had some hopeful news to share with them.
Any good news would be welcome, though Alistair wondered what it could be. He wouldn't know until Bryce made it back, however, so he, Loghain, and the rest planned as best they could.
It was in the war room that a rushing messenger came to find Alistair. "Sire! The Wardens are here!"
Alistair looked up. "From Jader? Already? That was fast." They had to have been rushing in order for them to get to Denerim once the border had been opened for them.
"No, ser. Not those Wardens."
"Not those Wardens? What do you…?" He trailed off, a strange hope blooming in his chest.
"The Fereldan Wardens, ser," the messenger explained. "The ones that survived Ostagar."
