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Alethea floated in and out of awareness, her mind awash in fractured dreams and distant sensations. An odd warmth wrapped around her, the feeling both comforting and stifling. Images flickered past her murky gaze; she was held tightly by something vast and powerful, its dark leather brushing coarsely against her skin. The shadow of its sinewy wings lingered in the corner of her vision, and darkness pressed on her when she craned her neck to catch a better glimpse of it. When unconsciousness finally fully claimed her, she wandered twisted, chartless paths and waded through churning oceans of memories. Her thoughts seemed to express themselves in the realities she beheld, and for some time, she enjoyed visiting frozen moments of her life, each rendered in perfect, vivid detail.
She grinned freely as she danced in one of Highever's courtyards, swaying and jumping to the lively rhythm and losing herself within the glow of candlelight. Laughter and music droned out any chattering voices, and the smell of the midsummer's feast triggered a gurgle in her stomach. She twirled and laughed, throwing her arms carelessly above her head in time with the beat. Her fingers brushed something solid, and with a sudden clink, she knocked a mug of ale from a nearby party-goer's hand. The drink splashed, a light mist of ale dusting her cheek. She let out a small, apologetic giggle and bent to retrieve the mug from where it had rolled, entangling itself in one of her mother's rose bushes.
When she stood to return it, the courtyard wavered uncomfortably around her. The warm glow of the bonfire and the sounds of drunken merriment vanished. The familiar scent of wood and ale was replaced by the crisp, salty tang of the sea, and when she looked down, the mug was gone, replaced by a thick, woven rope. When she flicked out her tongue, the air tasted of saltwater. Dawn was breaking along the horizon, casting soft colors across a rolling ocean. The muscles in her back ached as she hoisted the sails, her mother standing beside her. Her mother's green eyes were bright with the joy of the open ocean, and they worked in peaceful unison to tie off the sails. The easy sound of waves breaking against the hull was interrupted only by the soft lull of her mother's voice and the occasional, jarring screech of a seagull. When she moved to admire their handiwork, the hem of her cotton tunic snagged on the wooden railing of the boat. She turned to dislodge it, only to find Owen there, tugging not at her tunic, but a dress.
Glancing around, she realized she was in her brother's quarters. Owen's impatience continued and his small fingers tugged mischievously at her blue dress's gold-embroidered hem. He laughed as he darted just out of reach, his grin challenging her. "Catch me, Auntie!" he called, darting down the hallway, laughter echoing against the stone walls. Without hesitation, she chased him, discarding her shoes in the process. Her heart was light with the thrill of the game, her bare feet hardly touching the floor as she hounded him through the familiar corridors. They darted around corners, flying past startled servants and disapproving guards, with his laughter pulling her forward until they arrived at her father's study.
She stopped, one hand against the doorframe and one clutched to her chest, breathless and laughing. But when she looked up, Owen was gone. In his place stood her father, looking at her with that steady, thoughtful gaze. He gestured for her to sit, his hand resting on the documents strewn across his desk. She moved forward, settling into the leather chair opposite him, ready to listen as he launched into their daily lessons—lessons about strategy, loyalty, alliances, history. He spoke about duty, about what it meant to carry their name and lead their people with integrity. And as she listened, her heart swelled with both pride and admiration.
Suddenly, she realized they were no longer in his study. Instead, she looked up at him from her place below him on the dais, her hands folded serenely in her lap. Her brother, clad in formal regalia for the first time in years, sat in the chair to her left with a foolhardy grin. Their mother, even and poised, sat beside her father on the dais. Their eyes met, and her mother gave her a quick wink.
"Today is a momentous day," her father said, a familiar spark of mischief lighting his eyes. She had seen that look on him before; it usually hinted that he was about to announce something he knew would displease his advisors and governors.
"My daughter has completed her twenty-fourth pass around the sun." Then came an eruption of polite, unenthusiastic applause. Twenty-four years had passed since her birth—she was now officially of age, no longer to be a semi-silent bystander in the meetings of the councils. She was permitted to speak, to address them as a superior. It also meant she would be expected to marry; an event that, according to some, was six years overdue. This day heralded the beginning of the race for her to establish political standing in her own right, ideally before one of them managed to marry her to one of their sons. Alethea's body was both still and charged-the stone hall seemed somehow small, its walls pressing in on her. Even the delicate, silver diadem, with its singular sapphire resting between her brows, seemed heavy with her tension. She had to remind herself to breathe as her father continued. "It is my wish that my beloved daughter, the Lady Alethea Cousland, begin addressing the council in my stead to best prepare her for inheriting the Teyrnir."
A murmur of voices erupted instantly, the banns and arls shifting in their seats. Some had the courtesy to whisper to each other pensively, though others stared openly with jaws slack. She had to focus on controlling the tug that threatened to tilt the corners of her lips. She clasped her hands a little tighter in her lap as she scrutinized the council, frowning at one particular gaggle of old men that sat stiff and chaffing under her father's announcement.
