Love triangles, strange friends and a drunken elf...
Okay, apologies... Am no longer going to try and do "next time on...!"s as this fic seems to want to wander. Everybody had to say their piece this time around throw their own little bits into the drama. Glee!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Title: The Last Warden, chapter 9
Characters: Alistair, Sten, Leliana, Morrigan, Zevran, Wynne, Goldanna, Gorim, Shianni
Rating: T
Words: 2,600
Summary: Alistair attempts to convince his companions to go to Denerim and seek out Brother Genitivi. The marketplace, though, is full of unexpected encounters.
“Denerim.”
“Denerim.” Alistair squared his shoulders, meeting the big man glare for glare.
“No.”
The others had been almost easy to convince. Leliana and Wynne hadn’t questioned the decision; Zevran had been carefully apathetic; even Morrigan had barely sneered as she stalked off toward her tiny fire on the edge of camp. But there was a reason he had delayed, a reason he had waited until the road split, snaking north round the lake to Orzammar or west cross the Bannorn to Denerim.
“Sten… That is where Brother Genitivi will be. He’s our best chance of finding the Urn.”
“The dust of a dead woman. You would forsake the Blight for this?”
“It’s our best chance of healing Arl Eamon.”
His sigh rumbled deep. “One man.”
“Who can help us, I promise. And there are… other reasons to go to Denerim. Supplies, information…”
“And the… kithshok that seeks your death.”
Folding his arms, Alistair scowled. “Loghain will be dealt with. You have my word.”
The Qunari regarded him a long moment, lips twitching into something of a smirk. Funny how he was starting to recognize those.
“Very well.” With that, he stalked off toward the trees.
“So? How did it go?”
He whirled to find Leliana at his elbow, watching the big man go. Alistair let himself sag, surprised to find the knot slipping from between his shoulders. “Okay… well, maybe.”
“You know you could just order him to come. He would listen, I think.”
“Right. I-I’m just not really the giving orders type. Kind of a follower, actually. And… and I’m okay with that.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She smiled up at him, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Or if it was, it isn’t anymore. And it is not as if you have a choice… as if any of us do.”
Alistair snorted, shaking his head. “There is that.”
“Come.” Laying a hand on his arm, she steered him toward the fire. “Supper is ready.”
“You cooked?”
“I would rather not see another lamb so treated. Even in death, their memory deserves better than that.” She smirked. “And you cannot be expected to do everything.”
“Hey!” Crouching beside her on the log, he hunched his shoulders. “…Do I really complain that much?”
“A bit, yes.” But there was a smile there as she stirred, humming beneath her breath. “Now this is what we call-”
“-Oh Maker, I forgot!” Alistair came quick to his feet, the offered spoon knocked aside. He paused, blinking down at her as he ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “I… I’ll be right back. Just… wait there.”
Moving quick to his tent, he bent to his packs, slipping free the forgotten book. Right. This was probably a bad idea… horrible, really. But he had said he would… Straightening, he steeled himself, watching the low flames flicker on the edge of camp. Okay.
Leliana was watching him, eyes narrowing as he made his way across the clearing. Morrigan, though, did not even glance up as he approached.
“Hey… I…”
She pursed her lips, chuckling beneath her breath as she continued to busy herself with her pouches.
“Here. Just… here.”
He could see the insult forming on her lips but the sneer slipped as she raised her head, eyes going wide. Unfolding quick, she came to her feet. “Mother’s grimoire! But how did you-”
“-It was in the Tower, like you said. It looks a little… I mean, the leather’s… and those burns… It was like that when I found it.”
Morrigan traced thoughtful fingers over the cracked spine. “‘Tis how it has always been, at least in my memory.” She met his stare with a wicked smirk. “And ‘tis not leather…”
“Riiight. Very creepy.”
“And yet you retrieved it for me nonetheless.”
Alistair felt his neck stiffen beneath that gaze. “Yeah… Well, I was there anyway - y’know - and it was… just…”
“Indeed. You have my thanks.”
He must have goggled, for she laughed.
Morrigan stepped closer, stalking, swaying, predatory. “I can be civilized… when I must.” Laying a hand against his chest, her fingers curled, nails biting through the thin cloth of his tunic. “Or less so… if that is what is required.”
