"Where are you going?"
"Huh?" Alistair stopped in his tracks when he heard Leliana's voice. Sister Nightingale emerged from the shadows, having found some armour and weapons for herself: a longbow in her left hand, an arrow bag at her hip, and daggers slung across her chest in a belt going over her left shoulder. No doubt looted from fallen soldiers. "What d'you mean? Where'd you come from?"
It was hard to face Leliana's, especially after knowing why she was made to suffer. However, he couldn't look away. Despite the disfigurement, her eyes were the same. Col, but the blue remained unblemished.
"I was scouting, like I said I would," she replied. Then, with a tilt of her head, she glanced at the corridor lying before Alistair and nodded. "Good job, but that won't do us any good."
"What?" Done what? What is she on about? "Done wh–"
He didn't need to ask. Facing forward, Alistair was shocked to see three dead bodies bearing the colours of the enemy. Fereldan guards. Throats ripped out, hands dismembered. Bad way to go. But how? How had he missed that?
"Killing three guards will not solve the problem," Leliana replied curtly, stepping around the bodies and walking forth. "We need to find the Inquisitor and get you back."
Wait, what?
"I–" began Alistair anew, but a single downward glance shut him up. Grasped tight in his right hand was his father's sword, the runes aglow with a bright blue light, giving an odd sort of glow to the blood dripping off the blade. Blood still streamed out of the open wounds of the corpses, running freely down the carpet and pooling around the contours of his boots. Immediately, Alistair stepped back, but a muted sloshing noise told him that there were no dry spots to stand on.
Maker's ballsack, did I do this?
The evidence was clear. In the absence of any alternative theories or evidence, Alistair had to accept it as fact. However, he did not even remember fighting these people, let alone killing them so gruesomely. In fact, how did he even get to this corridor? The last he remembered was… the room with the books, wasn't it? Yes… Connor's toy room repurposed. Right. How did–
"Have you checked these rooms up ahead?" Leliana asked from the front, jolting him out of his thoughts once more.
"Uh. No." He would have to figure this out later. Not that he had a choice in the matter, Grimacing, Alistair shook the blood off his sword and walked around the dead bodies to follow Leliana. "No, I haven't. Not yet."
"Might be worth a look. Did you find the information you wanted?"
Her tone was so disconnected from emotion. The usually flirty and high-spirited Leliana reduced to a monotone killing machine… It truly was the end of the world. A nightmare. Nobody deserved to even know of this future state.
"I did."
"So you know."
"I do."
"Good."
"Make sure it doesn't happen, then."
"I will."
Alistair, in his heart, wanted to latch onto Leliana's hand. He wanted to pull her into the tightest of hugs he could muster. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he would do everything in his power to stop this from happening. But he let her go. Watched her march on ahead, kicking down the doors lining the left side of the corridor. She expected him to follow suit. Do his duty. So, he did. The first couple of doors held nothing of value. The third one, however, contained a surprise.
"No!" squealed a shaky voice from within as Alistair kicked the door off its hinges. "Don't come in!"
Seconds. That was all he had. Two, maybe three at most. As soon as the door flew off, Alistair registered two things. Firstly, his eyes scanned the room and found only one occupant. A young man with reddish hair and a freckled face, though the features he knew to be handsome were now twisted in a paroxysm of fear. It was a face he recognised. A face he knew very, very well. It was Connor Guerrin, son of Eamon Guerrin, the man who had raised him at Redcliffe Castle. Connor, during the Blight years, had exhibited magical talents and had been taken over by a demon. After being properly exorcised, he had been given to the Circle of Magi at Lake Calenhad.
Secondly, Alistair felt the hairs on his body stand up on end and his spine tense up. Years of training to be a Templar had left a mark. He knew, instinctively, whether a mage was building up power to cast a spell. Whether it be rogue blood mages or hurlock emissaries, that instinct of his allowed him to act fast, and that was what he did here.