"I apologize, Teyrn Cousland, but I do not recall the council approving of such an appointment," Arl Howe said with a strained laugh, and the council quieted in anticipation. The arl's eyes caught hers, and he smiled. She smiled back, though refrained from the usual tilt of her head—an approximation of deference she did not feel, nor was now required to demonstrate. Instead, she held her chin high and stood.
"I believe, Arl Howe," Alethea started, emphasizing the man's title after her father gave her a permissible wave. "If the Teyrn required the council to support his choosing of a successor, he certainly would have sought their approval. As it is, he is quite sure of his decision." Turning to the rest of the council, she spoke with a softer, confident tone that reverberated through the hall and left no room for interruption. "I look forward to our future collaborations. It is my hope that, as a unified force, our guidance will provide only prosperity to Fereldan and the people of Highever, who depend on us for reassurance, justice, temperance, protection, and peace." She bowed, spreading her hands before her with palms uplifted in respect. Rory stood at the base of the dais, catching her gaze and nodding at her with a grin. This time, she couldn't help the small smile that turned up her lips.
Standing upright, she schooled her expression and clasped her hands behind her back as the council—well, most of the council— applauded their approval.
Howe's smile faltered but didn't vanish. He leaned back, his arms crossed and gaze calculating as he turned from her to address her father. "My apologies, Your Lordship, if I am stepping out of turn, but might I point out that the Lady Cousland is of an age where she would do well to consider marriage?" He continued, his voice now louder, clearly intending to incite further murmurs. "A marital union would only benefit her standing as the future Teyrna, and it would be... unbecoming for a noble of her status to continue ignoring such expectations. Surely, it would be insulting to her family's legacy if she did not marry before assuming this monumental role? After all, it would be irresponsible to appoint a Teyrnir to someone who has not the mind for continuing the Cousland line."
Alethea clenched her jaw, agitation blossoming in her chest. She steadied herself, responding with a composed, unwavering voice, "If it helps to put your mind at ease, perhaps you should remember that my brother has already done his part to ensure the next generation of Couslands. As such, my first and foremost duty is to the people of Highever. My decisions have always, and will always, been made in their best interests. I do not require a husband for such and will not be forced to tolerate a man that lacks a similar passion. Should you find one of such character, Arl Howe, there would be none as thrilled as I. As it is, I fear such men are rarely to be found, and my energies are better invested in tasks that hold greater utility. I should hope that I am not the only member of my council more concerned with the welfare of my people than finding someone to warm my bed at night."
Howe's face darkened, his eyes glinting with thinly veiled anger. "I could not agree more, milady. Your time is a most precious commodity, and you do your people proud with your dedication. However, it would be a shame for the Jewel of Highever to go matchless. You take after your mother in both beauty and intellect, after all," Howe droned, and she had to swallow a scoff. "Despite your… particular tastes, perhaps a list of suitable names should be drawn up for your father's consideration," he suggested, his gaze sweeping over her appraisingly. Judging by the look in his eye, Howe's eldest son, Nathaniel, would undoubtedly be at the top of that list.
The Teyrn cleared his throat, his presence immediately reasserting authority. "Enough, Howe," he said, his voice carrying a note of warning. "Alethea's future, both personal and political, will be considered when it is right and fitting. For now, your only concern will be assisting her as she learns to manage the Teyrnir."
"Of course, Your Lordship," Howe said with a meek bow. He fell silent, his gaze simmering with suppressed annoyance. Alethea could feel his frustration lingering, but she forced herself to ignore it, returning her focus to her father and the council as the meeting proceeded.
When the discussions had finally concluded, Alethea rose with quiet grace, smoothing the white silk of her gown. The dress gleamed softly in the evening sun, its silver and blue embellishments glinting in the torchlight—proud colors of her house, of her heritage. She walked with poise down the center aisle, feeling the eyes of the council upon her. Most were approving—they respected her reasoning, knowledge, and abilities. They saw the woman she had grown into. Her gaze fell on their visitors, Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, who offered polite inclines of their heads. She smiled softly, nodding back.
Some, however, still saw her as the little girl that liked to run through the castle with mud-clad boots. Or, worse, as a pawn—a stepstool to a position of higher power. She kept her head high, calm and collected, as she met Ser Rory at the entrance to the hall. He extended his arm with a small, reassuring smile. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling a small amount of relief at his familiar presence. They walked together down the corridor, the echo of their steps filling the quiet space.
As they walked, Rory cast a sidelong glance at her, his mischievous grin growing. "You know," he started when they were alone, his voice low but filled with humor. "Before tonight, I had always assumed there was only one way to properly castrate a man."
Alethea let out a surprised laugh, her tension melting as she grinned. "I'm always happy to expand your knowledge, dear friend. How did I do? As Howe was more than keen to point out, I don't have much experience with things of such a nature," she quipped, her eyes twinkling.
Rory chuckled, shaking his head. "If I'd known, I would've offered you a dagger to expedite the process," he said, grinning. "Howe might have preferred a sharp blade over the tongue lashing you gave him. His reaction was... well, priceless, to say the least. I thought his head might burst. It's about time someone put him in his place."