“What-what are you doing?”
Again she chuckled, tilting her chin upward as she leaned close. So close now. “You have done me a favor. Surely there is something you require in return.”
“Whoa! Okay, no!” He stepped back, one foot slipping on an upturned stone.
Her smile only grew wider, teeth glinting as her lips twisted.
Regaining his balance, Alistair held up a warding hand. “It’s not that I… well, it is that I hate you, actually. Quite a lot. But… just… it was a gift, okay?”
“A gift.”
“A really… sort of terrifying… gift. But I-I don’t want anything. Especially not…”
Now, now she scowled. He was almost relieved.
“Just don’t - y’know - do anything too evil with it. Don’t blow anything up or turn me into a toad or-”
“-Oh? A toad, is it? I should think that would be an improvement.”
“Right. Go die or something. Good night.”
He could still feel those eyes on him as he made his way back into camp, watching, weighing, wondering. As he came to the fire, though, he found Zevran sitting alone, the stew pot tucked between his knees.
“Where’s Leliana?”
“Mmm? Our dear Sister suddenly found herself quite exhausted, it seems.” He nodded toward the shadows flickering round Morrigan’s tent. “I did not expect you back so soon myself.”
“Great.” Leliana’s own tent lay quiet, darkened, cold. “That’s just great.”
“Tale è vita, my friend.” He grinned, offering the pot as Alistair curled his legs beneath him and slumped against the log.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Dipping the spoon, he watched the stew fall in thick chunks. “Why are you still awake, anyway? Planning to kill us all in our sleep?”
The elf chuckled, slipping free a dagger to work the dirt from beneath his nails.
“That’s not exactly a denial.”
“Must I still provide one? Shall I beg each day for your trust? Appeal anew to your Grey Warden mercy?”
“Right… Point taken.”
Slowly, Zevran raised his eyes to his. “Perhaps you should care more for the trust your companions place in you, yes? Sten will not be the last.”
“And you?”
“You have my oath.”
“So you keep saying.” Settling back against the log, he set the pot aside. The flames had burned low, the silence hanging heavy. Sten didn’t trust him, he couldn’t be sure about Wynne, Leliana was apparently upset with him and Morrigan, well… He sighed. “Humor me.”
“Mmm?”
“Why are you still up?”
“Because I do not wish to sleep.” Twisting, Zevran stretched the length of the log, propping his chin on an elbow.
“Grey Wardens have dreams too, you know. Part of the whole… taint-thing.”
“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what is it that Grey Wardens dream of?”
“We… we sense it. The darkspawn, the Blight. More now than before. That-that’s how we know. How I know.”
“Ahh.”
Wrapping arms round his knees, he shook his head. “I-I’ve never told anyone that. Anyone that wasn’t a Grey Warden anyway. Who didn’t already-”
“-But now you are the last.”
Alistair turned, the assassin’s eyes glinting only inches from his own. But there was no malice, no mockery there. “I’ve thought that… that that’s maybe why they’re so…” He sighed. “They’ve been worse since Ostagar. Like my head’s not big enough to hold them all. And I see it now… Every night. Every time. I-I see the archdemon.”
Zevran straightened, laying a hand on Alistair’s shoulder as he came slowly to his feet. “As do we all… in our way.”
“Right.”
* * *
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
The city opened before them, the crowd streaming round and through the gates. They had seemed to attract little attention, the guards on duty barely giving them a second glance, but the market was crowded, noisome, close. Zevran had ranged ahead, slipping quickly out of sight; even Sten seemed to be standing more stiffly than usual… were that possible. Morrigan, though, seemed content to burn holes in his back.
“I am not staring.”
“You were a bit.” Leliana was keeping close to his other side, scanning the crowd. She had made no mention of the night with the stew, but her sudden exhaustion had lasted for three nights since.
“And I suppose you will tell me that your Chantry has rules against such things? Shall I be demure, then? Avert my eyes in the presence of men?”
Leliana snorted, eyes still searching distractedly. “The Chantry? No. But I suppose a woman such as yourself cannot be expected to know anything of common courtesy.”