Extending his sword hand forward, Alistair attempted to loose a pulse of his own energy and cleanse the area of all magic, thereby dispelling any spells being charged up. It took him a second to do it on most days.
Connor was quicker.
Flames engulfed his body and reduced him to ash in a split second before ringing out in an inferno. It spread through the room, and with the open door as its only escape, rushed towards Alistair. However, by then, the cleansing had taken place, forming a shimmering shield and negating any actual fire from reaching him. However, it did nothing against the shock waves.
The force of the fireball sent Alistair flying backwards into the wall behind him, across the corridor. His armoured back smacked into stone, causing his head to whip up and crack against it as well. Instant pain flooded his system, causing his knees to buckle. Head swimming, Alistair collapsed on the ground, falling on his arse, his sword skittering out of his grasp. Eyes stinging, he made to stand up again, but only managed to fall on his side.
Gaze unfocused, ears ringing, fingers unresponsive, he knew he was going through a concussion. He didn't know what he would remember, but his muscles knew enough to reach for his blade. However, his consciousness did not last that long. A veil of darkness descended upon him and, though he didn't know for how long it lasted, he came to, once again, to the sound of Leliana's voice.
Of course, she wasn't saying anything. She was humming. He knew this one. Of course, he knew this one. It was an old elven ballad. Sad. Heart-wrenching. But beautiful. In Uthenera. She'd sung it to him many, many times before. Despite everything they'd done to her, she'd retained her sense of music, it would seem. Alistair opened his eyes. He half expected to be in a prison cell, being mined for red lyrium, but no. He was on a stone floor somewhere, lying on his side. The cold steel gave it away. However, his head and neck didn't have the same sort of ache that usually came with sleeping on one's side without a pillow. No, his temple was actually on something soft, as was his cheek. What was going on?
Rolling over onto his back, Alistair looked up and found Leliana's face. She met his gaze but said nothing. Seated with her back against the wall, she had his head on her lap.
"Why?" asked Alistair, unsure of what else to say. Why would she stay with him? Why not just go ahead and prioritise the mission?
"You are heavy and I am not so strong at the moment to carry you," came her casual reply. "Are you awake?"
"I… yes." He had a splitting headache, but he was awake. Holding his temple, Alistair sat up. "How long…?"
"Ten minutes. Not long." Leliana stood and dusted herself off. Somehow, that little gesture was even more demeaning than her words. "Here. I was able to get this from the room."
She held out a folded and singed piece of paper, which Alistair now took from her. His memories were still coming back, but when he unfolded the paper and saw that it was signed Connor Guerrin, everything flooded him all at once. The scream, the fireball… everything. And the letter provided answers, too. There wasn't much. Just a few short sentences. It read thus:
'I won't become an abomination again. I'm sorry.'
The pounding headache made focus difficult. As he read, those few words began to warp in on themselves, becoming a network of dark, inky strands pulling him into the page. He was lost in it for a moment, the pain between his ears making him more and more enraged. A roar travelled up his body, emerging from the pits of his stomach. It felt like fire. A burning. Alistair felt like his skull was on fire, and it spread down his spine and infected his arteries and veins while at it, too. Gnashing his teeth to contain the pain and rage, he was aware of the roar building up in his throat escaping his mouth in the form of a muted growl. Had smoke escaped through his teeth, he would not have been surprised.
"Are you ready to go?"
There it was again. Her voice. It was like a gentle slap, bringing him back to his senses. Good thing, too, for Alistair found himself on his feet, each hand holding a piece of the letter he had, unknowingly, ripped in twain.
Another moment lost. It was happening more frequently now, these lapses. Was it because of the red lyrium water he'd ingested? Could be. But that was not a mystery he was going to solve right there and then.
"Yeah." Stuffing the torn letter into one of the pouches lining his belt, Alistair picked up his father's sword and walked after Leliana. "Where to?"
"To take the world back."