"Hardly," Alethea replied, her smile contorting wryly. "If you were to ask me, his place is at the bottom of the pigs' trough. But I suppose it was a start." A comfortable moment of silence passed before she let out a faint sigh and lowered her voice. "I do not understand why my father continues to support him. I have known him to be nothing but a dog and a coward, and I know he'll never respect my leadership as he respects my father's. Unification may be too much to hope for."
Rory gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "Give it time, Aly. Even the daftest fool would be unable to deny the quality of your governance and rectitude over time. He'll grow to listen to you, and that will eventually turn into respect. I do not doubt it. And I, personally," he added, his voice lifting with warmth, "am very much looking forward to watching the process. I don't think I'd miss your first Landsmeet for all the gold in Highever."
Alethea's smile returned, her heart lifting with an unspoken gratitude she knew he understood. "What would I do without you, Rory?"
"Keep them all on their toes anyway, I'd wager," he replied with a wink. "I am wondering, though… Is Fergus all right with your father's decision?"
"He was the first one to suggest it, actually. Fergus has been expressing his lack of desire to inherit the Teyrnir for nearly ten years now," she replied, her voice soft with fondness. "His distaste for the role only intensified after marrying. He's far more comfortable leading the military, and if there has ever been a better general in Highever, it has not been in my lifetime." She looked ahead, her gaze distant. "Fergus and my father have been discussing the transference of the Teyrnir's inheritance for several years, and he agreed long ago to stay on as my general and advisor when the time comes."
Rory nodded, his gaze warm with understanding. "Your brother never was fond of courtly fluff, though I imagine he's quite proud of you."
Alethea smiled sadly, suddenly feeling the weight of the expectations that accompanied such pride. "He is. I hope I can live up to his faith in me." They reached her quarters, and she paused at the door, turning to Rory. "Thank you, Ser Roderick, for your considerate escort," she said, her voice sincere. "And, as always, gifting me with your valuable insight."
"Anytime, milady," he replied, bowing his head with a soft smile. He released her arm and turned back down the hall, his form soon disappearing into the shadows.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and opened the door to her quarters. Dealing with Howe always made her feel grimy, and her skin still itched with his gaze. She was eager to draw herself a bath and be rid of him. However, as the heavy wooden door swung open, she found herself staring not into her familiar room, but into a vast, shifting landscape. She blinked slowly, familiarity prickling at the back of her neck, and found herself following the intangible call that beckoned her into the void.
Remembrance struck her as she leapt from stone to stone with an easy, weightless gait. She knew this path, knew each stone that sat suspended in nothingness. They felt alive underneath her now bare feet, pulses of raw lyrium humming in time with her heartbeat. The air around her shimmered with a hauntingly beautiful glow, and fragments of light flickered like stars, casting their rays into the limitless, dark expanse.
Far ahead, she heard something faint and alluring—a low, thrumming song. It was ancient and sorrowful, like a lament that might echo through time itself. Despite herself, she found her feet veering from her known course, following the song. A strange sort of pull gripped her heart, one that stirred both curiosity and trepidation.
She stepped forward, traversing the broken path as vast stretches of dark ether yawned beneath her. Eventually, the stones led her to a place shrouded in shadow—a looming fortress standing against the backdrop of endless night. It was not the crumbling, cursed place she had experienced in her nightmares, but an ethereal monument of smooth, obsidian walls, glistening as if by starlight. A singular, broad path entered the fortress, guarded by an open gate. Here, the Fade twisted into something more beautiful than anything she'd imagined, a silent grandeur that belied the horrors it supposedly held.
As she approached, she made out a figure outstretched between the massive gate, its body dangling limply. Though nearly close enough to touch the midnight stones of the path, its body was fully suspended by chains. Each link pulsed with a sickly light, intermittently illuminating the details of its silhouette. She squinted her eyes, surprise and fear gripping her.
It was the Archdemon.
She remembered, now, that she had dreamed of it before. However, unlike in the other dreams she had had of it, it was… magnificent. Its scales shimmered with shades of pearlescent violets and midnight blues, each one gleaming with an ancient radiance. Luminescent blood, appearing almost crystalline, dripped slowly from its body, interrupting the eternal quiet of the void with a steady plop. Its wings, distorted and bloodied, were pierced by the chains that held it suspended. When its eyes opened, the alluring song halted. It didn't make to move. With ancient stillness, it watched her, slowly blinking its eyes. Immediately, her breath caught at the haunting agelessness of their violet depths. She could sense no malice there, only an aching sorrow spotted by an almost apathetic curiosity.
She approached carefully, every step tinged with both wonder and dread, until she was close enough to see her reflection in its gleaming scales. The Archdemon's voice was soft, a whisper of song that echoed through her mind.
"You wander too far into Vir Dirthara, daughter of night. This place is damned by sin, forsaken by the treachery of long dead gods," its voice was primordial, caressing her mind with silk and starlight. Its eyes seemed to pierce her soul, revealing the truths and lies of her existence. She felt stripped in front of it, barer than if she had stood before it naked. Fragments of time rippled in its gaze, teasing her with fluctuating visions of the past, the present, and the future. She stared at them, tracing the milky ebbs and flows-
"Wake up, child. It is not yet your time."