“And what sort of woman is that, I wonder?”
“Maker’s breath…” Alistair looked to Sten, but still the Qunari was stoic, impassive, his lips barely twitching. “Don’t you dare.”
Sten snorted.
There was a row of houses just beyond the gate, their close walls opening into a low, stone courtyard. Laundry billowed there, the woman who moved among the linens pausing to sweep a strand of hair from her eyes. He had seen her before.
Alistair found himself moving forward, cutting through the crowd to lean against the cracked and crumbled stone.
“Is another woman truly what you need?” Wynne had followed him, carefully tucking her skirts beneath her as she perched on a low bit of wall. There was something playful there, the faintest hint of a thin-lipped smile.
“I don’t have… She’s not…” He sighed. “I think… I think I know her.”
“Oh?”
“It’s… it sounds strange, but I saw her… in the Fade. I think… I think she’s my sister.”
“I did not know you had any family.”
“I… well, my mother was…” He paused, barely able to meet that gaze. Too calm, too knowing, too… expectant. “Nevermind. It’s nothing.” He pushed away from the wall.
“Hoy! You there!”
Alistair stiffened, turning slow.
Again the woman had paused, glaring as she pushed up a fallen sleeve. “Like to watch do you? Or you have linens? Two bits on the piece and don’t trust a word that Natalia woman sa-”
“-Uh, no. No linens.” He held up a forestalling hand. “I-I’m Alistair.”
“Alistair, eh? Don’t know you from the cobbler’s son meself, but if you’ve not got any wash, I suggest you be-”
“-Going. Yes. Sorry to have bothered you.” With something of a clumsy bow, he made his way back toward the gate.
Wynne had slipped away ahead of him, smile turning pitying
“Let’s… let’s just get this over with.”
Zevran rejoined them as they approached the market proper. Never had he seen so many merchants, but they did need supplies, especially as they seemed to keep acquiring companions. But as he approached one of the nearest stalls, the assassin lay a hand on his arm.
“Step wide, my friend.”
One of the men raised his head at that, deep and wrinkled eyes holding to the elf’s. After a moment, he grinned, sparing them a single nod.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing you need fear… for the moment. Let us just say that it is lucky you kept me around, yes?”
“Right.”
Moving further through the square, Alistair paused. He was getting a bit tired of this feeling, this strange sense of glimpsing something just out of sight. He found himself moving toward the stall before the others could follow.
“Dwarven?”
“Aye.” The merchant nodded up at him. “Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar.”
Still he couldn’t shake the feeling… it wasn’t familiar, per se, but… Alistair shook his head. “I have… business in Orzammar.”
The dwarf’s eyes darkened visibly, but still the smile held. When the words came at last, they were flat, cold, practiced. “I trade only in armor, sir. Weapons.”
“That bad, huh?”
He softened at that, something of a smirk blooming beneath his beard. “Forgive me. Old wounds.”
“Right. I know the feeling.”
“If you’re looking for information, I don’t have much. Orzammar’s lost its king. More than that, if you ask me. Just… be careful.”
Alistair sighed. “Yeah. Thanks…?”
“Gorim.”
Gorim. As he turned away, Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed sleep, that was it. Not going mad at all.
The others were waiting on the edge of the market, but none so much as glanced his way as he approached. In fact, they seemed to be staring at something off near the square’s edge.
“…a grisly effigy, but the message is clear enough.”
Beside Morrigan, Leliana shook her head. “It’s horrible! Why would they-”
“-Why? Because they are only elves.” Zevran stood apart from the others, as if he had taken half a step forward. Still he stood stiff, tensed, sneer fixed on the looming gate.
The alienage had always been somewhat separate from the city proper, but now the gate was lowered, the massive spikes driven deep into the earth. As to the elf above… Still he swung, the rope round his neck thick and coiled, feet tapping high against the iron bars. From the look of him he had been there for some time - months perhaps - even the birds now staying clear. If not for the clothing, the bit of short, blonde hair, Alistair might not have even known that he was once a man.
“What are you looking at? Move along.” He hadn’t seen the guard, straightening from his spot beside the gate.
“What-what happened here?”
