Haven - Departure

10

As the group made their way back, they found themselves standing in the deserted village of Haven once again. The eerie, oppressive aura that had hung over the place seemed to have disappeared, leaving the village now a mere shell of its former self. What had once been an unsettling presence now felt like nothing more than an abandoned ruin, cold and still under the weight of the snow-covered trees.

Duran was both surprised and impressed that Brother Genitivi had managed to endure the journey this far. It seemed that his faith had truly been his guiding force. Yet, as he observed him now, the brother looked exhausted, and he sank down onto an empty cart, his gaze lost in the distance. "By the Maker, in all his beauty," he muttered, his voice tinged with awe. "I never thought this legend would prove to be true. In all my travels across Thedas, I've never seen anything like this—such beauty, both within and without." His eyes were fixed on the snow-covered forests beyond, where the last rays of the sun slowly disappeared behind the distant peaks.

Alistair, stretching lazily as he looked around, spoke up. "I don't know about you all, but I could really use a good long sleep. How about we set up camp here for the night?" He gave a wide stretch, clearly yearning for rest.

Morrigan, however, was quick to disagree. "A campsite, yes. Here, no," she responded coolly, her voice filled with distaste. "Though it may seem calmer than before, I have no desire to spend another moment in this cursed village." She gestured toward a distant river, barely visible through the dense trees. "There, it seems safer, less tainted by madness." Duran noticed the fatigue in her eyes as well and, understanding the need for rest, he agreed with her suggestion. It was decided: they would make camp by the river.

As night descended, the group settled into their temporary home. Leliana had skillfully hunted a deer, Morrigan had gathered some herbs, and Alistair had built the fire. Duran, in the meantime, had set up their tents. Despite his request that Brother Genitivi refrain from helping, the determined scholar insisted on contributing, hauling buckets of water and ultimately preparing a hearty stew for the group.

The group sat around the fire, eating in the quiet of the surrounding woods. The night air was far warmer than expected, given that they were in the Frostback Mountains, but the milder temperature was a welcome relief after the strenuous journey. Now, the sounds of the crackling fire and the distant hoot of an owl filled the otherwise still night.

Duran savored each bite of the stew, his mind reflecting on the unexpected turn of events. Brother Genitivi had proven to be not only an erudite scholar of the Chantry but also a surprisingly skilled cook. "I learned this recipe in Nevarra, from one of the famed dragon hunters of the Penthagast family," the brother explained as he served them all. "Does that name ring a bell? No? Well, anyway, I could never understand how anyone could bring themselves to hunt such majestic creatures. And after today, I understand it even less."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, though his expression held a quiet sadness as he looked down at the spot where his foot should have been. "Well, I suppose traveling is over form e now… But I am thankful for the years and for the wonders I have witnessed."

A heavy silence fell over the campfire, and Duran, feeling too weary to respond immediately, finally found his voice. He placed his bowl on the ground and spoke, his tone sincere. "We owe you our thanks, Brother. Without your guidance, we wouldn't have been able to decipher so much, nor would we have found our way to the palace. You've been a great help, and I have a deep respect for you."

The brother looked at him for a moment before replying softly, "You are King Endrin's son, are you not? My condolences, child of the stone."

Duran was taken aback by the brother's knowledge. "You knew my father?" he asked, his voice full of surprise. "How do you know of me?"

Brother Genitivi placed his bowl down and rested his hands inside his robe, his gaze turning toward the fire as he spoke. "I have visited Orzammar several times. I was one of the few—what do you call us?—surface dwellers who could move freely in your homeland. Your father was a friend to me. He was always curious about other cultures, as shown by his political actions, such as the expansion of trade with distant lands..." The brother's gaze shifted back to Duran. "If I may say so, my lord, you resemble your father not only in appearance but also in honor and openness toward others."

His eyes then flickered toward Alistair, who had been quietly listening. "And I believe I recognize you as well, my son. Allow me to confirm my assumptions..." Alistair looked up from his bowl, intrigued by the mention of his name. "You were raised in the court of Arl Eamon Guerrin, and at the age of ten, you were sent to the Chantry to become a brother like myself. I can see in your eyes that I'm at least right about that much... Many assumed you were Eamon's bastard, though some speculated otherwise... You are now the rightful heir to the throne of Ferelden, aren't you? Not Eamon's son, but Marric's?"

Alistair fell silent, clearly taken aback by the brother's knowledge. "I used to advise your father often," Genitivi continued. "I would bring him news from distant lands. There were rumors that he returned from one of his travels with a child, though no one ever confirmed it. But looking at you, I see him in you—your appearance, your mannerisms. A little more hair, and you would be him in his prime after the rebellion!"

Without saying a word, Alistair stood abruptly and made his way into the forest. "Don't worry, this time you won't need to send a search party after me," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the night.

The brother seemed troubled by his own words, and Duran placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry," he said quietly. "I think Alistair just needs a little more time to come to terms with everything. It hasn't been that long since King Cailan's death, after all."

Morrigan, with a smirk, muttered, "What a child…" Leliana shot her a sharp glance but didn't respond. Instead, she made her way toward Alistair's retreating figure.

After some time, Alistair returned, his expression more composed. "I apologize for my earlier reaction, Brother. Yes, it's true, I am Alistair, Marric's bastard. But for now, I am simply Alistair, the Grey Warden, fighting to save my land—and perhaps the world. The whole throne business... I can't focus on that right now. There are more pressing matters. So once again, I ask for your forgiveness."

Leliana, walking beside him, pinched his arm playfully, and Alistair nodded at her, clearly appreciative. Duran couldn't help but notice the brief, tender exchange between them.

"If anyone should be apologizing, it's me," Brother Genitivi said, bowing in his seat as best as he could. "Forgive me for my hasty words."

Before long, the group settled in for the night. Duran slept fitfully, plagued by vivid dreams of dragons, urns, and cultists. The next morning, when he awoke, he realized with a start that dwarfes didn't dream and these dreams had been far more than just the work of his mind. They were reality.

Brother Genitivi had made the decision to remain behind, continuing his studies of the palace. Although Duran had initially hesitated, the brother had proven his resilience in recent days, so Duran promised to send knights from Arl Eamon to aid him. With a grand bow and a warm embrace, the group bade the brother farewell and set off toward Redcliff, hopeful that Arl Eamon could be healed through the powers of the ashes.