Alethea awoke with the gasp of haunted dreams, the morning sun streaming through glass-paned windows. The golden rays illuminated the lazy dances of dust particles, and a fire crackled in a stone fireplace. Rustic wooden beams of a familiar hut supported a ceiling of straw and plant matter, and recognition immediately struck her. When she craned her neck to look around, she was unsurprised to find that Morrigan sat nearby, watching her with a neutral expression.
"Ah, your eyes finally open," Morrigan said as she stood, a tone of indifference failing to disguise an underlying web of curiosity. "Mother shall be pleased."
Alethea struggled to sit up, wincing as she felt the stiffness in her body. She froze as she realized she was nearly bare, patches of her skin covered only by the eclectic wrappings of bandages. She cursed, wondering what sort of miserable spell might be causing strangers to see her naked more times in the last month than in her entire life. With a huff of embarrassment, she clutched the blanket to her chest.
Morrigan rolled her eyes, her tone dry. "Your bashfulness means nothing here, my friend. Your nakedness is as natural and uninspiring as my own. You seem to forget that your rather sad disguise did nothing to hide you from those of us who are not as… feeble-minded as your companion."
Alethea let out a small, self-conscious grunt, though some of the tension left her shoulders. "Point taken," she conceded, relaxing her grip on the edges of the blanket. She sat back onto the incline of pillows behind her, closing her eyes and sorting through her memories. She recalled her conversation with Cailan, Duncan's orders, the relentless assault, and the consuming surge of magic that had clawed through the very threads of her being.
"Morrigan, wasn't it?" she questioned, eyes shooting open to focus on the dark-haired woman who now sat on the edge of her bed. "My companion- Is… What happened? Is Alistair alright?"
"I am pleased to see you have not forgotten my name," Morrigan replied, cocking her head in pleased surprise. "We are in the Wilds, where I have been managing your wounds. Which you are welcome for, by the way, as healing them has all but drained me. They will have to heal on their own from here on out. And Alistair, if that is what you are choosing to call it, is here. It suffers only from its own stupidity."
Alethea's brows knit as she processed Morrigan's words, her memories swirling in fragments. "Thank you…" she said slowly, her voice still thick with sleep. "But how…?"
"How, indeed," Morrigan replied with a small, predatory smile. "You've been deep in mage sleep for several days- some might even say that you died. Your thick-headed companion, I daresay, has created a pond from all his tearful pacing. He has scarcely left the door since you arrived, and I will be most displeased if his childish sobs flood my garden," she said with an annoyed tsk. Her gaze shifted to observe Alethea, the shimmering depths of those avian gold eyes laced with intense curiosity. "Mother's magic roused you, though it was no simple feat. She guided you through the Fade, pouring enough of her own energy into you to pull you from its brink. You must have wandered quite far. What do you remember of the journey?"
Alethea's head swam, her mind flashing back to broken fragments of her dreams—images of beasts, of sinewy wings and flaming battlegrounds. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I believe I dreamed of my family, but—I don't know. It feels distant. I don't understand. Why would she…?"
"Mother has her reasons," Morrigan said, her clipped tone tinged with something almost like appreciation. "Though, had she not intervened, your recklessness with magic would likely have left you trapped dreaming for eternity."
"I didn't have a choice," she defended, her gaze falling to her hands. "It became restless throughout our fight up the tower. It was relentless, like it was clawing and ripping underneath my skin until it started leaking through the tears. When I finally let it out completely… I don't know. It was the only protection we had. It was all I could do to keep us safe."
"Ah, the noble sacrifice," Morrigan said with a mocking tilt of her head, though her tone softened slightly at Alethea's grimace. "Your power may be potent, but it is nothing without the knowledge and practice required to properly wield it. Given your lack of either, it is likely your emotions and general desires that guard its manifestations. You are fortunate that it behaved as it did, even if it's hardly deserved."
Alethea looked back at her, heart pounding with dread as fragmented memories came rushing back. "Everyone on the battlefield—what happened to them? Duncan… and Cailan? Where is Loghain?"
Morrigan pursed her lips, a brief flash of annoyance crossing her face. "Your Warden leader and King were slain, as was everyone else on the battlefield. As for this Loghain person, I do not know who that is."
Alethea shook her head, attempting to solidify the hazy, jarring flashes of her memory. Surely, Morrigan was wrong. Duncan was a renowned warrior. She had seen his battle prowess herself and owed him her life. For weeks, Duncan had been the one solid place to rest from the turmoil in her mind. And Cailan… No. Surely not. She had to talk to Alistair.
"Loghain governs one of the Teyrnirs. The king had trusted him to flank the darkspawn forces when we lit the beacon on the Tower of Ishal. It was supposed to serve as a signal," she murmured, unable to process Morrigan's words. "However, we lit the beacon. He was meant to charge with his forces, but I watched from a balcony as he called for a retreat," Alethea finished, lips pressed tightly against the bile taste of yet more betrayal. "And then more darkspawn came… I killed them. A lot of them. After that, pain like I've never felt. And then—there's nothing; only dreams. Or memories, maybe."