“Uprising. Bloody elves.” The man’s eyes strayed to Zevran.
But Alistair was moving forward now, eyes still locked to the swaying figure. “And him?”
“One who started it.” He snorted. “Not even from the alienage, they say. Came in for some knife-ear party and got ‘em all riled up. Marched on the Arl’s estate, he did.” The man grinned. “Didn’t last long, though.”
“Then why is the gate still down?”
“No more outsiders.” The comment was pointed, thinly veiled.
Shaking his head, Alistair again raised his eyes. Who wouldn’t pity them? But still it stirred, vague and shifting. He ran a hand behind his neck, found the hair standing stiff.
There was movement now beyond the gate, a cough and the swish of skirts. He found himself moving forward, hand on the bars, fingers already stretching through the gap as the woman turned. Young and slight, her red hair was cropped close and short. She might have even been pretty, but surprise quickly faded into a withering scowl.
Alistair lowered his hand, trying to summon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I…”
Taking a swaying step forward, she brought the bottle to her lips, one hand straying idly to her belly, to the bulge just visible there.
“Whoa. Hey, you know you probably shouldn’t be-”
“-What’s it to you, shem?” She laughed, staggering as she braced a hand on the gate.
Again, he felt the urge to reach for her. “I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Great.” She took another long pull.
“It’s just… wrong somehow.”
“Wrong? Wrong?” The laugh choked as she stumbled backward. “Wrong?!” With a shriek, she hurled the bottle, shattering it against the bars.
Alistair raised shaking fingers, wiping the stinging wet from his cheeks. The girl had fallen to weeping now.
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
The hand fell hard against his shoulder, the guardsman pulling him insistently away. “I said move on!”
“Right. Fine. I’m going.”
The others were waiting still, expressions ranging from surprised to impatient to incredulous. But there was another watching now, standing only a few steps beyond.
“I… I know you.” The knight was aged but standing stiff and proud, his plate polished and gleaming. “You were at Ostagar.”
“Yeah. But I’m sorry, I don’t-”
“-You killed the king.”
“What?”
The man’s hand strayed to his sword. “You were one of the Grey Wardens.” His lips twisted at the words, the blade hissing as it slipped free. “And I will see you pay.”
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Title: The Last Warden, chapter 9
Characters: Alistair, Sten, Leliana, Morrigan, Zevran, Wynne, Goldanna, Gorim, Shianni
Rating: T
Words: 2,600
Summary: Alistair attempts to convince his companions to go to Denerim and seek out Brother Genitivi. The marketplace, though, is full of unexpected encounters.
“Denerim.”
“Denerim.” Alistair squared his shoulders, meeting the big man glare for glare.
“No.”
The others had been almost easy to convince. Leliana and Wynne hadn’t questioned the decision; Zevran had been carefully apathetic; even Morrigan had barely sneered as she stalked off toward her tiny fire on the edge of camp. But there was a reason he had delayed, a reason he had waited until the road split, snaking north round the lake to Orzammar or west cross the Bannorn to Denerim.
“Sten… That is where Brother Genitivi will be. He’s our best chance of finding the Urn.”
“The dust of a dead woman. You would forsake the Blight for this?”
“It’s our best chance of healing Arl Eamon.”
His sigh rumbled deep. “One man.”
“Who can help us, I promise. And there are… other reasons to go to Denerim. Supplies, information…”
“And the… kithshok that seeks your death.”
Folding his arms, Alistair scowled. “Loghain will be dealt with. You have my word.”
The Qunari regarded him a long moment, lips twitching into something of a smirk. Funny how he was starting to recognize those.
“Very well.” With that, he stalked off toward the trees.
“So? How did it go?”
He whirled to find Leliana at his elbow, watching the big man go. Alistair let himself sag, surprised to find the knot slipping from between his shoulders. “Okay… well, maybe.”
“You know you could just order him to come. He would listen, I think.”
“Right. I-I’m just not really the giving orders type. Kind of a follower, actually. And… and I’m okay with that.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She smiled up at him, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Or if it was, it isn’t anymore. And it is not as if you have a choice… as if any of us do.”
Alistair snorted, shaking his head. “There is that.”
