Despair
In the days and weeks that followed, the relationship between Alistair and Duran grew colder. After the tragic death of Connor, the unsettling visit to Alistair's sister, and the endless debates about the dark secrets of the Grey Wardens, Alistair seemed to retreat further into himself. To Duran, it was as though the young man had built a wall around his heart, brick by brick. Though the dwarf worried about his companion, he reasoned that Alistair simply needed time—time to process the harsh truths he'd been forced to face.
The world was not the noble, fair place of stories and songs he'd grown up believing in. Duran understood; he had been there himself. When he was exiled from Orzammar, he, too, had faced the bitter realization that life was rarely kind or just. But unlike Alistair, Duran had been hardened by the unforgiving nature of his dwarven heritage. Alistair, however, was an idealist, a dreamer. Seeing that idealism crushed had left a void within him that Duran feared he might not recover from.
Still, they had a mission. The group had made camp near the Frostback Mountains, resting on their way to the remote village of Haven. They hoped to find Brother Genitivi there and uncover more about the mysterious urn of sacred ashes. The camp was nestled high in the mountains, a spot Duran had deemed secure. Yet as night fell and the bitter cold of winter descended, he realized Alistair had been gone far too long.
"He said he was taking a walk around the camp," Duran muttered to himself, glancing toward the empty spot where Alistair's bedroll lay. Something about it didn't sit right with him. Why would Alistair wander in this weather?
Determined to find him, Duran informed Gorim of his intentions. When Gorim offered to accompany him, Duran shook his head. "No need," he reassured his old friend. "I'll be back before you know it. Besides, my Mabari can track me easily if need be."
The dwarf set out into the night, the snow crunching beneath his boots. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it an eerie silence that made Duran's skin prickle. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground, and it didn't take long for him to spot footprints. Upon closer inspection, he realized they weren't just Alistair's. Smaller prints accompanied them—likely a woman's.
Frowning, Duran followed the trail higher into the mountains. The air grew colder, the wind sharper. The smaller footprints eventually disappeared, to Durans surprise, leaving only Alistair's tracks behind. Suddenly, a faint sound reached his ears: the clatter of stones tumbling down the cliffside. Duran froze, his hand instinctively going to his sword.
He pressed on cautiously, the path winding around a rocky outcrop. As he rounded the bend, he saw a person. It was Alistair. He stood at the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the swirling snow. He was tossing small stones into the abyss, one by one.
"Alistair!" Duran called out, his voice barely carrying over the howling wind.
The man turned slightly, his face shadowed but unmistakably worn with despair. "The Maker has a twisted sense of humor, don't you think?" Alistair said, his tone bitter. He tossed another stone into the void. "We try to help, and it leads to tragedy. We do the right thing, and the world spits in our faces. Maybe I should've just stayed in the Chantry. At least then, I wouldn't have to watch everything fall apart…I could have stayed blissfully ignorant of how things are really going in life."
Duran stepped closer, the wind howling across his face. He noticed in Alistairs voice that the men might be drunk. "Alistair, whatever you're dealing with, let's talk about it back at camp. I'm freezing my beard off out here."
But Alistair didn't move. He stared down into the abyss, another stone slipping from his fingers. "There's no point, Duran," he murmured. "We're fighting a losing battle. We even fight man, who we should be allied with… Nothing we do changes anything. Not really…". Alistair took a step towards the cliff.
Duran's heart sank as he realized the gravity of the situation. "Alistair, listen to me," he said, his voice firm despite the storm raging around them. "I know the past few weeks have been mostly bad. The good moments were only a handfull. What happened with your sister—"
"Don't," Alistair interrupted, his voice breaking. "She's nothing to me. Just another selfish woman who couldn't be bothered to think about anyone other then herself. A whore's daughter and a king's mistake. That's all she is. That's all I am."
The grin that spread across Alistair's face sent a chill through Duran, and it wasn't from the cold. It was a grin devoid of joy, a twisted mockery of humor. It was the grin of a man on the edge—both figuratively and literally.