"As I said, such is the price of magic used without understanding," Morrigan replied with an arched brow, her tone flat as if scolding a child. "Even a formidable power, in your ignorance, is as likely to consume you as it is to serve you. Your efforts were admirable but foolish. Would it be cruel to tell you that the dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of the darkspawn you killed were merely dust compared to the horde that was prepared to march on that tower? That were it not for Mother, you, and your dim-witted squire, would be dead on the floor? Assuming, of course, that you were not lost to the Fade only for madness to claim you after a millennium of spectral wandering. Or that such a fate would have been easily avoided if you had shifted into a creature of flight instead of stupidly manifesting through flesh alone?"
Alethea's gaze fell to her hands, feeling the weight of Morrigan's words settle over her. For so long, she had shunned her magic, keeping it buried and fearing what it might take from. Clearly, that choice had cost her dearly. It was easy to assume that it was her actions, her magic, that had saved them. However, if what Morrigan said was true, her actions, at best, were a needed sacrifice to buy them time. At worst, the frantic utilization of her magic had come closer to killing her—and perhaps even Alistair- than anything else had.
Morrigan studied her in silence for a moment, her gaze unusually soft. "I suggested before that you might need guidance," she continued. "And it seems that still holds true. If you are to wield such power, you should be taught to utilize it properly. You do yourself a disserve, and your magic an injustice, by burying it in stubbornness and prejudice. I will teach you all that I can before you leave here, so that you might at least learn how not to kill yourself."
Alethea met Morrigan's gaze, her usual reservations melting in the face of vulnerability. With a faint nod, she finally replied, "You are right. I had spoken to Duncan before about receiving training, but if what you say is true… well. It seems that is no longer an option. I would welcome your teachings."
Morrigan's lips curved into a smirk, though this one seemed tempered with approval. "Good," she said simply. "Come, then. You've rested long enough, and Mother wishes to speak with you."
With Morrigan's help, Alethea dressed, each movement serving as a stark reminder of both her injuries and her life. As Morrigan clasped the last latch on her leathers, Alethea observed a scattered array of bandages that laced across Morrigan's arms.
"Were you wounded?" Alethea asked, accepting the offer of a comb. Morrigan's golden eyes shifted to observe her arms, then quickly looked away.
"Nothing that was not my own doing," Morrigan replied simply as Alethea worked through the knots in her hair, eventually braiding it back and tucking it into the safe confines of her hood. She turned the mask over in her hands, and with a moment of hesitation, decided to pocket it. If Alistair hadn't seen her face by now, she'd be the next Divine.
Not to mention the fact that Morrigan and her mother had seen far more than that.
"I was not exaggerating when I said that healing you nearly drained me. There are many ways to channel one's magic. Blood is perhaps the quickest and often the most potent. I will educate you on such things, but we will have to save this it for another time," Morrigan's voice interrupted her internal cringe.
Blood magic? Alethea mused to herself, trepidation causing her heart to beat uncomfortably quick in her chest. Morrigan opened the door to the hut, stepping out into the sunlight. Alethea shut her eyes against the harsh light, embracing a moment to steel herself before facing the conversations that were surely to come.
"Well? Hurry, then. Mother does not like to be kept waiting."
Alistair
"Rory, please—let me help!"
He had called, pleaded, and screamed until his voice had broken, but Rory had only pushed harder, his magic intensifying with each wave of darkspawn that fell before him. He had wanted so desperately to help, to lend his strength and fight back-to-back as they had earlier in the night. Instead, with his lyrium and reserves drained, he had simply watched and pleaded, held as an unwilling prisoner with no means by which to dispel the barrier that guarded him. Seeing the shadows ebb and flow at Rory's command was as terrifyingly beautiful as Alistair thought it might be, the dark tendrils manifesting and flowing through his flesh and blood alone.
However, the sight of Rory crumpling onto the floor, body battered and bleeding, had only been terrifying. The image was seared into his mind, the scene painted into his memory by an artist of excruciating skill and tortuous detail.
In the days that followed, Alistair had paced the small perimeter around the hut endlessly, attempting to distract himself from his mourning with menial tasks. Despite his efforts to keep his mind occupied, he had wept, grief-stricken not only by the staggering loss of the Grey Wardens and soldiers, but also the king, and with a pain that cut through to his core, Duncan. The wounds healed by Morrigan and her mother had not relieved the ache in his chest. It felt as if the heart of everything he knew and cared for—everything he loved- had been hollowed out, leaving him stumbling through the dark.
Well… not everything he cared for. At least, not yet.
Among the first he had grieved for had been Rory, his tears flowing freely and relentlessly over the course of the days spent in the Wilds. As he continued to impatiently wait for updates, anxious hours spent restless and haggard pacing in front of the hut, a sliver of hope had managed to gnaw its way into Alistair's thoughts. He could scarcely believe Rory might yet live. Alistair had rushed to Rory's side when his magic fell, cradling his limb body. When his mind had waded through the haze of shock enough to think, he had torn through the hall, shredding any viable piece of fabric to fashion crude bandages and tourniquets, attempting to staunch the flow of Rory's blood.