“Come.” Laying a hand on his arm, she steered him toward the fire. “Supper is ready.”
“You cooked?”
“I would rather not see another lamb so treated. Even in death, their memory deserves better than that.” She smirked. “And you cannot be expected to do everything.”
“Hey!” Crouching beside her on the log, he hunched his shoulders. “…Do I really complain that much?”
“A bit, yes.” But there was a smile there as she stirred, humming beneath her breath. “Now this is what we call-”
“-Oh Maker, I forgot!” Alistair came quick to his feet, the offered spoon knocked aside. He paused, blinking down at her as he ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “I… I’ll be right back. Just… wait there.”
Moving quick to his tent, he bent to his packs, slipping free the forgotten book. Right. This was probably a bad idea… horrible, really. But he had said he would… Straightening, he steeled himself, watching the low flames flicker on the edge of camp. Okay.
Leliana was watching him, eyes narrowing as he made his way across the clearing. Morrigan, though, did not even glance up as he approached.
“Hey… I…”
She pursed her lips, chuckling beneath her breath as she continued to busy herself with her pouches.
“Here. Just… here.”
He could see the insult forming on her lips but the sneer slipped as she raised her head, eyes going wide. Unfolding quick, she came to her feet. “Mother’s grimoire! But how did you-”
“-It was in the Tower, like you said. It looks a little… I mean, the leather’s… and those burns… It was like that when I found it.”
Morrigan traced thoughtful fingers over the cracked spine. “‘Tis how it has always been, at least in my memory.” She met his stare with a wicked smirk. “And ‘tis not leather…”
“Riiight. Very creepy.”
“And yet you retrieved it for me nonetheless.”
Alistair felt his neck stiffen beneath that gaze. “Yeah… Well, I was there anyway - y’know - and it was… just…”
“Indeed. You have my thanks.”
He must have goggled, for she laughed.
Morrigan stepped closer, stalking, swaying, predatory. “I can be civilized… when I must.” Laying a hand against his chest, her fingers curled, nails biting through the thin cloth of his tunic. “Or less so… if that is what is required.”
“What-what are you doing?”
Again she chuckled, tilting her chin upward as she leaned close. So close now. “You have done me a favor. Surely there is something you require in return.”
“Whoa! Okay, no!” He stepped back, one foot slipping on an upturned stone.
Her smile only grew wider, teeth glinting as her lips twisted.
Regaining his balance, Alistair held up a warding hand. “It’s not that I… well, it is that I hate you, actually. Quite a lot. But… just… it was a gift, okay?”
“A gift.”
“A really… sort of terrifying… gift. But I-I don’t want anything. Especially not…”
Now, now she scowled. He was almost relieved.
“Just don’t - y’know - do anything too evil with it. Don’t blow anything up or turn me into a toad or-”
“-Oh? A toad, is it? I should think that would be an improvement.”
“Right. Go die or something. Good night.”
He could still feel those eyes on him as he made his way back into camp, watching, weighing, wondering. As he came to the fire, though, he found Zevran sitting alone, the stew pot tucked between his knees.
“Where’s Leliana?”
“Mmm? Our dear Sister suddenly found herself quite exhausted, it seems.” He nodded toward the shadows flickering round Morrigan’s tent. “I did not expect you back so soon myself.”
“Great.” Leliana’s own tent lay quiet, darkened, cold. “That’s just great.”
“Tale è vita, my friend.” He grinned, offering the pot as Alistair curled his legs beneath him and slumped against the log.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Dipping the spoon, he watched the stew fall in thick chunks. “Why are you still awake, anyway? Planning to kill us all in our sleep?”
The elf chuckled, slipping free a dagger to work the dirt from beneath his nails.
“That’s not exactly a denial.”
“Must I still provide one? Shall I beg each day for your trust? Appeal anew to your Grey Warden mercy?”
“Right… Point taken.”
Slowly, Zevran raised his eyes to his. “Perhaps you should care more for the trust your companions place in you, yes? Sten will not be the last.”
“And you?”
“You have my oath.”
“So you keep saying.” Settling back against the log, he set the pot aside. The flames had burned low, the silence hanging heavy. Sten didn’t trust him, he couldn’t be sure about Wynne, Leliana was apparently upset with him and Morrigan, well… He sighed. “Humor me.”