Alistair took a step closer to the abyss, only one further and it would be his last step.
"Would Duncan want this?" Duran shouted, his voice straining against the wind. "Would he want you to give up? This world is cruel, yes, but we fight for something better. For a future worth living in. You're not alone, Alistair. We're in this together."
Alistair's shoulders shook, but whether from the cold or emotion, Duran couldn't tell. "Funny," he said, his voice hollow. "Weren't you the one who told me everyone's out for themselves? That I should learn to fend for myself?"
Duran flinched. He'd said those words in a moment of weakness, as he himself was fed up with how things were recently going and now these same words were coming back to haunt him. He was lost for words as Alistair looked back into he Abyss, mere moments away of taking his last step towards it.
Out of nowhere, a raven's caw pierced the night. Both men turned as the bird swooped down, transforming mid-air into a woman. It was Morrigan. The witch stood before Alistair, her eyes sharp and unimpressed.
"I've had my fun, watching how you despair and crawl your hole deeper and deeper but now i have enough of this melodrama," she said coldly. "Get away from the edge and stop wallowing in your self-pity."
Alistair blinked at her, stunned. "You don't think that i would believe—"
"I am not the one who needs to believe anything!", Morrigan snapped. "You need to believe. In yourself and in your cause. You have a duty, Alistair. A duty to this world, to the Grey Wardens. You don't get to quit just because it's hard." A moment of silence passed. „We need you Alistair, even if I can do without your cooking skills."
Her words cut through the storm, carrying a weight that silenced even the wind. She stepped closer, extending her staff toward him. "Now, move. Or I'll make you."
For a moment, Alistair hesitated. Then, with trembling hands, he reached out and took the staff. Morrigan pulled him back from the edge with surprising gentleness, but Alistair stumbled and fell to his knees. Mere moments later she transformed back into a raven, disappearing into the night.
Duran reached out to help Alistair to his feet. The man's hands trembled as he rose, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have... I—" Alistair choked out, his voice breaking under the weight of his regret.
Duran placed a steady hand on his back, offering the strength of his presence as the two men stood together. "It's alright, Alistair," he said, his tone warm yet firm. "My father always used to say, 'True heroes aren't defined by their victories, but by their ability to rise again when they've fallen.'"
He met Alistair's gaze, his own eyes filled with an unspoken understanding, a quiet determination to pull his friend back from the brink. "When we get back to camp, we'll talk," Duran added, a small but genuine smile breaking through the seriousness of the moment. "And maybe figure out how we're going to handle alcohol in these kinds of situations from now on."
On their way down the mountain, an unbroken silence hung between them. The only sounds were the crunch of their boots in the thin layer of snow and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees. The tension of the moment still lingered in the air, heavy and palpable.
Duran's thoughts churned as he walked, his eyes glancing sideways at Alistair from time to time. He still couldn't fully grasp what had just happened. Of all people, it had been Morrigan—the enigmatic and sharp-tongued witch of the Wilds—who had stepped in to save Alistair from the brink of his own despair. Her intervention had been as unexpected as it was decisive. The image of her standing firm against the storm, her voice cutting through Alistair's despair like a blade, replayed in Duran's mind. For someone who often seemed indifferent, she had shown a startling resolve, a sense of duty—or perhaps even care—that he wouldn't have expected. Yes, Morrigan was full of surprises, and Duran felt a newfound respect for her, even if he wasn't entirely sure what her motives had been.
As for himself, Duran couldn't shake the nagging guilt that clawed at his chest. He knew he had made mistakes—his words, his actions, his inability to recognize Alistair's struggles sooner. The weight of his own past, his own pain, had clouded his judgment, and he had let that affect how he supported his friend.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was reflective, laden with unspoken apologies and the understanding that words weren't necessary just yet. As they neared the camp, Duran resolved to make amends, not just with words but with actions. He would do better. For Alistair, for the team, and for himself.