The sharp bite of betrayal hadn't even had a moment to assault him before more darkspawn had poured into the tower's upper floor. Alistair had picked Rory up, cradling him in one arm with sword in the other, unable to leave him behind. He had managed to maneuver them both back out onto the balcony, where they had stood in apparent peace only moments before. It was there that he fought; fought for himself, for Rory, for Duncan, and for the others that had been left to die. He wasn't sure how long he spent out there, fighting and listening as the distant echoes of screams slowly faded. Eventually, a short reprieve from the endless assault came. He had killed enough of the monsters that their bodies had slowed the others' onslaught, allowing him to barricade the balcony's doors.
Exhaustion had nearly overcome him, and he fell to his knees. He had crawled to Rory's still form, whose blood had continued to flow through the bandages. His heart sagged, heavy with the knowledge that the bandages hadn't worked. Subconsciously, though, Alistair knew they hadn't worked, even before he was able to see it for himself. Alistair had been aware of Rory, of the essence of him, since the recruit had undertaken the Joining. Therefore, Alistair knew that while he fought, the fading spark of Rory's life had continued to softly dim. And as Alistair fell back onto his haunches, pulling Rory into his lap and gently rocking them, it had twinkled into oblivion.
It was only then that he realized the extent of his own injuries, and the knowledge left him with an odd feeling of serenity. With his death both evident and inevitable, he leaned back against the balcony's railing, relishing the cool night's breeze with its scent of citrus and jasmine.
As it had done so many times over the last few days, the memory resurfaced as Alistair split another pile of wood, relentless in its intensity. Rory had taken his mask off in those final moments of their conversation, but, just as before, Alistair hadn't had a chance to examine the face he kept shrouded. However, without the strict glower of Duncan to scare him away or a mask to hide his features, Alistair had tenderly pulled back Rory's hood to study him.
His face was delicate, almost haunting in its innocence. Once again, Alistair was surprised by how very young he looked, and could still recall the curve of full, ruby-red lips that had bleached into a sickly white. Thick, dark lashes had fringed his closed eyes, and he could still feel the faint silkiness of golden wisps of hair that had escaped from deeper within the hood. The golden tendrils curled gently against Rory's high cheekbones, and Alistair thought them to be oddly soft against the harsh blood and grime that smeared across his face.
It was a face that didn't belong on a battlefield—one that should have been in a place of safety and natural order, far from the horrors of war. For all his strength and resilience in those last moments, there had also been a purity to Rory's expression- a look of quiet, stubborn determination that tore through Alistair's heart. He'd realized then, holding Rory's broken body, how deeply the world would suffer from the loss of Rory's life. Rory's bravery, his selflessness, his relentless drive to protect despite the gravity of his recent losses… Alistair's chest ached with the knowledge that Rory's family would never know just how brave he'd been.
Then, out of the apparent ether, they had been whisked into the safety of the Wilds.
Distantly, Alistair wondered if he might be able to find extended relatives of Rory's. Should the worst occur, and Rory never regain consciousness, someone that loved him should know how heroically he had passed. Duncan had mentioned that Rory was still reeling from the death of his family, but he didn't mention who his family was. Alistair knew he was from Highever, and he was certain there was an alienage there. Though Rory's ears had been covered by golden curls, he was confident that their tips would be pointed. Rory's features and frame were delicate, oddly feminine and almost ethereal. They reminded him of the artworks that rendered the elvhen of old, and it had dawned on Alistair that that must be why Rory hid his identity. Prejudices and tensions still ran thick between the humans and elves, and there had never been a great number of elven Wardens. Perhaps Rory had feared that he would be shunned for both his elven heritage and magic, and so sought to keep both hidden. It made sense, and now that Alistair thought of it, explained why Rory had said he came from an old blood.
A shudder ran through him at the thought of Rory's blood, and Alistair cursed the helplessness he still felt. He despised the words he had stupidly said before. He didn't care that Rory was a mage and hated that he could have contributed to Rory's desire to hide. Perhaps foolishly, he hoped for the opportunity to repair any of Rory's wounds he might have unknowingly contributed to.
With a sound of frustration, he threw his weight into splitting the next log.
He had been unable to save someone who had fought so fiercely to save him, and equally unable to save the group of men who had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a family. Now, as he wasted his days chopping wood and fetching water, he continued to be nothing but useless. Even their rescue had been completely independent of anything he'd done. No, he owed his life to Morrigan's mother. And though he didn't understand the strange, twisting magics he'd felt the last few days, he didn't care. With every piece of piety he could summon, he prayed to the Maker that Morrigan and her mother might save Rory's life, too. He couldn't bring himself to care about how they did it, or what deals they might have made for Alistair to once again be able to sense Rory's spark of life.
The sound of a voice interrupted Alistair's thoughts, and for a moment, he thought that his heart might explode.
"See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden, now. You worry too much, young man."
Alethea
Alistair spun around to watch her walk from the entryway, and the relief that washed over his face was unmistakable. His eyes, vibrant green against the forest backdrop, widened as they met hers, filling with an emotion she'd never seen on him. The usually playful glint in his gaze was softened by weariness, the dark rings beneath his eyes a testament to sleepless nights. His beard was unshaven, and his hair tousled, giving him a roughness that only heightened the raw intensity of his expression. Despite the slight chill to the air, trickles of sweat snaked down his neck.