“Mmm?”
“Why are you still up?”
“Because I do not wish to sleep.” Twisting, Zevran stretched the length of the log, propping his chin on an elbow.
“Grey Wardens have dreams too, you know. Part of the whole… taint-thing.”
“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what is it that Grey Wardens dream of?”
“We… we sense it. The darkspawn, the Blight. More now than before. That-that’s how we know. How I know.”
“Ahh.”
Wrapping arms round his knees, he shook his head. “I-I’ve never told anyone that. Anyone that wasn’t a Grey Warden anyway. Who didn’t already-”
“-But now you are the last.”
Alistair turned, the assassin’s eyes glinting only inches from his own. But there was no malice, no mockery there. “I’ve thought that… that that’s maybe why they’re so…” He sighed. “They’ve been worse since Ostagar. Like my head’s not big enough to hold them all. And I see it now… Every night. Every time. I-I see the archdemon.”
Zevran straightened, laying a hand on Alistair’s shoulder as he came slowly to his feet. “As do we all… in our way.”
“Right.”
* * *
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
The city opened before them, the crowd streaming round and through the gates. They had seemed to attract little attention, the guards on duty barely giving them a second glance, but the market was crowded, noisome, close. Zevran had ranged ahead, slipping quickly out of sight; even Sten seemed to be standing more stiffly than usual… were that possible. Morrigan, though, seemed content to burn holes in his back.
“I am not staring.”
“You were a bit.” Leliana was keeping close to his other side, scanning the crowd. She had made no mention of the night with the stew, but her sudden exhaustion had lasted for three nights since.
“And I suppose you will tell me that your Chantry has rules against such things? Shall I be demure, then? Avert my eyes in the presence of men?”
Leliana snorted, eyes still searching distractedly. “The Chantry? No. But I suppose a woman such as yourself cannot be expected to know anything of common courtesy.”
“And what sort of woman is that, I wonder?”
“Maker’s breath…” Alistair looked to Sten, but still the Qunari was stoic, impassive, his lips barely twitching. “Don’t you dare.”
Sten snorted.
There was a row of houses just beyond the gate, their close walls opening into a low, stone courtyard. Laundry billowed there, the woman who moved among the linens pausing to sweep a strand of hair from her eyes. He had seen her before.
Alistair found himself moving forward, cutting through the crowd to lean against the cracked and crumbled stone.
“Is another woman truly what you need?” Wynne had followed him, carefully tucking her skirts beneath her as she perched on a low bit of wall. There was something playful there, the faintest hint of a thin-lipped smile.
“I don’t have… She’s not…” He sighed. “I think… I think I know her.”
“Oh?”
“It’s… it sounds strange, but I saw her… in the Fade. I think… I think she’s my sister.”
“I did not know you had any family.”
“I… well, my mother was…” He paused, barely able to meet that gaze. Too calm, too knowing, too… expectant. “Nevermind. It’s nothing.” He pushed away from the wall.
“Hoy! You there!”
Alistair stiffened, turning slow.
Again the woman had paused, glaring as she pushed up a fallen sleeve. “Like to watch do you? Or you have linens? Two bits on the piece and don’t trust a word that Natalia woman sa-”
“-Uh, no. No linens.” He held up a forestalling hand. “I-I’m Alistair.”
“Alistair, eh? Don’t know you from the cobbler’s son meself, but if you’ve not got any wash, I suggest you be-”
“-Going. Yes. Sorry to have bothered you.” With something of a clumsy bow, he made his way back toward the gate.
Wynne had slipped away ahead of him, smile turning pitying
“Let’s… let’s just get this over with.”
Zevran rejoined them as they approached the market proper. Never had he seen so many merchants, but they did need supplies, especially as they seemed to keep acquiring companions. But as he approached one of the nearest stalls, the assassin lay a hand on his arm.
“Step wide, my friend.”
One of the men raised his head at that, deep and wrinkled eyes holding to the elf’s. After a moment, he grinned, sparing them a single nod.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing you need fear… for the moment. Let us just say that it is lucky you kept me around, yes?”
“Right.”
Moving further through the square, Alistair paused. He was getting a bit tired of this feeling, this strange sense of glimpsing something just out of sight. He found himself moving toward the stall before the others could follow.
“Dwarven?”
“Aye.” The merchant nodded up at him. “Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar.”
Still he couldn’t shake the feeling… it wasn’t familiar, per se, but… Alistair shook his head. “I have… business in Orzammar.”
The dwarf’s eyes darkened visibly, but still the smile held. When the words came at last, they were flat, cold, practiced. “I trade only in armor, sir. Weapons.”
“That bad, huh?”
He softened at that, something of a smirk blooming beneath his beard. “Forgive me. Old wounds.”
“Right. I know the feeling.”
“If you’re looking for information, I don’t have much. Orzammar’s lost its king. More than that, if you ask me. Just… be careful.”
Alistair sighed. “Yeah. Thanks…?”
“Gorim.”
Gorim. As he turned away, Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed sleep, that was it. Not going mad at all.
The others were waiting on the edge of the market, but none so much as glanced his way as he approached. In fact, they seemed to be staring at something off near the square’s edge.
“…a grisly effigy, but the message is clear enough.”
Beside Morrigan, Leliana shook her head. “It’s horrible! Why would they-”
“-Why? Because they are only elves.” Zevran stood apart from the others, as if he had taken half a step forward. Still he stood stiff, tensed, sneer fixed on the looming gate.
The alienage had always been somewhat separate from the city proper, but now the gate was lowered, the massive spikes driven deep into the earth. As to the elf above… Still he swung, the rope round his neck thick and coiled, feet tapping high against the iron bars. From the look of him he had been there for some time - months perhaps - even the birds now staying clear. If not for the clothing, the bit of short, blonde hair, Alistair might not have even known that he was once a man.
“What are you looking at? Move along.” He hadn’t seen the guard, straightening from his spot beside the gate.
“What-what happened here?”
“Uprising. Bloody elves.” The man’s eyes strayed to Zevran.
But Alistair was moving forward now, eyes still locked to the swaying figure. “And him?”
“One who started it.” He snorted. “Not even from the alienage, they say. Came in for some knife-ear party and got ‘em all riled up. Marched on the Arl’s estate, he did.” The man grinned. “Didn’t last long, though.”
“Then why is the gate still down?”
“No more outsiders.” The comment was pointed, thinly veiled.
Shaking his head, Alistair again raised his eyes. Who wouldn’t pity them? But still it stirred, vague and shifting. He ran a hand behind his neck, found the hair standing stiff.
There was movement now beyond the gate, a cough and the swish of skirts. He found himself moving forward, hand on the bars, fingers already stretching through the gap as the woman turned. Young and slight, her red hair was cropped close and short. She might have even been pretty, but surprise quickly faded into a withering scowl.
Alistair lowered his hand, trying to summon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I…”
Taking a swaying step forward, she brought the bottle to her lips, one hand straying idly to her belly, to the bulge just visible there.
“Whoa. Hey, you know you probably shouldn’t be-”
“-What’s it to you, shem?” She laughed, staggering as she braced a hand on the gate.
Again, he felt the urge to reach for her. “I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Great.” She took another long pull.
“It’s just… wrong somehow.”
“Wrong? Wrong?” The laugh choked as she stumbled backward. “Wrong?!” With a shriek, she hurled the bottle, shattering it against the bars.
Alistair raised shaking fingers, wiping the stinging wet from his cheeks. The girl had fallen to weeping now.
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
The hand fell hard against his shoulder, the guardsman pulling him insistently away. “I said move on!”
“Right. Fine. I’m going.”
The others were waiting still, expressions ranging from surprised to impatient to incredulous. But there was another watching now, standing only a few steps beyond.
“I… I know you.” The knight was aged but standing stiff and proud, his plate polished and gleaming. “You were at Ostagar.”
“Yeah. But I’m sorry, I don’t-”
“-You killed the king.”
“What?”
The man’s hand strayed to his sword. “You were one of the Grey Wardens.” His lips twisted at the words, the blade hissing as it slipped free. “And I will see you pay.”