"You… you're alive!" His voice was hoarse, gruff with emotion. His eyes filled with tears, and he dropped the axe he had been holding. "I watched you—I felt you- I thought you were dead for sure."
Before she could respond, Alistair closed the distance between them and, without hesitation, reached for her. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a firm embrace that lifted her off her feet. She felt the impact of his embrace through her leathers, the solid weight of his body sending a jolt of pain through her. For a moment, she was almost breathless from the shock of it. But his face buried into her neck, his breaths hitching as he clutched her tighter, and she felt a tremor course through him. He was crying, his shoulders shaking as his tears dampened her skin. The sensation struck her deeply and chased the pain away. It was unfamiliar, new, and achingly tender.
In an instant, Alethea understood—everything Morrigan had told her was true.
She relaxed into him, arms encircling him instinctively as she let her hand stroke his back in slow, soothing circles. This embrace was different from any other she'd known—it was nothing like the brotherly roughness Fergus would offer or even the gentle, restrained warmth of her father's arms. And though the thought shamed her, she couldn't help but think that it lacked the predatory intensity she had felt from Cailan. This was something else entirely, and she felt a powerful, unexpected surge of protectiveness as she held him close, letting him release the grief he carried. She wasn't sure how long they stood like that, his sobs eventually slowing and stopping.
"I'm okay. Shhh, I'm okay," she murmured gently against his hair. He set her down, but his grip didn't loosen. She felt his breathing even, and the silence stretched between them.
Somewhere in the quiet, she became aware of him. The shift was subtle but undeniable. His breath, warm and soft, feathered over her neck, igniting something unexpected and sending a shock of heat flushing through her. She was embarrassingly aware of the solid press of his chest, the firmness of his arms around her, the scent of him—earthy and spiced, with a hint of worn leather and sweat. Her heartbeat quickened as her senses seemed to heighten, the feeling of him resonating through her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Alistair's grip faltered just a bit, but he didn't let go. She felt his breathing deepen; his face pressed close to her skin. There was a moment, a brief second when she felt his face tilt ever so slightly, as though he might look at her, or… or she wasn't sure what. Instead, he simply nestled his face closer to the jumping pulse in her throat. He inhaled deeply, and his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, as if he too were suddenly taken aback by the intimacy of the embrace.
Alethea prayed that he couldn't feel the way her heart fluttered wildly while she tried to regain her composure, or the way his breath sent a shiver down her spine. Her fingers lingered a moment too long at the back of his neck, brushing the nape where his hair met skin, and she felt him stiffen. He grunted, a soft, barely audible sound that seemed to ripple through them both.
Suddenly tense, Alistair pulled back, his eyes searching her face with a mixture of relief, lingering sorrow, and… well, she wasn't sure what. No one had looked at her as he did now, as though he was seeing her anew and realizing what he'd almost lost. His eyes scorched across her face, as if trying to memorize its every line.
"I…" He began, his voice low and hoarse, but he trailed off, seemingly unable to find the right words. His hands rested at her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. She didn't know if his grip meant that he was reluctant to release her, or eager to keep her a safe distance from him. Finally, with a shuddering exhale, he pulled himself completely away and dropped his hands back to his sides, his gaze averted as though embarrassed by the display of his emotion. The warmth that had risen between them seemed to fade, and yet the flush in her face did not.
Damn her for not putting on her mask.
"Thank the Maker you're alive," he whispered without meeting her gaze, more to himself than to her, as if grounding himself with the simple truth of it. "This doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."
"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," came Flemeth's voice, pulling Alethea from her thoughts. With a surprised jolt, she twisted to find the older woman only a few yards away. Flemeth sat quietly, rocking in a wooden chair. With a new thread of mortification, Alethea realized the woman had watched their entire encounter. Morrigan, thank the Maker, was nowhere to be seen.
Alistair's cheeks colored slightly, caught off guard by her sharp tone. "I—I didn't mean… I'm sorry. I don't remember if you ever gave us your name. What do I call you?"
Flemeth only laughed, a low, knowing chuckle that echoed in the stillness of the Wilds. "Names are pretty, but useless. I am not offended that you have so easily forgotten mine. I've been called many things, though the name Flemeth is as much a part of me as any other. That is what the Chasind folk call me, and that is what you may call me as well."
"The Chasind folk…? That's right!" Alistair's voice was tinged with awe. "So it's true, then? You're the Flemeth…? The Witch of the Wilds? Daveth was right."
Flemeth's lips curled into a bemused smile. "And what does that mean?" she asked, her voice mocking and unbothered. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well. Has it not?"
"I've heard many tales of a Flemeth from Highever," Alethea ventured, unable to quell her curiosity. "If you're the Flemeth of the legends, you must be very old and powerful."
"Must I?" Flemeth mused, casting her an appraising glance. "Age and power are relative. It depends on who is asking. Compared to your companion, yes, I am both. Compared to you…" She surveyed Alethea, a glint of knowing in her eyes and a cackle on her tongue. "Well. I suppose that is yet to be seen."
The weight of her words left Alistair silent for a moment, but grief seemed to soon stir in him. He spoke, the raw ache returning to his voice. "Then why didn't you save Duncan? Or Cailan?" His voice broke slightly as he spoke their names. "Duncan is… was our leader. And Cailan was our king."
"I am sorry for your Duncan, and your king. But your grief must come later, in the dark shadows before you take vengeance," Flemeth replied. Her tone had softened slightly, sounding to Alethea as though it carryied a weight of understanding. "That is what my mother once told me. Your duty must come now. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the blight; or did that change when I wasn't looking?"
"The land is hardly united, thanks to Loghain," Alethea spoke, unable to keep the hiss of hatred from her voice. Cailan's words rattled through her skull. He had been correct; Loghain was as much a dog as Rendon Howe, though she doubted he suspicioned Loghain's betrayal would come so soon and at the cost of so many innocent lives.
"This doesn't make any sense," Alistair almost whispered, shaking his head. "Why would he do it?"
"Now that is a good question," Flemeth replied. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the blight is simply an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."
"The Archdemon," Alistair said, a tendril of resolve coloring his voice.
"We should contact the other Grey Wardens," Alethea said, turning to Alistair. "Duncan told me of the Wardens in Orlais and some even further beyond. Surely, they will respond to a summons for help- especially in these circumstances."
"Cailan already summoned them," Alistair replied with a shake of his head, though he didn't turn to look at her. "They'll come if they can, but I suspect Loghain has already taken steps to stop their entry into Fereldan. We must assume they won't arrive in time. I just… I don't understand. What could Teyrn Loghain stand to gain by betraying the king? He's the queen's father. I can't see how he could ever get away with this."
"You speak as if he'd be the first king to gain his throne that way. Grow up, boy," Flemeth replied, the harshness of her words oddly contradictory to the bored tone of her voice.
"If Arl Eamon heard of this, he would never stand for it. The Landsmeet would never stand for it. There would be a civil war," Alistair growled.
"A civil war requires a nation divided. There may not be enough pieces left on the board to play," Alethea murmured to herself, eyebrows furrowed. The timing of Arl Howe's betrayal made sense, politically. Teyrn Loghain and the arl must have been plotting their coup for months. With Cailan dead and no heir to claim the throne, governance would fall to the Queen. Though Anora did not have royal blood, her ruling with Loghain as Regent would be temporarily permitted until the individual next in line for the throne was determined. With no one of the Theirin bloodline left, the position of king would likely be voted on by the councils, perhaps even influenced by the opinions of the people. With her father dead, there would be only two viable candidates: Arl Eamon, with his close ties to the Theirin family and general popularity, or Teyrn Loghain himself. If Arl Eamon were to be eliminated, that would leave only Loghain. Except…of course.
Theirin blood still ran in Fereldan.
Cailan had ensured Alistair's survival, thereby succeeding in the continuation of the Theirin bloodline. Moreover, Cailan had ensured that she knew of Alistair's heritage, and that she too would be spared in the event of treachery. A Cousland had escaped a slaughter to claim the Teyrnir of Highever; a Theirin had lived through a massacre to claim the throne of Fereldan. In the event of civil war, if they were to convince Arl Eamon to aid them and they were to succeed, he could depose Loghain as Teyrn and Fereldan might once again be united under just leadership.
They needed to find Eamon before Loghain identified him as a threat. Assuming, of course, that he hadn't already.
"Will Arl Eamon be open to receiving us? Is there a chance he would believe us?" She demanded of Alistair, her thoughts churning.
"I suppose," Alistair said, shooting a glance at her for the first time since their embrace. "Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar. He still has all of his men, and he was Cailan's uncle. I know him. He's a good man and respected in the Landsmeet. We could go to Redcliff and appeal to him for help."
"It should be the priority," she said quickly, rubbing her mouth in thought.
"Oh! Such determination," Flemeth chimed in, sounding a little too giddy given the circumstances.
"Arl Eamon's alliance is necessary and invaluable, but he isn't enough. We need more. There must be other allies we can call on," Alethea muttered, speaking more to herself than anyone else. If only they could rely on aid from Highever. If Highever's men could have joined in unison with Arl Eamon's forces, they might have stood a chance in these wars. As it was, she could only wish that she were strong enough to singlehandedly reclaim her Teyrnir from the bastard that had taken it; she could only dream that she had found Fergus in the week she had spent combing Ostagar and the Wilds, frantically searching for any sign of him.
With an unexpected intensity that seared through her chest, she ached to see her father and mother.
"Of course!" Alistair exclaimed, jolting her from her grief. When she looked at him, he was now staring openly at her, the faintest hint of excitement coloring his voice. "The treaties! The Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They're obligated to help us during a blight."
"I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else—this sounds like an army to me," Flemeth said, a slight smile upturning the wrinkled corners of her mouth.
"So… can we do this? Go to Redcliff and these other places, and—and build an army?" Alistair asked her, his gaze intense.
"This is what Grey Wardens do," she told him evenly, fighting to keep herself from falling into the emerald of his eyes. "This is our duty, and we will do it. Too many lives depend on our success; we cannot fail. We will not fail."